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The granite church sits on the top of windswept and wild Dartmoor, close to the notorious Dartmoor Prison. The building of the church began in 1812, by French prisoners and was completed in 1815 by American POWs. The prisoners had to quarry the hard stone in all weathers, summer and winter, shape them and then transport the great blocks to the site, before each piece could be hoisted in place.

But it was not just prisoners who had no grave stones. A large empty area between the gates and the cross is where the local people are buried who could not afford a stone, especially during the measles and typhoid epidemic in which some families in Princetown lost several of their children, siblings dying within days or even hours of each other. 

I visited the church just before Armistice day, when like so many across the country, it had been decorated with the transparent outlines of soldiers in the pews. Somehow, these ghostly figures seemed even more poignant inside St Michael’s one of England’s most stark but haunting churches, a moving memorial to the French and Americans POWs who created it.

Poppies and the transparent outline of the solider  who never returned in the pew in St Michael's church.

This week is the feast of Martinmas which begins on the evening of the 10th November. It is a festival, like many Christian celebrations, whose origins go back centuries before Christ. 

Martin of Tours (c.316-397), a Roman solider who later became a monk and bishop, was a favourite saint of the Middle Ages. But the date had long been marked as the first day of winter and when, Pope Martin I (papacy 649- 655) established Martinmas as important Church festival, he may have been trying to wean pagan northern Europeans from the winter celebrations associated with the old gods. Bede (c. 672-735) records that the Anglo-Saxon term for November was Blot Monath, or ‘Sacrifice Month,’ when they slaughtered livestock which could not be kept over winter, but also, according to Bede, ‘in this month the cattle which were to be slaughtered were dedicated to the gods.’

But the very act of shedding blood was an important aspect of the festival. In Ireland it was said that ‘if blood is not drawn on Martinmas eve, the blood that is shed will be your own.’ In Scotland and Ireland, a fowl or goose had its neck cut on Martinmas eve and was allowed to bleed out. Its blood was daubed on the four corners of the house, or on lintels, doorsteps or doors, and was sometimes put on the foreheads of children, with the words, ‘I am killing this in honour of St Martin, and that he might keep trouble away from the house for the year.' 

Right up to the end of 19th century there are reports of this being done to ward off the spirits of the dead who couldn’t find rest. If the family had no animal, someone would cut their own finger instead. A piece of cloth was also dipped Martinmas blood, dried and used in the coming year to press on the body to relieve pain while a prayer or charm was recited.

There are several different versions of how St Martin met his death which in the Middle Ages gave rise to a number of superstitions connected with the festival. In one version, the saint plunged into a millpond and was killed by the turning waterwheel, and for many centuries it was considered unlucky to carry out any work that involved turning or grinding on this day. This meant people didn’t grind flour, spin wool or put to sea to fish because the boat would have to turn to come back. 

An account published in 1867, tells of some Wexford fishmen who spotted a great shoal of herring offshore on St Martin’s Eve and foolishly put to sea. The ghostly figure of St Martin rose from the waves and pointed thrice to the shore, before sinking again. Two boats heeded the saint’s warning, cut their nests loose and returned immediately. The others continued to haul in the huge catch, but a violent storm sprang up, their boats overturned and 70 men drowned.

Let’s start with the dove cote. My latest medieval thriller is set in 1316, during the time of the great famine which ravaged Europe from Russia down to southern Italy from 1315 to 1317. Extreme cold, wet weather caused widespread crop failure and outbreaks of ergot poisoning due to mouldy grain. Thousands of people died. The death of livestock due to starvation and cold was particular catastrophic for families, because the weather conditions had caused an extreme shortage of another vital commodity in Medieval society – salt.

If the animals died or had to be slaughtered because they were starving, the precious meat which might have saved human lives couldn’t be preserved without salt. As the French proverb wisely says - 'Don't slaughter more pigs than you can salt.' But they had little choice. 

First there was the problem of producing the salt itself. The salt pans along the coast were filled with rain or washed away by floods and even where they were intact, in order to produce salt, sea-sand and silt had to be washed and the resultant brine boiled in lead pans over peat fires to allow the salt crystalize out. But the peat used to boil the brine required weeks of sun to dry before it could be burned, as did wood. The lack of salt also badly affected leather tanning and cloth-dying, both vital industries in producing everyday goods. Many lost their jobs.

Laos. Boiling brine to make salt in the medieval tradition. Photographer: BigBrotherMouse

Even the wealthy households and monasteries began to run out of the precious commodity, which soon cost a king’s ransom. They are tales of people trying to recover the salt from the most unsavoury sources, such as animal salt licks in the byres and salt cats from pigeon or dove cotes. 

Salt cats for dove cotes were made in the salt-works, using brine-soaked clay mixed with salt and a little saltpetre. After it had baked hard in the sun or near a fire, the cat was placed in the dove cote on short blocks to raise it off the damp floor for the birds to peck. Even though they were covered in bird dung, those dove cotes that still had them were raided by those desperate to try an extract the salt from the cats for preserving food or simply because they needed salt which is so necessary in the diet. It is believed that one of reasons so many of Napoleon’s troops died on the retreat from Moscow was a salt deficiency which made them more susceptible to diseases and wound inflictions.

But the three years of wet weather did more than limit the product of salt, it also meant that what salt you had in store might simply dissolve and trickle away. If you own a salt candle today or even have salt in a cardboard packet in a cupboard you know how easily it turns to liquid even in a mildly damp atmosphere. So, a wooden or clay salt box has been a very important little item in most homes for generations. The salt box was hung against a warm chimney breast or on a wall near a stove to keep the salt dry in the damp winter chill. Earthenware salt pigs did the same job, with the unglazed interior absorbing the moisture.

The news about Lapland reminded me of an old folktale I heard as a child which involved mosquitoes. Throughout Medieval Europe, Lapland was both admired for having the most skillful silversmiths and feared for having the most dangerous warlocks or sorcerers. The story goes that a Lapland sorcerer had the ambition of marrying his son to the daughter of one of the great kings of Europe. But his son, a peaceful herder, wanted to wed an ordinary girl who could do practical things like milk the reindeer. The sorcerer refused to listen. He changed himself into an owl, flew over the sea and abducted the beautiful princess, but she indignantly refused to consent to the marriage. So, he starved her to force her into submission. But the boy thwarted his father by smuggling reindeer milk to the princess.

Lapland Owl, also known as the Great Grey Owl or the Spectral Owl. Photo: Steve Wilson

Discovering she was still defiant, the sorcerer imprisoned the princess in a cave, but before sealing the entrance, he let in a great swarm of Lapland mosquitoes, thinking that after she'd been tormented by hundreds of bites she would soon become biddable. But the boy managed to smuggle some turpentine to the princess. She rubbed it on her skin and it prevented the mosquitoes from biting her, so she emerged, unscathed, to face the sorcerer’s third and most deadly ordeal.

Thinking about this tale, reminded me that while we are very aware of the insects that bred in medieval homes such as moths, weevils, lice and fleas, we sometimes overlook the mosquito problem. The numerous open sewers and puddles of stagnant water lying in city streets, the many ponds, ditches and undrained marshlands in the country were ideal breeding grounds for mosquitoes, which must have driven people mad in the summer months. Of course, there were many more natural predators around then. Ponds were usually well stocked with fish that fed on the larvae, and birds and dragonflies devoured the adults. There were also several periods of cold, wet summers which limited insect numbers, but there were also years of hot weather too. 

And right up until the 19th century, mosquitoes in England and Europe didn’t merely cause annoyance with their itchy bites, the marshlands were rife with malaria, known variously as the Ague, Marsh Fever or by Shakespeare’s time ‘quotidian tertian’, a fever which recurs in a cycle, which caused poor old Falstaff to shake and burn in Henry V. The links between mosquitoes and malaria were not understood until the 1880’s and in the Middle Ages and Tudor periods, the fever was generally ascribed to either drinking foul water or more commonly, breathing the bad air from cesspits or the miasmas of the marshes. Many people living in the marshlands in Norfolk and Suffolk became addicted to the juice and seeds of the white marsh poppy, which they used to try to alleviate the symptoms.

But even though they did not fully realise the danger, imagine squatting over a hole above a cesspit or ditch in which clouds of mosquitoes were swarming, looking for a nice bare rump to bore into. So, what could they do? The strewing herbs on the floors and bunches of herbs hung in windows would have helped to ward off some. Rubbing the skin with ransoms (wild garlic) and salves made from pine resin was said to stop the creatures biting. Stringing horse hair across windows and beds was supposed to discourage them, though it isn’t entirely clear whether this created a physical barrier or it was ‘magical’ power of the horsehair itself, which was often woven into protective amulets. Hanging pots or sponges filled with sharp vinegar over your head and feet in bed was said to keep the insects at bay, and you could also use vinegar infused with herbs such as lavender, rosemary, rue, mint and wormwood. These herbs were often planted near windows and doors to act as mosquito deterrents and when dried, were burned on hearth fires or braziers to drive them away.

The fact that cottages would have been constantly ‘fumigated’ by the smoke from cooking fires and tallow candles would have helped to deter mosquitoes from entering. In this respect, poorer people probably had the advantage. Being forced to burn bones, animal dung, and greener wood on open fires which produced a lot of smoke and stink, probably served them better in warding off insects than the wealthier people who could afford to burn dry seasoned wood and had chimneys to draw the smoke away. But once strong tobacco began to be imported, people swiftly discovered that smoking a pipeful was a good way of protecting themselves from gnats and mosquitoes. One of reasons, it became so popular.

As for me, next summer, I might be resorting to the good old turpentine. Unless you have a favourite deterrent?

The story of the Rajahs of Sarawak and Sheepstor is told on a plaque inside the church which seeks to cast a benevolent spin on a bizarre episode of history. According this, James Brooke was born in Bengal in 1803. Having been badly wounded in the Burma War of 1825, he was forced to resign from military service and spent his time travelling in the Far East. He bought a schooner and eventually sailed it to Singapore in 1839. There the Governor asked him to take gifts to Rajah Muda Hassim of Sarawak in North West Borneo, to thank him for the great kindness he had shown to shipwrecked British sailors.

Surveying the seventy miles of uncharted coast as he sailed, Brooke reached Sarawak and, though hospitably received, he found a country ravaged by rebellion and tribal wars and under constant attack from pirates. His experience meant he was able to offer advice and help to the local administrators who eventually asked him to stay on and become the Rajah. He served as Rajah for 22 years helping to prevent slavery and piracy and bring some measure of peace between warring tribes. He raised money to help the people using not only his own wealth but borrowing funds from Baroness Burdett-Coutts.

Photo: Nilfanion Rood Screen in St Leonards Church, Sheepstor

Other accounts cast Brooke in role of arch- colonialist, and the alternative view of how Brooke came to be Sultan is rather more Machiavellian.The coastal region of Sarawak was under the control of the Brunei Sultanate, while in the interior of Sarawak the Iban, Kayan, and Kenyahs fought continual territorial battles. A rich seam of antimony had been discovered and the Brunei Sultanate demanded higher taxes from Sarawak, which had led to widespread rebellion.

In 1839, Sultan Omar Ali Saifuddin II ordered his uncle Pangeran Muda Hashim to restore order. Pangeran asked for James Brooke’s help. He initially refused, but agreed when he returned in 1841 and Pangeran signed a treaty surrendering Sarawak to Brooke as Governor. In 1843, Brooke attempted to get his ally, Pangeran, accepted as a member of the Brunei Court, more-or-less at gunpoint, but in 1945 they retaliated by having Pangeran assassinated. Brooke promptly attacked Kampong Ayer, the capital of Brunei. The Sultan of Brunei found himself compelled to apologise to Queen Victoria, confirm Brooke's possession of Sarawak and concede Brunei’s right to tribute on antimony mining rights. It was then in, 1846, that Brooke became the Rajah of Sarawak.

Tombs of the three Rajahs in Sheepstor, Devon.  James Brooke's tomb (left) made of red polished granite

So, James Brooke, champion of Sarawak against the oppressive Sultanate of Brunei and the evils of slavery, or autocratic colonial adventurer? - the truth is seldom found in labels.

James Brooke retired in 1863 to England to live in the Dartmoor parish of Sheepstor and was buried there after his death in June 1868. His eldest nephew, Captain John Brook Johnson, was nominated by his uncle as Rajah Muda. But his uncle seems to have regretted his choice of heir and there is some suggestion that James banished his nephew from Sarawak. John died in England in the same year as his uncle.

In the meantime, John's younger brother, Charles Antoni Johnson, had taken leave from the navy in 1852 to help administer Sarawak and managed to win the trust of the people, which was not lightly given. He was appointed Rajah and ruled for nearly 50 years. He inherited a debt-ridden country, but in 1871, had managed to repay Baroness Burdett-Coutts the money she had lent to James. According the account in the church, other tribal groups in Borneo sought the protection of Sarawak, and in this way the territories were extended to 50,000 square miles. Though described even by his admirers, as ‘austere, direct,  and autocratic,’ Charles travelled constantly through Sarawak, engaging with the leaders of the different ethnic groups, and developing schools, medical facilities and trade. In 1888, Sarawak became a fully independent state under British Protection. Charles died in 1917, aged, 88.

His first three children had perished from cholera, but he had three further sons, the eldest of whom, Charles Vyner de Windt Brooke, became the Rajah after the death of his father in 1917, during the First World War. In 1941, at the centenary celebrations he announced his intention of renouncing the title and establishing a Constitution, but in December of that year Sarawak along with the rest of Borneo had been invaded by the Japanese.

The three tombs of the Rajahs can be found in the north-eastern corner of Sheepstor churchyard, incongruously facing the most English of rural scenes with sheep grazing on the hillside. James Brooke’s has the grandest tomb made from polished red Aberdeen granite, while the other two Rajahs' tombs are of local Dartmoor granite. The larger of the two took 11 horses to pull it to the churchyard.

Inside St Leonard’s church you’ll find a Pua Kumbu, or a ceremonial mat, given to Sheepstor Church by the people of Sarawak, and presented by Dr James Masing, the assistant minister of tourism when he visited the tombs on 7th of March 1996. A fascinating exhibition in the church explains that the Pua Kumbu acts as a ‘sacred space’ in ceremonies performed by the Iban tribe and for rites of passage. It is a place where the spirit world and the world of the living meet. Each Pua Kumbu is different and the unique designs are revealed in dreams or visions to groups of Iban women who have dedicated themselves to seeking great spirituality. 

The church also contains a memorial dedicated to the members of the Sarawak Civil Service who died in Japanese prisoner of war camps during WWII. Wonderful to find these men remembered so many miles from home in a tiny Devon village.

I have long been captivated by the legends and folklore surrounding the spectral creature, the ‘black dog’, ever since some years ago in Nigeria when I was saved from being hacked to death with machetes by the appearance of a large black dog who protected me. I think that dog was real, at least he felt wonderfully warm and solid, though his sudden appearance at that terrifying moment certainly seemed miraculous.

Norman priest's door at Church of St. Medard & St Gildard Little Bytham, Lincolnshire. The two birds on either side of the niche are probably the eagle of St Medard whose image may once have occupied the niche. Photographer: Simon Garbutt

"Raine, raine go away, 

Come againe a Saterday."

A children's rhyme, which I remember chanting in the playground, but which was recorded as early as 1687 by John Aubrey, who commented then that it was probably a charm of 'Great Antiquity.'

Today, 8th June, is one of those days of the year when we should all pay close attention to whether the rain stays or goes, especially those of us who live in France or England, because this is St Medardus or St Medard’s Day, and similar weather lore is connected to this saint as to St Swithin’s Day which falls on 15th July.

"Quand il pleut à la Saint-Médard, il pleut quarante jours plus tard."

In England the saying was - "St Medard drops drop for forty days." But another version ran - "On St Medard’s day it rains six weeks before or six weeks after."

St Medard (456–545) was the Bishop of Vermandois. He was invoked for protection against bad weather, but he was also a saint that medieval people prayed to when they needed rain. He was a particularly pious child and legend has it that Medard was shielded from the rain by an eagle who spread its wings to shelter him, so the saint is also protector of those who work outdoors. A useful saint for the farmers and gardeners amongst us.

Martyrdom of St Barnabas

Medard was often depicted laughing with his mouth open, and for this reason was invoked against toothache. But he did seem to be regarded in the Middle Ages as a saint with a slightly malicious sense of humour, for another old piece of weather lore concerns him and St Faustus whose feast day falls tomorrow, 9th June.
“St Faustus said to St Medard, Barnabas and Vitus are my neighbours and together we will give the country folk a good washing till Frederick the Hollander comes and closes the doors of heaven.”

St Barnabas’ feast was celebrated on the 11th June and St Vitus on 15th June. But the feast day ‘Frederick the Hollander’, who would bring an end to the deluge, wasn’t until 18th July.

Better known as St Frederick, patron saint of the deaf, Frederick was born in 780, and became Bishop of Utrecht. He was stabbed to death by two assassins after mass on 18th July around the year 838, though sources are not agreed about the precise year. It was claimed by his hagiographers that his murderers were in the pay of Empress Judith of Bavaria, because he accused her of immorality, though there is no evidence that she was particularly immoral, or that he had accused of such. Others claim his killers were hired by the citizens of Walcheren who hated missionaries.

Frederick of Utrecht impaled by two daggers. 1650, Cornelius Visscher

There seems no obvious link in his hagiography to closing the door of heaven and stopping it raining, except that the bishop composed a popular prayer to the Holy Trinity, which was widely used through the Middle Ages, and the Holy Trinity was frequently invoked in Saxon and medieval weather charms. But more likely it was simply an observation that the weather usually improved around the middle of the July and St Frederick’s feast day was one ordinary people could remember.

But if the thought of six weeks of rain depresses you, there is one ray of sunshine - it was said that if the weather changes on the feast of St Barnabas (11th June), then it will be fair for 40 days.
“On St Barnabas put the scythe to the grass. Barnabas bright – the longest day and shortest night.”

Of course, in the Middle Ages, as now, rain could be both welcome or dreaded depending on how much had or hadn’t fallen. But if any rain fell on Ascension Day it was always considered a 'blessing from heaven.' Clean bowls and pails would be put out in the open to collect any rain which fell straight from the sky, rather than trickling from a roof or tree. It would then be stored to be used as a cure for many ailments, especially for eye problems. Sometimes parsley would be added to Ascension water which would be used to washed a baby’s eyes daily to strengthen its sight. As late as 1927, Ascension rain was caught and bottled in the village of Elmley Castle, Worcestershire. In Lincolnshire these healing properties were ascribed to rain that fell anytime in June, and while in Wales, babies washed in this water would be early talkers.

Village of Elmley Castle, painted in 1912

Rain was considered a bad omen at a wedding and a good omen at the funeral.
"Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
Happy is the corpse that the rain rains on." 

Mourners believed that if rain fell on the coffin or the corpse, it was sign the decease's soul would soon be received into heaven.

In the Middle Ages, if there was a drought various charms were used to try to call rain down. Most have an origin in sympathetic magic or perhaps vestiges of offerings once made to local deities or spirits, such as sprinkling water on certain stones. In Tarn Dulyn, Mount Snowdon, water was thrown at the furthest stepping stone, which known as the 'Red Altar'. Hurling flour into a spring then stirring the water with a hazel-rod was said to produce a mist that would rise and form a cloud. Ferns of all kinds were associated with thunder and lightning and so widely-held was the belief that burning ferns would make it rain that in 1636, Lord Pembroke is reputed to have asked the High Sherriff of Staffordshire to ensure that no fern should be burnt during the visit of Charles I, so that the king would not be inconvenienced by a down-pour.

Snowdon from Capel Curig  Phillip James de Loutherbourg, 1787 Yale Centre for British Art

But I’ll end with one of my favourite weather sayings that if it rains on the feast day of St Mary Magdalen on the 22nd July it is said she is washing her kerchief so that she can dance at the fair of her cousin St James on 25th July.