Thornielee Forest lies in the valley of the Tweed halfway between the towns of Galashiels and Innerleithen. Nearby sits the former mill town of Walkerburn. We drove here, but it seems local buses stop here on request. Sadly, the nearby Thornielee Station, on the now-vanished Peebles railway, closed as early as 1950 so catching a train isn’t an option.
We stopped here on our way back from our abandoned plan to walk around St Mary’s Loch, having been put off by the crowds. I’m so very glad we did. Thornielee Forest, under the stewardship of Foresty and Land Scotland (the old Forestry Commission), is a gem of a place. Part of the Tweed Valley Forest Park, there is much to explore. There are two walks here, apparently: a gentle Meadow Trail, described as ‘easy’ – mostly flat alongside some pastures renowned for butterflies, and; the Cairn Trail – described as ‘strenuous’. We took the strenuous path (of course we did) and I again struggled, panted and sweated my way to the top. The slope through the trees is pretty much a continuous, long climb, punctuated by very welcome flat parts – but these are few and far between! Stopping every now and then, though, was a joy simply because you are surrounded by forest, with the sunlight streaming down in shafts between the trees. The trail is very broad at times and, unlike many other older plantations, the trees are spaced out, allowing other plants to grow on the forest floor. It felt gloriously alive.
Near the start of the trail is a curious, weather worn sculpture. The interpretation plaque states that this is Muckle Mou’d Meg– heroine of a local legend which, not surprisingly, Sir Walter Scott wrote about!
Meg – or Agnes – Murray, to use her apparent Sunday name – was daughter of the Laird of Elibank, Sir Gideon Murray – master of one of the great and troublesome Border families which gave successive Kings of Scots a headache, due to their warring, cattle-stealing and thuggish, lawless activities!
Meg was one of three daughters of the family and was, it is cruelly put, Scotland’s ugliest woman. She was muckle mou’d – large mouthed – in looks, but in temperament and disposition a happy, smiling soul. Indeed, folk mocked that we she did smile, the smile covered the whole of her head. Poor Meg!
The Murray’s neighbours – and sworn enemies! – was the family of Scott (of course!) of Harden, whose tall castle of Aikwood still stands, restored, today.
One dark, winter night, William Scott of Harden decided to raid Elibank and steal their cattle – the great moneymaker of the Border Reviers – but instead of sleeping guards, found them alert and ready for him. He was defeated after a short battle, captured and imprisoned.
He was sent to the castle dungeon until dawn, while the Laird of Elibank pondered his luck. The Lady of Elibank thought the young man a possible solution to their seemingly impossible Meg problem. And so, in the cold early light of morning, the young William was brought, tied and bound, before the Laird in his great hall. The Laird, sitting in his high oak chair in front of the fire, looked at the young cattle thief for some time. Then, he gave William a dilemma. As the nineteenth century poet James Ballantine would later recall, the lad was offered a choice: hang for his crime, or marry Meg. William was horrified; Meg’s appearance was infamous.
And so, he chose death, by hanging.
Now, the Laird was canny and sent him back to his prison, to think again one last night. On the second occasion he was hauled into the Laird’s hall, perhaps he feared death more than marriage to Meg. Perhaps, he saw something in Meg that others could not. It is said that Meg stood by, watching this drama unfold, tears in her eyes; tears which melted the heart of the handsome lad. Whatever the reason, he chose Meg and the two were wed.
Syne muckle-mou’d Meg pressed in close to his side, An’ blinkit fu’ sleely and kind, But aye as Wat glower’d at his braw proffer’d bride, He shook like a leaf in the wind. ‘A bride or a gallows, a rope or a wife!’ The morning dawned sunny and clear – Wat boldly strode forward to part wi’ his life, Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear; Then saddle an’ munt again, harness an’ dunt again, Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad be hame.
Meg’s tear touched his bosom, the gibbet frowned high, An’ slowly Wat strode to his doom; He gae a glance round wi’ a tear in his eye, Meg shone like a star through the gloom. She rush’d to his arms, they were wed on the spot, An’ lo’ed ither muckle and lang; Nae bauld border laird had a wife like Wat Scott; ‘Twas better to marry than hang. So saddle an’ munt again, harness an’ dunt again, Elibank hunt again, Wat’s snug at hame.
Despite the unfortunate start to their marriage, by all accounts the two lived…um…happily ever after! William would thrive, being knighted by King James VI and the two had at least four children. Accounts say that they had a long, happy marriage. They could have looked out over the Ettrick Forest from Elibank Tower, watching the hill of Thornielee change through the seasons.
Thornielee is marked on Blaeu’s 1654 maps – not a great length of time after Meg and William – as Thornyly and is shown as having a castle or tower house – one of ten in close proximity here along the valley of the Tweed. There is no trace of the castle now and no mention of it in the annals of the Tweed valley. Like most of the simple, square peels, it has disappeared from the land as surely as it has disappeared from history. There may be remnants of a tower hidden within the present Thornielee Farmhouse – or at the ruins of Old Thornielee farm, higher up the hill.
On the opposite side of the valley, however, it’s possible to spot the gaunt ruins of Elibank Tower – also shown on Blaeu’s map as Elybanck – from the modern sculpture of Meg and her William. It’s a lovely, startling, sculpture and a reminder not to judge by appearances!
There may not be any sign of a castle on the hill of Thornielee, but there are other remains or earlier farmsteads although mostly hidden at this time of year beneath the heather, brambles and bracken. Over from Thornielee, very large clearance cairns and unusual earthworks indicate human habitation that might stretch back into prehistory.
The paths climb ever higher, until the crest of the hill appears. The woodland comes to an abrupt halt beside a long stone dyke, beyond which is rough pastureland and moors. The Views are spectacular and well worth the climb. Some of the path is a bit muddy and steep, so care is needed and even on a quiet day, the paths are popular with mountain bikers, so care is needed.
We were chuffed to notice that at the top, the view stretches as far as our own Wedale – the windfarm at Long Park clearly visible. This view is really only accessible by foot, as the roads linking Stow with Ettrick are low and twisty. I’m glad we made the effort to see this and highly recommend the trip. Given the crowds of people sticking to the more obvious, roadside stops, the Tweed Valley Forest might still offer an escape from the staycationers. Just don’t tell anyone, aye?
Near the top, I spotted this stone (lefthand photo) – which is almost certainly part of a dyke that had collapsed, but there’s something about it I really liked. In my head, I can clearly see worn carvings on the surface – there’s something of a double-ended Pictish rod and discs, surely? Or maybe a salmon? Or both! Probably not, but fun to imagine.
Also nearby are the supposed Shepherds’ Cairns, of which I could find very little information.
This was a brilliant route to walk on a wonderful sunny / breezy day which, apart from one bloke on a mountain bike and a family of three, we had to ourselves for the couple of hours it took. Far, far better than squeezing our way through the crowds jammed around Saint Mary’s Loch. There are a good few other walks in the Tweed Valley Forest Park I hope to do soon – and, of course, a return trip to see Meg’s old home at Elibank, too. That will need to wait for another time.
Magic and mystery looms large in the Borderlands. Tales of the Good People, the Quiet Folk – the Fairies – have been told here for hundreds of years, through stories by the fireside or the long, elegant ballads still performed today by folk musicians. Tales of witches, the Devil and chilling hauntings feature strongly in the local lore and cultural identity of this sometime turbulent place.
Today, a grey, gloomy and colder day than in recent weeks, I feel in the mood for some old-fashioned ghost stories. Outside of the window, the rain is falling steadily and the tops of the trees are shrouded in mist. A shiver is in the air.
Here, then, are a few of my favourites from the Border lands. Place to visit, perhaps, when the current restrictions end?
Mentioned in previous posts, I include it again not to note once more that Sir Walter Scott himself it said to haunt the place – which has been reported – but to remember that Sir Walter was pivotal in preserving many of the old tales and ballads, which he heard as a child and which he copied, adapted and embellished in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Borders, his novels and other works. Without Scott, part of the rich detail of the ancient songs and legends would have been lost.
In addition to collected objects and artefacts from the past, Scott’s library is full of historical and historic books, tomes on witchcraft, hauntings and legends. There’s a little occult section, just by the window overlooking the Tweed, where I hope his children peeked a look at the stories of ghosts and witches – like I did in the seventies, pouring over my parents’ copy of Folklore, Myths and Legends of Britain. I’m certain that Scott would have told them stories, sitting around the fire. The library is a beautiful room, like his study and drawing room and all can be explored as part of the self-guided tour. I like the anecdote that says Scott called his study room Edinburgh so that, when callers visited his house to meet him (as they did in annoyingly large numbers), his staff and family could honestly say that Sir Walter was in Edinburgh and sadly unavailable.
Knowledgable and friendly volunteer guides are on hand to add to your tour. There’s a great exhibition, shop and restaurant and the gardens and grounds can be explored at your leisure. I can’t recommend it enough. The audio tour, featuring his cat and dog, is extremely well-done and really adds to the atmosphere during a visit! The audio guide featuring Sir Walter ‘himself’ is also engrossing so a repeat visit is recommended – and cheap, as a ticket can last you an entire year!
I love Peebles. It’s a shame that the town sign with its “Peebles for Pleasure” motto has gone; the 1950s zingy-ness of the slogan always raised a smile!
There’s something very homely and welcoming about the place. Maybe it’s because the town has an attractive, bustling high street devoid of many of the chain stores that towns usually have: walking through Peebles, you can see independent butchers, grocers, bakers, craftspeople – and a bookshop! – among many others. It feels like it has an identity that chain stores erode. There’s a lot of history, too.
The haunting of the Cross Keys Hotel, a coaching inn dating back in part to the 17th century, is well known. If planning a stay and of a nervous disposition, it is recommended you avoid room 5! So too, is the figure of a woman who walks the chambers of nearby Neidpath Castle. When I was younger, this magnificent tower overlooking the Tweed, was empty and open to visitors. It quickly became my favourite castle in Scotland and I always looked forward to a return visit. The Earls of Wemyss’ family have found new uses for it more recently, so visitor access is now limited. But, then, castles were built to be used, not preserved as well-manicured ruins. The ghostly woman, said to be the shade of Jean Douglas, was a daughter of a laird of Neidpath who fell in love with a man from a rival family. Forbidden by her father to have anything to do with him, she pined away and died. Her ghost, said to be wearing a brown dress with white collar, has been reported ever since. Scott wrote about this, popularising the poor Maid of Neidpath.
Scott also wrote about a sometime Minister of Peebles, John Scott (everyone’s a Scott down here!) who was an expert in ‘reading down’ spirits, or exorcising them. Clearly troublesome sprites have been a problem in Peebles for quite some time. The Reverend Scott, however, is said to have met his end when another, younger, more rash Minister started the ceremony without him. The toll of dealing with the angry phantom, wrecking the house in which it had manifested, was too much for the cleric. The effort
“…occasioned his falling into a lingering disorder, of which he never recovered.”
I’ve written in a previous entry about the haunting of Buckholm Tower. If you prefer, you can also listen to the story in our Wyrd Scotland podcast – available wherever you find podcasts and also on YouTube. Another ancient Borders home which may have had a more peaceful haunting is…
Another favourite place, Traquair House is alleged to be one of the oldest houses continually inhabited in Scotland, with a history stretching back some 900 years and having welcomed 27 kings or Queens! I’ve featured the place in an earlier post, looking at the weirdness of the 1968 film The Ballad of Tam Lin, which used Traquair as the filming location for exterior shots. Traquair has a fascinating history and is one of the most wonderful places to visit in the Scottish Borders.
The house is beautiful and grand, but in a very homely way. The rooms feel authentic and welcoming, probably because they date mostly from the 17th century final phase of construction. Although redecorated since, the layout is that of 300 years ago. There’s a wonderful mural in one chamber, depicting a hunting scene – painted in the 1530s. It is beautifully atmospheric. The building has strong associations with the House of Stewart and the family remained loyal to the Scottish royal house after they were deposed in 1688, remaining Jacobite despite the cost. Their Roman Catholic faith also marked them out as defiant and faithful, again, despite the costs. There is a wonderful 19th century chapel in the courtyard of the house and inside a secret staircase through which priests could come and go during the harsh days of the Reformation and Covenanting times. And although I’ve mentioned it before, it’s worth stating again that the restored 18th century brewhouse is a highlight of the visit: the Jacobite Ale being a particular favourite!
For a house of such an age and with such history, it’s surprising that there are not more tales of ghosts here. The only spectral figure reported is said to be that of Lady Louisa Stewart, the last of the Stewart family ennobled as Earls of Traquair by King Charles I.
Lady Louisa died in 1896, just short of her 100th birthday. She was seen walking in the grounds in the early 20th century by one of the outdoors staff, watched gliding effortlessly through a closed gate and vanishing!
There are few other tales of the supernatural I can find. Given the feeling of peace and tranquility there, maybe that’s not surprising.
On the bank of the Tweed, not far from Maxton, stands the shattered, romantic ruin of Littledean Tower. Built in the 16th century, the tower stands surrounded by the earthworks of a (probably) prehistoric fort. Lives were lived and lost here, then, for a very long time and unlike Traquair is said to have an unfriendly, desolate feel. The house was lived in until the 18th century, but was abandoned, it is said, when the head of the house was gored to death by his prize bull!
The tower was said to be haunted by the spirit of a previous lady of the house, throughly disliked when she lived as
a covetous, grasping woman, and oppressive to the poor. Tradition averred that she had amassed a large sum of money by thrift or extortion, and now could not rest in her grave because of it.
according to William Henderson in his 1879 ‘Notes on the Folk-lore of the Northern Counties of England and the Borders‘.
The spirit appeared to a servant girl in the castle, who took pity on her bedraggled cold appearance, bidding her to sit by the fire. The girl noticed her feeble shoes and cold feet, offering to dry and clean her shoes. On this act of kindness, the spirit confessed to her identity, offering to show the girl where she had hidden the gold that would not let her rest. She told the girl to command the Laird to split the gold in two: the first half was for him as head of the house; the second half was to be halved again, with the poor of Maxton to benefit from one share and the girl herself the other. If this was done, she would be able to rest.
The girl did indeed follow her instructions and she and the Laird uncovered the gold. The Laird obeyed the requests and all was well. The spirit had said she would
rest in my grave, where I’ve no rested yet, and never will I trouble the house mair till the day o’ doom.’
Let’s hope that, given the way of things, no-one should see the phantom lady any time soon.
Another of the Lairds of Littledean was said to be a strikingly handsome, dark-haired man. A notorious drunkard and womaniser, he treated his poor, devout wife terribly. He killed his young stable boy, for a minor misdemeanour and soon was being shunned by all except those who shared his cruelty and debauchery. He sounds very similar to the Laird of Buckholm, mentioned before.
One dark and stormy night (!) he rode his horse off into the woods, having drunk far too much to be sensible. As the storm worsened and as the cold, driving rain helped sober him up, he looked for shelter realising he had rode too far from home. At last, he came to a clearing in the woods and spotted a humble-looking cottage, with light shining from it’s little window.
He entered the single room within to beg for shelter, and was immediately transfixed by the beautiful women sitting spinning by the fire. Something bothered the Laird, though. There was something unnatural about the women, whose eyes sparkled with humour. As dawn broke, the Laird hurried back to Littledean, relieved to have escaped from harm. And yet, he could not, in the days that followed, get the mysterious woman from his mind. He started riding out, searching for the cottage but could not find it.
Then, when all hope had dwindled, he saw from the castle battlements the haunting figure of the woman – standing close to his home. He ran to meet her, she leading him to the edge of the woods, and there he would meet her again and again to satisfy his urges but only – at her insistence – within site of the castle and at the very same time of day. He was truly bewitched by her. He taunted his wife with his new hobby and she, powerless, resorted to prayer.
The Laird left Littledean on business, leaving his wife behind. A servant, loyal to the lady, spotted the dark-haired woman that the Laird had been meeting, walking to a patch of woodland near the castle. Summoning her servants the lady immediately rushed to the woods: there was no chance the stranger had escaped. However, on entering the woods, there was no sign of the woman. Only a large hare was seen, watching the party approach and then running off.
The Laird returned home on his horse, some nights later. As he neared Littledean in the gloom, he spotted a large hare running towards him. Soon, another hare joined the first and ran behind the Laird. Several more appeared and, to his horror, the Laird realised they were trying to surround him and his horse. The horse, terrified, almost threw the Laird, but he kept hold and tried crushing the hares with his horses hoofs. When that failed, as they scampered closer and closer, he drew his sword. He managed to hack off a paw of a hare that had leapt on to this saddle. The injured hare retreated, followed by all the others, leaving the Laird to hurry home.
White-faced and trembling, the Laird reached the safety of his castle. As he removed his long cloak, he and his servants were horrified to see a human hand tumble to the floor – hacked off at the wrist. The Laird, realising that the hares had been witches transformed, picked up the severed hand using his sword and hurried down the slope to the river, throwing the hand into the running water. He hurried back to the castle and bolted the heavy door shut with a bang.
The next day, he set out to find the cottage and, as these stories go, happened to find it. Inside, the beautiful woman he had been dallying with was gone, transformed into a wizened hag. In front of her body she held her right arm, which ended in a bloody stump wrapped with rags. Hate filling her eyes, she screeched at the Laird that as he had taken the hand so he would never be parted from it. He returned, horrified, to his chamber in his tower and there, on the stone flagstone floor, was the bloody, severed hand. Terrified, he threw it out of the window and retreated to his bed. On lying down, he found the hand under his pillow. He picked it up and threw it on to the fire, watching it burn away.
In the morning, his servants discovered him quite dead on the floor in front of the fireplace. Marks around his neck showed he had been strangled by hand(s) unknown.
It is said that his ghost, riding frantically on his horse, can still be seen racing towards the tower on stormy nights. Two other spectres, both young women in white, were reported walking towards the tower from the river. They are said to have been victims of his, killed after he abused them for fun, buried in unmarked graves. In the 19th century, two skeletons were found buried under rough stone slabs near the riverbank. They were given proper burials in the graveyard nearby and the spectres were not seen again. It is little wonder that locals avoided Littledean Tower and its reputation for hauntings was very well known.
This interesting and unusual castle, with a massive D-shaped tower, is not very well-known now, and worth a visit – but not on dark and stormy nights.
Jedburgh Castle was once an important royal defence guarding the route from the south and was easy prey for invading forces during the long years of war with England. King Malcolm IV died here and Alexander III was married here – a spectral figure with the face of a skull, said to have appeared as portent of the doom which his death would plunge his poor little kingdom into. Being so close to the border, Jedburgh would be frequently attacked and was burned by invading troops at least six times, most cruelly during Henry VIII’s Rough Wooing in the 1540s. The magnificent 12th century Abbey was last attacked then and has remained a romantic ruin ever since.
The site of the castle may have been fortified from prehistoric times and the route of the Roman’s Dere Street nearby suggests so. During the Wars of Independence, the Scots used their vital tactic of regaining the castle from the occupying garrison and then demolishing it, to render it useless. The original castle was destroyed by the beginning of the 1400s, and remained a ruin for centuries. In the beginning of the 1800s, the site was cleared and a fort-like prison, in the fashionable Gothic style, was built.
Like Inverness, the mock-castle dominates the landscape of the town. The prison lasted a mere 60 years, but has been restored as a museum of prison life in the 1820s. The design was considered at the time to be revolutionary, showing an enlightened approach to penal reform. Despite its grand design, it’s fair to say that inmates did not enjoy their time inside, especially those whose crimes were met with execution. Designed by Archibald Elliot, who would design the grim mock-fortress jail on Edinburgh’s Calton Hill, the museum includes the original cells and Jailer’s House – now a museum which looks at the long history of the burgh.
Many visitors, though, are enticed to the jail because of its haunted reputation. Ghost-hunter groups, armed with electronic beeping machines and ouija boards, have been here a number of times, convinced of the supernatural activity. These groups claim on their websites to have encountered many unhappy spirits, including those condemned to death. Other visitors have felt uneasy in parts of the gloomy building, with one young visitor from a primary school failing to take a great selfie, but capturing what may be one of the condemned, looming in a corridor! The photo featured in the local Border Telegraph newspaper – and is, certainly, intriguing! Another photo, taken by a member of a ghost-hunting group, made it as far as the Daily Record.
Before the virus, there appear to have been ghost-hunting vigils regularly. Once the current lockdown ends perhaps they’ll begin again, socially-distanced, of course. The appeal of “Scotland’s most haunted jail” looks set to continue.
If you’re looking for a spookyish podcast to wile away an hour or so, may I recommend our very own Tales from Wyrd Scotland to you?
The latest episode is a bumper hour-long dander through the first half of a supernatural alphabet of Scottish wyrdness. Narrated by me – featuring breathily wyrd intonation – and the electronical genius of Nick Cole-Hamilton and You Better Run Media, it’s the prefect accompaniment to plotting a trip around our strange little country or merely getting the ironing or hoovering done!
So, curl up in your favourite dark corner and join me on a journey through some of Scotland’s oddest places and weirdest moments in history, from Auldearn to Men (Green)…
Available here or where other devilishly good podcasts can be found…
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.
The mist was rippled by a slight breeze as he walked across the gravel to the porch and the front door. The tops of the pines at the far side of the field over the road were still hidden, but it looked as if the mist was finally moving away. The eerie, quiet whiteness unnerved him. It was when the world was at its most still that unfortunate things happened. Or so it had seemed.
He looked back along the road as he reached into his pocket for the keys. He was expecting a delivery this morning and didn’t want to miss the lorry. He was completely out of Thomas The Rhymer and his regulars wouldn’t let him off another night without any. Silly buggers, there were plenty of other bottles of cider, ales and spirits. Creatures of habit, though, the local ale was his best seller to his regulars and he’d be buggered to lose money if he could help it. No sign of the lorry, he unlocked the door and walked into his pub. Turning on the lights, he smiled as he looked around the bar.
The Hoppringle was his pride and joy, which he knew was a bit of a cliché, but one that was true. Once a large farmhouse with a stone courtyard, for at least two centuries it had served the old road as an Inn. Built of solid, stone walls, it was, he thought, a rather beautiful place. Bare wooden floors shone with a polish and colour that only the passing of time could provide. The grey walls inside showed the old prints on the plastered walls to good effect, sharply contrasting with the golden wood that panelled parts of the room. Just right.
The marks in the wooden door and window frames were all intact, he was relieved to see, and he’d already noted that there was no sign of any disturbance in the gravel outside the pub. All good, then, he sighed.
He took the log basket he’d filled the previous evening from the log store outside up to the pot-bellied stove in the corner and started building a fire to warm the bar up. He could see his breath in the air, even inside, on days like this. It was always noticeably colder up here on the ridge road, compared to down in the village. He shivered and stood up from the stove, taking from his pocket the red yarn wound tightly around an old bobbin. In his other pocket, he felt for the little plastic envelope which contained the berries and rowan twigs. He’d see to this later, he thought.
A sharp blast of a loud horn announced the arrival of the draymen. At least Janey wouldn’t have to endure another night of moaning from the locals, providing the keg of Thomas was here. And where the hell wasshe anyway? Not like her to be late.
He walked across the room, checking that the fire in the stove had taken, towards the door. He pulled it open and met Lanney, his regular brewery drayman. Lanney was scratching under his wooly hat with a pencil. He liked Lanney. One of the good guys around here. He was also a regular, which still struck John as odd. He’d be as well drinking at work and saving time and money than trecking up to the pub.
‘Alright, Lanney,’ he said.
‘Hiya John. Six kegs, aye?’
It was at least half an hour later than Janey finally arrived.
‘Afternoon, Janey’, said John.
‘Aye, very good, John. I’m not that late. I’m sorry, the bus was ridiculously behind,’ she replied, as she hurried across to behind the bar, taking her coat off as she walked. ‘I’d have called you, but you know what the signal’s like at the stop?’
‘Aye, alright Janey, no bother. The brewery delivered, so at least we’ve got Thomas for tonight.’
‘Thank God for that. I couldn’t be bothered having Roddie whining on and on again, like last night’.
John smiled. Maybe it was going to be a good day after all.
Around five o’clock, the pub was warm, cosy and beginning to get busier again. Outside, the land had disappeared into the night. The mist had cleared during the day and now it was cloudless and very cold. A slight frost was glistening already and, judging by how many stars glowed overhead, it was to be colder still. The sky had that faint snow smell that the farmers knew well. By the end of the week, the snow would cover the hills, much later than normal this year. Inside, the lamps gave off a warm, subdued glow. The music in the background was just right with Maddy Prior’s voice just audible above the friendly conversations that were taking place.
Roddie was perched on his usual stool by the bar, a pint of Thomas in one hand and a vaporizer in the other. He was chatting to Janey, his left leg bouncing up and down repeatedly, as always happened when he was talking about something he had an opinion on. On this occasion, Brexit. John watched them both from the corner of his eye as he collected empties from across the room. The pub has been busy that afternoon, thanks to the ramblers from Gala. Janey was smiling slightly at Roddie, whilst she twisted willow stalks in her hands.
John could tell that Janey was enjoying the chat, even if her expression said otherwise. She was used to the peculiarities of his customers after all these years. Roddie was harmless. Just lonely. And far too bloody chatty. It must be difficult for him, though, stuck up at Cauldhaugh ever since Malcie had gone.
Thinking of Malcie always made John’s cheeks burn red and he was thankful that no-one was watching him. He gathered up the empty glasses and took them behind the bar to the sink. Roddie was still talking, but John wasn’t listening. It was only when Janey touched him lightly on the arm that he began to listen again. Janey leaned in closely, turning her back on Roddie. Roddie didn’t seem to notice, or care, that his audience was moving away. Maddy Prior had been replaced by Toni Arthur and Roddie was now in full song.
‘Did you see that there’s been another one, John?’, she asked.
‘Another what, Janey?’
‘You know what. At the Sentinel Stone, this time.’
‘Ach, Janey, that was early last year. You must have seen the posters, surely? It was all over the news, too’, said John.
‘No. I didn’t. I don’t know why. That was when I went to Edinburgh, to the University, to see Bethan. But, John, The Sentinel Stone. It’s getting closer. That can’t be good, can it? What does it mean?’.
Janey looked a little scared, he was surprised to see.
“It was last February, Janey. I think we’re okay now.’
Janey wasn’t convinced. ‘You saw the marks on the wood, didn’t you? That daft bugger’s been trying to erase them, hasn’t she? She thinks if she rubs them out, it’ll let it loose, doesn’t she?’
John stopped polishing the pint glass he was holding. He turned to look at her, smiling.
‘Janey. The marks are all still there. Not that that matters a bit. If that daft old bitch wants to play games, then let her. We’re safe. We follow the rules and we stay safe. Now, don’t worry. Go and see what Roddie wants, will you? He looks like he’s never had a drink in his life, the way he’s waving that pint glass at us like a loon.’
As she walked away, John’s eyes flicked to the dark grooves and patterns in the beams by the window. They all looked right. Didn’t they? He picked up another clean glass and polished it, without thinking.
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.
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.
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 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.
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!
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?