There is a legend that a hob-thross, a variety of magical goblin, frequented the Millom area long ago. He was naked and furry with big ears and a tail. He liked nothing better than to do housework and look after the animals of the parish. His generosity extended from the Lords and Ladies of Millom Castle to the poorest folk in the town. All would wake up to find irksome jobs done:
“He thresh'd the oats, he churn'd the cream,
He comb'd the manes of the stabled team,
And fodder'd them well with corn and hay,
When the lads were laggards at peep of day.”
The thing that Hob-thross could not abide was any gratitude. His only requirement was a warm place to sleep by the hearth when all the household were asleep and a plate of cream to sip.
When the Lord of Millom Castle gave Hob-thross a coat in gratitude for all his gifts of hard work, the goblin was heart-broken :
“Night and day there was heard a wail
In his ancient haunts, through wind and hail,—
"Hob has got a new coat and new hood,
And Hob no more will do any good."
What is happening in Millom today brings the Hob-thross of old to mind.
In this new story however the reverse is true. Gifts worth £Millions are being showered on the folk of Millom and area by magical goblins. Unlike Hob-thross these magical goblins have great expectations that Millom folk will make an even more generous reciprocal gift in gratitude. The gift the magical goblins at Nuclear Waste Services are angling for is the sacrifice of Millom, the surrounding Duddon Estuary and the Irish Sea to deep burial of high level and very hot (200 degrees c) nuclear wastes.
The folk of Millom have even been asked to be partners with the magical goblins but this is not going entirely to the magical goblins plan with Millom Town Council voting to pull out of the “Community Partnership” with the “developers.”
The “developers” are the magical goblins Nuclear Waste Services and their sole purpose is to deliver a local solution to the national (and international) problem of nuclear wastes by means of a controversial “geological disposal facility” also known as an experimental high level nuclear waste nuclear dump.
Millom Town Council took a vote on whether to remain partners with the magical goblins at Nuclear Waste Services and the result was: “9 members voted to withdraw, 1 vote to remain and 1 abstention”.
This vote is to be ratified at their next meeting on Wednesday, 29th January. Radiation Free Lakeland urge Millom Town Council to ratify their decision to pull out of the “partnership.”
Nuclear Waste Services will continue to throw money at Millom whether or not they are in the “partnership” in the hopes that people will say “yes” to a deep and very hot nuclear dump in the Millom area.
Millom is an area which John Pagen White, the chronicler of the hob-thross legend reproduced below would have known as part of the Lake Country. The carefully drawn Lake District National Park boundary line excludes Millom and other areas of the original Lake Country’s fertile and beautiful coastline in order to facilitate the toxic needs of the nuclear industry (coincidentally born at the same time as the national park).
Millom Hob-thross
from Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country
by John Pagen White (1812-1868)
Millom's bold lords and knights of old
Quaff'd their mead from cups of gold.
A lordly life was theirs, and free,
With revel and joust and minstrelsy.
Their fields were full, and their waters flow'd;
On a hundred steeds their warriors rode:
And glorious still as their line began,
It broaden'd out as it onward ran.
Millom's proud courts had page and groom,
To serve in hall, to wait in room;
Maid and squire in fair array:
But better than these, at close of day—
Better than groom or page in hall,
Than maid and squire, that came at a call,
Was the Goblin Fiend, that shunn'd their sight,
And wrought for the lords of Millom by night.
When sleepy maidens left their fires,
Hob-Thross forth from barns and byres
Came tumbling in, and stretching his form
Out over the hearthstone bright and warm,
He folded his stunted thumbs, to dream
For an idle hour ere he sipp'd his cream;
Or smoothed his wrinkled visage to gaze
On his hairy length at the kindly blaze.
His snipp'd brown bowl of creamy store
Set nightly—nothing Hob wanted more.
He scoured, and delved, and groom'd, and churned;
But favour or hire he scorned and spurned.
Leave him alone to will and to do,
Never were hand and heart so true.
Tempt him with gift, or lay out his hire—
Farewell Hob to farm and fire.
Blest the manor, and blest the lord,
That had Hob to work by field and board!
Blest the field, and blest the farm,
That Hob would keep from waste and harm!
Or ever a wish was fairly thought,
Hob was ready, and all was wrought;
Was grain to be cut, or housed the corn,
All was finish'd 'twixt night and morn.
Millom's great lords rode round their land
With courteous speech and bounteous hand.
Hob-Thross too went forth to roam;
Made every hearth in Millom his home.
He thresh'd the oats, he churn'd the cream,
He comb'd the manes of the stabled team,
And fodder'd them well with corn and hay,
When the lads were laggards at peep of day.
Millom's good lord said—"Nights are cool;
Weave Hob a coat of the finest wool.
Service long he has tender'd free:
Of the finest wool his hood shall be."—
For his service good, in that ancient hold,
To them and to theirs for ages told,
They wove him a coat of the finest wool,
And a hood to wrap him when nights were cool.
It broke his peace, and he could not stay.
Hob took the clothes and went his way.
He wrapp'd him round and he felt him warm:
But his life at Millom lost all its charm.
Night and day there was heard a wail
In his ancient haunts, through wind and hail,—
"Hob has got a new coat and new hood,
And Hob no more will do any good."
Blight and change pass'd over the place.
Came to end that ancient race.
Millom's great lords were found alone
Stretch'd in chancels, carved in stone.
Gone to dust was all their power;
Spiders wove in my lady's bower.
While Hob in his coat and hood of green
Went wooing by night the Elfin Queen.
Call him to field, or wish him in stall,
Hob-Thross answers no one's call.
The snipp'd brown bowls of cream in vain
On the hearths he loved are placed again.
The old and glorious days are flown.
Hob is too proud or lazy grown;
Or he goes in his coat and his hood of green
By night a-wooing the Elfin Queen.
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