The Banshee: Ireland's Wailing Spirit and Harbinger of Death
There is a very ancient legend in Ireland, one found in Lebor Gabála Érenn, a medieval Irish text. It records the arrival of the Milesians, or Sons of Míl, on the shores of Ireland many centuries ago. They are believed to be the true ancestors of the Irish people: Gaels who sailed from Iberia in search of a land to call their home.
When they first made landfall on the Emerald Isle, they encountered the Tuatha Dé Danann, a supernatural race who had long dwelt there. An agreement was reached between the two peoples: the Tuatha Dé Danann would live in the world below, whilst the Sons of Míl would occupy the world above.
But the Milesians may have brought something with them across the ocean. Spirit, curse, or warning, it was known in Irish as the bean sí. Today, however, it is better known by another name: the Banshee.
The Banshee is a fairy woman, a spirit said to lament the death of any man or woman descended from the original Milesian settlers. She is not particularly evil; rather, to hear her cry is a sign that a member of that ancient line will soon pass away.
In parts of Ireland there was a tradition called keening, which formed part of the mourning process. Usually performed by a woman, it involved weeping whilst singing a lament for the departed. In regions where the practice was especially common, some women even took on the role of professional keeners.
A Banshee can therefore be seen as a high-status keener: a fairy woman sent to mourn an impending death within one of Ireland's old families. It is often said that families bearing the Ó, O', Mac, or Mc prefix are the most likely to receive a nocturnal visit from this wailing spirit, though there are exceptions to the lore. For example, a Banshee may also mourn a person gifted in music or song.
The Banshee is usually described as a woman, often elderly, with flowing robes and long hair. Her eyes are perpetually red from endless weeping. She is frequently depicted wearing grey, though some witnesses claim she is clad in green.
Lady Jane Wilde, the mother of Oscar Wilde, provided the following description of the entity:
The size of the banshee is another physical feature that differs between regional accounts. Though some accounts of her standing unnaturally tall are recorded, the majority of tales that describe her height state the banshee's stature as short, anywhere between one foot and four feet. Her exceptional shortness often goes alongside the description of her as an old woman, though it may also be intended to emphasise her state as a fairy creature.
Sometimes the banshee assumes the form of some sweet-singing virgin of the family who died young, and has been given the mission by the invisible powers to become the harbinger of coming doom to her mortal kindred. Or she may be seen at night as a shrouded woman, crouched beneath the trees, lamenting with a veiled face; or flying past in the moonlight, crying bitterly; and the cry of this spirit is mournful beyond all other sounds on earth, and betokens certain death to some member of the family whenever it is heard in the silence of the night.
A famous example of a Banshee visitation is that of the Bunworth Banshee. Reverend Charles Bunworth lived in the south of Ireland, and many people reported hearing the mournful keening of the supernatural spirit in the week leading up to his death.
Most notably, a herdsman claimed that he and several others heard the cry of the Banshee in the days before the reverend's passing. On the night of his death, an elderly woman who had been sitting at his bedside reported hearing a strange moaning sound. It seemed, she said, "as if whoever was making it was holding their mouth close to the window".
She hurried to alert other members of the household. Two men, highly sceptical of the claims, rushed outside to investigate. The sound ceased immediately, and despite a thorough search of the grounds, no source could be found. Strangely, when they returned indoors, they were informed that whilst they had been outside the noise had intensified considerably.
I am sad to say that Reverend Bunworth did not live to see the morning.
And so, a warning to anyone of Irish descent, and indeed to those gifted in music or song. Beware the wailing of the wind at your window in the dead of night. You never know — it might be something far more unnatural.
Some exciting news, dear reader. The final book in The Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy, A Crow’s Scream, has now been released in the US (link below) and is due to arrive on all other Amazon platforms over the next few days.
This marks the conclusion of this particular series of books. It has been a wonderful journey, and I would like to thank everyone who has joined me along the way. Your support, encouragement, and kind words have meant more than I can say.
Fear not, however, for there are still many dark tales waiting to be told. There will be more horror of a distinctly folky kind, more mysteries to unravel, more revelations to uncover, and, of course, more things lurking in the shadows.
For now, I hope you enjoy this final visit to Wendlelow and the strange, haunted world that has grown around it.
As always, thank you for reading.
Stay spooky.
Know your Goblins: The Spriggan
“What the bleedin’ heck is that thing?” I hear a worried voice cry out.
“Know your goblins,” comes the very sensible reply.
And so once more I find myself in my old library, attempting to identify a particularly unpleasant member of the goblin genus: the Spriggan. Read on, dear friend, and let us learn of this troublesome little terror.
Deep within Cornwall — that wild realm where a wanderer will encounter moorland, ancient woodland, and, if they journey far enough, eventually reach the vast ocean — there is a place called the Hayle Estuary. It is one of the few natural harbours on Cornwall’s north coast. A place that has long been important for trade and movement, with evidence of settlement dating back to prehistory.
One such settlement is Trencrom Hill, which eventually developed into an Iron Age hillfort and looks out over the estuary. The hill was recorded as Torcrom in the 18th century, derived from the Cornish “torr crobm”, meaning “hunched bulge”. Doubtless, many legends and stories have circulated around this place over the years, but today we are interested in one particular tale: that of the Spriggan.
Our friend the Spriggan is described as a grotesquely ugly, wizened old chap with a large, childlike head. They are small in stature, but are strangely thought to be the ghostly forms of an ancient race of giants who once made Cornwall their home. In one tale collected by the antiquarian Robert Hunt in the 19th century, the Spriggan is said to swell to an enormous size when angered or threatened. It was Hunt who first recorded this goblin as being linked with Trencrom Hill in local tradition.
Spriggans were notorious, and the places they were thought to inhabit would no doubt have been avoided after nightfall. They were said to kidnap children and leave changelings in their place, so parents were warned to look out for a sudden, dramatic change in a child’s personality. They were guardians of ancient treasure and would violently attack any person they suspected of grave robbing or treasure hunting. Their list of crimes is considerable: they were also blamed for raising storms, blighting crops, and leading unsuspecting travellers astray. In fact, I am sorry to say I cannot find one positive thing to say about these little blighters.
A sculpture of the Spriggan was created by Marilyn Collins and installed in Crouch End Park in London in 1993. It is an impressive sight: a horned being seeming to step up out of the very earth. It is sometimes mistaken for the old god Pan.
Whilst Trencrom Hill is their most famous residence, stories of these size-altering pests can be found in many parts of Cornwall. They are usually thought to dwell in prehistoric barrows, cromlechs, stone circles, and old moorland ruins. So be warned.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope you enjoyed it. If so, and you would like to support me, please consider purchasing a copy of my new audiobook Threads of Shadow, wonderfully brought to life by Mark Adams, available on Amazon and Audible.
Stay spooky.
The Gwyllgi of Wales: The Terrifying Hound of Welsh Folklore
The little market town of Ruthin sits in the county of Denbighshire, in north-east Wales, within the charming Vale of Clwyd. The town’s name derives from rhudd (‘red’) and din (‘fort’), a reference to the colour of the sandstone bedrock from which the castle was built in the thirteenth century.
A road runs from this old settlement, an ancient route connecting the town to Wrexham in the east. Today it is known as the A525, though no doubt it has borne many other names, now lost to time. It is an important road, a lonely road, and one said to be trodden by a horrifying thing: the Gwyllgi.
I have little doubt, my friend, that travellers of old - particularly those making the journey on foot - would have journeyed in pairs, such was the fear attached to a certain stretch of this highway. At its most desolate point, the road runs through the Nant y Garth Pass, a steep-sided wooded valley following the course of the Nant y Garth stream, and it is in this isolated place that the Gwyllgi is said to haunt.
Tradition says the Gwyllgi appears as the dreadful apparition of a great mastiff or black wolf, with foul breath and flaming red eyes. It is a cousin to the phantom black dogs that roam England’s twilight lanes - the likes of Black Shuck in East Anglia and the Skriker in Lancashire.
One account of an encounter with this horrific hound was recorded by T. Gwynn Jones in Welsh Folklore and Welsh Folk-Custom (1930). In his book, he recounts a tale told to him by his grandmother. Apparently, when she was much younger, she and her husband had been riding near Ruthin. She had ridden a little ahead of her spouse when her horse suddenly became nervous. Moments later, she noticed “a huge mastiff with glowing red eyes” standing in the road before her. Sensing her distress, her husband - who I assume was the author’s grandfather - rode up to assist her. Together, they eventually managed to calm the horse. The woman claimed she watched the black hound run down the path and vanish into the gloom, though her husband insisted he had seen nothing at all.
These creatures appear throughout Wales. There is, for instance, a reputedly haunted lane leading from Mousiad to Lisworney Crossways, where locals report seeing a shadowy hound with flaming eyes. Another is said to have been sighted in a field called Cot Moor, and a third near the pit at Pant y Madog, close to Laugharne.
One such beast, described as being larger than a young steed, was said to stand guard over the flock of sheep grazing outside the lands of Yspaddaden Pencawr. Its breath was thought to have scorched the plain bare, burning the foliage to ash.
Like its English cousins, the Gwyllgi was also seen as a portent of doom — an omen of death soon to come within the witness’s community. Quite aside from its terrifying appearance, it is easy to understand why places said to be haunted by such beasts were avoided wherever possible.
So, should you find yourself wandering down a lonely Welsh lane at twilight, and you see a dog standing in the shadow of a hedgerow, do not be tempted to approach it. Do not offer it a treat, and most certainly do not try to pet it. It may be a Gwyllgi - and if it is, losing an arm may be the least of your worries.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope you enjoyed it. If so, and you would like to support me, please consider purchasing a copy of my new audiobook, Threads of Shadow, wonderfully brought to life by Mark Adams, available on Amazon and Audible.
Stay spooky.
Available on Amazon and Audible
Threads of Shadow - The Audio Book is released.
Hello my friends,
I will take a moment away from my usual blogging to announce that my book Threads of Shadow has now been released on Audible and Amazon - excellent news for those who love spooky stories.
Wonderfully narrated by the talented Mark Adams, Threads of Shadow continues the tales of Wendlelow’s haunted streets and lanes. It is a novel told through nine short stories, so you can have fun piecing together how the stories connect as the audiobook unfolds.
Pick up a copy today for some seriously spooky folk horror, and please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Audible. It really helps. I have attached links to the books.
Cat Sìth – The Dark Fairy Cat of Celtic Folklore
Cat Sìth. Puuurfectly terrifying…
The Highlands are home to much wildlife. Grand stags, nature’s monarchs, roam the land their heads adorned with crowns of antlers; grouse take to wing should people draw too near to their hiding places; and the nocturnal pine marten slinks its way through the heather. But there is one creature not fully of this realm — a strange beast that some say is kin to fairykind, whilst others claim it is the form of a shapeshifting witch — and this beast is the Cat Sìth.
The Cat Sìth is a creature whose origins stretch back into Celtic mythology. It is said to resemble a huge black cat — the size of a large dog — with a white patch upon its chest. Yet this feline is said to walk upon its hind legs when it believes no one is watching. It is an intelligent creature, and, I am sorry to say, one driven by malice.
Cat Sìth comes from Gaelic: cat meaning cat, and sìth (or sidhe) meaning fairy mound or fairy being. Roughly translated, its name means “Fairy Cat”. It was much feared in the Highlands, for it was believed to steal the soul of a corpse before burial. For this reason, people would keep watch over the bodies of the newly deceased, a tradition which seems connected to the older Celtic belief in the soul’s journey.
During Samhain (Halloween), when the boundary between worlds was believed to grow thin, the Cat Sìth was thought to roam freely. On this night, some Scottish households would leave out saucers of milk as an offering to the mythical moggy. The hope was that, if the furry villain was pleased, it would bless the house. Failure to provide this offering could see the Cat Sìth exact revenge by drying up the milk of the household’s cows.
There is also a strong connection to witchcraft. In some traditions, the Cat Sìth is believed to be a witch with the power to shapeshift. According to this lore, if a practitioner transformed into feline form nine times, they would become trapped as a cat for the remainder of their days.
The Cat Sìth is also found in Irish folklore. In her book The Schools’ Collection: County Kerry, Margaret Doyle recounts the following tale:
Once upon a time there was a man living near Ballymalis Castle called Jeremiah Carter. One day he went to Killorglin to buy sheep. When he came home, his wife told him that the cat had been making mournful noises around the house all day. He went to hunt out the cat but could not find it. The next day his sheep strayed away and he did not know where to find them. At last, he said he would go towards the castle in search of them. When he reached Ballymalis Castle, he heard a great wailing within. He waited for an hour, and at last a big cat came out on top of the castle. The cat spoke to him and told him to tell her sister at home that her mother was dead. He gathered his sheep and went home. When he reached home, he told his wife what the cat had said. When the other cat heard the news, she went away and was never seen again. It is said those two cats were witches.
To those who dabbled in the occult, it was said to be possible to summon a demonic Cat Sìth named Big Ears. The ritual required to do this was a long one, taking four days and four nights to complete, so the black-hearted magician who undertook it would need considerable commitment. Worse still, the ceremony required the practitioner to burn the bodies of cats. I shall include nothing more of this cruel ritual here — neither the words of power nor the key semantic gestures required to invoke the entity — lest one of my more unscrupulous readers be tempted down a dark and unpleasant path.
Today, folklorists believe that the legend of the Cat Sìth may have been inspired by the Kellas cat, a rare hybrid between domesticated cats and the wildcats of the Scottish Highlands. I, for one, can only hope they are correct.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, dear friend. If you enjoy a frightening tale, why not try my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries? The final, thrilling conclusion, A Crow’s Scream, is set to be unleashed upon the world in the coming months. It will be available on Amazon and Audible - links below.
Stay spooky
The Dearg Due: The Forgotten Vampire of Ireland
The Dearg Due. Beauty and Doom.
The County of Waterford, in the south-east of Ireland, shares its name with the city, one of the oldest and most populous settlements in southern Ireland. Originally a small Viking town, it grew over the centuries in both size and importance, with defensive walls and fortifications raised during the medieval period. But it is not the city’s history that concerns us here. It is the grim thing said to lurk beyond its walls - an undead being that once terrorised the region and was believed to dwell beneath an old oak called Strongbow’s Tree.
It is likely this troubled tree took its name from Richard de Clare, the Norman lord who captured Waterford in 1170. Worryingly, the exact location of the tree has long since been lost to folk memory. Whether it still stands somewhere forgotten, or was cut down long ago and the thing beneath it put to the flame, I cannot say.
But what was this creature? What was it that caused the good people of County Waterford to quiver in fear as darkness fell over their city and the lands beyond? Prepare yourself, dear reader, and I shall tell the tale of the Dearg Due.
Long ago, when the air was fresher, the waters cleaner, and the summer breeze gentler upon the skin, there lived a young woman as beautiful as a flower blooming beneath the midsummer sun. She was deeply in love with a handsome young farmhand, and he with her. Together they had made plans to marry. Sadly, they lived in a time when arranged marriages were common, and love often bowed before wealth.
The girl’s father was a cruel and greedy man who cared far more for gold than for his daughter’s happiness. He forced her into marriage with a wealthy clan chieftain, trading her future for land and coin.
Her new husband was no kinder. Jealous and possessive, he kept her locked away in a tower and took cruel delight in hurting her, merely to see blood upon her pale skin. As the years passed, she withered, fading like a rose left too long in winter.
When at last she died, she was buried beneath Strongbow’s Tree, but the villagers neglected an important custom: to place stones upon the grave, a ritual meant to keep restless spirits from rising and poisoning the land.
It was a foolish mistake. For rise she did.
Her beauty remained, even in death, but all kindness had rotted away, poisoned by grief, cruelty, and the agony of unfulfilled love. She returned to the world of the living as one of the undead, seeking vengeance upon those who had ruined her life.
First, she returned to her childhood home. There, as her father slept, she stole the very breath from his body, leaving him cold and lifeless before dawn.
Then she sought out her husband. She found him staggering drunkenly home from the tavern. As her lips met his, she drew not only the air from his lungs, but the blood from his veins.
But her vengeance did not end there. It is said the Dearg Due lingered on, haunting the roads and lanes of Waterford, luring young men with her beauty before feasting upon their blood. Desperate to end her reign of terror and spare others from her hunger, the villagers gathered by have grave, placing heavy stones upon it trapping her spirit, imprisoning it beneath the earth.
“But the Dearg Due is gone now,” I hear you say with confidence.
Yet cities in Ireland, like cities throughout the world, still have their disappearances. People vanish in the night, leaving behind no trace, no explanation, no farewell. Are there rational answers for such tragedies? Perhaps.
But perhaps - just perhaps - a handful of them may be laid at the feet of something ancient and wicked, something that has found its way into our modern world, something that still walks the nocturnal streets, thirsting for vengeance. Thirsting for blood.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, dear friend. If you enjoy a frightening tale, why not try my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries? The final, thrilling conclusion, A Crow’s Scream, is set to be unleashed upon the world in the coming months. It will be available on Amazon and Audible - links below.
Stay spooky
The Ghosts and Hauntings of Leap Castle – Ireland’s Most Haunted Castle
The thing…
Travel to the Midlands of Ireland, to the county of Offaly, and you will find the charming town of Roscrea - a place filled with friendly locals and wonderful historic buildings. If you are brave - and I suspect you are, for you are reading this - then venture north from the town for roughly four miles and, rising from the lonely countryside, you will find Leap Castle, said by some to be Ireland’s most haunted fortified building.
The original castle is believed to have been constructed around 1250 AD by the O’Bannon clan, with further expansions added over the centuries. It was originally called Léim Uí Bhanáin, or Leap of the O’Bannons. According to local tradition, the “leap” refers to a brutal contest between two O’Bannon brothers. To settle a dispute over who would lead the clan, both men were said to leap from the rocky outcrop where the castle now stands.
The one who survived became chieftain. A grim beginning for a place with such a bloody history.
Later, the castle fell into the hands of the O’Carroll clan. According to tradition, a bitter dispute broke out between two O’Carroll brothers over succession. One was a priest and, one day, while conducting Mass in the chapel, his brother burst in and murdered him at the altar. Dark rumours claim the priest’s spirit never left, with visitors reporting sightings of him wandering the Bloody Chapel and the stairwell below.
But it was during the twentieth century that one of the castle’s most gruesome discoveries was made. Restoration work was being carried out in the chapel when workers discovered an oubliette - a dungeon accessible only by trapdoor - concealed behind a wall. Inside were piles of human bones, many impaled on spikes. It is said that nearly three cartloads of remains were removed and taken for burial.
Dear reader, I trust the implications are clear.
These poor souls were thrown into that spiked pit and left there to die.
The tale of the Red Lady is a tragic one. She is seen gliding through the halls, dressed - not surprisingly - in red, carrying a bloody dagger. According to legend, she was once a captive who became pregnant, only for her child to be murdered. Wracked with grief, she took her own life and now wanders the castle by night.
Other spectres include an old governess, said to be seen peering from the upper windows and the phantoms of two small children - is there any ghost more unsettling than that of a child? Well, yes, as you shall soon discover. These supernatural little wanderers are often seen running and playing upon the stairs. If local lore is to be believed, one of the children, called Emily, can sometimes be seen falling from the battlements, vanishing before she strikes the ground.
But there is one entity that haunts Leap Castle’s troubled halls that is so dreadful, I must steady myself before I speak of it. Something so horrible it scarcely has a name.
It is known simply as The Thing, or The Elemental.
Those unfortunate enough to encounter it describe something small and twisted, with a decomposing face and accompanied by the overpowering stench of sulphur and rotting flesh.
The origins of the Thing remain uncertain. Some claim it was a spirit left by druids to guard the land and punish intruders. Others say it is merely a symptom of the castle’s violent history - a creature shaped over the centuries by accumulated hatred and suffering. Still others claim it was summoned accidentally by a woman named Mildred Darby.
Mildred lived in the castle during the early twentieth century and was known to practise séances. It is feared the Thing crept through from whatever dark realm it inhabits, drawn into our world during one of her spiritualist rituals. Mildred herself wrote of the creature after it terrified several of her servants:
“Whilst dressing I was startled by a loud yell of terror-stricken male and female voices coming apparently from the hall…”
She later described seeing the Thing leaning upon the gallery rail, its dreadful form accompanied by a foul and unnatural smell, before it slowly faded from sight. According to the servants, all who witnessed it became violently sick afterwards.
There are many more spectres associated with Leap Castle. It is, by all accounts, a deeply troubled place. But I do not believe my nerves can bear much more, and I would not wish to be the reason you, my dear friend, suffer a sleepless night. So for now, I shall say no more.
Perhaps, if my courage returns, I shall one day revisit Leap Castle and complete its phantasmal catalogue.
FREE STUFF
Tomorrow sees the release of the audiobook of my novel, Threads of Shadow, wonderfully and chillingly brought to life by narrator Mark Adams.
If you’d like a free copy, I have twenty spare codes available. Simply message me on Facebook or via the contact section of this website, and I’ll happily send one over in return for an honest review.
Until next week, stay spooky.
Raw Head and Bloody Bones: The Terrifying Monster That Haunted Children.
Raw Head & Bloody Bones enjoying a relaxing afternoon in his well…
The north of England is a place of many natural wonders - scenery guaranteed to take the breath away from any traveller; a place to inspire writers and poets… and also a place where things lurk that inspire a gut-twisting fear.
It is such a thing that I will speak of now - an entity so terrifying that its memory travelled across an ocean and found fertile ground in the southern states of America. A creature that dwells in the shadows, awaiting the moment to seize unwary children… a thing called Raw Head and Bloody Bones.
Raw Head and Bloody Bones is also referred to as Rawhead, Tommy Rawhead, or simply Bloody Bones. The term “bloody bones” can be traced back as far as 1548, according to the English dictionary. However, the figure itself was later recorded by the English physician and philosopher John Locke in 1693. He had the following to say on this gruesome legend:
“…used to awe children, and keep them in subjection.”
The name Raw Head and Bloody Bones gives a fairly clear impression of the sort of chap we are dealing with, a walking skeleton, its bones slick with rivulets of red, sticky blood; its head almost without skin, the raw muscular tissue beneath horribly exposed.
In Yorkshire, he was believed to dwell in pools and wells, dragging small children to a watery doom if they dared approach alone. But his name was not confined to England’s northern regions. As far south as Cornwall, we find the legend of Old Bloody Bones in the village of Baldhu, where he was said to inhabit an old knucker hole, lurking in the shadows and waiting for an unsuspecting traveller to stray too close to his domain…
In Somerset folklore, this supernatural blighter was worse still, for he did not limit his nefarious activities to the outdoors. Here, he was said to dwell in cupboards beneath the stairs. If a child were brave - or foolish - enough to peer through a crack in the door or a keyhole, they might glimpse him, perched upon a pile of bones.
Bones of his former child victims.
Young victims who had been caught lying… or perhaps even worse, using bad words.
As I mentioned earlier, Old Rawhead eventually grew tired of tormenting England’s younger generation and decided to try his luck in the “land of opportunity”. I can only assume he hid in the hold of a ship to get there, as no right-minded individual would have rented him a cabin.
Perhaps weary of the notoriously dreary English weather, he made his home in the southern United States, enjoying the balmy climate while inflicting his particular brand of horror upon the local populace. There, he turned his attentions to those possessing what was described as a “wicked tongue” - a worryingly vague offence. He became a particularly troubling figure in African-American folklore.
Our old friend Raw Head has clearly been used as a cautionary tale - to keep children from wandering too close to dangerous places, and to discourage certain taboos, particularly the use of those most notorious bad words - of which I shall not give an example here, dear reader… you can thank me later.
And so, he is clearly not real.
And yet… my wife has just asked me to fetch the broom from beneath the stairs.
Why, then, does my hand tremble so?
I do hope you did not find today’s blog to gory my friend. If you want to support me please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Locke, John. Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1902 ed.).
Briggs, Katharine (1976). An Encyclopedia of Fairies
www.scarystudies.com/rawhead-and-bloody-bones-rawhead-rex/
Know Your Goblins – The Trow
The Dreaded Trow. Fiddle players beware…
Once more a voice calls out, ‘Know your goblins.’ I cannot see the individual who cried these words, but I suspect they are a very sensible person, with a good head on their shoulders. As I have previously stated, goblin awareness is a vital life skill, and so I pull out my dusty books, settle down in a dim corner of the room, and prepare to research and deliver this essential information.
Today we head to the far north of Scotland, to the Orkney and Shetland Islands, to trace that most dangerous of goblinkind: the Trow.
Life on the Scottish isles can be harsh. Stormy winds batter the small settlements that cling there, and wind-tossed seas make journeys to the mainland a challenge. The folk of these islands are a hardy breed; the goblins that haunt them, even more so.
A Trow (also referred to as trowe, drow, or dtrow) is a malignant fairy or goblin. They are usually described as short, stunted, and ugly, though there are occasional tales of giant, multi-headed trows terrorising whole communities.
A large number of the ancient mounds located on the islands are thought to be ‘trowie knowes’ (earthen mound dwellings), where they hide from the light of day, venturing out only after dusk. Indeed, if caught in sunlight, they cannot return home until the following evening.
Local folk would avoid these old monuments, particularly after dark, for fear of a nocturnal encounter. Trows are known to have a fondness for music, particularly the fiddle, and are notorious for abducting musicians in the night and imprisoning them within their mounds, so those of you who are musically gifted and can play a violin beware…
The name Trow (or Drow) is thought to derive from an Old Norse dialect, as these isles were once occupied by Norse settlers before the Scots drove them out. The word may stem from draugr, meaning revenant, devil, or troll.
It was considered unfortunate to speak of Trows, and even more unlucky to lay eyes upon one of the blighters - particularly if you happen to play an instrument requiring a bow. There were believed to be two distinct kinds of Trow: the hill-trows and the sea-trows, said to be mortal enemies. We have already spoken of the hill-trow; now let us turn our attention to its ocean-loving cousin.
Descriptions of sea-trows vary, but they are often said to resemble a colt with matted hair. However, the Orkney variety is thought to be among the most unpleasant imaginable: a scaly creature with matted hair, a monkey-like face, and a sloping head. It was said to be frail-bodied, yet possessed disproportionately large limbs, with disc-shaped feet - “round as a millstone” - and webbed hands and feet, giving it a slow, lumbering, almost “wabbling” gait.
Finally, and with great regret, we must speak of the Kunal Trow, or King Trow - perhaps the worst of the lot - said to dwell on the island of Unst in Shetland. They are a race without females, wandering the darkness and weeping with loneliness. They take human wives, but tragically these women never survive the birth of Trow–human offspring, forcing the Kunal Trow to abduct unwilling women to act as wet nurses for their young.
Some of the traditional tunes of the Shetland Islands are believed to have come from the Trows. A wandering musician might hear one of these troublesome beings playing a strange melody and later reproduce it. Such alleged Trowie tunes include “Da Trowie Burn”, “Da Trow’s Reel”, and “Da Peerie Hoose in Under Da Hill” (“The Little House Under the Hill”).
I hope this blog has been useful, particularly to any of my violin-playing readers. Remember, these goblins are out there - and they are a blooming nuisance.
If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror, terrifying folk-horror collections told through short stories — available on all Amazon stores, I have enclosed link to the UK & US versions below.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
BOOK UPDATE : A CROW’S SCREAM - THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE WENDLELOW MYSTERIES
A book cover and a noisy bird…
Hello dear friends,
After much hard graft and quite a few ups and downs, it is with nervous excitement that I can announce the upcoming release of Book Three of The Wendlelow Mysteries. The final book in this trilogy - told through 27 short stories - will explore the origins of the haunted Shropshire town, and the ultimate fate of the residents you have grown to know so well. Julie, Elspeth, Nolan and Roger will return, joined by a host of new characters, as we weave our way towards the witch-haunted settlement’s final destiny.
I want to thank you all for bravely taking this journey with me. As these novels are made up of short stories, I always envisioned readers returning to them, to dip into a few favourite tales now and again, perhaps around Halloween or Christmas, giving the books an extended life in the reader’s mind.
The Wendlelow Mysteries marks the conclusion of over twenty years’ work. It was only a couple of years ago, during a bout of illness, that I decided to do something with these stories, producing my first book, Fireside Horror. This was followed by the audiobook, a couple of anthologies, and finally Book Two, Threads of Shadow.
A Crow’s Scream will soon make its way to my editor, who will work her magic and make it fit for human consumption. Once it is returned, I will implement the necessary edits and prepare it for release, so, hopefully, it will be out within the next two months.
And after that. Well, I have begun making notes on a sequel to the series, a novel set after the Wendlelow events, and I am also planning to release a book of unconnected stories set within the same area and time frame. Finally, I hope to compile a folklore volume based on my Fireside Folklore blog.
And thank you, dear reader, for taking this journey with me. I hope you have had as much joy reading these books as I have had writing them.
Stay spooky,
Your friend,
Paul
Jenny Greenteeth: The Terrifying Water Hag of English Folklore
Jenny Greenteeth. Traveller Beware…
Travel – if you dare – to the north-west of England, and you will find yourself in the county of Lancashire, an area dissected by three rivers: the Lune, the Wyre, and the Ribble, all of which wend their way westward before flowing into the storm-tossed Irish Sea. Naturally, these rivers branch into smaller tributaries and streams, until the whole region is veined with waterways.
These waters can be calming to behold, and a traveller might be tempted to rest upon their banks, listening to their gentle murmur. However, any rambler who chooses to do so should beware, for something sinister is said to lurk within their murky depths - a water-dwelling hag known as Jenny Greenteeth.
Jenny Greenteeth, also known as Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, or Grinteeth, is a figure of English folklore. Tales of her are fairly widespread; she is also whispered of in North Staffordshire, as well as in Cheshire and Shropshire (Wendlelow country ;-)). Here, she is known by similar names, including Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, and Jeannie Greenteeth.
She is described as green-skinned, her teeth and gums caked in algae, with long, sharp teeth and fingers ending in cruel, claw-like nails - more akin to the talons of a raptor than the hands of a woman. No one is entirely safe from her predations, but the young and the elderly are said to be particularly at risk, as she favours easy prey.
In some accounts, she is believed to lurk in the branches of trees at night, watching her victims and preparing to drop upon the unsuspecting. If they are fortunate, they may receive a warning, as fetid droplets of water fall from above. Some historians suggest this image may have been confused by folklorists with the northern English Jinny-hewlet, an old folk name for an owl.
Folklorist Roy Palmer, in Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009), records the following Staffordshire saying:
“Jenny wi’ green teeth lives i’ th’ pool-
she’ll have thee if tha leans too far.”
In their excellent book The Lore of the Land (2005), Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson record the following northern oral tradition:
“Tha’d best keep away fro’ th’ cut, or Jenny Greenteeth’ll get thee-
she sits under th’ weeds, waitin’, an’ she’ll grip thi ankles an’ drag thee down.”
It seems Jenny Greenteeth serves as a cautionary tale - much like the Scottish Blue Men of the Minch or the Slavic Rusalka - used to warn children of the dangers of water, particularly ponds covered in duckweed, which may conceal hidden depths and hazards.
Indeed, the idea of a frightening being dwelling in water is found worldwide and is almost always used to deter adventurous youngsters from venturing where they ought not. In Australia, there is the Bunyip; in Jamaican folklore, the River Mumma (River Mother). In American folklore, we encounter the Storm Hag of Lake Erie in Pennsylvania, a creature said to lurk beneath the waters and blamed for shipwrecks in the region. Like Jenny Greenteeth, the Storm Hag is often described as a green-skinned woman with sharp, unnatural teeth and piercing eyes.
The similarities between Old Jenny Greenteeth and the Storm Hag are striking, and one is left to wonder, brave reader, whether they might be one and the same - an old English tradition carried across the Atlantic by immigrants, finding a new home and continuing to terrorise distant shores.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this piece of English folklore.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories set in the troubled Shropshire town of Wendlelow, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
The Lore of the Land (2005) – Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson
Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009) – Roy Palmer
Know Your Goblins – The Coblynau
A Coblyn approaches, but is he friend or foe?
A voice calls out: “Know your goblins.” Words of wisdom that ought to be engraved in every public space in the country. There are many different kinds of goblin, not just in Britain but throughout the world - but which are friendly, and which are devious little miscreants? Being able to identify them correctly might save you a great deal of trouble in the long run. Indeed, goblin education should be compulsory in every school throughout the land.
Today, I will speak of a type of goblin from Wales: the mine-dwelling coblyn.
The name coblyn (plural coblynau) has two possible meanings: one is “knocker” or “thumper”, whilst the other is “sprite”. They stand at around a foot and a half tall and are generally considered rather ugly; however, they are also thought to be friendly and good-natured. Like their Cornish cousins, the Knockers, they inhabit mines and caverns. In dress, they mimic a miner’s garb, wearing functional work clothes and a small hard hat. They carry miniature hammers and picks, and can be found pushing tiny wheel barrows busily about or else industriously working away at a seam of precious metal. - bless them.
They are more often heard than seen, and workers in the dark depths report the sound of them pounding away in distant, abandoned tunnels. Generally, they are considered to bring good luck, but be wary: if you speak ill of them, they may grow moody and begin throwing stones.
Coblynau were regarded as protectors of the mine, and any peculiar occurrences - such as strange noises or missing equipment - were often attributed to them. They were also believed to lead workers to rich veins of ore, and in some cases hidden treasure, by knocking or rapping in a particular area.
Occasionally, people have reported encountering these miniature miners outside of caverns, often in mountainous regions, much to the surprise of unsuspecting ramblers. The Rev. Edmund Jones, in his book A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales (printed 1813), recounts the following encounter:
Egbert Williams, “a pious young gentleman of Denbighshire, then at school,” was one day playing in a field with three girls, one of whom was his sister. Near the stile beyond Lanelwyd House, they saw a company of fifteen coblynau dancing in the middle of the field. They danced in a manner somewhat akin to Morris dancers, but with a wildness and swiftness in their movements. They were clothed in red like British soldiers and wore red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow, wound around their heads. A strange circumstance was that although they were almost as tall as ordinary men, they retained the unmistakable appearance of dwarfs.
Presently, one of them left the group and ran towards the children near the stile, who were terribly frightened and scrambled to escape. Barbara Jones got over first, then her sister, and as Egbert Williams helped his sister across, they saw the coblyn close upon them. They barely made it over before its hairy hand grasped the stile. It stood there, leaning upon it, gazing after them as they fled, with a grim, copper-coloured countenance and a fierce expression. The young people ran to Lanelwyd House and called the elders out, but though they hurried quickly to the field, the dwarfs had already vanished.
Rev. Edmund Jones also recounts a less alarming encounter, experienced by one William Evans of Hafodafel:
While crossing the Beacon Mountain very early in the morning, he passed what appeared to be a fairy coal mine, where fairies were busily at work. Some were cutting coal, others carrying it to fill sacks, and some lifting the loads onto horses’ backs - all in complete silence. He considered it “a most extraordinary, supernatural sight” and was greatly impressed, for he knew there was no coal mine in that place. He was described as a man of unquestionable honesty, “a great man in the world - above telling an untruth.”
Remember my friends being able to correctly identify a goblin is an essential life skill so stay informed, stay vigilant and most importantly Stay Spooky.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I hope you found it enjoyable - perhaps even useful. Please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, the stories entwining into a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Simply search P. A. Sheldon, or click the link below.
Alternatively, you will find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the download section of this website.
Until next week.
Link to Amazon UK - Threads of Shadow
Link to Amazon US - Threads of Shadow
Sources
Wikipedia
'A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales' Rev. Edmund Jones (1813)
monstropedia.org
britishfairies.wordpress.com
The Dullahan - Ireland’s Headless Horseman
The Dulllahan rides forth…
When the wild wind blows and the mists weave their way across the hills and into Ireland’s sunken lanes, both humble and lofty folk alike bolt their doors, throw more fuel upon the fire, and pray for the rays of the early morning sun to bless the land. For these conditions are ripe for one of the Emerald Isle’s most terrifying entities - The Dullahan.
Tales of the Dullahan, or Dulachan (Irish: Dubhlachanreach), do not seem confined to any one particular area of Ireland; his reach spreads throughout the land. He has a somewhat gruesome appearance, so steel your nerves dear reader, before proceeding. He is described as a ghostly rider upon a black horse, he has no head upon his shoulders, instead he carries it before him, gripping it by the hair. It bears a particularly revolting aspect, a wide toothy grin said to nearly split it in half. This dire trophy is further described by Thomas Crofton Croker in the 18th century, a collector of strange Irish tales:
...such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings: no speck of colour enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay stretched over the unearthly surface almost like the parchment head of a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange and irregular motion, flashed like meteors.
As might be expected of any self-respecting dark entity, he dresses in black. More unsettling still, he is sometimes described as carrying a whip made from a human spine, which he uses to viciously thrash his unfortunate spectral mount.
There are also tales of a “Headless Coach” (also called the Cóiste Bodhar, or “Soundless Coach”), driven by the Dullahan down lonely roads. Irish writer Robert Lynd recounts the testimony of a witness from Connemara, who spoke of walking the lanes one night when he encountered the silent shadow of a coach passing by him in utter stillness.
The fear of encountering this terrifying equestrian was very real, for it was believed that he could strike a person blind in one eye, or use eldritch powers - which as we all know are surely the very worst kind of powers - to draw out a victim’s soul, killing them on the spot. He was often seen atop a hill, holding his head aloft, scanning the countryside for lonely travellers to terrorise. Some tales even speak of him riding from village to village, knocking upon cottage doors; should anyone be foolish enough to answer, well…
The Dullahan was said to be repelled by gold, and so nocturnal travellers were advised to carry some with them to ward off any potential encounter. Of course, carrying precious metals through the countryside at night might well draw the attention of a far more mortal danger. So one must decide what is to be feared more: a headless phantom, or a band of robbers.
In a blog on Irish customs, Bridget Haggerty relates the following tale of an encounter with this unfriendly spectre:
One story from Galway tells of a man walking home late at night when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves pounding along the road behind him. In dread, he turned and saw the Dullahan. He ran, but nothing can outrun the angel of death. Then, remembering the old lore, he dropped a gold coin upon the road. A terrible roar sounded in the air above him, and when he dared to look again, the Dullahan had vanished.
Our old friend Croker also provides a tale in his book Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1828):
A peasant named Larry Dodd, a resident of the “White Knight’s Country” at the foot of the Galtee Mountains, travels to Cashel, where he purchases a nag, intending to sell it at Kildorrery fair that very evening. Along the way, he offers a ride to a cloaked woman. When he attempts to claim a kiss as payment, he discovers - to his horror - that she is a Dullahan. Losing consciousness, he later awakens within the ruins of a church, where he beholds a dreadful sight: a wheel of torture adorned with severed heads, surrounded by headless Dullahans - men and women, nobles and commoners alike. He is offered a drink, but as he begins to praise it, his head is struck from his body mid-sentence. When he regains his senses, his head is restored, though his horse is lost to the Dullahans forever.
My best advice to visitors to Ireland is therefore this: remain indoors of an evening, sit comfortably beside a roaring fire, and if you do venture out to a local pub, do so in the company of good friends. And when at last you wend your drunken way home, be certain to carry a piece of gold upon your person - for you never know what may come riding up behind you.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this strange tale has not put you off visiting the emerald isle, which is a beautiful place. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my book, Fireside Horror - a terrifying folk-horror novel told through short stories, available on all Amazon stores. I have enclosed links to the UK and US versions below. It are also available to order from Waterstones.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
HORROR REVIEW
★★★★★
‘A gem of a book’
Sources
Wikipedia
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland T C Croker (1828)
Book Update - Character Dive - Lady Hildegard Penderson.
Lady Penderson
Hello friends, slowly, ever so slowly, my final book in the Wendlelow mysteries draws closer, in preparation for its release I will tease you with a few of the characters to be found with its grim pages.
To the outside world, Lady Hildegard Penderson presents herself as the model of aristocratic propriety: poised, controlled, and unwavering in her expectations of those around her. She has just one eccentricity, her pet, Nox, a crow that accompanies her where ever she goes.
Within Crowsmere Hall, Lady Penderson rules with absolute authority. Conversation is measured and behaviour is scrutinised. Her presence alone is enough to silence a room, her disapproval felt without the need to raise her voice.
Lady Hildegard Penderson is not merely a figure of authority - she is a woman with purpose. And whatever that purpose may be, it is pursued with chilling certainty.
As A Crows Scream nears its publication date, now is a great time to delve into the mysteries and horrors of Wendlelow by picking up the first book in the sequence: Fireside Horror.
If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, witchcraft, and prehistoric devils, I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of it.
Kelpie - Scotlands Grim Water Spirit.
A Kelpie rises from the loch. Beware…
Scotland is a land of rivers, lochs and streams. From the rolling green hills of the southern Lowlands, dissected with dry - stone walls, to the high, craggy peaks of the Highlands, these waterways form constant blue ribbons threading their way through the landscape.
There is another constant - one connected to the waterways of both north and south: a legend. A story of a monster. A grim shapeshifter that lures men and women alike to their doom, drowning them before devouring their remains. I speak, of course, of the much-feared Kelpie.
The Kelpie - Scottish Gaelic: each-uisge - usually appears as a beautiful black horse. Its coat is described as unnaturally glossy or perpetually dripping wet. As mentioned, the Kelpie is a shape-shifter, capable of changing into human form - most often a handsome young man with dark hair. Winsome lasses should beware, for he seeks to charm and lead them to a watery grave.
Fortunately, there are ways to see through the disguise. It is said that water weeds can be seen tangled in his thick hair, and sometimes he betrays himself by revealing hooves instead of feet.
The Kelpie’s favoured trick, when in horse form, is to lure travellers - especially children - onto its back. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to ride the beast will find their hands stuck fast to the creature’s hide, or their fingers hopelessly tangled in its wet mane. The Kelpie then gallops into the water, drowning its rider before devouring them, leaving only a few grisly remains to wash ashore the following day.
In his Address to the Devil (1786), Scottish poet Robert Burns gives the creature a satanic heritage:
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord
An' float the jinglin icy boord
Then, water-kelpies haunt the foord
By your direction,
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.
Fear not, dear reader - there are ways to thwart these aquatic equines. Folklore tells us that if you can place a bridle upon a Kelpie, you will gain mastery over it. Additionally, much like the werewolf of legend, it is said that if the creature is shot with silver, it will die, dissolving away to leave only “turf and a soft mass like jellyfish”.
The Nine Children of the Water Horse
One of the most disturbing Kelpie tales comes from Loch Garve in the Highlands. A magnificent black horse appeared by the lochside, drawing the attention of local children. One by one, they climbed onto its back. Each child who touched the creature became stuck fast to its hide. Nine children had mounted the horse when the last realised something was terribly wrong. In a desperate act, the child cut off his own fingers to escape the Kelpie’s grip. Tragically, he was too late to save the others. The creature plunged into the loch, drowning the remaining children beneath its dark waters.
The 1879 Highland Fishermen’s Story
Late 19th-century folklore collectors recorded a tale from a group of fishermen working on the banks of Loch Ness. One night, they saw what appeared to be a horse standing upon the water itself. As they approached, the creature slid silently beneath the surface and vanished. The men later claimed it was a Kelpie, waiting patiently for a lone victim.
Today, the safest way to encounter a Kelpie is far from the treacherous waters it once haunted. Between Falkirk and Grangemouth, in a parkland known as The Helix, stand The Kelpies. These colossal horse-head sculptures rise nearly 30 metres into the sky, each weighing around 300 tonnes. They are truly an awe-inspiring sight - larger-than-life monuments to the dark legend.
I do hope you have enjoyed today’s blog, my friend. Please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Link to Amazon UK - Threads of Shadow
Link to Amazon US - Threads of Shadow
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com/kelpies/
www.historic-uk.com/CultureUK/The-Kelpie/
#kelpie #darkfolklore
Owlman of Mawnan – The Winged Humanoid
The Owlman…
The village of Mawnan can be found in the south-west of England, on that mysterious leg of land called Cornwall - a storied place with strong Celtic connections. Mawnan is a charming rural village close to the coastline, and a wonderful place for adventurous souls to visit. But travellers should beware, as it is said to be home to a weird creature who delights in terrorising the unsuspecting - a creature known as the Owlman.
The first noted sighting of this creepy cryptid dates back to 1926, when a local newspaper, The Cornish Echo, printed a story concerning two boys who had been playing when they were pursued by what they described as a very large and demonic looking bird. The boys were able to escape the avian horror by taking cover behind an iron grating.
It is claimed that in 1937 two surrealist painters, Leonora Carrington and Max Ernst, learned about the boys’ supposed encounter. Intrigued by the tale, they travelled to Cornwall, where they are thought to have performed secret rituals in order to summon the creature. Given its vicious nature, this may not have been wise. Whether or not they succeeded in this bold venture is uncertain, but much of their later artwork featured our fiendish feathered friend.
The story of the Owlman gained wider notice in the national press in 1976, when Tony 'Doc' Shiels, an English writer, magician, and artist, claimed to have investigated reports from two young girls who said they had witnessed a large winged being hovering near the church tower of St Mawnan and St Stephen Church. The encounter with this flying bird-man so shocked the girls that their father immediately cut their holiday short. The girls later provided ‘Doc’ Shiels with a drawing of what they had seen, a copy of which appears in the gallery of this blog.
Shiels claimed that the Owlman was sighted again later that same year by two fourteen-year-old girls. According to the story, the two terrified campers were confronted by “a big owl with pointed ears, as big as a man”, with glowing eyes and black, pincer-like claws.
Since that time there have been sporadic sightings of the Owlman throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. As recently as around the year 2000, witnesses reported hearing “a loud, owl-like sound” at night near the churchyard.
The most recent encounter with this Bubo bubo man-beast reportedly occurred in 2021, when two men from Falmouth claimed not only to have spotted the creature but also to have been attacked by it.
Over the years, there have been suggestions that the Owlman is merely a misidentified owl; after all, church towers are known to be popular nesting places for them. It has also been suggested that the story was a hoax created by Doc Shiels himself, as he was - by all accounts - a man who enjoyed weaving a tall tale.
However, dear reader, before you become too comfortable with these explanations, perhaps you should consider the following: there is an alleged photograph of Mawnan’s Owlman, taken shortly before it supposedly attacked the two gentlemen in 2021. I have enclosed a copy of this photograph in the gallery. I do hope you do not find it too disturbing.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or Search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Link to 'Fireside Horror' - Amazon UK
Link to 'Fireside Horror' - Amazon US
Sources
Wikipedia
thehorrorcollection.com/who-or-what-is-the-owlman-of-mawnan-church
cornishbirdblog.com/the-owlman-of-mawnan-smith/
The Leprechaun: The Mysterious Trickster of Irish Folklore
The Leprechaun - with his precious gold.
Ireland is an ancient land with many different legends. Tales of heroes, monsters and phantoms can be found throughout the Emerald Isle, but if there is one mysterious entity who captures the spirit of the place and has become most closely associated with it, then that is Leprechaun.
The Leprechaun is rarely mentioned in early Irish mythology and only becomes prominent in later medieval folklore. The name likely derives from the Irish “leipreachán”, meaning “a small-bodied fellow”. They are a mischievous kind of fairy, often depicted as shoemakers, and famously associated with a pot of gold - a later addition to the legend - usually said to be located at the end of a rainbow. Leprechauns were believed to hide their treasure where it could never be found; hence the rainbow, which has no true ‘end’.
They are said to lead solitary lives in remote rural areas, often dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees, preferring to remain hidden from humans. Modern depictions describe them as short - usually around two to three feet tall - with bright reddish-orange facial hair. They wear a green coat and a top hat, the later often perched at a jaunty angle, while their boots and belts are adorned with brightly polished metal buckles. They are believed to be cunning, possessed of a sparkling wit, and fond of tricks and riddles.
However, in older stories these diminutive troublemakers are described somewhat differently. According to D. R. McAnally, the leprechaun is the son of an “evil spirit” and a “degenerate fairy” and is “not wholly good nor wholly evil”. He goes on to describe a very dapper little chap:
He is about three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, grey or black stockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century ago, over a little, old, withered face. Round his neck is an Elizabethan ruff, and frills of lace are at his wrists.
Older versions also provide him with a leather apron, as he was considered a master shoemaker.
There are few accounts of people claiming to have encountered these pint-sized pranksters, but one or two tales persist. Perhaps the most famous comes from County Kerry in the eighteenth century. A local fisherman claimed to have caught a leprechaun while fishing. The fairy promised to reveal the location of his treasure if released. This story reflects the common narrative surrounding leprechauns and their legendary gold.
A more modern sighting allegedly occurred in Dublin in 1989, when a family reported observing a small figure darting behind a tree in an urban park. They described it as wearing a green suit and hat and claimed that, upon approaching, it vanished into thin air - fuelling rumours of these strange beings in contemporary society.
Today, the Leprechaun is most likely to be encountered in cartoons, films and advertising, and is strongly associated with St Patrick’s Day, 17 March - the traditional death date of Saint Patrick, the foremost patron saint of Ireland.
I do hope you have enjoyed today’s blog, my friend. Please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
aprilroane.com/post/leprechauns-legends-sightings-and-cultural-beliefs
yourirish.com/folklore/legend-of-leprechauns
#leprechaun #folklore #Irishmyth #stpatricksday
Folk Hero – Johnnie Armstrong & the Restless Spirits of Gilnockie Tower
Johnnie Armstrong, notorious villain or folk-hero?
Just north of the village of Canonbie, in Dumfriesshire in south-west Scotland, stands an old fortified tower. The present structure largely dates from the early seventeenth century, although an earlier tower is believed to have stood on the site. Originally known as Hollows Tower, it is today called Gilnockie Tower.
The name Gilnockie is thought to derive from the Scottish Gaelic Geal Cnocan, meaning “little white hill”. The tower is traditionally associated with Johnnie Armstrong, a notorious Border reiver who later became a folk hero.
Armstrong was a clan leader followed by around one hundred and fifty men. He raided both English and Scottish lands, shifting his allegiance according to which crown held the upper hand. Operating with relative impunity from his base at Gilnockie, and under the protection of Lord Robert Maxwell, Armstrong even raided and burned the town of Netherby in Cumberland in 1527.
By 1530 the Borderlands had become so volatile that James V personally led a campaign to impose royal authority. The King offered to meet Armstrong, who, believing he would receive a royal safe conduct, agreed to meet him face to face at Carlenrig Chapel, accompanied by about thirty followers.
He was deceived.
Instead of receiving a pardon, Armstrong and his men were seized by the King’s much larger force and hanged without trial. The execution was intended as a stark warning to other reivers and an attempt to restore law and order to the Borders. It did not have the desired effect.
Because the King had effectively lured Armstrong under a supposed assurance of safety, many viewed the act as treacherous. In death, Armstrong’s reputation began to change. Whatever he may have been in life — arguably little more than a violent outlaw — he became something more in legend. A traditional ballad, Johnie Armstrang, commemorated his fate, and he later appeared in the writings of Walter Scott. In these and other accounts he is portrayed as well dressed and charismatic, loyal to his men, and unjustly executed. Some later interpretations even cast him as a defender of Scottish independence rather than a self-interested raider.
Modern historians tend to regard Armstrong as both a criminal and a casualty of shifting political authority in a lawless frontier society.
Gilnockie Tower itself fell into ruin for a time but has since been restored. It now stands as a monument to Border history and continues to attract visitors.
The tower remains open to the public and is well worth a visit. Local tradition attaches several curious tales to the place. Stories tell of the phantoms of a family of three and their loyal hunting dog, said to be heard moving about the building at night. There is also the mysterious “yin leggit” ghost — a one-legged apparition glimpsed on cold, foggy evenings. Visitors have reported footsteps on empty staircases, faint voices drifting through the tower, and the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Could any of those whispers belong to Johnnie Armstrong himself? Might the old reiver return to his former stronghold from time to time? And if he does, what would he make of it now?
Who can say?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoyed this piece of border folklore, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, their stories entwined in a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Search P A Sheldon. or click the link below.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Dreaded Water Leaper
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Water leaper
Wales is a country famous for its mountains and deep valleys - a place of vivid beauty in which a person can truly lose themselves. Yet these mountains and valleys also contain lakes, rivers and ponds, and some of these waters were long regarded with suspicion. They were thought to be the domains of black-hearted devils, terrifying spectres and dangerous beasts.
Dangerous beasts such as the Llamhigyn y Dŵr.
In Welsh, Llamhigyn y Dŵr (pronounced Hlam-HIG-in uh DOOR) literally means “Water Leaper”. It is said to resemble a large and monstrous toad, limbless except for membranous, bat-like wings which it uses to glide when it springs from the water at its prey. It possesses a long tail tipped with a cruel, venomous-looking stinger.
It hunts by hiding in murky water, waiting for a victim to venture too close. Then it erupts from the depths and launches itself at the unsuspecting unfortunate. Shepherds are careful not to let their flocks or dogs stray too near lakes where these froggish fiends are believed to lurk. Anglers returning home with rod and tackle after an unsuccessful day at the water know precisely what is to blame for their empty creels.
The scholar of Welsh language and lore, Sir John Rhys (1840–1915), relates a tale in his book Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Clarendon Press, London, 1901), which he says was told to him by a fisherman named Old Ifan Owen. Ifan claimed that he himself had once run into this amphibious wrong ’un, and that his father had encountered the creature on many occasions. His recorded account is given below:
Once in particular, when he had been angling for hours towards the close of the day without catching anything, he found that something took the fly clean off the hook each time he cast it. After moving from one spot to another on the lake, he fished opposite the Benlan Wen, when something gave his line a frightful pull, “and, by the gallows, I gave another pull,” the fisherman used to say, “with all the force of my arm: out it came, and up it went off the hook, whilst I turned round to see, as it dashed so against the cliff of Benlan that it blazed like lightning.” He would add, “If that was not the Llamhigyn, it must have been the very devil himself.” That cliff must be two hundred yards at least from the shore.
As to his father, he had seen the Water Spirit many times, and had also been fishing in the Llyn Glâs or Ffynnon Lâs when he hooked a wonderful and fearful monster. It was not like a fish, but rather resembled a toad, except that it had a tail and wings instead of legs. He pulled it easily enough towards the shore, but as its head rose from the water it gave a terrible shriek - enough to split the fisherman’s bones to the marrow. Had there not been a friend standing by, he might have fallen headlong into the lake and been dragged under like a sheep; for there was a tradition that if a sheep entered the Llyn Glâs, it could never be recovered, as something would at once drag it to the bottom.
Rhys adds that this was the belief of the shepherds of Cwm Dyli within his memory, and that they acted upon it by never allowing their dogs to pursue sheep too close to the lake.
I could find no firm accounts of this bat-winged Batrachian attacking people outright. Nevertheless, owners of dogs and sheep might be wise to beware, lest a beloved pet or valuable livestock become its next meal.
So is this croaking menace real - an ever-present danger to Welsh dog walkers - or merely a tall tale, a convenient excuse offered by anglers in the warmth of the pub after a long day on the water, explaining why today’s catch slipped away?
I shall leave you, dear reader, to judge.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have liked this monstrous Welsh legend.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
abookofcreatures.com
Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Sir John Rhys, 1901)
An Encyclopedia of Fairies (Katherine Briggs)
Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest: The Legend
Robin Hood & Maid Marian. The other merry men can be seen hiding in the trees.
Travel deep into England’s green heart and you will find the ceremonial county of Nottinghamshire. Here lies a nature reserve of more than a thousand acres - a remnant of something far older - a place known as Sherwood Forest.
Though greatly reduced today, this mighty woodland once covered a quarter of Nottinghamshire and cast its leafy shadow into neighbouring counties. In ages past it was known as Sciryuda - “the woodland belonging to the shire” - or, the shire (sher) wood of Nottinghamshire.
Within these ancient tracts of forest, beneath bough and birdsong, tradition tells of one of England’s greatest folk heroes: Robin Hood.
For more than six centuries, Robin has been bound to this landscape. An outlaw of the medieval world, he is said to have robbed the rich to give to the poor, outwitted corrupt officials, and stood against injustice with his longbow in hand. Yet whether he was a living man of flesh and blood, a composite of several wandering outlaws, or merely a figure woven from the songs of travelling minstrels remains a matter of debate.
Curiously, the name “Robin Hood” - or “Robin Hode” - appears in medieval legal records as a term for an unnamed criminal, much as “John Doe” is used today in America. Even then, the name had already begun to slip into myth.
The earliest surviving ballads date to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, among them:
A Gest of Robyn Hode
Robin Hood and the Monk
Robin Hood and the Potter
In these early tales, Robin is a yeoman - a skilled commoner with a strong moral code, loyal to the “good old ways”, hostile to greedy churchmen and corrupt sheriffs, and fiercely protective of his band.
Around him gathered the Merry Men - companions as memorable as he himself:
Little John, towering and steadfast, his strength matched only by his loyalty.
Friar Tuck, boisterous and red-cheeked, fond of food and drink, yet not scared to a fight with is staff.
Maid Marian, a later addition to the legend, Robins true love, who has grown in modern tellings into a figure of courage and quiet resolve.
Will Scarlet, hot-blooded and quick to anger, clad in scarlet cloth as bright as autumn leaves.
Set against them stand the figures of authority: the Sheriff of Nottingham, the embodiment of corrupt rule; Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his ruthless right hand man; and, in later retellings, the grasping Prince John.
It was Sir Walter Scott’s 1819 novel Ivanhoe that reshaped Robin into a dispossessed nobleman - a Saxon lord driven into the greenwood by Norman oppression. This romantic vision took root, and from it grew the Robin many recognise today.
Across Britain, the legend has left its mark upon the landscape. Caves, wells and cliffs bear his name:
Robin Hood’s Stride in Derbyshire - twin rocks said to mark the place where the hero made a single impossible leap.
Robin Hood’s Bay on the Yorkshire coast - a village with a history of smuggling that later became entwined with the outlaw’s tale.
Robin Hood’s Well near Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire - some traditions place Robin’s origins in Loxley near Sheffield, and in these versions his adventures unfold in Barnsdale rather than Sherwood. The ballad Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar connects Robin with this fountain, which may explain the naming of the spring where the well was later constructed.
Robin Hood’s Grave is a monument in Kirklees Park Estate, West Yorkshire, near the ruins of Kirklees Priory. It is traditionally said to mark the burial place of the English folk hero, who, according to legend, was poisoned by the Prioress, whilst he was recovering from his wounds there. It is here that some claim to have glimpsed his ghost lingering in the surrounding woodland at twilight, bow in hand.
Perhaps the surest way to feel the spirit of the old legend is to visit the great Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. One of Britain’s most venerable trees, it is believed to be around a thousand years old, a truly ancient woodland king.
To stand beneath its summer canopy and hear the wind stir its leaves and the birds calling between its branches is, for a moment, to feel oneself drift from the modern world and become one with something ancient and wild.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this old English legend.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
discoverbritain.com
mythencyclopedia.com
International Robin Hood Bibliography
visitsherwood.co.uk