The following legendary
story was recorded from Angus Barrach MacMillan, one of Calum Maclean’s most
accomplished storytellers, on the 17th of August 1947. The narrative tells of
the legendary beginnings of the MacCodrums who are said to have originally been
seal folk and hailed from North Uist:
Am
fasan a bha an uair sin ann, às an àm a bha seoach, bhiodh iad a’ dol a shealag
eòin, eòin ris an canadh iad na sgairibh. Dh’fhalabh iad
dhan eilean a bh’ ann a sheoach an oidhche a bh’ ann a sheo, agus bha aon fhear
a dh’fheumadh fuireach às an sgothaidh is dh’fhalabh càch suas dha
na creagan airson gu faigheadh iad na h-eòin. Bha am fear a bha am fuireach aig
an sgothaidh, dh’fhan e ann an sgor creigeadh air tìr agus suas gu math an dèidh
mheadhan oidhche, thug e an aire do dhaoine a’ tighinn air tìr dhan sgeir às an
robh e fhèin, agus a’ gabhail a dh’ionnsaigh bian a bh’ ann a shin, agus ga
chuir orra agus ann am mionaid bha iad nan ròin agus chaidh iad a-mach air a’
mhuir. Dh’fhalabh esan suas nuair a chaidh na ròin a-mach air a’
mhuir. Bha ao’ bhian air fhàgail ann a shin, agus dh’fhalabh e agus
rug e air a’ bhian agus chuir e fo chòta e, mas e còta a bh’ air, agus thill e
sìos far an robh e roimhe. Cha robh e fad sam bith air tilleadh sìos nuair a
thàinig boireannach air a bheulaibh:
“Bheir
dhomh,” ors’ ise, “mo thrusgan.”
“Dè
’n trusgan?” ors’ esan.
“Tha,
am bian agam,” ors’ ise.
“Dè,”
ors’ esan, “a dh’fhàg cho deireannach sì-se,” ors’ esan, “agus a bha càch?”
“O!,”
ors’ ise, “bha an t-astar gu math, math na b’ fhaide agam-sa ri dhèanamh,” ors’
ise, “na bh’ aig càch, agus bha mi air deireadh gu mòr mar sin. Ach bheir thusa
dhomh mo thrusgan,” ors’ ise, “agus bidh mi còmhla ri càch.”
“An
dà is mi nach tabhair,” ors’ esan. “Cha toir mi dhut idir e, ach,” ors’ esan,
“bheir mi dhachaigh thu,” ors’ esan, “dha m’ dhachaigh fhìn,” ors’ esan, “agus
bidh thu còmhla rium.”
“O!”
ors’ ise, “bheir dhomh,” ors’ ise, “mo thrusgan,” ors’ ise. “’S fhèarr leam,”
ors’ ise," a bhith cluich mar tha càch,” ors’ ise, “na a dhol a dh’àite
sam bith.”
“Chan
fhaigh thu idir e,” ors’ esan agus e a’ cuir dheth pàirst dhà aodach
fhèin agus ga chuir uimpe.
Cha
robh ise buileach toilichte idir agus thàinig càch a-nuas agus chuir e iongnadh
mòr orra am boireannach brèagha a bh’ aig an fhear a bha sa bhàta:
“Dè,”
ors’ à-san, “am boireannach a th’ agad an sin?”
“Leòra,
tha,” ors esan, “boireannach a fhuair mi,” ors’ esan, “agus tha mi glè thoilichte
gum bheil i a’ falabh còmh’ rium.”
Ach,
co-dhiù, chuir iad an eùnlaith dhan bhàta, agus chum esan am falach a bhian cho
math is a b’ urrainn dà, is dh’fhalabh iad. Fada goirid dhan tug iad
air an rathad ràinig iad an ceann-uidhe:
“Bidh
sì-se,” ors’ esan, “a’ falabh a-nist,” ors’ esan, “dhachaigh,” ors’
esan, “agus,” ors’ esan, “cuiridh mise air dòigh am bàta.”
“Feumaidh
sinn,” ors’ à-san, “an eunlaith,” ors’ esan, “a roinn an toiseach.”
Roinneadh
an eunlaith co-dhiù, agus dh’fhalabh a h-uile duine gu dhachaigh fhèin.
Theann esan air cuir air dòigh a’ bhàta is bha am boireannach còmh’ ris agus
nuair a bha am bàta air dòigh:
“Bidh
sinn a-nist,” ors’ esan, “a’ falabh dhachaigh.”
“O!,”
ors’ ise, “b’ fhèarr leam,” ors’ ise, “gun toirea’ tu dhomh,” ors’ ise, “am
bian,” ors’ ise, “agus rud sam bith a dh’iarras tu oram – a dhèanamh,”
ors’ ise, "nì mi e,” ors’ ise.
“O!
chan fhaigh thu idir e,” ors’ esan.
“O!
ma-thà,” ors’ ise, “gheibh mi uaireigin e,” ors’ ise.
“O!
chan fhaigh cuideachd,” ors’ esan. “Dè ’n dòigh a tha thu a’ smaointinn,” ors’
esan, “air am faigh thu e?” ors’ esan.
“Innsidh
mi sin dhut,” ors’ ise. “Ma chì mise mo bhian,” ors’ ise, “gheibh mi e,” ors’ ise,
“agus bidh mi mar a bha mi roimhe.”
“O!
ma-thà, cha tachair sin gu bràth,” ors’ esan, “agus an rud a bhios ann,” ors’ esan,
“pòsa’ mi thu,” ors’ esan, “agus bidh thu,” ors’ esan, “nad bhean agam.”
Seo
mar a bha co-dhiù, cha robh e fad sam bith air a dhol dhachaigh is iad a’
bruidhinn, fhuair esan a chuir am falach, am bian, gun fhios a bhith aic(hc)e
càite an robh e. Nuair a rinn e seo is a chuir e ann an aodach is ann an caisbhearst
ise, chuir e ma dheidhinn pòsadh agus phòs e am boireannach brèagha a bh’ ann a
sheo.
Bha
iad còmhladh ùine mhòr ann an seo agus bha mòran chloinneadh aige bhuaithe,
agus ’s e gillean a’ chiud bu mhutha a bh’ aige uaithe. Bha iad anabarrach fhèin
toilichte còmhladh. Bha e a’ cumail a’ bhian am falach agus bha ise ag iarraidh
daonnan air:
“Cuimhnich,”
ors’ ise, “na leig dad sam bith,” ors’ ise, “a dh’ionnsaigh a’ bhèin. Cum e ann
an àite seasgair gus nach fhaigh boinne snighe air, gun fhios,” ors’ ise, “nach
fhaighinn-s’ uaireigin e. Ged a tha mi,” ors’ ise, “glè thoilichte,” ors’ ise,
“ann a sheo,” ors’ ise, “bhithinn gu math na bu toilichte,” ors’ ise, “far an
do chleachd mi a bhith.”
“O!
chan eagal dhan bhian,” ors’ an duine aice. “Tha e cho sàbhailte,” ors’ esan,
“agus ged a bhiodh e orst,” ors’ esan, “ann an druim a’ chuain.”
Far
am biodh e am bliadhna aige, cha bhiodh e an ath-bhliadhna aige, am bian, agus
bha e ga chumail anabarrach fhèin math, cho math is a ghabhadh dèanamh ged nach
robh e glè fhurasda dha an cearstair. Bha a’ chlann air dìreach suas
ann am bliadhnaichean, agus bha iad anabarrach fhèin miosail air. Cha b’
urrainn dà gluasad gun a' chlann a bhith timicheall air agus ise gan
cumail còmhla ris gun fhios gu dé dh’fhaodadh tionndadh a-mach. Ach latha dhe
na lathaichean is iad a’ cuir a-staigh arbhair, càite am biodh am bian aige ach
as a’ chiad chruach arbhair a dhèanadh e. Thug fear dha na gillean an aire dha
athair a’ tighinn agus bian aige agus e ga chuir ann an teis-meadhain na
cruaicheadh. Bha e a’ cur iongnadh mòr air gu dè rud a bh’ aige, am bian
brèagha bha siud, na carson a bha e ga chuir as a’ chruaich. Ach rinneadh a’
chruach, co-dhiù. Cha do shaoil an athair sìon gun innseadh iad dad. Rinneadh
a’ chruach. Bhathar ag obair air a’ chruaich a dhèanamh. Ach bha iad ullamh
dhen chruaich an sin agus theann iad air tè ’ile, agus bha iad ag obair fad an
latha air cuir a-staigh an arbhair agus a’ dèanamh nan cruachan nuair a bha iad
ullamh an sineach dhe na cruachan a dhèanamh is an t-abhrar a chuir a-staigh,
bha aig an athair ri falabh on taigh an latha a bh’ ann a sheo.
Dh’fhalabh e co-dhiù. Cha robh a-staigh ach a’ chlann agus a bhean:
“Ach,
a Shiorrachd,” ors’ an gille bu shine. Bha e a’ bruidhinn a-null is a-nall is a
mhàthair a’ fuine, a mhàthair ga cheasnachadh am biodh iad a’ faicinn uair sam
bith bian aig an athair.
“An-dà,
gu dearbha,” ors’ esan, “chunna mise bian aig m’ athair,” ors’ esan, “a’ chiad chruach
a rinn e,” ors’ esan, “chuir e bian brèagha, brèagha ann, ann am meadhan na
cruaiche.”
“Na
chuir gu dearbha!” ors’ ise agus i a’ togail sogan oirre:
“Chuir,”
ors’ esan.
“Agus
a bheil fhios agad,” ors’ ise, “cò a’ chruach,” ors’ ise, “às ’n do chuir e e?”
“Tha,”
ors’ esan, “glè mhath.”
“Well,”
ors’ ise, “bhithinn glè thoilichte,” ors’ ise, “am bian sin fhaicinn,” ors’
ise.
“O,
ma-thà,” ors’ esan, “sealla’ mise dhuibh a’ chruach,” ors’ esan.
Theann
i air an fhuine gu cleabhar gus an robh an fhuine ullamh, agus bha a h-uile
sìon deiseil aice agus rinn i a h-uile deisealachd air choinneamh an athar agus:
“Well,”
ors’ ise, “bidh mise a’ falabh bhuaibh,” ors’ ise. “Chan fhaic sibh
mise gu bràth tuilleadh,” ors’ ise, “ma gheibh mi am bian.”
“Dè
tha sibh a ràdha?” ors’ a’ chlann.
“O!”
ors’ ise, “ma gheibh mise am bian,” ors’ ise, “chan eil rathad agam,” ors’ ise,
“a bhith còmhla rì-se gu bràth tuilleadh.”
Dh’fhalabh
i dhan iodhlainn agus sheall an gille a’ chruach dhi agus theann i air cuir as
a chèile na cruaiche. Chuir i às a chèile a’ chruach uile gu lèir gun d’ràinig
i am bian:
“O!”
ors’ ise, “seo mo bhian fhìn,” ors’ ise, “agus bidh sibh a’ falabh
còmhla rium-sa,” ors’ ise, “gon a’ chladaich,” ors’ ise, “agus,” ors’ ise, “fhad
’s a bhios mise beò,” ors’ ise, “bidh mi a’ cumail riubh iasg ùr,” ors’ ise, “a
h-uile latha.”
Dh’fhalabh
iad còmhla ri ’m màthair agus chuir i dhith a h-uile snaoim a bh’ oirre dhen
aodach agus phàisg i gu brèagha e:
“Bheir
sibh siud dhachaigh,” ors’ ise, “agus,” ors’ ise, “bheir sibh dha ’r n-athair
e.”
Dh’fhalabh
i agus chuir i oirre am bian:
“Seallaibh,”
ors’ ise, “air a’ chlaich chothrom a th’ ann a shin,” ors’ ise, “agus bidh,”
ors’ ise, “annlann air bidhidh a h-uile latha air a’ chreig sin, agus thig
sì-se a-nuas,” ors’ ise, “gon a’ chladaich a h-uile latha, agus bidh iasg ùr
air a’ chreig gar feitheamh. Chì sibh mise,” ors’ ise, “air tighinn am bàrr,”
ors’ ise, “a-muigh,” ors’ ise, “agus,” ors’ ise, “bidh mi ag èigheach dhuibh,”
ors’ ise; “ach,” ors’ ise, "na teirigibh a-mach,” ors’ ise, “idir,” ors’
ise, “far am bidh mi,” ors’ ise, “air neo,” ors ise, “bidh sibh cunnarstach
gum bàthar sibh.”
Seo
mar a bha co-dhiù.
Chuir
ise oirre am bian agus leum i a-mach air a’ mhuir agus bha i na ròn mun canadh
sibh “Dia leat”. Bha i ann a shin a’ plubarsaich agus a’ chlann a’ rànaich air
tìr:
“Thalaibh,”
ors’ ise. “Bidh a’ falabh dhachaigh,” ors’ ise. “Tha mise cearst
gu leòr a-nist,” ors’ ise, “agus thigibh sa mhadainn,” ors’ ise, “agus bidh an
t-iasg air bhur coinneamh air a’ chreig sin, agus bidh sibh a’ tighinn,” ors’
ise, “a h-uile latha tuilleadh,” ors’ ise, “as a dheaghaidh seo.”
Seo
mar a bha co-dhiù.
Chaidh
i às an t-sealladh agus thill à-san dhachaigh gu muladach. Thàinig an athair
dhachaigh, agus nuair a bha e a-nuas a dh’ionnsaigh an taighe, thug e an aire
dhan chruaich air a cuir as a chèile. Thàinig e a-staigh agus dh’fhaighneachd e
cà robh am màthair:
“O!”
ors’ an gille bu shine, “dh’fhalabh mo mhàthair is chan fhaic sinn
gu bràth tuilleadh i. Fhuair i am bian brith ciamar a fhuair i e, ann an cruaich
arbhair.”
“Feumaidh,”
ors’ esan, “gun robh i gam fhaicinn,” ors’ esan, “ga chuir ann, agus tha mise
gun deagh-bhean-taighe a-nochd,” ors’ esan.
“Dh’iarr
i òirnne,” ors’ esan, “falabh còmh’ rithe,” ors’ esan, “agus chuir i
oirre am bian," ors’ esan, “agus leum i a-mach air a’ mhuir. Dh’iarr i
òirnn a h-uile madainn tuilleadh,” ors’ esan, “às a dheaghaidh seo,” ors’ esan,
“a dhol gon a’ chladaich agus gum biodh,” ors’ esan, “annlann bhur bidhidh de
dh’iasg ùr, fresh, againn romhainn
air a’ chladach.”
“O!
nach bochd sin,” ors’ esan, “gun d’fhuair i am bian,” ors’ esan. “Is mise bha
sona,” ors’ esan, “fhad ’s a bha i còmhla ruinn. Ach chan eil comas air.”
An
oidhche sin chaidh iad a’ laighe agus glè thràth sa mhadainn, dh’èirich na
gillean agus ghabh iad greim beag bithidh agus ghabh iad sìos. Ràinig iad an
cladach agus an sgalla a sheall am màthair dhaibh, bha tòrr mòr, mòr de dh’iasg
as gach sèorsa air an sgallaidh. Bha ise a’ plubarsaich an taobh muigh dhaibh,
agus rinn iad gad agus chuir iad an t-iasg air ghad agus bha iad a’ “waveadh”
dham màthair gun robh iad ann an dòchas gun èireadh gu math dhì. Bha ise a’
“waveadh” dhaibh agus leis a’ churrachan a bh’ aice dh’aithnigheadh iad gun
robh i a’ bruidhinn riutha. Thill
iad dhachaidh agus ràinig iad an athair agus mòran de dh’iasg aca. Bha iad a’
cumail air an seo riamh ùine mhòr agus gun robh na gillean a-nist air fàs suas.
Cha do phòs an athair riamh tuilleadh. Bha na gillean a’ fàs suas agus gun ann
a bha iad a’ “prepareadh” airson pòsadh. Bha an t-iasg ùr a’ cumail riutha a
h-uile latha. Phòs na gillean agus phòs na nigheannan agus sin agaibh mar a
thàinig Clann ’icCodrum nan Ròn ann, gon an t-saoghail-sa an toiseach, a thaobh
’s ann san sgeir a fhuair an athair am boireannach, agus tha Clann ’icCodrum
riamh fhathast air an t-saoghal-sa, an riamhag aca gon an latha an-diugh. Tha
na ròin fo gheasaibh. ’S ann sa Cheann a Tuath a tha Clann ’icCodrum. Ma tha
iad sona, tha iad lucky. Dh’fhalabh
siud agus chan eil cuimhne agam air a’ chòrr.
And the translation goes
something like this:
It
was once the fashion at this time for them to go fowling birds which they
call cormorants. They would set off to this island at night and one man had to
stay in the skiff whilst the rest would climb up the rocks so they could catch
the birds. The man who stayed behind in the skiff went to a cleft in the rock
and it was quite past the midnight hour when he saw some men landing on the
cliff where he was, and making their way towards some pelts there and they put
them on and in a minute they had turned to seals and swam out into the sea. He
climbed up once the seals had gone into the sea. There was a pelt left behind
and he went and caught hold of the pelt and placed it under his coat – if
indeed he had a coat on – and he returned to where he was before. It was not
long before returning to where he was when a woman appeared in front of him:
“Hand
back,” she said, “my pelt.”
“What
pelt?” he said.
“My
own pelt,” she said.
“What,”
he asked, “left you so late in coming compared to the rest of them?”
“Oh,”
she said, “because it was quite a distance I had to travel than the rest and that’s
why I was late. But hand me back my pelt so that I can be with the others.”
“Oh
no, I’ll not,” he said. “I’ll not give it to you at all as I’d rather take you
home to my own house so that you’ll be my companion.”
“Oh,”
she said, “hand over my pelt as I want to play with the rest of them rather
than to go anywhere else.”
“You’ll
not get it at all,” he said as he took some of his clothes off and wrapped them
around her.
She
wasn’t best pleased and the others came over and they were completely taken aback
by the beauty of the woman they saw along with the man in the boat.
“What,”
they said, “is that woman you’ve got there?”
“Well,
indeed,” he said, “it’s a woman I found and I’m very happy that she is coming
with me.”
But
at any rate they placed the birds into the boat and he kept her pelt hidden as
best he could and they set off. Whether it was a long or short journey they
eventually reached their destination:
“You
now,” he said, “go home and I’ll get the boat in order.”
“We
must at first,” they said, “share out the birds.”
They
shared out the birds and everyone set off home to their respective houses. He
busied himself getting the boat in order whilst the woman was still in his
company. Once the boat had been arranged:
“We’ll
be off home now,” he said.
“Oh,”
she said, “I’d much prefer if you’d hand my pelt back to me and I’ll to
anything you ask of me.”
“You’ll
not get it back at all,” he said.
“Oh,
then,” she said, “I’ll get it sometime or another.”
“Oh
no, you’ll not,” he said. “How do you think that you’ll get it back?”
“I’ll
tell you this,” she said, “once I see my pelt, I’ll get it and I’ll be like
what I was before.”
“Oh,
that’ll never happen,” he said, “and here’s the thing: I’m going to marry you
and I’ll have you as my wife.
That’s
how things were, and it wasn’t long before they were home and whilst they were
conversing he hid the pelt so that she had no idea where he had placed it. When
he had done this and had dressed her in clothes and shoes and he then married
this beautiful woman. They were together for a long time and she bore him many
children; many of them were boys. They were very happy together. He kept the
pelt hidden and she always wondered where it was.
“Remember,”
she said, “don’t let anything get near the pelt. Keep it in a dry place so that
not a drop goes near it just in case I get it back sometime even though I’m
very happy here I’d be quite pleased to back to where I used to be.”
“Don’t
worry about the pelt,” he said. “It’s as safe as if you were wearing it on the
ocean’s wave.”
Where
he had placed it [the pelt] one year it was no longer there the next and he
kept it in excellent condition – as best as he could although it wasn’t that
easy for him to do so. The children had grown up in years and they were very
fond of him. He couldn’t move without being surrounded by children and she
looked after them not knowing how things might turn out. But a day came when
they were sowing corn and where should he place his pelt but under the first
stack of corn that he had made. One of the boys saw their father carrying his
pelt and placing it right in the middle of the stack. He was totally taken
aback by what he saw him carrying – the beautiful-looking pelt and why he had placed
it in the stack. The stack was made in any case. Their father didn’t think that
they’d say a thing. The stack was made. They were working at making stacks.
Once they’d finished making the stack they began on another one; and they
worked all day long harvesting the corn and making the stacks until they were
all finished. Their father had to leave the house on that day. He set off in
any case. Only the children and their mother were left behind:
“Oh,
Lord,” said the oldest boy. “He was talking hither and thither whilst his
mother was baking and she asked him whether he had seen his father carrying a
pelt.”
“Well,
indeed,” he said, “I saw my father carrying a pelt and the first stack he made
he placed the very beautiful pelt in its middle.”
“Did
he indeed,” she said making her excited:
“Yes,”
he replied.
“And
do you know,” she asked, “in which stack he placed it?”
“Yes,
very well,” he replied.
“Well,”
she said, “I’d be very pleased to see that pelt.”
“Oh,
well,” he said, “I’ll show you the stack.”
She
busied herself baking until it was finished and when she had everything ready
and everything prepared for their father’s return:
“Well,”
she said, “I’ll have to leave you all and I’ll never see you again if I get the
pelt.”
“What
are you saying?” said the children.
“Oh,”
she said, “if I find the pelt I’ll have no other way of ever being with you all
again.”
She
set off for the stackyard and the boy showed her the stack and she busied
herself tearing the stack apart. She tore the stack completely apart until she
reached the pelt.
“Oh,”
she exclaimed, “here’s my own pelt and you’ll all accompany me to the shore and
while I have a breath left in me I’ll provide you with fresh fish every day.”
They
all set off with their mother and she took off all her clothes and folded them
neatly:
“Take
them home,” she said, “and give them to your father.”
She
set off and put on the pelt.
“Look
over,” she said, “to the stone, over to the balancing[?] stone and I’ll supply
you with food every day from that rock and you’ll come down to the shore every
day and fresh fish will be awaiting you every day. You’ll see me surfacing and
I’ll call to you but on no account come out to where I’ll be for you’ll then be
in danger of drowning.”
That’s
how things turned out.
She
put on the pelt and she leapt into the sea and she became a seal before you
could say “John Robinson”. She was splashing about while the children remained
on land crying.
“Go
home now,” she said. “I’m fine here and come back in the morning and fish will
be awaiting you on that rock and make sure you come every single day from now
on.”
That’s
how things turned out.
She
disappeared and they all went home feeling sad. Their father returned home and
when he came down to them towards the house he noticed that the stack had been
torn apart. He came in and asked where their mother was:
“Oh,”
said the oldest boy, “my mother has gone and we’ll never see her again. She
found the pelt – however she managed this – in the cornstack.”
“She
must have seen me,” he said, “placing it there and I’m now without a good
housewife tonight.”
“She
asked us,” he said, “to accompany her and she put on the pelt and leapt out
into the sea. She asked us to go down to the shore every single morning from
now so we have our fill of fresh fish.”
“Oh,
that’s too bad that she found the pelt,” he said, “as I was happy whilst she
was with us. But now it can’t be helped.”
That
night they went to sleep and very early the next morning the boys got up and
they had a bite to eat before making their way down. They reached the shore and
on the ledge which their mother had shown them there was a big mound of fish of
every kind. She was splashing about by their side and they made a withy for the
fish and placed them on it and they then waved to their mother in the hope that
everything would go well with her. She returned the wave and by her barks[?]
they knew that she was talking to them. They returned back home and found their
father and they had loads of fish. The kept up this practice for a long time
until the boys grew up. Their father never remarried. The boys had grown up and
were getting prepared to marry. They were supplied with fresh fish every day.
The boys got married and so did the girls and that is the beginning of the
MacCodrums of the Seals; that is how they came to this world at first, for it
was on the rock that the man found the woman; and the MacCodrums have been here
since – this small tribe – to this very day. The seals were [folk] under enchantment.
The MacCodrums hail from North Uist. If they’re content then there’re lucky.
That’s your lot for I cannot recall the rest.
It may also be mentioned
that Calum Maclean collected more material about this very subject from Angus
MacMillan amongst others in order to help his friend David Thomson, possibly
best remembered for his autobiographical account Nairn in Darkness and Light, when he was compiling his
comprehensive study The People of the
Sea: A Journey in Search of the Seal Legend (first published in 1954). Such stories, of course, have a
wide distribution in the sea-girt Norse and Celtic lands and would no doubt
make a comparative analysis of this migratory legend worthwhile as it would
trace its origin and distribution. The late Irish scholar, Daíthi Ó hÓgáin,
took one step further and likens the legend with themes and motifs of the
Otherworld Wife and the Goddess of Sovereignty whom the rightful takes as a
mate, for she is the goddess of the land. He goes on to suggest that the Seal woman
legend “sprang from a specific application of the account [i.e. ‘of a man
marrying a spirit-woman’] to the marine context in medieval times. We are told
that a man once saw a beautiful maiden on a rock by the shore … The legend,
some versions of which describe the lady as a seal-maiden rather than a
mermaid, spread to Scotland and Iceland, probably in the late Middle Ages.”
References:
IFC
1053: 275–86
John
MacInnes, ‘Looking at Legends of the Supernatural’, Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Inverness, vol. LIX
(1994–96), pp. 10–14
Dáithi
Ó hÓgáin, Myth, Legend and Romance: An
Encyclopedia of the Irish Folk Tradition (London: Ryan
Publishing, 1990), p. 187
David
Thomson, The People of the Sea: A Journey
in Search of the Seal Legend (Edinburgh: Canongate Books, new ed., 2001)
Image:
Seals
/ Ròin
