Myths Of Great Britain. - Printable Version +- Rogue-Nation3 (https://rogue-nation3.com) +-- Forum: The Conspiracy Corner (https://rogue-nation3.com/forum-35.html) +--- Forum: Cryptozoology (https://rogue-nation3.com/forum-39.html) +--- Thread: Myths Of Great Britain. (/thread-6689.html) |
RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 04-11-2021 (04-11-2021, 01:19 PM)gordi Wrote: Hi @BIAD,Interesting... I will look further into it. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - Ninurta - 04-12-2021 My ma's people were little dark Welshmen. Her pa was a coal miner, and had 40 years in the mines under his belt, following tradition I suppose, even across the intervening ocean. I've never heard this tale before, but it causes me to cast a jaundiced eye at my Welsh ancestry... why did no one think to pull the beastie up a short ramp and onto a wagon or cart, anything with wheels? had they done so, that poor ox might not have had to sacrifice an eye to save all of the valley and most of Wales! For my money, that poor dumb brutish beast of an ox was the hero of the tale, despite the squabbling Welshmen vying for primacy. None of THEM popped an eyeball for the homeland! . RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 04-13-2021 (04-12-2021, 10:33 PM)Ninurta Wrote: My ma's people were little dark Welshmen. Her pa was a coal miner, and had 40 years in the mines under his belt, following tradition I suppose, even across the intervening ocean. I've never heard this tale before, but it causes me to cast a jaundiced eye at my Welsh ancestry... why did no one think to pull the beastie up a short ramp and onto a wagon or cart, anything with wheels? had they done so, that poor ox might not have had to sacrifice an eye to save all of the valley and most of Wales! The half-blind ox did get a lake named after it... so I suppose that's something. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - F2d5thCav - 04-13-2021 (04-13-2021, 09:10 AM)BIAD Wrote:@BIAD(04-12-2021, 10:33 PM)Ninurta Wrote: My ma's people were little dark Welshmen. Her pa was a coal miner, and had 40 years in the mines under his belt, following tradition I suppose, even across the intervening ocean. I've never heard this tale before, but it causes me to cast a jaundiced eye at my Welsh ancestry... why did no one think to pull the beastie up a short ramp and onto a wagon or cart, anything with wheels? had they done so, that poor ox might not have had to sacrifice an eye to save all of the valley and most of Wales! Is that where we get oxbow lakes from? Cheers RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 05-14-2021 On Page 2 of this thread, there was an article involving this phenomena of Ireland... Here's a chat between three people, where two have done far-more investigation into the lough monsters. There's an interesting comment regarding the name 'Horse Eel' that could've been a corruption of the title 'Horse Seal'. It's an interesting chat. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 07-02-2021 I haven't done one of these in a while, but here's a tale you might like considering the recent G7 meeting near there. The 'Morgawr' legend has been ripped to pieces because of one Tony 'Doc' Shiels, an old man from the Manchester area of England and now sees out his twilight years in the quiet village of Ponsanooth, Cornwall. Shiels was a magician in the county and late became a bit of an author. The only down-side was that the subject he wrote about, were things that the more practical of us would scoff at. In the seventies and with the aid of some naked witches, Doc attempted to bring Cornwall's version of Nessie to the surface He called it Morgawr and for the summer, the media ate it up. During his 'golden time', Mr Shiels also reported on the Owlman of Mawnan that was scaring folk in a churchyard. Doc even went to Loch Ness and offered two distinct photographs that he captured, to the Press. But even though they'd publish his images, they just didn't trust him as authentic. Here's Doc's pair of Nessie photos. .............................................................................. Quote:The day a sea monster 'half-mermaid half-whale' washed up on Porthleven beachCornwall Live: RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 08-06-2021 There was a tune I recalled from my school-days called 'Widecombe Fair' (pronounced wid-ee-comb) and too-long ago, I looked-up the lyrics of the Devon folk song. I'm not from that area of England, but the words in the verse -names of certain men and always in order, were supposedly people going to the fair in the little village on Dartmoor and that list has always stuck with me. "Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all." But there was one name that would never appear in that list of Widecombe residents, and that was Jan Reynolds. By all accounts, Reynolds was a bad man and someone who the more fairer residents of Widecombe in the Moor knew to steer clear of. Known for his heavy bouts of drinking, womanising and gambling, the rough young tin miner found that his wild lifestyle was catching up with him and to solve the problem of being always short of money to sustain his behaviour, he made a pact with the Devil. For the price of his soul, Jan Reynolds acquired a pot of gold and with his debts paid, he continued to frolic in his merriment. The years passed by and the little hamlet continued to be a playground for the rowdy roughneck. But accounts always need to be settled and when it comes to the King of Hell, nobody gets a pass. One Sunday morning, those of Widecombe who prefer to not listen to the threats of damnation from the pulpit, often took to visiting the little tavern called The Tavistock Inn. Far enough away from the church, the local men could sate their thirsts and and chew the cud without a Priest clucking indignantly at their conduct. But this particular warm Sunday, The Tavistock Inn would receive a new guest to try their ale. The sound of galloping grew louder to those idling near the doorway and seeking an answer to who would be hurriedly visiting their quiet little village, some of the men looked out into the morning sunlight. The horse was huge and the colour of midnight and with sparks spitting from its hooves, the wide-eyed steed was brought to a halt by its rider. Dismounting, the patrons of the Inn could see the stranger wore attire the same hue as his mount. Head-to-toe, all black and all wrapped in a menacing air. Without a word, the tall newcomer purposefully strode into the tavern and stood silently at the counter, whilst surveying the gawking men looking back. The landlady, forever looking for custom, poured the stoic stranger a tankard of ale which he promptly paid for with a gold coin. With stares of astonishment, the surrounding men were amazed to see such a sum of money and offered features of alarm as they also heard a sizzling noise coming from the stranger's throat as he quaffed his brew. With one final look around the bar the man in black finished his drink and strode out. As the sound of galloping hooves faded, one of the locals asked to see the stranger's gold coin and so the landlady reached into her cash box. To her and the boozing men's bewilderment, she found only a few pennies and a pile of dry, withered leaves where she had put the golden guinea. .................................................. The church of St Pancras -a hallowed building that proudly boasted a 120-foot granite tower, found on the same day that the local Inn had been visited by the stranger, the shadow of Jan Reynolds staining the gravel path to its entrance. The care-free rogue had his eye on a certain church-going milkmaid and enduring a sermon of how sin wasn't a virtue, Reynolds believed was a small price to pay for a possible tumble in the hay. Ignoring the warnings of burning in the flames of perdition, Jan passed the time by idly playing with a pack of cards. The Vicar's lecture of everlasting torment droned on and soon the young tin miner's eyelids grew heavy. Not long after he fell alseep. Then a sudden flash of lightening lit-up the windows of the church. A loud crack of thunder announced a storm had arrived in the village of Widecombe and moments later, dust and debris showered down on the screaming congregation from the church's ornate roof bosses that decorated the interior of the tower. The Devil had arrived. Without announcement, Lucifer strode over to where the sleeping figure of Jan Reynolds was and picked him up. Some witnesses later reported that the Dark Lord crushed Reynolds' skull to a pulp before flying back up to the hole in the belfry. Outside, the fleeing parishioners look towards the roof of St Pancras and saw the Devil's wild-looking mount tethered to one of the churches pinnacles. With total disregard for his audience below, the Antichrist threw the tin miner's body across the horse's neck and then leapt on the animals back. Tearing away part of the stone spire, the Devil rode off across the sky, leaving the terrified people evading the falling rubble. Those who weren't at church that day, reported that they saw the ominous figure of Lucifer passing over Birch Tor Mine and climbing higher into the storm clouds. As the tempest abated, four playing cards belonging to Jan Reynolds fell from his pocket and fluttered down onto the moor, east of the Birch Tor Mine. The imprints of where the four aces landed can still be seen today and stand as a warning to those who dare to gamble in church. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 08-20-2021 Here's one I've never heard of before. Weird! The Isle of Wight is known for many strange tales. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - Ninurta - 08-21-2021 (08-20-2021, 05:06 PM)BIAD Wrote: Here's one I've never heard of before. Isle of Wight? As I recall from game of Thrones, "wights" are sort of undead zombies... A Wail? Like the Mexican la Llorona? Or an Irish Bhean-sidhe? Out from under a bridge? Like a troll? "I am all colors" - even the ones we can't see? Hmm? "Fay" and her father both having encounters - I have read that some families tend to have these experiences run in the family, used as evidence to support the notion that genetic experimentation is going on, running through generations of the same families. I am reminded by this of the "creepy clown hysteria" we had here about 4 or 5 years ago, where people were claiming to see creepy clowns everywhere. . RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 08-21-2021 (08-21-2021, 03:25 AM)Ninurta Wrote: Isle of Wight? As I recall from game of Thrones, "wights" are sort of undead zombies... Sam, The Sandown Clown. Location: Near Shanklin & Sandown Golf Club on the Isle of Wight, England and the rarely-used Sandown Airport. Date: Spring 1973. Time: Late afternoon. Humanoid description. Two arms, two legs, head, hands and torso all average for a human. Body said to look slim or thin. ------------------------------------------ Height: Over six-and-a-half foot tall (2 metres). ------------------------------------------ Head: Described as being too large considering shoulders and spherical-shaped. ------------------------------------------ Hair: Reddish-brown strands from beneath hat. When hat was removed, scalp slightly bald. ------------------------------------------ Ears: Two, white and round. ------------------------------------------ Facial Features: 'Poorly-painted' two blue triangles for eyes, brown triangle for nose and mouth with thin yellow lips. Mouth did not move whilst speaking. Round markings were observed on cheeks. ------------------------------------------ Hands: 'Paper' colour -same as head, but sported dark-blue gloves. Only three fingers on each hand. ------------------------------------------ Feet: bare. Three toes. ------------------------------------------ Feeding Habits: Drank water from nearby stream after 'cleaning it' and ate berries by placing fruit in an ear and 'juggling' the food around inside its head until it reached an unseen interior area. Berry was seen in eye aperture. ------------------------------------------ Attire: Tall pointed yellow hat with black protuberance on point. Assumed 'wooden antennae' on each side of hat. Clothes were a high-collared, one-piece suit of red and green. Legs and sleeves described as 'frilly' with thin, narrow pieces of wood protruding from beneath sleeves and leggings of the suit. No neck visible as collar and hat seemed connected like a hood. Clothing slightly tattered. Trousers were reported as white. ------------------------------------------ Behaviour: Friendly and slightly shy. Admitted it avoided human contact. When running, used a high-kneed hopping gait. When followed back to its assumed home, the entity alarmed the children with a loud siren-sound and afterwards asked via a microphone (with attached wire and speaker): "Are you still here?". Which is surprising considering the sight of the witnesses was obvious. ------------------------------------------ Speech: Spoke English, accent unstated. Reportedly described itself as 'all colours' and not human. However, suggested when asked if it was a ghost: ' "Well, not really, but I am in an odd sort of way." Reportedly titled itself 'Sam'. When asked about the state of its damaged 'clothes', the entity replied that was because these clothes were all it had. All other questions were answered with "You know." The entity added at some point that it had another 'secret camp' on the English mainland. Notable Function: It could write in English using a pencil and paper. ------------------------------------------ Equipment: A microphone or tannoy system, through which it spoke for a short time. Believed to be the source of the ambulance-like siren heard by the children. (UK Ambulance siren in 1973 different from US, a factor that is important as children recognised the sound.) A book, which was dropped into the stream and later used to name itself. (Scrawled in the book seen by the girl-witness as: “Hello and I am all colours, Sam.”) Since we're assured the witnesses were English, the use of the 'U' in the word 'colour' is relevant to how this supposed entity thought and why no comment of the lack of the letter was later emphasised. ------------------------------------------ Habitat: A two story hut -Often perceived as a 'Nissen Hut' and similar to Quonset hut in the United States. A prefabricated steel structure once used by the military in WWI and II. Regularly found at airfields. Style of building. Windowless and access was through 'a flap' in the side of building. The children needed to crawl through to gain access. Located in a wooded area close to a lake (probably a flooded pond from river Yar). Walls of lower-room were papered with blue-green dial patterns and whose floors were metallic. Upper-floor bare with metal floor. The hut also contained rough wooden furniture which was described as being similar to a table and a set of chairs. Also an electric heater. ------------------------------------------ A later inspection of the location by adults found no building or evidence of a construction. Nearby workmen during the alleged incident claimed to have not heard or seen anything unusual that day. ------------------------------------------ Assumption: Not enough first-hand facts and has a hint of modern-day influence. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - Ninurta - 08-21-2021 Oops. Wrong thread. Still searching for the right one. Need... more... coffee... , . RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 08-21-2021 (08-21-2021, 06:34 PM)Ninurta Wrote: Oops. Wrong thread. Still searching for the right one. Need... more... coffee... There's a freshly-made pot just over near... oh, sorry. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 12-06-2021 Oh goodie-goodie!!! I found one originally made in 1974. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 03-23-2022 Some of our Rogue members may have read my tales regarding the Last Witch of Underhill called Peggy Powler. I've mentioned it a couple of times, but due to other connections to the bare-footed sorceress name's origins, I will relate it once more. But the yarn below holds the diadem of not only being true, it nudges to the reader that linkages can take one into realms never mused on when first setting foot on the track of investigation. Wikipedia would tell you, 'Peg Powler' is a water-spirit that is supposed to dwell in England's North-East River Tees, a place close to my current abode. Accused of the usual tricks performed by river-hags, Peg Powler will snatch children who stray too-close to the fast-running waters or the slow deeper parts of the river. Folklore says this weed-festooned harridan has a sister or daughter who lurks in a tributary of the Tees called Nanny Powler. If true, this aquatic kiddie-grabbing relative is now waiting for her prey only a hundred feet from where I type as I can see the River Skerne from the roof of Boy In A Dress' garden shed! So I took a name that -to myself, smacked of an every-day, blue-collar-type of title for a regular person who travelled a rustic agrarian land and interacted with magic and the mundane lives of country-folk. But looking back on the name of the little Witch in my stories, the river where the primary creature inhabited held other tales that were littered with better prose than I could ever disgorge! When I was a kid of around eight or nine (Jeez, that's well over half-a-century ago!), my friend and I decided to create for a school project, the Coat of Arms of our town via the use of paper-mache, basically a mixture of glue and paper. But before we could even start tearing-up strips of the newspaper I would eventually work for, we needed to do something we had only thought grown-ups did, something called 'research'. Darlington's Coat Of Arms. Through the rare act of fact-finding in books written by-and-for adults, my friend and I discovered a world of the magic that most children would believe only existed in their small, poorly-constructed and perilous environs. Flying reptilian creatures that tore flesh and ravaged kingdoms, cruel conniving people who found wicked ends to their lives for their behaviour and wealthy Elites who ruled through the power of knowing how to herd a population with the correct wordage. But in our goal to identify the parts of our Coat of Arms, we came across a monster that -even today, watches with blood-red eyes from the walls of my town's seventies-style Council Hall. The sword-damaged 'Dragon' in my town's crest is classified as a Wyvern and on the opposite side of the dexter, a crowned lion that is a representation of nobility and royalty. Being of a certain age, the Wyvern piqued our interest as -seeing the strange -looking weapon jutting from its shoulder, hinted something had happened locally that our ex-WWII airman-of-a-teacher had not told us about. So instead of racing out into the surrounding woodlands -a regular dido for a weekend, myself and my fellow-finder struck out to visit a place uncommon for working-class kids who constantly smelled of wild herbage and knee-injury ointment. Those grown-ups I mentioned, call it a 'Library'. ................................................. The simplified tale we initially learned was that where the River Tees left the built-up areas of my town, a monster roamed the heavy woodland that corridored the peaty waters towards a village a few miles away. At the time of reading, we did not know that this little quiet hamlet held a different boast of its own, that of being the residence of a Deacon's eldest son called Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. This intelligent lad would grow up to leave his picturesque home in Croft-on-Tees, change his name and scribe an outlandish children's novel titled 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland'. Back to the beastie. The Wyvern was -as Peggy Powler would suggest, being a bit-of-a-bugger! It was eating livestock and terrorising the peasantry who tugged at their caps whenever nobility rode by and snootishly ignored their hardships. A Wyvern is different from a Dragon as it has only two legs instead of four, sports leathery-wings and was not known for breathing fire, but holds a highly-toxic poison in its breath. Then a local -and probably handsome, young man who was also taking an apprenticeship as a Knight, decided to take matters into his own hands and relieve the simple-minded hayseeds of their scaly dilemma. Using a long curved-blade sword (that one tale stated it came from 'The' Crusade!), called a Falchion, this Chuck-Norris-type was said to have dispatched the evil serpent and probably swept up a flaxen-haired village damsel in his strong arms for good measure. Of course, not appreciating what our hormones had in-mind for us further own the road, we breathed a different type of lust towards the wonder of monsters and mystery that the tale betokened. Maybe even then, Roswell was already whispering to this young lad who'd one day find a place called 'Rogue Nation'?! ................................................. Nice yarn for the tourists and the children, but the real world doesn't work like that. Whatever wing-flapping monstrosity was on that Coat of Arms must've had a rational reason for being there. Sh*te like 'Ancient Aliens' and 'Mermaids: The Body Found' hadn't even been imagined when the emblem was first designed. So as blood-pumping puberty subsided and employment became a regular girlfriend, I took a peek back into that building where ledgers of discombobulations collected dust along with their kin, journals of enchantment. Sockburn was a village just down-river from where Lewis Carroll giggled and played around the gravestones of his father's parish of Croft-on-Tees. I say was, as it's been long deserted with only the remains of a church and a mansion can still be glimpsed. Heck, even the Google-Map van can't get there! But let's remain in the past where the sun always shone and 'Stealth-Omicron' was an expletive an angry farmer may exclaim after discovering that the straw-chewing young man fleeing across his recently-ploughed field had just stolen his darling-daughter's maidenhood in a nearby orchard. Where the River Tees doubles-back on itself, the quaint community of Sockburn worked the lands of the local patricians, a wealthy family known as the Conyers. The Conyers had been granted the rich acreage by Ranulf Flambard, a medieval Norman Bishop of Durham during the reign of the king Henry III of England. It seemed the powerful Barons of the country had been giving him some hassle and to deter their disgruntled demeanour, the rich agricultural lands were to be checked to see that family lineage equalled the right to own them. A ritual that is still performed to this day -the Falchion sword is handed to every new Prince-Bishop of Durham from a representative (usually the Mayor of Durham) of the Conyers family and serves to commemorate the deistic-changeover. The rite was to assure the landowners of the time of the Wyvern's slaying that their ownership of their vast properties had tradition connected to the powerful Church and ergo, a bearing in the settled customs of the region. Observance like this was important because at the time, the lands around England were being coveted by the King and his favourites and disturbing the attitude of the Church could bring genuine problems in the game of social-control. ................................................. Alas, the story of the 'Sockburn Worm' and Sir John Conyers was to be overshadowed by another slimy-coiled brute that terrorised the rural communities of North-East England, the Lambton Worm. Our two-legged reptile fell into obscurity and for its noble slayer -Sir John, he was later buried on the forgotten grounds of Sockburn Chapel and his descendants died-out alongside the community of the village. Just like the wicked Wyvern, the land was carved-up and we have what we have today. The remains of the church and Sir John Conyers tomb. (Notice the Wyvern and faithful dog at his feet.) Sir John's battle with the poisonous beast is documented in the Bowes Museum, situated in the market town of Barnard Castle in County Durham. "Sr John Conyers, Knt. slew yt monstrous and poysonous vermine or wyverne, who overthrew and devoured many people in fight, for that ye sent of yt poison was so strong yt no person might abyde it. And by ye providence of Almighty God this John Connyers, Kt, overthrew ye saide monster, and slew it. But before he made this enterprise, having but one sonne, he went to the Church of Sockburne in compleate armour, and offered up yt his onely sonne to ye Holy Ghost. yt place where this great serpent laye was called Graystane; and as it is written in ye same manuscript, this John lieth buried in Sockburne Church in compleat armour before the Conquest. The noted sword ended-up in a glass display and kept in the Treasury of Durham Cathedral in the city of Durham. But what happened to the horrid Wyvern's body...? In the Lambton Worm tale, the serpentine torso had to be chopped up and cast into the fast currents of the River Wear in order to stop the beast from reforming. It seems the Sockburn Worm held no such powers and so just like its aristocratic killler, one would assume the monster would've passed into history without a by your leave. Well.. remember the little kid running around the graveyard of Croft-on-Tees? Charles Dodgson grew-up and with his parents wishing to further his education, he moved to Rugby school in Warwickshire, England. To us now, Charles became Lewis Carroll and took pen to paper to write a strange poem called 'Stanza of Anglo-Saxon Poetry' where the words described an odd creature that many would assume was simply from an expressive imagination. "Twas bryllyg, and ye slythy toves Did gyre and gymble in ye wabe: All mimsy were ye borogoves; And ye mome raths outgrabe..." Appearing in the book 'Through the Looking Glass', it was about The Jabberwocky. The Wyvern -that was to be moulded from sticky newspaper and painted by a pair of sixties children for a Coat of Arms-project, now had a real name. Sir John Conyers had brought the sinewy-body low, but failed to rid the world of its memory. Carroll had escaped with the Wyvern in his heart and wincing from the pain delivered by the Falchion sword, the beast had vowed to itself that it would not go quietly into the night. Somewhere beneath the rubble of a torn-down North-East Junior school, lies a chunk of chipboard with scuffed paper-mache glued to it. The Jabberwocky lives in Carroll's immortal words and under that child-scrawled debris too. Now, blinking at you -the dear reader, it's here as well. The Jabberwocky. RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - Rodinus - 03-23-2022 (03-23-2022, 02:38 PM)BIAD Wrote: Some of our Rogue members may have read my tales regarding the Last Witch of Underhill called Peggy Powler. Ey up lad? So you live next to the mucky Skerne? Although I was brought up in Harrogate I was born at Greenbanks hospital in Darlington... RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - WonderCow - 03-23-2022 I wonder if the Wyrm has anything to do with sword dancing being so popular up there? RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 03-23-2022 (03-23-2022, 04:18 PM)WonderCow Wrote: I wonder if the Wyrm has anything to do with sword dancing being so popular up there? Well I'd guess there'd be some connection since a trusty sword and a celebration would be indicative of this types of folklore! RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 03-23-2022 (03-23-2022, 04:15 PM)Rodinus Wrote: Ey up lad? So was I!! RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - Rodinus - 03-23-2022 (03-23-2022, 04:24 PM)BIAD Wrote:(03-23-2022, 04:15 PM)Rodinus Wrote: Ey up lad? Coincidence or what! June 1966 RE: Myths Of Great Britain. - BIAD - 03-23-2022 (03-23-2022, 04:32 PM)Rodinus Wrote:(03-23-2022, 04:24 PM)BIAD Wrote:(03-23-2022, 04:15 PM)Rodinus Wrote: Ey up lad? December 1960. |