Lessons from the storytellers preserving lost folklore in the Scottish Highlands

Storytelling experiences across the Highlands teach us about connecting to each other and the earth through the oral tradition.

The scene before me is not entirely unlike what I imagine evenings in the Scottish Highlands might have looked like centuries ago. Settling in next to my fellow hostel mates, my eyes fall first on the flames growing in the hearth, then on the sharp outline of trees snaking the Loch Ness coastline against the darkening night sky.

The woman seated nearest the fire begins to speak, her voice soft but commanding as she opens her hand to reveal a cluster of scarlet-colored berries. With an artfulness possessed only by the most seasoned storytellers, Caoimhe Keohan paints a picture of the fruit’s source, the Rowan Tree—an ancient protector against malicious witchcraft, whose branches bridge the spiritual and physical worlds.

Oral storytelling has a deep-rooted history in the rugged Scottish Highlands, where tight-knit communities were historically essential for survival. The practice was suppressed during the colonization of the region, primarily through the banning of the Gaelic language and the demonization of Pagan spirituality. However, today, storytellers like Keohan are leading efforts to revive the tradition, introducing travelers and locals alike to the forgotten stories and ancestral wisdom of the Highlands.

Keohan explaining the ancient Ogham Alphabet, also known as the "Gaelic Tree Alphabet." Each letter is assigned a tree or plant name.

During fireside folklore sessions and on guided “lore walks”, storytelling experiences, such as the ones offered by Keohan, Storylands Sessions, and Strathspey Storywalks, offer glimpses into how Highlanders of times past related to the world around them. Some stories leaned more fantastical, such as those about the mischievous, fickle fairies who were often to blame when shiny objects went missing, or the one-eyed Calleach, the giant goddess of earth and hidden realms, who could control the weather with her staff. Other stories served practical purposes or taught important life lessons. One legend recounts the demise of two men who met their fate at the hands of the very land they attempted to claim ownership over, a poignant warning about greed and ego. Meanwhile, parables about dangerous, mythical creatures taught children about real-life risks in the often-hazardous Highland landscape.

Listen to a handful of these stories, and you’ll quickly realize that the forests, lochs, and glens are just as much characters as they are settings. They act with agency, just as humans do. They teach us that people aren’t the only ones with wants, needs, and goings-on, and enforce the idea that we are all inextricably connected to and dependent on one another.

I’ve not stopped thinking about these storytellers and their work since I left the Highlands. I think it's because, for the first time in the Western world, I encountered this sort of consideration for the natural world. As Aila Shafer of Landscape Lore explained at the top of a snowy Creag Dhubh, a thermos of wild heather tea warming our hands, “The stories teach us that the land does not belong to anyone, but that we are of the land.” How far we’ve strayed from this way of thinking.

Ascending Creag Dhubh near Newtonmore village in Cairngorms National Park.

I also wonder what it would look like if we started telling children folklore stories again.

Would they begin to see themselves as one part in a greater ecosystem of humans, rivers, and animals, rather than sovereigns entitled to their whims to the extent that money allows? Would it inspire curiosity, creativity, and conscientiousness at a time when our lives are becoming more automated, disconnected, and numb? Would knowing that a story wouldn’t be written down or saved teach us to value it and the person telling it to us more?

What's certain is this: our ancestors relied on the earth and one another to survive. It will only serve us to come back to this way of thinking, one folklore story at a time.

No better way to devour "The Lore of Scotland: A Guide to Scottish Legends" than with a cup of coffee by a loch.