The Great Outdoors – August 2019

WHY SHOULD THE DEVIL, as the

adage goes, have all the best tunes? The

devil has certainly made his mark on

the pantheon of rock music. The Rolling

Stones expressed sympathy; walk back

down Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven,

and it was thought you could also hear

some Satan love (Jimmy Page had to put

out a statement that he didn’t worship the

devil), and that’s before we get to Black

Sabbath and Judas Priest. Music and the

devil go together like rock and roll. But

scout over any Ordnance Survey map and

you’ll also find the devil has left his scars on

the pantheon of rock. Actual rock. The stuff

under your feet. If the devil has the best

tunes, does he have the best mountains?

Across Britain, the devil pops up among

groughs and valleys, clints and tummocks,

copses and hills. We have the Devil’s Dyke

in Sussex and Devil’s Punch Bowl in Surrey,

Devil’s Bed and Bolster (a long barrow

tomb in Somerset), and the Devil’s Bridge

in Ceredigion, which so impressed William

Wordsworth in 1824 that he wrote:

“How art thou named? In search of what

strange land,

“From what huge height, descending?

Can such force

“Of waters issue from a British source?”

If Wordsworth had carried out a cursory

Google search or perhaps chatted to a local

peasant, he’d have learnt the story of old

Megan of Llandunach, who saw that her

only cow was the wrong side of the raging

river. A monk offered to make a bridge

over Afon Mynach in return for the soul

of the first living thing to cross it. Megan

noticed under the monk’s robes that his

knees bent backwards (dead giveaway).

The hoofed foot poking under the cassock

also suggested that the devil isn’t so great at

disguise after all. The woman threw a scrap

of bread across the new bridge, rapidly

followed by her little black dog. The devil,

somewhat miffed, only took the soul of the

dog, and disappeared – no doubt to carve

clefts, flood valleys, and splinter rock.

He went to bake in Snowdonia – at

Twll Du, the Devil’s Kitchen, at the back

of Cwm Idwal – perhaps first heading

to Wharfedale to the Devil’s Apronful

(Lucifer tripped when carrying rocks

to block the River Dibb and deposited a

cairn). You’ll also find the Devil’s Tor in

Devon and the Devil’s Beef Tub, a hidden

valley near Moffat used for secreting stolen

cattle.

There are more than 80 place names in

Britain with the word ‘devil’ in them – and

that’s before we take into account Scots,

Scottish Gaelic and Welsh. By contrast,

there are barely any features or places with

‘God’s’ in the title. There’s a 30m-high lump

in Somerset called God’s Hill, and that’s

the best example we could find. So why

are there so many places named after the

devil? What does our landscape say about

the people who named it? And what does it

say about their perception of Britain’s wild

places?

This is why, on a sleety day in

November, I find myself peering into the

Devil’s Arse. This is a soubriquet given

to Peak Cavern in Castleton in the Peak

District. On the day I arrive, it is sealed off,

the iron railings stopping anyone entering.

Had I arrived a day earlier, £11.75 would

have secured access to the ‘largest natural

cave entrance in Britain’. Alongside guided

tours, the cave holds a series of concerts

including, this summer, the hillwalking

post-punk legends Half Man Half Biscuit

(the only band ever to mention Glyder

Fawr and Glyder Fach, Dan Brown and

Ezekiel in song together).

All I see through the murk is a few

people wrestling with Christmas trees

and untangling fairy lights. When Karl

Philipp Moritz visited, he had quite

a different impression. Writing in his

[previous spread] Twll Du, the Devil's Kitchen, above Cwm Idwal [above] Cave Dale,

near Castleton in the Peak District [right] A distant view of the Devil's Point down

the Lairig Ghru

Photo credit: Shutterstock

PLACE NAMES

50 The Great Outdoors August 2019