Goats and Wolves
I’m scared of goats. Well, not these goats, which live at Temple Newsam Farm and enjoyed the cup of Goat Food that you’re given as you enter the farm. These goats are very friendly and rather cute.
It’s the idea of goats that scares me. I think it goes back to the story The Three Billy Goats Gruff, where the goats try to cross the bridge, under which lives a troll which tries to eat them. The goats went trippety-trap, trippety-trap, over the rickety bridge – well, that’s how they went in Listen with Mother, which could be heard on the BBC Home Service at quarter to two every weekday in the late nineteen-fifties.
Under the bridge lived a troll and it went “I’m a troll, fol-de-rol” in a truly terrifying voice. The rest of the story is lost in clouds of fear and horror, until finally the third Billy Goat Gruff beat it up or something. I was scared of the whole story, of the goats as well as the troll, and it didn’t help that, for a while, when I was very small indeed, I thought that “goat” and “ghost” were the same thing.
I’m also scared of wolves. Again, not real wolves, they’re remarkably interesting. It’s fictitious wolves that howl in the night and which follow you and which you can’t quite see through the trees - - it gives me the shivers just to think of it, even now, and I can’t read any book with a picture of a wolf on the cover. Even the word scares me.
Once, on a long journey back from Scarborough, my grandfather decided to occupy little Daphne, who liked stories, by telling me this Welsh legend: the story of Llewelyn and his dog Gelert.
In brief, in the version I know – though there are several slightly different versions - this is what happens: Llewelyn goes off hunting and leaves his faithful dog Gelert to look after the baby, which is in its cradle. When he returns he finds the cradle overturned and the dog nearby. He assumes the worst and immediately stabs the dog with his sword. Then he finds that the baby is fine. Suddenly he sees the body of a large, dead wolf nearby. Oh no! The wolf had tried to attack the baby and the dog had defended the baby by killing the wolf. But it’s too late! The faithful dog is dead.
By the age of four I was already scared of wolves and this story was my first clear introduction to the hideous, brutish, irredeemable unfairness of the world. And I couldn’t bear it (still can’t). I started crying on the outskirts of Scarborough as Grandad finished the story and was still sobbing my heart out as we reached home in Leeds, sixty miles away, some time later. I bet the family were none too pleased with Grandad.
I’m not scared of spiders, or any kind of insects, or snakes, or most animals that make many people shudder. But, even now, the words “goat” or “wolf” make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
It’s the idea of goats that scares me. I think it goes back to the story The Three Billy Goats Gruff, where the goats try to cross the bridge, under which lives a troll which tries to eat them. The goats went trippety-trap, trippety-trap, over the rickety bridge – well, that’s how they went in Listen with Mother, which could be heard on the BBC Home Service at quarter to two every weekday in the late nineteen-fifties.
Under the bridge lived a troll and it went “I’m a troll, fol-de-rol” in a truly terrifying voice. The rest of the story is lost in clouds of fear and horror, until finally the third Billy Goat Gruff beat it up or something. I was scared of the whole story, of the goats as well as the troll, and it didn’t help that, for a while, when I was very small indeed, I thought that “goat” and “ghost” were the same thing.
I’m also scared of wolves. Again, not real wolves, they’re remarkably interesting. It’s fictitious wolves that howl in the night and which follow you and which you can’t quite see through the trees - - it gives me the shivers just to think of it, even now, and I can’t read any book with a picture of a wolf on the cover. Even the word scares me.
Once, on a long journey back from Scarborough, my grandfather decided to occupy little Daphne, who liked stories, by telling me this Welsh legend: the story of Llewelyn and his dog Gelert.
In brief, in the version I know – though there are several slightly different versions - this is what happens: Llewelyn goes off hunting and leaves his faithful dog Gelert to look after the baby, which is in its cradle. When he returns he finds the cradle overturned and the dog nearby. He assumes the worst and immediately stabs the dog with his sword. Then he finds that the baby is fine. Suddenly he sees the body of a large, dead wolf nearby. Oh no! The wolf had tried to attack the baby and the dog had defended the baby by killing the wolf. But it’s too late! The faithful dog is dead.
By the age of four I was already scared of wolves and this story was my first clear introduction to the hideous, brutish, irredeemable unfairness of the world. And I couldn’t bear it (still can’t). I started crying on the outskirts of Scarborough as Grandad finished the story and was still sobbing my heart out as we reached home in Leeds, sixty miles away, some time later. I bet the family were none too pleased with Grandad.
I’m not scared of spiders, or any kind of insects, or snakes, or most animals that make many people shudder. But, even now, the words “goat” or “wolf” make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
posted by Daphne at 9:20 pm
1 Comments:
Poor Gelert. In medieval France, he appears as the Holy Greyhound Guinefort.
The story I add below comes from heresy hunter Etienne de Bourbon, whose job was to go round investigating dodgy folklore; a sort of anti-Mulder and Scully, if you like.
He says ‘I heard many women confess that they had carried their children to St. Guinefort: I thought he was some saint.’
He was surprised therefore to discover that this Guinefort was in fact a greyhound belonging to the Lord of Villars, who lived near Lyons with his wife and baby son.
One day, when the child had been left alone in the castle, he was attacked by a serpent. The loyal dog killed the snake, but he, the child and the room were covered in blood in the process.
The returning parents assumed that the dog had attacked their son, so the knight took up his sword and slaughtered his hound.
The discovery of their son safely asleep, near the remains of the snake, made the truth clear.
Deeply regretting this hasty act, a tomb was made for Guinefort, but their contrition was too late. The prosperity of the family declined and the castle was abandoned.
The story of Guinefort was not forgotten: for years peasants, particularly women with sick or weak children, visited the site and honoured the dog as a martyr.
The practice did not survive Etienne’s visit, however; preaching against the superstition, the Dominican Order had the dog disinterred and burned his remains. A law was passed, threatening financial ruin to anyone who continued to invoke this canine saint.
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