New Growth: the Flowers of Spring

Photo by myself, Wildflowers in Highgate Cemetery.

Spring is here. Though I don't live in the countryside, I do live near the edge of town and, as a result, have had the pleasure of seeing the countryside coming back to life. Bare branches are now lush with bright green leaves and delicate blossom. Crops are growing in the fields. Wild flowers grow wherever they please, turning barren and muddy ground into a stunning bouquet. After the cold beauty of winter, it's a refreshing change and one of my favourite seasons. But it's not just rich with new growth, it's rich with folklore. Some of that folklore is as light and pretty as the Spring itself, but some of it is very dark indeed. Which of your favourite flowers are more dangerous than you think? Which ones will bring you luck, which ones will bring you sorrow? Read on to find out, with my Top Five favourite Spring flowers.

A word of warning: While I do mention which plants are edible in this post, I also go over which ones are not. NEVER, EVER eat any foraged plants unless you are 100% sure that what you have picked is the correct and edible plant! Be careful.

Daffodils
One of the most famous Spring blooms, a bunch of these beautiful, yellow flowers could brighten anyone's mood. Bought to England by the Romans, they're quite hardy and can grow almost anywhere. If you spot the first Daffodil of Spring, before anyone else in your household, you'll have good luck for the rest of the year. A bunch of them as a gift brings good luck to the person who receives them, while a single flower given brings bad luck. 
Eating them brings bad luck too, as all parts of this pretty flower are poisonous. Symptoms include nausea, stomach pain, sickness and diarrhea, so keep them away from young children and pets.

Hyacinths
These beauties came to Europe from Turkey, and it wouldn't be spring without them or their heavy scent. Despite this, the story behind them is a gruesome one. In Greek myth, Hyacinthus was a young and beautiful mortal. The problem is that being young and beautiful in Greek mythology usually ends up with you being harrassed by some God or Goddess, and poor Hyacinthus found himself adored by not one God but two; Apollo the Sun God and Zephyrus, God of the Western Wind. Hyacinthus seemed to favour Apollo and Zephyrus was not happy. Normally the gentlest out of the winds, Zephyrus decided if he couldn't have the young man then nobody could. He waited til the two lovers were playing discus and, as the Sun God made his throw, used the Western Wind to blow the heavy disc off course. The discus hit Zephyrus in the head, a fatal blow. Heartbroken, Apollo immortalized the boy by causing Hyacinth flowers to bloom from his blood, the marks on the flowers petals are caused by his tears of grief.
Hyacinths are toxic and not edible.

Primroses
As Fairy flowers go, these little flowers are quite useful. Primroses are said to mark the hidden doorways to the Fae Lands and can even be used as the key to enter, if you are brave enough. This might be handy if some elf has spirited away a loved one and you need to go on an epic quest to save them. Upon discovering a fairy door, you can open it by touching it with a primrose. Also, since Fairies are said to be so fond of the flowers, a posey of them on your doorstep will encourage them to bless your home and eating the flowers will allow you to see them. 
Yes, primroses are edible and make a tasty and visually appealing addition to a spring salad. They are meant to taste quite fresh, like lettuce. 

Bluebells
Covering forrest floors in a delicate carpet of blue, these are fairy flowers and, pretty as they are, tend to be on the darker side of Folklore. Because of their links to the other worldly, it's considered unlucky to walk through patches of them, or pick them and bring them inside your home, as this will anger the Fairy Folk. If you wander into a ring of them or hear their dainty bells ringing, it's even worse; you will end up bewitched by the Fae, and either be taken to the Fairy Realm or die shortly after. Children left in a Bluebell wood are likely to be lured away to the Fairy world, never to be seen again. If you are extra unlucky then you might find a vile changeling left in place of the child.
These beauties spread everywhere they can, and are an indicator of ancient woodland or hedgerows. A relation to the Hyacinth, they are also not edible and are quite toxic if ingested. So don't.

Hawthorn

The Hawthorn will always be my favourite spring bloom. I have fond memories of night time car rides, on the way home from my Aunt and Uncle's as a child, the window down to let in the bewitching scent as the blossoms virtually glowed in the moonlight. Flowering in May, these tough trees can grow in the harshest, most barren and occasionally unexpected places. It's no wonder that in folklore they are considered to be fairy forts or meeting places, resulting in old roads changing course to avoid bothering them or lone trees growing untouched in farmers fields. Nobody wants to risk angering the fae folk. Their branches and blossom was traditionally used as part of May Day celebrations, as wreaths or garlands outside of the house. Inside of the house was a completely different story, since it was considered incredibly bad luck to bring the blossoms inside, as death would soon follow and who knows whom it would come for. This is probably linked to the medieval belief that the blossom smelt like death and the plague.
 It's younger leaves are edible, referred to by the old name as Bread and Cheese, these can be eaten (traditionally) straight from the branches or as part of a salad. It's blossom can be used for tonics or teas to treat heart issues and poor circulation. The berries (or Haws) can be used in jams or wines, they can be eaten raw but could cause cause stomach ache.

Photo by myself, Hawthorn and Blossom.

I hope you've enjoyed this short introduction to England's Spring flowers. My apologies if you haven't seen your favourite one included in this list, it's a personal Top Five rather than a general one. Have any interesting Folklore that's been left out of this post? I always love to hear new Folklore! Post it on Twitter and link me into your Tweet, or comment on this Blog's announcement post on my Instagram.

The Easter Bunny Man

I've been puzzling over what to write for an Easter blog for weeks now. Spring and the festivals based around it are fascinating, but I just wanted to do something a bit different. For a while I considered a post on my top 5 creepy Easter Bunnies, but while researching them I remembered that there's one Bunny out there that is much more frightening. And he doesn't want to give you a chocolate egg.

Photo by Jack Parrott, cc

Everyone out there will be familiar with some sort of urban legend. While such tales might be over exaggerations of the truth, that isn't the case here. The Bunny Man of Fairfax County, Virginia, is an odd but enduring urban legend that can be traced back to actual events. And those events are just as strange as the legend itself.

The Legend
If you go to the bridge on Colchester Road, at midnight on Halloween, you could fall victim to the sinister Bunny Man. The name of this horror adds an absurdity to the tale, it's hard to take someone calling themselves the Bunny Man seriously and gives me the feeling that he only catches people because they're laughing so hard they can't run. The bridge is officially known as the Colchester Overpass and doesn't look like anything special, just a one road tunnel under the train tracks. It really doesn't look scary.
Like most urban legends, there are a lot of various different variations of this one. As a result I'm going to focus on the most well known one. The story starts in the early 1900's when an insane asylum outside of the town of Clifton was closed down. Residents of the town had been horrified that an asylum had been built there, especially one that housed the most dangerous and violent of prisoners, so they successfully petitioned to have the establishment closed. It was arranged for those held there to be moved to other asylums elsewhere, but one of these transfers went disastrously wrong when one of the busses skidded off the road and crashed. The bus driver and most of those aboard died in the crash, but a handful of men escaped. Most of them were easy for the police to round up, but two of them eluded capture, Marcus Wallster and Douglas Griffon. Soon locals started to find the dangling bodies of skinned, uncooked, half eaten rabbits. The police continued their search and the bunny corpses kept piling up. Just when the police and locals thought it couldn't get worse, it did; the body of Marcus Wallster was found. Some say it was found hanging from a tree by the bridge, others say from the bridge itself, but poor Wallster was in the same state as all the rabbits that came before him. Mutilated. Skinned. Half eaten. But this body was accompanied by a note.

"You'll never find me. No matter how hard you try!

Signed,

The Bunny Man"

It turned out the police had left out one very important detail when they'd announced Griffon's escape. He wasn't just a lunatic, he was locked up because he was a murderer who had killed his entire family with an axe, on Easter morning. A large search party was was formed by the police, and they frantically searched for Douglas Griffon, now known as the Bunny Man thanks to his mocking note. Eventually they managed to corner him by the train tracks. Determined to evade capture, Griffon attempted to get to the other side of the tracks, as a train was bearing down on him and his pursuers. Although he had named himself the Bunny Man, he wasn't as fast as a rabbit. The train struck him and killed him immediately.
The story continues that during the 1970's three groups of teens turned up dead at the bridge over the space of several Halloweens. Hung, skinned and with their organs eaten. There were a couple of survivors, but they were driven mad by the horrors that they had witnessed and ended up in the insane asylum that the Bunny Man himself was destined for. It is said the mad spirit of the Bunny Man has returned to continue the killing spree he intended to start with Marcus Wallster and if you visit the bridge at midnight on October 31st, you too could fall victim to this lunatic or, if you're very lucky, just see the light of his torch as he stalks down the railway tracks to the bridge.

The Truth
As you may have guessed, there is no truth at all in the urban legend. The insane asylum never existed, neither did Griffon or the ill fated Marcus Wallster. There's no evidence that any teens died at the bridge in the 70's or that any survivors were institutionalised. So where did this legend come from? What started an urban legend so enduring that the bridge involved has become known as the Bunny Man Bridge, even on maps? The answer is just as strange as fiction. In the 1970's the town of Clifton was going through a period of urbanisation, new buildings were springing up and new people were moving into them and it would seem not everyone was happy about that. One man was so displeased that he took to roaming the streets at night, welding an axe and wearing a bunny suit. The first sighing of this individual came from a couple who had stopped their car by the bridge. They reported that a man, wearing white clothing and something on his head that looked like bunny ears, had approached their car. He ranted and raved at them, telling them that they were on private property and that he was going to call the police. Then he hurled his axe at their car, where it struck the windscreen and went through it, nearly hitting the terrified occupants. Hitting the accelerator, the lad in the driving seat got himself and his lady friend out of there. Adding credibility to the story is the fact

that it isn't one of those "heard from a friend of a friend" stories. The frightened couple went to the police and reported what happened, and the driver was an air force cadet. Although the police searched the area, they found nothing. As for the axe that was thrown through the couples windshield, they were allowed to keep it when it yielded no evidence. They had it mounted next to a news article about the sighting and you can now view it in one of Clifton's museums. 
Not long after this another sighting was reported to the police. This one would be the part that adds Halloween night into the urban legend, as it was about this time that this Bunny Man began to stalk a construction site. It was on one of the new housing developments that he was spotted, by a security guard, this time vandalising one of the newly built houses. Even though the security guard didn't get too close to the strange man, he still became the target of his ranting and the guard reported that the man shouted at him:

"All you people trespass around here, if you don't get out of here then I'm gonna bust you in the head!"

Sensibly the security guard backed off, retreating to call the police. Once again the Bunny Man was gone by the time they got there and no sign of him could be found. As with a lot of stories like this, things went wild when the newspapers got hold of it. Reports of Bunny Man sightings started to come in from all over Clifton and surrounding areas, some more believable than others and some of which could have just been copycat Bunny Men. Think of it as similar to the Evil Clown craze of 2016. At one stage someone claiming to be the Bunny Man even contacted the police, demanding they meet him at the bridge on Halloween, but he never showed up.
Eventually sightings stopped, but people didn't forget. Instead of telling the story of what happened, which is an odd enough story on it's own, the tale got twisted into the gory urban legend we know and love today. I guess "Local Man in Bunny Suit, Angry About Housing Boom" doesn't really send a chill down your spine when you're telling creepy stories around the camp fire.

Visiting the Bridge
While you can drive through the bridge, I wouldn't bother stopping. I should warn you that stopping there is considered trespassing and, if caught, you could face a fine of up to $250 (£192.39 at the time of writing this blog.). It is also illegal and highly dangerous to try to walk on the railway tracks there. Plus if the authorities don't get you, then maybe the Bunny Man will.

Saint Guinefort, the Goodest of Boys.

No matter where you come from, you'll be familiar with the idea of Saints. Men and Women, of all ages, who have done much good in their lives and have usually died horribly for their faith. Even today, the Pope still canonizes new Saints, though the process can take years and there are strict guidelines to follow. As of writing this, the most recent of these new Saints would be Nunzio Sulprizio; in life a poor and gentle blacksmith, in death immortalised as patron saint of blacksmiths, those with disabilities and workers. Personally, I find the idea of Saints fascinating. There's so many of them that I could write about the subject for hours. Need a patron Saint to protect you from explosions and lightning strikes? Then you want Saint Barbara. Keep burning yourself on the stove while cooking? Then you're better off with Saint Lorenzo, Patron Saint of Cooks, who was martyred by being roasted alive over a large fire by angry Romans. Being quite the badass, it's said that while undergoing this ordeal that he turned to his captors and said "Turn me over, I'm done on this side." A chef to the last and an utter legend. But you're not here to read about them, you're here to read about something a little different. You're here to read about Saint Guinefort.

Hailing from 13th Century France, it was here that Saint Guinefort was venerated as a saint, although not one officially recognised by the Catholic Church, but a Folk Saint. He was also a greyhound. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I am not insulting a religious figure, he was literally a greyhound and a saint. His story is near identical to that of Gelert, a heroic hound from Welsh folklore.* It's one of those tales that, although most likely untrue, makes you wonder what humans have done to deserve dogs; they are known as mans best friend, yet time and time again they are let down. Guinefort, before his sainthood, is said to have been the loyal pet of a nobleman or knight and lived in South-Eastern France, in an area known as the Dombes. One day this man left his castle, leaving his baby son under the watchful eye of his loyal hound, sure that nothing could go wrong. Yet when he returned to his home he found the nursery in chaos, the crib overturned and Guinefort sitting next to it, his muzzle covered in blood. Overcome by grief and rage, convinced the dog had slain his child, the nobleman drew his sword and killed Guinefort on the spot. He only realised his mistake when seconds later he heard a babies cry. His child was alive and well. Finally taking the time to investigate the scene, the frantic father found the baby on the floor behind the crib without a scratch on it. Below the crib he found the mangled remains of a poisonous snake. Too late the nobleman realised his mistake, that the blood around Guinefort's mouth was that of the snake, which surely would have killed the child had the loyal hound not been present to stop it. The heartbroken nobleman buried Guinefort in the traditional fashion for that time, in a well near his home, which was then filled in and covered with stones. After this, trees were planted around in the dogs honor, creating a grove.** 

Saint Christopher

It wasn't long before this tale spread. People from all over the area began to visit Guinefort's grave. It went from burial mound to shrine. People believed the dog was still able to protect children, even in death, and that sick children and infants could be healed if bought to Saint Guinefort's shrine. Rituals there included laying babies on the shine, lighting candles, leaving offerings and passing the children bought there between two of the trees. Though there is no written evidence for it, it's said that miracles occured and it's popularity grew until Saint Guinefort had what has been referred to as a cult. The whole situation sounds surreal and wonderful, but there is a possible explanation for it. Saint Guinefort the greyhound may have been confused with Saint Guinefort the human, an earlier saint who was martyred when he was shot full of arrows. It's also possible that Saint Christopher might have had an influence too, as he is often shown as having the head of a dog. Whatever the reason, Guinefort was respected in death as he should have been in life.

By this point you're probably wondering why you can't find any sign of the shrine online, why isn't it on any maps? The explanation is a simple one; the Inquisition. Not the Spanish Inquisition***, but the one founded in 12th century France by the Catholic Church. Their job was to investigate and combat anything they considered heresy. Sometime around 1261, an Inquisitor by the name of Etienne de Bourbon was visiting the area. He was initially delighted to find out that the locals were worshiping what he understood to be a much respected healer. His enthusiasm soon dwindled upon discovering that the healer was a dog. Despite being upset by the shrine, Etienne de Bourbon shows pity for Guinefort in his writings, referring to the dog as both noble and innocent. However he was horrified by what he saw as acts of Pagan worship and in his writings talks of demon summonings and infanticide. 

"They were seduced and often cheated by the Devil so that he might in this way lead men into error. Women especially, with sick or poorly children, carried them to the place, and went off a league to another nearby castle where and old woman could teach them a ritual for making offerings and invocations to the demons and lead them to the right spot."

He visited the shrine, where he had poor Guinefort's remains dug up and burnt along with the grove. The cult was broken up, it's worshipers were dispersed and threatened with punishment if they continued. 

I could end the blog now, but I'm pleased to say that it didn't end there. Etienne de Bourbon achieved nothing at the Shrine of St Guinefort, other than making a mess and upsetting quite a lot of people. I believe it's highly likely that veneration of this unofficial saint never ceased, it's just that those involved are keeping quiet about it. There's even some evidence to support this theory. In the 1800's a folklorist claims to have found the burial place while out walking, the site was intact. Much later a historian found evidence that worship of Guinefort had persisted right into the 1930's. To put that into perspective, that's not long after World War One and roughly around 89 years ago. Not even threatening his loyal worshipers could make them stop, it just made them more careful about how they went about it. The unofficial Patron Saint of Children and official Good Boy persists to this day and will never be forgotten.

*If you're ever in North-West Wales, you can visit Gelert's grave. Information can be found here.

**I'm not an expert on 13th century burials in France, but something about this has a distinctly Pagan air about it, reminding me very much of the pagan burial mounds we have here in England. Judging by his reaction, Etienne de Bourbon felt the same way, only he saw it as something sinister.

***NOBODY EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION!

It's Alive...IT'S ALIVE!

Quote by Terry Pratchett, photo by myself.

Well hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it?
I'd like to start by apologising to my readers for the unplanned hiatus, I've had a few issues in my personal life and things got in the way of blogging. Fear not, dear readers, The Strange Ways hasn't become just another abandoned Blog, haunting the internet with the ghosts of posts that never were. I've got new posts lined up and ready to be published, starting from tomorrow with the odd tale of a very unusual Saint! So lets pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and continue our journey down the weird and twisted roads that make up The Strange Ways.

Man Proposes, God Disposes

England, the 19th of May, 1845. Sir John Franklin sets sail from Greenhithe in search for the infamous North-West Passage. Not alone in his journey, the expedition consisted of two ships: the HMS Erebus, commanded by Captain James Fitzjames and HMS Terror which was commanded by Captain Francis Crozier, Franklin's second in command. Accompanying them was a combined crew of 131 men[1], consisting of a further 21 officers and 110 men. The ships themselves were state of the art, fitted with steam engines to back up their sails and provide speed but also heat for the ships central heating system, three years worth of food, libraries to educate and amuse the crew and re-enforced hulls to help push through the ice and protect the ships from the treacherous sailing conditions. The ships were last spotted by a whaling ship in July, 1845. They were never seen alive again.With their boats trapped in ice and Franklin dead[2], Captain Crozier gave the order to abandon ship with plans to walk through the frozen wilderness to civilization. Succumbing to bad luck and tragedy, to this day the bones of these poor men lay scattered around the Arctic like confetti and the search for answers continues. Thanks to search parties sent by both the Royal Navy and Franklin's determined widow, Lady Jane, the expedition has been memorialised in writing, songs and even paintings. And that is why I'm writing this blog now, not just because the expedition is a source of never ending fascination to me, but because one of these paintings is allegedly cursed.
Studying for any exams? You might want to look away now. Don't like gore? You might want to look
away as well.

Man Proposes, God Disposes is © Royal Holloway College, University of London

Painted in 1864 by Edwin Landseer, the painting has to be one of the macabre I've seen when it comes to the subject of the Franklin Expedition. There is no glory here, no brave British boys struggling against their fate, there is only death and chaos as the Arctic triumphs. The boats torn asunder, the men devoured by the elements and voracious polar bears. The Victorians were fond of adding an element of heroism and romance to their arts but there is none to be found here. There is only tragedy and death.

© Royal Holloway College, University of London

Today it hangs in the Royal Holloway College at the University of London. At the time the colleges founder Thomas Holloway bought the painting, it was a woman-only college. I imagine it would have been considered an unusual purchase, since the Victorians still considered woman to be delicate creatures, prone to fainting and hysteria. Whatever their opinions[3], the painting was there to stay. The gallery that held the painting was also used to hold exams. At some point (possibly during the 1920's or 1930's) the rumor started that if you were to sit in front of the painting while taking an exam, you would fail. Rather than dying out, the tall tale grew into full on urban legend, an incident in the 1970's only helping it thrive, when a student refused to sit for their exam unless the painting was covered. Such a fuss was raised that the registrar was forced to cover the painting and the only thing big enough to do so was a large Union Jack. After this it became a tradition to cover the painting, one that continues even now. Another thing that continues is the evolution of the paintings myth, since some unknown and morbidly minded student decided to add a rather frightening footnote to the legend of the painting. Despite there being no records of any deaths in the exam room or related to the painting itself, it is now said that the painting has taken at least one life. The story goes that some poor soul caught sight of the painting mid-exam and made eye contact with one of the polar bears depicted therein. This event drove the poor student insane, and she killed herself in some unknown manner after scrawling "the polar bears made me do it" all over her exam paper.
Now I don't know what you think, dear reader, but in my humble opinion the painting isn't cursed. It's a sad reminder of lives lost to Victorian hubris, a reminder of terrible failure and that is what causes the students to fail their exams. It's all down to autosuggestion. The painting is a monument to failure. It's not hard to see how students might have got distracted by it, by its message of doom and failed the exam. These failures are then blamed on the painting, soon rumours start that the painting caused a few students to score badly in their exams and  finally this becomes immortalised in superstition and urban legend. Fear of the dreaded canvas continues as time passes and the 1970's incident just causes it to grow out of control, like wildfire. But eventually, someone is telling the story and it just doesn't seem scary enough anymore, so they add in an extra tale of their own. The unsubstantiated suicide. And this, while false, adds a whole new scare to the story. I'm honestly surprised that whomever was responsible for that little edit didn't also try to claim that the dead student now haunts the painting. Untrue as the suicide itself, but do you see how easy it is to add to a myth? It has been 173 years since the Franklin Expedition and it haunts us even now, in one form or another. In the bodies of those lost being found, in the ships being discovered, in the Inuit oral history that is helping solve the mystery of the lost expedition and in Edwin Landseer's dark homage to those lost.



Have you seen the painting yourself and heard it's tale before? Have you been unfortunate enough to take your exams in front of it? Leave a comment and tell me your story, or tag me on Twitter @LWall54451552. As always, I'd love to hear your stories and views.












[1]Interestingly enough, I've read at least one article that states that at least four of the crew found have been identified as women. It wasn't unusual for women to join the Royal Navy in the 1800's, most of the time you never knew they were there unless they got caught.
[2]From a note left, we know that Franklin died on the 11th of June, 1947. Although a lot of bodies have been found, and some even identified, Franklin's grave has yet to be discovered and how he died is a mystery. His grieving widow, Lady Jane Franklin, never gave up hope of finding her husband and even employed the talents of mediums, one of which claimed he had been slain by polar bears.
[3]Lady Jane was far from impressed, but then a lot of things about the expedition displeased her. The news that the poor, lost men had at some point resorted to cannibalism, for example. When she was bought this bit of news she went out of her way to ruin the reputation of John Rae, the man bringing the news.

Devil's Brew; Lucifer vs Blackberries

It's my favourite time of the year. I adore Autumn, with its 

misty mornings, coloured leaves and golden light. After the dryness and heat of the summer, the coolness and frosts are welcome. It's the perfect time for long country walks and berry picking. Although, according to folklore, you might want to be careful about what you pick after the 29th of September; St Michaelmas Day. The feast of the Archangel Michael, associated with the beginning of Autumn, this holiday has many stories to it and everyone who celebrates it seems to have their own interesting ways to do so.* My favourite story associated with St Michaelmas of one of spite and blackberries.
Folklore tells us that not only is the 29th of September** the feast of St Michael, but it is also the day that St Michael drop kicked the Devil out of Heaven. Now the fall from Heaven was long and unpleasant, so when he collided with the Earth the Devil was already in a bad mood. But what made that mood even worse was what broke his fall. A blackberry bush. Not a little one either, but one of those big ones that tower above you, that have the biggest thorns and always have the plumpest berries just out of reach. After flailing around helplessly in the bush for a while, the Devil finally managed to pull himself out. And he was not amused in the slightest. Shouting and cursing, he decided the best way to express his rage was to piss on the poor bush. This is an act he has apparently repeated every St Michaelmas Day since then, though in some versions of the story he spits on the bush rather than relieving himself. Blackberries tend to get bitter later in the season and prone to rotting on the bush, most likely this is what lead to this particular bit of folklore. Whatever the case, it is rather amusing that people believed the Devil had nothing better to do with his time than going around and peeing on each and every bramble out of spite. But then that is the folkloric Devil for you; a sore loser, often a little dim and easily fooled, as you will no doubt see in future folklore related posts.

Now, that's the folklore. How about a recipe? I could have suggested a pie or crumble, even a sauce to go with chicken, but I'm going with a nice Blackberry Whiskey. There's nothing more pleasant on a chilly winters night than a little glass of something warming, but I'd still like to take this opportunity to remind you to PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY.




That being said, here is the recipe for Devil's Brew:









Ingredients 

• 1 bottle of whisky, doesn't matter what brand but I recommend a nice, dark, smokey one.
• 2 cups blackberries, picked after the 29th of September.
• 1 and a 1/2 cups of dark brown sugar.
• A mason jar big enough to hold everything.
• A bottle big enough to hold the whisky.

Method

• Sterilize the mason jar and let it dry, while it's drying wash the blackberries and set aside til needed.
• Once you're ready to begin, place the blackberries in the jar with the sugar and give it a good shake.
• Pour the whisky into the jar, over the blackberry/sugar mix.
• Give the whole lot a good stir, fasten the lid and store it somewhere dark and warm, but not too warm.
• Let it brew for about 6 months , gently shaking once a week to mix the sugar. Taste it at the 5 month mark, if you feel it needs to be sweeter you can add another half cup of sugar.
• After 5-6 months it's time to strain and bottle your whisky. Take a fine strainer, tea strainer or square of linen. Place this over the top of a jug and strain the whisky through it, when all the whiskey has been poured though squish the blackberries with a fork to release any whiskey that as soaked into them.
• Dispose of the used blackberries. Keep them out of reach of animals and children, they still retain some of the alcohol but don't taste good enough to eat anymore.
• Pour the Whiskey from the jug into a sterilized bottle.

Once you've got your whiskey bottled you can start drinking it straight away but it's best to leave it till the winter months, to let it settle a little. You should be left with a dark, almost black brew. Sweet, slightly thick and aromatic, this whisky goes down warm and has a kick like the Devil himself. It's perfect on its own or with tonic, goes quite nice in an apple and blackberry crumble, you can use it in jams and it's even quite pleasant on good vanilla ice cream. I've been using (and enjoying) this recipe for a good few years now, it's evolved a lot from the original, which called for brewers sugar and was unbearably sweet. I've picked more berries for this year's whisky and I've picked a couple of cups extra for an extra Devil's Brew project as I intend to try my hand at Blackberry and chilli Mead. We'll see how it goes and, if all goes well, then you can expect another post about the Devil in Folklore and recipe soon. If you try out this recipe and enjoy it, let me know in the comments or tag me in a Twitter post, I'd love to see what you think and see some photos of your brew. You can find me on Twitter at @LWall54451552.

*I was especially impressed with the home made Devil/Dragon pinata!
**In some of the stories I've read the dates are different, giving the date of October the 10th or 11th instead of September the 29th. Known by some as Old Michaelmas Day, and is considered another day on which the Devil was evicted from Heaven. This was most likely caused by a calendar reform in 1752.

Seriously though, please drink responsibly. 

Back to basics: the original Jack'o'lantern

Thanks to IrishFireside, CC

Halloween is upon us and the supermarkets are packed with beautiful, bright pumpkins, just ready to be carved into all sorts of wonderful and terrifying designs. Perfect to ward off the ghosties, ghoulies and things that go bump in the night, right?
How about if I told you that the humble Jack-o-Lantern has a long history, it has evolved over time and is linked to folklore? Two of my favourite things in one candlelit package; folklore and Halloween. Which is why I found myself standing in our local supermarket, trying to choose between a Swede and a turnip whilst wondering how the hell I'm going to fit a candle in such tiny turnips. One awkward internet search later (have you ever tried to maintain your grip on a turnip, a swede and use a mobile phone at the same time? Not easy.) and I discover that the rather handsome fellow on the right is, in fact, a swede. Still not easy to carve, but probably more forgiving than a tiny turnip. I would be lying if I said I wasn't relieved, I'm clumsy and I value my fingers. Our local A&E is not where I want to spend my Halloween, thank you very much. I make my purchases and scuttle off home. There's an icy chill in the air, as a cold front has crept down from the Arctic. Many parts of the country will spend Halloween under a blanket of snow. I am lucky, being too far down the country to experience anything other than the biting cold.

The Jack-o-Lantern we know today has changed a lot over the years. They started off as an Irish tradition, with their roots firmly planted in folklore. With the pumpkin not being native to Ireland, the people would use turnips or swedes instead. These tough veggies are hard to cut, even with a good knife. It must have been a relief when they were introduced to pumpkins, so bright and easy to carve. So unlike the swede, which is a devil to hollow out and shape, seemingly resenting and resisting all attempts to do so. Their origin can be traced back to a folktale concerning a man known as Stingy Jack. An unpleasant nickname for an unpleasant man. Jack had a terrible reputation; a drunkard, tight with his money and a cheat. And, as so often happens in such tales, Jack became so infamous that the Devil himself came to to hear about him and decided to see if the stories he had been told were true. What persuaded him that the rumors were true we may never know, but the Devil approached Jack with the intention of dragging his soul to Hell. Imagine his surprise when Jack agreed to go, providing the Devil would allow him one last drink first. Unable to resist granting such a harmless and simple wish, the Devil agreed, taking Jack to the nearest pub where the two whiled the night away while Jack savoured his last pint. The problems started when it came to paying for the ale. Jack was quite unwilling to pay for it himself, insisting that the Devil pick up the tab, even suggesting the Devil trick the bar tender by turning himself into a sixpence to cover the cost. After all, the Devil could take so many forms, and he could always take his original form afterwards. How hard could it be to turn into one little coin? Annoyed at Jack's baiting, but up for the prank, the Devil turned himself into a coin as asked, fully expecting to be handed over to the barkeep. It was the moment Jack had been waiting for all evening. He took hold of the coin and, instead of handing it over in payment, thrust it deep into his coat pocket where he kept a crucifix. This small, holy item prevented the Devil from turning back to his previous form and he found himself trapped. A master trickster, Jack had played the Devil like a fiddle. He was not a stupid man either and had already guessed he couldn't avoid the Devil forever. Although trapped in the form of a coin, eventually the Devil would escape and then there would be hell to pay. So Jack offered his captive a deal; ten more years of freedom for Jack in exchange for it's freedom. The Devil took the deal and made his escape.

Ten years passed quickly.
Staggering home drunk, Jack once again found himself approached by the Devil. And once again Jack seemed remarkably fine with the whole situation. But he did have one last request. Before he was carried to Hell he would like an apple. Just one last taste of an apple. Like with Jack's last last request the Devil saw no harm in it. He wasn't changing his form, so he couldn't be trapped in Jack's pocket and granting the request was childs play, all he had to do was climb up a nearby apple tree and fetch the fruit. Jack was too drunk to do it himself. What could go wrong? As you've probably guessed, quite a lot could go wrong. Cunning Jack waited til the Devil was up the tree picking the apple, then used his pocket knife to carve crosses in the tree trunk. The poor Devil* didn't realise what his victim was doing until it was far too late and he was trapped in the tree by the sign of the cross. Jack had done it again and once more agreed to give the Devil his freedom if he would make a another deal with Jack. This time Jack didn't ask for another ten years of freedom, his request was that the Devil would never be able to take his soul and drag it to hell. The Devil gladly agreed. He was eager to get out of the tree and to wash his hands of Stingy Jack forever. Jack cut the crosses from the tree bark. Freed at last, the Devil scuttled back to Hell, hoping to never see Jack again. Jack staggered home to sleep off that nights beers. Thinking his soul safe from the Devil, Jack didn't even bother to change his way. The drinking continued, as did the trickery. Years passed, eventually this unhealthy lifestyle ended his life and Jack marched on up to the Heavenly Gates, expecting to be let in. But, to his horror, he was turned away. He'd been so awful in life that there was no way God was going to let him into heaven. Annoyed by what had happened, Jack decided to try his luck elsewhere and headed to the gates of Hell instead. The Devil still hadn't forgotten their deal or how Jack had tricked him, not once but twice and he was still angry about it. He turned Jack away like the afterlife's best bouncer, Jack's name wasn't on the list, he wasn't getting in. However, feeling merciful, the Devil tossed Jack a small chunk of burning hot ember to light his way as he walked the earth for the rest of eternity. Jack happened to have a turnip in his pocket and hollowed it out so he could carry the burning coal without hurting himself. From then til the end of time, the phantom of Stingy Jack roams the night, his way lit by his hellish turnip lantern. This lead to a change of names for him, Stingy Jack being changed to Jack of the Lantern, or simply just Jack o Lantern.
It's possible that this tale was the result of people seeing swamp lights** or ball lighting and not knowing what it was. Nevertheless the story stuck in peoples imaginations and evolved over time along with the Jack o Lantern itself. It became common practice to hollow yourself out a turnip lamp and carve a terrifying face in it. When lit, this lamp was guaranteed to scare away any evil spirits or undead ghouls that might be stalking you on All Hallows Eve, when the dead roamed the earth. This practice changed even more when taken to America and switched to pumpkins. In 19th Century America it became a fun prank for children to carve a pumpkin lamp and roam around at night to terrify other travelers. Oh, and of course, like the veggies before them, a pumpkin lamp could scare away wandering ghosts.

Back at home, tucked up in the warm with a cup of tea, it's my turn to carve a traditional Jack o Lantern. Eager to get started, I have neglected to research exactly how to do this. I choose to wing it.
🎃 Take a sharp knife and take the top of the turnip off. 

🎃 Hollow the turnip out. This will take a while, as turnips are tough vegetables. Your best bet is to score the inside with a knife and then hack away with a spoon and strong sense of determination. It took me around three hours to hollow my turnip out, but that's only because I stopped for a break half way through.
I would advice leaving at least a centimeter of solid flesh at the bottom of the turnip. This will stop your candle from falling out.
🎃 Grab a pen and outline your lanterns face. Keep it simple and be careful while you're carving. I found this to be the toughest part of carving my turnip and narrowly avoided stabbing myself in my finger. I also tried to keep mine similar to the original, though I could never manage that level of terrifying.
🎃 Once you've got the face sorted you can punch two holes on either side of your lantern, for the string used as the handle. Once again, be careful if doing this with a knife. Environmentally friendly and an excellent improvised hole punch, I used the mental drinking straws my friend Fee bought me for Christmas to make my holes. Thread the string through the holes and the some nice big knots to secure them. I wouldn't advise doing this if you are using real candles to light the lantern, as the string can burn. As can the lid of the lantern.

🎃 Now your lantern is ready to terrorise trick-or-treaters with and forever haunt their nightmares, pop an LED candle or a glowstick inside and hang it outside your door.

And there you have it, how to carve a Traditional Jack o Lantern and the folklore behind it. I wish you all a Happy Halloween and, if you carve a turnip lantern of your own, please leave a comment with a photo or tag me in the photos on Twitter; I'd love to see the ghoulish horrors that you've created.

*This isn't the only story where he gets tricked. In some stories he gets tricked into greater feats than these, even being tricked into building bridges and church doors. The Devil in folklore is a bit stupid and arrogant, and is sometimes easily fooled.

**Swamp Gas will sometimes erupt into flames, resulting in an eerie, floating light. This fascinating natural occurrence also lead to the legend of Will-o-the-Wisp.