But for all his innocent joy, the countryside rambler attracts a new element—or shall I say a new elemental—keen on spoiling the pastime. Let this essay serve as an education to the rambler who would be prepared for a meeting with the most prevalent fairy to be found choking the countryside path—the pixie.
Found historically in Cornwall, the pixie is distributed throughout a territory thought by this author to be expanding to encompass all of southwestern Britain, as evidenced by the disoriented souls I have encountered on otherwise unhorrifying walks in Devon and Dorset. Pixies are ethereal in nature, though, and this has hindered efforts at maintaining an accurate accounting of their population and range.
In their regular form, which is composed of pure light and energy, pixies are nearly invisible to our eyes and, for the most part, harmless. In this state they appear only as flashes of brightness that may as well be glints of sunlight gleaming off the rim of a newly polished bucket, so fleeting and swift are their movements. It is when the pixie coagulates itself, through an intense concentration tainted with what one might call malice, that it is able to interact with its environment to the point that it becomes a bother.
That these otherwise giddy creatures are most likely to be found inhabiting morbid locales such as the battlegrounds and burial sites of the early tribes should come as no surprise to the thoughtful rambler, who may simply add this fact to his already overstuffed file of evidence proving the perverse nature of Fairyland's most dedicated meddlers.
The pixies seem to have no aim in life save the endless playing of pranks. ‘Twas ever thus. The first written account of such trouble is from a source no less venerable than Tacitus, describing the bedevilings of the pixies upon the Roman legions. For any of my readers who consider themselves more prepared than an armoured phalanx of disciplined legionnaires to meet the tricky ways of the tribal fey, perhaps this essay is superfluous. For the rest of you, read on.
Today, the puckish predilections of the pixies are apparent in the continual mischief they visit upon the progress of innocent country ramblers. Through speed, a surprising strength (given the fact that the largest of pixies stands no taller than the top of a Chelsea boot), and their ability to enchant humans into thinking no mischief is afoot, pixies are able to pull stunts such as switching a rambler's shoes, turning a held walking stick upside down, or even replacing one Ordnance Survey map with another whilst it is being read. Any of these attempts at pixie “humour” results in irritation in the best of circumstances, that is, if it is even noticed. At their worst, pixie pranks can disguise pits, bogs, and cliff-sides such that they appear to be pleasant paths or meadows, a situation which could lead to serious injury or worse should the rambler set foot into these misleading landscapes.
One of the pixie's favourite tricks is to employ glamour against the senses of its human victims. Glamour is the power of illusion, a magic which makes things appear differently—more beautiful and enticing, in most instances—than they truly are. Such sorcery is common at fairy revels, transforming otherwise lacklustre hillsides into miniature palaces complete with ballrooms and banquet halls brimming with delights. Should the proceedings happen to be interrupted by mortals, the entire sumptuous scene can vanish in the blink of an eye. Glamour is most dangerous in that what it portrays is in fact real, but only so long as its victim believes it to be so. Food made of glamour, for instance, can be eaten and will taste delicious, even going so far as to provide sustenance to its eater, until he becomes aware that it was but illusion. At that point the food and any nourishment obtained by it transmute instantly to cold ash. This turnabout can be especially unfortunate if the eater has been living off glamour for more than a few days.
Many a rambler has paused after stooping to tie an errant bootlace or after swatting away a strange insect, disturbed by a subtle change in their surroundings that they can't quite put their finger on. It is easy to dismiss this initial feeling of something being amiss, to fall prey to the pixie's trickery. But one must remain alert and shake off the spell in its first stages. Here are some tested suggestions for the rambler who would be ready for the pranks of the pixie.
The traditional practice of turning one's jacket inside out to deflect pixie enchantments is effective, but is one I've always found distasteful, as it spoils the utility of the coat and the general appearance of the rambler. Personally, I've taken to plucking out the thread from the interior labels of my walking jackets, then with deft needle reapplying them to the corresponding location on the exterior. Apart from this aberration, my coats appear fine to all observers save the pixies, who see that my clothes must already be inside out. To them, I have obviously already been tricked—”pixilated,” some say—and so they offer me no trouble. All the same, this is not an option for the unskilled home tailor, and I believe a general letter-writing initiative ought to be undertaken to the manufacturers of the best rambling outerwear, bringing the issue of pixies to their attention and proposing that anti-fey alterations be introduced—at least as an option—henceforth.
However, sitting at home pricking one's ink-stained fingertips with sewing needles is not the optimal way for the rambling enthusiast to spend his idle hours. Should the pixies see us reduced to such a state, they would but redouble their efforts at pranksterism, and soon there would be no hope for reclaiming the footpaths from them. No, this is a situation which calls not for meekness but for a show of countering force, one using equally effective and proven means against the pixies.
The Iron Rod Campaign
In the long timeline of the Fairy Kingdom, iron is a relatively recent invention. Like other innovations of the rationally superior man, it has proven time and time again to be the bane of the fey. For this reason, fairies such as pixies tend to avoid iron gates and even footpath stiles constructed using iron nails, and so these places can provide ample sanctuary for the rambler plagued by pixies.
Iron nails embody all the qualities of the metal in a supremely handy and utilitarian form. Employed to best advantage whilst enjoying a tramp through fen and forest, an iron nail is a boon companion. Simply carrying such a nail in the pocket of your hiking trousers reduces the likelihood of encountering any solitary pixies haunting the path.
But if you'd like a stronger insurance policy against the pixie's malice, or if you fear your walk will take you through territory positively riddled with them, more resolute measures are called for. One particularly effective way to incorporate anti-fey tactics into your ramble is to carry a walking stick fitted with an iron ferrule sharpened to a keen spike. As it punctures the soil at every other step on your walk, this tool drives literal holes into the plots of the pixie pranksters. Such a walking stick helps even as it swings alongside the rambler. With each pass through the air, the iron tip traces a line of turbulent energy unbreachable by pixies. The line is faint, to be sure, and fades over time, but imagine the cumulative disruptive effect should all countryside enthusiasts use iron-tipped walking canes. Happy is the rambler who does so much good for his fellow man simply by walking about. For those activists among us (and I am one), why not acquire a walking stick made entirely of the stuff? Its heft may reduce the number of miles you feel like walking on a particular day, to be sure, but its presence virtually guarantees protection against being waylaid by pixies. If you find yourself veering in the direction of the hand holding the walking stick, just switch from left to right every so often, or best of all, carry a metre-length of iron in each hand, as I am wont to do when popping round sites of historical interest known to be infested by pixies. It takes a while to get the movement figured out—it's a bit like cross-country skiing, actually—but imagine my peace of mind as I contribute to the disruption of pixie trickery and get a ferocious upper-body workout to boot.
A cousin of the pixie, the detestable creature known as the stray sod employs a more direct approach to mucking things up, as it were, on the trail. Disguised as a divot of grass-topped turf indistinguishable from those commonly found along rural
footpaths, the stray sod is practised at a specific sort of enchantment. When trod upon, accidentally or otherwise, this fairy poisons the rambler's mind with a sudden sense of misdirection. This confusion is known as being “pixie-led.” Landmarks disappear from view under this influence, and well-known fields lose their familiarity. For ramblers not averse to wearing crampons, the iron spikes will deter the most pestiferous of stray sods, as the tufted troublemakers are as fatally allergic to iron as are the common pixies.
If, after reading all of the above, you remain unconvinced of the urgent need to rise up against the pixies and their puckish ways, a final anecdote may fill you with the required resolve.
The contributions of early twentieth-century naturalist and watercolourist Angus McAnnis are known to every schoolboy. What is frightfully under-reported is the manner of his demise. McAnnis was out for a tramp in southern Cornwall, accompanied by members of a local artists' society hoping to glean a bit of his talent and wisdom. At an opportune moment, pixies infiltrated the walking party, silently snatching the map McAnnis was holding and replacing it with one made entirely of glamour. The map led McAnnis and his walking companions flawlessly for several miles but then suggested a route so erratic and outlandish that the party was given over to impassioned disagreement as to its accuracy. A headstrong fellow, McAnnis was not to be swayed by his compatriots' pleas to turn back and around dusk struck out on his own, head buried in the deceitful folds of his map of glamour, feet in thrall to the landmarks it appeared to indicate. The rest of the walking party realised the truth too late when, having doubled back, they found McAnnis's original map, soiled and half eaten by mouths no larger than those of shrews, near where the confusion had begun. His body was never recovered, but the remains of the map now reside in the permanent collection of the Ramblers' main office in London.
It is hoped that the above tale provides all readers who love the countryside enough in the way of grim encouragement in our mutual fight against the meddlesome, sometimes deadly, forces of the fey.
FAERIE-FORAGING
Foraging Today • The Solitary Fairies • Truffle-Hunting in Ireland • Hopes Dashed • A Friend in Peril • Momentary Gains • A Repulsive Revival • Home and Back Again • All That Glitters
UNTIL RECENTLY, THE INCLUSION of a chapter on foraging in a guidebook such as this would have been quite a different affair, one of encouraging people to discover the delectable treasures of the hedgerow and forest after what had been a few generations of neglect. But happily, more and more countryside ramblers are incorporating a bit of food-gathering into their outings, and so instructional essays can now go into further detail about the delights—and dangers—awaiting resourceful foragers.
Chief among the threats the modern forager faces is that of interference from representatives of the “solitary fairies.” Somerset's indigenous Apple Tree Man and the Ghillie Dhu of Scotland are but two examples of these fey, whose lives are fixated upon the jealous guarding of the fruits of their respective regions. As the forests and other wild habitations of the solitary fairies have diminished and thinned over the centuries, this incredibly long-lived population has found itself in closer and closer quarters, such that the solitary fey are not only encountered more often on one's berry-picking outings, but they are also more keen on hoarding for themselves what fruits, nuts, and edible mushrooms are to be found. The forest's bounty belongs as much to man as it does to the birds and beasts and certainly as much as it does to the stingy fey, who take so much and give so little in return.
There are shelves and shelves of manuals detailing what wild food grows in your local region and the best times of the year to find it. Ubiquitous too are guidebooks on which fairies lurk in which parts of the countryside, what bits of the plant kingdom they protect, and how best to supplicate to these gangsterish Green Men. You know where to find such information, and so it is not my work to reprint it here.
What the modern hedgerow-hunter wants is an update on the legends, a first-hand report of the dangers of the solitary fey and how disaster at their hands is no more than one or two paces away for the incautious forager. I'm somewhat reluctant to tell the following story, as things didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. But I do believe it illustrates a modicum of what we're all up against when we forage in fairy country.
If one were—preposterously, I'll admit—a representative of the Irish sparrowhawk population out for an autumn afternoon's soar high above the fields outside Belfast a few years ago, one could have spotted two chestnut-coloured patches of tweed picking their way among the thickening forest. These specks were in fact a pair of men in search of the elusive corvus truffle, a jet-black variety which had reappeared after a 150-year absence. I'd tasted my first one a week earlier at a posh restaurant in town and thought the flavour so indescribably scrumptious that I had to have some for myself. To that end I'd engaged as co-conspirator a good friend of mine, a chef and rival restaurateur of international renown, whom for reasons of discretion I must refer to simply as “Tom.” Our first order of business had been to liquor up said restaurant's recently sacked sous-chef, who in his drunkenness had let slip the coordinates where we might likely find the mother lode of this particular fungus.
And so there we were, wellies on feet and mycology guidebooks in hand, combing over the bosky, jade-tinted landscape in search of the rare and priceless corvus. I was brimming with optimism, and so had brought along a large canvas sack which I hoped would soon be topped up with succulent truffles.
We were also enjoying draws from a particularly potent flask of Tom's own cherry brandy, which I was sinking into perhaps a bit more quickly than usual on account of my companion's ceaseless jabbering. He had no equal in the kitchen, this man, but he was no deerstalker. Nor much of a truffler, I was discovering, as we'd been out several hours and hadn't turned up a single specimen of the fungus under any of the oak trees where it was purported to grow. We'd spotted our next contender growing at the base of a wooded hillside, however, and were making our way towards the tree. I'd straggled a bit, or at least feigned straggling, letting Tom crash on through the brambles several paces ahead. He seemed happy enough to lumber on without me, as oblivious to the underbrush as he was to any semblance of proper flow in our conversation.
The oak was possessed of an impressive girth, suggesting it must have been one of the older giants of the forest. Tom flattened the bracken beneath him as he rounded it, his eyes sweeping the forest floor for signs of our quarry nestling in the underbrush. He was going on about the scientific underpinnings of symbiosis and “the marvel of inorganic nitrogen absorption” or some such rot when he stopped, mid-stride and mid-sentence, his gaze rooted to the ground just the other side of the tree. I was sure he'd found our sought-for treasure trove, as a moment later he fairly exploded with “Blimey! Is that what I think it is?”
But what silver-rimmed hope for truffles gleamed in my mind's eye tarnished the moment I heard, from the back of the massive oak, a most unsettling reply to dear Tom's question. For it was then that the crystalline quiet of the Irish forest shattered into a thousand shards as a peal of chittering—much like a red squirrel's, actually—met my ear, followed by a rapid cadence of tinny tinks.
If you've had the opportunity to really delve into the story of the tragic fate of the RMS Titanic, itself a tale of Irish woe and calamity, then you might have a sense of the icy dread which struck my heart at that moment, breaching the hull of my dreams of a leisurely afternoon spent mushroom hunting. Now the engine room of my soul began to fill with a terror most dire. My left hand closed tightly on my guidebook and my right hand shot reflexively towards my hip, where it was dismayed to discover that I'd cavalierly left my hunting pistol at home. It was an omission which had made perfect sense during the day's preparations—this afternoon was meant to be spent bagging truffles, after all, not stumpy green-clad cobblers.
My mouth recalled the flavour of the last leg-of-leprechaun I'd enjoyed, nearly washing away the tang o
f dread I now experienced standing just out of sight of the most vicious of Ireland's solitary fairies.
Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't have been surprised to find that Tom knew his way around a leprechaun quite handily in the kitchen, but I assumed that the only one he'd ever contended with would have been delivered to him atop a bed of ice, not sat gaily upon its own forest workbench, hammer at the ready. And although biting into a properly prepared roast leprechaun is inarguably the pinnacle experience one may have whilst enjoying Hibernian cuisine, having it the other way round—with leprechaun biting into you—is in no way comparable. It's just nowhere near as pleasant. They've got phenomenal dental integrity, and their bites are remarkable at harbouring infection in the parts of their victims which remain intact.
All it took was the sight of Tom bending down and extending his arm with a cheerful “'ello, little fellow!” to tell me he had no idea of the depth of his peril. And so I felt absolutely no regret at that moment racing round the tree and whizzing a medium-sized stone straight past Tom's head and squarely into the countenance of the leering leprechaun. It was out cold in an instant, its tapered kelly green hat still stuck atop its head in a most eerie fashion.
Goblinproofing One's Chicken Coop Page 7