Ynys Môn : The Druid Isle

by Kristoffer Hughes

Imagine ...

The bright summer sun glistens and plays on the rippling currents of the Menai Straits, and blinding reflections bounce off a thousand shields; it hurts your eyes to watch the unbelievable spectacle that approaches from the mainland of Gwynedd. Hundreds of small boats approach the Island, carrying with them thousands of soldiers, each adorned in bright armour and in cloth of the finest burgundy and reds. From your viewpoint upon the cliffs you can hear upon the breeze the thunderous calls and screams of the womenfolk. Your mother and sister are amongst them, bearing flaming torches they scream at the coming onslaught.

Beside you stand your friends and kin, all of them paralysed by the sight of these soldiers who come to destroy the very essence of your existence, to crush your society, to kill and maim with no mercy or question. The sweat from your palms causes your sword to slip from your grip and fall to the soft green grass beneath your feet; as you bend to retrieve it, you hear the others arrive behind you.

The Derwyddon, the Druids, they come and they call, with words that should never be spoken, curses that should never be uttered. Their arms reach to the Gods, their very souls extend to the heavens in a cry of desperation. The hairs of your skin stand as their cries become louder and louder, you feel sick, a strange energy builds within you, your breath quickens, and a sense of panic encroaches upon you. The Druids' curses only drive the women wilder, their screams reach a crescendo and in one movement they charge at the approaching enemy. With swords and torches they attack the soldiers in their boats as they near the shore, and in one wave, you and your men race to join the women.

But in that stillness, in that pause before the onslaught, you see and absorb it all: the beauty of the seas, the tranquillity and sacredness of your beloved Island and the inevitability of its destruction, all that you have ever known, all that your people hold wondrous and Holy, destroyed. A Cormorant rises from the cliffs and takes to the air above the horrific scene below and it too sees a future: one of emptiness and control, a people that grow dense and shallow. A land that lies wasted and bare, burnt and scorched, an Island whose magic retreats to the West, to the undying lands. Suddenly the wave takes you and with it you surge to the shore, sword blazing, a loathsome scream erupts from your lungs, you will kill as many as you possibly can, and in pride you will die for your land and your people.

The women have killed hundreds, and the Roman corpses litter the beach, turning the sand a sickly pink. But still they advance, more and more. The first Roman you meet is just like you, young and frightened, and as your sword slides through his abdomen to pierce his back, he looks you in the eye, and you sense his fear and terror, and he falls to his knees as crimson blood bursts from his mouth. He, a victim like yourself, performing a duty dictated by those in power; what of his life, and what of yours, does he care? Do you care? Why should you? He represents the power of your destruction, and suddenly you hate him! A tear appears in the corner of his eye, but your hatred drives you on, you bring the sword up through his diaphragm, and instantly he dies. It all took merely a few seconds. You retrieve your sword, and with the skill of a warrior and in one movement, you spin to your right. The approaching soldier barely felt the chill wind of your sword as it took his head from his shoulders, with a scream you continue your attack.

With flashing swords your fellow men and women are brought down, the Druids continue their plea, but there are too many. By the time the first Druid is murdered, you know it is futile. The Druids retreat to their groves. Your people lie dead and mutilated, a sea of Roman soldiers continue to advance, pushing your people further into the forests; you lay fatally injured at the feet of an Oak, a plume of smoke billows to the clouds as the first of the trees as set alight. Within a few hours you hear the screams of your own men, as the Romans cast them alive onto the burning pyres that were once your sacred groves.

A single soldier approaches you, his sword stained with the blood of your people; you cannot move, there is nothing more you can do. You reach out to the Island you love so much, and she replies ... all is not lost, the magic will merely rest for a while. The sword that the soldier thrusts into you is hot, he laughs at your pain, but then there is silence. And as the doors to the West open before you, you realise the magic will return, and once more, Druids shall walk this Island.

Hard to imagine, but it happened, it happened here, on the shores of Mona, the blessed Isle of the Druids.

The vivid account of Tacitus and his description of the attack of Mona inspired the above account. I am fortunate to live on the Isle of Mona, and sometimes it is hard to believe the terrible carnage that Rome committed. The blood that was shed here, lives cut short, I think sometimes we forget what our Pagan ancestors went through, and the suffering that befell them.

The importance of Anglesey during the Iron Age is common knowledge nowadays, but what is left behind? What did the Druids leave as their legacy, and did their magic ever leave?

To the West of Britain and within the ancient Kingdom of Gwynedd lies, arguably, the most important location in the whole of Celtica: this is Ynys Môn, Mona, or in the modern world, Anglesey, named after the Viking chieftain Ongle.

In stark contrast to the realm of Gwynedd, whose steep majestic mountains surrender to the caress of the Irish Sea, lies this blessed Isle. Mona is the largest of Britains Islands, and is remarkably flat, except for the northeastern quadrant whose hills reach to just above 150 metres. The mountain of Holyhead (Caergybi) is the highest point of the Island at 220 metres. Within Mona's 290 square miles lie some of the most fertile plains in North Wales, and its green landscape has provided food and pasture for millennia.

Babbling brooks, sleepy rivers and calm lakes whisper of the islands secrets and provide ample fresh drinking water for man and beast, whilst hidden beneath her hills in silent slumber hide treasures of copper, lead ore and other minerals, all of which man has used to his advantage, and sometimes greed. The rocky cliffs to the North of the Island provide safety and sanctuary for Puffins, Guillemots, Peregrine Falcons and others. Red squirrels happily reside within the Island's forests, and Ravens reign the skies. All this surrounded by the gentle and occasionally treacherous waves of the temperate Irish Sea kept warm by the Gulf Stream.

To the modern visitor there is a fairground of wondrous attractions, coastal walks, forestry, ancient hill forts, and one of the largest concentrations of sacred sites than anywhere else in Europe.

Yet, the silent standing stones of Mona hide a terrible secret, a secret that is paradoxically wondrous and terrifying. The blood of those who loved it mercilessly murdered for their religious and social beliefs stained what was an Island of learning, music and song, myth and magic. Countless thousands succumbed to the sword, slaughtered like pigs by the civilised war machine of Rome.

Why was Mona such a threat?

In 60 CE during the reign of Nero, Suetonius Paulinus, Imperial Governor of Britain and successor of Veranius, initiated his attack on the mountainous regions of North Wales, and successfully brought down the mainland tribes, killing all who stood in his way. But it is apparent that his aim was to take the Isle of Mona and thereby suppress the Druidic powers that existed there. Tacitus recorded:

Suetonius Paulinus enjoyed two years of success conquering fresh tribes and strengthening forts. Emboldened thereby to attack the island of Môn, which was feeding the native resistance.

Mona obviously had a tremendous influence over the tribes of Britain, and it seemed that the main source of that influence lay with the Druids of Mona, this was a threat that Rome could not allow to flourish or even exist, the Druids and their followers were to be destroyed.

Paulinus led his infantry across the Menai Straits in flat-bottomed boats, which had possibly been built somewhere along the River Dee or at Caernarfon. An estimated six thousand men crossed the Straits upon that fateful day, whilst a further four thousand cavalry waded or swam. The attack was also launched during low tide to allow the horses safe passage across. Nobody can be sure of the exact location of the crossing.

The Menai Straits is one of the most dangerous corridors of water in Britain, famed for the Swillies; phenomenal cross and under currents that have dragged hundreds of people to their deaths, swimming the main stretch of the straits would be impossible. The narrow strip between Caernarfon and the district of Newbrough Warren seem on first impression to be relatively easy to traverse, with large sand flats visible during low tide, yet the Mona shore is lined with treacherous mud flats which would trap any invaders. However the strip between Beaumaris and Llangoed to the Southwest was believed to be much shallower than the present day, and had the lost kingdom of Tir Helyg stretching out to almost meet the island, could this be where the Romans launched their campaign?

Tacitus (c. 55-120 CE) graphically recorded the invasion itself:

Standing on the shore was the opposing army, a dense formation of men and weapons. Women in black clothing like that of the furies ran between the ranks. Wild haired, they brandished torches. Around them, the Druids, lifting their hands upward towards the sky to make frightening curses, frightening (the Roman) soldiers with this extraordinary sight. And so (the Romans) stood motionless and vulnerable as if their limbs were paralysed. Then their commander exhorted them and they urged one another not to quake before an army of women and fanatics. They carried the ensigns forward, struck down all resistance, and enveloped them in (the enemys own) fire. After that, a garrison was imposed on the vanquished and destroyed their groves, places of savage superstition. For they considered it their duty to spread their altars with the gore of captives and to communicate with their deities through human entrails.
Annals 14.30

The war machine that was Rome relentlessly attacked the island and its inhabitants, forcing them towards the middle of the Isle and to Llangefni. Here the occupants of Mona could further defend themselves from the onslaught by closing the pass across the Malltraeth marshes, which literally severs the island in half, and would have proved difficult for the Romans to cross. The inhabitants resisted for as long as possible, but Paulinus was determined that the Druids and their people would succumb.

According to local legend, during the attack Roman soldiers were seen running from the dark groves insane and unable to communicate the apparent horror that had befallen them, so afflicted were they that their fellow soldiers were forced to put them to the sword and end their suffering. Celtic warriors apparently swooped down from the trees, and with curved blades beheaded their foes below. Ultimately the Celts grew weak and tired, and Rome became victorious, Mona was taken.

It is said that the Druids abandoned the Isle in an attempt to somehow save their knowledge and magic, there is some evidence to suggest they may have travelled West over the Irish Sea to Eire. In Dublin Bay on the Isle of Lambay an ancient burial site was discovered and from it archaeologists unearthed a bronze scabbard mount, almost identical to one found at the lake treasures of Llyn Cerrig Bach to the North West of Mona. It is tempting to imagine that the Druids found sanctuary in Ireland and that they survived the brutality of Rome, however there is no real proof that this is the case, we will never know.

Popularly the story of the Roman invasion ends here, but this was not the end for Mona. Suetonius Paulinus was summoned to the south of England, trouble was brewing and a mighty force had risen against the powers of Rome. Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni tribe began her revolt against Rome, some say in retaliation for the sacking of Mona and the destruction of the Druids, an interesting motive, but unprovable.

For almost a generation Mona was left in relative peace, slowly the people recovered and rebuilt their villages and lives, although the entire social structure of the island had been altered forever. It was the arrival of Julius Agricola in 78 CE that heralded the end of Monas Druids and the Island never re-established itself as a centre of Druidry. From his base at Caernarfon, Agricola succeeded in beating Mona into submission, and snuffed out the flame of the Druids.

Mona developed into a centre of economic, religious and political power, but exactly why remains a mystery to this day. Many have speculated that it was partly due to the islands location, between the trade routes of Southern England and Ireland. To the local people the island's importance lay not with materialistic or political matters but with the magical energy of the island; apparently there are more portals to the otherworld here than you could shake a stick at! Every river, every hill, every grove, every chamber and standing stone are alleged portals to the hidden otherworld of the Celts. There is even legendary tales that talk of the entrance to Avalon, through the portal of Bryn Gwyddon (the hill of Science); today this hill is named Bodafon Mountain, a stunning location, a hill with a deep depression at its summit and lying within it rests Bodafon lake. Apparently anyone who would dare sail across it would vanish to the Isle of Avalon. Anyone who has been to this hill and stood quietly by the lakes peaceful shore, would know that very little imagination is needed to believe that its more than possible, the very air sighs with the strain of magic.

Today it is hard to imagine the horror that befell this beautiful island almost two thousand years ago. But the Druids left us a legacy of archaeological artefacts, hill forts and too many legends to name; they did not go quietly! There are places here of such power and spirit that you can still hear the voices of our ancient family. Their whispering secrets reach us on the flowing breeze, and a heartbeat sounds throughout the land, its vibration awakening within all who come here a knowledge of before, a mystery of past times, a secret that was ours in the first instance.

The Druids never left they simply changed. We are still here and we carry within us the spark of their wisdom, their magic, their Awen.

Kristoffer Hughes
Founder of the Anglesey Druidic Order
February 2003
cylchawenydd [at] hotmail [dot] com

Photos by Kristoffer Hughes