Many places and landmarks have their own origin stories, particularly those that hold the name of an animal, a deity or mythological character and we shall discover more of them, throughout this book. We’ve just discovered one for the Hemlock Stone, but none exists for Stoney Clouds; the first hill we pass, after we cross the River Erewash and enter Derbyshire. It derives its name from the Anglo-Saxon word ‘clud’, meaning hill and then taking on the meaning ‘cloud’, as clouds often gather around hill tops; hence, Stoney Clouds.
When it comes to folk tales, I don’t think there are any issues in writing new ones, particularly where none exist. Aside from origin tales and stories of derring do, many folk tales exist to provide a moral lesson, a warning or just plain good advice, in a time before formal schooling existed. Someone had to create the ‘original’ folk tales, so there is - in my mind - no reason for us not to create new ones, where space for such exists. I would, however, be very much against someone creating a new folk tale and trying to pass it off as old (see Ruth L. Tongue, in the chapter on the Derwent).
I wrote this tale around twenty years ago, when I was working for an environmental organisation, for a wassailing festival, based around Stoney Clouds and the woodlands that rise up to it - sadly, not orchards, in this case. Upon writing this book, I realised I could not find my original version of this tale; it having been written on an old PC, many generations past. This, then, is …
The Tale of Stoney Clouds
Countless centuries ago, the land of Britain or Albion, as it was once known, was full of giants. These were enormous, vicious beasts, who regularly feasted upon human flesh. They sculpted the landscapes, with their titanic battles and finally, when they died, their bones went on to make the hills and mountains we see today.
One such giant was a particularly evil beast known as Clud; an ancient name for clouds, because, when stood erect, his head was in the very clouds themselves! Some called him ‘Stoney Face’, as his appearance was as if he were carved from stone itself. His skin was like cold, cracked grey granite, with lichen and moss abounding; lending him a leprous, cadaverous look, as if the stone itself were rotting. His eyes were like deep, ominous caves, with red fires burning within and his teeth were as ancient tombstones, erupting from his blackened gums. All-in-all, a fearsome titan to behold.
Clud lived in the rolling hills in the south of what would eventually become Derbyshire. It was a fertile land, where animals could thrive and provide food for the giant. Few brave humans, though, would dare live in his shadow. However, one small village did thrive. Only a few, short miles away to the east lay the hamlet of Dale. This was a tiny settlement, nestled in a fertile, hidden valley, so small as to be beyond Clud’s gaze. In the hills that surrounded it were small caves, hidden amongst the forest, where the villagers could hide, should Clud’s attention be turned their way.
In the village of Dale, there lived a young boy named Cuan, which meant ‘little wolf’. Cuan was the son of the blacksmith and had spent his short life so far, crafting iron and learning at his father’s side. One fine May morning, Cuan had taken himself off for a walk, to hone his stalking skills and spy out the newly born red deer that abounded the area. On his way home, the ground began to tremble, with a regular thud, thud, thud! This was no earthquake and Cuan, like all other residents of Dale, knew what it for what it was; the sound of Clud’s mighty footsteps. Quick as a hare, Cuan hid himself amongst a gorse thicket, until the giant’s footsteps disappeared into the distance, back in the direction of his home. As soon as it was safe, Cuan dragged himself out of hiding and fled back to Dale. As he approached the village, the unmistakable scent of smoke and blood assailed his nostrils and a heavy feeling of doom fell upon him. It was as bad, if not worse than he imagined. Dale was in ruins.
Cuan ran down into the remains of the village, with tears running down his now soot streaked face. Most of the buildings were crushed and smouldering, and streaks of blood painted much of the remains of Dale. The only building that remained was his father’s forge, which glowed with a dull red light. Cuan sat down and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until his voice was hoarse and he had no more tears to cry. Not wanting to stay amidst the broken remains of his home any longer, Cuan gathered a few belongings and headed away into the woods, surrounding Dale.
By late afternoon, exhausted and drained, Cuan slumped down against the trunk of an old oak tree and silently sobbed into his hands, until a croaky voice sounded from the branches above:
“Cronk! Now, here’s as sorry a little human as ever I have seen.”
The voice was coming from a great, glossy, black raven, perched upon a branch. Of course, in those days, it was not entirely unusual for animals to talk to humans, particularly an animal as wise and ancient as a raven.
“Judging by the scent of fresh blood upon the air and the rising of smoke in the distance, you’ll be from yonder village, but recently lain waste by the giant, Clud?”
Cuan, mutely, nodded his head. The raven continued:
“Time would have been when a warrior would have risen up to wreak revenge and put an end to that evil old giant.”
“But I’m no hero”, whimpered Cuan. “I am not big, nor strong, nor brave and I have no giant-slaying sword.”
“Caw!” Croaked the raven, as if laughing. “Size and strength are no match for cunning; only those who are first afraid can be brave and the mightiest sword would be useless unless it were sharp. You have need of raven-wisdom. Follow!”
And the raven flapped away. Cuan followed the raven for some miles, before he alighted on a rocky outcrop, overlooking a small farmstead, within which a farmer toiled, a few cattle grazed, crops were growing in furrows and a small chicken coup was sited. On the edge of the farmstead, a proud red fox nonchalantly strolled up to the dry stone walls that surrounded it and stared straight across the farm at the chicken coup, licking its lips, as it did so. Before long, the farmer spied the fox and roared two words:
“Dogs! Fox!”
Two hounds immediately emerged from the barn, where they had been sleeping and, along with the farmer, pitchfork in hand, raced across the farm to the wall, where the fox stood staring. In a flash of copper, the fox turned and darted off, towards the woods. Before he reached them, the fox rolled head over tail, in a pile of old, discarded sheep fleece. He then ran round in circles, before shooting off into the woods. Just as the fox disappeared into the woods, the farmer and his dogs cornered the wall and set off in the direction of the woods.
As soon as the dogs reached the pile of fleece they stopped dead and began sniffing the ground in confusion. Turning around in circles, the hounds searched for the fox’s scent; their noses confused by so many conflicting smells; was it fox? Was it sheep? Was it a sheepfox? Meanwhile, the fox had slipped out of the woods and, unbeknownst to the farmer and his dogs, was paddling along a brook - masking his scent even further - back to the farmyard. After some loud clucking commotion, the fox appeared again, bounding over the dry stone wall, with a fat chicken in its jaws and set off back home, to its den; the farmer and his hounds oblivious, as they searched fruitlessly through the woods.
“Cronk! Mr Fox is a wiley one indeed! You could learn much from his deception.” cawed the raven.
And, with that, the raven flew off, bidding Cuan to follow him into the woods. Before long, the raven alighted on a branch and bade Cuan to be quiet and hide by the bole of the tree. Before long, out of the undergrowth, a great back rat shuffled. It stopped and sniffed the air, its whiskers trembling in anticipation, as it eyed a small nest, burrowed into the undergrowth. The rat made for the burrow, no doubt expecting a tasty snack within, when a blur of reddy brown fur burst from hiding. A long, lithe weasel, barely half the size of the rat, flew like lightning across the wooded clearing. The massive rat bared its teeth at this tiny interloper, but it was not fast enough, by half. The weasel sinuously sidestepped the rat’s clumsy attacks, diving in and biting the rat, with its tiny, spear-tipped teeth. Eventually, the rat was defeated by the weasel’s relentless and sharp attacks, and it fled away from whence it came, now a bloody mess.
“Cronk!” Said the raven “Now Mr Weasel is a lot smaller than Mr Rat, but with speed and sharp tooth he won. In fact - cronk - you could say it was like a child fighting a giant.”
The raven had a mischievous glint in his beady, black eye as he said this. Wise old bird that he was, he had planted the seeds of a plan in Cuan’s brain.
“I think, perhaps, I should go home.” Said Cuan.
And, with that, Cuan and the raven headed back to Dale. Once there, Cuan headed through the ruins of his village and entered his father’s forge. A dim red light still glowed weakly in the heart of the forge, so Cuan set about with the bellows, to rouse it back to life. Before long, the forge was roaring with hot, red life. Finding a few scraps of iron and other metals, Cuan began to forge steel. It was not much, maybe enough for a long knife or a short sword, but it would be enough for Cuan’s purpose. After a sleepless night, for foreign steel does not allow rest, Cuan had finished his weapon. He held it aloft and the patterned steel glinted in the dawn’s light.
“I name you Weasel Tooth!” Pronounced Cuan “Caw! Caw! Caw!” Croaked the raven “A fine title for a fine blade, little human.” Cuan beamed with pride, his father had taught him well.
Cuan rested that day and formulated a plan to gain revenge on Clud, the giant. At first light Cuan arose, this would be a perilous day indeed!
“Now” he said to the raven “I must set out to slay Clud. Will you help me find him?” “Of course, little wolf,” replied the great, black bird. “I would love nothing more than to see the demise of old Stone Face. Follow me!”
And with a flutter and flap of his glossy black wings, the raven took to the air.” Cuan pushed Weasel Tooth into his belt strap and took a decidedly smelly sheepskin from the still smoking remains of the village, then followed the raven. It did not take long, no more than a couple of miles walking and the pair spied the giant himself, reclining upon a hilltop, just a few fields distant. Cuan then wrapped the old sheepskin about himself and carefully made his way across the fields, towards the giant. Cuan fell to all fours and shuffled forward, like a sheep. Clud rumbled, deep in his chest and sniffed the air, suspicion writ clear across his face.
“What manner of creature is this, I smell?” He thundered “Baa, ‘tis just me, a lowly sheep.” Replied Cuan. “It is a brave sheep indeed to approach me.” Rumbled Clud. “Ah, but I am old and worn, with little meat left upon my bones now. I just wanted to see the great Clud and know, if indeed he is the tallest giant in the land.”
“Whaaaaaat!” Roared, Clud, causing the very ground to rumble and stones to fall from their walls. “I am the giantest giant in all the land” “Baa, hmmm.” Replied Cuan the sheep. “I had heard that Gogmagog, the great giant of Albion, was so tall that birds flew around his head.” “Ha! We shall see about that!” Exclaimed Clud. The mighty giant rose up, to his full height, with his hands upon his hips. Right upon cue, the raven flew up from where he had been hiding and began to fly around Clud’s heading, croaking and cawing, as if it was the most natural thing to do.
“See?” Bellowed Clud. “I am so tall that ravens fly around me!” “Baa, hmmm.” Cuan the sheep bleated. “You are very tall indeed. But I have heard that the Cerne Abbas Giant is so tall that, when he stands at his highest, his head is in the very clouds themselves!” “We shall see!” Cried Clud, clearly frustrated now.
Clud looked around him and spied a higher point on the hill. He stepped onto it, his head just a hair's-breadth below the clouds. Stretching up, ever higher, Clud stood on the tips of his toes, raising his stoney bulk up towards the clouds. Far too big to be considered agile, Clud teetered upon his titanic toes, seeming to sway in the wind. Seeing his chance, Cuan threw off his sheep disguise and drew out Weasel Tooth. He rushed forward, evading the giant’s gaze and plunged his blade right under Clud’s big toe nail. The giant roared in pain and crashed to the ground, splitting his head right open, upon the rocky ground of the hill and Clud the Giant, Stoney Face the scourge was no more. With the passing of the years, Clud’s remains crumbled into the rock of the hillside, making it higher than ever it was before. The hill earned the name, Stoney-Face Clud and, with ever more centuries, as the giant was forgotten, Stoney Clouds, as it remains today.
© Simon Unsworth 2025