LITTLE-KNOWN AREA OF SCOTLAND IS A TREASUREHOUSE OF TRADITIONAL LORE

DESCRIPTION:

The Sidlaws are a low range of hills running from Montrose in the East to Perth in the west, with Dundee to the south. Much loved by those who live nearby as a place for walking and recreation, the area is almost ignored by visitors to Scotland and little-known even by Scots from other parts of the country. Yet the glens in this sparsely populated region are an unbelievably rich source of stories, legends, historical incidents and songs. When Maurice Fleming began to collect the tales, traditions and ballads of the Sidlaws, he was overwhelmed by the richness and variety of what he found. Instead of a few antiquarian scraps, he has come up with what he describes as ‘a kistful of old and unexpected treasures’.

The Sidlaws have been the scene on which many important historical events have been played out. Many of the stories retold by Maurice Fleming describe terrible or heroic deeds during sieges and rebellions. Here the real Macbeth lived and reigned, in a very different manner to the king in Shakespeare’s play. Here Wallace, early in his famous career, fled from his pursuers after killing the son of the Governor of the English Garrison in Dundee. Here the last African slave in Scotland, given the name of Joseph Knight by his first owner, fought successfully for his freedom.

Other stories tell of the dramatic exploits of smugglers in the days when armed Excisemen scoured the country for illicit stills. Famous houses and castles—Evelick and Glamis for example—have played their part in the region’s history, and there is a section devoted to their noteworthy inhabitants, not least the ghosts that are frequently seen flitting along their corridors. A large proportion of the tales, in fact, have a supernatural element, giving blood-chilling accounts of witches and warlocks, brownies and fairies, monstrous serpents and even the Devil himself.

The memory of tales like these is dying out rapidly throughout modern Scotland. As with his The Ghost o’ Mause and Other Tales and Traditions of East Perthshire, Maurice Fleming has painstakingly traced the vanishing traditions of the Sidlaws from a variety of sources. Some he has found in old histories and newspapers of the area; others he has actually taken down himself from the words of living storytellers. Not only is this book a fascinating and important record, but it is a uniquely entertaining sampler of the Scottish folk tradition, retold by a master storyteller. Beautiful woodcut illustrations, specially commissioned from the artist Alyson MacNeill, adorn the text.

EXCERPT:

The Shod Wife

Robbie Curr, the Carse storyteller, had several tales of witches in that area. One took place on a farm which was owned by a widow. She had a son and they employed two men.

The two ploughmen lived in a bothy where they shared the same bed. For some time one of them had been waking up in the morning feeling more tired than when he lay down. He told his bedmate about it saying his nights were always restless. He kept dreaming he was flying through the air. In the mornings he could hardly drag himself to yoke the horses.

The other man listened carefully and then told him he had sometimes wakened during the night and seen his friend was not there. Tonight, he said, we’ll change places. I’ll sleep on your side of the bed.

That night the man who had been having the bad dreams fell straight into a deep sleep. The other kept awake. About midnight the door softly opened and in came the widow. Through half-closed eyes he saw that she held a bridle in her hand. She shook it over his head and said some words. At once he turned into a horse.

She led him out, leaped on his back and rode off. He found himself flying through the night sky. They travelled a long way, and when at last she guided him down to earth they were in Italy. There she tethered him by a doorway and went inside.

As soon as she was gone he started to rub his head against the wall and push at the bridle with one of his hooves until he succeeded in slipping it off. In an instant he was a man again.

He picked up the bridle and waited by the doorway. When she came out he shook the bridle over her head and repeated the words he had heard her say over the bed. She vanished and a mare stood in her place. He jumped on her back and took up the reins, saying, ‘Ye gied me a gey heat comin awa, but I’ll gar ye pey for it gangin hame!’

Off she flew into the sky and they sped through the darkness under the stars. By the time they arrived back in the farmyard the mare was white with froth as though they had come through a snowstorm. He dismounted and tied the bridle firmly to her head, then led her into the stable where he tethered her to a stall. Then he returned to bed, where the other man was still enjoying a dreamless sleep.

At daybreak, leaving him still sleeping peacefully, the ploughman rose and went to find the widow’s son.

‘I’ve a fine mare for sale,’ he told him. ‘I think you should buy her.’

‘I’ll need to see her first,’ said the son.

‘Ye’ll soon see her for she’s in the stable.’

The son followed him to the stable and had a good look at the mare. After he had examined her all over—her teeth, her legs, her hooves—he said, ‘She’s a bonny mare richt enough. Braw and fat. Whaur did ye get her?’

‘It disna maitter whaur I got her, but she’s no stolen, dinna think that. Noo, it must be cash doon for I’m needin the money.’

‘But hoo much are ye wanting for her?’ asked the son. ‘Her mooth tells me she’s no very young and there’s anither thing—her front hooves are awfu flat.’

‘That’s nithing,’ said the ploughman. ‘Her feet just need shoein. If you say aicht pound, she’s yours.’

The farmer hesitated. ‘Will ye promise me she’s a guid worker?’

‘I canna say aboot working but for ridin she baits a’ the beasts I ever had a leg ower!’

‘My mither’s no at hame,’ said the son. ‘I dinna ken whaur she is or I’d ask her whit she thought.’ He scratched his head. ‘I’ll gie ye six pound and tak my chance.’

Just then the other ploughman came along, having wakened up from his deep sleep. He, too, inspected the mare and advised a compromise. ‘Mak it seeven,’ he suggested.

The two men agreed and the son paid on the spot.

All three took the mare to the smiddy at Rait to have her shod. She was restive and wouldn’t stand still but the smith was a strong man. He seized her and held her in a tight grip. Well he knew there was always a good dram for him when he shod a horse for the first time. The mare was helpless in his powerful hands. Soon she had four fine shoes on her feet.

The son was a proud man as he led her home. There was no doubt about it, the mare was a handsome animal. He looked forward to showing her off to his mother when she returned.

He led her into the stable, put her in a stall and took off the bridle. Flash! The mare had gone and there sitting in the stall was his mother glaring at him with horseshoes on her hands and feet. The two ploughmen thought they had never seen anything so comical. They laughed at the indignant expression on her face and at the son’s amazement when he found the mare he had paid for was his own mother.

Robbie Curr used to finish this tale by telling his listeners that he remembered the son’s bairns. ‘I kent them brawly,’ he would say. ‘They were aye ca’d the Shod-Wife’s owes’ (grandchildren).

REVIEWS:

‘A fascinating kist, conveying the impression of an area rich in tradition.’ – The Scotsman

‘A rich crop of stories, traditional, historical and supernatural, and a wealth of legend… Dramatic woodcuts by Alyson MacNeil add atmosphere to the whole.’ – Scottish Book Collector

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY: