Botanical Folk Tales of Britain and Ireland E-Book

Lisa Schneidau

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 246

Beschreibung

The islands of Britain and Ireland hold a rich heritage of plant folklore and wisdom, from the magical yew tree to the bad-tempered dandelion. Here are traditional tales about the trees and plants that shape our landscapes and our lives through the seasons. They explore the complex relationship between people and plants, in lowlands and uplands, fields, bogs, moors, woodlands and towns. Suitable for all ages, this is an essential collection of stories for anyone interested in botany, the environment and our living heritage.

Leseprobe

For my mother, Pamela Jean Schneidau and my grandmother, Florence Annie Stratton with love

Cover illustrations: © David Wyatt

First published 2018

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Lisa Schneidau, 2018

The right of Lisa Schneidau to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 8121 7

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1 Asleep in the Dark

The Forest of the Yew

The Apple Tree Man

The Travelling Tree

Mossycoat

2 The Quickening

Bride and the Cailleach

Crooker

The Fairy Widower

The Basketmaker’s Donkey

Maon and the Willow

3 Struggle and Hope

The Green Mist

Goblin Combe

The Blackthorn Tree

Betty Stogs and the Fairies

No Man’s Land

4 Joy and Sunshine

The Fairy Shawl

Yallery Brown

The Field

The Tulip Pixies

5 The Height of the Green

The Juniper Tree

The Legend of Knockgrafton

Jack and the Beanstalk

The Hornbeam Tree

6 Ripening Time

That’s Enough to Go On With

The Last of the Picts

Tom Fitzpatrick and the Leprechaun

The Fine Field of Flax

The Curse of Pantannas

7 Harvest and Home

Lazy Lawrence

The Crows and the Pear Trees

The Farmer and the Boggart

Harvest Daftness

Two Moons in May

Kate Crackernuts

8 The Turning of the Wheel

The Elder-Tree Witch

The Wonderful Wood

Judge Popham’s Oak

The Spectre Bridegroom

Donald and the Witches

Story Sources and Further Reading

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lisa Schneidau trained as an ecologist. She has worked with wildlife charities all over Britain to restore nature in the landscape, in roles including farm advisor, river surveyor, political lobbyist and conservation director. Lisa is also a professional storyteller, sharing tales that inspire, provoke curiosity and build stronger connections between people and nature. She lives on Dartmoor.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Where possible, I have drawn on multiple sources for every traditional story retold in this book. My huge thanks to all the folklorists, botanists and authors whose work has influenced and informed the stories. I have provided a full list of references and sources, but I’m particularly grateful to Katherine Briggs, Richard Mabey, Jacqueline Memory Paterson, Niall Mac Coitir, Ruth Tongue and Roy Vickery. Thank you to Halsway Manor Library and the Ruth Tongue Archive for allowing me to interpret some of the lesser-known folklore that Ruth collected. My thanks also go to all the storytellers who have collected and shared these tales in the telling, and upheld the oral storytelling tradition through the generations. I hope that I have honoured their stories well here, and added something useful to the tradition.

Thank you to the storytelling community – they have been very generous in their support of this project and in pointing me towards story sources. Particular thanks to Michael Dacre, Nick Hennessey, Sharon Jacksties, Lisa Kenwright, Clive Pig, Jess Wilson, and to Shonaleigh Cumbers and Simon Heywood, who suggested I write this book in the first place. Many story audiences and school groups have listened and shared my stories during the last few years and given feedback and ideas, and they have helped to shape the content of this book.

Thank you to David Wyatt for his stunning cover artwork, and to everyone at The History Press for their support and advice in bringing the book together.

I’m grateful to Ronnie Conboy, Moira Houghton, Karl Schneidau, Beccy Swaine and Jo Swift for proofreading and comments on the text. My father Oscar Schneidau, my brother Karl, and my family and friends have provided amazing support and encouragement throughout the project.

INTRODUCTION

I was lucky. I was a little girl growing up in 1970s Buckinghamshire with a mother and a grandmother who loved wild plants, and six fields of ridge-and-furrow, green-winged orchid meadow behind our house.

I remember when the moon daisies were nearly as tall as me, when we picked field mushrooms from the fairy rings and fried them for breakfast, when I could run through the middle of ancient hawthorn hedgerows and travel by the secret ways down to the magic old willow tree over the pond. I remember the carpets of cowslips, the endless blue butterflies, the quivering quaking grass, and the blackberries in autumn.

When we weren’t exploring the fields, we were out looking for orchids on Ivinghoe Beacon, plant-spotting along the canal towpath of the Grand Union Canal, picking sloes on Dorcas Lane, collecting conkers at Mentmore or kicking the prickly sweet chestnuts around at Woburn. I inherited an insatiable curiosity for plants of all kinds and, with a vivid imagination as always, I wanted to know the stories: why? what? how does it feel to be a green living plant, a meadowsweet compared to a bee orchid?

Some time around 1980, the local farmer attacked our beloved fields. In the space of a week, the hedgerows had been razed, the land drained and the grassland ploughed up. Our willow tree house was cut down. One single crop of carrots was grown in the heavy Thames clay and then the land was left for fallow. In a single act of mindless vandalism, following the farming policies of the time, our wildflower paradise was gone. I can still feel the knot of deep grief that twisted in our bellies that year. We’d never heard of nature conservation, which was still in its infancy at that time.

Two science degrees, many years of working for wildlife trusts all over Britain, and many conservation projects later, storytelling found me. I was intrigued by the tradition: the richness of the stories, the skill and generosity of the tellers. Here were ancient tales that had been good enough to be passed down the generations, that might hold some of the old ways and the old wisdom. Storytelling caught my imagination and I started to try it myself.

I watched the storytellers at nature reserve events. They were telling stories of Coyote from America and Anansi from Africa. They were great stories, but they came from thousands of miles away; they had little to do with the nature and landscape that we were in. Where were the stories of this landscape, the things that grow and live and die here, the traditions of our own wildlife? And could those stories help us, living in Britain and Ireland, to reconnect to our own fragmented ecology?

This book is the first result of my search to answer those questions.

Here are thirty-nine folk tales about plants from Britain and Ireland. I have chosen this geography because plants don’t respect political borders, and because of the ways in which the cultures of our countries share a common heritage. Although there is a wealth of plant folklore in these islands, actual folk tales with plants as a main feature are more occasional. They include stories about wildflowers, trees, and plants used for food, fibres and other human uses. I have chosen the stories that I particularly like and that I feel resonate with our natural history and our heritage.

These are my own versions of traditional tales. I have hunted out stories from many different sources: folklore archives and collections, natural history literature, and of course listening to storytellers. Some tales are well known, others more obscure. Like all storytellers, I am grateful to those who have collected and told these stories all down the generations, known and unknown. I have tried wherever possible to pursue a story back to its oldest referenced source. A list of story sources and further reading is provided.

The stories are presented according to the wheel of the year, starting when the sun is at its lowest at the winter solstice and continuing through the seasons and the old festivals. This is a very natural way to work with our stories about plants, even better if they are being told outside in the wild. Often the stories contain magical beings such as fairies, giants and pixies. I will leave it up to you to decide how much these characters represent the interface between humans and nature – the magic of life where nature cannot speak for itself – and how much they might be real!

I have told many of these stories to different audiences, indoors and out in the field, sharing ideas and emotions that the stories provoke. This book has been written as a resource to be used for storytelling; so, even better than reading the stories, do tell them to others. That is the way that stories change, and grow, and stay alive year on year. They are stories for all ages, although some are darker than others, and the teller will need to decide which stories to share with very young ones.

I hope you have as much fun reading and telling these stories as I have had in discovering them.

1

ASLEEP IN THE DARK

Have a mouth of ivy and a heart of holly.

Ireland

We start at midwinter, when most plant life is dormant. This is a time of the longest darkness. The winter guardian plants – bruised ivy, spiky holly and the yew with its vibrant red yew-gogs – give us some hope and cheer during the dark times. We can celebrate the turning of the year and the return of the sun, but there is still a long way to go, and there’s little to sustain people or beasts in the meantime. Yet tiny sparks of plant life are everywhere, if you look. The wheel of the year doesn’t stay still.

THE FOREST OF THE YEW

Yew trees remind us of everlasting life in the dark times of the year. The oldest yew trees in Britain are estimated to be over five thousand years old. Yews protect our churchyards and they are often associated with the dead and the Otherworld.

 The Tylwyth Teg are the Welsh fairy people, corresponding to the sidhe in Ireland and the fairy folk in England and Scotland. This story comes from Powys.

In a place called Mathavarn, in Llanwrin, there was a wood called Ffridd yr Ywen, the Forest of the Yew. It survived the onslaught of the longbow and the destruction of yews, mainly because local people were nervous of the place. It was said that the Tylwyth Teg lived there, and there were fairy circles all over the ground. In the middle of this wood, the greatest yew tree of all was said to spread its great branches over a fairy circle called the Dancing Place.

Many years ago, two farmworkers, Iago and Twm, went out to the Forest of the Yew to do some work on a mild winter’s day. Early in the afternoon the mist rose from the ground and the sky became a little too dark for comfort.

‘Sun must be setting already,’ said Iago.

‘Reckon we should make for home,’ said Twm.

They retraced their steps, with leaves and twigs crunching under their feet, until they came to a great yew tree in the middle of the woods. This place was still and calm, and the mist had lifted. The air was bright with winter sun, and the water glistened from every dark frond of the yew. The tree’s berries gleamed red and bright.

They had been too hasty – it wasn’t getting dark at all. They couldn’t go home yet! So they both sat down with their backs against the great yew trunk and decided to take a nap.

After some time Twm woke up and looked around. Iago was gone!

‘That’s not like him,’ said Twm. ‘I must have been asleep longer than I thought. Perhaps he’s gone back to the village already.’ So Twm walked home through the twilight and if anyone asked him where Iago was, he said, ‘He went home earlier.’

But lago was still missing the next morning, and now Twm was questioned closely about what had happened. He confessed about the nap under the great yew tree. They searched for Iago through the forest and the whole district, and after a few days Twm went to the local gwr cyfarwydd (conjuror).

The conjuror looked worried. ‘There is only one thing you can do. Go to the same place where you and Twm slept. It’s the Dancing Place. Go there exactly a year after he was lost, on the same day, and at the same time. Whatever you do, DO NOT step into the fairy ring. The boy will come out to dance. When he gets close to you, snatch him out of there as quickly as you can.’

A long year’s wait later, Twm stood within a safe distance of the great yew, on the same day, at the same time as the year before. This time, a light rain pattered on the dark green fronds of the yew.

Merry music started from somewhere below the ground and Iago appeared, dancing madly under the tree with all the little people of the Tylwyth Teg. They were no taller than his knee, whirling shadows of brown and gold and green. Twm took a deep breath and, without stepping forward, he reached out for Iago’s hand to pull him clear.

The two lads both flew back and landed hard on the forest floor, and instantly the music stopped. Twm looked at Iago. He was a thin, pale heap of a skeleton, with little energy to collect himself. ‘What have they done to you?’ cried Twm. ‘Did they not give you food?’

‘No,’ said Iago, staggering to his feet, ‘but I’m sure I had some food in my pockets.’ He pulled out both his pockets but they were empty. ‘Strange, I was sure I’d got food this morning before I came out. Oh, well, time for home.’

Iago had no idea that he’d been away dancing for a full year. As soon as he returned home and tasted food, his poor body withered away to nothing.

THE APPLE TREE MAN

Apples and apple trees appear in many stories about care of the land and of nature, and often they provide protection as well. This story, collected in Somerset by folklorist Ruth Tongue around 1920, is one of my favourites: wassailing, magic, herbs and apples in one tale!

‘Borough English’ was a local inheritance custom in the countryside, where the main inheritance came to the youngest son; the older siblings were already meant to have made their way in the world. ‘Fingers-and-thumbs’ is a local Somerset name for bird’s foot trefoil, which is also called ‘bird’s eye’ and ‘eggs-and-bacon’.

There was an old farmer who had two sons. The elder was hard working and thoughtful in his words and deeds. He had a love of the land, of nature and the old ways, which made his life rich; his pockets never jangled with coins, but he never really minded about that. The younger son was very different: he was spoiled and greedy. He expected everything to be done the way he wanted, and he had little honour about him. And the two brothers had no love for one another.

The old man died one year in high spring, and it was the custom in that part of the country that the youngest son got all the inheritance: the big house, everything in it, all the land, and all the animals. He made great play of giving bits and pieces to all his wider family, but he also delighted in his new power to make his elder brother feel small and worthless. His brother got the castoffs and worn-out things: his dad’s old moth-eared donkey, an ox that had all gone to skeleton and sores, and a tumble-down old shack and outhouse with a scant bit of grass and two or three groaning old ancient apple trees nearby, all that remained of an orchard where his dad had once lived with his grandfather. But the cottage was only rented to the elder brother. The younger one made sure that he always got the rent in full, and that the elder brother took it up to the big house on time every month.

It wasn’t the best situation, but the elder brother didn’t grumble. He rolled up his sleeves and set to work. He went out along the lanes to cut lush grass for the two animals, and cut ash, elm, holly and ivy for leaf fodder. He gathered the gentler healing herbs from the springtime hedgerow – clover, goose-grass, fingers-and-thumbs – and he made sure there were plenty for the animals to eat. The ox and the donkey began to fatten up and brighten up nicely. With advice from the local wise woman he sought out burdock, comfrey and nettle, and mashed them up into a poultice to put on the poor old ox’s sores, saying the right words as he did so. That old ox picked himself up and walked smart and strong.

Then he turned the beasts into the orchard, and all the goodness and herb magic came out of the other end of the animals, and it treated the land, and the gnarly old apple trees flourished a marvel. The trees were struggling under the weight of the mistletoe, so he cut a lot of the good mistletoe to sell at the market the following winter. He then carefully pruned the apple trees, which would strengthen them in time, but he knew it would take years before they fruited well again.

None of this helped the elder brother get his rent together and look after himself, and life became more and more difficult. He did some work up at the farm next door, but it didn’t bring in much. By the end of the second year, he had used any savings he had, and he was barely scraping together enough money to pay for rent and food.

Then one day the younger brother came along, the first time he had ever visited his sibling’s home since their father died. He said, ‘It’ll be Christmas Eve soon, when they say the beasts can talk at midnight. I’ve heard them tell down in the village that there’s treasure around here somewhere, and so I’m set to ask your donkey when he can talk – I reckon he’s got more brains than the other one. He’ll know that he has to tell me the truth, if he knows what’s good for him, because I’m the owner of this place.’ The donkey and the ox both stopped munching on their hay and eyed him suspiciously, but he didn’t notice.

The younger brother poked the elder in the ribs a little more than playfully. ‘It’ll be your lucky Christmas – ’cause if you come up to the big house and wake me just before midnight on Christmas Eve, so that I can come and listen to the animals, I’ll take sixpence off your rent for January. But if you don’t wake me, then I might just find myself a new tenant. Got that?’ And he walked off, whistling a little tune.

Christmas was a soggy affair that year, and by the time the sun had gone as low in the sky as it would and the celebrations were due, the constant rain had soaked all the cheer out of the elder brother. On Christmas Eve, he determined to do something about it. That evening, he went out to the shed and gave the donkey and the ox a little bit of extra food, and then he opened the cupboard in his kitchen and got out the last bit of the year’s cider. He mulled the cider over the little kitchen ash-wood fire, using bits of cinnamon and clove, and then he poured it into his mug and took it outside to the orchard.

It was still slating with rain, and perishing cold, and the water soon ran in rivers down the elder brother’s neck and into his raggedy shirt. But no matter. He went up to the biggest and the oldest of the ancient apple trees, pulled an old hard crust of bread from his pocket, dunked it in the cider, and put the soaked bread in the crook of one of the tree’s branches. Then he started to sing:

Old apple tree, I wassail thee,

And hoping thou will bear

For the lady knows where we shall be

Till apples come next year.

He tipped the last of the cider at the roots of the tree and continued:

For to bear well and to bloom well

So merry let us be,

Let every man take off his hat

And shout to the old apple tree.

Hats full, caps full, three bushel bags full,

And a gurt heap under the stairs.

Hurray!

This last cheer came from the elder brother’s mouth sounding so small in the cold rain, that he didn’t have the heart to cheer any more. The rain carried on, and he found himself looking at the apple tree, all its cracked bark and awkward branches and globs of mistletoe, and wondering just how long it had been growing there, what it must have seen.

Then a voice came – a dry, cracked voice. ‘Ah, that were a drop o’good.’

The elder brother looked around. He was sure there was nobody else in the orchard. He looked back at the apple tree, and watched as the fissures in the trunk of the old apple tree gnarled themselves into a huge barky grin, with two knots in the wood for beady, pippy eyes.

‘Come on, now, yew take a look under this diddicky root of ours, there be treasure right over there,’ said the Apple Tree Man, and he waved his branches over to the middle of the orchard.

The eldest brother wasted no time in finding a spade, and dug in the spot. It wasn’t long before spade hit metal, and up came a box full of shining gold coins.

‘’Tis yours and no one else’s,’ said the Apple Tree Man. ‘Put’n away safe, and bide quiet ’bout ’un.’

The elder brother hauled the metal box into an old sack and took it back to his little shack, where he hid it in the kitchen cupboard. Then he returned to the apple tree and said his thanks. ‘’Tis a pleasure,’ said the Apple Tree Man. ‘Now go and call your dear brother. ’Tis nearly midnight.’

So the elder brother went to wake his brother up at the big house, and when that was done he went back to his kitchen, took the sack of gold and his few belongings, and started up the road to seek a new life.

Meanwhile, the bleary-eyed younger brother hurried through the pouring rain up to the orchard and into the old cattle shed, just as the church clock struck midnight. He stood close to the faces of the donkey and the ox and looked at them expectantly, with his teeth clattering in his head from the cold.

Sure enough, after some time had gone by, the donkey turned to the ox and said: ‘Yew’d know this gurt greedy fool that’s a listening to we so unmannerly. He’d want us to tell where treasure is.’

‘And that’s where he won’t never get it,’ said the ox. ‘’Cause someone a took’t it already.’

THE TRAVELLING TREE

Long ago, before there were waterproof jackets, or weather forecasts, or cars, or electric light, people still needed to travel at night, in all seasons, and often on foot. You didn’t do it unless you needed to, but sometimes there was no choice. You were at the mercy of the dark, and the elements, and the wild beasts … and the plants. Can a tree also be one of the fairies? Well, you tell me. This story comes from Kent.

A man had to travel between two villages one winter’s night. It wasn’t a very pleasant night; the wind was getting up, the clouds were heavy, and there was a storm in the air; but the man had to get to the next village.

The clouds kept covering the moon, so he couldn’t see the road to walk it. Worse than that, he was sure that he wasn’t alone. He kept looking over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see whether anything was there or not; and he quickened his pace as the wind whipped up. Was that a laugh? Or was it just the wind?

‘Everything sounds louder in the dark. It’s just an old tree creaking. Don’t be so silly,’ he told himself. He pressed on. The wind was howling now, and then the rain started, the kind of rain that pelts against your face and makes it sting. He couldn’t see anything at all now, and so he tried to find some shelter until the storm blew over.

There weren’t any hedgerows around on this land, but he thought he saw a big old tree with its branches flailing in the gale. He struggled towards it, but then the clouds covered the moon, and as far as he stumbled, the tree wasn’t there. When he could see again, the tree was further on, and again he stumbled towards it.

This must have gone on for well over a mile, with the tree always seeming just out of his reach, but he pressed on.

Again he heard a low creaking chuckle in the wind. Again he followed, his arms outstretched to reach the tree, but again it was just out of his reach, and he walked on. The rain was trickling down the back of his neck, and starting to soak through his clothes, icy cold; his cheeks were chapped with the wind, and his fingers and toes hurting with cold.

He must have walked at least four miles; but eventually his fingers did touch rough bark and he put his hands on the tree. He sank down against the trunk out of the wind, worn out, and huddled into his sodden cloak to try to get warm.

Then there was a voice: the same low, creaky voice that had laughed. ‘I don’t know what you plan to do,’ said the tree, ‘but I’m getting soaked through. I reckon I’m going home to a good warm fire.’

And off it went.

MOSSYCOAT

There are over a thousand species of moss in Britain and Ireland. They are tiny ancient plants, simple in their structure, dependent on water and often ignored. Druids believed that mosses had the power to prevent accidents and misfortunes. At Widecombe-in-the-Moor in Devon, a monument records the efforts of the villagers in collecting sphagnum moss for wound dressings during the First World War.

 Versions of the Cinderella story can be found all over the world. This one from Lancashire was collected from a gypsy teller, Taimi Boswell, in 1915 by T.W. Thompson. I like the way that Mossycoat’s gift from her mother is alive and green, painstakingly and lovingly made from ancient plants and gossamer thread. From small insignificant things, great achievements can follow. The coat of simple moss creates a magical path for the girl to walk into her future, being nothing more, and nothing less, than herself.

There was a poor old widow-woman who lived in a little cottage. She had a daughter, in the first bloom of youth, and the girl was very beautiful, although she didn’t know it. Ever since the girl’s birth, her mother had been busy every day collecting plants in the woods, and busy every evening making a special coat for her, and her daughter didn’t know about that either.

In the village there was a cunning man. Now some cunning men are good of heart and skilled with herbs and people, but he wasn’t one of those. This man fancied himself a great magician, and gave himself airs and graces. He strutted around the place in coloured velvets that had seen better days, with his greasy hair slicked back from his face and his beard all matted and full of bits of food. Everyone knew about him, and most tried to avoid him.

The cunning man went round the village houses every so often, selling charms and spells, and he threw dark words and malcontent at people if they weren’t polite to him. And one day he knocked on the door of the old widow-woman’s cottage, and the girl opened it.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said the cunning man, ‘aren’t you a pretty picture now you’re all grown up?’

The girl blushed and looked down.

‘It’s your lucky day,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a wife, and now I’ve found her. You could marry the best man for miles, my dear, a magician no less! And here, he’s standing right in front of you! How about it?’ He licked his lips in anticipation.

The girl ran upstairs to her mother. ‘Mother! That horrid cunning man is at the door, and he says he wants to marry me!’

‘Well, do you want to marry him?’ asked her mother.

‘No.’

‘Tell him that you won’t marry him unless you have the right dress. One made of white satin, all embroidered with sprigs of gold. And it’s got to fit you just right.’

‘But, Mum …’

‘Do as you’re told now, and trust me.’