Kate's Well
St. Catherine's Well or Kate's Well is a historical natural spring well of significant interest and sits on holy ground,[1] at the foot of Kirk O' Shott's Parish Church,[2] otherwise known as (Shottskirk)[3] in the village of Salsburgh,[4] North Lanarkshire. The well dates back to the 15th century, and derives from the church's former past when it was once a Catholic place of worship as St. Catherines Chapel, which has origins from Catherine of Sienna.
The water runs off from nearby hills and has a jovial longstanding joke within the nearby village of how the water runs through the Shottskirk cemetery bodies, which of course is neither true or founded.
Kate's Well is also the scene of the local legendary giant Bertram de Shotts's demise; a gripping tale is told how a young man, namely Willielmo De Muirhead, 1st Laird of Muirhead, killed the Giant. With cunning patience he ambushed Bertram de Shotts, immobilising him by slicing both his hamstrings as he lay down to drink at Kate's Well. Disorientated, Bertram de Shotts was then decapitated in an unpleasant death. A proud, and now wealthy, De Muirhead then carried the blooded head to the King and was rewarded with a 'Hawk's Flight' of land. This land subsequently became Muirhead's Lauchope estate.
The well itself received a much needed boost through a grant organized thanks to the local Community Council group in the early 2000s, which allowed its extensive renovation.
References
[edit]- ^ "Kirk Of Shotts, St Catherine's Chapel, Kirk Well And Martyr's Grave - Canmore". Canmore.org.uk. Retrieved 14 November 2018.
- ^ "Parish of Shotts from The Gazetteer for Scotland". Scittish-places.info. Retrieved 14 November 2018.
- ^ "Local Churches". Salsburghheritagegroup.co.uk. Retrieved 14 November 2018.
- ^ "Lanarkshire Communities » Lanarkshire.com". www.lanarkshire.com. Archived from the original on 7 April 2014. Retrieved 27 April 2022.
It was the early 2000s, and Emma and I would spend hours driving around, just the two of us, exploring the area with no particular destination in mind. One of our favourite stops was Kate’s Well. I remember Emma’s car – or, as we lovingly called it, “Fix It Again Tony,” that old Fiat – making its way down the road, tires humming against the pavement as we pulled up to collect water from that well in our empty coke bottles.
After that, we would hop back in the car, windows down, music blasting. Our soundtrack was a mix of the best hits from Ace of Base, Kate Bush, and all the other artists that defined our youth. I’d light the cigarettes, and Emma would happily smoke them while we sang along to our favourite songs. We had a case full of CDs, each one carefully chosen, and a trusty old portable CD player with mini speakers taped to the dashboard. The music always felt louder when it was just us, cruising and chatting—usually about nothing, but it didn’t matter. We were young, carefree, and ridiculously happy.
But not every trip was smooth sailing. One day, in the middle of nowhere, the Fiat broke down. Of course, we were stranded. The car wouldn’t start, and we had no choice but to wait for help. like magic, the police showed up. They weren’t exactly thrilled about having to push the car, but there we were, sitting in the front seats, laughing hysterically. It must have looked ridiculous, but we couldn’t stop. As soon as the car finally roared to life, Emma let out a joyful toot of the horn. Those police couldn’t see us for dust as we sped off, the sound of our laughter fading into the distance.
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