The place-name evidence for faeries

St Thomas a Becket church, Pucklechurch, Gloucestershire

A new subject for this blog is the way in which the faeries are linked to the names the British have given to places in their landscape.  Many of these date back to early medieval times (Anglo-Saxon) and indicate once more the very longstanding faery associations with the land.

Whilst quite a few of these names relate to prominent features like hills, streams and pools, many refer to much smaller, less significant and, even, transitory locations.  A large proportion of these are field names- used in the past but highly vulnerable to changes of land-use; the consolidation of fields or their conversion to intensive arable have, over the last century, done away with the need to identify various small pastures, meadows and such like.  Valuable place name evidence has therefore been lost.

Subtle landscape features were also labelled in the past by those intimately acquainted with the area they lived in and used, and these highly local names may also be forgotten over the generations: Poflet, in Devon, for example, describes a dip down to a stream which Puck frequented; in late Tudor times there was a Hop Gap at Methley in the West Riding of Yorkshire- a space in a fence where you might meet Hob.  Such localised names are very vulnerable to being lost.

Faeries, pixies & elves

I’ll start by looking at the names including the element ‘fairy.’  These are, in fact, quite rare and are mostly of rather recent origin, the majority only apparently dating from Victorian times (making you suspect that the choice of the name could have been more literary or romantic than any reflection of local superstition).  As readers may be aware, this late usage is probably to be expected in any event, in that ‘fairy’ is a word derived from French and a relative late comer to the English language.  Confirmed fae origins may be found for Fairy Yard, a field at Ashton on Mersey in Cheshire, the Fairy Close and Hill at Wragby in West Yorkshire and Fairy Cross, at Trent in Dorset.  As the English Place Name Survey remarks of these, they seem to denote places renowned for being haunted by faeries. 

A lot of the apparent ‘fairy’ place-names actually come from other words such as ‘ferry’ or ‘fair.’  Too ready an interpretation without tracing back the name to its origins can often produce misleading results.  The writer Jabez Allies, in his Roman and Saxon Antiquities and Folklore of Worcestershire, of 1856, was rather guilty of this.  His pride in his home county and its rich traditions encouraged him to find faery names everywhere: he enumerated thirty parishes where there are places named after Puck, for instance, and another twenty-six in which the goblin Hob is commemorated.  Sadly, modern scholarship is not so generous in its attributions.

Interestingly, names incorporating the element ‘pixie’ are equally rare.  The rectory at Durweston in Dorset is recorded as being named Pexy’s Hole, the hollow haunted or frequented by pixies, in 1584.  There are other examples, but these are first recorded at a later date.  As with the more recent ‘fairy’ names, these suggest a conscious choice of label rather than a traditional significance.

Names that include the Anglo-Saxon aelf, ‘elf,’ are also surprisingly absent.  We find that, in 1285, Eldon Hill in Derbyshire was recorded as Elvedon, the elves’ hill.  Alfin Hall at Agbrigg in the West Riding of Yorkshire speaks for itself.  The lost Alvehou at Tetney in Lincolnshire and Alveleg at Crich in Derbyshire were the elves’ mound and clearing respectively.  The ‘alvysch thornys’- the ‘elves’ thorn trees’ are recorded in 1319 as a field name at Milton Abbas in Dorset. Perhaps the most interesting is Elva Hill, near to Setmurthy in Cumbria. In 1488 the place was called Elf How; it’s the site of a circle of fifteen stones, which were probably the retaining wall for a cairn or burial chamber.

The church & hall, Shuckburgh, Warwickshire

Goblins

There is a sort of goblin now called the ‘shuck’ or ‘shock’ (from the Anglo-Saxon scucca) and its presence is marked in at least sixteen names, denoting woods, streams, hills and marshes, from the east of England up to Cheshire.  Outliers include Shobrooke in Devon and Shucklow Warren in Buckinghamshire.

Hob is another good example of the potential pitfalls in ascribing faery origins, as many names are more likely to derive from the personal name Hobbe than from the supernatural being.  Nonetheless, at least eighteen genuine ‘Hob’ names can be identified, concentrated in the north of England and often related to natural features, such as hills, fields and- in one case- stones, the Hobb Stones at Tankersley in South Yorkshire.  Other names concentrated in the north of England are boggart and boggle, applied to fields and woods in West Yorkshire, Cheshire and Westmoreland.  A particular boggart known in the north was ‘Old Skrat,’ and he is named in at least nine places, mainly woods and hills.

Skrat Haigh Wood, Barnsley, South Yorkshire

Puck

The other goblin name with clear Anglo-Saxon roots is ‘Puck,’ from the Old English puca.  This name is the most common faery toponym in England, being found in at least fifty-three places, of which a third are in Gloucestershire and over seventy per cent in the South and South West of England.  About a quarter of these names are associated with pits or holes, alongside a scatter of hills, streams, pools, moors and woods.

Boggart House, Esholt, near Bradford (from the estate agent’s details…)

What’s especially interesting to me is how certain names are noticeably linked to human structures. Eleven per cent of the ‘hob’ place-names are linked with houses and farms; 22% are lanes. In the case of ‘puck’ place-names, the figures break down as follows: 17% applied to buildings (examples include Puckscroft in Surrey and Puckrup and Puckham, both in Gloucestershire) and 17% to roadways, paths and so on (for instance, Puckstye, Sussex, Puckpath, Gloucestershire, Pockford, Surrey and, in Warwickshire, Powke Lane and Poukelone). Whilst it’s fairly easy to imagine that a certain lane might get its name because it was a lonely, dark place where you might run into a goblin at night, the dwellings, barns and sheds named after him are much less expected.

Although we have relatively few boggle and boggart names, 12% of these apply to roads and 12% too to houses. This is especially interesting, as there is a strong tradition in West Yorkshire of ‘boggart houses,’ buildings that are renowned for being haunted by a spirit. The reasons for so many places like Pit House, in Dorset (Puck House originally), Hob Cote in Keighley and Puck Shipton (Puck’s sheep shed) in Wiltshire seem to be twofold: either they were specifically inhabited by such a spirit or they had been built on a spot that was already very strongly associated with sightings of one of the goblins. Either way, it’s remarkable evidence of people living alongside their Good Neighbours over hundreds and hundreds of years.

Summary

Overall, faery derived names are scattered quite evenly across England. They primarily (but not exclusively) relate to landscape features and give us an impression of a land as widely settled by the Good Folk as by humans. Our Good Neighbours were just that- living in the countryside in close proximity to their mortal kin- and sometimes residing far more familiarly than that, sharing a house or co-habiting in a farm.

This posting is adapted from part of a chapter in my new book, The Spirits of the Land- Faeries and the Soul of Britain (2022)- available as a paperback and e-book through Amazon.

‘Thunder Only Happens When It’s Raining’- Faeries & the Weather

Cailleach bheur by Eran Fowler

On several previous occasions I’ve mentioned how the pixies can control the weather as a means of playing tricks upon travellers: they will make fogs and mists descend so as to get hapless individuals lost, even in small areas very well known to them, such as familiar spots which are very close indeed to their own homes. The pixies also use fogs for concealment- as in one story where they were spotted conducting a battle in such conditions- and bad weather can be associated with their displeasure- as in the case of a man discovered trying to steal their buried treasure on Trencrom Hill near St Ives.

In Wales, the tylwyth teg are known too to prefer misty, drizzly weather as suitable conditions to conduct their business of stealing people’s livestock or as cover for luring away their children. Something very similar is found amongst the trows at the other end of Britain. Once, on the mainland of Orkney, a youngster very unwisely went out during a snowstorm. After a while, the child returned, completely dry- despite the blizzard- but an imbecile. People were convinced that this change was the work of the fairies: this conclusion seems understandable given the fact that the weather hadn’t soaked or frozen the child, but it looked very much as if his/her soul had been seized by the trow folk, leaving a living stock behind.

In fact, when we survey the evidence, the use and manipulation of weather by faery beings is far wider spread that just the South West of England and Wales or the very northern tip of the British Isles. Supernaturally influenced weather events are reported across the British Isles.

‘Many Weathers Apart’

Like the Welsh tylwyth teg, the little folk of the Isle of Man are generally to be seen enveloped in cloud or mountain fog; what’s more, they bring storms and waves along the coast. As well as controlling the weather when they wish to, they are acutely attuned to its changes; hence, it’s said by islanders that, if you see the faeries’ boats out at sea it’s a sign of one of two things: either that a good catch may be found in that location- or it’s a warning to human fishermen put in, because it presages a storm. The appearance inland of the bean-nighe like faery known as the little red washer woman is always a sign of bad weather approaching. At Peel Castle some resident “big fairies” used to be seen on the ramparts. If they were there shouting with men’s voices when the town’s fishing boats were putting out to sea, this would be taken as a sign of imminent bad weather and the boats would sail straight back to the quay.

Another Manx being, the dooiney-oie or ‘night caller,’ performs the same function to the various faeries of the island. If his dismal howls of ‘Hoa! Hoa!’ are heard during a winter’s night along the coast, it’s a sure sign that storms are approaching across the Irish Sea. Because of his warnings, the Manx people have regularly avoided considerable loss: fishermen have been able to get in their nets, lines and pots and farmers have learned that it’s time to drive their flocks to shelter.

The black and scary ‘Big Buggane’ who lived in caves on South Barrule and Snaefell mountains was generally seen at night when there was a storm approaching, acting as a warning to islanders. The buggane that lived in Towl Buggane (the Buggane’s Hole) at Gob-ny-Scuit would shout a warning before stormy weather, enabling local farmers to get in their harvests in time. He was just as likely, though, to give these warnings when no storms were due, just to tease the locals. Islanders have learned to accept that for all the help they can receive, there’s always a chance of being the hapless victims of a faery prank.

Fir gorm

Supernatural predictions of bad weather can be found all over Britain. Fishermen would pull for shore if they heard the so-called ‘Seven Whistlers’ pass over, knowing that a storm would be approaching. These spirit beings are related to the Wild Hunt or to the Gabriel Ratchets, the eerie heavenly hounds, and the sound they make has been compared to birds- or to children wailing.

At Sennen Cove, in the far west of Cornwall, the ‘hooper’ is known for the whooping noise it makes. In otherwise fine weather a dense fog bank will sometimes be seen to settle on the reef of rocks that lies just outside the harbour, cutting the quay off from the open sea, and at night a dull light may be seen inside the cloud, accompanied by the hooper’s cries. The reason for the hooper’s arrival is, it seems, to act as a warning against storms coming in from the Atlantic. If you ignore the augury and head out to sea regardless, you are very likely never to be seen again.

In the east of England, the black dog apparition known as ‘Old Shuck’ runs along a well-established route every evening at twilight. Its terrifying appearance predicts storms. On the island of Guernsey, a white hare was only seen in stormy weather. The Welsh cyhyraeth– the groaning spirit- makes a “doleful, dreadful noise in the night,” disturbing people’s sleep with a sound that resembles the groans of the dying. Her cry precedes various misfortunes, such as bad weather on the coast.

Lastly, the ‘Long Coastguardsman’ of Mundesley in Norfolk appears at midnight on cloudy nights and will walk along a stretch of the coast, singing and laughing in the wind whenever a storm is raging. Unlike the previous spirits, though, the Coastguardsman seems to mark and to revel in bad weather, rather forewarning of it. Nevertheless, we can see that his close association with wind and tempest is highly typical of faery-kind.

Mermaids are keenly aware of climatic conditions- as we might expect from such sea dwellers. For example, there was one who was often to be seen sitting on a rock at Careg Ina near New Quay in West Wales. One day she got tangled in some fishing nets and was hauled in by a boat’s crew. She begged for release and, when this was granted, she warned them of an impending storm and told them to seek immediate shelter. They did so, and survived, but many other boats out that day were caught and sunk. A very similar tale comes from Pen Cemmes in Pembrokeshire, except that in this version the fisherman captor is promised ‘three shouts’ in his time of greatest need as his reward for releasing the mermaid. What this meant was revealed some time later, rather than immediately. One calm, hot day the mermaid appeared to the man out at sea and told him to make for harbour forthwith. He did so- and survived- but eighteen other men drowned in a sudden storm which unexpectedly blew up.

Sometimes, this kind of help is given freely and without prior obligation. For example, some Manx fishermen were once in their boats off Spanish Head when the sky started to darken. A mermaid rose above the waves and instructed them to “shiaull er thalloo” (‘sail to land’). Those who did were saved; those who didn’t take her advice lost their tackle or, even, their lives. It’s also said that if a Manx merman heard to whistle, a storm is brewing and it’s time for any fishermen at sea to haul in their nets and to make for the shore. In this case, the whistling doesn’t appear to be meant as any sort of gratuitous warning, it’s just a merfolk response to the change in the weather they’ve detected (perhaps even being a sign to their own kind) but humans can benefit from paying attention.

In fact, amongst fishing communities around Britain the mere appearance of the sea folk is taken as a portent of storms and death; as a result, when some fishermen from Brevig on Barra saw a mermaid two miles offshore they immediately turned around and headed back to harbour- as it transpired, not a moment too soon, as a terrible storm arose which nearly sank them anyway.

‘You Take The Weather With You’

As well as sensing and warning of bad conditions, these various sea-folk can be the direct cause of troubled waters. The fir gorm, the blue men who live in the stretch of sea called the Minch, between Skye and the mainland, are what make the seas there restless. The channel is only calm if they are either asleep or floating at their ease on the water’s surface; if they are seen sporting in the water off Rudha Hunish Head, a violent storm is sure to be due.

The cailleach muileartach, the dark blue hag of the sea, calls up storms along the Scottish coast. In the Firth of Cromarty, the weather is under the control of Gentle Annie or Annis, another hag with a blue-black face. She is renowned for her treachery, as days may start fine and calm, encouraging fishing boats to put out to sea, but then violent gales might sweep in from the north-east. Inland, the mountain hag called the cailleach bheur sends terrible tempests, called ‘cailleach weather’ or ‘wolf-storms.’

Tristram Bird & the mermaid

The merfolk can, like the Cornish pixies, stir up evil weather if they want to punish a specific person who’s earned their dislike. There’s a very rare account of some Scottish mermaids taking a human baby and leaving a changeling. Unlike the typically thin and poorly faery changelings, this substitute was a healthy and very beautiful child who grew up into a lovely young woman. In due course, this beauty, called Selina, attracted the attention of a cynical soldier who first seduced and then abandoned her. Heartbroken by her mistreatment, Selina pined way and died. Her mermaid family exacted a terrible vengeance upon the soldier and those who had encouraged him in his dalliance: the seducer was in turn seduced by a mermaid and a huge storm engulfed and destroyed his friends’ homes.

A Padstow man called Tristram Bird one day came across a mermaid when he was out with his gun hunting seals. She was seated on a rock, combing her hair and looking as alluring as mermaids can; he instantly desired her and asked her to marry him. She rejected his proposal with mockery. Bird’s pride was injured and he threatened to shoot her, to which she replied that he’d be sorry if he did. He fired at her anyway- and soon regretted his action. She cursed the town’s harbour and, sure enough, within a very short while a storm blew up- and a sandbar blocked all access from the quayside to the sea- disastrous for a fishing village. Similar, albeit involuntary, is the fact that the shooting of a selkie at sea will precipitate dire consequences: a storm will arise as soon as the selkie’s blood mixes with the sea water.

We often think of faery-kind as being intimately connected with the environment and the evidence of their sensitivity to and control over the weather certainly confirm this relationship.