Celtic.Org - The Story Of A. MadPoet

The Story Of A. MadPoet

There's a small town in Wales named Talybont, near Tre Ddol, near Tre Taliesin. Near there is a place called Bedd Taliesin, the place some say the great bard Taliesin was at last laid to rest.

In my youth I was brash in seeking inspiration. Wales is a country of which many a magical and enchanting tale have been born. There are stories of places in Wales, sacred and mysterious places, that whomever would spend a night at, they'd be found thereafter, DEAD, MAD or a POET. I had hoped that one such place was called Bedd Taliesin, an ancient burial mound. It was of this site that I had childhood dreams, dreams of an old man speaking wisdom to me not so easily recalled upon awakening, but more like simmering thoughts that take time to reveal their savory wisdoms. This could have been merely childhood fantasies or maybe it was something more? So it was that I set myself upon the goal to visit Wales. It is of that experience and my visit to Bedd Taliesin that I wished to tell you of this day.

It was in 1990, that by luck and perseverance I found my way across the ocean retracing the path back to the lands of my ancestors; the lands of great legends of horrific giants and fierce dragons - the Isle of the Mighty. After spending half a fort night in vain, searching for the trail to where Taliesin rests, a chance encounter in a bookshop led me to the answer. The master of that place lifted the veil from my eyes, uncovering for me the location that I sought. My way was made clear. It was on the 9th day of April that I began to ready myself for the trip. I had hitchhiked my way up the coastal roads from Cardigan to this small village where I was to begin my ascent away from the light and the life of the village.

I had heard that there were three things I would find in Wales. The first was the steepness of the hills and mountains there. Sure enough, I found myself in the beautiful Welsh countryside on the working end of its hills.

With me, I had a rough sketch of the route to take and I carried some light camping gear. It was a cold afternoon and I was quickly losing a race with the Sun. I hurried my pace, eager to cover ground, while the hills seemed as eager to slow me down.

I was at the base of a hill, which might as well have been the face of a cliff with a road straight up. I followed the road, not quite able to see the top. I stopped, adjusted my pack, caught my breath and carried on. It wasn't much further that I again stopped, stripped a layer of clothing off, again caught my breath then carried on. It was like an eternity passed as time slowed, my heart was pounding while my eardrums felt as though they would pop pressured by the weight of my pack and the steepness of the climb. One more time I stopped, removed another layer of clothing as the sweat poured down my face. I drank some water and continued on.

Though this was my first visit to Wales, it was not my last, and many a steep mile have I walked there then and since. Oh those hills... did they have it out for me? But at last I overcame them and stood long (or rather I sat) atop my accomplishment, half naked, still dripping with sweat I began to freeze in the cold air. After re-clothing myself, quenching my thirst, I took one last look back at the climb and away I gently went down the other side. The remainder of my walk was not half the challenge and thus felt easy in comparison.

As I continued, the natural beauty abounding and so close that it filled my soul. By nature in all its beauty, I was enthralled. Even though there was this race with the Sun, I found myself compelled to stop on a small bridge and admire with awe a simple stream making its way from someplace deeper in the mountains. It was like listening to music in the trickle of the water upon the rocks from a nearby waterfall; some birds joined in for the chorus. This place was like magic, nothing like the city's concrete facade of which I was so accustomed.

The road went from pavement of my present to a rutted country path of yesterday, where it wound around an old barn and up to the left. I passed through a field full of cattle grazing and one suspicious bull who watched my every step, still as a statue. I quickly and quietly made my way to the other side of a gate. The fence was built with cool grey rocks covered by green moss, layer upon layer - alive. While the posts of the gate were made with pillars of stone, I thought could be from some ancient stone circle, relocated for practical purposes but still as old as no one knows.

Through another field where my path changed again, I turned to the right and passed through another gate. I passed by an old camper-trailer marked on my map as Bard's Dale. It was set near the top of the mountain overlooking the fields of sheep and cattle. Perhaps this was the place where the herdsmen stayed while minding their charges when the weather was wet and cold as the Welsh weather is wont to be.

The second thing I had been told about Wales was that there are more sheep than there are people. Field after field of sheep I crossed yet not a living soul did I see. Not even the shepherds. It was surreal, as though I was the only human in this country. I continued on.

The night was coming home cold as the wind began to blow restless and there beside the road I could see the mound where they say last lay the great poet Taliesin. The dirt had been removed from the top of the mound and the capstone had been pushed away to expose the space where his body must have been. No trace of his remains, only his memory, as well as some flowers and coins left as gifts to this sacred place.

I set my tent in the shadow of his memory and I was glad for its comforts as the cold was beginning to bite. As I watched the last rays of the sun stretch across the bleak sky spending their warmth on the far horizon, I had myself a feast atop the capstone, a feast of cold stew, hard bread and warm cider. No meal was its match before or since, all on the grave of the sixth century poet and harper Taliesin.

It was there that I reflected upon the story of his birth, an enchanting tale that some say holds the keys to the bardic mysteries...

There was a boy named Gwion Bach who was set to work by the sorceress Ceridwen to stir an elixir in her magical cauldron for a year and a day and to keep it at a boil. Day in and day out, he was at that work until his task was finished. While he was removing the spoon from the elixir within, three drops splashed onto Gwion's finger and burned him. At once he put his finger into his mouth to cool it not knowing that it was only those three drops that held all the magic of Ceridwen's spell.

In that moment, he knew all things past, present, and future. He knew also that those same three drops were meant for his Mistress' son Avagddi and that the remaining liquid had turned to poison. Gwion knew that Ceridwen would not be pleased so he took to his heels and out the door he ran. Behind him the cauldron cracked and broke into a thousand pieces. Ceridwen heard that crack and at once knew what had happened, so she made chase for little Gwion.

The two of them took on many shapes to gain ground or elude the other until, finally exhausted, little Gwion turned himself into a single grain of wheat amongst a pile. Ceridwen became a black hen and scuffed at the wheat until she found that one grain which was he. She pecked him up and swallowed him whole.

So the story goes as the bards relate but that was not the end of the story or the end of little Gwion. In the course of time, Ceridwen bore another son. It was Gwion Bach and such a lovely babe was he that not even she had the heart to kill him outright. She bound him in a bag of magical skins and cast him into the sea. The sea swept him up and the sea swept him down and the sea danced after the light moon and the dark. The bag was adrift for a long time, though the babe aged not a single day while in the bag.

King Gwyddno customarily granted the salmon rights of a particularly fortunate weir every May eve to one he wished to favor. That year it was his own son, Elphin, to whom he gave the rights. A terrible wastrel young Elphin was, and it was said that he could not keep a coin in his pocket if it was sewn there.

Wasting no time at all, Elphin waded into the cold water where he hauled the long nets ashore and found no salmon at all, but only a black leather bag. "Perhaps it holds gold or a cask of drink... something of worth" Elphin hoped.

He opened up the bag and out sprang the babe speaking in perfect tune and meter, words of music and power the likes of which the world has never heard before. It was because of the light shining from the babe's face that Elphin exclaimed "Behold Taliesin!" Which is Welsh for "Shining Brow". And so he was named. From that time forward, with Taliesin at his side, Elphin's luck changed for the best. Loyal was Taliesin to Elphin, and never was it that they for long or far would be apart from each other...

As I remembered the tale, darkness gathered about me quickly, cold yet not quiet. There was something stirring about the air. The sheep bleated - restless and disturbed. Was I alone? I lay myself down and closed my eyes. Soon I was lost in the darkness, drowning in memories that filled my head. Visions swirled around as if they were guiding me. I could almost understand, or see something that is lost, as the magic of the place began imbuing me with its ancient power. I was jolted back to consciousness by the loud calls of the sheep in the night just as the wind made a thunderous clap against my tent. Then again I closed my eyes and the visions returned until the sheep once again woke me, the cycle repeating many times, without mercy. I got very little rest that night but the next morning when the sun rose from behind the mountains, I watched as it slowly warmed the countryside.

I have said earlier that there are three things I have heard of Wales; I have spoken of two. The third thing I was told was of the Welsh beauty.

Words are pale to provide description, though try I will. The gentle morning light came from over the mountains, like three rays of inspiration. The fog retreated to the Irish sea, abandoning the night to reveal the beauty of that land for myself alone to admire. As I looked down the countryside, the green grass gently rolling down to meet with the crisp blue sea, interrupted only by the occasional stark grey rocky crags jutting up, in contrast to the smoothness of the grass. It was then I understood the legends about these sacred places in Wales.

If the hills do not kill you... If the sheep do not drive you mad... The beauty there would make a poet of anyone. And so goes the story of a mad poet.

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