What's Wrong with Being a Witch?

By Beverley Bryant

And let's face it, people love stories! They love to be reminded of times past, as the future seems to keep hurtling towards them at such a furious pace.

The past is a place where we can slow down, take stock, and enjoy taking our time. Except for a few years, I've lived in Dunfermline all my life. However, I'm lucky enough to have travelled too.

The stories of ordinary folk in a typical town- sorry city- are often extraordinary. They are funny, moving, complex, heart-warming, all of these things and more. I want to share these stories with you and, of course, hear your own, so I'll be writing articles now and again over the next few months.

Beverley

I admit that years ago, I loved dressing as a witch. Most people would say that I didn't save it for Hallowe'en. In the 80s, I frequently checked in with my black velvet cloak at Lorenzo’s.

However, as I learned about our history of treatment of women, that style of dress is something I've had to consider much more seriously.

Scotland, under James VI, became a place of persecution, mainly for women, who are now being renamed 'Accused Witches'. Rather than followers of the devil, these women were usually healers or midwives, spey wives whom ordinary folk had consulted for generations. Others, sadly, were simply elderly, confused, or had physical or mental health conditions which set them apart.

If you think Dunfermline escaped such things, think again. We had our own gallows just outside town and our very own Witch's Dub, where, having been led up Witch Brae, these poor people could be dunked in the water to see if they floated!

Pre-COVID, I chatted to an elderly gentleman in the then-bustling Kingsgate one afternoon. The conversation turned to Torryburn's dedication to those accused. "Oh, but of course, my grandmother was a witch," Bill told me with complete sincerity.

It seems Bill's grandmother was one of many well-known and respected witches in Dunfermline. Bill began to remember his grandmother more vividly as we talked. She had always worn black and walked with a stick. He could hear her approach his parent's house on Mill Street, its front windows facing directly onto the pavement, by the tap, tap, tap of her stick.

That was Bill's cue to take her basket and scramble up the banking under the Glen Bridge, gathering the herbs and plants she pointed out with that same stick.

Recently, I found another fascinating piece of information linked to the area Bill had been telling me about Buffies Brae. It seems a buffy is an old Scots word for a hare. And, of course, anyone who knows their folklore will know that a witch's familiar is so often a hare! A coincidence? Perhaps.

Where were those other witches, those early herbalists of Dunfermline? Who were they? I'd love to hear more from you all.

Best

Beverley

beverleystoryteller@gmail.com