I had an interesting question/comment from one of the students on my current Celtic Horse Goddesses course, where we have been talking a great deal about sovereignty and sovereignty goddesses.

The question was: “I sometimes wonder if sovereignty is the correct word, though it is certainly the word used in the literature. It may be that the word sovereignty is being tainted by its use in England by isolationists and the far right. The ‘ownership’ denoted by the word sovereignty seems wrong.”

I understand their concern, and would add that it’s not just England. In 2018, the US president was banging on about US sovereignty in a speech at the United Nations, and that wasn’t the only time.

There is a danger in treating words as “tainted” too readily, though. It forces us to look for new vocabulary, often less precise vocabulary, and this will, in turn, create confusion later about every use of the original word in older pieces of writing. I think it’s always worth trying to hang onto useful words by keeping their true, clear meaning in the public conversation. If we can’t do that with sovereignty, then perhaps we can at least keep it as a specialist word within the sphere of Celtic studies and Celtic Paganism.

As for the original question, I think sovereignty is exactly the right word, in spite of the recent taint. Sovereignty is the opposite of ownership, in a way. Ownership of land is actually a relatively modern idea, in the long sweep of history. To this day, we talk about "landholders" a lot, in British English. I think landholder is a more accurate word for what should be going on, and how things were viewed in Celtic societies.

Holding land implies responsibilities to the people who live on the land, and to the land itself. Sovereignty, in the sense of kingship, requires the virtues of strength, good judgement, fairness, and respect for the goddess who has conferred it. That goddess is inextricably linked with the land and if she/the land/the people are not respected by the holder of the sovereignty, things will get out of balance, and this will become increasingly obvious. In a well-working system of appointing leaders, the holder of sovereignty will then have to be replaced. I suspect that this was easier to maintain in smaller units of government, such as a kin-group, tribe, or a smaller geographical region.

The kind of sovereignty implied by the question, above, is actually something other than sovereignty as I would use the word in Celtic studies or Celtic Paganism. What’s often being implied by modern politicians is a kind of exceptionalist “It’s a free country and you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do,” attitude. Or, perhaps, “It’s a free market.” It’s forgetting that everything is inextricably linked. It’s refusing to acknowledge that what you do has repercussions for others and for nature, and forgetting that therefore your actions will rebound on your land and your people.

We are feeling the consequences of choosing leaders who have ignored this for decades. For centuries. Now we have a climate crisis and a pandemic. I don’t think the sovereignty goddesses went away when we stopped calling ourselves farmers and got rid of our kings. I believe that they are still here, and that one reason some of us are called to honour them again is precisely because they are tied to the health of the land, to the sacredness of the natural world.

I do love the Cath Maige Tuired, which is sometimes called The Second Battle of Mag Tuired (or Moytura, etc.) in English. I’ve used it as a way to teach about Irish deities, ideas about kingship, the power of satire, and so many other things. My ears pricked up when I heard that Morgan Daimler was planning to do a new translation, including the poetic passages that Elizabeth A. Gray chose not to include.

English translations of The Cath Maige Tuired have been published twice before: first by Whitley Stokes in 1891, and by Elizabeth A. Gray in 1982. Gray’s version is considered the standard, and better of the two translations. Both are available online, although Gray’s extensive notes make it worth getting the print version.

I’ve heard Morgan say that she decided to learn Sengoidelc (Old Irish) because she was unhappy with Stokes’ translation due to its omissions, so this translation is a nice thing, and an understandable thing, for her to be doing.

As well as being a translator, Morgan writes fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. Her stated reason for doing translations, however, has always been “accuracy”, and sometimes very literal translations fail to achieve what they set out to do, which is to make the original meaning of a text clear. Idioms, for example, require careful handling. They rarely translate well, so either a similar idiom has to be substituted, or there will have to be a footnote. (I love footnotes, but I also love text that flows.) Also, many things other than meaning get lost in translations. Various aspects of style might be captured, poetic devices rarely can be. A sense of the nuance behind why the original says “steed”, instead of “horse” or “mount” is necessary, and the ability to convey that sense of the word to the target audience requires a particular kind of skill that isn’t always covered by “literal”. 

Of course, not being a scholar of Sengoidelc, I can’t judge any translator’s work on how well it represents the style of the original, or its accuracy. But translations of Irish texts aren’t really for scholars of the language – they are for those of us who aren’t! We have to trust our translators, and for that reason I hope that this translation will be read and commented on by a few professional Celticists, so that readers who want to can get a sense of the quality of this work, which I suspect is high.

After so much preamble, you’re probably wondering what I think of this book. There are many things I like about it. The fact that it is slim and inexpensive should make it accessible to a wider audience, although this was achieved by keeping the extra material to a minimum. The author’s note is two short pages, there’s no index, introduction, or other interpretive material, which I suspect many of Morgan’s readers would find helpful. However, the footnotes are very good, and I love the fact that they’re placed at the bottom of the page, not in some mysterious location at the back of the book. I don’t mind reading footnotes, but I detest leafing back and forth and losing my place. For me this is a huge bonus.

Let’s talk a bit more about the footnotes. One thing I like is that Morgan has given the meaning of characters’ names. This is something that translators of myths and bardic poetry don’t do often enough, in my opinion. It instantly adds a layer of insight that is otherwise lacking. The footnotes are also very “honest”. Inevitably, there are many problematic words in texts this old, so where there is doubt, or where she has disagreed with other translators, Morgan has simply explained her choice, and often given Gray and/or Stokes’ alternatives. I spoke earlier of “trusting” a translator, and such an open approach to things helps the reader to do just that.

Cath Maige Tuired is a good story. So an edition like this will be really valuable if that aspect is to the fore, which I think it is here. Since I already know the story, and love it, it’s a little hard for me to put myself in the shoes of a first-time reader, but I think they would enjoy it, and feel very supported by the footnotes.

As for the language in the prose sections, Morgan’s focus on accuracy might impede the flow a little, but I respect her clear priorities, and didn’t find it awkward or “clunky”, which is a danger with literal translations. In fact, many passages were a joy to read.

The real surprise, though, was the poetry. Literal translations of poetry often fall flat, but these do not. It’s obvious that translators are wary of these passages with good reason. Medieval poetry in Celtic languages is notoriously obscure, sometimes intentionally so. There is a love of puns and double-meanings which sets traps for translators at every step, and a tendency by either poets, or scribes, to “antique” the language further for effect.

The only other translation of these passages that I’ve seen were done by Isolde Carmody as part of an MA thesis. (Lugh’s poem here, the Morrigan’s poems here.) Since they will have had the oversight of a tutor, I assume that they are reasonably plausible. They are significantly different than Morgan’s, which definitely flow better and make at least as much sense. My big frustration, here, is that Morgan chose not to divide the poetry into lines, in all but one case. Maybe this was done to keep the cost of the book down, as it would have added some pages, but I think it loses a sense of rhythm and space for the reader when it’s dumped into paragraphs this way.

In her presentation of this book, Morgan places quite a bit of emphasis on the fact that she is an amateur translator, which is understandable and very honest. However, it think her efforts deserve a bit of attention from those who are on the academic side, as they are the only ones able to comment on the quality of the translation.

As some of my readers will know, I’m not fond of turning deities into symbols or interpreting them as mere archetypes, but I have nothing against symbols.

“But it’s made up!” “This isn’t traditional!” Well, no, it certainly isn’t. At least it isn’t a tradition of long standing, although it’s become something of a tradition among many modern Pagans. There is nothing wrong with new traditions, and as new traditions go, I think the Oak and Holly Kings idea is both benign and useful. Not all Pagans are religious. Some have no interest in deities but most of us are interested in the seasonal cycles of nature, and these chaps give us something which personifies that in a non-deific way. Most people don’t worship the Oak and Holly Kings, they are just symbols.

As symbols, these figures have come to riff pretty obviously on the foliate head iconography found on (mostly) English Norman churches. It’s generally thought that their original meaning is far from the ideas of the veneration of nature that are now applied to them, but I don’t think that’s important. It’s a modern, post-Christian interpretation of a common artistic expression, as is the modern understanding of The Green Man. On the cultural appropriation scale, I would rank it 1 (very low) to 0 (you must be joking). It doesn’t ask us to apply any archetypal mumbo-jumbo to some unsuspecting deity who will find it a poor fit.

Of course you may feel that your own culture or mythology offers all you need to understand and celebrate the endless journey between midsummer and midwinter, and if so, that’s fine. Christians don’t really need Santa Claus, but he’s fairly harmless and popular, and largely what you make of him. A symbol of the season, a Christian saint, or something for kids. I don’t feel that my own tradition has deities which strongly personify summer or winter, in spite of some associations. Nor do I feel that there are myths in any Celtic tradition which really describe the seasonal changes as a strong theme. There are hints. The Cailleach is a big one – but I still feel a bit wobbly about whether or not she is even a deity, and I think she has acquired a lot of new folklore, especially concerning her imprisonment of Bride as a spring maiden. The seasonal battle between  Gwythyr ap Greidol and Gwyn ap Nudd, alluded to in Culhwch and Olwen, suggests that there may have once been a seasonal battle myth, as does Arawn and Hafgan’s annual battle in the First Branch of the Mabinogi.

The fact that many modern Pagans try hard to find or recreate myths from cultural traditions may indicate that there is a need for such a myth. It’s possible that this is largely a modern need, but that doesn’t make it unimportant. It’s also possible that it’s just another neoPagan hangover from the glory days of Frazier and Graves. Well, modern Paganism owes them a lot, whether we like it or not.

Old isn’t always better. Culture-specific isn’t always better, either. I’m a devotional polytheist. I do my specific thing within that. However, I’m extremely glad of the wider neoPagan community. I like many of its traditions and loathe others. I like the Oak and Holly Kings. I occasionally get a little frustrated when people start making claims for their antiquity or spouting nonsense about the meanings of foliate heads on churches. But I’m nerdy like that. I love to get at the truth of things.

Still, what a great new set of symbols. People like writing stories about them, and creating beautiful new art depicting them. So now you know. I’m completely and utterly out of the closet as a fan on the Oak and Holly Kings.

So many Celtic warriors, like Vercingetorix or Boudicca, have their public memorials, as do many legendary kings like Alfred the Great or Brian Boru. Where is Urien’s memorial? Why are his stories no longer told? It’s a sad state of affairs.

He would come to be known as one of the blessed womb-burdens of Britain. Urien and his sister Efrddyl, children of the great Cynfarch, were twins. Efrddyl went on to bear triplets.

Urien’s own eldest children, Owein and Morfydd were also twins, begotten, if was said, on Modron, the daughter of Afallach, King of Annwfn (the otherworld) when he found her washing at a ford. It's a scene uncannily reminiscent of encounters with The Morrigan in Irish myth. Ever after, Owein was associated in some mystical way with Modron’s divine son, Mabon, a deity worshipped in North Britain as Maponnos.

These were three blessed womb-burdens of Britain, according to the triads.

Where was Urien born? We don’t know. This is a phrase you hear a great deal when discussing Urien, or Rheged, or Hen Ogledd (The Old Brythonic North). We don’t know.

Urien might mean “privileged” or “exalted” birth. There are no surviving legends about him as a youth. No prodigious feats. It would be surprising it such tales hadn’t existed at some point, but even if they had, that wouldn’t make them true.

Taliesin is the closest we can find to an eyewitness. The Book of Taliesin contains many poems which are unlikely to be the work of the historical Taliesin, but it contains twelve which might be. Of those, eight concern Urien, and one is an elegy for Owein, his son.

It’s unclear whether Taliesin was of a similar age to Urien, or whether he served as Urien’s court poet for many years or just a few. My money is on him being younger. There is something in the tone of those poems. Of course it was the job of a bard to praise his patron, but Taliesin sounds as if Urien made a deep impression on him. They feel almost worshipful. A little like love poems, at times. In amongst the sabre rattling there is often tenderness, adoration, and gratitude.

Taliesin describes a few battles – one at a place called Gwen Ystrad (the white strath) that could be anywhere, another at Catraeth, almost certainly Catterick, which Urien seems to have held for a time. In The Battle of Argoed Llwyfain, Taliesin tells how Urien and Owain refuse the demand for hostages, from the Angle leader, Fflamddwyn, giving battle and defeating him, instead. Flamddwyn, meaning “flame bearer” – probably known for burning the settlements of the Britons. “The hounds of Coel’s litter would be hard-pressed indeed before they’d hand over one man as a hostage,” asserts Owein, invoking his ancestor, Coel Hen. “I shall plan a whole year for my victory song,” boasts Taliesin, at the end of the story.

All this is something of a preamble. The final chapters of Urien’s life are not told by Taliesin. Nennius takes up the tale, briefly, to give us a more Saxon viewpoint –

According to tradition, Urien was an old man by the time he finally created enough unity among the warlords of the north to drive the Angles back. The story of what that required of him as far as battle or diplomacy in unclear. Was it the work of many years? We only know that Urien seems to have grown from a powerful northwestern warlord into an irresistible unifying force in the north, only to be cut down by a jealous rival at the last moment. As is so often the case, it becomes another story of how the Celts almost won.

 Ironically, Arthur, who we hear so much of today, was probably operating in the same sphere, at around the same time, or maybe a generation before. Yet Arthur gets barely a mention from the poets and historians closest to hand, leaving me to wonder about many of the stories of a great, tragic king who nearly united the Britons. Were tales which have Arthur’s name attached to them originally inspired by the deeds of Urien of Rheged?

Half a year ago, I made a little video about Taliesin – talking both about the story of Cerridwen and the shape-shifting episode, and also about the historical Taliesin and his relationship to Urien. Something got inside me when I was working on that. I needed to know more about Urien of Rheged. There were no books about him, but a great deal of tangled conjecture on the internet.

I started reading the scholarly material, most of which referred me back to the few written resources available. Nennius, Taliesin, the Welsh Triads, genealogies, and the Llywarch Hen poems. I was amused by the honest, self-deprecating remarks of different Celticists as they introduced their topics. The consensus: we don't know.

Amusing, and very human, but a bit disheartening, too.

Increasingly, though, I knew I wanted to tell Urien’s story. Laugh, if you must, but sometimes I felt Urien looking over my shoulder, asking me to write it. But how? I’m not a fan of the historical/fantasy novel, with lots of romance, adventure, and material made-up for effect. On the other hand, I’m no historian, and by this time I had established that there wasn’t enough historical material to make a story.

Then, I remembered who I am. Someone who loves myth and poetry and legend, as well as history. I began to wonder whether there was enough material in the poets, and other sources I mentioned above, to piece together Urien’s story. Not a story of historical fact, not a fanciful story fleshing out the few facts we have, but a simple stitching together of the early texts. It worked. The old texts created a rich picture of Urien’s life, and I swear I glimpsed a nod of thanks out of the corner of my eye.

I feel like writing this changed something. Changed me. It felt like a privilege to reweave the tradition of Urien, rather than try to answer historical questions. And it was a joy to discover that far from making stuff up out of whole cloth, as the saying goes, I found a cloth that was already surprisingly whole.

Self-publishing can mean uploading files to Amazon, or it can look like this. The only thing I don’t do is my own printing, because my volume of sales doesn’t currently justify me buying a good laser printer. (Some of you have heard my moans about dealing with printers, but we won’t talk about that…)

I write the content and unfortunately do the editing, too, which isn’t ideal, but the rates I charge myself are rock-bottom! I do the layouts and prepare the files. I wrangle with the printers more often than not, and bring the pages home and do my own folding and stapling. And I might listen to something nice like Candlelit Tales Irish mythology YouTube channel while I’m doing it.

I hope my customers think my efforts are worth it, and enjoy knowing that I get to keep a bigger chunk of what they pay for my books, because I do it this way. That means that after postage, packing, printing - I get a little something for my writing time.

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In this recent post I looked at some common pitfalls when reading The Four Branches of the Mabinogi (and other Celtic myth). This is the other side of the coin. Some tips about what’s worth noticing and thinking about as you read The Four Branches.

About the Four Branches
Although the Mabinogi manuscripts that have survived date to the 14th century, dating the stories themselves, is a lot harder. In the form that we find them, they probably go back a couple of centuries before that, but it’s much harder to date the material they came from. There are enough common themes that are shared with Irish material several centuries older to suggest some common ancestry. There are enough common themes with Indo-European myth, generally, to suggest that these stories have very long roots.

The “Mab” in Mabinogi means son, or boy and there are a couple of Celtic deities with related +names: Maponnos, and Mabon ap Modron. (Here’s a link to an in depth look at these deities.) Mabon ap Modron (divine son of the divine mother) has associations in Welsh-language lore with being a divine prisoner, and he is an important character in Culhwch and Olwen, which is in the wider collection of The Mabinogi.

The stories have a theme of mothers and sons and one theory is that many of these stories were originally stories about Mabon/Maponnos. It has also been suggested that “Mabinogi” might imply that these are stories for the instruction of boys – specifically for young noblemen who would have been taught by bards, and who would have been expected to learn about the responsibilities and dangers of leadership. I believe that both these ideas have a lot of merit, and there is no reason that they can’t both be true. Probably, the more deeply mythic themes of motherhood, male youth, and kingship represent an older layer.  This may have been developed, over time, into stories which would require young men to think deeply about honour, marriage, and leadership. I think it is important to keep these ideas in mind, when reading the Four Branches.

Women’s themes
Recent commentators have noticed that women’s themes play a big part in The Four Branches. There is quite a bit of mistreatment of women, and there is also some extremely assertive behaviour by some of the females characters. For the most part, the females don’t sit in towers waiting to be rescued, nor do their lives revolve entirely around producing heirs for their mates. A theory which has not been widely accepted is that the “author” of The Mabinogi was a woman. The reasons for discarding that theory have less to do with disbelief that a medieval woman could be the author, and more to do with the lack of evidence in this case, and the general consensus that The Mabinogi doesn’t exactly have an author. It almost certainly came down through the oral tradition, and how much responsibility any one individual had for the form in which we know it, is difficult to discern, although its likely that one individual was responsible for pulling The Four Branches together into the version we know. Still, referring to that person as “editor” or “redactor” is probably more accurate than “author”.

The way women are portrayed has caused some students to feel that the “true” stories of some of the female characters must have been altered by medieval patriarchal forces. That’s difficult to prove or disprove. While it’s true that the female characters are not always “good”, neither are the male characters. The motivations for the actions of Arianrhod and Blodeuedd, in particular, are left to the reader to think about for themselves. Characters in The Four Branches are surprisingly three dimensional, and it’s a mistake to assume that only good (or bad) behaviour is being modelled. A more useful approach is to look for cause and effect, or to consider that the choices open to some characters are limited. What we can be certain of, is that as Celtic myths, or medieval stories go, The Four Branches seems unusually concerned with the treatment of women and the issues they face.

Overarching themes
Although The Four Branches forms a loosely chronological narrative, it is worthwhile to compare the branches to one another, and perhaps track a progression of ideas as the cycle progresses, rather than just look at them as some kind of saga. There are a number of themes which recur, including: weddings; motherhood; mothers losing their sons; large, futile battles; honour; magic; and deception. It’s worth noting how each of these themes is approached.

To take one example, there is a wedding in every branch, but they are each very different.

In The First Branch, Rhiannon appears in Pwyll’s kingdom and proposes marriage to him. They encounter some difficulties on the way to becoming man and wife, but work together to achieve it. Their relationship encounters more problems, but Pwyll remains essentially loyal, if sometimes a bit ineffective.

Just this one theme of weddings and marriages offers quite a bit of insight into The Four Branches. The degree of agency shown by Rhiannon at the beginning of her relationship to Pwyll, is dramatically different that Branwen’s situation, or Blodeuedd’s. A similar trend can also be seen when looking at other themes, like honour. Generally, the trajectory from First Branch to Fourth is not a positive one. So, as well as there being lessons within each story, perhaps we can begin to see bigger philosophical questions being tackled, if we make the effort. To some extent, this may be a commentary on the state of society in which The Four Branches found its form, but I believe that there are also much earlier religious and cultural forces underlying these themes.

I’m always encouraging people to read The Mabinogi – and Celtic myths in general. But I’m aware that not everyone gets a lot out of them. I put these thoughts together for a talk I gave recently, so before I forget it all, I thought I’d write it down. It’s safe to say that this advice works pretty well for reading most Celtic myth, not just The Mabinogi.

Thinking it’s damaged goods
This takes two forms:
1. The Christians wrecked it!
Yes, most medieval texts were copied out in monasteries. As modern people, we tend to assume that if someone entered a monastery, then they must have been almost fanatical in their religious views, but there’s no evidence for this. Sure, if you were a religious fanatic a monastery might be where you ended up, but people were there for all sorts of other reasons. Some were given to the church by their parents as children, some were attracted by the access to books and learning, and It’s quite possible that for others it was seen as a path not that different from becoming a Druid. There is a line of thinking that some Druids were sort of “underground” in monasteries, although I’m not sure we should take it all that seriously.

Most of the monks were local, or had grown up in the culture that preserved the stories which became what we think of as The Mabinogi. There is every evidence that their main motivation for putting these tales on paper was to preserve them. It was because they believed that the stories had value. I think they were prompted by the same urge to preserve lore that sustained the bards and other lore keepers who had existed for millennia.

There is little, if any, Christianisation of the stories in The Mabinogi. There is some Christianised language salted through the dialogue. This may have just been a reflection of how people spoke at the time, or an effort to put a few “key words” into the text, so that it couldn’t be called completely ungodly. You certainly see this with a lot of early bardic poetry, where most of the Christian references are in the opening few lines, or sometimes the last few lines. As if a nod to Him Upstairs would keep any disapproving bishops off the scent. The stories themselves do not feel like Christian stories – the feel closer to pre-Christian myth.

I can’t deny that many Celtic myths feel a little fragmented. Sometimes you sense that the story you’re getting must have been part of a bigger story. Other times, a text will refer to a story that we just don’t have anymore. I think it’s important not to get too hung up on this. Often, studying lesser known sources like The Triads and The Book of Taliesin will help fill in some gaps, but not always. Sometimes I do feel very angry at the Romans, the Saxons, and the Anglicised aristocracy, for destroying so much Celtic lore. Equally, I feel extremely proud and awestruck at how much was saved in spite of the cultural trauma being inflicted. I choose to celebrate that.
 
Reading it as fiction
We live in a society that consumes a lot of fiction in the form of books and films. We tend to plough through large books or multi-episode films with an enormous appetite. There’s an analogy there with a glutton stuffing themselves, but not really tasting their food very much.
Medieval texts are usually very economical with words. Some of that came from the need to be economical with ink and vellum, not to mention the human effort required to hand write them. So, The Mabinogi moves very fast. Almost every sentence is meaningful. Major action happens on every page. You can easily read The Four Branches in a day. But can you digest it?

Another habit we have from consuming fiction is reading mostly for identification. Notice how you read books and watch films. Most of us identify primarily with one character. Successful fiction is often constructed to encourage that. We feel we have a lot in common with the anti-hero or the oppressed female character. Or we long to be beautiful and engaged in romantic intrigue, or to be on a great quest or adventure.

Of course, myth can draw you into all of that, too, but keep your wits about you and you will get more out of it. Rather than wanting to be like one of the characters, or sort of falling in love with a character because you think you have a lot in common, pay attention to what’s going on in the story as a whole and you will find a much more interesting set of layers.

And finally
I believe this is good advice:
Take your time. Read a paragraph, think about it, repeat if necessary. Or read a story, sleep on it, or go for a nice walk and think about it. Then read it again.

Get above the trees and look down a the forest. What is going on in the story as a whole? Can you see causes and effects? What’s the cause behind the cause (behind the cause….).

Prepare for ambiguity and deep thinking. There are messages in myths. I believe that there are layers of messages that reveal themselves as we need them. But they are not black and white morality tales. Deep thinking will reveal surprising insights about justice, cosmology, and honourable behaviour. Those insights won’t be simple, or cut and dried. They will be nuanced. Don’t try to reduce them to some kind of Ten Commandments”.

This turned into more than a typical blog post. More than most people would wish to read in a sitting, I know. Hopefully, the headings will allow you to pick out the bits that suit your interests. All photos can be enlarged by clicking.

You are welcome to download a copy of this paper! Nothing to sign up for, just grab it!

Culhwch and Olwen
Mabon ap Modron means divine son of the divine mother. We know him from just a few references in Welsh lore. His most significant appearance is in a story called How Culhwch won Olwen, in the Mabinogi. The hero of the tale, Culhwch, is required to do a series of “impossible” tasks, before he can win the woman he loves. One central thing he needs to do is hunt a magical Irish boar called the Twrch Trwth.

It transpires that the boar can only be tracked by a special hunting dog, called Drudwyn, which can only be controlled by Mabon, who was stolen from between his mother and the wall at three days old, and “no one knows where he is, or what he is, or whether he is alive or dead. No-one can ever find Mabon, no-one will know where he is, until Eiddoel his kinsmen, the son of Aer, is found, since he will be tireless in seeking him. He is his cousin." Strangely, Eiddoel is also imprisoned at Gloucester.

There is a long sequence in the story about the seeking of Mabon, which involves asking several very old, wise animals whether they have seen Mabon. This part of the story serves to emphasise the extremely ancient nature of Mabon and his imprisonment. Finally, they speak to the salmon on Llyn Lliw – the oldest of all animals. He tells them that as he swims up the River Severn with the tide, he can hear Mabon lamenting his imprisonment from within the walls of Gloucester castle’s dungeons. Culhwch’s cousin is King Arthur, and Arthur and some of his men free Mabon. He is given a horse called Gwyn Myngddwn (white brown-mane) to ride, and with the hound Drudwyn, Mabon goes on to lead a successful hunt of the Twrch Trwth, and Culhwch gets the Olwen.

What do we learn about Mabon from this? Mabon was stolen in infancy, and imprisoned for a very long time. He might be associated with Gloucester and the Severn. He is a good huntsman and has a way with dogs. The way the story of the search for Mabon is set into the wider tale of Culhwch suggests that it may once have been a story in its own right, possibly with more detail about how he was taken from Modron, or with a pre-Arthurian version of His rescue.

Culhwch and Olwen names a dizzying array of characters, drawn fron deities, legend, history, and probably bardic imagination. Among those mentioned, is Mabon, son of Mellt, who along with a character called Gware Gwallt Euryn (synonymous with Pryderi, another divine prisoner) goes to Brittany to get a pair of hunting dogs. Mellt means lightning, and it is possible that this is an epithet of Mabon ap Modron, a hint at His supernatural nature, or even a statement about his paternity as the son of a god of lightening. It’s impossible to know which of these might be true, but as an interesting aside, there was a Celtic tribe in the Marne region of Gaul known as the Meldi, and it is possible that they had a tutelary deity called Meldius. The movements of the Meldi are poorly understood. The Marne rises at Balesmes-sur-Marne and empties into the River Seine near Paris, but the Meldi had possible territories at some time in places as widely disparate as the Lyon region, Bulgaria and Flanders. There is an inscription at Glanum, near Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, which reads: To Meldius. Silanus son of Lutevus has fulfilled his vow.  

Other Welsh texts
A poem in The Black Book of Carmarthen mentions both Mabon ap Modron and Mabon son of Mellt. Pa Gur yv y Porthaur? (Who is the gate-keeper) is a dialogue between Arthur and a porter called Glewlwyd, which features two favourite Celtic motifs: a hero trying to gain admittance to a castle, and a long list of warriors. This translation is from Skene’s The Four Ancient Books of Wales:

Mabon, the son of Modron,
The servant of Uthyr Pendragon;
Cysgaint, the son of Banon;
And Gwyn Godybrion.
Terrible were my servants
Defending their rights.
Manawydan, the son of Llyr,
Deep was his counsel.
Did not Manawyd bring
Perforated shields from Trywruid?
And Mabon, the son of Mellt,
Spotted the grass with blood?

There are a few references, or possible references, to Mabon in other Welsh lore. Triad 52, in the Welsh Triads, lists Mabon as one of the three exalted prisoners of the island of Britain. This translation is by Rachel Bromwich in her Trioedd Ynys Prydein:

Llŷr Half-Speech, who was imprisoned by Euroswydd.
and the second, Mabon ap Modron,
and the third, Gweir son of Geirioedd.

The text of the triad then goes on to say that Arthur is more exalted that these three, and to describe three imprisonments of Arthur.
Another poem from The Book of Taliesin, The Spoils of Annwn, also references a prisoner called Gweir, as well as mentioning Arthur’s boat Prydwen. Gweir, Pryderi, and Mabon may, in some sense, be synonymous. The following passage is translated by Tony Conran in Welsh Verse:

Impeccable prison had Gweir in Caer Siddi,
As the story relates of Pwyll and Pryderi.
Prior to him, there went to it nobody,
To the heavy grey chain that trussed a true laddie.
Because of the spoils of Annwn he sang bitterly,
Three shiploads of Prydwen, we went on that journey.
Seven alone we returned from Caer Siddi.

Finally, we have mention of Mabon in Englynion y Beddau (Stanzas of the Graves), translated here by John K Bollard:

The grave in the upland of Nantlle,
No one knows his remarkable characteristics -
Mabon ap Mydron the Swift.

What have we learned from these? Mabon seems to continue a loose association with Arthur, and possibly gains one with Llŷr and His son, Manawydan fab Llŷr. He is seen as a divine, or exhalted, prisoner. He is also associated with the mysterious Gwier. We’ll consider both of these below.

The Mabinogi
The title of the collection of tales called the Mabinogi (or Mabinogion) would suggest a connection to the word mabon (son), or perhaps to Mabon ap Modron. There are at least two ways in which this could be true. For the sake of simplicity, let’s just look at the core of the Mabinogi: The Four Branches.

First, mothers and sons. There is much in these tales which concerns mothers and their sons, who are always destined to be kings. In the First Branch, Rhiannon, bears a son to Pwyll. Like Mabon, this lad is stolen from his mother in infancy and missing for a long time. He is at first named Gwri Gwallt Euryn 'Gwri Golden Hair', which some scholars believe bears a connection to Gweir, who is mentioned in two of the poems, above, as being imprisoned. When the boy is returned to his parents, they rename him Pryderi (worry, anxiety).

In the Second Branch, Branwen, daughter of Llŷr, gives birth to a son, Gwern, after marrying Matholwch, the king of Ireland. Branwen is mistreated, and her brother, Brân, leads a disasterous expedition to Ireland to avenge her. While Brân’s warriors are in Ireland, his half-brother, Efnisien, the son of Euroswydd, throws Branwen’s son, Gwern, into a fire, killing him. Only seven men returned alive from this campaign, one of whom is Pryderi. This story is often compared to the Spoils of Annwn, quoted above.

The Third Branch continues the story of Rhiannon. Pryderi has inherited his father’s kingdom and returns from Ireland, accompanied by Manawydan, brother of Brân and Branwen. Rhiannon and Manawydan marry and the group have a series of misadventures in which Pryderi and Rhiannon go missing and are imprisoned in an otherworldly fortress.

The Fourth Branch is a tale of dynastic intrigue featuring new characters. The reigning king is called Math, and he appears to have neither wife nor heirs. However, he has a niece, called Arianrhod, and two nephews, Gwydion and Gilfaethwy. Somehow, probably via trickery on Gwydion’s part, Arianrhod bears twins. One child, Dylan, runs away immediately and swims off in the sea. The other, Lleu, is raised by Gwydion and rejected by Arianrhod, with Gwydion perfoming many machinations in order to put Lleu on the throne. At one point, Gwydion starts a war in which he unfairly kills Pryderi.

Looking at the above, you might draw the conclusion that Pryderi is the mabon (son) after whom the collection of stories is named, or that it is meant to be a collection of tales about mothers and their sons.

Second, tales to instruct the sons of the nobility. The Four Branches, and indeed the other tales in the Mabinogi, offer a wealth of stories about young men making mistakes, and sometimes gaining wisdom, what good and bad leadership looks like, etc. The stories aren’t black and white “morality tales”. They require the reader/listener to think. This has led some commentators to think that their purpose is to teach the boys and young men (mabons). I agree strongly with this idea, but it’s also possible that this use was applied to stories which already existed in the culture for religious reasons.

Later Arthurian literature
The Arthurian literature of England and continental Europe drew on characters and stories from the Brythonic speaking culture of pre-Saxon Britain. (Some of this was then re-imported to Wales, where a new mix was created, as in the three Arthurian romances included in the Mabinogi.) So it’s not surprising that we find echoes of Mabon.

In Erec et Enide, the character Mabonagrain is held captive in a garden by his promise to a woman, and spends years missing from the court of Evrain. There he is forced to fight all comers until he is defeated. He overcomes and beheads many knights until he is finally defeated, much to his own relief, by Erec, and is then able to return to court.

In Lanzelet, there is a character called Mabuz, who is associated with a prison because he has one, called the Castle of the Dead, which he fills with knights who he bewitches, causing them to become cowards. In this story, Mabuz is said to be the son of a fairy queen. Modron, discussed below, is undoubtedly the basis for Geoffrey of Monmouth’s “fairy queen” character, Morgan le Fay, in his Vita Merlini, which first popularised Arthurian stories. This helps to confirm Mabuz’s literary relationship to Mabon, but there is no reason to believe that the details of the stories or characters or Mobonagrain and Mabuz reflect Brythonic traditions concerning Mabon/Maponos.

Lochmaben and the Clachmabenstane
Lochmaben is a small town in southwest Scotland, which is surrounded on three sides by three separate lochs, and on the fourth side by the River Annan. None of these lochs is currently called Loch Mabon, but it is possible that the one known as Castle Loch may have been, at some point in the past. This Loch seems to have been important during the bronze age and early iron age, as it has several possible crannog sites (Canmore 66289, 66316, and 89712) and log boat finds.

This leaves the question of why the place is called Lochmaben. It is too far from the Clachmabenstone, in my opinion, to take its name from that, or vice versa. The first inscription described in the next section, below, which may be translated as Locus Maponi (place of Maponos) lies almost equidistant between the two “Maben” locations, so perhaps it is indicative that the wider area was considered to be a kind of “Land of Mabon” during the first century. Scholars discussing the poem about Owain, quoted below, have wondered whether some of its lines indicate that there was such an area.

There is a traditional ballad, known as The Lochmaben Harper (Child Ballad No. 192), about a harper from Lochmaben who goes over the border into nearby Carlisle to steal a mare from “King Henry”, called The Wanton Brown, having first laid wagers that he could do it. He achieves this by trickery, using his own mare and foal, and by beguiling people, and sending them to sleep with his beautiful harp playing. The story is a comic one, in which the harper gets one over on everybody, making a great deal of money in the process. The ballad exists in both Scots and English language versions, the earliest known date being 1564. It is only of interest here because of the carvings on Apollo-Maponus with a harp, or lyre, on two North British altars. I’m not aware of any other folklore about a harper in the area which might have given rise to the ballad, but it’s an interesting coincidence.

At Gretna Green, about 20 miles southeast of the town of Lochmaben in a standing stone (Canmore 67441) about two metres high, and quite broad, called the Clachmabenstane (or Stone of Lochmaben). Clach is Gaelic for stone, stane is Scots for stone. This kind of repitition is common in Scottish place names and the name of the stone may only relate to Mabon, and not to the town of Lochmaben, despite the way the names rhyme and have become confused. Like the town of Lochmaben, the stone is almost surrounded by water, being sandwiched between the rivers Sark and Kirtle, where they both flow into the Esk, as it empties into the Solway Firth.

Saints and Place Names
There are several Saint Mabons (also Mabyn, Mabenna), none of whom are well documented, and it is just possible that some of their locations could relate to the earlier deity.

St Mabyn of Cornwall (frequently Saint Mabenna) was said to be one of the many legendary daughters of Brychan, a 5th century king of Brycheiniog, a kingdom in Wales, and is first mentioned in the 12th century Life of St Nectan. She has a church at St Mabon (English: St Mabyn) in Cornwall. There is a 16th century window depicting her in nearby St. Neot’s church, in Loveni. At least one source suggests that this church was actually dedicated to 6th century St Mabon the Confessor, of Y Trallwng (Welshpool). It might seem strange to include a female saint here but it is not unknown for confusion to arise in later centuries about the gender of obscure saints, and there is obvious confusion between this saint and the two male candidates.

Ruabon is the name of a town near Wrecsam, at the northern end of the English/Welsh border. Ruabon means hill, or slope, of Mabon. It has been suggested that this could refer to Saint Mabon the Confessor, or even the Cornish St Mabyn, although the parish church appears to have been dedicated to St Collen until the 13th century, when it became St Mary’s. This St Mabon is said to be the brother of St Llywelyn, both generally referred to as 6th century saints. Bonedd y Seint says they are sons of Tegonwy ap Teon but he is thought to have lived in the 9th century, which would make that relationship impossible.

Another St Mabon is the brother of the more famous St Teilo, with a church at Llanfabon, about two miles northwest of Pontypridd. There is a possibility that the church of Llanvapley, dedicated to an unlikely St Mabli (probably due to a scribal error), could also be associated with this St Mabon. Alex Gibbon writes:

…it would also be significant that a potential church of St. Mabon at Llanfapley stands in close proximity to the church of St. Teilo at neighbouring Llantilio Crossenny – since a St. Mabon site adjoins Llandaf in Cardiff where St. Teilo was said to have become bishop, and it is also suggested by P.C. Bartrum (1993) that the source of an association between St. Mabon and St. Teilo cited by the unreliable scribe Iolo Morganwg (1700’s) is the close proximity of Maenorfabon (St. Mabon) and Maenordeilo (St. Teilo) in Llandeilo Fawr on the Tywi.

There is still a Maes-y-meibon (Mabon’s field) just across the River Tywi from modern day Manordeilo, although any Maenorfabon seems to have slipped from the maps.

Quite close to Manordeilo, at Llansawel, there is a local story of a giant called Mabon Gawr. This is recorded in Peniarth 118, a manuscript dated to about 1600. It contains a long list of Welsh giants and their associated place names. This is from a passage translated by Hugh Owen:

And in the land of Caerfyrddin in Llan Sawel were four giants, and these were four brothers, namely Mabon Gawr, and the place in which this giant dwelt is called to-day by the name of Castell Fabon; and the second … etc.

The passage goes on to list the other three brothers: Dinas Gawr, Chwilein Gawr, and Celgau Gawr, each of whom is given a local Caer with their name attached. This passage probably relates to a folkloric, or bardic, device for explaining the names of ancient forts. There is a “Castell” on the OS map near Llansawel, although it is unnamed.

Association with Apollo
The Romans conflated their own deities with native deities of lands they invaded and as we see from the inscriptions, above, they paired Maponos with Apollo. Apollo was central to Roman practice and had been adopted from Greek religion without changing his name, unlike most Roman deities. His attributes included athletic and youthful beauty, a connection to hunting and archery (his sister was Diana/Artemis), and a strong link with music, poetry, and dance. Musically, he was particularly connected with the lyre. He was also associated with prophecy. The Delphic oracle was his high priestess. Apollo was also connected with healing, the sun, and water. His healing abilities, however, were such that he was believed to be capable of bringing disease as well as curing it. Apollo had many lovers (not uncommon in Greek myths) but it is probably a mistake to call his a god of love.

The attributes of youthfulness and hunting fit well with what we know of Mabon ap Modron, although it’s far from a perfect fit. There is no mention of healing or disease in Mabon’s story, nor of music and poetry. His imprisonment beside the Severn links him tenuously to water, and some have suggested a link between his imprisonment and release, and the returning sun after the winter solstice. These ideas are interpretations, at best. There is also a possible link between his seeming affinity with dogs and healing, as dogs were among the symbols of healing for both Celts and Romans. Maponos in Gaul has strong ties to healing.

Apollo was also linked with a number of other Celtic deities, including Belenos and Grannus, There are six inscriptions to Apollo scattered along Hadrians wall, plus four in Scotland (two of which are on the Antonine wall), and a further three widely separated over the Midlands. In Wiltshire, not too far from Gloucester and the Severn, there is an inscription to Apollo Cunomaglos (hound lord), which is interesting considering Mabon’s exploits hunting the Twrch Trwth across the Severn in Culhwch and Olwen.

Maponos in Gaul
The best-known evidence for Maponos in Gaul is at La Source des Roches (spring of the rocks) in Chamalières, in the Auvergne region of France. An excavation of the area around the spring uncovered thousands of carved, wooden ex-voto offerings, which had been thrown into a pool there. This practice was done to request, or give thanks for, healing. Effigies of limbs, body parts, animals, and male and female figures, purchased from workshops on site, represented the person, animal, or area of the body which required healing. Other types of offerings were also found in the excavation, such as coins, fibulae, and wooden tablets – although no carving is visible on these, so perhaps they were painted. Quantities of hazlenuts were also found, apparently given as offerings.

The many dippers and pottery vessels found suggest people drinking the water, and, in fact, water from the spring was being bottled into the mid-20th century, when the spring fell into disuse. It was in 1968, during the preparation of the area for building works that the cache of some 3,500 ex-votos, as well as the other finds, were discovered, leading to a major archaeological excavation in 1970-71. The site has been dated to the last three decades BCE and 1st century CE. Recent pollen analysis has revealed that there must have been an oak grove connected to the site, which does not appear to have included significant buildings.

I beseech the very divine, the divine Maponos Arvernatis [of the Arvergni tribe] by means of this magic tablet: quicken us by the magic of the underworld spirits.

It is fair to say that this tablet is the only evidence for Maponos at the Chamalières site, but it seems reasonable that He would have been an important, if not the only, deity being invoked for healing there. This is reinforced by 11th century records of an Abbey at Savigny (Rhône), about 85 miles east of Chamalières, which records a de Mabono fonte. This would be a spring or well associated with Maponos, probably as a holy well of some kind.
 
The original site at Chamalières was eventually covered by the block of apartments whose building work originally uncovered it. Happily, due to the efforts of a private individual, the spring has been restored, a few metres from where it originally rose.  

The famous Coligny calendar also mentions Maponos on the 15th day of Riuos. This may indicate something like a feast day. Although the calendar still lacks an agreed interpretation, some importance was obviously being attached to Maponos.

Finally, at Bourbonne-les-Bains, the site of a thermal spring near the source of the Marne, a funerary inscription mentioning Maponos, as a given name, suggests that his worship was popular in the area. This site is not far from that of the temple of Matrona, mentioned below.

Association with Owain ap Urien
The Welsh texts, folklore, and genealogies, frequently put historical individuals who have achieved legendary status into seeming contact with figures who appear to be deities. This is the case with the great 6th century king, Urien of Rheged, and his son, Owain. In the 15th century manuscript known as Peniarth 50, in the triad known as Triad 70 (The Three Blessed Womb Burdens,) here translated by Rachel Bromwich, we read:

The second, Owain, son of Urien and Mor(fudd) his sister who were carried together in the womb of Modron daughter of Afallach;   

It’s an easy calculation for the reader to make, that if Owain’s mother is Modron, that makes him a half-brother to Mabon ap Modron. This is reinforced in an oft-quoted tale from the 16th century Peniarth 147, where folklore tells how Urien meets and couples with a woman washing at a ford, in a scene reminiscent of the meeting of The Dagda and The Morrigan, in The Second Battle of Moytura. The identity of Afallach, as an otherworld king, is also clarified.

        "In Denbighshire there is a parish called Llanferres and in that place there is the Rhyd y Gyfarthfa (Ford of Barking). And in ancient times the hounds of the country came together to the edge of that ford to bark. And no one would dare go to see what was there until   Urien Rheged came. And when he came to the edge of the ford he saw nothing but a girl washing. And then the hounds stopped barking and Urien Rheged seized the woman and had sex with her. 
        And then she said "God's blessing on the feet which have brought you here." 
        "Why?" he said. 
        "Because a destiny was placed on me to wash here until I begat a son by a Christian. I am the daughter to the King of Annwfn. Come here at the end of the year and you will receive the boy." And so he came and he received there a boy and a girl, namely Owein ab Urien and Morfudd ferch Urien."  

In a poem from The Book of Taliesin, about a 6th century cattle raid involving Owain and Urien (Kychwedyl am doddyu o Galchwynydd) the name Mabon is mentioned several times, although it isn’t entirely clear whether it is Mabon the deity, or a mortal warrior with the name Mabon, who is referenced. Some genealogies give Owain a paternal uncle called Mabon ap Idno ap Merchion, in other words, Urien’s brother. Professor John Koch translates the passage like this, in The Celtic Heroic Age:

The manifestation of Mabon from the other-realm
in the battle where Owain fought for the cattle of his country,

A further passage from Koch’s translation reads:

Whoever saw Mabon on his white-flanked ardent steed.
as men mingled contending for Rheged’s cattle,
unless it were by means of wings that they flew,
only as corpses would they go from Mabon.
Of encounter, descent, and onset of battle
in the realm of Mabon, the inexorable chopper;
when Owain fought to defend his father’s cattle,
white-washed shields of waxed hawthorn burst forth.

However, it’s worth noting that a more conservative translation of those first two lines might be something like this one from Lewis and Williams’ The Book of Taliesin:

Mabon was to the fore  -  Mabon from far away,
When Owain fought  -  for his land’s stock.

Modron and Matrona
Just as Mabon seems to be a Brythonic continuation of the deity Maponos, the same can probably be said for Modron and Matrona, a goddess associated with the river Marne in east-central France. As well as the obviously cognate name, one can draw a few other connections. The region around the Marne river was the territory of the Meldi, who may relate to the possible epithet Son of Mellt, mentioned above in the section on Culhwch and Olwen.

The only mythical portrayal we have of Modron then, is her occasional mentions as the mother of Mabon, and the two interesting passages quoted above in the section on Owain. Although the Peniarth manuscripts they come from are late in date, it is more difficult to trace the origins of the myth that may lie behind them. That myth might be interpreted as Modron being a river goddess, and the daughter of the otherworldly King Afallach (relating to apples, or land of apples), also described as the king of Annwn. Like the Morrigan in Irish myth, she is found washing at the ford where she couples with a highly important king, who is seen as a great provider and defender of the land. She bears him twins, and the male child goes on to be a great hero.

As the daughter of an otherworld king in these texts, Modron became the starting point for Morgan la Fay in later Arthurian literature. Modron and Afallach are also the source of folklore traceable to at least the 16th century from Ravenglass, in Cumbria, where a Roman ruin is said to be the home of a fairy king called Eveling and his daughter, Modron. In Who Was King Eveling of Ravenglass?, W G Collingwood tends to entange himself in Arthurian literature and spurious genealogies, rather than looking for answers closer to home, but some of his explorations are intriguing, such as:

In Britain, there are many inscriptions to “the mother goddesses” in various forms, but none to a singular, otherwise unnamed mother goddess, or matrona. There are two British saints who bear names similar to Modron. Saint Madryn (also Madrun, Materiana) was the wife of Ynyr, a 5th century ruler of Gwent and the grandaughter of Vortigern. They are credited with building a nunnery at Trawsfynydd, where there is a church dedicated to St Madryn. Nearby, is a spectacularly located hill fort (Coflein 95275) known as Garn Fadryn (Madryn’s Cairn), which was built on successively from about 300 BCE until the late 12th century. While such a hill is a prime candidate for association with a mother goddess, it may well be associated with the princess/saint. St Madryn is said to have relocated to Cornwall after the death of Ynyr. In Cornwall, a church at Minster, tucked away in woodland near Kastel Boterel (English: Boscastle) is dedicated to her as St Materiana, as is the parish church at Trevena (Tintagel).

Cornwall also has the male Saint Madrun, who has been suggested by John Koch to be connected to the goddess Modron. His holy well, Madron’s Well, near Eglos Madern (English: Madron) in Cornwall, is famous for its healing power, and whether originally Christian or pre-Christian, is of great antiquity. The parish church of the town of Eglos Madern, is called St Maddern’s. It is also dedicated to St Madron, although the existence of an historical St Madron is doubtful.

Association with Áengus Óg
Áengus Óg (young Áengus) is the son of the god known as An Dagda in Irish myth. An understanding of the etymology of his name, and various versions of that name originating from a variety of Irish texts, and their English translations, will be helpful in understand why he is associated with Mabon. Paraphrasing slightly the excellent explanation given by Dáithí Ó hÓgáin, this is as follows: The name Áengus means “true vigour”. He is also known as Mac ind Óc (modern Irish Óg) but this is ungrammatical in Irish if the genitive “son of youth” was intended. It is, therefore, assumed that this may have been based on a misheard oral source, and that the correct form was either in mac óc or maccan óc, which both mean “young boy” or “young son”.

Ó hÓgáin goes on to suggest that Áengus’ association with “eternal” youth and the warping of time relates, not to the popular modern conception of eternal youth, but to the perception of the young, themselves, that time moves almost imperceptibly and that they will always be young and invincible. This might bear some relationship to the portrayal of Mabon in Culhwch and Olwen, where the seeking of Mabon via animals of great longevity emphasises his seemingly endless youth. Even though he has been imprisoned for a tremendous length of time, he is still seemingly young and vigorous.

I think it is foolish to argue whether Áengus and Mabon are the “same” deity. This is essentially a theological question that will have to remain a matter of opinion. However, their similarities and differences are worth looking at.

Nothing is known of Mabon’s father, beyond the possible reference to Mellt. The Dagda has no discernable association with lightening. However, Áengus’ mother, Boand, is an important, maternal  river goddess, like Matrona. She is the goddess of the River Boyne, an extremely significant river in Irish prehistory and myth. The Dagda, himself, flees with the newborn Áengus in order to avoid detection by Boand’s husband, Elcmar, so in that sense he is also taken from his mother in infancy, although there is no mystery as to his whereabouts, nor any mention of imprisonment.

Áengus has several stories that concern romantic love. In Aislingi Óengusai (The Dream of Áengus) he dreams nightly of a beautiful woman until he becomes dangerously lovesick, and eventually they are united, flying off as swans. In Tochmarc Étaíne (The Wooing of Étain), he goes to great lengths to obtain the beautiful Étain for his foster father, Midir. In Tóraíocht Dhiarmada agus Ghráinne (The Pursuit of Dermaid and Gráinne) he does all he can to protect the lovers as they flee from the wrath of Fionn.

There is also a supposed Scottish folk tale concerning Angus, Brìde, and Beira (ie the Cailleach), in which Brìde (portrayed as a youthful goddess of spring) is held prisoner by the Cailleach (as a hag of winter). Angus defeats the Cailleach and rescues Brìde, allowing for the onset of spring. This story comes from the work of Donald A Mackenzie, but he quotes no source for it. Such a story seems to be unknown outside of Mackenzie’s work, in spite of having made its way into popular culture via his writing. I mention this because a belief has arisen, based on this story, that Angus is a god of spring. While Mackenzie’s stories are appealing, romantic, and full of archetypes that have an air of antiquity, his work needs to be taken with grain of salt.

This is not an exhaustive exploration of stories concerning Áengus but is intended to cover enough examples to give a fair overview of his attributes and associations. While Áengus has a great deal of mythology to draw on, Mabon has little that survives, and Maponos has none. Due to this situation it can always be argued that Mabon and Maponos might have myths which parallel those of Áengus.

20th century neopagan perceptions
Before we consider this, it might be useful to look briefly at the work of W J Gruffydd concerning The Mabinogi. Although these were scholarly explorations not, I think, intended to be applied to religion or spirituality, they had an influence on early 20th century Pagan and Druidical thinking.

Gruffydd’s starting point was that Welsh mythology was badly fragmented, with many tales lost, and others obscured by Medieval editors. His viewed the situation as a jigsaw with half the pieces missing, and his work attempted to reconstruct the overarching themes of that mythos. This view still informs the approach of modern polytheistic reconstructionists.

Perhaps the most influential of Gruffydd’s ideas, as far as neopagan thinking is concerned, was his theory of a divine family, consisting of a mother and father goddess (or king and queen) and their divine son, and an idea that these roles might be taken up by different deities at different times. (See below.) It is worth noting, however, that Gruffydd was critical of Sir James Frazer’s “cultural” approach to similar material, and its influence on the work of Sir John Rhŷs.

By the 1960s, Wicca and a Pagan strand of revival Druidry had emerged, drawing on a vast array of influences, and beginning to look for ways to incorporate “old gods” into their practices. In Druidry, especially the newly formed Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids (OBOD), the approach was influenced by the work of Frazer and Robert Graves, but increasingly focused on Arthurian literature and a growing body of related esoteric thought surrounding it.

Where Mabon ap Modron is concerned, these ideas were thoroughly developed by Caitlin Matthews in her book Mabon and The Guardians of Celtic Britain. Her system involved an ever-rotating series of three roles:

Mabon, the Wondrous Youth, the Pendragon’s champion, who succeeds to the place of . . .
Pendragon, the King, the arbiter and ruler, who succeeds to the place of . . .
Pen Annwfn, Lord of the Underworld, the judge and sage, who succeeds to the place of . . . Mabon

Matthews’ scholarship is good, but projects the concept of archetypes begun by others, onto the texts of the Mabinogi, rather than treating Mabon, Rhiannon, etc. as deities. Instead, they become symbols for the use of those seeking to gain enlightenment.

Ross Nichols, the founder of OBOD associated a “child of light” with the winter solstice, celebrated in OBOD as Alban Arthan (The Light of Arthur) He writes:

Born is the Sun God as a dependant infant – who in some mysterious way has managed to escape the powers of darkness seeking to destroy him while he was still in the cradle of Winter.

While Nichols doesn’t mention the name Mabon in this passage, it is a clearly developed idea in later OBOD literature, that this Sun God is “The Mabon”. In a discussion of the winter solstice which later references Jesus, Newgrange, and Mithras we read:

Arthur is equated with the Sun-God who dies and is reborn as the Celtic ‘Son of Light’ – the Mabon – at the Winter Solstice. It is Arthur who will be reborn – awakening from his slumbers in a secret cave in the Welsh mountains, to return as Saviour of the British Isles.

While the Mathews’ and OBOD’s approaches no doubt have the most sincere intentions, from a 21st century perspective it is easy to get a sense that cultures are being mined for handy symbols, in an attempt to create a new, universalist sprituality, which is as unrecognisable to the people of Wales who grew up with tales from Y Mabinogi, as it would be to devotees of Maponos in the 1st century.

A more problematic, and perhaps less respectful, appropriation of Mabon occurred in the 1970s when Aiden Kelly decided to rename the neopagan celebration of the autumn equinox “Mabon”. Kelly has explained how this came about:

It offended my aesthetic sensibilities that there seemed to be no Pagan names for the summer solstice or the fall equinox equivalent to Ostara or Beltane—so I decided to supply them. … Still trying to find a name for it, I began wondering if there had been a myth similar to that of Kore in a Celtic culture. There was nothing very similar in the Gaelic literature, but there was in the Welsh, in the Mabinogion collection, the story of Mabon ap Modron (which translates as “Son of the Mother,” just as Kore simply meant “girl”), whom Gwydion rescues from the underworld, much as Theseus rescued Helen.

The thing that is probably most objectionable about these three uses of the god, or name, Mabon, to modern polytheists is the way they tend to obscure the historical or mythological identity of the deity. If cultural appropriation seems to strong a word, then insensitivity surely is not.

With the advent of neopagan polytheism, there is a small, but growing body of people honouring Mabon and Maponos through prayers, offerings, and other acts of devotion. This group usually have a good awareness of the myths and historical background associated with them, and perhaps take an interest in some of the sites which are associated with the two divine sons, and their two divine mothers.

In conclusion
Far from being obscure deities, there is good evidence that the worship of Mabon and Maponos was important and widespread in Gaul and North Britain in the first centuries BCE. A look at the map of Britain showing associated sited (above) gives a good indication of the special importance of Mabon and Maponos in northern and western Britain. The culture of Gaul and Britain suffered a great deal of stress due to Roman genocide, invasion, and colonisation, followed by several centuries of war with Germanic invaders. It is therefore not surprising that by the time the mythology embodied in The Mabinogi, was finally written down, after a thousand years of Christianisation, much was unclear. However, it is to the great credit of the Britons, especially the Welsh bards, that so much survived, including some understanding of Mabon ap Modron.

Bibliography
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Bartrum, Peter. A Welsh Classical Dictionary: Peope in History and Legend up to about A.D. 1000. Aberystwyth: National Library of Wales, 1998. (digital publication)

Beck, Noemie. Goddesses in Celtic Religion  Université Lyon 2, 2009. pp. 388-391.

Bollard, John K. ed. and trans., and Anthony Griffiths, photographer. Englynion y Beddau: The Stanzas of the Graves. Llanrwst: Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, 2015. p 58.

Bromwich, Rachel. Trioedd Ynys Prydein. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1961. pp. 40-143, 185-186, 433-436.

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Conran, Tony. Welsh Verse. Bridgend: Seren Books, 1967. p. 133.

Fitzpatrick-Matthews, Keith. Britannia in the Ravenna Cosmography, A Reassessment (Revised 2020). Retrieved from: academia.edu/4175080 pp. 46-47, 79-81.

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Gruffydd, W J. Rhiannon. Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1953. p. 100-101.

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Lewis, Gwyneth and Williams, Rowan. The Book of Taliesin. London: Penguin Classics, 2019. pp. 134-136.

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Matthews, Caitlin. Mabon and The Guardians of Celtic Britain. Rochester, Vermont: Inner Traditions, 2002. (revised from 1987) pp. 20.

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Waddell, John. Archaeology and Celtic Myth. Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2015. pp. 18-25.

I first discovered Giles Watson's The Flight of the White Horse this winter, through his wonderful video presentation of these poems. (He has a couple of very good poems about Rhiannon on his channel, too, which are worth looking for.) When I contacted him to buy a copy of the book, he told me that it wasn’t available, but a new edition was on the way. Last week, I was finally able to order one for myself, and what with the vagaries of mail these days, I persuaded him to let me have a digital copy in the meantime, for review purposes. This is a book I really want to share!

The Uffington white horse has now reached the status of international celebrity, and a glance at the artwork here will probably be enough to connect name to shape for most readers. The Uffington Horse is chalk hill figure, cut into the landscape of what is now Oxfordshire some 3,000 years ago. Chalk hill figures must be regularly renewed, by a process known as scouring, or they will simply grass over. The scouring process requires many man hours, so it’s an amazing feat of continuity that the Uffington Horse is still with us, in all her chalky glory, described here in The White Horse Submits to a Scouring.

Standing so high, and so large, that she can only really be appreciated as a whole from the opposite side of the valley, or the air, the Uffington horse has inspired the creation of many, more recent, giant horses, which I wrote about in another post. She is also part of a wider landscape of significant ancient monuments, including the Avebury complex, the passage tomb known as Wayland’s Smithy, and several hillforts. All of this contributes to the richness of Giles Watson’s book, which he has illustrated with his own lovely artwork, done mostly in chalk and pastel.

Through the vehicle of fifteen well crafted poems, the reader is taken on a tour of the local area by the horse, herself, who has long been held in local legend to come down from her hill to drink at night. For readers who might feel daunted at the thought of so many strange British monuments, some notes are included at the back of the book, which help to explain things.

I’ve been a fan of Watson’s poetry for awhile, and love the way his viewpoint shifts with the deftness of a finely tuned lens – one moment a telescope, the next a microscope. This is evident in his frequent allusions to the tiny fossils found in the chalk from which the horse is created, as in The White Horse Drinks at the Spring Beneath the Manger.

There is certainly a whimsical aspect to this work, but I almost hesitate to use that phrase for fear of creating the impression that the poems are childish or superficial. This confident opening poem might give you an idea of how much they are not!

Whimsy and humour do get their say, though as in The White Horse Hides from Prying Eyes, when the horse risks having her absence from her customary hill spotted on a moonless night.

But the description in The White Horse High Tails it Over Avebury, combined with Giles Watson’s lovely painting, is one of my favourites, managing to combine the cosmic and the prosaic that is the British landscape with deft strokes

The Flight of the White Horse by Giles Watson is available from Lulu, at £10.53.

His most recent collection: A Glister of Leaves, was written during self-isolation during the Covid-19 outbreak, and revisits the megalithic monuments, woodlands and chalk downlands of southern Oxfordshire, recalls encounters with exquisite insects, and celebrates the gifts of solitude and quiet observation.

A review of Natalia Clarke's poetry collection - Soul Land.

I was looking forward to reading this poetry collection. The book’s description: “a powerful personal account through a deep and profound connection to the land of Scotland,” could almost be talking about some of my own poems (Land Songs), I thought. I am deeply homesick for Scotland, so I believe I understand something of what the poet is experiencing. Still, her lines were so intensely and analytically focused on her own feelings that the land she was writing about felt secondary to me.

Scotland is a big place. A varied place. But many of these poems feel more like they are addressed to something generic, to an idea of Scotland, rather than the place itself.

When the poet begins to use her powers of description, I instantly feel more touched by her emotional state, because she gives me a glimpse of what she longs for, as in “When Death Comes.”

Wonderful!

Only twice does Clarke mention a specific place - Loch Tay, or the River Tay – yet there is still no real specificity. The words aren’t enough to take me to these places. In another case (“Through The Eyes of a Highlander”) I felt this vagueness bordered on the insensitive. The title says it all, really. The person in question is reduced by this moniker to a cardboard cut-out, a familiar stereotype. Not one of us.

Ouch!

I wish that I could like this little collection more. Something by a fellow exile. I suppose this book is proof that we all see things through our own eyes, and have our own vocabulary for describing what we see.