Rhiannon

Southwest from the town is WEARYALL-HILL, an eminence so called (if we will believe the monkish writers) from St. Joseph and his companions sitting down here all weary with their journey. Here St. Joseph stuck his stick into the earth, which, although a dry hawthorn staff, thenceforth grew, and constantly budded on Christmas-day. It had two trunks or bodies, till the time of Queen Elizabeth, when a puritan exterminated one, and left the other, which was of the size of a common man, to be viewed in wonder by strangers; and the blossoms thereof were esteemed such curiosities by people of all nations, that the Bristol merchants made a traffick of them, and exported them into foreign parts. In the great rebellion, during the time of King Charles I. the remaining trunk of this tree was also cut down; but other trees from its branches are still growing in many gardens of Glastonbury, and in the different nurseries of this kingdom. It is probable that the monks of Glastonbury procured this tree from Palestine, where abundance of the same sort grow, and flower about the same time. Where this thorn grew is said to have been a nunnery dedicated to St. Peter, without the pale of Weriel-Park, belonging to the abbey.
Besides this holy thorn, there grew in the abbey-church-yard, on the north side of St. Joseph’s chapel, a miraculous walnut-tree, which never budded forth before the feast of St. Barnabas, viz. the eleventh of June; and on that very day shot forth leaves and flourished like its usual species. This tree is also gone, and in the place thereof stands a very fine walnut-tree of the common sort.
It is strange to say how much both these trees were sought after by the credulous, and though the former was a common thorn, and the latter not an uncommon walnut, Queen Anne, King James, and many of the nobility of the realm, even when the times of monkish superstition had ceased, gave large sums of money for small cuttings from the original.

From John Collinson’s 1791 History and Antiquities of Somerset.

Another version of the tales about Bomere is in Salopian Shreds and Patches, v1 (1874-5):

I am not aware of the existence of any legend about Bomere; but one or traditions are or were some years ago current respecting it. One is that it has no bottom. No end of waggon ropes have, it is said, been tied end to end with the view of ascertaining its depth, but in vain. Ergo, it has no bottom.

Another is that some two centuries ago, or less, a party of gentleman, including the squire, were fishing the pool, when an enormous pike was captured and hauled into the boat. Some discussion arose as to the girth of the fish, and a bet was made that he was bigger round than the squire, and that the sword-belt of the latter would not reach round the fish. To decide the bet, the squire unbuckled his belt, which was there and then, with some difficulty, fastened round the body of the fish. The scaly knight, for he no doubt felt himself to be one, being girt with the sword, began to feel impatience at being kept so long out of his native element, and, after divers struggles, he succeeded in eluding his captors, and regaining, at the same time, his freedom and his watery home. In later years he (so it is said) has been frequently seen basking in the shallow parts of the pool, with the sword still buckled round him, but he is too old a fish to be again caught. -- W.H.

Presenting an addition to my dubious theory of 2006. I found mention in Gloucestershire Notes and Queries v5 (1894), which is about ‘Place Rimes’, rhymes expressing local prejudice about neighbouring villages :)

Charles Hillier the ancient Corunna [Napoleonic battle of 1809] veteran who died at Uley some years ago, aged upwards of 90, added to the above [rhymes]:-- “Nimpsfield heg pegs,” which the old man explained were “things” which grew in the hedges.

And Nympsfield is literally yards from the tump. Etymology eh, you can argue it until the cows come home and it doesn’t really matter, but it is interesting I think.

The loch contains six islands, one of which – known as the Ash Island – is evidently artificial. It has been formed, as a writer in the Statistical Account says, “by driving strong piles of wood into the moss or marl, on which were placed large frames of black oak.” These were discovered in 1765, when the loch was drained for the purpose of procuring marl.

Tradition says that in early days it contained two large islands – one at the north end, which is now a peninsula, but still retaining the name of “The Isle,” while the other, near to the south end, is called “The Fir Island,” and appears to have been rendered famous in history as the spot where Edward I., on penetrating into Galloway in the year 1300, encamped, using the island as a place for shoeing his cavalry. To strengthen this supposition, we may state that near to this place many horse-shoes, of a form different to those now in use, have been found sunk deep in the mud [...]

The loch was formerly much larger than it is at present; and tradition narrates that there was a town which sunk, or was drowned, in its waters, and that there were two churches or chapels, one upon each of the large islands. The submersion of the town is in all likelihood a myth, although the truth of the story is believed by many of the old inhabitants; and we have heard that occasionally, during very dry seasons – that of 1826 being specially referred to – the roofs of houses have been discerned submerged in the loch. [...]

You can also read about the ancient Three Thorns of Carlingwark which grew near the loch. “From time immemorial they were used as a trysting-place by the lairds and yeomen throughout Galloway; and in history we find repeated mention of them made in connection with stirring events.”

From ‘Rambles in Galloway‘ by Malcolm McLachlan Harper (1876)

The mound called ‘Grimshoe’ is at TL8190289813. It gave its name to the Hundred of Grimshoe – the name coming from ‘Grim’s Howe’, or the burial mound of Grim (Woden / Odin). It’s probably a spoil mound from the quarrying, or maybe created especially from the spoil for the purposes of a special place for impressive Hundred Meetings. But don’t let its mundane origin detract from its mythological splendour.

Up here is a little cairn cemetery with two round cairns, two tor cairns and two ring cairns. They surround a large rock outcrop called Branscombe’s Loaf. Tor cairns are only found on the higher moors of Devon and Cornwall and only about 50 are known. They date from the early-mid Bronze Age.

On the slope between Sourton Tor and Bronescombe’s Loaf lies a large slab of granite through which a dyke of elvan has been thrust. In this elvan have been cut the moulds for two bronze axe-heads.*

Walter Bronescombe was Bishop of Exeter between 1258 and 1280, and he lies buried in the Cathedral under a fine canopied tomb. The effigy is of his own date, and gives apparently a true portrait of a worthy prelate.

One day he was visiting this portion of his diocese, and had ventured to ride over the moor from Widdecombe. He and his retinue had laboured through bogs, and almost despared of reaching the confines of the wilderness. Moreover, on taking Amicombe Hill [Kitty Tor] they knew not which way to take, for the bogs there are nasty; and his attendants dispersed to seek a way. The Bishop was overcome with fatigue, and was starving. He turned to his chaplain and said, “Our Master in the wilderness was offered by Satan bread made of stones. If he were now to make the same offer to me, I doubt if I should have the Christian fortitude to refuse.”

“Ah!” sighed the chaplain, “and a hunch of cheese as well!”
“Bread and cheese I could not hold out against,” said the bishop.
Hardly had he spoken before a moorman rose up from a peat dyke and drew night; he had a wallet on his back.
“Master!” called the chaplain, “dost thou chance to have a snack of meat with thee?”
“Ay, verily,” replied the moorman, and approached, hobbling, for he was apparently lame. “I have with me bread and cheese, naught else.”
“Give it us, my son,” said the Bishop; “I will well repay thee.”
“Nay,” replied the stranger, “I be no son of thine. And I ask no reward save that thou descend from thy steed, doff thy cap, and salute me with the title of master.”
“I will do that,” said the Bishop, and alighted.
Then the strange man produced a loaf and a large piece of cheese.

Now, the Bishop was about to take off his cap and address the moorman in a tone of entreaty and by the title of master, when the chaplain perceived that the man had one foot like that of a goat. He instantly cried out to God, and signified what he saw to the prelate, who, in holy horror, made the sign of the cross, and lo! the moorman vanished, and the bread and cheese remained transformed to stone.

Do you doubt it? Go and see. Look on the Ordnance Survey map and you will find Bread and Cheese marked there. Only Bronescombe’s name has been transformed to Brandescombe.
But the Bishop, to make atonement, and to ease his conscience for having so nearly yielded to temptation, spent great sums on the rebuilding of his cathedral.

I don’t know if this is traditional or made up by the good old Reverend Baring-Gould, but I don’t mind either way. From his ‘A Book of Dartmoor‘ (1900).

*This sounds most intriguing, but I’ve not found out anything more. Only a slog across the moors will tell.

The ‘fortifications’ surely refer to this site? Who knows. The author for all his long-windedness seems to know the lay of the land.

The Ghost of the Black-Dog.

A man having to walk from Princetown to Plymouth took the road which crosses Roborough Down. He started at four o’clock from the Duchy Hotel, and as he walked at a good swinging pace, hoped to cover the sixteen miles in about three hours and a half. It was a lovely evening in December, cold and frosty, and the stars and a bright moon giving enough light to enable him to see the roadway distinctly zigzagged across the moor. Not a friendly pony or a quiet Neddy crossed his path as he strode merrily onward whistling as he went.

After a while the desolation of the scene seemed to strike him, and he felt terribly alone among the boulders and huge masses of gorse which hemmed him in. On, on he pressed, till he came to a village where a wayside inn tempted him to rest awhile and have just one nip of something “short” to keep his spirits up.

Passing the reservoir beds, he came out on an open piece of road, with a pine copse on his right. Just then he fancied he heard the pit-pat of feet gaining upon him. Thinking it was a pedestrian bound for Plymouth, he turned to accost his fellow traveller, but there was no one visible, nor were any footfalls then audible. Immediately on resuming his walk, pit-pat, pit-pat, fell the echoes of feet again. And suddenly there appeared close to his right side an enormous dog, neither mastiff or bloodhound, but what seemed to him to be a Newfoundland of immense size. Dogs were always fond of him, and he of them, so he took no heed of this (to him) lovely canine specimen.

Presently he spoke to him. “Well, doggie, what a beauty you are: how far are you going?” at the same time lifting his hand to pat him. Great was the man’s astonishment to find no resisting substance, though the form was certainly there, for his hand passed right through the seeming body of the animal. “Hulloh! what’s this?” said the bewildered traveller. As he spoke the great glassy eyes gazed at him; then the beast yawned, and from his throat issued a stream of sulphurous breath. Well, thought the man, I am in for it now! I’ll trudge on as fast as legs can carry me, without letting this queer customer think I am actually afraid of him.

With heart beating madly and feet actually flying over the stony way, he hurried down the hill, the dog never for a moment leaving him, or slackening his speed. They soon reached a crossway, not far from the fortifications. When, suddenly the man was startled by a loud report, followed by a blinding flash, as of lightning, which struck him senseless to the ground. At daybreak, he was found by the driver of the mail-cart, lying in the ditch at the roadside in an unconscious state.

Tradition says, that a foul murder was many years ago committed at this spot, and the victim’s dog is doomed to traverse this road and kill every man he encounters, until the perpetrator of the deed has perished by his instrumentality.

There are similar legends of the doings of the Black Dog throughout the county, and many wayside public houses have “The Black Dog” for a sign.

From Nummits and Crummits by Sarah Hewett (1900). It’s rather dramatised up, I’m sure most Black Dogs aren’t so mean. It also reminds me of something I’m rather interested in at the moment, the 21st century tale of the Big Cat (which is also often black).

Between Dinas Emrys and Llyn Dinas you can still see a building called ‘Beudy Bedd-Owen’, referring to the grave of Owen. From a document of Edward Llwyd’s, Celtic Folklore, Welsh and Manx (1901) says..

that is to say, ‘Owen son of Maxen.’ Owen had been fighting with a giant – whose name local tradition takes for granted – with balls of steel; and there are depressions (panylau) still to be seen in the ground where each of the combatants took his stand. Some, however, will have it that it was with bows and arrows they fought, and that the hollows are the places they dug to defend themselves. The result was that both died at the close of the conflict; and Owen, being asked where he wished to be buried, ordered an arrow to be shot into the air and his grave to be made where it fell.

It may be a bit cheeky to add the folklore for your well? But it’s not far away and you’d imagine the inhabitants of the fort probably popped here for water? Once they’d used the amount up in that bullaun-style dip. I seem to remember the well featured in the BBC series ‘Pagans and Pilgrims.‘

In the south-east corner of the churchyard is St. Celynin’s well, at one time of more than local fame. [...] The well was resorted to by mothers with weak and sickly children, as a last resource, to strengthen their limbs, and restore them to health. The children were immersed either early in the morning, or in the evening, and were afterwards wrapped in a blanket and allowed to sleep. There was always a spare bed for the sufferers, and a hearty welcome to the anxious mothers, at a farm a little to the south, called Cae Ial. The cures effected by the virtue of the waters are said to have been many. The efficacy of the well is not altogether disbelieved by the neighbouring inhabitants at the present time. With the water of this well, children were always baptized.

On the left hand side of the road that passes the churchyard, and about two hundred yards from it, is a small spring called Ffynnon Gwynwy. Any one troubled with warts, upon making an offering of a crooked pin to the well, lost them. Fifty years ago the bottom of this little well was covered with pins; everybody was careful not to touch them, fearing that the warts deposited with the pins would grow upon their own hands if they did so. But the belief in the efficacy of the water has departed, and the well presents the appearance of a hole filled with clear water, overgrown with weeds.

‘Llangelynin Old Church, Caernarvonshire’ by E Owen, in Archaeologia Cambrensis v13, January 1867.

Understandably, Canmore won’t pin the first of these stories to this particular cist. But it might well be the culprit? The second, ‘Cairnywanie’, with its similarly noble skeleton, was at NX512584, but has all but disappeared.

About the year 1809, Mr McLean of Mark, while improving a field in the moor of Glenquicken, in Kirkmabreck parish, found it necessary to remove a very large cairn, which is said by tradition to have been the tomb of a king of Scotland, which is not in the genuine series, Aldus McGaldus, McGillus or McGill. When the cairn had been removed, the workmen came to a stone coffin of very rude workmanship; and on removing the lid, they found the skeleton of a man, of uncommon size; the bones were in such a state of decomposition that the ribs and vertebrae crumbled into dust, on attempting to lift them. The remaining bones being more compact, were taken out; when it was discovered that one of the arms had been almost separated from the shoulder by the stroke of a stone axe, and that a fragment of the axe still remained in the bone. The axe had been of green stone, a species of stone never found in this part of Scotland. There was also found with this skeleton a ball of flint, about three inches diameter, which was perfectly round, and highly polished, and the head of an arrow, that was also of flint; but not a particle of any metallic substance was found.
Mr Denniston of Creetown’s Letter to Mr. Train, of Newton Stewart, dated the 22d of October, 1819.

About the year 1778, in removing a quantity of stones for building dikes from a large tumulus in Glenquicken Moor, there was found a stone coffin, containing a human skeleton, which was greatly above the ordinary size. There was also found in this sepulchral monument an urn containing ashes, and an earthen pitcher. The urn seems to evince the antiquity of this tumulus, when the British practised funeral cremation. This tumulus is called Cairnywanie. Thus we have an account of two skeletons of very large size, found in Glenquicken Moor at different times. These facts seem to confirm the tradition that a battle had taken place here at some very remote period.

From the Statistical Account iv, p332 (browse under ‘Kirkmabreck’).

Well TSC, there is some I have found for you :)

Mr John Griffith wrote as follows:
“It is well known at Moylgrove that for ages the cauldron has been the show-place of the parish. Visitors are even now attracted to the place; but, in times past, I have learnt from the natives that, besides the cauldron itself, there were at least two still more powerful attractions on the spot – a well and a witch. Then, be it remembered, that right opposite the creek is a ‘castle,’ which Fenton compares with Tintagel. The only cottage on the headland where the ‘castle’ is situate is called Pen y Castell. Athwart the slope of Pen y Castell is a finely-constructed bridle-path, which leads to the castle. It is from near this bridle-path that the best view of the cauldron can be obtained.

“... The Rev. Llewelyn Griffiths, Dinas [...] knew the cauldron well. When I mentioned Ffynnon Halen, he corrected me and said its name is Fynnon Alem. When he was a lad at Moylgrove, he learned of it, as a thing which had happened just then – that somebody saw a mermaid at Pwll y Wrach, with long hair, waving an arm out of the water.

“... The Rev. J.T. Evans and I made another ‘find’. We found a regularly-constructed path leading into one side of the cauldron. It is narrow, yet wide enough for a person to walk with both feet down together, if you can fancy a man walking so. Nervous people had better avoid it though. The path leads into a cave of considerable size and length. Somebody once must have made much use of the cave. The making of a path on the sheer side of the cauldron was ticklish work.

“Now, Mr Davies [the village blacksmith] told me that the people there still talk of a witch inhabiting the cave, and of people who used to visit Pwll y Wrach to consult the Wrach. I judged, from what i heard, that such a witch might have been haunting the place, say, within the last century. At any rate, Mr Davies and his neighbours do not draw on our [ie Welsh] mythology for an explanation of Pwll y Wrach. They regard the name as associated with a common witch.”

This is from an article in Archaeologia Cambrensis from 1860, in which A.W. Wade-Evans is determined to connect mythological places with real places in Wales. He’s a man after my own heart of course. Although one has to know when to give up, and maybe in this case he stretches a bit far. Mythological places don’t have to exactly coincide with real places, isn’t that their charm? He wants to suggest that a stolen cauldron (a proper iron article) mentioned in the Llyfr Coch o Hergest “is”, in a mythological sort of way, represented by the Pwll y Wrach, as the book says “there is the measure of the cauldron”. Or something. It’s a bit tenuous.

I think his only connection to the word cauldron is his rather anecdotal I very distinctly remember a lady living close by, and who had lived there from childhood, telling me she had always known [Pwll y Wrach] in English as “The Witch’s Cauldron.” The inhabitants say it is a marvel to see in stormy weather, for in such a time it seethes like a boiling pot.

But regardless of the likelihood of his arguments, this sounds like a pretty marvellous natural place, connected with witches and holy wells and mermaids and castles from the mists of time, and what more do you want really.

This is really such a superb part of the country and reading about it makes me want to go back. The cairn might not be the one in the story – I can’t find one now known by the name ‘Carn Glas’ (although it’s common enough). But it could be, it’s right by the road and big enough at 50ft diameter and 6ft high to be noticeable. It’s got a c5ft long slab, a hefty 8” thick, covering a cist.

The Labourer’s Dream.

A labourer (navvy) was working on the road between Rhi-conich and Durness, in Sutherlandshire, about fifty years ago, and dreamed on a Saturday night that if he rose early on Monday morning, so as to be at Carn Glas at sunrise, he would see a crow sitting on a stone. Under that stone he would find the gold which was hid after the murder of a Norwegian prince.

The labourer was in so great a hurry to get the gold that he could not wait till Monday, but set off on Sunday evening, as he had a long way to go. When he reached Carn Glas, there was a crow sitting on a stone, but he did not know which was the right one, for there was a crow on every stone!

People who could interpret dreams said that this happened because he broke the Sabbath; he ought to have waited till the Lord’s Day had gone past, and he would have been certain to get the gold.

From p373 in volume 9 of ‘Folk-lore’ (1898).

Here’s a romantic thing. It’s not got anything directly to do with the barrow. But it does relate to what is immediately beneath the hill with the barrow, one of the famous Cheshire meres. They’re quite strange things, the meres and mosses. They make for quite a peculiar landscape with their bogginess and dark pools ringed by vegetation. You’ll remember Lindow Man, the Iron Age ‘bog body’, also from Cheshire. So these places had significance for our ancestors.

And this particular mere has a legend of a floating island, which strikes me as rather Arthurian. It seems that it features in Alan Garner’s ‘Moon of Gomrath’ (though I’d forgotten this, call yourself a fan eh Rhiannon).

There must be a better source than the touristy Murray’s Handbook for Shropshire, Cheshire and Lancashire (1870) but for now it’ll do.

A country legend accounts for the floating island by a story, that a certain knight was jealous of his lady-love, and vowed not to look upon her face until the island moved on the face of the mere. But he fell sick and was nigh to death, when he was nursed back to health by the lady, to reward whose constancy a tremendous hurricane tore the island up by the roots.

Despite the modern scepticism of some, there really was a floating island. As the Journal of the Architectural, Archaeological and Historic Society of Chester (vol 2, 1862) says:

We have in one of our Meres – Redesmere – a floating island. It is a mass of peat moss, about two statute acres in extent; its outer edge carries a belt of alder and birch trees (some twenty yards wide), some of the trees being twenty feet high and a foot in diameter. The interior is formed of a mass of long grass, cranberry, bog myrtle, and heather, all matted together. It requires a flood and wind from a particular point to move it from its usual position; but occasionally, when retained in deep water till the flood subsides, a very slight wind is sufficient to make it shift its position, and it has done so, the Rev. R. Heptinstall informs me, three times in one day. It has now been stationary about two years, and it requires some depth of water in the Mere to allow it to move say a distance of one-third by a quarter of a mile.

How superb. If I had a lake I would definitely want a floating island in it.

A description of the supposed scene of the ballad, which was communicated to the Editor in 1767, is here given in the words of the relater:

“In Yorkshire, six miles from Rotherham, is a village called Wortley, the seat of the late Wortley Montague, Esq. About a mile from this village is a lodge, named Warncliff-lodge, but vulgarly called Wantley: here lies the scene of the song. I was there above forty years ago; and it being a woody rocky place, my friend made me clamber over rocks and stones, not telling me to what end, till I came to a sort of a cave; then asked my opinion of the place, and pointing to one end says, Here lay the dragon killed by Moor of Moor-hall; here lay his hea; here lay his tail; and the stones we came over on the hill, are those he could not crack; and yon white house you see half a mile off, is Moor-hall. I had dined at the lodge, and knew the man’s name was Matthew, who was a keeper to Mr. Wortley, and, as he endeavoured to persuade me, was the same Matthew mentioned in the song: in the house is the picture of the dragon and Moor of Moor-hall; and near it a well, which, says he, is the well described in the ballad.”

The ballad is here in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. It’s a humorous take on old ballads of chivalry, and the dragon tries to put off Moor of Moor-hall (in his Sheffield steel armour) by firing dung* at him. But Moor is not deterred and kills him with a kick up the behind, or Arse, as it actually says in the poem (*and worse). The first edition of ‘Reliques’ was published in 1765.

For the most part, this venerable way is deserted save for an occasional shepherd or a solitary farm labourer returning home from work. Silent and lonely, it pursues its course over height and into hollow: now stretching away in a generous curve sharply defined by a bank on either side, now scarcely to be distinguished from the surounding turf.

At intervals are earthworks that guard it and barrows that keep watch. Round one of the latter, familiarly called the “Knob,” not a few curious legends have gathered. Some distance below the old road there runs, also from east to west, a military ditch and vallum, and the story goes that the devil, having a fancy to turn ploughman, cleft this mighty furrow along the hillside. When he arrived opposite the spot where the barrow now stands, his ploughshare became clogged; he halted to clean it, and the soil which he scraped off he tossed over the Ridgeway in a heap to be known henceforth as the Knob. There is a lavishness about this proceeding which can only be properly appreciated by those who have seen the mound and the Devil’s Dyke. The tale was told to me by a native of the district who had heard it when a boy, from the older labourers working on his father’s farm.

Local opinion however, differed on the subject. While some people believed the Knob was due to His Satanic Majesty’s industry, others posessing more education, maintained it was a genuine tumulus raised above the body of Cwichelm, king of the West Saxons; and yet a third party claimed that it was composed of the bodies of this king’s soldiers, slain hereabouts in some great battle. So prevalent was this last belief that the owner of the land, who was a thrifty soul, cut into the mound and drew off several hundred loads of soil under the impression that it contained valuable fertilising qualities.

The informant to whom I am indebted for the above traditions, well remembers seeing the farm carts coming and going on their foolish errand, and the sensation created in the neighbourhood by this wanton destruction of the barrow. Its poor remains can still be viewed – a monument no longer of a dead chieftain or his forgotten host, but of man’s credulity and ignorance.

When I first knew the Knob, it was surmounted by an enormous scaffold of fir-poles – now fallen into decay – which I fondly believed had been erected in honour of the Wessex leader. It was really the work of the Ordnance Department, having been built for triangulation purposes, and the knowledge of this fact, that I learnt later, destroyed much of the mystery with which I had invested the spot.

From Travels Round Our Village by Eleanor G Hayden (1902).

On the north-west I was much struck with the singular appearance of a vast rock, called Craig Eglwyseg, or the Eagle’s rock, from the tradition of some eagles having formerly had their aerie here. Leland seems to have mistaken this for the rock, on which the castle stands, where he says, “there bredith every yere an egle. And the egle doth sorely assault hym that destroyeth the nest; goying down in one basket, and having another over his hedde, to defend the sore stripe of the egle.”

For more than half a mile this rock lies stratum upon stratum in such manner, as to form a kind of steps, parallel with the horizon, which the naturalists call Saxa sedilia. The inhabitants of Llangollen say, that somewhere about this rock is an opening, from whence there is a long arched passage under ground, supposed to lead to the castle. I scarcely gave any credit to this report, for I could not, upon enquiry, hear of any person who had seen it, or who could tell whereabouts it was.

The castle is Castell Dinas Bran. From A Tour Round North Wales performed during the summer of 1798, by the Rev. W. Bingley.

I noticed that elsewhere on the internet people say the stone was in a different church, St Nidan’s in Llanidan. So I started wondering why I’d thought the church at Llanedwen. But there’s definitely books that mention it. This is from ‘The history of Wales‘ by John Jones (1824). Mr Rowland died in 1723 – he was the vicar at both Llanidan and Llanedwen, which makes for more confusion.

Llanedwen.
Near this place, on the banks of the Menai, is the greatest Cromlech in Anglesey, and supposed to be an altar on which the Druids offered to the Sun the sacrifice of human victims. The church of Llanedwen is said to have been erected in A.D. 640 – about A.D. 1440 would be nearer the truth. The Rev. Mr. Rowland, author of the Mona Antiqua, lies buried here, under a tomb-stone of Anglesey black slab, bearing a Latin inscription, written by himself.

The wandering stone, Maen Morddwyd, is secured in the wall of this church, and deprived of its locomotive impositions.

A History of the Island of Mona, or Anglesey, by Angharad Llwyd (1833), suggests the Llanedwen church, since it mentions nearby Porthamel. And why would you say that if you meant Llanidan – I’d just say Llanidan?

Thus “Maen Morddwyd” (concerning which there has been so many marvellous stories related) “is now well secured in the wall of the church,” at Porthamel, not far from Llanidan, famed for being the place where Suetonius landed, in 61.

The Latin of this note has been translated as follows:

Here also, in the church-yard wall, the thigh stone, commonly called Maen Morddwydd, which has been so curiously and largely described by Giraldus Cambrensis, obtained a place for itself a long time ago; but of late years it was pulled off and carried away, either by some papist or other, or by some ignorant person, (its miraculous virtue not displaying itself as formerly, having entirely languished or exhausted itself by age,) with no loss indeed to the place, nor any gain to him who took it away.

The thing is, just before this excerpt, the church of St Aidan is specifically mentioned – that’s the other church! But I can’t work out what this document is or who wrote it? Everything is so contradictory. Pennant’s Tour In Wales is from 1770 and also says the stone is at Llanidan. But did he really go there, or is he just reporting the legend? I sense the parish name vs the specific church confusion arising again.

But at least here’s some straightforward folklore. Here (on page 136) in the National Library of Wales journal, there is an extra bit of the Itinerary translated. It’s not included in the other translations I’ve seen, possibly for reasons of rudeness this time. The original latin can be seen here. It says:

If a lustful act be committed near the stone it immediately breaks into sweat. So, too, if a man and woman commit adultery there. If intercourse be had nearby no conception follows, and so the cottage that once stood there has fallen into ruin and the fateful stone alone remains.

Geraldus’s 13th century Itinerary reads somewhat like the Fortean Times, it’s full of bizarre stuff and you wonder if any of it was true. But the idea that an actual stone existed seems to stick. I can’t see any reports of people who’ve actually looked for it on the church or churchyard walls. But judging by the pages on the 21st century internet, people still want it to be there.

There seem to be a lot of water in the vicinity, what with the water under the stone being ‘seldom dry’, and the same book mentions springs dedicated to St. George and the Blessed Virgin in nearby Reynoldston. This is something about the holy well just to the south of Maen Ceti.

There is also on Cefn y Brynn a remarkable Well, called Holy Well, a very copious Spring, which has the remains of Antiquity about its square Inclosure: Tradition hands down its celebrity for great cures, and it has been customary for the adjacent Neighbourhood to resort to it on Sunday Evenings to drink its water, and pay the tribute of throwing in a pin.

A topographical dictionary of the dominion of Wales (1811).

More from the Gentleman’s Magazine of 1813 (pt1., pp. 318-19).

There are, or rather were, about fifty years ago, traditionary tales in the village that a nunnery once stood on Hoston; and that steps had been found communicating subterraneously with the monks of Leicester Abbey, about two miles distant. But no religious house of this kind is to be traced here. [...]

Some years ago it was believed that fairies inhabited, or at least frequented, this stone; and various stories were told concerning these pigmy beings. Such, according to the testimony of Borlase, in his “History of Cornwall,” is the common opinion respecting the many druidical stones in that county. This belief was so strongly attached to the Hostone-stone, that some years ago a person visiting it alone, fancied he heard it utter a deep groan; and he immediately ran away to some labourers, about two hundred yards distant, terrified with the apprehension of seeing one of the wonderful fairy inhabitants.

In the adjoining vale, at the distance of about one hundred yards from the stone, on the north-east, is a plot of ground known, before the inclosure of the lordship, by the name of “Hell-hole Furlong.” No circumstance belonging at present to the spot seems likely to have given rise to this strange name: it leaves room therefore for the conjecture that in this quarter the sacrifices, too often human, were wont to be performed [...]

If you insist.

Devil’s Jumps at Thursley.
[1799, Part II, p. 921.]

Thursley, or Thirsley, is an extensive parish in the county of Surrey and hundred of Godalming. The village is mean and straggling, standing in a dry, healthy situation, pleasant in summer, but, from its high, unsheltered situation, exposed to the north-east winds, very cold in winter. On the heaths between Thursley and Frinsham are three remarkable conic-shaped hills, called the “Devil’s Three Jumps,” the eastern hill (or jump) being the largest in circumference and height, the centre hill the least and lowest. They are composed of a hard rock, barely covered with a light black mould, which gives a scanty nourishment to moss and stunted heath. Their bases are nearly surrounded by a foss, which in some places appears to be artificial. In the fosses are constant springs of water, which assist in forming near them a large piece of water called Abbot’s Pond, formerly part of the possessions of the neighbouring abbey of Waverly.

The country people, particularly the aged, relate many tales of these eminences, and hold them in a kind of awful reverence (the revels of the fairies yet linger in the tales of the aged rustick). It was formerly customary for the country-people on Whit-Tuesday to assemble on the top of the eastern hill to dance and make merry.

From a collection of articles from the Gentleman’s Magazine, published 1883.

This remarkable monument deserves more than a passing notice. The large mass of rock pointed north and south, and it used to be remarked by the quarrymen that about Midsummer the rays of the rising and setting sun poured straight through the passage under the rock; in reality the mass rested on a single point on the southern side. The apparently northern supports were not in contact with the large mass, as was often shewn by passing a thin cord between it and them. The northern rock on which it apparently partly rested was a long slab resting on other large rock masses piled on each other, but quite detached from the hill.

When a crow-bar was inserted under the Tolmen south of its main support, a few persistent efforts would cause the whole mass to vibrate. The northern end being much narrower, the rock projected in that direction, and the equilibrium would be in danger of being destroyed but for the peculiar arrangement above described; for the viabrating mass as it dipped north tilted up the long slab, which was in a line with the longer axis and thus acted as an equipoise. It is impossible to conceive that this arrangement was altogether natural. In all probability a natural confirmation of the rocks was taken advantage of to produce a desired result.

The Men Rock itself and those about it were covered in a remarkable way with deep rock basins. Other large monuments in the vicinity show evident marks of being artificially shaped.

Midsummer sun alignment... an arrangement impossible to conceive of as natural... I put it down to the druids myself. This is from A compendium of the history of Cornwall by J H Collins (1890).

Having already carried off the top of the neighbouring hill of Trencrom, to make the Mount [St Michael’s Mount] itself, Cormoran was in want of further stones wherewith to build his castle, and sent his wife to fetch them from the same place. She, thinking (womanlike) that any other stone would do as well, fetched this one from the nearer hill of Ludgvan-lees. Angry at her conduct, the monster slew her with his mighty foot, and the great rock rolled from her apron and fell where we see it now [Chapel Rock]; a silent witness to the lady’s strength and to the truth of the narrative.

From which I suppose we can conclude that the giant Cormoran thought Trencrom Hill had extremely good stone. And confusion about this merited murder. Or something. Anyway, I’d not heard this before, and it’s from Thurston C Peter’s ‘Notes on St Michael’s Mount’ in the Journal of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, v14 (1899-90).

The three cairns here are close to Llyn Llech Owen. ‘Llech’ is a slab of rock. So indulge me with this stone-related folklore of the lake.

In 1884 I took [the tradition] down from my grandfather, Mr. Rees Thomas (b. 1809, d 1892), of Cil Coll, Llandebie – a very intelligent man, with a good fund of old-world Welsh lore – who had lived all his life in the neighbouring parishes of Llandeilo Fawr and Llandebie.

The following is the version of the story (translated) as I had it from him: – There was once a man of the name of Owen living on Mynydd Mawr, and he had a well (’fynnon’). Over this well he kept a large flag (’fflagen neu lech fawr’: ‘fflagen’ is the word in common use now in these parts for a large flat stone), which he was always careful to replace over its mouth after he had satisfied himself or his beast with water. It happened, however, that one day he went on horseback to the well to water his horse, and forgot to put the flag back in its place. He rode off leisurely in the direction of his home; but, after he had gone some distance, he casually looked back, and, to his great astonishment, saw that the well had burst out and was overflowing the whole place.

He suddenly bethought him that he should ride back and encompass the overflow of the wate as fast as he could; and it was the horse’s track in galloping round the water that put a stop to its further overflowing. It is fully believed that, had he not galloped round the flood in the way he did, the well would have been sure to inundate the whole district and drown all. Hence the lake was called the Lake of Owen’s Flag (’Llyn Llech Owen’).

As Mr Rhys explains, this is a similar story to one explaining the formation of Lough Neagh in Ireland – it also has an overflowing well and a magic horse.

From his article on Sacred Wells in Wales, in The Transactions of the Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion, 1892-3.

I spotted this in ‘The Age of the Saints‘ by William Copeland Borlase (1893).

Between Armagh and the Navan Fort (the ancient Emain of the romances), beside an ancient paved track, is a famous rag-well sacred to St. Patrick. When we visited it a few years since the thorns which spread over it were literally covered with strips of cloth of all colours and of all ages, from a rotten tatter to one affixed that very day. In Ireland the idea present to the mind in offering rags seems to be that the particular disease should be left behind with the shred. Mr Windle* has preserved the following ritual words: ‘Air impide an Tiarna mo cuid teinis do fhagaint air an ait so,’ meaning ‘By the intercession of the Lord I leave my portion of illness on this place.’ The original idea of votive offerings became inseparable from the sequel that with the presentation of the sacrifice the object for which it was made was gained [sic].

*MSS. R.I. Acad. 15. Cork East and West, p. 852. Again, he says, ‘Rags are not offerings or votive. They are riddances. Thus, you have a headache: you take a shred and place it on the tree, and with it you place the headache there.’ Ibid. 16. Topography of Desmond, p. 802.

The well is indeed about half-way between Armagh and the fort, on a direct and old road. Today it’s amidst a housing estate called St Patrick’s Park and the view on Google Maps makes it look very neglected. But when the houses were built it was excavated. There’s a photo on the NISMR that shows a digger going round it- the archaeological report from the time says ‘the builders showed the utmost respect for the well and particularly its ‘fairy thorn’. It also says that it was traditionally visited on the feast of St Peter and St Paul, the 29th June. So that’s interesting, that it’s not about St Patrick himself. And so the report tentatively suggests a pre-christian connection, what with the day being close to the solstice. But who knows.

Anyway I post this in the hope that someone might like to visit it if they were at Navan Fort – they have an interpretation centre there with a roundhouse, and who can resist a real life roundhouse.

The failure of the wrong person to secure [treasure] is illustrated by a story given by Mr. Derfel Hughes in his Antiquities of Llangedai and Llanllechid, pp. 35-6, to the effect that a servant man, somewhere up among the mountains near Ogwen Lake, chanced to come across the mouth of a cave with abundance of vessels of brass (pres) of every shape and description within it.

He went at once and seized one of them, but, alas! it was too heavy for him to stir it. So he resolved to go away and return early on the morrow with a friend to help him; but before going he closed the mouth of the cave with stones and sods so as to leave it safe. While thus engaged he remembered having heard how others had like him found caves and failed to refind them. He could procure nothing readily that would satisfy him as a mark, so it occurred to him to dot his path with the chippings of his stick, which he whittled all the way as he went back until he came to a familiar track: the chips were to guide him back to the cave.

So when the morning came he and his friend set out, but when they reached the point where the chips should begin, not one was to be seen: the Tylwyth Teg had picked up every one of them. So that discovery of articles of brass – more probably bronze – was in vain.

But, says the writer, it is not fated to be always in vain, for there is a tradition in the valley that it is a Gwydel, ‘Goidel, Irishman,’ who is to have these treasures, and that it will happen in this wise:--

A Gwydel will come to the neighbourhood to be a shepherd, and one day when he goes up the mountain to see to the sheep, just when it pleases the fates a black sheep with a speckled head will run before him and make straight for the cave: the sheep will go in, with the Gwydel in pursuit trying to catch him. When the Gwydel enters he sees the treasures, looks at them with surprise, and takes possession of them; and thus, in some generation to come, the Gwydyl will have their own restored to them.

Ancient bronze objects in Celtic Folklore, Welsh and Manx by John Rhys (1901).

Towards the weste there stands a highe hill called Roseberry Toppinge, which is a marke to the seamen, and an almanacke to the vale, for they have this ould ryme common,
“When Roseberrye Toppinge weares a cappe
Let Cleveland then beware a clappe.”
For indeede yt seldome hath a cloude on yt that some yll weather shortly followes yt not, when not farre from thence on a mountayne’s syde there are cloudes almoste contynually smoakinge, and therfore called the Divell’s Kettles, which notwithstandinge prognostycate neither good nor badde.

That is for shappe, scyte, and many raryties, more excellent then any that I have seene; yt hath somtymes had a hermitage on yt, and a small smith’s forge cut out of the rocke, together with a clefte or cut in the rocke called St. Winifryd’s Needle, whither blynde devotyon led many a syllie soule, not without hazard of a breaknecke tumblinge caste, while they attempted to put themselves to a needlesse payne creepyng through that neede’s eye.

Out of the toppe of a huge stone neere the toppe of the hille drops a fountaine which cureth sore eyes, receavinge that vertue from the minerall.

From a letter by ‘H. Tr.’ to Sir Thomas Chaloner (so possibly from around 1600?), printed in v2 of the Topographer and Genealogist, 1853.

Who knows if this stone is still here. Or indeed whether it might be legitimate TMA fare. But let’s be optimistic. It’s a big stone with magical connotations. It’s named at this grid reference on some old maps. And now it might be too tucked away for anyone at the manor (now a  hotel) to be worrying about.

A field adjoining the site of the mansion is still known by the name of Chapel-garth. A short distance from Chapel-garth in a hollow place, is a large stone called the “conjuring stone.” In the days of superstition and witches, a troubled ghost supposed to be

‘Doom’d for a certain time to walk the night,
And for the day confin’d to fast in fires;
Till the foul crimes done in his days of nature
Were burnt and purged away,“*

frequented this lonely spot and the neighbouring road and so terrified the natives, that it was deemed necessary for the peace of the town and the comfort of the “poor ghost” to ease it of its troubles by the aid of the priest, who after various ceremonies, exorcised the spirit and fastened it down with what is now designated, the “conjuring stone” which remains to the present day.

From Vallis Eboracensis by Thomas Gill (1852).

(*this is a quote from Hamlet)

Another group of barrows on Lake Down used to be called the Prophets’ Barrows, not from supposed prophets buried in them, but on account of a company of Hugenots, exiles from their native land, who in 1710 set up a standard on the largest of the group – a huge flat-topped mound – and preached from it to the country people, who named them the French Prophets.

It is interesting to think of the grave voice of the coming Methodism lifted up here in this large down country, where there is little to distract the mind from the great issues of life; with Stonehenge on the one hand and the spire on the other. The preachers are said to have roused the listening crowds to enthusiasm, but what abiding impression they made is not told.

According to Aubrey, on the downs, where the shepherds labour hard, the people have not “leisure to contemplate of religion, but goe to bed to their rest, to rise betime the next morning to their labour.” Whereas in North Wiltshire “(a dirty, clayey country) where the people feed chiefly on milk meates, which cooles their braines too much,” they “are more apt to be fanatiques.”

Aubrey should have known, he was born in North Wiltshire. From ‘Salisbury Plain‘ by Ella Noyes (1913).

Orgarth Hill Farm is on the opposite side of the road to these barrows.

The Ghost of Orgarth Hill. – This hill, a few miles south of Louth, some 40 years ago was haunted by a man riding on a shag or shaggy horse, which suddenly appeared without any warning, and kept up with persons until they were terrified, but usually it appeared to people riding or driving, who did not notice the horse and its rider, until they looked to see what had terrified their horses, which stood trembling with fear, until they bolted down the hill.

From Lincolnshire Notes and Queries volume 2, page 272. The implication seems to be that this apparition might be connected with the shagfoal or tatterfoal, a kind of furry horsey supernatural cousin of the more widely known big black dogs like Shuck.

The Stone used to lie in the field where the civil war Battle of Winceby took place. It’s marked on a map of 1880 but then seems to disappear.

There was the large stone in Winceby field, where soldiers had sharpened their swords before the battle. This was a stone of fearful interest, for much treasure was supposed to have been buried under it. Numerous attempts have abeen made to get at this treasure, but they were always defeated by some accident or piece of bad luck. On the last occasion, by ‘yokkin’ several horses to chains fastened round the stone, they nearly succeeded in pulling it over, when, in his excitement, one of the men uttered an oath, and the devil instantly appeared, and stamped on it with his foot. ‘Tha cheans all brok, tha osses fell, an’ tha stoan went back t’ its owd place solidder nur ivver; an’ if ya doan’t believe ya ma goa an’ look fur yer sen, an’ ya’ll see tha divvill’s fut mark like three kraws’ claws, a-top o’ tha stoan.’ It was firmly believed that the lane was haunted, and that loud groans were often heard there. -- Notes and Queries, vol. ix., p. 466.

[The Big Stone at Slash Lane, near Winceby]This stone cannot be moved, at least all attempts have so far failed, especially on one occasion, when it was with much difficulty reared up by ropes pulled by men and dragged by horses, for on a man saying, ‘Let God or devil come now, we have it,’ the stone fell back, dragging over the men and horses who were hauling at the ropes, and something appeared standing on the stone, doubtless Samwell the Old Lad, that is the Devil, who had been so rashly defied. -- Lincolnshire Notes and Queries, vol. ii., p. 235.

Copied from ‘County Folk-lore v.VII: Lincolnshire’ collected by Mrs Gutch and Mabel Peacock (1908).

This article in ‘Horncastle News’ (10th April 2002) describes that the stone got buried for many years in the field, but that in 1970 Frank Scott and his colleagues on the farm finally moved it out of the way – it took heavy lifting gear though. “Me and my mate were in that hole as quick as we could and dug down as far and fast as possible but we never found any treasure, nor devils either. By the number of broken ploughshares all around, we thought it was quite likely the stone was cursed, by every farmer and farm hand involved no doubt.”

The folklore is similar to many prehistoric stones in that it’s connected to the battle, has treasure lurking under it, and is said to be immovable. It’s even got supernatural marks on it from the devil. Pretty much a stoney folklore full house.

In a field on Sawcliff Farm, in the parish of Roxby-cum-Kisby, North Lincolnshire, there is a deposit of uncommon character and singular beauty. It is particularly interesting to the lover of natural objects. Locally it is known as the “Sunken Church.” An ancient tradition informs us that it was a church attached to one of the monasteries, and was buried by a landslip; or according to Abraham de la Pryme, the Yorkshire antiquary, who visited it in 1696 (Surtees Society, vol. liv.), the tradition is that the church sunk in the ground, with all the people in it, in the times of Popery.

[...] The stone curtain [..] consists of a mass of calcareous tufa deposited by a petrifying spring trickling out of the limestone rocks, as seen in the second illustration. It is a wall-like mass, some ninety feet or more in length, having a varying thickness from fifteen inches to two feet at the top, and a height above ground of nine feet at its highest point. From the higher end where it first leaves the ordinary slope of the hill, there is a gentle fall along the ridge until, about half-way down, a big step of about four feet occurs. Then the ridge continues to descend, until at the lower end it almost comes to the level of the ground again.

Undoubtedly the most striking feature about it is a groove two inches wide and one and a quarter inches deep, which runs along the ridge from end to end, and also continues down the step above mentioned. This groove is well shown in the first illustration.

The groove looks quite strange. I’m glad this curious bit of the landscape has survived in an area that’s so full of quarries and mines. It’s slightly remiss that dragons aren’t mentioned at all in the article. But the idea of the ‘sunken church’ is one found elsewhere in stoney folklore (e.g. Sunkenkirk). The photos and exerpt are from an article in Science Gossip, v7 (1901) by Henry Preston.

Not far from the Wambarrows are the ramparts of an old British fort, Mouncey Castle, which has also its legend – namely, that on a certain night of the year a chariot passes round the hill, and disappears into the cairn in the field below.

From A Book of Exmoor by F J Snell (1903).

A few years ago it was whispered at Dulverton that a local gentleman – none other than Mr. Arthur Locke, the then secretary of the Devon and Somerset Staghounds – had “seed something” near the Wambarrows. We have never inquired of the genial squire whether there was any truth in the story, having, perhaps hastily, assumed that it was apocryphal, but it is a fact that the spot is supposed to be haunted by a black dog – first cousin of the Irish manthe dog.

From A Book of Exmoor by F J Snell (1903).

Norton Fitzwarren Church.
The Rev. T. Hugo pointed out the screen, which he said was as fine a one as would be found anywhere. It contained a carved representation of two dragons and a plough in the centre. According to the legend the dragon who lived on the hill seemed to have infested the fields where the ploughmen were, and here he was in pursuit of the men. The plough was of a medieval character. One circumstance might lead to the discovery of the date of its construction – the name of the churchwarden for the time being was carved upon it. Its age was not very far before the year 1500. It ought to be coloured, as was no doubt the intention of the builder. Mr. Jones and Mr. Parker thought the representation was merely as usual allegorical of the results of sloth and industry, or virtue and vice. [...] The Rev. J. P. Hewett (rector) mentioned that in the year 1825 the screen, which until then had been in its original state, was covered with a coat of oak paint over the colouring.

[...] Ascending a hill in the rear of the church the party found themselves in Norton Camp.

From the Proceedings of the Somerset Archaeology and Natural History Society 1872. The Proceedings for 1898 mention the somewhat grisly detail that “Even in our own day the inhabitants will tell you of the pestiferous reptile that once upon a time lived on the hill, bred from the corruption of human bodies, breathing disease and death around.”.

‘The graves of the women’: three cairns high up on the hills near the boundary of the parish of Llanymawddwy, not marked on the Ordnance sheet.

“When Garthbeibio was a chapel of ease to Llanymawddwy, three women started to walk to the mother church one Sunday morning in winter to be churched. But when they reached the height of the mountain a snow storm came on and enveloped them in darkness; and when a search was made for them, the three were found dead on the spot where these barrows were raised to commemorate the melancholy event, and to denote the spot where their mortal remains found a last resting place” (Mont. Coll., 1873, vi, 12).

Tradition adds that the barrows were raised by the women of this and the adjoining parishes, who collected the stones in their aprons, and carried them to the spot.

This grid reference is given on the Coflein map. I doubt it’s the easiest spot to get to to check if there are three cairns. It also strikes me that if crossing boundaries is dangerous in a Welsh folklorish sense, then that must be particularly unwise on a windswept mountainside in the snow.

Distance 3 miles from Dolbenmaen, in the way to it, several pillars of different appearance, &c.; none of them equal to those of the grand monument, whose situation is 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 shew that several have been carried away, &c.

From Archaeologia Cambrensis, January 1849 (v13), p3. The information is taken from a manuscript from 1772, which ‘purports to consist of notes and extracts taken from another work, the title of which is unfortunately destroyed in great part’. Sadly, rather like the circle.

This is the third of the stones mentioned by Lewis, in his 1833 Topographical Dictionary of Wales – about one mile north-east of the church.

In the parish of Darowen is the township of Noddfa, the name of which implies a place of refuge or a sanctuary, its limits probably being described by three stones – one called Carreg y Noddfa, standing about a mile to the east of the church, another large stone standing about one mile to the south of the church, and a smaller one about the same distance north-east of the church.

The Inventory for Montgomeryshire says it is ‘reputed to be the smallest of the three stones.’ But I can’t see any sign of the named ‘Carreg y Noddfa’ to the east of the church on old maps. Which is a shame.

“In the parish of Darowen is the township of Noddfa, the name of which implies a place of refuge or a sanctuary, its limits probably being described by three stones – one called Carreg y Noddfa, standing about a mile to the east of the church, another large stone standing about one mile to the south of the church, and a smaller one about the same distance north-east of the church.” (Lewis, Top. Dict. of Wales, 1833, s.n. Darowen’).

These stones, which may have served in medieval times to have marked off an area devoted to the right of sanctuary or some other ecclesiastical purpose, appear to be at present reduced to two in number.

One is placed at the spot indicated above, at the cross roads 1/4 mile of Talyweren, and in the centre of the field called ‘Cae yr hen eglwys,’ ‘old church field’. The stone is of mountain grit, 6 feet above ground and 12 feet 6 inches in circumference.

The farmstead is called Rhos Dyrnog, and Arch. Camb. 1856, III, ii, 193, notes the presence of “two erect stones at Rhos Dyrnog,” but the tenant of the neighbouring farm of Caerseddfan has always known of only one. It would, however, appear that there must have been two stones in the field, as the Tithe Schedule [...] gives its name as ‘Cae Meini Llwydion.‘

-- Visited, 27th May, 1910.

From An Inventory of the Ancient Monuments of Wales and Monmouthshire: 1 – County of Montgomery, p31.

This is the stone ‘about one mile to the south of the church’. But then if there was more than one here, how does that fit into Lewis’s description with three in total in different places? It’s all a bit tangled. (The stone ‘to the north east’ must be Maen Llwyd (Commins Coch).)

The Inventory goes on:

Cae yr hen Eglwys, ‘Old Church Field’ [...] the field within which the larger of the two meini hirion called ‘Cerrig Noddfa,’ ‘sanctuary stones,’ still stands.

Mr Edwards Hughes, Rhos Dyrnog, who has 40 years’ personal experience of the field, stated that when ploughing it about ten years ago, he struck on some masonry to the east of and very near the maen hir, and about 6 inches below the surface. He uncovered all he could trace, which then showed foundations of a solidly constructed building, 25 feet by 18 to 20 feet, with the foot-stone of a door, “very deeply foot-worn,” in situ at the north corner. To the east of the foundation stones, and close to them, his plough struck a roughly circular boulder, beneath which was an empty cavity, 2 feet wide by 3 feet deep. All the stones were removed and taken up, “so as to plough easier.” Local tradition affirms an old church to have stood close to the sanctuary stone. -- Visited, 27th May, 1910.

The Plot Thickens. What can it all mean. (Not that we’ll ever know now. but at least it’s easier to plough, tch).

As regards the King’s Stone, which members had viewed that morning, it had really nothing to do with the battle [of Flodden]. It was, in fact, a very ancient Tribal Gathering or Trysting Stone, which had evidently been transported from the cherty magnesian limestone quarry at Carham, either mechanically or by glacial action.

The prevailing misapprehension about the King’s Stone has probably been perpetuated by, if it did not originate in, Scott’s Notes to Marmion – “An unhewn column marks the spot where James fell, still called the King’s Stone.” As a matter of fact it is situated about three-quarters of a mile Northward from the locality of the final scene of the battle, on the farm of Crookham Westfield, formerly a Moor.

There is interesting incidental evidence that just thirty-two years after Flodden, this rugged column was known as the Standing Stone. The Earl of Hertford, on one of his expeditions into Scotland, left Newcastle in September 1545, “and all his army had a day appointed to mytte at the Stannyngston on Crocke-a-More (Crookham Moor).”

From volume 10 of the History of the Berwickshire Naturalists’ Club (1908).

... Roughting-Linn, from its noise in its fall after great rains; the word roughting being also used by the borderers, on hearing the lowing and bellowing of cattle. It is nearly perpendicular, forty-seven feet and a half, from a rock of brown whin, spotted with green; the bason seven feet over, and in depth fifteen feet, measured by a line and plummer, in September, 1761; the weather fine, and the water low. It is a trout-stream, pretty sizeable trouts being taken in it above the fall. It was the custom of the late Colonel Moor, of Halystone, to put them into such places, obscure alpine rivulets and lakes.

From The Natural History and Antiquities of Northumberland by John Wallis (1769), v1, p25.

This stone is marked on up-to-date maps so I’m hoping it’s still there.

I may here mention, that another boulder, still more interesting, is situated a few hundred yards below Coldstream Bridge, on the north side of the bank of the Tweed. Judging from its dimensions and quality, it must weigh above 12 tons. It consists of chert limestone, of a cream or grey colour. The field in which it lies is called from it, the Grey stone field. Limestone of exactly the same description occurs in situ, near Carham, about six miles to the westward.

This large Boulder in former days was an object of popular mystery and reverence. It was resorted to on the occasion of the celebration of Border marriages. The couple, having proceeded with their respective friends to the stone, the bride and bridegroom, stretched across it, and joined hands. The friends then declared the compact formed.

It’s not mentioned on Canmore and it would be interesting to see what this folklorey stone looks like. It’s mentioned in the History of the Berwickshire Naturalists’ Club for 1857 (page 237).

Also a little about the caves on the crags here:

The Crags are sandstone and in some parts rise as cliffs to the height of one and two hundred feet. There are great rents in these rocks and tumbled down masses, which here and there form caverns. One of these, Wedderburn’s Cave, was examined; another bears the name of the Priest’s Cave.

In times of disturbance and insecurity, when the borders, especially, were subject to plundering and slaughter, such caverns may have been used as hiding places, and have taken their name from the persons who found refuge in them. Some persecuted minister of religion may have found temporary safety in the Priest’s Cave, and possibly a freebooting Wedderburn may have escaped death by concealment in the dark recess which bears his name.

From the History of the Berwickshire Naturalists’ Club; the anniversary address delivered on 27th September 1861 (and written up by George Tate).
Wedderburn Hole is at NU077099. Macartney’s Cave is at NU060093. Alison’s photo on Flickr makes the former look a bit of a squeeze. But the latter looks a bit more homely.

This promontory fort was visited by the Berwickshire Naturalists’ Club in July 1857.

The day was most favourable, bright and with a cool air. The majority of the members, under the guidance of the Rev. Mr. Walker, the Minister of the Parish, proceeded up the valley of the Blackadder, which divides the Parish into two parts, the moor part, from the more cultivated land.

They admired the dark grove of fir trees on the opposite bank of the stream, and the perpendicular cliffs above the river, called “Thomas’s Grave,” the common name of the place, but the origin lost in obscurity. Advancing forward they came to a large mound called the “King’s Grave,” about which there is a legendary tale, which Mr. Walker has kindly undertaken to make us acquainted with hereafter. [...]

An encampment, called the “Black Castle Ring,” very perfect, situated on the high grounds, was the next object of interest. On three sides there is an outer ditch, then a high dyke of earth, then a wide fosse, and then again an inner dyke – a large flat piece of rich-grass ground forming the centre. On the other side is a broken bank, very precipitous, 100 feet and more above the river, from which the camp was quite inaccessible.

I imagine the King’s Grave is the cairn here. But you will have to make up your own story for now.

I tracked down ‘The Cambrian Register’. The mention of the cromlech so-called is in ‘A statistical account of the parish of Llanymyneich’ by Walter Davies. He mentions the Ogo:

One vestige of [the Romans’] mining, is an immense level branching out in different directions, as they were led by the veins of copper ore. Its windings are so numerous and intricate, that some years back, two men of this parish, endeavouring to explore its mazes, were so bewildered in its labyrinths, that when they were found by some miners who were sent in search of them, they had lain themselves down, in despair of ever seeing any more the light of day. It is now called the Ogo, about which the neighbouring peasantry abound with fairy legends, too ridiculous to enumerate.

He mentions various skeletons found in the caves, including one wearing ‘a golden bracelet, clasping about the wrist’, but “the selfishness and ignorance of the master-miners have deprived us at present, of a view of those curious relicks.” He goes on:

This hill, lest it should all be made subservient to Roman avarice, had one spot of it consecrated to religion. On its eastern brow once stood a Cromlech, measuring seven feet by six, and about eighteen inches thick. It is called by the vulgar bedd y cawr; and it was the voice of immemorial tradition, that a giant had buried his wife under this stone, with a golden torque about her neck. This report caused three brothers, who lived in the neighbourhood, some years back, to overturn the stone from its pedestals in search for the treasure; in which position it now lies. Thus we see how avarice stimulates men to deeds of villainy, not even to spare, but sacrilegiously to overturn the altars of the Gods. The neighbours will tell you, how this vile act did not escape the vengeance of heaven, but ended in the destruction of its perpetrators.

From the Cambrian Register for the year 1795, p298.

There’s some stoney folklore for this area (and shape changing animals of various colours). But you’ll have to ask GM if he sat on any big blue stones.

[Saint Tydecho,] upon a quarrel between him and Emyr Llydaw (i.e., Emyr, King of Armorica) he came over to Mowddwy and built a temple (teml) there, and kept a good house; that his bed was the blue rock on the side of the valley, and that he wore a hair coat (pais rawn), and was a confessor.

Maelgwn Gwynedd, in the heat of his youth, sent his horses and dogs to be fed by his prayers. Tydecho turned them loose into the mountain; and when they were fetched, though it had been cold winds and hoar frost, they were found fat and strong, and their white colour changed into a gold colour. Maelgwn Gwynedd, provoked at this, took away Tydecho’s oxen; but the next day deer instead of oxen were found in his team aploughing, and a grey wolf drawing the harrow after them.

Maelgwn came with a pack of white dogs to hunt to these rocks, and sat upon Tydecho’s blue stone; but when he endeavoured to get up, he found his backside was quite fastened to the stone that he could not stir, and was so obliged to make matters up with the saint. He sent back his oxen, and gave him for atonement the privilege of sanctuary for a hundred ages so that neither man nor beast could be taken from his land; no battles, or burning, or killing to be admitted there.

From Dafydd Llwyd ap Llewelyn ap Gruffydd‘s account, collected in Lewis Morris’s Celtic Remains (1878).

There were four barrows here, as you can read on Pastscape, but maybe only one or two are visible now. Maybe you can see the stones and grave if you’re looking in the right direction.

Near Norden-hill, in Dorsetshire, is a lengthy mound which is popularly called the Giant’s Grave; and very near to it are two large stones which have probably rolled down from the beds of rock on the side, or from the chalk hill above. A story, popular in the neighbourhood, says that two giants were once standing on Norden-hill and contending for the mastery as to which of them should hurl the longer distance, the direction being across the valley towards Hanging-hill. He whose stone fell short was so mortified at the failure that he died of vexation, and was buried beneath the mound which has since been known as the Giant’s Grave.

From Giants and dwarfs by Edward J Wood (1868).

Michaelmas Day was formerly regarded with suspicion in Wales. It was credited with uncanny power. There was an old superstition that on this night the Cistfaens, or warriors’ graves, in all parts of the Principality were illuminated by spectral lights, and it was very unlucky to walk near those places on Michaelmas Eve or Night; for on those two occasions the ghosts of ancient warmen were engaged in deadly fray around their lonely resting-places. (C. D. and Family Collection.)

From Marie Trevelyan’s Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales (1909).

At a place called Rhiwsaeson, near Llantrisant, Glamorgan, a woman in white used occasionally to appear. A farm labourer returning home one evening met her. She approached him, saying: “Your wife has given birth to a babe. Go and bring the boy to me at once, that I may be saved.” The man was surprised to find the event had come about. He feared to do this, and the parson advised him to have the infant christened before taking him out, fearing he might die before his return. When he, carrying the babe, reached the spot where the white woman waited his coming, he found her crying bitterly and wringing her hands, for one of the conditions of her soul’s redemption was the kiss of a new-born and unbaptized child.

A shepherd, minding his master’s sheep on the Llantrisant Mountain, sat to rest in a sheltered nook where a huge rock covered with heather shielded him from the fierce sunshine at noontide. He looked a few paces away, and saw a white-robed girl scattering a few roses. The shepherd waited until she was gone out of sight, and then went from his nook to gather the flowers. He looked at them, and said: “Oh, what beautiful flowers!” He replaced them where they had been scattered. Suddenly the maiden reappeared, looked at him kindly, and smiled sadly, but never uttered a word. That night he took the flowers home, and placed them in water. In the morning he found three gold coins where the flowers had been.

It’s not inconceivable these two stories about a woman in white are about the same place? And that that place could be here? Just to be on the safe side I wouldn’t hang about after dark. From Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales by Marie Trevelyan (1909).

It must be notable that the only thermal spring in Wales is at the foot of this hill: Ffynnon Taff (Taff’s Well). Wikipedia seems to have a pretty good write-up. They have open days sometimes, which I’m sure would be very interesting. A lovely warm spring (like at Bath) cannot have escaped the attentions of local people in prehistory. And there’s some attendant folklore, for example:

A few miles above Cardiff, on the eastern side of the river, there is a thermal spring called Taff’s Well. Taff is a corruption of Daf, or David, the patron saint of Wales. This well was much frequented by people suffering from rheumatism. A lady robed in grey frequently visited this well, and many people testified to having seen her in the twilight wandering along the banks of the river near the spring, or going on to the ferry under the Garth Mountain.

Stories about this mysterious lady were handed down from father to son. The last was to the effect that about seventy or eighty years ago the woman in grey beckoned to a man who had just been getting some of the water. He put his pitcher down and asked what he could do for her. She asked him to hold her tight by both hands until she requested him to release her. The man did as he was bidden. He began to think it a long time before she bade him cease his grip, when a ‘stabbing pain’ caught him in his side, and with a sharp cry he loosened his hold. The woman exclaimed: “Alas! I shall remain in bondage for another hundred years, and then I must get a woman with steady hands and better than yours to hold me.” She vanished, and was never seen again.

In connection with this well there was a custom prevalent so late as about seventy years ago. Young people of the parish used to assemble near Taff’s Well on the eighth Sunday after Easter to dip their hands in the water, and scatter the drops over each other. Immediately afterwards they repaired to the nearest green space, and spent the remainder of the day in dancing and merry-making.

From Folk-lore and folk-stories of Wales by Marie Trevelyan (1909).

Suggestive these – Wolfscote and Bearsford – smacking of ancient times, when the fauna of the district were not so harmless as they are today. Beneath the quaint little manor house of Wolfscote Grange stands one of the boldest bluffs of rock, and in the foot of it is a cavern, named “Frank’s i’ th’ Rock,” and so called on account of a man bearing that name who lived in it many years with his wife, and had eleven children there! Cave dwellers do not all belong to dim and far-away antiquity, for the man Frank lived less than a century ago.

Through Staffordshire Stiles and Derbyshire Dales, by John Sheldon (1894).