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.