Snowdonia Folk Tales E-Book

Eric Maddern

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 313

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The old kingdom of Gwynedd – the mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia), Ynys (Anglesey) and the Llyˆn Peninsula – may be the most mythic landscape in Britain. The ancient Druids and from it sprang the tales of Blessed Bran who protected the land, wizards who made a Woman of Flowers, and Merlin the dragon whisperer whose prophecy echoes still. The poet Taliesin walked these hills, Welsh bards told stories of Arthur by these hearths and saints made pilgrimages along these paths. From these hidden nooks the Tylwyth Teg (Fair Folk) emerged to tease the people, and through these mountain passes rode Llywelyn the Great and Owain Glyndwˆ r, living lives that would be spun into legend. Storyteller and singer Eric Maddern has gathered these old tales here and breathed fresh life into them.

Leseprobe

LOCATIONS MAP

  1  How the Dragons Were Buried at Dinas Emrys

  2  Let He Who Would Lead be a Bridge

  3  The Wizards of Gwynedd

  4  The Emperor Dreams of Elen

  5  Taliesin and the Birth of Inspiration

  6  The Druid Prince

  7  Merlin, Dragons and Prophecy

  8  The Ancient Animals

  9  Rhitta and the Cloak of Beards

10  Henwen and the Monstrous Cat

11  Peredur Embarks on His Adventure

12  The Death of Arthur

13  Merlin, Bardsey and the Thirteen Treasures of Britain

14  The Cave of the Young Men of Snowdonia

15  Padarn and Peris

16  Cybi and Seiriol

17  Dwynwen and Gwenfaen

18  Deiniol and Beuno

19  The Fairy Wife

20  The Fairy Harp

21  The Girl and the Golden Chair

22  Fairy Ointment

23  The Changeling

24  Lost Cow and Daughter

25  The Witches of Llanddona

26  Cadwalader’s Goat

27  The Afanc

28  The Eagle and the Wren

29  The King with Horse’s Ears

30  The Drowning of Bala Lake

31  The Faithful Hound

32  The Harpist and the Key

33  Rhys and Meinir at Nant Gwytheyrn

34  A Wedding in the Dark

35  Maelgwn, Dragon of the Isle

36  Gruffydd the Wanderer

37  Madog, Discoverer of America

38  Llywelyn Fawr and Siwan

39  Owain Glyndŵr’s War of Independence

40  The Red Bandits of Mawddwy

41  Marged the Mighty

42  The Mari Jones Walk

43  The Wreck of the Royal Charter

44  The Pass of the Two Stones

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’m grateful to the Ty Newydd Writers’ Centre in Llanystumdwy for inviting Hugh Lupton and I to run retreats for storytellers over a twenty-year period. This gave us the chance to explore deeply many of the stories gathered in this book. I’d particularly like to thank Hugh, who has a deep knowledge of story and myth, and is a brilliant poet and storyteller. He always came up with an original idea that helped make these retreats extraordinary. One of our star guest speakers was Ronald Hutton. Thanks to him for his insight, inspiration and storytelling masterclasses. The tale of ‘Gruffydd the Wanderer’ is based on part of a talk he gave on the origins of The Mabinogion. Dafydd Davies-Hughes – master-craftsman, genius designer-builder, excellent storyteller – generously allowed us to tell stories in his Felin Uchaf roundhouse and has been a helpful mediator between me and the Welsh language and folklore. Gwyn Edwards has also kindly shared his local knowledge and passionate enthusiasm for the ancient mysteries of Wales. Thanks to Rob Collister, who has often guided me through these marvellous mountains; to Sue Mynall for her lovely illustrations; and to Alan Collinson, one of the last remaining professional cartographers in the UK, for his help with the map. I’d like to honour the memory of my Nain and Taid – Jane and Willie Evans from Pandy Tudur – without whom I’d never have landed in this wonderful part of the world; and also to thank my mum and dad, Alwena and Ralph Maddern, who passed on Taid’s tales and whose enthusiasm for Snowdonia has never waned. And behind them, all the raconteurs and ‘lively older men’ who kept the tales alive until they could be written down in a bibliography of books. Thanks, too, to Angharad, whose love for Wales and for me has been a tremendous support. Finally, gratitude to Snowdonia itself, equal to any grand landscape in the world. I hope I have given it and its people a voice in this book.

Eric Maddern, 2015

CONTENTS

Title

Locations Map

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Welsh Pronunciation Guide

1    Mythic Roots

•  How the Dragons Were Buried at Dinas Emrys

•  Let He Who Would Lead be a Bridge

•  The Wizards of Gwynedd

•  The Emperor Dreams of Elen

•  Taliesin and the Birth of Inspiration

•  The Druid Prince

2    Legends of Arthur

•  Merlin, Dragons and Prophecy

•  The Ancient Animals

•  Rhitta and the Cloak of Beards

•  Henwen and the Monstrous Cat

•  Peredur Embarks on His Adventure

•  The Death of Arthur

•  Merlin, Bardsey and the Thirteen Treasures of Britain

•  The Cave of the Young Men of Snowdonia

3    The Lives of Saints

•  Padarn and Peris

•  Cybi and Seiriol

•  Dwynwen and Gwenfaen

•  Deiniol and Beuno

4    The Tylwyth Teg

•  The Fairy Wife

•  The Fairy Harp

•  The Girl and the Golden Chair

•  Fairy Ointment

•  The Changeling

•  Lost Cow and Daughter

•  The Witches of Llanddona

5    Folk Tales

•  Cadwalader’s Goat

•  The Afanc

•  The Eagle and the Wren

•  The King with Horse’s Ears

•  The Drowning of Bala Lake

•  The Faithful Hound

•  The Harpist and the Key

•  Rhys and Meinir at Nant Gwytheyrn

•  A Wedding in the Dark

6    Historic Legends

•  Maelgwn, Dragon of the Isle

•  Gruffydd the Wanderer

•  Madog, Discoverer of America

•  Llywelyn Fawr and Siwan

•  Owain Glynd

ŵ

r’s War of Independence

•  The Red Bandits of Mawddwy

•  Marged the Mighty

•  The Mari Jones Walk

•  The Wreck of the

Royal Charter

7    Epilogue

•  The Pass of the Two Stones

Bibliography

About the Author

Copyright

‘Wales is noted for its tales of fancy … A great place for spreading these tales was the special gathering known as nosweithiau llawen (pleasant evenings). A certain farmhouse would be fixed upon as the meeting-place, and the word would soon spread throughout the whole parish that … a noswaith llawen would be held. The livelier section of the older men would take the lead, and the young men and women would gather round … Drink and the harp were essential in these meetings; and once these enlivening elements had reached the heart and head of the orators, the evening would be considered in full swing. Lively songs were interspersed with amusing stories; the harpist would strike up one of the rousing Welsh melodies, and immediately a voice would chime in which spoke of love, of patriotism, or of deeds of bravery. He would then call for rest and a story. Then would one of the leaders call for silence, and the joviality would immediately cease. Every ear would attend to the raconteur while he related the story of the sport and daring of our forefathers and the feats of our ancestors on the battlefield. The magnificent pictures which were drawn of Arthur and his brave and noble knights roused the spirits of the young, and bred within them a courage and an independence which neither defeat nor tyranny could crush …’

Bedd Gelert: Its Facts, Fairies and Folkloreby D.E. Jenkins (1899)

INTRODUCTION

‘Of all our native hills, Snowdon has the most astonishing wealth of cultural texture, which in itself argues long attraction … No other mountain I know of – [then the names of eleven world-famous peaks] … nor any other of humanity’s holy and legendary hills – come with quite so much story attached.’

Snowdon: The Story of a Welsh Mountain by Jim Perrin (2012)

Herein lie many of the stories ‘attached’ to Snowdon – and the surrounding land of Eryri (Snowdonia), Ynys Môn (Anglesey) and the Llŷn Peninsula. In short, the whole area covered by the old Kingdom of Gwynedd – from the Great Orme to Bardsey Island, from Bala Lake to Holyhead.

This landscape is staggeringly beautiful. Extraordinary places exist here. It has been the canvas for human endeavour for thousands of years. Despite peripheral intrusions of modernity much of the wilder country has changed little in that time. In many areas it’s possible to see traces earlier peoples have left – standing stones, burial mounds, hut circles, hill forts, house platforms, field boundaries, mottes and castle keeps. Standing among the ruins of these ancient times can be frustrating. I, for one, long to know more about the passions and beliefs of the people who lived back then, about the spirit that moved them to do what they did. And yet the stones are silent. Archaeologists can be of some help, but they are reluctant to go ‘beyond the evidence’, to venture into the realm of the imagination. That’s where the stories come in. The myths, legends and folk tales that have survived are windows into the worlds of our ancestors. A selection of such tales from Snowdonia is what you hold in your hand right now.

Most of the stories in this book have descended though the oral tradition. They are offered in roughly chronological order. The oldest, which came to be written down in The Mabinogion, reach back into prehistory and reveal glimpses of the mythic passions and practices of our Neolithic and Bronze Age forebears. There are also hints of the Druids – whose heartland was Ynys Môn – in, for example, the account of wizards who made a woman from flowers; the quest for the imprisoned ‘great son of the great mother’; Gwion Bach’s transformations through hare, salmon, bird and wheat on his way to becoming the inspired poet, Taliesin.

An excerpt from the oldest story mentioning Arthur is here, along with other tales the Welsh bards told to keep the Arthurian legend firmly planted in Snowdonia. Magic, mystery, weirdness, hilarity, beauty and sorrow abound. There is even a prophecy uttered by Merlin 1,500 years ago which seems to be coming true today. The saints were hot on the heels of Arthur – indeed one of them allegedly met him – and their lives give a flavour of the courage and determination of those early holy men and women. Despite Christianity’s best efforts, a belief in fairies persisted even until now. Stories of encounters with the Tylwyth Teg have shown remarkable resilience.

Some Snowdonia folk tales are versions of stories found elsewhere, most famously ‘The Faithful Hound’, now associated with Beddgelert. Others are uniquely homegrown. A couple were passed down through the oral tradition to me from my Welsh grandfather, William Owen Evans. The final swathe of tales in the book are of legendary characters from history who have left a profound mark on this land and its people.

Although Ynys Môn was the Druid heartland, the mountains were their hinterland. To these peaks and passes they must have come for retreat and spiritual practice. Here they had their outliers, their border guards. So in the epilogue, inspired by the burial chamber Maen y Bardd, the Poet’s Stone, I’ve imagined a progression of characters who, over 5,000 years, have walked through ‘the Pass of the Two Stones’ on their way from the east to the Druid’s Isle, just over the horizon …

There is no doubt that Eryri has always been a place of refuge – most famously when Vortigern fled from the Saxons to Dinas Emrys – but also a stronghold. With its dense forests, hidden valleys, caves and rocky crags, there are plenty of good places to hide … and to launch ambushes from.

Curiously, two of the more mythic tales suggest ancient links between Snowdonia – a place of raw physical power – and London, since time immemorial the centre of political power. The dragons, whose screams every May eve sent people mad and withered the land, were captured from the centre of the land by King Lludd and carried to Eryri where their disturbing power was contained in a lake below the summit of Snowdon. The giant king Bran, who came from Old Gwynedd, had his head buried under the White Mount (Tower of London) to protect the Island of the Mighty from invasion. These peripheral mountains can, it seems, both hold the troubles of the centre and send protection back to it!

Many years ago I worked in the Aboriginal communities of Central Australia. I came to understand a little of their complex and mysterious notion of ‘the Dreaming’. To simplify, it works like this. In the beginning songlines and sacred sites were created by the journeys and adventures of the spirit ancestors. The people travelled along those songlines (‘walkabout’) and made ceremonies in the sacred sites (dancing, singing, retelling the stories) to keep the spirit of the Dreamtime alive. This strengthened the performers, who ‘became who they were at the beginning of time’, and left the place in good heart. By this means Aboriginal people maintained a spiritual connection with the land and communion with their ancestors. White Australians, they observed, ‘got no Dreaming’.

This made me think, if there was a ‘white man’s Dreaming’, what would it be? Since returning to Britain in 1982, and mostly living in North Wales, I’ve been exploring that question. I’ve worked for English Heritage and CADW telling stories at more than fifty historic sites (including Avebury, Tintagel and Conwy Castle) to bring these places alive. And for twenty years Hugh Lupton and I led a series of storytelling retreats at Ty Newydd Writers’ Centre near Criccieth on ‘the Matter of Britain’. Every year we spent at least a day visiting places in the landscape that related to the tales we were retelling. Four times, for example, we visited sites associated with the Fourth Branch of The Mabinogion, the story I’ve called ‘The Wizards of Gwynedd’. We found that telling the story in the place it happened lights up both the tale and the place. The storyteller is invigorated and the place seems to come alive too. There is an echo here of the ceremonies Aboriginal people do to keep the spirit of the Dreaming alive.

This collection of tales arises, then, out of this prolonged period of exploration. It is my first stab at the ‘White Man’s Dreaming’! Of course the stories do not cover the whole of Britain. Far from it. But I believe they are representative of the larger material and, in my biased opinion, are as good as those to be found anywhere. I am, I freely admit, partisan in my view.

The longer I’ve lived in Wales and the more steeped I’ve become in these stories, the more Cymraeg I’ve felt. However, one of my regrets is that, despite some efforts, I’ve not mastered the Welsh language. This is a significant lack because Snowdonia is the heartland of the Welsh language and I know there are still traditional tales not yet translated into English. So I apologise to my Welsh friends and readers for that. I hope that what I have managed partly compensates.

I have, however, had my Welsh-speaking informants. Chief among them are Angharad Wynne, my partner, and Alwena Maddern, my mum. Angharad has generously shared her encylopaedic knowledge of Wales and Mum has sent me handwritten translations of Welsh stories. Thanks very much to you both. My gratitude also goes to my father, Ralph Maddern, who, years ago, wrote half a dozen books about walking in Snowdonia. His love for the place shines through in these works. When I excitedly told him recently about my discoveries in the mountains he simply said, ‘Yes, there is no better place in the world.’

Eric Maddern

Cae Mabon, Snowdonia, 2015

WELSH PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Pronouncing the 7 vowels

A –    

‘a’

as in man

E –

‘eh’

as in bed

I –

‘ee’

as in knee

O –

‘o’ (flat)    

as in got

U –

‘i’

as in bitter

W –

‘oo’

as in zoo

Y can be said in three different ways:

‘uh’    

is used when it means ‘the’, e.g. ‘y garn’ (uh garn)

‘ee’

when in the middle of words ‘byd’ (b-ee-d)

‘u’

as in up, e.g. ‘ynys’ (un-ees)

Consonants to note

C –    

‘k’

as in kale

Ch –

‘ch’ (in throat)    

as in the Scottish ‘loch’

Dd –

‘th’

as in breathe

Ff –

‘f’

as in fellow

F –

‘v’

as in very

G –

‘g’ (always hard)

as in good

NG –

‘ng’

as in finger

R –

‘rr’ (rolled)

Ll –

is a unique sound to Welsh and is formed by placing the tip of the tongue on the back of the top front teeth and forcing air between the tongue and the cheeks.

Pronouncing the dipthongs

Ae –

‘y’

as in why

Ai –

‘y’

as in why

Au –

‘y’

as in why

Aw –

‘ow’

as in how

Ei –

‘ay’

as in day

Eu –

‘ay’

as in day

Ew –    

‘eh-oo’    

(no English equivilant)

I’w –

‘ee-oo’

as in yew

Y’w –

‘ee-oo’

as in yew

Oe –

‘oy’

as in toy

Ow –

‘oh’

as in low

Wy –

‘oo-ee’

as in the French ‘oui’

Ywy –

‘ui’

as in Druid

Pronounciation of names

Arianrhod

a-rr-ee-ah-n-rr-h-od

Afagddu

a-v-a-g-th-ee

Beddgelert

b-eh-th-g-eh-l-eh-r-t

Bendigeidfran

b-eh-n-d-ee-g-ay-d-v-rr-a-n

Blodeuedd

bl-o-d-ay-eh-th

Blodeuwedd

bl-od-ay-oo-eh-th

Bwlch y Ddeufaen    

b-oo-l-ch / uh / th-ay-v-iy-n

Ceridwen

k-eh-r-i-d-oo-eh-n

Creirwy

k-rr-ai-rr-oo-ee

Culhwch

k-i-l-hoo-ch

Cymru

k-uh-m-rr-ee

Dinas Emrys

d-ee-n-a-s / eh-m-rr-ee-s

Drws y Coed

d-rr-oo-s / uh / k-oy-d

Eryri

eh-rr-uh-rr-ee

Goewin

g-oy-oo-ee-n

Gronw Pebyr

g-rr-o-n-oo / p-eh-b-uh-rr

Gruffydd ap Cynan

g-rr-i-ff-i-th / a-p / k-uh-n-a-n

Gwenhwyfar

g-oo-eh-n-h-oo-ee-v-a-rr

Gwrhyr

g-oo-rr-hee-rr

Gwyddno

g-oo-i-th-n-o

Illtud

i-LL-t-i-d

Lleu Llaw Gyffes

LL-ee-oo / LL-ow / g-uh-ff-e-ss

Lludd

LL-ee-th

Llyfelys

LL-uh-v-eh-l-ee-s

Llywelyn

LL-uh-oo-e-l-uh-in

Llŷn

LL-ee-uh-n

Llyn Cerrig Bach

LL-ee-n / k-eh-rr-igg / b-a-ch

Machynlleth

m-a-ch-uh-n-LL-eh-th

Maelgwn Gwynedd

m-iy-l-g-oo-n / g-oo-i-n-eh-th

Maen y Bardd

mah-en / uh / b-a-rr-th

Matholwch

m-a-th-o-l-oo-ch

Mawddwy

m-ow-th-oo-ee

Medrawd

m-eh-d-rr-ow-d

Mur Castell

m-i-r / k-a-s-t-eh-LL

Myrddin

m-uh-rr-th-i-n

Nantlle

n-a-n-t-LL-eh

Owain Glyndŵr

o-oo-a-ee-n / g-l-i-n-d-oo-rr

Pryderi

p-rr-uh-d-eh-rr-ee

Rhitta

rr-hee-t-a

Taliesin

t-a-l-ee-eh-s-i-n

Tangwystl

t-a-n-g-oo-i-s-t-l

Twrch Trwyth

t-oo-rr-ch / t-rr-oo-ee-th

Tylwyth Teg

t-uh-l-oo-i-th / t-eh-g

Ynys Enlli

uh-n-i-s / eh-n-LL-ee

Ynys Môn

uh-n-i-s / m-or-n

Yr Wyddfa

uh-rr / oo-i-th-v-a

Ysbaddaden

uh-s-b-a-th-a-d-eh-n

1

MYTHIC ROOTS

The first stories in this book – with one exception – are some of Britain’s oldest. By the time they were written down – in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries – they’d passed through the minds of many bards for more than 1,000 years. They were collected into a book we call The Mabinogion (sometimes Mabinogi), which has been described as ‘mythology in decline’. Incomplete though it is, it’s still possible to see traces of Bronze Age gods and goddesses, even to glimpse fragments of ancient creation myth. Through this we get hints of what the Celtic mysteries might have been. Bran, for example, is the sacred wounded king whose severed head brings about otherworldly enchantment but which eventually must be returned to the sacred land to ensure fertility and protection. Arianrhod, whose name means ‘silver wheel’, is a star goddess. Gwydion, wizard, trickster and storyteller, might be god of the bards. The stories of Math, son of Mathonwy, and his heir Lleu Llaw Gyffes, contain themes like betrayal, death and resurrection which were further developed in the Arthuriad. The Cauldron of Inspiration was later to become the chalice of the Holy Grail.

The one new story is ‘The Druid Prince’. It is included here because it’s set when the other stories were fully known and current. It draws on archaeological evidence and speculation about Lindow Man, the preserved body found in a peat bog near Manchester. Accepting the idea that it was a triple sacrifice I’ve constructed a narrative to highlight the significance of Ynys Môn in the clash between the Druids and the Romans in AD 60.

HOWTHE DRAGONS WERE BURIEDAT DINAS EMRYS

Back in the swirling mists of time was a king, Beli Mawr, Beli the Great. He was king of the Britons before the Romans ever set foot on this land. His eldest son was Lludd, his youngest Llefelys.

When Beli died Lludd (known in the English tongue as Lud) became king of the Island of Britain. He was a wise and generous king and during his reign the people prospered. He rebuilt the broken walls of the greatest city, studding them with painted towers and making a grand gate, known as Lud’s Gate or Ludgate. He encouraged the citizens to build splendid houses and dwelt there himself much of the year. Indeed the city was named after him: Caer Lludd. Later it became Lud’s Town, then simply London.

After many years Lludd’s luck changed. Three terrible plagues hit the land. The first was the curse of gossiping – no matter what secret was whispered into the ear of another it was caught by the wind and carried far and wide across the land. The second was the curse of gluttony – whenever ample provisions were gathered in the king’s court, by the morning all had disappeared no matter how well guarded. But the third plague was the most terrifying of all. It was the curse of withering. On May eve every Beltane an awful scream was heard across the land, a scream that rose from the depths of the earth and sucked the sense and strength from every living thing. Old men who heard it went mad. Women lost their beauty and their babies died inside them. Children were struck dumb and healthy men withered on the spot. Animals and trees were left barren. The country became a wasteland.

This is how Lludd cured this worst curse. His younger brother Llyfelys had married the daughter of the King of France and by now was king himself. He was a wise man and Lludd knew he could help. So he put out to sea to meet his brother on the rolling waves of the channel between the two lands. Aboard a rocking boat Llyfelys insisted they talk through a long bronze horn so their secrets would not be whipped away by the winds. And so Llyfelys gave Lludd the remedies for all three plagues.

After dealing with the first two, Lludd followed his brother’s instructions to remedy the third. The cause of this plague, Llyfelys had said, was two dragons – residing in the heart of the land – who every year battled to achieve supremacy. ‘When the dragons are awake,’ said Llyfelys, ‘there is a disturbance in the land.’ So Lludd had the Island of Britain measured in length and breadth and found its centre to be at Oxford. Then he loaded a wagon with a cauldron, two stone jars, a silken cloth the colour of mud and gallons of sweet, dark mead. On May eve he came to that central place. There he found a murky lake and a circle of standing stones. He wedged the cauldron in thick mud by the lake, filled it with the mead and covered it with the cloth. Next he went into the stone circle, pressed wax earplugs into his ears, and lay on the ground to wait. As the darkness coiled around him the air thickened and from under the earth came an awesome shudder. Lludd could hear nothing but he knew the scream had begun. Then from the lake he saw two monstrous water serpents rise up from the deeps, water dripping from their scales. The two serpents, one red, the other white, fought with each other, writhing and rolling in the mud. After the first round they sprouted horns and turned into shaggy oxen, charging at each other, screaming in pain. And so the battle continued through many shapes until at last they assumed their true form: snorting, fire-breathing dragons. Up into the air they rose, clawing at each other, snapping and snarling, until at last, exhausted from their efforts, they transformed into two piglets and fell back to earth, through the mud-coloured cloth and into the waiting cauldron. There they drank the mead and fell into the deepest sleep.

Lludd had no time to lose. He ran to the cauldron, snatched up the sleeping piglets and popped each one into a stone jar and placed them on his cart. Then he rode day and night to the strongest, most secure place in his kingdom, Eryri, the mountains of Snowdonia. Finally he came to a hill called Dinas Ffaraon (later known as Dinas Emrys) just below Yr Wyddfa, the highest mountain in the land. There, in the hollow summit of the hill, he found a pool. With all his strength he lifted the two stone jars and hurled them into the rush-fringed pond. As they splashed into the water the small lake was itself swallowed up by the earth, leaving nothing but grass and stones rippling out in all directions.

And so the dragons were buried beneath the hill of what was to become Dinas Emrys. It would be hundreds of years before they would wake up again. Lludd’s act became known as one of the ‘Three Fortunate Concealments of the Island of Britain’.

LET HE WHO WOULD LEADBEA BRIDGE

The Second Branch of The Mabinogion

Bendigeidfran – Bran the Blessed – was the giant high king of the Island of the Mighty. One day he was sitting with his court on the rock of Harlech looking out to sea when he saw thirteen ships approaching from Ireland. He sent armed men to meet them and discovered that Matholwch, the King of Ireland, had come seeking the hand of Bran’s sister in marriage. She, Branwen, was the most beautiful girl in the world and became known as one of the ‘Three Chief Maidens of this Island’. After taking counsel on the matter the union was agreed. Matholwch and his people sailed to Aberffraw on Ynys Môn while Bran and his retinue travelled overland. And there the wedding feast was held.

Bran had two half-brothers, the twins Nisien and Efnisien. Whereas Nisien would, where there was discord, bring harmony, Efnisien, where there was peace, would cause conflict. He was the bringer of bitter tears, which is perhaps why he was not invited to the wedding. However, when he discovered that his half-sister had slept with the King of Ireland, and that not only had he not been invited to the celebration, he’d not even been consulted about it, he was furious. He was determined to wreak revenge.

It was the horses that suffered most. They were fine, handpicked steeds, specially brought over from Ireland for the occasion. They were an easy target. While the festivities were still in full swing, Efnisien crept through the shadows, a twisted but determined look on his face. A sudden flicker of silver in the moonlight and the horses were screaming in pain. He slashed tails to the back, ears to the skull, lips to the teeth. Even, where he could, eyelids were sliced off. Dodging flying hooves, oblivious to the whinnying terror, he slipped back into the darkness, grimly satisfied with his harvest of blood.

No matter what his big brother Bran might do to make amends with the offended Irish, there was only ever going to be an uneasy peace. Such a terrible action is not easily forgotten or forgiven. Only when Bran offered Matholwch the Cauldron of Rebirth (which could bring a dead man back to life, though without speech, and which had come originally from Ireland) did the Irish king disregard the insult of the maimed horses and rejoin the carousing. And the following day he sailed with his beautiful bride back to Ireland.

At first Branwen was warmly welcomed and gained much favour by giving valuable gifts to the nobles who visited the court. After a year she bore a son who was named Gwern. But thereafter she paid dearly for Efnisien’s dark deeds. Her husband tried to love her, but the outraged voices of his countrymen grew from a whisper to a clamour. In the second year she was put from the royal bed and forced to work in the kitchen, where each day the butcher came to slap her on the face …

What’s this? She has a bird in her hand. She is stroking its iridescent green and black feathers. Her hair is dishevelled, her face swollen, her beauty marred by bruising and distress. But she holds the bird, she loves the bird, she whispers to the bird: ‘Go, my sweet starling, fly across the sea, go to my great crow-raven brother. His head is like a craggy mountain, his hair is a forest of spears, his eyes are bottomless pools. You will know him when you see him. His mind is full of the tales of our people. Go to him, to the ancient Druid, to mighty Bran. Tell him of his sister’s fallen fortunes, call him to my aid.’ And she throws the bird up into the air.

The starling flickers aloft, staggers upwards, beats its wings against the salt breeze, crosses the open water, seeks out its kin. It comes to the shining shore where the Eryri-fed waters of the Seiont river flow out to sea. And there, in the setting sun, it finds its flock. It penetrates the heart, sweeping and swirling, circling and diving, ten thousand birds ribboning together, the flock mind inscribing giant brush strokes across the sky, writing a message only an old Druid can read. Bran, looking up from his watching hill, sees the murmuration, reads the signs, recognises in the bird language a cry for help. He springs to his feet …

Bendigeidfran, Bran the Blessed, went with a mighty army to Ireland to rescue his sister and put wrongs to right. It was supposed to be a war to end wars. The giant king showed the way by laying himself down over a river as a bridge so his people could cross, giving rise to the proverb ‘let he who would lead be a bridge’.

But it did not end well. Efnisien’s treachery led to further mayhem and the mayhem led to slaughter, wide and deep. Though the eagles may have flown high above Eryri foreshadowing victory for the Cymry, it was a hollow one. Bran was mortally wounded in the foot. Only Branwen and seven men – including Pryderi, Lord of Dyfed, the wise and cautious Manawydan, and Taliesin, Bard of the Shining Brow – made it back alive. Bran ordered that his head be cut off and carried, first around Wales, then to burial beneath the White Mount in London where it would, he said, protect the Island of the Mighty from invasion.

When they returned to their homeland Branwen was distraught. ‘Woe that I was ever born,’ she said. ‘Two good islands have been laid to waste because of me.’ And with that she let out a great sigh and her heart broke. She was buried in a four-sided grave on the banks of the Alaw river in Ynys Môn. The remains of Bedd Branwen, Branwen’s Grave, can be found there to this day.

The journey around Wales was a time of enchantment. For seven years those who had returned from Ireland feasted in Harlech, accompanied by the Birds of Rhiannon. Though they could not see the birds the song rang in their ears as if they were close, utterly surpassing anything they’d heard before. So sweet was the music that all memory of sorrow and suffering was banished. What a blessed relief from grief it was. The enchantment continued on the Island of Gwales in the south where Bran’s head was as good company as ever he had been. Never had life been more pleasurable. At this ‘Assembly of the Noble Head’, though time seemed to stand still, eighty years passed.

But one day one of the men decided to open ‘the door to Cornwall’ and as he did so all the memories of their losses and sufferings came flooding back. So they made their way to London and buried Bran’s head on the White Mount. That act was another of ‘the Three Fortunate Concealments of the Island of Britain’. From that day forth no invaders ever came across the sea to oppress the people of the Island of the Mighty. Not until, that is, Bran’s Head was dug up. But that is another story.

THE WIZARDSOF GWYNEDD

The Fourth Branch of The Mabinogion: The Wizard’s Demise

From the summit of Snowdon west to the sea lies the Nantlle Valley, the ‘Valley of Lleu’. This story tells of the birth and strangely charmed life of Lleu Llaw Gyffes – the Fair One with the Deft Hand. But it is also about the wizard trickster Gwydion, his sagacious uncle Math, and Blodeuedd, the Woman of Flowers.

Math, son of Mathonwy (‘Bear son of Bear-Like’), lived in Caer Dathyl near the mouth of the Nantlle Valley. Many places have been suggested as the location for this ancient hall. I think the strongest contenders are Caer Engan, Y Foel and Craig y Dinas. What is more certain is that Dinas Dinlle, an eroding hill fort by the sea south of Caernarfon, was home to Math’s nephew, Gwydion, son of Dôn. Both men were wizards with consummate powers.

Math had to live with a peculiar constraint. Unless he was at war his feet had to rest in the lap of a virgin. Math’s foot-holder at the time was the beautiful Goewin, daughter of Pebin. While Math was confined to his hall, his two nephews, Gwydion and his brother Gilfaethwy, rode out with a retinue on a circuit of Gwynedd making court visits.

It happened that Gilfaethwy developed a burning passion for Goewin, but as she was never separated from Math he didn’t know what to do. She haunted his thoughts day and night until he became sick with lust for her. Gwydion noticed this affliction and asked his brother what was wrong. ‘I cannot say,’ replied Gilfaethwy, ‘for you know Math has the magical power to pick up any word that is whispered on the wind.’ ‘Say no more,’ said Gwydion. ‘I know what is troubling you. You love Goewen. Never fear my lad, I will hatch a plan.’

Gwydion was not only a wizard, he was also a trickster and a cunning fellow. But sometimes he was a fool who unleashed terrible troubles. Now, merely for the sake of his brother’s lust, he created war among the Cymru which caused the death of many a hero. For war, you’ll remember, was the only way to separate Math from Goewin.

Gwydion went to Math and told him there were new beasts in the world called pigs. ‘They are smaller than cattle,’ he said, ‘but their flesh tastes sweeter.’ The only person in possession of these creatures, he explained, was Pryderi, Lord of Dyfed. He’d been given them as a gift by Arawn, King of Annwfn, the Otherworld. Math’s appetite was whetted by this news so he asked Gwydion to obtain some of these animals.

Gwydion, Gilfaethwy and ten men went south to Pryderi’s court in Ceredigion. They came in the guise of bards. As well as his other talents Gwydion was also a superb storyteller, the best in the world it was said. That night he wove a wonderful tale that enchanted all who heard it. ‘You have a marvellous tongue,’ was Pryderi’s praise. Gwydion then admitted that his errand was to obtain the beasts from the Otherworld. ‘Not easily done,’ said Pryderi, ‘for I have sworn neither to sell nor give them away until they have doubled their number.’ ‘Ah,’ said Gwydion. ‘In the morn I will show how you might exchange them with me.’

That night Gwydion resorted to his magical arts and conjured from toadstools twelve handsome steeds with bridles and saddles of gold, and twelve black and white-breasted hounds with collars and leashes of gold. The next morning Pryderi accepted these astonishing beasts in exchange for the pigs, and Gwydion and his companions set off with the sacred swine at once. ‘We must make speed,’ he said, ‘for the spell will only last a day.’ They headed north (leaving a trail of pig-named places such as Mochdre and Mochnant) eventually securing the animals in a sty high in the hills. When they returned to Caer Dathyl they found Math mustering his warriors for battle, for by then Pryderi had discovered Gwydion’s trick and was heading north with his army, determined to seek vengeance.

Math and his men set out for the Glaslyn river estuary the next day, but that night Gwydion and Gilfaethwy secretly returned to Caer Dathyl. And in Math’s very bed Gilfaethwy forcibly had his way with Goewin, and her maidservants were roughly thrown out of their quarters.