A Hob From Home

For the tiniest angel, with amethyst eyes, And hair spun like gold, 'fore the alter did rise, Pronouncing these words in a dignified tone "O impious imp, be ye turned to stone!”

Folklore from Lincolnshire - Susan O'Neil

Whilst I currently reside in on the South Coast of England in Sussex, I grew up in a small Georgian market town in Lincolnshire, right on the border of Cambridgeshire and Rutland (England’s smallest county). On my father’s side, the family have been a staple of the area for a very, very long time.

East Anglia, where I was born and raised, has a wealth of superstition, magic and mystery tucked away in the annals of it’s towns, villages and hamlets. From the infamous Toadmen or Tudders of the fenland areas, to Black Shuck, the spectral hound with eyes aflame who would meet unwary travellers on lonely flatland roads, and even one of the first fully written accounts of the Wild Hunt, recorded at the Benedictine Abby of Peterborough in 1127, my home counties have contributed, across the years (perhaps even centuries) a wealth to the lore and aesthetics that have coalesced with others to form the stream known as Old Craft or Traditional Witchcraft.

At the end of 2020, I made a trip home with the expressed purpose of spending quality time with my family, notably my two surviving grandmothers. I was keen to begin a practice of ancestral work, and I knew that both of them would be of great assistance when it came to unlocking the keys to my recent family history and getting a sense of the threads that had come together in the last few decades to make me.

Both of them were hugely forthcoming - and over glasses of wine (in one case, bottles and bottles) we shared laughter and tears as we dug through old boxes of photographs and birth records and they shared the wealth of what they could remember or had researched.

Photographs of my ancestors

It has, for various reasons, taken until this last month to see that practice come to fruition as a daily devotional - for various reasons and the general distractions of the world. As I dug through the folders of photo scans (or in some cases the originals) and other items that both my grandmothers had dug out for the occasion to bequeath to me, one little figure jumped out at me.

The rather splendid little devil in the main photograph on this blog post is called The Lincoln Imp. A famous grotesque carving from Lincoln Cathedral, the original is believed to be over 700 years old. He has a rather marvellous original story:

“Legend has it that one day the Devil was in a frolicsome mood, and let out all his young demons to play. After having allegedly stopping at Chesterfield, twisting the spire of St Mary and All Saints Church, a group of imps went to Lincoln and planned to wreak havoc in the city's stunning Cathedral. Mischievous activities in Lincoln included knocking over the Dean, smashing the stained glass windows and destroying the lights. To put a stop to any further chaos, an angel appeared from the Bible left on the altar and commanded “Wicked Imp, be turned to stone!” Some imps managed to escape, one of which is said to be found at St James' Church in Grimsby. However, one imp remained, hurling insults and stones at the angel. The angel responded in kind, turning the imp to stone where it sat and it can still be seen there today.”

This particular little figurine I remember my late grandfather bought for me on a day trip to Lincoln Cathedral when I was about six or seven years old. I was a child who was fascinated by the fantastical, and my grandfather (a committed Freemason with a keen interest in ancient history) was more than happy to indulge my interests in the weird and wonderful. I have hugely fond memories of time spent with him on daytime excursions to castles, cathedrals and museums.

I remembered that he had said to me, in one of his usual ‘taking great joy in giving me the details’ speeches that the purpose of grotesques and gargoyles was to frighten away evil spirits. We decided, in our mutual myth-making, that this little statuette would live in the spare room at my grandparents house, so that when I came to stay he could look after me. My grandparents house was a mythic landscape of its own for me as a child - something my grandfather encouraged with great glee - from the fairies that lived behind the summer house at the end of the garden to the crocodile that lived in the wheelie bin. A little boy might need looking after when traversing such dangerous landscapes.

I had quite forgotten about this little figure until several weeks ago, when I opened the plastic bag of trinkets I’d been gifted by my grandmother to see him lying there, nestled between service medal boxes and old photographs.

He takes pride of place on my current altar space for several reasons. Firstly - I mean look at him - if he doesn’t scream pre-Christian folk figure then who does? I’d like to think, were the Master willing to grant me a puckerel, imp, or magistellus that I’d be rather thrilled if he looked like that.

His connection to my ancestry is both literal and symbolic. The Lincoln Imp is the symbol of the very place I was born - the earth of my birth if you will. He was gifted to me by my maternal grandfather (interestingly not the side of the family who were from that region - my grandfather was born in North Wales to Welsh and Scottish ancestry) who moved there with my grandmother so that they could spend time with me as I grew up.

In that sense then, symbolically, he represents the two threads that have woven together to make me.

I couldn’t imagine a more pertinent symbol of my path down the old crooked track.

My grandfather in his youth