The Lost Wetlands: Folklore, Habitat Loss, and the Legend of Tiddy Mun

The Fens and Carrs of Lincolnshire were once vast wetland areas. They were wild, watery and dangerous places. It was a challenging environment. The inhabitants knew the land and earned their livelihood through fishing, reed weaving and grazing livestock.

The Guardians of the Mist

Amongst peat bogs and reed marsh, a hidden tribe of people thrived. Some knew them as Greencoaties, others The Strangers, but they were most commonly known as The Tiddy People. Tiddy on account of their diminutive stature, they lived their lives in a silent symphony with the ebb and flow of the landscape.

One of their most revered figures was known as the Tiddy Mun. He was guardian of the wetlands and had powers over the water and the wildlife that it was home to. He, and his kind, were a benign presence to the Fenlanders, and in fact, if they Fens flooded they called for the help of  the Tiddy Mun:

“Tiddy Mun wi’out a name,

tha waters thruff!”

They would call this out until hearing the cry of the peewit. This signalled that the Tiddy Mun had heard their pleas and, by morning, the waters would have receded.

The Great Drainage and the Wrath of the Tiddy Mun

For centuries He and the other Tiddy Folk lived in harmony with their watery world. That was up until the reign of King Charles I. In the 1630s King Charles called upon Dutch engineers to supervise the draining of the Fens and Carrs. Meandering rivers were straightened, and sluices and embankments were created to divert water to the sea. Windpumps were used to pump water away from areas that remained liable to flooding. The wild wetland was transformed into taxable farmland.

The Tiddy Mun was furious about the demolition of his home and so, he laid a curse upon the land. Crops failed, livestock perished, houses crumbled and a pestilence plagued the people. The marsh fever, or ague, left the sufferer with episodes bone-shaking fits of shivering, which made way for high fever and confusion. It was most commonly children who were struck down by the disease.

Recognising that this was the wrath of the Tiddy Mun, the locals began to make offerings of fresh water to him. Each new moon they would carry buckets of water, which they would poor into the dykes, apologising for the damage caused. This appeared to appease the Tiddy Mun and so the ritual continued.

Modern Echoes: What the Folklore Teaches Us

Tales such as this give us an important message from the past about the effects of habitat loss. The pestilence experienced was very real, likely as a consequence of the an increased population of flies and mosquitos leading to malaria outbreaks. The ground became unstable and leading to subsidence. The traditional grazing habitats of livestock was also taken away. This led to significant hardships for the locals. A group of saboteurs known as the ‘Fen Tigers’ resisted the changes, riots broke out and the drainage systems were intentionally damaged.

Our ancestors knew the land. They lived in symbiosis with the wetland habitat. The myth of the Tiddy Mun can be seen as a conduit to process a real-world trauma. The desiccation of the land was seen as a disruption of a delicate balance that had sustained both man and nature for millennia.

Across continents and cultures, folklore is replete with similar narratives. In modern times it is easy to dismiss such stories as ancient superstitions, but the indigenous wisdom contained within show profound ecological knowledge and a deep respect for the living world.

Re-engaging with folklore is about rediscovering the profound reverence for nature that these stories embody. It’s about understanding that every patch of land we live upon, every tree, every river has a “spirit”. The complex and vulnerable web of connections deserve our protection and respect. When we forget our ancestors stories, we risk forgetting the intrinsic values of the natural world itself.

Perhaps some of the Tiddy People are still with us. Perhaps they endure in the few remaining pockets of wild, unspoiled marsh, or have found a new home within the reclaimed wetlands. Or perhaps, like the landscapes they once guarded, they have finally succumbed to the silent encroachment of pesticides and microplastics. If they have vanished, we are the poorer for it, not just for the loss of a legend, but for the loss of the quiet, ancestral connection they represented.

Our personal folklore (the stories we tell ourselves) shape how we move through the world. If you're curious about exploring your own narrative or finding a deeper connection to your environment, get in touch today for a free 15-minute consultation.