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...”

Time for the Winter Solstice to Heal Us All with its Magic

Some years ago, I was lucky enough to be standing inside  Newgrange. This 5,200 year old passage tomb located in the Boyne in Ireland is engraved with megalithic art and older than both Stonehenge and the Great Pyramids of Giza. 

We'd passed three alcoves as we moved through its interior which was lit by dim electric lamps. Suddenly, everything was black – we couldn't see our hands when we raised them to our faces. 

We waited. 

The tomb is engineered to be  aligned with the rising sun on the mornings around the Winter Solstice by a kind of stone tubing; a light box. This was a remarkable achievement so long ago, needing precise mathematical and astronomical measurements. 

After a few moments of being in total darkness a bright light shone onto the very back wall of the tomb. We all gasped and cried out in delight. It felt very real, despite it being the middle of May. This simulation of what actually happens in the depth of midwinter is something that makes up for the fact that the tomb is not big enough to accommodate all the people who would like to have that amazing experience at the winter solstice. It's a memory I will never forget. 

What it demonstrates, I think, very clearly, is that we are still those people, who can gasp and let out a cry of joy when there is light in the middle of winter. When the candles are lit, when the fairy lights twinkle, when the presents surround the tree which has been dragged in from the bare winter fields (or Tescos...), we know something magical and profound is happening.  

The solstice, and the festivals surrounding that darkest time, do bring us hope, joy and a feeling of peace. Perhaps that is because we understand, even in these centrally-heated times, how the return of the Sun's brightness and warmth affects us, pulling us out of feelings of depression or despair. It is the outward manifestation of Gaia herself, as the warming, lightening days presages renewed rising, budding and bursting, and she embarks on another cycle of growth. It is equally a manifestation for ourselves, the children of Gaia, as we sing carols, and eat too much, rekindle old friendships (at least through posting a card) and take joy in being with those closest to us. The Winter Festival, happening now for the Northern part of our world, is a joyful renewal of each individual life. 

Of course, this depends on circumstances: we take for granted  home, shelter, food, work and health, but not everyone has these things at this time. Grief and trauma can be triggered as the Earth goes through a  time of death and rebirth, a collective dark night of the soul. Places that are war-torn, or ravaged by an increasingly heating climate, are not enjoying the peace, joy and love most of us are part of. 

Taking time to practice your shamanic journeying can be difficult with so much going on. But even the simplest journey can allow you to have contact with your spirit guides, and animal allies, who are all compassionate spirits. If you do not have time to engage in a journey, why not walk out of your house; collect some greenery and breathe deeply in your local wildest areas. Allow Nature to take you right into the gentle beauty of the Earth.

People ask me if I celebrate Christmas, and I say, yes, in a way, I do, because these festivals of light are older than time –older than Newgrange – and they become, collectively, across the world, an act of ritual magic. 

Many, many people throughout the world celebrate this festival – whether for religious reasons or simply because they love it.  Children send letters to a kindly red and white spirit of winter, and reveal a magical transformation each time they tear off the paper to reveal their gift.  We all sit around the festive table, near a festive tree with a star or fairy or angel setting off this glittering cone. We pull crackers to make a bang, sending malevolent spirits flying far away, and toast each other, drawing benevolent otherworld beings towards us. We are more likely to write a cheque for a charity, allowing those 'giving' energies to flow around the family and outward into the wider community. 

If all of that isn't magic, I don't know what is. 

The Winter Solstice, and the midwinter festivals of so many different beliefs and cultures, give us that chance to practice wonderful transformational magic. And by doing that, there is hope that those who need to be healed, will be healed, and that those places which need healing will accept the heightened spiritual influences pouring down on us at this celebratory time. Let us all acknowledge the blessings of our lives and share them with each other.

Wishing you the gentle joy of the 

celebration of lights

that is the winter festival.

Celebrating Samhuin; Through the Gates of Annwn

         Gwyn ap Nudd: Wild God of Faerie, Guardian of Annwfn - Watkins MIND ... www.watkinsmagazine.com       

Winter looms on the horizon, the Wheel of the Year turns once more, the boundary between our world and the spirit world is fragile and thin. In cultures all over the world, the spirit of Death has been celebrated at this time of the year. 

How do you celebrate Hallowe'en, the night of all souls, which the Irish call Samhuin, and the Welsh call Calan Gaeaf?

 Is it for you a chance to move through the veil between the worlds and communicate with those you loved, and have lost in this world? 

Or is it a chance to drum into trance and search for ancestor wisdom?

Or do you search for the gods and goddesses who are associated with death and darkness, such as Gwyn ap Nudd, Arawn, Hecate, the Morrighan, Anubis and Osiris, Hades, and, of course Hel, daughter of Loki, with her bones on the outside of her body, portrayed in black and white,

Do you avoid it altogether, as a time when death is abroad and best avoided?

Or do you just think that we imagine such things, and make it all up, as the darkness descends at this time of year, that silly idea of a thinning of a veil between worlds, and that other being can contact humans at these times?

Certain, we must surely agree that somewhere in all the ancient myths there are acorns of truth. The last time I was in Ireland, my taxi driver explained, as we passed a fairy hill, that the Sidhe lived beneath it, and that the farmer would never drive a tractor across it. 

The  otherworld had many names across the world we now think of as Celtic, including Tir-na-nog, the land of Youth, Tir-Innambeo, The Land of the Living, Tir- Tairngire, The Land of Promise, Tir N-aill, the Other World, Mag More, The Great Plain,  The Isle of Women, Isle of Apples. This otherworld was located quite far away, over sea or though mist, or deep below the ground. It was thought of as a world of peace, harmony and abundance, where no ailment or death could be found. Hy-Brasil (from Gaelic, “Isle of the Blessed”) was an “enchanted island“ off the coast of Ireland – seen by many people over a thousand years, but never remaining in one location, it then disappeared from maps completely. 

In The Adventure of Bran,  Son of Febal from the seventh century, Bran travels to Hy-Brasil a paradise supported on golden pillars. No one is ever sad or ill there; they are always happy, continually playing games to musical accompaniment. When early sailors crossed the Atlantic and landed on the coast of South America, they imagined they had found Hy-Brasil at last, and that country is called Brasil to this day.

I'm not sure we do need to wait until Samhuin to contact the ancestors, though. In lockdown, we did a summer outdoor ritual which focused on those relations recently passed; our parents, our grandparents and their parents. Read it here.

There is another side to Samhuin, which is to explore, in this winter darkness, our own weaknesses and difficulties. Often, this is harder than speaking to loved ones who have passed into the next life. Old wounds might be ignored in the busy light of day, but in candlelight on the 31st of October, when the veil is thin, they confront us, allowing us to pass over normal boundaries and examine our human condition in the raw. These wounds, personal, family, historic or from a wider experience, can be forceful, they can create a disconnect, they can chip away at our soul, and destroy our enjoyment of life. They can obstruct us, actually create a spiral where we can't heal them because the wounds prevent that healing.  Going on such a journey at Samhiun, meeting ones otherworldly allies and speaking honestly with our guides and guardians can help reverse this spiral.

The Spoils of Annwn is an ancient Welsh myth that tells of a heroic journey of King Arther and a group of warriors. They take their ship Prydwen (wen means white, pure, or blessed) on a perilous voyage into the otherworld. They visit seven different forts on seven otherworldly islands in search of a magical cauldron. 

My first words were spoken concerning the cauldron: from the breath of nine maidens it is warmed. It is the cauldron of the Head of Annwfn; what is its purpose with its dark rim and edged with pearls? It will not boil the food of a coward; it is not destined to do so.

This poem was written down in the fourteenth-century Llyfr Taliesin (Book of Taliesin)  It is hauntingly beautiful, There is a translation of this poem in Robert Graves' The White Goddess.

 It can be used to create ritual, or it can be use to access a shamanic journey. Studying it closely brings it alive. To me, this white ship is a trancelike journey to meet ancestors and learn from them, while also learning more about one's "self", and one's "life journey". In ritual, we can visit each castle or 'Caer' and look at them from whatever approach we need on our journey; maybe aspects of our characters, or goals to drive towards, or weaknesses we'd like to be strong about removing from our lives.

One thing is clear though, it's not a place for the fainthearted. The texts reminds us constantly that; And when we went with Arthur,/   dolorous visit, / except seven/    none rose up.  Other translations say ...none returned.

Stay safe in ritual by laying down ground rules with the other ritualists, and discussing the ideas beforehand. Stay safe when journeying by knowing you can return to your 'home space' the chosen place that should start and end a journey, and by calling your animal allies to you to accompany you and guide you on your way...and on your way back. 

A CELEBRATION OF THE AUTUMN EQUINOX 21st of September

 21st September

At six in the evening of the, people began to gather at Rhos Hill

They came from the east, the west, the south and the north (even as far as Aberystwyth). Evening was falling on a special day; autumn equinox, which Druids call the Light of Autumn; Alban Hefen, in Welsh. This is the moment of seasonal balance which to many ancient people was the most important time in the year; final harvests and a general flurry of farm and homestead activity. Winter is now not far away.

There were twelve of us at this evening’s celebration and an eclectic and talented mix they were; a shaman, some Druids, Ovates, Hedge Witches and Wiccans.

We began the evening gently, as some people had met for the first time. After sorting out drinks for everyone and chatting for a while we held a ‘talking stick’, as usual. This enables everyone to say something and introduce themselves without interruption. At that point, Jim and I described how the ritual would unfold, and we asked everyone to chose a harvest gift from our table of gifts. 

I’d scoured the hedgerows and garden earlier, and gathered a great bounty, which Jim arranged on a golden cloth; a branch of hazel with cobnuts, a branch of oak with their acorns, and even a branch of sweet chestnuts with the spiky cases that contain the delicious winter treat. We created a spray of autumn coloured leaves, and added apples, pine cones, a jewel of a Mandarin, a spray of blackberries, elderberries, hawthorn, sweetcorn cobs, and much more. 

We processed into our little stone circle, with the fire in the pit lit and sparking and the lanterns in the four quarters of East South West and North glowing. After setting up our circle in the usual way, each person placed their chosen autumn gift into a basket, using one word or phrase to describe their feelings about this time of year. The basket of goodies was dedicated to the goddess. 

All photos by Carni

After beautiful poems and readingS by several members of the circle, we moved on to the middle, magical centre of the ritual where we investigated the balance of this moment in the year by actively working with it.

Each person planted a 'tete a tete' bulb in a pot, with an intent that used this planting to symbolise our own lives.  Like the bulbs, we all had our own process of moving from the scurry of getting ready for winter, down into gentle hibernation until the warming of spring. To exentuate the magic of the action, our of our number, representing the elements, blessed the pots of bulbs. Air, representing the oxygen of life, blew over the pots. Fire, representing the sun, warmed the pots with a candle’s glow, Water sprinkled spring water over them. Finally a little more Earth was then scattered onto the bulbs with a blessing.

The final part of the ritual was highlighted with a wonderful visualization created by a member of the circle, in which we celebrated the Blackberry moon with a lovely Journey to choose moon or sun fruits from an Avalon apple tree.

The apple branch talking stick went round again, and the tempo slowed as we sat on cushioned logs around the fire and shared our experiences of the journey and the ritual. It was so warming to see the glow of the fire on the circle of faces and hear them speak.

Before we closed the circle down, we drummed a chant of Balance in our lives.

Then, as always, we went into the house and tucked into the table of goodies...and the heather mead that a guest had generously provided!

Thank you all so much for making the autumn equinox rite a success and a delight, and I wish everyone a very happy autumn. 

The Summer God of Love Oengus Mac Og

They say that Oengus Mac Og, the Irish god of love and inspiration, wit and charm, was a born liar. He could gab his way out of any tricky situation and gab his way into any advantageous one.

  

      

But if he was a trickster, it’s no wonder, because he was born of a trick. 

The Dagda, an Irish god so huge his club could not even be lifted by eight men, fell in love with Boann, goddess of the river Boyne, which flows past Newgrange in the northeast of Ireland. Boann was already married, but that did not deter the Dagda in his amorous pursuit. Naturally Boann fell pregnant and was terrified her husband would find out. So the Dagda caused the sun to stay still in the sky for an entire year, and when, at the end of what he though was a single day, Nechtan returned home, all seemed the same, except for a puzzling change in the foliage on the trees. 

On that one day, Boann had given birth to Oengus Og, and the Dadga had taken him away to be fostered in a good home.

I suppose his story really starts when he’s maybe fifteen — after all, it’s set in the smelly bedroom of an adolescent boy who wakes one morning to remember what seemed almost like a dream; the most beautiful girl had come into his room. From that day, in a love-sick fever, Oengus does not leave his bed, wrapt up in the dream of her. 

His foster mother asks him, ‘darling, what is wrong?’ But he can’t reply. 

His foster father comes to him; “Now, son, you’ve got to stop all this nonsense.’ But still he can explain.

Finally, they call the Dagda and to him, Oengus reveals the truth; he’s in love. The Dagda spends a year searching before the girl is found. 

Yewberry

Turns out she is Caer, or Yewberry, the daughter of the fairy king Ethal Anubal, who,with her 149 sisters, mostly wears the garb of swans. When Oengus arrives to claim his love, he has to pick her out from 150 white birds. But he knows her directly; she has a golden chain around her neck. He also transforms into a swan and they circle the lake three times before flying off to the Brough na Boinne. 

This was the ancient name for Newgrange, and it is said that it originally belonged to the Dagda, but when Oengus finally discovered he was his son, he decided to grab his inheritance. After all, his mother was goddess of the river that flows around this great edifice. He approached his real father, to ask if he could take up residence for a night and a day, and the Dadga gave his consent to that small request. 

Brough na Boinne –– Newgrange

However, the next morning, Oengus          refused to leave. Remember, that in old Irish, as in Welsh today, there is no indefinite article. ‘A night and a day’ would simply be ‘night and day’ and Oengus argued that  what he had been granted was residency at Newgrange for all time. 

Oengus wasn’t just god of love because of his winning of Yewberry. Perhaps it was more to do with the way he would successfully woo for others. He asks for the hand of the beautiful Etain for has friend Midir, and then undergoes many arduous jobs, such as clearing acres of land, before that hand is granted. However, Midir’s present wife is filled with jealously and turns Etain into a purple fly. She is blown about on Druidic winds for a long time, but finally Oengus finds her and crafts a bower for her, in which she can rest. 

Perhaps most famous is the story of Oengus’ foster son, Diarmaid. He had a great love for Grainne. Oegnus woos her for Diarmaid and they run away from her wedding feast after Granne drugs her new husband. They run from pillar to post -- or rather -- from ancient cairn to ancient dolmen. (It’s great fun searching for these ‘beds of Grainne’ which are scattered all over Ireland). 

Dairmuid and Grainne

After long years on the run, Grainne fell pregnant with Diarmuid's child, but fate was about to catch up with them. One day out in the wilderness, Diarmuid and Grainne came across a giant boar. Legend was, that a boar was the only living thing that could harm Diarmuid. As the boar charged, Diarmuid, protecting his heavily pregnant lover, wrestled it to the gound and killing it with his sword, but not before the boar had gored Diarmuid, fatally wounding him.

So what does all this mean? And why is Oengus the god of transformation, as well as love and wit?

I think it may be connected to his dreaming of Caer. Okay, I likened this story earlier to spotty teenaged romance, but when you think about the story, it seems more like creative experience to  me. Everything is reversed, or in mirror image. The girl comes in a dream; or does the girl really arrive (in some versions of the story) and it’s only after she disappears that Oengus dreams of her? He dreams and dreams and finally, there she is, a gold chain around her neck. 

This is so much like the creative process. First; the glimmer of something new, which can almost be forgotten immediately, unless it is ‘dreamed’ into existence. Then, the search —the frustration and hard toil of turning a ‘glimmer’ of an artistic idea into something solid; a book, an art work, a musical composition. But finally, it is done. People are saying they love it. It is enough to make the artist take wing and fly into the sunset.

W.B. Yeats wrote about this in his poem, “The Song of Wandering Aengus” centuries later, in the late 1890s. 

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

I think this paints a haunting picture. An old man reminisces about a life-quest, contrasting the earthly realm of ordinary life and the mystical otherworld of dreams.Check through the poem, to see where Yeats employs a semicolon or colon. These are used to make that shift each time we leave the real world (for instance 'he hooks a berry to a thread'), and move into the mysterious, magical otherworld

You can learn about my very own Yewberry here.

You can learn more about Newgrange here

You can learn more about Oengus Og.here 

You can learn more about “The Song of Wandering Aengus” here. 

Merry lockdown Midsummer to you All

Gors Fawr picnic, Midsummer 2019

Midsummer in lockdown, not so bad if you've got garden, country paths and a clear view of the rising and setting sun, I suppose. 

We can't join with other pagans this year, so for the first time, won't be holding a ritual in the Gors Fawr Stone Circle in Pembrokeshire (see this link for information on that).

Instead, we are joining with a lot of others to create a weekend retreat online, with The Way of the Buzzard. This small Mystery School for pagans interested in British shamanism is run by Nicola and Jason, who described lockdown as 'a crossroads', saying This global pause is giving us an opportunity take a deep breath and reflect on where we are and where we would like to go, both as humanity and also in our own approach to life. But how do we get a sense of direction as to where we are collectively and individually going now? And how to we forge that new path? 

We're already really enjoying their Solstice Retreat; I've had a couple of amazing journeys in which I met a new guide as  I drifted down the River Teifi in a coracle. She told me she was the 'wife of Hafan' one of the gods of summer. I've written a poem during today's meditation practice, which I was able to read out on the Zoom connection with all the other participants  several of us read, and the poems were utterly fantastic...and straight off the pen. You can find my poem below. The theme of the weekend is 'finding your tribe'. I've been doing some work with my ancestors...see my blogpost here...but in my visions this weekend, I've met with some of my more ancient Welsh ancestors (hence the coracle) and observed their way of life...catching salmon and sewen trout, making a fire with flint, and their lovely settlement with warm, welcoming beds of layers of skins. I asked them what was important to them...food, comfort, safety? They replied love; to receive it, of course, but more essential, to give it away, liberally.

This afternoon we looked at just how much we miss the richness of natural life; we pass it by every day, not stopping to see the patterns of ash leaves and keys hanging above our heads, or the fortitude of the weeds that plague our tidy borders.

Tonight, we will be drumming the sun down and tomorrow will crawl out of bed to see it rise.

So if you can't get out, or have access to the countryside take a leaf (literally) out of the Way of the Buzzard, and see what you can see...a tree in a park, a flower in a garden, a weed between the cracks of the pavement.

Here's my poem, a memory of a solstice sunrise twenty years ago.

Glastonbury Tor Midsummer 2000

Even as we climbed the Tor,

Soltice night coming down in waves on us,

Wave after wave,

Like the black sea,

I knew it would be spoilt.

Too many people, climbing, climbing,

Taking up the precious space on the flat Tor top, 

Ceaselessly wandering the grass, looking for a place to lay the sleeping bags.

Ceaseless drumming echoed round the tower,

it would go on all night, boring into my head, filling my mind, Never-ending noise.

And men, screaming out,

"ANYONE GOT ANY E?"

The sun dipped and dipped again,

Waving a red glove.

And was gone.

Clear sky, black and star-glittered.

On our back, with cool grass beneath us, 

We picked out the constellations as they

roared silently above us.

But it was still spoilt, with men passing packets of pills, 

Passing and passing again,

And the girls, valiantly fighting off their new best loves...

"It's the solstice, let's just dance..."

The drums powered on, entering our pours, our hearts, and spirits, 

Until we danced with the girls who didn't want loveless sex 

Not tonight, we'll dance until dawn.

We slept, even though the air was bitter as pills

until, through the dew and blankets, there was light,

Coming in wave upon wave

Like the bright sea

and we got up and welcomed the sun

On Midsummer day

And it wasn't spoilt at all.

This weekend retreat will be an opportunity to explore all of these questions. Together, from our own ho

Although it's too late to join this retreat, you can find out a lot about the Way of the Buzzard from their website mes, we will immerse in the energies of the ancient landscape of the upper valleys of the Yorkshire Dales, under the watchful gaze of Ingleborough, a sacred mountain to our distant ancestors. 

Held over the weekend of the Summer Solstice, we will be working with the Solstice energies of power and strength. We will envision what this new world will look like and find ideas on how we can begin to live this now to find our sense of direction, and we will work with tree spirit medicine and the message that Ash has for us as the tree of knowledge and equilibrium. 

There will be a healing drum bath as the Solstice sun sets in the sky, immersive meditative videos of the wildflower meadows and waterfall and streams around Ingleborough. There will be shamanic journeying, creativity time, reflective time and nature time, as well as a ceremony to set your intentions going forward at the end of the weekend

The Thrush Sings Thrice Over

There’s a thrush singing in my garden. When I let out my hens at daybreak, he’s there, welcoming the new morning. The first time I heard him, about a week ago now, I stood for long minutes. I had no idea that the wind from the top of the hill was lifting my hair, making me shiver. I was inside the song of the thrush. Finally, I was carried down the garden, with my steaming dishes of hen’s mash, calling out the lines from Browning…

That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture!

I’ve seen him—it might just be a female, of course— fly from my far stand of clumpy willows, out across the fields, but usually he sings in a particular beech tree, establishing his territory for the breeding season. His song repeats on and off through the rest of the day, and is always there as the shadows soften down and the hens are heading to their beds. I’m hoping he and his lovely mate will choose my garden for their nest. Mr and Mrs Thrush don’t always start thinking about lurve quite this early on, but they’re responding to the warm rush of weather that has meant I don’t even need morning central heating. We seem to have left behind the worst ravages of winter behind bang on cue. 

The TV weatherman always makes the point that there are two starts to each season. The astrological start, which for spring is the 21st of March, and the meteorological start, which they seem to think is the 1st of March. But as a Druid, I follow the Celtic farming calendar, which has been with us since the Iron Age. The 21st of March,  June, September and December are the mid-seasons, not the beginnings. Spring started on the first of February, when our little band of earth-magic lovers…pagans, druids, witches, and the like…celebrated Imbolc, the coming of spring. For, although you might not feel very springlike at the end of January, under the soil and in the sap of the trees there is a new thrusting, shooting drive to lift the head and sniff the air and get on with things, from tilling the soil, to some DIY, to raising a family. 

Our Bridie Mantle, or girdle
 People pass through it, tying on their
hopes for the coming year

Imbolc is an Irish word, meaning ‘the milk of the ewe’, andeve n now, February the time of the baby lambs. Imbolc is dedicated to the Mother Goddess and the new life that she brings. She is well-known in Ireland by various names - Brighid Bridie Brigantia, becoming, as the years went on and the religion changed, Saint Bridget. She is often symbolised by the gentle bobbing of the snowdrop, which can literally burst through the last snows, and she's said to drape her green mantle across the winter world, turning it verdent. In her honour, Brigid Crosses are made by weaving rushes into a four-pointed star. As a goddess of healing, she has sacred springs across our lands, and in Solas Bhride Spiritual Centre, in Kildare, Ireland, a Perpetual Flame is tended by the Brigidine Sisters in memory of her, guarded as a beacon of hope, justice and peace.

with thanks to 
https://www.blarney.com/st-brigid_s-cross/

It is true that this mother goddess takes a little time to spread her mantle over the cold, hard, earth. Legend has it that if the Winter Goddess, the Callieach, intends to reign over a good, long winter, she will make sure the weather on the 1st of February is bright and sunny, so she can gather plenty of firewood, often seen in the form of a raven picking up sticks in its beak. Therefore, people in old times were generally relieved if that was a day of foul weather. Last year around my area of West Wales it was a lovely day on the first, but this year it was cold enough for snow to fall. So our small ritual was based on the idea that these two had to confront each other; the beautiful maiden of spring and the wizened old hag of winter. Of course the Callieach must lose, and slink away, threatening to return next winter, but we’re not under any illusion that from the 2nd of February onwards there would be nothing but daffodils nodding in sunshine! In fact, it may be that the wonderful, record-breaking warmth we have been enjoying in the past few weeks should be worrying us.

Yesterday, it was ‘as warm as spring’, and I went on a Garden Crawl with some veg-growing friends. This is a bit like a pub crawl, but with tea and cakes as substitute for beer. We saw five wonderful gardens, with polytunnels as warm as a Mediterranean beach. For the first time since last summer, we pulled out my rattan furniture and sat on my lawn in the sun, chatting, enjoying Kate’s greenhouse-grown melon and listening to larks rising from the fields, and my thrush, shouting at the top of his voice.

For me, the song of the thrush is simply the best. Yes, the blackbird and the blackcap are lovely, and the robin has a very pretty tune, while the nightingale’s melody is darkly spine-chilling. But the thrush can lift off the top of my scalp. His song always surprises, full of twists and turns, and not always ‘thrice over’; sometimes he repeats a phrase four times, or twice, but what I love is you never know what will come next…only the bird knows that. It is said that the more complex the song, the smarter the bird, but that can only be true of ‘Passeri’ class of perching birds, because we all knows that Corvus—rooks, ravens, jackdaws—are as smart-as-they-come, and there’s not much to a crow’s song except latent threat and a thread of misery.

Super Worm Moon. With thanks to
 https://res.cloudinary.com/jpress/image/fetch/c_fill,f_
auto,h_400,q_auto:eco,w_600/https://inews.co.uk/wp-content/
uploads/2019/02/shutterstock_205323442-e1550676266368.jpg

Meanwhile, as the new lambs, chicks and fledglings begin their lives, the wheel of the year turns. That’s what I love about celebrating as a Druid; the constant turning of that wheel. Just 21 days ago it was Imbolc;  in less than four weeks time it will be Vernal Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere, an astrological event celebrated right back to the Neolithic. This year, that special moment of solar balance falls on the 20th March; twelve hours of daylight, twelve of darkness. The tides will rise as high as they can, while it feels as if the world stands still. And this year, as an added frisson, it will be the third full moon of the year; the Worm Moon…and this will be a supermoon, large, close to Earth and wonderfully ripe for magic. I wonder what we will celebrate on that night?

If the weather continues warm, my true-loving thrushes will have started a brood by then, and may carry on having broods of babies to the far end of summer. I haven’t a clue where that nest may be; it could be in the deep layers of ivy covering my century-old  beeches that line boundary, or it could be in the long, thin strip of land between the garden fence and the edge of the high bank elevating us from the little country road. I’ll be leaving out bits of cotton and fluff for birds to take advantage of, but I doubt the thrush family will use this; they like natural materials for their house. I would love to find it, with its clutch of sky-blue eggs, but I don’t want to look too close. I think it’s best if I just let them get on with their lives, while I get on with mine.

You can hear the song of the thrush here.