Mythology

Magpie mythology and internet lies

Posted on by Platypus Man

Magpies are unmistakeable. Members of the crow family, seen from a distance they are long-tailed birds with distinctive black and white plumage. Up close, however, the colouration is more subtle. In the right light a Eurasian magpie’s wing feathers take on a purplish-blue iridescent sheen, while the tail bears hints of a subtle glossy green. It’s a handsome bird, and also – in some circles – a controversial one.

Some people dislike magpies because they are noisy, raucous birds that posture and strut around gardens, parkland and fields, apparently believing themselves to be top bird. Others object to their omnivorous lifestyle, which can include raiding the nests of smaller birds and carrying off their eggs and chicks. And their reputation for stealing jewellery and other bright, shiny objects wins magpies few friends amongst their human neighbours.

However, while their fondness for scavenging and their bully-boy tendencies on the bird table make them unpopular with squeamish bird lovers, it is their alleged association with Satan that upsets others. Yes, that’s right, folklore tells us that magpies are in league with the Devil. According to this tradition, magpies refused to join the other birds in mourning at Christ’s crucifixion, thus marking themselves out as the Devil’s own.

The magpie’s supposed indifference to Jesus’ crucifixion is just one of a huge number of tales and superstitions that surround this striking bird. In the UK, one of the first nursery rhymes many children hear is about magpies. The rhyme references the birds’ association with prophecy, and is found in countless variations up and down the country. Here is just one of them:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl 
Four for a boy 
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told

So, according to this piece of folklore, the future that awaits you is indicated by the number of magpies you see. It’s a compelling part of our oral tradition, and I must confess that one day a little over a year ago – when a new baby was expected in our family – Mrs P and I happily counted the number of magpies we could see in order to predict the gender of the new-born. On the day in question we spotted three together in a field, and the baby, when born, was indeed a girl. Spooky!

The same nursery rhyme indicates that spotting a single magpie is a harbinger of bad luck. Again, this belief is deeply embedded within our culture. I clearly remember a former work colleague revealing that, when out for a drive in the countryside, he and his wife would wave vigorously to any lone magpies they spotted, because in so doing they were bidding farewell to ill-luck. 

Alternatively, to dissipate the impending misfortune associated with seeing a single magpie, you should point it out to someone else, presumably on the basis that bad luck shared is bad luck halved. And if there’s nobody else around to take on the burden, the best course of action is to salute the magpie with a cheery ‘’Good morning Mr Magpie, how is your lady wife today?’ in the hope that he will take pity on you!

How did a single magpie become associated with bad luck? One theory is that, as magpies mate for life, seeing one by itself may suggest that its partner has perished. The surviving magpie has therefore suffered bad luck, and associating with it may cause its bad luck to transfer to the observer. However, by asking after the welfare of the lone magpie’s wife you demonstrate your belief that his partner is alive and well, which, if true, means no bad luck awaits you.

As well as waving to a lone magpie, or asking after the health of his wife, there are other ways in which the bad luck might be avoided. These include raising your hat to the bird, spitting three times over your shoulder, blinking rapidly to fool yourself into thinking you’ve seen two magpies rather than one, and flapping your arms about wildly and cawing loudly to mimic the magpie’s missing mate. But be warned: most of these activities, if undertaken in public, are likely to result in ridicule, arrest or an enforced appointment with a psychiatrist.

This post barely scratches the surface of the superstitions surrounding magpies. Variations on the theme include the following:

  • In Scotland, a single magpie seen near a window warns of an impending death. However, in the county of Sussex a magpie perched on a house roof is a good sign, indicating that the roof isn’t about to cave in.
  • In Wales, if you see a magpie moving from left to right when you set off on a journey, that journey will be hazardous.
  • Yorkshire folk associate magpies with witchcraft, and when seeing one (a magpie that is, not a native of Yorkshire!) you should make the sign of the cross to ward off evil spirits.
  • According to tradition in the county of Dorset, if a fisherman sees a magpie before he sets sail he won’t catch any fish that day.
  • In Somerset it is advised that you carry an onion with you at all times to protect you from the bad luck a magpie may bring. (As an aside, while I cannot testify as to the veracity of this advice I will readily admit that during my working life I sometimes kept a bulb of garlic in my office to ward off the accountants. I’m pleased to say it seemed to work!)

Regular readers of my blog will know I have a passion for folk music, and it’s therefore a pleasure to share with you below a link to a song about magpies. The harmonies may be challenging, but the story told is highly relevant to this post. It was written around 50 years ago by a guy called Davey Dodds. The story goes that one day Davey gave an old lady a lift in his new car. Davey was bemused, and probably a little horrified, when the lady insisted on shrieking “Devil, devil, I defy thee”, and spitting on the floor of his Jaguar every time she saw a magpie. 

Intrigued, Davey looked into the mythology of magpies, and this song is the result. Its lyrics* reference some of the magpie superstitions I’ve written about in this post, and others that I haven’t had space to include. This version on YouTube was recorded in 2014 by a trio of singers called the BlueBirds.

At first glance, magpie mythology is totally out of place in our rational, comfortable, well ordered 21st century lives. I mean, it’s all a load of nonsense, isn’t it? Of course it is! But on the other hand, the mere fact that humans embraced these stories for millennia tells us a lot about our species. Our ancestors believed that magpies were the Devil’s disciples. Gullible, weren’t they?

Today, large sections of society enthusiastically embrace the conspiracy theories and other vile lies peddled relentlessly on the internet. Their need to feel good about themselves, their quest for certainty and their desperate desire for simple answers to complex questions leads them to believe stuff that is patently ridiculous, often downright dangerous and occasionally evil. Gullible, aren’t we?

* * * * * * *

* The complete lyrics to Davey Dodds’ song are as follows

Chorus (after every other verse)
One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for a girl and for for a boy,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret never told,
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.
Devil, devil, I defy thee.

Oh, the magpie brings us tidings
Of news both fair and foul;
She's more cunning than the raven,
More wise than any owl.

For she brings us news of the harvest
Of the barley, wheat and corn.
And she knows when we'll go to our graves
And how we shall be born.

She brings us joy when from the right,
Grief when from the left.
Of all the news that's in the air
We know to trust her best.

For she sees us at our labour,
And mocks us at our work.
And she steals the egg from out of the nest,
And she can mob the hawk.

The priest, he says we're wicked
To worship the devil's bird.
Ah, but we respect the old ways
And we disregard his word.

For we know they rest uneasy
As we slumber in the night.
And we'll always leave a little bit of meat
For the bird that's black and white.

On the road again…First stop, the Kelpies!

Posted on by Platypus Man

At last, after a gap of nearly four years due to the Covid pandemic, we’re heading back to Scotland. Our final destination is Orkney – our favourite place in the whole world – but during the long drive north there’s time to stop off at some other Scottish highlights. And those highlights don’t come much higher than the Kelpies, reputed to be the largest equine sculptures in the world

“The Kelpies” by Andy Scott (born 1964)

Dating from 2013/14, the monumental steel sculptures by artist Andy Scott stand 30 metres (100 feet) high, and weigh in at more than 300 tonnes each. They are made up of an extraordinary 34,566 separate pieces, including 7,918 huck bolts (whatever they are!) and 928 steel skin plates. The pieces took a whole year to manufacture, and the final assembly of the sculptures took 90 days.

The Kelpies tower over the Forth and Clyde Canal

According to Scottish folk mythology, a kelpie is a dangerous shape-shifting creature that lives in water but can also appear on land – close to a river, of course – as a grey or white pony. In designing his sculptures Andy Scott imagined two Kelpies emerging from a river in the form of horses. His sketch (below) shows how the now familiar heads of his two creations relate to the whole animals.

Andy Scott’s vision of kelpies emerging from the water

Folklore tells us that children in particular are attracted to these cute equine critters. But therein lurks a terrifying danger, for if anyone tries to ride one, the animal’s sticky magical hide will not allow them to dismount! The Kelpie then carries its victim into the river and eats him. Worse still, Kelpies are very sneaky and may also appear in human form, materializing as pretty young women in an attempt to lure lustful men to their deaths – see below how this played out in the gratuitously salacious imagination of artist Herbert James Draper (1863 – 1920). Or they might take on the form of a human mugger, laying in wait by the river until a passer-by is close enough to ambush, capture and kill.

IMAGE CREDIT: “The Kelpie” (1913) by Herbert James Draper, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Fortunately Kelpies have an Achilles heel, a weak spot that enables humans to subdue them. To overcome a Kelpie you must grab hold of its bridle, at which point it will fall under your command. Captive Kelpies are prized for their immense strength and endurance. Having been transformed from malevolent spirits into compliant draught animals, they can be harnessed to safely carry passengers or to haul vast loads.

This Kelpie dwarfs a passer-by!

Scott’s sculptures are modelled on a real life beast-of-burden, the iconic Clydesdale horse. These magnificent draught animals played a key role in the early days of Scotland’s industrial revolution, hauling barges and wagons laden with raw materials and manufactured goods to where they were needed. To ensure his sculptures captured the essence of Clydesdale horses Scott worked closely with two local animals called Duke and Baron (see below), and is reported to have developed a close relationship with them.

Helix Park near Falkirk in the central Scottish lowlands, where Scott’s sculptures are to be found, is no stranger to Clydesdales. The Forth and Clyde Canal runs through the Park, and Clydesdale horses must once have been a familiar sight trudging wearily along its banks hauling monstrously heavy barges. Scott’s sculpture pays due homage to their heroic efforts, as well as reflecting a fascinating part of Scottish folklore.

Inside a Kelpie!

Andy Scott has done a great job, creating two stunning, monumental sculptures that are deeply embedded in Scottish history and mythology. As well as viewing them from afar, this time we signed up for a special tour which took us inside one of them and enabled us to better appreciate the huge creative and engineering effort that went into making these vast sculptures. I’m so pleased that we broke our journey north to re-acquaint ourselves with the Kelpies, which are unquestionably amongst my favourite pieces of public art in the UK.

Andy Warhol, the Devil and unexpected virgins: the story of Chesterfield’s crooked spire

Posted on by Platypus Man

Andy Warhol is said to have observed that in the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.  By extension it might be argued that everywhere will be famous too, that each and every place under the sun will become well-known for something, albeit in most cases something rather insignificant. Chesterfield, for example, is famous for the crooked spire that graces its medieval church, but for little else.

Chesterfield, for the uninitiated, is a town in the north of my home county of Derbyshire. Home to around 100,000 people, for the most part it’s a pleasant though unremarkable place. The coal industry that once dominated the landscape and economy of this part of Derbyshire is all gone now, and today Chesterfield’s role is primarily as a service centre for the surrounding area.

Bizarrely, just as I was about to start writing this post, a news report popped up in my inbox declaring that, according to a recent survey, Chesterfield is the happiest place to live in the whole of the English East Midlands. Really? I worked there for a couple of years in the late 1980s and don’t recall it being unusually joyful. But maybe the outbreak of local happiness coincided with my departure? Sounds plausible!

Reading the newspaper report more closely, I see that even some of the local residents query the accuracy of this accolade. Objectively, I suspect most unbiased observers would regard Chesterfield as memorably unmemorable, were it not for the iconic architectural imperfection otherwise known as the parish church of St Mary and All Saints.

Completed around the year 1360, St Mary’s and All Saints is Derbyshire’s largest church. It’s famed for its unusual crooked spire, which leans 9 feet 5 inches (nearly 3 metres) from true.  To be clear, this is not an eccentrically flamboyant design statement…the spire is meant to point straight up, like every other church spire in the known universe.

So what went wrong? The traditional explanation is that it was built with green, unseasoned timbers, which warped over time. But that can’t be it. Builders in the Middle Ages were accustomed to using used green timber, and would have made allowances to cope with it.

A more convincing explanation is that the spire’s 32 tonnes of lead tiles were simply too heavy. According to this theory the sheer weight of the tiles, combined with the failure to use cross-bracing, caused the spire to twist and lean alarmingly.

The omission of cross-bracing has been blamed on the Black Death, a plague that swept through the country between 1348 and 1350. If the experienced craftsmen working on the new Chesterfield church were killed by the disease, the spire may have been finished by unskilled builders to whom the concept of cross-bracing was totally unknown.

Accurate though this explanation may be, it’s disappointingly boring. Unsurprisingly, local folklore offers some more entertaining possibilities. One of these tells that the Devil was resting on the spire, where he was able to keep his balance only by wrapping his tail around it. However the smell of holy incense from inside the church offended him so much that he sneezed violently, jerking his tail in the process and causing the spire to twist.

A second explanation also blames the Devil. Old Nick was resting up on the church spire, his tail tightly wrapped around it while planning mischief and mayhem. In fear for the souls of his fellow townsfolk, one brave man rushed to the church, determined to warn everyone by ringing the church bells. The din was cacophonous. Taken totally by surprise, a shocked Devil lost his balance and toppled from the spire, twisting it as he plunged to the ground.

A third local legend once again points the finger of suspicion at the Devil According to this story, Satan was resting on the spire, tail wrapped round it in the now familiar manner. Looking below, he noticed a wedding about to take place in the church. On closer inspection he realised that the bride was a virgin, an occurrence so surprising in Chesterfield that he fainted from shock. As the unconscious Devil hurtled towards the ground his tail, still wrapped around the spire, twisted it into its current shape.

The fourth theory lets the Devil off the hook, and instead puts the blame squarely on the healthy sexual appetite of Chesterfield residents. According to this version, a virgin got married in St Mary’s, and the church itself was so surprised that its spire turned around to get a better look at such a rare specimen. The legend continues that if another virgin ever marries in the church, the spire will return to its original form again. Don’t hold your breath, folks!

Further explanations for the origin of Chesterfield’s crooked spire are available if you care to look, most of them involving the Devil or unexpected virgins. A definitive, agreed version, doesn’t seem likely to emerge any time soon. However, one thing is beyond dispute: the locals have taken this quirky architectural blunder to their hearts.

For example the local professional soccer team, Chesterfield Town FC, are known to fans as the Spireites, while over the years various local businesses have referred to the crooked spire in their branding and promotions. And who can blame them? Chesterfield’s crooked spire is a spectacular sight, and ensures that an otherwise rather unexceptional town enjoys its 15 minutes of fame. Andy Warhol would be impressed.

The magic of bluebells

Posted on by Platypus Man

I do not think I have ever seen anything more beautiful than the bluebell I have been looking at.  I know the beauty of our Lord by it.  Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1899)

The celebrated English Victorian poet Gerard Manley Hopkins clearly loved his bluebells. We do too, and one of our treats every spring is to seek out some local bluebell woods where we can enjoy them in all their majesty. That wasn’t possible in 2020 due to the Covid restrictions, so this year, as soon as government rules and the weather conditions permitted, we made a beeline for the gardens at Renishaw Hall. We weren’t disappointed! 

Renishaw Hall and Gardens can be found in the north-east corner of our home county of Derbyshire. I wrote briefly about their history in this post last year. Renishaw is famed for its stunning formal gardens, laid out in 1895 by Sir George Sitwell (1860-1943) in the classical Italianate style. However, wonderful though these are, it is the bluebell-rich woodland that is our favourite springtime feature at Renishaw. It’s an area known as Broxhill Wood, although on a map of the estate dating from the 18th century it’s referred to as the Little Old Orchard.

With their drooping habit and deep violet-blue colouring, bluebells are distinctive residents of woodlands throughout the length and breadth of the country. They go under various evocative names including Cuckoo’s Boots, Wood Hyacinth, Lady’s Nightcap, Witches’ Thimbles, Wood Bell and Bell Bottle.

They’re also referred to as the English Bluebell to distinguish them from the Spanish variety, which is available to buy from garden centres. The two species are subtly different: Spanish bluebells grow upright, with the flowers all around the stem, not drooping to one side like the English version. The Spanish species is a more vigorous plant, and may constitute a long-term threat to our more delicate native flower by out-competing or hybridising with it.

Bluebells are found all across Britain except Shetland, and although they’re also present in Western Europe the UK accounts for around half the world’s population of this beautiful bulb. Woodlands carpeted by masses of bluebells are magical features of the British countryside in late April and May, and have inspired generations of poets and writers. Here’s what the author Graham Joyce (1954-2014) had to say about them: 

The bluebells made such a pool that the earth had become like water, and all the trees and bushes seemed to have grown out of the water. And the sky above seemed to have fallen down on to the earth floor; and I didn’t know if the sky was the earth or the earth was water. I had been turned upside down. I had to hold the rock with my fingernails to stop me falling into the sky of the earth or the water of the sky. But I couldn’t hold on.

As Graham Joyce implies, bluebells are a bold, unmistakable presence in the British landscape, so it’s no surprise that a rich folklore has grown up around them. Bluebell woods are believed to be enchanted, fairies using them to lure unwary travellers into their nether world and trap them there. The bells are said to ring out when fairies summon their kin to a gathering, but if humans hear them death will surely follow. And, of course, fairies are by their nature capricious beings, so when you visit a bluebell wood it’s best not to trample on any of their precious blooms. You have been warned!

On a slightly different note, folk tradition has it that wearing a garland of bluebells will induce you to speak only the truth. This, of course, is why you will never see a politician bedecked with bluebells.

Our ancestors found various practical applications for bluebells. Their sticky sap was once used in bookbinding because it would repel attacks by insects, and in early times it was also used to glue the feathers onto the shaft of an arrow. Herbalists prescribed bluebells to help prevent nightmares, and as a treatment for snakebites and leprosy – perhaps a somewhat misguided course of action, given that the plant is poisonous.

The bluebell is traditionally associated with St George, England’s patron saint, probably because it starts to bloom around his feast day on 23rd April. In reality, the flower’s connection with England is much stronger than that of George himself. Bluebells have been found throughout the country at least since the last ice age, whereas the celebrated saint never actually visited these shores (the historical St George was born in Turkey in the late 3rd century CE, and died in Palestine in 303 CE.) 

The connection between St George and bluebells may be somewhat tenuous, but the popularity of the flower here is beyond dispute. In a 2002 national survey organised by the charity Plantlife, the bluebell was voted Britain’s favourite flower. So overwhelming was its victory that voting for bluebells was banned in a repeat of the research in 2004.

The popularity of bluebells is such that they are protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act (1981). This prohibits anyone digging up the plant or bulb from the countryside, and landowners are similarly prevented from removing bluebells from their private land with a view to selling them. Trading in wild bluebell bulbs and seeds is an offence.

Bluebells are an enchanting, iconic part of the British countryside at springtime, and have clearly captured our collective imagination.  To put it crudely, we Brits just can’t get enough bluebells. Let’s give Anne Brontë (1820-1849), the notable Victorian novelist and poet, the final word on their very special charms:

The Bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power. 

There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.