Five English Witch-Haunts: Witches & English Mythology
English myth is a curious being. Compared to, say, that of Ancient Greece, which gives origin stories to real-life flora and fauna from across the world, our tales often involve more local variations.
Nowhere is this clearer than in a huge sub-part of English myth: folklore, the traditional beliefs and legends of a particular people. Magical beings are prominent here. While there are some wider similarities between counties – most have housed a mysterious, roaming beast at some point – many differ in being specific to a particular place. A northern Gytrash, for example, is not the Beast of Exmoor.
It’s the same with witches. We all know their typical imagery: an old, lone woman, with broomstick and potions, usually evil. But, in our age of scepticism, what is the truth behind this constructed identity? Has it ever been different? And where have our witches actually lived?
Here are five different English(-ish) counties, and the diverse witches they’ve produced.
Cumbria
This county’s most famous witches aren’t actually flesh. In the east, near Penrith, there’s a stone circle – dated to the Bronze Age – called Long Meg and her Daughters. Only the latter group actually forms the circle. Long Meg herself is a sandstone monolith just outside it, marked with Celtic motifs.
Legend tells that all of these standing stones were once a real coven of witches, headed by Long Meg. They were turned to stone by Michael Scot, a wizard from Scotland. His spell went further. The stones cannot be properly counted – or that, if they are, if anyone counts them twice and gets the same answer both times, either the spell will be reversed or something terrible will happen.
My advice? Don’t take any unnecessary risks. Or do. Who knows? It’s more likely that these Neolithic stones are… just stones. After all, Michael Scot is a medieval figure; Long Meg is a local name recorded in the seventeenth century.
Yorkshire
In 1488, an exiled flesh-and-blood teenager named Agatha gave birth to a girl in a cave near Knaresborough. The baby’s name? Ursula Sontheil (or Southeil).
She would have had a hard time of it. Not only was she born out of wedlock, she was probably disabled in some way. Either meant social suicide at the time; without a firm grasp of the truth, it’s all too easy to ‘other’ people. Even when she married, locals whispered that only love magic had made the match possible. Eventually, Old Mother Shipton returned to the cave she was born in, which also bears her name today. Presumably, she got a lot more peace there, because right next door is Knaresborough's famous Petrifying Well. It has the power to turn things into… stone! (Again.) People were terrified.
It’s not actually that scary, though. The local water is spa water, which has a high mineral content. In this case, the content is so high that anything placed in its stream gets coated in minerals. Over time, these build up. The object slowly ‘becomes’ stone.
So the Petrifying Well has a scientific explanation, but our woman-next-door had more mysterious tricks up her sleeve. Above all, Ursula is most famous for her prophecies, covering everything from Cardinal Wolsey's death to the Great Fire of London. The most infamous one relates to the end of the world in 1881. It seems to be a Victorian forgery, penned by one Charles Hindley – but in that same year, a meteor landed in Yorkshire. Shaped by its travels through space, the rock in question is said to depict the image of Mother Shipton herself.
Lancashire
In some ways, Ursula was lucky. There is no record of her ever having to undergo a witch trial, or be sentenced to capital punishment as a result. Today, we think of these deaths as being by fire, burnings at the stake, but water-duckings were also carried out. Hangings were the outcome of one of the two most famous witch trials in English history.
In 1612, two groups of people from the Lancashire areas of Pendle and Samlesbury were arrested for witchcraft. Gone, here, is the image of witch as ‘old, lone female’: the former group was, yes, headed by two old ladies, Elizabeth ‘Demdike’ Southerns and Anne ‘Chattox’ Whittle, but it also included their children and grandchildren, as well as other locals. Two were male.
So why did this happen? Well, witch-hunting peaked in the seventeenth century, led by zealous figures such as King James VI and I, who feared witchcraft’s power. Nowadays, we can still identify with a need to protect everyone from danger, or even death… but not, usually, the way Stuart authorities went about it.
Fewer people today believe in real witchcraft, making it harder for historians to fix on the truth. More possibilities just keep turning up. For example, was the Samlesbury investigation merely a show trial to preserve peace? 1612 wasn’t long after the Protestant Reformation. Many in northwest England hadn’t easily converted between the two Christian denominations. Catholicism – officially viewed as going hand in hand with supernatural forces, and therefore evil – was still a threat, especially considering the Gunpowder Plot, only seven years beforehand. Were magical accusations a cover, then, to maintain stability?
Then, there’s the Pendle set: a professional feud that got way, way out of hand? Both of the families involved worked as beggars, sellers of charms, and herbal healers. In what we would see as an unfortunate coincidence, Demdike’s granddaughter, Alizon Device, failed to obtain some pins from a Yorkshire salesman. A few minutes after this encounter, he collapsed. When the blame was placed on her, she was also questioned about Chattox’s family. It was the perfect opportunity to escalate the local rivalry.
Things got so bad that one of the trial witnesses was Alizon Device’s nine-year-old sister, Jennet. In the end, all but two of the Pendle witches were found guilty and hanged. Old Demdike died in prison beforehand.
More happily, at least from our perspective, Alice Grey (or Gray) was found not guilty. Every Samlesbury witch, too, was cleared. These mercies helped pave the way for better relations in later centuries.
Cornwall
As a Celtic nation, this county stands a little apart from the rest of English culture. It’s no different with attitudes towards witches. Two hundred years after the Stuart-era witch hunts, we find Tamsin Blight (c. 1798-1856). She was a pellar, which seems to be a local word for a witch-healer. She would sell protective charms and talismans, and heal the sick, along with her husband.
He was probably what we would call LGBT+ in some way, wanting his own pellar services paid for through homosexual encounters. At a time when this was still a capital offence, it was too much for the locals, and Blight seems to have separated from her husband just as a warrant went out for his arrest. The next record of him is at his death, some decades after hers, in a different parish.
Tamsin, however, maintained a better local reputation, and these good Cornish vibes continued. At the time of writing, the county houses the Museum of Witchcraft and Magic, a large collection of objects, artwork, and information relating to this area of folklore. It sounds like a fascinating place to visit.
Discworld…
…by way of Wiltshire, where most of these books were written. England’s rich witchy history is a brilliant inspiration for writers, particularly those of fantasy fiction. The Museum of Witchcraft and Magic featured in a recent Harry Potter documentary – and, yes, Professor Trelawney’s various forms of divination, for example, have all been part of real-life magic.
Honestly, though? If you’ve enjoyed this article and want to read more, let me point you to the late, great Sir Terry Pratchett’s work. Mother Shipton and the Pendle Witch Trials influenced Good Omens (co-authored with Neil Gaiman). Discworld’s ‘Witch’ stream brims with English folklore. Some books explore this more than others – Carpe Jugulum, for example, involves vampires, more commonly associated with eastern European folklore – but all are entertaining reads.
From Equal Rites to The Shepherd’s Crown, readers learn the truth. On the Disc, there’s a witch for every distinct area – such as a village – to help and heal the non-magic folk. Witches here have diverse identities (one has a country voice and might well be ace and/or aro, while Nanny sounds like a northern auntie and is… very much neither) and backgrounds (shepherds, teachers, a lord’s son, a queen). Most importantly, they’re often misunderstood, but always overcome any rumours that turn the masses’ usual respect of them into fear. By making them good role models, Pratchett helped counteract prejudices, instead spreading knowledge and empathy.
The point is, it’s the same with all the witches in English (and beyond) history. They’re just ordinary people who’ve found themselves on society’s edges. Sometimes, it’s because their talents stood out, especially in eras when education for certain identities was restricted. Other times, it’s merely down to them finding their voices: an episode of Ghosts saw the Stuart-era, burned-as-a-witch Mary terrified for the safety of those on Loose Women… but they’re employed specifically to express themselves. It’s only recently that relations have improved.
There is some way to go, too. How many of us, today, would’ve faced witchcraft accusations, then trials and even death, if we’d been born in any past era? How many of us are still in danger, albeit from different prejudices? Crucially, most fears around witches – and similar othered identities – are unfounded. The majority of everyday folk just want to live, content in peace and freedom, with themselves and each other. It’s something to remember.
Written by E.A Colquitt
E.A Colquitt is based in the north of England. Currently working on her first novel, she is a graduate of Lancaster University and her favourite thing is being happy.
You can check out her blog HERE.
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