Tag: folklore
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Panis Porcinus: Bread for Pigs, Medicine for Men
The common names we give to plants often say less about science and more about superstition. Take fleabane. Its title comes from the old belief that dried stems would drive away fleas. Toothwort was thought to cure toothache, not through any chemical virtue, but because its flowers looked rather like teeth. The Autumn-flowering Cyclamen carries…
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Smoke over Whitby — The Sandsend Bogey
The coast lies quiet beneath a sky heavy with cloud. Small waves slide up the beach with the ebbing tide. It is early yet; the crowds have not arrived. But beyond the headland the scene darkens. A wall of orange-stained smoke rises from the moor, its glow outlining Whitby and the Abbey. The fire on…
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The Bottomless, Town-Swallowing, Goose-Plucking Lake Gormire
Yorkshire is a county of myths, one of which insists it possesses only a single lake — Gormire. This is clearly absurd, yet it may simply be Yorkshire’s way of keeping a straight face while mocking outsiders, or perhaps a petty attempt to match the Lake District, which, as every schoolboy is told, also has…
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Kirby Knowle: A Castle with Two Names and One Too Many Stories
Towering above the western edge of the quiet village of Kirby Knowle, this brooding grand house is marked on Ordnance Survey maps as “Newbuilding.” The estate agents, less taken with that name, now refer to it in brochures as plain Kirby Knowle. The asking price is £7 million, in case you are tempted. The “New…
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The Weather According to a Dead Bishop: Forty Days of Rain
Climate change deniers blame nature for everything. Heatwaves? Natural. Floods? Just weather being weather. Human emissions? Nothing to see there. Meanwhile, chemtrail believers take a different route entirely. For them, extreme weather is no accident but a masterstroke of global puppet masters, quietly spraying secret cocktails into the sky to bend the climate to their…
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Freebrough Hill — Where Arthur Waits
This hill has loomed over the Guisborough to Whitby road for generations, a constant, brooding shape on the horizon. Its symmetry is so precise, its position so solitary, that people have long refused to believe it is natural. Clearly the work of men. Or gods. Or giants. One giant in particular: Wade, whose name is…
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Of Brass Monkeys, May Blossoms and Other Perils
Growing up in Nottingham in the early 1960s, I shall never forget me mam barking “naer cast a clout till May is out” whenever I dared venture into the Spring air without full Arctic gear—duffle coat, string vest, probably a balacalva too. She assumed, and I dutifully followed, “May”meant the month, which made sense given…
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Yorkshire’s Pride: The Enduring Allure of Roseberry Topping
It has been some time since I inflicted a post about Roseberry Topping upon the world, the conical-shaped hill that looms over this northeastern corner of what is the historical county of Yorkshire, albeit a recycling of previous posts. Local pride being what it is, they have long called it “t’ highest hill i’ all…
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When the Fool Returns from Africa: Musings on Cuckoo Day
I was spared the indignity of rummaging through an empty pocket for loose change on my Monday climb up Roseberry Topping, which is just as well, since I heard no cuckoo. According to local superstition, today—April 14th—is “Cuckoo Day,” the date when this allegedly symbolic bird is supposed to announce its return with its distinctive…
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Whitby Abbey: Holy Vows, Pagan Wars, and the Problem of Easter
I usually try to avoid posting touristy photographs, but in this case, my resolve faltered. This one was taken looking back as we wandered towards Ruswarp, along the River Esk, with the ruins of Whitby Abbey brooding in the distance. A cliché, admittedly, but quite picturesque in a ruinous sort of way. As for the…