Living on the edge of the world

Judith Wildwood outside her Braystones home

JUDITH Wildwood has a unique perspective on the world - which is not surprising as she lives on its edge.

She is one of a few dozen people who live on the beach at Braystones in West Cumbria  in wooden single-storey homes that started life over 150 years ago as huts for men working on the railway. Their location tucked into the side of the railway - but on the same side as the sea - makes them some of the most precarious homes in Britain. The tide will generally lash against small, fragile walls in front of the houses - and during a storm the wooden structures take the full blast.

"I am incredibly lucky to live here," says Judith - which on the calm, bright, sunny day I visited her is easy to appreciate. The blue and white home looks out on the Irish Sea, the Isle of Man and what must be jaw-dropping sunsets.

"The summers are absolutely breathtaking," Judith said but added: "In the winter though you cannot remember what the summer was like."

Some of the recent guests to Judith's home have been Barney, Clodagh, Frank, Henry and Imogen - all storms with a particularly vicious sting in the tale. And Judith has no doubt that these storms are getting worse as global warming takes hold. Warmer winters, stronger winds and higher tides are all taking their toll. On the day I visited Judith the 'beach road' - it is barely a track with a few stones in front of it - had just been put back thanks to a man with a digger.

"You can see how much has vanished in the last 50 years," said Judith who has watched bigger and higher tides claim more and more of the beach.

So how do you survive on the edge of the world? Some of the homes do have electricity -some of them having set up generators or turbines for that purpose. Lighting is usually by gas cannisters or paraffin. Heating is by an open fire or gas. There is a telephone and some even have access to the internet. For those who want it - though it's hard to see why when you have one of the planet's greatest views out of your lounge window - there is even a TV signal or you can erect a satellite dish. And yes, they do pay council tax - though it's hard to see they get a fair deal  for the facilites on offer. There is waste collection and the postman finds his or her way up the beach (a letter simply addressed to The Blue and White House on the beach at Braystones will find its way to Judith).  Tesco will even deliver food to your door (the nearest shop is in Egremont) but the van sometimes need a hand getting off the beach. But other firms promising "national delivery" are not usually adept enough to find their way across the railway crossing and onto the beach road. After six months Judith gave up waiting for the delivery van with a new bath to find this 'lost' part of Britain. It's a stark existence and in winter some of the residents will retreat inland but for those who make it through another winter it's a reason to celebrate and be thankful. While storm and flood  coverage by the press has concentrated on the likes of Carlisle, Cockermouth and Keswick the forgotten world of Braystones has largely been overlooked. Perhaps the reporters just couldn't find it.

There is a wonderful archive of stories and pictures about the huts at Braystones at www.pastpresented.ukart.com. It's not clear who has put this wonderful resource together but it's well worth a look.

Homes at Braystones in West Cumbria

Pythagoras' Theorem explained. Or How To Think

This has nothing to do with the Lake District - but I haven't got anywhere else to publish this! I have spoken to a couple of people of late about Pythagoras' Theorem (as you do) and the wonderful explanation of it given by Socrates to a slave boy. There's no clear illustrated translation that I can find on the web so I've had a go at adding illustrations myself. It is the simplicity of it which is so remarkable. It is like watching a magic trick - then being told how the trick works, watching it again and still being amazed. If you didn't think you liked maths, didn't think you would ever understand Pythagoras' Theorem or thought ancient Greek philosophy was boring, this is for you. Here Meno asks Socrates to demonstrate how "there is no teaching" and he does so on Meno's slave. This dialogue is nearly 2,500 years old. Socrates did not 'believe' in writing as it too firmly fixed ideas that might be wrong - Plato therefore wrote this.

"There is no teaching, but only recollection" - Socrates 

Socrates believed you could not teach anyone anything - only remind them of what they already knew deep down. He believed the soul knew everything but once it was born into a human body that knowledge was lost, waiting to be rediscovered.



Meno: Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is?


Soc: I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; and thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction.


Meno: Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would.


Soc: It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate on him.


Meno: Certainly. Come hither, boy.


Soc: Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns of me or only remembers.


Meno: I will.




Soc: Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square?


Boy. I do.


Soc: And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal?


Boy. Certainly.





Soc: And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are also equal?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: A square may be of any size?


Boy. Certainly.






Soc: And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken once?


Boy. Yes.



Soc: But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet ie four square feet?


Boy. There are.


Soc: Then the square is of twice two feet?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me.


Boy. Four, Socrates.


Soc: And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like this the lines equal?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: And of how many feet will that be?


Boy. Of eight feet.


Soc: And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that double square: this is two feet-what will that be?




Boy. Clearly, Socrates, it will be double.


Soc: Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not?


Meno: Yes.


Soc: And does he really know?


Meno: Certainly not.


Soc: He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double.

Meno: True.


Soc: Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy.) Tell me, boy, do you assert that a double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this-that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square comes from double line?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here?



Boy. Certainly.

Soc: And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: Let us draw such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of eight feet?





Boy. Yes.

Soc: And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to the figure of four feet?


Boy. True.


Soc: And is not that four times four?


Boy. Certainly.


Soc: And four times is not double?


Boy. No, indeed.


Soc: But how much?


Boy. Four times as much.


Soc: Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times as much.


Boy. True.


Soc: Four times four are sixteen - are they not?


Boy. Yes.




Soc: What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen feet? Do you see? 

Boy. Yes.


Soc: And the space of four feet is made from this half line?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size of the other?


Boy. Certainly.


Soc: Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less than that one?


Boy. Yes; I think so.


Soc: Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this a line of two feet and that of four?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet?


Boy. It ought.


Soc: Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be.









Boy. Three feet.


Soc: Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. And on the other side... and that makes the figure of which you speak?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space will be three times three feet?


Boy. That is evident.


Soc: And how much are three times three feet?


Boy. Nine.


Soc: And how much is the double of four?


Boy. Eight.


Soc: Then the figure of eight is not made out of a three?


Boy. No.


Soc: But from what line? Tell me exactly; and if you would rather not reckon, try and show me the line.


Boy. Indeed, Socrates, I do not know.


(In Socrates' philosophical arguments he often starts by demonstrating that the 'expert' or 'teacher' does not know anything. Or that his arrogance actually hides ignorance. So Socrates does the same with meno's slave - first demonstrating that he knows nothing.)


Soc: Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection? He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows.


Meno: True.


Soc: Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance?


Meno: I think that he is.


Soc: If we have made him doubt, and given him the "torpedo's shock," have we done him any harm?


Meno: I think not.


(There's no easy translation of Plato's phrase 'torpedo-shock'. The torpedo fish stuns its prey by giving it an electric shock. ie Socrates' has shocked the slave out of his complacency)

Soc: We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have a double side.


Meno: True.


Soc: But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know?


Meno: I think not, Socrates.


Soc: Then he was the better for the torpedo's touch?


Meno: I think so.

(Having 'disarmed' the slave by demonstrating to him that what he knows is wrong, Socrates now helps him understand the right answer)

Soc: Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him, and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a square of four feet which I have drawn?





Boy. Yes.


Soc: And now I add another square equal to the former one?






Boy. Yes.


Soc: And a third, which is equal to either of them?




Boy. Yes.


Soc: Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner?


Boy. Very good.





Soc: Here, then, there are four equal spaces?


Boy. Yes.





Soc: And how many times larger is this space than this other?


Boy. Four times.


Soc: But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember.


Boy. True.


Soc: And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, bisect each of these spaces?

(Here is the key to Socrates' 'trick' - one might almost say he's teaching the boy ;-) He shows that a square can be split in two by a vertical line, a horizontal line - or one other: a diagonal)

Boy. Yes.


Soc: And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space?


Boy. There are.


Soc: Look and see how much this space is (in the red square).


Boy. I do not understand.


Soc: Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: And how many (triangular) spaces are there in this section?


Boy. Four.


Soc: And how many in this?


Boy. Two.





Soc: And four is how many times two?


Boy. Twice.


Soc: And so this space is of how many feet?


Boy. Of eight feet. (Two triangles = 4 sqft so Four triangles = 8 sqft)


Soc: And from what line do you get this figure?


Boy. From this.


Soc: That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of four feet?


Boy. Yes.


Soc: And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the proper name, then you, Meno's slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is the square of the diagonal?






Boy. Certainly, Socrates.

(ie - the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the square of the other two sides - Pythagoras' theorem)

Soc: What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his own head?


Meno: Yes, they were all his own.

(And now Socrates goes on to extrapolate that since he has this knowledge deep inside him it is proof of the existence of the soul)

Soc: And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know?


Meno: True.


Soc: But still he had in him those notions of his - had he not?


Meno: Yes.


Soc: Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he does not know?


Meno: He has.


Soc: And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream; but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know as well as any one at last?


Meno: I dare say.


Soc: Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if he is only asked questions?


Meno: Yes.


Soc: And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection?


Meno: True.


Soc: And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or always possessed?


Meno: Yes.


Soc: But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house.


Meno: And I am certain that no one ever did teach him.


Soc: And yet he has the knowledge?


Meno: The fact, Socrates, is undeniable.


Soc: But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, then he must have had and learned it at some other time?


Meno: Clearly he must.


Soc: Which must have been the time when he was not a man?


Meno: Yes.


Soc: And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always either was or was not a man?


Meno: Obviously.


Soc: And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or rather what you do not remember.


end




I am sure others can illustrate this better than me - please do so! - but I hope you enjoyed it. The original translation was by Benjamin Jowett.

Christmas Truce 1914: The Pte Heath letter

Out of the dozens of 1914 Christmas Truce letters transcribed from newspapers by volunteers of the Operation Plum Pudding project, this one stands out from all the rest. Partly, it's because Private Heath writes about the whole truce, from beginning to end. But also it's the beautiful - almost poetic - way it is written. It first appeared in the North Mail on January 8th, 1915 and was found and transcribed by Marian Robson. 

That Christmas Armistice
A Plum Pudding Policy Which Might Have Ended The War

Written in the trenches by Private Frederick W. Heath

THE night closed in early - the ghostly shadows that haunt the trenches came to keep us company as we stood to arms. Under a pale moon, one could just see the grave-like rise of ground which marked the German trenches two hundred yards away. Fires in the English lines had died down, and only the squelch of the sodden boots in the slushy mud, the whispered orders of the officers and the NCOs, and the moan of the wind broke the silence of the night. The soldiers' Christmas Eve had come at last, and it was hardly the time or place to feel grateful for it.

Memory in her shrine kept us in a trance of saddened silence. Back somewhere in England, the fires were burning in cosy rooms; in fancy I heard laughter and the thousand melodies of reunion on Christmas Eve. With overcoat thick with wet mud, hands cracked and sore with the frost, I leaned against the side of the trench, and, looking through my loophole, fixed weary eyes on the German trenches. Thoughts surged madly in my mind; but they had no sequence, no cohesion. Mostly they were of home as I had known it through the years that had brought me to this. I asked myself why I was in the trenches in misery at all, when I might have been in England warm and prosperous. That involuntary question was quickly answered. For is there not a multitude of houses in England, and has not someone to keep them intact? I thought of a shattered cottage in -- , and felt glad that I was in the trenches. That cottage was once somebody's home.

Still looking and dreaming, my eyes caught a flare in the darkness. A light in the enemy's trenches was so rare at that hour that I passed a message down the line. I had hardly spoken when light after light sprang up along the German front. Then quite near our dug-outs, so near as to make me start and clutch my rifle, I heard a voice. there was no mistaking that voice with its guttural ring. With ears strained, I listened, and then, all down our line of trenches there came to our ears a greeting unique in war: "English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!"

Friendly invitation

Following that salute boomed the invitation from those harsh voices: "Come out, English soldier; come out here to us." For some little time we were cautious, and did not even answer. Officers, fearing treachery, ordered the men to be silent. But up and down our line one heard the men answering that Christmas greeting from the enemy. How could we resist wishing each other a Merry Christmas, even though we might be at each other's throats immediately afterwards? So we kept up a running conversation with the Germans, all the while our hands ready on our rifles. 

Blood and peace, enmity and fraternity - war's most amazing paradox. 

The night wore on to dawn - a night made easier by songs from the German trenches, the pipings of piccolos and from our broad lines laughter and Christmas carols. Not a shot was fired, except for down on our right, where the French artillery were at work.

Came the dawn, pencilling the sky with grey and pink. Under the early light we saw our foes moving recklessly about on top of their trenches. Here, indeed, was courage; no seeking the security of the shelter but a brazen invitation to us to shoot and kill with deadly certainty. But did we shoot? Not likely! We stood up ourselves and called benisons on the Germans. Then came the invitation to fall out of the trenches and meet half way.

Still cautious we hung back. Not so the others. They ran forward in little groups, with hands held up above their heads, asking us to do the same. Not for long could such an appeal be resisted - beside, was not the courage up to now all on one side? Jumping up onto the parapet, a few of us advanced to meet the on-coming Germans. Out went the hands and tightened in the grip of friendship. 

Christmas had made the bitterest foes friends.

The Gift of Gifts

Here was no desire to kill, but just the wish of a few simple soldiers (and no one is quite so simple as a soldier) that on Christmas Day, at any rate, the force of fire should cease. We gave each other cigarettes and exchanged all manner of things. We wrote our names and addresses on the field service postcards, and exchanged them for German ones. We cut the buttons off our coats and took in exchange the Imperial Arms of Germany. But the gift of gifts was Christmas pudding. The sight of it made the Germans' eyes grow wide with hungry wonder, and at the first bite of it they were our friends for ever. Given a sufficient quantity of Christmas puddings, every German in the trenches before ours would have surrendered.

And so we stayed together for a while and talked, even though all the time there was a strained feeling of suspicion which rather spoilt this Christmas armistice. We could not help remembering that we were enemies, even though we had shaken hands. We dare not advance too near their trenches lest we saw too much, nor could the Germans come beyond the barbed wire which lay before ours. After we had chatted, we turned back to our respective trenches for breakfast.

All through the day no shot was fired, and all we did was talk to each other and make confessions which, perhaps, were truer at that curious moment than in the normal times of war. How far this unofficial truce extended along the lines I do not know, but I do know that what I have written here applies to the -- on our side and the 158th German Brigade, composed of Westphalians.

As I finish this short and scrappy description of a strangely human event, we are pouring rapid fire into the German trenches, and they are returning the compliment just as fiercely. Screeching through the air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery. So we are back once more to the ordeal of fire.

-----

NOTE TO OTHER PUBLISHERS: This work is out of copyright but if you do reprint it please credit the hard-working volunteer - Marian Robson - who found and transcribed it. A book of all newspaper letters about the truce - Not A Shot Was Fired -  is available from Lulu.

Pte Heath survived the war - just. He was badly injured by a shell in May 1918 and lost his left arm. Little is known about Heath’s life between the wars but he remained in the Territorials and, on 1 September 1939, was given an Emergency Commission in the Corps of Royal Engineers, serving throughout the Second World War and retiring by virtue of his age on 8 June 1949 with the honorary rank of Major. Major Frederick William Heath MC and Bar died in London on 30 June 1962.

The Fairies Return

Mr Phelps' photograph of a water fairy

THE Lake District's fairies are back.

For centuries this part of the world seemed to be awash with fairy-folk. At Ambleside, they would happily mingle with humans at the weekly market. And Fleswick Bay, near St Bees, saw the fairies of Saltom Rock dance the summer evenings away with human folk from nearby villages and the harbour town of Whitehaven.

But the 20th Century saw the arrival of the motor car, two world wars, television and many other distractions. And crag-rats (tourists) also started to swarm over the fells previously inhabited by boggles, elves, pixies, hobthrushes, sprites, brownies, wag-on-the-wa's and the like.

Apart from a burst of Lakeland fairy encounters by Geoffrey Hodson in the 1920s, there's been no fairy sighting in the county for two or three generations (although they are known to visit Gelt Wood each summer).

But now 76-year-old Terry Phelps has stepped forward to reveal he photographed what appears to be a fairy at Swinedale Beck in the east of the county in September 1998.

He recalls: "It was a beautiful day. Seated close to a waterfall, I noticed that the small rowan tree above it had mysteriously grown sideways across the fall, and thinking this rather strange I took this photograph. I then became aware of experiencing a curious inner warmth which accompanied a sudden elevation of spirit, together with a dramatically increased awareness of the beauty of the place. This joyous experience was sudden, unusual and intense."

This was in the pre-digital age of course and it was only after he had his photographs developed that he noticed a curious 'light' above the waterfall.

He said: "There was no similar feature on the other photographs which I had taken that day, and it wasn’t in any of the photos taken before or after this event either. 
"I did not, I should add, see any ‘light’ when I took the photograph.

"A few days later I went back and took 14 more photographs, all of which I still have: all are unremarkable, i.e. show no ‘light’."

He submitted both the photograph and the negative to Kodak but they were unable to explain the ‘light’. Terry points out that it is not central to the photograph, and that it cannot therefore be ascribed to a flash malfunction.

He added: "It is vivid on the negative, which I still possess, and both pictures are sharper and clearer in the original print than in these scanned versions."

Mr Phelps, who lives in London, points to the work of Geoffrey Hodson in the 1920s who reported his fairy sightings in the Lake District in his classic tome, Fairies At Work And Play. He notes that Hodson identified one particular type of fairy - the undine - which favoured living near waterfalls.

Hodson wrote: "The undine belongs to the element of water and, so far as my experience goes, is never to be found away from river, stream and fall. She is definitely female in form and is always nude; she does not usually have wings, and only rarely wears any kind of adornment. Her form, whether diminutive or of human stature, is always entrancingly beautiful, and all her movements are perfect. The waterfall is her favourite haunt, and there she is to be seen disporting herself, generally with a group of her sisters, enjoying to the full the magnetic force of the fall."

And Mr Phelps points out that even fell-walking hero Alfred Wainwright  admitted he "often sensed the presence of fairies in Lakeland"*.

So did Mr Phelps encounter an undine near Haweswater? Is this evidence of the return of the fairies? We can only hope.

 * Wainwright in the Valleys of Lakeland (See Part Three, The Western Valleys, Ennerdale)

* My book Fairies of the Lake District is available as an ebook from Amazon or as a real book from my online shop.

The ghost of Tripe Harry

St Nicholas Church Gardens, Whitehaven - the burial site of Tripe Harry

THERE can be few lovers of tripe who have shown such dedication as Harry Spence of Whitehaven, Cumbria.

The itinerant tripe seller has continued his trade in the harbour town for nearly 200 years - not letting a little thing like death stand in his way. His ghost - or 'boggle' as such things are known in Cumbria - continues to walk the streets with his tripe basket on his arm. Not much known is about this tripe champion but in December 25th 1952, W. Watson wrote an article in The Whitehaven News about Harry which revealed some biographical details:

"He lived in  a small house at Douglas Bourne Passage in the Market Place. It was said he owned a small brig called 'Providence' which was lost with all hands about the year 1816. The disaster evidently turned his brain and he hanged himself about 10 years later in his bedroom. He was buried in St Nicholas Churchyard but his immortal spirit was not so easily disposed of and nothing gave it so much consolation as to walk the streets at midnight with a tripe basket on his arm."

Mr Watson goes on to relate that "the ghost appeared most frequently to night watchmen who passed most of the night dozing in the shelter, and the old fellows would make solemn declaration as to how, when, and where they had seen Tripe Harry, with minute details of his appearance."

He is just one of a number of ghosts walking the streets of this Georgian town though none of the others have continued with their trade beyond the grave. Nor do we have any report of anyone actually stopping the spectral salesman and tasting his tripe. Tripe Harry has not been seen for a few years but we have every confidence that late-night revellers in need of some sustenance will be served once more by this bountiful boggle.

* See also The Tripe Marketing Board

(My thanks to Mary Chisholm for her help in the research of this article).

The Fairy Postman

The Fairy Stone at Fourstones, near Hexham.

When Sir Francis Radclyffe was made a peer in 1688 he used the name of Keswick's Lake for his earldom, becoming the Earl of Derwentwater. The third earl, James (Francis' grandson) would, however, lose the peerage in dramatic style: He was a prominent Jacobite and in 1716 was convicted of high treason and executed at the Tower of London.

Although his country seat was in Dilston in Northumberland, he retained a home on an island on Derwentwater - and was therefore called Lord's Island. The great affection in which he was held by Keswickians is probably shown through the legends that survive about him. It is said, for example, that on the night of his execution a particularly brilliant display of the northern lights occurred and they were henceforth called Lord Derwentwater's lights. And it is said his wife, fleeing the island with the family treasure, scrambled up a side of Walla  Crag (previously believed to be inaccessible) and it is now known as "Lady's Rake". Some gold coins she supposedly dropped have, legend says, been found on the route. But another version of the legend says she threw the treasure into Derwentwater.

The legend of a fairy postman who visited the Earl of Derwentwater is noted in 1903 by author Thomas Carrick. In his book, "The Border Land", he talks about the belief in fairies along the Borders (between England and Scotland). He says: "They were neither wholly human, nor divine, nor demoniacal, but a kind of medley of all three - a strange mixture of body and spirit - and they could assume either, or both, as the case demanded or necessity arose. They were called by particular names, according to the place where they dwelt, the work they did, or the aspect they assumed." In the English tradition, fairies were slightly shorter than human beings - but nothing like Walt Disney's Tinkerbell.

In telling of the fairy postman he says: "When the last Earl of Derwentwater was undecided as to whether or not he should join the standard of the rebellion, he was alone on the banks of the river, in great distress of mind, cogitating what to do. As he was leaning against a tree, a phantom-like person delivered to him a letter, and mysteriously vanished. That letter decided him, and sealed his doom. That visitant is called the Fairy Postman to this day."

This is, unusually, one legend where we might be able to ascertain the origins. In 1863 Sarah Smith-Jones wrote a history of the Earls of Derwentwater and she includes this note:

"There is a fanciful tradition left in the neighbourhood of Dilston which from the romance attaching to it will very likely long remain but which we can scarce deem worthy of any reliance. In this it is stated that Lord Derwentwater maintained a correspondence with his friends at this time by means of letters deposited in a hollow stone called by the people generally. The fairy stone but which was in truth an old Roman altar situated a little to the west of Hexham. These letters the tradition affirms to have been brought and deposited by a little boy very beautifully dressed in green the fairy colour while such was the superstition of the people at that period that although he was seen and noticed frequently they dared on no account intermeddle with his doings as being a messenger from fairy land. Those who were in pursuit of the earl would not be very likely to be long withheld by such scruples however neither would intelligence so deposited be safe so there is little likelihood that either the earl or his friends would trust it there."

There is a Roman altar west of Hexham that stands near the village of Fourstones which is still known as the Fairy Stone. See the wonderful blog by Andy Curtis:

But beware. When you are unable to make a difficult decision and the fairy postman - a little boy beautifully dressed in green - brings you a letter which makes the decision for you, it might not be the right choice for you. The Earl of Derwentwater was seemingly advised to join the Jacobite revolution and ended up being beheaded in the Tower of London.

-----

Billy Watson' Lonning

Billy Watson' Lonnin, Harrington, Cumbria

THIS ballad was written by dialect poet Alexander Craig Gibson and was first published in 1874 – the year that Gibson died. Amazingly, the lonning still exists in Harrington, Cumbria (Gibson's place of birth). It’s a delightful poem about the lonning and how it was the author’s favourite spot to take a young lady. It’s made all the more atmospheric by Gibson’s inclusion of many other local place names: Hempgarth Brow, Clay-Dubs, Lowca Lonning and so forth. A huge debt is owed to Harrington History Group for identifying where many of these locations are (see Harrington Through The Years Book Six). They also did some fine detective work on who Billy Watson might have been. At the end of the day, we can only be sure his name was Billy Watson and he lived near the lonning that now bears his name. Surely, it’s not such an awful legacy that the only proof of your existence on earth is the name of a beautiful country lane near to where you lived.

* A word on that apostrophe. The grammar geeks will be querying the apostrophe on “Billy Watson’ Lonning”. Surely, it must be Billy Watson’s Lonning? Perhaps it should but that was how the title of the ballad appeared when it was first published so I’ve left it in its dialect form.


O for Billy Watson’ lonnin of a lownd summer neeght!
When t’ stars come few and flaytely, efter weerin’ oot day-leeght
When t’ black-kite blossom shews itsel’ i’ hafe-seen gliffs o’grey
An’ t’ honey-suckle’s scentit mair nor iver it is i’ t’ day.
An’ nut a shadow, shap, or soond, or seeght, or sign at’ tells
‘At owte ‘at’s wick comes santerin’ theer but you, yer oan two sel’s.
Ther’ cannot be annuder spot so private an’ so sweet,
As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

T’ Hempgarth Broo’s a cheersome pleace when t’ whins bloom full o’ flooar –
Green Hecklebank turns greener when it’s watter’t wid a shooar – 
There’s bonnie neuks aboot Beckside, Stocks-hill, an’ Greystone Green –
High Woker Broo gi’es sec a view as isn’t offen seen – 
It’s glorious doon ont’ Sandy-beds when t’ sunn’s just gan to set –
An t’ Clay-Dubs isn’t far aslew when t’ wedder isn’t wet;
But nin was mead o’ purpose theer a bonny lass to meet
Like Billy Watson’ lonnin of a still summer neeght.

Yan likes to trail ow’r t’ Sealand-fields an’ watch for t’ commin’ tide,
Or slare whoar t’Green hes t’ Ropery an’ t’ Shore of ayder side – 
T’ Weddriggs road’s a lal-used road, an’ reeght for coortin toke –
An’ Lowca’ lonnin’s reeght for them ‘at like a langsome woke -
Yan’s reeght aneuf up t’ Lime-road, or t’ Waggon way, or t’Ghyll,
An’ reeght for ram’lin’s Cunning-wood or Scatter-mascot hill.
Ther’s many spots ‘at’s reeght aneuf, but nin o’ ways so reeght
As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght.

Sec thowtes as thur com’ thick lang sen to yan, a lonterin’ lad,
Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad,
When he went strowlin’ far an’ free aboot his sea-side heam,
An’ stamp’t a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neam;–
A mark ‘at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an’ mair –
A mark ‘at ola’s breeghten meast i’ t’ gloom o’ comin’ care;
But nowte upon his heart has left a mark at hods so breeght
As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

Oor young days may’d be wastet sair, but dar their mem’ry’s dear!
And what wad yan not part wid noo agean to hev them here?
Whativer trubles fash’t us than, though nayder leet nor few,
They niver fash’t us have so lang as less an’s fash us noo;
If want o’ thowte brong bodderment, it pass’t for want o’ luck,
An’ what cared we for Fortun’s bats, hooiver feurce she struck?
It mud be t’ time o’ life ‘at mead oor happiness complete
I’ Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

Some help with the dialect 

Lownd, calm. 
flaytely, timidly.
black-kites, blackberries
gliffs, brief looks, glimpses
la'al, little
wick, busy, lively
toke, your bethrothed (your ‘taken’)
aslew, amiss
slare, walk slowly
langsome, lonesome
woke, walk
lonterin’ lad, loitering lad
sair, very much
fash’d, bothered
brong bodderment, brought anxiety