June, Jubilee and Jubilations

"Ne'er cast a clout till May be oot."  That's what the old wives' tale says.  The May in question is the Hawthorn blossom and not the month, but both are still safely out now.  Very few people have cast any clouts, though; with the exception of a couple of weeks, this summer has been cold and wet.

Our Queen's Diamond Jubilee was a happy weekend, but mostly overcast or raining, and now the second big celebration of the summer approaches.  Yes; the 2012 Olympics.  Although London is a little remote from here the Olympic flame has been making its way through Scotland for the past few days and today it came into Fife.

The pictures here show ordinary people in an ordinary street in Cupar welcoming the flame as it enters the town.  No grandees, no grand speeches; just people of all ages showing goodwill and welcoming the flame as it makes its way towards the Olympic Stadium in London 

 These last three pictures are reproduced by kind permission of Karen Nichols of Scotia Heritage tours and show the torchbearers, 15-year-old Sula Powell and 20-year-old Lee Goodfellow.

The Martyr and the May Dip

Patrick Hamilton was the first Scotsman to be martyred in St Andrews.  Born in 1504, he was the son of Sir Patrick Hamilton and Catherine Stewart, the daughter of Alexander, Duke of Albany who was the son of King JamesII of Scotland.

In 1517, when he was only 13 years old, young Patrick Hamilton became titular abbot of Fearn Abbey in Ross-shire.  This brought him enough income to study at the University of Paris, where he became a Master of Arts in 1520 and returned to Scotland in 1523.

In 1524 he was admitted to the faculty of arts in St Andrews university, and became preceptor of the cathedral, performing a musical mass of his own composition there. 

However, while he had been in Europe, he had been greatly influenced by the teachings of Martin Luther, and his own preaching betrayed signs of Luther's influence.  This came to the attention of Archbishop James Beaton, who ordered that Hamilton should be formally tried for heresy in early 1527.

Patrick Hamilton was urged to leave the country by his friends, and fled to Germany, but, having been inspired again by Luther while in Europe, he returned to Scotland again in the autumn of 1527.  Archbishop Beaton heard of his return, but allowed him to come back to St Andrews and encouraged other members of the university to spy on him and gather proof of his heretical beliefs.  After all, it didn't make sense to condemn the grandson of the king without incontestable evidence.

Patrick Hamilton was seized for heresy and sentenced to death by burning.  At noon on the 29th February 1528 he was tied to the stake in front of the gates of St Salvator's quad, and his pyre lit.  Unfortunately, his executioners were inexperienced and used green wood for the fire.  This wood that was still not dry enough to give the fire a strong heart, combined with a strong wind blowing down North Street, meant that while the fire set the cowl of Friar Campbell, his betrayer, ablaze, it did not burn fiercely enough where Patrick Hamilton stood.

As a result of this, it took Patrick Hamilton six hours to die.  Crowds had gathered on North Street to watch the execution, and were sickened by what they saw.  It is said that "the reek of Patrick Hamilton infected all it blew on."

Over the years and centuries that followed, a strange face appeared on the wall above the site of the execution.  It's believed that this face represents Patrick Hamilton, and was put there when his soul collided with the tower in its haste to reach Heaven.

Centuries later, the initials "PH" were set into the cobblestones to mark the place of his execution, and students try to avoid stepping on these initials because, if they do, it's considered an "academic sin" which means they'll never graduate.  The only way that they can absolve themself of this academic sin is to get up before dawn on Mayday morning, strip down to their underwear, and run into the North Sea until it's over their heads.  This is something they do every year in the May Dip.

Hangman's Lane

I was a very gullible child and my extended family took great joy in telling me stories; some factual; some, to say the least, far-fetched.

My Aunt Nancy worked as a nurse at Stratheden Hospital during World War Two.  The work was hard and the hours were long, but she was young, single and attractive and, like her friends, usually had enough energy for a dance or party on her day off.

One Friday night Nancy went to a dance in the village with her then boyfriend.  They quarrelled and she stormed out of the dance and set out to walk home.

The moon cast enough light to see by and she decided to take the shortcut down Hangman's Lane to reach the main road to Cupar.  As she walked along, her temper subsided and she began to notice the landscape around her.  Trees cast long-fingered shadows across the road.  Dry leaves rattled in the breeze.  An owl hooted then floated out in front of her like a ghostly shadow.

Nancy began to wish that she hadn't flounced out of the dance alone.  A cow coughed behind the hedge and, suddenly panicked, Nancy started to run, stumbling on the uneven ground.

A cloud blew across the moon and suddenly the world was plunged into darkness. A rabbit screamed somewhere close by and Nancy's nerve broke.  She ran twice as fast as before until speed made her careless and she caught her foot and fell forward.

Thoroughly un-nerved and in pain from a twisted ankle, Nancy cast blindly around for something to help her stand.  Her left hand made connection with a tree trunk.  Touching something as reassuringly solid as the rough bark calmed her a little.  She dragged herself on to her knees and used the tree for support while she got to her feet and tried to catch her breath.

The leaves above her head rustled.  There was a noise like branches rubbing together and as Nancy stood listening the noise intensified and its rhythm increased.  She tried to think rationally.  The wind.  The wind must be getting stronger.  Then she realised that the wind had dropped.  What was moving the leaves and the branches?

Panicked again, she stepped forward blindly with her hands outstretched.  Her fingers touched something that felt like fabric.  Something was dangling from the tree; something that smelled of mould and rotting leaves.  The moon slipped out from behind the cloud and she could see.

Yes she could see, but she could never bring herself to describe the horror of the figure that dangled from the tree limb.  She screamed in fear and fainted dead away.  Her friends found her lying under the Gallows Tree speechless with fright when they returned from the dance.

I never could persuade Nancy to show me which tree was the Gallows Tree.  She refused to walk down Hangman's Lane for the rest of her life, even in daylight.

It's Graduation Week in St Andrews.  From now until Friday proud families will watch their grown-up children have degrees conferred upon them from the oldest university in Scotland.  How strange to think that, but for warring kings and squabbling clerics, it might have been a few centuries more before Scotland decided that it needed a university at all.

Centuries ago Scottish students travelled to England and the Continent to study, but in 1296 the Wars of Independence began.  Less Scots went to England to study, going instead to universities in France, Italy or Spain.

Then, in 1378 Pope Gregory X1 died and the Roman Cardinals elected Bartolomeo Prignano, Archbishop of Bari, to be Pope Urban V11.  They quickly regretted their decision when the new pope proved himself to be suspicious, overbearing and in possession of an uncontrollable temper.  Before the end of the year the majority of those who had elected Urban no longer supported him.  Another election was held and Robert of Geneva was elected as Pope Clement V11.  So now there were two popes.  Urban V1 remained in Rome while Clement V11 establishes a rival Papal Court in Avignon.  This was the start of what came to be known as the Western Schism.

Urban was supported by the Holy Roman Empire, Denmark, Flanders, Hungary, Northern Italy, Norway, Poland, Sweden and England.

Clement was supported by France, Aragon, Castile, Leon, Cyprus , Burgundy, Savoy, Naples and Scotland.

By 1394 both of the original popes had died, but the Schism deepened.  Boniface 1X had been elected Pope in Rome and Benedict X111 in Avignon.  When Boniface 1X died in 1404 the Roman cardinals offered to refrain from electing a new pope if Benedict X111 would resign.  Benedict did not agree to this, even though France withdrew its support and tried to pressure him into resigning.  Scotland still supported Benedict, and so the only universities now open to Scots students were in Spain.

St Andrews monastery has been known as a place of learning for many years and in the early 15th century masters and doctors returning from France gathered in the town and started teaching with the support of James Bisset, Prior of St Andrews and Thomas Stewart, the Archdeacon.

On the 25th February 1412 Bishop Henry Wardlaw formally incorporated members of this school as a "university".  It could not, however, grant degrees.  The authority to do that could only be granted by the Pope or the Holy Roman Emperor.  The Holy Roman Emperor did not agree with Scotland's choice of pope and so Benedict X111 was approached on behalf of the school and the Church of St Andrews and also the King and the Estates.  Benedict needed to keep the support of Scotland, and so on 28th August 1413 issued the Papal Bulls which established St Andrews as Scotland's first university.

The Bulls arrived in St Andrews in February 1414 to great celebration in the town, and many events are planned for celebration of its 600th anniversary in 2014.
                                                                               

The most famous recent graduate of the University of St Andrews is, of course, Prince William, but the university has been responsible for the education of many mathematicians, writers, scientists, psychologists and journalists.... and, of course, Malcolm, who has left his mark on the left-hand side of the gateway into St Salvator's Quad.

Summer... or very nearly

It's June.  The students have finished their exams and gone home for the long vacation, leaving the town to its citizens and the ever-present golfers.  Fulmars roost and squabble on the cliff ledges or soar out over the waves that roll up onto the West Sands.  No children play there, busily occupied with buckets and spades.  No parents husband coffee from a thermos, brush sand from sandwiches or make the trip to the beach cafe for ice cream or crisps.

The large houses along The Scores stand quiet within their garden walls.  The largest of them all, the castle, waits patiently for a new coachload of tourists to explore its history or perhaps venture down into the darkness of its mine and counter-mine.

Flowers spring up along the clifftops of the Kirkhill leading to the cathedral, and boats wait for the turn of the tide in the harbour below.

People still go about their business on the pavements of the cobbled streets.  Shops, pubs and restaurants still fill and empty with the ebb and flow of customers, but overall there is a sense of waiting.

At the end of next week, fourth-year students and their families will return for graduation.  The hotels and guest-houses in the town will fill.  There will be graduation meals and celebrations and then the graduates and their proud parents will return home to another life.

St Andrews is always here, however, in rain and wind and storm; in snow and in sunshine.  In the week following graduation Scottish schools will begin their summer holidays.  The West Sands and the East Sands will be populated by families, no matter what the weather.  Golfers will still clatter along the streets pulling bags of clubs behind them and tourists and cadies will drink together in the bars and discuss the day's game; because it's summer... or, very nearly

A Riddle in an Enigma in a Mystery

Largo Law is an extinct volcano near Largo in the Kingdom of Fife, Scotland, and there are many legends attached to it.  I was born a few miles away and I remember as a child being told that, in a cave deep in the Law the Knights of King Arthur slept encased in silver armour, ready to be woken by a horn blast to do service to their king, should he come again.

The Law can be clearly seen across the Forth from Edinburgh.  Largo Law, and Law means a hill in Scotland,  was supposed to have been created when the Devil threw a rock across the Firth of Forth.  There's an outcrop near the summit of the Law that is known as the Devil's Chair; presumably because it looks like a gigantic chair with seven steps leading up to it.

Long ago, sheep who grazed on the Law appeared to have yellowish fleeces, and this was supposed to be because they were either grazing over the site of hidden treasure or a long-lost gold mine deep underground.

A spirit was also supposed to haunt the slopes of the Law, and legend had it that this spirit had a secret to share, if only anyone was brave enough to ask him the correct question.  Everybody knew this legend, but nobody had the courage to approach the spirit until one day the shepherd from Balmain farm on the northwest slopes of the Law decided to find out his secret.  He approached the rather frightening spectre and asked him what kept him from his eternal sleep.

The mysterious spirit told him to meet him later that night.  "If Auchendowie cock doesn't craw, and Balmain's herd his horn doesn't blaw, I'll tell where the gold is in Largo Law."

Balmain's shepherd was nothing if not thorough.  He went to Auchendowie and slaughtered every cockerel in the place, and then approached Tam Norrie, the cowherd of Balmain and warned him, on pain of death, that on no account should he blow his horn to call the cows back to their byre that night.

Satisfied that all the conditions had been met, the shepherd set out to meet the spirit at the appointed place.  Just as the spectre was about to tell its secret, however, the noise of Tam Norrie's horn rang out across the foothills of the Law.  Norrie had either forgotten what the shepherd had asked him or had no regard for the request.

The spirit froze on the spot for a moment, then cried, "Woe to the man who blew that horn, for out of that spot he will never be borne."

Tam Norrie dropped dead on the spot in that second and could not be moved away for burial, no matter what efforts were made.  At length, the local people decided to make a mound of stones over him for a burial plot and leave him where he lay.

Now, that in itself is a cracking good story, but, Gentle Reader, it gets stranger.  There is truth in the saying that fact is stranger than fiction, as I'm about to demonstrate.

In the early 19th century someone (perhaps a carrier) dug among the stones and gravel of Norrie's Law.  We'll never know exactly what he found, but he is said to have sold some silver articles of armour to Mr. Robertson, a jeweller in Cupar, the which silver was melted down and lost to us.

Also found on the site were Roman coins, fragments of Viking jewellery and metal inscribed with Pictish symbols.

Sometimes I think we can be too quick to dismiss legends.  Like Chinese Whispers, they can be distorted by time, but they probably do start off with some solid substance...

The Blue Stane

When St Rule brought the relics of  St Andrew to Scotland, and with them the Christian religion, it is said that the Devil was enraged; so enraged, in fact, that he appeared on Drumcarrow Range or Blebo Craigs in the form of a giant, picked up a large boulder and threw it at St Rule's cell on the Kirkhill. 

His aim was bad, and the stone fell short.  Nobody knows exactly where the Blue Stane first landed.  It is supposed to have stood, at various times, in Double Dykes Road, by the West Port and in the middle of the road opposite Hope Park Church before  being moved to its present location, behind the railings at The Raisin in Alexandra Place.

The Blue Stane may have had some ritual significance in pre-Christian Scotland; there are certainly traditions associated with it.  Fairies were said to frequent the stone, and it was a favourite meeting-place for lovers.  Men would raise their hats as they passed the stone, and women would curtsey. It is reputed to have been the coronation stone of Kenneth MacAlpine in 843 A.D., and St Andrews pikemen are said to have touched the Stane for luck before setting off for the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314 and, until the early 20th, the Carter's Society of St Andrews would gather there before their annual races.

Nowadays it lies behind the railings and nobody pays it much attention...

 ... or do they?  What is the fascination with putting loose change on top of mysterious stones?  Perhaps stray golfers are hoping for help with their game but, given the Stane's history of falling short, perhaps not.