Rhiannon

Local folklore or Victorian gentlemen’s theory? Ten feet high is a bit of an exaggeration. And there’s a burial chamber just across the fields? Not that that looks much like a cromlech any more. Who knows.

“To the west of the church, and about a mile distant from it, are three upright stones, ten feet in height, disposed in the form of a triangle, twelve feet distant from each other, and supposed to be the remaining supporters of an ancient cromlech, which must, from the elevation of the stones, have been one of the loftiest monuments of that kind in the island ; the table stone, if ever there was one, has disappeared ; but the farm on which the upright stones are found still retains the name of the “Cromlech.” ”

A Topographical Dictionary of Wales
Samuel Lewis, 1833
online at Genuki
genuki.org.uk/big/wal/AGY/Llanfechell/Gaz1868.html

In the Hampshire Highlands is Inkpen Beacon, and on the summit rises an old Double Gibbet. As may be expected, either age or weather in time forces this wooden structure to fall to the ground. When this does happen, whoever re-erects it first holds the right of feeding his sheep on the hill-side. It was carefully pointed out that the present gallows are leaning at a perilous angle, and eager expectations are arising.
M. GILLETT.

Folklore, Vol. 34, No. 2. (Jun. 30, 1923), pp. 160-161.

THE GULE.—Some years ago there was a discussion in a provincial paper in the north of Scotland upon the origin and meaning of the following popular rhyme:—

“The gule of the Garioch,
And the Bowman of Mar,—
They met on Bennachie;
The gule wan the war.”

[..] The gule is a weed (wild mustard) too well known in many parts of the country, although, perhaps, it is more generally known by other names. It is also pronounced gwele, and is derived from the same root as gold, gild, gelt, i.e. from the root of yellow, and signifies the yellow plant—a name to which it is well entitled, for it too often covers the green corn-field with a blaze of gold. Another rhyme of the ” north countrie ” also mentions it, characterizing it as one of the pests of an agricultural country:—

“The gule, the Gordon, and the hoodie-craw
Are the three worst enemies Moray ever saw.”

Bowman is an old Scotch word for farmer, from boo, boll, or bow, a farm-house (originally of a dairy or pasture farm), derived probably from Gael. ‘bo’ – cows, cattle. This root occurs very frequently in place-names in the north, as in Eastern and Western Bo, Lingambo, Delnabo, Lochnabo.[..]

Mar and the Garioch (pronounced Gary) are two districts of Aberdeenshire, separated from each other in part by the hill range of Bennachie, with its lofty and picturesque pinnacles of rock. I would, therefore, interpret the rhyme as follows:— There was a time when the gule was prevalent in the Garioch, but had not yet spread into Mar. The agricultural mind of the latter district was alive to the fact and the danger, and used every means to prevent its encroaching. The representative bowman, armed, with full powers, stood, as it were, on Bennachie, on the march of his own territory, to meet and drive back the insidious attacks of the enemy, but in vain,—the gule won the war.
X. X.

Notes and Queries X. X. s4-XII (298): 206. (1873).

Maybe this is pertinent as it is to do with boundaries and agriculture. Or maybe not.

196 1/2 feet and 8 degrees west of north from the nearest stone of the circle is a stone 5 feet 4 inches high, with a hole 5 1/4 inches in diameter through the upper part of it; this stone is now used as a gate-post and may perhaps not now occupy its original position..

An old stonebreaker, who told me in 1898 that he had been in the place for seventy years.. said with regard to the holed stone, that it had been moved from its original position, where it had stood in connection with another holed stone, and that when the sun shone through the holes in some particular way “they called it Midsummer”; this may be only a repetition of something said by modern visitors, but it may, on the other hand, be an echo of an old tradition, so it is perhaps worth recording.

Prehistoric Remains in Cornwall
A. L. Lewis
The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, Vol. 35. (Jul. – Dec., 1905), pp. 427-434.

The whole top of Cooper’s Hill and High Brotheridge is marked on the ‘Magic’ map as a camp (though no other information is given). G. W. B. Huntingford in ‘The Scouring of the White Horse’ (The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, Vol. 87, No. 1. (Jan. – Jun., 1957), pp. 105-114.) tries to make comparisons with the annual goings on at Uffington.. steep slopes, cheese, springs, earthworks.. hmm.. no horse though.

“..every year on the afternoon of Whit Monday a cheese is rolled down a steep slope, steeper if anything than the Manger. This custom is known as the Cooper’s Hill Wake, and it has taken place for a long time, though it does not seem to be known how far back it goes. The site is a flat area at about 800 feet above mean sea level, and the cheeses are rolled down the slope which faces north; at its foot, just above -the 600-foot contour, there are some springs. Much of the hill-top is covered with beech trees, but the slope itself is bare, and at the top stands a maypole, which remains from year to year.. In addition to cheese rolling, there are races for children, tug of war, and sack races.”

On Whitmonday, 27th May, 1912, the custom of “Cheese-bowling” was, as usual, carried out at the Wake held on Cooper’s Hill, not far from the city of Gloucester. The custome, it is said, must be performed annually in order to preserve to the people the rights of common. According to the Gloucestershire Echo of May 28th, the master of the cermonies, Mr W Brookes, who has officiated in this capacity for thirty years, appeared wearing, as usual, a brown top-hat which his parents won in a dancing contest many years ago, and with a chemise over his coat.
He stood by the maypole and repeatedly called to the crowd to form “the alley” down the slope. “The course being clear, the Vicar opened the ball by sending the first ‘cheese’ (a disc of wood wrapped in pink paper) rolling down the hill. Helter-skelter ran nine young men after it, and most of them pitch-poled. The first to secure the disc, stopped at the bottom by a hedge, had to trudge uphill again, and there exchange it for the prize cheese... The ‘Cheese-bowling’ was varied by some rural sports on a stretch of flat ground near the maypole. These included running, jumping in sacks, and a tug of war, in which the lady contestants once more pulled stronger than the mere men.”
W CROOKE.

Scraps of English Folk-Lore, VI
A. Lukyn Williams; D. H. Moutray Read; W. Crooke; Ella M. Leather; F. Weeks; E. M. Cobham; Estella Canziani; E. B. Pitman; E. L. Allhusen; E. Wright
Folklore, Vol. 23, No. 3. (Sep., 1912), pp. 349-357.

“There seem to be few genuine traditions attached to the Horse, for its ‘traditional’ attribution to King Alfred is almost certainly due to Francis Wise in 1738 and is not mentioned by Baskerville or Defoe. But it is believed that if you make a wish standing on the Horse’s eye and turning round three times, your wish will come true. I was told of this by local inhabitants forty years ago.”

The Scouring of the White Horse
G. W. B. Huntingford
The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, Vol. 87, No. 1. (Jan. – Jun., 1957), pp. 105-114.

”The Long Stone, East Worlington: dropped by the Devil when he heard the bells of East Worlington church. (Hill, H. A., 1910: Quotidian Quotations: the East Worlington Kalendar for 1910).”

from
Notes on the Folklore of Prehistoric Sites in Britain
L. V. Grinsell
Folklore, Vol. 90, No. 1. (1979), pp. 66-70.

“It is believed that the almost total absence of coins from the recent excavations (1962-3) was largely due to the long-standing custom for the local children to search there for any coins which Wayland might have overlooked. (Disbury, D. 1968. History of Ashbury, II).”

From
Notes on the Folklore of Prehistoric Sites in Britain
L. V. Grinsell
Folklore, Vol. 90, No. 1. (1979), pp. 66-70.

Would excavators really have been expecting to find many coins anyway?!

“A poem completed by John Ruskin when he was 12 describes this site as a Druidical temple and invents the following ‘fakelore’:

Although very fine things,
I think some great giant was playing at ninepins,---
And leaving the place, ere his ball he could swing,
Has left all his ninepins stuck up in a ring!

Ruskin 1832

The site is still known under the alternative name of the Druid Circle and is so described in much of the earlier literature.”

Notes on the Folklore of Prehistoric Sites in Britain
L. V. Grinsell
Folklore, Vol. 90, No. 1. (1979), pp. 66-70.

Leslie Grinsell reported from Hogg’s 1975 ‘Hillforts of Britain’, that:
“Within the Early Iron Age defences are the foundations of an early medieval castle which could well have belonged to Macbeth.”

‘Could well have belonged’ eh.
Notes on the Folklore of Prehistoric Sites in Britain
L. V. Grinsell
Folklore, Vol. 90, No. 1. (1979), pp. 66-70.

Mynydd Bychan is a little Iron Age (and Roman) settlement. It’s right next to Pwllywrach, which is mentioned in the following story from Marie Trevelyan:

In a story formerly attached to Pwllywrach, Glamorgan, it is asserted that one of the huntsmen was approaching the kennels one evening, when he heard the wild barking of dogs in the air immediately above his head. It was twilight, and no animals were at hand. The hounds in the kennels were silent. Presently the unseen dogs barked again, and somebody called out “Tally-ho-ho!” It was more like a wail than a cry. When the sound was repeated the huntsman responded with a wailing “Tally-ho-ho-ho!” The next moment all the pack of hounds in the kennels broke loose, surrounded the huntsman, and tore him to pieces, so that nothing but bones remained. People said it was the revenge of the Cwn Wybyr, whose cry the unfortunate man had imitated. In after-years the peasantry declared that often in the night-time the cries of the huntsman and the baying of hounds could be heard distinctly. It was stated that the huntsman had forgotten to feed the hounds, and they fell upon him and killed him. The kennels were pulled down because of this calamity. The spot is still called “the old kennels.” [J. R.]

From ‘Folk-lore and Folk-stories from Wales’ (1909).

Well, this story is about a man who was travelling from St Buryan to the farm of Burnewhall, when he got rather lost. When you look at the map you’ll see this standing stone is right next to the path he might have chosen. The story is possibly from Bottrell’s ‘Fairy Dwellings on Selena Moor’ (book 2, p94-102), of which (I think) a version is below. I’m sorry it’s so long, but I think the old-fashioned language is always nice:

In the Land’s End,about a mile south of St.Buryan,the coast road passes by two farms,Selena and Burnewhall,or Baranhual as it used to be.They lie between the road and the cliffs,in a part of Cornwall which once upon a time was a desolate place of marsh and wild undergrowth,of quaking bog and granite outcrops.In this wilderness,one dark night about two centuries ago,William Noy of Buryan became lost when on his way to Baranhual farm.After three days and nights of fruitless search by his friends,his horse was found and shortly afterwards,William himself.

He lay fast asleep in the shelter of a tumbledown building buried beneath a massive and almost impenetrable thicket of thorns.Awakened,he showed no sense of time or place,although recognising his rescuers and asking plenty of questions as to the whys and wherefores of his plight.Dazed,and as stiff as a stake,he was lifted to his horse and taken home,where,in the passage of time,he was able to reconstruct the strange events of the night he left Buryan for Baranhaul.His great mistake,he then saw,was to have forced his unwilling horse to take a short cut across Selena Moor for,very soon,although he decided to give the animal its head,both he and his mount were quite lost.Undoubtedly they were piskey-led,as William later came to realise.By and by they found themselves in a forest,apparently dark and deserted,and quite unknown to them.Quite suddenly William became aware of a myriad candles glimmering through the trees and the sound of music.At this,the horse showed every sign of terror and,being anxious to go on to ask for help,he was obliged to tether the animal and proceed alone.

William made his way wonderingly through an orchard and came upon a meadow in a clearing in the forest,where there was also an old house.Upon the mounting block before the door stood a girl dressed in white,playing a fiddle.But it was not she who claimed his attention.Upon the forest green hundreds of small people whirled and gyrated at giddy speed to the music she made,while as many more sat at rows of miniature tables,feasting and drinking.So inviting was the scene that William made a move to join the dancers but at once the girl in white threw him a warning glance and,finding another to play the music,drew him quickly into the moonlit orchard.He and she were almost of a height and at once he saw that the girl who looked at him directly was none other than his sweetheart Grace Hutchens of Selena,who had died three years ago.Overjoyed,he made a move to kiss her.

“No,no!My dearest William,you must not touch me,nor the fruit in this orchard,nor any flower or blade of grass,for all this is enchanted. A plum from one of these trees was my own undoing three years ago....This is how it came about.I was looking for one of our goats lost upon Selena Moor at the edge of dusk.Hearing your voice call to the dogs not far away,I struck over the moor to reach you,my beloved William,but I became confused and lost,buried in bracken that was head high,and surrounded by bogs and streams.At last,very tired,I came upon this orchard.Beyond lay a garden filled with roses and the sound of music,surrounded by trees.I know now that I was piskey-led,for once in the garden I could find no way out.”

Grace went on to explain how she had eaten a plum,the sweetness of which turned bitter in her mouth and she swooned.On awakening,she found herself surrounded by hundreds of Small People,rejoicing that they now had someone to care for them,as well as to tend their numerous changelings. “In fact”,added Grace,“that is what I am,in a way, because during my trance they stole me – as you see me now – leaving behind a changeling body which you and my friends saw buried in Buryan churchyard.The baby changelings are reared on milk from nanny goats lured into the garden by Small People disguised as billy goats.Their own children are very few and much treasured because the Small People are themselves very old,thousands of years old.And of course they are not Christians,because when they were in human form it was long before the days of Christ.Instead they worship the stars.”

William suddenly felt he wanted to get away from this rather frightening spot and take Grace with him. He remembered that a garment turned inside out would break a spell of this kind so,quick as a flash,he did exactly that with his glove and flung it into the crowd of Small People.At once everything changed,the house becoming a ruin,the garden a wilderness of moor-withey and water,the orchard a bramble thicket.The Small People vanished from sight and with them his beloved Grace. Felled by a mysterious blow,William fell asleep on the very spot where he was found by his rescuers.From that day on,he pined slowly away,searching upon the moor ceaselessly for Grace until at last he,too,died and was buried alongside her in Buryan churchyard.That is,unless he also had entered faeryland as a changeling.

Online at Cornish Connexions. Who take pains to point out that the stories “are only stuff of myth and legend and do not reflect the views of modern society or those of Connexions.” Ok.

The Farmer of Houghton was very friendly with the pixies. He used to leave a floorful of corn when he was shorthanded, and the pixies would thresh it for him. They did an immense amount of work until one night the farmer’s wife peeped through the key-hole and saw them hard at it, and thought it a crying shame that they should go naked and cold. So she made some clothes for them and left them on the threshing floor, and after that there was no more help from the pixies. They did not forget the farmer however, for one day, soon after Withypool Church bells were hung, the pixy father met him on an upland field.
‘Wilt give us a lend of thy plough and tackle?’ (pack horses and their crooks).
‘What do ‘ee want un vor?’ the farmer asked.
‘I do want to take my goodwife and littlings out of the noise of they ding dongs.‘
The farmer trusted the pixies and lent them his horses, and they moved, lock, stock and barrel, to Winsford Hill. And presently the old pack-horses trotted back looking like beautiful two-year-olds.

Some Late Accounts of the Fairies
K. M. Briggs
Folklore, Vol. 72, No. 3. (Sep., 1961), pp. 509-519.

The capstone of Lesquite is supposed to have been thrown here by the Devil in a game of quoits (so says B C Spooner, in The Giants of Cornwall, in Folklore, Vol. 76, No. 1. (Spring, 1965).

Barnatt (Prehistoric Cornwall, the Ceremonial Monuments, 1982) says that the quoit was thrown from nearby Helman Tor. Apparently there are natural features of a ‘similar form’ at Helman Tor, about a mile away, that can be seen from the quoit.

Fear of meeting the Wild Hunt prevents most villagers from using the footpath across the fields under the camp after dark yet. It is told that one man who dared to cross it about midnight heard the sounds of a pack of hounds in full cry, and for a time wondered what fetched “the old squire” out hunting at that time of night. However, as there was evidently a good run going on, he hastened to open the field gate toward which the pack was coming, and stood by to watch. And when the dogs came through, they were not the squire’s, but terrible great black dogs, with fiery red tongues lolling out, and the gentleman with them was riding a great black horse without a head.

No harm came to the man in this case. But only the quick wit of another man saved him. He also dared to cross the path in the dark, and was overtaken by the Wild Hunt as it passed overhead. And when he looked up, there was the devil himself following the hounds and riding on a great pig. What was worse, the devil pulled up and spoke to him.
“Good fellow,” he called, “how ambles my sow?”
The man was “most terrible feared,” but he knew that he must make some answer, so he replied:
“Eh, by the Lord, her ambles well enow!”
And that saved him, for the devil could not abide the Name of the Lord, so he and his dogs vanished in a flash of fire!

Local Traditions of the Quantocks
C. W. Whistler
Folklore, Vol. 19, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1908), pp. 31-51.

..The riders of the Wild Hunt are specially localised at the riverward end of the trackway [from Dowsborough], where the hill fort of Combwich has a most uncanny reputation. The hill itself is a bold, rounded mass of the mountain limestone of the Mendip formation, cropping out through the red sandstone, and is said to have been brought from the Mendips by the devil when he dug out Cheddar gorge, which is plainly visible from any point of the distric commanding an eastward view across the Parrett. After throwing some material into the sea, thereby forming Flatholme and Steepholme islands, the next spadeful made the Knoll at Brent, falling short of the water, and the labourer decided to carry the next load westward. He filled a basket accordingly, and with it on his back leapt over the Parrett, landing so heavily that the load was jerked from the basket to form the hill, at whose foot one may still see, deeply impressed in the rock, the mark of his hoof. This is a very definite imprint, but the corresponding impression of his hand – for the devil came down on all fours as he lighted from the leap – on the opposite side of the hill, I have not been able to locate, though it is said to be there.

Local Traditions of the Quantocks
C. W. Whistler
Folklore, Vol. 19, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1908), pp. 31-51.

Local memory has it that “men from Dowsborough beat down men from Stowey Castle, and the men from Stowey beat down Stogursey Castle”.

[..]

..The great hill-camp of Danesborough is practically the central point of our district, and it is a usual saying with us that a Quantock man never cares to be out of sight of “Dowsboro’ pole.” [..] I have already mentioned the tradition that at Danesborough there was a massacre of “the Danes,” and though it is not likely that those marauders ever reached the camp, no doubt some such slaughter did take place there, possibly in the invasion of Kentwine. But it is said that the old warriors are still living within the hill, and that at midnight their songs and merriment as they feast may be heard.

[..]

From Danesborough runs eastward the ancient trackway to the Cannington, or Combwich, fort and the tidal ford. And along this route the “Wild Hunt” still passes overhead, coming from the river to the hills. The belief of the hunt is strong with us, but I have never heard that its passing is held to portend anything special, as in the north.

Local Traditions of the Quantocks
C. W. Whistler
Folklore, Vol. 19, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1908), pp. 31-51.

There are a number of round cairns up here on Wills Neck – there doesn’t seem to be a ‘camp’ though, as the following author suggests, but the folklore does relate to the fields below:

[A camp], unnamed, lying in Aisholt parish, on the eastern slopes, and guarding a pass over the highest ridge of the hills, “Will’s Neck,” seems to be associated with a more definite battle-tradition yet. The field below the spur of the hill where the camp lies, in which the fight took place, is still pointed out as that where “the worst battle ever fought in these parts was fought. The dead men were heaped all so high as the top of the gates, and the blood ran out so deep as the second thill,” (i.e. gate bar). The folk can tell you no more, but will repeat the detail, only adding that it is not so long ago that the graves of the dead men could be seen in the field, and that swords and spears had been dug up often. Nothing is visible now to break the surface, and it is not known what became of the weapons. This statement is probably traditional, and may date back indefinitely.

Local Traditions of the Quantocks
C. W. Whistler
Folklore, Vol. 19, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1908), pp. 31-51.

Turning the Devil’s Boulder. Primitive Rite in Village of Shebbear, North Devon.

The Times of November 4, 1952, in announcing a “traditional survival” in “an isolated upland village” said “The pride of the village is the brown monolith – an arenaceous conglomerate stone – that reposes beneath an oak-tree outside the Norman church. On the evening of November 5 the bell-ringers unfailingly assemble in the belfry with a designedly clamorous and discordant peal, which is looked upon as a challenge to evil spirits. Accompanied by the Vicar the ringers then leave the church, arm themselves with crowbars, and surround the boulder. Shouting excitedly, as though to encourage one another, they then turn over the boulder.

The oldest inhabitant, a blacksmith 87 years of age, has given his boyhood memories of the custom. He told me that in his time the custom took place later in the evening and torches and lanterns were used.

The turning of the boulder is regarded in a most serious light by the older villagers. Any neglect of this parochial function would, they say, lead to evil consequences for the crops.

E.F. COOTE LAKE

Folk Life and Traditions
E. F. Coote Lake
Folklore, Vol. 64, No. 1. (Mar., 1953), pp. 301-302.

Apparently an unusual ball-game was played here on Palm Sunday: the details are given at Martinsell where a similar thing was also played: Cley Hill is another site.

A festival used to be held on top of Martinsell on Palm Sunday, which closely resembled an ordinary country fair. The principal feature of the meeting was the fighting which took place there. The inhabitants of the district would reserve the settlement of their quarrels till the day of the festival, and the scenes which then occurred were often of the most brutal character. But this part of the ceremonies was suppressed, and the fair soon died out.

People still meet on the top of the hill, however, and a curious game is played on the steep slope. A number of boys stand one above the other, and the one at the foot starts a ball, which is hit up the hill with hockey sticks, each of the players passing it to the one above him, until it reaches the top boy, when it is allowed to roll down, and the game is begun again.

I cannot find that any peculiar viands were sold. An old man said “land figs” were eaten, but these seem to be the ordinary fruit. I am told that boys play a game at Roundway Hill, near Devizes, on Palm Sunday, similar to that played at Martinsell.

Folklore Scraps from Several Localities
Alice B. Gomme
Folklore, Vol. 20, No. 1. (Mar. 30, 1909), pp. 72-83.

Perhaps there’s nothing here. Or perhaps there’s still a vague bump. It seems to be in the garden of one of the first houses on the east side of the road (the Droveway?).

In what was early this century the garden of the home of Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson there stood a Bronze Age round barrow. It was partly removed in 1920 for a tennis court, when it was found to contain the primary burial of a human skeleton, probably crouched, above which were six later, most likely pagan Saxon, skeletons. These finds caused the house and its surroundings to acquire the reputation of being haunted, with the result that Sir Johnston experienced some difficulty in getting servants or keeping them. The site of the barrow is on Bay Hill, St Margarets at Cliffe, at TR 36414449. I have not seen it but it was still about two feet high in 1964..

The Folklore of a Round Barrow in Kent
L. V. Grinsell
Folklore > Vol. 103, No. 1 (1992), p. 111

The Drake Stone.. consists of one large and one small glaciated boulder of Spilsby Sandstone. This is said to have been all one stone, and that the smaler one has been split off the larger; the stones are always spoken of in the singular. Trollope says [..1872] that “the stone is said to have stood upon another stone at one time.” Only in one traditional account, out of many, were the stones called the “Duck and Drake Stones.”

[..]

Local tradition says that a man was ploughing in the field that is known as “Drake Stone Close,” when he was horrified to find horses and plough fast disappearing into a sort of quicksand. He himself managed to keep on firm ground, but he could not get the horses out, try as he would. As the quicksand finally closed over them, with a horrid sucking noise, a drake seemed to fly out of the hole where the horses had disappeared, and flew away with a discordant quacking. This scared the man so badly that he hurriedly left for home. Next morning he re-visited the spot to find the ground firm, but a slight depression indicated the site of the tragedy, in the middle of which was a large boulder stone, something the shape of a drake’s head; since when this stone has been known as the Drake Stone.

It was always said, that under the Stone there was a great deal of treasure hidden, and many were the efforts to obtain it on the quiet, but no one was successful. Then a man, bolder than the rest, determined to make a great effort to get this treasure, openly; so he got together a yoke of oxen, not of ordinary strength, but all the oxen that he had or could borrow, and he fastened great chains round the stone, and fastened the oxen to them. At the given word the beasts pulled and heaved and managed to move the great stone a very little way from its bed, but then the chains snapped, and the oxen collapsed, and the guardian spirit of the treasure flew from under the stone in the form of a drake, and back went the stone into its accustomed place again.
After that it was deemed unwise to meddle with the stone, and it was left severely alone.

Lincolnshire Folk-Lore
Ethel H. Rudkin
Folklore, Vol. 45, No. 2. (Jun., 1934), pp. 144-157.

Well, you’d really think it was to do with drakes=dragons, rather than quack-quack drakes. Still I guess that’s what happens once a word goes out of popular vocabulary?

THE ARPAFEELIE BASIN STONE

A curious story is attached to an ancient stone, embedded in the ground, in a beechwood on the estate of Alangrange, near Arpafeelie, Black Isle, Ross-shire. The stone, roughly oblong, contains a circular cavity, about eight inches across and eight or nine inches deep, which is very carefully formed out of the hard rock. The stone lies a few yards south of a prehistoric “hut circle” of which there are three pairs, situated on a ridge, called Taendore--Gaelic, Tigh-an-druidbh-- house of the Druids. It is of the class known as Basin Stones.

[...]

After a lapse of years the following sequel in events [to the story in PSAS] occurred. In March 1937 permission was given to the Curator of the Inverness Highland Museum, by the owner of Alangrange for the removal of the stone to the Museum. In view of this, two local residents went to examine the stone and accidentally turned it over on one side, leaving it lying thus unnoticed. Forty-eight hours later, the family at Taendore received news of the death of a child relative, caused by an accident. Also a sheep farmer, residing at the same farm, suddenly collapsed while escorting a cousin to her car. Whether or not these incidents were regarded as coincidences, or as acts of diabolical agency, the owner of the estate felt compelled by force of local and family feeling, to cancel the permission for removal of the stone, which she had given so recently.

It, therefore, rests in its original home at Arpafeelie, apparently for all time, as to this day none of the local country people will approach within near distance of the stone.

These later events in the history of the stone, were recorded, at the time, by the Curator of the Museum, in the Inverness Courier, 1937.

There was also a belief that the rainwater contained in the basin of this stone, was a cure for barrenness. “Childless women visited the stone and bathed in its water before sunrise” (Pro.Soc. of Antiquaries Scot. Vol. XVI, p387). This “cure” was resorted to up to the year 1882, at least.
E.J. BEGG.

The Arpafeelie Basin Stone
E. J. Begg
Folklore, Vol. 61, No. 3. (Sep., 1950), p. 152.

I always imagined the Afanc as a bit like a watery dragon. But it seems he could talk and wield a spade:

A North Pembrokeshire legend says that in ancient days the Afanc, dwelling on the Precelly slopes somewhere above Brynberian, ravaged the countryside, committing such depredations on the live-stock of the population that a consultation of the wisest folk was held to devise some means of getting rid of him. They decided to slay him by a trick. A deputation was sent to him to ask him to dig a well for the people. This he agreed to do, and forthwith began working furiously. When he had dug to a great depth (“over one hundred yards” said one relater) the people above tipped into the hole he had made a big load of “white stones” {? Alabaster} which they had collected on the mountain-sides, intending to crush him to death. But next morning they found him still digging, and were informed by him that there had been a rather heavy snowstorm on the previous day. Thus they were unable to do away with him; and he continued as before, eventually “dying a natural death”, after which “he was buried on the hill side” between Hafod and Brynberian, “and his tomb {a cairn of stones} may be seen to this day”. In June, 1928 Charles Oldham and I visited this stone circle which is close to the village of Brynberian, well out on the moor.
This story was collected by T.R.Davis (now Schoolmaster of Newport School) and included by him in original Welsh in his prize essay on N. Pembrokeshire Folklore (MS. Maenchlochog, 1906). He heard it from shepherds and cotters in the Precelly district.

Notes on Pembrokeshire Folk-Lore, Superstitions, Dialect Words, etc
Bertram Lloyd
Folklore, Vol. 56, No. 3. (Sep., 1945), pp. 307-320.

Well this is really ghastly, I’m afraid.

..an account [of this] appeared in a Devonshire newspaper one day last spring, on the Dartmoor, where the foaming river Plym rushes through a ravine under the tall cliffs of the Dewerstone. This wild spot is haunted by the Black Huntsman, who with his “Wish-hounds” careers over the waste at night. A story is told of this phantom that a farmer, riding across the moor by night, encountered the Black Hunter, and being flushed with ale, shouted to him “Give us a share of your game!” The Huntsman thereupon threw him something that he supposed might be a fawn, which he caught and carried in his arms till he reached his home, one of the old moorland farms. There arrived, he shouted, and a man came out with a lantern. “Bad news, master,” said the man; “you’ve had a loss since you went out this morning.” “But I have gained something,” answered the farmer, and getting down brought what he had carried to the lantern, and beheld---his own dead child! During the day his only little one had died.

Folklore Parallels and Coincidences
M. J. Walhouse
Folklore, Vol. 8, No. 3. (Sep., 1897), pp. 196-202.

Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of Rhiannon’s folklore speculations. I’ve never been that convinced by the ‘Hester Peglar’ school of thought when it comes to the name of this long barrow, and recently found some solid(ish) confusion about it (see ‘Misc’). And now I have a no less incredible alternative..

I came across mention of ‘Heg-Peg Dump’, which is a suet pudding made with plums and damsons. It was made, in Gloucestershire (where the Tump is), on the occasion of St Margaret’s Day (hence the ‘Peg’ part of the name, which was her nickname) – which is the 20th July.

Then I read this, which relates the pudding to the specific area of Gloucestershire near the Tump:

Village Feasts.--Many Cotswold parishes keep their annual Feast in the autumn, usually on the Sunday after the church dedication festival, which is sometimes observed on the date according to Old Style. There are family gatherings, a special dish for the occasion, and often open house, especially at the smaller public-houses. [..] at Nympsfield, puddings or dumplings are made of wild plums or “heg-pegs.” There is a local rhyme, twitting the Nympsfield folks, who are very sensitive on the point:-

Nympsfield is a pretty place,
Built upon a tump,
And what the people live upon
Is heg-peg [or “ag-pag”] dump.

Nympsfield lies between “Hetty Pegler’s tump,” – i.e. Uley Bury tumulus, --and Lynch Field; but there is a Barrow field, of which only the name remains, in the village itself.

Cotswold Place-Lore and Customs (Continued)
J. B. Partridge
Folklore, Vol. 23, No. 4. (Dec., 1912), pp. 443-457.

Whaddya reckon. Surely not coincidence?? Could the tump have reminded them of the pudding in shape? Or did they connect St Margaret with the tump.. is St Margaret a christianisation of another protective goddess? Or am I going too far now. Shall we just stick with the pudding theory. Or indeed consign the whole idea to the back burner. The question still remains of whether / when the local people were aware of the barrow – how old is the name??

Four Stones, Old Radnor.-- There was a great battle fought here, and four kings were killed. The Four Stones were set up over their graves. (Kington Workhouse, 1908.)

Welsh Folklore Items, I
Ella M. Leather
Folklore, Vol. 24, No. 1. (Mar., 1913), pp. 106-110.

A fine assortment of early opinions on [the henge] is fortunately available. Thomas Pennant, journeying north, wrote of it in 1769, “Some suppose this to have been designed for tilting matches, and that the champions entered at each opening. Perhaps that might have been the purpose of it: for size forbids one to suppose it to be an encampment.” Four years later, however, he visited the Thornbrough henges (all three are very similar) and changed his mind, deciding that they at any rate, were designed for holm-ganga, or single combat in the Norse style, with the contestants entering at either side and spectators thronging the bank. He cites Saxo Grammaticus to illustrate this, and he adds, “I daresay the ring near Penrith, in Cumberland” (i.e. King Arthur’s Round Table) “was formed for the same purpose.”

Hutchinson, who had also visited the Round Table by 1773, noted: “We were induced to believe this was an antient tilting ground, where justings had been held: the approaches seemed to answer for the career, and the circle appears sufficient for the champions to shew their dexterity in the use of the lance and horsemanship: the whole circus being capable of receiving a thousand spectators on the outer side of the ditch.”
Pennant was not the first to record the tradition of “tilting” at the Round Table. Bishop Gibson, a century before, had suggested “Tis possible enough that it might be a Justing-place...

Folklore from a Northern Henge Monument
Charles Thomas
Folklore, Vol. 64, No. 3. (Sep., 1953), pp. 427-429.

During the late summer of 1952 the writer was of a team of archaeologists [excavating Thornborough Central henge].. Curious villagers often visited the “dig”, and from the gossip of one, a fairly intelligent quarry foreman of about 50, the following beliefs emerged. The henge was supposed to have “treasure in’t middle”. It was known as “the charging-ground” and had been used as such by either the Romans or the Saxons (a previous local find of a Roman bath lent favour to the former alternative). The protagonists, mounted on horseback either for tilting or for single combat, had entered at the two opposing entrances, and had hurtled to their mutual encounter at the centre. Cheering spectators had thronged the banks, isolated from the combatants by the inner ditch, which was filled with water.

[..] this local aetiology is of some interest, because it has a parallel in another henge, King Arthur’s Round Table, Penrith, Cumberland.

Folklore from a Northern Henge Monument
Charles Thomas
Folklore, Vol. 64, No. 3. (Sep., 1953), pp. 427-429.

[The fairies] were also associated with caves. One lived in Thor’s Cave, and a whole clan were to be found in the cavern beneath Ludchurch.

St. Mary’s, Leek, Staffs.
W.P. WITCUTT

Notes on Staffordshire Folklore
W. P. Witcutt
Folklore, Vol. 53, No. 2. (Jun., 1942), pp. 126-127.

The Fiddling Hobthurse of Thor’s Cave in the Manifold Valley, whose “fiddling” or screeching filled the cavern, was however something more than a harmless sprite. One cannot go far wrong in taking him to be the god to whom sacrifice was offered on the altar in the cave. Thor’s Cave, as a matter of fact, has nothing to do with Thor. Its old name is Thursehole, the cave of the thurse or fairy..

Notes on Staffordshire Folklore
W. P. Witcutt
Folklore, Vol. 52, No. 3. (Sep., 1941), pp. 236-237.

Hinckley Point [sic], on the Severn Coast, where an Atomic Power Station has been built within the last few years, was considered for centuries to be fairy-haunted land. The neighbourhood is full of pixy tales and beliefs, and the Quantock people are quite outspoken in their expectation of disaster for the intruding Power Station. It has had, and is still having, a more than reasonable number of setbacks. There have been some bad accidents which are freely ascribed in the countryside to its being built where it is. Usually, West Somerset people will not discuss their still-remembered fairy-beliefs, but in this case their speech is suggestive and indicates a full knowledge of the tradition.
[..]The elderly, and not so elderly, find a ghoulish pleasure in recounting the accidents and dangers attendant on its building. One or two grim watchers have tallied up deaths and near-deaths at one a year since the beginning of the desecration. Of these they say, ‘Ah! they won’t stop till there’s seven.’ Are these victims to placate the River Severn or the vengeful pixy-people? An answer to modern boasting abou the triumphs of science is: ‘You and I won’t be here come a hundred years time. But They’ll have ‘en! Hundred years be nothing to They. They can bide.‘

Watching Folklore Grow
R. L. Tongue
Folklore, Vol. 75, No. 2. (Summer, 1964), pp. 110-112.