Si and I are off on another road trip tomorrow, chasing down more tales, lore, and perhaps even the lost Templar treasure – because why not?

But before we hit the road, I just can’t resist sharing this one with you. It comes from Orkney, a place I’ve yet to visit, but its stories have a way of creeping in regardless.

So, rouse yourselves from your post-Sunday dinner comas, pour a pre-Sunday evening apéritif, and settle in as I regale you with the tale of… the Nuckelavee.

Orkney’s folklore is bursting at the seams with spirits, creatures, and restless ghosts. The land itself is ancient, its history written in stone circles, Pictish carvings, and Viking sagas. The sea is both giver and taker, providing fish and trade but also claiming lives with a hunger as deep as the abyss. It is from this sea that the Nuckelavee comes, though it is no ordinary water spirit. It is something far worse.

Now, descriptions of the Nuckelavee vary, but none of them are particularly comforting. Most commonly it’s said to be part horse, part man, but not in any natural way – not that anything you’d describe as half anything and half man could ever be considered natural. The rider is not separate, not a man sitting astride a beast, but something… fused – grown from the horse itself, as if the very fabric of its being is wrong. Like a Sergio Sandovel fever dream.

Its flesh is raw and glistening, because it has no skin. Black veins pulse across its exposed muscles, its sinews twitch and stretch as it moves in a grotesque mockery of life. The head of the rider lolls unnaturally, sometimes too large for its body, sometimes twisted at a sickening angle. Its arms are too long, its fingers claw-like.

And then there’s the eye.

Just one, burning red, filled with rage and hunger.

And that’s just the human bit. The horse half is no better.

Its nostrils flare wide, expelling clouds of toxic vapour. Its mouth is large and gaping, dripping some kind of foul liquid. Some say its breath alone is enough to blight crops, sicken cattle, and bring disease to those who stray too close. Others claim the beast doesn’t simply kill. It infects, spreading an unseen rot wherever its hooves touch the land. It is, in every sense, a harbinger of doom. And a bit of a minger.

Legends tell of fishermen lost at sea, their bodies found days later, twisted and bloated, their skin seemingly burned away by something unnatural. Farmers speak of livestock mysteriously dying overnight, their bodies untouched, but their eyes wide with terror, as if they had seen something beyond comprehension. The old folk of Orkney know the signs. When sickness comes too swiftly, when the air tastes bitter, when the horses in the fields rear up in fear at nothing? That’s when they know the Nuckelavee has risen from the depths.

But it doesn’t ride freely. Not always. There is a force that can restrain it – the Mither o’ the Sea. She is the calming hand, the protector, the only thing capable of keeping the Nuckelavee in check. During the summer months, when the sea is kinder and the days are longer, she holds it at bay, keeping it imprisoned beneath the waves. But when winter comes, when the storms rage and the days shrink into darkness, her grip weakens and that is when the Nuckelavee is free to roam. That is the time that the people of Orkney fear the most.

Of course, there are ways to escape this hideous beast, though few are brave enough to test them. It can’t abide fresh water. Streams, rivers, even the smallest burn running through the land is enough to stop it in its tracks. In fact, many a tale has been told of desperate souls flinging themselves across running water in the dead of night, the pounding hooves of the Nuckelavee stopping just short, its rage spilling into the wind. But woe betide those who find themselves on open land, with no river to save them, no sanctuary to seek. For them, there is no escape.

Some believe the Nuckelavee is more than just a creature of legend. It is the embodiment of plague, of famine and of every other misfortune that has ever befallen the islands. In the old days when illness swept through the land, when fields yielded nothing but rot and the seas turned against those who depended on them, the blame was placed on the Nuckelavee. Not as a simple superstition, but as a truth whispered from one generation to the next.

Even now, in modern times, the stories persist. They say the islanders no longer speak of it as they once did, but the knowledge remains.

Because old habits die hard.

Doors are still bolted tight when storms roll in. Offerings of fresh water are still left at the edge of fields. And there are still those who refuse to go near the shore when the air smells just a little too foul or when the tide moves in a way that doesn’t feel right.

Perhaps the Nuckelavee is just a story, a relic of an older time when the world was wilder and less understood. Or perhaps, somewhere beneath the waves, it still waits.

Skinless.

Restless.

Hungry.

So, after learning all that, I have to say – I’m kind of relieved we aren’t heading to Orkney on this road trip. In fact, we’re going to Dorset, which is about as far south as we could possibly get from the minging man-mare. Instead of skinless horrors with toxic breath, we’ll just have ghostly wreckers and murderous pirates to deal with. But at least they have skin, which, after tonight’s tale, feels like a small mercy.

Stay Curious 🧐