Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs

by James M. Mackinlay

Rose up from out the bosom of the lake

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

Holding the sword—and how I row’d across

And took it, and have worn it, like a king.”

Scottish lochs form a striking feature in the landscape, and must have been still more fitted to arrest attention in ancient times when our land was more densely wooded than it is now. Dr. Hugh Macmillan, in his “Holidays on High Lands,” alludes to the differences in the appearance of our lochs. “There are moorland tarns,” he says, “sullen and motionless as lakes of the dead, lying deep in sunless rifts, where the very ravens build no nests, and where no trace of life or vegetation is seen—associated with many a wild tradition, accidents of straying feet, the suicide of love, guilt, despair. And there are lochs beautiful in themselves and gathering around them a world of beauty; their shores fringed with the tasselled larch; their shallows tesselated with the broad green leaves and alabaster chalices of the water-lily, and their placid depths mirroring the crimson gleam of the heather hills and the golden clouds overhead.”

Near the top of Mealfourvounie, in Inverness-shire, is a small lake at one time believed to be unfathomable. How this notion arose it is difficult to say, for when soundings were taken the depth was found to be inconsiderable. In the parish of Penpont, Dumfriesshire, about a mile to the south of Drumlanrig, is a small sheet of water called the Dow, or Dhu Loch, i.e., Black Loch. Till towards the end of last century the spot was much frequented for its healing water. A personal visit was not essential. When a deputy was sent he had to bring a portion of the invalid’s clothing and throw it over his left shoulder into the loch. He then took up some water in a vessel which he carefully kept from touching the ground. After turning himself round sun-ways he carried the water home. The charm would be broken if he looked back or spoke to anyone by the way. Among the people of the district it was a common saying, when anyone did not respond to the greeting of a passer-by, that he had been at the Dow Loch. Pilgrimages to the loch seem to have been specially popular towards the close of the seventeenth century, for in the year 1695 the Presbytery of Penpont consulted the Synod of Dumfries about the superstitious practices then current. The Synod, in response to the appeal, recommended the clergy of the district to denounce from their pulpits such observances as heathenish in character. There were persons still alive in the beginning of the present century who had seen the offerings, left by the pilgrims, floating on the loch or lying on its margin. To the passer-by, ignorant of the superstitious custom, it might seem that a rather untidy family washing was in progress.

The Church of St. Vigeans, in Forfarshire, is well known to antiquaries in connection with its interesting sculptured stones. An old tradition relates that the materials for the building were carried by a water-kelpie, and that the foundations were laid on large bars of iron. Underneath the structure was said to be a deep lake. The tradition further relates that the kelpie prophesied that an incumbent of the church would commit suicide, and that, on the occasion of the first communion after, the church would sink into the lake. At the beginning of the eighteenth century the minister of the parish did commit suicide, and so strong was the superstition that the sacramental rite was not observed till 1736. In connection with the event several hundred people took up a position on a neighbouring rising ground to watch what would happen. These spectators have passed away, but the church remains.

St. Tredwell’s Loch in Papa-Westray, Orkney, was at one time very famous, partly from its habit of turning red whenever anything striking was about to happen to a member of the Royal Family, and partly from its power to work cures. On a small headland on the east of the loch are still to be seen the ruins of St. Tredwell’s Chapel, measuring twenty-nine feet by twenty-two, with walls fully four feet in thickness. On the floor-level about thirty copper coins were found some years ago, the majority of them being of the reign of Charles the Second. At the door of the chapel there was at one time a large heap of stones, made up of contributions from those who came to pay their vows there. Mr. R. M. Fergusson, in his “Rambles in the Far North,” gives the following particulars about the loch:—“In olden times the diseased and infirm people of the North Isles were wont to flock to this place and get themselves cured by washing in its waters. Many of them walked round the shore two or three times before entering the loch itself to perfect by so doing the expected cure. When a person was engaged in this perambulation nothing would induce him to utter a word, for, if he spoke, the waters of this holy loch would lave his diseased body in vain. After the necessary ablutions were performed they never departed without leaving behind them some piece of cloth or bread as a gift to the presiding genius of the place. In the beginning of the eighteenth century popular belief in this water was as strong as ever.”

Superstitions had a vigorous life last century. Pennant, who made his first tour in Scotland in 1769, mentions that the wells of Spey and Drachalday, in Moray, were then much visited, coins and rags being left at them as offerings. Nowadays holy wells are probably far from the thoughts of persons living amid the stir and bustle of city life, but in rural districts, where old customs linger, they are not yet forgotten. In the country, amidst the sights and sounds of nature, men are prone to cherish the beliefs and ways of their forefathers. Practices born in days of darkness thus live on into an era of greater enlightenment. “The adoration of wells,” remarks Sir Arthur Mitchell in his “Past in the Present,” “may be encountered in all parts of Scotland from John o’ Groats to the Mull of Galloway,” and he adds, “I have seen at least a dozen wells in Scotland which have not ceased to be worshipped.” “Nowadays,” he continues, “the visitors are comparatively few, and those who go are generally in earnest. They have a serious object which they desire to attain. That object is usually the restoration to health of some poor little child—some ‘back-gane bairn.’ Indeed the cure of sick children is a special virtue of many of these wells. Anxious mothers make long journeys to some well of fame, and early in the morning of the 1st of May bathe the little invalid in its waters, then drop an offering into them by the hands of the child—usually a pebble, but sometimes a coin—and attach a bit of the child’s dress to a bush or tree growing by the side of the well. The rags we see fastened to such bushes have often manifestly been torn from the dresses of young children. Part of a bib or little pinafore tells the sad story of a sorrowing mother and a suffering child, and makes the heart grieve that nothing better than a visit to one of these wells had been found to relieve the sorrow and remove the suffering.” Mr. Campbell of Islay bears witness to the same fact. In his “Tales of the West Highlands” he says, “Holy healing wells are common all over the Highlands, and people still leave offerings of pins and nails and bits of rag, though few would confess it. There is a well in Islay where I myself have, after drinking, deposited copper caps amongst a hoard of pins and buttons and similar gear placed in chinks in the rocks and trees at the edge of the ‘Witches’ well.’ ”

A striking testimony to the persistence of faith in such wells is borne by Mr. J. R. Walker in volume v. (new series) of the “Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland,” where he describes an incident that he himself witnessed about ten years ago on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Mr. Walker writes, “While walking in the Queen’s Park about sunset, I casually passed St. Anthony’s Well, and had my attention attracted by the number of people about it, all simply quenching their thirst, some probably with a dim idea that they would reap some benefit from the draught. Standing a little apart, however, and evidently patiently waiting a favourable moment to present itself for their purpose, was a group of four. Feeling somewhat curious as to their intention I quietly kept myself in the background, and by-and-by was rewarded. The crowd departed and the group came forward, consisting of two old women, a younger woman of about thirty, and a pale sickly-looking girl—a child three or four years old. Producing cups from their pockets, the old women dipped them in the pool, filled them, and drank the contents. A full cup was then presented to the younger woman and another to the child. Then one of the old women produced a long linen bandage, dipped it in the water, wrung it, dipped it in again, and then wound it round the child’s head, covering the eyes, the youngest woman, evidently the mother of the child, carefully observing the operation and weeping gently all the time. The other old woman not engaged in this work was carefully filling a clear glass bottle with the water, evidently for future use. Then, after the principal operators had looked at each other with an earnest and half solemn sort of look, the party wended its way carefully down the hill.”