Magical Places

THE FAIRY GLEN

THE FAIRY GLEN ON THE ISLE OF SKYE IN Scotland is but a tiny valley between two small villages. And while there are no specific legends surrounding the glen, the landscape itself is otherworldly. (Not that there isn’t plenty of fairy folklore to go around on Skye; nearby Castle Dunvegan displays an ancient, tattered flag symbolizing the clan’s truce with the fairies, from a time when human-fairy relations were as real and practical as keeping an eye on the weather.)

The Fairy Glen is dipped with tiny lochs and dotted with hills, the tallest of which still has its basalt column from the island’s formation. From a distance, it looks like the ruin of some ancient tower, and so it is nicknamed “Castle Ewan.” Behind the “castle,” nestled in its low cliff, is a tiny cave. Visitors press pennies into its crevices for good luck.

There are more waterfalls, strange rock formations, unusual steppes, and odd little hills than really ought to exist in such a small area, but according to geologists this is all because of a very natural landslide long ago. The large rings of stones found in the glen are likely not actual fairy rings, those magical portals through which unsuspecting humans disappear into fairyland—though many visitors experience a shiver when stepping into them! It is more likely that these rings were built by humans; the larger ones date back to early times, but the smaller ones are often built by visiting tourists. The locals tend to dismantle them once tourist season is over—they do this out of respect for the natural beauty of the place—and perhaps for its fairy inhabitants as well.

STRAIT OF MESSINA

MOST OF US ARE NOT ALL THAT UP ON OUR HOMER, BUT WE know the basic gist: Circe—the witch who turned all of Odysseus’s men to pigs—his time with Calypso and Nausicaä… generally speaking, his adventures seem to have been a bit more philandering than adventurous. But there was that time he had to choose between two far more dangerous women: Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla was a man-eating monster dwelling on one shore, and Charybdis was a whirlpool swirling close to the opposite shore. Odysseus chose Scylla, and lost six of his men.

Here’s the thing: this tale isn’t entirely fictional. The idea that there really was a giant woman on the shores of Messina who liked an occasional sailor-snack is perhaps unlikely, but the whirlpool Charybdis was real and is still there today. The Strait of Messina, the narrow strip of sea between Sicily and the southern tip of Italy, appears to be peaceful, but in reality it is frequently an absolute mess. It sits between the Tyrrhenian and Ionian Seas, and their opposing currents do often stir up whirlpools, known locally as garofali. They aren’t by any means big enough to sink a ship and any boat with a motor would have little trouble navigating them, but they’re a bit intimidating nonetheless!

KNUCKERHOLE

THERE ARE A NUMBER OF KNUCKERHOLES TO BE FOUND IN various places, but the most famous is in Lyminster, England. This knuckerhole, a pond which neither freezes in winter nor dries up in the summer, is apparently bottomless—six bell ropes from a nearby church were once dropped down into the depths to measure it, but the bottom was never reached.

What is a knuckerhole, exactly? A knuckerhole is occupied by—you guessed it—a knucker: an enormous, legless water dragon. It kills like a python by squeezing its prey to death or by shredding flesh with its enormous fangs—or it did. Tales about knuckers date back to Saxon oral traditions, and in fact the name knucker is derived from the Old English nicor—which referred to any kind of water-dwelling monster. One popular story tells of a knucker in Lyminster, who was slain by a local village boy. The boy came up with an odd yet effective plan: with the assistance of the village mayor, young Jim baked an enormous pie and filled it with poison. Using a cart and horse, Jim hauled the giant pie out to the knuckerhole and then ran away to a hiding place. It’s a good thing he did, too, since the knucker ate not only the pie, but the cart and horse as well. Still, the poison did the trick, killing the knucker, and Jim chopped off its head just in case.

There is a gravestone in St. Mary Magdalene Church in Lyminster called The Slayer’s Slab, dedicated to the hero who killed the knucker, and the waters of the knuckerhole are still occasionally consumed as a healing tonic.

THE GIANT’S CAUSEWAY

THERE ARE AROUND 40,000 INTERLOCKING ROCK columns on the Antrim Coast of Northern Ireland. The official, geological explanation is that these basalt formations are remnants of an ancient volcano. Most of the columns are hexagonal, but there are octagons and septagons as well. Over millions of years of weathering, some of the stones have come to resemble objects and have received loving nicknames, like the Organ, Giant’s Boot, the Honeycomb, and the Giant’s Gate.

The legend is that these stones—so like steps in their shape and organization—were in fact a bridge built by the Irish giant Fionn mac Cumhaill. The story goes that another giant, the Scottish Benandonner, challenged Fionn to a duel (historically, Scots and Irish never really got along, and apparently giants were no exception) and this causeway was built so that the two could cross the channel and meet in battle.

Depending on who is telling the story, Fionn either defeats Benandonner or runs and hides when he sees how much larger the Scottish giant is than he. In the latter version, Fionn’s wife Oonagh disguises him as a baby in a cradle and warns Benandonner that if this is the son, how much larger must the father be? And so Benandonner flees Ireland, destroying the causeway in his wake so that Fionn can’t follow him. In either version, Fionn mac Cumhaill comes out the winner, using either brains or brawn—as suits Irish heroes.

Across the sea, at Fingal’s Cave in Scotland, you can find identical basalt deposits—or the other end of the ruined causeway.

PLAIN OF JARS

THROUGHOUT THE COUNTRYSIDE OF LAOS you’ll find scattered thousands of giant prehistoric jars. They vary in height from three to nine feet, are made mostly from sandstone, and date back to the Iron Age. They have a kind of a lip, as if they were meant to have lids, but the majority of those lids seem to have been made from animal skins and so have been lost to time.

Local legend tells of a race of giants ruled by Khun Cheung, who in celebration of his many victories brewed Lao-Lao, a kind of rice wine, in the jars. Presumably, he and his compatriots drank a lot.

But the prevailing, scientific theory is that the jars were used in a kind of burial ritual, as bones and beads have been found nearby—but never inside the vessels. Perhaps they were a kind of fermentation container for preserving bodies? Or perhaps they were crematoriums?

The answers to these questions are almost impossible to find out, as Laos is filled with unexploded ordnance left over from the Vietnam War, making excavation extremely dangerous. There are ninety known sites, but only a few of them are safe to access, limiting research.

THE CITY OF YS

A BEAUTIFUL AND VIBRANT FRENCH CITY ON THE BAY OF Douarnenez in Brittany, Ys thrived from its first moments. But over thousands of years, erosion from the sea made it vulnerable to flooding. Around the fourth century AD, King Gradlon, a recently converted Christian, controlled the tidal surges by building a dike around the city with gates that could open and close, allowing ships to enter and depart. The gates were locked with a key, held by the king himself.

Ys was a wealthy city, and King Gradlon’s castle was made of cedar, marble, and gold. The city was widely respected for its art and beauty, but that regard began to dwindle as Christianity took hold throughout Europe. Although King Gradlon had converted thanks to the efforts of St. Winwaloe, his people had not—and neither had his daughter Dahut. She remained a devout Druid and continued to worship the old gods, particularly that of the sea. As pressure from the Church increased, rumors began to spread about Dahut. These were, unsurprisingly, fairly salacious in nature. They claimed that she took lovers, made them wear a black satin mask that strangled them in the night (once she was done with them, of course), and then gave their bodies to the sea as tribute. St. Winwaloe urged Gradlon to rein in his daughter, but despite his newfound faith, he refused. He loved her.

One day, a Red Knight rode into the city. Dahut was instantly infatuated with him and, after a night of merrymaking, took him to her bed. Her love for him was such that she didn’t make him wear the deadly satin mask (if she ever asked such a thing of any lover), and the seas at the city walls were wild with their passion. Wanting to see the storm, the Red Knight insisted they open the gates, and Dahut stole the key from her sleeping father.

The waves surged through the gap, flooding the city. King Gradlon awoke to find his key gone and understood instantly what must have happened. He jumped on a magic horse named Morvac’h that was able to gallop through the sea and lifted Dahut up behind him, intent on bringing her to safety despite her betrayal. But with Dahut astride, Morvac’h could not break free of the waves. St. Winwaloe told Gradlon that Dahut was a demon and must be cast off, or she would drown them all. Gradlon regretfully did so, and he, St. Winwaloe, and Morvac’h rode to safety.

Gradlon set up residence in the nearby town of Quimper, and a statue of Gradlon and Morvac’h still stands in its cathedral today. Dahut, it is said, did not drown, but was transformed into a morgen, a Breton water spirit in the tradition of sirens and mermaids, while the entire of city of Ys was swept under the sea, where Dahut now rules as its queen. When the waters are calm, the people of Breton claim you can hear the bells of Ys tolling beneath the water. Legend says that when Paris (which translates to “like Ys” in Breton) sinks, Ys will rise again.

SWAT RIVER

THE SWAT RIVER IN PAKISTAN IS HOME to Apalala, a powerful naga or water dragon, who controls the rainfall and its resulting rivers. Unlike most dragons, he has a human head, along with a serpentine body—as such, Apalala is both wise and cunning and has an affinity for humans. He protects his people from other, less benevolent dragons and ensures a good harvest with just the right amount of rain.

The Swat Province of Pakistan is rich with early Buddhist lore, and there are several variations of Apalala’s story. One legend says that he did his work so well that the people forgot about him—or at least took him for granted. They stopped giving him his yearly tribute… and while Apalala is kind, like most of us he doesn’t take well to being ignored. In anger, he flooded the villages, and this went on for some time. So the Buddha came to Pakistan with Vajrapani, Buddha’s guide and a symbol of his power. Vajrapani smote the steep mountains above the Swat River, intimidating the powerful naga. Buddha reminded Apalala of his compassion, and Apalala converted to Buddhism. Since that time he asks for tribute only once every twelve years. And so, every twelve years, the rain falls heavy, and the flooded crop that rises is Apalala’s tribute.

PENNARD CASTLE

PENNARD CASTLE IN WALES WAS BUILT AROUND THE TWELFTH century, but it was abandoned only 200 years later. While Pennard, being quite small and primitive, was likely never the most comfortable of castles, in those days people didn’t just leave perfectly good shelters without reason. And there is nothing in the surrounding geography to explain its desertion. Some have argued that the nearby sand dunes might have made it an uncomfortable place in the wind, but that doesn’t seem to be quite enough to justify leaving a sound and strategically useful castle standing empty.

There are other theories, of course. Local lore tells us that sometime in the fourteenth century, the castle was held by a baron who had just won a significant battle for his king—as his reward, he was to be given the king’s daughter’s hand in marriage. The daughter in question was said to “spend time with fairies.” This could have been an unfortunate euphemism for being slow-witted or a literal description of her activities. Either way it might have been of concern to the baron, but she was still a princess after all.

The wedding was suitably raucous and drunken for a post-battle affair. In fact, the baron and his men were so severely intoxicated that when mysterious, sparkling lights were spotted outside the castle walls, they all rushed out, swords in hand, to mow down the intruders.

The lights, of course, belonged to the fairies, who had come to attend the princess. They were not harmed by the attack—but they were severely offended. As the baron and his men realized what they had done, a sharp wind began to blow. It whipped up the surrounding sand, lashing and killing them, and stripping the castle to ruins overnight.

What became of the princess is unknown.