The drowned kingdom beneath the waves

Wales is a country that keeps its history in water. Along Cardigan Bay, the old stories insist that the land did not always end where it does now. Beyond the present shoreline lay Cantre'r Gwaelod, the Lowland Hundred, a fair and fertile kingdom ruled by Gwyddno Garanhir. Its safety depended on sea gates and dykes, and the gates were in the charge of a man named Seithenyn, whose fondness for drink was matched only by his fondness for sleep. One night the gate was left open, the sea came over the lowlands, and a kingdom was lost in a single tide.

Variations of the tale have different lessons. In some, the drowning is a punishment for vanity or heavy drinking; in others, it is simply the sea being the sea. What stays constant is the sound. People still say that on calm evenings you can hear the bells of the drowned churches of Cantre'r Gwaelod, and in some tellings a warning cry is heard before a storm arrives. If you want to see where the story is anchored, look at the long reefs running out into the bay — Sarn Badrig, Sarn Gynfelyn and Sarn y Bwch. Locally, they are the causeways of the lost kingdom. Llangorse Lake in the Brecon Beacons has a similar legend of a submerged town, complete with a bell that rings under the water.

Sleeping warriors under the hills

Mountains in Wales often hold, rather than display, their legends. A cave may be a hall; a rock face may be a door. The most persistent tradition is that a great leader and his warband did not die but sleep, waiting for a call. In some versions it is Owain Lawgoch, Owain of the Red Hand, resting with his men. In others it is Arthur himself, said to sleep beneath Craig y Ddinas in the Vale of Neath and in a number of similar hollow hills.

The classic tale has a shepherd or a boy stumble into a cave lit by a strange glow, finding warriors in armour, weapons stacked, horses standing as if in patient expectation. He touches a bell or stumbles against it, the sleepers stir, and he flees into daylight. The arithmetic of the legend is always the same: one bell, three rings, and a kingdom waking. The warning is usually included — do not be the one who rings it.

Near Beddgelert stands Dinas Emrys, the hill linked to the tale of the two dragons. A pool beneath the fortress was drained to reveal a red dragon and a white dragon fighting. Myrddin Emrys — Merlin — explained their struggle to a king whose tower would not stand, and the red dragon's eventual victory became a symbol of Welsh resistance. The hill is a real, walkable place, and the story has an unusual pedigree: it appears in early Latin chronicles, not just in later romance.

Lake brides and the Physicians of Myddfai

The most beautiful and most practical Welsh lake legend belongs to Llyn y Fan Fach, beneath the Black Mountain in the Brecon Beacons. A widow's son takes his cattle onto the mountain and sees a woman sitting on the surface of the water, combing her hair, using the lake as a mirror. He offers her bread — in some versions three loaves — and she agrees to marry him, bringing with her from the lake a herd of cattle and a warning: if he strikes her three times without cause, she will leave.

The strikes are small and ordinary. A tap on the shoulder at a wedding; a light blow at a christening; a touch at a funeral. Each seems trivial, each is counted. She returns to the lake with her cattle, and her sons grow up to become the Physicians of Myddfai, a family whose herbal knowledge was famous in the region for centuries. The lake is still there. You can walk to it from the village of Llanddeusant, and the water is as still and as watchful as the story requires.

The afanc and the water horse

Not every lake creature is friendly. The afanc was a monstrous water beast blamed for flooding valleys when it thrashed about in rivers and pools. To catch it, the old storytellers say, a maiden was used as bait, sitting on a rock while the men worked chains and oxen. Once drawn out, the beast was hauled to a remote lake where it could cause no further harm. At Llyn Barfog, near Aberdyfi, the hero credited with killing the afanc is Arthur, and a rock called Carn March Arthur is said to carry the hoofprint of his horse, Llamrei.

The Ceffyl Dŵr, the water horse, is a subtler creature. It appears near lakes, waterfalls and pools, sometimes as a handsome grey or dark horse, sometimes as a small pony. It will let you mount. Then it rises, sometimes into the air, and the rider either finds himself thrown off or does not come back at all. The lesson in both cases is the same: admire the water from the bank.

Listening well: a practical guide

Welsh legend rewards preparation. The stories are tied tightly to land, language and season, and a little groundwork turns a walk into a different kind of experience.

• Learn the place-name words. Llyn is a lake, mynydd a mountain, cwm a valley, afon a river, maen a stone. If you can read the map, you can find the settings.
• Choose the right time. Folklore belongs to twilight and to mist. Early morning at Llyn y Fan Fach or Dinas Emrys in low cloud will do more for the story than any retelling.
• Walk safely. Mountain weather shifts fast in Wales. Carry a proper map, tell someone your route, and turn back when the cloud comes down. Most legends end badly for people who went on alone.
• Respect the land. These are working farms and fragile uplands. Keep dogs on leads near livestock, close gates, and stay on footpaths.
• Read the sources. The Mabinogion and the great nineteenth- and twentieth-century collections are where these tales live on the page.
• Tell them aloud. A story without its place loses power, and a place without its story loses meaning. Attach the tale to the mountain or lake where you heard it, and pass it on.

The Welsh tradition of the cyfarwydd, the professional storyteller, understood this instinctively. The stories were never simply entertainment; they were memory, geography and instruction, passed from one careful listener to the next.