Rhiannon

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Archaeologia Cambrensis v14, 1849.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does however, also mention

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

Is this something people recognise?

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

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

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

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

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

Ms Burne also mentions that like on the Wrekin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Notes and Queries, May 13th, 1854.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another giant-related location in the area was the Giant’s Grave. The Canmore record says it was a cairn removed at the start of the 19th century, and there’s nothing more to be seen. They say it was supposed to be at NT 0925 2410.

Over against the foot of Hawkshaw-Burn in a Kairn beside the High road is the Giants Grave, so called from a huge and mighty Fellow, that robbed all on the way, but was at length from a Mount in the over side of the River supprised and shor to Death as Tradition goes.

(Shot I suppose?) From ‘A Geographical, Historical description of the shire at Tweeddale’ by Alexander Pennecuik, 1715.
archive.org/stream/geographicalhist00penn#page/n35

In effecting some improvements, a few years ago, on the farm of Ardross, it was found necessary to remove one of these cairns; but the people had a tradition that “the plague was buried under it,” and refused to touch it; and it was with no small difficulty, that they were at length induced to assist in its removal.

This extract from the Rosskeen chapter of the 1834-45 Statistical Account could refer to Carn Na Feinne (which is certainly near Ardross), but I guess even if not, it gives an idea of local beliefs about cairns. There’s not much of it left – just the thick slabs of sandstone and schist that made up the chamber.

In some of the cairns which were removed, sculls and bones of a very large size were found. One of these cairns bears the name of Carna nam Fiann, i.e. the cairn of the Fingalians.