Green Men. Part one.

Like King Arthur, Robin Hood is most firmly associated in the world’s collective imagination with England – and specifically Sherwood Forest.  However, as with King Arthur, when we look back in history we find that myth, legend and established history are not quite so simple and both these strange, alluring figures also have links to the place we now call Scotland.

Indeed, many of the earliest written references to Robin Hood, can be sourced from southern Scotland and not England.  The important 15th century history of Scotland  Scotichronicon begun by John of Fordun in the 14th century and completed by Walter Bower, Abbot of Inchcolm, in the 1440s, contains possibly the first written mention of Robin Hood – but as a very old legend.

John of Fordoun’s Chronica Gentis Scotorum or Chronicles of the Scottish People was concluded, unfinished, around 1385 and lamented the lack of older records which were destroyed during the almost continuous warfare of the 1300s.  Indeed, this first attempt to write a continuous history of Scotland was written as an expression of national identity  and in reaction to the invasion of Edward I of England – whom Bower describes as a tyrant whose invasion led to the destruction of much of Scotland’s ancient manuscripts and histories, during the Wars of Independence.  Bower extended the reach of this history, which he titled Scotichronicon, up to the murder of James I, King of Scots, in 1437.

The Scotichronicon is a fascinating insight into medieval Scotland.  The founding legend of the Scots as descendants of Scota, a daughter of  Pharoah, is included as is a passage on why many Englishmen have tails!

The reference to Robin Hood, under the year 1265, refers to

the famous armed robber, Robert Hood, along with Little John and their accomplices.  The foolish common folk eagerly celebrate the deeds of these men with gawping enthusiasm in comedies and tragedies, and take pleasure in hearing jesters and bards singing of them more than in other romances.  Yet some of his exploits thus recited are commendable…

An alternative translation starts this passage by calling him the famous murderer!   Robin, of course, is a nickname for Robert.  Robert Burns, Scotland’s eighteenth century national poet, for example, was never (never!) known as Rabbie Burns – despite the common use of this today – but he was, in his lifetime, known as Rob or Robin.

Fourdon / Bower mention Barnsdale in the English county of Yorkshire as the location of the tale of Robin Hood.  The passage concerns his devout worship and godliness, rather than glorifying some daring deeds.  It is interesting, though, that it is the celebration of the figure of Hood by the people that takes most of the author’s attention here.  Also notable is the fact that ballads or stories of Robin were not simply confined to England.  Like Arthur, the legend of Hood – or the spirit of who (or what) he represents – would cross national boundaries.

Around 1450, a ballad was written in Middle English, “A Gest of Robyn Hode” and may well be a printed version of a much older oral ballad or story, which travelling minstrels may have sung to audiences.

Lythe and listin gentilmen
That be of frebore blode
I shall you tel of a gode yeman
His name was Robyn Hode

Another ballad, “Robin Hood and the Munk” [Monk], was also published around 1450 in England and, like “A Gest‘, may incorporate much older folk ballads and tales, perhaps dating back to the period of the Wars of Independence in the 14th century.  That would help explain why the ballads and legend of Robin had travelled around southern Scotland – minstrels perhaps accompanying the soldiers of the English army.  Robin seems to have been a central part of plays that were performed around May Day, in both England and southern Scotland. These plays included performances of tales of Robin Hood, dancing and feasting, celebrating spring and fertility in the land.  It is interesting that where May Day celebrations take place today, a man in green – or a Green Man – feature, including in the resurrected (or manufactured, depending on your point of view!) Beltane Festival in Edinburgh.

greenman

In the first half of the twentieth century, the idea that Robin, dressed in forest green attire,  was a symbolic figure taken from folklore or earlier folk-belief gained some support.  Margaret Murray, whose Witch Cult in Western Europe, became one of the set texts for those who claimed historical witchcraft to be alive and kicking into the modern era, claimed such.   Robin Goodfellow, Puck, the Green Man and others, besides, were proposed by a number of different authors as being a nature spirit, or remnant of pagan Briton’s ancient belief system.  It’s also worth remembering that green clothing was associated with Fairies and also featured in witchcraft confessions of the 16th and 17th centuries.

robinhoodnadsirguy

The idea of continuous witch cults, surviving from the pre-Christian era into the present day is an idea which still divides opinion, academic and popular, to this day.  Now, however, there is little mainstream support for the idea that Robin was some type of spiritual entity, linked to the woodlands – an erstwhile nature spirit or guardian.  But, the idea still appeals to many.  To some, Robin Hood is a simple corruption of Robin of the Wood, a green god which lingered on long after Christianity replaced (partially?) the Old Ways.

Supporters of this idea claim that this is why the figure of the Green Man can be found in so many medieval churches.  The term Green Man is modern – dating to a 1939 volume of The Folklore Journal, where Lady Raglan wrote of  “The Green Man in Church Architecture”. Jack-in-the-Green is an alternative that has been used, as has Herne, Cernunnos, Bacchus and, of course, Rob or Hob.  The origins of the figure and the reasons why he has appeared carved in some many churches and temples around the world is obscure. Examples can be seen from Saint Magnus’ Cathedral, Orkney; to Nicosia, Cyprus; Istanbul and beyond.

In Scotland, the image is more rare, but can be found in spectacular detail in Rosslyn Chapel, Midlothian, with over 100 different appearances in this spectacular building.

There is also at least one little green man in Melrose Abbey, Selkirkshire which, not surprisingly is less well known that his near neighbour, the bagpipe-playing pig.  But more on this another time…

 

Windydoors

Having spent a very lazy week, when all thoughts of the government-sanctioned daily exercise was replaced with just one more chocolate digestive and a cup of coffee, I decided that exercise was in order today.  It was sunny, too, for the first time in days and so we went on an eight-mile round trip walking out of Stow to the little farm of Windydoors.

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I’ve cycled up here before, some of the hills almost finishing me off as they are pretty steep. The views of the surrounding countryside are worth the effort, though, looking out over the Selkirkshire countryside towards the Eildon Hills.  Hare, pheasant, sheep and cattle were the only inhabitants we saw on most of our trip, although nearer to Stow cyclists and walkers were all out for their exercise time, too.

We were hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the many ruined tower houses that can be found throughout the county.  There are some forty or so, listed – whether standing or mere marks in the turf. Ancient, tall castles, so emblematic of Scotland and remnants of turbulent times, many fell into ruins as more peaceful times and more elegant fashions took hold.  Some, like Neidpath, outside of Peebles, are still lived in, but most lie shattered in ruins, or have vanished utterly, beneath the ploughs of later farmers.  Others, like Kirkhope and Aikwood – connected in legend to the great southern wizard, Michael Scott – have been restored.

I’m hoping we visit as many of these ancient places, when time allows.  I’ve always loved visiting castles and once hoped to restore and live in my own!  Alas, the lottery win has yet to happen, so not quite yet.

But, today, Windydoors Tower was our destination.  The place, ‘Windiduris’ was first recorded in the year 1456, but the current tower was begun in the following century. The name simply means ‘windy pass’.

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Probably three or four storeys high, little remains above the ground floor, cellars.  The rest was plundered to build the adjoining farm steading and house and two doors have been broken through into the old castle cellar.  The remains are not particularly impressive, but they are more substantial than many other sites which once had a castle.  The setting is particularly pretty, however, overlooking the sloping fields and Stantling Craig reservoir.

It’s worth pointing out that the ruin is situated within a working farm, so we didn’t want to intrude, taking a quick photograph from a distance.

In 1797, a Thomas Gibson was listed as the proprietor of Windydoors in the Dog Tax returns.  Having two dogs, he was taxed 10 shillings (his neighbour, the Duke of Buccleuch at Bowhill House, had four dogs listed and was taxed £1).

I haven’t found much else about Windydoors.  Unlike Buckholm, there doesn’t appear to be a haunting to investigate.

One thing I will need to remember, though, is a plastic bag in my backpack.  The verges have more litter than the last time I cycled past – clearly from drivers throwing fast-food wrappers and plastic bottles out of their car windows.  Grrrrrr.

A Loch without a bottom and a lot of Bull

Sir Walter Scott’s Abbotsford is well worth a visit (when the current lockdown eventually ends!), for it’s fantastical architecture and antiquarian collections. It’s a place of romance and legend, showing the character of the author of Waverley, Ivanhoe and Red Gauntlet – the J. K. Rowling of his day.

Abbotsford

The estate that surrounds Scott’s conundrum castle is important for its pioneering landscape and beautiful walks.  It was only last year that I learned of Scott’s passion for forestry and his great planned arboretum.  Abbotsford became one of the first and largest re-imagined woodlands anywhere.   In its heyday, the estate reached some 1400 acres, as Scott bought farm after farm, creating the landscape visible today.  Bankruptcy would see the estate shrink back to the 120 acres looked after by the Abbotsford Trust today.  An army of volunteers help the Trust to restore and maintain a vast network of paths and the historic gardens.

Many dignitaries would call on Scott during his lifetime here – often to his annoyance – given his global fame as an author: the visiting book in his house notes such celebrities as Oscar Wilde among its pages.

The estates contain as much romance and history as the mansion.  At one point, the lands included an area promoted as being the haunt of the legendary Thomas the Rhymer.  Scott allowed and actively encouraged free access to his estate, except for the private gardens immediately next to the house, unlike many other landowners at the time, or since.

Another visitor hosted by Scott may be of interest to those of a slightly gloomy, supernatural disposition.  Washington Irving, author of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle, visited Scott in 1817.  Paying homage to Scott, Irving would then travel to Newstead Abbey,  the gothic seat of the late Lord Byron.

His journal of the visit was published in 1835 and evokes a warm, image of the man and his house, his dogs and grimalkin, the cat:

The evening passed away delightfully in this quaint-looking apartment, half study, half drawing-room. Scott read several passages from the old romance of “Arthur,” with a fine, deep sonorous voice, and a gravity of tone that seemed to suit the antiquated, black-letter volume. It was a rich treat to hear such a work, read by such a person, and in such a place; and his appearance as he sat reading, in a large armed chair, with his favorite hound Maida at his feet, and surrounded by books and relics, and border trophies, would have formed an admirable and most characteristic picture.

While Scott was reading, the sage grimalkin, already mentioned, had taken his seat in a chair beside the fire, and remained with fixed eye and grave demeanor, as if listening to the reader. I observed to Scott that his cat seemed to have a black-letter taste in literature.

Scott accompanied Irving around his lands, including up a carriage route which travels uphill from Abbotsford towards a loch, Cauldshiels.  It is a very pleasant route – we walked it in the height of summer and did not see another soul!

Cauldhsiels

Cauldshiels Loch was known then – and now – as being a special place, because of the water spirit or bogle that lies within its depths.  It was also said to be bottomless!

The sprite that haunted this place was a fearsome and enormous Water Bull – a supernatural being that is now less well known that it’s cousins, the kelpies or selkies. Water Bulls – known in Gaelic Scotland as tarbh uisge – were widely believed to be real well into the nineteenth century.  Said to be malevolent – or benign! – these creatures lurked in the depths of lochs, but could shapeshift into human form and wander on land.  They were feared but also thought useful as they were less of a threat to humanity than their enemies, the terrifying Water Horses or Each Uisge.  Perhaps a remnant of pre-Christian, ancient animal worship, Water Bulls lingered in the popular imagination for centuries.

Scott mentioned the spirit to Irving, as they paddled across the loch in a small boat.   He recalled this in his book:

We had a pleasant row about the lake, which commanded some pretty scenery. The most interesting circumstance connected with it, however, according to Scott, was, that it was haunted by a bogle in the shape of a water bull, which lived in the deep parts, and now and then came forth upon dry land and made a tremendous roaring, that shook the very hills. This story had been current in the vicinity from time immemorial;—there was a man living who declared he had seen the bull,—and he was believed by many of his simple neighbors. “I don’t choose to contradict the tale,” said Scott, “for I am willing to have my lake stocked with any fish, flesh, or fowl that my neighbors think proper to put into it; and these old wives’ fables are a kind of property in Scotland that belongs to the estates and goes with the soil. Our streams and lochs are like the rivers and pools in Germany, that have all their Wasser Nixe, or water witches, and I have a fancy for these kind of amphibious bogles and hobgoblins.”

Whether Irving believed this tale or not, is not made clear.  What is certain is that Irving seems to have developed a genuine friendship with and admiration of Scott.  His journal is well worth reading and it’s still in print, or available free online.

The path that leads away from Cauldshiels is now part of the Borders Abbey Way – a trail we hope to follow when we can.

On the day we visited, we saw no sign of the Water Bull, although I do remember hearing a surprisingly loud Moo! at one point…

 

 

A Pious Massacre

The Scottish Borders is a land rich in legend, myth and all too real history.   Some seventeen miles from where we live, in the valley of the Yarrow River, stands the gaunt shell of Newark Castle.  Here, one of the most awful chapters of Borders history took place, ostensibly in the name of God.

Newark

Newark Castle is a large, strong tower which was built by the Douglas family in the 15th century. Sir James Douglas, whom the English dubbed The Black Douglas due to his success at fighting the invading army of England’s Edward I, fought with King Robert at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.  Folk in the north of England would recite the little poem

Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye. Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye. The Black Douglas shall not get ye.

to children, as a soothing lullaby!  Good Sir James, as the Scots called him, would take his comrade King Robert’s heart to the Holy Land in crusade, a promise made and almost fully kept after the sovereign’s death.  Douglas was killed in battle, but the heart was saved and returned to Scotland.  It lies buried in a lead casket at Melrose Abbey, not too far from Newark.

The Douglas family would become too powerful for the Scottish royal house of Stewart, almost eclipsing the royal family in power and prestige.  In 1440, the 16 year old William, 6th Earl of Douglas and his younger brother, were invited to a feast in Edinburgh Castle, in the presence of the ten year old puppet-ruler King James II.   All was well until a black bull’s head was carried into the Great Hall.  A bull’s head was a potent symbol of death and this was placed before the Earl.  The two young men were then dragged into the courtyard and after a mock trial, beheaded for treason.  The event would live on in infamy as The Black Dinner, and inspired George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones’ ‘Red Wedding’.

A short rhyme commemorates the event:

Edinburgh castle, toun, and tower,
God grant ye sink for sin;
And that even for the black-dinner,
Earl Douglas gat therin.’

The Douglas power was extinguished for a while.  Newark Castle was taken in the name of the King and became a royal hunting lodge, surrounded by the dense Ettrick Forrest.  The arms of King James III and his Queen, Margaret of Denmark, were emblazoned in stone above the entrance.

The almost continual wars with England in the 1500s saw many churches, towns and castles in the south burned and Newark was one of these, but it was restored again.

Worse was to follow, though, during the brutal Wars of the Three Kingdoms. In 1645, a Great Plague year, a horrible travesty of justice would take place.   As the civil wars in Scotland and England and the Irish Wars played out, around 100 Royalist soldiers, their wives and children were captured and held in the castle’s courtyard in the aftermath of the battle of Philiphaugh (although some say as many as 400 in total).   There, they had faced the Army of the Covenanters, under the command of David Leslie**, a professional solider for hire, who had previously served the Swedish Empire and the Tsar of Russia.

(Left)David Leslie.  (Right) Marquis of Montrose

The Covenanters were Scottish Presbyterians, galvanised into a movement following the disastrous attempts of King Charles I to impose perceived Anglican forms of worship on the Church of Scotland.  This, less than a century after the Protestant Reformation in Scotland, was a catastrophe from which King Charles would never recover.  Although born a Scot, in the royal Palace of Dunfermline in Fife, Charles was very much a King of England who continually failed to understand the religious or political landscape in Scotland.  From riots in the streets, to fully-fledged armed conflicts with the Royalist forces of the king, the Covenanters were fully embroiled in civil war in Scotland.

At Philiphaugh, on the banks of the Yarrow, the two sides met in the early morning mist.  Some 4,000 Covenanters faced a Royalist force of half that size, under the leadership of the poet-soldier, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose.   Montrose’s hopes would end at Philiphaugh, although he himself would live to tell the tale, for a short time, at least.

The defeated Royalist troops and their camp followers – often the wives and children of the soldiers, in addition to merchants, laundry workers and the like – were shot, executed by the Covenanter Army  where they stood, in cold blood.  The Covenanters perhaps paused, briefly, before committing this terrible act, but they were, after all,  an army convinced of their righteousness and Godliness.  It no doubt helped that many of the prisoners were Irish and, or Catholic.  Leslie would order a strikingly similar massacre at Dunaverty Castle, Argyll, in 1647.

A mass grave was seemingly discovered in the early 1800s in a field near Newark named Slain Men’s Lea, which seems to have become the victims’ final resting place.

On the anniversary of this dreadful deed, September 13, the cries of the victims are said to echo still.  Their terrifies screams, echoing through the gaunt ruin.

Newark was damaged further during the war years that followed, but restored again for Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch – apparently the last inhabitant.  On her death, the Castle was stripped of its finery and abandoned.  The new mansion of Bowhill, nearby, a more comfortable and modern residence.  Slowly, Newark fell into ruin, although still stands more or less complete to the wallhead.

Sadly, Newark seems to be open very rarely.  Perhaps, the echoes of the past are louder inside than out! It is a remarkable building, with a fascinating story.  Maybe one day, more can be made of it and public access allowed.   But perhaps a place to avoid in mid-September.

 

**Changing sides, like many nobles, Leslie was ennobled by the restored King Charles II, as the first Lord Newark. This new title was named after the Leslie family’s Newark Castle in Fife, not this one!  However, was a title that also – however inadvertently – recalled a massacre a sly judgement from the new King?

 

Isolation in the Old North

We are very lucky to live in a beautiful, peaceful place while the current limitations on travel exist. I hope before too long we’ll be on our way again and life will return to some form of normality, after this dreadful virus has been contained.   However, lockdown has allowed us to explore our village and nearby places. I’ll share some views of them and stories from here with you over the next few days but to begin with, here’s a little about Hodge Cairn fort.

According to the wonderful PastMap, Hodge Cairn is the site of  the remains of a large prehistoric oval fort on the slope of White Hill.  Obscured over the centuries by farming and tree planting, there’s enough left to spot from the roadside, which I did, puffing up a hill on my bike during my daily exercise.

There are wonderful views of the ramparts and ditches which remain here, which clearly show the remains of the ancient buildings that were once inside.  There are dozens of similar hillforts and medieval farmsteads in the hills surrounding the Gala Water, reaching back to the very early history of the land, before the Legions of Rome would arrive.  The ancient peoples who lived  here would have known the vast Ettrick Forrest that once covered these hills, clearing many trees to make way for the their homesteads and forts like this. 

When the Romans arrived in the First Century, they called the inhabitants of this land the Votadini.  Later, this Latinised name would be recorded in Old Welsh, the local tongue, as Guotodin, then Gododdin.  This part of what is now Scotland was the territory of the ancient Cumbric-speaking Britons – the ancestors of the modern Welsh, Cornish and Bretons and cousins of the Picts. 

The Welsh would come to tell tales of Yr Hen Ogledd – The Old North –  when remembering their ancestors here.  Indeed, one of the earliest poems to have survived in Britain, Y Gododdin, recalls the people of this ancient kingdom.   Supposed to have been written by the bard Aneirin, perhaps court poet to the Gododdin, it recalls the bravery and defeat of the Men of the North in battle c. 600 AD against the Angles of the south.   The poem may also include the earliest reference to King Arthur as a paragon of bravery, although this is argued over.  From their fort at Din Eidyn (now Edinburgh), the warriors travelled south, to annihilation at the hands of the Angles, a battle which saw the kingdom of the Gododdin disappear into the Angles’ Northumbria.  It’s a (very!) long poem, but worth a look

In later times, the Guardian of Scotland, William Wallace, launched guerrilla attacks on the English invasion forces from Ettrick, during the first Wars of Independence.

There is so much history in this part of Scotland, hidden beneath the grass of the rolling fields in now tranquil countryside.  I’ll share more with you again soon. 

The Shelly Coat: part four

Waiting.  Just waiting.

It seems like a very long time to have been here.  But also no time at all.

It isn’t possible to remember where I was.  Before here.  But I must have been somewhere.  Or, maybe not.

Nothing has changed but everything has changed.  There’s a pile of rocks over there, just before the broken tree but after the little river.  That pile of rocks used to be bigger.  And there were people living in it.  Before them there were other people.   And the pile of rocks was tall.  And other people came to the place and threw fire at it.  And the people inside were eventually pulled out and cut down on the flat earth outside.  Then they all went away and I was left by myself.  Waiting.  As the rocks began to fall, one by one.

And the trees!  The trees have been and gone many times.  Once, about as far back as I can remember, the trees were everywhere.  There were trees in the very bottom of the valley, right up to the tops of the hills.  There were hardly any people, which made waiting all the more boring.  But, still, there were trees and trees and trees.

I’m not even sure why I am waiting.

But I am good at it.  Every now and then, someone comes close and I stop waiting.  But it seems that in the past little while, there have been fewer people coming close.  So, I have started to not wait.  But to go.  This has made all of the difference.   The last one.  That was funny.  He made…I think it was he…he made funny little noises, like words but not like words.  Just sounds.  He looked sad at the end.  It made me feel sad.  But not for very long.

I walked to a new place.  I went very slowly, so that he wouldn’t hear me.  I do this sometimes.  It makes the surprise better.

This new place is a very old place that I knew a long time ago.  There’s a rock in the middle of a field.  There were many more rocks here before, but not now.  The man who lives in the big, white house in the valley is the last of a line of men who took the other rocks away a long time ago.  But I remember when there were many rocks.  There were people here as well.  They thought no-one could see them, but I could see them, through the trees.  While I waited.

I think I will go back there again.  Yes, I will go.  And when I get there I will wait.  I will not have to wait for long.

A local ghost story

Overlooking Galashiels, Buckholm Tower stands, ruined and looking a little forlorn. Inhabited into the twentieth century the tower could yet be saved, but a feeling of neglect and the passing of time almost overwhelms. Built in 1582, the tower was typical of the fortified towers that can be found throughout the Borders, but this one is still more or less complete, which makes its abandonment all the more melancholy.

The home of the Pringles of Buckholm, lairds in these parts, Buckholm is famed for its hauntings more than its architecture. One of these lairds, James Pringle, has become as notorious in death as he was, by all accounts, in life.

This story is very well known locally, so you might have heard it, but as Christmas is a time for tales of ghosts, here it is.

James Pringle lived in the second half of the 17th century and was feared for his temper, his cruelty and his debauchery.  His wife and children would flee from him after years of torment and no woman was safe to visit Buckholm Tower. His reputation for evil was known for miles around and his favourite pastime was said to be hunting Covenanters – religious rebels in the eyes of the government –  trailing them with his great hounds, as other lairds would hunt foxes and deer.

Ladhope Moor was a secret meeting place of the religious dissenters, anxious to worship far from the eyes of the State. Pringle knew of this and led a band of government troops there, keen to capture these Covenanting troublemakers. The Covenanters heard of the attack and fled, but one old man, Geordie Elliot – once a servant in the house of Buckholm – had fallen badly from his horse.  His son, William, stayed by his gravely ill father.  The Elliots were captured by the troops and Pringle was keen to execute them there and then.

The Captain of the troops, however, hoped to force details of their Covenanting friends from the men, so asked Pringle to hold them in the prison-like cellar in Buckholm Tower overnight. Pringle agreed.

With the Elliots held fast in his cellar, Pringle ate and drank alone. His brandy cup was filled and emptied several times and his sense of power and cruelty grew stronger by the cupful.

Pushing past those few servants in his employ, gathered outside the cellar door and listening to the cries for mercy coming from within, Pringle wanted to show his prisoners exactly how powerful he was. He entered the cellar, locking the door behind him, his terrified servants listening as sounds of a skirmish were followed by two, different, agonised screams.

Pringle emerged sometime later, locking the cellar behind him, a chilling smile on his face.  He returned to his chamber and his brandy bottle.

Sometime later, a servant disturbed his drunken slumber. A visitor had arrived at Buckholm Tower. Old Isobel Elliot, wife of Geordie, had arrived to beg the Laird of Buckholm for mercy.  With a leer, Pringle led the old woman to the cellar. Throwing open the cellar door, Pringle ushered Isobel inside with a mocking flourish.

A heart-breaking scream was all Isobel could give when she saw her husband and son, hanging from the meat hooks in the cellar ceiling, their bodies impaled like the meat of pigs which would normally hang there.  Sobbing, she fell to the floor, where Pringle spat the insult “Witch!” at her.

Rising up, Isobel cursed the Laird of Buckholm, wishing him harm because of his hateful crimes.

And, from that day, a change was seen in Pringle of Buckholm.  He claimed he had become accursed, haunted by packs of terrible hounds following him wherever he went. Servants would find him in his study, alerted by his screams, fighting off great dogs that no one else could see.  Ghostly dogs would snap at his heels as he ferociously rode his horse back to Buckholm, begging his servants fight off the unseen dogs.

Then, not long afterwards, James Pringle of Buckholm died, in agony. Writhing in pain, the Laird departed this life, mourned by none.

One year later, as is often the case, on the anniversary of Pringle’s death, a ghostly figure was seen running up the winding path to Buckholm Tower, pursued by a glowing pack of hellish hounds.  Loud banging noises were heard, as if the Devil himself was banging on the great wooden door of the castle, desperate to enter. Terrifying screams were heard from the castle courtyard but, when the door was opened, there was nobody there. And, a little later, screams were heard, coming from the cellar.  Could it be that Pringle was being forced to reenact his terrible crimes, as punishment?

Every June, on the anniversary of his death, terrifying screams have been heard near the tower, ghostly hounds observed in the hills nearby.  And, more dreadful again, heavy loud knocks from the now deserted cellar.

It is said that a Minister from Galashiels once performed an exorcism to rid Buckholm from these terrible torments.

Now, however, Buckholm has been left to its ghosts.

Margaret Wilson

I count myself lucky to live in a beautiful part of Scotland, steeped in legend and folklore.  This is, after all The Old North, land of the Gododdin of legend; this is the land of Merlin and Thomas the Rhymer; William Wallace led the fight for Scotland’s liberty from the forests of Ettrick and the fairy folk held court in the lair of the Green Man.   Peaceful now, it was not always so.

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Here’s another tale taken from George Sinclair’s Satan’s Invisible World Discovered, and it isn’t a very happy one.  In Relation XXXII, Sinclair tells the tale of Demonic possession in the Borderlands, this time, the town of Galashiels some three hundred and forty years ago – more or less.

The Minister in Galashiels, a Mister Wilkie, was sitting in the manse one night, when there was a thunderous hammering on his door.  His servant, answering the door, ushered in a local man of some standing, respectable in every way and not given to flights of fancy.  A Godly sort, one could say.  The Gentleman, in an anxious state, begged the Minister to attend to his household, where his niece, Margaret, was being vexed by a terror that only Wilkie, a man of God, could end.

The poor Mister Wilson claimed that the Devil was at his house with phantom knocking shaking the building, even when his poor family tried to gather together at prayer!  All this terrible, awesome activity seemed to be centred around his niece, Margaret.

The man and the Minister rushed to the house where they – and many witnesses – were shocked to see that Margaret, having been put to bed and soundly asleep, was lifted up by forces unseen, hovering above her bed.  Many strong men – who happened to be there at the time, apparently – were not able to pull her down.

The story goes on, with many other uncanny events taking place, presumably in the sight of the Minister.  Margaret’s body was shaken by forces unseen and loud, scratching sounds echoed throughout the rooms of the house with no obvious cause.

On waking, Margaret claimed that the Devil had spoken with her, offering her gifts.  At this point, the Minister seems to imply molestations of a more earthly nature, which the uncle loudly protested against, but Sinclair’s text is unclear in parts – so best not to dwell on this too much, perhaps.

“After much trouble of this kind, and much noise and talking…the woman went to Edinburgh and the torments ceased.”

The Devil seems to have tried his best to deter Margaret from church-going and other Godly things, and it’s only at that point that Sinclair mentions she is 12 years old.

Then, Margaret went somewhere else.  After that, she married, then she died.

And, like many of the Relations in the book. The story ends abruptly.  Like this one.

The Devil Comes Calling… Part Two.

The village of Stow tends to be a little over-looked, I think. In histories and anthologies of the Scottish Borders and in books about sacred places, haunted spaces and witchcraft, it often doesn’t feature at all.  Imagine, then, how chuffed I was (chuffed to bits, in fact), when I happened across the name of our village in a book about spirits and witchcraft.  And not,  just any old book.

Satan’s Invisible World Discovered is a wonderfully odd read, written in 1684-5 by George Sinclair, sometime Professor of Philosophy at the University of St Andrews and Professor of Mathematics at the University of Glasgow.  His Satan’s Invisible World is perhaps, now, the writing he is best remembered for, although his name lives on in the George Sinclair Chair of Mathematics at the University of Glasgow.

SinclairSatansWorld1685      Witches-Being-Baptized-copy_1

A staunch Protestant, eager to swear allegiance to William of Orange following that king’s overthrowing of the Stuart king, James VII in 1688, Sinclair wrote the book as proof of the Devil, evil spirits and witches which, therefore, proved the existence of God in the face of a growth in atheism.  It is interesting that some sources claim Sinclair was born in East Lothian, which, some decades earlier, had been at the heart of some of the worst witch-hunts in Scotland, most famously including the North Berwick witch panic of 1590.   Had something in his childhood struck the young George with fear, which manifested itself in later life as his unshakable belief in the supernatural?  He was also a scientist, attracting much fame for exploring the wreck of an Armada ship in a large diving bell, among other things.

The book was immensely popular, said to be second only to the Bible in the humble cottages of Scotland, and contains a curious mixture of ancient and recent tales, which give a flavour of folk belief and superstition of the late 1600s.  The most famous incidents, told through a serious of Relations, include the hauntings of Mary King’s Close, Edinburgh, the infamous Major Weir and Wigtownshire’s Glenluce Devil – one of Scotland’s earliest alleged poltergeist hauntings.

Relation IX was one that immediately caught my attention a few nights ago, as I sat in my study reading late at night.   According to Sinclair, in the ancient and royal burgh of Lauder in the year 1649, Robert Grieve – also known as Hob Grieve or Hob Grier in other sources – was arrested on charges of witchcraft.   He was, says Sinclair,

“…an eminent warlock…”

His wife, unnamed in this account, had apparently been burned as a witch some twenty years previously, so perhaps the taint of magic and devilry had surrounded him like a mist for all those years.  It was his wife, the story gained through his interrogation stated, who had introduced him to the Dark Arts as a means of escaping their poverty.  If he agreed to meet a Gentleman he would learn how to become rich…

He had travelled with her to “a haugh on Gallawater near to the Stow” where the story begins.  Here, then, in STOW! Sleepy, little over-looked Stow!

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Following the sudden appearance of a fearful great black hound

“a great mastiff, bigger than any butcher’s dog” 

that came and went and was not mentioned again in the story (something that seems to happen a lot in Sinclair’s stories, where weird stuff happens and everyone just moves on to the next weird stuff), the Devil appeared, and made Robert many promises in exchange for Robert’s services.

Robert’s fortunes did, indeed, improve significantly and he went on to become a powerful local warlock with many followers.  His luck ran out in 1649, when the Godly society caught up with him.  Along with five others he was dispatched as a witch, burnt at the stake – although, interestingly, it does not state where in this version of the tale.

Now, it might be stretching something a little to suggest that he was taken back to the scene of his Diabolical Tryst, to the haugh at Stow and dispatched with the five named Stow ‘witches’.  Of course, there are many scholars and more learned folk than I who will scoff at this, but I like the thought that the story can be completed by the inclusion of poor Hob Grieve in the story of our little village.  It can’t be proved at all and there may be no truth in it , but it’s possible, perhaps?  Interestingly, Robert Grieve does not feature at all in the University of Edinburgh’s Scottish Witch-hunt Survey or its excellent interactive map (fascinating and horrifying – have a look!), but a Jon Grieve is listed as accused some thirteen years later.  Could he be the son of Robert?  Or, has the tale of a warlock called Grieve simply bound splinters of fact together? Maybe none of this occurred at all.

I mentioned in a previous post that Stow currently has no pub in the village.  Wouldn’t it be great, if ever one is opened in the future, if it is called The Black Hound – a memory of a terrible injustice that once gripped the locals with fear and saw six innocents put to the fire in the name of the Godly?

Maybe, maybe.

The Devil comes calling… Part One.

It’s been a while since my last post and it’s been a busy year.  Recently, I’ve been reading and researching more about this strange, wonderful corner of Scotland and I was pleased to find some more startling stories from Wedale and round about.

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The old and new Parish Kirks in Stow of Wedale.

I mentioned below that six people were executed in Stow in 1649, a horrific year in which mass panic about witchcraft erupted throughout many parts of the kingdom.  Scotland would have five mass witchcraft panics:

  • 1590-91
  • 1597
  • 1628-30
  • 1649
  • 1661-2

There were witch-hunts, interrogations and executions at other times, of course, but in these five periods, the panics and executions intensified in scale and terror.  Localised panics could often break out at times when other parts of the country were relatively peaceful, as occurred, for example, in Renfrewshire in 1697-1700 in Bargarran.

1649 was one of the worst peaks.  In The Encyclopedia of Witchcraft and Demonology (1959), Rossell Hope Robbins noted that

Scotland is second only to Germany in the barbarity of its witch trials.

Witchcraft in Scotland became a crime in 1563, only three years after the Protestant Reformation, during the reign of the absent Queen, Mary.  The Witchcraft Act formally made the Biblical offence of suffering a witch to live, a legal reality.  By making witchcraft illegal, Scotland was setting the scene for accusations, recriminations and mob rule.   The land was in the grip of religious vervour, the revolutionary Reformers determined to create a GODLY kingdom on earth as it is in Heaven.

Belief in witchcraft was nothing new, and tales of witches and warlocks stretch back through history.  What was different after 1563, was that the State now could act upon superstition, suspicion and finger-pointing, legally.  And it did.

witches circle

The causes of the major witch panics are still discussed and reinterpreted.  Scotland during the period would be wracked by religious and political conflict and wars.   Famine through poor weather and crop failure, disease and plague are also contributing factors.

Recently, more attention has been given to the misogyny and sexism of the witch-hunts.  Doctor Julian Goodare, in The Scottish Witch-hunt in Context (Manchester, 2009) notes that some 85% of the recorded witch trials involved women.  These trials centred on accusations involving fornication.  In the Godly State the Reformers hoped to set up, all aspects of the lives of the Parish were under increased scrutiny.  The Kirk Sessions records note all misdemeanours and punishments and sexuality features strongly.  The Reformers’ revolutionary zeal and enthusiasm for making sure their neighbours obeyed the laws of God ,added to ages-old superstitions and a need to blame, provided a heady mix which would peak five times.

Sex, sexuality and fornicating with the Devil are common themes in the records that survive and, presumably, took centre stage in the accusations and executions which were not recorded.  The Devil, surprisingly conservative in his sexual choices, seems to have limited his lust for the female of the species.  Homosexuality and Devilish fornication does not feature with the Godly menfolk, but if this is misogyny and control in play, that’s hardly surprising.  The righteous were definitely wearing the trousers in the seventeenth century.

But men, were accused of witchcraft.  In my last post, I mentioned that one of the six accused of witchcraft was described as a Man of Lauder.   I’ve been wondering about this man ever since.  Our wonderful Parish archivist and author Mary W Craig (whose excellent Border Witch Hunt book came out last  year) has suggested that he was of wealthier stock that the others, whose family could pay to have his –  their – name removed from the records.  Sounds likely.  Doubtful they had enough money to save him from the stake, though.