by Taffy Thomas
The tramp promised, and, doing up the laces, set off towards the road.
‘Oy!’ The little man called him back. ‘You’ve forgotten something. You’ve forgotten your old boots.’
‘But I don’t need them anymore,’ said the tramp man.
‘Never mind that,’ said the fairy. ‘If you’re in beautiful Lakeland, you can’t leave rubbish lying around. Put the old boots in a bin or take them home with you.’
The tramp picked up the old boots and put one in each of his jacket pockets, and it was a good job that he did.
He set off down the road, walking faster and farther than he had ever done before. He didn’t stop to eat, he didn’t stop to drink, and he didn’t stop to rest, even though it was hot midsummer. Nor did he stop to wash his feet and change his socks, so before long his feet started to smell. In fact, his feet ponged so badly that all of the cows looking over the hedge said ‘poo’ instead of ‘moo’.
Now that tramp was more than 2 metres tall, so you can imagine how far his nose was away from his socks. But soon, even he couldn’t stand the stench any longer. He was going to have to wash his feet.
The tramp looked into the next field and saw a fisherman standing waist-deep in a river, fly-fishing. The tramp thought that the fisherman would not be pleased if he muddied the stream, but too bad. He couldn’t stand the smell any longer.
He walked over to the river, sat down on the bank and removed his buttercup-yellow boots, putting them on a stone. His socks were so rotten that they simply fell off.
The tramp dipped his toes in the water. It felt so good that he couldn’t resist standing up and swishing his feet around. But this made the stream muddy.
The fisherman turned to tell the tramp to push off, but then he spotted the bright yellow boots sitting on the stone.
‘Those boots are fantastic!’ he said. ‘Where can I get boots like that?’
The tramp replied, as the fairy had, that money could not buy boots like that.
‘Well, whose are they?’ asked the fisherman.
‘They’re mine,’ said the tramp.
‘But they’re too small,’ said the fisherman. ‘They can’t be yours.’
‘Ah,’ said the tramp. ‘Those boots are bigger on the inside than they are on the outside.’
‘Where did you get them?’ the fisherman enquired.
‘I’m not saying,’ said the tramp.
The fisherman told the tramp that if he couldn’t reveal the origin of the boots, then he had to assume that he had stolen them.
The tramp told the fisherman that he could assume whatever he liked, but he had certainly not stolen anything.
Then the fisherman announced that if the tramp would say where he had got the boots, he would leave him in peace. So, just to get the fisherman out of his hair, the tramp man told him the story of how he had come by the boots.
When he had finished his tale, the tramp looked up at the sky and realised that there was just enough daylight for him to walk another five miles. So he paddled back to the bank and bent down to put on his boots. But although he searched under the stones and in the grass, he couldn’t find them anywhere. The boots had gone back to where they had come from.
All the tramp could do was to take his old boots out of his jacket pocket and wrap a piece of orange baler twine around them. Then he walked off down the road.
So, if you’re in the Lake District and you spot a gentleman of the road wearing old boots with orange twine wrapped around them, then you know, as I know, that he once had a pair of buttercup-yellow boots but he lost them because he didn’t know how to keep a promise to the fairies.
HONISTER CRAG
As a boy I was lucky to spend a lot of time with my grandfather who told me I was as good and important as anyone else in this world … but no more so. This has been useful to me in my lifetime as a storyteller when I have spent much of my time with common folk, but also twice met the queen. The story that follows reminds me of my grandfather’s wise words.
It is also the story I most use to teach new storytellers, as the pictures the words make are very clear and vivid, and the shape of the story is strong. I hope when you’ve read it once or twice you’ll know it well enough to tell it.
There was a little cobblestone maker, who was the finest cobblestone maker in the world. However, he was unhappy. Whenever he did his very best work, all people did was walk on it. He wished that he could be more important, more powerful, and stronger.
So one day, he was chipping at a cobblestone, wishing he was more important, when to his amazement he discovered that he was wearing a crown and a red cloak with white fur around the bottom. All the folk in the street bowed and knelt down, believing that he had become a king.
The cobblestone maker thought Great. Now I’m important. Now I’m powerful. Now I’m strong. My wish has been granted. My ambition has been fulfilled.
Just then, the sun came out and all the people turned their heads to enjoy it. The cobblestone maker cursed. Obviously, he thought, the sun is more important than a king. So, if I want to be more important than the sun, I must wish to be a cloud.
So he wished to be a thundercloud, the strongest cloud of all.
There was a flash of blue light and the cobblestone maker discovered that he had become a slate-grey cloud, floating across the sky. All the people looked up. Seeing this dark cloud they ran for their umbrellas and raincoats. Just to make sure that no one had missed him, the cobblestone maker sent down a flash of lightning … followed by a crash of thunder … followed by rain in such torrents that it washed the trees from people’s gardens and sent a wild river racing down through the valley. A flooded river, a swollen river, a river in spate.
The cobblestone maker thought: Great. Now I’m important. Now I’m powerful. Now I’m strong. My wish has been granted. My ambition has been fulfilled.
The river crashed into a granite mountain, splitting into two streams, one on each side of the mountain. Again the cobblestone maker cursed. A mountain is more important than a flooded river, he thought. So, if I want to be more important than that, I must wish to be a granite mountain.
As he made his wish, there was a flash of blue light, and the cobblestone maker became a granite mountain, standing four-square at the head of the valley. There he stayed as the days became weeks, the weeks became months and the months became years.
One morning, he woke with a tickling, itching on his back. He looked around and there, on the back of the mountain, chipping away patiently, was … a cobblestone maker.
Finally, the cobblestone maker realised that he was important: he didn’t need to be a king, a cloud or even a mountain, because people rely on folk just like him to give them the things they need.
And so the one who chips away at the rocks is just as important as the one who builds the roads. And the one who cleans the hospitals is just as important as the one who performs the operations. And you are each as important as anyone else in this world.
GRASMERE
Opposite the Storyteller’s Garden is Sarah Nelson’s famous gingerbread shop, because Grasmere is the gingerbread capital of the world! However, when the local children take part in the summer Rushbearing Festival, the gingerbread they are given is more like ginger cake, and is made by the village baker. This is his story.
One day, Colin the Baker was feeling lonely, so he mixed up a very special gingerbread dough. He took a handful of the mixture and rolled it into a sausage to make the body and put in on a tray. He rolled another handful into a ball and popped it above the body to make the head. He took one last handful and rolled it into a long thin sausage to make the arms and the legs. He put these in place and squashed it flat. Popping the tray into the oven, he went upstairs and had a cup of tea.
When he came down again, he could hear a tap-tap-tapping coming from inside the oven. He opened the oven door and, standing on the edge of the tray was the little gingerbread man, who jumped out and ran around the room saying, ‘Run, run
, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Grasmere gingerbread man.’
Colin the Baker began to chase him.
And the gingerbread man said, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Grasmere gingerbread man.’
The little gingerbread man ran into a shop. Who should be in the shop but my two daughters, Aimee and Rosie. Aimee is a very good girl, but often leaves doors open. The gingerbread man ran out of the door, turned left and started running towards the Tourist Information Centre, chased by Aimee, Rosie and Colin the Baker.
And the little gingerbread man said, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Grasmere gingerbread man.’
The woman who works in the Tourist Information Centre is called Mrs Rickman. She raced out of the shop, and the grannies and grandpas came out of the old folks’ home – some in their wheelchairs – and chased the gingerbread man towards St Oswald’s Church. Running towards the church was Aimee, Rosie, Colin the Baker, Mrs Rickman and the grannies and grandpas in their wheelchairs.
The verger who looks after the church is called Bob and he has a big black dog called Sweep. When the dog saw the gingerbread man, he licked his chops and gave chase, pulling Bob along on the end of the lead. The gingerbread man headed towards the village school, chased by Aimee, Rosie, Colin the Baker, Mrs Rickman, the grannies and grandpas in their wheelchairs, Bob, and Sweep the dog.
And the gingerbread man said, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Grasmere gingerbread man.’
Mike the Headmaster was looking out of the window. He rushed out and joined the chase as the gingerbread man headed towards the Wordsworth Museum – Dove Cottage – once the home of the famous poet William Wordsworth, long ago. Running towards the museum was the gingerbread man, chased by Aimee, Rosie, Colin the Baker, Mrs Rickman, the grannies and grandpas in their wheelchairs, Bob, Sweep the Dog, and Mike the Headmaster. The curator of the museum is called Terry, and he has two boys, Rowan and Tangwyn. They came out and joined the chase.
The gingerbread man thought if he could cross Grasmere Lake, he could climb over Red Bank and escape into Langdale, the next valley. Running towards the lake was the gingerbread man, chased by Aimee, Rosie, Colin the Baker, Mrs Rickman, the grannies and grandpas in their wheelchairs, Bob, Sweep the Dog, Mike the Headmaster, Terry the Curator, Rowan and Tangwyn.
And the gingerbread man said, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Grasmere gingerbread man.’
Standing on the edge of the lake was a red-haired fox – a vixen. She licked her chops as the gingerbread man ran towards her.
‘Can you swim?’ asked the gingerbread man.
‘Certainly,’ said the vixen.
So the gingerbread man jumped on her back and she paddled into the lake. As she swam towards the island in the middle, the water splashed up the vixen’s back, and the gingerbread man leapt on to her head. The gingerbread man was still getting splashed, and there is nothing worse than soggy gingerbread. He tugged her ears, pulling her nose towards the sky, and leapt on to the tip of it. He thought he was safe for he could see all the people who had chased him stuck on the shore, shaking their fists.
However, the vixen was hungry and the vixen was crafty: as she reached the island, she tossed her nose and flicked the gingerbread man into the air. As he fell she caught him in her jaws … and gobbled him all up!
ULVERSTON
Many places have stories that explain how rivers, mountains or even pubs came to get their names. Perhaps you know some from where you live. If somewhere has an unusual name, it is probably because of an old story. The Lake District is no exception, as in this area ‘the legends grow out of the land’. These days if you visit Ulverston you can see Hoad Hill has a lighthouse monument on top of it. Thank goodness it wasn’t there when the giant in the story that follows sat down on top of the hill!
A long time ago, when birds built their nests in old men’s beards, a giant came from Scotland down to the Lake District. Tired from his journey, the giant looked for somewhere to sit and rest. The local people were terrified of him, partly because he was Scottish, but mainly because he was so huge.
Sitting on that hill, the giant realised he could paddle with one foot in Morecambe Bay and the other in the River Duddon. Peering over Morecambe Bay the Scotsman saw something he had never seen before. Where he’d come from in Scotland there were fishermen on the coast, but they all fished from boats with nets and lines. The fishermen of Morecambe Bay, however, didn’t need boats. They used nets and lines, but the tide went out so far they could use horses to tow their nets. Also, there are very dangerous parts of the bay where patches of floating sand, called quicksand, can suck an animal or a person under and drown them. Actually, in the old days, entire coaches and horses sometimes disappeared in the sands of the bay.
The giant watched Joss Westmorland, a local fisherman, pulling his shrimp net behind a white horse and a black horse called Chalk and Cheese. Normally Joss knew the bay well and could guide his horses between the deadly patches of sinking sand. However, on this day Joss took the horses and net too close to one of the biggest patches of quicksand, where they all started to sink with a loud gurgling sound. In a matter of minutes both the horses and the fisherman were up to their chins in sand and water.
The giant stood up and took three great steps into the bay. Bending down, he picked up the horses and the net, which was full of shrimps, in his right hand, and Joss the fisherman in his left. The giant placed them back safely in their yard at Flookburgh before sitting back on his hill with a handful of shrimps to eat.
The giant had saved Morecambe Bay’s favourite young fisherman, so the local people weren’t frightened of him anymore. In fact, they named the hill after him. That giant’s name was Angus Hoad, so ever since then that hill has been called Hoad Hill. Every Friday the locals bring him a basket of shrimps to eat. On Monday, when the people of Grange, Cartmel, Arnside and Ulverston hang their washing on their lines, they wave to the giant. When the giant waves back, he creates just enough breeze to dry their washing.
RYDAL
Walkers following the footpath along the side of Loughrigg Fell, between Grasmere and Ambleside, are often surprised to come across a cave, high in the fell-side above Rydal Water. This cave was once the home of a dragon who loved stories.
There was once a young boy who lived in the ‘valley where rye was grown’ – otherwise known as Rydal. His name was George, and he loved to play the violin. Not only that, but he also loved walking on Loughrigg Fell above Rydal Water and Grasmere Lake. Now along this route there is a deep, dark cave.
One day, George sat on a rock by the opening of the cave and he played a beautiful tune on his violin.
At the end of the tune he heard a deep, silky voice which said, ‘Thank you for that music. For that I will tell you a story.’
The voice of the creature – for George had no idea what it was – told a magical tale.
At the end of the story, George said, ‘Thank you very much.’
The voice asked George if he would return again the following day to share another tune and a tale. In fact, it asked, might George consider returning every day for a tune and a tale?
George promised that he would.
And so it was that the following day, George swapped another tune for a tale from the soft, mysterious voice.
By the third or fourth day, young George was beginning to wonder who or what his new friend was.
As the sun dipped down in the sky, a shaft of sunlight shone into the mouth of the cave. Bravely, George stepped just inside the opening and looked up.
He was staring into two shining golden discs.
Looking down, he saw an enormous, green, scaly foot.
He was looking straight into the eyes of a dragon!
George said, ‘So it’s you who has been telling me stories.’
The dragon laughed, ‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’
> ‘Why should I be afraid of you?’ replied George. ‘I play you music and you tell me stories, and we are friends.’
The dragon said, ‘But I could crush you with one stamp of my foot, or I could fry you with one puff of my breath.’
Now it was George’s turn to laugh. ‘You wouldn’t do that. We’re friends.’
This made the dragon very happy.
He pleaded with George: ‘Please, promise you’ll come and visit every day or I will be lonely.’
George replied, ‘If you’re lonely why don’t you come home with me and live in my village?’
‘I couldn’t possibly do that,’ said the dragon. ‘Your people would kill me, because for years we have been at war. Ever since your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather George fought my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather dragon, we have not been able to be friends. Not until now.’
Young George thought hard about this, and then he came up with an idea. He knew that the people of Rydal were worried. The crop had not been good and something had to be done.
So George said, ‘If we had a storyteller in Rydal, then visitors and poets would come to our village and it would be famous. So why don’t you come and be our storyteller?’
George promised he would have a word with the Lord of the Manor, LeFleming of Rydal Hall, and bring him to meet his dragon friend the following day.
The dragon said, ‘Do you promise?’ and young George, who knew the meaning of a promise, said, ‘Yes.’
George went straight to the Lord’s house and told him about his new friend and his brilliant idea. George told him that he would take him to meet the storyteller, but that he would have to be blindfolded as the storyteller was very shy.
LeFleming was astonished that there was such a thing as a shy storyteller!
The following day, the blindfolded LeFleming put his hands on young George’s shoulders, and his entourage of servants, also blindfolded, put their hands on the Lord’s shoulders.
