Krampus: The Alpine Devil Who Was Never Just About Christmas
Every December, greeting cards appear featuring a horned devil carrying a birch switch and a basket of naughty children, grinning […]
Folklore
Folklore is not mythology. The distinction matters. Mythology tends to be formal, recorded, attached to pantheons and cosmologies and the kind of stories that civilisations told about themselves at their most organised. Folklore is what happens before and beneath all of that. It is the story that gets told in a particular village about a particular stretch of river because something happened there once and nobody could explain it. It is the belief that accumulates across generations without anyone deciding to believe it, passed down not through texts but through the people who needed it.
It is also, frequently, the more interesting of the two.
The articles in this section cover the folk tradition of Britain and Ireland primarily, though that will expand over time. What connects them is not a region or a creature type but a quality. These are stories that were believed, practiced, and lived with by real communities in real places, and that carry the texture of that belief in ways that more polished mythological traditions sometimes do not.
The word folklore was coined in the 19th century but the thing it describes is as old as human communities. Every culture that has ever existed has generated it, because human beings in proximity to things they cannot explain will always produce stories, and those stories will always spread and change and accumulate detail as they move through time and through the people who carry them.
British and Irish folk tradition is particularly rich because it was documented relatively early, and because the landscape that produced it is one that resisted rationalisation for a long time. The Trows of Shetland are not a myth in any formal sense. They are not attached to a cosmology or a religious system. They are simply what the people of those islands believed lived alongside them, in the hills and in the dark, and the tradition surrounding them is dense with practical detail about how to avoid attracting their attention and what to do if you failed.
The Uruisg is a similar case. A solitary creature of the Scottish Highlands, half human and half something else, known to particular locations and carrying a specific set of behaviours that the people who lived near those locations took seriously enough to record. Not a symbol. Not an allegory. A thing that was believed to exist, with all the specificity that belief requires.
One of the things that gets lost in popular retellings of folklore is that the people who believed these things were not credulous or simple. They were paying close attention to a world that was genuinely dangerous and frequently inexplicable, and they were using the tools available to them to make sense of what they encountered. The Changeling belief, for example, is disturbing when examined from a modern perspective, but it is also a record of how communities attempted to understand and respond to children who changed suddenly and dramatically in ways that had no available medical explanation.
The Dullahan arrives without warning and cannot be bargained with, which is an accurate description of sudden death in a world without modern medicine. The Mester Stoorworm is a world-serpent whose body became the Scottish landscape, which is a creation story that encodes real geographical knowledge in a form that survives retelling. Bluecap guides miners toward safety in the dark, which is a way of saying that underground work required knowledge and attention and that the people who had it deserved recognition.
These are not primitive stories. They are intelligent responses to difficult realities, and reading them that way makes them considerably more interesting than treating them as curiosities.
This section currently covers folk tradition from across Britain and Ireland, with Scotland and the north particularly well represented in the early articles. Over time it will expand to cover folk belief from further afield, because the tradition of ordinary people generating extraordinary stories in response to the world around them is not limited to these islands.
The articles here are written to take the material seriously. The regional context is examined. The historical record is consulted where it exists. And the stories are treated as what they are: the record of how real people understood a world that was stranger and more dangerous than the one most of us now inhabit.
Browse the articles below. There is no right place to start.
Every December, greeting cards appear featuring a horned devil carrying a birch switch and a basket of naughty children, grinning […]
On the morning of 4 August 1577, the Reverend Abraham Fleming sat down and wrote about what had happened the
Between the 15th and 17th centuries, across France, Germany, and the Baltic states, people were tried, tortured, convicted, and executed
In 1752, Erik Pontoppidan, the Bishop of Bergen, published what he modestly called the first attempt at a natural history
The creature most people picture when they hear the word Wendigo has antlers. It is tall, skeletal, vaguely deer-like, and
At the end of the Battle of Mag Tuired, after the Tuatha De Danann had defeated the Fomorians and Ireland
Somewhere in Waterford, at a location known as Strongbow’s Tree, there is a grave. The tradition says a stone should
He appears at twilight, on a quiet road between settlements, in the kind of place where you might convince yourself
County Derry, Northern Ireland, sometime in the fifth or sixth century. A chieftain is dead. His subjects, who hated him
Look at Glasgow’s coat of arms long enough and you start to notice that it is telling a story. A