Midwinter Folk Tales E-Book

Taffy Thomas MBE

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

Seitenzahl: 144

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

In this enchanting new book, one of the country's most celebrated storytellers has gathered together traditional tales that have their roots in the cold and long, dark nights of midwinter. Herein you will find magical accounts of the Legend of Tinsel, the Christmas Cat and the New Year's Bell, with a number of wintery riddles to unpick while enjoying the festive season and welcoming in the New Year. With so many folk tales intrinsically linked to ancient seasonal customs, there are a few included here relating to traditions such as the Ottery St Mary Tar Barrels (Devon), the Viking 'Up Helly Aa' (Shetland) and Tom Bawcock's Eve (Cornwall). This is a book to curl up with in front of an open fire on long winter nights and to share and retell over a steaming mug of mulled wine.

Leseprobe

This collection of folk tales is dedicated to all who love to tell stories by a fire in the heart of winter, and, of course, those who love to listen to them or read them by that same fire.

For,

‘Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and a talk beside the fire, it is the time for home.’

Edith Sitwell

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As a touring storyteller in the oral tradition, I am only able to deliver my 250 or so performances a year with support. This is made even more necessary by the fact that my personal odyssey included a massive stroke at the age of 36. I am supported in my journeys and shows by my wife Chrissy who generously gave up her own life running a dance studio to help me reinvent myself from the time I couldn’t walk, couldn’t talk, and couldn’t use a knife and fork. I have a number of storytelling mentors, including the wildly eccentric Ruth Tongue, who I met in Somerset when I was but a lad. Later in my storytelling journey, two of Scotland’s Travelling People, Betsy Whyte and Duncan Williamson, became both sources of stories and massive influences. As my award-winning ‘Ancestral Voices’ performance begins …

‘If I stand tall, it is because I am standing on the shoulders of those that have gone before.’

Many of my other major influences are credited in the introductions to tales they have generously passed in my direction.

As a writer I have again a number of influences and mentors. Firstly my wife Chrissy is my muse, occasional censor and tireless support. She has also taught herself to utilise if not love the computer – a tool I have so far chosen to ignore. All the stories in this section started off being told before they became painstakingly handwritten versions in my ever-mounting pile of exercise books – sorry trees! In an attempt to keep a storyteller’s voice, in developing the next stage from exercise book to computer, I half dictate and half tell each tale to one of my volunteer electro-scribes. Chrissy again heads this team, along with our youngest daughter Rosie and our part-time PA Tony Farren. The bulk of the time on the keyboard, however, has fallen upon our friend and volunteer helper Sue Leeming. The next stage is when the copy is e-mailed to the generous and ridiculously talented Steven Gregg who almost instantly e-mails back a magical illustration before shaping the ever-growing file of tales and illustrations into a manuscript. Without him this book would probably have never reached completion. My mentor in writing and publishing is the wonderful Helen Watts of Aston Hill Editorial, near Stratford-on-Avon. She is a helpful, positive critic and an inspiration to me through her own writing. Declan Flynn and the team at The History Press are kind enough to publish me, encourage me, and cope with my pestering phone calls in the knowledge that I don’t really do e-mails. As a storyteller, I prefer talking to people.

Two inspiring songwriters, John Tams and Dave Goulder, were kind enough to allow me to quote two of their finest pieces of work to top and tail this collection. Their reward will be on licensed premises when next we meet! As a storyteller passionate about the oral tradition, I will continue to tell and write folk tales – presenting and preserving that tradition for as long as I am able. Knowing this, perhaps the bulk of my gratitude should go to you my listeners and readers. If you like the stories then have a go at passing them on and take your place in a truly spellbinding chain.

CONTENTS

Title

Quote

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Foreword

Preface

Illustrations

Part 1: The Iron Winter

St Nicholas

Jack Turnip

Adam’s Fall

Fish, Flesh or Fowl

The Coney

Stargazey Pie

The Farmer’s Story

A Warm Glow

Part 2: A Light in the Midst of Darkness

Room for a Little One

The Cherry Tree Carol

Herod and the Cock

The Miraculous Harvest

The Legend of the Robin

The Legend of Tinsel

Ploughing on Christmas Day

A Song for Anyone to Sing

The Christmas Goose

Trefor’s Turkey

The Three Trees

The Christmas Cat

Offside!

William and the Bull

Down’t Lonnin

Part 3: Riddle Me, Riddle Me, Randy-o

Introduction

Puzzle A

Puzzle B

Riddle 1

Riddle 2

Riddle 3

Riddle 4

Riddle 5

Riddle 6

Riddle 7

Three Mince Pies

Horse Play

Part 4: Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present

The Poacher’s Curse

The Chess Puzzle

The Ghost Ship

The Mistletoe Bough

The Cow that Ate the Piper

Part 5: The Turning of the Year

The Dragon of Winter

The New Year’s Bell

The Apple Tree Man

Fairy Gold

Up Helly Aa

The Twelve Months

Epilogue

Bibliography

In Conclusion

A Midwinter Toast

About the Author

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Winter

A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee,

Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey

As long moss upon the apple tree;

Blue lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose;

Close muffled up, and on the dreary way,

Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows.

They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth,

Old Winter! Seated in thy great armed chair,

Watching the children at their Christmas mirth,

Or circled by them, as thy lips declare

Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire,

Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night,

Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,

Or taste the old October brown and bright.

Robert Southey (1774–1843) wrote those stanzas in Cumbria as Poet Laureate and friend of the Romantics such as Wordsworth and Coleridge. In his book Bygone Cumberland and Westmorland (1899) a lesser-known writer, Daniel Scott, wrote:

Christmas at Lakeland

The labouring ox is said to kneel at twelve o’clock at night, preceding the day of the nativity: the bees are heard to sing at the same hour. On the morn of Christmas Day breakfast early on hack-pudding, a mess made of sheep’s heart mixed with suet and sweet fruits.

FOREWORD

Taffy Thomas is a never-ending giver, a beloved communicator of the highest order and – because of his stories but most particularly because of him – we all live happily ever after.

I hope the words of my winter song that follows create the perfect climate for this collection of Taffy’s Midwinter Folk Tales.

The Snow Falls

Cruel winter cuts through like a reaper,

The old year lies withered and slain,

Like Barleycorn who rose from the grave

The New Year will rise up again.

And the snow falls

And the wind calls

And the year turns round again.

And I’ll wager a hatful of guineas

Against all of the songs you can sing

Someday you’ll love

And the next day you’ll lose

And Winter will turn into Spring.

And the snow falls

And the wind calls

And the year turns round again.

There will come a time of great plenty

A time of good harvest and song

Til then put your trust in tomorrow, my friend,

For Yesterday’s over and done.

And the snow falls

And the wind calls

And the year turns round again.

John Tams

PREFACE

When I am considering the extent to which the television has damaged our rich oral tradition of storytelling, I often think that while there is truth in this, perhaps the reduction in the numbers of open fires in private living rooms, bars, cafes and restaurants has done just as much, if not more damage. Wherever there is a fire, folk cluster round it and yarn. Wherever folk yarn they resort to storytelling, because most treasured knowledge of families and communities survives by being encapsulated in a narrative tale.

Right from childhood, both my parents’ and my grandparents’ houses were sometimes chilly. The open fire, therefore, was the heart of the house: that and the dining table. I learned to embrace the fact that the British climate – then bitter in winter and warmer in spring and summer – provided a rich seasonal variety. I actually enjoyed wearing thick woolly jumpers and corduroy trousers in winter, and relished the opportunity to read or talk by the fire. When spring and summer came, the switch to short trousers and cotton short-sleeved shirts to toss a ball around outdoors for all the hours of daylight was something to celebrate. I was horrified when my godfather, Uncle Jack, an RAF boffin, converted his house so that it would be the same comfortable temperature every day of the year. How comfortable, but how boring!

If you embrace seasonal variety, this will be reflected in the stories you choose to tell or hear at any point in the year. This is my winter collection.

Whenever two Englishmen meet, they discuss the weather; I love this. A northern friend of mine often glances sideways at the sky whilst muttering, ‘It looks a bit rough over Bill’s mother’s’. There is also the old adage that if you can see the mountain tops it’s going to rain, while if you can’t see them, it’s already raining. With such cultural riches, Part 1 comprises tales linked to the often-inclement weather. Part 2 is bursting at the seams with magic and contains most of my extensive Christmas repertoire, which only surfaces annually from Advent to Twelfth Night, unlike the shops who ‘do’ Christmas from Halloween to Easter. The Nativity legends have been gleaned from ancient carols, and when told have provided ground bait for relative strangers to gift me gems like ‘The Christmas Cat’ and ‘The Legend of Tinsel’. For me, every year Christmas starts when I tell ‘The Legend of the Robin’ and ‘The Legend of Tinsel’.

As the fireside is a place for fun and games as well as stories during a time when families are together, Part 3, which includes riddles and riddle stories, will get you thinking at a time when most people’s riddles come from Christmas crackers.

If people are gathered by a fire, a ghost story is often the outcome. Probably thanks to Charles Dickens, there is a link between Christmas and ghost stories; hence Part 4.

There is something about New Year that heralds the opportunity for a fresh start, and the stories in Part 5 reflect a desire for a better and more peaceful future. They also acknowledge the fact that the change from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in 1752 has left us with 17 January as ‘Old Twelfth Night’. Consequently, in the West Country (my birthplace), wassailing and some Yule log customs, all of which are a voice for a happier and healthier new year, take place in January.

‘Warm Words on a Cold Night’, a toast I discovered on the wall of the Guinness brewery in Dublin, is something I wish for all of my readers – that and the inspiration to retell the stories, for if they were all presents to me, they are also presents from me.

Taffy Thomas,

9 January 2014

ILLUSTRATIONS

The illustrations have been drawn by young Cumbrian artist Steven Gregg.

Winter is one of my favourite times of the year, when the nights roll in and I dig out my warm clothing and wrap up tight. It’s a season where the world surrounds us with such rich imagery; leafless trees, frost creeping up the windows, birds all puffed up to contend with the chill.

With this, I jumped at the chance to collaborate with Taffy and The History Press again on another folk tales book. Casting my pen across a mighty dragon, all the way down to the tiniest spider. What more proof do you need to see that Winter inspires creativity?

Steven Gregg

The cover illustration has been created by Katherine Soutar, who has done the covers for the whole collection of the folk tales series.

The image for the wassailing recipe was produced by John Crane, who has had a long association with the storytelling centre, providing images for so many of its publications.

PART 1

THE IRON WINTER

‘The North Wind Doth Blow…’

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will the robin do then, poor thing?

He’ll sit in the barn to keep himself warm,

And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

Traditional

ST NICHOLAS

St Nicholas was a bishop of the early Church. There are many legends of this picturesque character with his long white beard and bright eyes. Several of these legends include the hanging up of stockings to be filled with presents. St Nicholas Day falls on 6 December, a day when many European children receive their gifts.

The story that follows, however, was gifted to me on a visit to my Shropshire storytelling friends. If it was a present to me, then it is a present from me. Please take this story as a gift and tell it.

Many years ago there was a hotel in Russia famous for its food and hospitality. The hotel owner was rich and popular.

It was the iron winter and the snow was so deep you could lean on it. Every room in the hotel was prepared for a guest and there was a big pot of soup bubbling on the hob, but no travellers could get there. The hotel owner was rattling around the big building alone. As the clock ticked towards midnight, there was a knocking on the heavy oak door. As the hotelier opened the door, he discovered a tramp – an old man with bright blue eyes, a long white beard and a ragged red coat. The tramp begged for a bite to eat and a bed for the night. The hotel owner told him he could ‘just about squeeze him in’, but it would cost him three roubles. The tramp turned out his pockets, finding them empty. He told the hotel owner he had no money but promised he would pay the debt as soon as he could. If he wasn’t helped, he would surely perish in the snow.

The hotel owner took pity on the tramp, leading him into the warm hotel and sitting him on a big wooden chair by the fire. He brought the hungry old man a big steaming bowl of borscht – beetroot soup with a twist of sour cream – and half a loaf of rye bread. The tramp devoured the soup greedily. It was the first food he’d had for more than a week. In fact, he ate it so voraciously that the beetroot left a red stain on his white moustache. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thanking the hotelier for his kindness and again repeating his promise to pay him as soon as he could. He would be leaving with the first light of day.

After a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed, the tramp was up and away with the first light of day. Seeing the footprints in the snow disappearing up the road, the hotelier thought he would never see the three roubles he was owed.

Strangely, that very day the snow melted and folk could again travel to the hotel. Trade picked up and the hotel owner wanted to go to the cathedral to say a prayer of thanks for his new-found luck. He walked the twenty miles to Moscow City, to the great cathedral. As he walked through the gate in the city walls, the cathedral bells rang. Up the stone steps the hotelier went and opened the great wooden doors of the church. The walls of the cathedral were covered with icons, beautiful paintings of the saints, decorated with real gold leaf. One picture diagonally across the nave drew the hotelier towards it. It was a picture of an old man with a long white beard, bright blue eyes and a ragged red coat, a man strangely familiar to him. It was indeed the image of the old tramp the hotelier had helped the previous night. The hotel owner decided to say his prayer of thanks in front of that picture. He bought a candle and stooped to press the candle in the shallow sand tray in front of the picture. The candle bumped against something. Flicking the sand away with his fingers, he discovered three rouble coins. The old tramp had kept his promise. Pocketing the coins, the hotelier completed his prayer and looked at the painting for one last time. At the base of the picture there were two words written, the name of the old man. Those two words read ‘St Nicholas’.

In Russia he is called St Nicholas, in France he is called Papa Noel, in Germany he is called Sinter Claus, in America that becomes Santa Claus but we just call him Father Christmas.

JACK TURNIP

The following story concerns Jack Turnip, an anti-hero whose vain pride leads to a ‘fall’ on the ice. I first heard it from one of the Company of Storytellers, a trio of ‘Performance Storytellers’ who have specialised in taking oral storytelling to a primarily adult audience. That said, I have discovered that children love this tale. Why wouldn’t they when the protagonist falls on his bottom?