Welsh Folk Tales

by Peter Stevenson

  So Eagle married Owl, and all the animals in Wales came to the wedding, all except for Toad. Maybe he forgot, or he fell asleep, or he was busy breathing and blinking. Maybe you should ask him? He’s still there, in the middle of the quivering bog, the wisest creature in Wales, wiser even than the Bards. But if you try to walk out across the peat to seek his wisdom, you’d be sucked down into the deep, dark bog long before you reached him. That’s why he says, ‘Dimwit, dimwit, dimwit’.

  Shemi Wâd and the Seagulls

  Shemi was born in Fishguard in 1815, where he lived in a whitewashed cottage in Broom Street. He earned his pennies by gardening, growing fruit and veg, pig sticking for the local farms and telling tall tales to anyone inclined to listen. He smoked, drank, scratched himself in public and didn’t believe in washing. That’s why he got fleas. One of them was a singing flea who lived beneath his bed in a saucepan he used as a chamber pot. The flea sang rude sea shanties from the tops of old matchsticks, and no one sang better than Shemi’s singing flea.

  One sunny day Shemi took his fishing rod and tramped down the hill to Parrog to catch mackerel. He sat down on his favourite rock and emptied his pocket looking for maggots for bait. He pulled out string (long), string (short), a tin of baccy, a box of matches, a spare box of matches (just in case), a piece of cheese, an unwashed hanky, two coins, a sweet covered in fluff and a stale currant bun. But no maggots. So he broke off a piece of the currant bun and threaded it on the hook.

  It had been a long hard day doing nothing-much-at-all and he fancied a nap, so he tied the rod to his tummy with the string, and dreamed of nice fat mackerel for tea. As the tide went out, the sharp-eyed seagulls spotted the crumbs on the end of his line and swallowed them down, hooks and all. At that moment Shemi snored loudly, startling the seagulls who took off, pulling the fishing line and fisherman behind them. Shemi found himself flying through the air and over the sea towards a green land and a grey city.

  Then the fishing line broke, down Shemi fell and landed with a thump in a flower bed. He checked that his sou’wester was still on his head and asked a couple of passing ladies where he was, but they couldn’t understand a word he said. This was clearly Central Park in New York, where they don’t speak Pembrokeshire. He was feeling tired after his long flight, so he climbed inside an old cannon that reminded him of the one in Fishguard, and went to sleep.

  At nine o’clock the next morning there was a loud bang and Shemi woke up to find himself flying over the sea once again, but this time without being attached to seagulls. He landed with a thump outside the Rose and Crown in Goodwick, picked himself up, checked his sou’wester was still on his head, looked around to make sure no one was looking, went inside, ordered a pint of cwrw and told the landlord all about his walk to the pub that day. The landlord he didn’t believe a word. A flock of seagulls couldn’t have pulled old Shemi over the sea to New York. It must have been Dublin. That’s much more believable, now, isn’t it?

  Iolo’s Fables

  Iolo Morganwg described himself as a rattleskull genius, loud but with little substance. He was an eighteenth-century stonemason, writer, antiquarian, lyrical poet, myth-maker, folk song collector, pacifist, political radical, argumentative dreamer, failed farmer, laudanum addict, fierce opponent of slavery, owner of a fair trade shop in Cowbridge, creator of the Gorsedd, writer and collector of manuscripts in the tradition of William Blake and supporter of the French Revolution who met Tom Paine and Benjamin Franklin. He walked everywhere with a staff and a backpack containing his precious flute, and a nosegay of stories and songs. In his desire to create a Welsh identity and mythology, he wrote several Welsh animal stories in the manner of Aesop, which he called The Fables of Cattwg the Wise:

  The Mole and the Lark

  A mole emerged from his dark dank tunnel, attracted by the bright sunlight and the song of a skylark. ‘Oh, how I wish I could fly as free as the lark and sing as sweetly,’ thought the mole. Just then, a sparrowhawk flew over a hedge, snatched the lark in its talons and flew off. The mole retreated down his hole, thinking it was far better to be a mole, safe in the dark dank tunnels with only earthworms for company.

  The Hog and the Cuckoo

  A hog was tied to an apple tree in the orchard, when he heard a cuckoo singing from the topmost branch of the tree. He pointed his snout upwards, and said, ‘Why on earth do you climb up so high to sing coo-coo, for no pig cares a straw for your song?’

  The cuckoo replied, ‘I sing because the sun shines and people listen all spring for my song, and because I am not tied to a tree by a rope attached to a ring through my nose.’

  The Woodpigeon and the Magpie

  Magpie was watching a woodpigeon making a mess of building her nest. He explained that she was doing it all wrong.

  ‘I know!’ said Woodpigeon. But she ignored Magpie’s sage advice and carried on in her messy way.

  Magpie told her, ‘You need to weave the sprigs in with the twigs, neatly this way and that way, and then you will build your nest correctly.’

  Woodpigeon said, ‘I know! I know!’, but she kept on making a mess, saying, ‘I know! I know! I know!’

  Magpie was exasperated, ‘If you know all this, why don’t you do it?’

  But Woodpigeon went on in her own scatty way, for it is not easy to make a nightingale out of a crow, or to put brains in a gate post.

  The Nightingale and the Hawk

  Nightingale was proud of her melodious voice. Thrush called her an angel and Blackbird declared his love for her in poetry. But Nightingale declaimed that she would only listen to birds more heroic than thrushes and blackbirds. What pomposity, they thought, and so did Lark, Linnet and Cuckoo, so they all left her. Nightingale sat all alone, until Hawk spotted her and declared his love for her. She fluttered with flattery at this handsome Hawk and invited him a little closer. So Hawk snuggled up, plucked out all her feathers and ate her up.

  Why the Robin’s Breast is Red

  A boy was throwing stones at a robin when his grandmother grabbed him by the ear. She told him that the bird’s red breast was burned there by the fires of Hell, where he goes to deliver drops of water to cool the souls of those in torment. So never hurt a robin, for one day you may need those cooling waters.

  15

  DRAGONS, HAIRY THINGS AND AN ELEPHANT

  The Red and White Dragons

  Lludd, King of the Brythons, was a wise ruler who built houses for his people, protected them with walls and and provided them with enough food to fill their bellies.

  Lludd loved his brother Llefelys well, and arranged a marriage between him and the King of France’s daughter, and so the Brythons and French became brothers, too.

  As time passed, three plagues fell upon Brython. The first was that every word was carried on the wind, every conversation overheard, until there were no secrets left. The second was a pitiful shriek that was heard on Mayday eve, which drained men of their strength, women miscarried, young people lost their senses, nothing grew on the earth and no fish swam in the seas. The third was that food was disappearing from the nation’s food stores and the people’s bellies rumbled with hunger.

  Lludd asked for help from his brother Llefelys. They met on a boat in the middle of the sea between Brython and France and spoke through a copper tube so their words could not be stolen. Llefelys explained that the first plague was caused by an invading people called the Coranians, who had spies everywhere and were stealing secrets. The second plague was caused by an invading white dragon, and the shriek was the pain of a native red dragon. The third plague was caused by an invading giant who had enchanted the country in order to steal its food supplies.

  So Llefelys conjured a potion extracted from the crushed bodies of insects soaked in water, which he threw over the Coranians, poisoning them but leaving the Brythons unharmed. So ended the first plague.

  Llefelys then told Lludd to go to the centre of his Kingdom in Oxford, dig a pit, place a cauldron in it, fill it with mead and cover it in
silk. This he did, and the white dragon appeared and was attacked by the red dragon until, exhausted as pigs, they dropped into the cauldron, swallowed the mead and fell asleep. Lludd dragged the two drunken dragons to Dinas Emrys in Snowdonia, imprisoned them in an underground stone cell, and so ended the second plague.

  Llefelys now told Lludd to wash himself in the bath by his bed until his eyes were clean. He saw the giant carrying a hamper of food from the stores, drew his sword and they fought until the man pleaded for mercy. From that day the giant served only Lludd, the people’s bellies rumbled no more, and so ended the third plague.

  When Lludd and Llefelys passed over to the Otherworld, Vortigern became King of the Brythons. Vortigern had betrayed his people to another invader, the Saxons, and had fled to Snowdonia where he began to build a castle, but every night the walls fell down. His advisers told him it was a sign that the Gods were displeased with him, so he must appease them by sacrificing a boy born of a virgin and smear his blood on the foundations.

  They found a lad called Emrys Wledig, but Emrys was a cunning child who told Vortigern that his advisers had it all wrong, that it was nothing to do with the Gods. Oh, no. The problem was caused by trying to build the castle on top of an underground cell where two dragons were sleeping, and if these dragons awoke, they would fight, and if the white dragon won, the Saxons would invade Vortigern’s land, but if the red dragon won, the Brythons would repel the invaders.

  The boy was clearly speaking nonsense, so Vortigern continued to build his walls. The dragons awoke and fought with tooth and claw until the red dragon defeated the white and the Saxons were repelled. The treacherous King was chased by his own people to Nant Gwrtheyrn where he leapt to his death from the cliffs at Carreg y Llam. The land became known as Cymru, and the people of Wales chose as their emblem the red dragon.

  And young Emrys Wledig? Well, he grew to be a great conjurer named Myrddin, or Merlin.

  Serpents, Carrogs, Vipers and Gwibers

  Dragons, serpents, gwibers, wyverns, carrogs and vipers were once as common as pheasants in Wales. Wherever they appeared, heroes were called upon.

  A dragon was eating people in Denbigh, when Siôn y Bodiau, who had two thumbs on each hand, cut off its head and carried it through the town shouting, ‘Dinbych!’

  A flying stony-skinned serpent was lured into the river at Newcastle Emlyn by a soldier waving his red flannel uniform, who shot it in the fleshy underbelly, filling the river with blood.

  A carrog was killed in a meadow near Conwy, where young Nico Ifan kicked its body, caught his leg on a fang, and poisoned himself to death.

  A wyvern terrorised Moel Cynach where it hypnotised and ate people, until a passing shepherd found it asleep, drove a stake through its eye and buried it at Bedd y Wibr, the Viper’s Grave.

  A gwiber near Llanidloes drank cattle’s blood, set fire to the forests and filled the River Severn with green slime, before a fisherman slew it and turned the meadow red with its blood.

  Another gwiber was terrorising the folk of Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, so they built a pillar out of boulders, wedged iron spikes into it, draped it in scarlet cloth and set fire to it. The gwiber thought it was another fire-breathing creature, attacked it and tore itself to shreds on the spikes.

  A man from Penmachno was told he would die of a viper’s bite, a broken neck and drowning, which he thought couldn’t possibly happen, until he met a viper that bit him on the hand. He tried to run, tripped over a rock, broke his neck, fell into the river and drowned.

  A serpent was so repulsed by the smell of St Samson that rather than fight him it ate its own tail, then its body and finally its head before it vanished.

  The woods around Penllyn in Glamorgan were inhabited by terrible and beautiful serpents covered in scales that shone like jewels, with crests the colours of the rainbow. When disturbed they glided on sparkling wings, and when they were angry they flew over people’s heads with outspread tails covered in feathers like a peacock’s. An old man said he had killed many of them, for they were worse than foxes for taking his poultry. An old woman said they had a king and queen, and they lived in the woods around Penmark and Beaupre. Her grandfather was attacked by one, so he shot it and kept the skin and feathers.

  In 1812 a fearsome gwiber with a long body, short wings and glaring eyes, appeared in a grove near Plas y Faerdref in the Vale of Edeirnion. A hunt was arranged and when it was cornered, the mighty huntsmen found they had been chasing a cock pheasant who had strayed from a neighbouring estate.

  The Marvellous Lizard of Cefn lived in a cave near St Asaph which was renowned for archaeological discoveries, including bones of elephants, rhinos and hippos, and for being visited by Charles Darwin in 1831. In October 1870, reports appeared that a monstrous scaly creature had been slain by a heroic Welshman. People queued to see the remains of the creature in return for an admission fee. It turned out to be a crocodile from a travelling menagerie that had died and been brought to the cave by Mr Thomas Hughes, chimney sweep from Rhyl, who was earning himself a pretty penny from the tourists.

  The Welsh Yeti

  Not far from Llyn Gwynain near Dinas Emrys, was a cave called Ogo’r Gŵr Blew, where lived a gŵr blewog, a hairy thing. It was partly human, with a body covered in thick black hair and the talons and teeth of a beast. It prowled round the farms, slaughtered cattle and carried them away to its lair in the mountains. When it had eaten all the cattle, it developed a taste for people, particularly children. Parents bolted their doors and windows.

  One young widow was so terrified by the thought of her babies being eaten by the gŵr blewog, she lay awake every night to protect them with a lamp in one hand and an axe in the other. One night she heard footsteps outside the cottage, the door latch rattled and there was a howl. She held her breath. A hairy face appeared at the window, a claw smashed the glass and reached in. The woman dropped her lamp and hacked at the arm with the axe. There was a shriek of pain and footsteps faded into the darkness.

  In the morning the villagers found the woman cowering in a corner, clutching her babies to her, shaking with fright and staring at a severed claw lying on the floor in front of her. They followed a trail of blood to a cave strewn with bones, but there was no sign of the gŵr blewog. They burned the claw on a fire of rowan wood, buried the ashes outside the church wall and covered it with soil from the churchyard. The village was troubled no more, but a ghostly hairy shape was often seen prowling round the gravestones searching for its severed claw.

  The Wiston Basilisk

  On Wiston Bank lived a basilisk. It had yellow and black skin, poisonous breath and eyes in the back of its head that could turn you to dust with one glance. It was said that anyone who looked at the basilisk without being seen would inherit the estate of Castell Cas-wis, near Haverfordwest. Several tried, and all were turned to dust, until a young man called Jac had an idea. He climbed inside a barrel, the lid was fitted firmly and he rolled past the basilisk, peering through the bunghole, singing, ‘Basilisk, Basilisk, I can see you but you can’t see me’. Jac inherited the castle, though he had to live in a barrel for the rest of his life.

  Shaggy Elephant Tales

  Ask anyone in Tregaron about the elephant that died there, and they will all tell you a tale, though not necessarily the same one. Here is the true story. Honest, it is.

  In 1841, William Batty was manager of an amphitheatre on the south bank of the Thames in London, where he presented exotic circus phantasmagoria. There was a whole family of Battys, Lena the equestrienne, Thomas the lion tamer who had been scarred by a tiger, Madame Frederica and her amazing performing dogs. And then there was brother George, a man of entrepreneurial abilities, who reasoned there was a whole country out there who wanted to see wild animals.

  So it was, one evening in May 1848, Batty’s Travelling Menagerie pulled into the village square in Tregaron on its way to the fair in Cardigan, with wagons containing exotic creatures, Indian and African leopards, crested porcupines, a magnifi
cent specimen of the drill baboon, a young Russian bear, a pair of Irish badgers, a handsome blue macaw (very rare), and ‘Rajah,’ a seven-year-old Indian elephant, very docile, trained to carry children. After a night’s lodgings at the Talbot Hotel, they moved on, leaving behind a thin drizzle, an irate preacher who took offence at them for travelling on the Sabbath, and a sick Indian elephant.

  The townsfolk were bemused by the poor creature, but did their best to care for it. They kept it warm and brought it water, and one small boy whispered into its ear and stroked its wrinkled skin. Some said it had swallowed contaminated water from the mines in the hills and was dying of lead poisoning. They wrote to the local newspaper declaring their concern for the suffering of this strange animal. The preacher wrote, too, condemning the blasphemous Batty to everlasting Hell.

  A week later, the elephant had vanished, and this is when the stories began. Some say it was buried at the back of the Talbot Hotel, although a recent archaeological dig organised by University of Wales, Lampeter, failed to find it – much to the amusement of those who believe it’s under the car park or on the other side of the hill. Another theory says that hunger drove the locals to make a jumbo cauldron of cawl. Yet the suspicion remains that it lived a contented life on a farm in the hills, fed on bara brith and unseen by prying eyes, like all the other elephants who have lived peacefully and undisturbed in the wild west. Apart from the one that fell through a bridge onto a train on the Cliff Railway in Aberystwyth. But that’s a very tall tale indeed.