Midlothian Folk Tales E-Book

Lea Taylor

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

Seitenzahl: 218

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Storyteller Lea Taylor brings together stories from the rugged coastlines, rushing rivers, uplands and sweeping valleys of Midlothian. In this treasure trove of tales you will meet kings and queens, saints and sinners, witches and wizards, ghosts and giants, fools and tricksters – all as mysterious and powerful as the landscape they inhabit. Retold in an engaging style, and richly illustrated with unique line drawings, these humorous, clever and enchanting folk tales are sure to be enjoyed and shared time and again.

Leseprobe

For Angie Townsend (1967–2016),much missed friend and storyteller.

And to my family and furry quadrupeds.

First published 2018

The History PressThe Mill, Brimscombe PortStroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QGwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

Text © Lea Taylor, 2018Illustrations © Sylvia Troon, 2018

The right of Lea Taylor 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 8669 4

Typesetting and origination by The History PressPrinted and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Foreword by Donald Smith

Introduction and Thanks

About the Author

About the Illustrator

1   Auld Crabbit

2   The Dog’s Discovery

3   An Unlikely Auction

4   The Newhaven Willow

5   Edinburgh Royal Observatory’s Enigma

6   The Gilmerton Stoorworm

7   Jimmy Borthwick’s Battle

8   How Holyrood Came to Be

9   The Galloping Horseman of Penicuik

10   Camp Meg of Mayfield

11   Half-Hanged Maggie

12   Jenny Lasswade

13   Margaret Hawthorn’s Early Years

14   Bonny Jeannie Watson

15   Morocco Land

16   The Shoemaker and the Broonies

17   The Laird o’ Cockpen

18   Escape to Sanctuary

19   The Mauthe Dog of Roslin

20   The Grey Lady of Newbattle Abbey

21   The Last Highwayman of Dalkeith

22   Murder at The Neuk

23   The Fairy Boy of Leith

24   The Selkie’s Plight

Glossary

FOREWORD

Lothian was one of the ancient kingdoms of Scotland, supposedly named after Loth who married the sister of King Arthur. It is now divided into three districts – East, West and Midlothian – each of which has its own distinctive landscape and character. Historically Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland, was part of Midlothian, but nowadays the rapidly growing city is a local authority area in its own right.

This has had two consequences. Midlothian, the hinterland of Edinburgh, has become hidden and often unnoticed. At the same time, people have forgotten that alongside its intellectual and artistic glories Edinburgh also has a local folklore. In this book, Lea Taylor, a Midlothian storyteller, sets out to correct both those perceptions by celebrating the stories of the older unified Midlothian, including Edinburgh.

To get beyond more recent stereotypes, Lea has gone out and about interviewing people, collecting local versions of well-known stories, while also uncovering snippets that have allowed her to resurrect some lost tales.

With a background in community education and a warm heart, Lea is ideally suited for this task. The result is genuinely fresh and carefully crafted to reflect the lives, loves and dreams of ordinary people who sustained themselves through Scotland’s turbulent history, and the huge impacts of economic and social change. The stories in these pages give a direct flavour of the places, the people, the language, the humour, the hardship, and the phlegmatic determination to win through that has kept the area alive and distinctive through the centuries.

It is my hope that the many readers who will enjoy these tales will also get out and about in Midlothian. With places as diverse as medieval Newbattle and the National Mining Museum, Gorebridge village and the classical mansion at Arniston, remote Temple and busy Dalkeith, there is so much to see and visit. From country park to built environment, Midlothian has retained its own character and Lea Taylor’s achievement in this book is to capture that, while whetting our curiosity to learn more. Long may she continue the invaluable work as a listener, sharer and teller in the great traditions of Scottish storytelling.

Donald Smith, 2017

Director, TRACS (Traditional Arts and Culture Scotland)

INTRODUCTION AND THANKS

In writing this book I have specifically sought out the oral tales told by local people where possible and then, in some instances, drawn upon other sources to check out their veracity. It was my intention to get a flavour of what the local inhabitants themselves felt were important stories, stories that are part and parcel of their landscape. In this way I was able to see the deeper connections folk had with their local environment and its rich history. Sometimes the information has come in the form of a passing reference, other times part of the tale or perhaps all of it, but a slightly differing version to one I may have picked up from another source. Some of the tales I have included have been part of my storytelling repertoire, while others are new and still finding their own unique expression. While I have recounted a few of the stories using my own voice, weaving fact, fiction and liberal sprinklings of creativity, there are others where I have deliberately tried to keep the local Scots voice intact. The book tends to follow a geographic theme, sourcing tales from different areas in and around Edinburgh and Midlothian.

Throughout the process I have met some wonderful people and experienced some interesting situations – stories in themselves.

This has been something of a journey – of exploration, finding out things about the area that I live in, learning new skills and harking back to my undergraduate days at Edinburgh University, studying Scottish Ethnology. The oral tradition spoke to me just as powerfully then as it does now.

I came to storytelling through my grandfather ‘Bick’. He had a way with words, whipping up anecdotal stories and peppering them with his Black Country dialect. The garden would echo with his voice and laughter as I sat captivated, drinking in all the imagery he created. In later years, working as a community worker, I saw storytelling in action and was smitten. I could see its power and potential for good within the communities I worked with. The power of story never ceases to amaze me – how it brings folk together, touches our hearts and minds and reminds us of what it is to be human.

I have so many people to thank for helping me with this book, particularly my family, for their patience – for teas uncooked, housework undone and family moments missed. A massive thank you to the extremely talented Sylvia Troon, storyteller, puppeteer and artist. Her illustrations for this book have literally brought the stories to life. Fortunately she had her memories of the area where she grew up to draw upon (Lasswade) and has kindly nudged and guided me along the way with some salient pieces of advice and encouragement.

Thanks also to Dalkeith Writers, particularly Stella Birrell and Catherine Simpson; Midlothian Libraries Archive Collection; also Claire Steele, who helped to start me off on this writing process. A huge debt of gratitude to all the people I interviewed and spoke with about the book; thank you for your time and patience. A big thank you to all the pupils of Lawfield Primary School, especially Primary 6b and their inspiring teacher, Avril Rodger, who have relished the local stories and given useful feedback. And finally, to all my friends and storytellers out there, past and present, for stories shared and stories yet to come – thank you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LEA TAYLOR is passionate about storytelling’s ability to inspire, inform, educate, enable and enlighten, and has extensive experience of delivering storytelling and training to family groups, schools, business, and community groups. Lea is no stranger to performance storytelling and has written and performed for stage and festival events across Scotland.

She lives in Midlothian with her husband, son and two dogs.

www.awaywithstories.co.uk

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

SYLVIA TROON studied Drawing and Painting at Edinburgh College of Art, and her career includes teaching, puppetry and oral storytelling. She illustrates her own stories, and has recently been providing illustrated castle and museum stories for Historic Environment Scotland.

www.sylviatroon.co.uk

1

AULD CRABBIT

Everyone in the town and surrounding areas knows of the crabbit auld wifey Mrs Fischer who lived in Bonnyrigg. Such was her reputation that her name was a by-word for bad-tempered. ‘Crabbit as auld yin Fischer or you’re as dour as Auld Crabbit,’ they would say. She moaned and complained about everything, from the squeak on the neighbour’s gate to the ringing of the church bells. She was never appeased and was thoroughly unpleasant to be around. Crabbit, crabbit, crabbit, like a broken record muttering under her breath, she would go tottering up the High Street laden down with her messages giving everyone the evil eye as she passed.

Apparently she was crabbit right from the outset. Even as a child she had perfected the whiny voice, turn-down smile and constant frown on her face, like she’d been sookin on a lemon some said. Others said worse, but I’m sure you get my drift.

Evidently there must have been at least some moment back in the day when she had been jolly and possibly kind, for she found herself a husband (poor unsuspecting soul) and settled in the older part of Bonnyrigg, where the big houses are, around the High Street. The marriage didn’t last long. Her husband spent a lot of time working away, and as the years went by it became longer and longer until one day he didn’t come back at all, which left Mrs Fischer alone at home to nurse her grievances and the ever-deepening bad temper.

The house was too big for Mrs Fischer. It was surrounded by a garden, laid to grass front and back, with a high stone wall at the boundary perimeter.

At the front of the house, situated next to the wall, was an old gnarled apple tree. To look at it you wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but it yielded the best apples for miles around. Its reputation locally was legendary. Sweet and juicy yet crisp-to-bite apples they were. Many a child was seen to leap up while walking past and grab an apple. Indeed, small groups of them would go out on scrumping sorties.

Now Auld Crabbit would watch at the window, curtain twitching. When it came to harvest time we were all sure that she camped out by the window, lying in wait. It was her life’s mission. Should anyone come down on her side of the road, a shadow would move behind the net curtains in her house, as if she were pressing her face close to the glass from behind the nets to get a better look, which was more than likely the case.

As soon as a child, or adult for that matter, made a move to take an apple, there she would be, railing and rattling at the window, screeching in her whiny voice, ‘Get off my apples!’ which mostly translated into a muffled shouting and banging at the window, the nets agitating wildly as if Punch and Judy had gone berserk behind the scenes.

If that wasn’t enough to frighten off any potential offender, she would charge out of the front door and down the garden path in her baffies waving a great big stick and shouting, ‘Be off, or I’ll use it! A’ ken yir faithers!’ Generally, by the time she had reached the bottom of the garden path, the culprits would have beat a hasty retreat up the road, often collapsing in squeals of laughter and brandishing their booty in a taunting fashion.

As the years passed Auld Crabbit got more and more obsessed with the safety of her apples. Carefully she would gather her crop, taking them in to the deep recesses of her house, never to see the light of day again. We often wondered what she did with them. To our young minds it appeared she did nothing except guard them jealously, and probably crabbily too!

Late one lazy sunny autumn afternoon, when the boughs of the apple tree were laden with ripening fruit, a wide little old lady with hair the colour of a silver frost appeared walking up Auld Crabbit’s road, and on her side too.

She slowed her pace as she neared the tree. She stopped and looked up into its branches. She closed her eyes and drew her head back as if breathing in the scent of the tree. Then, with a beaming smile, she opened Auld Crabbit’s creaking wooden gate, walked up the garden path, and knocked at the door. Before long Auld Crabbit answered, having straightened her dress and checked her hair in the hall mirror beforehand. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking the little old lady up and down. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well, I hope you don’t mind me being so presumptive but I wondered, might I have one of your apples?’ The little old lady flashed one of her most dazzling smiles. ‘They look and smell exactly like the kind of apples I used to eat with my father when I was a little girl. It would be such a kindness if you allowed me to have one and I would be more than happy to pay you.’

Auld Crabbit was quite taken aback. Never in all her live-long days had anyone ever knocked at her door and asked permission to take one of her apples.

‘Errrr,’ and before she knew it, she said yes to the little old lady. ‘Go ahead, help yourself.’

The little old lady was more than grateful – she was ecstatic! Auld Crabbit walked with her to the tree and watched as she picked a sweet, round red one. She gave it a rub over her coat sleeve so that it shone in the sunlight. Then she took a bite, closing her eyes as her teeth sank in.

‘Mmmmmm, this tastes just as I remember it as a child. I really can’t thank you enough. Now, I would like to offer you a kindness in exchange. You see, I am actually a fairy and I have the power to grant you a wish. So, tell me your heart’s desire and I will see to it that it comes true.’

Staggered, Auld Crabbit was at a loss for words. She searched her mind for her dearest wish and then it came to her. A smile spread across her face. She hadn’t smiled in years and it showed.

‘My dearest wish,’ she said in her cracked and grating voice, ‘would be that anyone, apart from me, daring to take one of my apples gets stuck to the tree at the point where they tried to take it and they stay there until I say they can come down.’

‘Oh. Really? Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Positive,’ said Auld Crabbit, nodding furiously.

‘Very well then, so be it. Your wish is my command … oh, I do love saying that! Goodbye!’ Then the little old lady simply faded away right before Auld Crabbit’s eyes, leaving her staring into the space where the bitten apple hung suspended in mid-air.

Auld Crabbit went back indoors, made a cup of tea and a cheese and tomato sandwich, and waited with bated breath at the window. She didn’t have to wait long and had only eaten half the sandwich when she spotted two figures at the end of the road. Stopping mid-munch she watched as the teenage boys walked jauntily towards the house. The hands-in-pockets, baggy jeans and hats-on-backwards type; yes, she knew them. Muttering under her breath she urged them to take an apple. ‘That’s it, yessssss, come closer …’

The boys stopped by the wall, peered over it then, after a backward glance, sprang up and grabbed an apple. The first lad, Mikey, swiped into the air but missed his target. The second, Kyle, made a direct connection. He let out a small whoop of elation and his face lit up with glee.

The excitement was short-lived though, turning to confusion, then shock and fear. For despite violent struggling he found he was stuck fast to the apple and the tree.

Mikey laughed at first, thinking it was a joke. However, Kyle’s obvious struggles went a long way to explaining that something had gone badly wrong. In vain Mikey tried to pull his friend down. After half an hour he left, saying he would go and get help.

Auld Crabbit witnessed the spectacle with impish delight. She had a sneaking suspicion that she was going to really enjoy the fruits of her tree in more ways than she had ever imagined. She supped her tea and finished her sandwich, and decided she needed to get some messages.

Leaving the house, she cast a sideways glance at the boy hanging despondently from the tree and deliberately ignored his mewling pleas for help. Half an hour later Auld Crabbit returned with her messages.

A small crowd of young people had congregated around their friend. They stopped talking when she arrived; it gave her a sense of power and importance as she walked up the garden path. By the evening the young people had moved on, leaving Kyle to twist in the wind.

By 10 p.m. Auld Crabbit wanted him away and off her property. She told him she would release him on one condition: that he promise never to steal from her again and ensure that none of his friends did so either. Having obtained a pinkie promise, she freed him and that night slept peacefully for the first time in many years.

Word evidently spread around the neighbourhood. There was decidedly less footfall past the tree after Kyle’s ‘experience’. Auld Crabbit became more relaxed and even moved her chair away from the window. Many years passed and the tree and Auld Crabbit grew older.

Then, one evening just before Auld Crabbit’s favourite soap was about to start on the telly, she heard the sound of the catch on the garden gate. Looking out of the window she watched as a strange tall character made its way up the garden path. Whether it was male or female she couldn’t really tell, but she suspected it was a man by the size of its shoes.

It knocked a confident knock at the door. Rap, rap, rap. She opened it to a figure dressed in loose, black, long flowing clothes. Its face was partially covered with a hoodie and Auld Crabbit wasn’t wearing her glasses so she couldn’t precisely make out its features. In one of its bony hands it held a scythe.

‘Good evening, Mrs Fischer.’

‘That may as well be. What do you want?’ She was irked because she could hear the strains of the theme tune of her favourite soap starting up.

‘Do you know why I’m here?’

‘No, and I’m not interested in your twenty questions either.’

‘My name is Mr D’eath and I have come to inform you that your time has come. May I come in?’

‘Do I have any choice?’

‘No.’

Auld Crabbit opened the door and showed him into the front room.

‘Do I have time to watch this programme? As a last request?’

‘Oh very well,’ said D’eath rather irritably as he slumped himself down on the sofa. He rummaged through his pockets and fished out his mobile phone, then occupied himself with his text messages. For a fleeting moment Auld Crabbit wondered whether beneath the hood that shadowed his face he was wearing a hat, backwards.

After the programme had finished Auld Crabbit went into the kitchen and prepared herself some sandwiches in readiness for the journey. As she did so, she pondered over what she had achieved in her life. If only there were more time, she thought, as there were so many bad deeds she had left undone. D’eath had followed her, stopping to lean on the kitchen doorframe, and watched her. Nimbly she made herself a cheese and pickle sandwich and wrapped it carefully in silver foil. She hesitated, ‘Oh, I need an apple. Would you be so kind as to go and fetch one for me from the tree in the garden? Take one for yourself too.’ She attempted to fix a smile. Reluctantly D’eath went into the garden and reached up to a particularly delicious-looking sample. No sooner had his fingers touched the fruit when he found himself stuck fast, completely unable to get himself free. Auld Crabbit watched from her usual vantage point. A chuckle erupted from her mouth.

D’eath dangled from the apple tree for days. He had his uses: his flapping coat frightened off the birds.

Beyond the confines of Auld Crabbit’s house things were going badly wrong. With D’eath otherwise engaged things in the real world had ground to a halt. Nothing was dying, funeral parlours were offering half-price deals, butchers were struggling, farmers were unable to move their stock, shops were running short of supplies.

Finally Auld Crabbit made the connection that the figure hanging from her apple tree might just have something to do with all the strange phenomena that were occurring elsewhere. Reluctantly she went to speak to D’eath.

‘So, I’ve been thinking. I’ll let you down on one condition, that you don’t come for me until I say I’m ready.’

‘This is most unusual, but given that I don’t really have any choice …’

‘I can’t wait around all day,’ said Auld Crabbit, making a point of looking at her watch.

‘Oh very well. Agreed,’ said D’eath rather resentfully. Auld Crabbit let D’eath down and watched as he stretched himself awkwardly before straightening up and heading off down the garden path. At the gate he paused to look back, raise his scythe and say, ‘I’ll be back.’ For a moment Auld Crabbit was put in mind of the film The Terminator; he’s not a patch on Arnie, she thought, and closed her front door.

The apple tree is still there at the foot of the garden. Nobody bothers to steal from it, though. Even now there are nets up at the window but whether or not Auld Crabbit is still there nobody knows for sure. Perhaps when the apples are ripe for picking we could try to steal one to find out?

This is a well-known Flemish tale, Old Misery, but can be found in various guises across Europe. I have added my own version of the tale – with a Scottish twist.

2

THE DOG’S DISCOVERY

It was 1936, the weekend just before the long school summer holidays. A hot stifling day in July, the heat was oppressive. I remember lying in my bed, covers off, windows wide open, and still the room was airless. My father’s snores filled the house like a slumbering bear.

On the day in question I’d gone round to Barry’s; we were planning to meet the other lads to play down at Holyrood Park. Ron Milligan, one of our other cronies, would be back from his holidays – the family had gone camping down in the Borders; they go every year, same route. ‘It’s like the Holy Grail,’ he would claim. ‘We stop to visit all the relatives and come away with armfuls of goodies, especially boiled sweets.’ With that in mind, it was vital that we got to Ron (and his sweets) before meeting the other lads – as they would scoff the lot before we got a look-in.

On that afternoon I brought Scruffy with me. He was our family dog. A wee terrier – with a terrier attitude and not always keen on other dogs, especially black ones like the one that lives next door to Mrs Resta. Without fail, they both go berserk when passing each other in the street. Hackles up and bared teeth. But aside from that wee detail, he was great as dogs go.

I can’t quite remember now why I brought him with me. I think mum suggested it. He was a wilful dog and on that particular occasion had dug up dad’s prize leeks. Dad went spare when he found out, chased him round the garden with his slipper in hand while we looked on from the kitchen window.

So Barry, me, and Scruffy the dog go and chap on Ron’s door and we all head off to the Holyrood park stuffing Ron’s sweets as we went. The others were already there. The usual game of kick the ba’ begins. We all run about in earnest trying to gain possession, then Scruffy starts darting in and out. He makes great sport of racing after the ball and tackling, despite our fierce boots, so much so we all end up yelling at him in varying tones of exasperation, ‘Scruffy, leave!’. Eventually he gave up and found something else to occupy him.

We got so caught up in the game that I didn’t notice that the dog had completely disappeared. The score was evens, two goals apiece. Then, as the afternoon progressed, each of the lads peeled away, one by one, to go home for their tea. All that remained were Barry, Ron and me. It was then that we realised that Scruffy was away. Missing.

We set up a search party round the park, running up and down the brae calling his name and whistling. Stopping folk to ask if they’d seen a wee black and white terrier with two brown splodges around the eyes – like an unusual pair of glasses – that answered to the name of Scruffy. No one had seen him; my heart was beginning to sink. How could I return home without him?

I stood still, desperate, my heart pounding, then I heard it, clear above the sounds of the city: a high-pitched yip, followed by excited barking. There followed a long moment of quiet, then another yip. We all began to run at the same time towards where the sound came from, stopping at the top. We stopped at the top of the hill just below Arthur’s Seat.