This is Galloway, pour a dram, let me tell you one of it’s tales.

It was a bright morning near Yule when Lord Kenmure and his cousin James went out hunting together for the Yule Feast at Kenmure Castle. 

They startled a stag early in their hunt, and followed it many miles until they came to the mouth of the Garroch Glen, and the woods of Hannayston, just as snow began to fall.

‘We should not follow the Stag any further into those woods, cuz. ‘ Lord Kenmure declared. ‘Ye know as well as I that they belong to the witch, Grizelle McClegg.’

But no sooner had those words left his mouth, when the silence of the woods was broken by the sound of a child sobbing.

‘Hear that, cuz?  We must go see what ails them,‘ James said,  quickly dismounting and leading his horse deeper into Hannayston woods, not waiting for a reply from his cousin.

Lord Kenmure was wary.  He watched for a moment as James slipped between the trees, then plucked a silver button from his coat and loaded it into the muzzle of his musket before dismounting himself and following.

They rounded a corner and came to the banks of a cold, clear burn.  Sitting there, his feet dangling in the frigid water, was a small boy, with his face buried in his hands.

‘Child, what ails ye?’ James cried out, rushing over to the boy. 

Yet, as James came almost close enough to touch the child, it leapt up and ran off, deeper into the snowy woods.

‘Don’t rush efter him like a fool!’ Lord Kenmure warned, but his cousin did not listen.  Abandoning his horse, James ran after the boy, quickly disappearing between the trees.

Lord Kenmure snatched up the reins of James’s horse and reluctantly followed, but James was running, following the boy, and Lord Kenmure quickly lost his cousin’s trail in the fast falling snow.

The Lord, mindful of the evil witch and her wicked ways, was very suspicious.  He turned the horses back towards the cart track that wound it’s way up the Garroch Glen and made his way to Hannayston, the witch’s home. 

Snow covered the tops of the dykes, smothered the cart track and made a thick blanket on the roof of the Witch’s house. The chimney was smoking fiercely, but the door was standing open.

‘Enter, Kenmure.’ Came a voice from within.

‘I’ll not just yet,’ He said, waiting in the doorstep. ‘I’ve come for my cuz, James.  I know he followed you through the woods. I know your tricks, Grizelle McClegg. ‘

The witch let out a wicked laugh. ‘Aye, I do have James.  He will make a fine Yule feast once he’s done hanging in the pantry.’

Lord Kenmure grit his teeth and resisted the urge to barge into the witch’s house.  She had invited him in, which surely meant trouble if he did so. Instead he said ‘I’ve a notion that’s a lie, witch.  Where is James?’

‘Och, ye think ye’ve the measure o me, Kenmure? Aye, James is no in my pantry.  He’s roasting on my fire noo!’ She snarled.

Lord Kenmure sniffed the air.  He could smell no cooking.

‘Untrue, witch.  Give me James and I’ll no kill ye.’

‘A threat, Kenmure?  Hav ye sillar tae back it up?’ She snarled.

Lord Kenmure laughed and then stepped into the witch’s house, his musket lowered.

Grizelle McClegg stood by her fire, James tied up at her feet and a huge, black cat sitting on her shoulders that glared at him with red eyes. 

‘The Deil tak ye, Carlin.’ Lord Kenmure declared as he unloaded his musket at her.  Both cat and woman screamed.  Smoke began to billow from a hole in her chest where the silver button had pierced it.  She fell to the ground, clutching at it.

Quickly untied his cousin, then as Grizelle lay writhing still, he turned his attention to the beer barrel in the corner of the room, and the Quaich sat upon it.

Angela Miller
Galloway Distillery Storyteller