Celtic Roots (1)

My father, who left his country when he went to University in Birmingham, England in the mid-1930's (the first of his family to do so) and never lived there again, became a passionate and self-appointed 'ambassador' for everything Welsh. His feelings were driven on the one side by 'hwyl' (intense pride and passion) and on the other 'hiraeth' (longing - for home). These words are Welsh and, apart from when he was at school, as a child he spoke it as his first language in the village (of Hirwaun), at home and with his friends. Later he often used it to describe specific ideas or objects in his story telling and then took delight in teaching the pronunciation of the word or phrase to the listener, whilst explaining its meaning.

Welsh is one of the recognised Celtic languages and being Welsh for my father also meant being Celtic. Indeed, he was always saying: "I am a Celt", and would then go on to describe their characteristics; (according to him they were natural communicators, expressive in body language, good with their hands, temperamental, etc). These, of course, were his own characteristics (at least to a great extent) so the coincidence was not surprising. He knew a lot about them and had many books, learned and otherwise, that detailed their history, myths and legends and pictured their archaeological remains and artefacts; including their many megaliths (standing stones and stone circles).

In my early teens, on one of our many trips to Wales, just the two of us, when we used to stay with my Uncle Yorath and Aunt Mari at the Hirwaun YMCA (which Yorath used to run), he  took me up to the 'Centurions Grave' and the megalith 'Maen Llia'. I remember that it was a wonderful day; he parked the car just off the minor road and we walked up through a forestry plantation to the top of a short hill; there a gate opened out onto an area of open grassland and, a short distance ahead of us, was a standing stone. (Image below from Wikimedia Commons).

This, he told me, was the 'Centurion's Grave'. It stands by the Roman road of Sarn Helen, which runs for nearly 260 km - 160 miles from South to North Wales, on the part of the road that runs across the Brecon Beacons, about 2 kilometres north of Ystradfellte. He said that in the 1930's his history teacher had taken the class on a field trip up to the Roman road of Sarn Helen, which runs for nearly 260 km - 160 miles from South to North Wales. It connects a number of Roman forts and towns and must have been an important route for trade and travel for the Romans and others. By lunchtime they had reached the tall (at almost 2.7 metres - 10 feet) and rather slim standing stone. They sat and ate their packed lunches at the foot of the stone admiring the view and listening to their teacher's story of its origin.

Known formally as 'Maen Madoc' it bears a Latin inscription: DERVAC(IVS) FILIVS (H)IC IACIT – "Of Dervacus, Son of Justus. He lies here". He showed me the incised letters, which are on one of the  narrow sides of the stones, and we ran our fingers over the ancient script; then, in  a repeat of that moment from the past we sat down and ate our own packed lunches, drinking tea from his battered old Thermos flask (that had been to Africa and back).

Apparently roadside graves were often a feature of Roman burials but 'Dervacius' is a sixth century Roman name so, although widely recognised as a Roman memorial stone, it is believed that this is an ancient standing stone that was later used by the Romans. Indeed, it may well have been erected in Bronze Age times.

Years later, sometime around the publication of the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000, I returned to the stone hoping to capture some of the magic of that day. I was surprised to see that a new barbed wire fence now lay along the Roman Road, separating the stone from the road itself (visible in the picture above). Outraged I stormed off to the national Park office to complain; as far as I knew the land had been always been open. I was told by a rather rude Park officer that the land had been closed off because of the Rights of Way Act... confusing (because the Act was meant to establish open access to land). Ironically, during my research for this post I found out that the stone was moved, a few yards from its original position, in 1940 by the Ministry of Works. So, at least for this standing stone, it has seen some change in its recent history; but that doesn't change its significance for me and my father of course.

After lunch we dropped down the hill to visit one of his favourite standing stones; the massive and towering Maen Llia (also seen during that school outing). He stands by it in the picture above, taken by Joyce Shaw in 1995. It is close to the Centurion's Grave and can be found on the moorland a short distance from the same minor road that we parked on, which runs between Ystravellte and Hoel Senni in the Brecon Beacons National Park, in South Wales. There are many stories to be told about it (click here) but they generally have something to do with the stone getting up and walking to drink water from, or swim in local streams at specific times of the year. Indeed, that these standing stones drink water is a common myth and no doubt was once a generally held belief among the Celts; shared for instance as far away as Carnac in Brittany, France. Here the legions of stones go to the river to drink once night a year, on Christmas Eve. (Which must be quite a sight as there are literally thousands of them! The pictures below are from Carnac in 2009).

I wonder if all this folklore provides us with an insight to the way the Celts thought? Whatever their ancient purpose these stones are, in modern times, felt to be the bearers of some message; be it actual in the form of an astronomical calendar or invisible, associated with the uncanny or the sacred. They are certainly inspiring, whatever the original motivation of their builders.

In the days when it was possible to visit Stonehenge, as we did many times when I was a child (when we could drive there from home in a little over an hour), and walk among the megaliths unimpeded by fences (or people), my father would often place his hands on the great stones as if he was seeking some strange power held within them. I did the same and was awe-struck by the size of the human endeavour that was implied by their construction; equally for the nearby stone avenues and stone circle at Avebury which, for me, were less sophisticated and held a greater sense of raw power than I could feel at Stonehenge. Imagine a circle formed of many stones like Maen Llia and you have the ring at Avebury.

Above all for my father the Celts were story tellers. He genuinely felt that he was following in an ancient tradition and his own tales often strayed into the mystical...


As a footnote to this story, also mentioned in another post, I recently came across these pictures of my father at Stonehenge and of Stonehenge itself, from during the Second World War when he was doing his officer training (probably on Salisbury Plain). Given the clothing (gloves) and the slightly pained expressions it looks like winter, most likely 1942-43. He is standing (on the right) on one of the fallen menhirs. He never mentioned it to me, but it is marvellous to know that he visited the site at that time. I can imagine his feelings...