INTRODUCTION

As will swiftly become apparent, the present volume differs from most serious works of historical scholarship in a number of respects. Not the least of these is the fact that only a certain proportion of the events mentioned herein actually took place. The same might be said of its dramatis personae: not absolutely all of them did, in reality, breathe the air of Scotland (certainly not the monsters and mermaids, demons, changelings and familiars). I suspect few modern historians accept that St Serf did in reality hear the bleating of a stolen sheep from within the stomach of the suspected thief. Or that poor Bessie Dunlop, burnt as a witch, consorted with the Good Folk of Elfhame. Or that on 23 September 1954 a vampire with iron teeth stalked Glasgow’s Southern Necropolis.

Even if many of the events I describe did in fact take place, that does not necessarily mean they are historically significant. Significance is not the purpose of this book. Although many of the people and events herein are not important to our understanding of history, they may tell us something else, about the stories we tell ourselves about the past. Some such tales – Bruce and the Spider, Sawney Bean, Rob Roy – are so well known I thought it pointless to rehearse them again here. I have instead concentrated on digging up obscure little nuggets that throw some kind of curious sideways light on the nature and spirit of Scotland.

It may be that the present selection says more about the author than anything else. I have a tendency to suspect all those in authority of being rogues and hypocrites, and an associated penchant for pricking pomposity. I celebrate the bawdy and the subversive, the eccentric and the different, the put-upon and the misunderstood. I know I am not the only Scot to hold such attitudes, attitudes that run like a strong, pulsing vein through our history and culture. A hefty dose of snook-cocking lends vigour to our body politic, which might otherwise putrefy into a carcass reeking of piety, power lust, slack-jawed credulity and tut-tutting self-righteousness.

If all that sounds depressingly serious, I don’t think that being depressingly serious is a thing this book can be accused of. I can only hope that the reader agrees.

Ian Crofton
February 2015