Claire Barrand's Blog, page 3

Wind of The Dead Men’s Feet

In Wales, the tradition of burying the Dead with their feet facing East was probably more prevalent than anywhere else in the world.People who live in remote districts would often proclaim to know the “moods of the mountains” around them, and many superstitions were based on these.The moods of the mountains placed specific meaning to the wind, and a cold East wind would be seen to be a sorrowful sign. Referred to in old Welsh as “Gwynt traed y meirw” which means “wind of the dead men’s feet”, the superstition refers to the wind which comes from the direction of which the feet of the dead point. In Wales people were traditionally buried with their feet pointing to the East.Many women especially would dread the East wind, and in Anglesey, they would stay indoors when the wind blew from that direction. The reason for this fear of the wind is unclear. However, we might assume it is for a similar reason as to why there are many superstitions and folklore tales of death returning to claim another victim. Some other related beliefs we can compare this to include;the corpse should always leave home feet first or else the corpse would be looking back and calling for someone to follow him in death.It is unlucky to go ahead of the funeral procession – death will follow if you do.Coins would be placed over the eyes of the corpse to keep them from opening. If they remained open, they believed the body would be looking for a follower, and another death will occur.There are many suggestions as to the reason why people were buried in this way. Most people attach it to the Christian symbolism because the east is the direction of Jerusalem and before the second coming the dead will be resurrected on Judgement Day and so must be facing Christ when this happens.Ordained priests would be buried the opposite way with their feet facing West so that they would be facing their flock when the dead rise. If a person were deemed to be a sinner – for example, hanged criminals or suicide victims they would also be deliberately buried with their heads facing North or upside down as they incurred a debt on society to be paid on Judgement day.The custom may well pre-date Christianity however because the Pagans buried their dead to face the rising sun and the line of the suns path is east to west. Pagans faced the East in prayer and constructed their temples facing East to meet the rising Sun. In rural parts of England, it was the custom in ancient times to remark at the funeral service:"The dead may go wi’ the sun."Sir Walter Raleigh referred to this superstition when he stood on the scaffold and was about to be executed. After forgiving his executioner, there was a discussion as to the way he should face, some saying he should face the east. Raleigh then remarked:"So the heart be straight it is no matter which way the head lieth."Not all cemeteries will be found to honor this tradition as many have merely had to maximize the use of the land in any way they can. In 2012 a news report (link) said that some concerned residents in Aberystwyth approached their local councilor about their concerns that bodies were being buried facing the wrong direction in a town cemetery.It should be noted that there are many other traditions for the positioning of the dead which varies across religions and cultures. For example, in Islam, the dead are buried in the supine position facing Mecca.References http://www.sacred-texts.com/astro/sla...

Creepy Welsh Curses

Beware if you cross a Welshman or woman because according to ancient folklore we know a thing or two about how to curse! Let me tell you a couple of stories that back this up…Curse of the Screaming Skull - Flacgnallt HallA screaming skull is a human skull which legend says, speaks, screams, or haunts its surroundings. In Holywell (Clwyd) - Flacgnallt Hall The skull of “Dafydd” Prince of Wales is contained in a box in the hall. A curse is said to transpire the proprietors of the building should the skull ever removed from the property. The last time it was removed, the person accountable was plagued by shadowy figures and screams – they promptly returned the skull, and the visions stopped.Cursing WellsWells have been commonly used to curse people, and this practice goes back to Roman times, possibly earlier.There are two wells in North Wales that both have a reputation for double use, both for cursing and for healing. One is at Llaneilian on Anglesey, the other Ffynnon Elian, is in Llanelian in Rhos, although cursing at wells was a widespread business.A fee would be paid to the guardian of the well, to engrave the name of the cursed onto a slate with a pin; which would then be bent and thrown into the well. The typical witch’s method of making a dummy of the person to be cursed and piercing of drowning the dummy was also carried out. A more gruesome approach a live frog was pierced with a skewer, to which was attached two corks. The frog was then floated on the water of the well and so long as the Frog lived the person cursed would suffer.The rituals for lifting curses were likewise involved, and comprised a reading of Psalms and other Bible scripts, walking three times round the well, and the draining of the well by the guardian so that the lead and slate could be found and removed. Occasionally the slate was ground into dust, mixed with salt, and burned on the fire. The victim also had to take some well water home and drink it, while reading Psalms.Yew Trees and Ancient CursesThe yew tree is a native tree to Wales, and the U.K. Yew has long been a tree that has been held sacred by the Druids in pre-Christian times. The tree has qualities of longevity and regeneration (as trailing branches of old yew trees can root and sprout baby trees where they touch the ground), so the yew came to represent death and rebirth in Celtic culture.The superstitious belief was that anyone chopping a yew tree down would suffer an ancient curse – or even eternal damnation. An old curse goes as follows:“Well of the Yew Tree, Well of the Yew Tree,To thee should honour be given;In Hell, a bed is ready for himWho cuts the tree about thine ears.”Witches of LlanddonaAnglesey folklore tells of a boat of witches which arrived on the shore. They had been cast out by their community for their wicked practices. The locals tried to drive them back into the sea, but they witnessed one, who weak from thirst and hunger, ordered a spring of pure water to burst forth on the sands, and it did. The strangers were allowed to stay, but they continued their evil ways, and the parish developed a reputation. “Witches of Llanddona” was a term that became unfairly applied to all the females of the parish. Bella Fawr, “Big Bella” was known to be the worst of them all, and she would curse milk so that it would not turn to butter. They would chant the following at anyone who crossed them ;“May he wander for ages many,And at every step, a stile,At every stile, a fall;At every fall, a broken bone,Not the largest nor the least bone,But the chief neck bone, every time”.Today in parts of Llanddona, It is said to this day that the witching abilities belong to some families, and inherited from mothers to daughters. (Extracted from my original post read morehere on SpookyIsles.com)

The Corpse Bird (Welsh Owl Folklore)

In Celtic mythology, the owl was a sign of the underworld. Its cry is said to signal approaching death and misfortune. The owl was linked to the dead and called the 'Night Hag.' Or “Corpse Bird.”Folk would only discuss the bird with hushed tones for fear of attracting darker forces. Unquestionably and indisputably a creature of the dark, beautiful wise and nearly always female in folklore, she is one to respect and folk would take care not to talk ill of her. Sometimes she is seen as the bird of Gwyn ab Nudd, the King of the Faerie. (Tylwyth Teg). With death there comes new beginnings and so the Owl is also a symbol of renewal, moon magick, and reincarnation. Celtic Goddess of fertility rebirth and cosmic time and fate, Arianrhod shape-shifted into an owl where she could see deep into the human subconscious and soul with her eyes. In Lady Charlottes Guest’s 1877 translation of the 12th Century Mabinogian, the Owl was described in detail. In the famous tale, Math Son of Mathonwy, the God-like figure Gwydion wants a bride for his nephew, Lleu. However, because of a curse, this cannot be a human bride, and so Math and Gwydion decide to create a woman out of flowers. They call her Blodeuedd meaning “flower face.” However, when she betrays Lleu, Gwydion curses her in anger and revenge with a spell to turn her into an owl, never showing her face in daylight and forever tormented by other birds.In 1881 British Goblins by Wirt Sikes, it states;“This corpse bird may properly be associated with the superstition regarding the screech-owl, whose cry near a sick bed inevitably portends death.”Up until the 1950’s, farmers would nail a dead owl to barn doors to ward against evil. Often also thought to ward off storms.In another welsh folklore story, it was said that in the nineteenth century in Cwmcarvan, an extraordinarily large white owl was often spotted over an ancient battlefield, leading inhabitants to believe the bird was magical and should never be disturbed. One day, however, a visitor to Raglan Castle mocked the story and slaughtered the owl, only to die a few hours later, choking to death at a dinner table.If you see an owl in your dreams, it is said to be bringing you messages of enlightenment so pay attention. Owls can see what others cannot and are the essence of true wisdom. If you are being deceived, maybe the owl can perceive what you cannot and with its ancient knowledge can help you make changes using its intuition and spiritual wisdom.There are five species of owl in Wales, the UK those being the Barn Owl, Little Owl, Short-eared Owl and the Tawny Owl. Long Eared Owls can be found in North Wales. The screech you hear in graveyards at night is most likely to be that of a barn owl which hunts at night and loves high church towers where it is away from predators.Sadly, due to the destruction of habitat and the use of pesticides, many of these stunning creatures are struggling to survive. If you find a baby owl this spring, then the advice is to please leave it alone, as this is its best chance of survival. Many people want to help injured or orphaned owls in Wales, and The Owl Trust has a team of trained specialists to advise and rehabilitate many of these birds back into the wild. You can find out more on how to adopt or donate here.

The Easter Egg Hunt (Fiction Short Story)

It was a beautiful Sunday morning for a change.Mae gazed out of the window in her tenth floor flat at the grey city beneath her, noting the dirty smears on the inside from greasy fingers smudging out the sun’s rays. Running her finger down the glass she looked at the black mould it had gathered. Yep, it was finally spring she supposed. Mae opened the window, but the blast of filthy air and the sounds of police sirens and vehicles roaring below made her shut the world out again. Turning around, swinging her long red hair Mae gazed at the dark empty room with her pale blue eyes. Littered with pizza boxes, empty beer bottles, and pages of her dissertation spread around the floor, she sighed. Only one month of being single, her boyfriend, Brent had dumped her, and student life in the city suburbs hadn’t turned out to be as fun as she had hoped. Glancing downwards at her pyjamas, she noted they were coffee stained and crumpled. Mae had a sudden urge to get out of this dismal hell hole and grab fresh air. Grabbing her skinny black jeans and a green smock blouse off the bedroom floor, she threw on her clothes and tied back her hair, looked in the mirror then untied it again. “Better loose” she muttered to herself. Not bothering to brush her teeth or put on any makeup, Mae grabbed her bag and jacket from the hook by the door, picking up a bunch of leaflets that someone had shoved under it. “Easter Egg Hunt–Sunday, April 1st Murkwood Park and Woodlands” it read. There was a picture of a child in an Easter bonnet with a face painting of a lion, smiling as she held up a chocolate egg. “Cool! Why the hell not?” Mae said to herself and shut the door behind her. *** Murkwood Park was full, arriving in her 12-year-old red Mini, Mae drove around the car park twice looking for a parking space. Everywhere was busy, families getting out of vehicles, boots wide open with fathers getting out the picnic baskets, eager dogs with wagging tails on leads waiting while fussy mothers faffed about fastening the coats of wriggling children. Parking under a shady tree, Mae locked the car, walked over to the entrance and joined the queue. “Single adult please.” She muttered to the grey-haired woman at the till. “And one of these..” She said picking up the Easter Egg hunt trail clues leaflet off the counter. The woman serving glanced at Mae fleetingly for a moment too long. Long enough to convey the message that the trail was for children… only no rules stated under 18’s only, and the queue was starting to get longer so she decided against it and handed Mae her change. With hardly anything left of her student loan Mae stuffed the loose change into her pocket and ignored the inner voice telling that she wouldn’t be able to afford to buy anything to eat today, so it was imperative that she found some chocolate! ***Half an hour later and Mae had relaxed and beginning to enjoy the spontaneity of her adventure. It had been weeks since she had done something positive, she had wallowed in self-pity and made the dismal grey weather an excuse not to leave her digs. Choosing take away and internet shopping she had binge-watched Netflix and frankly been depressed. Today felt different somehow. Like the sun had brought with it a renewed sense of hope. The parklands were over 300 acres and vast. Strolling down the path, enjoying hearing nothing but the birds singing and the trees gently whispering in the breeze, Mae glanced at the clues on the leaflet. Some were quite obvious, some not so. She turned it over, and saw on the back another hint, which had been handwritten…“where faerie folk dance, you may have your chance. Where the bluebells ring and the Faerie folk sing, tread with care… seek here if you dare..”Remembering the little she knew about bluebells, she immediately thought of woodlands where they liked to grow. Looking at the map though, there were woodlands too far away from where she supposed she was now. The map didn’t really make sense, she had passed the ice cream pavilion, and the birds of prey. But according to this plan, the woodlands were in another direction. As she looked around, she noted that she had lost the crowds of people now and was standing alone on an unfamiliar pathway with nothing but trees surrounding her. Shrugging, Mae decided to continue anyway, rather than turn back. The fresh air was pushing oxygen into her lungs and her brain and giving her a heady feeling. It had been a long time since she had felt this calm. Recent weeks she had lived with a bulky knot in the pit of her stomach and today was the first time she felt it beginning to unwind. Like a curled up snake, it had been growing, slowly eating away at her, poisoning her, drinking her confidence and leeching her happiness without her even realising it. The sun was high in the afternoon sky by now and warm enough for Mae to take off her coat. She saw ahead of her a little wooden signpost and quickened her pace. DANGER – DO NOT ENTER Curious, Mae stood and looked past it. The tall pine trees arched and shaped a dark passageway before her, rust coloured pine needles carpeted the floor and splashes of blue peeked out from grassy clumps. She stepped forward. At first, she was unsure, but there was nothing remotely “dangerous” looking about this place. Mae told herself she would just have a little explore, after all, she was an adult, and it probably just wasn’t safe for people with children or dogs. Maybe there were steep drops or some unfenced off water? Whatever it was, she convinced herself the sign didn’t apply to her. ***Something caught Mae’s eye at that moment. Underneath a large rock, she could see something brightly coloured with yellows and pinks. She went over and reached out, her small fingers curling around the thing, and she pulled out a pretty decorated egg. It was painted with the most delicate pattern of ivy twisting around the egg.Mae gasped out loud. This egg was smaller than a chicken’s egg, more the size of a quails, and most certainly it had not been decorated by the clumsy hand of just anybody. No, a design this small and this intricate had to be a print, some sort of transfer she told herself. How clever! And she had thought the egg hunt would be the usual Cadbury chocolate kind! Well, apparently this woodland isn’t out of bounds at all then, she thought and placing the egg into her pocket she confidently strolled forward. The trees formed a natural pathway. Twisting and winding it lead Mae deeper and deeper into the woods. The twigs and pine needles crunched under her feet, and soon she began to feel chilly. She shivered and stopped to put on her coat again, noting that the thickness of the trees had blocked off the sunlight completely. It was dark, and there was no breeze at all. Standing there she looked around, taking in her surroundings. There were small clumps of bluebells around, but nothing else green was growing. It struck Mae how silent it was. The birds were no longer singing. She could hear her own breathing and her heart beating in her chest. An eerie feeling crept up from nowhere. She heard a twig snap behind her and swung around. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she caught a movement, but it was gone so fast there was no determining what it might have been. There must be all sorts of wild creatures out here she told herself. Squirrels. Rabbits, that sort of thing. Then she saw something again, so small and colourful it drew her over to it. Peeking out from a clump of bright bluebells was another egg, this time even smaller than the first. As she picked it up, Mae saw it had a tiny portrait on it of an elf-like creature. Lifelike and so delicate she looked at it and wondered if it were really meant to be a part of the kids Easter trail? Maybe she had stumbled across a more classy, elite adult type of Easter trail meant for some rich posh folk later when the park was closed she pondered? Yes, that must be it! Smirking, she thought – she had better turn around and leave before someone caught her, but would keep these two beautiful eggs for herself. She caught sight of a discarded pair of shoes. Just there at the roots of a tree, some reasonably new Nike trainers. They looked out of place but a reassuring sign that someone had been here recently. Turning around she saw, to her dismay that the woods now had several pathways before her and she hadn’t a clue which one she had just come from. They all looked the same! Each one had a never-ending path leading to darkness. The anxious feeling came back.“Shit! SHIT?! I’m lost?!” ***Looking again at the map she figured the woodland area, whichever way she turned had to lead to the outside edge at some point. So, she decided to just go for one of the paths and hope for the best. There was no signal on her mobile phone either, so using GPS was fruitless. Mae wandered a while. An early evening fog was forming from the dampness of the ground, and it blurred the way. The pathway leading to nowhere seemed never-ending. A little further on she came across the body of a rabbit, it lay there across her path entirely intact except for its eyes which had gone, all that remained were the black sockets, hollow and bloodless.It crossed Mae’s mind that it was odd that there were no flies or signs of scavengers. The trees just went on and on. Either side of her there were just more of the same. Tall, dark pine trees, each one reaching for the sky and blanketing it out with its thick hairy boughs. Until she found one that stood out from the others. Standing before her now was a young pine tree, a brighter green than its older companions. But when she walked closer and closer to it, she realised, its brightness of green was from the mass of ivy which had wound its way around it and not from the young tree. The tree was dead. Choked by the vines that had wound its way around the young trunk and along its branches. The trailing plant was keeping it upright and gave the deception that the fledgling tree was healthy and very much alive. But within this living creeper was death. Mae considered how the tree had tried to survive. Its roots beneath the ground searching for nourishment, drops of dew and rain from above feeding it from within, yet its evil attachment had been stealing its strength day by day, hour by hour. The more it had strived to grow the further the ivy had been able to spread. At that moment Mae saw a glimmer of hope. A tiny green shoot, a bud was visible on the tree trunk. Smaller than her thumb, but it was there. Life was THERE! Trying to get out, TRYING to break free from this demonic creeper! She grabbed at the vine and bit by bit began to pull at it. The tough trails dug into her palms, and she yanked and tugged, ripped and tore away, freeing the tree underneath, until it struck her how hopeless this was. The young tree would fall anyway. Without this vine holding it up, the sapling was by now, far too weak to stand up by itself anyway. All the young tree’s attempts at breaking free were in vain. ***Slumping onto the ground, Mae was shattered and defeated. Lost, hungry and tired she suddenly felt despondent, and she began to weep. This tree was symbolic of all her life had become. Wiping her tears away, her eyes caught a glimpse of something shining on the woodland floor, about three feet away from her. A hole, like a rabbit hole hidden amongst the knarl of tree roots and decaying pine needles, glinted a small shining object. She crawled forward on her hands and knees and peered at what looked like another egg, this one was golden, and she reached down only to knock it further down the hole.Putting her right hand into the hole, she used her fingertips to feel around but found nothing. Looking again, she still could see the shining glimmer, but she had seemingly pushed it further down. Tutting to herself, she lay down on the floor and reached down with her whole arm trying to find the egg when her hand touched something cold. She tried to grasp it but the thing she was touching began to move. At first, it felt hard and cold with a smooth surface like an egg, but then it shifted and cracked at her touch, and sinewy wetness flowed into her grasp from which her fingers recoiled from. “EW!” she shrieked and reacting with a jerk she realised to her horror she could not move. Mae began to panic and struggle. Her arms still inside the hole, she felt the ground around it getting tighter and tighter and something… something deep inside that hole curled itself around her hand. It felt like a rope, but it was alive, squirming and winding, creeping and increasing in pressure against the skin of her arm.“OH .. OH MY GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING?” HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP ME!” She writhed and flailed with her legs desperately putting up a fight, using her left arm to try and claw away at the hole to make it larger but getting nowhere. The Thing squeezed and pulled Mae, dragging her deeper and deeper into the earth, until her armpit was stretched, and to her horror, she could feel what felt like blunt teeth, sinking into her arm from the tips of her fingers to the top of her shoulder slowly pushing down into her flesh. The woods around her began to close in. The veil of darkness rapidly started to fall, and a weird stiff breeze raged across the ground whipping up the debris of the woodland floor into her face and open mouth.The ivy creeper slid along the ground and wrapped around her feet so stealthily that by the time she felt its grip - it was too late. Whispering leaves and creaking vines slithered up her legs and swallowed Mae into its malevolent grip. Decaying pine needles stabbed and cut the inside of her throat and silenced her screams. Her eyes wild and pleading for help eventually closed tight. Squeezing them firmly, she thought of the sapling tree and its shoot. “You… will… not… take me as well…!” *** “Don’t fight it”Came the voice from nowhere. “Grow in it, go with it. Close your eyes and let it take you within…”Opening her eyes once more Mae saw the dark hooded figure standing beside her. No taller than two foot, the faceless figure retreated back into the mist, as her consciousness began to alter… *******THE END Like this story? Check out my book of short ghost stories for just .99P on Amazon here! getBook.at/DeadHaunted

The Magical Healing Waters of South Wales

In Wales and other Celtic lands, there lies beneath the waters an ancient folklore belief that healing properties may be had from lakes and wells.Clydach Gorge is one example of a place which is no stranger to these mythical legends and among the tales of witches, wizard’s faerie folk and nature spirits of the area there is more than one account of a healing well in the area where I consider myself to be blessed to live.The roots of these stories may date back as far as medieval times and many locations have since been lost or destroyed and we may never know how far they dated back. Perhaps stories stem from times when folk offered gold and weapons to the water gods that they believed lived in these watery dwellings. Here I have found a few local places where stories are told…The White or Sacred Well at Ffynnon WenAlso known as Ffynnon Illtyd or Illtyd’s Well stood near Argoed Farm at Brythnell. People traveled to this well to bathe wounds and sprains believing they would be cured.Twyn-Ffynhonnau OerionThe Hill of the Cold Springs east of Cwmtillery is found high up on the brow of the hill. Here, the water was also considered to have healing properties, and people would travel for miles to heal their ailments. In the 18th Century, the local gentry and hunters would stop there to drink. It was here that Robert Watkin of Cwm Celyn found his mules after the local witch, Old Ann had cast a spell on them.Ffynnon Y Rhiw NewythThe Rev. Edmund Jones whom I have written about before here, and who was known for his belief in the Fae, described another medicinal well in his church parish.“It was said that the well had performed many cures in times past and had stones put in it by some virtuous benevolent person, but it was demolished by a malevolent drunken man… The well is now deserted as if It had lost its virtue, which I am not sure it hath if people tried it in faith and sobriety.”The Clydach Gorge WellsThe Fountain of the Stone Chest “Ffynnon Listen,” and the Cuckoo’s Well “Ffynon y Gog” in the Clydach Gorge was believed to have medicinal properties also. And, in 1780 Rev. Henry Thomas Payne described this scene at Ffynnon Gistfaen.“ … I observed an old woman descending by a dangerously steep path from the summit of the mountain to the dingle.Where it was possible for her to do It safely, she stopped and spent a few minutes upon her knees with her hands clasped together, seemingly in fervent prayer. This was repeated several times in the course of the decent.At length, having reached the bottom, she devoutly crossed herself, knelt down, and seemed to pray with great agitation for about a quarter of an hour. She then took off her shoes and stockings, neck kerchief and cap, walked into the water of the well, and stooping down, threw it backward over her head. Afterward she washed her face, neck, and head, as well as her feet, and concluded the ceremony by a long prayer upon her knees before she dressed herself”There is, however, a much darker and sinister side to the watery wells of Wales. Many were also used to place deadly curses on people! If you want to read more about that, read my article here to find out more.

Murder at Margam

The Tragic True Story of Gamekeeper Robert Scott and his killer Joseph LewisThe Margam Estate in Port Talbot has a history that dates it back over 4,000 years. Set in 850 acres of land there are Bronze and Iron Age relics and evidence of Celtic and Roman occupation. Margam’s Cistercian Abbey was founded by the Earl of Gloucester in the 12th Century, and the remains lie in ruins in the grounds which saw the building of one of the largest Orangeries in the country. The imposing Tudor style Mansion we see today was built by the Talbot family in 1930. Margam Castle (as it is known) is known in paranormal circles for its haunting, and I can verify this having witnessed an apparition of a grey lady in 2016 myself during an investigation!One legend dates as far back as the building of the Abbey foundations, where it is said that a young Welshman attempted to use some of the land granted to the abbey for his own gain and instigated by the devil, he set on fire the best barn belonging to the monks which were filled with corn. His sins caused him to go mad, and he ran about the country in a state until he was seized and bound, breaking through his confines however he ran to the gates of the monastery screaming that he was being burned inwardly and he died in agony. Margam was no stranger to scandal in the years that followed either.It is little known that Margam records showing payments and accounts revealed that the family once paid 1s 2d for the “hanging of a couple of rascals. In 1919 the Butler a Mr. Thomas was fined £5 for not notifying authorities of his arrival from a previous address in Scotland, and in 1898 there was a rape of a 16-year-old girl, by a coachman on the grounds. A stableman by the name of Samuel Baldwin died after mysteriously suffering a horrific cut to the back of his head in 1905.But by far the most famous ghost is that of Robert Scott, the gamekeeper. Said to be an angry spirit that haunts the central staircase, Scott is said to have been murdered and haunts the castle seeking revenge for his death. His ghost has been seen many times, and it is said that he throws rocks at people too!But what happened to Scott? Why would he be so angry? In a place that has seen many deaths in its colorful history, one might wonder what it is about Scott that keeps his soul grounded to the earth today?I did some research, and found some articles in archived Welsh newspapers printed at the time of Robert Scott’s murder and discovered a few intriguing details that might be of interest to those wishing to make a communication with the angry gamekeeper himself.Newspapers report that Scott’s body was found on Margam mountain early one morning in 1898 after a night on duty watching for poachers. His face had been shot at close range with a shotgun twice and his lower jaw blown away. His head had also been repeatedly battered after being shot. A detailed confession was given by the murderer who was called Joseph Lewis. Lewis claimed to have killed Scott in self-defense. He wrote several letters from his cell in prison, one was to Robert Scott’s parents apologizing for his actions.He wrote;“Dear Mrs. Scott, I want to say to you that I sympathize with you in the sorrow that I caused you to be in. What I did was in self-defense. I hope you will try to forgive me. I am praying for him. I have no ill feeling for anyone in the world. Yours Truly Joseph Lewis August 17th, 1898.”He also wrote a letter to his own parents begging them to come and visit him. He wrote;Dear Parents,I am very sorry for the trouble I have given, and I beg to thank you for what you have done for me. I am quite a different man to what I was when I came here. About you coming to see me you can do as you wish. I am willing to see you. I am sorry for what I have done, it was done in self-defense. The man was close upon me before I saw him with a big stick in his hand. I told him to stand back, and I rose my gun, and he said “Don’t fire” with that everything was over. Everything passed in less than half a minute. If he didn’t come on, I was willing to give him my name. I had nothing but my gun to defend me. I am sorry for it now, and I have written to the Scott’s. I have nothing more to do but to leave it all in God’s hands. Everybody is kind to me, and I am treated like a gentleman than a prisoner.Best love to you all JOSEPH LEWIS.”Sadly, his parents refused to have anything more to do with their son and never visited him in the gaol. They did, however, send a neighbor to visit him on their behalf and there is a report that says Lewis said he was hungry all day and then he broke down and wept like a child.Lewis’s sanity was questioned at the time because it was claimed he had suffered sunstroke while serving as a soldier in India and been “unhinged” ever since. His parents stated that he often suffered from severe headaches and throat pains with which he had terrible fevers with. These would cause him to become restless so much so that he would pace the room gesticulating and unable to control himself. He also kept a detailed written diary which for a man of his class showed he was remarkably better educated than most. Lewis was condemned to death by hanging for the murder, but his solicitor had lodged an appeal to the Home Secretary for a reprieve claiming he was not in his right mind.However, the appeal was refused and on August 30th, 1898 Joseph Lewis was hanged at 8 o’clock am observed by a crowd of morbid spectators by executioner Billington.Joseph Lewis’s story is tinged with sadness for me, I believe he was suffering from either a physical illness or a mental one that today would have been treated before such tragedy took place. But such was the times in which he lived there would have been little sympathy shown anyway.With all this in mind I wonder why Robert Scott’s ghost haunts the stairs inside Margam Castle and as for what really happened on that night, that remains a mystery which is only known to him and Joseph Lewis.

Seven of Britain's Weirdest Burials

A recent visit to Rome’s Catacombs situated in the Capuchin Chapel got me thinking about burials in the U.K and how people have been buried past and present. Not everyone gets a standard headstone in the local churchyard! My research has uncovered a few of the more “unusual” graves on our British Isles, some options you may not have considered and what we might expect in the future... Past.....1. Manaton Devon ~ Jay’s GraveKitty Jay’s grave is a well-known landmark on Dartmoor Devon, and many ghost stories surround her legend. This plain mound of grass situated on a country lane crossroads marks the grave of the woman, who legend suggests committed suicide by hanging herself. In the 19th century this was considered a mortal sin, and therefore she was denied burial on consecrated grounds. At all times fresh flowers lay on the grave, and as yet no person has ever come forward to claim that it was they who placed them there, Folklore tells that pixies are the ones that do this. Motorists have claimed to have seen ghostly figures when driving past the spot at night and some say they have seen a dark hooded figure kneeling by the grave. 2. West Norwood London ~ CatacombsThe tradition of burial under the floors of Churches and Sacred places is well known worldwide, London UK is no different. In our capital there are several purpose-built crypts/catacombs mainly from the Victorian era. In 1837 West Norwood Cemetery opened and was one of the first private landscaped cemeteries’ in London and included 95 vaults with a capacity to hold 3500 coffins. The site is one of historical and architectural interest and is also the place where many notable people are buried.3. Orkney Scotland ~ CairnsThere are Neolithic all over the UK however in Orkney Scotland, numbers are here. With structures like a they were designed to protect the dead, some of these feature corridors leading to stalls with stone slabs positioned upright which would divide each body. A variation on this design was a Maeshowe which had instead of stalls, cells within the walls in one large room. It is thought that the community would regularly visit these to take part in rituals to contact their dead relatives.Present...4. Higher Ground Meadow Dorset ~ Natural BurialThis site was awarded Best Natural Burial Ground in the U.K 2017 recently by the Natural Death Centre. Our modern world is increasingly concerned with environmental issues. It is no surprise that there is a positive shift towards people choosing to have a “natural burial” in the U.K. With many sites all over the UK, people are choosing to have environmentally friendly burials. These involve shallower graves, no cremation or embalming process involved and only natural, biodegradable materials with them including a coffin and memorials made of wood or local stone, to have minimal impact on the environment. The Natural Death Centre has a website with all the information.5. East Sussex/Isle of Wight and Tynemouth ~ Sea BurialIn the 18th and 19th British Colonials were often buried at sea wrapped in and weighted down with cannon balls. To be buried at sea in the U.K today requires and the Government has strict requirements for the coffin as well. To be buried at sea your coffin must have between 40- 50 2-inch holes drilled throughout and about 200 kg of iron, steel or concrete clamped to the base of the coffin, to carry the body quickly to the sea bed. No licence is required to scatter ashes at sea. There are only three designated burial sites in English coastal waters. They are at Newhaven in East Sussex, The Needles Spoil Ground near the Isle of Wight and Tynemouth, Tyne and Wear. Anyone can apply for a sea burial in any place, but officials must consider water depth, currents, pipelines and fishing and you will need to issue a “ England” acquire a Certificate of Disposal. And a Certificate of Freedom from Fever and Infection from the deceased persons GP or hospital, as well as of course the Certificate.Future...6. Cryogenic Freezing Among other “options” for the future, we may be looking at Promession as an alternative way to dispose of if our bodies. This is is an environmentally friendly way to dispose of human remains by way of freeze drying. The concept was developed by Swedish biologist Susanne Wiigh-Mäsak, who derived the name from the Italian word for "promise" (promessa). The process which involves Cryogenic freezing using liquid nitrogen at -196 °C to crystallize the body, and a vibration process where the body is disintegrated into particles within minutes. This could be available in the UK as an alternative to burial very soon.7. Bio-cremationThis process also called Alkaline hydrolysis, flame-less cremation or water cremation is a process which is a lot better for the environment than cremation as it creates fewer pollutants. The body is placed in a pressure vessel which is filled with a mixture of water and lye, then heated to a temperature of 160 degrees (320 F) the body is broken down into chemical components and the process takes about 4-6 hours. What remains afterward is an green-brown liquid and white ash. The ash is usually returned to the next of kin, and the fluid is disposed of via the sewers. Currently, the process is used mainly to eliminate animal remains, but planning permission was granted for a public crematorium in Rowley Regis in 2017. However, Severn Trent Water refused the application due to lack of current water industry standard regulating the disposal of human remains into our sewage system.So given the advancement of new techniques and the impact that traditional human burial and cremation have on the planet, could the future of the churchyard be limited?

The Macabre “Mari Lwyd”, Welsh Folklore of the Horse Skull

In Wales at Christmas and New Year there used to be one custom that first began in 1800.Known most commonly as the Mari Lwyd, (in Welsh, Y Fari Lwyd) the name is debated. Some believe it to mean “Mary, mother of Jesus”, others “Holy Mary”, or “Grey Mare”, but it is thought likely that it is a pre-Christian Pagan tradition.What the Mari Lwyd is, is a horses’ skull, which is mounted onto a pole rather like a hobby horse, and draped in a sackcloth and ribbons.Sometimes the horses' skull was fixed to be able to open and close its jaw, and it often had glass eyes in the sockets.Decorating the Mari Lwyd would be a part of the custom, with the community getting involved.It represents the hooded animal that is seen throughout folklore tales from around the U.K. and this one is specific to South Wales.In one area of the Gower, they would bury the skull throughout the year and only dig it up for use at Christmas.Traditionally a group of men would carry the Mari Lwyd through villages, and towns, singing a song asking for people to let them into their homes.Householders were expected to deny them access using a song, poetry, and rhymes in return and if they managed to gain entry into a house they would be rewarded with food and drink.This custom would be performed over the course of several days, each time lasting well into the night, so there wasn’t one day that was customary, as long as it was around the Christmas or New Year period.The men would also wear costumes, they might look a little bit like Punch and Judy characters, with blackened faces, and wearing colorful ribbons and rosettes.The leader would carry a staff or whip and there would be a Merryman playing a musical instrument, so you can imagine they created quite a noise as they marched along.They would make the Mari Lwyd mock chase people around and pretend to try to restrain it which was all part of the entertainment factor!The reasons why this custom was performed is also subject to debate.At this time of year, there were many festivals that reflected the seasons dark nights coming to an end and the coming of spring.Birth and Death has a strong meaning, and a dead horse coming back to life perhaps represented this.In Celtic Britain, the horse was a prized symbol.A sign of fertility, horses had a strong presence on battlefields, and they were a protector.It was very much believed that the care you took of your horse would be reciprocated.Many Celtic Gods were associated with the horse too.In mythology, animals that could cross from the underworld to ours would be white or grey in color and the Mari Lwyd is grey. In Welsh mythology, Queen of the Underworld, Rhiannon, first appears riding a large white horse during the first branch of the Mabinogian.In another Welsh mythology tale, the Ceffyl Dwr was a water horse said to inhabit waterfalls and pools, and the Pwca – a fairy figure was able to shapeshift into the form of a horse.There were many horse ghost stories too, the headless horseman and the specter of the horse and carriage were often reported around Wales by terrified travelers. White horses are also the most common type of hill figure in the UK.In my own research, I found an interesting article that was published in the Monmouthshire Merlin on 31st December 1864 by a man named Mr. Thomas Young of the New Inn, Risca, and he offered his own explanation as to the origins of the Mari Lwyd.He wrote to say that during the 15th Century around Christmas time, the town of Carleon which is in Monmouthshire, was in danger of being besieged.The enemy was in hiding in woodlands in Lady Hill, and St Julian’s respectively.The castle there was situated at the end of a wooden bridge, and an army of people waited there ready for battle should they be ambushed. Two days before Christmas, the lookout party witnessed a mysterious figure dressed in woman's clothing, on a grey horse appear and start to cross the bridge, she was moving slowly, and they suspected her to be a spy.It was very unusual for a woman to be out alone at night like this and when she stopped on the bridge, the sergeant stationed there decided to blow the horn and signaled his nine men to seize her.One of the men grabbed the reins of the steed which reared up and the rider managed to dismount and disappeared over the bridge into the water below. Such was the darkness of the night; the moon was blocked by clouds they did not see where she went.The angry party of men beheaded the poor horse and put its head onto a pole, to parade around the town exhibiting their victory in capturing a traitor, and they were rewarded with gifts and applause for their heroic actions. They kept the skull of the horse and every year they dressed it up with leather ears, glass eyes, and ribbons, draping it in a sheet and from there grew the tradition of knocking on doors singing songs asking for admittance.Other local towns and villages followed suit and from there the tradition evolved.The tradition sadly died out in the late 1800’s because the revelers began to get a bad reputation for drunkenness and rowdy behavior during the industrial revolution and people became discouraged to continue it.But in recent years there have been several Welsh projects and folk associations keen to keep the tradition alive especially in schools, which I like, folklore is a part of Welsh history that should never be forgotten.To find out more about Welsh Folklore and Paranormal/ Dark History please visit my website www.clairebarrand.com

Book Launch Week!

Well, it has been quite an exciting week! I launched my very first book titled “Dead Haunted” on December 7th, 2017, so I am officially a published author!Let me tell you a little bit about this and why it has been so important to me to get my stories out there. I didn’t really enjoy school if I am honest, but I DID love English, it was my favorite subject. When we were asked to write a short story, mine would be about ten pages long. I also liked to read, and as soon as I could, I devoured every Enid Blyton book that existed, before moving onto books I would have long conversations with my best friend Katherine about, swapping and borrowing Judy Blume, Sweet Valley High, and Nancy Drew.My problem was I hated talking. Ok, maybe not with my friends but in front of an audience. I was only graded C for my GCSE English because I refused to take part in the oral section of the exam where I had to present a topic to the class. I don’t think had I graded higher it would have made that much difference to my writing career to be truthful, except that it may have given me the confidence to pursue it much earlier. Instead, I went down the expected route of childcare, then circumstance made me a pub landlady, for which I am grateful for if only for giving me a rich tapestry of life experiences to fuel my imagination today. The pub was incredibly haunted! The customers were to be feared more than the ghosts, however, and I guess one could say that I can write about love, hate, fear, death, destruction, abuse and inspiration with more conviction than my 17-year-old self.My genre may have been different years ago too. Had I written a book two decades ago, it might have been about guinea-pigs. My daughter volunteered for an animal rescue, and we had over twenty at any one time that I fostered. I lived and breathed piggies. Twelve years ago, my book may have been about divorce, cheating men and domestic abuse. (I still may write that book!) I wrote many short stories about the bad times in my life, kind of like therapy but all were rejected by publications. Maybe looking back, they were all just too dark?But this week has felt like coming home. Ghosts and the Paranormal have always been my passion, and after spending the last few years researching full time for various behind the scene projects, podcasting with Dead Creepy and writing my articles, I finally felt ready for my fiction to be published. With the help and advice from my dear friend Kathy Denver, (who I have to say is a pretty impressive Supernatural fiction author herself!) I was able to get my work edited, formatted and published. Kathy designed my fantastic book cover for me and talked me through the process of releasing digitally. Without her, honestly, I would still be procrastinating.I have dipped my toe into the water by releasing just five short stories, all of which are inspired by and based on real-life events found through my research in the Wales Archived newspapers, with my fictional spin on what happened. The stories are all based just before or after the turn of the 1900’s.You can buy my book on Amazon here getBook.at/DeadHaunted For other digital platforms such as Kobo, iBooks, Barnes & Noble, Nook click this link; books2read.com/u/b6rY0MSo, I do hope you enjoy my stories! If you do please can I ask you to leave me a review on Amazon or Good Reads? Dead Haunted Two is already being written, and after this, I plan to release the collection as a paperback in 2018. Happy Christmas 2017!

THE LOWEST DEEP

The Shocking Dark History of Prostitution in CardiffCan we still feel the residual energy within an area, particularly where dark, disturbing, depraved debauchery and corruption took place? Can historical events that took place hundreds of years ago still cast lingering shadows of moods that are tangible to us today? Paranormal investigators that endeavor to understand why ghosts linger on the earthly planes, those that attempt to communicate with the lost spirits that still remain in the dark corners of our world, should undoubtedly examine the times past of a haunted place.I found this amazingly written piece in the South Wales Daily News archives dated 19th December 1877. To me there is no better insight than finding something written at the actual time it took place, whereas there is a notable lack of empathy the writer towards these poor wretched women, one can only now sympathize at the life of vice they were forced to live to survive. One can just imagine the horrors that must have taken place in these streets. Murder, rape, and theft were the order of the day in places that even the police dare not venture down alone at night. As this insightful description unravels, it gives us a fascinating glimpse into the most impoverished suburbs of the Welsh Capital of Cardiff city's past.LOW LIFE IN CARDIFF. (BY OUR SPECIAL COMMISSIONER)"Vice, like crime, possesses an inherent tendency to centralise. Though debauchery and lawlessness are never drawn completely outside the pale of the community; though their ramifications, seen and unseen, confront us in some shape or another at every turn, often where least expected, there is always a place where their votaries herd, and where their characteristics are concentrated.This plague-spot is not always a locality whereabouts are well known to outsiders. Sometimes it is hidden away in the heart of a labyrinth of streets, the character of which is little known to the general public but in Cardiff the case is different.Everyone knows the evil odour attaching to Custom Home-street, Charlotte-street, and a street parallel and very nearly opposite the latter. Few know how much infamy and baseness are concentrated within the limits of those three streets. In Cardiff, as in other large towns, prostitution lies at the root of the lawlessness which troubles the community. Not that it is the cause of it; it is only one of the causes, and combined with drunkenness, it is found bound up with the other forms of vice, and with the crime which festers in our midst.It is especially the case in Cardiff, as it is in other seaport towns, and among communities continually reinforced by a floating population, that this form of immorality is most openly rampant. It exists elsewhere, perhaps, in as extensive proportions, but its existence is not so palpable, nor do its abominations seem so glaring.No one who has passed up and down the streets mentioned can have failed to have been struck with the evidence of corruption and infamy with which these streets are choked.But if the aspect of low passion be abhorrent by daylight, when the exhausted fires of sensuality seem dying out, and hid under the slough of drunken, half-somnolent vacuity, the abomination is ten times more abominable by eight, when the demoniac re-awakening comes. Then the filthy streets are given over to the dominion of the demi-rep. The air is full of drunken, obscene voices; the mud beneath your feet, and on the greasy pavements, seems in fitting keeping with the loathsomeness in which the place is steeped. The foul spirit seems to have tainted the very walls of the houses.You would hardly deem the low-roofed, squalid tenements capable of accommodating their visitors. As the evening wears on, a constant stream of men and women flows in and out of the dark, narrow passages, enters the low-browed doorways, and comes and goes until closing time, when doors are barred and shutters drawn, though the light through the chinks and the noises from within give token of the unholy revelry prolonged long after the streets are quiet and deserted.There is none of the alluring lights or pleasantness, sometimes ascribed to the siren attractions of vice, to be seen here. When the women are clad in gay finery, it covers dirty repulsiveness and filth rendered the more hideous by its meretricious tricking out. Gaunt-cheeked, blear-eyed infamy, besotted, sensual passion without one ray of gaiety; sullen misery which the lecherous gibe and the forced amatory leer serve to render the more hopeless - these impel themselves on your attention with painful intensity at every turn.On young and old faces, on the face of the child of fourteen, already knowing more of the mazes of vice than many a grown matron, and on the withered face of the old hag from whose features every trace of womanhood has vanished, you would look in vain to find any other expression than dogged weariness and the lines of black despair.Does illicit passion ever bring with it to these that quick, hot joy which casts the glamour of romance over immorality? No one who watched the miserable daily life of these wretched ones would say so.Enter any of these houses, crowded as they are, when the drunken revelry is in full swing, or when "the victims" (to whom no sympathy need be extended, as they never are and never can be made to feel the bitterness of a constant hopeless sinking lower in the depths of infamy, as these women are made to feel it) have been drawn into the meshes of the net.There is no passion, no voluptuous allurement here.The woman follows a degrading trade every day of her life is a step drawing her downward. If you were permitted to go through all the houses (and the writer has visited every notorious house in each of the three streets named) you would be struck in each by one prominent characteristic the inmates live a hand-to-mouth existence, and poverty stalks hand-in-hand with vice, here, at any rate, its remorseless accompaniment. There is hardly one of these women who is unfamiliar with the interior of a prison. Many of them are old gaol birds; the youngest of them know what “three months" is like, and look forward to it as an inevitable part of their career, to be accepted a naturally as spending a night's earnings in the night's debauch and awaking penniless and with no hope of breakfast.Even this frail sisterhood is a sisterhood.If a girl or woman is without money, she is open to receive her share from her fellows who may have been in luck's way. She does not starve as long as she remains on good terms with the others, though she often has no money in her pocket to pay her lodging, and her shawl and hat are in pawn. These houses are frequented chiefly by sailors -common seamen for the most part, though sometimes you may meet here foreign captains, mates, stewards, and men a better class than the ordinary frequenters. But these streets are principally supported by the lowest class, whom it is not, however, in every instance, correct to describe as the scum and dregs of humanity, for you may too often see men here who, when they are not in drink, or carried away by the gusts of passion, are good, peaceable workmen. Still, the variety of the visitors is great, and the young rough and the old rough, the gambler, the beggar, and the thief are to be met with, as well as sailors, Tho number of foreigners frequenting these haunts is amazing, and it is strange to hear the babble of conversation in an unknown tongue carried on fluently by the girls, who show a marvellous readiness in interpreting the meaning of visitor phrases.Copious drinking goes on constantly. The women drink with the men in the public-houses; and whether they come home before the publics are closed, or are turned out at closing hour, there is always drinking afterward. The girls mostly drink with the determination beforehand to get drunk the men, generally, with a slowly-ebbing determination to remain sober enough not to be robbed. If that determination holds out until he reaches the house, the "victim” finds there is little chance of his keeping it, for he is always subject to the liability of having his liquor drugged. Frequently the man breaks away as the suspicion that this fate in store for him flashes on his mind, but more often the idea does not come to him until he is too far gone to carry his determination into effect; when the drink has slowly muddled his senses, and passion is blinded and stupified. Then woe to him if he be a sailor carrying with him the earnings of a long voyage next morning, mayhap long before morning, he finds himself thrown into the street, with empty pockets and an aching head. His passion of last night has wrought its work, and the contents of his pockets have gone to feed the lunatics to whom he surrendered. It may be that in his drunken daze he has had strength enough to leave the house, to be watched and waylaid by the roughs who choose drunkards as their special prey or to receive friendly shelter of the police-cell for the remainder of the night or the morning. Generally, if he is a stranger, as soon as he has been plucked he is turned adrift. The time of his expulsion depends on the duration of the plucking process. If he be a frequent visitor he stands the chance of a better fate; even then, he has before him the probability of having his head broken or his eye blacked in one of the brawls which usually disturb night's serenity. He may not necessarily be a party to the row, but the women, excited by drink, quarrel frequently, and he is as likely to be mauled as one of the disputants. He runs the risk, too, of the unexpected entrance of the police, who appear on the scene at most unexpected times, and then he may reluctantly be driven ignominiously off the premises. There is never much difficulty in obtaining drink. There are houses stored with liquor which is bottled away in innocent-looking cupboards, or packed in the cellar. Besides, beer may always be brought in in large quantities in the great tin cans, two or three of which one always sees on the tables in these houses.As to a man getting back his money after he has been plundered, the victim is generally too shamefaced to make the effort, and when he does, the spoil has been distributed; it is in other hands, even if the remote possibility of there being any inclination to give it back could be supposed. A good haul does not go for much. There are high rents to be paid (these houses are much more lucrative property than many more pretentious structures), and there is generally a good long score with the landlord to be paid off. The owners find the property a better investment than the wretched inmates, on whom debauchery, privation, and exposure soon begins to imprint their deadly marks.There are plenty of other houses devoted to the same purposes in other parts of the town, but nowhere do they show themselves in such hateful prominence as in this quarter. The evil intrinsically none the less and none the greater for being kept within the limits of decency that does not offend the passer-by; it exists abundantly enough elsewhere, but here its darkest side is most obtrusively offered to the public gaze."