Rhiannon

‘We know not if “this fount” is still regarded as a holy well; but many years ago we have often heard an aged lady, who was born and bred near Alsia, and was well acquainted with legendary lore and old customes of the district, say that in her younger days the Saint’s Well of Alsia was almost as much frequented on the three first Wednesdays in May as the noted well of Chapel Uny. Mothers came from far and near with their weak and rickety children that they might be strengthened by being bathed in its waters. Moreover, the same old lady to whom we are beholdened for many of the incidents of the legend, Nancy Trenoweth (the fair daughter of the miller of Alsia), informed us that it was not unusual for these pilgrimages to be the occasion of a fight between the women of Alsia and the pilgrim mothers, when the good housewives caught the strangers dipping their precious babes into the enclosed part of the well, or the place from which the neighbours drew their drinking water.‘

A cross formerly stood near this fountain, and its socketed pedestal was until lately to be seen.

The Alsia Well was also one of the wishing or divining sort. Of a summer’s evening scores of maidens might be seen around it, eager for their turn to see what sweethearts would be united or parted, which they discovered by the fall of pebbles or pins. As the articles sank near or apart so their future was foretold; and the number of bubbles raised bespoke the number of years before the happy or unhappy issue could befall. Another method of consulting the spirit of the well was by floating bramble leaves on it. -- T.Q.C.

From ‘Ancient and Holy Wells of Cornwall’ by M and L Quiller-Couch (1894).

The initial quote is from William Bottrell’s ‘Traditions and Hearthside Stories of West Cornwall’ (1870).

Age and neglect have done their fell work on the well; and I am indebted, through a friend, for these recollections of an intelligent old lady who knew the place in childhood, and gives sketches of what she remembers of it. I place this well among the medicinal wells on the authority of Lysons, who ascribes to it many miraculous sanitary qualities, although it was resorted to for its divinatory gifts chiefly.

My friend writes that this well existed in an entire state till about 1820. Over it was a little Gothic edifice, which gave the name of Porth Chapel to the spot, and Chapel Coombe to the valley and adjoining cove. It was on the western side of St. Agnes beacon, in a narrow dell descending to the sea. The situation, as is not infrequent with these buildings, is wild and weird in the extreme. Not a cottage nor a tree is to be found; a bleak heathy common, relieved by a few furze bushes, and rugged volcanic rocks, are the only objects that meet the eye.

The destruction of the chapel and its well was effected by time, and lack of faith and reverence. It is said that the principal depradators, who carried away the stone to build a hedge, said, when remonstrated with, ‘What’s the good of a well without water?‘

The well had indeed been drained by the delvings of the miners in a work below. The name of ‘Giant’s Well’ was given to it by the country folk, in memory of a giant who once lived near it, and was accustomed to drink of the fountain. There were the marks of his thumbs indented on a stone in the well, and near it, on another, the print of his foot, very large, and very like a footmark. Pins were dropped in with wishes as in many other parts of Cornwall. -- T.Q.C.

From ‘Ancient and Holy Wells of Cornwall’ by M and L Quiller-Couch (1894).

“Lysons” refers to the Rev. Daniel Lysons’ “Magna Britannia” here of 1806, in which he says: “Near this spot [Porth-Chapel] is St. Agnes’ Well, of which many miraculous stories are told; the water is of an excellent quality, and much esteemed. ... St. Agnes Beacon, formed out of an ancient cairn or tumulus of stones, was kept ready for use a few years ago during the apprehension of invasion, and was attended by two soldiers.

A rather convoluted tale with pretty dire verse:

The maiden of Drumdurno was the belle of five parishes, and as good as beautiful. She was young and light-hearted, and suitors came round her in plenty. One was fortunate in gaining her hand, and was received as her acknowledged lover. Her unsuccessful wooers retired disappointed, but all, with one exception, wishing long life and happiness to the “Maiden of Drumdurno,” in the new relationship on which she was about to enter. But in that heart there brooded thoughts of vengeance. A rejected suitor, wandering, one evening in the dark woods of Pittrodrie, thinking bitterly of his successful rival, exclaimed aloud -- “Oh that my eternal destruction could plague their earthly peace, how soon and sure the bargain would be mine!”

Scarcely had he uttered the rash words than a voice replied – “Capital wish! I’ll do the thing for you on your own terms!” Thus a compact, ruinous to the luckless lover of Drumdurno, and entailing “perpetual vassalage on the heedless avenger,” was entered into that night in the lone Pittrodie woods.

On the day before the wedding the maiden was busy baking cakes for the bridal feast. Her heart was light with joyful anticipations, and as she baked she gaily lilted one of the love songs of her native land.
“It sets ye well to bake, lass, gin ye had ony mair speed at it.” The bantering remark was uttered by a handsome rollicking stranger, who had been lounging about for some time, pretending to be in search of work.
“I kenna whether it sets me weel or no,” replied the maid; “but I think nane could grudge wi’ my speed.”
After some further baner, the stranger undertook to lay a “causey” to the top of the neighbouring mountain before she had finished her firlot, on condition that, if successful, her hand and heart should be his reward.

She thoughtlessly agreed to the proposal, deeming it a piece of idle fun. The stranger went on his way, and the maiden continued her task. The gloaming drew on apace, and the firlot of meal was nearly ended. The stranger and his wager were forgotten. The bride’s thoughts were all of her bridegroom, and she longed for his presence, for he had promised to be with her “twixt the gloamin’ and the mirk.”

The night came down gloomy and wet. “It’s nae that, nor mony sic like, ‘ill gar him bide frae me, but I’m wae to see him weet,” said the maiden, as she looked out to see if her lover was coming to keep his tryst; and as she spoke she glanced at the cloud gathering on the hill, when, oh horror! she saw a “well-laid causey” up the slopes of Bennachie. At the same time she beheld the stranger, who, she now discovered, was no other than the Prince of Darkness, quickly and noiselessly coming to claim his reward.

“Fast she flies, as fast pursued,
Straining for Pittrodrie wood;
‘Jamie!’ shrieks the frantic maiden,
As he wildly scours the hill.”

But alas! vain was all human aid. The unuttered prayer of her heart, however, was granted, for just as the “foul fiend” was about to clasp her in his arms, she was turned into a block of lifeless granite, and there she stands to this day.

“Lone adn last of all the clachan,
With her bake-brod and bread-spade,
Aye she bids the maids of Garioch
Guard the vows that love has made.
Love is holy, love is solemn;
Think of this mysterious column!”

The “causey” is said to be still extant, although overgrown with rank heather; and the neighbourhood bears the reputation of being haunted.

“And quick the pace, and quick the pulse,
Wha wanders there alane,
Atween Pittodrie’s haunted wood
An’ the dowie Mayden Stane.”

From Notes on Superstition and Folklore’ edited by D H Edwards (1885). The stone is the rather nice carved Pictish ‘Maiden Stone’, and Maiden Causeway a track (some say it could well be prehistoric) up to the fort.

Baring-Gould says “There can hardly be a doubt that by Henisweryn the Worm’s Head Island is intended” (he explains in detail why he thinks so)

The story’s of Saint Cenydd’s a bit long (and this is only the start) – but as BG says, “It is a most extraordinary tale, a mass of fable. It was certainly composed after Geoffrey of Monmouth had made the fortunes of King Arthur, i.e. 1150. That it contains earlier matter is not to be doubted; not of an historical, but of a mythological character.”

In the days of King Arthur, the prince of Letavia (Llydaw) or Britannia Minor, was Dihoc, and he became the father of Keneth, who was born of incest. Summoned by King Arthur, as a tributary, to come to his court to celebrate the Feast of Christmas in Gower, he took with him the woman, and she gave birth to a child, who was born a cripple, with the calf of one leg attached to the thigh.

Dihoc ordered the infant to be thrown into the river, but before this was done, a priest baptised it and gave it the name of Keneth. The child was placed in an osier-woven cradle and launched on the stream. This stream speedily carried it down to the river Lothur, and that swept it out to sea. A storm arose and drove the cradle, dancing on the crest of the waves, to the isle of Inisweryn, where it was cast up on the beach. At once a cloud of seagulls fluttered over the child, and the birds with beak and claw removed it to the top of a rock, and there they strippped their breasts of feathers to make a bed for the infant. The birds kept incessant watch over their protege, spreading their wings over him to shelter him from wind and rain and snow.

Before nine days had passed, an angel descended from heaven, bearing a brazen bell, which he applied to the mouth of the infant, who sucked vigorously at the handle, and received therefrom much satisfaction.
Certain practical difficulties, such as would suggest themselves to a mother, are got over by the author with an ingenious explanation.*
Thus Keneth lived till he was able to walk, and the garments in which he had been wrapped when exposed, grew with him, expanding, as does the bark of a tree.

One day, a peasant who lived near the sea, and who had no family, happening to light on the child, took it up and carried it home, and committed it to his wife, who at once put the little Keneth to bed. This caused tremendous excitement among the gulls; they came in vast numbers, and dividing into two bands, one entered the house and pulled the coverlet off the sleeping child, and the other, with screams and by the aid of beak and claw, drove the cattle of the husbandman towards the sea.

The man, alarmed for his live-stock, hastily carried back Keneth to where he had found him, whereupon the gulls drove back his cattle to their pastures, and, in the most tidy manner, replaced the coverlet whence they had plucked it.

And now daily a female stag came out of the forest, and squirted her milk into the bell that Keneth employed as his feeding-bottle, and likewise filled some hollows in the rocks hard by.

It goes on a bit as you can imagine, and you can read the rest here in Baring-Gould’s ‘Lives of the British Saints’ (1907). It’s got such curious and celticky detail, with all those helpful animals.

*Here there’s some Latin which Google translate tells me means the child did not poo. Clearly too rude to write in English for a vicar. But incest and child murdering is ok.

A bit more on the dragon:

Sir Maurice Berkeley resided much at Bistherne, which was probably a much pleasanter abode than his grim Castle on the bleak Cotteswolds. A singular tradition still lingers at Bistherne respecting the slaughter of a Dragon, which is connected with the name of this Sir Maurice by a document preserved in the Evidence room at Berkeley Castle. The local tradition is to the effect that a Dragon had his den at Burley Beacon, about five miles from Bistherne, in a part of Burley known as Bistherne Closes. Thence the creature “flew” every morning to Bistherne for a supply of milk. Here a valiant man built himself a hut, and with two dogs lay in wait for the Dragon, keeping the dogs out of his sight also. The innocent creature came as usual one morning for his milk, when the hut door was opened, the dogs let fly at him, and while he was thus engaged with them, he was “shot” by the man. The dogs were killed on the spot, apparently under the idea that they had become dangerous through being bitten by the Dragon. The Dragon slayer himself, says another version of the tradition (which seems to come nearer the fifteenth century), only succeeded in overcoming his foe by covering his armour with glass. The locality of the fight still goes by the name of “Dragon Fields.”

The documentary version of this tradition is contained in the margin of a pedigree roll written previously to 1618, and preserved, as already said, in the Evidence room at Berkeley Castle. It is as follows:--

“Sr Moris Barkley the sonne of Sr John Barkley, of Beverston, beinge a man of great strength and courage, in his tyme there was bread in Hampshire neere Bistherne a devouring Dragon, who doing much mischief upon men and cattell and could not be destroyed but spoiled many in attempting it, making his den neere unto a Beacon. This Sr Moris Barkley armed himself and encountered with it and at length overcam and killed it but died himself soone after. This is the common saying even to this day in those parts of Hampshire, and the better to approve the same his children and posterity even to this present do beare for their creast a Dragon standing before a burning beacon. Wch seemeth the rather more credible because Sr Morice Barkley did beare the Miter with this authentick seale of his armes as is heare underneath one of his own deedes exprest bearing date ye 10 of Henry 6. An Dni 1431.”

From ‘Dursley and its Neighbourhood’ by JH Blunt (1877).

Up here on Foel Llanfendigaid there are the traces of a hillfort – according to Coflein a ‘narrow stony rampart’ survives. Beneath the hill, on the seaward side, there is a cave, Ogof Owain.

Ogov Owain is apparently a natural fissure in a rock, about a mile north of the estuary of the river Dysynny, in the parish of Celynyn, in Merioneddshire. Tradition says, that Ednyved ap Aron, a gentleman of consideration, concealed Owain in it, after his military reverses.

The intrepid author and his friend sat on some stones after emerging, ‘proceeded to knock off the neck of a bottle of sherry’ and then toasted the king and ‘Prince Owain Glendwr’.

In v5 of the ‘Cambrian Quarterly’ 1833.

I fear this poor stone has been moved / smashed up in the name of more efficient agriculture. It’s not on the map any more though it was in the 1960s.

Giving preference to the meadow paths, we presently happen upon a huge block of stone, as big as a good-sized cart, lying stranded in the middle of a grass field. How it came there is the puzzle, so we take counsel with an old fellow breaking stones by the wayside, a furlong farther on- ‘Oh, ’ says he, in reply to our questions, ‘they ‘ud used to tell us, when we was childern, as the Devil fell lame one day a-walkin, by here, and throwed that there old stwun out of’s shoe, and then fled away up to Stiperstones yander. But that was afore my time, like, and behappen there’s never a one now as can tell the rights on it.’ And the country folk have a saying that the Lea Stone, as it is called, turns itself around ‘every time the clock strikes thirteen.‘

From ‘Nooks and Corners of Shropshire’ by H Thornhill Timmins (1899).

A person residing near Pencader, Carmarthenshire, is reported to have entered the fairy circle on an adjoining mountain, and having danced as he thought for a few minutes, by some means stepped out, but was much astonished to find the scenes to which he had been accustomed, completely changed, and new houses, roads, and improvements, which he had never seen or dreamt of; the place where his father’s cot stood, was occupied by a neat and handsome farm house, and where before there was a barren mountain, he saw luxuriant fields.

“This surely, thought he, must be a fairy illusion; I have only been a minute or two in their ring, and lo! they have changed the aspect of nature entirely: I hope what I see is real, and that my father’s cot is really converted into that well built farm house.” Thus ruminating, and still supposing that what he saw was magic, he proceeded, but his progress was obstructed by a substantial and not an imaginary hedge, he felt, and felt it again, -- rubbed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming, but a thorn running into his hand soon convinced him it was no chimerical scene; indeed the hedge seemed from the size of the thorns to be very old; so proceeding onwards he entered the farm yard, where once stood the cot wherein he first beheld the light of the world: he stared wildly around like one deranged, for a strange dog disputed the ground with im, and by his continued barking informed him he had no right there.

“How can this be, said he? where am I? this is not poor Tango? all seem to be changed! -strange cows- -strange fowls- -strange ducks and geese! surely I have lost my road, and have travelled to an unknown neighbourhood! but no! yonder is the Garreg hir* (the long stone) and I know too well the brow of that hill to be deceived.” He was disturbed in this soliloquy by the farmer, who came to know the cause of the dog’s barking, and seeing the youth (for he was still one in appearance), addressed him in the common Welsh term, “Pwy’ n’ ych chwi druan?” (who are you, poor man?“) “I know who I was, I do not know who I am now,” replied he, “I was the son of a man who lived in this place, this morning; for that rock though changed a little, I too well know to be deceived.” ”Poor man” said the farmer, you have lost your senses, this house was built by my great grandfather, repaired by my grandfather, and that part there which seems newly built, was done about three years ago at my expence; you must be deranged or have lost the road, but come in and refresh yourself with some victuals and rest.”

*The Garreg-hir is a well known erect stone on a mountain south of Pencader, and was placed there in ancient times, probably to commemorate a victory.

You get the idea, and it goes on somewhat more here, in William Howell’s 1831 ‘Cambrian Superstitions’. It’s nice though how it uses the stone as an unchanging link with the distant past.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LONGSTONE: A CORNISH LEGEND.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Volume 19 of the 1797 statistical account says

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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