Finding the Celtic Spirit

By Jade Braham

I find myself facing a 4.9-metre-high, steel statue. His broad shoulders disappear beneath a “warrior” cloak. A sword juts out at his left, and his right hand clasps a spear and shield.

This is Llywelyn ap Gruffydd Fychan, known locally as the ‘Welsh Braveheart.’

He and I are standing on the undulating bailey of Llandovery castle. It was here that King Henry IV ordered the disembowelment and dismemberment of Llywelyn’s body as punishment for supporting Owain Glyndŵr’s war against the English monarch. To his left are the crumbling remains of the twin-towered gatehouse.

Further afield lie the rugged fringes of the Brecon Beacons National Park, within which an expansive tarn called Llyn y Fan Fach houses the mythical Lady of the Lake. She is one of the many Gwragedd Annwn – beautiful women who dwell deep in the mountain lakes of Wales and woo mortal men.

This diverse history contained within such a small radius is what I love most about living in South Wales. On my eight-day trip through the country’s western reaches, I leave behind my ‘Welsh Braveheart’ to travel the pastoral roads of Carmarthenshire, Pembrokeshire and Ceredigion, known as Celtic Routes. I’m on a mission to find my “Celtic Spirit,” a connection that brings me closer to the land of my ancestors, their myths and legacies.

I begin at the isolated Llyn y Fan Fach, where tussling winds spread rapid ripples across a 10-hectare lake. The amphitheatre-like escarpment towers above it, while the heavy fog squatting metres above the water clings to my bare arms, pulling me towards the water’s edge.

As if by magic, the fog departs, revealing the tarn’s position at an altitude of 510 metres within the 480-million-year old forest Fawr Geopark. A path leads to the Picws Du summit, where I spot the route that the Lady of the Lake’s magical cows (who also came from beneath the lake) took to reach Dinefwr Park – their current home, according to legend. Back at the lake, I hear an unexpected splash and see the head of a woman appear above the surface of the water. For a second, I’m sure the Lady of the Lake is before me, but alas, it’s just someone who has ignored the “no swimming” rule and taken a dip.

Excited by this encounter, I trace the cattle’s route to Dinefwr, where aggressive snorts and the occasional bellow from a mother to her calf bring me face-to-face with these iconic white creatures. One nods in the direction of Dinefwr’s ancient deer park; and, upon entering, I witness a large herd leap through thick clusters of ferns.

Above the foliage rises Dinefwr Castle – the main court of the ancient kingdom of Deheubarth, whose people shaped the Wales I know today. Two more strongholds, Dryslwyn and Carreg Cennen, lie within 16 kilometres, but a passerby suggests that I travel to St Davids and the 14th-century tomb of Lord Rhys, the ruler of Deheubarth.

The clangs of St Davids Cathedral bells greet me, reminding me how this has been a place of service and pilgrimage for centuries. Today, locals still march through its doors, where a greeting sign reads: “Welcome, Pilgrim to St Davids.” Lord Rhys’ tomb is overshadowed by an interior loudly devoted to Wales’s patron saint. The woody smoke of candles left in his honour and the lovingly gilded shrine have an essence of the sublime, honouring David’s role as the father of Welsh Christianity.

But I have my most Celtic moment in North Pembrokeshire at Castell Henllys Iron Age Village – Britain’s only reconstructed settlement to exist on the same spot where tribes lived 2,000 years ago. Here, I follow the Barefoot Trail, traversing the same terrain as Celtic warriors. I remove my shoes, plunging my toes into cold, squelching clay, rough flint gravel and serrated wood chips. By the end, I’m thrilled to detect the peaty fragrance and cooling air of a nearby river in which to wash off my muddied feet.

Then later, my fingers are red and tender from attempting to build a Celtic roundhouse by weaving smooth hazel branches through wooden posts – one of the hands-on activities offered to guests. In the interest of my fingers, I revert to a gentler pursuit – making Celtic bread by mixing flour with water before kneading and splitting dough into smaller pieces for cooking.

The sweet aromas of baking bread and smouldering fire linger on my clothes and follow me to Pentre Ifan Burial Chamber and Carn Ingli, called the 'Mount of Angels.’ At Carn Ingli’s hillfort, legend claims that angels whisper secrets to those sleeping on its 347-metre summit.

Try as I might, I have no luck hearing from these celestial beings, so I head to Strata Florida Abbey, an important Welsh Cistercian church. Above it is Penlan Hill, which boasts a giant sculpture of a pilgrim walking. I glance away to marvel at the abbey’s decorated tiles, but when I turn back, I’m struck by the figures of fellow visitors moving around the statue. My mind convinces me that the pilgrim, too, appears to be moving, igniting my belief that Wales is a land where myths and magic are real. It feels like I’m finally in touch with my Celtic spirit.