North Yorkshire Folk Tales

by Ingrid Barton

  ‘WHERE’S THE HAMMER?’ Wade would yell from his building site near the sea.

  ‘COMING OVER!’ Bell would scream back from Pickering, flinging it the eighteen odd miles to Mulgrave. And so they went on, throwing and catching the hammer as they needed it.

  Eventually the two castles were built and the giants began to live in them, sometimes strolling by the sea at Sandsend; sometimes taking the air on the hills by Pickering.

  The giant cow, Bell’s pride and joy, wandered the moors wrapping her huge tongue around trees and bushes as she took each mouthful. Cows are notorious for ‘poaching’ the ground with their sharp feet. Bell’s cow had gigantic hooves and when it rained her hoof prints filled with water, creating the bogs still found on the moors. Over time, these became deeper and more dangerous. Poor Bell, giantess though she was, grew tired of plodding through marsh and mire to milk the cow each day. She often complained to Wade saying how much she wished there was a nice smooth road between Mulgrave and Pickering to make milking time easier. She said it so frequently that, like any husband, in the end Wade ran out of excuses for inaction.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘You get the stones and I’ll lay them.’

  Bell began to collect stones. She got some from the moors and some from the beaches off the East Coast, carrying them in her vast apron. Sometimes she picked ones that were too heavy to carry the whole distance to where Wade was working, so she had to drop them by the side of the path where they still lie today. At one place, her apron strings broke, dumping twenty cartloads of rocks at a place now called The Devil’s Apronful.

  Wade made the road’s solid base out of big stones. Then he added a second layer of smaller ones well hammered down. Finally, he surfaced the whole thing with sand brought up from the seaside in Bell’s capacious apron. Both the giants worked hard, despite the odd problem, and soon the beautiful new road stretched smoothly from Mulgrave to Pickering, across the most difficult parts of the moors. At last Bell was able to come and go from milking her cow without getting her boots full of mud.

  However, just as the countryside never looks the same after the building of a motorway, so the moors now looked rather different. Apart from the great stones Bell had dropped all over the place, there was the new Hole of Horcum. This had been created when Wade got angry with Bell one day and scooped up a big handful of mud to throw at her – you can still see the marks of his fingers on the sides of the Hole. Being a giant he was naturally a bad shot, so the mud missed Bell and landed on the other side of the moors where it is now called Blakey Topping.

  Their son had also added something to the landscape. They took him along with them when they were building the road and one day they accidentally left him behind at Sleights Moor. At first he was quite happy playing with some big boulders, but eventually he grew hungry. He could see his mother in the distance so he threw a boulder at her to try to get her attention.

  It must have been a freak throw because on this occasion he did actually succeed in hitting her. As Bell was a giantess, the only thing that got hurt was the boulder, which bounced off and fell three miles away at Swart Hill with a big piece cracked off. There it stood until broken up about 200 years ago, ironically for road stone.

  Once the road was finished, the giant family seems to have lived happily for the rest of their lives. Wade was buried at Mulgrave (or, some say, Goldsborough) where Wade Stones mark his enormous grave. The cow died too and one of its huge ribs used to be shown at Mulgrave Castle (though ignorant people say that it was just a whale’s jawbone!).

  After their death the road gradually fell into disuse. It became overgrown with grass, though local people never forgot where it was. Some posh university folk say that the road was originally built by the Romans, but in that case, why is it still known in North Yorkshire as Wade’s Causeway?

  THE DEVIL’S ARROWS

  Western Moors

  One day a priest of the new Christian religion was preaching to the local people in the open air near Aldborough. He was encouraging them to convert and leave their old evil gods behind. Suddenly a venerable Druid appeared among them, speaking fervently on behalf of the old religion. People began to listen to him with interest.

  The priest, looking at the old Druid intently, noticed that his feet were in fact the cloven hooves of a goat and that furthermore they were melting the rock on which he was standing. ‘ Devil! I defy you!’ he shouted, holding up the cross. The Devil – rather too easily discomforted, I think – flung off his disguise and ran away. However he now had stony boots where the rock had melted onto his feet, so when they had cooled sufficiently to allow them to be removed, he deposited them at Howe Hill – about six miles away.

  Later he returned to the hill carrying three (originally four) giant arrows – or possibly thunder bolts – intending to take revenge on Aldborough town. Unfortunately he spoilt his awesome appearance by uttering the feeble doggerel, ‘Borobrigg keep out o’ t’ way, For Aldboro town I’ll ding down today!’

  Aldborough needn’t have worried: being a giant he missed it by miles. (Boroughbridge, on the other hand, only just escaped). Three of his impressive arrows remain standing just outside the town. The fourth was uprooted in a search for treasure and then used as the foundation of a bridge over the River Test.

  THE GIANT OF PEN HILL

  Wensleydale

  What happens to gods when their cult dies? Someone once said that the gods of the old regime become the demons of the new, but there is an alternative: sometimes they shrink, retire to the country and sink comfortably into some borrowed local story.

  Perhaps it was Thor who fathered the giant of Pen Hill. Left behind by the departing Vikings he might have become bitter and sullen; taken to keeping pigs to feed his voracious appetite; forgotten his friendship with humankind. Perhaps he fathered, on a passing frost giantess a son who inherited the worst characteristics of both, strong and fearless but cold as the rocks of Pen Hill.

  Whatever the truth of his origin, to the inhabitants of Wensleydale the giant seemed to have always been there in his grim keep on top of Pen Hill, growing more evil with every passing year, a huge threatening presence, seldom seen but feared nevertheless, an ominous volcano on the edge of their peaceful fields.

  Few ventured into the forest, with which a large part of Wensleydale was covered in those days. That was where the giant kept his swine, his one delight. You must not imagine that these pigs were like the naked pink deflated balloons you see lying about in the fields nowadays. No! These were wild pigs, covered, rather like the giant himself, with coarse tawny hair. They had long legs and ridged backs and could slip through the woods silently when they wished, searching for acorns and roots with their long sensitive snouts. They were huge and vicious, both the boars and the sows, with crushing jaws and wickedly curved tusks. From time to time they came into the peasants’ fields and devastated their crops, but no one dared object, or even try to drive them off, for if there was one thing that the giant could not stand it was people interfering with his swine.

  To assist him with herding these pigs the giant had a great boarhound, Wolfhead, his only friend. The swine obeyed him as they would obey no other dog and he drove them wherever his master wished, or hunted for strays deep in the forest. Even the fierce boars who defended the herd, huge battering rams of sinew and muscle, avoided him.

  Wolfhead was descended on his father’s side from the terrible Fenris Wolf, feared and bound by the Norse gods. It was from him that he had inherited his fierceness. From his mother, however, he had inherited the faithfulness of dogkind and all that faithfulness was devoted to the giant. During the day he worked hard for his master. In the evening he dozed with the giant by the fire, drooling on his master’s boots but always alert for the rare pat or kind word.

  Every morning Wolfhead drove all of the swine past the giant, two by two; first the red-eyed boars, then the sows and lastly the little squealing striped piglets. The giant delighted in his fierce way to see his pigs
paraded daily before him. He liked to count their increasing numbers and check their fatness, for, of course, all his darlings ended their days on his plate.

  One day Wolfhead and his master were walking through the meadows by the River Ure when they came upon a flock of sheep. Wolfhead trembled with excitement, but he kept his eyes on his master. The giant smiled evilly. ‘Go on, lad, enjoy yourself!’ he said.

  The hound bounded forward. The sheep turned and ran, bleating pitifully. He leapt upon one and tore its throat out with a single jerk of his powerful head. The taste of blood drove him to frenzy and in a moment, he had killed three more and was gambolling down the field in pursuit of a fourth. This was fun!

  ‘Stop him! Stop him!’

  There was a young woman running across the meadow towards the giant. ‘Please! Call your dog off! These are our sheep!’

  The giant turned his great shaggy head towards the sound of the voice and stared at the person who had the effrontery to interfere. She stopped at a safe distance, wringing her hands in a mixture of grief and impotent anger.

  ‘Call your dog off, for pity’s sake, Master!’

  The giant began to laugh. Wolfhead swung around to check that what he was doing still had his master’s approval. He need not have worried.

  ‘Go on, Wolfhead! Get the rest of the woolly bleaters!’

  The girl made as though to run to their aid, but she did not dare. Tears poured down her cheeks as she watched the destruction of her flock.

  The giant had no experience of women; he lived alone with only the dog and an old male servant for company. The sight of a weeping woman made him feel uncomfortable and confused. He did not like it. Or did he? He could see that her hair was as pale as the soft fur on Wolfhead’s belly, and her cheeks were as pink as the snout of a newborn piglet. He supposed that meant she was pretty. Pretty was good. In an instant, he was in love.

  Giants are not noted for their romantic courting. Pursuit and rape are more their line and this giant was no exception. In two steps, he was close to the girl and he began to stroke her hair and fondle her. She shrank back in horror, pushing his huge hands away before she turned away and ran as fast as she could.

  The giant followed, but in her bare feet she easily outdistanced him. Growing angry, he called to Wolfhead. ‘Get me that girl!’

  Wolfhead gave the sheep he had just killed one last bite and did as his master wished. His heavy paws thudded over the meadow; he began baying, blood dripping from his jaws. The girl had nearly reached the edge of the forest when she turned her head to see how close her pursuer was and missed her footing. She fell heavily, winding herself. As Wolfhead leapt up to her, she seized the only thing that came to hand, a sharp rock, and struck him on the nose with all her force.

  Wolfhead staggered back with a howl and began to paw at his nose. The girl tried to struggle to her feet, gasping for breath but before she could rise the giant was standing over her, his face full of fury. ‘Hurt my hound will you?’ he snarled, ‘There’s for you then, you bitch!’ and he struck her again and again with his cudgel until she moved no more.

  When the shepherd found his devastated flock and the broken body of his daughter, his grief was too deep for tears. He did not need to ask who the perpetrator was for the giant’s footprints were all around crushing the sweet meadow grass. He let out a terrible cry that echoed off the sides of Pen Hill and brought the peasants working nearby to his side. The giant, on his way home, heard it too and laughed gleefully.

  Hatred of the giant now spread along the valley as never before. It flowed down the banks of the Ure on the tongues of herdsmen and grew hot in secret by a hundred hearth-fires as people remembered his wrongs.

  One morning in the autumn of that year, the giant noticed that as the swine trotted past him two by two there was one young boar on its own. A boar was missing.

  ‘Wolfhead!’ shouted the giant, kicking him viciously. ‘You’re getting old and lazy. You’ve lost a boar! Go and find it, or by Thor I’ll kick your ribs into kindling! Take that as a reminder!’

  Wolfhead slunk away into the forest while the giant walked impatiently up and down, counting and recounting his swine. It was noon before he heard Wolfhead’s baying and ran following the sound, to a glade in the wood. There lay the body of one of his most promising young boars, pierced through the heart by an arrow.

  The volcano of the giant’s anger poured out. He beat down bushes and trees. He roared so loudly that birds fell out of their nests and people as far away as Hawes stuck their fingers in their ears. Wolfhead, remembering the kicks, crept away on his belly and hid deep in the forest.

  When the giant had recovered a little, he flung the dead boar over his shoulder and crashed off home. Seizing the old man, his only servant, by the neck he ordered him to go to the people of Wensleydale and tell them that the Lord of the Dale (he meant himself) commanded that all men who could bear a bow should present themselves at the old meeting-place on the cliff of Pen Hill in a month’s time.

  ‘Is it for a war?’ wavered the old man, who knew nothing of the death of the boar. ‘Aye, a war of a sort! Tell them that!’ said the giant. ‘And tell them also what will happen to them if they fail to turn up. Be inventive!’

  That evening, as the giant sat gloomily by the fire, he realised that something was missing. Wolfhead was not there, thumping his tail and looking fondly up into his master’s face. He went to stand at the door of his keep and scanned the forest below. ‘Wolfhead!’ he roared. ‘Come here this instant!’

  There was a slight rustling of the bushes at the edge of the forest. The giant looked closer and saw that Wolfhead was crouching there, cowering. He whistled but the dog did not move. ‘Damn your hide, come here!’ Wolfhead stayed where he was.

  The giant’s cudgel was, as usual, in his hand. In a moment of fury, he threw it with all his might, and in a second, the only friend he had ever had was dead.

  The month given to the peasants was up. The following day was set for the meeting. The old servant had returned exhausted. He saw that Wolfhead was no longer around, but he did not dare ask questions. He guessed that the hound was dead when the swine no longer appeared two by two in the morning. His master sat by the fire muttering darkly to himself, ‘He asked for it! Disobey me and die!’

  The old servant trembled for the fate of the men of Wensleydale.

  Perhaps there were some wise peasants who did not obey the giant’s summons, but they were few and far between. The meeting place at the cliff on Pen Hill was filled with men, from old grandsires to half-grown boys. They had all brought their bows as requested and no doubt would have been pleased to use them on the giant if only they had had a brave enough leader, but the fear for their families kept them all cowards.

  The giant stood huge and threatening on the brow of the hill. He surveyed the gathering with a sneer. In his hand was an arrow. He held it up.

  ‘You see this?’ he said. ‘What is it?’ There was a stunned silence. The answer was so obvious that no one knew what to say. They suspected a trap.

  ‘What is it, you curs?’

  One brave man put his hand up. ‘It’s an arrow, Master.’

  ‘Well done, you old fool! Yes, it’s an arrow. The question is: who does it belong to?’

  The peasants looked at one another. If they knew, they were not saying.

  ‘I ask because I found it – in the heart of ONE OF MY BOARS! Give up the bowman or beware my wrath! I’m only going to ask you once!’

  A little ripple of movement ran over the assembled men, but still they said nothing.

  The giant stared at them for a moment, his face reddening with anger. Who did these slaves think they were? First the girl, then the dog, now this! He was the son of Thor the Thunderer! He would have blood for their disobedience!

  ‘Very well, if that’s the game you wish to play. You won’t tell me now while your children live, so perhaps you will tell me when they’re dying! Every man must come back here tomorrow bringing w
ith him his youngest child. One child each or I kill all of you! Think about it tonight. Now GO!’

  Shaken and sullen, the men turned and retreated down the hill. As they went they passed an old beggar man standing beside the path. He wore a ragged grey cloak and leaned on a staff. His hat was pulled down on one side to hide a missing eye. He nodded at the passing peasants but they were too humiliated to respond or meet his piercing gaze.

  ‘Who is that man?’ the giant asked his servant.

  ‘I don’t know his name, my lord. I’ve seen him around from time to time in the Dale, but never spoken to him.’

  ‘He has an insolent look. Tell him to take himself off!’ As the giant spoke, the old man stirred and moved towards him.

  ‘What do you want?’ the giant demanded.

  ‘To get a good look at you,’ replied the old man offensively.

  The giant could see no fear in the one flashing eye that gazed sideways up at him. It made him uneasy.

  ‘Well, now you’ve seen me, so you can take your dirty carcass off.’

  ‘What do you intend to do to the children?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and those filth to find out!’

  ‘It’s Thor’s Day tomorrow.’

  ‘What do I care? Thor was my father.’

  ‘He killed warriors and monsters, not children.’

  ‘How do you know what the great god Thor did, old greybeard?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  Suddenly the old man struck the ground with his staff. The blow did not seem hard and yet the rocks rang and the stone keep shuddered. The astonished giant took a step backwards. The old man laughed as he turned away, and the giant and his servant heard him say, almost to himself, ‘Be warned: you stand on the brink!’ He strode swiftly away down the winding path into the Dale but his last words came floating up, ‘One more step and you fall!’