Rhiannon

This story is retold in Wirt Sikes’s ‘British Goblins’ – but here is the original. It’s a bit long because he lays it on with a trowel. From ‘Cambrian Superstitions’ by William Howells (1831):

.. the celebrated tale of the Fairies of Frennifaur (a high mountain in Pembrokeshire, called by some Brenin fawr, and by others Brynnan mawr; it is about ten miles south of Cardigan).

It is now about fifty years ago since a stripling, of twelve or more years of age, was tending his father’s sheep on a small mountain, called Frennifach; it was a fine morning in June, and he had just driven the sheep to their pasture for the day, when he looked at the top of Frennifaur to observe which way the morning fog declined, that he might be judge of the weather (*if the fog on Frennifawr declines to the Pembrokeshire side, the peasants prognosticate fair; if on the Cardigan side, foul weather), and to his surprise, saw what seemed a party of soldiers sedulously engaged in some urgent affair; knowing there could not possibly be soldiers there so early, he, with some alarm, looked more minutely, and perceived they were too diminutive for men; yet thinking his eyesight had deceived him, he went to a more elevated situation, and discovered that they were the Tylwyth Teg dancing.

He had often heard of them, and had seen their rings in the neighbourhood, but not till then had the pleasure of seeing them; he once thought of running home to acquaint his parents, but judging they would be gone before he returned, and he be charged with a falsehood, he resolved to go up to them, for he had been informed that the fairies were very harmless, and would only injure those who attempted to discover their habitations; so by degrees he arrived within a short distance of the ring, where he remained some time observing their motions.

They were of both sexes, and he described them as being the most handsome people he had ever seen, they also appeared enchantingly cheerful, as if inviting him to enter and join the dance. -- They did not all dance, but those who did, never deviated from the circle; some ran after one another with surprising swiftness, and others (females) rode on small white horses of the most beautiful form. Their dresses, although indescribably elegant, and surpassing the sun in radiance, varied in colour, some being white, others scarlet, and the males wore a red tripled cap, but the females some light head dress, which waved fantastically with the slightest breeze.

He had not remained long ere they made signs for him to enter, and he gradually drew nearer till at length he ventured to place one foot in the circle, which he had no sooner done than his ears were charmed with the most melodious music, which moved him, in the transport of the moment, to enter altogether: he was no sooner in, than he found himself in a most elegant palace, glittering with gold and pearls; here he enjoyed every variety of pleasure, and had the liberty to range wherever he pleased, accompanied by kind attendants beautiful as the Houries; and instead of Tatws llaeth (*Potatoes and milk, a meal much eaten by the peasantry. The potatoes are scraped clean, and then, either roasted or boiled, are beaten to a fine stiff consistency, and taken with buttermilk), buttermilk, or fresh boiled flummery (*a healthy and pleasant food used by the lower class, and made from rough ground oatmeal soaked in water, the drain of which boiled, becomes thick, and is used with milk), here were the choicest viands and the purest wine in abundance, brought in golden goblets inlaid with gems, sometimes by invisible agency, and at other times by the most beautiful virgins.

He had only one restriction, and that was not to drink, upon any consideration (or it was told him it would be fatal to his happiness), from a certain well in the middle of the garden, which contained golden fishes and others of various colours. New objects daily attracted his attention, and new faces presented themselves to his view, surpassing, if possible, those he had seen before; new pastimes also were continually invented to charm him, but one day his hopes were blasted, and all his happiness fled in an instant. Possessing that innate curiosity common to most of us, he, like our first parents, transgressed, and plunged his hand into the well, when, the fishes instantly disappeared, and, putting the water in his mouth, he heard a confused shriek run through the garden: in an instant after, the palace and all vanished away, and, to his horror, he found himself in the very place where he had first entered the ring; and the scenes around, with the same sheep grazing, were just as he had left them.

He could scarcely believe himself, and hoped, and hoped again, that he was in the magnificent fairy castle; he looked around, but the scene was too well known: his senses soon returned to their proper action, and his memory proved that, although he thought he had been absent so many years, he had been only so many minutes.

As Howells then says, “this as regards the time the boy was under the spell, differs much from the other Welsh fairy tales, as most of those who had the pleasure of joining the Ellyllon, (fairies) imagined they had been with them but a few minutes when they had been an age.”

Frenni Fawr is home to a number of cairns and barrows.

THE LONGSTONE: A CORNISH LEGEND.

In the parish of St. Mabyn, in East Cornwall, and on the high road from Bodmin to Camelford, is a group of houses (one of them yet a smith’s shop) known by the name of Longstone. The curious traveller passing by inquires the raison d’etre of such a name, for there is no tall monolith, such as are not uncommon in Cornwall, to be seen near it. Let the reason be here fixed on the pages of “N. & Q.”

In lack of records, I may say “in the days of King Arthur there lived in Cornwall” a smith. This smith was a keen fellow, who made and mended the ploughs and harrows, shod the horses of his neighbours, and was generally serviceable. He had also great skill in farriery and in the general management and cure of sick cattle. He could also extract the stubbornest tooth, even if the jaw resisted and some gyrations around the anvil were required.

There seems ever to have been ill blood between devil and smith, teste Dunstan and others, and so it was between the fiend and the smith-farrier-dentist of St. Mabyn. At night there were many and fierce disputes between them in the smithy. The smith, as the rustics tell, always got the advantage of his adversary, and gave him better than he brought. This success, however, only fretted old Nick and spurred him on to further encounter. What the exact matter of controversy on this particular occasion was is not remembered, but it was agreed to settle it by some wager, some trial of strength and skill. A two-acre field was near, and the smith challenged the devil to the reaping of each his acre in the shortest time. The match came off, and the devil was beaten; for the smith had beforehand stealthily stuck here and there over his opponent’s acre some harrow tines or teeth.

The two started well, but soon the strong swing of the fiend’s scythe was being brought up frequently by some obstruction, and as frequently required the whetstone. The dexterous and agile smith went on smoothly with his acre, and was soon unmistakably gaining. The devil, enraged at his certain discomfiture, hurled his whetstone at his rival, and flew off. The whetstone, thrown with great violence, after sundry whirls in the air, fell upright into the soil to a great depth, and there remained a witness against the evil one for ages. The devil avoided the neighbourhood while it stood. In an evil hour the farmer at Treblethick near set his heart upon the Longstone, for there were gate-posts and door-posts to be had out of it, and he threw it down. That night the enemy returned, and has haunted the neighbourhood ever since.

The destroyer of this fine monolith is a near neighbour of mine, who, showing no compunction, tells me that its overthrow was about thirty years ago. It was of granite, and consequently brought hither from a distance, for the local stone is a friable slate. It yielded four large gate-posts, gave spans to a small bridge, and left much granite remaining.

From T Q Couch, in Notes and Queries for April 23rd, 1883.

But do not dispair, amazingly some of the stone is still around. The SMR says “It survives as a roughly fractured upright granite slab, sub-rectangular in shape, standing 1.5m high and measuring 0.53m wide by 0.19m thick at the base, and 0.65m wide by 0.1m thick at the top. It is set in a modern stone and cement base ... with a slate plaque against its northern side. The Longstone standing stone was recorded by 19th century antiquaries as a ‘tall unhewn monumental pillar’ standing at this hamlet until c.1850, when it was removed by a local farmer and split to make gateposts. The fragment ... was erected at its present location in June 1975 by the Wadebridge Old Cornwall Society.”

There’s also a medieval cross base and a guide post nearby – perhaps all three at this spot because of the junction of two important routes.

[In the year 737] King Ceolwulf resigned his crown to his cousin Eadbert, to end his days as a monk of Lindisfarne. During Eadbert’s reign, Galloway was invaded by a Celtic pretender, Alpyn, son of Echach. The Galwegians rose against him en masse. He conquered the greater part of the country, till he was confronted by Innrechtach, a native chief, near Kelton on the Dee. Here he was completely routed and forced to fly. his retreat was, hoever, carried out in an orderly manner, till, as he was in the act of leaving the province, fording a stream at the entrance of Glen-App, in the midst of his bodyguard, a single man sprang upon him and struck him lifeless from his charger. The stone which marks his sepulture still preserves his name. From time immemorial it has been named in charters as a landmark-- Laight-Alpyn. The pillar-stone itself is the “Laight,” whilst Alpyn is still recognisable in the name of the beautiful glen, near which he fell.

The name of Laicht Alpyn really belongs to the farms of Meikle and Little Laicht, on the easter shore of Loch Ryan... On the very line of separation between the two counties is a large upright pillar-stone to which the name of Laicht-Alpin, the monument or grave of Alpin, is actually appropriated.

Much of this seems to be taken from Skene’s ‘Chronicle of Picts and Scots’ and is pulled together in ‘The Hereditary Sheriffs of Galloway‘ by Andrew Agnew (1893).

It’s a bit fluffy because the entrance to Glen App is definitely a mile or two further north. But maybe that doesn’t matter.

Maybe as the RCAHMS record says, these are natural boulders, but they’re both on high points, and it’s interesting that burial sites should have (once) been so close to them.

The Pech Stane. -- This stone stands on the highest point of a ridge of moderate elevation some 700 yards south-west of Billie Mains steading and 300 yards south of the public road, in the parish of Buncle. It is of quartzite, deeply pitted in the process of weathering, and measures 4 feet in height by 4 feet 6 inches by 4 feet 6. An empty cist was found in 1897 some 20 to 30 yards west of the stone, and about 1814 a large cairn about 100 yards to the west was removed. This cairn was surrounded by a ring of large boulders, and a cist was found beneath. The stone is figured in Carr’s History of Coldingham Priory, p.9, and in Muirhead’s Birds of Berwickshire, vol. i, p. 314.

[..] Another stone stands on a knoll on the ridge to the south of the Lintlaw Burn. Its position is about 400 yards south by west of the Pech Stane; it is of greenstone, and measures 3 feet 3 inches in height by 3 feet 9 by 2 feet 3.

From ‘History of the Berwickshire Naturalists’ Club’ v 26 (1923).

I looked in the Coldingham Priory book for the illustration, and also found -

The following fragment, for which the author is indebted to his friend Mr. George Henderson, surgeon, Chirnside, relates to the Cairn and Stone:--

Grisly Draedan sat alane
By the Cairn and Pech-stane;
Said Billie wi’ a segg sae stout
I’ll soon drive grisly Draedan out;
Draedan leuched and stalked awa,
Syne vanished in a babanqua.

The babanqua, or quagmire, into which these contentious streamlets flowed, was, no doubt, the now drained and cultivated Billy-mire. The rhyme Mr. Henderson picked up when a school-boy, from the recitation of an old farm-servant at Little Billy.

An older example of the rhyme can be found in the Scottish Journal, 1847.

The only founder of a noble tribe ascribed to this county [Merionethshire] is Ednowain ap Bradwen, who flourished in the 12th century. He has sometimes been styled “Lord of Merioneth,” but in the MS. published in the Cambrian Register, i. 153, which contains the best account of him extant, this is questioned, since the Welsh princes and their issue were always Lords of Merioneth; but it is conjectured that he might have held Merioneth in fee from the princes, and thus have received the title of lord of it. It is held as certain that he was possessed of all the comot of Talybont, except Nannau, and for the most part of Estumaner.

His castle, called Llys Bradwen, was situated below Dolgelley, between Cader Idris and the estuary. Not a stone of it remains at present, although the foundations can be traced.

From ‘Annals and Antiquities of the Counties and County Families of Wales’ by Thomas Nicholas (1872).

It’s rather nice that the RCAHMW record says “It is possible that this is an enclosed settlement such as are characteristic of the later Prehistoric, Roman and early medieval periods, albeit one of an unusual form. However it is not possible to advance any interpretation with any degree of certainty. It may be that this is the actual court of a legendary chieftain.”

This is probably the source of TSC’s story, as part of a report about ‘Erratic Boulder Stones at Clun’, in ‘The Antiquary’ for March 1884. I don’t know if Coflein have changed their mind, but now they call it a Standing Stone (question mark).

The Beguildy Stone; height above ground, 3ft 6in.; breadth, 4ft. 3in.; thickness – very irregular – from 12in. to 24in., thoroughly rounded at every angle. Many unsuccessful attempts have been made to remove this stone, for standing in the midst of a field, it is an obstruction to agricultural operations. At a depth of 4ft. it is said to spread out to a much greater thickness.

Its parent rock is also in the Rhayader district, though it is commonly believed to have travelled from a different direction; for the popular legend says the devil threw it from the Graig Don rocks, near Knighton, at Beguildy Church; and as a proof the marks of his hand are still pointed out upon it. One of these marks is a bowl-like depression on its upper surface 12in. diameter and 5in. deep.

Craig y Don is a steep hill above the River Teme at SO261737 (the stone is right near the river too).

Certain spots on Dartmoor are more commonly haunted by the Wish Hounds more than others: and on its borders there are many long narrow lanes, closely overgrown with thorn and hazel, through which they pass in long procession on particular nights, – of which St. John’s Eve is always one.

A person who was passing at night over the moors above Withecombe, heard them sweep through the valley below him with a great cry and shouting; and when he reached the highest point of the hill, he saw them pass by, with the “Master” behind, – a dark gigantic figure, carrying a long hunting pole at his back, and with a horn slung round his neck. When they reached the ancient earthwork of Hembury Fort, – which rises on a high wooded hill above the Dart, – the Master blew a great blast upon his horn, and the whole company sank into the earth.

From an article about ‘The Wish or Wisked Hounds of Dartmoor’ in the Athenaeum (March 1847).

St John’s Eve is the 23rd of June, the evening before the traditional Midsummer Day, so (somewhere around) the shortest night of the year.

... The number existing is twenty, and they are arranged in two groups, which, in describing them, we may call Eastern and Western. The whole of the barrows form an arc of a circle [...] Of these barrows three deserve attention: viz. the highest, Warren’s Barrow, which is locally so called from a belief that a certain General Warren is buried there, of whom nothing whatever can be ascertained; Jenkyn’s or Hendra Barrow, why Jenkyn’s is not known, Hendra because it is situated on the land of the adjoining farm of the same name; and the demolished barrow, which stood at the arc’s extreme curvature. [...] There is a local tradition, and there is no reason against its general acceptance, that Warren’s Barrow was used for signalling by means either of fire or smoke, between the Four-Barrows, Carnmenellis, and the other surrounding heights. From its summit there is a clear view W. and S., as from the summit of the now demolished barrow there was a clear view N. and E.

From ‘Description of the Carland Barrows’ by the Rev. Prior, in the Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall v 13 (1898).

I can’t find mention of this stone anywhere else. And it might not exist any more. But it might, and so I can’t resist adding it as it has such typically stoney folklore, plus it’s got a cow’s footmark, allegedly.

In the village of Little Oun, about eight miles from Stafford, there is a large house, now used as a farm-house, but once inhabited by an old and highly respectable family named C. Close to the side of the road leading to the house, from which it is distant about a hundred yards, lies a large boulder, most likely from Shap Fells, or some other of the Cumberland or Westmoreland hills. It is very large, weighing several tons, and upon the exposed surface of it is an impression not unlike that of a cow’s hoof. Before the following event, the stone was two or three yards above the surface, but now it is not much more than one.

The superstition attached to this stone, – which was and, I may say, still is religiously believed in by the country people for miles around, – was that the fortunes of the C. family were indissolubly linked with the fate of the stone: – that as this latter remained high and elevated as it then was, so would the family be prosperous, and that as the stone subsided, so likewise would the dignity and wealth of the C.s sink. Now it happened, one day, that an ancestor of Lord Bradford was riding to dine at the Hall, when his horse took fright at this large stone and threw his rider, who, I believe, was killed on the spot. The owner of the Hall, to prevent the recurrence of a like accident, caused sixteen horses to be yoked together so as to remove the boulder from the side of the road. However, the stone refused to stir an inch. For this impious attempt, tradition relates that, the poor horses suffered; for the story goes that all the sixteen died of the distemper within a fortnight. A working man was then employed to dig away the soil from around and beneath it, so as to sink it in that manner. The stone was thus lowered about a yard or so; but the man himself is said never to have done a day’s work afterwards; and to have died very shortly. Immediately after that was done, it is said that great reverses happened to the family, and they lost much of their property.

Now there was a dun cow in the fields about the Hall, quite wild, and looked upon as common property by the villagers. She was most famous for her milking qualities; and it was said that [she] let the people bring whatever number of pails they chose, she never sent any away empty. Truly, a most wonderful dun cow! An old witch, however, who lived in the neighbourhood, determined to see if the milk was really unlimited in quantity. She therefore took a riddle or sieve, and milked the poor cow into this; which, as it never filled, in time milked her dry. Hereupon she went mad immediately, and ran away in the direction of the stone, on which she trod, sinking it deeper in the earth, and leaving her mark upon it. This seemed to be the climax, for very shortly after this event, the family were obliged to leave the neighbourhood. I cannot learn what became of the witch after this mischievous action.
W. A. L.

This from Lancastrensis, in The Athenaeum 992 (Oct 31, 1846): 1116-1117.
Little Onn Hall was only built 1870s (by the Crockett family) but there must have been a house there before – or maybe it was one of the other buildings here. Which makes the site of the stone a bit difficult to work out.

This one certainly should be marked ‘of disputed antiquity’. But despite its decidedly blocky shape I take encouragement from the Aberdeen County Council Sites and Monuments Record here which suggests it’s possible the nearby Langstone and this stone were once part of a single monument. It also explains the crustacean-unrelated origin of the name, that the stone was on the boundary of land belonging to a burgess of Aberdeen in the 14th century, John de Crabbe.

Volume 19 of the 1797 statistical account says

In September 1644, during the time of the civil wars, the Marquis of Montrose, with an army of about 2000 men, having approached the town of Aberdeen, and summoned it to surrender to him, the Magistrates, after advising with Lord Burleigh, who then commanded in the town a force nearly equal in number to the assailants, refused to give up the town, upon which a battle ensued within half an English mile of the town, at a place calle the Crab-stone, near to the Justice-mills, where Montrose prevailed, and many of the principal citizens were killed.

This was the ‘Battle of Justice Mills’ and it all sounds very unpleasant. There is a well just down the road (the Hardgate Well) which is associated with the battle and was said to have run red with the blood (though the Canmore record puts this idea down to recent folklore). There was another battle here the previous century, the ‘Battle of Craibstone’ on 20th November 1571, part of a long-running feud between the Forbes and Gordon clans.

A little to the west of Hynd Castle, on the ridge which divides this parish from Inverarity, there was a very large heap of stones, called Haercairns or Hoar Cairn, which probably were raised over the bodies of the combatants slain at a great battle fought there in very early times, but of the time, the parties engaged, or the result we are ignorant. Many of the stones have been carted off. Locally it is said to have been the burial place of all the suicides of the district. The Gallows Hill is in the immediate vicinity, and the criminals executed may have been buried there. Many human bones have been found under the stones.

From ‘Angus or Forfarshire, the land and people’ v4, by A J Warden (1884).

The village of Churchill lies near the great Bridgwater Road, and under the north brow of Doleberry Hill. This fine old rugged eminence has served as a place of encampment for every nation that has ever invaded England. The Britons have built here their wattled huts, and on it, and from hence, have blazed their beacon fires, gleaming over the vale of Glastonbury; and the eagle of the Romans, and the white horse of the Saxons, have alike waved from its summit. The peasants still believe the height haunted, and imagine that vast treasures lie concealed beneath its rocky surface.

From ‘Cross Country’ by Walter Thornbury (1861).

What Bob down the pub was telling tourists in 1861. They deserved it, for their ‘gaping rustic’ remark.

Local intellect is undoubtedly highly mystified as to these relics. The children of the hamlet don’t play at “hide and seek” about them after dark, and if public-house oracles are infallible, groans, &c. are not unfrequently to be heard in the stone-close, “when the moon is out,” towards the sma’ hours. One gaping rustic told us, “as how some do zay that it’s a wedding, and that the fiddlers and the bride and groom were all petrified as they went to church.” Now this idea is probably a fable of the seventeenth century, when music always preceded a couple to church. Another old dame said, “Others do zay, nobody can’t count ‘em; certain ‘tis a baker did try with loaves on each, and they never could come right. But there ‘tis, some do zay one thing, and zum another, that there’s no believing none of ‘em.” So we thought, reader, don’t you? An intelligent old farmer told us he had seen men dig several yards down without getting to the foundation of one of these stones. ...

From ‘Cross Country’ by Walter Thornbury (1861).

Here [Abson], and at Wick, Roman coins and other remains have been found; footpaths can be partly traced here, and a field, called the “Chestles, or Castles,” is still pointed out as the scene of a great battle between Ceaulin, a Saxon chieftain, and three British kings, all of whom fell beneath his sword. It took place about the year 577.

.. striking up an unfrequented-looking lane, which is paved like an old Roman road, you arrive at the Chestles field. The three monumental stones, honey-combed and moss-covered with age, rear their old heads from a sepulchral mound. The whole erection bears traces of the greatest antiquity, no inscription or chiselling being visible on their surface. The farmer to whom the field belongs is a great enemy to antiquarians, and has rendered the field, by a malicious sort of ingenuity, almost inaccessible.

I wonder what the malicious ingenuity was. *It sounds like he could be talking about Abson here, but actually the next sentence mentions the church of St Bartholomew, which is in Wick, so it seems the legend is indeed associated with the three stones.

From ‘Cross Country’ by Walter Thornbury (1861).

Knightstone was a few years ago a solitary rock extending into Weston bay, and an island at high water, but joined the land at its retreat by a bank of loose pebbles thrown up by the sea... It is said to have derived its name from having been the burial place of a Roman knight, who probably had been stationed, either at the settlement at Uphill, or at the camp above, on the summit of Worle hill. The tradition is in some measure confirmed, by some human bones of a gigantic size having been discovered, when the rocks were blown up, preparatory to the present buildings. The author has examined some of these bones, which are in the possession of a gentleman of Bristol, who carried them from the island, and can vouch for their gigantic dimensions.

He drew her to the top of the mount; there they were clear of the mist, which lay like snow below and round them, covering the morass and the water. The clear cut crescent moon hung over a clump of pines on Mersea.

Rebow looked at it, then waved an arm in the direction. “Do you see Grim’s Hoe yonder? -- That great barrow with the Scotch pines on top? Do you know how it comes there? Have you heard the tale?”
Mehalah was silent.
“I will tell you, for I often think of it, and so will you when you have been told the tale. In the old times when the Danes came here, they wintered on Mersea Isle, and in the summer they cruised all along the coast, burning and plundering and murdering. There were two chiefs to them, brothers who loved one another; they were twins, born the same hour, and they had but one heart and soul; what one willed the other, what one desired that the other desired also. One spring they sailed up the creek to St. Osyth’s, and there they took Osyth and killed her. She had a sister, very beautiful, and she fell to the lot of the brothers. They brought her back to Mersea, and then each would have her for his own. So the brothers fell out whose she should be, and all their love turned to jealousy, and their brotherhood to enmity, and it came about that they fought with their long swords who should have the maid. They fought, and smote, and hacked one another till their armour was broken, and their flesh was cut off, and their blood flowed away, and by nightfall they were both dead. Thereupon the Danes drew their ship up to the top of the hill just above the Strood, and they placed the maid in the hold with a dead brother on either side of her, in his tattered harness, sword in hand, and they heaped a mountain over them and buried them all, the living and the dead together.”

Rebow paused, and pointed to the moon hung over the hoe. “When the new moon appears, the flesh grows on their bones, and the blood stanches, and the wounds close, and breath comes back behind their ribs. When the moon is full they rise in the ship’s hold and fall on one another, and if you listen at full moon on the hoe you can hear the brothers fighting below in the heart of the barrow. You hear them swear and curse and cry out, and you hear the clash of their swords. But when the moon wanes the sounds grow fainter, their armour falls to bits, their flesh drops away, the blood oozes out of all the hacked veins, and at last all is still. Then, when there is no moon, you can hear the maid mourning and sobbing: you can hear her quite distinctly till the new moon reappears, and then she is hushed, for the brothers are recovering for a new fight. This will go on month after month, year after year, till one conquers the other and wins the maid; but that will never be, for the brothers are of the same age, and equally strong, and equally resolute.”

From ‘Mehalah’ by the Revd Sabine Baring-Gould (1880).

Baring-Gould was reverend of East Mersea for ten years. He was quite the story-teller and wrote a huge number of books (fiction and non-fiction). It’s suggested he totally invented this bloodthirsty tale – inspired no doubt by various tales he’d come across in his archaeological and folkloric researches though.
sbgas.org/Reluctant_rector.pdf

Actually not a particularly cheerful story, especially in view of Valentine’s day, but it is another one that connects the goings-on at Ludlow Castle and Caynham Camp.

We learn, through a very curious and interesting Anglo-Norman History of the Fitz-Warines, that the camp was temporarily occupied in late Norman times. This history, which is written in verse, is called “The Romance of the Fitz-Warines.” It must have been composed at an early period of the thirteenth century, and gives a very early notice of Caynham.

It states that when Joce de Dynan laid siege to Ludlow Castle, he made his headquarters here; and it gives also the only details known of the early history of the castle. This Joce de Dynan, who had received the castle as a free gift from the king, was frequently at feud with his powerful neighbours the de Lacys, who laid claim to the castle;

and upon one occasion Walter de Lacy, accompanied by a trusty knight, Arnold de Lisle, having approached too near the walls, were taken prisoners and lodged in the castle, where they appear to have been well treated, and were frequently visited by the ladies of the Court. One of them, Marian de la Bruere (Marian of the heath), being smitten by the courtly mein of Arnold de Lisle, assisted them to escape through one of the windows of the tower by means of towels and napkins tied together.

Shortly afterwards Joce went upon a visit to Hertland, leaving the castle in charge of thirty knights and seventy good soldiers, ‘for fear of the Lacy and other people.’ Marian de la Bruere, having remained behind on the plea of sickness, sent word to Arnold de Lisle to come and visit her, and promised to let him in by the same window by which he had escaped. This invitation he accepted, and brought with him a leathern ladder and one hundred men, who were left concealed below. The ladder being drawn up to the window, the knight entered, leaving it suspended in readiness for his men to follow, who in the darkness of the night, made their way onto the walls; and having thrown down the guards that were on duty, entered the apartments and slew the knights and soldiers in their beds, and thus did the castle fall into the hands of the Lacys.

Marian at daybreak, hearing the shouts of the victors, and learning the treachery that had been enacted, seized Sir Arnold’s sword, and thrusting it through his body afterwards committed suicide by throwing herself from the window and breaking her neck. Joce, having received tidings of these events, assembled his men and came and besieged the castle.

Failing, however, after repeated efforts to regain possession, he finally retired, to take up a position upon Caynham Camp. Here, with a force of 7,000 men, he lay entrenched for three days, surrounded by the Lacy and his Welsh allies, numbering 20,000 men. At the end of the third day, being hard pressed, and reduced by famine and thirst, ‘for there is no well within the camp,’ they were compelled to fight their way through their enemies.

Joce being severely wounded was, together with most of his knights that were not killed, taken prisoners and committed to the dungeons of his own castle. A very valiant young knight, however, Fulke Fitz-Warine, who had been under the guardianship of Joce from his youth up, and who had married his daughter Howyse, made a desperate attempt to rescue his father-in-law, but was himself wounded, and with difficulty escaped and joined King Henry at Gloucester. The king received him with great favour, and commanded Walter de Lacy to set free Joce de Dynan. He did so, and Joce joined his son-in-law at the Royal Court, then retired to Lambourne, where he died in peace shortly afterwards.

From ‘Notes upon Caynham Camp’ by C Fortey, in Archaeologia Cambrensis for July 1899.

On the Six Inch O.S. Map, Pembrokeshire, Sheet x, N.W. (second edition, 1908), within the parish of Llanllawer (for older Llanllawern), on the right hand side of the road going east from the parish church, and about three-quarters of a mile from the same, is a spot marked “Standing Stones”, these being in the hedge of a field along the road, another field adjoining being called “Parc y Meirw”.

These stones are known as y pyst hirion and are traditionally said to mark the site of a battle, in which the defeated were driven south over some high rocks, known as Craigynestra, into the river Gwaun. Some of the bodies were carried down by the river to Cwm Abergwaun, or Fishguard Bottom. The folk add no explanation of the name Craigynestra, which may be for Craig lanastra.

In the Arch. Camb. for April 1868, in a paper by Mr. Barnwell, there is a reference to these stones, which are described as “a single line of stones of great size, which Fenton does not mention, although he deliberately pulled to pieces a fine cromlech near it”. “Local tradition (says Mr. Barnwell) adds an account of a desperate battle fought on the spot, among the pillar stones themselves..... The height of the stones is not so striking, as their lower part is embedded in the tall bank of earth that does the duty of an ordinary hedge; but some of them are full sixteen feet long....... There were no traces to be discovered of any second or other lines of stone, so that this seems to have always been a single line; but although single it must have been a striking object at a time when no enclosures existed, and the present level of the soil lower than it is now.”

From notes in ‘Parochiale Wallicanum; or, the names of churches, chapels, etc...’ by Arthur Wade-Evans (1911).

In a hollow between two hills called Uwch Mynydd and Mynydd y Gwyddel, are the ruins of St. Mary’s chapel (Capel Fair); and below the cliff is a cave (Ogo Vair), in which there is a well (Ffynnon Vair). The point of the rock is called Braich y Pwll, and that particular part of it under which the well is situated Maen Melyn, the yellow stone. In the times of Popery this well, which was only accessible at low water, was much frequented by devotees, who superstitiously believed that if they could but carry a mouthful of the water by a circuitous and dangerous path to the summit of the hill, their wish, whatever it might be, would be surely gratified. The chapel was placed here to give seamen an opportunity of invoking the tutelar saint for protection, through the dangerous Sound of Bardsey; and probably the walls of the chapel were in those superstitious times covered with votive tablets.

from ‘The History of North Wales’ v2, by William Cathrall (1828).

.. on the side of the hill called Mynydd Moelvre, or Mynydd yr Ystum, are the ruins of an old chapel called Capel Odo; and near it tumulus distinguished by the appellation of Bedd Odo or Odo’s grave, who according to tradition was a great giant.

The aerial photos on Coflein’s record for this site show the double bank clearly, so Odo’s castle is still there. They don’t mention the remains of any chapel. Their record for the mound within the fort suggests it’s of medieval or later origin, maybe a pillow mound for rabbits. Perhaps that’s the mound that’s Odo’s grave?

Perhaps wholly unrelated, but certainly very close by and directly east of the fort is Ffynnon Ddwrdan, a holy well on the Afon Daron.

Quote from ‘The History of North Wales’ v2, by William Cathrall (1828).

On the 1:25,000 map, very close by, you will see ‘Ffynnon Gybi’ marked.

The Revd. Mr. Owen says, “Upon Clorack farm there is an upright stone with a large protuberance on one side of it, called Lleidr Ty Dyvridog, i.e. the Tyvrydog Thief, concerning which there is a tradition, that a man who had sacrilegiously stolen a church bible, and was carrying it away on his shoulders, was for his transgression converted into this stone.

There are also two wells on this farm, one on each side of the road leading to Llanerchymedd, and exactly opposite to each other, remarkable not for their medicinal virtues, but as having been, according to tradition, where St. Seiriol and St. Gybi (the former the patron of Ynys Seiriol, and the latter of Caer Gybi or Holyhead,) used to meet near midway between both places, to talk over the religious affairs of the Country. The wells are called Ffynnon Seiriol and Ffynnon Gybi, i.e. Seiriol’s Well and Gybi’s Well, to this day.”

From ‘The History of North Wales’ v2, by William Cathrall (1828).

Its artificial defences are now very insignificant, but the site by nature is almost impregnable. The principal entrance, to which a steep, zigzag pathway still conducts, is in the northern angle, facing the bay.

..Tradition connects the spot with the fatal expedition of Gryffydd ab Cynan, prince of North Wales, against the usurper Trahaearn, when he received that signal overthrow at Bron yr Erw, about three quarters of a mile distant. His line of march from Abermenai hither, is still traceable by several traditional designations; such for instance as Bryn Cynan, by Llandwrog, Carreg Cynan above Penarth, and Craig Cynan. From its elevated and conspicuous site, commanding at one glance the fearful pass of Bwlch-dau-fynydd, leading to Lleyn and Eifionydd, the pass of Bwlch Derwydd to Ffestiniog and Ardudwy, together with a multitude of military posts scattered between Segontium and the Rivals, its chief use probably was that of signal and observation.

From Archaeologia Cambrensis v14, 1849.

...upon Cefn Amwlch estate a cromlech resting upon its supporters; the tradition is, that when it is thrown down, the estate will change its owner.

From Archaeologia Cambrensis v14, 1849, quoting a manuscript from 1772.

The map shows lots of hut circles here, so initially I wondered if the circle must have been one of those. But it sounds far too grand for that.

CWM MAWR. -- Distance 3 miles from Dolbenmaen, in the way to it, several pillars of difference appearances, &c.; none of them equal to those of the grand monument, whose situation in upon the gradual slope of a very high hill, commanding a most extensive prospect, viz. the whole Isle of Anglesey, part of Ireland, &c. The first object in approaching it is a lonely pillar, distant 160 paces from the grand Ellipsis. this colonade is in diameter, one way, 44 cubits, the other, 36; consisting of 38 upright stones of various forms, heights & sizes, as well as distances from each other; some turgescent, some flat, some incline one way & some another; some are pyramids & some are cones.

The vulgar believe that no one can count them. The area of the monument violated by the plough & harrow, &c. Tradition says that upon one of them being carried away to the adjoining farm house, for a lintel over the door, such a dreadful storm of thunder & lightning ensued, that the sacrilegious hands were forced to return it to its former place. However, the author says that the vacancies show that several have been carried away, &c.

From Archaeologia Cambrensis v14, 1849. A cubit, should you be too far indoctrinated into the metric system to know, is the distance from your elbow to your hand. Or fingers. &c. The information (hence the mention of the ‘author’) is taken from a manuscript dated 1772.

Uley Bury Camp.-- This famous fortress, according to old village tradition, was known as the “maiden” hill; it being said that it was never taken by besiegers. [..] So steep is the hill, that it is hard to think it could be captured by a hostile attack, unless it were taken unawares at the entrance in the narrow neck which unites it with high lands to the east.

From Gloucestershire Notes and Queries v5 (1891-4). Elsewhere on the Internet people like to claim the name ‘maiden’ comes from some alleged Celtic words for ‘great hill’. But whether that’s any more or less likely I don’t know. Maybe the latter is / was a less embarrassing explanation.

A winding, up-hill lane conducts us in about two miles to the first genuine piece of moorland – Winsford Hill. Between the finger-post marking the cross-roads and the hedge on the right, and at the side of an old track -- I believe the former highway -- is a rude standing stone of hard slaty rock, known as the Longstone. It leans considerably out of the perpendicular, and has met with rough usage, a portion of the top having been broken off. The height is 3 feet 7 inches, the breadth 14 inches, and the thickness 7 inches. It is inscribed lengthwise with characters, but of what age or date I am unable to decide. That they have been there for many centuries, there can, I think, be no doubt, their worn appearance testifying to many an onslaught of the elements. The aforesaid fracture, the work of a mischievous youth but a few months back, has probably obliterated a part of the second line, and although I was able to find the splintered fragment, and fit it into its place, it availed me not, as the surface had flaked off. I read the inscription thus: CVRAACI FPVS. The first word apprently stands for ‘(son) of Curatacus,’ evidently the Latinized form of some British name. This is the only interpretation I can offer. The local legend says that it marks a deposit of treasure; but it is somewhat strange that there are no traces about the stone indicating that a search has been made.

From ‘An exploration of Exmoor and the hill country of West Somerset’ by John Lloyd Warden Page (1890).

There are the usual wild legends pertaining to Mouncey Castle. A neighbouring farmer announced his opinion that it was Druidical! while another told me that the ground beneath was hollow, and that as a consequence people were afraid to dig there. There was a rumour, too, of a subterranean passage, but where it was supposed to lead was unknown.

From‘An exploration of Exmoor and the hill country of West Somerset’ by John Lloyd Warden Page (1890).

A mile inland, close to Wiliton, is a field, or rather several fields, known as Battlegore, traditionally, as its name implies, the scene of a battle. In them are the remains of three large mounds, though one is now ploughed nearly level with the field, and another has been reduced by one-half by a hedgerow. The largest is close to the road.

From time immemorial the tale has been handed down that here the Danes fought with the Wessex men. A tradition, also unfortunately dating from time immemorial, states that much armour and many weapons have been discovered in these fields. But who found them, and what became of them, is as unknown as their period and fashion. The only weapon taken from the spot that I have seen is a remarkably fine bronze celt which would go some way to show that it was a British rather than a Danish battleground.

Collinson refers to ‘several cells composed of flat stones, and containing relics,’ as having been found in these tumuli, to which he gives the name of Grab-barrows. From this it would appear that they were chambered tumuli. I venture to think, however, that he is mistaken, except perhaps with regard to the mound now nearly levelled, inasmuch as neither of the existing barrows have been properly explored.

Close to the barrow near the road are two enormous stones, the one lying on its side, the other leaning against the hedge, as well as a third and smaller block, nearly concealed by brambles. As there are no similar blocks in the vicinity, they must have been brought here for some definite purpose, perhaps to mark the grave of some notable chieftain. Or, perchance, they are, as certain antiquaries opine, the supports of a British cromlech. The local story is that they were cast there from the Quantocks by the devil and a giant, who had engaged in a throwing match. The print of Satan’s hand still marks the leaning stone.

This stone was upright some forty or fifty years since. It was toppled against the hedge by some young men anxious to test the truth of the legend that it was immovable.

From‘An exploration of Exmoor and the hill country of West Somerset’ by John Lloyd Warden Page (1890).

Humbledon, a small village, on an eminence, under which a great victory was obtained by Henry Lord Percy, and George Earl of March, over the Scotch under the command of Archibald Earl of Douglas, on Holyrood-day in the harvest, 3 K. Henry IV, 1402. Earl Douglas‘s forces consisted of 10,000 men. He possessed the hills, but Lord Percy, sirnamed Hotspur, cutting off his retreat to Scotland with the plunder he had acquired in Northumberland, he was forced to come to an engagement on the plain. With him were most of the barons, knights, and gentlemen of Fife and Lothian, who escaped by flight, 22d of June, the year before, from the battle of Nisbet, in the Merse, in which fell most of the Lothian-youth. A great part of them were either slain or taken prisoners. Among the latter were the Earls of Fife, Murrey, Angus, Atholl, and Monteith. Earl Douglas received five wounds, and lost an eye. Five hundred Scotchmen in the pursuit were drowned in the Tweed. The field of battle is called Red-Riggs, from the blood spilt on it. By the side of the road, under Humbledon-Bauks, is an upright pillar of whinstone erected in memory of it; in height, six feet, six inches, and a half; in diameter, twelve feet.

From v2 of ‘The natural history and antiquities of Northumberland’ by John Wallis (1769). It sounds so dreadful that it doesn’t seem unreasonable to want to appropriate the stone as a memorial.

An earlyish mention of the legend, and it’s sort of interesting that there’s another stoney place involved in the story:

We now turn southward on the Etall-road from Cornhill, about two miles from which, on the right hand, in Brankston-west-field, is a large upright pillar, of whinstone, six feet, seven inches high, and thirteen feet in diameter towards the base; a memorial of the great victory obtained over K. James IV, of Scotland, by the Earl of Surrey, on Friday, 9th of September, 5[sic] K. Henry VIII, 1513.

This battle is called, The battle of Brankston, from the chief scene of action being near that village; also the battle of Floddon from the Scotch intrenchments being on Floddon-hill, out of which they were drawn forcibly, as it were, to an engagement, by the Earl of Surrey’s cutting off their retreat homewards. Among the slain was their sovereign, with his natural son, Alexander, Archbishop of St. Andrews, who had the learned Erasmus for his tutor; also two other Scotch prelates, four abbots, twelve Earls, seventeen lords, a great number of knights and gentlemen, and about eight thousand, or as some say, twelve thousand common men. According to Sir John Froisart, K. James fell near Brankston, where he was found the next day by Lord Dacres.

On the highest part of Flodden-hill, near it, is a natural rock, called the King‘s chair, from which he had a good view of his own, and of the English army, and of the country round him.

In the time of the battle the thieves of Tynedale and Tiviotdale were not idle. They rifled the English tents, and took away many horses, and other things.

From v2 of ‘The natural history and antiquities of Northumberland’ by John Wallis (1769). I love the way the mere 8 (12) thousand get bottom billing on the list of the dead.

There is, in the neighbourhood of Eyam, a very popular tradition of some great chief, or king, having been buried in this barrow; and it has been frequently explored in search of something appertaining to him. Nothing, however, has ever been found except the urn; but in the vicinity, spears, arrow-heads, axes, hatchets, and a many other remains of antiquity have been turned up. About a mile west of this barrow there was, about forty years ago, another of great dimensions: it stood on Hawley’s piece. The diameter at the base was twenty-two yards, and about twelve yards high. When the Moor was enclosed, it was carried away to make fences. An urn of great size was found near the centre on the ground, and was carried away to the residence of the person who found it; but was afterwards broken and buried. The person who had this precious relic of antiquity, was persuaded by his silly neighbours that it was unlucky to have such a thing in the house; and on losing a young cow, he immediately buried it.

From ‘The History and Antiquities of Eyam’ by William Wood (1842). He also spouts a lot about Druids and even Phoenicians – but I suppose it was the fashionable explanation. Though he gets a little carried away with talk of the sacrifice of a ‘lovely female’ with her ‘heaving bosom’. Hmm.

He does however, also mention

One large stone ont he Moor has been a great object of curiosity, from it having a circular cavity in the top about a foot in diameter, and the same in depth. The stone is of an extraordinary size – by far the largest on the Moor. It is conjectured to have been the altar, or central stone of some large circle, but of which there is no trace now. That this place was one of the principal places of the Druids there are numberless proof; but as it is out of the road to any place of note, it has been rarely noticed.

Is this something people recognise?

[The legend] which clings to the ‘Devil’s Chair,’ the highest rock on the Stiperstones, [has been] told me by the country people somewhat in this fashion:--

‘Once upon a time the Devil was coming from Ireland with an apronful of stones. Where he was going to I cannot say; some say it was the Wrekin he was carrying in his leather apron, some say he was going to fill up Hell Gutter, on the side of the Stiperstones Hill. But any way he had to cross the Stiperstones, and it was a very hot day, and he was very tired, so he sat down to rest on the highest rock. And as he got up again to go on his way, his apron-string broke, and down went the stones, and very badly he cursed them too, so I’ve heard. There they lie to this day, scattered on the ground all round the Devil’s Chair, and if you go up there in hot weather you may smell the brimstone still, as strong as possible!‘

But ‘old Netherley,’ a lame old man who used to ‘lug coal’ with a cart and two donkeys about the Condover country twenty or thirty years ago, told a different story, as he had learnt it from the miners employed at the lead-mines in the hill-side.

According to him, of all the countries in the world the Devil hates England the most, because we are good Protestants and read the Bible. Now if ever the Stiperstones sink into the earth, England will be ruined. The devil knows this very well, so he goes whenever he can, and sits in his chair on the top of the hill, in hopes that his weight will flatten it down and thrust it back into the earth, but he hasn’t managed it yet, and it is to be hoped he never will!

From ‘Shropshire Folk-lore: a sheaf of gleanings’ by Charlotte Sophia Burne (1883).

Ms Burne also mentions that like on the Wrekin,

there is another Needle’s Eye, a long narrow channel accidentally formed among the huge fragments of rock which lie heaped up round the Devil’s Chair. Through this passage visitors must crawl, but I have been unable to learn particulars of person, occasion or consequences. [..] It is said that if any one ventures to sit in the Devil’s Chair, a thunderstorm immediately arises.

I don’t remember any sulphuryness, but if you climb up into the chair you’ll see it’s indeed shaped for a giant devil’s bottom. I once told the story to a captive audience seated around the dip. I could spin the Wild Edric story out as well – you can almost imagine him and his fairy wife Godda might gallop past. But if the mist comes down you’re best off out of there before the devil turns up. Listen out for the red grouse telling you to go back go back gobackgobackgoback. (It’s excellent up there, thanks for reminding me TSC.)

There’s another legendary stone at the church (it seems one is not enough)? It’s the lintel above the Priest’s Door.

Owen usually attended divine service at Corwen Church, where I was shown a doorway now made up through which he entered to his pew in the chancel. Upon one of the stones is cut, half an inch deep, the figure of a dagger, and my guide told me, with a face more serious than my own, “that upon the Berwyn mountain, behind the Church, was a place called Glyndwr’s seat, from which he threw his dagger, and made the impression upon the stone.” If this had happened in our day, the whole bench of bishops would have united in pronouncing him Jacobin. Exclusive of the improbability of the tale, my friend forgot that it refutes itself, for the mark of the dagger is upon the very door-way which Owen passed, which probably was not built up in his day. I climbed the mountain to what is called Owain’s seat, among the rocks, and concluded he must have been more agreeably employed than in throwing his dagger, for the prospect is most charming. Here the rich and delightful vale of Corwen expands to view, with the Dee in the centre. Here Owen might view near forty square miles of his own land.

Hutton’s ‘Remarks upon North Wales’ (1803).

It is said that the devil’s cave is under this stone, and that it contains hidden treasure. Many times the treasure has been sought for, but no bottom could be found to the stone; and hence it was supposed to be protected by the devil. Still adventurers continued to dig, until the excavated hollow round the base of the stone became filled with water, and it stood in the centre of a small lake. Then an attempt was made to draw it out of its place by a yoke of oxen, who strained so hard a the task that the chains snapped, and the attempt proved abortive; although the guardian spirit of the stone appears to have taken alarm at the project, for he is said to have flown away in the shape of a drake, at the moment when the chains broke. Subsequently the stone sank into the earth, and totally disappeared, and for many years the plough passed over it.

In all material points, I am persuaded that this tradition is purely mythological; for the Drake Stone was but slightly fixed in the earth, and at the time when these attempts were said to have been made, the bottom could not have exceeded a foot and a half from the surface of the ground; besides which, no one pretends to assert that any of these experiments occurred in his time; and the oldest person I have consulted, says, that “he had the tale from his fore-elders.”

George Oliver, in The Gentleman’s Magazine for June 1833, p580.

A green mound, near the village of Pennygown (Peigh’nn-a-ghobhann), in the Parish of Salen, Mull, was at one time occupied by a benevolent company of Fairies. People had only to leave at night on the hillock the materials for any work they wanted done, as wool to be spun, thread for weaving, etc., telling what was wanted, and before morning the work was finished. One night a wag left the wood of a fishing-net buoy, a short thick piece of wood, with a request to have it made into a ship’s mast. The Fairies were heard toiling all night, and singing, “Short life and ill-luck attend the man who asked us to make a long ship’s big mast from the wood of a fishing-net buoy.” In the morning the work was not done, and these Fairies never after did anything for any one.

From ‘Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland’ by J G Campbell (1900).

There are numerous cairns and tumuli scattered through the parish. Such as have been opened have been found to contain a rude stone coffin, enclosing the bones or ashes of a human body. A cairn on the farm of Towie, on the estate of Auchmedden, called Brodie’s Cairn, deserves particular notice. My informant remembers three cairns of the same name, but with regard to this one in particular, the tradition is as follows:

A farmer of the name of Brodie murdered his mother, whose body was brought to the gate of the church-yard of Aberdour, and every individual in the parish called upon to apply the hand to the naked corpse, under the superstitious belief that the blood would gush upon the murderer. It was observed, that during the time this was going on, her son carefully kept at a distance, and showed great reluctance to approach the body, and that, when recourse was about to be had to compulsion, he confessed the murder. The tradition farther states, that the murderer was drawn and quartered, and that his four limbs were buried on the sides of four roads leading to the church of Aberdour. So much for ancient superstition.

Another cairn of the same name is listed on Canmore at East Mains at NJ86376460. It’s a bit hard from the description whether either of these are the right place, or maybe it refers to the lost third cairn of the same name! All a bit weird really: it sounds rather that the murderer’s limbs should have been buried in the cairns?

As is well known, Belatane, or the first day of May (old style), was one of the sacred days of the ancient Highlanders. In my grandfather’s youth it was the custom for the young men and maidens of Lawers to climb to the summit of Ben Lawers on that day to see the sun rise, and it was a race between the young men which of them would first reach and drink out of a spring called ‘Fuaran Bhain-tighearna Labhair’ – the Lady of Lawers’s Well.

Fragments of Breadalbane Folk-Lore, by James MacDiarmid, in Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, Volume 28 (1912-14), here.

The large stones are known as ‘the loupin’ stanes,’ because it is said that lads, and even a lass, were in the habit of jumping from the top of one to the other; but as the distance is 8 feet, the people of the district must be uncommonly good ‘loupers’ to accomplish the feat without breaking their legs. However it may be with their limbs, so little are the powers of observation of the natives cultivated that, although all know ‘the loupin’ stanes,’ they generally deny the existence of a circle.

From “’The Girdlestanes’ and a neighbouring stone circle, in the parish of Eskdalemuir, Dumfriesshire” by David Christison, in PSAS 31 (May 1897).

Old Custom In Warwickshire.--
There is a large stone a few miles from Dunchurch, in Warwickshire, called “The Knightlow Cross.” Several of Lord John Scott’s tenants hold from him on the condition of laying their rent before daybreak on Martinmas Day on this stone: if they fail to do so, they forfeit to him as many pounds as they owe pence, or as many white bulls with red tips to their ears and a red tip to their tail as they owe pence, whichever he chooses to demand. This custom is still kept up, and there is always hard riding to reach the stone before the sun rises on Martinmas Day. – MMMR.

From Notes and Queries, May 13th, 1854.

The Cheesewring and the prehistoric remains near it were explored, after a capital luncheon at the Cheesewring Hotel. Mr. Harris, superintendent of the Caradon Railway, added much to the interest of the visit by his explanations and local information. A visit was first made to what is known as the Rillaton Barrow – so named from the manor on which it is situated – in which a remarkable gold drinking cup was found in 1837. Mr. Iago produced an enlarged drawing of it. It is 3 3/4 inches in height, and the bullion value of it is £10.

Mr. Harris stated that before the cup was found there was a curious legend current in the neighbourhood. Whenever hunters came round that way, the Arch Druid would receive them sitting in his chair, and would offer them drink out of a golden goblet; and if there were forty or fifty of them, they could all drink from the cup without emptying it. One day a party were hunting the wild boar in the Widdecombe Marsh, to the west of the Cheesewring, and one of their number took an oath, or laid a wager, that if the Druid was there then, he would drink the cup dry. They thereupon saw the locks of the priest floating in the air, and hastened up to him. The hunter drank of the cup until he could drink no more, and was so enraged at his inability to finish it that he dashed the wine in the face of the Druid, who immediately disappeared. In connection with this legend, it is curious that within a quarter of a mile of the traditional seat of the Druid this gold cup was found.

The story is in the Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall v13, relating the annual excursion for 1895. Baring-Gould was a subscriber at this time, and a few years later he made it to President. So it’s possible that he was there at the outing and that’s where he initially heard the story. B-Gs has a better ending. So shockingly the exalted Mr Grinsell is a bit wrong – this is an earlier record of the story (although not by much admittedly). But Mr Grinsell didn’t have the benefits of the Internet and its search engines.

My 17th Century Dutch isn’t so good but I can still look at the illustrations in Johan Picardt’s 1660 book “Korte beschyvinge van eenige vergetene en verborgene Antiquiteten” eg here, here and here. Mr Picardt is considered the founding father of the study of archaeology in the Netherlands. The drawings seem to show the hunebedden being built by giants and dwarfs. But the dwarfs seem to get the raw end of the deal as the giants end up eating them. That’s certainly what it looks like at any rate.

There is a tradition of this part of the country which seems not a great deal more modern than the urns or their ornaments, and which bears the character of the savage nearly as distinctly impressed on it. On the summit of Knock-Ferril, a steep hill which rises a few miles to the west of Dingwall, there are the remains of one of those vitrified forts which so puzzle and interest the antiquary; and which was originally constructed, says tradition, by a gigantic tribe of Fions, for the protection of their wives and children, when they themselves were engaged in hunting.

It chanced in one of their excursions that a mean-spirited little fellow of the party, not much more than fifteen feet in height, was so distanced by his more active brethren, that, leaving them to follow out the chase, he returned home, and throwing himself down, much fatigued, on the side of the eminence, fell fast asleep. Garry, for so the unlucky hunter was called, was no favourite with the women of the tribe; – he was spiritless and diminutive, and ill tempered; and as they could make little else of him that they cared for, they converted him into the butt of all their severer joke, and less agreeable humours. On seeing that he had fallen asleep they stole out to where he lay, and after fastening his long hair with pegs to the grass, awakened him with their shouts and their laughter. He strove to extricate himself, but in vain; until at length infuriated by their gibes, and the pain of his own exertions, he wrenched up his head, leaving half his locks behind him, and hurrying after them, set fire to the stronghold into which they had rushed for shelter. The flames rose till they mounted over the roof, and broke out at every slit and opening; but Garry, unmoved by the shrieks and groans of the sufferers within, held fast the door until all was silent; when he fled into the remote Highlands, towards the west.

The males of the tribe, who had, meanwhile, been engaged in hunting on that part of the northern Sutor which bears the name of the hill of Nig, -- alarmed by the vast column of smoke which they saw ascending from their dwelling, came pressing to the frith of Cromarty, and leaping across on their hunting spears, they hurried home. But they arrived to find only a huge pile of embers in which the very stones of the building were sputtering and bubbling with the intense heat like the contents of a boiling caldron. Wild with rage and astonishment, and yet collected enough to conclude that none but Garry could be the author of a deed so barbarous, they tracked him into a nameless Highland glen, which has ever since been known as Glen-Garry, and there tore him to pieces. And as all the women of the tribe had perished in the flames, there was an end, when this forlorn and widowed generation had passed away, to the whole race of the Fions.

From ‘Scenes and legends of the north of Scotland, or The traditional history of Cromarty,’ by Hugh Miller (1835).

There is a large and very ponderous stone in the parish of Edderton, which a giantess of the [giants’] tribe is said to have flung from the point of a spindle across the Dornoch frith...

From ‘Scenes and legends of the north of Scotland, or The traditional history of Cromarty,’ by Hugh Miller (1835).

This morn after having heard Cathedral Service very well and decently performd at Wells, we proceeded to Glastonbury. Saw Tor hill, a very remarkable Point of view all over the Countrey, being a hill detachd from everything else, on the Top of which stands a tower which was the steeple of a church dedicated to St Michael, which is now totally demolishd and nothing but the shell of the Tower left standing. About the sides of this hill searchd for Lathyrus luteus, but without success – fancy it is hardly yet come into flower. From hence proceed to bloody well, a Spring so Calld from the reddish rust colour with which it tinges the stones over which it Passes. It has a very mineral appearance, but very little taste. The people here hold it in great Repute for astma, scurvy and Dropsy telling of several cures it has and continues to make every day. Not far from this on the other side of town, is the hill on which the Glastonbury thorn is said to have grown, but it has been dead several years, so long that we have not met with anybody who remembers it.

I imagine the bloody well is the Chalice Well though I certainly wouldn’t say the water tasted of nothing. This is from “Journal of an Excursion to Eastbury and Bristol, etc., in May and June, 1767” by Sir Joseph Banks, published in the Proceedings of the Bristol Naturalists’ Society v9 (1898).

Elsewhere I see it is called the ‘Blood Spring’ which was perhaps less damaging to delicate ears.

The fort here with its double rampart is high above where three streams meet. Perhaps its occupants thought that was something important, more than just for its defensive potential. Later an Abbey was built in the valley, so it obviously suited Christian sensibilities. You can’t help wondering how long before that the following spring was revered:

At some distance from the church, in a woody nook, issues a spring named St Bathan’s well, which, according to the superstition of ancient times, had the power of healing diseases; and which still, as is the belief in the neighbourhood, neither fogs nor freeze, and even prevents a mill-lead into which it flows from being locked up with ice in the winter.

From the Abbey St Bathans section of the 1830s Statistical Account.

In the Cornouaille district of Brittany, where pagan ceremonies still linger in most force, there is a custom which Villemarque believes to be Druidical. In June the youths and maidens above sixteen years of age assemble at some lichen-clad dolmen, the young men wearing green ears of corn in their hats, and the girls having flowers of flax in their bosoms. The flowers are deposited on the dolmen, and from the manner in which they remain or wither the young lovers believe they can divine the constancy of their selected partner. The whole party then dance round the dolmen, and at sunset return to their villages, each young man holding his partner by the tip of the little finger. At whatever time this practice originated, it may be presumed the dolmen was not then considered a sepulchre, as we cannot suppose the youthful population of a district assembled to deposit the offerings of love on a tomb, or to disturb the dwellings of the dead with their joyous revelry.

Mentioned in “The early races of Scotland and their monuments” by Lieut.-Col. Forbes Leslie (1866).

Barmby Moor.
On the south side of the churchyard lies a rude rough stone, measuring six feet in length, twenty-two inches in breadth at the wide end, and nine inches thick. After rain, water lodges in a weathered basin on its surface, which tradition says was a certain cure for warts.

Originally from ‘A History of Barmby Moor’ by W D Wood-Rees (1911), and collected in v6 of ‘County Folklore’.

I admit it, this is a bit of a speculative one as I can’t find a picture anywhere. It might turn out to be obviously, stupidly, too young. But if anyone sees it in the flesh they can report back. (Maybe the more I think about it the more it sounds unconvincing? One of its only mentions elsewhere on the internet also hopes for a prehistoric origin. That’s where I get unwarranted encouragement from.)

On more than twenty different spots of this moor were large cairns, in many of which fine yellow dust, and in one of which an old spear head, was found. Two unhewn massive stones still stand, about 100 yards distant from each other, which doubtless are monuments of the dead. The real tradition simply bears that here a deadly feud was settled by dint of arms: the upright stones mark the place where the two lords or leaders fell, and the bodies of their followers were thrown into a marshy pool called the Dead Lake, in the adjoining haugh. It is probable that this is the locality of “the Dowie Dens of Yarrow.”

About 300 yards westward, when the cultivation of this moor began, the plough struck upon a large flat stone of unhewn greywacke bearing a Latin inscription. Bones and ashes lay beneath it, and on every side the surface presented verdant patches of grass. It was examined by Sir Walter Scott, Dr John Leyden, Mungo Park, and others of antiquarian lore. From the rudeness and indistinctness of the carving upon the hard rock, only the following characters can be deciphered--
“Hic memoria et... hic jacent in tumulo duo filii liberali.”

It’s slightly curious that the RCAHMS records don’t give the latter Yarrow Stone the benefit of the doubt when it comes to a possible prehistoric origin. From ‘Reminiscences of Yarrow’ by James Russell (2nd edition, 1894).

A correspondent of the London “Daily Mail” gives some particulars of a mysterious East Riding stream which comes and goes like a will-o’-the-wisp and the appearance of which superstitious folk regard as the harbinger of evil, and which is just now almost the sole topic of conversation in the villages and hamlets among the wolds and dales of North-East Yorkshire.

To solve the mystery of the “Gypsey Race,” as the strange waters are called, has been the ambition of many modern scientists. Little, however, has yet been discovered to account for its eccentricities. Almost as suddenly as they came, some six weeks ago, the waters will shortly disappear, and may not be seen again for years. Only five or six times during the last twenty-one years has this brook run its eerie course. Its source of origin is a hidden mystery. The strange workings of Nature, however, appeal to the curiosity and imagination of the Yorkshire wold-dweller.

Day by day young and old watch the stream running its twenty-mile course of hide and seek among the chalk to the sea at Bridlington. Astonishment is often mingled with awe, for according to tradition dire disasters follow in the wake of the brook, and which in consequence bears the sinister title of “The waters of woe.” Superstitions die hard, and in these out-of-the-way wolds people are still to be found whom it is difficult to dissuade that the running of a stream fed by an intermittent spring is not in some way associated with the supernatural.

I have tried hard, however, to find someone who can give personal testimony in support of the theory that the appearance of the mysterious waters is a prognostication of trouble. With the exception of some heavy floods in the winter of 1860 and a great storm at sea in 1880, no one can remember that the coming of the stream has been attended by any particular local woe. The legend seems to be founded on incidents belonging to a very distant past.

The “gipsey,” it is said, appeared just before the great plague, before the restoration of Charles II., and a few weeks prior to the landing of the Prince of Orange. Its appearance in 1795 is also reported to have synchronised with the descent of a huge meteorite in the village of Wold Newton.

The mysterious stream meanders through this quaint little village, some of the inhabitants of which have not yet ceased to talk of the “bolt from the sky” and its supposed affinity with the “woe-waters” of the wold. Originating from an intermittent spring which bursts through the chalk strata to the east of the village of Wharram-le-street the gipsey stream performs at times so many queer pranks that its vagaries may have given rise to some of the superstitions associated with its appearance.

For instance, the waters may be running strangely at one end of a field and the other end of the bed of the stream be quite dry. On one occasion the stream literally passed through some cottages at Kirby Grindalythe, the water forcing its way through the ground floors and only being released by artificial means. At times trout have been seen in the mystic brook.

Some authorities declare that the stream derives its origin from the Greek word Gupos (chalk), while others aver that it means the same as the ordinary gipsey wanderer. Only once during the last fourteen years have the limpid waters of this strange rivulet run as strongly as they have during the last few days. There are already indications, however, that the waters are about to ebb. Soon the stream will have entirely disappeared and children will again play in its dry and erstwhile channel. The waters, however, will not be forgotten, and not a few old folk will quietly, but anxiously, wait to see whether the gipsy’s warning of 1910 of “battle, plague, and famine” come true or not. – Y.H. April 5th, 1910.

Excellent, it turns out the Gypsey Race is a republican.

This piece from the Yorkshire Herald is collected in County Folklore v6, the East Riding of Yorkshire, edited by Mrs Gutch (1912).

This rock with reputation is so near all the stone rows and cists and hut circles at Yar Tor that I don’t feel too cheeky to add it.

The descent to Dartmeet [from New Bridge] by the road is one of over five hundred feet. Halfway is the Coffin-stone, on which five crosses are cut, and which is split in half – the story goes, by lightning. On this it is customary to rest a dead man on his way from the moor beyond Dartmeet to his final resting-place at Widdecombe. When the coffin is laid on this stone, custom exacts the production of the whisky bottle, and a libation all round to the manes of the deceased.

One day a man of very evil life, a terror to his neighbours, was being carried to his burial, and his corpse was laid on the stone whilst the bearers regaled themselves. All at once, out of a passing cloud shot a flash, and tore the coffin and the dead man to pieces, consuming them to cinders, and splitting the stone. Do you doubt the tale? See the stone cleft by the flash.

From p195 of Baring-Gould’s “Book of Dartmoor” of 1900.