The faery show up often in the stories of these isles. We have numerous mythical creatures (selkies, kelpies, the loch ness monster) yet it is the fae who are synonymous with our tales and lore. They show up in our stories, not as frivolous means of entertainment, but because folk in old times believed they existed, and witnessed things that validated the notion.
Not the cheery flower fairies with wings that you might have seen in disney-esque films and books. They are an invention of Victorian England, and scorned by anyone with an ear tuned to folk culture or the murmurings of the land. The faeries in our tales would eat those little things for breakfast, for the fae of the Celtic isles are fierce, and should not be messed with. It is with reverence, appreciation, and no little fear, that the faery are regarded in these parts.
The Little People
‘Little people’ are referenced in countries and cultures around the world.
In Cornwall they are ‘piskies’ or ‘pixies’, Norway has ‘trolls’, Orkney has ‘trowies’, in Alpine Europe they have ‘gnomes’. A native elder from the Cowichen valley on Vancouver Island told me that their culture tells of little people too. I’ve heard similar from Siberia, Japan, Hawaii and other distant lands. Could these tales of little people be a global phenomenon? Possibly a non-ordinary perception or ancient memory carried on through story?
I can only talk of the little people of this region. They show up in our stories and lore often, and whilst it may seem fanciful, there is a consistency in the manner in which they are regarded.
Here are a few common features of the Celtic Faery:
They are small, but not tiny, maybe knee high to a human
They can be helpful or harmful, either depending on the actions of the humans they encounter, or of their own mischievous will
They are curious about human folk and our ways. They covet human items, and sometimes even their children! (see ‘changeling’ stories)
They are traditional in their ways and manner, often dressed in the clothing of past times
They love music, partying, feasting, drinking, and even fighting. It’s the most rambunctious ceilidh you can imagine when the faery are involved!
They can be repelled by iron (some suggest this hints at them being a pre-iron age culture)
One should not speak the word ‘faery’ directly, in fear of calling them near. Alternative options include: The ‘Dine Sidhe’ (‘shee’), the ‘good people’, the ‘people of peace’, the ‘other crowd’, or commonly the ‘wee folk’ or ‘little people’.
Naming can be a big deal with the wee folk, and words are important. Think Rumpestiltskin/Whuppity Stoorie and the consequence of misspoken words.
Faeries can speak in riddles and the word can be binding, you must have sharp wits and speak mindfully when dealing with the faery
Faeries often have an association with specific places, most often a faery tree (usually hawthorn), or faery hill (usually conical, maybe the only hill with trees remaining in an agricultural landscape), or a faery stone (a housing development in central Scotland in the early 2000s had to be altered due to the presence of a ‘faery stone’)
Any place in Scotland with a ‘Shee’ (Sidhe) sound in the name likely has an association with faeries. This includes Glen Shee in Perthshire and also Schiehallion, a mountain in central Scotland which the Dalai Lama announced as being one of the most sacred mountains in the world (…he knows about such things!).
Faeries sometimes come into conflict with Christian preachers, with debate over souls and destiny ongoing.
Some Christianised stories suggest that the faeries are fallen angels. The angels who fell upon the land became faeries, the ones who landed in the sea became selkies.
Other explanations suggest that the faery were an older race (such as the picts) who vanished into the hills once the new people (gaels and Scots) came. They would come and steal things from the new people but return to the hills and new how to ‘disappear’.
Some suggest the ‘faery’ are nature spirits who can selectively take form, that people once had the sensitivity to see them, yet that sensitivity has diminished
There are tales that the faery became increasingly despondent at the ways of humans, and were driven underground by the sounds of the modern world, the motor car and electric light
Some faeries are protectors of the land and will torment those who disrespect it
Faeries respond well to offerings. Milk, butter, oatcakes, whisky are all appreciated (similar to storytellers actually).
Faeries often show up to help those who remember the old ways and leave out offerings, supporting common folk facing injustice and hardship.
There are subspecies of faery, such as helpful ‘broonies’ and the more common leprechaun.
Time works differently in faery land, you may think you’ve only been there for a night, then return to our world and many years have passed
The Lure of Faery-land
This last point is the one that prompts this post, for I sometimes find myself swept away into the land of faery, and it takes me a while to come back, flip open my MacBook and write something here.
The pull of wild places, creative activity & non-ordinary encounter are compelling. In summer especially the faeries dance, and I can’t resist a jig or two through the hazy time of year. The summer frivolity is a tonic to the long dark winters here in Scotland…yet the old tales highlight the risk of spending too long ‘away with the faeries’.
The Fiddlers of Tomnahurich
Rising up from the centre of Inverness (my hometown), is a hill covered in yew trees. Like a giant, green hedgehog defining the city. Like many old yew groves it has been repurposed as a graveyard. The old tree lore suggests that yew forms a bridge to the underworld, so that site and its holy associations likely predate the Christian burial ground.
The story of Tomnahurich, is that two fiddlers had made their way up from Strathspey, in the Cairngorm mountains (40 miles south of Inverness). Times were hard, crops had failed and they thought they’d have more chance earning decent coin up in the highland capital than in the rural Cairngorms.
They were gifted pipers but it was a bitter, grey, dreich day in Inverness. People wouldn’t spare the time to stop and listen, let alone drop a coin in their hat. The day passed and they had barely enough money to cover shelter for the night and a warm meal, let alone make the journey from Strathspey worthwhile. As the sun dipped westwards, a spritely gentleman in a long green coat stopped in the street and listened. From lively jig they moved to waltz, then to a reel. The man stayed, keen eyed and tapping his feet. They paused the music for him to reach into his pocket.
He pulled out a solitary silver coin, yet promised more, much more if they’d meet him at sundown at the base of Tomnahurich hill. His leather purse jingled and his word sounded earnest. The fiddlers agreed.
Reviving themselves with a simple supper afforded by the coin, the pipers crossed the wooden bridge over the River Ness and made their way to the yew strewn hill. They entered summer’s twilight, with darkness slow to take its grip. Their eyes adjusted to the gloaming. There at the base of the hill was the wee manny with the green coat. He hopped in excitement at their arrival. “You brought your fiddles?”, “of course we did”.
The wee man led them up the hill, between two stones and through a door, down a tunnel lit by flickering torches. A merry murmur echoed from below.
They descended into a cavern under the mountain. Tapestries hung upon the walls, haunches of venison turned on a spit, oak tables were spread with fine foods, heather ale was poured in liberal measures. There was laughter and chatter, but as yet no music. Many expectant eyes fixed upon the fiddlers.
After satiating their appetites and thirst, they plucked their bows from their cases and pressed fiddles under chins. They teased the gathering with a slow air to start, but as soon as they stroked the first note of a reel, the gathered folk went wild! Spinning, clapping, stomping, whirling, cheering, leaping. After the frigid day on the street the fiddlers were cheered by it…in fact they’d scarcely seen anything like it. Even the most hedonistic nights in Strathspey were nothing compared to this, after only a few tunes!
They played for an hour and the crowd showed no signs of slowing down! Two hours, three…they were still mad for it! Leaping, spinning, cheering- eightsome reels and dashing white sergeants, willows were stripped and Gordon’s were gay. The fiddlers showed signs of tiring first, and so they were plied with more drink, more food, calls of “Ceol Mhor!”, ‘the big music!’.
They defied sleep and rest, falling into a rhythmic trance of blazing fiddle bows and stomping feet.
The fiddlers were so engrossed in their tunes that they failed to hear a distant cockerel crowing. The revelry suddenly stopped. The dancefloor cleared, thanks were spoken and hands were shaken. Their green coated host reached deep into a wooden chest and produced a pouch of silver coins. This was worth the trip from Strathspey, they were rich! And what a night. They’d have stories to tell too.
They were led out of the tunnel, emerging under the bristling canopy of a sprawling yew grove. In fine cheer they made their way down the hill. It’d be a hearty breakfast then a day’s rest upon the finest feather bed for them. They’d stay awake just long enough to enjoy a little of their new found wealth. As they descended they dreamed and joked of how they would spend their fortune.
It was only when they reached the base of the hill that something felt strange. When they reached the streets, the buildings seemed taller and looked quite different, people were staring at them, some pointed, some laughed. Everyone else was dressed in a fashion that was strange, even for Inverness. They returned to the river, the bridge that was wooden yesterday was today made of stone. It was the same town, yet everything was different, and impossibly so. What was going on?
The church bells tolled from across the river. “Let’s go and speak to the pastor, see if he can explain things? Maybe they put something in that heather ale and we’re seeing things.”
The Sunday congregation were gathering at the church doors. Feeling conspicuous, the fiddlers passed a few minutes in the surrounding graveyard, hoping to slip in at the back after everyone was seated. Stopping to read engravings on a tombstone, a puzzled look stretched across their faces, and they felt their stomachs sink.
Beneath carvings of skull and crossbones, winged angels and hourglasses, were the names and dates of those deceased. “How is this possible?” The dates on the graves had not yet passed. “Maybe it’s a mistake with the carving?”, but upon inspection the carvings were unnervingly consistent.
“How long have we been away for? What really happened under that hill?”.
Sensing the certainty of faery influence, the fiddlers made their way to the sanctity of the church. They cast a look at each other, took a deep breathe and crossed the threshold, and were instantly reduced to dust.
The congregation were alerted by their gasps and the clattering of a purse of silver coins spilling out upon the granite floor. As they turned, all they saw was the empty purse and strewn coins, surrounding two small piles of dust.
The price of a trip to faery land can be steep.
Common Faery motifs
Foragers of folk tale may recognise this motif. It has echoes of Ossian and his trip to Tir Na Nog.
Similar tales from Skye tell of ‘Euan an Dannsa’, the finest dancer on Skye (which equates to being the finest dancer in the world!) who is returning from a party with a friend only to be lost near a faery hill. The friend returns on midsummer the following year, follows the sound of music, peers into the faery chamber and sees Euan still dancing. In this instance the friend calls Euan out, using iron as protection, and only a year has passed, yet Euan’s appetite for the dancing is forever lost.
Thomas the Rhymer spends seven years in faery land and returns with the gift of true seeing and poetic speech.
The fiddler for the ‘Trowie wedding’ in Orkney may consider himself lucky that he was only lost for a week. Long enough for his leek and tattie soup to gather mould and to earn an ear-bashing from his wife, but without serious consequence. He returns with a Trowie lullaby that he puts to good use to appease future children at bedtime.
In this instance the trip to fairyland is more benevolent, the time lapse less extreme.
For those of us who occasionally meander into the faery realms, may we hope for more Trowie wedding and less Tomnahurich Fiddlers. Discernment and degrees dictate the possibility of right return. Most artists and creatives drift towards faery-land at times, the old style animists and land dreamers also. It’s a process that done right enriches culture and brings a touch of magic back into the mundane world.
Inevitably, back into the mundane world we must return.
Sometimes these stories make me think of addiction. Of loved ones lost in a timeless space of apparent relief and revelry, at a cost they can’t fully count, with years, if not a lifetime essentially lost. It all seems like a great party until everything is reduced to dust. A blessing to those caught in such underworld spirals, and may their ears be keen to those calling them back from under the hill.
Discernment is needed when dealing with the faery. They are generally celebrated in the stories of the isles, yet can’t be underestimated and must be met with canny. A friend to call you back from the tunnel is sometimes needed. Offerings to appease the ‘other crowd’, and an awareness of old customs and lore can help. It is easy to cause offence in fairyland and not everyone is kind. It’s a place to visit, but not to stay.
The Summer Shielings
I think of these tales as I return to writing, digital commitments and online community, with the seasonal shift to autumn.
Summer is faery-time. Beltane and summer solstice is when they dance and the veils lift. Lughnasa’s feasting in August evokes the revelry of the fae and abundance of the land. Summer’s enchantment in the hills is a counterweight to winter’s deep dreaming, the Cailleach’s harshness, periodic isolation, and the pull of the hearth.
This year, up at our collective Shieling land (in a hidden glen west of Inverness) we delivered mythopoetic, land-based retreats and ancestral craft gatherings. We strive to build something beautiful, navigate practical challenges, whilst striving to catch the dreaming of the place.
The fragrance of faery was stronger than usual.
The Shieling folk are a spritely bunch, and most have a touch of the fae. My friend Aoife is decidedly more faery than human, Peter is a Broonie (a particular variant of working faery), Bethan too, Lana an elf and Perry is mostly hobbit, having come north from gentle southern shires.
A merry old time was had, far from the realms of normality and modernity, close to the land, gathering by the fire, giving voice to old songs and practicing forgotten crafts.
When hosting at such a place it is hard to disengage from the imminent, and return here to write. From there I plunged into the heart of the Edinburgh Fringe festival, with our show “A Wolf Shall Devour the Sun”. It was a magnificent, and wholly engaging affair.
Substack Return
I write this as a bit of an update and acknowledgement of my literal absence from this substack channel over the past month. I don’t want to indulge in that absence, and commit to showing up here and offering something valuable and curious in the realm of story, land based culture and highland folk ways.
I value the folk that show up here to read, and even pay to support this channel. I don’t take it for granted.
I anticipate that over the course of the year, my content on here balances out and may generally be that little bit more sparse in midsummer. Just so you know, occasionally the faery call me, and it’s my intention when I meander into such realms, to return before all my people have turned to dust.
Thanks for reading.
Dougie
p.s. related links and resources below
Related Links and resources
The Fiddlers of Tomnahurich
A fine version of the story with a smattering of Gaelic, by the Ruiridh Maclean:
Fiddlers of Tomnahurich
Faery Lore
Faery Faith in Celtic Countries
The Shieling Collective
Shieling
Upcoming events
Way of the Wolf
Wolf tracking and storytelling weekend
oh what a delight to read during my morning coffee by the river over here in the Lake Ontario watershed. you take such diligent care in crafting these posts Dougie and it shines through. i especially liked near the end as you characterized what kind of 'little people' are hybridized over there in the Collective. :) maybe you are some kinda of spell-caster with your words.
Thanks Dougie, we haven't turned to dust yet!