From Paint Drying to Postatia Cream
Via Thresholds, The Goddess Cardea, A Maiden Fair and The Fountain Fairy & To Cure A Cough
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Its so wonderful to be back writing to you again. I have enjoyed my break and I really hope you have had the opportunity to rest and regroup over the summer.
I am sitting writing to you whilst literally watching paint dry. I have had to give in and paint my front door before the days start to close in. As I sanded off the flaking layers whilst preparing to paint it I discovered that my now boring yet also smart black front door was once a bright shade of nearly emerald green. This is not a street currently where people have joyously coloured front doors so I enjoyed that it must have been once or at the very least an earlier owner had demonstrated a love of colour.
This terrace of houses was built between 1899 and 1902 so this house is now either 121 or 124 years old. A front door with a shiny new coat of paint is probably the least is deserves. I suspect though that previous painters weren’t camping out by the open front door for several hours to prevent uninvited visitors getting in and a giant house cat getting out.
Its a really strange feeling not being able to shut your front door. I know the previous generations prided themselves on not having to lock their front doors and being part of a community but I bet even they didn’t actually leave the door open. I hadn’t realised how uncertain and uncomfortable it would feel, not being able to shut out the world whenever I want.
It has made me think of thresholds and all the folklore around them and why so many early civilisations had Gods and Goddesses who were solely responsible for boundaries and thresholds. I was aware of Janus and obviously Hecate but previously had been ignorant of the Goddess Cardea who was the Goddess of the hinge and domestic thresholds and liminal spaces for the Romans. Imagine being the goddess of the hinge, however she was also responsible for the pathways in and out of the body. This is why she was honoured at weddings with lit torches of Hawthorne because she had the power to "to open what is shut; and shut what is open." Which in the eyes of the Romans meant she could end virginity and promote fertility. Its certainly making liminal spaces do a lot of heavy lifting as a phrase.
Doorways and thresholds hold a lot of power in folklore, think about bringing in luck with first footing at New Year and being careful to lift someone over the threshold of their new home. Often evil creatures cannot cross the threshold unless invited, vampires are a good example. Some people think standing on the threshold brings bad luck, similarly embracing or shaking hands over a threshold. People used to hang protective greenery over the front doorway or horseshoes for luck. You should also never sweep towards the front door as it will sweep away your luck. This is far from an exhaustive list.
Now too distract myself from the frankly chilly breeze, I have found a story known as A Maiden Fair and The Fountain Fairy, to share with you which demonstrates that having no protection of your threshold can lead to something worse than a declined contents insurance claim: fairy child abduction.
Long, long ago a drover courted and married the miller of Cuthilldorie’s only daughter. By the time the miller died, the drover had learned the trade and with his young wife set up as the miller of Cuthilldorie. He hadn’t much silver to begin with, but an old Highland drover he knew lent him some.
By and by the young miller and his wife had a daughter, but on the very night she was born the fairies stole her away. The wee thing was carried far away from the house into the wood of Cuthilldorie, where she was found on the very lip of the Black Well. In the air was heard a lilting:
“ O we’ll come back again, my honey, my hert.
We’ll come back again, my ain kind dearie;
And you will mind upon the time
When we met in the wood at the Well so wearie !”
The lassie grew up to be by far the bonniest lass in all the countryside. Everything went well at the mill until one dark night there came a woodcock with a glowing tinder in its beak, and set fire to the mill. Everything was burnt and the miller was left without a thing in the world. To make matters worse, who should come next morning but the old drover who had lent them the silver, saying he had not been paid.
Now, there was a wee old man in the wood of Cuthilldorie beside the Black Well who would never stay in a house if he could help it. In the winter he went away, nobody knew where. He was an ugly bogle, not above two and a half feet high. He had been seen only three times in the fifteen years since he came to the place, for he always flew up out of sight when anybody came near him. But if you had crept cannily through the wood after dark, you might have heard him playing with the water, and singing the same song:
“ O when will you come, my honey, my hert,
O when will you come, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie.^”
Well, the night after the firing of the mill, the miller’s daughter wandered into the wood alone, and wandered and wandered till she came to the Black Well. Then the wee bogle gripped her and jumped about singing:
“ O come with me, my honey, my hert,
O come you with me, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie?”
With that he made her drink three double handfuls of the witched water, and away they flew on a flash of lightning. When the poor lass opened her eyes, she was in the middle of a palace, all gold and silver and diamonds, and full of fairies.
The King and Queen invited her to stay, and said she would be well looked after. But if she wanted to go home again, she must never tell anybody where she had been or what she had seen. She said she wanted to go home, and promised to do as she was
bidden.
Then the King said:
“The first stranger you meet, give him brose!”
“ Give him bannocks !” said the Queen.
“ Give him butter!” said the King.
“ Give him a drink of the Black Well water” they both said together.
Then they gave her twelve drops of liquid in a wee green bottle, three drops for the brose, three for the bannocks, three for the butter and three for the Black Well water.
She took the green bottle in her hand, and suddenly it was dark. She was flying through the air, and when she opened her eyes she was at her own doorstep. She slipped away to her bed, glad to be home again, and said nothing about where she had been or what she had seen.
Next morning, before the sun was up, there came a rap, rap, rap, three times at the door. The sleepy lass looked out and saw an old beggar-man, who began to sing:
“ O open the door, my honey, my hert,
O open the door, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie.”
When she heard that, she said nothing, and opened the door. The old beggar came in, singing:
“ O gie me my brose, my honey, my hert,
O gie me my brose, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie?”
The lassie made a bicker of brose for the beggar, not forgetting the three drops of the green bottle. As he was supping the brose he vanished, and there was the big Highland drover, who lent the silver to the miller, singing:
“ O gie me my bannocks, my honey, my hert,
O gie me my bannocks, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie?”
She baked him some fresh bannocks, not forgetting the three drops from the wee green bottle. He had just finished eating the bannocks when he vanished, and there was the woodcock that fired the mill, singing:
‘‘ O gie me my butter, my honey, my hert,
O gie me my butter, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie.”
She gave him butter as fast as she could, not forgetting the three drops from the green bottle. He had only eaten a bite, when he flapped his wings and vanished, and there was the ugly wee bogle that gripped her at the Black Well, the night before, singing:
“ O gie me my water, my honey, my hert,
O gie me my water, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie.”
She knew there were only three other drops in the green bottle and she was afraid. She ran as fast as she could to the Black Well, but who should be there before her but the wee ugly bogle himself, singing:
“O gie me my water, my honey, my hert,
O gie me my water, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
We met in the wood at the Well so wearie.”
She gave him the water, not forgetting the three drops from the greenbottle. But he had scarcely drunk the witched water when he vanished, and there was a fine young Prince, who spoke to her as if he had known her all her days. They sat down beside the Black Well.
“I was born the same night as you,” he said, “and I was carried away by the fairies the same night as you were found on the lip of the Well. I was a bogle for so many years because the fairies were scared away. They made me play many tricks before they would let me go, and return to my father, the King of France, and make the bonniest lass in all the world my bride.”
“Who is she.” said the maiden.
“The miller of Cuthilldorie’s daughter,” said the young Prince. Then they went home and told their stories over again, and that very night they were married. A coach-and-four came for them, and the miller and his wife, and the Prince and the Princess, drove away singing:
“ O but we’re happy, my honey, my hert,
O but we’re happy, my ain kind dearie;
For don’t you mind upon the time
When we met in the wood at the Well so wearie?”
Now we just have time for a historical remedy and recipe before I let you head off to your favourite late summer activities:
Our remedy today is at least unlikely to be harmful if taken in small amounts. Elecampane roots are still in use today to provide relief from bronchial conditions as well as a prebiotic, due in both cases to the large amount of inulin contained in the roots. As always any 18th Century remedy should only be consumed after taking 21st century medical advice. The apples and honey with liquorice & aniseed sound very soothing and delicious though.
Our historic recipe should probably be for Brose considering the tale but I constantly mix up the hot oat mixture with Atholl Brose which is whiskey, thickened with oats, strained and mixed with honey & sometimes cream that I must admit is more appealing. So I’ve chosen Postatia Cream or as we would know it, Pistachio Cream. My love for pistachios and the delicate green colour they provide is never-ending and this sounds gorgeous and reminds me of something I made to serve with chai milk cake. Both our recipe and remedy are from A Collection of over Three Hundred Receipts in Cookery, Physick and Surgery from 1714.
I must now bring this letter to a close and return to my work on my birthday podcast episodes but please don’t hesitate to get in touch via the comments or via any of my social media profiles/my website . If you have enjoyed this and would like to read further such nonsense and have not yet subscribed, please don’t hesitate to subscribe for free at the button below. You’d be very welcome and it would be a joy to write to you.