There’s Always Time to Write

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

Apology incoming. I’ve given in, and decided to postpone releasing Episode 10 until next Wednesday. You know what I was saying about life getting in the way? It continued to get in the way. It sounds like a feeble excuse to my ears – after all, there’s always time to write, right?

Definitely. I’ve been eking words out in spare moments at work. I’ve stayed up far too late on days that I shouldn’t in order to eke out some more. I found a few hundred words while squinting at my laptop during the long car journey home yesterday. I even managed about a hundred once I reached home, before the headache kicked in. I got up early this morning to make a last ditch effort on the thing – because better late than never, right? Then I read what I had written, and discovered that it was all a bit shit, and still wasn’t finished. Am I going to be able to correct that in the next two hours before I leave the house again? No.

I realised that over the past fortnight I’ve had very few nights in my own bed. I don’t think I’ve stayed in one place for much more than a day or two; the pile of washing up in the kitchen just keeps growing, and there’s something reminiscent of Hansard’s Odious Miasma living in the bin. I’ve got a couple of hours to deal with some of these things, but then I won’t be back home properly until Sunday night. Ugh. Some of the reasons for this constant movement have been unpleasant (a funeral on my partner’s side of the family, a friend moving away, etc) and some of the reasons have been exceedingly pleasant (such as a friend’s wedding, and a mutual belated birthday gift of a trip to the Harry Potter studios with my sisters – darn worth it, by the way). I’m stubborn as hell, and didn’t want to admit that I might have a teensy bit of trouble getting the latest episode finished on time. Because there’s always time to write, right?

Although I agree with this sentiment, I’ve often wondered how other people achieve it. Because when you say ‘there’s always time to write’ – are we talking about making time, or finding time? They’re two different things, and not equally possible. Ideally, you ‘make’ time by refusing other commitments – you say no to seeing your friends for a day, as an example. But it’s never as easy as that. Even though there’s this cliched image of a writer being in social isolation as a necessary consequence of their work, I’m not sure I believe it. I don’t think I’m an overly special case in that I live too far from friends and family to see them several times a week – there is no twice-weekly pub outing, or the like. But it does mean that social requests are not easily refused. For instance, I could have refused to go my mate’s leaving do, freeing up an entire, valuable evening for writing. But I don’t see him often as it is, and would rather be there to say ‘see ya, good luck, don’t fuck up’. Kinda what friends are for. I could have refused to see my sisters this week, which would have freed up an entire afternoon on Sunday and all of Wednesday. But they’ve paid money to have a week’s holiday near me, and frankly I’ve only seen them twice this year – we’re all skint, so visits are rare.

In my experience, most social commitments are like this. I don’t know if it’s a sign that I’ve become more of an adult, or if it’s just a symptom of moving out of the city (i.e. that place where my friends are) but I find social engagements involve a complex amount of give and take, and they are far more valuable to me now than they were a few years ago. It’s darn difficult to make time by dropping friends and family.

Then there’s finding time, which, if you’re like me, often involves stealing time-sheets from work so that you can write passages on the back of them during your shift. Or fighting the sun as it obscures your view of the laptop in the car. Or sacrificing sleep in exchange for a few more difficult words. This feels easier than making time, because you don’t have to explain it to anyone. You don’t have to let anyone down. Except, I suspect, yourself. The problem with finding time is that really the only person you’re stealing minutes from is yourself. Minutes you should be using to rest, eat, sleep. If you know that you’ve got a long week ahead, if you know you’re going to be hopping between cities and getting less than six hours sleep for several nights in a row, and then still getting up for work in the morning – it’s your own fault for trying to fit in even more work, and burning yourself out by the end of it. Should have made time instead, idiot.

These sound like excuses for why I haven’t met my self-allotted deadline. They’re not meant as excuses – just as observations. Lessons, hopefully. When trying to make or find time it often feels like you can’t win, because everybody else is demanding your time, too. How do you work around that? I’ve read that some people assign one specific day a week as their work day for writing. It’s treated like any other day at work. Friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses, everyone else is told to stay clear, let the writer do their thing in peace. I love the idea, but I’m doubtful about how it works in practice. Regardless of whether you lock yourself away from the world or not, the world comes knocking just to tell you “The washing up needs doing and something might have died in the bin.”

Because even though you view your writing as one of the most important things in the world, few people share that view. I don’t yet think I’m at the point where I could tell a friend: “Sorry, I can’t come see you because writing is more important at the moment.” That sounds like a slap in the face. In my head, the response this gets is along the lines of: “What? Your stupid little short story thing, which isn’t exactly premier literature and nobody reads anyway – this is more important than a day with your friends? This silly, petty pastime is more important than your other hobbies?

And inside, there’s this meek little voice that just wants to say: “…yes…”

Dang, it all comes down to self-confidence again, don’t it? Like rivers to the sea, follow your problems in writing and it seems they all lead that way. There’s a great big sea of self-trust out there. I’ll reach it, eventually. Ina little boat called Endeavour. Could you get any more twee?

Well, lookee that. I started with an apology and ended up with a piece that vaguely resembles something interesting. To recap: Episode 10 of the Jack Hansard series will be released on the 10th of June, in a suitably more entertaining and well-written state than it currently is.

See y’all then~

Get Over Here And Judge Me

Episode 9: Quiet Eyes

I ran, crashing wildly through the crowd. Snarls and growls followed in my wake – what’s a few trampled toes and elbowed faces? – I was too intent on my goal to pay them any mind. I reached the spot where I’d seen her, and spun round in desperation.
“Where’d she go?” I shouted, frantically. I threw myself into a nearby cluster of people, certain she must be hiding in amongst them.
“Watch yourself, mate,” said one of the surly men as I broke through.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and practically screamed into his face: “The girl. Did you see her?” With a stunned expression, he dumbly shook his head.

In the latest episode of the Jack Hansard series the search for the quiet-eyed thief intensifies, and Ang receives the affections of an unlikely admirer. A bad decision in the heat of the moment might land them in a whole heap of trouble – but what’s new there?

What’s new here is that there’s new content in the works. The Folklore Snippets are fun to write and I intend to keep writing them, but perhaps to a less rigid structure, allowing me to branch out and experiment whenever the hell I feel like it. If I fancy writing a blog post on Tuesday, but an update isn’t due til Thursday – well, I need to get my head around the idea that are no rules here, because this is my space, so I can damn well put that post up on Tuesday with no explanation. Ditto if life gets in the way so that a supposedly expected blog post is a day late (it did get in the way this week, as it happens – Christ, sometimes it’s like people die on purpose – but the important thing is that I stuck to my promise and the Jack Hansard Episode 9 was on time. Yeah! But sod the blog). I wish I could stop feeling like I have to explain myself every time I decide to do something different – do I fear the judgement of an invisible (and so far silent) audience that much?

Sure, I guess I do. Doesn’t every writer? Wasn’t the whole point of putting my work online to get over that fear and face the judgement of others, silent or otherwise? Wasn’t the whole point, in fact, to build up that self-confidence so I don’t feel the need to ask politely if I can do the thing I want to do, so that I don’t feel like I have to tip-toe around this idea that I like to write things? Why am I embarrassed about that? I need to own that embarrassment, somehow.

I’m getting off-track. Not that there was much of a track to begin with for this post – and frankly I’m finding it quite refreshing. The odd ramble is good for the soul, no?

Anyway, besides all that, there’s something very exciting happening behind the scenes. So exciting, I’ve been bursting to shout about it for weeks, because I’m impatient and want everything to happen at once. An Inspired Mess has been joined by a frankly outstanding illustrator, and we’ve been working hard to bring the Jack Hansard series to life with some shiny pictures! And they are seriously shiny. I wish I could show you all of them, right now – but, like me, you’ll have to wait until they’re finished. Maybe we’ll do a big reveal, Hansard style.

Until then, expect some sneak-peeks of concept art over on the Facebook page, and a formal introduction to our new illustrator here on the blog.

I guess I should go and start working on Episode 10. See ya soon!

Folklore Snippets: Huldra, the Seductive Troll

snow branch pixabay.jpg

Last week’s Episode 8: Black Market featured a couple of interesting new beasties to choose from for this snippet. On the one hand you have Devin Tracey, the charming Irish siren; on the other you have the alluring female huldra. And as I suspect you are least likely to have heard of huldra, she will take the limelight today.

You don’t see much of her in Episode 8, which is a shame, because I think she’s a really characterful creature. She’s of Scandinavian origin, and might be likened to a forest nymph, or a type of troll. She typically looks like a beautiful woman from the front, but from the back you might see her cow tail. If you get to see her bare back, you might find that it is hollow and made of bark, like the dead trunk of a tree.

Now, whenever I do the research for my folklore snippets, I always have the same problem: digging through endless reams of similar but vague descriptions about the creature in question. Yes, unsourced internet article #178, that’s some very interesting information you have there, but it’s no use telling me that: ‘Some stories say…’; or even that: ‘One story from the South of Norway says…’ Which goddamn story, article #178?

What is it called? Who wrote it? Where can I find it?


I found them eventually. A lot of Norwegian folklore was collected by a pair of writers called Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Engebretsen Moe in the 19th century – they are the Scandinavian Brothers Grimm. Huldra apparently feature in a number of these stories, but the problem with Norwegian folktales is that they’re in, well, Norwegian. One great source for an English translation of their work is George Webbe Dasent’s translation of Popular Tales From the Norse – but I haven’t found a story about huldra in amongst these. So instead I’m using Clara Stroebe’s The Norwegian Fairy Book, which features many of the same stories. I’ve picked out two tales which show you some of huldra’s main characteristics:

The Troll-Wife tells the story of how a human man desired a beautiful huldra – she is described as a human-looking troll with a cow’s tail. But she loses her beauty the instant she is captured by this foolhardy man, and he is forced to marry her despite her ugliness. During their wedding ceremony, her tail drops off. At first her husband treats her badly, bitter over her bad looks. The huldra remains well-mannered and even compassionate toward her husband – until one day she shows off her full troll strength by bending metal horseshoes with her hands. Surprise, surprise, her husband is suddenly much kinder to her from that moment onwards.

The Player on the Jew’s Harp is a similar story about a man wedding a huldra maiden, but in this case there is no mention of a cow tail, and she remains beautiful throughout. She is described as being one of the underground folk, known variously as the huldrefolk and ‘the hidden people’. In the story it seems these people cannot be easily seen by human eyes, and they can bewitch other creatures to be hidden as well. The man attracts the huldra’s attention with his skillful playing of the Jew’s Harp (huldra seem partial to beautiful music) and unwittingly captures her by flinging the harp at her head, accidentally drawing blood. Now, in this story a big thing is made of the fact that the huldra is not a Christian. In fact, once they are married, the husband begins to bully her because of this. She ends up displaying her strength in the same way as the Troll-Wife huldra, by bending red-hot horseshoes with her hands. For a while after that the husband is good to her and they prosper. Then his mind darkens, and he goes back to his old ways. One day he beats her, draws blood once more, and she vanishes forever. She doesn’t die; she simply becomes hidden again and spends the rest of her life protecting her husband from her own friends and family, who understandably want to make him pay for his wrongdoings. It’s a very sad tale, made bittersweet by the enduring love of the huldra for her husband. He dies an empty man, full of regret for what he has done.

In both these tales the huldra comes off as a very sympathetic character, but in other tellings she is painted with more cunning motives, actively hoping to trick a human into marrying her so that she may lose her tail and become human herself. If I come across an online English source for these stories, I’ll let you know.

In more modern news, there’s a Norwegian movie about a huldra that I am dying to see: Thale. Fantasy, horror, and my new favourite folkloric creature? Hell yes. Have you seen it? Is it worth spending a whole £8 on? 😛

Thanks for reading, see you again soon~

Folklore Snippets: The Shellycoat, a Sprite with a Sense of Style



In the latest episode of the Jack Hansard series, Ang and Jack run into a river-dwelling creature going by the name of Shellycoat. The reason such sprites are given this name should be immediately clear: they wear a rattling coat of shells over their body.

Now, I admit I had some trouble tracking down solid information on Shelly. My first search turned up several sites which all carried the same basic description mimicked by Wikipedia. I don’t wish to become part of the same annoying cycle, but the basic impression is simply: the Shellycoat is Scottish; lives in lakes, rivers and streams; and, like almost every other folkloric creature, has a mischievous nature.

The one solid lead I had was the knowledge that Shelly is mentioned in Jacob Grimm’s (yep, of the famous Brothers Grimm) Deutsche Mythologie. After a rather frustrating time trying to pinpoint the correct volume and page number (vol 2, p.512 in this translation), it turned out to say very little. According to Grimm the Shellycoat is a type of goblin, and he confirms that it is a Scottish creature. He then likens it to a dwarfish thing who wears a bell-coat (which elsewhere I’ve seen called a ‘Schellenrock’ or ‘bell-coat’). The bells worn on the hats and coats of fools are apparently a reference to this ‘shrewd and merry’ goblin.

A more colourful view of the Shellycoat is provided by Walter Scott in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish border (3rd ed), v1, which gives us an idea of the pranks Shelly like to play. Supposedly, he once led two travellers astray by calling out “Lost! Lost!” from the River Ettrick. The travellers followed this sound all night, assuming it to be a drowning person. They followed it all the way to the river’s source, only for the voice to head back down the river, back the way they had come. When they gave up their rescue effort, the Shellycoat revealed himself with laughter and applause, thoroughly amused with his own deception.

So Shelly may be a joker, but he seems to be fairly harmless, unlike a whole host of other water-dwellers whose sole intention was to lure travellers into the waves to drown.

It’s a bit funny that the most distinctive feature of the Shellycoat – y’know, his shelly coat – doesn’t seem to have much of a story to it. Does Shelly collect the shells himself? Does he wear them because they’re pretty or because they rattle in a musical way – like the bells the Schellenrock loves? Is it an actual garment like a coat, or more like a blanket-covering? I’m inclined to imagine the latter: picture this mass of shells creeping along the banks of a river, clinking and clacking as it moves. But it could be a more humanoid goblin like Grimm suggests; it might even help you around the home if you’re polite – so long as you don’t mind occasionally being tricked into a long walk down the river for no reason whatsoever.

Folklore Snippets: Witchcraft

In the most recent installment of the Jack Hansard series (Episode 6: Cockermouth), Jack doesn’t encounter any new beasties, but he does spend his time hawking occult amulets and magic potions. And seeing as he did business with a witch in Episode 5, it seems fitting that today’s Folklore Snippet should be on the subject of witchcraft.

Now, this is an immensely broad topic. Belief in magic seems to be as ancient as human society, and thus witchcraft (most simply defined as the practice of magic) has its roots spread all over the globe. ‘Witches’ may be defined as people who believe in magic and perform occult rituals or other actions to employ such power, or they may be thought of as healers and wise men and women whose knowledge sets them apart from others – in past cultures ‘wise one’ may have been synonymous with ‘witch’.

There are so many topics I could cover here it is unbelievable; I had so much trouble trying to decide whether to focus on the definitions of ‘witch’, the rituals of witchcraft, the history of it, the changing perceptions of it . . . In the end I’ve settled for a more concise angle. To try and keep this brief, we’re going to take a whistle-stop tour of some key texts that show us how witchcraft has been perceived in Western Europe.

In this region, witchcraft is closely tied to Christianity; the Bible makes a number of references to witchcraft as a manifestation of evil, the most succinct of which is: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’ (Exodus 22:18). No grey area there, then. Early Germanic law codes of the 6th and 7th Centuries AD (the Pactus Legis Alamannorum and Salic law) list witchcraft as a recognised crime (punishable by death, of course). They also more reasonably instruct that a false accusation will result in a fine for the accuser. To prove an accusation is false, the ‘witch’ would need twelve people to swear an oath on their innocence, or for a relative to defend them in a trial by combat.

Things get less reasonable as time progresses. Witchcraft, being associated with the old pagan beliefs and rituals, is of course demonised by the Church as time goes on – it gains strong connotations with the Devil and sin in much more specific terms (witches considered to be consorting with demons, for example).

In 1487 the Malleus Mallificarum was published. This text offers a description of witches and witchcraft, stating the notion of witchcraft to be a real thing, and firmly establishing the relationship between witch and Devil as one defined by a pact that grants evil powers. The main purpose of the treatise is to outline procedures for prosecuting a witch, from initially identifying them and then subsequently interrogating and convicting them – through legalised torture. The torture itself was in order to gain a confession, as a witch cannot be condemned to death without one. Handily for the prosecutor, if the accused refused to give a confession under torture, then it was a clear sign they were a witch – as they must have had the help of the Devil to withstand the pain.

This work might be considered the handbook for future witch hunters. The most infamous witch hunter of England was undoubtedly Matthew Hopkins, whose career (killing spree) flourished during the Civil War in the 1640s. Torture was far from legal, but Hopkins’ methods were similarly inhumane: techniques ranged from depriving the accused of rest and forcing them to walk until their feet blistered; to throwing them into water while tied to a chair (witches, being unbaptised, would float due to the water physically repelling them). And you’ve probably heard about the practice of pricking the skin to identify a witch – birth marks, moles, anything that could be construed as a witch’s teat (for her demonic familiar to suck upon). If the pricked area did not bleed, then she must be a witch. And of course, the inquisitors were not above using cunning, retracting pins . . .

Hopkins published his own treatise on witchcraft, detailing his justifications for the above methods to identify witches: The Discovery of Witches. It’s written like a ye olde FAQ on the subject. Although Hopkins doesn’t have sole credit for developing and employing such methods, his publication of them may have helped to spur the witch hunting craze that ensued in the New England colonies. Incidentally, you’ve probably heard of the mass hysteria surrounding the Salem witch trials of 1692; the English equivalent in terms of fame would likely be the Pendle witch trial of 1612 where 20 individuals were prosecuted.

I’m not sure if I should delve into modern witchcraft – the origins and philosophy of Wicca probably deserve an article of their own. In brief, modern witchcraft is a somewhat organised pagan religion, arguably founded by the writings of Margaret Murray and Gerald Gardner, but also echoing plenty of long-established pagan traditions. The central tenet, as I understand it, is simply ‘do no harm’ (but as with any religion there are many branches; a number of which would probably tell me my understanding is incorrect). If you’ve read Episode 6 you’ll see that Hansard’s views of this group are less than flattering, but as for my personal views I’m more of an ‘each to their own’ kind of person. In a world full of odd religions (all of them are odd) and funny traditions, it seems you can do a lot worse for your life philosophy than ‘do no harm’.

So that’s a snippet on witchcraft. You’ve no idea how hard it was to keep this short – I thoroughly recommend following the links for more interesting reading. See you next time~

Folklore Snippets: Sticks and Stones, Trolls and Bones

If you missed it, Episode 5 of the Hansard series went live as usual yesterday. There were so many folkloric elements to this story that I almost found it hard to pick a focus for today’s Folklore Snippet: Jack encounters a witch, a troll, and gives us an idea of the supernatural properties of iron. But as Episode 5 is titled ‘Troll’ it seemed only fair to put this beastie in the spotlight.

Trolls have their origins in the Old Norse legends of Scandinavia where they seem to be related to (or synonymous with) the Norse giants: gigantic, god-battling creatures – essentially the main antagonists of the Universe. Trolls may be descended from these titans, but they are considered a distinct, separate species. They are said to prefer living in remote locations away from human habitation, such as forests, mountains and caves. As for their appearance, the consensus is that they are often large and ugly, with a humanoid shape and dim-witted brains.

The story that you are most likely to have heard sometime in your life is the children’s tale of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The troll in this story lives under a bridge and has ‘eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker’. Three billy goats cross his bridge, one by one. The smallest comes first, and persuades the troll that it would rather eat the next billy goat who is larger, thus a better meal. The second billy goat pulls the same trick as the first. The final billy goat is so big and strong that it overpowers the troll: in the wonderfully gory fashion of many old children’s tales, the goat gores out the troll’s eyes and crushes him to bits.

Another characteristic of trolls is their aversion to sunlight, which some say goes as far as causing trolls to turn to stone during daylight. In modern storytelling the most obvious example that springs to mind is J.R.R. Tolkien’s trolls in The Hobbit. Here the gluttonous, man-eating trolls are distracted by the tale’s resident wizard and tricked into arguing until dawn, at which point they turn to stone.

And if we’re talking about trolls in literature, I feel this Snippet wouldn’t be complete without a look at the trolls of the Discworld. You may have heard that the comic fantasy author Sir Terry Pratchett sadly died today. That ‘sadly’ cannot even begin to convey the magnitude of this loss to the world. As a writer he helped me think Big Thoughts from a young age and convinced me of the true importance of storytelling in both evaluating and maintaining our humanity. The man has been my foremost literary idol since I was a teenager, and I am so grateful to have been shaped by his work.

The trolls of Discworld are typically mountain-dwellers and might classify as geography in their own right, being made of stones and minerals. They have silicon brains which overheat during the day: this accounts for their lack of intelligence during the daytime and naturally nocturnal behaviour. A neat play on the traditional portrayal of trolls turning to stone during daylight (perhaps that oddly shaped boulder you passed is merely sleeping?) Unlike their traditional counterparts, which eat human food (and, indeed, humans) Discworld trolls usually live on a diet of rocks and mineral-based drinks (it is no longer considered polite to eat humans on the Disc). Over the course of a series spanning more than 40 novels, we’ve seen trolls evolve from simple, stupid creatures that can be chained up like guard dogs, to a sophisticated people with their own rich culture, religion, and history. My favourite troll, and perhaps the most well-known, could only be Detritus – we see him go from being moronic hired muscle to a respected (and feared) member of the City Watch. He’s like the antithesis of the traditional Scandinavian troll: he’s dependable, he learns, he makes friends with an arch enemy, he falls in love, he catches bad guys (and most of the time they even remain in one piece).

Pratchett’s representation of trolls is so distinctive that today I have trouble visualising tolls as anything other than walking boulders with a fine spread of lichen across their broad shoulders. Turns out, in more traditional representations trolls are far closer to humans than rocks. Although generally ugly, some stories centre on the idea that a troll can even be mistaken for a human being, particularly where a troll parent decides to swap their baby troll for one of our human babies. The troll baby grows up with no one the wiser, but everyone suffers from the bad behaviour of this switched child. The inner ugliness of trolls is one of their most unifying features, manifesting in a bad temper and sloppy manners.

Whether trolls should be considered inherently evil seems to be an ambiguous topic. Certain breeds of troll are apparently kind, good-natured entities, like the farm-dwelling Tomtes and Nissen who bring good luck and help look after the animals. Despite this, if you ever met one, I think it would be hard to look past the old stories of human-eating trolls. But I, for one, would not pass up the chance to meet a troll of Detritus’ ilk.

Farewell, Sir Terry Pratchett. Thank you for the Big Thoughts dressed up in little stories.

“All right,” said Susan, “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need … fantasies to make life bearable.”
“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers?”
“So we can believe the big ones?”
“They’re not the same at all!”
“Yes. But people have got to believe that or what’s the point?”

Extract from ‘Hogfather’, by Sir Terry Pratchett.

Further reading:

Schedule Change

A quick notice for y’all. The regular blog posts will be moved to Thursdays, fortnightly. The Jack Hansard episodes will still be updated Wednesdays, fortnightly.

I’ve been having trouble getting both sets of content finished for the same day, so this minor change should separate them a little and hopefully mean even better stuff in the blog posts.

On that note, Episode 5: Troll is already live and waiting for your perusal. Tomorrow’s Folklore Snippet will be on, you guessed it, trolls!

Folklore Snippets: Bluecaps and Cutty Soames

lantern via pixabay.jpg


Episode 4: Coal and Pies is now live. This week concludes the story of Hansard’s dealings with the reclusive Coblynau, featuring pies, coal, and a brush with death.

The newest creature Hansard encounters in this escapade is the mysterious Bluecap. Related to the Welsh Coblynau and Cornish Knockers, this creature also lives in mines. Unlike Knockers, it doesn’t have a humanoid appearance. The Bluecap is said to appear as a blue flame and might be a kind of ghost or fairy creature. Like the Knockers, Bluecaps seem to have honest, hard-working motives: some miners have claimed to see them transporting full tubs of coal about the mine – the job of a ‘putter’, in mining terms.

The Bluecap would also lead miners to rich deposits, so long as they were treated respectfully. It’s a recurring theme that insulting folkloric creatures will only result in mischief. But some of these creatures are more mischievous than others, like the mine-dwelling Cutty Soames. I’ve seen Cutty Soames referred to as an ‘elf’, so I think of him as a cousin to the Knockers. He is named for his most unhelpful habit, the cutting of the ropes (‘soames’) that connected the putter to the coal-tub. When I learned this I couldn’t help but name the treacherous character in Episode 4 after him, it fit so nicely.

Both the Bluecap and Cutty Soames are described in an article in the Colliery Guardian of May 13th, 1863. The writer describes them both as a type of goblin or elf, and of Cutty Soames says:

‘He rejoiced in the name of “Cutty Soams,” and appears to have amused himself by severing the rope-traces or soams, by which an assistant-putter, honoured by the title of “the fool “, is yoked to the tub. The strands of hemp which were left all sound in the board at “kenner-time,” were found next morning severed in twain. “Cutty Soams” has been at work, could the fool and his driver say, dolefully knotting the cord.’

About the Bluecap, we are told that it expects to be paid the same wages as a putter, once a fortnight. Allegedly the Bluecap will only take its due, no more nor less. Wages were left in a specific corner of the mine, and would disappear overnight. (Methinks a human miner came away a little richer from that transaction.)

It’s easy to see how a mine can be a rich environment for the evolution of mythic creatures. With no end of strange sounds, knocking, dripping, whistling, and a constant threat of danger – think sudden cave-ins and fire-damp explosions – it’s a smorgasbord of possibilities for ghosts and goblins to take the credit. I know if I was a miner, alone in the dark with only a mysterious knocking for company, I’d like to think that I simply had a non-human companion hard at work on just the other side of my seam. And if I escaped a collapse with just seconds to spare, I know I’d be putting out food or money to help keep the critters on my side. Danger breeds superstition, and we all feel safer with the thought that something might be looking out for us in those situations.

An addendum: Last time I ended with a section on Welsh words used by the Coblynau. I want to take a moment to talk about just one more: gwas.

When working out how the Coblyn Ang speaks, I wanted to give her a nickname she could call Hansard, something that fit snugly anywhere in a sentence. Ideally, something akin to the word ‘mate’ in English. An initial Google of the word told me that gwas might be a slang term for mate or boyo, and it sounded perfect. However, a more direct translation tells us that gwas actually means ‘servant’ or ‘lad’ in a similar sense.

After some thought I decided this fit nicely. Assuming that Coblynau slang might be different from modern Welsh anyway, a derogatory nickname with a servile meaning at its roots was perfectly suitable. Plus, it sounded snappy.

Am I over-thinking this? You betcha! But detail makes me happy.

Thanks for reading, folks. Here’s the further reading list if it floats your boat:

The Ghost World, by T. F. Thistleton

Folklore Snippets: Knockers, Knackers, and Welsh Insults

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The third instalment of the Jack Hansard short story series, Episode 3: Iron Bridge, is now up. This week Hansard finds himself in the idyllic Ironbridge Gorge famed for, you guessed it, its iron bridge. But the real curiosity is the strange species Hansard runs into on the other side of the bridge: Knockers, the subject of today’s folklore snippet.

I doubt Knockers are a particularly well-known creature of folklore. They are born of miners’ tales about the knocking and tapping sounds heard while working in the deep dark. As with most folklore, there are many versions of these creatures: some say they are the spirits of departed miners, while elsewhere they may be considered a separate species, like a goblin or a brownie. From what I’ve read, they seem to be particularly associated with the mines in Wales and Cornwall – easy to see how they could be found in Ironbridge, an area close to the Welsh border and rich in industrial heritage.

These creatures are just a couple of feet tall and wear the same clothing donned by miners. The knocking sounds in the mine were said to either be the sounds of the Knockers at work, or a warning to the miners that a collapse was imminent. Many a miner would claim to have escaped within an inch of his life due to the forewarning of the Knockers; in thanks, miners would leave some kind of food offering lying around (at the very least, the crust of their pasties was considered a tasty Knocker treat). However, the Knockers were also to be blamed for missing tools and other mischief, especially if you were careless enough to insult them.

‘Knacker’ is another word for Knocker, and probably comes from an association of the creatures with the ‘knacking’ (abandonment) of a mine. A story I find incredibly sweet is the 1956 case of a sealed mine in California where a group of Cornish-descended miners petitioned the mining company to have the knockers ‘released’ so they could move on to other mines – the company agreed. Californian Knockers are known as Tommyknockers, and travelled over with the migrating Cornish miners, themselves known as ‘Cousin Jacks’.

As Hansard discovers, a Coblyn (plural: Coblynau) is a Welsh version of the Cornish Knocker. Sounds a lot like ‘goblin’, don’t it? Again known for the knocking sounds they make, they are considered good friends of the miner and generally harmless unless provoked. An intriguing quirk to the personality of this strain of Knocker is that they may be often found hard at work, but it is work they never seem to complete. This rather amused me when considering the current state of the Ironbridge Gorge: the area suffers from landslides and a shifting of the riverbanks. In particular, the famous Iron Bridge is buckling under the strain – I rather like the idea that the Knockers are behind all of this.

Now, with the Coblynau that we meet in Episode 3, we get some choice picks of the Welsh language, so consider this a bonus section! I am not in any way fluent in Welsh, but I wanted to put some time and effort into giving my version of the Coblynau an authentic identity. (Their accent isn’t like modern Welsh by the way, before you start nitpicking my portrayal of their speech :P) So for those who may be wondering, here’s the glossary of Welsh terms seen in Episode 3:

igam ogam = zigzag, used colloquially like ‘the way you walk when drunk’

mwnci = monkey (pronounced ‘mun-ki’)

pen pigyn = dickhead

pentwp = stupid head (pronounced ‘pen-tup’)

twpsyn = idiot (pronounced ‘tup-sin’)

And finally, ‘go and scratch’ is a literal translation of the Welsh insult meaning ‘piss off’. (Oh, and an ‘oggie’ is a traditional welsh pasty.)

I hope you enjoyed that, and if you have any other lovely Welsh words you’d like to offer, then please do! (popty ping!) Furthermore, if you have any feedback you’d like to share on the Hansard series, it is more than welcome. Constructive criticism especially. Take care now~

If you wish to indulge in further reading:



The results of the Knockers’ work in Ironbridge

Folklore Snippets: Sweet Dreams

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Episode 2 of the Jack Hansard short story series can be found here. This week, Hansard gets into the dream-making business with a stash of captive dreams he doesn’t quite know how to handle. I’m a big fan of giving abstract concepts physical manifestations. In Episode 1 we saw the result of Hansard’s endeavours selling inspiration as a valuable commodity; now he deals with dreams as real as living creatures and meets a character out of folklore – the Sandman. This Sandman is no mythic entity, however. In Hansard’s reality, ‘Sandman’ is just the title given to a speciality tradesman of dreams.


I wasn’t quite sure what to be writing in this blog. It’s a sideline to the short story gig – comments and musings rather than hard-hitting articles about the state of the world today. I can’t say that sounds overly interesting though, so I’ve decided to try something mildly structured. Hansard’s (mis)adventures commonly encounter things drawn from myth and folklore, so with each episode I’ll pick out a related topic and give you a very brief overview. Ya’know just the interesting bits. So to go with Episode 2, here’s a quick look-see at some of the stories behind the Sandman.

I think the folkloric Sandman is probably the most well-known character (in Europe, at least) associated with dreams. He is said to sprinkle dust or sand into children’s eyes to make them sleep and dream; if you wake with that gritty gunk in your eyes then you know he’s visited. Hans Christian Anderson’s 1841 tale Ole Lukøje paints the Sandman as a benevolent figure whose innocent desire is to tell children stories while they sleep. After sending them to sleep with his sand, he places one of two umbrellas over the child’s head: one with pretty pictures to bring on nice dreams for the good boys and girls; one with no pictures to deny any dreams to the naughty.

Near the end of this tale Ole Lukøje identifies himself as being called the ‘god of dreams’ by the Greeks and Romans. This god of dreams was Morpheus, who appears in Ovid’s poem Metamorphoses. Ovid tells us he is the son of Somnus (Hypnos is the Greek equivalent), the god of sleep. From Greek mythology, Hypnos is the brother of Death (‘Thanatos’); in Hans Christian Andersan’s story, Ole Lukøje tells us his brother is Death – perhaps he mixed up the two ancient deities, but the whole thing does suggest that maybe the modern Sandman has his roots in Greco-Roman tradition.

Hans wasn’t the first to write about the Sandman. In 1817 E. T. A. Hoffmann wrote Der Sandmann, a grim short story where the protagonist associates the character of the Sandman with a sinister figure from his childhood. In this story we are given a wholly opposite view of the Sandman and his intentions:

‘He is a wicked man, who comes to children when they won’t go to bed, and throws a handful of sand into their eyes, so that they start out bleeding from their heads. He puts their eyes in a bag and carries them to the crescent moon to feed his own children, who sit in the nest up there. They have crooked beaks like owls so that they can pick up the eyes of naughty human children.’ (Translation by John Oxenford.)

Yikes. Gruesome.

The Sandman still pops up in modern culture, and isn’t confined to the realm of children’s stories. The first thing that springs to my mind when I hear the word ‘Sandman’ is the Metallica song, Enter Sandman. In 2012 the animated Dreamworks film Rise of the Guardians featured the Sandman as a powerful and benevolent protector of children. Anyone familiar with the work of Neil Gaiman or the world of comic books is likely to have heard of the dark fantasy graphic novel series also named after the character (highly recommended).

I love seeing the different ways bits of old folklore have been re-invented to find new places in our modern world. To see old ideas turned on their head or given a new definition entirely: this is the way we own our past and continue traditions, allowing them to evolve along with our culture.

Hope you enjoyed this little info snippet. Episode 3 will be online on Wednesday 11th February. Thanks for reading!

(Edited 11/02/15 to include ‘Folklore Snippets’ series title.)