Aberdeenshire Folk Tales by Grace Banks

By Grace Banks

The folklore of the North East offers a wealthy tapestry for the stories inside of; from Celtic and Pictish origins meet witches, selkies, smugglers, fairies, monsters, despicable rogues, riddles and heroes. Tragic occasions, spellbinding characters, humour, romance and smart minds are sure jointly by means of well-established storytellers residing and dealing within the urban and shire of Aberdeen. many of the stories during this assortment are in keeping with old truth whereas others are embedded in fable and legend. all of the tales are set opposed to the backdrop of this gorgeous and sundry panorama.

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Read it and judge for yourself. B. Knock Castle is a ruin of four storeys, located on the top of a grassy hill to the west of the ancient Brig o’ Muick. The word knock comes from the Gaelic cnoc, a knoll, which afforded the Gordons a commanding view of the area. The building stands on a road that goes on to pass Abergeldie Castle, and carries on up to Balmoral. The first floor contained the Castle hall, and there was also an enclosed courtyard and a vaulted basement. The actual tower was erected in 1600, but the tale of the Gordon-Forbes feud began several years earlier.

Hamish looked upward to see what weather he might encounter on his travels. The sky was just brightening; hazy with high cloud, while the sun shone through weakly with no warmth. Hamish believed he did not need heat; his massive frame kept him from feeling the cold, or so he thought. He relished this exposure as a test of his own strength, and the big-headed fool sighed with happiness when he reflected on his own wonderful example of a near-perfect male physique. After his simple meal, Hamish surveyed the journey, which, for the next few days, would take him over hill and moor to reach his destination, the village of Tarland.

But there was only silence, and carefully he grasped the handle and swung the gate outward. It let out a violent squeak that made him jump and set his heart racing. Again he stopped, waiting for the hammering in his chest to subside, but there was no pelt of running footsteps, just the sound of his own ragged breathing. Sandy had no idea in which part of the cemetery the woman had been buried. He would have to light a match and look for the tell-tale signs of tracked mud. He bent low to the ground, struck the match, shading the flare, and scanned in front of him.

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