Of all the strange traditions of this sceptered isle. I am left scratching my head over the suit of holly.
These days it is difficult to distinguish between original celtic myth and modern wishful bunkum. But a story goes that once upon a time, before Christian monks ever set foot on these shores, a boy would be dressed in a suit of holly, and a girl in a dress of ivy; and at the darkest part of the year, they would be paraded through their village or town to thumb a nose at the dank dark cold which permeates this island when it is angled farthest from the sun’s rays.
If this is indeed true, and not wistful Wiccan tall tales, you have to feel sorry for the boy. Though suits of holly, by all accounts, are preferable to some of the old customs.
Take Fissured Fred, as they called him: a skull found in a lake in Lindisfarne amongst Ancient Briton spears and swords. The presence of Fred’s skull, which had been hit by a sword with some violence, amongst the paraphernalia of ancient homage to some long-forgotten ago. he was in a ‘special place’ where people made homage to the afterlife.
And while archaeologists discovered Fred in 1981, at no time since has any trace of a body ever been found.
We’re a dark lot, here. We respond to the gloom and the incessant rain by assuaging it in whatever way we can.
And somewhere in the midst of that muddled tradition emerged the idea of telling a Winter Story.
Back in the 16th century Shakespeare was writing of them, and perhaps his Winter’s Tale was one of them. At its outset the young prince of Sicily, Maximilius, is asked for a story by his mother Hermione. A merry or a sad tale, she asks?
“A sad tale’s best for Winter,” the young prince replies. “I have one that’s full of sprites and goblins.”
And there it is: the ghost of a ghost story, whispering down the ages from the pen of a man who really knew how to write. Tell stories about the supernatural: it’s a great way of mollifying the darkness.
Perhaps, if you tell a really good yarn, the real wraiths will not feel they have to emerge out of the shadows to prove their point.
The old English Mummer’s plays often acted out a battle between light and dark. Ghosts of old stories float like wraiths in the eddies of time, but they find a far more substantial form when the Victorians found, and devoured them. They loved all traces of The Other Side.
Thus, Ebeneezer Scrooge and the Signalman became tales read out by the fireside, touted by Charles Dickens: and not only he but William Makepeace Thackeray, and Walter De La Mare, and that old gothic master MR James, filled the pages of books with tales full of sprites and goblins.
It is the season to be spooky. The dark is at its deepest, the holly – traditionally known as the evergreen oak, the counterpart of the bright summer deciduous oak – at its most verdant, a light or a flame is never so potent as here, as we approach the solstice of the year.
No holly suits for me. No: let the tale-telling begin.
The ring in the picture is a mourning ring: these were fashionable after someone affluent died. All their friends would wear them to indicate their grief. This one is on display at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford.
Kate Shrewsday 
You can imagine the holly tailor comforting his client – ” Nothing to worry about, Sir, you’ll just feel a bit of a prick every now and then”.
Ha! Love it, Roger 😀
That suit of holly sounds rather prickly. But I suppose both those vegetation suits are better than throwing the virgin into the volcano, which I’ve heard some primitives did (or was that just in the movies? I get confused) 🙂 But one thing is sure: the Hawaiians at one time did practice human sacrifice on alters (and other ways). Yep, makes that suit of holly sound pretty alright.
It does. I know which I’d choose, Jennifer!
I love your phrase ‘the ghost of a ghost story’ – this is fascinating!
Thanks, Julie. One of my obsessions, I am afraid 🙂
For my English tales, I prefer PD as opposed to MR James.
I have always loved PD James – though the apolvalyptic Children of Men, beautifully written as it is, chills me to the bone, Lou.
I’ve got Children of Men yet to read. Saw the film, but suspect the book will have its own images and atmosphere.
The weather certainly informs the storytelling mood, Kate. Can’t imagine a winter’s tale at the moment – it’s sweltering here. The Ashmolean Museum is clearly full of fascinating finds, death bling and all, and a destination to add to the bucket list.
Death Bling. That has just been slotted at the top of my list of desirable terms, BB.
That ring – taken from Captain Hook by Peter Pan ?
You’d think so, Carl, wouldn’t you?
I don’t think I would wear the ring Kate!
Nor me, Tandy! Morbid indeed!
“Perhaps, if you tell a really good yarn, the real wraiths will not feel they have to emerge out of the shadows to prove their point.”—Oh, I like the implication of this. I will strive to perfect my yarns to keep the frights and the terrors away. 🙂
Like some supernatural Scheherezade: not evading the Sultan’s death decree, but warding off sprites, Carrie!
I feel some more ghostly winter tales brewing, Kate. Isn’t that ring horrendous. I would have hated to wear it, though I would not have been among the affluent, so, that would not have been on my finger. Sometimes, it is better to be poor.
It was the strangest of customs, Penny. I have more pictures of other rings: might post about them sometime.
The ring is also very scary…
Isn’t it, Jas!
Quite a ring. Your talk of mourning rings makes me think of a scene in Great Expectations.
Mourning is a thing the Victorians did with pomp indeed, Steven…
That ring is as ugly as any I’ve seen. Looks like it was carved from bone. (Some scrimshaw artist’s finest work?) And the thought of a holly suit makes me wince. But “Fissured Fred”? That’s hilarious.
I know. The peculiar humour of the archaeologist, PT!
Dear Kate, so sorry–for myself–that I’ve been away from blogging for a while. Life happens. So I’ve missed an array of your stories and have time today only to read this one on a solitary trek to the winter solstice. Solitary except for the tales we’ve heard and the hope in our hearts that all shall be well and that the world will be born again. Thank you for reminding me of this. Peace.
Dee, these stories are always or dipping in and out of when one has the time. Lovely to have you here today to read 🙂 The born again concept: a wonderful way to look at solstice.
But why the Kiss under the holly? c
Good question. Blog post required 😀
Ooh that suit of holly has made me more than a little prickly, Kate! But it adds a little more depth to the carol the Holly and the Ivy, I suppose!
It does indeed – and remember this may be fanciful new-ageism, Tom: but I heard it on the grapevine, so to speak. Ouch.
Ivy (or Mistletoe) would be vastly preferable to being trimmed from sternum to toe in Holly. OUCH!
What a tale and what a ring . . .a macabre reminder of our tenuous connection to life and light. 😉
I know. Man has chosen some strange ways to come to terms with death over the centuries, hasn’t he, Nancy?
All I can muster is ouch. Holly is pointy.
I know. I wrote it trying not to think about it. I held the concept at arm’s length, so to speak.
Perhaps you’re right and an English winter does encourage a taste for ghosts and the macabre…and mourning rings! I can’t imagine a suit of holly, but it makes a great story!
It does. And that’s what this site is all about: good yarns.
If I ever find substantial evidence it really happened I’ll be straight back to let you know!
The ring would make a good pirate accessory.
As for the holly – methinks it isn’t suited to clothing. I have no intention of decking my … private parts … with boughs of holly, thank you! That’s when the fa-la-las would become ow-wow-wows!
ROFL! The very thought, Col:-D
Ghost stories are perfect for gloomy, overcast, wintry days. Preferably ones with lots of fog. Great atmospheric piece, Kate. I’m not sure which I’d fear more: the prickly holly, the dark isle, or that scary ring.
My favourite round-the-fire winter story is the Young Tam Lin. You should tell that one 🙂
Let the spooky tales continue all ’round!