Latest Folklore

This site is said to show the mark of the hoof-print of Arthur’s horse. All sorts of people and animals seem to have a penchant for leaving their footprints in rocks. But this poor horse had a reason – he was leaping back from the scary Afanc lake monster, which Arthur was removing from Llyn Barfog. You can see a picture of Llyn Barfog at Mark Scott’s ‘Susan Cooper’s Wales’ website the lost land.

The lake also has the following story associated with it:

In a secluded spot in the upland country behind Aberdovey is a small lake called Llyn Barfog, or the Lake of the Bearded One. Its waters are black and gloomy, no fish is ever seen to rise to the surface, and the fowls of the air fly high above it. In times of old the neighbourhood of the lake was haunted by a band of elfin ladies. They were sometimes seen in the dusk of a summer evening, clad all in green, accompanied by their hounds and comely milk-white kine. [An old farmer] had the good luck to catch one of the Gwartheg y Llyn, or kine of the lake, which had fallen in love with the cattle of his herd. [..His]fortune was made. Never was there such a cow, never such calves, never such milk and butter and cheese, and the fame of the Fuwch Gyfeiliorn, or the Stray Cow, spread...

The farmer, who had been poor, became rich... [but eventually] fearing that the elfin cow would become too old to be profitable, he thought that he had better fatten her for the market...
...the butcher raised his red right arm to strike the fatal blow. Just as the bludgeon was falling, a piercing cry awakened the echoes of the hills and made the welkin ring. The butcher’s arm was paralysed and the bludgeon fell from his hand. [The green-clad woman on a crag above the lake cried:]
Come thou, Einion’s Yellow One,
Stray-horns, the Particoloured Lake Cow,
And the hornless Dodyn,
Arise, come home.
No sooner were these words uttered than the elfin cow and all her progeny [ran for the lake and] disappeared beneath the dark surface, leaving only the yellow water-lily to mark the spot where they had vanished.

From W. Jenkyn Thomas’s 1907 ‘The Stray Cow’ in his Welsh Fairy Book.

The fairies here didn’t like people much. They had a reputation for abducting young people to act as their slaves. They kidnapped a girl from Corrie [a settlement to the north of the hill]. Her family thought she was lying dead in her bed – but actually this was just a ‘stock’, or simulation, produced by the fairies – as her brother discovered when the real girl appeared to him in a vision (or a dream?).
She told him that to rescue her he would have to go to their barn the next night and wait until midnight. Then three figures would walk past, he was to grab the third (herself) and repeat some words she gave him. But when it came down to it he was too scared, and unfortunately the girl was stuck with the fairies Forever...

From Maxwell Wood’s ‘Witchcraft and Superstitious Record in the Southwestern District of Scotland’ (1911), noted in Bord’s ‘Fairy Sites’ book (2004).

From The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries by W. Y. Evans-Wentz (1911).

Our Pembrokeshire witness is a maiden Welshwoman, sixty years old.. she was born and has lived all her life within sight of the famous Pentre Evan Cromlech, in the home of her ancestors, which is so ancient that after six centuries of its known existence further record of it is lost.

[..she explained that:]..Spirits and fairies exist all round us, invisible. Fairies have no solid bodily substance. Their forms are of matter like ghostly bodies, and on this account they cannot be caught. In the twilight they are often seen, and on moonlight nights in summer. Only certain people can see fairies, and such people hold communication with them and have dealings with them, but it is difficult to get them to talk about fairies. My mother used to tell about seeing the “fair-folk” dancing in the fields near Cardigan; and other people have seen them round the cromlech up there on the hill (the Pentre Evan Cromlech). They appeared as little children in clothes like soldiers’ clothes, and with red caps, according to some accounts.

At the base of Worlebury hill, just north of the pier, is Spring Cove. The hillside hid a mysterious cave that was only accessible at low tides, and inside lay the Dripping Well: “a solemn place, high vaulted, with water pure and cold dripping from the roof into a crystal pool.” The water was believed to be medicinal, and as is so often the case, was especially good for the eyes.
A tunnel was believed to run from the well up inside the cliff to the hillfort.

Regrettably a landslide destroyed the cave (or at least access to it) in 1861 but clear water still drips from the cliffs here. (this doesn’t really agree with the info below, incidentally. Maybe it was still used. RT’s information implies the well was inundated by the tide every day, but in between gave good fresh water).

Info from Paul Quinn’s ‘Holy Wells of the Bath and Bristol Region’ (1999).

Interestingly, this seems to connect with folklore connected with the cairn: An old inhabitant of Weston told Ruth Tongue in the 1920s that the spring would always give ‘fresh sweet water’ as long as the fishermen threw back the first of their catch. “You look after they and they’ll see you don’t come to want.”

“A witch story related by a native 25yrs ago attempts to explain two conspicuous natural features two miles apart on Pickering Moor; Blakey Topping, an isolated hill, and the Hole of Horcum, a deep basin-shaped valley. The local witch had sold her soul to the devil on the usual terms, but when he claimed it, she refused to give it up, and flew over the moors, with the devil in hot pursuit. Overtake her he could not, so he grabbed up a handful of earth and flung it at her. he missed his aim and she escaped. The Hole of Horcum remains to prove where he tore up the earth and Blakey Topping where it fell to the ground.
From our point of view the significance of this story lies in the fact that between the Hole and the Topping there is a Bronze Age settlement site at Blakey Farm, with its stone circle. The rough trackway leading from the Hole to the circle is known as the Old Wife’s Way, presumably also marking the witch’s flight. This, together with other Old Wife’s Ways, preserves as it were Bronze Age church tracks”.

The Archaeology of Yorkshire
F & HW Elgee
1933
Republished 1971 by SR Publishers Ltd.

This is where the Devil is said to have trodden, leaving a scorched imprint on the stone. Other sites relating to where footprints occur suggest that kings, queens and shamen were ordained.
Info from Mr Bennet’s fine work “The Old Stones of Elmet”

More details of Hob’s ‘Robin Redcap’, as found in Briggs’s ‘Dictionary of Fairies’:

One of the most malignant of old Border goblins, Redcap lived in old ruined peel towers and castles where wicked deeds had been done, and delighted to re-dye his red cap in human blood. William Henderson gives a full account of him in ‘Folklore of the Northern Counties’. He describes him as ‘a short thickset old man, with long prominent teeth, skinny fingers armed with talons like eagles, large eyes of a fiery-red colour, grisly hair streaming down his shoulders, iron boots, a pikestaff in his left hand, and a red cap on his head’. Human strength can avail little against him, but he can be routed by scripture or the sight of a cross. If this is held up to him he gives a dismal yell and vanishes, leaving one of his long teeth behind him. [It was Redcap who made Lord Soulis weapon proof, so that the only way to get rid of him was by boiling him in oil at Ninestane Rigg.]

Sounds ideal if you want to psychologically damage your children at this site or give them nightmares for weeks.

More on the Duergar of Simonside, from Katherine Briggs’s ‘Dictionary of Fairies’:

‘Northumberland Words’ doesn’t give them very good PR, claiming there were ‘the worst and most malicious order of fairies’. Luckily they are mostly solitary, as shown by this story, which I’ve retold from F Grice’s ‘Folk-Tales of the North Country’.

A stranger was making his way over the hills to Rothbury, but it was getting darker and darker, and as he didn’t know his way and the ground underfoot was pretty treacherous, he thought it best to camp down for the night. He was just about to make himself comfy under an overhanging rock when he spotted a faint light a little way away. Feeling hopeful he fumbled towards it and found a rough stone hut, with a fire smouldering away inside. There was a stone on either side of the fire, a pile of kindling and two great big logs. He was so relieved that he wouldn’t freeze to death on the hillside, so feeding the fire with a bit of kindling he sat down on the right hand stone.

He’d hardly sat down when a strange figure burst through the door. It was no taller than his knee, but well built and strong looking. It wore a lambskin coat, moleskin trousers and shoes, and a mossy hat decorated with a pheasant’s feather. The traveller realised it was a duergar so he sat quietly, not wanting to upset it. The duergar scowled and stomped over to sit down on the other stone.

The fire was steadily burning down, and eventually the traveller couldn’t help but put the last of the kindling on the fire. The dwarf looked at him with disdain, leaned down and picked up one of the logs. It was thicker than his body, but somehow he snapped it across his knee as though it was matchwood. The fire blazed for a bit, but when it died down the duergar stared at the traveller as if to say ‘Why don’t you get on with it and put the other log on?’ However, the man felt suspicious of the duergar’s motives and sat tight.

Eventually the faint light of dawn began to appear, and a cock crowed in the distance somewhere. Suddenly the duergar vanished, and the hut and hearth too. The traveller saw that his own seat was the topmost peak of a steep crag. Ah yes, if only he’d stepped over to pick up the other log, he’d have tumbled down into the ravine and been killed.

A useful and instructive story supposing you should ever get caught overnight on Simonside.

(Also see the Borderer’s Table Book, 1846
archive.org/stream/bordererstableb05richiala#page/96/mode/1up/ )

If you visit Parc-y-Meirw, it’s worth walking half a mile down the road to the derelict church of Llanllawer and its associated holy well. The church, a Victorian restoration without any merit, was originally built on an ancient site: the churchyard which surrounds it being roughly circular and stones on either side of the entrance gate bearing rudely engraved crosses. The well in the adjoining field, accessible via a stile, is a shallow pool with a stone hood. The church (not accessible) has inside it a weeping stone, said always to be damp. The location of the this site is highly significant: above the river, close to the stone row and with a direct siteline to the ‘nipple’ of Mynydd Dinas, or Llanllawer Mountain.

To quote from The Topographical Dictionary of Wales (1833):
“On the side of Llanllawer mountain, which terminates in a rocky point, and is hence called the Maiden’s Breast, numerous Druidical relics and carneddau are profusely scattered, which are supposed to have been places of ancient sepulture; and adjoining is a mineral well, formerly in high repute for its efficacy in the cure of ague and other diseases, but now neglected.”
It’s no longer so neglected: modern pagans have adorned the gate across the well mouth, hooray!

When we visited this burial chamber we took a bus from Swansea to Reynoldston village (just down Road). Anyway talking to the driver he said that people have called it Arthur’s Stone mistakenly. Apparantley it used to be known as the ‘Arth’ Stone, ‘arth’ meaning ‘bear’ in Welsh. He also said that the chamber has an allignment with the great bear constellation and this is the reason for the name.

I do not know if it is alligned to the great bear or not but it would be interseting to find out. It is intresting that the burial chamber is kind of ‘bear’ like. It has a massive cap stone like a big body with these small stumpy legs!

Frensham is associated with the fairies’ kettle, which you may now find in the church, apparently – it is three feet in diameter and made of copper. Aubrey wrote about it:

“In the vestry of Frensham church, in Surrey, on the north side of the chancel, is an extraordinary great kettle or caldron, which the inhabitants say, by tradition, was brought hither by the fairies, time out of mind, from Borough-hill, about a mile hence. To this place, if anyone went to borrow a yoke of oxen, money, etc., he might have it for a year or longer, so he kept his word to return it. There is a cave where some have fancied to hear music. In this Borough hill is a great stone, lying along the length of about six feet. They went to this stone and knocked at it, and declared what they could borrow, and when they would repay, and a voice would answer when they should come, and that they should find what they desired to borrow at that stone. This caldron, with the trivet, was borrowed here after the manner aforesaid, and not returned according to promise; and though the caldron was afterwards carried to the stone, it could not be received, and ever since that time no borrowing there.”

It’s a bit unclear where exactly the borough hill is/was – but it is very tempting to assume it was one of the barrows on the common. There’s also the Devil’s Jumps, two natural hills, which might fit the bill.

Anyway the story fits into a whole series of local myths (incorporating a cave, a witch called Mother Ludlam, the Devil, and a holy spring – how much more do you want); you can read Chris Hall’s article at the Leyhunting website. Scroll down and there are details of a fieldtrip to all the sites too.
leyhunt.fsnet.co.uk/lhunt87.htm

Cailleach Bheur (pronounced ‘cal’yach vare’) is rumoured to haunt Schiehallion, and other mountains like Ben Nevis.

She is a frightening blue-faced hag – a personification of Winter, and also called ‘the daughter of Grianan (the winter sun)’. The Cailleach was reborn each All Hallows and went about smiting the earth and calling down snow! On May Eve she threw down her staff under one of her wintery plants, the holly or the gorse, and – interestingly – turned into a grey stone for the summer. One wonders how many standing stones were therefore associated with her. In another version she turns into a beautiful girl at the end of winter.

She also looks after various animals – deer (which she herds and milks, and protects from hunters), swine, wild goats and wolves. She was also known as a guardian of wells and streams.

As Katherine Briggs says in her ‘Dictionary of Fairies’, a whole book might be written about her and her variants. She seems widespread as well – there is another blue-faced supernatural woman in Leicestershire: Black Annis.

Insa Thierling has an article on the Cailleach at caerclud.vscotland.org.uk/cailleach.html
She mentions that there is a Sgrìob na Caillich, or Cailleach’s Furrow on Schiehallion. It is where she has been with her plough, causing furrowed patterns in the rocks – a scree? There is one on Jura too.

There is an early Iron Age fort or enclosure up here, but the general area was used many times over in ‘Ancient Times’: the Somerset Historic Environment Record suggests it was used in Neolithic and Bronze age times for a flint working site, and later there was a Roman temple (now languishing under a radio mast building).

Ruth Tongue collected a story about a ‘Bullbeggar’ here (an unusual and ill-defined supernatural terroriser) in 1906. Late travellers told of footsteps following them and a gruesome black shape that suddenly leapt over the hedge at them.

In the 1880s two crossed bodies were dug up in quarrying operations, and crumbled to dust when they were exposed to the air. For some unexplained reason they were supposed to have been a Saxon and a Norman, and after this finding, Creech Hill had a bad name and was supposed to be haunted by following footsteps and a black uncanny shape. A farmer coming home late one night saw a figure lying on the road and went to its help. It suddenly shot up to an uncanny height and chased him to his own threshold. His family ran to his rescue and saw it bounding away with wild laughter. Another night traveller was attacked on Creech Hill and held his own from midnight to cockrow with the help of an ashen staff.

From Tongue’s ‘Somerset Folklore’ 1965. Ash of course is excellent protection against fairies and their ilk – if you can get rowan that’s even better.

On special occasions (say midnight at the full moon) fairies gather at the stones to dance. 19th century passers-by apparently could hear the fairy music playing and saw hundreds of them gathered, sitting on the stones and grass and dancing about. A local farm labourer was said to have found a ‘fairy pipe’ in the field, and resting propped against one of the stones he used it to smoke his tobacco. One might wonder what else he popped in the pipe, as he reported a similar vision.

Why should the site be called ‘Nine Stone Close’ when there aren’t nine stones? Is it a memory of when there were? Or is it just a suitably magic number? Or, could nine really be ‘noon’ – a typical time of day when you might see stones turn or dance?

(convoluted source: Bord (’Fairy Sites’ 2004) cites David Clarke’s ‘Ghosts and legends of the Peak District’ (1991) who in turn was using Llewellyn Jewitt’s 1867 ‘Derbyshire Ballads’)

When this site was ploughed in the 1930s a funerary urn was discovered. But this was more than just another round barrow. Until it was removed in 1912, a seven foot standing stone topped the mound (7’1” x 1’6” x 7”, according to the Coflein record).

I’m assuming it is the same one spoken about by Janet Bord in her ‘Fairy Sites’ book (2004). Her informant Paul Parry apparently knew the site as ‘Carreg y Dol’ and that a goblin (an ellyll) guarded the site and the treasure that it contained.

Mr Parry (presumably the same one) mentions a number of barrows in the area (one with a holed stone) in the article ‘In Search of Boudica at the Gop’ in the At The Edge archive here:
indigogroup.co.uk/edge/Boudica3.htm

Naturally as you would expect, this barrow had a tradition of fairies seen dancing and playing round it. According to J C Davies’s ‘Folklore of West and Mid Wales’ (1911) (noted in Bord’s ‘Fairy Sites’ of 2004), prior to it being included in a garden it stood in Fairy Field, and the oak tree itself stood on top of it. Bones and pottery were found when it was excavated in 1882. Perhaps you know whether fairies are still seen here – the Royal Mail certainly believes (scroll down the article at news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/2205201.stm).

Not far away is another barrow, perhaps also saved by the grace of gardeners, known as Hillbury. The idea of a fairy oak and a fairy mount is reminiscent of Irish fairy folklore?

This prominent hill seems to maintain its presence in local minds even today: I read on the ‘UK Weatherworld’ forum “the biggest hill for miles around.. is locally known for being a focal point for thunderstorms! :)“. It had a bit of an eerie reputation in the past as the haunt of fairies. The following stories are retold by Janet Bord in her ‘Fairy Sites’ book (citing Davies’s 1911 ‘Folklore of West and Mid Wales’ as her source*).

*I’ve now substituted Davies’s text:

Mr. Edward Jones, Pencwm, who only died about 8 years ago, was coming home from Lampeter one moonlight night, and when he came to the top of Trichrug hill, he saw the Fairies dancing in a field close to the road. When he was within a certain distance of them he felt as if his feet were almost lifted up from the ground, and his body so light that he could almost stand in the air.

My informant, Mr. D. Morgan, Carpenter, Llanrhystid, added that Mr. Jones was an intelligent and educated man, who had travelled, and was far from being superstitious.

The area was once moorland, though now it is a planted forest, so maybe the fairies are harder to find now. It sounds like a plausible account -oh come on, it’s all relative – what I’m trying to say is, it sounds more likely to have happened than the next one, which is over complicated and turns into a blatant folktale by the end =

This one concerns a painter and flautist in the 1860s called John Davies. He’d just left the Rhiwlas Arms(!) and was making his way over the moor. He thought he was using a light from a cottage to guide his way, but it turned out to be a fairy light (a willowthewisp for you cynics) and wandered off course into a bog. Early the next day a woman from the actual cottage heard strange music and following it to its source found JD playing his flute. He told her that he’d met a ring of dancing fairies wearing white knee-length dresses, and that he’d played the flute for them. He’d asked the ‘fairy queen’ for a wife and she’d agreed, saying that they had to return to visit once a month at the full moon. When the woman from the cottage turned up he was just being handed a pot full of gold as well, but at that point all the fairies had just vanished.

Trichrug, a mountain of Cardiganshire, so called from three small mountains being connected with it, was celebrated not only as a place of fairy resort, but as being once the spot where stood the seat of a giant, whose grave (as some say) is still to be seen, and which is described as fitting any one who will lie within it, whether he be tall or short, and that the person so lying in it will have renewed strength; tradition also relates, that if arms are placed therein they will be immediately destroyed. It is said of this giant, that he invited the neighbouring giants to try their strength with him in throwing stones, and that he won victory by throwing his quoit to Ireland! (a pretty good distance to throw a stone!)

From ‘Cambrian Superstitions’ by W Howells, 1831.
You can see another stone he threw at Llech Bron.

Garn Goch is a cairn on top of Mynydd y Drum. (Its name means ‘red cairn’. Is it actually red? Or is it the sun on it? Something symbolic? Or what? Do you know?)

It actually contains a stash of gold, as explained in this story from Rhys’s ‘Celtic Folklore, Welsh and Manx’ (1901).

‘We also [received a] tale about a cwmshurwr, “conjurer,” who once lived in Ystradgyrlais (as the rustic pronounced it). The wizard was a dyn llaw-harn, “a man with an iron hand”; and it being reported that there was a great treasure hidden in Mynydd y Drum, the wizard said he would secure it, if he could but get some plucky fellow to spend a night with him there. John Gethin was a plucky fellow (dyn “ysprydol”), and he agreed to join the dyn llaw-harn in his diablerie.

The wizard traced two rings on the sward touching each other “like a number 8”; he went into one, and Gethin into the other, the wizard strictly charging him on no account to step out of the ring. The llaw-harn then proceeded to trafod ‘i lyfrau, or “busy himself with his books”; and there soon appeared a monstrous bull, bellowing dreadfully; but the plucky Gethin held his ground, and the bull vanished.

Next came a terrible object, a “fly-wheel of fire,” which made straight for poor Gethin and made him swerve out of the ring. Thereupon the wheel assumed the form of the diawl, ” devil,” who began to haul Gethin away. The llaw-harn seized hold of him and tried to get him back. The devil was getting the upper hand, when the llaw-harn begged the devil to let him keep Gethin while the piece of candle he had with him lasted. The devil consented, and let go his hold of Gethin, where. upon the cwmshurwr immediately blew out the candle, and the devil was discomfited.

Gethin preserved the piece of candle very carefully, stowing it away in a cool place; but still it wasted away although it was never lighted. Gethin got such a fright that he took to his bed, and as the candle wasted away he did the same, and they both came to an end simultaneously. Gethin vanished--and it was not his body that was put into the coffin, but a lump of clay which was put in to save appearances! It is said that the wizard’s books are in an oaken chest at Waungyrlais farm house to this day.

The book is online at the sacred texts archive.
sacred-texts.com/neu/cfwm/

After visiting Hetty Peglar’s at the weekend with a friend who asked ‘Where did the name come from?’ I thought I’d try and find out. A cursory glance at Google found ‘Earth Mysteries: Hetty Peglar’s Tump‘ and the suggestion that the tump is named after the wife of the owner of the field. Sounds possible but not as exciting as the wise woman versions I’ve heard elsewhere.

Legend has it that these two stones (and another now missing) formed a tripod that was used to support a giant cooking pot that provided feasts for heroes.

The is also a famous cave on the mountain’s side – a direct connection with the underworld, so it seems.

This comes from the Rev. Robert MacDonald, a former minister of Fortingall, in the new Statistical Account for Scotland (Perthshire), published in 1845:

“There is a very remarkable cave near the south-west angle of Sith-chaillinn [Schiehallion], at the ‘Shealing,’ called Tom-a-mhorair, or the Earl’s eminence. Some miles to the east, there is an opening in the face of a rock, which is believed to be the termination thereof. Several stories are told and believed by the credulous, relating to this cave; that the inside thereof is full of chambers or separate apartments, and that, as soon as a person advances a few yards, he comes to a door, which, the moment he enters, closes, as it opened, of its own accord, and prevents his returning.”

Similarly in “Rambles in Breadalbane” (1891), the author, Ferguson remarks: “It is said that there are a long series of mysterious caves, extending from one side of the mountain to the other.” And also there is this quote from “A Highland Parish or the History of Fortingall” (1928) by Alexander Stewart:

“Of all the caves in the Parish, the most remarkable is that at Tom a Mhorair, on the south side of Glenmore, near the west shoulder of Schiehallion. It has a fairly wide opening which extends for three or four yards. It then contracts and slants into total darkness in the bowels of the earth. Some miles to the east of this there is another opening, which tradition holds to be the other end of the cave. According to the traditional accounts, this cave was regarded as an abode of fairies and other supernatural beings, rather than a hiding place of mortals. The only men who were supposed to have lived there were individuals who were believed to have been in league with supernatural powers.”

All these quotes were noted by Barry Dunford in his article “Schiehallion – Mount Zion in the far north” at sacredconnection.ndo.co.uk/holyland/schiehallion.htm (which seems to have suggestions much more speculative than mere supernatural underworlds).

Schiehallion is actually ‘Sidh Chailleann’ – fairy hill of the Caledonians (’sidh’ is like ban-’shee’). According to Ruth and Frank Morris in ‘Scottish Healing Wells’ (and noted in Bord’s ‘Fairy Sites’), there is a fairy well somewhere on the side of the hill which was renowned for healing and for granting wishes. Girls dressed in white used to bring garlands to the fairies every May day.

The John Muir Trust website at
jmt.org/cons/sch
has lots of information about the hill, including the following legend:

“Two hump-backed men lived on either side of the mountain, one near Braes of Foss and the other near Tempar. One fine summer’s eve, the man from Braes of Foss went to visit his friend, walking through Gleann Mor. As he approached the cave – Uamh Tom a’Mhor-fhir – he heard the singing and dancing of fairies. He was totally thrilled and joined in the song in a melodious voice, adding a new line. The fairies were delighted with the addition and gave him three gifts – that he would be tall and lose his hump, that he would be healthy and that he would have plenty until he died.

When he got to his friend’s house, the friend did not recognise him, so he told of how he had lost his hump. The friend tried to do the same, and met up with the fairies too. Unfortunately the friend had a most tuneless voice and greatly upset the fairies who cursed him, doubling his hump, making him the ugliest man on earth and making him grow bigger and bigger until he died. Needless to say, his friend no longer recognised such an ugly, giant of a man.”

A curious fact is that in 1774 the Reverend Neville Maskelyne, Astronomer Royal, chose Schiehallion for his investigations into gravity (the mountain was nice and symmetrical). From these he worked out the weight of the earth and from his methods were developed contour lines on maps. You can read more at the John Muir Trust website at
jmt.org/cons/sch /sch_ref_maskel.html Seems like a suitably worthy use of a sacred hill.

Legend has it that the round barrow on top of the hill (also known as Ribden Lowe) was inhabited by fairies. Mary Howitt (a popular Victorian writer) wrote a ballad about watching them dance on midsummer’s night and the remarkably helpful activities they were planning – sound more like the domestic hob to me..

“And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?”
“I’ve been to the top of the Caldon-Low,
The midsummer night to see!”

“And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?”
“I saw the glad sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.”

“And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Hill?”
“I heard the drops of water made,
And the ears of the green corn fill.”

“Oh! tell me all, my Mary,
All, all that ever you know,
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night, on the Caldon-Low.”

“Then take me on your knee, mother;
And listen, mother of mine.
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.

“And their harp strings rung so merrily
To their dancing feet so small:
But oh, the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all.”

“And what were the words, my Mary,
That then you heard them say?”
“I’ll tell you all, my mother;
But let me have my way.

“Some of them played with the water
And rolled it down the hill;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily turn
The poor old miller’s mill;

“’For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man will the miller be
At dawning of the day.

“Oh, the miller, how he will laugh
When he sees the milldam rise!
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh
Till the tears fill both his eyes!”

“And some they seized the little winds
That sounded over the hill;
And each put a horn into his mouth,
And blew both loud and shrill.

“’And there,’ they said, ‘the merry winds go
Away from every horn;
And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow’s corn.

“’Oh, the poor, blind widow,
Though she has been blind so long,
She’ll be blithe enough when the mildew’s gone
And the corn stands tall and strong.‘

“And some they brought the brown lintseed,
And flung it down from the Low;
‘And this,’ they said, ‘by the sunrise,
In the weaver’s croft shall grow.

“’Oh, the poor, lame weaver,
How he will laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax-field
All full of flowers by night!‘

“And then outspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin:
‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he,
‘And I want some more to spin.

“’I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another;
A little sheet for Mary’s bed,
And an apron for her mother.‘

“With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.

“And all on the top of the Caldon-Low
The mists were cold and gray,
And nothing I saw but the mossy stones,
That round about me lay.

“But coming down from the hilltop
I heard afar below
How busy the jolly miller was
And how merry the wheel did go.

“And I peeped into the widow’s field,
And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of mildewed corn
All standing stout and green.

“And down by the weaver’s croft I stole,
To see if the fax were sprung;
And I met the weaver at his gate
With the good news on his tongue.

“Now this is all I hear, mother,
And all that I did see;
So prithee, make my bed, mother,
For I’m tired as I can be.”

I found this at faeriefae.50megs.com/the_fairies_of_the_caldon-low.htm

A story from Wirk Sikes’ book ‘British Goblins’ (1881).

The scene of this tale is a hollow near Llangollen, on the mountain side half-way up to the ruins of Dinas Bran Castle, which hollow is to this day called Nant yr Ellyllon [hollow of the goblins]. It obtained its name, according to tradition, in this wise:

A young man, called Tudur ap Einion Gloff, used in old times to pasture his master’s sheep in that hollow. One summer’s night, when Tudur was preparing to return to the lowlands with his woolly charge, there suddenly appeared, perched upon a stone near him, ‘a little man in moss breeches with a fiddle under his arm. He was the tiniest wee specimen of humanity imaginable. His coat was made of birch leaves, and he wore upon his head a helmet which consisted of a gorse flower, while his feet were encased in pumps made of beetle’s wings. He ran his fingers over his instrument, and the music made Tudur’s hair stand on end. ” Nos da’ch’, nos da’ch’,” said the little man, which means “Good-night, good-night to you,” in English. ” Ac i chwithau,” replied Tudur; which again, in English, means ” The same to you.” Then continued the little man, ” You are fond of dancing, Tudur; and if you but tarry awhile you shall behold some of the best dancers in Wales, and I am the musician.” Quoth Tudur, “Then where is your harp? A Welshman even cannot dance without a harp.” ” Oh,” said the little man, “I can discourse better dance music upon my fiddle.” “Is it a fiddle you call that stringed wooden spoon in your hand?” asked Tudur, for he had never seen such an instrument before.

And now Tudur beheld through the dusk hundreds of pretty little sprites converging towards the spot where they stood, from all parts of the mountain. Some were dressed in white, and some in blue, and some in pink, and some carried glow-worms in their hands for torches. And so lightly did they tread that not a blade nor a flower was crushed beneath their weight, and every one made a curtsey or a bow to Tudur as they passed, and Tudur doffed his cap and moved to them in return. Presently the little minstrel drew his bow across the strings of his instrument, and the music produced was so enchanting that Tudur stood transfixed to the spot.’ At the sound of the sweet melody, the Tylwyth Teg ranged themselves in groups, and began to dance. Now of all the dancing Tudur had ever seen, none was to be compared to that he saw at this moment going on. He could not help keeping time with his hands and feet to the merry music, but he dared not join in the dance, ‘for he thought within himself that to dance on a mountain at night in strange company, to perhaps the devil’s fiddle, might not be the most direct route to heaven.’ But at last he found there was no resisting this bewitching strain, joined to the sight of the capering Ellyllon.

‘” Now for it, then,” screamed Tudur, as he pitched his cap into the air under the excitement of delight. “Play away, old devil; brimstone and water, if you like!” No sooner were the words uttered than everything underwent a change. The gorse-blossom cap vanished from the minstrel’s head, and a pair of goat’s horns branched out instead. His face turned as black as soot; a long tail grew Out of his leafy coat, while cloven feet replaced the beetle-wing pumps. Tudur’s heart was heavy, but his heels were light. Horror was in his bosom, but the impetus of motion was in his feet. The fairies changed into a variety of forms. Some became goats, and some became dogs, some assumed the shape of foxes, and others that of cats. It was the strangest crew that ever surrounded a human being.

The dance became at last so furious that Tudur could not distinctly make out the forms of the dancers. They reeled around him with such rapidity that they almost resembled a wheel of fire. Still Tudur danced on. He could not stop, the devil’s fiddle was too much for him, as the figure with the goat’s horns kept pouring it out with unceasing vigour, and Tudur kept reeling around in spite of himself.

Next day Tudur’s master ascended the mountain in search of the lost shepherd and his sheep. He found the sheep all right at the foot of the Fron, but fancy his astonishment when, ascending higher. he saw Tudur spinning like mad in the middle of the basin now known as Nant yr Ellyllon.’ Some pious words of the master broke the charm, and restored Tudur to his home in Llangollen, where he told his adventures with great gusto for many years afterwards. [Rev. T. R. Lloyd (Estyn), in ‘The Principality.’]