The Tragedy that is Troy

There were poppies everywhere; splashes and blobs of scarlet. In places, they grew so abundantly that I could imagine there were bodies, lying in the rubble, bleeding from spear wounds and the slashes of glittering bronze swords. 

I stood in front on a long ramp, It is easy to imagine the heroes of the Trojan war, hurtling out of the Scaean Gate, the main, guarded gate to their walled city, in their two-horse chariots, down this very ramp, out to battle onto the plains that lead to the wine-dark Aegean.

Actually, this ramp, and this wall, is at least one thousand years older than the story made famous by Homer. That makes it an even more remarkable achievement; smooth, straight, brilliant engineering. In all, there are 9 layers of Troy––3000 years of uninterrupted occupation playing a crucial role in trade and cultural links. We're still learning about its past; excavations continue in this magnificent archaeological city.

Becki and I are here, in Troy, a place I’ve longed to see for decades. The place that people…historians especially…thought only existed in the imagination of a blind poet called Homer. It’s taken recent archeology to rewind facts and evidence about the Troy, to understand that the Iliad is not a fairytale––it’s a historic account of an ancient Bronze Age war. Of course, it’s also a brilliantly told story, and we all know storytellers (and novelist, and film makers) embroider and rearrange the truth to create something engaging, something people will sit for long periods to listen to, because they are enthralled. I write about that myself here. 

Troy today (Troya in Turkish) is a protected, beloved archeological site. But don’t imagine it’s like Luxor, or like Stonehenge. It’s mostly destroyed, just piles of bricks. To enjoy it, one needs an imagination and a love of the stories that surround it.

For Becki and me, Troy is all about tragedy. From the mythic stories, to the actual, bloody battles that killed thousands of warriors, to the firing of the civilian city, to the Victorian gentleman who never found his ultimate proof (although he did find his Helen!), this city represents all the tragedies that is the human condition.

Let’s start with Cassandra. She is born of royalalty; Queen Hecuba and King Priam of Troy. Her god-given gift of prophesy leads her to warn her parents to leave their baby, Paris, to die on the mountainside, rather than bring war to them; later, she urges them not to let Paris go to Greece (where he meets Helen) and later again, against bringing the Trojan horse into the city. Her tragedy is that she was never believed. The term "Cassandra syndrome" in the twentieth century is a condition where people choose to ignore valid warnings. But through her experience, I also think of all the generations of women who, when young, lost out of using their skills and gifts because these were disregarded or mocked by their elders.

Perhaps Helen herself is a tragic figure. We’ll never know if she went willingly to Troy out of love, or was  raped, then dragged, kicking and screaming, as a trophy bride. Hittite records suggest Paris was no young blade, but in the Iliad he is definitely the younger and less courageous brother––brave Hector being the high general of the Trojans. 

One of our most delightful moments at Troy was reaching the heights of the city, which was built over and over, layers of earlier Troys hidden under later Troys, from the earliest times––3000–BCE––to the last Greek and Roman cities. 

From the vantage point at the top of the city, we could see the plains of battle, and the Aegean. We imagined being there, high on the city walls, perhaps, or in a turret of the palace, watching the black, well-benched ships of Greece…hundreds and hundreds of them, carrying supplies, horses, weapons, and soldiers, to their land…coming to take Helen back.  Fifty of those one thousand ships carried Achilles’ army, the Myrmidons, to the Trojan shores.

300 BCE depiction of Achilles
( Wikipedia )

In the Iliad, Achilles is young, strong, fearless, beautiful, but also cocksure and a terrible sulk, with definite anger management issues. After almost 9 years of war, he punishes the Greek general, Agamemnon, for stealing his trophy woman, by refusing to let the Myrmidons fight any battles. For long months, he just sits in his hut by the Aegean, sulking.This is an absolute tragedy for the Greek army, and they are hobbled without him. But after it becomes clear that Hector is about to reach the Greek ships and fire them Achilles allows his lover and bestie Patroclus, to put on his distinctive armour and take the Myrmidons into battle. Hector sees his opportunity and kills Patroclus, breaking Achilles’ heart. But it also breaks the stalemate; Achilles has new armour forged by the god Hephaestus and strides towards the walls of Troy. He’s fully fired-up, yelling for Hector to come and fight him.

This part of the Iliad is a complete page-turner. The Trojans have all chased back behind their city walls at the sight of the real Achilles heading their way. Priam and Hecube try to dissuade Hector from responding to Achilles' taunts. Hector spends some time debating (rather like Hamlet) whether or not to respond, finally deciding…'I think there is no way, from oak to rock, to chat with him…Better to start the conflict right away and we will soon see which of us is granted success…’ Achilles is the stronger of the two, and in this fight, the gods are on his side. He slays Glorious Hector, brave Trojan with a loving wife and a beautiful baby. 

Achilles' red rage was the end for him. Once the fighting is resumed, Paris shoots an arrow from the city walls that pierces his only vulnerable spot; his heel. 

Achilles’ main goal in life was to die a hero––to be remembered for eternity. He both lived and died tragically, and, thanks to Homer, we all know his name to this day, so that ambition was decidedly realised. 

But I like to remember Patroclus, as well. He was equally brave, and incredibly loyal to his arrogant, misguided lover who didn’t think twice about putting him in the face of danger. His story is beautifully told by Madeline Miller, in The Song of Achilles. https://madelinemiller.com/q-a-the-song-of-achilles/

Even the ‘godlike’ Agamemnon, after triumphing against the Trojans and returning home, had a tragic end, although I for one, will not weep for him!  Agamemnon had sacrificed his own daughter to get his thousand ships sailing across to Troy. On his triumphant return, his wife and her lover tempt him into a warm, scented hero’s bath…then stab him to death. Even more sadly; Cassandra dies with him. 

However, in my eyes, the greatest tragedy Troy ever witnessed happened 3,000 years after the war.  Heinrich Schliemann, a nineteenth century gentleman amateur archeologist came to Troy because was positive that the Trojan war had been a historic event, something that was laughed at by historians of the time.  He found the splendid ramp that Becki and I could

Source Wikipedia

see sloping down from those famous city walls, and imagined it as the walkway for the Trojan warriors off to fight the Greeks. He also identified layers of ashen remains, showing that parts of the city had been destroyed by a great fire. These discoveries excited him; they were perfect fits with the legendary destruction of the Homeric Troy. Finally, near the ramp, Schliemann made one of the most amazing discoveries in the history of Troy's excavations––a rich cache of copper pots, terra cotta goblets, gold cups, and bronze, copper and silver weapons. In a silver vase were two extraordinary gold diadems, thousands of gold rings and buttons.  Schliemann called them, ‘jewels of Helen’ and draped his Greek wife with their beauty. Indeed, they were a spectacular Early Bronze Age find…these items were from an earlier Troy, I which had existed 1,200 years before the Homeric war.

In the hope of finding more of Priam and Hector’s Troy, and trusting in his misguided assumption that the legendary city must be in the lowest layers of the settlement, he had his workers dig hastily through all the higher layers, using battering rams and windlasses to excavate a series of 70 metre wide trenches. 

 Ironically, Schliemann's actions completed the task of the Greeks. He razed the walls of the Homeric city to the ground, resulting in irreversible damage to the site and the loss of much valuable information.

We both agreed that this has to be as much a tragedy as anything that happened in the ancient battles. Schliemann was not educated as an archaeologist, and he had only one dream: to find the city of King Priam. His methods are contrasted with the techniques of modern archaeology when all the layers are carefully studied, and scholars agree that Schliemann's excavations destroyed the layer of the city that could be dated as contemporary with the legendary Trojan War.

As we stood on the board walks created for modern tourists, we could clearly see one of these trenches, running cavalierly through the ancient ruins. As he dug, Schliemann destroyed the very city wall he was trying to find. Ironically, he was never able to continue to prove his claims about Troy, partly because his his visa was rescinded by Turkey when he secretly removed his ‘treasures of Helen’ from the country. 

Nevertheless, as https://turkisharchaeonews.net says: Despite the significant loss of knowledge caused by digging the trench, this place enables a better understanding of the multiple layers of Troy, similar to the layers of a gigantic wedding cake, visible when the first slice is cut out. And we could see that; the foundations of Early Bronze Age houses, and these ‘levels of Troy’, carefully marked by archaeologists, are really visable.

The first and last thing that hits you in the eye in Troy is its  horse––a massive, black wooden effigy, literally full of holes. No one could hide in that horse, and I can’t imagine it standing on the Aegean shore, as the Greeks sailed away. It’s just not believable.

Nevertheless, it has a story, which we discovered during our final stop, Çanakkale, the present-day city near ancient Troy. We went into a shop in selling tourist gifts (such as Trojan horse fridge magnets). The shop owner was very proud of the horse. ‘My father worked on  the Troy site alongside the archeologists,’ he told us. 'He lived until he was 94, and loved his work on that site. He was responsible for creating and building the horse. It's a magnificent job..’ 

The film Troy donated its version of the horse to  Çanakkale,

 and, gazing up at it, I preferred it immensely to
the older version. Made of driftwood and boat parts, it felt far more authentic...close to something Odysseus might have imagined himself.

We sailed  over the Dardanelles and along the coast of the Sea of Marmara, back to to Istanbul, rather dazed and dreamy about having been to Troy. We both agreed that, if we'd been able, we would have hidden in  Schliemann's Trench all night, waiting for Hector, and Paris, and Helen, and Cassandra, to rise as shades, and take us back three thousand years.

 A few days later, back in Istanbul, we were chatting to Erkoc, the owner of our favourite local cafe. He was delighted we’d been to Troy. ‘Before buying this place,’ he explained, ‘I was an archeologist.’ He’d worked in pre-historic sites all over Turkey, but Troya was his favourite. 'It opens the pages of a book’. And, indeed, he was also a writer, with reams of poetry to his name. We chatted for hours to him, sharing our experiences. 

The previous night to our trip to Troy, back in Wales, my husband had a dream. He texted me: Dreamed I was in Troy near ruins with old guy in long robes and pillbox cap walking on a beach…

and from that, inspired by Erkoc’s poems, I wrote…

The specks and drips of blood

Become a tidal wave

When Achilles stepped into the river intent on killing. 

The blood flowed as today the poppies grow in Troy. 

'I am a Trojan,' the old man said.

He was trading in plastic gifts, postcards and books. 

'My father built the horse that stands outside the gates.'

But I was looking for an answer to a dream;

A man, walking on the beach at Troy, in strange garbs––  

A Trojan.

We walked on, gazing at the poppies,  

More and more crimson, shocks of blood on the ancient soil,

Proud and strong between the granite walls and marble columns.  

My Wild Morning Stroll

The lane from my house to the village a mile away is bursting with life this spring. Flanked by unkempt deciduous woodland, in which shy woodcocks shuffle under the scrub and woodpeckers sound their rappings through the air, it's a lovely mix of sunny banks, full of spring flowers, and dank, shady areas with a variety of mosses and

ferns. The farmer's fields that abut part of the lane are sustainably managed, especially since he's planted native saplings in them that skirt the edge of the lane. I've seen a difference, in the last few springs, of the abundance of wild plants and trees that are establishing. We didn't used to have bluebells at all, but now there are wreaths of them about to flower. And this year, I've seen for the very first time a type of wild English Geranium––and my favourite forage; wild garlic. There used to be the occasional violet poking demurely out through grassy patches, but now violets are burgeoning all the way down the hill. Good news for fritillary butterflies, who choose to lay their eggs on the underside of violet leaves. I do hope they spot the opportunity.

As I walk down the lane every day, listening wrens, robins, a cheerful thrush, as well as lots of tits and finches, all singing their hearts out, I did wonder if all these species had been here all along––that I just haven't noticed them. But I'm sure some of them are new, and that gives me heart, that something as mundane as an unmarked road between farms, can burst with wild things, glorying the springtime.

 

 

Today, I was so delighted with my walk,  I couldn't help but get my camera out to snap some pictures. The wild flowers I saw are:

• Bluebells
• Wood Sorrel *
• Herb Robert
• Pink Campion
• Lesser Stitchwort
• Wild Garlic*
• Shining Cranesbill
• Common Pennywort. *
• Wood Spurge (Euphorbia)
• Garlic Mustard *
• Lesser Celandine
• Blackthorn blossom
• Violets
• Bilberries 
• Cow Parsley
• Pink Campion
• Jack in the Hedge *
• Fringe Cups (garden escape)                                                           

The asterisks by some of the plants suggest they are forgeable, and, indeed I did arrive home with a handful of wild garlic leaves, from which I’ve made soup, pesto and a lemon sauce. Thanks, nature!

Have fun matching the pictures to the names above, and  why not get in touch with your own wayside flower pictures!

 

Seven wonderful wonders of West Wales

I’ve lived in West Wales for nearly 10 years now, and everyday I celebrate the richness of its landscape, culture, history, buildings and people. I love everything equally, but when I really think about it, there’s bound to be

 things that particularly are in my heart. So I’ve compiled this top ten of wonderful wonders, some of which I see every day, some of which I visit with joy on occasion.

Number One; Cardigan Bay 

My local coast line is the hidden secret of West Wales – one of the best coastlines in the UK – but we try not to tell, otherwise everyone would want to see the resident dolphin pod, the breathtaking views (especially as the sun sets or the moon comes up over the black sea), the rugged rocks dotted with seals and rare sea flowers and tempting patches of rabbit-cropped grass ready for that perfect picnic, where you may  spot a kite, or even an osprey. There’s picturesque villages, and tiny ‘secret’ beaches only reached by Wales’ famous coastal path. Stretching from Cardigan to Aberystwyth, the bay has a wealth of things to visit, from Llaneraeron, a National Trust day out, to the narrow gauge railway up to the Devil’s Bridge.  So, please don’t tell anyone about all of this; we like to keep it to ourselves!

Number Two; The Ancient Sacred Sites. If you read this blog, you’ll already know about Gors Fawr––the stone circle    where we celebrate the Summer Solstice (and appeared on Channel  Five!!. Close by in the Preseli Hills are the amazing bluestone outcrops, which became part of the Stonehenge structure five thousand years ago. But West Wales is also resplendent with cromlechs, the Welsh word for dolmen, pre-historic tombs consisting of a large flat stone laid on upright ones, possibly to form graves, some of which have been stripped down to their bare skeleton of massive stones. Pentre Ifan is perhaps the largest and best preserved neolithic cromlech, but there are others, some more than 1500 years earlier than the pyramids, all of which are amazing. Carreg Samson is a fine example – legend has it that St Samson placed the capstone in position using only his little finger. I’ve lain inside this dolmen, to meditate on a hot summer’s day. 

Perhaps the cutest is Carreg Coetan in Newport, near Cardigan. Composed of four upright stones, only two of them actually support the enormous capstone, which precariously perches…and has done for thousands of years! Also worth a visit is Castell Howell, a reconstructed Iron Age settlement. But I don’t want to forget the later Christian sacred sites, such as the tiny churches, some from 500 CE which dot the coastal landscape, and the great Abbey ruins of both St Dogmaels, where every week there’s an organic market next to the pretty duck pond, or the Cisterian Abbey of Strata Florida, Latin for ‘Vale of Flowers’, which has stood on lush meadows beside the banks of the river Teifi since 1200. 

Number Three; Newcastle Emlyn.

The tiny town (3000 inhabitants) which is four miles from my house, is one of the loveliest towns I know. The site of the first permanent printing press in the 18th century…and  the last recorded use of the stocks in Britain (1872), it’s a Fair-trade town with it’s own Fair and Fabulous shop, where mostly I buy my pressies, as I honestly can’t afford the Maker’s Mark, because this stocks the finest art and craft items local to the area. NCE is full of shabby-chic shops, antique galleries, organic shops like The Carrot Cruncher, and pretty cafes with a view of the Teifi like Riverside and Harrisons. Every month there’s a thriving cattle market which blocks the roads and adds to the farmyard stink, but I love to stand and watch the auctioneers, who rattle off their sales without taking breath.  

At the bottom of a steep cliff, the river winds round the town, creating both a  natural motte and moat for the ancient castle, where apparently the very last dragon in Wales was shot down, landing in Llewellyn’s Pool, a maelstrom in the river which has recently taken the life a man who fell in late one night. The last dragon is such a loved tale, that the townsfolk brought it back to life a few years ago…read about this here https://www.goddess-pages.co.uk/the-last-dragon-in-wales-was-killed-in-newcastle-emlyn/

Number Four; The Eisteddfod 

Every summer Eisteddfods are seen up and down the land, and the National one is held alternatively in the north and south of the country. Next year, it's in our county, at Tregaron which lies on the river Teifi, and we can't wait to be there, ‘ar y maes’, as they say in Welsh (on the field). We've been going to local eisteddfods since we came here, always totally stunned at the hotbed of hidden talent in our area. Competitors from four to ninety-four clamber up on the stage and announce, confidently, 'I'm going to sing...' or 'play...' or 'dance...or recite...'  Later, they will have to listen to the judges' opinion of them. Even more culturally shocking for someone from England is that teenagers do it to! Spotty youths who elsewhere would be hanging round street corners are there with their beautiful voices, singing violins and recitations.

The National Eisteddfod itself is held in the medium of the oldest living language in northern Europe (Welsh, of course! ) and is still one of the largest cultural festivals of its kind in Europe, attracting more than 150,000 visitors over one week in August. This ancient tradition exists thanks largely to the efforts of the 19th Century visionary Iolo Morgannwg, but it all began in my local town of Cardigan, (Aberteifi), where in 1176 a cultural tournament involving bards and musicians was held for the first time in the grounds of the castle by the Lord Rhys ap Gruffydd. We’re all booked up for the Maes next year, but will continue to enjoy the way the Welsh are wedded to music, poetry and dance all around Ceredigion every year.

Number Five; The River Teifi.

You’ll notice how many times I mention the Teifi (pronounced Tayvi in Welsh and Tivey by the English) because in Wales, places are defined by their river, and Ceredigion is no exception. The Teifi (and the Ceri, which is the tributary closest to where I live), used to be my favourite place to walk. It starts high in the Cambrian Mountains at the Teifi Pools, which long ago were bubbling springs but are now the county’s water reservoirs. If you keep striding west, you’ll pass beneath willows and beside wide trout pools, over a variety of stone bridges, through pretty villages and moss woods  filled with birdsong and the tinkle of streams. At Cenarth, you can watch the salmon leap the falls to go and spawn upstream, or hire a coracle, which used to be the only form of river fishing boat in this area, but now is simply a fun thing to try (and fail at) on holiday. 

But I don’t choose the river for my walks any longer, because my new puppy is a menace in the water! 

Number Six; The National Library of Wales 

I’ll never forget the first time I climbed the hill in Aberystwyth to visit The National Library of Wales. I turned round from its huge revolving door to witness what must be the best view from any library in the world. I was looking out over the slate roofs of the university city town to the blue-grey expanse of Cardigan Bay. It took away my breath, which I didn’t get back until I left its hallowed halls. It houses six and a half million books, all relevant to Wales, including every single modern book published in Wales. There’s the oldest book ever printed in Wales. and the oldest manuscript, the Black Book of Carmarthen, almost eight hundred years old. 

I’d gone there to read such a book (in facsimile, of course), because in the library houses some of the original copies of what we now think of as The Mabinogion. This ancient text, some of the earliest prose stories of the literature of Britain, is one of my great loves. There are two main source manuscripts, created c. 1350–1410, as well as a few earlier fragments. In the collection as it’s presented today, there’s a classic hero quest, "Culhwch and Olwen"; a historic legend, "Lludd and Llefelys," early glimpses of King Arthur and the highly sophisticated complexity of the Four Branches of the Mabinogi. The original 12th century books the White Book of Rhydderch and the Red Book of Hergest are in the National Library of Wales. But these stories were brought together from earlier oral traditions, in just the same way as the Iliad and the Odyssey were written about oral tales that had been told since the Bronze Age in Greece. You can read more about these stories in some of my blogposts.

Number Seven; The Welsh Botanical Garden 

Because one of my friends was part of the original team who founded the idea of a Botanic Gardens, I'm particularly attached to this wonder, and in fact, many others are too, as the Great Glasshouse was officially voted number one 'modern wonder' in Wales. When the gardens started being created between low hills in Carmarthenshire, it became the first national botanic garden of the 21st century anywhere in the world, and the first in the UK for nearly 200 years. At its heart is the amazing Glasshouse, largest structure of its kind in the world, with a geometry of such complex and advanced technology that it never existed on paper – only as a computer programme. Housing plants from Chile, Western Australia, South Africa, California, the Canary Islands and the Mediterranean. Outside in the grounds, we really love the double-walled garden, rebuilt from ruins, and the large collection of n Welsh apple varieties. It’s got a great cafe, and is a day out in itself, although on the way back, we sometimes walk around the gardens of Aberglasney, which are very different again.

I could go on; there must be a hundred wonderful wonders in Ceredigion alone. So come and explore yourself1

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...”