If you were asked to think of an unassuming British animal, I would hazard a guess that the first creature to come to mind would be something – small, brown, possibly squeaky – like a mouse or hedgehog. So unassuming is the toad that I bet you’d not have even given it a second thought (if it wasn’t for the title of this post). Yet whilst we might think of toads as little more than ‘dry frogs’ (a phrase I once heard a five year old use to describe them with some accuracy) our medieval counterparts were much more wary of these pesky polliwogs.[1]
Immediately the venom crept through the limbs of each, and all of them swelled up in so wonderful and horrid a manner that any man who saw them would be convinced that their skin must burst…The poison saturated them through and through and the life was brought to the doors of death.[10]
Only Wimarc survived and, having been released, she suffered for seven years from a ‘monstrous swelling’ which no doctor could cure.[11] Turning to the saints she eventually came to St William’s tomb in Norwich Cathedral where, after a few days, she kissed the tomb and ‘vomited all that poisonous discharge on the pavement…it was horrible – no, unbearable, that there was enough of it to fill a vessel of the largest size, that the bystanders were so constrained to leave the place, and the sacrists to cleanse the spot and strew it with fragrant herbs’.[12] Wimarc, however, now appeared completely cured from her swelling, as if she had never been poisoned and, after giving thanks, returned home.
In his memoir of travelling around Wales with Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury in 1188 (to rouse would-be crusaders to take the cross for the Third Crusade) Gerald records many fanciful tales of animals, including self-castrating beavers and tricksy weasels. However no animal comes across more terrifying than the toads of Cemais (now in Pembrokshire) who stalked, and eventually devoured, a young man from the neighbourhood:[16]
In our own days a young man who lived in this neighbourhood, who was lying ill in bed, was persecuted by a plague of toads. It seemed as if the entire local population of toads had made an agreement to go to visit him. Vast numbers were killed by his friends and by those looking after him, but they grew again like the heads of the Hydra. Toads came flocking from all directions, more and more of them, until no one could count them. In the end they young man’s friends and the other people who were trying to help were quite worn out. They chose a tall tree, cut off all its branches and removed all its leaves. Then they hoisted him up to the top in a bag. He was still not safe from his venomous assailants. The toads crawled up the tree looking for him. They killed him and ate him right up, leaving nothing but his skeleton.[17]
No reason is given for why this unfortunate youth should have been targeted by the toads, perhaps they took a disliking to him following some unrecorded insult, or perhaps toads are just so menacing a foe that they need no rational to support their decisions. Either way, Gerald makes it clear that toads are determined and single-minded in their decisions; when they chose to stalk they’ll do it to the death and not even trees or beheading will stand in their way. But, on a plus side (if one can be found) these Welsh toads do not use their natural poison, although Gerald does refer to them as ‘venomous assassins’, so at least the poor chap from Cemais is spared the pain suffered by Wimarc before his demise.[18] However, let’s be honest, neither fate is appealing and the message is clear – avoid toads at all costs!
So next time you come across a toad, you might just want to reconsider becoming acquainted, and if you do decide to go ahead and greet that assisinous amphibian be prepared for the consequences that will (undoubtedly) follow.
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[1] Polliwog derives from the late medieval word polwygle, meaning tadpoles (the larval stage of development in both frogs and toads. Tadpole, itself, comes from the Middle English ‘taddepol’ ‘tadde’ (toad) and ‘pol’ (head) whist polliwog ‘polwygle’ is ‘pol’ (head) and ‘wygle’ (wiggle) – pretty simple really!
[2] Institutes of Justinian, France 15th century, Montpellier, Bibliothèque interuniversitaire. Section Médecine, H 418, fol. 23v via Discarding Images.
[3] Hildegard of Bingen, Physica, trans. P. Throop (Rochester: Healing Arts Press, 1998), Reptiles.iv.
[4] Hildegard of Bingen, Physica, Animals.xxvi.
[5] Hildegard of Bingen, Physica, Reptiles.v.
[6] Douglas, N., Birds and Beasts of the Greek Anthology (London: Chapman and Hall Ltd., 1928), p. 56, digital ed. D. Badke (2003) [last accessed 11th August 2014].
[7] Pamplona Bible, Navarre 1197,Amiens, Bibliothèque municipale, ms. 108, fol. 42v, via Discarding Images [last accessed 11th October 2016].
[8] Thomas of Monmouth, The Life and Miracles of St. William of Norwich, ed. & trans. A. Jessop & M.R. James (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1896), 6.xiii.
[9] Thomas of Monmouth, The Life and Miracles of St. William of Norwich, 6.xiii.
[10] Thomas of Monmouth, The Life and Miracles of St. William of Norwich, 6.xiii.
[11] Thomas of Monmouth, The Life and Miracles of St. William of Norwich, 6.xiii.
[12] Thomas of Monmouth, The Life and Miracles of St. William of Norwich, 6.xiii.
[13] Bodleian MS. Douce 118 ff.134v-135r via Luna, Bodleian Library Manuscripts Online [last accessed 11th October 2016].
[14] ‘Toads: Man-Eating; Poisonous’ from In the Middle (16th February 2006) [last accessed 11th October 2016]
[15] Gerald of Wales, The Journey through Wales in The Journey through Wales and The Description of Wales, trans. L. Thorpe (London: Penguin Books. 1978).
[16] Gerald of Wales, The Journey through Wales, 1.xii (weasels) and 2.iii (beavers), also see 1.vii (dogs), 2.iii (salmon) and 2.vii (mice).
[17] Gerald of Wales, The Journey through Wales, 2.ii.
[18] Gerald of Wales, The Journey through Wales, 2.ii
[19] Image of the Comon Toad (Bufo bufo) from BBC Nature [last accessed 11th October 2016]