Welsh Folk Tales

by Peter Stevenson

  The Wily Old Welshman

  A fine gentleman was sitting in the waiting room of a small railway station in the Afan Valley when the door opened, bringing with it a blast of cold air and a small terrified Welshman with a muffler round his neck. ‘Which way did she go? Is she following me?’ said the little man, eyes almost popping out of his head. The gentleman did as gentlemen do, and pretended nothing untoward was happening. The little man was undeterred, ‘She’s chasing me, the old witch. Same every night.’ And he sat down by the gentleman, looked both ways, took him by the lapels and stared into his eyes. ‘She’s haunting me, you see. The only thing that frightens her away is when the train comes.’

  The gentleman prised the little man’s fingers off his camel hair coat, brushed himself down, and stood up with a ‘hrmph!’ In the nick of time, he heard the whistle of the approaching train and made for the door. The little man grabbed hold of his coat-tails and begged not to be left alone with the witch of Afan. The gentleman walked hastily down the platform, opened a carriage door, found a quiet compartment and settled himself down. The train pulled out of the station and he breathed a sigh of relief to be out of that madhouse.

  The ticket inspector opened the compartment door. The gentleman felt in his pocket. Now, where had he put his ticket? It was in his wallet. He tried every pocket. His gold watch and chain were missing too. Then he realised. Out there was a wily old Welshman enjoying a drink at his expense, probably with the witch of Afan.

  Many folk remembered the cunning little man who used to rob rich passengers and although the railway line is now closed they still hear the sound of steam engines and whistles. Though no one remembers there ever being a witch in Afan.

  Dic Aberdaron

  Richard Robert Jones was born in 1780 at Cae’r Eos near Aberdaron. Dic disliked formal education, refused to go to school, and had no interest in following his father’s professions of fisherman and ship-builder. So he left home and walked the old Welsh tramping roads, grimy-faced and barefoot, dressed in a blue poacher’s coat crammed with pockets full of books, ram’s horn round his neck, harp on his back and a cat on his shoulder. He busked on the streets of Liverpool, where he sang the songs of Homer to the accompaniment of harp.

  He learned thirty languages, though spoke only half of them fluently, and he compiled a Greek/Hebrew/Welsh dictionary which never raised enough subscribers to finance publication. He wrote a little poetry, inspired artists to paint his portrait, and his fellow bards wrote odes about him, though at least one of them was somewhat sarcastic. He was also a conjurer, with a ‘Book of Spells’ from which he could summon pig-demons called ‘Cornelius’ Cats’, which he once invoked to help his friends who were cutting hay in a field near Aberdaron.

  Despite his atheism, he was buried in St Asaph churchyard where his lost dictionary is also reputed to rest.

  There we are. Dic lived his life, never achieved very much, was considered eccentric by some, and remembered fondly by others, while far more important men are long forgotten. A true folk hero, Dic Aberdaron.

  Sarn Elen

  Macsen Wledig, the Emperor Maximus, was hunting in the woods near Rome when he felt drowsy. He ordered his men to raise their shields to protect him from the sun, he lay down and began to dream. He was following a river over mountains as high as the sky, across a level plain towards a walled city by the sea. He walked over a bridge of whalebone onto a fleet of ships and sailed to an island where he entered a golden-roofed castle at the mouth of a wide river.

  He walked past two auburn-haired lads dressed in black brocade who were playing ‘gwyddbwyll’ on a silver board with pieces of red gold, and a grey-haired man sat in a chair made from elephant ivory, who was carving the ‘gwyddbwyll’ pieces. Next to him in a chair of red gold, was a maiden in a white silk dress held at the shoulders with gold pins. She stood up, embraced him, and as their cheeks touched, the dogs pulled on their leashes, shields clashed, spears touched and Maximus awoke.

  All the Emperor could think about was the maiden in the white dress. For three years he sent messengers to search for her. Then the Gypsy King told him to stand in the forest where he was dreaming, and he would know which way to go. He realised he had travelled west, so he sent thirteen messengers who followed rivers and marched over mountains until they came to the Isle of Britain, on to the mountains of Eryri, past the Isle of Môn, to the land of Arfon, where they saw a castle at the mouth of the wide river. Two boys were playing ‘gwyddbwyll’, a grey-haired man was carving pieces from gold, and there was a maiden dressed in robes of white silk. They informed her that their Emperor had met her in a dream and wished her to be Empress of Rome. She told them that if the Emperor was truly in love, he should leave his dreamworld and come and tell her in person.

  The Emperor set off with a great army, took the island of Brython by force and drove the people into the sea. He came to the castle in Arfon, took the maiden and found she was a virgin, so he offered her a maiden’s fee. She asked for the island of Britain for her father, old Eudaf, and three forts for herself at Caernarfon, Caerllion and Caerfyrddin. And she asked to be allowed to build roads between them, for she enjoyed travelling. Maximus agreed, and she set to work, straightening and metalling the old Celtic tracks, and the great road south from Arfon was named after her, Sarn Elen.

  Elen Luyddog was born to a fourth-century Christian family, the daughter of Eudaf Hen, the Roman ruler Octavius. She travelled with her husband and her five sons, and accompanied them to Rome in 388. As she was walking along Sarn Elen through Snowdonia, her favourite son was killed by an arrow fired by the giant Cidwm. She wailed, ‘Croes awr!’, and the village that grew there became known as Croesawr, in memory of her grief. She became known as St Helen of Caernarfon, protector of travellers and roadbuilders.

  25

  STONES, CAVES AND FERNS

  The Giantess’s Apron-Full

  A smelly giantess and her stinky husband were walking north towards Ynys Môn. Her apron was full of small stones, while he carried two large rocks, one under each arm, with which they planned to build a bridge over the Menai Straits. On the way they met a cobbler from Ynys Môn who was carrying a large bag of old shoes that he was taking home to mend. The giants asked how far they still had to walk. The cobbler could smell the giants. They stank of rotting fish in an open sewer mixed with the perfume of a dead skunk, and the cobbler realised that if these two smellies ever reached Ynys Môn, the people would have to leave. So he tipped out the contents of his bag and told them it was a very, very long way to Ynys Môn, so far that he had worn out all these shoes. On hearing this, the giants dropped all their stones, turned round and walked home.

  The rocks and stones are now the mountains and hills of Snowdonia. And Ynys Môn smells sweetly to this day, thanks to the clever cobbler.

  The Stonewaller

  On the road from Tre-Ysgawen to Capel Coch, part of a stone wall had collapsed following heavy rain. Huw Williams was sorting the fallen stones into piles according to size and shape. He was building two parallel walls, filling the gap between them with rubble, and topping with large coping stones on a bed of cement. He had been working all morning when his wife Ann brought his dinner, and they sat together on a stone eating bread and eggs, when an old woman called Mair Clogs hobbled by, leaning heavily on a stick.

  Huw greeted her cheerily, with a wide grin on his face. Mair disliked Huw, for when he was a boy he teased her for having an evil eye and acid tongue. All the village boys were just as bad, but Huw was a particularly cheeky lad who wiped his muddy boots on Mair’s stone doorstep and posted cow pats through her letterbox, and the old woman had a long memory. She pointed her stick at him and stared at Ann, ‘He’ll never finish rebuilding that wall’, and she shuffled on. Huw screwed his forefinger against his head, and settled down to finish his eggs.

  As the afternoon passed, Huw built up the two walls and was bending down to fill the gap with rubble when a heavy capstone that was overhanging the gap in the wall
fell and landed on his head, cracking it like an eggshell. Ann found him later that evening after he failed to come home for his dinner. At his funeral the mourners heard the tip-tapping of his hammer. No one volunteered to finish repairing the wall. They filled the gap with barbed wire instead.

  Huw was seen many times sitting by the gap in the fence, dressed in a collarless flannel shirt, sacking tied round his knees, trousers held up by braces. Whenever anyone approached him he disappeared, head fading first, then down his body until only his muddy boots remained.

  The Scarecrow

  Siôn Dafydd lived alone in an old shack in the hills above Rhandirmwyn. All he owned was a mattress stuffed with straw and a few sheepskins. Old Siôn tramped the roads in a shabby coat, a muffler and a peaked cap. He rebuilt dry stone walls, took pride in his work, and spent his money in the Royal Oak where he sang bawdy songs and told rude stories. In the winter he’d be spotted carrying a sheep back to his hut, followed by the smell of roast mutton.

  One winter, a shepherd was looking for a lost sheep, when he found old Siôn frozen to death beneath a hedge. He had no relatives, no one to pay the undertaker, so he was buried in a pauper’s grave. His hut fell into ruins, and the neighbours shared his few belongings between them. His old shabby coat, muffler and cap were used by a farmer to make a scarecrow, and some said it looked more like Siôn than Siôn himself.

  In the spring a couple of lads were walking home one night when they saw the scarecrow standing in a field. It was singing a bawdy song, and they were convinced old Siôn was back. They ran home as fast as their legs would carry them, and hid beneath the bed sheets.

  Owain Lawgoch

  On top of Craig-y-Ddinas is an old gnarled hazel tree, but when you look closer, the tree vanishes. This is why.

  A shepherd-lad was weary of life, so he decided to leave and seek his fortune. He wrapped his few belongings in a red spotted handkerchief, cut a hazel stick from the tree on Craig-y-Ddinas, and set off along the old Welsh tramping road. A stranger joined him, and said, ‘That’s a fine stick. Where did you cut it from?’ The lad explained and the stranger’s eyes shone, ‘If you take me to that tree, we will both find our fortunes.’ The lad’s eyes lit up.

  So the stranger followed the lad to the old gnarled hazel tree on the top of Craig-y-Ddinas, handed him a shovel and told him to dig. Soon he heard the clang of spade on stone. He lifted the stone and saw a flight of steps. The stranger gave him a candle, and told him, ‘Climb down the steps, and you will come to a vaulted corridor with a rope leading along the wall. Take hold of the rope and follow it to a cave where you will find gold. But be careful to hold the rope gently, as it is attached to a bell, which will wake the armed warriors who are guarding the gold.’ The lad only heard the word ‘gold’, and not the words ‘armed warriors’.

  He climbed down the steps, gently took hold of the rope, followed it along the corridor, and found himself in a dark cavern dripping with stagnant water. A great oak table stood in the middle, with warriors seated all around, swords and shields by their sides, heads resting on their arms, all snoring, with a smell of sweat in the air. On the table was a pile of gold coins printed with the image of the French King, and next to them was a bell. At the end of the table, sat bolt upright, was a huge man with red plaited hair and a red birthmark on his right hand. This was Owain Lawgoch, listening for the ringing of the bell to waken him to lead his country to freedom.

  The lad filled his pockets with more coins than he needed, so many that he brushed against the bell and there was a clang. The warriors awoke, shook themselves free of sleep and dust, drew their rusting iron swords and surrounded the lad. Lawgoch’s great red hand reached out and grabbed the lad, and he boomed, ‘A ydyw hi ‘n ddydd [Is it the day]?’

  The lad, with commendable calmness, said, ‘Nagyw, cysgwych eto [No, go back to sleep].’

  The warriors sat down, Lawgoch closed his eyes, and the lad returned to the stranger and emptied his pockets.

  There was more money than either of them could ever wish for, so the stranger suggested they split what they had and go their ways. Or, the lad could go back to the cave and bring more gold?

  Such is the greed of man, the lad needed no persuasion. But when he climbed down the steps, there was no rope, no corridor, no cave, no bell and no warriors. He climbed back up the steps, but the stranger had also vanished, along with the gold. He looked around and the gnarled old tree disappeared before his eyes. He stood on a bare hillside with a few sheep laughing at him.

  Owain Lawgoch, Owain of the Red Hand, was Owain ap Thomas ap Rhodri, the great nephew of the last true born Prince of Wales, Llewelyn ap Gruffudd. He was born in Tarfield, Surrey, but fled to France, where he was known as Yevain de Galles, Owain of Wales. To the Welsh, he was a heroic rebel who would return to free his land from occupation. To the English, he was a murderous outlaw who skulked in caves after his lands were confiscated. In 1372 Owain led a fleet of warships towards Wales, but only reached as far as Guernsey. Seven years later, he had become such a nuisance he was assassinated and buried in Saint-Léger, where he awaits the ringing of the bell.

  Aladdin’s Cave, Aberystwyth

  One evening in July 1940 three men wrapped in greatcoats entered a cave just off Llanbadarn Road, Aberystwyth. The cave was not dank and dark as caves usually are in fairy tales, but dry and ventilated, and at the end of it they found treasure beyond the dreams of Aladdin. There were Leonardo da Vinci’s drawings, Shakespeare’s manuscripts, Rembrandt’s paintings, Turner’s sketches, the Magna Carta, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicles, and the journals of Scott of the Antarctic. The three men might have thought about filling their pockets, had they been the cheeky Jacks of fairytale, but they were the deputy librarian of the National Library of Wales, a curator from the British Museum, and a policeman.

  In 1933, Mr W.A. Ormsby-Gore, Commissioner of Works, was given the job of finding safe places to store the nation’s most valuable cultural artefacts in the event of falling bombs and invading armies. So in July 1939, at the outbreak of war, the nation’s treasures were moved by train to a specially constructed cave beneath the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth.

  Ormsby-Gore could not have found a safer place. The writer Caradoc Evans noted in his diaries, ‘Mary Tycannol tells me that Hitler was in college in Aberystwyth. This much is certain. Miss Arnold corroborates. Oh yes, everyone knows that Hitler was in college in Aberystwyth. He liked the old town so much that he gave special orders that, “though London be razed, Aberystwyth must be saved”.’

  The Ferny Man

  It was midsummer, between midnight and one, when the fern seed ripens and turns to dust. A man was walking home over the Garth Mountain after a night out with the boys in Cardiff. The fern seed covered his coat and boots and formed a shimmering film in his hair. When he reached home, his mother and sisters had gone to bed. So not to disturb them, he curled up on the old oak settle.

  In the morning, he awoke to find the women were treating him as if he wasn’t there. He thought they must be pretending, angry with him for being a dirty stop-out. He said, ‘Sorry my lovelies, I won’t be so late again, no indeed.’

  Well, his mother and sisters stopped in their tracks and looked around. He said, ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ This time they screamed, and ran out the door. You see, fern seed turns you invisible.

  26

  DENTISTS, COCKLE WOMEN AND ONION MEN

  Don’t Buy a Woodcock by its Beak

  Back in the day, long before prop-forwards were heroes, the village boys in Cefn Meiriadog near Bodelwyddan worshipped mountain fighters, bando boys and foot racers. They could tell you about Griffith Morgan, known as Guto Nyth-Brân, a Rhondda farmer, who ran so fast he could round up sheep, slept in manure to loosen his joints, and died aged thirty-seven when a fan slapped him on the back too hard after he won a race. They knew John Davies, Y Cyw Cloff (the Lame Chick), from Bryncethin near Bridgend, who kept the inn at Upper Boat near Pontypri
dd and beat Tom Maxfield, the North Star from Windsor, to become the fastest man in Britain. And they knew all about the mountain fighters, Bendigo Caunt, Tipton Slasher, Welsh Jim and Twm Cynah.

  Dan and Wil were waiting for the stagecoach in St Asaph to take them to a fight in Denbigh. They had saved all their pennies and were dressed in their finest velvet waistcoats and striped breeches, and kept looking at their turnip watches to show off the silver chains. When the coach arrived, they climbed up onto the box by the driver so they could listen to tales of his prize-fighting days. Next to the driver sat a man in a shabby grey greatcoat, so they told him to move over so they could squeeze in.

  The driver was a big ox-of-a-man with a flashing red nose, and he told the boys all about his many victories. Then he offered his opinion on the two Mold fighters, Welsh Jim and Twm Cynah. Jim was a fine fighter, but that Twm, well, he could be taken down a peg or two. Dan and Wil agreed, and soon they were mocking Twm Cynah, along with everyone they passed on the roadside and the man in the shabby coat, and by the time the coach pulled into the courtyard of the Crown in Denbigh, the driver was the finest fighter in the whole of Wales, in the world, even. They tipped him well.