the game features in a tragic gaelic poem of the eleventh century, the first verse of which says, in translation:
The players assembled, twelve fine, hearty men,
They strapped on their cauldrons, stood poised to fly
At the sound of the horn they were swiftly airborne
But ten of their number were fated to die.
Creaothceann players each wore a cauldron strapped to the head. At the sound of the horn or drum, up to a hundred charmed rocks and boulders that had been hovering a hundred feet above the ground began to fall towards the earth. The Creaothceann players zoomed around trying to catch as many rocks as possible in their cauldrons. Considered by many Scottish wizards to be the supreme test of manliness and courage, Creaothceann enjoyed considerable popularity in the Middle Ages, despite the huge number of fatalities that resulted from it. The game was made illegal in 1762, and though Magnus 'Dent-Head' Macdonald spearheaded a campaign for its reintroduction in the 1960s, the Ministry of Magic refused to lift the ban.
Shuntbumps was popular in devon, england. this was a crude form of jousting, the sole aim being to knock as many other players as possible off their brooms, the last person remaining on their broom winning.
Swivenhodge began in Herefordshire. Like Stichstock, this involved an inflated bladder, usually a pig's. Players sat backwards on their brooms and batted the bladder backwards and forwards across a hedge with the brush ends of their brooms. The first person to miss gave their opponent a point. First to reach fifty points was the winner.
Swivenhodge is still played in England, though it has never achieved much widespread popularity; Shuntbumps survives only as a children's game. At Queerditch Marsh, however, a game had been created that would one day become the most popular in the wizarding world.
Chapter Three
The Game from Queerditch Marsh
We owe our knowledge of the rude beginnings of Quidditch to the writings of the witch Gertie Keddle, who lived on the edge of Queerditch Marsh in the eleventh century. Fortunately for us, she kept a diary, now in the Museum of Quidditch in London. The excerpts below have been translated from the badly spelled Saxon of the original.
Tuesday. Hot. That lot from across the marsh have been at it again Playing a stupid game on their broomsticks A big leather ball landed in my cabbages. I hexed the man who came for it I'd like to see him fly with his knees on back to front, the great hairy hog.
Tuesday. Wet. Was out on the marsh picking nettles. Broomstick idiots playing again. Watched for a bit from behind a rock. They've got a new ball. Throwing it to each other and crying to stick it in trees at either end of the marsh. Pointless rubbish.