Latest Folklore

On the summit of the nearest hill to the sea, except one, bordering with the parish of Cyrus, and commanding an extensive prospect, stands a rough stone, in the circumference of a stony circle, commonly called the Cloach stone. It is more than a foot thick, measure 8 feet along the ground, and rises nearly 6 above its surface, in an inclined direction towards the north.

As there is no place in the neighbourhood, except one at the South corner of the parish, close by the shore, where stones of the same quality are found, it appears to have been brought from thence, not without considerable difficulty, the intervening space being a pretty steep ascent of more than a mile. It would seem therefore to have been erected for some useful purpose, perhaps with a view to perpetuate some memorable event.

Tradition says, a battle was fought near this place, and the number of flint heads of arrows, found on the side of the hill where it stands, affords some reason to credit this report. Between this and the coast, a great quantity of human bones has been dug up, in the course of improving the land, for nearly the space of a mile along the rising ground above Johnshaven. The bottom and sides of the graves, containing these bones, were all lined with rough stones.

The writer then admits that although lots of bodies could result from a battle, no-one would probably dig them all careful graves. From volume 15 of the Statistical Account of Scotland (1793).

The Canmore record has this as a recumbent stone circle (and that sounds like an impressive recumbent stone, and it’s flanked by upright pillar stones) but also seems to waver also with categorising it as a special sort of cairn: “one of a group in the area which have well-built kerbs and an associated large stone.”

This fort is well protected by sheer cliffs here on Ashie Moor.

In the parish of Dores, and about three miles from Loch ness, are vestiges of a fort called Castel-Dunreachan, or Castal-Dun-richuan, i.e. Castle of the King of the Ocean*, a name perhaps imposed when the king of Norway was master of the sea. To the eastward of that fort, are several cairns, one of which, called Ashi’s hill, is fabled to be the spot where Fingal killed Ashi, son of the Norwegian monarch.

*Yes this all sounds highly unlikely. But names need explanations. From ‘The Topographical, Statistical, and Historical Gazetteer of Scotland’ (1819)

You can see a photo of the fort on Geograph.

Canmore mentions the remains of a cairn here, 35m east of the summit. This hill is also where one of those excellent carved stone balls was found, carved with a spiral and chevron patterns.

It was first designed to build the church [for Fordoun] on the top of the Knock-hill, about a mile or more north-east of the village – a most inconvenient, and the reverse of a central situation; and there the work was actually commenced. As usual, whatever was erected during the day by the masons was destroyed at night by some supernatural beings, who took this method of testifying their aversion to the undertaking. After some time, when both builders and destroyers had perhaps become weary of their respective labours, a supernatural voice was heard to cry,-

Gang farther doun
To Fordoun’s toun.

The hint was taken; and in order to determine the proper site of the church, a mason was desired to throw his hammer at random. The hammer judiciously alighted on the beautiful mound where Paldy’s chapel was already pitched, and there the work was carried into effect without farther interruption.

It would be a very odd place for a church for Fordoun. From ‘The Topographical, Statistical, and Historical Gazetteer of Scotland’ (1845).

On the steep side of Great Finn, an insulated rock that is split and rent into parts rises like the ruins of a castle from out the thick underwood with which the hill is covered: this shapeless mass is called Hob’s House, and tradition states, that it was inhabited by a being of a gigantic stature, who was possessed of great and mysterious powers, and who was known by the name of Hob. This extraordinary personage never appeared by day; but when the inhabitants were asleep in their beds, he traversed the vales, entered their houses, thrashed their corn, and in one single night did the work of ten day-labourers, unseen and unheard, for which service he was recompensed with a bowl of cream, that was duly placed upon the hearth, to be quaffed on the completion of the task he had voluntarily imposed upon himself. This is a tradition by no means confined to the neighbourhood of Monsal-Dale; a similar one prevails in many parts of the kingdom, and particularly in the northern districts...

From ‘Peak Scenery, or the Derbyshire Tourist’ by Eberneezer Rhodes (1824).

In speaking of the rebel laird of Blelack, it may be added that the fairies abode in the Seely Howe, a hollow in the Carne Hillock, upon that property; and, before leaving for the wars of the ‘45, the laird, determined to dislodge them from his lands, employed for that purpose a reputed magician, named John Farquharson, tacksman in Parks. The fairies, however, refused to obey his spell until he should assign them some other place of abode, which he did by sending them to the Hill of Fare, near Banchory! But, disliking their new quarters very much, the superstitious aver that the fairies pronounced this imprecation upon Gordon:--

“Dool, dool to Blelack,
And dool to Blelack’s heir,
For drivin’ us from the Seely Howe
To the cauld hill o’ Fare!”

The malediction of the fairies against Farquharson was still more eldritch:--

“While corn and girs grows to the air,
John Farquharson and his seed shall thrive nae mair!”

It is added that Farquharson, whose circumstances went to the bad from the day he dislodged the fairies, left his native country and was never again heard of. Matters also went ill with the Gordons. The rebel laird died without lawful issue, when the estate passed to Charles Rose, a sister’s son...

From ‘Epitaphs and inscriptions from burial grounds and old buildings in the north-east of Scotland’ by Andrew Jervise (1875).

I would imagine the cavern mentioned could be Kinder Low cavern, very near to this cairn.

At a meeting of the Society of Manchester Scientific Students, Sept. 27, 1882, the members visited Hayfield. On leaving Hayfield railway station the party proceeded to the edge of Leygate Moor. From thence they reached the Old Oak wood near the lower house. A short walk from here is the Downfall. Near here is the Mermaid’s Pool, of which the natives have a tradition that a beautiful woman lives in the side of the Scout; that she comes to bathe every day in the Mermaid’s Well, and that the man who has the good luck to behold her bathing will become immortal and never die. The old people of Hayfield, moreover, tell a long story of a man who, sometime in the last century, went from Hayfield over the Scout, and was lucky enough to meet this mountain nymph, by whom he was conducted to a cavern hard by. Tradition adds that she was pleased with this humble mortal, and that he lingered there some time, when she conferred on him the precious gift of immortality.

From the Notes and Queries section of v1/n1 of the Folk-Lore Journal (1883).

A bit more to Drew’s story:

There died one hundred and fifteen years ago a Mr. Alexander Hogg of London, merchant, leaving among other benefactions to his native parish of Durris, Kincardineshire, ten shillings a year to the herds around the hill of Cairnshee (Fairies’ Cairn) for the purpose of making a Midsummer bonfire, in remembrance of the fact that he as a boy herded cattle there. A further sum was left to provide barrels of ale, cheese, and bread for those who assemble to witness the celebration. This curious observance is duly followed every year, and forms one of the attractions of the district. As many as half a dozen musicians resort to the hill, and dancing is kept up till midnight or longer.

Can it be doubted that Mr. Hogg thus gave new life to an old custom which had been known to his boyhood? [*] Let us note some particulars that go to prove its connection with prehistoric times.

The fire must be lit on the twenty-fourth of June just as the last limb of the sun disappears beneath the horizon.
The height on which the fire is lit is the highest eminence in the district from which the beholders come, and thus the sun would be seen at the last possible moment.
The herds must, according to the conditions of the will, collect the fuel themselves, each bringing as many bundles as possible so that a large fire may result. As there are ten lads on the surrounding farms.. the pile is often of considerable dimensions.

The young men are in the habit of pushing each other through the smoke and flames. This may arise from a belief that the person so “passed” would be charmed against disease during the coming year. Some would see in the action an indication of early human sacrifice. [**] I have been at many ‘herds’ fires’ (about ten I think) and have invariably seen it done. It is possible, however, that in this instance it is nothing but a display of animal spirits. But in any case I think there is enough evidence to show that the rite is a relic of pagan times...

* Possibly not. Victorians were even more desperate to find Traces of Our Pagan Past than we are.
** Some would see in the action an indication of a large number of pissed young men.
Nevertheless, it all sounds like a lot of fun and should be reinstated immediately.

From ‘Midsummer Bonfires’ by A. MacDonald, in Folklore, Vol. 15, No. 1 (Mar. 25, 1904), pp. 105-106

This could be the place:

Often sickness among a herd followed the removal of a stone. Near Auchleven in Premnay, once stood a stone circle now destroyed. The farmer, who moved the stones, soon after lost many of his cattle and was ruined.

From ‘Primitive Beliefs in the Northeast of Scotland’ by J M McPherson (1929).

On Caynham Camp, is the site of an ancient Castle, noticed by Leland, who says of it, “Kainsham, or Kensham Castle, clene down, stood within two miles of Ludloe, on a hill top.” “It belonged,” says Camden,“to the Mortimers, and the Church to Wigmore Abbey.” Two fields on the east side are yet called the Castle fields; and immediately below is another in which a deep and wide entrenchment occupies the principal part. Tradition says that this latter was a depository for horses and military stores during the siege of Ludlow Castle, by Cromwell.

On top of the hill, is a bank covered with trees and underwood, and encircling an open space, consisting of six or seven acres. Around this there is a walk, with benches, opposite to which are openings, commanding most delightful prospects, not only of the local beauties of the neighbourhood of Ludlow, but of Malvern Hill, the Black Mountains in Brecknockshire, and other distant objects.

In ‘The history and antiquities of the town of Ludlow and its ancient castle’ by Thomas Wright, 1822.

Whilst visiting this stone I was lucky enough to meet a local lady walking her dog. She came from nearby Pepperhillock and told me two local myths.

The Ford.

This stone was used a marker to lead to another standing stone down on the banks of the River Dee. The stone pointed to a place were the Dee could be crossed. Unfortunately the stone was taken down years ago.

Marriage.

The standing stone at Standingstones farm is known locally as the husband. Slightly to the west is smaller stone known as the wife. It is said that as long as they stand together then the local residents will enjoy many happy days especially if they are married.

(It is aligned to Bennachie.)

So sacred are these stones that, “it is generally averred hereabouts,” writes Aubrey, “that pieces of them putt into their Wells, doe drive away the Toades, with which their wells are much infested, and this course they use still. It is also averred that no Magpye, Toade, or Snake was ever seen here.”

Aubrey quoted in ‘Jottings on some of the objects of interest in the Stonehenge Excursion’ by Edward Stevens (1882), but I will find out the original source.

A ‘fairy-woman’ lived at the Chair of Kildare. Well, she wasn’t actually a fairy, but something like an intermediary who also dealt in herbal medicine, a bit of veterinarianism, seeing the future, that sort of thing. In fact, for once, it wouldn’t seem like new age woo to claim she was a bit like a shaman. Not only could a fairy-woman or man “hold some mysterious sort of communication with the denizens of moats or raths” but they’d been over the Other Side: “In some cases it was rumoured that they had been changelings originally.” Changelings were fairy children who were sickly who had been swapped for your own, obviously bouncing and healthy, baby. With a bit of intervention from someone who knew what they were doing, your child could sometimes be brought back. In truth this would have looked like distancing yourself from your sickly child and leaving it out on a dungheap to die, but in a socially acceptable sort of fashion.

“..as they usually lived a solitary and retired life, no ordinary sare of mystery shrouded their motions. [They] professed a familiar acquaintance with all secrets – past, present and future: the cure of most diseases affecting man and beasts; the discovery and restoration of lost goods; a description and detection of the thief if property had been stolen; fortune-telling, and a knowledge regarding all matters of personal concern; causing cream to produce butter in greater abundance: whilst they often took care to impress.. an opinion that their friendship would be desirable to prevent the certain evil effects of fairy resentment.”

“Within the present century, one of these fairy-women, who was named Moll Anthony, lived near the Red Hills at the Chair of Kildare ... Her reputation as a posessor of supernatural knowledge and divination drew crowds of distant visitors to her daily, and from the most remote parts of Ireland. In various instances they were furnished with a bottle containing some supposed curative liquid, and directed to return homewards without falling asleep on their journey. This bottle was filled with water, darkly coloured by a decoction of herbs, gathered with certain incantations near a rath that afforded the customary materia medica of fairy-doctors for the cure of a special disease on which consultation was required.”

The author is unimpressed: “The most accomplished and skilful member of the medical faculty seldom received a more remunerative fee for his services on behalf of a patient than the wise woman of the Red Hills pocketed from her credulous dupes.” (I doubt it).

The piece also says: “After the death of Moll Anthony, her daughter followed the same profession, but never enjoyed a like celebrity.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

While speaking of English stories, I may relate one told to myself and my friend, Mr. J. J. Foster, at Cearne in Dorsetshire. We were questioning a labourer as to the giant figure cut in the turf at that place. He assured us that it was supposed to be the representation of a Danish giant who led an invasion of this coast, and lay on the side of the hill to sleep; while asleep the peasantry tied him down to the ground and cut off his head, and the outline in the turf represents the place where the giant lay. Upon being asked how long ago this was supposed to be, the answer was, “About a hundred years.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

“THIS point is situated in the parish of Perranuthnoe; the parish, it will be remembered, into which Trelawney escaped, aided by the fleetness of his horse, from the deluge which buried the lands between this and the Scilly Isles.

At the low-water of spring-tides, the children from all the neighbourhood flock to the sands around this point, in the hope of finding treasure, which they believe is buried in the sands beneath the sea, and which is, it is said, occasionally discovered. Amongst other things, an especial search is made for a silver table, which was lost by a very wealthy lord, by some said to be the old Lord Pengerswick, who enriched himself by grinding down the poor. On one occasion, when the calmness of summer, the clearness of the skies, and the tranquillity of the waters invited the luxurious to the enjoyments of the sea, this magnate, with a party of gay and thoughtless friends, was floating in a beautiful boat lazily with the tide, and feasting from numerous luxuries spread on a silver table. Suddenly – no one lived to tell the cause – the boat sank in the calm, transparent waters; and, long after the event, the fishermen would tell of sounds of revelry heard from beneath the waters, and some have said they have seen these wicked ones still seated around the silver table.”

From Popular Romances of the West of England collected and edited by Robert Hunt, p.213 1st Edition 1865

A slightly different version, from Ruth Tongue’s ‘Somerset Folklore’, and heard from a gardener in Corfe. The ‘Digital Digging’ website confirms that the site is known as ‘Castle Rache’ locally, with the topmost bit being ‘the Beacon’.

There was a vast treasure hidden on Castle Rach, and it was guarded by devils; but the men of Corfe were both valiant and poor and they determined to dig it up. They went to the priest and he promised to come with them, bringing some salt and holy water. The church bells were rung to drive away the devils and the digging began. It was highly successful. So vast a treasure did their spades uncover that one man swore in sheer surprise. At once the chest sank out of sight, the devils came back and every man, including the priest, died within a year.

Roby concocts a complicated story in ‘Popular Traditions of Lancashire‘ (1843). You can’t help thinking you’d be better off waiting for the film version. But I’ll try to summarise.

The story starts off with three rich men out riding with their servants. One of them is a Pilkington, from Rivington Hall. An awful storm blew up, and they decided to shelter / watch it from the tower on Rivington Pike. Amidst the eldritch thunder and lightning they heard a bang on the door – all the dogs cowered but one of the men, Norton, opened the door (cue creaky hinge noises). Outside was revealed the silhouette of a gigantic dark-dressed figure wearing a low browed hat, sat on a horse. Everyone else was scared to death, but Norton seemed to recognise the stranger – ‘it’s my uncle, who disappeared twelve years this very night’. Whaat? Everyone else looked on in confusion as he galloped off with the terrifying figure.

Pilkington was weighing up whether to follow his friend, but one of the servants warned against it.. the Spectre Horseman.. it must be ten, no, twelve years since my father encountered him.. he went out poaching, it was the same night as tonight, St. Bartlemy’s Eve. The dogs came back without him, they stank. I went out to look for him, I was terrified he’d got stuck in a bog. I had no luck, I returned for the dogs, but then my father turned up at the house in a right state – ‘I’ve seen th’ ould one’.. A man on a black horse had stopped him on the moor – “Can’st thou show me to the Two Lads?” he said. ‘My father began to wonder what this unlikely thing could want there at the Two Lads, which as you know is on the highest and ugliest part of the whole commoning; a place which is always said to have a bad name sticking to it.‘

Having got there, he was about to leave, but the strange man asked him to stay – ‘Now, lift up that big heap of stones there, and I’ll tell you what to do with them.’ ‘Sir,’ says my father, ‘You are in jest.’ But not a bit of it – the other smacked them with his horse switch, and up they jumped like crows from a corn-field. The dogs started howling and turned for home, and father was left with the Spectre Horseman that was always said to ramble about these hills, sometimes in the air, sometimes on the ground, without ever a footprint. Where the stones had been there was a great gaping hole, and horribly, a great long black arm came thrusting out of it. ‘Take what he gives you!’ came a voice like thunder. But father couldn’t move. ‘Hurry or I shall miss my time!‘

But suddenly there were the sound of steps through the heather and the horseman looked more cheerful – ‘Go, fool, here is one better than thee’, and he kicked the poor man out of the way.

To cut this excessively long story short, Pilkington and the others decided to head up to the Two Lads to see if they could save their friend. They found him in a terrible condition but alive. Norton explained how when the mysterious horseman had turned up, he’d felt under the influence of a dream, convinced that the figure was that of his uncle, who had gone missing long before. The story gets a bit vampirey or bodysnatchers or something, as though the Fiend has to find himself a new body every twelve years. But somehow Norton manages to resist, and the Spectre Horseman appears no more. So you should be safe up there.

But the book suggests that the story’s not entirely newly made up – that The tradition prevalent in the south of Lancashire ... was that a dark gigantic rider, upon a steed of vast dimensions, was wont to traverse in stormy nights the hills of Horwich Moor, and the usual spot of his disappearance [was] one of those monuments which we call Druidical, for want of a better name.

Btw, it seems that St Bartholomew’s day was the day that autumn began. So that’s probably why the devil was in a hurry. But he shouldn’t have left everything to the last minute, should he.
There’s a link at the Darlington and Stockton Times that’s quite interesting.

Strange goings-on (well possibly), at the hillfort, as related by Bamboo at the Fortean Times Message Board.

A long time ago, a band of Scottish raiders arrived in Tanum, and travelled into the Bullarebygden.
On their way back to the shore, they were attacked several times, the first time around the church of Tanum. The survivors fled to the coast, and at Prästmyren, one of the chiefs were buried in Valbrets Grav. The last fight was here at Greby, where the rest of the raiders were killed and buried.

I wonder if these stones (which you can read the details of at Canmore ) have any markings on them. Or perhaps the stone in the story is the nearby Clach A Cholumain. There seem to be plenty of candidates, judging by the photos on Mark Stevens‘ “>‘Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland’ (1860). It goes on a bit. But it describes this very strange bit of river, which is in a chasm, but the sound of it gets funneled up. The banks were somewhere where ‘no one would choose to walk alone’ – but the lady of the house of Balconie used to walk with her maid there. Though the maid thought she was a bit weird to be honest. One night she freaked the girl out by trying to make her go near the edge. ‘No nearer, ma’am’ squeaked the terrified girl, ‘Strange sights have been seen in the gully after nightfall.. I shall swoon with terror and fall over.‘

But the lady gets really nasty and shrieks ‘Nay wretch there is no escape!’ and drags her towards the chasm.. suddenly there’s a ‘strong masculine voice’ and a dark-looking man in green appears, saying ‘let me accompany you – your surety must be a willing one’. The maid escapes and the lady lets herself be led miserably to the edge.

“She turned round on reaching the precipice, and, untying from her belt a bunch of household keys, flung them up the bank towards the girl; and then, taking what seemed to be a farewell look of the setting sun.. she disappeared with her companion behind the nearer edge of the gulf. The keys struck, in falling, against a huge granitic boulder, and sinking into it as if it were a mass of melted wax, left an impression which is still pointed out to the curious visitor.”

Ten years later a man walked up the stream and found a cave in which he met the lady of Balconie.. but you could read that bit for yourself.

Another version of the stone’s origins:

There is a farm near Wrington called Hailstones Farm, but some folk say it should really be Hurlerstone Farm, on account of the Devil picking up a great rock lying there and throwing it right over the Mendips to hit Cranmore Church. Of course, he missed, but it was a tidy throw even for “the Old Boy”.

Some say it was a giant dropped it or made a bad shot of it. Anyhow, the rock lies on the edge of a cliff in the woods and they call them Hurdlestone Woods. And there is a Giant’s Grave there too.

From Ruth L. Tongue’s 1965 ‘Somerset Folklore’. She heard it in Frome and Cranmore in 1945.

There’s a bridge over the river at the foot of this fort. The following pretty muddled story kind of suggests the fort and the bridge (and a big stone somewhere here too) are all the Devil’s Work:

There were once a curious cat over to Spire, a proper mischievous nuisance that cat were, always poking into anything new. [..] One day he went for a walk and he found Mounsey Castle. “Now who dropped this little lot?” says he. “I must go and see.” Then in the wood-side he come on a gurt stone, twelve foot or more, just dropped there, and he knew he were getting nearer. Then he heard yells of rage, and off he scuttles to see what ‘twas and it were the Devil and Parson, one on each side of the Barle and a new stone bridge atween ‘n. “I’ll have a look-see at that,” says Cat, and downhill he goes.

Says Parson to Devil, “You shan’t have none of my souls be first steps on your bridge. They bain’t going’ Somewhere Else’.”
“You old black crow,” yells Devil.
“If I be a crow,” says Parson, “I bain’t so black as yew!”
And just then puss walk out over on to Tarr Steps, to look it over, no matter if he’d been invited or no. The Devil pounced on ‘n like a lightning flash – and poor Cat goed Somewhere Else quicker than you could think!

The Tarr Steps are some way away, and they’re not really a ‘bridge’ as such (although yeah they’re probably the devil’s work), so they don’t need to be dragged into the story really, when there’s a bridge at hand at Mounsey Castle. The story’s like the one at the Devil’s Bridge near Aberystwyth – but there the Parson tricks the Devil into taking an animal rather than his parishoners: here the animal’s stupid enough to trap himself.

From Ruth Tongue’s ‘Folktales of England’, collected 1963.

The Magic map shows about 15 round barrows in this area. Surely they add to its weirdness and contribute to it featuring in this story:

..the following story [was] taken down by me verbatim from an old woman in the parish of Luffincott in North Devon. I will give it in her own words:--

“There was an old woman lived in Bridgerule parish, and she had a very handsome daughter. One evening a carriage and four drove to the door, and a gentleman stepped out. He was a fine-looking man, and he made some excuse to stay in the cottage talking, and he made love to the maiden, and she was rather taken with him. Then he drove away, but next evening he came again, and it was just the same thing; and he axed the maid if on the third night she would go in the coach with him, and be married. She said Yes; and he made her swear that she would.

“Well, the old mother did not think that all was quite right, so she went to the pars’n of Bridgerule and axed he about it. ‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I reckon it’s the Old Un. Now look y’ here. Take this ‘ere candle, and ax that gen’leman next time he comes to let your Polly alone till this ‘ere candle be burnt out. Then take it, blow it out, and rin along on all your legs to me.‘

“So the old woman took the candle.

“Next night the gen’leman came in his carriage and four, and he went into the cottage and axed the maid to come wi’ he, as she’d sworn and promised. She said, ‘I will, but you must give me a bit o’ time to dress myself.’ He said, ‘I’ll give you till thickey candle be burnt out.‘

“Now, when he had said this, the old woman blew the candle out and rinned away as fast as she could, right on end to Bridgerule, and the pars’n he tooked the can’l and walled it up in the side o’ the church; you can see where it be to this day (it is the rood loft staircase upper door, now walled up). Well, when the gen’leman saw he was done, he got into his carriage and drove away, and he drove till he comed to Affaland Moor, and then all to wance down went the carriage and horses and all into a sort o bog there, and blue flames came up all round where they went down.”

The conversion of a dead lover into the devil is obviously a Christianised modification of a very ancient belief, that the dead do come and claim female companions. In all likelihood there lingered on a tradition of some gentleman having been engulfed in the morass of Affaland.

From his ‘Book of Folklore’ by the excellent Sabine Baring-Gould (1913).

Between [Mullion] and the Lizard is a fine headland, the Rill, and on its summit are a number of loose, rough stones, known as the Apron String, which the country people say were brought here by an evil spirit, who intended to build with them a bridge across to France for the convenience of smugglers. He was hastening along with his load, which he carried in his apron, when one of its strings broke, and in despair he gave up the idea.

From ‘Cornish Folk-Lore’ by M A Courtney, in the Folk-Lore Journal, v5 n1 (1887).

The Statistical Account of 1793 is quite sure that this stone commemorates where the leader of the Danes, Camus, was killed. The writer called upon George Buchanan’s history of Scotland to back him up. That was written in the late 16th century. I decided to look it up and the relevant chapter, about Malcolm II (the Eighty Third king of Scotland, no less) is really quite grippingly written, different armies dashing about, Malcolm being Wounded in the Head, people being discouraged and crest-fallen, but then things turning about and the Danes “flying to the Mountains towards Murray, before [Camus] had gone two miles, was overtaken by the Pursuers, and he and all his Men cut off. There are monuments extant of this Victory, in an Obeliske, and a Neighbouring Village, which as yet retains the Memorable Name of Camus.” There’s some ghastly stuff about Malcolm’s eventual end as well, but I will resist quoting it.

I’m not convinced though, that it particularly refers to this location in Buchanan’s book. But the story is no doubt the same whichever Camus stone you’re at (and there are / were a number of them).

The Fairy Music

THE evil influence of the fairy glance does not kill, but it throws the object into a death-like trance, in which the real body is carried off to some fairy mansion, while a log of wood, or some ugly, deformed creature is left in its place, clothed with the shadow of the stolen form.
Young women, remarkable for beauty, young men, and handsome children, are the chief victims of the fairy stroke. The girls are wedded to fairy chiefs, and the young men to fairy queens; and if the mortal children do not turn out well, they are sent back, and others carried off in their place.
It is sometimes possible, by the spells of a powerful fairy-man, to bring back a living being from Fairy-land. But they are never quite the same after. They have always a spirit-look, especially if they have listened to the fairy music. For the fairy music is soft and low and plaintive, with a fatal charm for mortal ears.

Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland By Lady Francesca Speranza Wilde

A huge collection of folklore and folk-magic from Oscar Wildes’ mother.

View online at Google Books, Sacred-texts Com, or download this collection for your iPhone or iPod.