Rhiannon

A bit more to Drew’s story:

There died one hundred and fifteen years ago a Mr. Alexander Hogg of London, merchant, leaving among other benefactions to his native parish of Durris, Kincardineshire, ten shillings a year to the herds around the hill of Cairnshee (Fairies’ Cairn) for the purpose of making a Midsummer bonfire, in remembrance of the fact that he as a boy herded cattle there. A further sum was left to provide barrels of ale, cheese, and bread for those who assemble to witness the celebration. This curious observance is duly followed every year, and forms one of the attractions of the district. As many as half a dozen musicians resort to the hill, and dancing is kept up till midnight or longer.

Can it be doubted that Mr. Hogg thus gave new life to an old custom which had been known to his boyhood? [*] Let us note some particulars that go to prove its connection with prehistoric times.

The fire must be lit on the twenty-fourth of June just as the last limb of the sun disappears beneath the horizon.
The height on which the fire is lit is the highest eminence in the district from which the beholders come, and thus the sun would be seen at the last possible moment.
The herds must, according to the conditions of the will, collect the fuel themselves, each bringing as many bundles as possible so that a large fire may result. As there are ten lads on the surrounding farms.. the pile is often of considerable dimensions.

The young men are in the habit of pushing each other through the smoke and flames. This may arise from a belief that the person so “passed” would be charmed against disease during the coming year. Some would see in the action an indication of early human sacrifice. [**] I have been at many ‘herds’ fires’ (about ten I think) and have invariably seen it done. It is possible, however, that in this instance it is nothing but a display of animal spirits. But in any case I think there is enough evidence to show that the rite is a relic of pagan times...

* Possibly not. Victorians were even more desperate to find Traces of Our Pagan Past than we are.
** Some would see in the action an indication of a large number of pissed young men.
Nevertheless, it all sounds like a lot of fun and should be reinstated immediately.

From ‘Midsummer Bonfires’ by A. MacDonald, in Folklore, Vol. 15, No. 1 (Mar. 25, 1904), pp. 105-106

This could be the place:

Often sickness among a herd followed the removal of a stone. Near Auchleven in Premnay, once stood a stone circle now destroyed. The farmer, who moved the stones, soon after lost many of his cattle and was ruined.

From ‘Primitive Beliefs in the Northeast of Scotland’ by J M McPherson (1929).

On Caynham Camp, is the site of an ancient Castle, noticed by Leland, who says of it, “Kainsham, or Kensham Castle, clene down, stood within two miles of Ludloe, on a hill top.” “It belonged,” says Camden,“to the Mortimers, and the Church to Wigmore Abbey.” Two fields on the east side are yet called the Castle fields; and immediately below is another in which a deep and wide entrenchment occupies the principal part. Tradition says that this latter was a depository for horses and military stores during the siege of Ludlow Castle, by Cromwell.

On top of the hill, is a bank covered with trees and underwood, and encircling an open space, consisting of six or seven acres. Around this there is a walk, with benches, opposite to which are openings, commanding most delightful prospects, not only of the local beauties of the neighbourhood of Ludlow, but of Malvern Hill, the Black Mountains in Brecknockshire, and other distant objects.

In ‘The history and antiquities of the town of Ludlow and its ancient castle’ by Thomas Wright, 1822.

So sacred are these stones that, “it is generally averred hereabouts,” writes Aubrey, “that pieces of them putt into their Wells, doe drive away the Toades, with which their wells are much infested, and this course they use still. It is also averred that no Magpye, Toade, or Snake was ever seen here.”

Aubrey quoted in ‘Jottings on some of the objects of interest in the Stonehenge Excursion’ by Edward Stevens (1882), but I will find out the original source.

A ‘fairy-woman’ lived at the Chair of Kildare. Well, she wasn’t actually a fairy, but something like an intermediary who also dealt in herbal medicine, a bit of veterinarianism, seeing the future, that sort of thing. In fact, for once, it wouldn’t seem like new age woo to claim she was a bit like a shaman. Not only could a fairy-woman or man “hold some mysterious sort of communication with the denizens of moats or raths” but they’d been over the Other Side: “In some cases it was rumoured that they had been changelings originally.” Changelings were fairy children who were sickly who had been swapped for your own, obviously bouncing and healthy, baby. With a bit of intervention from someone who knew what they were doing, your child could sometimes be brought back. In truth this would have looked like distancing yourself from your sickly child and leaving it out on a dungheap to die, but in a socially acceptable sort of fashion.

“..as they usually lived a solitary and retired life, no ordinary sare of mystery shrouded their motions. [They] professed a familiar acquaintance with all secrets – past, present and future: the cure of most diseases affecting man and beasts; the discovery and restoration of lost goods; a description and detection of the thief if property had been stolen; fortune-telling, and a knowledge regarding all matters of personal concern; causing cream to produce butter in greater abundance: whilst they often took care to impress.. an opinion that their friendship would be desirable to prevent the certain evil effects of fairy resentment.”

“Within the present century, one of these fairy-women, who was named Moll Anthony, lived near the Red Hills at the Chair of Kildare ... Her reputation as a posessor of supernatural knowledge and divination drew crowds of distant visitors to her daily, and from the most remote parts of Ireland. In various instances they were furnished with a bottle containing some supposed curative liquid, and directed to return homewards without falling asleep on their journey. This bottle was filled with water, darkly coloured by a decoction of herbs, gathered with certain incantations near a rath that afforded the customary materia medica of fairy-doctors for the cure of a special disease on which consultation was required.”

The author is unimpressed: “The most accomplished and skilful member of the medical faculty seldom received a more remunerative fee for his services on behalf of a patient than the wise woman of the Red Hills pocketed from her credulous dupes.” (I doubt it).

The piece also says: “After the death of Moll Anthony, her daughter followed the same profession, but never enjoyed a like celebrity.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

While speaking of English stories, I may relate one told to myself and my friend, Mr. J. J. Foster, at Cearne in Dorsetshire. We were questioning a labourer as to the giant figure cut in the turf at that place. He assured us that it was supposed to be the representation of a Danish giant who led an invasion of this coast, and lay on the side of the hill to sleep; while asleep the peasantry tied him down to the ground and cut off his head, and the outline in the turf represents the place where the giant lay. Upon being asked how long ago this was supposed to be, the answer was, “About a hundred years.”

From ‘The Gentleman’s Magazine Library: English Traditional Lore’ 1868.

A slightly different version, from Ruth Tongue’s ‘Somerset Folklore’, and heard from a gardener in Corfe. The ‘Digital Digging’ website confirms that the site is known as ‘Castle Rache’ locally, with the topmost bit being ‘the Beacon’.

There was a vast treasure hidden on Castle Rach, and it was guarded by devils; but the men of Corfe were both valiant and poor and they determined to dig it up. They went to the priest and he promised to come with them, bringing some salt and holy water. The church bells were rung to drive away the devils and the digging began. It was highly successful. So vast a treasure did their spades uncover that one man swore in sheer surprise. At once the chest sank out of sight, the devils came back and every man, including the priest, died within a year.

Roby concocts a complicated story in ‘Popular Traditions of Lancashire‘ (1843). You can’t help thinking you’d be better off waiting for the film version. But I’ll try to summarise.

The story starts off with three rich men out riding with their servants. One of them is a Pilkington, from Rivington Hall. An awful storm blew up, and they decided to shelter / watch it from the tower on Rivington Pike. Amidst the eldritch thunder and lightning they heard a bang on the door – all the dogs cowered but one of the men, Norton, opened the door (cue creaky hinge noises). Outside was revealed the silhouette of a gigantic dark-dressed figure wearing a low browed hat, sat on a horse. Everyone else was scared to death, but Norton seemed to recognise the stranger – ‘it’s my uncle, who disappeared twelve years this very night’. Whaat? Everyone else looked on in confusion as he galloped off with the terrifying figure.

Pilkington was weighing up whether to follow his friend, but one of the servants warned against it.. the Spectre Horseman.. it must be ten, no, twelve years since my father encountered him.. he went out poaching, it was the same night as tonight, St. Bartlemy’s Eve. The dogs came back without him, they stank. I went out to look for him, I was terrified he’d got stuck in a bog. I had no luck, I returned for the dogs, but then my father turned up at the house in a right state – ‘I’ve seen th’ ould one’.. A man on a black horse had stopped him on the moor – “Can’st thou show me to the Two Lads?” he said. ‘My father began to wonder what this unlikely thing could want there at the Two Lads, which as you know is on the highest and ugliest part of the whole commoning; a place which is always said to have a bad name sticking to it.‘

Having got there, he was about to leave, but the strange man asked him to stay – ‘Now, lift up that big heap of stones there, and I’ll tell you what to do with them.’ ‘Sir,’ says my father, ‘You are in jest.’ But not a bit of it – the other smacked them with his horse switch, and up they jumped like crows from a corn-field. The dogs started howling and turned for home, and father was left with the Spectre Horseman that was always said to ramble about these hills, sometimes in the air, sometimes on the ground, without ever a footprint. Where the stones had been there was a great gaping hole, and horribly, a great long black arm came thrusting out of it. ‘Take what he gives you!’ came a voice like thunder. But father couldn’t move. ‘Hurry or I shall miss my time!‘

But suddenly there were the sound of steps through the heather and the horseman looked more cheerful – ‘Go, fool, here is one better than thee’, and he kicked the poor man out of the way.

To cut this excessively long story short, Pilkington and the others decided to head up to the Two Lads to see if they could save their friend. They found him in a terrible condition but alive. Norton explained how when the mysterious horseman had turned up, he’d felt under the influence of a dream, convinced that the figure was that of his uncle, who had gone missing long before. The story gets a bit vampirey or bodysnatchers or something, as though the Fiend has to find himself a new body every twelve years. But somehow Norton manages to resist, and the Spectre Horseman appears no more. So you should be safe up there.

But the book suggests that the story’s not entirely newly made up – that The tradition prevalent in the south of Lancashire ... was that a dark gigantic rider, upon a steed of vast dimensions, was wont to traverse in stormy nights the hills of Horwich Moor, and the usual spot of his disappearance [was] one of those monuments which we call Druidical, for want of a better name.

Btw, it seems that St Bartholomew’s day was the day that autumn began. So that’s probably why the devil was in a hurry. But he shouldn’t have left everything to the last minute, should he.
There’s a link at the Darlington and Stockton Times that’s quite interesting.

Strange goings-on (well possibly), at the hillfort, as related by Bamboo at the Fortean Times Message Board.

I wonder if these stones (which you can read the details of at Canmore ) have any markings on them. Or perhaps the stone in the story is the nearby Clach A Cholumain. There seem to be plenty of candidates, judging by the photos on Mark Stevens‘ “>‘Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland’ (1860). It goes on a bit. But it describes this very strange bit of river, which is in a chasm, but the sound of it gets funneled up. The banks were somewhere where ‘no one would choose to walk alone’ – but the lady of the house of Balconie used to walk with her maid there. Though the maid thought she was a bit weird to be honest. One night she freaked the girl out by trying to make her go near the edge. ‘No nearer, ma’am’ squeaked the terrified girl, ‘Strange sights have been seen in the gully after nightfall.. I shall swoon with terror and fall over.‘

But the lady gets really nasty and shrieks ‘Nay wretch there is no escape!’ and drags her towards the chasm.. suddenly there’s a ‘strong masculine voice’ and a dark-looking man in green appears, saying ‘let me accompany you – your surety must be a willing one’. The maid escapes and the lady lets herself be led miserably to the edge.

“She turned round on reaching the precipice, and, untying from her belt a bunch of household keys, flung them up the bank towards the girl; and then, taking what seemed to be a farewell look of the setting sun.. she disappeared with her companion behind the nearer edge of the gulf. The keys struck, in falling, against a huge granitic boulder, and sinking into it as if it were a mass of melted wax, left an impression which is still pointed out to the curious visitor.”

Ten years later a man walked up the stream and found a cave in which he met the lady of Balconie.. but you could read that bit for yourself.

Another version of the stone’s origins:

There is a farm near Wrington called Hailstones Farm, but some folk say it should really be Hurlerstone Farm, on account of the Devil picking up a great rock lying there and throwing it right over the Mendips to hit Cranmore Church. Of course, he missed, but it was a tidy throw even for “the Old Boy”.

Some say it was a giant dropped it or made a bad shot of it. Anyhow, the rock lies on the edge of a cliff in the woods and they call them Hurdlestone Woods. And there is a Giant’s Grave there too.

From Ruth L. Tongue’s 1965 ‘Somerset Folklore’. She heard it in Frome and Cranmore in 1945.

There’s a bridge over the river at the foot of this fort. The following pretty muddled story kind of suggests the fort and the bridge (and a big stone somewhere here too) are all the Devil’s Work:

There were once a curious cat over to Spire, a proper mischievous nuisance that cat were, always poking into anything new. [..] One day he went for a walk and he found Mounsey Castle. “Now who dropped this little lot?” says he. “I must go and see.” Then in the wood-side he come on a gurt stone, twelve foot or more, just dropped there, and he knew he were getting nearer. Then he heard yells of rage, and off he scuttles to see what ‘twas and it were the Devil and Parson, one on each side of the Barle and a new stone bridge atween ‘n. “I’ll have a look-see at that,” says Cat, and downhill he goes.

Says Parson to Devil, “You shan’t have none of my souls be first steps on your bridge. They bain’t going’ Somewhere Else’.”
“You old black crow,” yells Devil.
“If I be a crow,” says Parson, “I bain’t so black as yew!”
And just then puss walk out over on to Tarr Steps, to look it over, no matter if he’d been invited or no. The Devil pounced on ‘n like a lightning flash – and poor Cat goed Somewhere Else quicker than you could think!

The Tarr Steps are some way away, and they’re not really a ‘bridge’ as such (although yeah they’re probably the devil’s work), so they don’t need to be dragged into the story really, when there’s a bridge at hand at Mounsey Castle. The story’s like the one at the Devil’s Bridge near Aberystwyth – but there the Parson tricks the Devil into taking an animal rather than his parishoners: here the animal’s stupid enough to trap himself.

From Ruth Tongue’s ‘Folktales of England’, collected 1963.

The Magic map shows about 15 round barrows in this area. Surely they add to its weirdness and contribute to it featuring in this story:

..the following story [was] taken down by me verbatim from an old woman in the parish of Luffincott in North Devon. I will give it in her own words:--

“There was an old woman lived in Bridgerule parish, and she had a very handsome daughter. One evening a carriage and four drove to the door, and a gentleman stepped out. He was a fine-looking man, and he made some excuse to stay in the cottage talking, and he made love to the maiden, and she was rather taken with him. Then he drove away, but next evening he came again, and it was just the same thing; and he axed the maid if on the third night she would go in the coach with him, and be married. She said Yes; and he made her swear that she would.

“Well, the old mother did not think that all was quite right, so she went to the pars’n of Bridgerule and axed he about it. ‘My dear,’ said he, ‘I reckon it’s the Old Un. Now look y’ here. Take this ‘ere candle, and ax that gen’leman next time he comes to let your Polly alone till this ‘ere candle be burnt out. Then take it, blow it out, and rin along on all your legs to me.‘

“So the old woman took the candle.

“Next night the gen’leman came in his carriage and four, and he went into the cottage and axed the maid to come wi’ he, as she’d sworn and promised. She said, ‘I will, but you must give me a bit o’ time to dress myself.’ He said, ‘I’ll give you till thickey candle be burnt out.‘

“Now, when he had said this, the old woman blew the candle out and rinned away as fast as she could, right on end to Bridgerule, and the pars’n he tooked the can’l and walled it up in the side o’ the church; you can see where it be to this day (it is the rood loft staircase upper door, now walled up). Well, when the gen’leman saw he was done, he got into his carriage and drove away, and he drove till he comed to Affaland Moor, and then all to wance down went the carriage and horses and all into a sort o bog there, and blue flames came up all round where they went down.”

The conversion of a dead lover into the devil is obviously a Christianised modification of a very ancient belief, that the dead do come and claim female companions. In all likelihood there lingered on a tradition of some gentleman having been engulfed in the morass of Affaland.

From his ‘Book of Folklore’ by the excellent Sabine Baring-Gould (1913).

Between [Mullion] and the Lizard is a fine headland, the Rill, and on its summit are a number of loose, rough stones, known as the Apron String, which the country people say were brought here by an evil spirit, who intended to build with them a bridge across to France for the convenience of smugglers. He was hastening along with his load, which he carried in his apron, when one of its strings broke, and in despair he gave up the idea.

From ‘Cornish Folk-Lore’ by M A Courtney, in the Folk-Lore Journal, v5 n1 (1887).

The Statistical Account of 1793 is quite sure that this stone commemorates where the leader of the Danes, Camus, was killed. The writer called upon George Buchanan’s history of Scotland to back him up. That was written in the late 16th century. I decided to look it up and the relevant chapter, about Malcolm II (the Eighty Third king of Scotland, no less) is really quite grippingly written, different armies dashing about, Malcolm being Wounded in the Head, people being discouraged and crest-fallen, but then things turning about and the Danes “flying to the Mountains towards Murray, before [Camus] had gone two miles, was overtaken by the Pursuers, and he and all his Men cut off. There are monuments extant of this Victory, in an Obeliske, and a Neighbouring Village, which as yet retains the Memorable Name of Camus.” There’s some ghastly stuff about Malcolm’s eventual end as well, but I will resist quoting it.

I’m not convinced though, that it particularly refers to this location in Buchanan’s book. But the story is no doubt the same whichever Camus stone you’re at (and there are / were a number of them).

Even people who’ve known the hill all their lives can find it has a strange and unpleasant atmosphere sometimes. Harry Poole’s account is at the Dorset Books website. There’s plenty of reading between the lines that needs to be done.

I thought I knew the Hill and all its moods after half a lifetime of toiling on its steep sides but this was a new facet, one that I had not come across before. The chilly atmosphere had become oppressive and there was something different, something strange, something which took my concentration for a moment. It came between me and the job I was doing and I cannot account for it try as I will. It’s no good saying you should be more careful. I’ve been using edge tools for over fifty years and apart from an accident with a circular saw which was my own fault, nothing like this has happened before...

There are many of his stories on the website about the area. It’s rather nice that you can’t always tell the line between fact, memory and imagination.

In the Cornish language these stones are called ‘Dons Mein’ which mean Dancing Stones or Dance Stones. About 600 yards to the north there are two standing stones about 200 yards from each other, and to the north-west, about 100 yards distant, another stone 8 feet to 10 feet high above ground.

According to an old tale told by the peasants, the two first-mentioned stones whistle, the third plays, and the 19 dance when they hear the cock crow.

From the Swedish ‘industrial spy’ R R Angerstein’s illustrated travel diary 1753-55’ (readable on Google Books).

There are several prehistoric round barrows on Inkpen Hill, which are supposed to contain buried treasure, including a coffin made either of solid gold or of silver. One particular barrow, on Saddler’s Farm, is said to be haunted by a headless ghost; it is also said that nineteenth century archaeologists who tried to open it up were driven away by violent thunder and lightning.

Westwood and Simpson (’Lore of the Land’, 2005), apparently drawing on Grinsell’s Folklore of Prehistoric Sites, and 3rd Stone magazine v47.

Westwood and Simpson, in their ‘Lore of the Land’ (2005), mention that a golden calf is supposed to be buried here. I wonder if it’s got anything to do with the nearby Cow Down. They prefer biblical explanations. But I like mine.

There is a large tumulus in Stanmore field.. called Burrow Hill by the common people; who have a tradition that a man of that name was interred there in a gold or silver coffin. This barrow.. was opened during the month of April, 1815..

The common people state that an attempt to open this barrow was made about fifty years ago, but the design was frustrated by a dreadful hailstorm, with lightning, which compelled the labourers to desist. Thunder being also heard during the second attempt in question, the excavators were universally considered as the disturbers of the atmosphere; those that remembered the previous event, remarking, that “the undertaking seemed not altogether pleasing to the Lord!”

A terrific thunder-storm happening on the following day, the labourers were obliged to desist and take refuge in a neighbouring cottage; which had such an effect on the mind of one of the workmen employed, that he actually refused to come again. The recurrence of a thunder storm during this, the second attempt, was generally considered as remarkable; but such was its melancholy influence on this poor fellow that he became completely deranged, and never did a day’s work afterwards; being confined in St. Luke’s and other lunatic asylums for the remainder of his life. It is but justice to state, that Mr Long [the director of the excavation] had never heard of this melancholy result of his labours until the present year.

Among other ridiculous stories and puerile superstitions respecting this tumulus, the peasantry relate that it is inhabited by fairies; and that a certain ploughman having broken his share, and gone home to procure some tools, found on his return that the plough had already been mended.

From ‘The history and antiquities of the hundred of Compton, Berks’ by John Snare, 1844.

There is a remarkable tradition amongst the peasantry, who state that this fosse*, from one end to the other, was dug by the Devil in a single night, and that retiring to the summit of the downs he there scraped his spade, the mould from which formed the well-known barrow, Cuckhamsley Hill! Others narrate that it is a furrow made by the Devil, who traversed these downs with his plough!

*ie the Devil’s Dyke or Grim’s Ditch.

From ‘The history and antiquities of the hundred of Compton, Berks’ by John Snare, 1844.

Henry Bett gives a different version of the legend in English Legends (1950). he says that the Jumps Inn, on the road to the church, was so-called because on the spot where it stands three youths were jumping on a Sunday when a mysterious stranger joined them and offered to teach them how to leap. He made three marvellous leaps, the extent of which, says Bett, was still shown (presumably he is referring to the standing stone or stones). The terrified youths tried to escape, but the Devil seized them and they all vanished in a blue flame.

Retold in Westwood and Simpson’s ‘Lore of the Land’ (2005).

It seems no difficult matter to point out the time of year when this great prince died, who is here [in Silbury] interr’d, viz. about the beginning of our present April. I gather it from this circumstance. The country people ahve an anniversary meeting on the top of Silbury-hill on every palm-Sunday, when they make merry with cakes, figs, sugar, and water fetch’d from the Swallow-head, or spring of the Kennet. This spring was much more remarkable than at present, gushing out of the earth, in a continued stream. They say it was spoil’d by digging for a fox who earth’d above, in some cranny thereabouts; this disturb’d the sacred nymphs, in a poetical way of speaking.

... I took notice that apium grows plentifully about the spring-head of the Kennet. Pliny writes defunctorum epulis dicatum apium. To this day the country people have a particular regard for the herbs growing there, and a high opinion of their virtue.

This is from Stukeley’s ‘Abury’, chapter 9 (courtesy of the excellent images at Avebury Now
avebury-web.co.uk/AburyWS/AburyWS.html ).

Hmm, Pliny could be talking about the plant being served at feasts for the dead. But my latin is non-existent, perhaps someone else can translate? I imagine Apium is a carrot-family water-celeryish sort of plant. Maybe fool’s watercress or something similar? Culpeper said that Apium “opens stoppings of the liver, and spleen, cleanses the blood, provokes the menses, helps a cold stomach to digest its meat, and is good against the yellow jaundice”. But that could have been a totally different plant too...

... an artificial peculiarity about [Mither Tap] makes it still more worthy of notice – the great mass of stones that encircles the summit like a fortification... Naturally the Picts – and probably deservedly – get the credit of the building... The fortification has also been attributed to Sir Andrew Leslie of Balquhain, the Earl of Mar’s “master of horse,” who fought and was killed at the Battle of Harlaw.

Tradition has it that at one time he lived on the top, and carried off young women to this rude fortress, as well as took shelter there himself when his lawlessness put him in disgrace with his superior. But there are several reasons why this tradition should not be credited, besides the absurd account which it gives as to the origin of the Maiden Causeway...

There is another, and much later, tradition that the fortress was used as a hiding place by Lord Pitsligo after he had been attainted for his share in the rebellion of ‘45. An active search was made for him after the Battle of Culloden, but he always contrived, though often very narrowly, to evade his pursuers...

When on Bennachie he occasionally visited his friend General Horn at Logie-Elphinstone, and had a night’s hard drinking with him. On the General’s wife remonstrating with him against this habit, Lord Pitsligo replied that, “if she was sittin’ upon a cauld, bare stane up on Bennachie wi’ naething but burn water, she micht ca’ that ‘hard drinkin’.’”

The well is now dry, the water having disappeared it is said, in a single night, though some years ago it gave a fair supply of excellent water. At one time it was filled up with stones, to the disgust of the natives, by a crofter-squatter, who was annoyed by his sheep wandering to the top of the Mither Tap, and occasionally falling into the well. The stones have since been partly removed, but water appears to have forsaken the place.

The last bit sounds suspiciously superstitious, that by insulting the well by filling it in, it decided it wouldn’t bother any more. Maybe.

This and masses more in Alex. Inkson McConnochie’s ‘Bennachie’ (1890) which is on the Archive.orgwebsite.

About three quarters of a mile south-west of Mugdrum cross, are the remains of another celebrated cross, Norman Macduff’s cross, on which so much has been written, both in prose and rhyme. It is situated upon the high ground, in an opening of the Ochils which forms a pass from the valley of Strathearn into the central portion of Fife. This cross is said to have been broken in pieces by the Reformers, on their way from Perth to Lindores; and nothing now remains but the large square block of freestone which formed the pedestal. [..] There are several holes or indentations on its different faces, which tradition says were nine in number, and in which nine rings were at one time fixed. [..] It formed a girth or sanctuary for any of the clan Macduff, or any related to the chief within the ninth degree, who had been guilty of “suddand chaudmelle,” or unpremeditated slaughter. In consequence of this privilege any person entitled to take advantage of it, and requiring its security, fled to the cross, and laying hold of one of the rings, punishment was remitted on his washing nine times at the stone, and paying nine cows and a colpendach or young cow; the nine cows being fastened to the rings. [...] a powerful spring called the Nine wells, where it is supposed that the ablutions took place, still takes its rise at no great distance from the cross.

[..] It was on all occasions necessary when the privilege of Cross-Macduff was claimed, that proof should be given of consanguinity within the limited degree; and where in any case the claimant failed in establishing his right, he was instantly put to death, and buried near the stone. There were formerly several artificial airns and tumuli around the cross, and one rather larger than the rest about fifty yards to the north, but the progress of agriculture which has brought the ploughshare over the fields around the cross, has now removed all traces of them. [..] “Superstition,” says Cant, “forbids the opening of any of them; no person in the neighbourhood will assist for any consideration, nor will any person in or about Newburgh travel that way when dark, for they affirm that spectres and bogies, as they call them, haunt that place.”

From ‘The topographical, statistical and historical gazetteer of Scotland’ v2, published by A Fullarton and Co, 1856.

More details. It’s not on Canmap but if it’s earthfast maybe it is still there?

At a place called Killiesmont, in this parish, there is one of those pieces of ground, sometimes found in Scotland, variously known by the name of the Guidman’s Craft, or the “Gi’en Rig,” that is, given or appropriated to the sole use of the devil, in order to propitiate the good services of that malign being. This piece of land is on the southern declivity of a lofty eminence. At the upper end of the ridge, there is a flat circular stone of about eight feet in diameter, in which there are a number of holes, but for what purpose tradition is silent.

Like other crofts of this description in Scotland, the present remained long uncultivated, in spite of the spread of intelligence. The first attempt to reclaim it was made not more than fifty years since, when a farmer endeavoured to improve it; but , by an accidental circumstance, it happened that no sooner had the plough entered the ground than one of the oxen dropped down dead. Taking this as an irrefragable proof of the indignation of its supernatural proprietor, the peasant desisted, and it remained untilled till it came into the possession of the present occupant, who has had the good taste to allow the large flat stone to remain, a memorial of the idle fancies of preceding generations.

The Gazetteer of Scotland, by Robert and William Chambers. V1, 1844.

This nice bit of rock has an interestingly pagan-sounding bit of folklore, summarised by Sir William Fraser (in ‘The chiefs of Colquhoun and their country’, 1869):

Under Benvoirlich there lies on the roadside near Lochlomond a stone of large dimensions, called Clachan Tarrow or the Bull Stone. The history of this stone as told by tradition is, that it was rolled down the mountain in a desperate struggle between two infuriated bulls. Forty years ago a pulpit was cut out on the side of the stone fronting the road, from which the minister of the parish might occasionally preach to those of his parishioners who lived in this remote district, which is ten miles distant from the parish church.

Hmm. You’d think it’d be quicker just to stand on a box. But JM Briscoe’s photo on geograph does show it to be an impressive backdrop for ecclesiastical ranting. More details here on the Arrochar Parish Church website (but for goodness sake turn off your speakers. You have been warned).

More about the bulls is found in AD Lacaille’s ‘Ardlui Megaliths and their Associations’ (PSAS 63, 1928/9):

The strong flavour of mythology in the Gaelic name, “Clach nan Tairbh,” for the Pulpit Rock, is accounted for in the tradition of the Red Bull of England and the Black Bull of Scotland meeting in mortal combat on Ben Vorlich. So terrific was the contest that the rock on which they fought became detached by reason of the shocks it was subjected to by the onslaughts of the infuriated animals, and finally it slipped down the slope of the mountain to rest permanently in its present situation. Victory, we learn, was with the northern bull which, with its crooked horn, dispatched its rival (Campbell, Popular Tales of the West Highlands). The story ends with the statement that Clach nan Tairbh “is the largest boulder in the three realms” – an indication that the legend associated with the place may go back tothe time when this country was still divided up into the three kingdoms of Strathclyde, Dalriada, and Pictland.

Like me, the author clings desperately to ideas of the rock’s ancient significance: “To reply to a speculative inquiry as to why a more convenient spot, such as a house, should not have been the place for meetings of a religious character after the fall of the ancient church, consideration must be given to some traditional significance borne by the huge boulder to the minds of the inhabitants of the locality – a significance, moreover, which had its origin in remote antiquity.” yeah yeah.

A tradition of Kincardineshire favours the theory that the plague is popularly believed to have had a bodily form. On the farm of Mondynes, in the parish of Fordoun, and at no great distance from the banks of the river Bervie, stands, in the middle of a ploughed field, a large stone, underneath which the plague is said to have been buried.

At the last occurence of the pest in Scotland, say the country people, there dwelt in this district a benevolent warlock, who determined to free his country for ever from the terrible destroyer. By dint of spells, he succeeded in drawing toards him the whole material of the plague, and winding it up round his fingers, as people wind thread. The clew reached the size of a man’s head before every particle was collected. When completed, he took it in his hands to the spot mentioned, put it into the earth, and covered it with this large stone. All of this was done by spells, the power of which ceased when the stone was laid down; so that, according to the popular belief, it that were to be removed, the ball would burst forth, explode, and the plague would again overspread the country.

Mentioned in the Edinburgh Literary Journal (Nov 1828-May 1829), p380.

From John Smith’s ‘Prehistoric Man in Ayrshire’ (1895):

There is a granite boulder on Blairstone on which is cut an incised figure, popularly believed to represent the sword of Wallace; but a glance at it shows that it has not been made to represent a sword, but a cross, which measures 3 feet 6 inches long, and 14 inches over the arms of the cross, which, as well as the top of it, widen out a bit at the ends. The tradition of the neighbourhood is to the effect that Wallace laid his sword on the granite boulder, and some kind artist chalked off the outline, and cut out its representation on the stone; but it is far too small for Wallace’s sword, even if it were the proper shape. For its better preservation, the stone has been surrounded by a stone-and-lime wall.

Or another theory:

Abercrummie says: “There is also upon the descent of Broun-Carrick-Hill, near to the mains of Blairstoune, a big whinstone, upon which there is the dull figure of a cross, which is alleged to have been done by some venerable churchman, who did mediat a peace twixt the King of the Picts and the Scots; and to give the more authority to his proposals, did in their sight, by laying a cross uon the stone, imprint that figure thereon.” Such was, apparently, the tradition when Abercrummie wrote. It has also been attributed to Wallace as well as Bruce. The stone, which may at one time have been standing, lies apparently in the same position as it did in Abercrummie’s time.

Abercrummie was the Rev. Abercrummie of Maybole. He wrote ‘A description of Carrick’ in the 1680s. Here he’s being quoted by James Paterson in ‘History of the County of Ayr’ (1852).

Coflein is determined that this is a natural stone, which it surely is. It’s a big and noticeable one though, at 13ft 2ins by 10ft and 4ft 1in high, “and is a natural erratic, of blue augitic porphyrite.” But its presence has been linked in local consciousness with the once-present St Mary’s Chapel (of which no trace is now said to be), St Mary’s well, and the tradition of a burial site on the hill. The Coflein record also mentions rumours “that it was a ‘Druidical Alter’, or used for performing acts of mortification in connection with worship at the nearby chapel”. It’s interesting that the following quote mentions Special Protection afforded to the stone.

At a place called the Chapel Craigs, about half a mile from the village of Dunlop, there existed until lately the ruins of a chapel, which was dedicated to the Virgin Mary... It stood upon a rock, on the side of a rivulet, which was crossed by steps, called the lady’s steps – which steps, however, have been superseded by a bridge. A beautiful stream of water gushes from the rock.

The existence of this chapel has given name to a number of localities around. A few hundred yards south-west of the site of the chapel, on the gentle swell of the hill, is a Druidical stone, called the Thugart stane, supposed to be a corruption of the grit stane. It appears at one time or another to have been a rocking -stone. The base is so covered with rubbisth, that it has now lost its vibratory motion. It lies on the farm of Brandleside, and the tenant is bound in his tack to protect it, by neither removing it, nor cultivating the ground for a considerable number of square yards around it.

Above the site of the chapel, a pathway was cut out of the solid rock, leading to the top of the hill, where tradition says there was a burying-place belonging to the chapel. The pathway is nearly obliterated, a quarry having been opened in the place a number of years ago.

From ‘History of the County of Ayr’ by James Paterson (1852) p45.