The Rites of Spring & the Secret of Crummock Water
May 12th, 2019
In 1988, divers made a grisly discovery in Crummock Water: they recovered the body of a woman, chained to a car cylinder head. Her name was Sheena, and she has become the forgotten Lady of the Lake. Thirty one years later, I walk from Ennerdale Water over Great Borne, the air filled with the song of the cuckoo and the fragrance of hawthorn blossom. These traditional harbingers of spring are the stuff of folk ritual, but as I reach Red Pike and look down on Crummock Water, I recall Sheena’s story, and I wonder whether ancient beliefs may yet have something to teach us.
“I have a friend who’s a radio announcer. He stops talking when he walks under bridges”—just one in a rich seam of dry one-liners from the skewed imagination of US comic, Steven Wright. It’s a joke that may be lost on anyone who’s grown up with digital radio, unless, of course, they drive over Corney Fell. Here invisible bridges eat digital radio signal at regular intervals, so I miss most of what Radcliffe and Maconie are saying about the harbingers of spring, but I do catch something about superstition and the May Tree.
The radio show might have dissolved into stuttered fragments, but the view is unswervingly impressive. We’ve not been starved of sunny days recently, but the light has often been hazy, rendering the landscape as a washed-out impression. Today is different. Everything is in high definition. The pepper pot of Stainton Tower is pin-sharp and the Irish Sea bluer than I’ve ever seen. The Isle of Man rises in the distance like a mythical kingdom from a skirt of sea-mist. The rites of spring are afoot, and the staccato radio reception seems somewhat appropriate, for what are superstitions if not stuttered fragments of once coherent beliefs.
Before long, I’m edging down the single-track lane to Bowness Knott on the shore of Ennerdale Water with Herdus’s western ridge rising impressively ahead. As I step out of the car, another harbinger of spring reaches my ear: the slow repeating call of the cuckoo. In days gone by, people believed the cuckoo morphed into a hawk during the winter or took refuge in the faery kingdom. When it returned in its familiar form, it brought the spring with it. It’s the first cuckoo call I’ve heard this year. There are many half-forgotten customs you are supposed to enact in response. I seem to remember one about placing a stone on your head, running as far as you can, and launching it into the air. Wherever it lands, a stash of money will await when you return the following day. I think better of it. I’m in a car park after all. Knowing my luck, it’ll fly through someone’s windscreen and end up costing me a great deal more.
Another old belief says that every repeat of the first cuckoo’s call marks a year of your life. I’m encouraged that it shows no sign of abating as I stroll back along the track toward Rake Beck.
A pungent natural perfume reaches my nostrils from the white blossom of the hawthorn trees. This is the May Tree of Radcliffe and Maconie’s mention, so called for its May flowering. In Celtic tradition, it is the tree of Beltaine, the ancient festival that celebrates the start of spring and the coming of summer; like Beltaine, the hawthorn symbolises fertility and rebirth.
The fair maid who, the first of May,
Goes to the fields at break of day
And washes in dew from the hawthorn tree,
Will ever after handsome be”
Hawthorn boughs were cut and woven into May Day crowns or placed in the porches of houses to bring luck, but bringing them inside the house was taboo:
“Hawthorn
bloom and elder-flowers
Will fill a house with evil
powers”
The tree contains trimethylamine, a chemical found in decaying animal tissue. In medieval times, its blossom was said to smell like the Great Plague, and its presence indoors was associated with death. But this is perhaps a later superstition based on an unsavoury aromatic association. In earlier times, hawthorn was the tree of new life; it was her sister tree, the blackthorn, that was the tree of death.
In witchcraft, the blackthorn belongs to black magic, while the hawthorn (or white thorn) is the tree of the white witch. Blackthorn is the Celtic tree of Samhain, the festival that marks the coming of winter. Its bitter fruit, the sloe, sweetens after the first frost.
In Ireland, it was considered unlucky to chop down hawthorn trees as they were said to be home to faery folk. Indeed, thirteenth century Scottish mystic, Thomas Rhymer, met the Faery Queen by a May Tree. She gave him a brief tour of the underworld. It only lasted a matter of hours, but when he returned, he discovered he’d been gone a full seven years. By contrast, the blackthorn is a gateway to communing with the dead. This is not as macabre as it sounds. In ancient belief, communing with the dead helped the living prepare for what must come to us all eventually.
The same dichotomy applies in traditional healing: blackthorn is an astringent and a purgative; it heals by bringing your pain and darkest thoughts to the surface; it intensifies suffering in order to banish it. Hawthorn is a balm; it soothes pain and eases troubles.
Blackthorn and whitethorn; winter and summer; death and rebirth; the perpetual cycle of life; and here on the shore of Ennerdale Water, in the warm sunlight, with the tang of new growth, the scent of tree blossom and the call of the cuckoo, all things more likely to trigger a hard-wired religious impulse (in me, at least) than psalms and psalters and thorny theological concepts of original sin.
During WWI, large amounts of wood were needed for the war effort. In 1919, the Forestry Commission was established to ensure the UK always had a steady supply of timber. In its early years, the Commission adopted a utilitarian approach, planting vast amounts of fast growing conifer. In Ennerdale, dense sitka spruce plantations blighted the natural landscape, replacing the indigenous flora. Wainwright called this “dark funeral shroud of foreign trees” an act of vandalism. But in 1968, the Commission refocused on conservation, and since 2003, it has been a partner in the Wild Ennerdale project, which is rewilding the valley, thinning the conifer and allowing the old woods to reassert themselves. Perhaps some of the ancient magic is returning.
I leave the road by a stile, cross Raise Beck and follow a path that climbs the fell side to gain the western ridge of Herdus. Across the valley, Crag Fell sprawls: a gargantuan beast in slumber—its shadowed crags an elephantine hide, its sunlit slopes a pink underbelly, and Anglers Crag its wrinkled snout. The lake is a plate of polished lapis lazuli. As I gain height along the ridge, I look down on Bowness Knott, its rounded top a fishbone pattern of forest green and stone white clearings.
Traditionally, Herdus is the name for this whole fell, with Great Borne a name for the summit only, but the OS map assigns Herdus its own summit. This is marked on the ground with a cairn and acknowledged as a Birkett. The classification may confuse boundaries, but it does at least do justice to this remarkable viewpoint.
Great Borne’s summit lies east across a boggy depression. The circuitous path keeps to firmer ground, crossing the head of Rake Beck and joining the path that climbs beside it. As I approach the trig point and shelter that crown the top, the muscular mass of Grasmoor, Whiteside, Wandhope and Whiteless Pike rises in the northwest, dark and shadowy, like an angular edifice of chiselled granite.
Two fell runners are tracing a route with their fingers. It circuits the whole valley: Starling Dodd, Buttermere Edge, Haystacks, the Gable Girdle, Kirk Fell, Pillar, Scoat Fell, Haycock, Crag Fell.
“Are you going to run all that?” I ask, incredulous.
“Not today,” the girl replies, “but it’s what we’re in training for.”
I follow their dust down to the col and up the gentle grassy slope to Starling Dodd. They’re long gone by the time I reach its twin cairns, one of stones and one a twisted twine of rusted iron fence posts.
Ahead, the slanting pyramid of Red Pike is a sharp end to the High Stile ridge, and to the north, Crummock Water is glimpsed, an indigo lustre beneath Grasmoor. Grasmoor itself, now free of shadow, is painted chocolate with veins and crests of cinnamon. Southwest, over Ennerdale Water, the Irish Sea is a band of pale blue beyond the green flatlands of the coast.
Between here and Red Pike, Little Dodd is a mere hummock, but its modest summit reveals more of the unfolding panorama, Loweswater now peeking coyly between Melbreak and Hen Comb. The peerless grandstand, though, is Red Pike. I eschew the path and scramble an easy gully to get there. As I reach the parapet, there’s a woosh of air and a paraglider takes flight. I watch it soar westward then arc round over Crummock Water. What a perfect day to have a hawk’s eye view. I look over at the small band of walkers assembled on the summit—everyone is rapt, everyone is smiling, all is well with the world.
~
But all was far from well in the world of Kevin Owlett when he stepped from his car by Crummock’s shore and dragged his wife’s body from the boot. He’d wrapped her in chains to which he’d tied a car cylinder head and an open plastic barrel. He waded out into Crummock Water, pulling her corpse behind him. When she began to float, he swam out further and submerged the barrel so it filled with water and dragged her under. He nearly joined her. His foot had become snagged in the electrical wire he’d used to secure the barrel. But he managed to struggle free. So it was just his wife’s body that members of a sub aqua club discovered in 1988.
Her name was Sheena. She is the forgotten Lady of the Lake. The names of Margaret Hogg (found in Wastwater in 1984) and Carol Ann Park (found in Coniston in 1997) are better known. In 1988/1989, the Piper Alpha oil rig disaster and the Hillsborough stadium tragedy conspired to keep Sheena’s story from the front pages.
The Wastwater case had been an uncanny precedent. When he was tried for murder, three years earlier, Peter Hogg claimed his wife had been having an affair which she made no effort to disguise. On the fateful night, she tired of merely taunting him and physically attacked him. In a fit of rage he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed too long. He hadn’t meant to kill her.
Kevin’s defence was remarkably similar: Sheena had mocked his sexual prowess, boasted of having an affair and accused him of sleeping with a work colleague. When the shouting stopped, she’d attacked him with a wine bottle.
I’m not convinced a modern jury would have shown leniency in either case, but in 1985, jurors at the Old Bailey found in Peter’s favour and acquitted him of murder. He served three years for manslaughter and an additional year for perjury.
It didn’t work for Kevin. Even in the 1980’s, the apparent degree of planning that had gone into Sheena’s disposal made it impossible to believe her death had not been premeditated.
What degree of pain and desperation drives someone to go that far? How screwed up do you have to be to kill someone you presumably loved once. It’s tragic when a relationship breaks down, but there should be life beyond a broken marriage for both parties. Sitting here now, I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Kevin had simply come here first. Just wandered, breathed this in, taken time out to think.
Doctors are increasingly waking up to the mental health benefits of the great outdoors; some prescribe country walks ahead of anti-depressants. Modern living divorces us from natural rhythms. Cities never sleep; they are places of perpetual light, heat and noise, where everything is always available, no matter what the season. It’s artificial and it disconnects us from who we really are. It makes us forget something that we have always known; something deep in our DNA: that we are children of nature, and nature works in cycles. Pain is an inescapable part of living, but however intense, and however great the effort to overcome it, it passes. And when it does, it gives way to joy, just as night gives way to day, and winter gives way to spring. Death and rebirth. Samhain and Beltaine. Blackthorn and hawthorn.
When I arrive back at the shore of Ennerdale Water, the cuckoo is still calling. I’ve a good few cycles left, it seems.
For more on Wastwater and Margaret Hogg, see my blog, A Walk on the Wild Side
Further Reading:
The hawthorn & the blackthorn
Trees for Life: Mythology and folklore of the hawthorn
Druidry~Tree Lore: The Blackthorn
Druidry~Tree Lore: The Hawthorn
Cuckoos
BBC Guersey: A few cuckoo superstitions
Sheena Owlett/Lady of the Lake murder
Ladies of The Lakes, case three: Sheena Owlett
