The French romances tell how Cath Palug was known as Capalu, and had the body of a horse and the head of a cat with red eyes. In a twelfth-century satirical story, it kills King Arthur and takes the throne of Britain for itself. In the Welsh story, it is finally slain by Cei, one of Arthur’s knights.
The Sheepdog
A Welsh MP went to the Royal Welsh Agricultural Show, just to be seen. Trying to cosy up to a grizzly local farmer, the MP admitted, ‘I can’t speak Welsh but I understand every word you say’. The farmer replied, ‘Just like my old dog Meg, here.’
13
HORSES, FAIRY CATTLE AND AN ENCHANTED PIG
The Ychen Bannog
Huw Gadarn, known as Huw the Mighty, was the first farmer in Wales. He had returned from the Summer Islands of the Mediterranean, where he had learned how to use a plough and how to domesticate wild and hairy creatures.
One day, he was called upon by the poor people of Dyffryn Conwy, who were being terrorised by an afanc, a wild, hairy creature with a scaly tail and huge yellow teeth, which had emerged from a pool to terrorise the land by causing floods and eating people. So it was, Huw the Mighty arrived in Conwy with his plough and two long-horned oxen, the Ychen Bannog, the children of the Spotted Cow.
Huw explained that the afanc was attracted to maidens, so he chose a reluctant local girl as bait, dressed her in a pretty frock and persuaded her to sit beneath a tree by the pool with a wreath of flowers in her hair. He told her to keep still and look alluring, while he hid and waited. Late in the day, the afanc crawled out of the pool, dripping with pondweed and gnashing its yellow teeth. It stared into the girl’s eyes, laid its head on her lap, placed its claw on her breast and fell asleep. The brave girl held her breath as Huw quietly wrapped the hairy creature in chains and tied it to the Ychen Bannog, but as they dragged it away, it awoke and in its rage tore the girl’s breast.
The Ychen Bannog dragged the afanc to Llyn-y-Foel, but the strain caused one of the oxen’s eyes to pop out of its head, and where it dropped to the ground it formed Pwll Llygad yr Ych, the Pool of the Ox’s Eye. They hauled the afanc through Bwlch Rhiw’r Ychen, the Pass of the Oxen, through Nant Gwynant and dropped it in remote Llyn Glaslyn, where there was no one to terrorise.
It was last seen in the eighteenth century, flying over the lake like a toad with wings and a tail, shrieking terribly. And Huw the Hero was last seen on a Mediterranean island, hiding from an angry Conwy girl with a scarred breast.
In Welsh, ‘afanc’ means ‘beaver’. According to Gerald, the last beavers in Wales lived on the banks of the Teifi at Cilgerran in the late twelfth century, where they built intricate dams and homes in the shape of willow bowers. If a male beaver was cornered by hunting hounds he gnawed off his own genitals and offered them in exchange for his life. And if the beaver had already been pursued, he would turn around, lift up his tail and show the dogs they already had his prized possessions.
The Ox of Eynonsford Farm
At Eynonsford Farm near Reynoldston on Gower stood an old thatched longhouse with a kitchen at one end and a cowshed at the other, where the farmer kept his prize ox. One summer night, he heard music coming from the cowshed. He shone his lantern inside and there were the Verry Volk, scurrying around the pebbled floor and dancing on the back of his prize ox. When the music stopped they fed the ox some herbs, and it dropped down dead. They swarmed over the body, skilletted it into a thousand steaks and laid the bones on the floor. They lit a fire outside, roasted the ox and feasted through the night. Then they went back into the cowshed, reassembled the bones into the shape of an ox, stretched the hide over them, and there was the farmer’s ox, alive as ever and good as new. Except, one of the bones from its foreleg was missing. They searched everywhere, until the sun rose over Cefn Bryn, and then they vanished. The farmer went into the cowshed and there was his lopsided ox, with one foreleg longer than the other, walking with a limp.
Ceffyl Dŵr
A fisherman and his grandson landed their boat in Oxwich Bay, and walked by lantern-light up the track to the church, where they saw a white horse. It made no sound, pranced on its hind legs, poured breath from its nostrils, passed through the closed gate into the churchyard and vanished. The fisherman put his arm round the boy and told him it was past his bedtime. It was a ceffyl dŵr, a water horse.
A weary traveller was walking across the Vale of Glamorgan when he came to the ford over the River Ogmore. He saw a white horse, nibbling the fresh grass by the water’s edge. The horse offered to carry him over the shallow river to save his poor feet from getting wet, so he climbed on its back and held on to its white mane. The horse galloped away until they were travelling as fast as lightning, when the man noticed the horse’s hooves weren’t touching the ground. The horse vanished and the man fell to earth, where the horse ate up his remains.
A man was resting by the cascades near Glynneath, when a water horse appeared from the river and shook itself dry. The man climbed onto its back, the horse flew through the air and, as the moon rose, he found himself falling onto the hillside. Dazed and shocked, he climbed down the hill and found himself in Llanddewi Brefi in Ceredigion, over fifty miles from Glynneath.
A man caught a white horse in Carmarthen Bay, took it home and used it as a carthorse. One day, he noticed its hooves were pointing the wrong way and realised it was a ceffyl dŵr – too late, for it escaped from its bridle, dragged the man into the sea and he was never seen again.
A ceffyl dŵr was seen around Flemingston in the Vale of Glamorgan in the early 1800s. One December evening on the full moon, with snow in the air and visibility poor, a traveller was walking to the Old Mill near Aberthaw when he realised he was lost. He saw a small horse ridden by a long-legg’d man. The horse’s shape was outlined in light so the man followed, hoping it would lead him to a village. He found himself at the Old Mill when the horse vanished. That night the valley flooded, and the man believed to his dying day that he had been guided to safety by the ceffyl dŵr.
The Horse that Dropped Gold
There was an old man who had very little money and nowhere to keep the little he had. He didn’t like banks, so he fed his few coins to his horse. Every time the horse dropped dung he took a coin, then fed the rest back to the horse.
One day a fair came to town and the old man wanted to go. He knew he had two sovereigns in the horse, so he waited till the horse dropped dung and cleaned his sovereigns. He knew if he spent them, there would be no more money in the horse.
A rich man was passing by and saw a horse that dropped gold, so he asked the old man if he would sell it. The old man said he could never part with his dearest friend, for they had travelled together for years and shared many adventures. But the rich man offered more and more money and eventually the deal was done. The rich man placed the horse in his stable and waited for it to drop dung. Then he put on a little pair of white gloves and searched through the steaming mound. He found no gold, and realised he had been taken for a fool.
He complained to the old man that the horse did not drop gold. The old man asked him what he fed to the horse, and the rich man told him only the finest oats, straw and hay. ‘Well, there you are then,’ said the old man. ‘If you don’t feed your horse gold, how do you expect him to give you gold?’ The rich man demanded his money back, and the old man said he’d see him on the back of the Devil first.
So the old man is a little richer, and the rich man is a little poorer. And isn’t that how it should be?
The King’s Secret
Pen Llŷn was once ruled by March ab Meirchion of Castellmarch near Abersoch, a pompous old soul who had a secret. March had the ears of a horse. To hide his ears, he grew his hair long and high like a beehive, and wore a tall stovepipe hat. Every barber he employed had discovered his secret, so he cut off their heads. One young barber found the ears but, valuing his head, said nothing.
‘Have you anything to tell me, barber?’
‘Nay, Your Majesty.’
‘Did you
say “Neigh”?’
But the secret was too big. It burned a hole in the young man’s heart till he was fit to burst, so he whispered his secret to the earth. ‘March has horse’s ears.’
The earth giggled.
In time, reeds grew on the earth, and an itinerant piper cut them to make a new set of pipes. That evening, he played at a feast organised by March to celebrate himself when the pipes began to sing, ‘March has horse’s ears!’, louder and louder, until March was about to order the decapitation of everyone in Pen Llŷn. Then he realised, ‘March, you are a fool. You cannot even see your own ears. Why be embarrassed about something you can only see with a looking glass?’ And March laughed, a great belly-laugh, and everyone on Pen Llŷn has been laughing ever since.
On the travellers’ camp and caravan site between Abersoch and Castellmarch was a cafe. It was little more than a pre-fab, though the walls were decorated with painted murals depicting scenes from the March’s story. One was of the pompous old king with his horse’s ears, an image that sparked a lifetime’s interest in book illustration, folk art and visual storytelling. The cafe was demolished quite recently. The paintings hadn’t been thought worth saving. They were hardly Lascaux or Bayeux, just a childhood memory – my own guilty secret.
The Undertaker’s Horse
Back in the days before tractors, the horse was King of Gower. There was one old Clydesdale called Blossom who lived near Rhossili, and her job was to pull the lifeboat down to the sea whenever she heard the boom or saw the flares. She always reached the quay before the lifeboatmen, and had helped save the lives of many a lost soul.
Blossom had reached the end of her working life and was ready for the Knacker’s Yard, but the lifeboatmen could not bear to think of her ending her days as glue. So they gave her to the local undertaker, for she walked slowly enough to pull coffins to the church at an appropriate pace.
One day, she was pulling a coffin to the door of Port Eynon Church. Not even the horse brasses round her neck rattled to disturb the sombre thoughts of the mourners. The undertaker climbed down from his seat and the bearers in their black top hats were about to lift the coffin when the boom went off. Old Blossom’s ears pricked up. She saw the flares. Someone needed help.
Off she galloped as fast as her old legs could carry her, down to the quay to launch the lifeboat, the coffin bouncing up and down on the cart behind her. The mourners watched their dear departed depart, and the funeral continued without the corpse, as if nothing unusual had happened, though the relatives complained that they had paid for a cremation, not a burial at sea.
The Boar Hunt
Ysbaddaden Bencawr, Old Hawthornbush, the King of the Giants, had given Culwch a series of impossible tasks in his quest to win the hand of the giant’s daughter, Olwen. One of these tasks was to cut the comb from between the ears of the enchanted Irish wild boar, Twrch Trwyth. Now, read on …
King Arthur resolved to help Culwch in his impossible quest. He summoned the finest warriors from Britain, and the finest dogs and horses from Brittany and Normandy, and this mighty army sailed to Ireland where the Irish greeted him with gifts and offers of help. They went to Esgair Oerfel where the dogs were let loose on Twrch Twyth and his seven boars. They fought from dawn to dusk, until one fifth of the men of Ireland were slaughtered.
On the third day, Arthur fought Twrch Trwyth, and the battle lasted nine days and nine nights, and in all that time Arthur slew only one insignificant piglet. Culwch asked why the boar was so difficult to defeat, and Arthur explained, ‘Twrch Trwyth was once a King who indulged in every sin known to man, so God punished him by changing him and his courtiers into wild boars’.
Arthur sent one of his men in the form of a bird to invite the boars to talk. Grigun, a boar with silver bristles, told the bird that it was bad enough being turned into boars without having to fight the mighty Arthur as well. But if Arthur wanted the comb from between Twrch Trwyth’s ears, the only way was to kill him, and that would never happen.
Twrch Trwyth and his army of boars swam to Wales, pursued by Arthur and his warriors in their ship Prydwen. Arthur landed at Porthclais in Dyfed and tracked down Twrch Trwyth, but not before the boar had slaughtered every man and beast in Daugleddyf. At Preseli, Arthur arranged his warriors on the two banks of the Nyfer, while Twrch Trwyth stood his ground at Cwmcerwyn. There was a terrible slaughter, and every warrior who fought the boar was torn apart. Arthur chased him all over Dyfed until, one by one, all his boars were slain and Twrch Trwyth stood alone, and made for Cornwall.
Arthur summoned all the warriors of Devon and Cornwall to meet him at the mouth of the River Severn, on the banks of the Hafren. He told them, ‘Twrch Trwyth has slaughtered too many of my men. He will not leave Cornwall alive. I will fight until one of us stands.’
Culwch spoke for all the warriors and they stood by Arthur. They caught up with Twrch Trwyth and drove him into the Hafren. They held him firmly by the feet, while Mabon ap Modrun grabbed the razor and Cyledyr Wyllt took the shears, but before they could remove the comb, the boar dragged them onto the land. He dragged them, grunting and squealing, into Cornwall where the boar savaged them with his terrible tusks, then retreated, his white tusks dripping with blood. Arthur and his knights drove Twrch Trwyth into the sea, where Culwch managed to cut the comb from between his ears. No one knows where Twrch Trwyth went, but as he swam out to sea, he dragged two of Arthur’s finest warriors with him.
Arthur returned to Celliwig in Cornwall to wash his wounds, while Culwch embarked on the next of the impossible tasks to help him gain the hand of Olwen.
14
EAGLES, OWLS AND SEAGULLS
The King of the Birds
Back in the old Welsh Dreamtime, the birds decided to elect a King. They called a parliament, they came from North and South, big birds and little, colourful and drab, cooing and squawking, and they agreed their King would be the bird who could fly the highest. They all knew the eagle would win, for he could soar high over the mountains of Eryri.
As Eagle prepared to fly, a little wren jumped onto his back and hid amongst his feathers. Eagle flew higher than any other bird till he could fly no higher when Wren jumped from his back, flew just that little bit higher, sang as loudly as he could and landed back on the eagle.
So, Wren had won, and the birds were furious. How could such a tiny, cheeky loudmouth be their King? They decided to drown him in their own tears. They took it in turns to weep into a pan until it was full, but clumsy old Owl knocked it over and spilt the tears, so she was chased away and cursed to fly by night to escape their wrath.
Watching this, Wren understood that he would not be a popular monarch, so he abdicated in favour of the eagle, happy that a little bird with a loud voice could be heard above all the twittering.
Are you listening, Your Highnesses?
The Ancient Animals
In the Woods of Gwernabwy in Scotland lived a wise old Eagle and, oh, he was a gloomy old soul. His wife had died, his children and grandchildren had inherited the woods and mountains around, and he was all alone in his melancholy. So he decided to cheer himself up by getting married again, wise old bird that he was. Not to a young fledgling, oh no, for he would never be able to satisfy her needs. No, his wife must be older than himself. But who?
Then he remembered. Owl of Cwmcawlwyd. She was reputed to be older than the rocks, but he wanted to know exactly how old she was. Eagle needed wisdom, so he flew to Wales to see his friend, the Stag of Rhedynfre. He asked Stag if he knew how old Owl was. Stag said, ‘See this withered old stump of an oak tree? An oak is three hundred years in growing, three hundred years in its prime, three hundred years decaying, and three hundred years rotting into earth. When I was a fawn, I remember this tree as an acorn and even then, Owl was a wrinkled old bird. But if you don’t believe me, there is one much older than I. Ask the Salmon of Llyn Llaw.’
Eagle went to see Salmon and asked if he knew how old Owl was. Salmon said, ‘See the number of scales and sp
ots on my back and belly, multiply those to the number of grains of spawn in my body, that’s how old I am, yet when I was a fry, Owl was a wrinkled old bird. But if you don’t believe me, there is one much older than I. Ask the Ousel of Cilgwri.’
Eagle found Ousel sitting on a pebble, and asked how old Owl was. Ousel said, ‘See this little pebble, a child of seven years could take it in his hand, but there was a time when three hundred of the strongest oxen could not pull it. I have cleaned my beak upon it once every night before going to sleep. I have no idea how old I am, but I have only ever known Owl as a wrinkled old bird. But if you don’t believe me, there is one much older and wiser than I. Go to Ceredigion, ask the old Toad of Cors Fochno. He gibbers incomprehensibly, but he is older and wiser than the very earth itself. If he does not know the age of the Owl, no one does.’
Eagle flew to Cors Fochno and found Toad sitting in the middle of the swamp, wrinkled as a walnut, breathing and blinking. He told Toad that he was marrying Owl, but hadn’t actually asked her yet, though she was certain to agree, but he only wanted to marry her if she was unimaginably ancient. So how old is Owl? Toad blinked, and breathed, and said, ‘I only eat dust. And I never eat half enough dust to fill my belly. See those hills? I have eaten all the dust in the valleys of Wales, though I have only eaten one grain a day, for fear I eat all the earth before my death. That would not be sensible or sustainable, now would it? You see, I am as old as the rocks, yet when I was a tadpole, Owl was a wrinkled old harridan, forever chattering, “ty-hwt-ty-hwt”, all through the long winter nights, frightening the children, boring the ancestors, disturbing my sleep. Marry her, and take her away with you. Dimwit.’
Welsh Folk Tales Page 10