DREAD OE WITCHES

Greymouth Evening Star, 11 May 1929, Page 11

DREAD OE WITCHES

QUAINT SCOTTISH CUSTOM.

The little Scottish fishing village of Burghead, on the Moray Firth, is not generally classed among the show places of the British Isles, but it lecently had a show that was absolutely

unique. It‘is surprising to see an apparently law abiding and God-fearing commun-

ity given oyer to the rite of paga.n worship, says a correspondent of the Bunday Post, yet that is exactly what happens for the space of a coyple of hours or so every year, when the residents indulge in the ceremony of “Burning the. Clavie.” On every New Year’s Eve, according to the old calendar, the inhabitants of Burghead, forget all about business, lay down their nets, give the fish a rest for the day, and let themselves go, for ol;l New Year’s Eve is the day when one burns the clavie. The writer says: — For the benefit of those who do not know what a clavie is, and are unversed in the ways of burning them, I would explain that it is ’‘a sacred flare or beacon, which is carried round the town of Burghead once a year to render the town free from witches, and to make it prosperous for the coming yea,r. The clavie, as befits an instrument dedicated to a sacred cause, is not just any old sort of bonfire. On the contrary, the manufacture of it is an operation both skilled and artistic. The committee that sits over the construction of the clavie is a very exclusive body of ineu known as the clavie crew. They numbei- four, including the real head of the. undertaking, who is called the clavie skipper, or the clavie king. This personage is Mr. William Peterkin. ,He has been clavie skipper for almost forty vears, and probably knows more about the business of clavie burning than any man living. His father was skipper before him. 'The clavie is a barrel or to be more accurate, half a barrel. It is one of the unofficial duties of the Provost of Burghead to provide a barrel for the year’s clavie. The present Provost, Mr. George D. Gordon, on the occasion of the last ceremony, hunted in the back of his shop and produced a real beauty well worthy to be made into a clavie.

At three o’clock in the afternoon the barrel is taken to the appointed place, and there the crew set to work upon it. Previous to that, they are not supposed to have seen the barrel, as that brings bad luck. First of all the barrel has to be sawn in two; it is then

ready for the handle to be fixed. The lower half of the barrel is fixed on to a wooden shaft by means of a special nail, provided for the purpose by the blacksmith. This nail is thrust home by blows with a heavy stone, as it is most important that no hammer be used in the construction of the clavie, for this would render its charms powerless.

When the handle is fixed firmly the clavie is filled full of peat, dry wood, and anything that will burn. All is then liberally soaked in tar, so that it forms a very combustible torch. The clavie is now complete. The whole village waits for darkness to fall. At six o’clock, ’bus loads of people have arrived from all parts of the district, and presently the show begins. The brawny crew get under the clavie, and this is lighted by means of a lump of burning peat; it would be sacrilege to light the clavie with a match, as these are as unlucky as hammers. When the torch is well ablaze the crew move off, and the burning of the clavie has begun. How those four brawny men are able to carry that blazing, spluttering, roaring mass without being roasted- I do not know. The burning mass is continu-

ally dripping boiling tar and crackling cinders over their backs and arms and giving an impressive firework display as it goes along, but the crew seem made of brass.

The bearers have now to carry the clavie all through the town, and they move off, followed by a large and hilarous crowd, and outside every important door they stop and throw a piece of the blazing clavie. through the open door, as the possession of a clavie faggot brings a year’s luck. As was only fitting, the Provost got the first and largest lump. His clavie was really an incandescent mass of burning wood and peat, which when hurled through his door had sufficient power to set the whole house on fire. The procession keeps on winding in and out the little streets, and all the small boys fight for pieces as they drop off the clavie. TWOPENCE FOR A PIECE. Nobody cares for burned fingers now, although when I tried to get an excellent piece I dropped it quicker than I had picked it up. However, I bought a pieco for twopence from a small boy l , who had an armful, so my luck is assured. Every now and again the crew would stop and fling a bit of the blazing stuff through somebody’s door. They just picked it off the clavie with their bare fingers, which undoubtedly were not flesh and blood. I heard that pieces of clavie are sent to Burghead folk abroad, which is not fair, as they didn’t have to get their fingers burnt. Gradually, and with many stoppages, the clavie makes a circuit of the town, and is brought finally to its ultimate goal, the Doorie Hill. This is a little knob of land at the east end of the town and is specially dedicated to the use of the clavie.

At the top of the Doorie Hill is a sort of cairn of stones cemented into a pillar tower. This is called the Clavie Pillar, and was presented to pie clavie by a late Provost. Up here the clavie, .still blazing merrily, is carried, and the handle is placed in a socket in the top of the pillar. * The clavie’s journey is now at an end, and the real fire worship begins, more fuel is heaped upon the huge torch, a new bucket of tar poured over its dripping sides, and the flames .shoot up into the sky a beacon for 'miles around. The other half of the Provost’s barrel is produced, and is smashed down on top of the clavie. Very 5.0.0. n that blazes up as well, and the crowd of watchers on the top, sides, and bottom of the Doorie Hill shriek with excitement. It is not as childish as it sounds. The blazing clavie topping the stone pillar, illuminating the faces below with a lurid glow is a very impressive sight. I shouted as loudly as anybody there. More fuel! More tar on the clavie! More shrieks from the watchers!

The clavie crew, Salamander-like, pass in and out of the flames tossing spare lumps of wood to those below. Then, for some unaccountable reason the clavie roars and splits, hundreds of flaping faggots sail into the air, scattering all but the crew. The force of the explosion makes the flames whistle in the air.

There is a mighty rush for the lumps of fuel, which are rolling down the

hill. Some little boys get an armful! Some beefy fishermen don’t get any! Nobody minds! The clavie itself being only wood and tar at last it begins to subside, the flames grow less and less, but not until there is nothing left, but smouldering ashes do the people leave to catch the last ’bus home. In the morning the Doorie Hill is littered with faggots black and cold, and the little fishing village of Burghead on the Moray Firth is free from witches for another year.