The Witches of North Berwick

To the east of Edinburgh is the town of North Berwick, an old fishing town whose claim to fame was the nearby island of Fidra believed to be the inspiration for Robert Louis Stevenson's ‘Treasure Island'. This town has been named as the best place to live in Scotland  by the BBC but this contrasts with an ignominious past of murderous intent aimed at women.

King James V1 was travelling to Denmark to bring back his bride, Anne, in1589 and during the sea crossing severe storms broke out, so severe were they he had to turn back and a furious King became convinced this was the work of witches specifically from, you guessed it, North Berwick. These creatures were out to ruin him, there was a belief that one of them sailed into the Firth of Forth in a sieve in order to summon the storm. So this was a double crime of being a witch and a regicide.

James’s hatred was well known and during his reign 70 - 200 “ witches” were put on trial, tortured and/or executed from North Berwick alone. This number is approximate as the final number can’t be known. The number burned at the stake alive in Scotland was around 4,000.

There was a small kirk on the green in the town where the women met, danced and summoned the Devil, according to gossip, they were older women, midwives, healers who worked with herbs and curative plants. These people were prime targets.

Acts of torture here were particularly cruel. In order to obtain a confession a breast ripper was used ( I’d never heard of this before ) a Scold’s Bridle which is a metal device to fit around the head with metal prongs into the mouth making it impossible to speak. Some  men were said to use it on their wives!.

Shakespeare actually wrote the witches into Macbeth during James’s reign in the early 17th century using the tale of the sieve -

“But in a sieve, I’ll thither sail
And, like a rat without a tail,
I’ll so, I’ll do I’ll do.

My poem below was first published as runner-up in Second Light Poetry Competition.

Night walk with Phantoms

Women are out - not the moon,
pale and listening by hedges
to the zeppelin raid of hail.

They darken by chance
in a lull of wind, quicken
from tree shapes, crouch
forgetful in wasted grass.

Cloud lifts - huge, silver-bellied.
The crone plays at trickery;
squat on shrubby heels, she’s
whiskered with new growth.

She springs elbows to east and west,
becomes a stiff weather-vane
all set for change.

Thank you for reading,

Cynthia Kitchen.