{"id":3049,"date":"2016-10-13T12:16:43","date_gmt":"2016-10-13T12:16:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=3049"},"modified":"2016-10-15T09:51:37","modified_gmt":"2016-10-15T09:51:37","slug":"oak-ash-and-thorn","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/oak-ash-and-thorn\/","title":{"rendered":"Oak, Ash and Thorn"},"content":{"rendered":"

Welcome, dear listener. It is Folklore-ish Thursday<\/strong>. It is also Day Ninety Seven of the October Frights Blog Hop<\/em>. Or it seems like it. Nearly a week since I took the little donkeys for a proper, all-out run and not a ‘Quick, before those three poodles turn up’ sort of dash. But today we spend a little time in my beloved Yorkshire Wolds, sort of, we look at the twisted The Journal of J Linseed Grant<\/strong> <\/em><\/span>and you can still win a copy of my novella A Study in Grey<\/em> (see later below)\u2026<\/p>\n

\"twocards\"<\/a>
cards from the deck of seasons<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

<\/p>\n

Keen folklorists and students of psycho-geography will be aware that the Yorkshire Wolds are not normal. Apart from the recognised features of the Wold Newton Triangle<\/strong>, famous for its meteorite amongst other oddities, there are other pockets of strangeness which lie almost hidden in the folded landscape.<\/p>\n

\"800px-wold_cottage_meteorite\"<\/a>
the 1795 wold newton meteorite, by ‘chemical engineer’, wikipedia<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

One place of note is the unmarked, hard to find village of Gorse Muttering<\/strong>, where some of the last Cunning Folk reside, quietly keeping watch against the Growing Cold and the Children of Angles and Corners. Their tools are cold iron, red thread and the Deck of Seasons<\/strong><\/span>, inheriting traditions which go back farther than the tramp of Roman sandals past the cavalry barracks at Malton (once called Derventio).<\/p>\n

\"the<\/a>
the children of angles and corners are watching…<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The New Faiths from the East were never good at understanding the roots of this land, and their hasty attempts to place church, mosque or synagogue are only temporary measures for some, not especially unwelcome but of limited use when the barghest comes down from the high moors. Those beast which cannot recognise God cannot fear Him, and so the Cunning Folk must do.<\/p>\n

\"woldcliff\"<\/a>
where the wolds run into the sea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Strongly influenced by land, sea and storm, they carry many of the traditions of Northern Europe on their ageing backs, ready for the Half-World to open. The rook and jackdaw aid them; oak, ash and thorn<\/strong> stand ready.<\/p>\n

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,<\/em>
\n He breedeth a mighty bow.<\/em>
\n Alder for shoes do wise men choose,<\/em>
\n And beech for cups also.<\/em>
\n But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,<\/em>
\n And your shoes are clean outworn,<\/em>
\n Back ye must speed for all that ye need,<\/em>
\n To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!<\/em><\/p>\n

Kipling, Puck of Pook’s Hill<\/em><\/p>\n

(In an autumnal aside, talk of trees reminds me that I need to go and pick our apples, so that I can carefully wrap each one in tissue and stack them in a cool, airy place in the garage. Then I can forget about them and find them next Spring, a rotting, bubbling mass in the process of growing cider-coloured legs.)<\/em><\/p>\n

And then, of course, there is the village of St Botolph-on-the-Wolds<\/strong>, a rather more warped pocket where monstrous lint seems to collect, and the whip-poor-wills cough in the grip of perpetual sinus trouble. St Botolph’s, as it is generally known, is clearly marked, but no-one really wants to go there if they can help it.<\/p>\n

\"ponyhell1\"<\/a><\/p>\n

This is the territory not only of plucky young Sandra and her beloved, slightly psychopathic pony, Mr Bubbles, but also of that aged gentleman J Linseed Grant<\/strong> (no relation).<\/p>\n

For some time we have been collecting, and cataloguing, the fragmentary journals of this curious recluse, occasionally offering up said fragments for scholarly inspection. In his rickety house high above the village, Linseed Grant retains a small household which is of constant consternation to him:<\/p>\n