The Milk Famine of Inverness

In the early 1700s, there was a farm near Inverness famous for its dairy cows, managed by a man known as Barron. He had arrived a few years earlier to lease the land and a mill from Robert Chevis, quickly making a name for himself in the quantity and quality of the milk that he delivered into town. Even the weakest, thinnest cows that Barron purchased suddenly became strong and profitable after grazing on his land.

Nobody knew how he did it, but it seemed as if the grass was enchanted. Maybe Barron wasn’t all he seemed or maybe he had some help from the fairies that everybody knew lived under nearby Tomnahurich Hill. Those rumours came to an abrupt end when Barron’s farm, along with all the other farms nearby, began to suffer from a milk famine.

On the surface of it, nothing had changed. The grass still looked lush and green, while the dairy cows seemed just as healthy, but for some reason, they wouldn’t produce a single drop. Children were crying out for milk to drink and parents were forced to walk for miles if they wanted to offer anything but water.

As the months wore on, whispers of witchcraft began to spread but thankfully there were no suspects to accuse. The land was blessed by holy men and counter-spells were cast, but the cows still grew thinner and no milk appeared. Then Barron realised that Chevis the landowner had been improving the forestry on his estate and amongst the new plantations were dozens of rowan trees.

Fairies hated rowan trees above all else and so if his blessing with milk came from those living under Tomnahurich, then maybe this curse was thanks to them as well. As Barron leant against one of those rowan trees pondering that thought, he saw a strange wee man wandering in his direction.

This was the smallest person he had ever seen, with a wizened old face but young, flowing hair. Over his shoulder was a long hawthorn branch, bending at the end under some enormous, invisible weight. Barron eyed the figure as he approached, but it seemed as if he was oblivious to the farmer’s presence.

Just as the hawthorn branch drew parallel to Barron, he whipped out his knife and sliced the end of it clean off. The small man carried on walking as if nothing had happened, but a rushing noise suddenly filled the air. Milk was pouring from the cut branch lying at Barron’s feet.

Faster than a raging torrent, the milk formed a stream that poured down the hillside into the River Ness, turning it white for days. It was everything that had been stolen over months of misery! The next day, the cows were back to normal and the children were happy once again. The milk famine was over and Barron’s land became more profitable than ever.