Winter, in past times, was the most important season for tales; when people would gather round firesides and tell stories and make music. I was browsing my bookcase full of Scottish books and found the following extracts on just this subject. This evocative passage is from the introduction to an antique book entitled, 'Around The Orkney Peat-Fires: Being Sketches of Notable Orcadians And Characters, Smuggling Anecdotes, Stories Of The Press-Gang, And Witch And Other Tales.' By W.R. MacKintosh:
"Prior to the days of cheap periodical literature, neighbours were in the habit of meeting in each other's houses, and, seated round a rousing peat-fire, whiled away the long winter evenings recounting the achievements of notable Orcadians in every part of the world, telling of the eccentricities of local characters, describing all kinds of smuggling exploits, and relating many thrilling incidents connected with the press-gang. Before "the amers were raiked" for the night, something creepy, generally in the shape of a witch story, was usually thrown in, so that the members of the company wended their way home in the dark, prepared to see a ghost in each waving thistle, or troops of fairies on every rising knoll."
George Mackay Brown is probably Orkney's most famous writer, and he is one of my favourites. The following passages are from his writings. The first one is from his collection of stories, 'Winter Tales':
"The winter last year was cold and stormy. The first television sets had come to the island. They were the latest of the never-ending miracles of science, those half-dozen television sets installed in the bigger farms. They held children from their play and old men from their memories in the chimney corner. The poorer folk who couldn't afford to buy television sets would almost beg to spend their evenings in those fortunate houses where the grey images flickered and came and went.
I'm glad to say that the enchantment didn't last. The islanders came to the conclusion that there was probably more fun playing draughts on the kitchen table by lamplight. The fiddle was taken down from the wall again. Cherished books were brought from the wide windowsill and opened with reverence and delight. But while it lasted, even Ben the sailor was under the spell of the television set, going from house to house to that."
"One of the delights of winter is soup- good thick nourishing broth that will outbrave snow and gales." (From Rockpools and Daffodils). Although for me, who has a gift for making wonderful soups, soup is for every day of the year, in that I could be pleased to have it every day, winter or summer. Making a pot of good soup is very satisfying, easy, comforting, and another form of creativity. But homemade soup is particularly vital in the winter, it seems to be needed.
(On Midsummer): "I must say, I love this time of year best of all. But, strange to say, there are folk-and I've spoken to them-who find the long light monotonous, or unnatural, or maybe both. For them, the great thing is the cosiness of lighted lamp and blazing fire after tea-the easy-chair with book or newspaper or TV. They are the winter people; and who shall blame them, in a way? For winter has its own magic: mazes of stars, the changing moon, and rare-come Aurora."
Although country folk say that the worst of winter is yet to come, the gorse on the moor has lighted a few golden lamps to greet the New Year. And in the woodlands the hazel has hung grey tassels that tremble in the wind; about the keeper's cottage the jasmine displays points of yellow. On the weathered wall, moss has woven a mosaic of green and brown. In the churchyard ancient yews will soon open their curious clustered blossoms.
From a laneside elm, the mistlethrush utters his wild lay and, on days when an icy wind carries snow in his lap, the 'storm-cock' will sing his rattle song in defiance of the weather. But the robin is more cautious, for when storms are near he sings in the open. Thus, country lore gives to him the credit of being a weather prophet.
Down the lane a hedge-sparrow sings 'wee, sissy-weeso, wee, sissy-weeso.' Another name for this bird is dunnock. From the coppice a great- tit rings his repeated notes that remind one of a file on the teeth of a saw. From the hedgerow a wren sounds his alarm, for this little brown bird delights to play the sentinel.
Over the wheat field a skylark plays his pipes of Pan. On an average the lark sings throughout the year, except in August. As a slant of sunshine touches the side of the wood, a green woodpecker becomes a jester with a laugh, and pigeons coo in contentment. In the air hovers a kestrel, and the small birds vanish into the lattice of the hedges, and starlings deploy over the more distant fields. From the oster-beds comes the wail of peewits. Greenfinches, linnets, still keep together in flocks. But the snow-buntings will begin to depart, as they are winter visitors.
The following birds may be heard in song this month: Mistlethrush, thrush, blackbird, wren, robin, hedgesparrow, woodlark, chaffinch, and nuthatch.
When the winter sunshine gives a genial glow of warmth at the lane corner, one may glimpse the gnats in a crazy dance. They revel in the amber light, and their rapidly vibrating wings reflect the transient gleam of rainbow colours.
The rabbits feed at the edge of the wood, and indulge in a gambol, but the hares seek the shelter of the hedgerow. Dormice, hedgehogs, and squirrels are still sleeping. The hedgehog is not worried by lack of food and sleeps on till the sun is sufficiently warm to lure him forth; but on a fine day the dormice and squirrels may awaken to visit their stores, and an occasional pipistrelle may be seen on the wing. On the upland ridge, baby lambs bleat, and are answered by deep-voiced ewes. As the twilight deepens, the shepherd lights his pipe, and watches the sunset behind a heavy bank of clouds, which he knows forecasts rain or snow. Later a pale moon hangs above the hill, and the rugged form of the shepherd is silhouetted on the skyline. (unknown author)
'Downs in Winter' by Eric Ravilious
*Happy New Year and hello. How remiss of me to go so long without posting here...I will try to do better...
Crooked Adam by D.E. Stevenson is a wonderful tale of mystery, action, adventure, espionage and a bit of romance. This is the second book I've read of this author and I've enjoyed both books very much. This one was published in 1942, set in England then mainly Scotland, and involves the valiant efforts of some brave and honest men keeping the invention and plans of a new secret weapon ray gun out of the hands of Nazi German agents, who are desperate to get hold of it.
Adam Southey, the Crooked Adam of the title, is so-called due to a limp he has with his leg. In the beginning he is unfulfilled and discontent that he is working as a teacher when he'd rather be fighting for his country; but Adam soon get swept up into an exciting and adventurous life that he could never have dreamed of.
The story has a nice, easy pace, and combined with the detailed descriptions of scenery, one really gets a feel for the settings. I can wholeheartedly recommend this book, it's a good one!
It's Burns Night tonight, whether you abide in Scotland or not; for if you love Scotland or have any ancestral lure to it, you will probably know about the great poet Robert Burns. He was a beautiful writer of verse (and a bit of a Casanova too) and has been one of the most loved figures of Scotland for a very long time. He is one of my favourite writers. Here are some romantic verses from a song:
Oh Wert Thou In The Cauld Blast:
Oh wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea;
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be thy bosom, to share it a', to share it a'.
Or were I in the wildest waste,
sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign;
The brightest jewel in my crown,
wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
Here's a miscellany of enticing little curiosities concerned with Hogmanay ( New Year's in Scotland), old Celtic folklore, traditions, etc... I have accumulated a lot of interesting books over time, and it's a pleasure to share these archaic pieces with any of you who may find some curious appeal in them! I assembled this piece a few years ago, when my head was full of Scottish music and books, and so it has come from another site which no longer exists, but this a good time to repost it.
A guid New Year to ane and a'
And mony may ye see;
And during a' the year to come,
Happy may ye be. A Guid New Year
Now we hae gotten't in aboot,
An' a' orr thingies ticht,
We gather roun' the festive board
To spend a jolly nicht. The Hairst o' Rettie
Rise up, guidwife, and shake yir featers;
Dinna think that we are beggars,
We're only bairnies come to play
So up and gie's our Hogmanay. Children's rhyme
Mummer's plays were popular at this time of year:
"Eader a' da la Nodlag-between Christmas Day and New Year's Day the mummers took to the streets.
There was St. George and St. Denis and St. Patrick in their buffe coats, and the Turke was there likewise and Oliver Cromwell and a Doctor, and an old woman who made rare sport, till Belsibub came in with a frying pan upon his shoulder and a great flail in his hand thrashing about him on friends and foes, and at last running away with the bold usurper, Cromwell, whom he tweaked by his gilded nose- and there came a little devil with a broom to gather up the money that was thrown to the Mummers for the sport. It is an ancient pastime, they tell me, of the Citizens."
A Visitor To Cork, 1685
In the Isle of Man, New Year's Day was often called Little Christmas. Fiddlers would go from house to house to rouse the occupants with music, and their wives would follow the next day for payment, usually food or drink.
"The eve of New Year's Day was one of supreme importance in the Highlands and Islands of the West and took precedence even over Christmas. It was a time of much ceremony and gaity, but underneath the levity lies a sinister hint of the old ritual and sacrificial nature of the festival. The eve of New Year was known as Oidhche Challuinn, and New Year's Day as La' Challiunn. First-footing is still carried out, as in other parts of the Highlands, although, as elsewhere, it is a dying custom."
The Folklore of the Scottish Highlands by Anne Ross, 1976
Here's an old Hogmanay verse:
Tonight is the hard night of Hogmanay,
I am come with a lamb to sell-
The old fellow yonder sternly said
He would strike my ear against a rock.
The woman, better of speech, said
That I should be let in;
For my food and for my drink,
A morsel due and something with it.
Highland Weather Almanac:
The Highlanders form a sort of almanac or presage of the weather for the ensuing year in the following manner. They make observation on twelve days, beginning at the last of December, and hold as an infallible rule that whatsoever weather happens on each of those days, the same will prove to agree in the correspondent months. Thus, January is to answer to the weather of December the 31st, February to that of January 1st; and so on with the rest. Old people still pay great attention to this augury. Thomas Pennant, A Tour In Scotland and Voyage to the Hebrides, 1772
In the Celtic lands of Britain, the people did not at first take kindly to the introduction of the New Style calendar in 1752, and tenaciously clung to the old order of things, including the stubborn conviction that 6 January was the real Christmas day. from, A Celtic Book of Days
In the past the calendrical significance of January varied according to whether Celtic, Anglo-Saxon or Norse tradition was followed, with Yule continuing all month in the north of Scotland, but Christmas elsewhere originally on 5th January (or 6th) but ending on New Year's Eve.
In another folk customs book, it states that on New Year's Day morning in Scotland, men can traditionally demand a kiss from any woman they know...which could be nice, or not, depending on who you happened to meet!
I often tend to get moody or melancholy at New Year's Eve for some reason, but am doing all right this time, just not dwelling on it too much. For it is a fresh new year, be hopeful and think on good things! Happy New Year!
Let's begin with some rustic old verses by Thomas Tusser entitled 'Christmas Husbandly Fare':
'Get Ivye and hull, woman deck up thyne house: and take this same brawne, for to seeth and to souse.
Provide us good chere, for thou knowst the old guise: olde customs, that good be, let no man despise.
At Christmas be merry, and thanke God of all: and feast thy pore neighbours, the great with the small.
Yea al the yere long, have an eie to the poore: and God shall send luck, to kepe open thy doore.
Good husband and huswife, now chiefly be glad,
things handsome to have, as they ought to be had.
They both do provide, against Christmas do come,
to welcom their neighbours, good chere to have some.
Good bread and good drinke, a good fire in the hall,
brawne, pudding, and souse, and good mustarde withal.
Biefe, mutton, and Porke, and good Pies of the best,
pig, veal, goose, and capon, and turkey well drest.
Chese, apples, and nuttes, and good Caroles to heare,
as then, in the country is counted good chere.
What cost to good husband, is any of this?
Good householde provision onely it is:
Of other the like, I do leave out a meny,
that costeth the husband never a peny.'
In Scottish Gaelic, Du'gan means the darkness of a loch, and Du'gan a' gheamhraidh, the darkest time in winter.
'There is a beauty in the trees peculiar to winter, when their fair delicate slender tracery unveiled by leaves and showing clearly against the sky rises bending with a lofty arch or sweeps gracefully drooping. The crossing and interlacing of the limbs, the smaller boughs and tender twigs make an exquisitely fine network which has something of the severe beauty of sculpture, while the tree in summer in its full pride and splendour and colour of foliage represents the loveliness of painting. The deciduous trees which seem to me most graceful and elegant in winter are birches, limes, beeches.' Francis Kilvert, Diary 1870-1879
The burning characteristics and qualities of various types of wood:
Logs to burn! Logs to burn! Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here's a word to make you wise when you hear the woodman's cries.
Beechwood fires burn bright and clear, hornbeam blazes too,
If the logs are kept a year to season through and through.
So beech logs for Christmastime and yew logs heat well,
But 'Scotch' logs it is a crime for anyone to sell.
Though pine is good and so is yew for warmth through wintry days,
But poplar and willow too, take long to dry or blaze.
Larch logs of pine wood smell but the sparks will fly.
Birch logs burn too fast, alder scarce at all.
Chestnut logs are good to last if cut well in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax, you should burn them green.
Elm logs burn like smouldering flax, no flame is seen.
Pear logs and apple logs, they will scent your room,
Cherry logs across the dogs smell like flowers in bloom.
But ash logs, all smooth and grey, burn them green or old.
Buy up all that come your way, they're worth their weight in gold.
'Still, they did manage to make a little festival of it. Every year the farmer killed an ox for the purpose and gave each of his men a joint of beef, which duly appeared on the Christmas dinner table together with plum pudding-not Christmas pudding, but suet duff with a good sprinkling of raisins. Ivy and other evergreens were hung from the ceiling and over the pictures; a bottle of homemade wine was uncorked, a good fire was made up, and, with doors and windows closed against the keen, wintry weather, they all settled down by their own firesides for a kind of super-Sunday...There were still bands of mummers in some of the larger villages, and village choirs went carol singing about the countryside; but none of these came to the hamlet, for they knew the collection to be expected there would not make it worth their while. A few families, sitting by their own firesides, would sing carols and songs; that, and more and better food and a better fire than usual, made up their Christmas cheer.'
Flora Thompson, Lark Rise To Candleford
Here are some excellent books along the line of old Christmas customs, stories and history: The Country Diary Christmas Book (my favourite); A Country House Christmas; A Fenland Christmas; Christmas In Shakespeare's England; Charles Dickens' Christmas Stories; Old Christmas by Washington Irving.
'The Children of Green Knowe', by Lucy M. Boston, from 1954, is a charming and cosy story set at Christmas that really isn't just for children (if you still have a little bit of child still in you, that is), in fact I only just read it myself for the first time about three years ago and recommend it.
'What if my grandmother is a witch,' thought Tolly as he waited in the hall at Green Knowe. He had come across the flooded fens in a boat to reach the old house that stood like an ark in the middle of the flood water. He'd come to spend Christmas with her in this strange lonely place. Queer flowers filled the vases and a bird's nest perched on the head of one of the carved oak cherubs who laughed down at him...Tolly's room was up under the eaves of the house, above the Knight's Hall, like a tent under the shape of the roof. It was full of old things, a rocking horse, a painted chest without a key and a doll's house exactly like Green Knowe...'
Once I came across a book called 'Christmas Curiosities: Odd, Dark and Forgotten Christmas', which was full of strange and sometimes shocking visions from Christmases long past, in old postcards and illustrations. Some of the images were funny, and some very morbid. Why did Victorians like to send cards with a poor dead bird on the front? There was a big emphasis on naughty children, some being thrown into a sack or beaten, or being chased by a terrifying devil-like creature, and some of the pictures would surely scare out the wickedness in the naughty wee ones!
Then there were the advertisements using Santa to promote them. One was for Ayer's Cherry Pectoral medicine in the 1880's, advertised showing children looking happy after taking the medicine. It was later discovered that it contained at least 20 percent ethyl alcohol and heroin!
Here is an amusing description of a Christmas music service, from 'Old Christmas' by Washington Irving:
'The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and labouring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had obviously been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; and as several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest foxhunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever, everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or rather as soon, as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding up all by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. '
For various reasons, I find that Christmas stories set in the present to be greatly lacking in atmosphere, they just fail to capture the right mood or feeling for me. In my mind, at least, I tend to create a kind of romantic mixture of elements from Medieval and Victorian England (in the decorations and mood), with the 1970s of childhood thrown in, which may sound unusual, but it's the way I like it; you'll never find any bland modernistic minimalism from me.
The Box Of Delights is one of the best stories to watch at Christmas, and if you've never seen it, here is the beginning, it's great; Kay Harker (who I mentioned earlier in 'The Midnight Folk') is coming home from school for Christmas and encounters some rather shifty-looking coves on the train:
Christmas should always be as happy as possible, and peaceful, with good home cooked food and the right atmosphere, though it can be tinged with sadness for those no longer with us. A jolly time had by all is what we should all strive for in some way, and when times are bad, at least make a little effort to have a special day, doing whatever you can to make it nice.
Here is a charming, and I believe old, (uncredited) description of December in the English countryside, in 'The Complete Country Bizarre', edited by Andy Pittaway and Bernard Scofield, 1976:
December
"Although the year grows old and the December days shorter, one still finds little adventures along the woodcraft trail. Even before dawn the farmyard cocks sound reveille and the rooks leave their dormitory to seek breakfast in the meadowland. When the blackbird gets out of bed, he chatters like an old gentleman with a nasty temper.
In the field by the wood are a motley company of birds, which include buntings, bramblings, chaffinches, greenfinches, and a detachment of sparrows. On the stubble, titmice give an acrobatic display on some dried stalks, and larks find something that suits their fancy on a piece of old ploughed land. Linnets wander from field to field in a restless nomadic manner. By the brook a pied wagtail says 'Chizzit, chizzit' when disturbed. From the wood an owl hoots before he goes to sleep and a jay is like a fleeting coloured shadow. Along Blackberry Lane the denseness of the bushes make a safe and warm harbourage for the birds, and the pine trees shelter a number of goldcrests. The rickyard also becomes a guest house in severe weather, and the grey church tower is a sanctuary for jackdaw and barn-owl.
Most of the thrush family are fond of berries, and the fruit of the yew attracts the mistlethrush while fieldfares visit the holly. According to old country lore, a heavy crop of berries foretells hard weather ahead.
The ploughman moves up and down the tawny acres with a plodding gait, which he occasionally breaks at the corner for a brief rest. On the broken soil, jackdaws, rooks, hooded crows, seagulls, plovers and robins find a variety of food.
Holly is cheerful with red berries, bramble shows a trace of green, dogwood is dyed red, wild clematis is pretty with grey-white plumes, and mistletoe is beautiful with pearl-white berries.
Trees are full of colour when caught in a loop of sunlight. Oak and beech buds shade brown, the ash is decorated with points of blackish-green, and limes glint red.
Already some shepherds have completed their pens, in readiness for the lambs that may arrive before the month is out. In the pastures sheep wait for fodder at the troughs, a seasonal picture of the month. Against a background a rural sounds the hum of the threshing-machine comes over the fields and will continue until sundown.
At nightfall winter moths will flock about the shepherd's lantern as he goes to the fold. The continuous hoot of brown owls in the moonlight mingles with the dog fox's bark as he journeys through deep shadows in search of a mate..."
I love to read spooky old-fashioned ghost stories. For me they have to have an antique atmosphere, such as in medieval manor houses, castles, old libraries full of dusty tomes, ancient cathedrals, etc... I simply cannot, but rarely, get into the right mode with a modern setting, and also like the genteel quality of the old stories, where one doesn't usually tend to encounter anything so distasteful as great cruelty and violence, gore or obscenity; these old stories use an unsettling atmosphere to gently guide the reader into a sense of forboding and fright, an implied danger lurking in the shadows. For me, no one did this better than M.R. James, who has rightfully been called the best writer of English ghost stories.
Many of his tales involve the settings mentioned above, and the main character is often an antiquary, professor, or collector, someone who is preoccupied with history and past times; and usually a quiet and more solitary and sensitive soul.
This Wordsworth Classics edition of the Collected Ghost Stories of M.R. James is the one I have, although my secondhand copy is a bit scruffier than this picture. I started reading in it quite some time ago, but as I like the stories so much, have rationed them, only reading one here and there. The other day I did feel a need to read something, and decided that it would be a good idea to finish this collection of stories before the year is out, so started back on this one and don't have much left to finish. There's something about Autumn and Winter that make one drawn to tales of this kind. I highly recommend M.R. James to everyone who hasn't read his wonderfully descriptive and spooky stories yet.
Here is an excerpt from 'An Episode Of Cathedral History', where renovations to the Cathedral unearthed something foul from a tomb and many of the residents of the town had fallen ill or died: "Gradually there formulated itself a suspicion -which grew into a conviction-that the alterations in the Cathedral had something to say in the matter. The widow of a former old verger, a pensioner of the Chapter of Southminster, was visited by dreams, which she retailed to her friends, of a shape that slipped out of the little door of the south transept as the dark fell in, and flitted-taking a fresh direction every night-about the Close, disappearing for a while in house after house, and finally emerging again when the night sky was paling. She could see nothing of it, she said, but that it was a moving form: only she had an impression that when it returned to the church, as it seemed to do in the end of the dream, it turned it's head: and then, she could not tell why, but she thought it had red eyes..."
This lavish, full-colour book packed with the work of Yorkshire artist Mark Hearld is a feast for the eyes and full of images to inspire one to get busy with the paints. I first heard of Mark Hearld about three years ago or so and instantly was attracted to his work, and this book was a much desired Christmas present last year, and the first book I read this year. At the time I found out about his art I quickly discovered some other contemporary artists and for me it was a change to actually admire artists who were alive, as I'd always only been interested in centuries old paintings and artists long gone and had a dislike for most modern art, but this is modern art of a very different type, for this is art inspired by nature and a certain kind of folk art cosiness, not (for me) the scary and incomprehensible modern art of an abstract and cold, hard style with obscure meaning that I was forced to learn a bit about in college. In more recent years I discovered how limited my art education had been concerning certain times and movements and have tried to make up for it somewhat. So much of what I had to study I had a strong distaste for, which is a shame for, as unlike the views of some, I believe art should be beautiful, or at least attractive. I want nothing to do with ugliness in artistic creations, there is enough ugliness in modern society without adding to it, we need good things.
Mark Hearld's book (which I suspect will be the first of many as he is so amazingly prolific) is full of good things, an abundance of paintings, pottery, linocuts, woodcuts and collages of brightness and charm, many having a look of freedom and looseness in the execution (like the forces of nature such as wind and rain), although other pieces are of a much more controlled and arranged form. His pictures sometimes look deceptively simplistic, yet when you look further more and more impressive details come into view.
I heartily recommend this book to anyone who likes animal and nature-inspired art or mid-century British art, which is the main inspiration of Mark Hearld. I do hope a workbook volume two will be published in the near future.
Here are two wonderful videos about Mark Hearld's work:
