Rhiannon

[Bill Pierce of St Columb Minor] said that there is another Piskey Ring near the barrows in the Newquay fields. The men who fought there took their last stand fighting in a circle, back to back, and their blood, falling to the ground, formed the Piskey Ring. I asked Pierce why it was called Piskey Ring, hoping to hear more, but he didn’t know! I remember hearing, about six years ago, though I do not remember if the source was reliable, that people had seen the battle fought in the air, over the Newquay fields.

The same man, Pierce, told me that if anything was thrown into a Piskey Ring at or after midnight, it would be found flung on to the grass outside before daybreak.

Barrow Fields, Newquay. My uncle says he has heard that a headless horseman rides through the air over these fields at midnight, carrying his head under his arm. He did not know who the horseman was, nor that he had even been seen as well as heard. Horses are also heard rushing over head.

Miss Barbara C. Spooner.

The Cornish Guardian, quoting the Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, 28rh May 1915.

I [spoke with] an old man of St Columb Minor, called Bill Pierce, who saw Copeland Borlase open the Trevelgue barrows. On the high cliffs, at an equal distance from each of the two Trevelgue tumuli, is a Piskey Ring, with thistles growing here and there on the outer edge. Of this ring he said that it was always there no matter how much the cattle trampled on it. Indeed, I do not remember a year in which I did not notice that Piskey Ring in the same place; I certainly have seen it each summer of ten consecutive years.

The same man, Pierce, told me that if anything was thrown into a Piskey Ring at or after midnight, it would be found flung on to the grass outside before daybreak.

Miss Barbara C. Spencer, Coombe Bank, Kingston-on-Thames.

The Cornish Guardian (quoting the Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall), 28th May 1915.

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

Brian Woodham reports sceptically in the Somerset Standard, 15th November 1974.

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

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

Hastings and St Leonard’s Observer, 1st August 1936.

The legend of the Bodach Dhu. How much is traditional I don’t know!

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

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

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

The story gets really verbose. In short, he’s really hard to catch, but eventually they go out on the seventh day of the seventh month, and they find his den which has the millstone in front of it as a door. He shoots lots of arrows at them through the hole in the millstone and then runs off. They look through the millstone and see all the collected treasures, then leave an arrow in the ground to mark the spot and run off after him. The arrows they fire don’t seem to touch him. Eventually he’s caught in a hair tether (something with witchcraft connections) and they try to burn him on a pile of heather. Then they go back to find the arrow and the treasure – but there are arrows everywhere.

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

The Graphic, 25th May 1889.

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

A weirdly geographically specific tale from the Orkney Herald, 23rd June 1937.

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

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

In the Dundee Evening Telegraph, 4th January 1950.

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

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

Yours faithfully, E.A. Davies, Portbury.

In the Western Daily Press, 22nd August 1936.

The island seems to feature in one of Gladman’s photos. And “the ancient burial ground” referred to must surely be the chambered cairn? I don’t see anything else that fits the bill really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A letter in the Oban Times and Argyllshire Advertiser, 23rd April 1987.
It sounds like classic outdoor Pan-ic to me?

The Puzzle of Stonehenge.

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

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

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

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

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

Dundeed Evening Telegraph, 12th January 1884. “Old Gooseberry” is a new one on me. I’m not sure what connection the Devil has with gooseberries?

Builders defy dark omen.

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

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

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

I’m taking it the powers that be felt it was best to leave them where they were. In the ‘Aberdeen Evening Express’, 31st August 1982.

The Haunted Hill of Breedon.

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

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

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

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

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

Offended by linen instead of linen-wool mix aprons? I can’t imagine what a modern hobgoblin would think of modern fibres. Told in the Leicester Daily Mercury, 4th May 1929.

Hobbe’s Hole is still marked on the map (it seems to be the field to the NW, off ‘Squirrel Lane’) but the area has been nibbled into by quarrying.

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

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

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

They took the hint and left the hill.

From the ‘Arbroath Guide’, 29th December 1923.

A further spooky story connected with the vicinity of the camp.

A Quantock Hills Ghost Story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘West Somerset Free Press’, 18th July 1891.

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

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

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

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

The Rev. G.H. Wilson reports for the Staffordshire Sentinel, 2nd October 1924, after he found Saxon coins and jewellery in the caves here.

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

Mentioned in ‘Local Notes and Queries’ in the Taunton Courier, 1st January 1936.

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

From ‘Go To The Country’ by Philip Gosse (1935). He loves Chanctonbury though and could see it from his house. “The great hill was once a guiding beacon for the benighted wandered, when the Weald was one vast marshy forest of oak, and it is still a friend to welcome home the returned traveller – a friend which never fails and never changes in a changing world.”

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

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

In ‘A Highland Tramp’ by Alex Inkson McConnochie, in the Leeds Mercury, 21st May 1907.

I surely can’t help thinking of people symbolically depositing valuable articles in water in prehistory. I spotted Kelly Gillikin Schoueri’s thesis all about the topic in Scotland. Sounds like a mini loch next to your own loch with crannog might be the perfect (liminal yet handily domestic) spot. Just speculating :) It’d be pretty crazy if folklore had handed down such a tale.

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

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

From a report of the N.S. Field Club, in the Newcastle Guardian, 22nd August 1908.

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

In the Oban Times, 2nd June 1923.

Canmore’s record seems to confirm that the stone is still lying un-messed-with, and indeed is very large at 3.8m long and 0.7m breadth at its base (but a fairly skinny c. 0.13m thick).

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

In the ‘Glamorgan Gazette’, 5th September 1924.

also (warning, does get a bit bitchy):

Folklore of the District. (By Martin Phillips.)

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

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

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

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

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

In the ‘Neath Guardian’, 28th April 1933.

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

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

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

In the Ardrossan and Saltcoats Herald, 9th August 1862.

The “Stannin Stane” on the Hill of Kirriemuir is, undoubtedly, the most familiar object among our local antiquities. Many who have never seen i t know it through Barrie’s writings; but every Kirriemuir boy has bestrode it, and visitors to the Hill rarely fail to give it some attention.

Formed of the old red sandstone of its site, the great, solitary monolith measures 9 feet in height, is 7 feet in width at its broadest part, and averages a couple of feet in thickness. There is no exact record regarding its hold on mother earth, which, probably, is not great, for the native rock crops out all round.

But there are tales, difficult to credit, of its being originally “as high again” as it is now; of its standing on another stone even larger than itself; and of its having split in two, overwhelming a band of robbers who were dividing their ill gotten plunder at its base.

No record appears on its surface; no tradition exists to explain its origin or purpose; surmise alone can offer any feasible explanation of its meaning. Says one, it marks the bounds of some ancient tribal possession; says another, some great warrior of old lies buried here. But, whatever its precise age or origin, it may safely be affirmed that the “Stannin Stane” saw all the conflicts waged between the early Picts and Caledonians, and marked the advance of Rome eastwards to the sea, from the great camps of Ardoch and Cardean to Stonehaven, Aberdeen, or the Moray Firth, or from Battledykes by Forfar to the Tay.

In the ‘Forfar Herald’ of 23rd October 1908.

In a small field near the confluence of the Burn of Kilry with the River Isla is a huge monolith known as the Standing Stone. It is about seven feet above the ground and ten feet in circumference at its base, tapering slightly to the top. While making agricultural improvements many years ago an attempt was made to remove it, but it was found to be so deeply embedded in the ground that the effort had to be abandoned.

That this monolith was raised to commemorate some great event, or fulfil some important purpose, there can be little doubt, but why it was raised or what people raised it are unknown. In all probability it was set up by the Druids, the high priest of whom performed his sacred rites and dispensed justice at the pillar. It is also said to mark the site of a battle between local rival families, when many of the combatants were drowned in the swollen river. Any such tale is unworthy of credence. Almost without doubt the stone stood where it is long before these families were ever heard of.

In the ‘Kirriemuir Free Press’ of 16th June 1955.

The Boy Who Was Taken By The Fairies Of Knockfierna.

Elm Park is a townland situated in the County Limerick, about five miles to the west of the city. About fifty years ago there was an old man and his wife living in a farmyard in this place. One night, about eleven o’clock, the old man heard someone moving about in the yard. He opened the door and saw, standing about ten yards from the door, a little boy about twelve years of age. He called him in and asked him who he was. He could get no answer from the child, who appeared to be in a dazed condition. They kept him throughout the night, and in the morning the man sent for the priest. The latter came and prayed over the child.

When the prayers were finished, the child seemed to regain the use of his faculties and he told the priest his name, and said he was from Knockfierna. He further stated that at about 7 o’clock on the previous evening he was looking for the ass about two miles from his home. As he approached the “lios” a horseman came forth from it, snatched up the boy, placed him in front of him and galloped off. The boy remembered nothing until he found himself at the place mentioned above.

The priest communicated with the parents of the child, and on the following day he was taken home, much to the relief of his people, who had spent the previous night searching for him. The belief was that he was taken by one of the fairy huntsmen of Knockfierna.

W. J. Carey.

Munster News, 11th October 1930.

As to the searching beneath ancient monuments for treasure there was a story that years ago when search was made near the large stone just above Catchall for a crock of gold, the stone groaned fearfully and the pit was filled with blood.

Mentioned at the annual meeting of the Penzance Natural History and Antiquarian Society in 1881, and reported in the Cornish Telegraph (17th November).

My grandfather James Carroll who lives in Spa Boyle told me the following story about the Druids altar. There is a Druids altar in Tinnecara to the north side of the railway in Thomas Ballintinels land. The altar is made of three large stones two uprights and one over head. Each stone weighs about ten tons weight. The druids used to come home from Knockadoo and swim across Lough Gara to worship their god at this altar.

Recorded as part of the Schools Collection in the 1930s, and online now at Duchas.ie.

There is another stone circle on “Brewel Hill” known as “The Piper’s Stones.
The tradition about these stones is A lot of maidens were tempted to dance on an holy day, while a piper played for them. Like a flash of lightening they were all changed into stones.

Collected as part of the Schools Collection in the 1930s, and now online at Duchas.ie.

There is a standing stone in Cryhelp about three miles west of Dunlavin. It has a hole in the top of it about nine inches long and four inches wide. There is an old tradition about it, that it was not aways in that place, it was moved to mark the grave of Harold, chief prince who was killed in the battle of Glen Mama.
The corner of the field in which the Cryhelp stone is standing is said to have been a cemetery a long time ago, covered with trees. Near at hand is a nettle-covered hollow, which was at one time opened; there is an underground passage leading to a mound not far away. It is not said that this hole was used to cure anything.

Recorded as part of the Schools Collection in the 1930s, and now online at Duchas.ie.

This rock is probably over 300 tons in weight and is in a field beside Killenduff National School. It is split in two as if it were hewn by a saw. This is the tradition connected with it:-
Ages ago two fierce giants lived on the Ox Mountains. They argued about their respective strengths and what they could do. They agreed to put the argument to a test by throwning a stone. They selected two large stones of similar size, several tons in weight. The idea was to see who could throw the stone from the Ox Mountains to the sea, five miles distant.
The first took up the stone, flung it, and it fell into the sea. The second took his throw and it fell about half a mile from the sea in its present position. The second giant’s rage was so great seeing that he had failed in his attempt that he seized his sword, ran towards the rock and with one fierce cut, split it in two.

Collected from Peg Judge in Croagh, and recorded in the Schools Collection of the 1930s (view at Duchas.ie.

Also in the Collection:

The tradition says that any body who walks through the Rock three times shall surely meet their doom. I have never heard of any body to go through it three times.

The DromoreWest website suggests your doom might come a bit quickly, as the rock will slam shut on you.

The floor of the chamber is covered with a  deposit of mud. The tomb is locally considered to be a  holy well and offerings of coins, some quite recent, medals, broken glass, etc., lie on the lower roofstone. The interior of the chamber is littered with broken glass.

From p128 in ‘Survey of the Megalithic Tombs of Ireland, vol 1 – County Clare’ by Ruaidhri de Valera and Sean O Nuallain (1961).

In an article called ‘A Folklore Survey of County Clare‘ in Folklore v22, 1911, it says, “The mud of the dolmen or “well” of Tobergrania at Ballycroum cured sore or short-sighted eyes.”

On the lower declivity of Warton Crag, in the parish of Warton (which abuts on Morecambe Bay and the Westmorland border), commanding a beautiful and extended prospect of the bay, a seat called “The Bride’s Chair” was resorted to on the day of marriage by the brides of the village; and in this seat they were enthroned with due solemnity by their friends; but the origin and the object of the custom, which has now fallen in disuse, are unknown.

Not far from Warton Crag are three rocking-stones placed in a line, about forty feet asunder, the largest stone lying in the middle.

A cave is also mentioned by Lucas, named “The Fairy Hole”, where dwarf spirits called Elves or Fairies, were wont to resort.

Lancashire Folk-lore: Illustrative of the Superstitious Beliefs and Practices, local customs and usages of the people of the county Palatine. By John Harland and TT Wilkinson, 1867. Online at the Internet Archive.

It is traditionally supposed that beneath the surface of this camp vast stores of gold and silver are hid in an iron castle, the door of which is guarded by spirits and can only be found at the full moon.

It is stated that many years ago some labourers dug there with the hope of finding the treasure, but were obliged to desist because of the mournful sounds they heard, caused no doubt, by the howling of the wind among the trees.

A story is also told of a Dr Farrer, who lived in the parish and was learned in books and who found out from them how to get into the castle. The day before the full moon he went over the field with a hazel rod, and when he came over the door, the stick stood upright in the ground. The doctor returned at night with his servant and tools for digging and also took his bible with him. He set his servant to work, giving him particular instruction that whatever he saw or heard he was not to utter a word for his life.

The man went on digging, and at last his spade struck on the iron door of the castle, when horrible groans and cries were heard, and spirits began to come out of the door. The man was so frightened that he forgot his master’s instructions, and cried out “Lord, have mercy on my soul,” when one of the spirits caught him by the leg and would have carried him off, but the doctor put the bible on his head and dragged him out with the other hand.

The pit was closed up, the door banged together, and its position was changed so that no one has been able to find it since.
ETNE.

In the Taunton Courier, 12th April 1958. It rather served him right, expecting his servant to do all the dangerous work. I have a vision a bit like ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’. Also, the castle being made of iron rather discounts the involvement of the fairies in this case.

There is a story told locally of two men, who, many years ago, lived on the Quantock Hills. One day, finding themselves in financial difficulty and not knowing where to obtain any money, they decided to go over to Ruborough Camp, Broomfield, to try to discover some of the money and treasure supposed to have been buried there. As soon as it was night-time they left their homes and with picks and shovels on their backs, proceeded on their way. As they entered the tree-covered lane leading to the camp, they walked with caution in case they disturbed the stags and foxes resting there, but all was well and at last they reached the Camp.

It was a clear moonlit night and no doubt they could see the old castle at Enmore and further away the town of Bridgwater. They found the mound of earth where money and treasure were supposed to have been buried and after removing their coats, started to dig. Suddenly the ground gave away from beneath them and they disappeared.

After some hours had elapsed their relatives at home became alarmed at their not returning and decided to go to look for them. On reaching the old Camp they discovered to their amazement two coats beside a very large hole, but there was no sign of the two men. Being superstitious people they hastily returned to their homes saying that the pixies had captured the two men, who were never seen again.

This story may not be true, but it was told to me by old people living in the district years ago.
A.H., BRIDGWATER.

In the Taunton Courier, 29th March 1958.
These stories seem pretty similar to the ones written down with even more elaboration by the Rev. J W Collins in 1857.

Reporter lays the Sheffield “ghost”!
Early to-day I learnt the truth about the Wincobank ghost – there isn’t one! All the “ghost’s” visitations, beginning eight weeks ago with “a white form standing rigid under a gas lamp,” can be accounted for. The “apparitions,” like the figure under the gas-lamp, are now declared to have been really live persons ignorant of the scare they were creating.

[...] The “ghost” that disappeared from the top of a banking or ridge on Newman road was undoubtedly a man who had been collecting some white flowers from a garden and had tripped on the banking and fallen backwards. There is not the slightest doubt that a man did fall in this manner at the same place where the “ghost” was seen, and at the same time, and some time later this same man was helped home by a friend. I talked this morning with some of the searchers, who were of the opinion that mysterious “objects” which they had seen were nothing more than the result of white smoke from a smoldering garden fire shimmering against the background of the trees.

[...] But Wincobank is a place with a history, and there are some who will never allow their “ghost” to escape them. If you talk to some of the oldest residents you will hear tales of the old Roman settlement and the ghosts of Roman soldiers which march up and down, and of ghosts of more recent days which are connected with old Wincobank Hall, which is said to have been full of secret passages and panels.

From the Sheffield Independent, 11th August 1937.

BUGLEY FAIR. – There was a very small attendance of pleasure seekers at this fair, which as usual was held on Cley Hill on Palm Sunday. It is to be hoped that next year a still smaller number will be present.

Straight from the Warminster Killjoy Association. The miserable beggers. Reported in the Warminster and Westbury Journal, 8th April 1882.

Whether a relic of Druidism, or whether merely the vestige of some observance of Roman Catholic times, it has been a well-known custom for many generations to hold certain festivities on Palm Sunday upon Cley Hill, Bidcombe Down, and other lofty elevations in this neighbourhood. Crowds used to assemble in times past on these hills upon this particular Sunday, and amuse themselves in a variety of rough sports, from backsword playing to harmless competitions in rolling down the hill. It may be well imagined that such proceedings were not always of the most orderly kind, and that they were not particularly desirable on Sunday of all days of the week. Fortunately of late years the observance has almost entirely declined, and though a few people still keep up the old custom by walking up the hill and walking down again, no harm is now known to result from their so doing. It was stated that the old observance was to be revived on Sunday last by the Salvation Army, who, it was understood, intended to hold an open air service of a very demonstrative kind upon the top of Cley Hill. It had been feared that such a proceeeding might have revived the old abuses of the day to a certain extent, and it is therefore probably a matter for thankfulness that the Salvation Army did not carry out any such intention.

Warminster and Westbury Journal, 24th March 1883. What’s worse, riffraff or noisy evangelisers?

But

The usual practice of setting fire to various parts of Cley Hill on Palm Sunday was again observed this year. On the Warminster Downs, too, a fire was kindled in the afternoon, leaving a big black patch.

Bad luck, sounds like things got even more anarchic.
Wiltshire Times, 26th March 1910.

Altadavin – St. Patrick’s Altar and Chair.

Altadavin though belonging to this parish of Errigal Truagh is situated in the County Tyrone. It is a picturesque wooded glen. Various explanations of the name have been given:- “The high place of Daimen.” Daimen was high King of Airghialla 513 AD. It also means “Glen of the Gods” or “Glen of the Demons.”

The glen is entered by a narrow path running by a clear stream, the precipitous sides being clothed with a dense growth of under wood surmounted with stately forest trees. About midway down the glen, a vast mass of rock, some three or four hundred yards long, covered with wood of natural growth, rises up leaving a choice of paths in the two narrow ravines. Keeping to the right a little green velvet lawn opens out before us. Right under the rock, that rises sheer and steep from the green sword, is a spring well issuing from a stone.

This lovely glen has an interesting history, a mingling of the older and the newer faiths. Tradition has it that in Pagan times the glen was sacred to the rites of Druidism. It is a very reasonable probability that St Patrick, on one of his visits to Clogher, made it his object to overthrow this centre of Druidical Cult, and following his usual course, dedicated this home of heathenism to the true God. Here, surrounded by tangled under wood is a rude altar formed of solid rock. The ledge that forms its table is four feet high, six feet long and two feet wide. Towards its centre is roughly chiselled to a smooth surface. It shows no other tool marks.

Opposite the Gospel side of the altar is a large rock, in the form of a high-backed chair, known as St Patrick’s chair. The seat of this natural chair is about four feet high from the present ground level, and the back rises to a height of eight feet from the ground.

On a rocky platform overlooking the stretch of green, and some twenty feet above it, is a large square stone about five feet high in the top of which is scooped out a basin fourteen inches in diameter and twelve inches deep. There is a detached boulder sitting on other detached boulders, yet the basin on the driest summer day is to be found half full of water. It is affirmed that as often as it is emptied, it will, with in half an hour, fill up to the same level, and except as a result of rainfall, will not rise to a higher level. Science has not yet explained whence the water comes, or why it rises to a certain height. That it does so is an undoubted fact, and equally undoubted is the fact that no natural source of supply can be discovered.

Local tradition affirms that when St Patrick turned this stronghold of Druidism to Christianity, he was attended by a great concourse of people. Having converted large numbers of them, he proceeded to baptise them. Water was necessary. Here at hand was a font, and what surer method of strengthening the faith of those who still wavered, than by drawing water from a rock. He did so and the font has never since dried up.

The wooded glories of Altadaven have departed, the venerable timber that shaded the glen and that lent enchantment to the scene have been cut down and turned into money. However the Department of Forestry of the Government of ‘N. Ireland’ have replanted Altadavan, but many, many years must elapse ere the charm of by gone days can return.
Altadaven still holds a high place in the popular respect for many miles around, when crowds assemble at the time that the blae-berries are ripe, which usually falls about the last Sunday in July and first Sunday in August, known in the district as “the Big Sundays”.

Last Sunday was one of the “big Sundays”. I was there and I saw crowds and crowds of boys and girls all enjoying themselves, laughing, courting, singing, and dancing, some picking the ripe blae-berries, some climbing up to see St Patricks altar and chair, all wearing happy faces and enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content. I went to see St Patrick’s Well. It is near the chair, but a little further down in the rocks. There was a great number of pins and needles and hair pins in it, also a few coppers left by those who made a “Wish” at the Well.

Cathleen Sweeney 4th August1938.

From the Schools Collection, now being digitised at Duchas.ie. Elsewhere the special days at Altadavin are just called “Blaeberry Sundays”.

About a mile to the north-east of Loch Loch, among the hills of Ben-y-Gloe in Perthshire, is a cairn known generally as Mackintosh’s Cairn, sometimes as Comyn’s Cairn (Carn a’Chuimeinich). It is said by tradition to mark the spot where, some centuries ago, a great chief of the Comyns was killed by a certain Mackintosh, who raised the stones as a monument of his act.

The story of the feud which culminated in the erection of this cairn has been told more than once. The main incidents, asa narrated on the authority of local tradition by Col. J. A. Robertson (author of Gaelic Topography and other works) in a small volume entitled The Earldom of Atholl, privately printed in 1860, are as follows: – The Comyns, on obtaining a footing in Atholl, at once commenced their usual practice of attacking their neighbours. Among these were the Mackintoshachs, or Mackintoshes, descendants of the old Toshachs or Thanes of Glentilt, who were attacked by the Comyns at a feast and all murdered, except a young child in a cradle. This child, Ewen, also called “Sherigan,” grew up, and some fifteen years after the massacre attacked the Comyns at a place called Toldamph (Tolldamh, near Blair Atholl) and defeated them. The Comyns fled up Glentilt, and turned in at the stream which issues from Loch Loch, but Ewen, taking a near way through the hills of Ben Gloe, by a stream called Cromaldun, met their leader at Loch-na-diodd, and shot him. Colonel Robertson says that these events are supposed to have taken place about or soon after 1260, and that Ewen had a son named Angus, who obtained a “bounding charter” to his lands.

There are other retellings mentioned in the article. One has rather striking image of Cumming the Big being shot just as he raises his hand to wipe away some sweat from his brow, so getting his hand pinned to his head by the arrow as he drops down dead.

From a report of a meeting of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, in The Northern Chronicle for April 15th 1885.

The cairn actually looks like it’s on the banks of Loch Loch. It’s miles from anywhere near a road and must be quite a spot. Frankly I doubt I could have been bothered to raise a cairn for the person who’d murdered my entire family, but you never know – it could well be older than the story purports, couldn’t it (the record on Canmore hasn’t assigned it a date yet).

I don’t have a good grid reference for this, but if you were climbing up Wellington Hill to the monument, then it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out (especially if it’s very early in the morning).

There is near the ‘Cat and Fiddle’ on the hill a large boulder stone known as Cock-Crow Stone, and it is said of the stone that every time it hears the cock crow it gets up and turns round.
An attempt was once made to move this stone, for it is believed that there is hidden beneath it a crock of gold. The stone, however, resisted all attempts of a team of horses to move it. When old houses are being pulled down it is a very common question to ask for ‘the Crock.’ Hoards of money have, indeed, been found which were hidden away in stormy times.

In ‘The Materials for the History of the Town of Wellington, co. Somerset‘ (1889) by Arthur Humphreys.
The ‘Cat and Fiddle’ was a pub to the south of the road near Woodside (about ST13271680) – still marked in the 1960s, but I can’t see any trace on maps or aerial photos now. On page 230 of the book, the pub is mentioned as being on the route of those ‘Beating the Bounds’ of the parish, and I can’t help but wonder whether the stone, if it’s that obvious, would be on the parish boundary as well, and so on the road’s south (the boundary nearby is actually the county boundary too).

Simon’s Barrow, Wellington.
The Devil’s Lapful. The Blackdown Hills.
The Devil was carrying a load of stones to drop on Wellington Church. He had so many in his apron that he carried a few in his glove as well. Just on the top of the hills the strings of his leather apron broke, and the stones, scattered over an acre of ground, formed the Devil’s Lapful, while in his flurry he dropped the rest, which formed the five small barrows known as the Devil’s Glove.

There is a crock of gold buried somewhere near, but no one has found it. Many have tried, just as many have taken away the stones to make walls and gateways; but the Devil always brings them back, and inflicts some terrible punishment for disturbing Simon’s Barrow.

Story by Miss R. Clatworthy in Taunton, around 1908, recorded in Ruth Tongue’s 1965 “Somerset Folklore”.

On the Black-down Hills, just above the town, is a place named Symonsborough. Local tradition ascribes the name to the supposed fact that a British chieftain named Simond or Symmond fell in battle just at this spot. It used to be confidently asserted by the people living near the place that the barrow could never be lessened, because as fast as the stones composing it were drawn away more would miraculously come to fill their places. A man named James Bale, who died only a few years since, tested the correctness of the old legend, with the result that now neither the barrow nor any sign of it exists; but the spot is remembered in the name of Symonsborough hamlet, Great and Little Symonsborough farms, and the field names of Great Barrow Close and Little Barrow Close. A story which alternates with the foregoing in connexion with Symonsborough is that the stones were brought there by the Evil One in his apron. The place is, therefore, known to many as the ‘Devil’s Lapful’.

From ‘The Materials for the History of the Town of Wellington, Co. Somerset‘ by Arthur Humphreys (1889).

I found the site of the barrow on an old map, so it should be an accurate grid reference, even if there’s nothing left. The dates don’t add up, I realise, but maybe Miss Clatworthy didn’t get out much.

Many of the stones and most of the barrows are supposed to have treasure buried under them or near them, but it is dangerous to look for it and there are many stories of foiled attempts. The Caractacus Stone, for instance, standing on Winsford Hill, Exmoor, is said to be haunted by a ghostly team and their foolhardy driver who tried to uproot and drag the stone away to get at the treasure it conceals. The stone overturned the waggon and team and crushed the greedy waggoner. On foggy nights they are still to be heard and met.

From the 1965 book of ‘Somerset Folklore’ by Ruth Tongue (p12) – she heard the story from “A Bossington blacksmith, 1946, and a Hawkridge gardener, 1956.”

Belfast without the Cave Hill, the Cave Hill without Belfast: Killarney without its lakes: the causeway without guides or specimens. We love the old mountain still, but the attention which was paid it in days of yore has ceased, I am afraid, for ever. The al fresco feasts, the joyous junketings, and the explorations of its wonderful caves no longer take place on its breezy slopes. Time was, and not so long ago, when the Cave Hill was famous for its Easter Monday revellings. The vicinity was thronged with country cousins, who gazed with awe at the Corsican’s Head or scaled the dizzy height towards McArt’s Fort [...]

A few years ago, when a local geologist discovered a marvellous diamond – a ponderous stone which weighed pounds avoirdupois instead of orthodox carats – I thought it would boom the Cave Hill into activity again. This matchless diamond was stated at the time to be a relic of Finn McCoul, the head of his breastpin in fact, but personally I do not believe the giant cared for, or wore such an adornment as a breastpin. I don’t believe he even wore a waistcoat [...]

In the Belfast Telegraph, 18th June 1891.
In fact, you can see a picture of the gem on the Culture Northern Ireland website, with lots more details. It’s not really a diamond but quartz, and quartz isn’t even part of the geology here. So what its true history is, is anyone’s guess.

The Hill is also the legendary location of gold:

One might have supposed that a belief in magic and spells and fairies had all died away, and that in this very vulgar and materialistic and somewhat sceptical age, none could have been found, at least in this part of Ulster, to credit the tales of our grandmothers, and to act upon them. But there are some good people in Sandy-row who still retain the elder faith on these subjects – and, if works can prove the sincerity of conviction, theirs must be very sincere indeed. [...]

It is not gold, scattered about in dust or even in “nuggests,” which formed the object of this search, but compactly laid up in chests – deposited, as the fairy records say, upon the summit of the “hill” by the Danes, in those days when they were compelled to make a hasty retreat from this part of the isle.

More than once have these gold-seekers struck upon these iron chests, but, just at that moment, the propitious influence was absent, and a kind of mysterious darkness and confusion fell upon their eyes. They believe, too, they heard a voice – ”procul, o procul este profani” of the ancients. However this be, the chests still remain precisely where the Danes placed them, and these indefatigable Sandy-rowites are, at the present time, making inquiry, far and wide, for the seventh son of a seventh son, gifted with seventh sight, and possessing the power, as the legends tell, to take off the spell which has for ages rested upon this gold.

[...] You must not suppose that I am calling upon my imagination in this narrative. I give you the facts in my own way, it is true, but in substance exactly as I learned them from a person most intimately connected with one of these gold-seekers. [...]

The Reverend W.M. O’Hanlon isn’t very happy because “the persons engaged in it have abjured religion, and deem those members of their family who know aught of Christianity as serious obstacles in the way of their success, because ‘the spirits of the vasty deep’ cannot come so freely where these are.”
In an article in the Northern Whig, 2nd October 1852.

The Torbarrow Legend at Cirencester.

Barrows in particular have been the objects of superstition. They have been looked upon as haunted by supernatural beings. They have been regarded as dwellings of ogres, or magicians, or the spirits of the dead. In the Bodleian library at Oxford is preserved an account printed in 1685 of the opening of a barrow near Cirencester. It is to the following effect:

“Two men digging a gravel pit at the foot of the hill or barrow, having sunk four yards deep, discovered an entrance into the hill, where they found several rooms with their furniture, which, being touched, crumbled to dust. In one of them were several images and urns, some with ashes, others full of coins, with Latin inscriptions on them. Entering another, they were surprised at seeing the figure of a man in armour, having a truncheon in its hand, and a light in a glass-like lamp burning before it. At their first approach the image made an effort to strike; so at the second step, with greater force; but at the third it struck a violent blow, which broke the glass to pieces and extinguished the light.

Having a lantern, they had just time to observe that on the left hand lay two heads emblamed, with long beards, and the skin looking like parchment, when hearing a hollow noise like a groan they hastily quitted those dark apartments, and immediately the earth fell in and buried all the curiosities.”

We may perhaps regard this as a highly-sensational account of a real incident, but as we could not for a moment admit the existence of the magical statue and the lamp, we must suppose that the idea of such things had been floating about in people’s minds ready to root itself upon any convenient spot.

This supremely imaginative tale is retold in the Wilts and Gloucestershire Standard, 19th March 1892.

The members of the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society have had a pleasant and interesting excursion to the South of the Island. [...] The weather was delightfully fine and the excursion on that account proved most enjoyable. [...]

Making their way with some little difficulty along rocky paths and muddy lanes, the party passed Bradda Mountain Fairy Hill, which rises abruptly from a flat and rather boggy piece of land between Port Erin and the Rushen parish church. The origin of this mound is a matter of dispute. Geologists and antiquarians both claim it as their own, and until the mound is properly explored it is difficult to say whether it falls within the province of the one or the other, though certainly the theory that it was artificially formed appears the more probable one.

[...] Dr. Tellet remarked that it had been said the mound had been put up to commemorate the death of Reginald, son of Olave the Black, King of Man, who was slain in 1249, – Mr. Kermode said he thought it was Cumming who had first suggested that, but so far as he (Mr. Kermode) knew there was no authority for it.

[...] Mr. Kelly, of Ballaquinnea, some months ago had given them a sort of fairy story about this hill, which was known as Cronk Howe Mooar, which meant “The Big Hill.” Howe was simply the Scandinavian word for cronk or hill.

The story was to the effect that a man, wandering about at night, saw a brilliant light on the hill and came there, when he saw great festivities going on amongst the fairies. He was invited to drink some wine, but a friendly voice whispered to him not to do so. He threw the cup to the ground, and immediately the lights were extinguished and the fairies rushed at him. He dashed along in an easterly direction through the bog followed by the fairies, and made his way towards one of the farms in the neighbourhood. In crossing the water he purposely stepped in the water and not on the dry stones. The fairies were calling out to him to keep on the stones and not in the water, but he was careful not to obey them.

[...] Mr. Kermode went on to refer to the tradition of the mound having been opened early in the present century, and said that might account for the deepening of the hollow in the centre of the top of the mound, nevertheless it seemed probable that the place had been fortified by the erection of a rampart round about the mound. The mound (he said) was private property; and on that account great difficulty had beenexperienced in trying to obtain permission to explore it.

[...] It afterward transpired that the land belonged to Mr. Turnbull, of Port Erin. Mr. Turnbull is himself interested in archaeological research, and would raise no objection to the opening of the mound, but objections have been raised – ostensibly on the ground of the injury it would cause to the adjacent fields. There is reason to think, however, that some superstition may underlie the difficulty encountered in regard to the proposed exploration of this interesting mound. [...]

From the Isle of Man Times, Saturday 15th September 1894.

The Kempstonehill, the scene of this grim legend, is a moor several hundred acres in extent, about 432 feet above sea level. It is on the Cowie estate, and lies about two miles south of Stonehaven. On the summit of the ridge two unchiselled stones have stood up for untold centuries, and it is from these that the hill derives its name.

Tradition says that a battle was fought on the moor, and there can be little doubt that tradition in this instance is correct, though it is not necessary to agree with the belief strongly held by Robert Barclay of Ury that it was here that Galgacus was defeated by Agricola.

One of the stones, according to an immemorial legend, marks the spot where a chief of the defending army had his head cut off, and the other indicates the spot where he fell, after traversing the intervening eighty yards on horseback and headless.
J. D.

Aberdeen Press and Journal, 16th March, 1928.

At the weekend we were up on Westbury White Horse getting some fresh air. It rained of course, but before the drizzle set in, we got right round the ramparts. And on the far corner, you can look out and see Oliver’s Castle quite clearly, so I pointed it out to my companions. My sister said, “Do you remember when we were up there and I heard that cannon?” (Insert my somewhat bewildered expression). “Yes, we were walking up there and I heard it and you didn’t.”

Clearly I had blanked this (lack of) experience at the injustice of it.

It’s the very sort of place you’d expect ghostly cannonfire of course. But I can’t remember if she already knew that or not, when we were actually there. Mr Rh immediately put her anecdote down to someone shooting pheasants. The rationalist spoilsport.

By the Rev. Thomas Hannan.

The recent announcement that the proprietor of the small estate of the Burg has given or bequeathed it to the National Trust for Scotland recalls to my mind many journeys which I have made from my summer quarters at Lochbuie, on the south shores of Mull, to the wild and interesting peninsula on the west side of the island which bears the name of Ardmeanach. The western end of that peninsula is easily the wildest part of Mull – rugged in the extreme, in many parts terrifying in aspect; the last and almost inaccessible home of fairies, glaistigs, and grugachs. The Burg is on the southern side of the peninsula, very near the western end; Tavool or Tapul, another house famous in fairy lore, is on the way to Burg from Tiroran, the residence eastward of Brigadier General Cheape; and the wonderful fossil tree is about the middle of the western end of the peninsular.

... At Tavool the farmer’s wife was much troubled by the officious help of the fairies, who seem to have lived at Dun Burg; and “the rhyme of the goodman of Tapull’s servants” – that is, the fairies – is a testimony to their desire for work –
Let me comb, card, tease, spin;
Get a weaving loom, quick;
Water for fulling on the fire;
Work, work, work.
Of course, all that is in Gaelic, which is the language of the fairies as well as of the people, and the results of their work were seldom equal to their zeal.

An example of this unfortunate trait is associated with The Burg, which is nearer than Tavool to Dun Burg. The good lady of the house had seen her husband and family to bed, and had sat up to do some weaving in the quiet of the night. But she had already spent a busy day with the farm and the cows and the hens and the children, and was tired. So she sighed and said – “Oh that some one would come from land or sea, from far or near, to help me with the work of weaving this cloth.” This was quite enough, for the fairies are inveterate eavesdroppers.

A knock came to the door at once, and a voice said – “Tall Inary, good housewife, open the door to me, for so long as I have, you will get.” Inary opened the door, and a woman in green entered and sat down at the spinning wheel and got busy. That was satisfactory enough; but knock after knock came, and fairy after fairy entered and set to work, until the room was full of fairies, all making the most awful noise. Then they wanted food, and the more they ate the hungrier they became, so that Inary was veritably being eaten out of house and home. At last, when she had baked the last of her flour and meal, she went and stood on a hillock outside the door, and cried – “Dun Burg is on fire.” That fetched the whole tribe out of her house to save their own.

As they rushed out, she rushed in and barricaded the door. But they came back, very angry; and she had a terrible business to prevent the spell-bound spinning wheel, distaff, wool cards, fulling water, and other things which the “good people” had used, from admitting the crowd again. As fully told it is a very long story.

In ‘The Scotsman’, 2nd April 1932.

Back at Croesor, where you parked, is the spring Ffynnon Elen. It’s named after Saint Elen, who features in the Mabinogion. She was Romano-British, and noted for founding churches in 4th century Wales. Since Garth y Foel looks like something out of Welsh mythology, here’s some local folklore.

The following story is handed down, generation after generation, in this parish, of Cidwm and Elen Lleuddog. When Elen was marching with her army from the south to Caer Eryri, her youngest son marched his men from Segontium to meet and welcome her. One of her sons, whose name was Cidwm, – the Welsh for wolf, – was an impulsive and prodigal fellow; he was filled with a deep rooted jealousy toward his youngest brother, and was ever planning to take away his life.

He had heard of this march, and had hid himself on the high and precipitous cliff on Mynydd Mawr, close by Llyn Tarddeni, beneath which ran the Roman road. He had watched his opportunity, bent on shooting his unsuspecting brother as he passed with his men.

In the meantime Elen had marched as far as the hills which join the hills of Nanmor, and was resting herself and her men by a sweet, clear spring on the roadside, in the parish of Llanfrothen. In marching through Nant y Bettws, her son had taken the rear of the regiment, and walked behind them all.

Cidwm’s opportunity had come, but as he emerged from his hiding-place, one of the soldiers saw him and recognised him. His bow was bent, and his arrow aimed, before his cruel intention flashed upon the mind of the soldier, who, as soon as he could collect himself, shouted, “Llech yr Ola’” (Last man, hide). Quick as lightning was the cry taken up by the whole regiment; but before the last man had time to take in the warning, the arrow of the fratricide had dealt him a deadly blow.

The sad news was immediately conveyed to his mother by a batch of soldiers, and when she heard it she threw down her sword, lifted up her hands, and cried, “Croes awr, croes awr i mi!” (“Sad hour, sad hour for me!“).

The well at which she sat is called “Ffynon Croesor” (Croesor Well) to this day, and the village which has grown within a couple of hundred yards of it has been named “Croesor” from it.

From Bedd Gelert: its facts, fairies and folk-lore. by D E Jenkins, 1899.

The Stone Circle is situated two miles east of Glandore and half a mile south of Kilfaughnabeg Roman Catholic Church. It is composed of fourteen stones, arranged in the shape of a large circle. Some of the stones which form the circle are small and others tall. There is one horizontal stone inside the circle on the west side and if you stand on that stone with the rising of the sun on a May morning the sun points to a stone on the south east side of the circle and if you stand on the same horizontal stone on the morning of June 21st the sun points to a stone in the north east of the circle.

Some of the old people say that Cliodna is buried here and that each stone has certain meaning.

The stone circle was ancient when St Patrick came to Ireland and it is the unwritten history of our ancient civilisation.

Seán Ó Cárthaigh, as part of the 1930s Schools Collection of folklore. Digitised at Dúchas.ie.

There is an Ogham stone on Castletimon road between Dunganstown and Ballinacarrig, and it is believed that a Queen was buried under it. There is no writing on it except lines and strokes. It is also believed that there is money under it. It is about two and a half yards long and two feet wide.

A story is told of a woman who took that stone to make a doorstep, but on the following morning she found it had returned to the place from which she had taken it.

Another story relates that when the Wicklow pier was being built, men were travelling through the county, gathering up big stones to help to build it, and a man named Dickenson now residing in Rathnew brought the Ogham stone in Co. Wicklow and wondering at the marks that were on it, showed it to a priest who told him to take it back to its former place. It is also believed that a priest explained the meaning of the marks thus:- “Here lieth a princess; she was possessed of the devil.”

Kathleen Lott retells her grandfather’s stories for the 1930s Schools Folklore Collection. dúchas.ie.

This is the field on the opposite side of the road from the ‘Druidical Circle’ in Castleruddery Lower.

There is supposed to be a big crock of gold hidden in Tutty’s Terrace field. The name of the man that put it there is Pat Kenny.

One time there were three men who went to dig up the gold. The names of those men were Tom Cullen, Peter Condron and Jim Toole. But when they dug down they met a big stone, and then a goat with three legs came running across the field. The men paid no heed to the goat. But when they went to raise the stone, the goat leaped in on them and killed one of the men. The other two jumped out and filled in the hole and no one made any more attempt to dig for the gold.

And another strange thing about that same place is that there is a light seen at three special times of the year. The light goes all around the place for about a quarter of an hour and then it disappears again.

Larry Daly recounting his father’s stories in the 1930s, for the Schools Folklore Collection. Digitised at dúchas.ie