Single Entity

Oh my god, I had the best day ever yesterday. For serious.

I started off in Pittenweem, where I got the key to St. Fillan’s cave from an adorable little café called The Cocoa Tree, and then proceeded to wander down this little wynd to the cave where St. Fillan supposedly lived during the 8^th century, writing sermons in the dark by the light of his luminous left arm. I felt all daring and adventurous using the giant old-fashioned key to unlock a gate that felt like it hadn’t been opened in years. It took several tries to make the key turn, and after all that effort, I was ready for some 8^th century arm-luminosity. It actually only took about five minutes to see the entire cave, which was not all that impressive, but I spent a good twenty minutes just sitting on the ground, trying to imagine what it would have been like if I were an 8^th century monk with a luminous left arm (I kept hoping that my arm would start to glow, but no luck). In the end, I was just sitting in the middle of a cave. But just when I was leaving, I turned off the electrical lights they’d installed in the centuries following St. Fillan and went back across the antechamber and into the cave itself…and froze with terror. Even though I knew I was the only living thing in there, with the exception maybe of some bats that I could hear squeaking in the chamber above, I was convinced there was some kind of danger in there. I could feel my heart beat just a little harder when I heard footsteps passing outside of the gate. All my senses were suddenly on edge. Now, this says one of two things: Either I am a giant coward who is afraid of the dark (quite possible) or times were a lot more terrifying back in the 8^th century when lighting was hard to come by, luminous arms aside. It totally trumped my imagination exercise of the past twenty minutes. What a feat, Fillan, sitting in the dark all the time, even with the light of your luminous left arm. Kudos.

After that, I walked about a mile and a half to Anstruther, where I got the UK’s best fish and chips (officially so!) and then looked around for the Smuggler’s Inn, where a sex club called the Beggar’s Benison used to meet in the 18^th century (I first learned about it from this Slate article). It turns out that the Inn had closed just last week, so I went around the corner to another old-timey looking pub called the Dreel Tavern. Walking in, I was hit with the overwhelming atmosphere of “old”. There was a fire crackling, the décor was very 18^th century, there were old-timey lanterns covering the lights, and the ceiling beams were exposed, a sure sign that this was a relic from the olden days. It was a cozy little place, and possibly my favorite pub in Scotland.

There was a crew of regulars, and the woman tending the bar knew them all by name and didn’t need to be told what they wanted to drink when they came in. One would enter, she’d already have his drink in hand, ready for him. The only other woman at the bar was a wry local who bantered easily with the others. I liked her right away, and even more when she saw my notebook and began spicing up the conversation so I could have something better to eavesdrop and take notes on. Eventually I began to ask questions about the history of the place, and they were all local history buffs and began to tell me overwhelmingly all about the history. Apparently the Dreel Tavern is the oldest building in Anstruther – James V of Scotland stayed there in the 16^th century – and is haunted. Most of the places around there have quite a history with smuggling, as well. And the Beggar’s Benison…well, I didn’t get much information about that. One of them had read a book on the subject – the one, I’m sure, who’s mentioned in the Slate article – and all he would tell me was that “they were a bunch of nobles involved in a lot of debauchery”. I’m sure he wasn’t very eager to discuss a sex club, even a historical one, with someone young enough to be his daughter. Everyone assumes, for some reason, that I’m an innocent young lady, which makes it difficult to get information about sex clubs. They did, however, make up for this by telling me about the Pittenweem witches, who were apparently connected with St. Fillan’s cave and were held, after they were accused, in a church that I’d walked past three or four times that day. One of the men even went back to his house to fetch a book about the witches, which he then gave to me (although it’s difficult for me to solicit information about sex clubs, I am apparently a target for free books).

I am excited to go back to Pittenweem after I’ve read the book and take another look around. Perhaps I will sit in the cave again and imagine what it was like to be a woman accused of witchcraft, and perhaps knowing more about the history of the cave will transform it from an ordinary cave to a terrifying cell. So, although my investigation veered off course, I had a most informative and exciting day. I call it a success.

Oh, and then I came home and visited the Pictish cemetery at midnight, just in case I hadn’t had enough history.