From Tranquil Lakes to Demonic Ley Lines
~ How a Scottish Souvenir Revealed the Devil's Work in the English Countryside ~
Last year, fueled by a sudden and inexplicable urge to channel my inner Braveheart (freedom! face paint! questionable accents!), I embarked on a short Scottish adventure. Now, I'm not talking a quick weekend jaunt to a distillery (though there may have been some of that involved, ahem). No, despite spending just a couple of weeks there, this was a full-blown, kilt-optional exploration of the highlands, lochs, and enough plaid to make a lumberjack faint.
The scenery was, as expected, breathtaking. Rolling hills kissed the clouds, sheep multiplied like adorable, fluffy tribbles (trekkies rejoice!), and the air itself smelled vaguely of single malt and adventure. However, amidst all this picturesque perfection, a nagging question began to gnaw at my brain: was this tranquility all it seemed? Little did I know, my quest for tartan-clad authenticity was about to take a sharp turn into the hilariously demonic.
At some point during the holiday, sated (and possibly slightly tipsy) on Highland charm, I decided to venture south for a taste of England's serenity. The Lake District beckoned, promising glistening lakes, quaint villages, and a profound peacefulness. After all, what could be more calming than escaping the occasional rogue bagpipe to rolling meadows dotted with sheep so content they looked like nature's oversized stress balls?
As it turns out, those rolling meadows might be hiding a dark secret, and those sheep... well, let's just say the jury's out on whether they're plotting world domination or just particularly good at napping. Perhaps my overactive imagination was to blame. After all, my travel companion for this Lake District escape was a book with a devilish premise that had me questioning every rustle in the hedgerow. Maybe that's why even the sheep seemed a little... shifty. Especially after a particularly vivid chapter about a lost soul wandering the very fells I was exploring, the book's words echoing in my mind with every creak of the old farmhouse I was visiting.
Enter this unassuming tome, a quirky gem I stumbled upon while visiting the lovely „Topping & Company Booksellers” library in Edinburgh: „Cloven Country – The Devil and the English Landscape”. Now that was a title that piqued my interest faster than a sheepdog spotting a rogue sock. This wasn’t the typical travelogue, but rather „The Devil’s Doings: A Field Guide to Infernal Shenanigans.” It turns out, all that peace and quiet and the bucolic English countryside was just the Devil's clever marketing ploy. Those quaint pubs with their "olde worlde" charm? Probably built on a ley line* or powered by a grumpy imp in the basement.
So, anyway, what was the book about? Let’s quote from the back cover:
„According to legend, the English landscape—so calm on the surface—is really the Devil’s work. Cloven Country tells of rocks hurled into place and valleys carved out by infernal labor. The Devil’s hideous strength laid down great roads in one night and left scars everywhere as the hard stone melted like wax under those burning feet. With roots in medieval folklore of giants and spirits, this is not the Satan of prayer, but a clumsy ogre, easily fooled by humankind. When a smart cobbler or cunning young wife outwitted him, they struck a blow for the underdog. Only the wicked squire and grasping merchant were beyond redemption, carried off by a black huntsman in the storm.”
It’s a floklore study, immensely researched and superbly written by Jeremy Harte, a man with an encyclopedic knowledge (as I came to discover) of the diverse sources of England’s traditional tales, currently a curator at Bourne Hall Museum (Surrey). It’s not exactly a self-help manual, but it does explain why so many local landmarks have such gloriously ominous names – The Devil's Elbow, The Devil's Jumps, you name it.
Apparently, Old Nick wasn't exactly the fire-and-brimstone type these parts knew. More like a clumsy prankster with a penchant for misplaced boulders and misplaced churches (who mysteriously ended up perched precariously on hilltops). The book brims with tales of how the locals, with a good dose of British pluck and a side of cunning, routinely outsmarted the Devil before things got truly demonic. It was all perfectly delightful, like watching a particularly accident-prone cat try (and fail) to knock over a goldfish bowl. This devil, it seemed, was less "Lord of Darkness" and more "Mischief Maker of the Underworld."
As a side note, speaking of delightfully demonic characters, I couldn't help but be reminded of a certain Crowley from a certain book by the esteemed Sir Terry Pratchett. Maybe the Lake District and the entire British countryside wasn't just beautiful, it might be subtly… infernally interesting.
So, the next time you find yourself amidst the seemingly tranquil beauty of the British landscapes, remember: beneath that picturesque facade might lurk a touch of the infernal. Perhaps a misplaced boulder here, a hauntingly named landmark there – whispers of a time when the Devil himself tried, and hilariously failed, to leave his mark. With Jeremy Harte's "Cloven Country" as my guide, my trip to the Lake District transformed from a scenic escape into a delightfully demonic adventure. And who knows, maybe a bit of British pluck and cunning resides within us all, ready to outsmart our own personal demons, be they metaphorical or misplaced by a clumsy underworld prankster.
*an ancient mystical path believed to carry strong energy