Aberdeenshire Folk Tales E-Book

Grace Banks

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

The folklore of the north-east has provided a rich tapestry for the tales within; from Celtic and Pictish origins meet witches, selkies, smugglers, fairies, monsters, despicable rogues, riddles and heroes. Tragic events, spellbinding characters, humour, romance and clever minds are bound together by two well-established storytellers living and working in the city and shire of Aberdeen. Some of the tales in this collection are based on historical fact while others are embedded in myth and legend. All the stories are set against the backdrop of this lovely and varied landscape; the silver city and surrounding farm lands, the forested and mountainous terrain through which the River Dee flows, the rolling, gentler land surrounding the meandering River Don and the beautiful but sometimes forbidding Aberdeenshire coastline. Sheena and Grace have both been inspired in their storytelling and singing by the traveller, raconteur and balladeer, Stanley Robertson.

Leseprobe

THE MAIDENSTONEAND OTHER STORIES

GRACE BANKSAND SHEENA BLACKHALL

‘Stories, like seeds, blow where the wind takes them, to take root and grow in the unlikeliest of places.’

Dedicated to the memory of Stanley Robertson MUniv, and to all others in our lives who have brought story and song alive for us.

CONTENTS

Title

The Maidenstone and Other Stories

Dedication

Foreword

To Begin …

1 HILLAND GLEN

Blelack

The Legend of the Maidenstone

Auld Slorachs

Knock Castle

The Strange Coachman

The Pupil

Mary Elphinstone

2 THE LAND

The Tattiebogle

The Ballad of Gilderoy

The Highwayman and the Orra Loon

An Aul Beggarman

The Gudeman o’ Ballengeich

Templar Thunder Hole

The Rat, the Tree and the Dragon

The Trick

3 CASTLES

French Kate

Alison Cross

The Plague Castle

The Smith of Kildrummy Castle

The Baron o’ Braichlie

The Children of the Trough

The Tad-Losgann (The Toad-Frog)

The Laird o’ Drum

Tifty’s Annie

4 FORESTS, RIVERSAND WATER

The Key Pool

The Giant with the Three Golden Hairs, or, The Seely Cap

The Wizard Laird of Skene (1665–1724)

The Pedlar

The Reel o’ Tullich

Auld Creuvie

The Kelpie Tale

5 COASTAND SEA

Smugglers of Collieston

The Curse of Forvie

The Knock Maitland Stane

The Lass from the Sea

Power fae Beyond the Grave

6 THE CITY

The Story of Benholm’s Lodgings

The Astronomer from Aberdeen

The Slave who came from Aboyne

Alexander Hadden of Hadden Mill

Wee Aipplies an’ Wee Orangies

Riddles Solved

Bibliography

Copyright

FOREWORD

Every region of Scotland is rich in story lore, but none more so than the North-East. Interwoven with ballads and poetry, the stories of Aberdeenshire are about landscape, history, working lives, games, passions, the supernatural, the everyday, the tragic, the comic and the downright ridiculous. And they are all in this book.

But what a treasury such as this requires is storytellers to bring it to life. And here in Grace Banks and Sheena Blackhall we have two great voices, rooted in the community and relishing the verbal magic, humour and strangeness of their sources. Storytelling has come back with a whoosh because people recognise the magic of the live art, the connection it establishes between people and between a community, its heritage and its environment. The authors of Aberdeenshire Folk Tales are great storytellers. Their texts have been fashioned on the tongue and lips and now they are offering their rich heritage back for everyone to share and tell.

Gathering the stories of Aberdeenshire, as Hamish Henderson said of Scottish traditions, is like holding a pail under a waterfall. There could be a line of books behind this, and maybe there will be. However our two storytellers have picked well and what you get here is rich and rounded, while also whetting the appetite for more. Grace Banks and Sheena Blackhall are themselves a living continuation of these traditions and through them a world of people and of place is given voice.

Some of the experiences reflected in these tales may seem at first hand to belong to a different world from the one in which we now live. But then you realise that the places are still there and that the emotions are still our own. That reflects the truth that through technological and social change, we remain human beings connected with everyone that has gone before and that will come after. Moreover our passions and hopes and desires are shared across the world regardless of creed, race or colour. That is why in valuing what is local we are also being truly global.

Behind this book you can feel the inspiration of Aberdeenshire’s great twentieth-century storyteller Stanley Robertson. Traveller, piper, scholar, fish gutter, singer and teacher. Stanley’s storytelling abounded in humour and the uncanny, but is at heart an expression of compassion and wisdom garnered through many generations. He would be proud of what Sheena and Grace have done in this book, giving it his blessing as a handsel for the future. I cannot say better than that.

I know you will enjoy reading Aberdeenshire Folk Tales – remember also to pass on the stories.

Donald Smith,

Director, Scottish Storytelling Centre

TO BEGIN…

When Sheena asked if we could write this book together, I was delighted! What a wonderful opportunity to put on paper so many of the wonderful stories that are part and parcel of my life.

For Sheena and I there is one man who has been very significant for both our journeys: Stanley Robertson. As traveller and storyteller, his generosity, his wealth of tales and songs told with a mixture of dry wit and sensitivity, has been a great influence and encouragement to us both.

Many of the stories retold here have his voice behind them, but with our own individuality and years of telling, they have been moulded and metamorphosed into our telling of what are timeless tales of wisdom and life.

For Sheena, many of her tales are her inheritance, passed down through family connections:

From the age of five my mother’s way of dealing with an adventurous child was to deposit her on Strachan’s, my aunt’s touring bus of the Ballater area. This was out-with the normal Deeside bus service in that it catered for tourists who wished to know the legends of the Deeside area. The bus drivers knew all the stories of the locality … Whenever I retell the legends it recaptures the smell of diesel and rickety wheels.

When I went to Aberdeen University to study for an M.Lit. I was given the task of choosing an area in which to research the way that Scots is transmitted across the generations. Naturally, I choose the area of my ancestors, that of Upper Deeside and Migvie. I discovered that in the space of two or three generations, Gaelic was dropped in preference to Doric. A hundred years or so on, Doric is receding in favour of English in this locality. Because the legends come out of this past, I have deliberately inserted here and there speech quotes from the Legends of the Braes o’ Mar, where the writer, J. Grant of Glen Gairn, puts Deeside Gaelic into the mouth of a local chieftain, Iain Dubh Farquharson. Legends are rooted in history … for me they are a way of keeping faith with the ghosts of the past.

For me, my storytelling journey began at the feet of my mother, whose retelling of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings brought the Shire, Sam Gamgee and all the adventures alive in my bedroom at home. My father too would create stories during our long car journeys where the five of us were sardined in the back. It was there that we all learnt many songs that still remain to this day!

I can remember whispering stories to my brother and sister in bed in the dark … tales were just waiting to be woven from the colourful threads that my young mind had squirreled away in my imagination. Coming to Aberdeen and having children of my own kept the story flame alive and gradually, with encouragement from Angela Halvorsen Bogo, née Knowles, Claire McNicol and Jackie Ross, I began to realise how much telling stories is just a natural part of who I am. Through my work, I am greatly privileged to have been able to hone and develop my storytelling, becoming acquainted with the rich depth of tales from this area of Scotland.

Finally we would like to acknowledge and thank my son Josh Banks for all the support and hours of painstaking editing that he has spent to ensure this collection of tales was readable.

We hope you’ll enjoy the tales and have fun with my riddles woven throughout the book!

Grace Banks

1

HILLAND GLEN

BLELACK

When my aunt, Isobel Craib of Tullyoch Farm, Echt, married her second cousin, George Booth of Skene, she would say that a piece of her heart was left in her birthplace, as if Skene were on the far side of the moon. She taught me many things, but one thing in particular concerned the Hill o’ Fare, and the burn there ‘which ran reid for days eftir a terrible battle … nae man nor beast could drink frae it.’ County folk have long memories. To this place, the fairies were sent. To find how they took the flitting, read on … – S.B

Blelack House lies 30 miles west of Aberdeen, near the village of Logie Coldstone, 3 miles north of the River Dee in Cromar, in the Grampian foothills. The name Blelack is an Anglicisation of the Gaelic Baile ailich meaning ‘village of the stone house’. The Royal Deeside area was historically within the Earldom of Mar, and the Blelack estate belonged to a branch of the powerful Clan Gordon. Nearby there was a farm and a mill, both built of the local pink granite.

The home of the wizard John Farquharson, known as ‘the Fairy Doctor’, was said to be the farm of Carue in the Parish of Coldstone. On this farm is a knoll known as ‘the Fairy Knowe’, on the top of which is a hollow well known as ‘the Seely Howe’ (Hollow of the Fairy Court). Here, the fairies met and stayed, and were so friendly towards the wizard that they composed a song for him, a fragment of which remains:

Johnny, I lo’e ye, Johnny, I lo’e ye

Nine tunes in ae nicht will I come and see thee.

Some time before setting off to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745, the rebel laird of Blelack, who lived near Carue, took umbrage at having such supernatural neighbours and decided to force the wizard to clear the glen of the Seely Court. The fairies, incensed, refused as his spell had failed to allocate them an alternative residence. John Farquharson soon rectified that, commanding them to flit to the Hill o’ Fare, 17 miles away. Sadly, and none too kindly, the fairies moved, but not before uttering a curse:

Now we maun awa’ to the cauld Hill o’ Fare,

Or it will be mornin’ e’er we get there;

But though girse and corn should grow in the air, John Farquharson and his folk shall thrive nae mair.

However, once they arrived at the Hill o’ Fare, the fairies disliked the place so much that they also cursed the rebel laird of Blelack, Charlie Gordon, for good measure:

Dool, dool to Blelack, And dool to Blelack’s heir

For drivin’ us frae the Seely Howe

To the cauld Hill o’ Fare!

On 15 January 1746, Charles Gordon of Blelack joined the Jacobite army. One Sunday, the minister in the Logie Coldstone Kirk prayed to God to scatter the rebel army, whereupon Lady Blelack, with some choice words, retorted, ‘How daur ye say that an my Charlie wi’ them?’

Three hundred and fifty press-ganged men commanded by Stoneywood, Blelack and Stoneywood travelled the country from Midmar to Braemar, forcing some tenants to enlist and others to pay the war tax. When the Jacobite rebellion was quelled, Blelack House was razed; the fairies’ curse came true. Farquharson the wizard suffered bad luck from the very day he cast the spirits out.

Why did the fairies loathe the Hill o’ Fare? On 28 October 1562 the Battle of Corrichie was fought there between the new Earl of Moray, James Stuart, half-brother to Mary Queen of Scots and the 4th Earl of Huntly, George Gordon. The Battle of Corrichie is immortalised in an old ballad, of which there is a remnant below. It was first printed in the July 1772 edition of The Scots Weekly Magazine. It was reputed to have been written by Mr Forbes, schoolmaster at Maryculter, Deeside.

Murn, ye Heilans, and murn ye Lowlans, I trow ye hae muckle need;

For the bonnie burn o’ Corrichie

Has run this day wi’ bluid.

The hopefu’ Laird o’ Finliter

Earl Huntly’s gallant son,

For the love he bore our beauteous queen, Has gar’t fair Scotland moan.

The story here runs that Sir John Gordon, Laird of Findlater, one of the Catholic Earl of Huntly’s sons, had fallen in love with Mary Queen of Scots and wished to marry her. The Gordons mustered 1,000 men, whereas James Stuart, who wished to block Gordon’s power, led 1,300 cavalry. At the height of the battle, Gordon, who was of huge girth, rose in his stirrups in his heavy armour, suffered a heart attack and fell dead from his horse. Local Echt folk up to the twentieth century still recalled that the burn of Corrichie ran red for many days, so many were slaughtered on that hill. Huntly’s son, the queen’s would-be suitor, and other members of his family, were taken in chains to Aberdeen.

Five Gordon nobles were hanged there, but Lord John Gordon was condemned to be beheaded. The beautiful Mary Queen of Scots, who had watched the Battle of Corrichie, was forced to witness the execution from a window of the Earl Marischal’s house on the south side of the Castlegate. The executioner was unskilled, and it took several strokes to kill the unfortunate man. Strathbogie Castle was then relieved of its contents, including the treasures from the Cathedral of Aberdeen. Silver and gold plate, jewellery, gorgeous textile fabrics and clothing were dispatched to the palace of Holyrood to adorn the hall of Kirk-o’-Field where Lord Darnley, Mary’s second husband, had been murdered. The old ballad ends with wishes that were not granted in Mary’s reign:

I wish our queen had better friens

I wish our country better peace

I wish our lords wid nae discord

I wish our wars at hame may cease

After Huntly’s death, his body and possessions were transported from Strathbogie Castle to Edinburgh. It was brought to the Scottish Parliament on 29 May 1563, seven months after his death. There his coffin lid was opened and the coffin propped up so that the earl might hear the charges against him. The court ruled that the Gordon estates be forfeited. Huntly’s body lay unburied in Holyrood Abbey for three years. After this, it was returned to Moray for burial at Elgin Cathedral. His valuables were taken to Holyrood Palace. When Mary was imprisoned at Loch Leven, she was given the earl’s cloth-of-estate. As for the fairies, rumour has it that in more recent times a white witch built fairy houses throughout the Blelack estate in an attempt to encourage the little people back to their beloved Seely Howe.

THE LEGENDOFTHE MAIDENSTONE

If you are passing by Bennachie, it is worth the time to go and see this magnificent standing stone, believed to be of Pictish origin. I have heard many versions of the tale, but this is my favourite. – G.B.

Mary loved to bake. For her, it was never a chore, no matter how many scones, bannocks or pancakes she had to turn out. She and her parents lived in a smallholding at the foot of Bennachie, where her father tended to his beasts.

Mary gazed south from the kitchen window, as she had done every day for the last two years, always hoping for the familiar sight of Sandy, her betrothed, to come striding across the fields. He had left penniless to join the army, vowing to return with wealth enough to marry his beloved. With a sigh, Mary went back to beating the pancakes; even her hopeful spirit could not remain optimistic when there had been no word of Sandy in all this time.

It was the following Sunday, when everyone was leaving the wee kirk, that Mary first caught sight of the stranger. He was leaning on the stone parapet of the bridge as she and her parents walked home; a striking figure, tall, and dressed in black. He was very handsome. As Mary passed, she glanced curiously at the man’s face, and he smiled at her with a look in his dark eyes that made the lass’s legs falter and her belly tighten.

All through that week, whenever her thoughts drifted back to the handsome, dark stranger, her heart would skip a beat, and a smile play on her lips.

When Sunday came around once more, the lass dressed with particular care, and carefully set her hair in becoming ringlets. Sure enough, when the crowd emerged from church, there was the stranger, only this time he was standing beneath the ash tree, close by the kirk. He moved out of the shade as Mary’s father passed by. ‘Good day, sir,’ he said, his voice mellow and warm.

Her father looked up at the tall man. ‘Aye, good day tae ye. You were no in the kirk.’

‘The likes is no for me, but I wis wondering if I might walk yer daughter hame?’

Mary had been standing behind her father, longing to look up into the stranger’s face again, yet fearful to do so. But now, startled at his enquiry, her eyes met his, and she suddenly felt giddy. The man smiled at the lass. She blushed and, looking flustered, stared down at her feet.

Mary’s father, seeing this exchange, cleared his throat. ‘Aye, ye can walk Mary up the road, but tell me stranger, fit’s yer name an far d’ye come fae?’

‘Ma name, sir, is Mr Black, an I hiv recently arrived to settle frae doon sooth. I own land on the other side o’ the hill.’ Mary’s father nodded. ‘Aye, very well then.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘Noo, Mary, we’ll see ye back at the hoose.’

‘Aye, Faither,’ she said quietly, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Then, lifting her head, she looked again into the man’s eyes and smiled. He smiled back.

‘Mary, shall we walk?’ he asked merrily, and held out his arm. Trembling, the lass placed her small hand through his arm, and suddenly felt happy.

From that day onward, Mr Black would be waiting for Mary each Sunday, and as she went about her daily work, her steps were light, and there was always a song on her lips. Her parents were pleased for their daughter, and when one day she came home wearing a lovely gold bracelet, set with rich red rubies, they looked at each other with a smile.

A few months later, Mr Black spoke with Mary’s father privately, and the following week, there was great happiness in the little home as Mary joyfully brought her betrothed in for Sunday dinner with a beautiful ring on her wedding finger.

There was merry chat around the table as Mary and her mother brought through steaming bowls of soup. Later, as Mary’s father was cutting the meat, he accidentally dropped the knife, and reached under the table to retrieve it. When he sat up again, his face was pale.

‘Faither, are ye well?’ cried Mary.

‘Ach, I’m nae richt. Can ye jist tak me ootside a wee minute?’ Mary stood up, and alarmed, helped her father out of the door.

When they were out in the sunshine, Mary’s father breathed deeply and turned to look at his daughter with troubled eyes.

‘Ye canna mairry that man, lass.’

‘Faither? Fit’s wrang?’

‘He’s nae a man; it’s the deil himsel! Fan I wis under the table, I saw he hisnae ony feet, but cloven hooves! It’s Clovenhoddie!’

Mary’s face turned ashen, and her head suddenly felt painful. There was a crunch behind father and daughter, and there stood Mr Black, looking concerned. ‘Mary? My love, are you well?’ He reached out to clasp her waist, but she moved away to the safety of her father’s arms, who gazed fixedly at the tall man before him.

‘Bide awa’ fae ma daughter,’ he said quietly, ‘she’s nae fer the likes o’ you.’

Mr Black smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘Ah, but that’s where yer wrang. Mary his promised tae mairry me, an sae she is mine.’

‘I winna mairry ye. Yer nae a man at a’!’ Mary cried, and burst into tears, her heart full of fear and disappointment.

The devil looked sadly upon the distressed lass, and said gently, ‘Mary, is that how ye really feel?’ Mary nodded, not daring to look up into his dark eyes. ‘Weel, because you are sae dear tae me, I will gie ye a chance tae be freed frae oor betrothal. Tomorrow at first licht, I will build a road frae the top o’ Bennachie doon tae here, an if ye can mak one hundred bannocks afore I complete it, then ye’ll be free an I will leave ye alane.’

Mary, her face buried in her father’s shoulder, was suddenly still, but her mind was racing. Surely that would be easy? She was such a deft hand at baking. Slowly, she nodded her consent, and the tall man left without another word.

As the first rays of sun filled the dawn sky with a pinkish pearly light, the kitchen fire was already glowing bright, and Mary had the first batch of bannocks ready for firing on the griddle.

She worked with a will, her parents silently encouraging her, their tension showing as they moved from the kitchen to the front door to gaze up at the brow of Bennachie. Even as they watched, a white streak appeared, and began to extend down the hill, slowly but inexorably creeping closer.

Feverishly, Mary’s hands flew and the pile of baking grew. She glanced at her mother, her brown hair dishevelled, the smell of bannocks rich in the air. The mother smiled confidently at her daughter. ‘Yer doin’ grand, lass. He’s nae that close yet. How mony hiv ye baked?’

‘Eighty, Mither.’

‘Another batch then?’

‘Aye, een mair shid dee.’ Carefully, deftly, Mary fired the next batch – 85 … 89 … 92 … 94 …

‘Mary?’

Startled, she looked up, and there, standing at the back door, was a broad shouldered man, thinner and older than she remembered, but still the strong kind face that she knew. Time seemed to stop, and then as if she had suddenly awakened, Mary cried, ‘Sandy!’

Her hand faltered, and the bowl with the remaining bannock mix fell to the ground, spilling onto the flagstoned floor.

With a cry of despair, Mary reached down, but even as she did, she heard a moan escape her mother’s lips. Terrified, she looked up to see the dreaded figure darkening the front door.

Pushing past her dear and bewildered Sandy, Mary ran, but even as she did, the devil called to her, ‘No, Mary.’ She felt an iron-cold grip on her shoulder, and that was the last she ever knew. The ring fell from the lass’s petrified finger and became a toad that hopped away; the bracelet slipped from her wrist and turned into a small snake that slithered away into the long grass. In a whiff of sulphur, the devil vanished.

If you look at the Maidenstone today, you will see that it is all that remains of Mary. There is a crack near the top on the right side where the devil placed his cruel hand on her shoulder, and at the base, the lass’s mirror and comb are still on view for all to see.

AULD SLORACHS

When Stanley Robertson and I were guests of the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, an incident nearly cut short his career rather dramatically. We were chatting in the mall when a shot rang out, and the cup of water he held in his hand exploded into pieces.

‘They surely dinna like traivellers here, either,’ he responded.

We adjourned to the relative safety of the trees to sing to each other, by way of passing the time. I began by singing ‘Dark Lochnagar’, one of my father’s favourites:

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,

In you let the minions of luxury rove,

Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Hail Caledonia, belov’d are thy mountains,

Round their white summits the elements war,

Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains

I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

‘I ken a story aboot the white summit o’ Lochnagar,’ Stanley interjected. ‘Traivellers thocht it wis the white semmit (vest) o’ Lochnagar, an they tell a story aboot it …’

And so he told it. In the tale, he said that the young hero took advice from ‘a wise man’, and the wisest man in Upper Deeside at one time was Neddy Broon, the Tarland wizard:

You’ll find as good as e’er drew blood

Tae fecht in Tarland town, man

Knock down their foes wi’ hearty blows

And nobly thump their crown, man

They needna come here frae Strathdon

Tae brag, and dare Cromar, man

Our Deeside boys make little noise

They ken our Tarland laws, man

They needna come to try our hand

At clubs, or shak o’ faas, man

The Leochel men may keep their glen

Among the frost and snaa, man

If they come here, we’ll gie them cheer

And chase them far awa, man

That is an English version of the Tarland Laws, a clachan feared all the length of the Dee and the Don for its fearsome warlike nature and the fact that its men are quick to outwit any enemies. I can personally vouch for the truth of this, for my own grandfather was a Tarland Tyke, and would stand at the market cross on fair days threatening to fight all comers. It was just as well for a farm servant called Jockie, who happened to live and work in Cromar, that he was possessed of the warlike nature of the area. Here, via Washington, with a nod to Tarland, is ‘Auld Slorachs’.– S.B.