Perennial Perils and Pitfalls of the Weather

Whilst the US and Canada flounder under enormous layers of snow and temperatures drop to record levels, parts of the UK are on flood watch. In the southeast of Australia, the country surges towards yet another scorcher. Despite all our technology, the weather controls our lives. Today, we hear a lot about weather events – an unusual choice of language! Natural disasters in the making are tracked and those lucky enough to have access to this information and the necessary resources to get to safety are able to save themselves. For those who don’t have such access, it must be very much like medieval times.

You would only have known of a storm when the clouds brewed themselves into a dark mess and the skies boomed and crackled overhead; a storm surge – when it washed away your home, and you and your children with it. Excesses of the weather were perceived as a dark force, a punishment from a vengeful God. Many cultures feared the serpents beneath the seas as well which sucked down ships and their crews. So often, ships set sail beneath sunny skies only to be lost somewhere on their journey. But the seas were the highways of the time. So much of our current political and cultural heritage would not have occurred if captains and sailors had not taken their courage in their hands and boarded ships in good faith that they might make it to  journey’s end.

Winter must have been a fearful time – a dark time, a time for consuming carefully-hoarded supplies.

What must it have been like in the Great Famine of 1315-17? For two hundred years, the weather had been quite balmy – peppered with storms, of course, but these were not enough to deny the growth of crops and the supply of grain. Temperatures began to drop: only by a degree it is said, but that was enough. Then the rains came. The first year was disastrous. Harvests failed but most villagers could fall back on reserved stores. It was the second and third years which caused death and disaster. With increasing cold and continuous rain, floods followed and crops failed. People ate grain contaminated with mould. Some were affected by the fungal poison, Ergot, which brought on irrational behavior and reduced the capacity of immune systems to fight off illness

With heavy cloud cover, salt could not be produced by evaporation in the salt pans within the estuaries. Without salt, meat could not be preserved. When the oxen and other animals died of starvation and disease, the fields could not be ploughed. Without animals, the fields could not be manured reducing the fertility of the soil and viability of future crops.

Wars don’t necessarily stop because of a few failed harvests or storms. Vital resources were diverted away for military purposes. Across northern England and Scotland, devastation was wrought by both sides on the people and land. In Ireland, the Scots sought to enlist the aid of the Irish in defeating the Anglo-Irish lords. Had there not been a famine, they might just have succeeded.  In Europe, the situation was even worse as industries failed and scarce food supplies were diverted by warring kingdoms.

More periods of famine occurred in the following decades until the Black Plague decimated the population. Much later in 1360, an English army was struck by a storm: men and horses were killed by huge hail stones. The warring parties accepted this as divine intervention and sought a peaceful resolution.

Now we have a greater understanding of the vagaries of the weather. It may not be divine judgement as such but certainly our actions as consumers have contributed to changes in weather patterns.

Thankfully, in this day and age, we are more likely to survive periods of intense weather.  I wish all those who are suffering in these current conditions, a safe return to normal life.

Of Seers and legends

Come with me to northern Scotland – Chanonry Point on the Black Isle to be exact. Look across the water and you’ll see an old fort. Beside you, dolphins leap and catch salmon, entertaining the many visitors who wait for hours for the spectacle. It’s a beautiful place to watch the dusk settle, especially if you have a delicious fish supper to keep you company.

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Nearby, you’ll come across a monument to a Gaelic seer.On this spot, back in the 17th century, Coinneach Odhar met his fate in a barrel of burning tar – a tragic end for a man with a strange, but wonderful affliction.

Legend has it that this enchanter was born on the Isle of Lewis in the Hebrides. In this land of dark, deep winters, fireside myths abound. Here is just one of many. Make of it what you will.20141004-141352.jpg

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On a  grassy knoll above the white sandy beaches of Uig, a peaceful resting place holds many secrets…

Beside an old cemetery, Coinneach’s mother watched over her flock as the wind sighed over the machair. Perhaps the ‘merry dancers’ wove their coloured banners above her that night. From the graves, spirits rose for their annual visit above ground. Fascination made her stay to watch, to make sure all returned.

Faint light graced the horizon, and still one grave stood empty. In time, its owner – a Viking princess – drifted back. Her trip to see relatives had taken longer than planned, she claimed, for wasn’t Norway a long way off. Coinneach’s  mother was deaf to her pleas – to enter her rightful home, until the lass offered a gift, a magical stone. ‘Look through the hole in its centre and the future will become clear…’

And that is how, some claim, Coinneach –  the sallow complexioned crofter’s child – received the ‘gift’ of double sight, by looking through the hole in his mother’s stone.

Now the lad worked hard cutting and creeling peat but in time news of the rhymes, which he spoke as if in a daze, spread far and wide. Some claimed he predicted events of fire, flood and calamity, affecting individuals and communities, and the terrible tragedy of Culloden.

To many, his visions were also well in advance of his possible knowledge – roads across the highlands, the coming of the railway, bridges and canals; even to present  times – the tunnel linking Britain and France, and Scotland’s parliament.  Was he Scotland’s own Nostradamus?

Surely a man as gifted as this might have been feted especially with Scotland’s ancient Celtic traditions bedded in superstitious belief. In time, his notoriety brought him to the attention of his employers, the Seaforth family on the Black Isle.

Lord Seaforth had gone off to Paris – indefinitely it seemed. His lady wife grew worried about his return and asked Coinneach to enlighten her.

“Your husband enjoys the charms of another woman, and will not return.” He said, or words to that effect, at a banquet at Brahan Castle in front of her friends and family. If ever a little white lie might have helped the situation, this was the time, but being an honest, straightforward Scot, he could only tell the truth of his vision.

Lady Seaforth’s embarrassment and subsequent rage knew no bounds. His words sealed his death warrant –  to be burnt as a warlock.

There was a curse, of course, spoken before his gruesome demise.

The Seaforth line would falter. Many years later, these events would come to pass just as he’d described.- the last surviving lord, a deaf-mute (perhaps from the Scarlet Fever he suffered as a child) would die; his four sons before him. Soon after, a daughter would return from the east. Another sister would die soon after.

Seaforth’s daughter, Mary, did in fact return from the East Indies to claim her inheritance. Whilst driving through the forest in a pony trap, the horse bolted. Mary was injured, her sister killed…

Seers often cannot see their own futures. If Coinneach had known what lay ahead of him, perhaps he might have tossed that stone into the sea.

 

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A Disputed Castle – Part Two

Who would want to live in the wild border country nestled between Scotland and England?  Not this little black duck, that’s for sure – especially in the 16th century. But if your surname happens to be: Armstrong, Murray, Carr, Nixon, Henderson, Young, Taylor or Reed; then you might have ‘reiver’ ancestors – those lawless Scots who pillaged English villages in quick-fire raids for cattle and booty. Some were imprisoned in the great castle. Others must have stayed to set up home for their surnames are still in evidence today in the Carlisle area.

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The 17th century was no less dangerous for the English Civil War was in full tilt and the walled town of Carlisle endured the longest siege in English history. Royalist supporters were forced to eat horses, dogs and rats – and hopefully, not each other – when they were besieged by Parliamentarian and Covenanter forces.

A century later, we meet Bonnie Prince Charlie (AKA Charles Edward Stuart) as he led 6000 of his Scottish supporters into England. It’s a complicated history, to be sure!DSC00526

After a week, the poorly resourced garrison of Carlisle Castle surrendered. When I learned the prince entered through the castle gates with one hundred pipers, it was thrilling to think that the stirring old pipers’ song had found its inspiration here.

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The Jacobite army moved further into England but support for the Scottish royal family, formerly exiled to France, was missing. The Scottish force returned north. By December 1745, the army was in Carlisle. Before heading back to Scotland (and dark times ahead on the fields of Culloden), a small garrison was left at the castle. Leading the English forces, the Duke of Cumberland soon arrived. After ten days of bombardment, the city’s dungeons were filled with Jacobite prisoners and the ‘Butcher of Cumberland’ earned his nickname.DSC00549

Some of you might know the poignant song believed to have been composed  about a prisoner – soon to be executed at Carlisle castle – to his lady love, telling her that he will reach their beloved Loch Lomond, before her.  It goes something like this….

“Oh…. ye’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland before ye.”

A popular national song, it is often sung at football matches and a moving experience, especially for me, when played as the last song at functions in Scotland. The next best thing to Auld Lang Syne!

Once a Scottish stronghold, Carlisle Castle is filled with ghosts from its dark past. There’s no doubt in my mind, you’ll love it! And the pipes are a’calling…

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Carlisle Castle

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Embossed face at Carlisle Cathedral

 

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A Green Man

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References: historical resources at Carlisle – castle and cathedral

A Disputed Castle – Part One

Set your sights for Carlisle Castle. Once upon a time, you would have been walking on Scottish soil. Some nine hundred years ago, England claimed it, and it was no fairy tale. History here is deep and layered. With so much blood spilled, even the walls seemed stained red by it.

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Around the end of the eleventh century, William Rufus, red-haired son of the Conqueror, wrenched control of Carlisle and Cumberland from the Scots. It was a perfect post for forays into the north. The castle grew into an imposing fortress; the town, fortified with walls. But it was not enough to stop the Scots who fought to have the area back under their control. In 1136, King David I regained it, only to die there some fifty years later. You can still see the oratory, a small prayer room where he died.

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Onto the 13th century – a complex time of fluid boundaries when the Bruce family sided with the English to survive against their Scottish enemies; Robert the Bruce’s father was constable and his famous son defended a siege against their nemesis, the Comyn family, supporters of King John Balliol whose reign fell into ignominy and defeat before King Edward’s manipulation.DSC00617

It was here that Robert’s brothers, Thomas and Alexander, were brought to suffer the most torturous of deaths after their capture in Galloway. Thomas’s head hung above the castle gate while the heads of many other Scots adorned the walls of the town. King Edward’s wrath knew no bounds, and even being Dean of Glasgow could not save the life of Alexander Bruce.DSC00514

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Walk down to the dungeons and you will see where prisoners licked moisture from the walls. Your finger traces the indentations and time slips a little.

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Even after his success at Bannockburn, Robert needed formal recognition of his country’s independence to gain true peace. A supreme strategist, he took the war over the border – this time as Scotland’s king. Success was so close he could almost smell it…but the weather took an upper hand. Soon all of Europe was in the grip of a disastrous event – rain that never let up. In the dull light, crops shriveled and died. Fields flooded. Desperation swept the land with animal and human pandemics. There was even talk of cannibalism…

1315 was the beginning of such a time, and when Robert and his army of Scots set up camp beneath the stout walls of Carlisle, they could not imagine what would follow. Soon men and machines, the great stone-flinging trebuchets, foundered in the mud and swollen waters. The castle could not be taken.

It is hard to imagine that this very English town with its grand cathedral and castle were once part of Scotland, and that the Bruce family had such a strong bond with it.DSC00560

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But the Scottish connections do not end there.

In 1567, Mary Queen of Scots threw herself on the mercy of her protestant cousin, Elizabeth I, whilst attempting to escape the Scottish nobility who no longer supported her claim to the throne. Her Catholic beliefs – along with other complex factors, caused her to be hounded from Scotland and undermined her relationship with the English queen. For several months in 1567, Mary and her female retainers were kept at Carlisle in a tower which bore her name. Years of incarceration followed, before she was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle in the south.

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And there were the reivers, wild men from the borders who raided English towns and farms for cattle and booty. Many ended their lives at Carlisle.

The walls also tell another story. During long vigils, guards carved their memories into the stone.

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But this tale does not end here. The castle lays claim to a poignant Scottish tune penned by a prisoner before his execution. Find out in my next post…

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How strange it is…

How strange it is to come across a cluster of buildings where the stone has been dug and shaped by  Roman hands, robbed from Hadrian’s great wall nearby – and formed by medieval  French monks into a vibrant community.

Not far from the Scottish border in Cumbria, Lanercost  Priory nestles midst lush meadows – a shadowed, queer place. Oak leaves slip down over lichened graves. Strange paths entice the unwary – evocative, seeping with history. Old walls offer stepping stones. A whisper on the wind.. come this way. Can you hear it?

It was here that King Edward of England rested, fed his army, planned his northern attacks. Augustinian monks welcomed England’s great monarch in 1306 – frail, unable to rise from his sick bed. For months, they nursed the old king. Indeed, Robert the Bruce’s younger brothers must have stayed here en route to their execution in Carlisle – a place of misery and sadness. King Edward’s spite for the Bruce family and Scotland’s fight for independence knew no bounds. It fed his life force.

But it all came to an end. Easter 1307 saw the English king take his last breath a few miles to the west on the Solway marshes, cursing his Scottish enemies. Midst flocks of inquisitive sheep, crying gulls overhead, a tall monument marks the lonely spot. An unlikely place for such a powerful king to expire.

For years, Scots forces rampaged through these lands, fiery raids by Wallace and Bruce. In 1311, King Robert actually stayed here in one of the old buildings. Monks were imprisoned, then released; crops burnt, buildings damaged. Many armies have come and gone. Now only echoes remain.

By 1538, Henry VIII’s reformation saw the end of monastic life at Lanercost and for years, it lay in ruins.

But today, Lanercost Priory is part of a thriving community, managed by English heritage, and once again the voices of parishioners fill the old church.

We stayed on site – a great base from which to explore the area; terrific also to wander at will around the grounds as night closes in…

Watch for my next post on the intriguing history of Carlise Castle…

 

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A Rare Find

Picture this! You’re driving alongside Loch Awe in Scotland.

You catch sight of an imposing building settled into the curve of the hillside. With its grey stone walls and flying buttresses, your imagination soars: sending you along ancient pilgrim routes; the chanting of monks fills your ears. You hadn’t planned to stop but find yourself slowing down. The siren call of history drawing you in….

But wait – this church is anything but ancient. Still you feel its pull and the questions  form and gather. You’re hooked!

So what is so special about St Conan’s Kirk? For a start there are standing stones: then an entrance with carvings from Iona; strange and unusual carved creatures – owls and rabbits; a spiraling staircase; elaborate fish chairs; windows of angels with blood-red wings; and best of all, a chapel dedicated to Robert the Bruce with an ossuary containing  a piece of bone taken presumably when the king’s body was exhumed and relocated during renovations at Dunfermline Abbey… a bit of bone that someone popped into their pocket. Now there’s a story in itself!

Why build a chapel here for Scotland’s revered king?  On the hillside above the church, Bruce instructed his men, under James Douglas, to begin an assault – from above, on Sir John of Lorne and his men; one of the decisive battles of the Wars of Independence. Now the thud of stones, clattering swords, and cries of men fighting and dying are long gone. Centuries have passed. Before a splendid window, Robert lies in peace: his body carved from wood, and alabaster face and hands glowing in the reflected light.

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In the late 19th century, with the coming of the railway to the area, William Campbell purchased an island in Loch Awe and built a manor house for his mother and sister. Local legend has it that he constructed the building so that his mother did not have so far to go to church. With his eccentric and individual style, he concocted an architectural treasure trove of different historical periods including several chapels: one of which became the repository for his line of the Campbell family. Eventually, Walter was laid to rest there in 1914. His sister, Helen, continued his work, and her own artistic talent can be seen in the stained glass windows which she designed and painted by hand. She died in 1927, and ongoing renovations were completed by Trustees.

Within this fascinating building, there are beams from decommissioned battleships, a bell from a lighthouse, and mystery and intrigue aplenty. It’s a rare find indeed, and well worth a visit. Take your time, there’s a lot to see inside and out.

http://www.stconan’skirk.org.uk

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Following in the footsteps of …

Today we venture deep into the rolling hills, inlets and rushing rivers of south west Scotland to the town of Dumfries, where a tiny band of volunteers are struggling to bring myth and legend to life for one of Scotland’s great heroes.

Last year, we were fortunate to meet with some of the Heritage Trust members and actually walk in the footsteps  of Robert the Bruce. The Trust has published a trail of some 30 sites across the whole of the Dumfries and Galloway region. Robert’s family came from the area, both at Annandale and Lochmaben, and during a lifetime of war and struggle, he visited many times.

What do I remember of that day?  The sun was shining – always a plus in Scotland, and the wonderful sense of comradery, of being with kindred spirits: something I will cherish forever. These lovely folk have a dream – to build a heritage centre and museum to commemorate King Robert’s achievements and links with the district. If you’d like to know more, please visit their website  http://www.brucetrust.co.uk.

Let’s  take a step back in time. It was here in Dumfries that Robert launched his bid for the Scottish crown – a conflagration of events which catapulted him onto the medieval world stage and the battle for Scottish independence which lasted from 1306 to 1328. Some would say the struggle continues to this day.

There is so much to this story…

Picture this… two men meet in a place of sanctity to discuss their bids for the crown – young, ambitious and powerful, firebrands both, with links to the area; scions of the two leading families vying for the top job. It’s a clandestine meeting given the power and might of their joint enemy, King Edward of England, but things get ugly as tempers flare. Robert the Bruce and the Red Comyn act out a centuries old family feud.

Who threw the first blow? No one knows but the Bruce’s men finish the job. The Comyn and his uncle lie dead, blood staining the altar of the Grey Friars’ kirk.

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Knowing the dye is cast, Robert seizes the day. He and his men rush to take Dumfries Castle…

Now, I have been here several times but the site of the castle has always remained a mystery, so it was a huge treat to discover a municipal park where the mound and earthworks are still very much in evidence.

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It was a great privilege also to visit the site of the Chrystal Chapel, founded for Christopher Seton – executed for his role, with others, in supporting Robert. The story of Christopher and his wife, Robert’s sister, is explored fully in my novel, Sisters of the Bruce. Having written about their love story cut short so tragically, I felt moved to be near the site where his execution took place. Here the veil between past and present is thin…just a breath, the slightest movement of air, separates us.

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A short time after the capture of the Castle in 1306, Robert was crowned king but he soon became an outlaw on the run, following a disastrous defeat at Methven by English forces.

For years, I’ve wanted to see Glen Trool where one of the earliest battles took place. It’s in an out of the way place certainly for the Bruce and his men were in hiding. Both English and Scottish enemies alike were trying to hunt them down. With only his wits, a ruse, and the lay of the land to aid him,  Robert enticed a large troop to travel along the edge of the loch. On the ridge above, his own supporters hovered, hidden, waiting for the sign to attack. Imagine… these desperate men, poorly-fed and ill-equipped, pushing boulders down on to the horsed troops forcing them into the chilly depths. There they were able to reap a harvest of arms and clothes and food from the dead and dying. A monument marks the site where Robert planned his strategy. It’s a rugged, beautiful place with only the sound of wind and birds for company – hard to imagine such savagery.

If you make it to the glen,  there is a very comfortable hostelry close by, known for its good food and annual ale festival. If ghosts were afoot, we did not see them.

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Further south you’ll find Whithorn, the site of King Robert’s final pilgrimage shortly before he died in 1329 – a fitting place to end our own pilgrimage following in this extraordinary man’s footsteps.

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