Folklore Posts by Rhiannon

It is surprising what interesting things one may come across in the countryside. I was talking to a farmer acquaintance, Lionel Smart, who, apart from a brief spell as a Fleet Street journalist, has farmed all his life in the Stanton Drew area. A few days before meeting Lionel, I had been in the village and decided to walk round the lanes and across the fields. Near the end of my walk I turned right at the quaint, thatched tollhouse and noticed the sign indicating the stone circles, or the Druids' Stones, as we have always called them. [...] Lionel then told me a strange story. No matter what time of year you pass by the stones, whether it is the hottest or coldest day, or night, one always encounters a cool breeze. Of course this could have been happening even before the stone circles were put there, but, there again, it could be due to the mystery behind them, of forces there beyond our comprehension.

In the same district, near to what must be the most delightfully situated racecourse in the land is the Trundle Hill, Goodwood, which takes its name from an ancient British earthwork on the summit, where is buried Aaron's golden calf, upon which His Satanic Majesty keeps a paternal eye. To quote Clare Jerrold:

"People know very well where it is - I could show you the place any day."
"Why don't you dig it up then?"
"Oh, that is not allowed; He would not let me."
"Well, has any one ever tried?"
"Oh, yes: but it is never there when you look; He moves it away."

The inhabitants of Braemore - the valley on the Caithness side of Morven - have for generations made their livelihood by farming, but in those seasons when winter comes on before its time, their crops do not ripen, and any saving they may have effected is spent in the purchase of winter necessities. On one occasion, when they were thus chagrined by a lost harvest, a big, strong, lazy-looking man, whom they had often previously seen, came a-begging for help. In contradiction of proverbial Highland hospitality he everywhere met with a point-blank refusal. "Well if I'll get nothing to eat," said he to the inmates of the last house in the glen, "you folk will have little pleasure in your eating," and he went straight to their meal-mill, and carried off the upper grindstone on his shoulders.

For a long time after this the people of Braemore were missing cattle and sheep from the hills, and if they happened to bring home any money or valuables they soon mysteriously disappeared. The stock for miles around was frequently examined, and a watch was kept on all passing valuables, but no trace of the robber could be found. The native "wise women" were consulted, but their replies were given so oracularly that suspicion began to point to some of their own friends as the evil-doer; but they, to prove that the robber was no friend of theirs, charmed a considerable number of men so that they might be able to see him should the thief be a person in league with the powers of the nether deep, and therefore able to make himself hid to ordinary eyes.

Thus charmed, the band watched the hills, and many days had not elapsed ere they saw the gentleman who they knew to be the hero of the millstone, and whom they had learned to call Bodach Dhu, come stalking down the hill, knock over one of the best of their cattle with his first arrow, and then, swinging it over his shoulders, make for the mountain again. They gave chase, and away he fled up the hill. As they neared him down came such a mist cloud as to this day comes often and suddenly over Morven, and the Bodach was effectually shielded from them. They stayed until the mist had rolled away, but the Bodach was not then to be seen, and they had to return home to tell their tale.

Numbers of tourists climb Morven every year, and those who have never heard this tale, tell when they come down that they saw well up the mountain side a large millstone, and then, in their simplicity, ask how it got there. The story is told them, and they at once confidently volunteer to lead anybody to the place. They set off, and after much searching learn the oft-repeated experience that those who have seen it once and heard the legend can never see it again. It was last seen on Jubilee Day, when a number of tailors ascended the hill by different routes, and on meeting at the top one told he had seen a millstone. The story was told, but is it to be wondered at that after deeply pledging the Queen's health in genuine mountain dew even the sharp Messrs Snip were unable to find it?

Excavation work began on the Brough of Birsay last week. Mr Drever is again in charge of the operations, and most of the workmen who worked there in previous seasons have been re-engaged. A good area has now been excavated on this site, but there is still a considerable area to explore, and one never knows what discoveries may be brought to light. It is an old belief that the treasure of Maeshowe was carried off in a north-westerly direction and hidden in some secret place, and, if there is any truth in the old legend, that treasure still remains to be discovered.

On Dunsinane Hill between Perth and Dundee, Macbeth is supposed to have hidden a kettle full of gold when fleeing from his castle. It is predicted that the finder will be a woman with auburn hair, the seventh child of a seventh child.

For those eligible, the following clue has been handed down - "When the sun shines on Milnton Wheel, it shines on the lid of the kettle." The "Milnton" is presumably Milton, two miles north-west of the hill.

I wonder if you can throw any light on the following experience I had some 12 or 14 years ago? I had taken my family on Mendip Top, somewhere near Castle of Comfort, and we were picnicking, having boiled our kettle with pine chips, I remember, when a roughish man, driving a rougher horse, attached to a vehicle, half cart, half trap, harness mainly rope, made me feel a foot taller by suddenly asking, 'Would you like to rent a couple of hundred acres of shooting?'

I was a town dweller then, and renting that enormous-sounding acreage of shooting associated itself in my mind with house parties, keepers, and beaters and 'bags.' But I remember the description or specification of this 200 acres included 'They do say there be a king of the Romans buried there, buried in a golden coffin.' What do you know of this, or have you unearthed it? Is it popular legend? I cannot believe the individual who uttered it originated the story.

Yours faithfully, E.A. Davies, Portbury.

Ghostly Happening.
Sir, I am writing to let you know of a strange experience I had in 1940 when travelling around Argyll on my bicycle. I always loved the beautiful lonely places and had no fear whatever at that time, travelling and exploring on my own. I came to Ardfern, there was a pleasant villa (the first house I came to) with a "Bed and Breakfast" sign. I booked in for the weekend. Directly opposite was an island and at low tide there was an easy approach. So I determined to go to it and explore.

So on Sunday morning I borrowed a walking stick and set off. The sun was shining and the 'island' looked lovely. I decided to climb to the top and admire the view down the loch. As I began my climb I was increasingly aware that the one thing I wanted to do was to get off that island. This seemed absurd, there I was in full view of the houses of Ardfern, in a state bordering on fear.

I had never experienced such a sensation before. I MADE myself climb to the top, had a brief glimpse of the lovely loch, ran all the way down and got off with a feeling of relief.

On my way back I met my landlady. "You weren't very long on the island," she said. "No," I replied, and paused. "I have been in my house for 12 years. I was once on the island. I will never go back," she said. We left it at that.

Now, with your knowledge of local history, do you know of any happenings, so awful that they would leave an "impression" behind? I did note from my maps that opposite was an Ancient Burial Ground, and wondered if there might be any connection with the island. As the houses in Ardfern are modern there might be very few there, if any, at the time the burial ground was used. [...] If any place is in need of exorcism that area definitely is! So if you go "with candle, with book and with bell" let me know and I'll join you!

I am etc. Annie L.K. Green, Bonnington, Peebles.

The Puzzle of Stonehenge.

It is stated that persons who visit the extraordinary Druidical remains at Stonehenge never succeed, however careful they may be, in counting the stones twice alike, and the corresponding marks with which they are in many places covered seem to be a sure proof that attempts have frequently been made to ascertain the number correctly. We never heard that the same party, either on a second attempt or on a second visit, could make his numbers tally, and it is a pretty general opinion in the neighbourhood that "old Gooseberry" is somehow mixed up in the affair, and thus frustrates their endeavours.

But some few years ago there lived at Salisbury a baker, who was considered a very clever fellow, and his own opinion fully justified him in making a heavy bet with some friends that he would (by a scheme of his own) go round the stones,a nd on two occasions make the numbers to correspond. Of course very much interest was manifested for the result; and on a certain day the baker proceeded to put his scheme into execution, for which purpose he supplied himself with two basketsful of penny rolls, and started for Stonehenge, confident of success.

He carefully placed a roll upon each of the masses of stone, thus emptying his baskets, just sufficient to cover the whole, with the exception of one; he then cautiously examined them, and feeling quite sure that he was correct that each stone had got its roll, commenced collecting and counting them, and when he had finished he as carefully wrote down the number taken off, and adding the one omitted, became elated with the certainty of winning his wager.

He then began placing the rolls the second time on the stones, taking the same round, and proceeding exactly as he had done at first; but judge of his astonishment when, after the most minute examination and considerable time spent in walking round every direction of the ruins, he not only found that this time every stone had its roll, but that there was positively one left in his basket.

This was a clincher - the poor baker became so impressed with the mysterious part of the business (which he was never able to fathom), together with his losing his wager, but more especially by receiving the jeers of his plain-dealing friends, who had never any inclination to try their luck in such a way, that he became a changed man, and never after ventured to visit Stonehenge, or to make wagers on such dark and unaccountable proceedings.

Builders defy dark omen.

A major modern housebuilder faces a dark omen from an ancient civilisation of the past. Barratt Developments (Scotland) Ltd. of Ellon want to build in the town's Ythan Terrace. But local folklore has it there was a Pictish stone circle in the Ythan Terrace development area, and the superstition is that anyone who tampers with the stone is in for bad luck. In fact, the last time the stones were moved - more than 40 years ago - to make way for the Market Garden, the then landowner died of cancer. He had been warned by the locals that bad luck would befall him, according to Mr Robert Chalmers, secretary of the Ythan Amenity Trust. Mr Chalmers recalls the strange superstition in a letter to Gordon District Council's director of planning about the proposed Barratt development.

The trust hope the stone circle, known as the Pinkie Stones, will with the co-operation of Barratts - be resited as near their original site as possible. Five stones were arranged in the cardinal points with a central stone. The trust say there appears to be a "vacant lot" in the landscaping in Barratt's plan which would be the best and most obvious place to site the stones.

"I do not know whether either you or Barratts are superstitious, but local folklore had it that anyone who interferes with the Pinkie Stones will receive bad luck. I am of the opinion that those who return the stones to their original position will find favour in the sight of the gods. Speaking personally, who could not do with such help?" Mr Chalmers remarks.

The Haunted Hill of Breedon.

Breedon Hill is a weird and uncanny place. Sensitive people, it is said, cannot stay there, but are glad to get away. From old days queer traditions hung about the height. It was a place of refuge from ancient times, but as the ages passed the place became solitary, even desolate, and as such the monks found it a haven of peace and there they founded a cell which depended upon the House at Nostell.

The monks were human. They did not seek to place the cell on the hill; they built it at the foot. But the morning after the first day of building the recluses were astonished and dismayed to find that their foundation had been dug up and the bricks laid out on the summit of the hill. Each accused the other of a silly trick, and they again essayed to build at the bottom of the hill. Alas! Every day the same thing happened. The bricks were carried up the steep declivity each night.

So the monks sought advice from a holy man. The natural assumption, for we are all prone to think evil, was that the Prince of Darkness was at work. The holy man, however, knew better. He explained that what they saw was a miracle. The monks were clearly enjoined to look heavenwards, not below in the valley! An Angel of the Lord had intervened in their affairs and it behoved them to regard the heavenly command. The monks took the hint, and so the edifice was built on the summit of Breedon.

More than one supernatural legend lingers about Breedon. The church is called "Breedon Cradle" by old wives of a generation ago.

On the north side of the hill is a field, in which there is entry to a cavern which is said to run under the hill. It is called "Hobbe's Hole," after a personage of whom singular tales are told. Hobbe was evidently a poltergeist. It was his regular custom every week to visit a neighbouring tavern and do the churning for the inmates. All the necessary utensils were placed in readiness before the landlord retired to rest. Unhappily, one night the maid left a linen apron instead of the proper linsey-wolsey one. The nocturnal visitor took offence and never again favoured the inn with his services.

Vitrified Fort at Finavon.
[...] There is a popular legend to the effect that the remains of the fort are the ruin of the first castle which it was attempted to build at Finavon. The attempt was not allowed to proceed far; not further than the laying of the foundation. Anything more which the builders raised during the day was always knocked down by some demon-power in the course of the next night.

Watchers were set to protect the work, and to frighten away the mischievous spirit; but the result was that the watchers themselves were frightened. At midnight the spirit spoke thus to the watchers amidst the din of the tumbling wall built the previous day: -

Found even down into the bog
Where twill neither shake nor shog.

They took the hint and left the hill.

A Quantock Hills Ghost Story.

"Miss Williams, of Over Stowey, was returning home from Watchet late in the evening, and near .... her pony fell and hurt his knees so badly that she was obliged to walk. After proceeding some distance, finding it was growing dark, and still seven or eight miles from home, she engaged a young countryman at Putsham to accompany her. It soon became very dark, and as they were passing through a thick wood and the ground was very wet, and she felt very tired, she again mounted her pony. They had not gone far thus, when she found her pony become suddenly very restive, trembling exceedingly and trying to push sideways through the hedge as if to avoid something. Every effort to make him go on was useless.

After a little while a crashing sound was heard, lasting only a second or two (a kind of clatter like the trucks in Bristol loaded with iron rods). After a few minutes the noise was repeated, still more loudly. The pony was now so ungovernable that Miss W was obliged to ask the man to hold him by the head. On being asked what the noise was the man seemed much frightened, and said he had never heard anything like it. The noise was repeated a third time, and with such an overwhelming crash that Miss W felt unable to bear it, and stopped her ears. The man was perfectly overpowered with alarm, and sunk on the earth in an agony of fear.

Miss W then observed something black approaching, which passed close to her, having the appearance of a hearse drawn by four horses, but no one with them and not the slightest sound. On Miss W. asking the man what he had seen, he described exactly the same.

After this they neither heard nor saw anything, and the pony went on freely, indeed seemed to hurry homewards. In about half a mile they came to the public-house, called the 'Castle of Comfort,' where several men were sitting outside the house smoking. Miss W asked if they had seen anything pass. They said they had not, though they had been sitting there for more than an hour, and that there was no other way through the wood. They reached Over Stowey about eleven, and the young man declared nothing should induce him to pass through that wood again at night, so he remained till morning.

The story soon got wind, and some of the older people of the neighbourhood 'wondered how Miss W. could venture to pass through that wood at night'; it was so noted for extraordinary noises, etc., ever since a dreadful murder of a woman by her husband, who was hung on a gibbet near the spot. This happened about ten or twelve years since."

The above is the copy of a MS. to which there is no date; nor do I remember the handwriting so as to recollect who wrote it out, but, judging from the time I have had it, Miss W.'s adventure must have occurred about 1850. There are places on the map called 'Walford's Gibbet' near or in 'Skerage Wood', not very far from Danesborought Camp; possibly that is the gibbet and wood referred to. Perhaps some of your readers may be able to afford more accurate information. The Somersetshire hills are not unassociated with such stories. There is one in connection with Cutcombe-hill, also about a hearse, and a headless dog; perhaps someone will relate it, so as to help preserve these stories and traditions. - C.H. Sp. B. in 'Somerset and Dorset Notes and Queries.'

The Manifold Valley contains a series of caves which are of great interest to the geologist, the historian and the antiquarian. No one of these caves has had justice done to it from any of these sides. There has not been any persistent and systematic examination. The most thorough bit of work, was probably done by members of the Pennine Club, guided by Mr F.A. Holmes, J.P., some dozen years ago. Some days were spent in the now famous Beeston Tor cave by Messrs Holmes, Puttrell and party, and discoveries of some importance were made.

The public has had access to this cave all the time. Mr George Austin, of Grindon, told me, on Saturday last, that he took a party through part of the cave more than 40 years ago. Scores, if not hundreds, of people visited the spot during the past summer. The outer chamber shows the usual signs of the paper parcel, ginger-beer bottle tripper.

Among the villagers of Grindon and Weston, Beeston Tor and cave have an uncanny repute. In broad daylight and in company with others, many do not mind visiting the first chamber who would never dream of penetrating the inner recesses, and certainly not alone.

After spending many solitary hours in the more remote of these interior chambers, I can assure the timid that, apart from owls and bats and swarms of fluffy moths, with an occasional startled fox, there is nothing weird or frightful about these remote recesses.

Miss Lock may be interested to know that the Rev. C.W. Whistler, a former vicar of Stockland, Bristol, and one of the greatest authorities upon the traditions and folk-lore of the Quantock country, recorded the local tradition that Rodway Hill, between Cannington village and the "Park" near Combwich, is so named from the rood erected on it to protect villagers from the Devil's hunt. He recorded, too, the story of a man who was said to have met a great black spectral hound on this hill, and that it brushed up against him in passing and that he was paralysed ever after.

Naturally the Ring is haunted. Even on bright summer days there is an uncanny sense of some unseen presence, which seems to follow you about. If you enter the dark wood alone you are conscious of Something behind you. When you stop, It stops; when you go on, It follows. However swiftly you turn round to look behind, you are not quite quick enough to catch sight of It, whatever It is. If you stand stock-still and listen, even on the most tranquil day when no breath of air stirs the leaves, you can hear a whispering somewhere above you. No birds live in this sombre wood but a single pair of yaffles, and occasionally the silence is broken by a loud, mocking laugh. Only once have we been so bold as to enter the Ring on a dark night. My wife and I went there alone. We never shall repeat the visit. Some things are best forgotten if they can be, and certainly not set down in a book.

Besides the loch itself there are several tarns, one of which rejoices in the name, Lochan Ora, "the golden lochlet." Here, unless tradition is false, lies a bull's hide, with many golden pieces, dropped into the tarn when the enemy pressed too closely.

Beyond a doubt that mound we pass by on the right shore of Loch Builg marks the grave of two Highlanders, who made their final halt here in the retreat from Culloden.

... Arbour Farm was next reached, and here, by the kind permission of Mr Meadows and Mr Bourne, the club visited the ancient Celtic stones known as the "Devil's Ring and Finger." There are two very large stones, one, an upright stone, grooved longitudinally, and with lateral grooves, where, possibly, arrow heads and pike heads may at some time have been sharpened, and shaped like a huge finger, represents the finger of his Satanic Majesty; and a broad flat stone, with a hole almost circular in the middle, is the ring. The stones belong probably to prehistoric times.

A local story, however, is to the effect that the stones arrived mysteriously one night after a girl had been murdered at the spot. ...

As regards the stone at Inverfolla, which is a very big one, and which has long been prone, there was an old local tradition that if anybody interfered with the stone or moved it, he would die within the year; and it is said that one man long ago did attempt to do this, and that he actually did die within the year: since when the stone has been quite safe, and has had a remarkably quiet existence, as nobody would now interfere with it for wealth untold.
I am, etc. Alex K. Stewart Lt-Col., of Achnacone.

One of the seven wonders of Glamorgan is the tumulus near the Bodvoc Stone on Margam Mountain. It is called the "Twmpath Diwlith" - the dewless mound. Tradition tells us that no dew ever falls on this mound.

Folklore of the District. (By Martin Phillips.)

Camden, in his "Britannia" (1610) remarks: 'In the very top of an hill called Mynyd Margan, there is erected of exceeding hard grit, a monument or gravestone, four foot long, and one foot broad with an inscription, which whosoever shall happen to read, the ignorant common people dwelling there about, give it out upon a credulous error, that he shall be sure to die within a little while after. Let the reader therefore look to himself, if any dare read it, for, let him assure himself that he shall for certain die after it.'

Writing in 1722, Daniel Defoe ('Tour through England and Wales') makes the following comment: 'In this neighbourhood, near Mynydd Margam, we saw the famous monument mentioned by Mr Camden, on a hill, with the inscription which the people are so terrified at, that nobody will care to read it; for they have a tradition from father to son, that whoever ventures to read it, will die within a month. We did not scruple the adventure at all, but when we came to try, the letters were so defaced by time, that we were effectually secured from the danger, the inscription not being anything near so legible as it seems it was in Camden's time.'

The inscription is still perfectly legible, and presumably the mountain climb did not appeal to Defoe who frequently expressed his abhorrence of Welsh antiquities and Welsh mountains, and apparently, he had no desire to risk the deciphering of the 'terrifying' inscription. Incidentally he has been described by a recent writer as 'one of the world's greatest liars, with a peculiar art for making fictitious narrative sound like the truth'. Defoe's description of other Welsh antiquities confirms the statement.

The Bodvoc stone was believed to cover buried treasure, and about sixty years ago a wide hole about five feet deep was dug around it at night. The stone was overthrown, and for a long period was covered with water. It was subsequently set up in an upright position, and the erection of an iron railing protected it from further harm. Guarding the alleged treasure was the inevitable ghost, which was said to be that of the departed Bodvoc.

Near the stone is the huge mound known as 'Y Twmpath Diwllith' (the Dewless Mound), which was erroneously considered to be always immune from dew. The word 'Diwllith' became translated to 'Dewless', but apparently it is a corruption of "Duw-lith" (God's Lesson). The mound is situated on the boundary line between Llangynvyd and Margam parishes, and in former times, during the yearly perambulation of the boundary, the customary lesson was read by the priest when the mound was reached.

A single Druidical stone is visible in front of the farm house of Sannox, in the middle of the green field. Many remains of a similar kind are still extant in the mosses and glens of the island. Of late much has been done to solve the enigma of those monoliths.

A pretty tradition has been handed down of a daughter of Fingal going out to meet her lover in the woods, having disguised herself by dressing in man's clothes; her lover, deceived by the circumstance, espied her amid the thick wooding, and, supposing her a foe, took his bow and drew an arrow from his quiver, and unfortunately killed his love. On the ground where she fell, he raised the tall monolith to commemorate the sad event, and had a second placed for himself not far from it - committing self-immolation. Her remains were buried entire, but his received all a chieftain's honours and druidical rites, placed in an urn, inside a stone chest, alongside of his love.

Such is the tradition as handed down. There is still a love of the superstitious and the marvellous amongst the islanders. Yet, strange it is, in the very centre and civilization here are as great attempts to revive that ancient spirit of magic, hence those seances and impositions. There seems little doubt now regarding one use of those stones, that they were raised to mark the last resting place of the ashes of the great. This seems quite established.