The phantoms of Jedburgh Abbey

Jedburgh Abbey is a ruined Augustinian monastery near the town of the same name in Roxburghshire, Scotland, only ten miles from the border with England.  It has quite a storied history.  It was founded in 1118 by King David I (whose father, King Malcolm III Canmore, defeated the notorious Macbeth; whether Birnam Wood ever actually came to Dunsinane is another matter entirely).  It became one of the wealthiest abbeys in the Scottish border counties, and its abbot also made the mistake of supporting William Wallace.  This was a bad combination back then.  After Wallace's tragic defeat at the Battle of Falkirk in 1298, the victorious English ransacked and pillaged the abbey. It recovered, only to be sacked several more times, and finally burned (along with nearly the entire town of Jedburgh) in 1523.

Even so -- and despite the Scottish Reformation pretty well doing away with all the Catholic monasteries in Scotland -- part of the building was still used as the parish kirk.  Finally, in 1871, it was deemed unsafe, and a new church was built; the remains of the abbey became a historical landmark, where it attracts tourists lo unto this very day.

It also is the home of a particularly terrifying pair of specters -- which, if you believe the ghost hunters, still sometimes can be seen stalking around the abbey grounds.

Jedburgh Abbey from the River by Thomas Girtin (1799) [Image is in the Public Domain]

King Alexander III of Scotland (1249-1286), whose great-great grandfather David I founded Jedburgh Abbey, had a terrible time of it even judging by medieval Scottish standards, where life was (in Thomas Hobbes's immortal words) "solitary, nasty, poor, brutish, and short."  He became king at age seven -- never a good way to start -- and his first years were dominated by a fight for power between two factions both determined to gain control over the young monarch.  He married Margaret Plantagenet, daughter of King Henry III of England, but this only served to give Henry incentive to demand fealty from Alexander, entangling Scotland in another of the long conflicts it had with its neighbor to the south.

Along the way, Alexander had what would turn out to be his only real victory; in 1263 the Scots defeated the invading force of King Haakon IV of Norway at the Battle of Largs, and in the treaty that ended the conflict, Scotland gained ownership of the Hebrides and the Isle of Man.

But after that, things started to fall apart.  Alexander's wife Margaret died in 1275, and all three of his children by her had followed their mother into the grave by 1284.  As was typical of the time, Alexander started casting around for a second wife.  His only heir was his grandchild, the daughter of his deceased eldest child Margaret who had married King Eric II of Norway, grandson of the defeated Haakon IV -- but the girl (also named Margaret) was an infant... and still lived in Norway.

Here's where it takes an even darker turn.  Alexander fell for a woman named Yolande de Dreux, the daughter of a French nobleman.  Yolande reciprocated his attention, but there was a snag -- she was already betrothed, to a French knight named Eranton de Blois.  There's no historical certainty about what happened next, but according to the legend, Yolande conspired with one of her father's henchmen, the Comte de Montbar, to get de Blois out of the way, and he did -- via a dagger in the back.

The Abbot of Jedburgh demanded an investigation, but (predictably) nothing came of it.  Yolande was engaged to marry King Alexander, and the ceremony took place in the abbey church on November 1, 1285.

Everything was going forward with the typical medieval pomp and solemnity until the door of the church flew open with a bang, and an uninvited guest strode up the aisle, wearing armor and a tattered and bloodstained cloak.  When he reached the front of the church, the king said in a furious voice, "Who are you?"

At this point the figured lifted its visor, to reveal the decaying visage of a corpse.

De Montbar collapsed to the floor, writhing, and Yolande recoiled -- because, of course, they both recognized the dead man's face.  The specter pointed at Yolande and said, "Ask her.  My curse be on you and on her, the curse of the assassin's victim, treacherously ambushed and foully slain.  Hear me well, unhappy king.  Before three months have passed, they will sing masses for your soul in Jedburgh Abbey and she will be left a widow.  She will suffer the hatred of her people and will forever be reminded of her crimes."

Three months turned out to be an underestimate, but not by much.  On March 19, 1286, the king rode out after dark to join his wife at Kinghorn in Fifeshire, and the next morning was found at the bottom of a steep, rocky embankment with his neck broken.  Pragmatic folks said his horse lost its footing in the dark and threw its rider to his death; the more imaginative said it was the curse being fulfilled.  However it was, the whole thing propelled Scotland into chaos.  Alexander's granddaughter, Margaret, "Maid of Norway," died on board ship during the crossing to Scotland in 1290, leaving no heir to the throne.  The following years of civil war and repeated invasions from England (including the one that ultimately led to the brutal execution of William Wallace) only ended in 1306 with the coronation of Robert the Bruce.

As far as the rest of the "curse," it kind of... didn't happen.  There's no indication that Yolande was hated; she returned to France, where she remarried to Arthur II, Duke of Brittany, had six children of whom five reached adulthood, and lived to age 67 (neither of those a bad accomplishment back then).  She had received land in Scotland as a dowry for her first marriage and continued to manage it from over the Channel, apparently untroubled by the sordid story that was attached to her name.

But as for Alexander, death didn't bring him any peace.  Both his ghost and de Blois's have been seen on the abbey grounds, despite the fact that even the harshest versions of the legend didn't attach anything blameworthy to either one, and the spirits of the two people who were the real bad guys (Yolande and her murderous co-conspirator de Montbar) are nowhere to be found.  I guess there's no justice to be had, even in the afterlife.

Anyhow, that's today's creepy story, appropriate given that I'm already seeing Halloween decorations in the stores around here.  It makes a good tale even though the great likelihood is that large parts of it were made up after the fact.  But if you ever get a chance to visit Jedburgh, keep an eye out for phantoms.  A medieval king with a broken neck and a bloodied corpse in armor.  Shouldn't be hard to spot.

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One hoax, well-toasted

One thing that really torques me is when people say "I did my research," when in fact what they did was a five-minute Google search until they found a couple of websites that agreed with what they already believed.

This is all too easy to do these days, now that any loudmouth with a computer can create a website, irrespective of whether what they have to say is well-thought-out, logical, or even true.  (And I say that with full awareness that I myself am a loudmouth with a computer who created a website.  To be fair, I've always been up front about the fact that I'm as fallible as the next guy and you shouldn't believe me out of hand any more than you do anyone else.  I maintain that the best principle to rely on comes from Christopher Hitchens: "What can be asserted without evidence can be dismissed without evidence."  This applies to me as well, and I do try my best not to break that rule.)

The problem is, it leaves us laypeople at sea with regards to trying to figure out what (and whom) to believe.  The solution -- or at least, a partial one -- comes with always cross-checking your sources.  Find out where a claim came from originally -- there are all too many examples of crazy ideas working their way up the ladder of credibility, starting out in some goofy publication like The Weekly World News, but being handed off like the baton in some lunatic relay race until they end up in places like Pravda, The Korea Times, and Xinhua.  (Yes, this has actually happened.)

The water gets considerably muddier when you throw Wikipedia into the mix.  Wikipedia is a great example of the general rule of thumb that a source is only as accurate as the least accurate person who contributed to it.  Despite that, I think it's a good resource for quick lookups, and use it myself for that sort of thing all the time.  A study by Thomas Chesney found that experts generally consider Wikipedia to be pretty accurate, although the same study admits that others have concluded that thirteen percent of Wikipedia entries have errors (how serious those errors are is unclear; an error in a single date is certainly more forgivable than one that gives erroneous information about a major world event).  Another study concluded that between one-half and one-third of deliberately inserted errors are corrected within forty-eight hours.

But still.  That means that between one-half and two-thirds of deliberately inserted errors weren't corrected within forty-eight hours, which is troubling.  Given the ongoing screeching about what is and is not "fake news," having a source that could get contaminated by bias or outright falsehood, and remain uncorrected, is a serious issue.

Plus, there's the problem with error sneaking in, as it were, through the back door.  There have been claims that began as hoaxes, but then were posted on Wikipedia (and elsewhere) by people who honestly thought what they were stating was correct.  Once this happens, there tends to be a snake-swallowing-its-own-tail pattern of circular citations, and before you know it, what was a false claim suddenly becomes enshrined as "fact."

Sometimes for years.

As an example, have you heard about the famous Scottish polymath Alan MacMasters, inventor of the electric toaster?

The only known photograph of MacMasters, ca. 1910

It was such a popular innovation that his name became a household word, especially in his native land.  More than a dozen books (in various languages) list him as the popular kitchen appliance's inventor.  The Scottish government's Brand Scotland website lauded MacMasters as an example of the nation's "innovative and inventive spirit."  The BBC cooking show The Great British Menu featured an Edinburgh-based chef creating an elaborate dessert in MacMasters's honor.  In 2018, the Bank of England polled the British public about who should appear on the newly-redesigned £50 note, and MacMasters was nominated -- and received a lot of votes.  A Scottish primary school even had an "Alan MacMasters Day," on which the students participated in such activities as painting slices of toast and building pretend toasters out of blocks.

But before you proud Scots start raising your fists in the air and chanting "Scotland!", let's do this another way, shall we?

Back in 2012, a Scottish engineering student named -- you guessed it -- Alan MacMasters was in a class wherein the professor cautioned students against using Wikipedia as a source.  The professor said that a friend of his named Maddy Kennedy had "even edited the Wikipedia entry on toasters to say that she had invented them."  Well, the real MacMasters and a friend of his named Alex (last name redacted, for reasons you'll see momentarily) talked after class about whether it was really that easy.  Turns out it was.  So Alex decided to edit the page on toasters, took out Maddy Kennedy's name, and credited their invention to...

... his pal Alan MacMasters.

Alex got pretty elaborate.  He uploaded a photograph supposedly of MacMasters (it's actually a rather clumsy digitally-modified photograph of Alex himself), provided biographical details, and generally tidied up the page to make it look convincing.

When Alex told MacMasters what he'd done, he laughed it off.  "Alex is a bit of a joker, it's part of why we love him," MacMasters said.  "The article had already been vandalized anyway, it was just changing the nature of the incorrect information.  I thought it was funny, I never expected it to last."

Remember the errors that the Chesney study found didn't get corrected?

This was one of them.

The problem was suddenly amplified when The Mirror found the entry not long after it was posted, and listed it as a "life-changing everyday invention that put British genius on the map."  By this time, both Alex and MacMasters had completely forgotten about what they'd done, and were entirely unaware of the juggernaut they'd launched.  Over the following decade, the story was repeated over and over -- including by major news outlets -- and even ended up in one museum.

It wasn't until July 2022 that an alert fifteen-year-old happened on the Wikipedia article, and notified the editors that the photograph of MacMasters "looked faked."  To their credit, they quickly recognized that the entire thing was fake, deleted the article, and banned Alex from editing Wikipedia for life.  But by that time the hoax page had been up -- and used as a source -- for ten years.

(If you're curious, the actual credit for the invention of the electric toaster goes to Frank Shailor, who worked for General Electric, and submitted a patent for it in 1909.)

The problem, of course, is that if most of us -- myself included -- were curious about who invented the electric toaster, we'd do a fairly shallow search online, maybe one or two sources deep.  If I then found that Brand Scotland, various news outlets, and a museum all agreed that it was invented by a Scottish guy named Alan MacMasters, I'm quite certain I'd believe it.  Even if several of those sources led back to Wikipedia, so what?

Surely all of them couldn't be wrong, right?  Besides, it's such a low-emotional-impact piece of information, who in their right mind would be motivated to falsify it?

So what reason would there be for me to question it?

Now, I'm aware that this is a pretty unusual case, and I'm not trying to make you disbelieve everything you read online.  As I've pointed out before, cynicism is just as lazy as gullibility.  And I'm still of the opinion that Wikipedia is a pretty good source, especially for purely factual information.  But it is absolutely critical that we don't treat any source as infallible -- especially not those (1) for which we lack the expertise to evaluate, or (2) which contain bias-prone information that agrees with what we are already inclined to accept uncritically.

Confirmation bias is a bitch.

So the take-home lesson here is "be careful, and don't turn off your brain."  It's not really, as some have claimed, that bullshit is more common now; take a look at any newspaper from the 1800s and you'll disabuse yourself of that notion mighty fast.  It's just that the internet has provided an amazingly quick and efficient conduit for bullshit, so it spreads a great deal more rapidly.

It all goes back to the quote -- of uncertain provenance, but accurate whoever first said it -- that "a lie can travel all the way around the world while the truth is still lacing up its boots."

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Footprints in the sand

What comes to mind when you think about the Isle of Skye?

Chances are, it's one of three things.

The first is the stunningly beautiful scenery.  It's the largest of the Inner Hebrides, and is noted for its rugged, rocky hills, craggy coastline, and emerald-green meadows.

Sidney Richard Percy, Loch Coruisk (1874) [Image is in the Public Domain]

Second, history buffs will remember Skye as the place where "Bonnie Prince Charlie" (Charles Edward Stuart) fled, with the help of Flora MacDonald, after Scotland's devastating loss at the Battle of Culloden.  Stuart's repeated attempts afterward to claim the thrones of England and Scotland never came to much.  He died in exile in Rome in 1788 at the age of 67, depressed and miserable -- but even today, he remains a symbol to many Scots of "what might have been."

Third, if you're someone who likes to indulge in a wee dram on occasion, you probably know that it's home to the famous Talisker and Torabhaig distilleries, which produce absolutely fantastic single-malt whiskies.

I doubt, somehow, that many people would come up with a fourth thing that Skye should be famous for, and which was the subject of a paper in PLOS-One this week: it is one of the best sites for middle-Jurassic age fossils in the world.

167 million years ago, Scotland was about at the latitude of the Tropic of Cancer, and was a hot, lush swampy rainforest.  Prince Charles's Point -- the place where Bonnie Prince Charlie supposedly landed after making it safely "over the sea to Skye," in the words of the Skye Boat Song -- was a shallow, sandy-bottomed lagoon.

And it was home to some big dinosaurs.

The paper describes tracks by huge, long-necked sauropods like Cetiosaurus -- and those of the carnivorous theropods that hunted them, such as Megalosaurus.

A complete Cetiosaurus skeleton found near Rutland, England  [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Paul Stainthorp from United Kingdom, Cetiosaurus mount, CC BY-SA 2.0]

The Cetiosaurus tracks are as big around as car tires, and the study found individual trackways twelve meters long -- made, the researchers said, by dinosaurs ambling about, probably in search of the huge amounts of food it took to keep an animal that size going.

It's hard to imagine the rugged, windswept islands of the Hebrides like they were then -- something more like today's Florida Keys, and the home to the whole assemblage of mid-Mesozoic fauna.  Not only the big theropods and sauropods, such as the ones that left the footprints on the Isle of Skye, but pterodactyls flying overhead, and in the seas, the superficially dolphin-like icthyosaurs -- and the long-necked plesiosaurs that still come up in conversations about Loch Ness, only a hundred miles east as the Rhamphorhynchus flies.

"O Earth, what changes hast thou seen?" Tennyson mused -- "There, where the long road roars, has been the stillness of the central sea."  And those changes are still occurring.  The Atlantic Ocean is still progressively widening; a complex series of faults is making all of the Anatolian region twist counterclockwise; the "Horn of Africa" is rifting away from the rest of the continent and eventually will drift off into the Indian Ocean; Australia is on a collision course with Southeast Asia.  We humans leave our own footprints in the sand, but how ephemeral are they?  Will paleontologists 167 million years from now know of our presence, from traces left behind on whatever configuration the continents will then have?

It recalls the haunting lines from another poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, which seems a fitting place to end:

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert.  Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains.  Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

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Woof

I was discussing the alleged phenomenon of hauntings with a friend of mine, and he said, "There's one thing I've always wondered.  Some people believe that the souls of humans can survive after death, and become ghosts.  If humans can become ghosts, why can't other animals?"

Well, after pointing out the obvious problem that I'm not really the right person to state with authority what a soul, human or otherwise, could or could not do, I mentioned that there are many cases of supposed hauntings by animals.  The most famous of these is the haunting of Ballechin House in Scotland.

Ballechin House shortly before its demolition [Image is in the Public Domain]

Ballechin House was a beautiful manor house, built in 1806 near Grandtully, Perthshire, Scotland, on a site that had been owned by the Stuart (or Stewart or Steuart or Steward, they seemed to have spelled it a new way every time the mood took them) family since the fifteenth century.  The story goes that a scion of this family (sources point to his being the son of the man who had the house built), one Major Robert Steuart, was a bit of a wacko who had more affection for his dogs than he did for his family.  That said, he provided quarters for his sister Isabella, who was a nun -- I'm not sure why she wasn't living with her fellow sisters in a convent, but some claim that it was because she'd had an illegitimate child and gotten herself, um... de-habited?  Anyhow, she lived with them for a time, finally dying and being buried on the property.  As for Major Steuart, he apparently took enough time away from his dogs to marry and have at least one child, John.

As the Major got older, he got more and more peculiar, and finally started claiming that after he died he was going to be reincarnated as a dog.  One runs into these ideas pretty frequently today, but back then, it must have been a sore shock to his nearest and dearest.  So this partly explains why when the Major did go to that Big Kennel In The Sky, his son John rounded up all of the Major's dogs and shot them.

I say "partly" because I fail to understand how, even if you believed that the Major was going to be reincarnated as a dog, killing dogs that were currently alive and therefore presumably none of whom were actually the Major, would help.  But that's what he did.

And boy was he sorry.

Almost immediately thereafter, John Steuart and his family and servants began to experience spooky stuff.  They heard doggy noises -- panting, wagging of tails, sniffing, and the really nasty slurping sounds dogs make when they are conducting intimate personal hygiene.  (Okay, I'm assuming that they heard that last sound.  I certainly hear it enough from my own dogs.)  Steuart's wife several times felt herself being pushed by a wet canine nose, and reported being in a room and suddenly being overpowered by a strong doggy smell.

Other apparitions began -- the sighting of a ghostly nun, all dressed in gray, in the garden; doors that would open and close by themselves; and the sound of limping footsteps (the Major apparently walked with a limp).  Steuart himself was not long to worry about them, because he was killed in an accident, supposedly the day after hearing a knocking sound on the wall.  (Maybe it was a coded message from the Major that meant, "The dogs and I can't wait to see you!")

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of the creator Spettro84, Ghost-BlackDog]

In the 1890s the hauntings were investigated on the urging of a certain Lord Bute -- I can't figure out whether by that time Bute was the owner of the property, or just a busybody.  Thirty-five psychics descended upon the house, which created such a cosmic convergence of woo-wooness that you just knew something was gonna happen.  And it did.  A Ouija board spelled out "Ishbel" (recall that Major Steuart's sister who was a sister was named Isabella, and recall also that this entire family seemed to have difficulty with spelling their own names).  The psychics experienced various doggy phenomena; one of the psychics, who had brought her own dog along, reported that one evening her dog began to whimper, and she looked over, and there were two disembodied dog paws resting on the bedside table.

I'd whimper, too.

In the interest of honesty, it must be recorded that the house was let several times during this period, once to a Colonel Taylor who belonged to the Society for Psychical Research, which is known for its skeptical and scientific approach toward claims of the paranormal.  And Taylor's diary, sorry to say, records that he slept in the Major's bedroom on more than one occasion and experienced nothing out of the ordinary.

Be that as it may, Ballechin House acquired the reputation of being "the most haunted house in Scotland," and by the 1920s became impossible to rent.  It fell into increasing disrepair, and finally was torn down in 1963.  I think this is a little sad -- I'd have loved to visit it.  I might even have brought my dogs. My puppy Jethro is highly alert, even if he has the IQ of a loaf of bread, and would certainly let us know if there were any other dogs present.  I see no reason why it would matter that the canine residents of the house were a bunch of dogs who, technically, were dead.  The "doggy smell" would be adequate motivation for him to bark his fool head off, as would the whole leaving-your-front-paws-on-the-nightstand thing.

So, the believers in Survival seem to, for the most part, believe that dogs have an eternal soul.  However, this opens up a troubling question.  Why stop there?  If dogs have an eternal soul, do cats?  (Several of the cats I've owned seemed to be more of cases of demonic possession, frankly.)  How about bunnies?  Or weasels?  Or worms?  Or Japanese beetles?  (I'd be willing to believe that if there are gardens in hell, there'll be Japanese beetles there to eat the roses.)  I find this a worrisome slippery slope.  It may be a cheering thought that something of Woofy's nature will survive his demise, even if he terrorizes the guests with sticking his spectral wet nose into said guests' private regions, but I'm not sure I want to be stung by ghostly yellowjackets, or have to spray my plants for ghostly aphids.  The real kind are enough of a problem.

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Pearlin Jean

Appropriate to the day, I thought I'd tell you about an interesting (and quite cordial) exchange about ghosts I got into with a loyal reader of Skeptophilia.

He's an open-minded sort but definitely more likely than I am to credit tales of the paranormal, especially those having to do with hauntings.  We talked a little about some of the better-known ghostly claims, and he said, "The thing is, how could all of those stories be false?  Okay, I'm willing to admit that a lot of them are.  Maybe most.  But what you're telling me is that of all the thousands of allegedly-true ghost stories out there, one hundred percent of them are fabrications.  That seems to me to take more faith than a belief in ghosts does."

My answer was first to correct a misapprehension; I don't disbelieve all those claims.  As he points out, at least for some of them, we don't have hard evidence that they are hoaxes, because there's no hard evidence of any kind.  My position is that none of the ones I've seen meet the minimum standard that science demands.

And that's it.  If your grandmother's sister's best friend's husband's second cousin saw a ghost with her own eyes, that's all well and good.  It might be true.  It might be that she made it up, or that she was tricked by a fault in human perception (heaven knows, there are enough of those), or that whatever it was she saw has a perfectly natural, non-ghostly explanation.  That's where we have to leave it: we don't know.

But.

As skeptics, the default belief is that what you see around you has a natural scientific cause.  When something goes bump in the night, and you can't figure out what that bump was, you fall back on "well, it must have been an animal or a tree branch hitting the roof or something like that."  You don't jump to it being the ghost of the old lady who owned this house in 1850 and died after falling down the stairs unless you have some pretty damn good evidence.

There's one other issue that confounds our ability to accept tales of hauntings, and that's the unfortunate talent humans have for embellishment.  Hey, I'm a novelist, and I know all about that; there's no story that can't be made better by adding new twists and turns and details after the fact.  What this does, though, is to obscure any facts that the story does contain, and leave you with no real knowledge of where the truth ends and fiction begins.

One hallmark of a story like this -- that may have started out with bare-bones truth, but grew by accretion thereafter -- is when there are several versions of the story.  Take, for example, the Scottish legend of Pearlin Jean, in which the main characters were very real.

The central figure of the story is Robert Stewart (or Steuart) (1643-1707), 1st Baronet of Allanbank (Berwickshire).  Stewart was a nobly-connected merchant in Leith, and like a lot of rich folk of the period, when he was a young man his parents sent him to do a tour of continental Europe as part of his education.  He spent some time in Rome, but apparently while in France did another thing that young men often do, which was to have a torrid affair, in this case with a young woman named Jean (or Jeanne).

The liaison was never meant to be permanent, at least not by Stewart, and he made it clear he intended to return to Scotland to take his place in the upper crust.  But after that, things kind of went awry.

If you've read any traditional ghost stories, you can probably predict what happened next -- Jean dies, and Stewart ends up being plagued by her vengeful ghost.  But the way this happens depends on which version you read.  Here are three I found:

• Jean was a nun in the Sisters of Charity of Paris, and in fooling around with Robert had broken her vow of chastity.  She tried to follow him home but he rebuffed her, and while trying to get aboard his carriage as he was leaving Paris fell underneath and was killed when the wheel hit her in the head.  Her dying words were, "I'll be in Scotland afore ye!", perhaps after taking the low road to Loch Lomond.

• Robert left Jean in France (in this version very much alive) and made it back to Scotland, but Jean followed him, as jilted lovers in ghost stories are wont to do.  Her death in a carriage accident happened on Robert's home estate of Allanbank in Scotland.

• Jean not only followed him back to Scotland, but brought with her the baby she'd borne after their illicit hanky-panky.  Stewart killed the child, and distraught, Jean threw herself beneath the wheel of the carriage.

Afterward, the ghost -- nicknamed "Pearlin Jean" because of the dress of gray pearlin lace she wore, which in one version of the tale had been given to her by Robert Stewart -- followed her lover around, generally making his life miserable by appearing at inopportune times (although is there an opportune time for the ghost of your dead mistress to show up?), slamming doors and running up and down the staircase.  On one occasion -- at least in one iteration of the story -- Stewart got the crap scared out of him after returning home from a drive, and when he was ready to climb out of the carriage was stopped cold by an apparition of a woman in a lace dress with blood all over her face.  He was frozen in place until one of his servants came out to see what was amiss and the ghost disappeared.

Creepy tale, no doubt about that.  But what part of it is true?

Alleged ghost photograph, most likely a double exposure (1899)  [Image is in the Public Domain]

Robert Stewart was a real person, that's certain enough.  As far as Pearlin Jean -- who knows?  I find it a little suspicious that Stewart is known to have married twice, and both of his wives were named Jean.  (Both of them were solidly Scottish, however, not French.)  His first marriage was to Jean Gilmour, daughter of John Gilmour of Craigmillar, and his second to Jean Cockburn, daughter of Alexander Cockburn of Langton.

But who knows?  Maybe the guy just had a thing for women named Jean.  "Hey, babe, how about a tumble?... *pauses*  Wait a minute, is your name Jean?  Oh, okay, then, let's have at it."

On the other hand, it's entirely possible that when people remembered Stewart's relationships with two (real) women named Jean, adding a third just sort of happened.

The difficulty here is that some parts of the legend are true, and of the remainder, there might be bits of it that are as well -- but which bits?  Needless to say, I'm not buying the ghostly business, and even with the tragic but non-supernatural parts -- a rich young man's dalliance with a poor and vulnerable young woman, that led to her death -- there are too many different versions to know exactly what did happen and what were later embellishments or outright fabrications.

And the problem is, a great many ghost stories are like this.  Multiple versions, and no real scientifically admissible evidence.  So my friend's comment that some of them could be true is a possibility, but figuring out after the fact which ones is very often an impossibility.

This is why with modern claims of the paranormal, I'm very much of the opinion that any reasonably coherent ones deserve exploration when they happen, rather than waiting until afterward and the inevitable human tendency toward embellishment (and outright misremembering) occurs.  I fully support groups like the excellent Society for Psychical Research -- they're committed to investigating claims from the standpoint of scientific evidence, and are unhesitating in calling a hoax a hoax.

So I'm open to being convinced.  Yes, it might take a good bit of convincing, but as with just about everything, if presented with adequate evidence I'll have no option but to accept that my default position -- that there is a natural, non-paranormal explanation -- was wrong.

But thus far, Pearlin Jean and the hundreds of other stories like it just aren't doing it for me.  Sorry if that diminishes the frisson of the season, but that's the way I see it.  On the other hand, if when you're out trick-or-treating tonight, you see the apparition of a bloody-faced woman dressed in tattered gray lace step out of the shadows -- well, good luck to you, too.

  

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The monster in the mist

I thought that after writing this blog for twelve years, I'd have run into every cryptid out there. But just yesterday a loyal reader of Skeptophilia sent me a link about one I'd never heard of, which is especially interesting given that the thing supposedly lives in Scotland.

I've had something of a fascination with Scotland and all things Scottish for a long time, partly because of the fact that my dad's family is half of Scottish descent (he used to describe his kin as "French enough to like to drink and Scottish enough not to know when to stop").  My grandma, whose Hamilton, Allan, and Lyell ancestry came from Paisley (near Glasgow), knew lots of cheerful Scottish stories and folk songs, 95% of which were about a guy named Johnny who was smitten with a girl named Jenny, but she spurned him, so he stabbed her to death with his wee pen-knife and ended up getting hanged for it.

Big believers in happy endings, the Scots.

Anyhow, none of my grandma's stories were about the "Am Fear Liath Mòr," which roughly translates to "Big Gray Dude," who supposedly lopes about in the Cairngorms, the massive mountain range in the eastern Highlands.  He is described as extremely tall and covered with gray hair, and his presence is said to "create uneasy feelings."  Which seems to me to be putting it mildly.  If I was hiking through some lonely, rock-strewn mountains and came upon a huge hair-covered proto-hominid, my uneasy feelings would include pissing my pants and then having a stroke.  But maybe the Scots are made of sterner stuff than that, and upon seeing the Am Fear Liath Mòr simply report feeling a wee bit unsettled about the whole thing.

A couple of Scottish hikers being made to feel uneasy

The Big Gray Dude has been seen by a number of people, most notably the famous mountain climber J. Norman Collie, who in 1925 had reported the following encounter on the summit of Ben MacDhui, the highest peak in the Cairngorms:

I was returning from the cairn on the summit in the mist when I began to think I heard something else than merely the noise of my own footsteps.  For every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another crunch as if someone was walking after me but taking steps three or four times the length of my own.  I said to myself, this is all nonsense. I listened and heard it again, but could see nothing in the mist.  As I walked on and the eerie crunch, crunch, sounded behind me, I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles nearly down to Rothiemurchus Forest.  Whatever you make of it I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben MacDhui and I will not go back there myself I know.

Collie's not the only one who's had an encounter.  Mountain climber Alexander Tewnion says he was on the Coire Etchachan path on Ben MacDhui, and the thing actually "loomed up out of the mist and then charged."  Tewnion fired his revolver at it, but whether he hit it or not he couldn't say.  In any case, it didn't harm him, although it did give him a serious scare.

Periodic sightings still occur today, mostly hikers who catch a glimpse of it or find large footprints that don't seem human.  Many report feelings of "morbidity, menace, and depression" when the Am Fear Liath Mòr is nearby -- one reports suddenly being "overwhelmed by either a feeling of utter panic or a downward turning of my thoughts which made me incredibly depressed."  Scariest of all, one person driving through the Cairngorms toward Aberdeen said that the creature chased their car, keeping up with it on the twisty roads until finally they hit a straight bit and were able to speed up sufficiently to lose it.  After it gave up the chase, they said, "it stood there in the middle of the road watching us as we drove away."

Interestingly, there is a possible scientific explanation of this, that doesn't require believing in some giant humanoid hulking about in the wilds of Scotland.  Most of the sightings have taken place when it's foggy, which immediately made me think about the weird (but completely natural) phenomenon of the Brocken spectre or Brocken bow.  This occurs when filtered sunlight passes through mist from behind an observer, casting the person's (enormously enlarged) shadow on the fogbank in front of them; because the light is passing through spherical droplets of water, sometimes the shadow is also surrounded by a rainbow sheen called heilegenschein, caused by light refraction.  It's an eerie effect, and certainly has scared more than a few people.  (It's named for Brocken Mountain, the highest peak in the Harz Mountains of Germany, where it is sometimes seen.)

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Brocken Inaglory, Solar glory and Spectre of the Brocken from GGB on 07-05-2011, CC BY-SA 3.0]

Of course, it still leaves the massive, non-human footprints and Collie's crunching noises unaccounted for.  So do with that explanation what you will.

Anyhow, that's our cryptozoological inquiry for today.  I've been to Scotland once, but never made it out of Edinburgh -- I hope to go back and visit the ancestral turf some day.  When I do, I'll be sure to get up into the Cairngorms and see if I can catch a glimpse of the Big Gray Dude.  I'll report back on how uneasy I feel afterwards.

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The source of the Altar Stone

One of the frustrations of history and archaeology is that within those disciplines there are realms of inquiry which (unless someone invents a time machine) will never be answered, because the required information simply doesn't exist.  For societies that left few or no written records -- which, unfortunately, is most of them -- we have to rely upon inference from artifacts, which can be seriously thin ice.

The shakiness of these inferences was famously lampooned in Horace Mitchell Miner's scathing satire on anthropological papers called "Body Ritual Among the Nacirema," published in 1956, which looks at American culture ("Nacirema," of course, is "American" backwards) solely from our artifacts and a slim set of observations of our behaviors.  Here's a passage about what anthropologists might make of our medicine cabinets:

The focal point of the shrine is a box or chest which is built into the wall. In this chest are kept the many charms and magical potions without which no native believes he could live.  These preparations are secured from a variety of specialized practitioners.  The most powerful of these are the medicine men, whose assistance must be rewarded with substantial gifts.  However, the medicine men do not provide the curative potions for their clients, but decide what the ingredients should be and then write them down in an ancient and secret language.  This writing is understood only by the medicine men and by the herbalists who, for another gift, provide the required charm.

The charm is not disposed of after it has served its purpose, but is placed in the charm-box of the household shrine.  As these magical materials are specific for certain ills, and the real or imagined maladies of the people are many, the charm-box is usually full to overflowing.  The magical packets are so numerous that people forget what their purposes were and fear to use them again.  While the natives are very vague on this point, we can only assume that the idea in retaining all the old magical materials is that their presence in the charm-box, before which the body rituals are conducted, will in some way protect the worshiper.

Beneath the charm-box is a small font.  Each day every member of the family, in succession, enters the shrine room, bows his head before the charm-box, mingles different sorts of holy water in the font, and proceeds with a brief rite of ablution.  The holy waters are secured from the Water Temple of the community, where the priests conduct elaborate ceremonies to make the liquid ritually pure.

So we might well wonder why our ancestors did certain things, but Miner's essay reminds us to rein in our speculation hard.

I was reminded of this when I read a paper this week in Nature about the origin of one of the stones in Stonehenge, the so-called "Altar Stone" that is in the middle of the famous ring.  Geoscientist Anthony Clarke, of Curtin University in Perth, Australia, did a detailed chemical analysis of chips taken from the Altar Stone, trying to figure out where the builders had obtained it -- and found the nearest match was a rock formation called the Orcadian Basin, 750 kilometers away in northeastern Scotland.

While the outer ring stones match nearby rock formations, the Altar Stone is not the only one that was hauled in from a distant source.  The stones of the inner ring, for example, are dolerite bluestone, from the Preseli Hills of Wales.  

But the Altar Stone seems to have come from farther away still.

[Image credit: A. J. Clarke et. al., Nature, August 2024]

The obvious question is... why?  Why go to all the trouble to bring an enormous slab of rock a distance of 750 kilometers, when there was perfectly good building stone nearby?  While the common misapprehension ties Stonehenge to the Celtic druids, the truth is that by the time the Celts arrived, Stonehenge was already two thousand years old.  The people who built Stonehenge -- and such ring-shaped monuments all over western Europe -- belong to a Neolithic culture called the Megalith Builders, about whom we know next to nothing.  Probably not coincidentally, there are nearly a hundred such stone circles in Aberdeenshire, where the rock of the Altar Stone is thought to have originated.  

So did the builders of Stonehenge come south from Scotland, bringing the Altar Stone with them because that particular rock had some kind of ritual significance?

The truth is, we'll probably never know why they did it.  There's no doubt it's puzzling, though.  Just building Stonehenge is enough of a feat for people with no cranes and backhoes; the fact that they brought the Welsh bluestone in from 225 kilometers away, and the Altar Stone from nearly three times that, can't help but make us wonder.

But the ones who could explain it have been dead and buried for four thousand years, so this leaves us with another mystery that's unlikely ever to be answered.  We can only speculate -- while taking care not to make the same kind of mistake that we saw with the Nacireman magical charm-box.

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The ghost of Greyfriars

I've been asked a number of times why I disbelieve in such phenomena as ghosts, and my answer is always the same: I don't.  I have no strong evidence that they exist, which is not the same thing.  Presented with scientifically admissible evidence, I'd have no choice but to admit that, in fact, I do believe in spooks.

So on this count -- like with most other fringe-y beliefs -- I'm able to have my mind changed.  But -- to borrow a phrase from astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson -- "I need more than 'you saw it.'"

And that's the difficulty I have with just about every ghost story I've ever heard.  Take, for example, the spot that is often called "the most haunted place in Scotland" -- Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh.

Greyfriars Kirkyard, Edinburgh, Scotland [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Carlos Delgado, Greyfriars Kirkyard - 03, CC BY-SA 3.0]

It's unsurprising that the place is claimed to have ghosts; it's been used as a cemetery since the time of Mary Queen of Scots.  But it didn't really get an evil reputation until the horrible "Killing Time," when beginning in 1679 and lasting nine years, the Scottish Covenanters got into a dispute with King Charles II over whether the Presbyterian Church would be the sole form of religion in Scotland.  (It's always been astonishing to me how often people were killed in Europe, and in the places the Europeans colonized, over disputes that boil down to "my Jesus is better than your Jesus.")  In the end, of course, Charles's side won, and hundreds of Covenanters were transported, imprisoned, or even executed as traitors to the crown.  And things only got worse when Charles's brother James II succeeded to the throne -- James was (to put not too fine a point on it) a narrow-minded, humorless religious fanatic, who (as a Roman Catholic) was even more against the Covenanters than his brother was.

However, the name most often associated with the Killing Time is one George Mackenzie of Rosehaugh, nicknamed "Bluidy Mackenzie" by the Covenanters, who despised him because of his siding with the King and for his role in the persecutions that followed.  It's likely Mackenzie saw himself as having no choice, and that he was simply doing what the King ordered him to do -- but, from the Covenanters' perspective, that was a mighty fine excuse for the horrors that followed, which included people being crowded into unheated, stone-floored jails in midwinter with only four ounces of food a day to sustain them.  The worst spot was the official Covenanters' Prison, conveniently (considering how many of them died) located right next to Greyfriars Kirkyard.

In any case, the persecutions eventually ended with the "Glorious Revolution" of 1688, when James II was deposed and his daughter, Mary II, and her Dutch husband William of Orange, were put on the throne.  The Presbyterians were given their religious freedom, the surviving Covenanters (there weren't many) freed, and everything more or less went back to normal.  Mackenzie only lived three more years, dying in 1691 at the age of 55, and was buried with honors...

... in Greyfriars Kirkyard, within a stone's throw of the old Covenanters' Prison.

Which these days is called rubbing salt in a wound.

It wasn't long before the horrors that had happened gave rise to claims that Mackenzie's spirit was haunting the place.  By the nineteenth century, it was so established as a haunted spot that Robert Louis Stevenson commented upon it (and Mackenzie), "When a man’s soul is certainly in hell, his body will scarce lie quiet in a tomb however costly, sometime or other the door must open, and the reprobate come forth in the abhorred garments of the grave...  Foolhardy urchins [thought it] a high piece of prowess to knock at the Lord Advocate’s Mausoleum and challenge him to appear. 'Bluidy Mackenzie, come oot if ye dar!'"

This legend has persisted to today, where Greyfriars figures prominently on Edinburgh ghost tours.  But here's where the problem comes up.  It's haunted by an evil presence, they claim, which one site says "is attracted to and feeds on fear;" another says the vengeful spirit has "knocked more than fifty people [on ghost tours] unconscious" and has scratched or bruised others, including an eleven-year-old boy who was given a black eye.

And my question is: if there's such an embarrassment of riches in the way of evidence that the ghost of Greyfriars is real, how has this not been verified scientifically?

If people are being beaten up right and left by a ghost, it seems like it'd be simple to set things up so that there'd be some kind of evidence other than saying after the fact, "I'm sure I didn't have these scratches when I came in here."  Now, mind you, I'm not accusing anyone of lying.  But it certainly does seems suspicious that if so many people are having these experiences, no one has conducted a scientifically-admissible investigation of the place.

If they have, I haven't found anything about it.  Plenty of anecdotes, nothing in the way of proof of the claims.

So, to return to my original point -- I'm convincible.  But don't @ me with more "my grandma's Cousin Ethel went there and an invisible hand touched the back of her neck!"  I'm very sorry grandma's Cousin Ethel got scared, but that's hardly to the point as far as science goes.

In any case, you can bet that the next time I'm in Scotland, Greyfriars Kirkyard will be high on the list of must-sees.  And I hereby invite the ghost himself to change my mind.  I would consider a black eye from a poltergeist a badge of honor, and after all, as a skeptic it's no more than I deserve.

Bluidy Mackenzie, do your worst.

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Wings over Skye

I know it seems like I keep ringing the changes on this topic over and over, but... it never fails to astonish me how much the Earth has changed over geologic history.

Part of my fascination, I think, comes from the fact that this knowledge is so at odds with how it feels to be an actual inhabitant of the planet.  When you look around, it seems like things are pretty static.  Oh, there are changes -- volcanoes and earthquakes come to mind -- but however catastrophic those can be for local residents, the fact remains that they are, on a planetary scale, tiny effects.  To see the big shifts requires a much longer time axis, but if you have the perspective of one...

... wow.

Take, for example, the discovery of new species of pterosaur in one of the last places I can picture a pterosaur flying -- the Isle of Skye, Scotland.  Now a cool, windswept, rocky island chain with few trees and lots of grass and heather, the Hebrides (and the rest of the British Isles) were, during the Jurassic Period, a lush subtropical land only separated from what would become North America and Greenland by a shallow strait of ocean.

The configuration of the continents at the mid-Jurassic [Image credit: Ron Blakey, NAU Geology]

And flying over the forests of Jurassic Scotland were some of the coolest prehistoric beasts ever, the pterosaurs.

Dubbed Ceoptera evansae -- the genus name means "mist flyer," from the Gaelic word ceò, mist, which also gives the Isle of Skye its Gaelic name of Eilean a'Cheò, "misty island" -- the newly-discovered fossil was found in the Kilmaluag Formation and dated to about 167 million years of age.  Ceoptera was a smallish pterosaur, measuring about sixty centimeters from beak to tail tip:

[Image credit: Elizabeth Martin-Silverstone et al., Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology]

The era when Ceoptera was flying over the Isle of Skye was a point of great diversification amongst the pterosaurs, a process which would accelerate during the rest of the Jurassic and into the Cretaceous, ultimately resulting in species from fifty-centimeter-long Sordes pilosus to the six-meter-wingspan Quetzalcoatlus northropi.  Eventually, however, the entire taxon would be wiped out in the Cretaceous-Tertiary Extinction of sixty-six million years ago.

"The time period that Ceoptera is from is one of the most important periods of pterosaur evolution, and is also one in which we have some of the fewest specimens, indicating its significance," said Elizabeth Martin-Silverstone of the University of Bristol, who led the study, in an interview with Science Daily.  "To find that there were more bones embedded within the rock, some of which were integral in identifying what kind of pterosaur Ceoptera is, made this an even better find than initially thought.  It brings us one step closer to understanding where and when the more advanced pterosaurs evolved."

For me, the coolest part is trying to picture what the world looked like back then.  Even with our knowledge of plate tectonics and the fossils we have available for study, we still have only the shadowiest image of the Jurassic world.  Consider what doesn't fossilize -- colors, sounds, smells, behavior.  We can make some guesses about what those were like based upon modern organisms, but guesses they will always be, and many of them significantly off the mark.  (If you want a good laugh some time, look into "prehistoric animals that were reconstructed wrong" and find out how wildly inaccurate even the experts can be.  Fortunately, science self-corrects, and the fact that we now know they were wrong comes from better fossils and more sophisticated analysis -- but even so, we still have a vague and incomplete picture of what things were really like back then.  Oh, for a time machine...)

So that's our flight of fancy for today.  Prehistoric wings over the Isle of Skye.  Makes you wonder what things will look like in another 160 million years or so.  We'll have a whole new set of "endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful," to use Darwin's trenchant words -- ones we could not even begin to predict.

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