The Midsummer Tale of Berwyn Hughes

“Come away, come away, catch up a hand,

‘Follow our steps to the fairy ring.

‘We’ll show you mysteries you’ll not understand

‘’Till you have danced with the fairy king...”

 I was at my desk earlier, when I heard a scrabbling in the kitchen. 

I went to investigate and found my dog trying to get at a house martin that had found his way in.  He had wedged himself behind a heavy planter and was transfixed with fear. His eye was so unblinking; his body so still I thought he was dead. 

I opened the window and shooed the dog from the room and slid my hands behind the planter. I thought he would struggle, but he seemed to melt into my cupped palmes. I only looked at him for seconds, but his stark black back and pure white belly were amazing close up. I put my hands out of the window and took away the upper one. I didn't want to throw him––I was terrified he'd just drop to earth. But he took off, fluttering up and away over the garden wall. 

I fancy he might have raised one wing feather to me behind his back. Certainly, I wasn't expecting gratidude, but rescuing birds tends to set you up for the morning and when I walked the dog over the fields I was even more present than usual to the skies above me. There was a kite...oh! aother...riding the currents. A solitary crow and a twittery chaffinch in a rowan. And then, crowning the walk, from the hedgerow a skylark rose, she seemed to twirl on the spot for a moment, just yards above me––she was so close I could see the little brown crest on her head––before she disappeared, higher and higher, singing her song, warning of mother-love, rising from the depths of her throat.

On the way home, I picked a single branch of hawthorne, still in full blossom around our way, to perk up the vase of sudsy lilac and white broom I have in my lounge, adding a couple of sprays of cow parsley from the hedge; a much maligned wild flower that is beautiful in my opinion. 

Yesterday I spent too long bent over my pond spotting the newts and enjoying the antics of the growing tadpoles when I saw several damselflies mating and laying eggs in my pond.  The males seem to grab the females with their legs, which are all at the front of their long, ultralucsent bodies. They conduct a beautiful pas de deux, in which he releases his sperm and she bends her long body to receive it. Afterwards, I watched the females deposit the fertalised eggs into the pond. I thought damselflies were supposed to lay their eggs on floating leaves, but rather riskily, mine use a clump of floating dandelion seeds for the proccess. Even so, I'm hopeful we'll have some real-live water nymphs in our pond by the autum!

I didn't dare move for fear of missing something, and the sun was beating down hot on the back of my neck, making me think of the transition time from early to midsumer. I think I'm almost ready to move from Beltaine Bounce to Solstice Spirit. Even though bluebells and may still abound round here, I can see the lupins and the foxgloves all ready for action, their beautiful flower buds swelling ready to burst. I've got a wildflower area which is full of electric blue knapweek right now, but the delicate flowers of the toadflax won't be far behind. 

In Anglesy, Bryn Celli Ddu is an almost intact buriel chaber aligned to the rising sun on the summer solstice. A shaft of sunlight pierces to the center of the burial chamber as the sun rises. Most years, it's going to be cloudy...or raining, but when it was built, Bryn Celli Ddu (Mound of the Dark Grove) in the early Neolithic Period, a henge (a type of earthen enclosure) was constructed around a circle of stones. Perhaps a 1000 years later, the chamber was erected. As we know, because the Roman told us so, that there were Ancient Druids in Anglesy,  it stands to reason that they gathered at the site to mark the longest day of the year. And now, the Anglesy Druid Order gather each year, an echo of rituals that happened millennia ago.

Heuldro'r Haf––Summer Solstice in Welsh, was welcomed with dancing, merriment and the lighting of bonfires - all celebrations that were seen as essential to producing a bountiful crop.  On Midsummer eve ––Gathering Day––it is told that Celtic Druids harvested herbs for medicine, believing this day, they were especially potent. Mistletoe in particular was thought to cure all illnesses and some report that it was cut with a golden scythe and caught in a cloth before it fell to the ground. Welsh girls would pick a sprig on Midsummer Eve and sleep with it beneath their pillow, hoping their dreams would foretell of future…hopefully romantic…events. Then on Gŵyl Ifan Ganol Haf––Midsummer Day––bonfires would be built and people stayed up to see the sun start to emerge so early in the morning. 

Magic could happen (still can!) on a night like that, as it did to Berwyn Hughes  He farmed a very small plot of land up in the Cambrians, and lived hand to mouth; one cow, one sow, a few hens and two small fields he scythed each year for hay and barley. Since his beloved mother had passed on, he’d lived alone, not brave enough to woo a woman to become his bride.

Although Berwyn worked hard, and was rarely seen at the village dances, he did have one interest. He was fascinated by fairies. At the top of a little hill about a quarter of a mile from his farm, was a  ruined castle, said to be the abode of the "wee folk". Every midsummer Berwyn would creep towards the hill, after dark, and imagine he could see little figures flitting to and fro inside. One Midsummer he got carried away and crept closer and closer to the ruined castle walls. Enchanting music of pipes and flutes got louder and louder, and the slitted windows were ablaze with some sort of light from inside the castle. He could hear them singing,

“Come away, come away, catch up a hand,

‘Follow our steps to the fairy ring.

‘We’ll show you mysteries you’ll not understand

‘’Till you have danced with the fairy king…”

Berwyn hid in a grove at one side of the ruin and listened to the elfin revelry, and the laughter and singing. He could see the shadows of dancing figures, and the glowing light from the castle turned the leaves of the trees around him to gold. Not even realising he was doing so, Berwyn moved so close to the merry-makers he was almost among them. 

They were beautiful people, slender and blonde, with flowers in their hair and tinkling voices. Some danced and danced to the music of flutes and fiddles, while others drank and feasted. All of a sudden, several of them tuned to him. ”Welcome, Berwyn Hughes, welcome, welcome…" echoed around the castle walls,  repeated by every voice. A drink was pushed into his hand, and a beautiful, fay lady, who only came up to his shoulder, took him by the hands and spun him round, into the perpetual dance. 

The short summer night flew, and Jamie was having a cracking time. As the first glimmers of light were seen on the horizon,  one fairy came into the centre of the dancing, carrying a small moss-oak branch. “Let us ride to  Carmarthen––Merlin’s town––and steal a young lady.”

“Ydyn! cried the others, “To  Merlin’s town. Let us have some fun! Will you come too, Berwyn Hughes?"

"Aye, that will I!" Berwyn was thirsting for adventure, especially when he saw a troop of snow white horses standing at the door, ready to take them across the hills of Ceredigion. Jamie had never mounted such a fine horse, and to his further surprise, his steed rose with him into the air. He was presently flying over his own smallholding, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over the hills, the cwms, the llyns and pentres, until he heard the silvery voices cry, “Carmarthen, Merlin’s town!” They settled only a little way outside the centre of the town, on a green square where one of two grand houses stood. The troop dismounted and crept into one of the houses. They simply poured themselves through the locked door, and Berwyn followed them. There, in a pink and silver bedroom, Jamie saw a beautiful face, on a silken pillow in a splendid bed. 

“Gwen Griffiths,  Gwen Griffiths,” the fairies sang as they lifted  the young lady, still dreaming and deep asleep, and carried away, while the moss oak was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact form.

The Fairy Raid: Carrying Off a Changeling, Midsummer Eve 

Joseph Noel Paton (1821–1901)

Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum

“Come away, come away, catch up a hand,

‘Follow our steps to the fairy ring.

‘We’ll show you mysteries you’ll not understand

‘’Till you have danced with the fairy king...”’

Gwen Griffiths was placed before one rider on a fine white horse, and off they flew. As each fairy horse tired from her weight, she was passed to another, and another. Berwyn could see they were finally approaching the castle near his home, where the fairies lived. He seized his chance to speak ”You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady," said he. "Why wouldn't I get her for a  while?”

“Let the lad take a turn," the fairies replied pleasantly, “he’s been marvellous company tonight.”

Holding his prize very tightly, he whispered into his horse’s ear and felt his steed drop, fast, out of the sky, until it was cantering across his own fields. 

“Berwyn Hughts!” cried the fairies. “Is that the way you treat us?" And they too dropped down near the door, tossing all sorts of ugly spells.  The fay folk turned Gwen into all sorts of strange shapes. At one moment she was a black dog, barking and trying to bite; at another, a glowing bar of iron, which yet had no heat; then, again, a sack of wool.

Jamie held her fast, for although sometimes he knew not what he was holding, he knew if he let her go, all was lost for the young girl. And all the while he was cantering like crazy for the door of his bothyn. 

The beautiful girl became a salivating boar with sharp tusks, then a slimy newt, who was hard to hold onto, but still Jamie grasped her, and the baffled elves were turning away, when a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, “Berwyn Hughes has got her! Well, he can keep her. We'll send her deaf and dumb!'

Once the fay too had rode off, Jamie lifted the latch and went in, carrying to Gwen Griffiths, to his bed, tucked her up and let her sleep, while he had an hour in the rocking chair, then went out to milk his cows.

When he got back, she was shivering in her light clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire, looking confused and terrified, but unable to speak a word. Berwyn tried to explain to her what had happened, but she could hear not a word, and Berwyn had never needed to learn his letters. All he could do was show her he meant her no harm. He made them both porridge, and brought her to his rough table to eat. 

In normal years, Berwyn made only just enough from his land to feed himself, but for all that year, he laboured twice as hard, to find good clothes for the girl, and food for both of them. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears stole down her checks many an evening while Berwyn sat opposite her across the fire, making his salmon nets, an accomplishment lately acquired by him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest.

But Gwen was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived Berwyn looking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig, help milk the cow, mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.

So a year passed, and Midsummer came round again. 

This time, Berwyn was careful to make not a sound as he went up the hill as the midsummer sun dipped below the horizon. He hid quietly in the grove of trees and listened with sharp ears and heard their singing;

“Come away, come away, catch up a hand,

‘Follow our steps to the fairy ring.

‘We’ll show you mysteries you’ll not understand

‘’Till you have danced with the fairy king…”

As before, there were bright lights in the castle windows, and the shadows show all the party of the Fay drinking, feasting, and dancing the midsummer night away. As before, they chattered loudly, their voices raised above the fiddles and flutes.

"That was a poor trick Berwyn Hughes played us this night last year, “ said one of them, “when he stole the nice young lady from us."

"Ay," Berwyn heard the voice of the tiny woman who had cast the spell on the young girl. "and I punished him for it, for there she sits, a dumb image by his hearth.”

The fairies all screamed with laughter, then one of them cried out in delight, “Little does he know that three drops out from this chalice  I hold in my hand  would bring back her her hearing and her speech."

Jamie's heart beat fast. He waited a long time in the grove. Almost until the sun was up. Then he entered the castle hall. Again he was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company--"Here comes Berwyn Hughes! welcome, welcome, Berwyn!"

Berwyn smiled back, nodding and tapping his foot to the music as if he fancied a dance. But he slowly moved close to the little woman, and said, “Let me drink your health.” He  snatched the chalice from her and darted to the door.  As he ran down the hill, he glanced back. All the fairy troop were running after him, no - they were flying after him – getting closer all the time, their fine fingers reaching out to snatch back the chalice. He never knew how he reached his bothyn, but he arrived there breathless, and slammed the door tight, bolting it twice. But he knew that the fay could melt through doors, so he ran over to where Gwen was asleep and dashed three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the chalice, over her lips and closed eyelids.

The  girl began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to Berwyn. As soon as she spoke the sun seemed to rise, more quickly than was usual, even for the solstice morn, and when Berwyn looked out of his little window, the fairies had all disappeared into the morning mist.

The two of them had so much to say to one another, that long after midday,  and all through their morning work, they were talking.

"Berwyn," said the lady, "I must go to my father and mother."

“There is no money with me to hire a carriage for you," he replied.

“I am as strong as any farming woman now” she replied. “If you show me the way, we can get there by foot.”

And so the two of them walked all the way from to Carmarthen. It was not as easy as the fairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in the big green square.

"Tell Mr Griffiths that his daughter is here," said Berwyn to the servant who opened the door.

"The gentleman that lives here has no daughter. He had one, but she died a year ago."

"Do you not know me?” cried Gwen.

The girl shook her head and in a few moments the girl's father came to the door.

"Dear Tad, it’s your Gwen, come back!”

"How dare you call me Tad?" cried the old gentleman, angrily. "You are an impostor. I have no daughter."

"Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me."

"My daughter is dead and buried. She died a year ago." The old gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow. “

"Stop, dear Tad, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it."

"It certainly is my daughter's ring; but I fear you came about it in no honest way."

"Call Mam, she will be sure to know me," said Gwen, and she began to cry bitterly.

"My poor wife has been sent mad by the sorrow of her bereavement Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?"

But at last the mother was sent for.

“Mam,” she began, when the old lady came to the door, "don't you know your daughter? Look in my face, and surely you'll know me."

The old lady shook her head.

"Look at this mole on my neck. Surely, mother, you know me now?"

"Yes, yes," said the mother, "my Gwen had a mole on her neck like that; but then I saw her in her coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her."

Then Berwyn stepped forward and told his story, of midsummer last year, of the fairy journey, the moss oak replacement of Gwen, and of the three drops that had released her from her enchantment.

Gwen told how kind he had been to her - how he had saved her from enchantment in the world of the fay.

Once they heard the story, Gwen's mam and tad could not make enough of Berwyn. They treated him with every distinction, and said they did not know what to, do to show their gratitude.

“I know a way,” said Gwen, and a blush came to her cheek. Berwyn and I have lived like brother and sister this past year, but now I think it is time for our wedding to take place. He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. I love him with all my heart.”

This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. There was a splendid wedding, and, once the cow and the pig and the hens had been found good homes, they all lived together in the grand Carmarthen house, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law's death.

“Come away, come away, catch up a hand,

‘Follow our steps to the fairy ring.

‘We’ll show you mysteries you’ll not understand

‘’Till you have danced with the fairy king...”

William Blakes Fourfold Vision–Imagination is Eternity

 Now I a fourfold vision see,

William Blake

And a fourfold vision is given to me;
‘Tis fourfold in my supreme delight
And threefold in soft Beulah’s night
And twofold Always. May God us keep
From Single vision & Newton’s sleep!

Maybe today, we need more of the mystery that was William Blake's approach to the world.

 Blake’s contemporaries often regarded him as eccentric or mad. But today we can be found singing Jeruslalem with gusto at proms––even if we don't understand a word of what he  meant––yet still drawn to the idea that the 'dark satanic mills' can be defeated with 'mental strife'. 

 Blake was a mystic, an early Rosicrucian. He studied British (and Norse) mythology and works of Jacob Boehme, and his favourite book, it is said, was St John's  Revelation, and he'd experienced visions and 

His who tried to explain his constant prophetic visions through his poetry and unique art. It seems that he was telling us about human imagination. How through vision, meditation and other penetrating thought methods––shamanism included, I think––it reveals the truths of existence. ‘If the doors of perception were cleansed,' he wrote, 'every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.’ 

I first encountered this idea at a Temenos Meeting at Lampeter University, where Susanne Sklar explained how Blake's Fourfold mythic system is designed to change the way we think and see, leading us into a world where imagination and forgiveness are social structuring principles, and how he evolved these theories throughout his working life, culminating in his book Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion, in which he imagines how war, poverty, and repression no longer exist when Jerusalem, which Blake seems to witness as a feminine-divine, rises and we enter the state of Eternity.

Blake spoke a lot about  fourfold vision' but he didn't invent the term. He would have known very well that it is in the Bible and in 

Jacob having his mysterious dream of angels going up his Ladder.  

Paradise Lost, (Blake wrote a long poem about Milton).  Also,  before Blake was born, Thomas Boston's book of theology entitled  Human Nature, in its Four-fold State, names these 'states' as Ulro, Generation, Beulah, and Eternity. Blake refers to these in Jerusalem.  Because the four visionary paths mean different things depending on the interpretation, I wonder if these inner names offer clues to what what Blake actually meant. 

Blake considered 'single vision'…Ulro…to be the way a person sees the world in either/or dynamics,  beliving only in the reality that one can see in front of oneself. In the quote at the top of this blogpost, Blake mentions Newton’s sleep, believing it to be the sleep of reason where the world is viewed solely through the narrow lens of science. Rather, Blake urges people to be 'twofold always', recognizing that everything is multi-dimensional with layers of meaning, one leading to another. Twofold Vision…Generation…invites a focus on patterns and interconnections within relationships, a constant search for sincronicity, and an understanding of omens and oracles. 

Threefold Vision…Beulah…concentrates on relationships. In Hebrew, Beulah means 'married', and in this instance, it suggests  a constant search for personal connection, the lived experience of empathy, and intuitive, emotional engagement with others. This vision acknowledges that as we encounter the world, we are changed. Blake explained the way he saw things in a letter to the Reverend Dr. Trusler, in 1799: I know that This World Is a World of IMAGINATION & Vision. I see Every thing I paint In This World, but Every body does not see alike. To the eyes of a Miser a Guinea is more beautiful than the Sun, & a bag worn with the use of Money has more beautiful proportions than a Vine filled with Grapes. The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing that stands in the way. ... It's nice to acknowledge that Blake's own marraige to Catherine was a happy union that lasted to his death. 

the fourfold imagination

Eternity––the fourfold vision experience––includes and makes sense of the best of the other states. Reasoning, basic drives, love and other emotions and, most important, imagination, to innterelate and allow a person's senses to be open. This can lead to immense 'seeing', or visionary experiences. Therapist Hugh Palmer says; Fourfold Vision, combines precision, relationship, empathy, and creativity in a dynamic, ethical interplay. This state of eternity might offer the artist a window, or mirror, or culvert or path towards new and original thinking, be it in paint, stone, words or any other creative outlet. 

Anyone who has taken a shamanic journey will have quickly found themselves shaken out of their single vision status and into recognising there is more inside and outside the world than we can simply see. The fourfold vision offers a 'glimpse of eternity' and a shamanic journey can offer someting very close to that; a relationship with the ancestors, an ability to learn in new ways and a chance to bond and communicate with spirit guides and deities. 

Blake was revolutionary in every way, as these words might show; Nature has no Outline, but Imagination has. Nature has no Tune, but Imagination has. Nature has no Supernatural and dissolves: Imagination is Eternity.

His poem,  Auguries of Innocence, is a statement on the right to life and freedom without qualification, suggesting he would have been just as comfortable and outspoken if he'd lived in the 21st century:

A Robin Red breast in a Cage

Puts all Heaven in a Rage.

A dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate

Predicts the ruin of the State.

Each outcry of the hunted Hare

A fibre from the Brain does tear.

The wanton Boy that kills the Fly

Shall feel the Spider’s enmity.

Each couplet is an illustration of a philosophical perspective suggesting that so long as anyone is imprisoned, none of us is free. It is the ultimate call for justice that includes all creatures.

Blake lived almost 70 years, and just before his death, he created the picture below,  The Ancient of Days Striking the First Circle of the Earth, after reading again, in Paradise Lost, …He took the golden Compasses….

The Ancient of Days Striking the First Circle of the Earth

https://www.legendsofwales.com/home/twrch-trwyth/

The Twrch Trwych––a magical boar of great size and superhero strength––has fascinated me for years. Anyone who has seen a boar burst out of woodland cover and race across a forest path, snorting and steaming, the sharpness of his tusks catching the light, will know that the non-magical variety of boar is impressive enough. But this boar shoots silver spears from his bristles and is accompanied by his seven sons, all piglets with a nasty streak. 

His is a tale within in myth, and one of the first tales of King Arthur. A story of courage to the death, in the quest for some barber's equipment. In the story, the names of all the earliest knights of Arthur are set down, and many places in Wales are named. The myth has been called an 'onomastic tale', which is the study of the origin of place names. In Welsh myth, naming places in a hunt or journey is often linked to key episodes within the tale. But it's just as possible that the story inspired the place-names themselves. In their wonderful book about the Trwych's journey, Hunting the Wild Magalith,  Bowan and Pritchard say...replace the word 'story' with 'place'...in the animist past, the land is a story book, places are narrative, and the high ground is the home of heroes and gods.

Although the story wasn't set down in writing until the 14th century (in two manuscripts, the Red Book of Hergest, and the White Book of Rhydderch which is held in the National Library of Wales) it may be far older, part of ancient storytelling. We find it in the very complicated tale of Culhwch and Olwen. Long before we meet the boar, at the start of the tale, Culhwch, a cousin of Arthur's,  asks the great king for help; he's helplessly in love with Olwen, but Ysbaddaden, her father, is evil, possessive, and, worse, gigantic. The first thing Arthur does is sit Culhwch down and, with his very own golden comb and ‘shears with hoops of silver’, makes him presentable for the pursuit of love. It's clear that being clean shaven, well combed and generally tidy in appearance has great importance to the people in the tale, and across the Welsh myths, pigs and boars are also important. The compelling part of this story is that it combines both elements.

Culhwch achieves a series of impossible tasks thanks to Arthur and his war band, and wins the hand of his love. But Ysbaddaden insists he must be shaved properly before the wedding can take place, and this can only be done with the magical comb, scissors and razor that are entangled between the ears of the Twrch Trwyth.

It's possible that the story of this boar is actually another tale entirely, as the Twrch Trwyth was an Irish king magically transformed for his wickedness. Being turned into an animal because you've been bad crops up a lot in the ancient Welsh stories.

Arthur, Culhwch and the knights sail to Ireland and fight the Trwyth. Very soon he and his sons have escaped, leaving the dead and wounded behind, and swum the Irish Sea, to execute his revenge by ravaging towns, villages and crops across the land of Cymru. 

The monstrous pigs land at St David's head, now famous for the cathedral dedicated to the saint, and the well and shrine to his mother, Saint Non. Dolmen (passage graves called called Cromech in Welsh), litter this landscape, Carn Llidi being the closest to the boars' route. The Twrch charged furiously down towards Deu Gleddau, an ancient ford on the massive Cleddau river where there is a Bronze Age settlement and an earlier tomb, Carn Turne. 

The Twrch Trwyth's route next takes him upstream to Carn Goedog, identified as a major source for the spotted dolerites at Stonehenge So these two confirmed bluestone quarries, Craig Rhos-y-felin and Carn Goedog, both have the appearance of a resting or hiding giant boar, it seems very likely that these rocky outcrops disguised as giant boars hiding in the Preseli landscape inspired the gigantic size of the boar. The text of Culhwch doesn't mention these sites but the boar must at least pass close by them on his way from the Nevern to Cwm Cerwyn.

They run amok up to Nevern,where the most wonderful church still stands, yews bleeding in the churchyard and an ogham stone inside the building. 

Then south again, down the Afon Brynberian for a couple of miles, passing through two remarkable sites on either flank, as if through a gateway. One of these sites is the world famous bluestone cromlech Pentre Ifan, the other has been, up until relatively recent times, almost completely overlooked. It is a (stoneless) neolithic henge known as Castell Mawr.

So the route of the Twrch Trwyth through the Preseli Hills begins by him passing through two neolithic monuments, one circular, one with a huge capstone. Both these monuments have in recent times been identified by archaeologist prof. Mike Parker Pearson as being key to understanding the circular dimensions and architectural structures at Stonehenge. (See this blogpost for more info). 

The chase goes right through St Clears, where The Twrch killed four champions including Gwrydre, Arthur's son, who was trampled to death. 

At the border of Ammanford and the village of Penybanc is a metal sculpture symbolising the Twrch Trwyth and two of his company; while in Cwmamman itself, Ysgol y Bedol school displays a splendid sculpture commemorating the community's history, including its mythology. The Twrch is depicted fighting a warrior and his dogs in what has become part of the village's treasures .

Ammanford

Another legend depicts King Arthur himself as a Giant crossing over the Amman Valley. At the place on the Betws Mountain above Brunant Farm where he stopped to empty his shoe, there is a large flat rock, known by some as "Y Garreg Fawr" (Big Rock) and to others as "Arthurs Stone"

The magical boars began to run rings around the war band, going from Ammaford up into the black mountains, skirting Carreg Cennin Castle above the pretty village of Trap and finally to the lovely Llyn Fan Fawr  (Welsh for 'great lake (near) the peak'). 

Llyn y Fan Fawr

https://mabinogionastronomy.blogspot.com/2020/07/the-route-of-twrch-trwyth-and-bluestones.html

Now there were less boars, but there were less of Arthur's men, too, many having been lost in the fighting. The Twrch headed right up through what is now Ceredigion, almost to Aberystwyth, and down to Talgarth, with men picking off boars each time. But the Twrch Trwych ran on, through the Tawy Valley to Ewyas Harold, a village in the Golden Valley in Herefordshire, with Arthur's war band constantly hard on their trotters, still seeking the comb, razor and scissors. The great boar was alone now, having lost his sons. As he reached the mouth of the Severn, Arthur leapt upon him. Manawyddan grabbed his feet, upending him into the tidal waters. Then Mabon leaned forward and snatched the razer. Cyledr the Wild wrenched the scissors from between his ears. Before they could get the comb, the Twrch slipped out of Arthur's grasp, shook off his tormentors and scrambled back onto the land. With great speed he fled across the shore towards Cornwall. Undeterred, Arthur pursued him to the Cornish coast where Culhwch seized the comb and tore it from between the ears of the Twrch before the creature fled headlong into the deep sea. He was never seen again.

So Cuhlwch outwits the giant Ysbaddaden, and presents him with the tools to be shaved for the wedding. 

I've found there is great fun and fascinating revelations in trying to trace their devastating path, as all along it, are Neolithic and Bronze Age sites, including stone circles and graves. 

The magical boar can still be seen...

The Stonehenge Mystery of the Altar Stone.

 

Ten or more years ago, my imagination was captured by the mind-blowing discoveries at the Ness of Brodgar in Orkney, where the archaeological dig had started uncovering this new discovery in a 2010 dig. Brick by brick, bone by bone, they revealed a 5500-year-old temple complex with more than 100 buildings, surrounded by a 10ft wall. Some of this complex is possible more than 800 years earlier than Stonehenge and could be as, if not more, important than the Wiltshire site.

The altar stone lies flat and buried under two fallen sarsen stones
and is barely visible to visitors. Photograph: Aberystwyth University

This week's jaw-dropping news about the Altar Stone at Stonehenge changes things again. Scientific research has revealed an extraordinary new mystery––the massive six-tonne stone at the heart of the monument was brought to Stonehenge from the far north of Scotland.

The Altar Stone is ritually the most important stone at Stonehenge. It marks the intersection of the winter solstice sunrise to summer solstice sunset alignment, and the summer solstice sunrise to winter solstice sunset alignment.

Individual crystals were examined which allowed the Altar Stone to be dated, showing Old Red Sandstone from the Orcadian basin in north-east Scotland. This basin was once a massive ancient water body called Lake Orcadie. It's possible that this was already a ritually important stone that  might even have been taken from the Orkney sacred site, or certainly the very north-east area of the mainland. 

Aberystwyth University geologist Nick Pearce
 analyses Neolithic standing stones in Orkney 
(Prof Richard Bevins, Aberystwyth University)

This journey of over 500 miles seems near impossible. It might have been brought by sea as there is evidence that people at this time were making sea journeys. However, it could have been dragged. That would mean organising teams of people to pull the stone, possibly swapping to new teams as the journey progressed south. But now we are beginning to realise how closely connected settlements might have been, this feels more realistic.

Speaking in the New Scientist,  geologist Richard Bevins from Aberystwyth University said, "Most stone circles are made from rocks found within a kilometre of the site. The thing that’s unique about Stonehenge is the distance that stones have been transported." 

Bevins’s team has already shown that the bluestones come from the Preseli hills in Wales, about 280 kilometres away. One idea is that they were part of an even older Welsh stone monument that was moved, a fascinating story to me, which I featured in this blog post here, because I live so close to these Welsh sites. 

It was always a possibility that early man travelled widely, and the news this week seems to confirm that both these sites were connected. 

An artist's impression of what
archeologists are uncovering

I first wrote about the amazing temple complex at the Ring of Brodgar after Jim and I visited Orkney just as they were starting to dig there. Even then,  it was quite apparent to us  that Orkney was a hub of society at that time, rather than an 'outback'.

You can read more about the full era of the Orkney complex  here on this blogpost, "Unlocking the Secrets of Ancient Worship".

All this linking together of sites across England, Wales and Scotland (as we now think of it), suggests not only hardworking, intelligent and knowledgeable people living in the early Neolithic, but people who could plan, work and worship together. Of course, they may have argued, even fought each other too, but perhaps we might take a lesson from their achievements, which, in comparison, seem to outweigh our own 

The Siberian Shamanka: What we Know About Pre-historic Shamanism, PART ONE.

:   

Ice Maiden

I am the young girl:

warm-skinned,

beating-wild heart,

galloping with my tribe

across bleak plains,

calling to the wind.

I am the young woman:

dressed in silk tussah,

red-piped;

tasselled girdle;

boots, knee-high.

I am the story teller:

gold-leaf camels parade

my three foot crown;

prancing deer with

curling antlers

race across my skin.

I am ancient bones:

six dead horses

guard my grave-gate;

spices and mutton

nurture my silence.

I am the young girl:

I am treasure:

twenty-five centuries of

frozen sleep

and now they come to wake me;

warm water seeps through my ice mask,

but I do not smile

as the blue sky greets me.  © Theolyn Cortens 2000

What is a shaman? How far back into history can we trace shamanic work? The answers are startling, intriguing and convincing. They show a firm line from this century leading right back to the Mesolithic. 

But first we go back two thousand, five hundred years, and journey to Siberia.

The Siberian Shamanka (Shaman) showing tattoos

It was the summer of 1993. This was archeologist Natalia Polosmak's fourth season working with her team on the Altai Mountains, where the permafrost is a guardian of ancient secrets.

Diggers reported they had discovered a block of ice in which lay the mummified body of a 25-year-old woman.

Natalia found that this Siberian Ice Maiden was of Scythian descent––a tribe that roamed the steppes throughout the Bronze Age. The grandeur of the burial could only mean she was a princess. She was housed in a small cabin, and its wood has allowed her burial to be dated, indicating that the Ice Maiden was buried in the spring, at some point during the 5th century BCE. The Ice Maiden had intricate designs adorning her skin and lay surrounded by her six horses. Autopsy also revealed that the this young woman had suffered from breast cancer, and was using  cannabis to relieve her pain. 

Reconstruction of the tomb chamber of the Siberian Ice Maiden. Top, above, her costume reconstruction. Both can be seen in the Anokhin Museum.

Her costume was well preserved. Her blouse was wild silk, her full skirt was brilliant dyed. She wore a long cloak of marten fur, knee-high boots and a choker of wooden camels. Her headdress was particularly spectacular, and it seems to consist of her own elongated hair. Alongside her was a polished mirror (used for centuries as a divinatory tool) and the herb coriander, as seeds in a stone dish. 

the deer tattoo
.

It is her tattoos that lead archeologists to believe she was a shaman. She was marked with a deer motif on one of her shoulders, and on her wrist and thumb. 

The Sythians were a fascinating nomadic tribe which, by the time of the ancient Greeks, had settled on the Black Sea. To gain a colourful and beautifully realised picture of that time, try reading Naomi Mitchison's The Corn King and the Spring Queen (1931, available from Amazon), a fabulous story of these ancient peoples.

But the Ice Maiden is by no means the oldest representation of shamanism discovered by archeologists. Shamanic activity and shaman costumes and tools  have been found around the world and indeed, in the United Kingdom. The  power to transcend spirit worlds, and to return with healing and knowledge can be traced into the distant past. In fact, as far back as the Mesolithic Period, around ten thousand years before our times.

I'll be returning to this subject in PART TWO of "What we Know About Pre-historic Shamanism". Watch this space! 

Return to my Trees – a three hundred mile walk through Welsh forests

 Dod yn ôl fy nghoed...

        To return to my trees.

What on earth is that Welsh phrase supposed to mean? Unsurprisingly, knowing the poetic and lyrical nature of the Welsh nation, it doesn't just mean 'nipping into the woods'. It's a phrase used when someone needs to clear their head, to think again.

Matthew Yeomans, a Cardiff author of Rough Guides translates it as 'to return to a balanced state of mind...' 

Something that has been medically proved to occur when we walk in amongst trees; our blood pressure reduces and so does our anxiety levels. We return from our walk feeling de-stressed and ready for life.

the mythic map

Yeoman, who has been a traveller all his writing life, didn't have to travel far geographically to write this fourth book. Having travelled the world, he decided to walk through the ancient and modern forests of Wales, losing himself in the stories of the these woodlands––their natural word, of course, and the history of the trees, but also their wider history, mythology and legends, especially those which appear between the covers of the Mabinogion, the ancient tales of Wales. While Yeoman  explored the paths, he also explored the religions, culture, arts and music of Wales, as well as the industrial past and present of his home nation. 

Yeoman started in the Welsh Marches, at Wentwood,striding across the south of the country, to the Black Mountains. Then he worked northwards, past the Devil's Bridge, through Snowdonia and Llangollen and onwards to the north-eastern border, finally stopping at Chirk. 

Such a grand idea: linking the forest paths throughout a modern country, walking those (often unmarked) ways, talking to the local people and learning about the land. 300 miles is a massive journey, and Yeoman is still walking, often with other people who want to encourage us all to walk.

On Radio 6, Matthew Yeomans explained how this walk emerged out of the cabin fever of Covid. 'I had to get out…I didn't  know much about trees, but I heard that the Welsh Government had announced a plan to create a  national forest of Wales.' He wanted to find out if it was possible to travel through Wales without leaving woodland behind.

Recently, I walked just a few miles of Yeoman's Mythic Map, over the Bwlch Mountain near Maesteg, walking with my son and my dog. I love walking with others because that's when the most intimate and interesting chats happen, when you're looking ahead at the path and the trees, listening to the brook and the birds, you can open your heart. But walking along introduces a new dimension––not only bringing down stress and puts our lives into perspective––it allows me reach 

Top of the Bwlch Mountain

the most creative parts of my mind. When I walk alone, my books, stories, characters and settings accompany me and grow clearer and more real as I progress along my route. Many writers walk to invent their stories.

I've used walking as inspiration for years. It doesn't matter if the surrounds are urban or rural, but naturally it's nicer if there are trees. The most important thing is that I am on my own. When I walk alone, I chatter to my characters, and they chatter back.

Castell Cerreg Cennen:
 "castle on the rock above the river Cennen"

I'm keen to walk more trails on Yeoman's mythic map. I've already visited the lake of Llyn y Fan Fach, which features in the story of The Physicians off Myddfai, and the area around Trap, near Llandelio, where Castell Carreg Cennen  looms over the landscape where, in the Mabinogion, the magical boar, the Twrch Trwyth, sped past having killed most of Arthur's war band. 

This wonderful, inspiring book,  has grown, turning from one man's long walk into a book, a mythic map, and a Welsh playlist plus a list of podcasts all of which can be downloaded

As Yeoman, walks, linking just some of the woodlands and forests of Wales into one long passageway for animals, birds invertebrates and even humans, he constantly seeks an answer to the question; when and how did we humans lose our connection with nature – and how do we find it again? It occurs to me that this walk, this linking of trees with each footfall and rest against a bole of a friendly tree, is that first connection. Every time we walk among trees, they calm us, enliven us and tell us the deepest of Gaia's truths.

They are matchless,

My trees in winter. 

While I watch telly and eat carbs, 

Put the fire on, the heating up, 

They stand naked to the battle;

Steady for storm, ready for gale. 

Winter trees communicate in semaphore

Black flags against the half-day’s light.

They are gallows for bats,

Rigging for gulls,

Blue cages for robins 

Steeples for stormcocks.

In the cold sun, 

The oaks glow emerald with moss;

Planes strike piebald patterns;

Birch trunks shimmer like a high moon. 

I pull on gloves, hat, scarves,

Brave the cold to watch 

As they wait secure, 

Dreaming sap dreams,

Expectant for spring.                                                 (Trees in Winter by Nina Milton)

Not everyone lives near a forest. But I'm sure you can find some trees to enjoy. So go and enjoy them. Return to them, to clear your head, find a better perspective, solve you problems and, even, perhaps, write a book. You may return to a balanced state of mind. You may even  return to a balanced state of soul.