Welsh Folk Tales

by Peter Stevenson

  When the man returned, he vowed revenge on the creature who had killed his child. He slept in the bed and waited. On the first night he woke thinking there were hands clawing at his neck, the second he swore he was being strangled, and by the third he found blood oozing from his throat. For, you see, this was a Vampire Bed.

  One Friday evening in the early 1700s, a pious Dissenting minister was riding his grey mare towards an old farmhouse in Glamorgan, where he was to stay before delivering a sermon the following evening. He was greeted warmly by the landlady, ate a hearty meal, was accommodated in the guestroom, slept splendidly and was up with the lark.

  In the morning light, he noticed the room contained some fine old Tudor furniture. He sat by the mullioned window in a worn leather armchair and read his Bible. He felt himself dozing, and when his eyes opened he saw blood flowing heavily from the back of his left hand. He rinsed it in the washbasin, and when the bleeding finally staunched he looked at the wound and found it had the appearance of a bite. Maybe he had scratched himself on a nail, though surely the mark would have been on his palm. No, it was a bite. He wrapped his hand in a kerchief, and that evening delivered his sermon with its accompanying magic lantern show, which he considered was favourably received.

  That night he couldn’t sleep, and not from the lingering excitement of his performance. It was as if a dog was gnawing his flesh. He lit a candle and pulled up his shirt to find his ribs covered in bites that were pouring blood.

  In the morning, he went to the stable to saddle his grey mare, and was alarmed to find it had exactly the same bite-marks on its neck. He complained to the landlady. ‘Madam, I believe a vampire walks your house.’ The landlady looked sheepish, and explained that two other ministers had suffered the same treatment. The house used to be a Dower House, and when it was converted into a farmhouse, several rooms were blocked off, along with the previous tenant’s library and his dusty old books and belongings, though a few of the less woodwormy pieces of furniture were scattered around the farmhouse, including the armchair and bed.

  The previous tenant was an old antiquarian who was not pleasantly disposed towards ministers, and he had indeed returned as a vampire. Several ministers had tried to exorcise the creature, but it refused to leave the library. A dignitary of the Church of England tried to lay the spirit but it bit him on the left hand and leg and he walked away, perspiring greatly.

  The vampire only left when its furniture was sold at auction. There is no record of the unsuspecting soul who bought the lot, though in 1840 a handsome Elizabethan chair was advertised by an auction house as a ‘Vampire Chair’, after it was discovered that anyone who sat in it found their hands scratched till they bled. You see, Wales is not a land renowned for its darkly tormented souls who drink blood in the fevered imaginations of gothic writers, but it does have vampire furniture.

  An old Carmarthenshire miser was said to be able to suck blood from a stone. He had accumulated so much wealth but always haggled with the shopkeepers, beat them down in price and never paid his workers a living wage. When he died, he was laid out in the parlour, and in the morning the undertaker found strange scratches on the body. Everyone agreed they had been caused by a vampire who had been unsuccessfully trying to get some blood out of the old misery.

  The Zombie Welshman

  An English knight, William Laudin, told the Bishop of Hereford that an evil Welshman had died ‘unchristianly’ and was returning each night to summon his fellow villagers to the grave. People fell sick and died, and only few were left alive. The bishop explained that an evil angel was living inside the body of a lost soul, and he advised William to exhume the Welshman, cut off his head with a spade and sprinkle him with holy water. William followed the bishop’s instructions, but the zombie Welshman continued to walk. One night it came for William, who drew his sword, chased it back to the grave and cut off its head, again. This time, it stayed dead, and the ravage of the pestilence ceased, according to Walter Map in the late twelfth century.

  11

  CHAPEL, CHURCH AND DEVIL

  The Devil’s Bridge

  Megan Llandunach was standing on top of the gorge above Pontarfynach, gazing at the waterfalls far below, clutching a piece of string attached to a shabby mongrel and weeping into the wind, when she became aware of a man behind her. She turned and there stood a monk, dressed in grey robes with a hood pulled over his face so his eyes shone from the shadows. She looked down at his feet. They were cloven. He spoke, ‘Why do you cry so, my dear?’

  She dried her tears and wiped her nose, ‘Because my wayward cow has wandered to the other side of the gorge, and I am too weak and feeble to climb down and up the other side to fetch her.’

  The Devil, for it was he, offered to build her a bridge, providing she gave him the soul of the first living creature that crossed over. She dried her tears and wiped a dewdrop from her nose, while the Devil dreamed of beef soup. He gathered stones from all parts of Wales and Ireland, pausing only once to avoid being preached at by the Vicar of Llanarth, and soon a fine bridge spanned the gorge. He proudly showed it to Megan, expecting praise. Instead, she whistled her cow to stay, pulled a stale loaf from her pocket, threw it across the bridge, and her shabby mongrel gave chase. The Devil threw his head back, exposed his red skull and deep eye sockets, and let out a howl that made the river freeze over. Then he shuffled off, with the soul of a shabby mongrel on a piece of string trailing behind him.

  This folk tale has long been entwined with tourism. In the late 1700s the name of the village was changed from Pontarfynach, the Monk’s Bridge, to the Devil’s Bridge, to attract visitors to the newly built Hafod Hotel and estate. In the 1920s the Great Western Railway published the story in Legend Land, a book of Welsh and Cornish fairy tales designed to encourage people to visit the west by train. Now the story is told on a notice board in the village for those disembarking from the Vale of Rheidol Railway, so avoiding the unnecessary employment of storytellers.

  Huw Llwyd’s Pulpit

  Huw Llwyd of Cynfal Fawr was a bard, military man and conjurer, renowned for delivering weird and wonderful midnight sermons from a rock amongst the cascades by the River Cynfal. He frequently commanded his congregation to go on a mission for God, engaged in a lengthy feud with his neighbour, the poet and archdeacon Edmund Prys who had accused Huw of plagiarism, and once persuaded the Devil to shoot himself in the mouth, so inventing the taste of tobacco.

  Huw was invited to investigate a series of robberies at an inn near Betws-y-Coed which was run by two fair-haired sisters. Visitors invariably enjoyed an enchanting evening in the company of the ladies, though in the morning they would find their pockets empty. So Huw arrived and asked for a night’s lodging, saying he was a weary traveller on his way to Ireland. The sisters made him a fine meal, he amused them with tall tales of his adventures in countries he had never been to, and they purred with pleasure.

  At the end of the evening, Huw went upstairs, locked the door, lay on the bed, placed his clothes and sword by his side, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. Before long, two black cats came down the chimney, chased each other around the bed, and played with his clothes, turning them over and over in complete silence. One cat licked Huw’s face while the other put its paw into his pocket and pulled out his purse. Without opening his eyes, Huw lifted his sword and cut off the cat’s paw. There was a howl of pain and both cats disappeared up the chimney as if their tails were on fire. Huw felt in his pocket and took out a human hand.

  Next morning at breakfast, only one of the sisters appeared. Huw insisted on offering his thanks to the other sister and burst into her bedchamber, where she lay on the bolster looking pale. She held out her left hand, but Huw refused it, saying he only kissed a lady’s right hand. He pulled the severed hand from his pocket, touched it to his lips, threw it onto the bed and told her that he would be watching her. And he walked out of the room backwards, to keep both sisters in his sight.

  When Huw was preparing for death, he
instructed his daughter to throw his books into Llyn Pont at Rhyddu. The books contained all his notes on astronomical lore, the medicinal value of herbs, the white art of astrology and the black art of magic. His daughter was a learned girl and she could not bear to part with her father’s books. Huw asked her again to throw his books into the lake, so she hid them. He told her a third time, explaining he would not rest in peace knowing his wisdom may fall into untrustworthy minds. She knew she must carry out her father’s last wishes. As she threw the books into the water, a dripping hand emerged, caught each one and carried them down into the depths.

  At that moment, Huw Llwyd died – without knowing that his clever daughter had lovingly copied out all his spells.

  The Church that was a Mosque

  St Patrick was on a mission from Pope Celestine to introduce Catholicism to the unruly Irish when he was shipwrecked off the north coast of Ynys Môn. He swam ashore at Middle Mouse, a small island off Cemaes, which he named after himself – Ynys Badrig, Patrick’s Island. He reached the shore at Patrick’s Cove, drank from Patrick’s Well, lived in Patrick’s Cave, and he built Llanbadrig, Patrick’s Church, one of the most unique buildings in Wales, all thanks to another explorer and traveller.

  Henry, third Lord Stanley of Alderley in Cheshire, was born in 1827. He was the author of many travel books, a vocal critic of British colonialism, a linguist who spoke Persian, Turkish and Arabic, and a man who swore he would never marry an English woman. While in Istanbul, he fell in love with a lady called Fabia and converted to Islam. They married in Algeria in 1862 under Islamic law, then renewed their vows in Istanbul in the presence of the British Consul. While living in Geneva, he discovered Fabia was actually Serafina Fernandez Funes of Alcandete and was a bigamist, so on the death of her first husband, Henry married her a third time.

  In 1869 Henry inherited the title Lord Stanley, along with much of Ynys Môn, including Llanbadrig Church. He returned to Britain, married once more in the eyes of his friends in London, and finally for his family in a Catholic church in Macclesfield. Then he took his seat as the first Muslim in the House of Lords, adopting the name Abdul Rahman. His beliefs were both humble and deeply rooted in Muslim theology. In 1884 he transformed St Patrick’s little church at Cemaes into a mosque, with deep-blue tiling, Arabic iconography and geometric patterns in the stained-glass windows rather than the virgin birth.

  He died on 21 Ramadan 1903, and was buried in unconsecrated ground at Alderley. At his funeral, the new Lord Stanley removed his hat, only to be nudged by Nancy Mitford, who told him, ‘Not your hat, you fool, your boots.’

  St Patrick could never have guessed that his attempts to introduce Catholicism to the Irish would have led to the introduction of Islam to Wales, and Lord Stanley could never have known that his beautiful mosque would one day stand in the shadow of Wylfa Nuclear Power Station.

  The Chapel

  A shipwrecked Welshman found himself washed up on a desert island. He built a house, then another and another, until he had a whole village. One day a tramp steamer was passing, the captain went ashore and was surprised to find the man had built two chapels, so he asked why the need for both. The man explained, ‘Well, this is the one I go to. And this is the one I don’t!’

  12

  SHEEPDOGS, GREYHOUNDS AND A GIANT CAT

  As Sorry as the Man Who Killed his Greyhound

  Around 1200, Llewelyn the Great and his wife Joanna, the illegitimate daughter of King John, were living at Aber in Gwynedd with their baby boy. They loved nothing more than chasing wolves through the forests with their pack of hunting hounds, and Llewelyn loved one of these dogs as much as his own child. Gelert was gentle as a lamb, whiter than a swan, stronger than a lion, faster than a tiger, and was always at the head of the pack when the horn sounded. No wolf had escaped Gelert’s jaws for six years.

  Llewelyn and Joanna were staying at one of their hunting lodges in the forest. They tucked their child safely in his wooden cradle by the hearth and set off with their hounds. They killed three wolves, and blew their horns to call the dogs to return, but Gelert did not appear. Llewelyn feared his favourite hound had been slain by a wolf.

  They returned to the hunting lodge to find Gelert lying by the overturned cradle, blood caked to his fur and dripping from his chops. Thinking Gelert had slaughtered and eaten his child, Llewellyn ran his sword through the dog’s heart. Then he went to the cradle and saw, lying on the flagstones, the body of a huge wolf. He lifted up the cradle and there was his child, safe and sound. The gruesome truth dawned. Gelert had followed the wolf to the house, knocked over the cradle to hide the baby, and fought off the wolf. Llewelyn stroked the dying hound, and Gelert licked his hand. He buried the dog near the river, placed a slate slab over the grave, and the village was named Beddgelert (Gelert’s Grave).

  This story was thought to have been brought to Beddgelert from South Wales in the late 1700s by David Prichard, landlord of the Goat Hotel, to encourage tourists to visit the village and part with their money. By 1800, the story had gone viral, popularised by the poem, ‘The Grave of the Greyhound’, written by William Spenser when he stayed at the Goat that same year.

  However, a version of the story was known long before David Prichard moved to the village. The ‘Fabula de Beth Kilhart’ was written around 1592 and tells of how Llewelyn and Johanna Notha brought a dog from England that ‘excelled the Swan, or the snow in whiteness, the lamb in gentleness, the tiger in swiftness, and the Lion in strength of jaw and courage, whose name was Kill-hart’. They chased a hart (a stag) across Gwynedd, and in the resulting fight, the hart and dog killed each other. The dog was buried at ‘Bethkilhart’. This story was said to been taken from an early thirteenth-century manuscript, raising the intriguing thought that Llewelyn told his legend in his own lifetime.

  A Fairy Dog

  A farmer found a bedraggled black dog by the roadside between Pentrefoelas and Hafod y Gareg. As the little dog stared up at her with watery eyes, she remembered a story about her cousin from Bryn Heilyn, who once found a black dog, took it home and treated it cruelly. The fairies came and asked the woman if she would prefer to travel above the wind, below the wind or in the wind. She said, ‘Below the wind’, so they carried her through the air, just far enough above the ground so her legs were scratched by brambles and her body was dragged through hedges, until she was torn to shreds.

  Now the farmer had no wish for this to happen to her, so she took the dog home, made it a soft bed by the fire, fed it chicken bones and ham shanks, and told it fairy tales. The fairies came and thanked her for looking after their dog, and asked if she would like a clean cowshed, or a dirty cowshed. Now, the farmer knew you couldn’t have a clean cowshed unless you had no cows, so she said, ‘A dirty cowshed, os gwelwch yn dda’, and they gave her two cows for every one she owned and she lived on the finest milk, butter and cheese for the rest of her days.

  A Gruesome Tail

  Old Shemi Wâd had a shotgun with a barrel that was bent at right angles so he could shoot round corners. He was out hunting one day on Parrog Marshes when he tried to shoot a hare, but there were no corners on the marsh so he missed. He told his retriever to fetch a hare and the dog was off, lolloping through the long grass. Well, the poor dog didn’t see a scythe blade that some daft lad had left lying there pointing upwards, and he ran right through it, slicing himself in two.

  But Shemi’s dog was indestructible. He called his two half-dogs, and went through his pockets. He found a bit of old cheese, some maggots, matches, baccy and a tin of ointment. He opened the tin, took the left half of his dog, tucked it between his knees, and spread the ointment all over the cut. Then he did the same with the right half. He fumbled in his pockets again, found a needle and cotton and sewed his dog back together. It wasn’t till he finished that he realised he’d sewn the two halves the wrong way round, so that one head faced forwards and the other backwards. Well, now the dog could run both ways and catch two hares at the same time. Best dog old
Shemi ever had.

  Cath Palug

  Coll ap Collfrewy, a swineherd from Cornwall, owned a huge white sow called Henwen. She was so enormous the people feared she was about to give birth to something evil, so they chased her into the sea. Coll grabbed hold of her bristles and held on while she swam to Wales.

  Henwen walked ashore and passed through Maes Gwenith in Gwent, where she gave birth to a grain of wheat and a bee. The seed germinated and the bee pollinated it, and there grew the finest wheat fields in Wales. As she passed Llonion in Pembroke, she gave birth to a barley grain and a bee, and there grew the finest barley fields in Wales. At Llŷn in Arfon she gave birth to a grain of rye and a third bee, and that made the finest rye bread in Wales.

  At the Hill of Cyferthwch in Eryri, she gave birth to an eagle and a wolf cub, and by the time she reached Llanfair in Arfon, she was pregnant again. This time, she gave birth to the most monstrous creature that Coll had ever seen. A little black kitten. It looked so evil, he decided to drown it. He picked it up by the tail and threw it from the Black Rock into the Menai Straits, though the kitten refused to drown. It swam to Ynys Môn, where the sons of Palug pulled it from the water, but they must have wished they hadn’t. It grew and grew, until it rampaged through the island, tearing hundreds of warriors to shreds with its sharp claws. Little wonder it became one of the three plagues of Ynys Môn.