There have been many attempts over the centuies to write a definitive history of the area which is now known as Shropshire. Some have been done as fiction, and some have been factual. Hywel y Cyfarwydd - Hywel the Story Teller is a mixture of both. A fictional character telling of the legends and history which has created the Shropshire of today. As this book is not yet completed, check back occasionally and see our history unfolding. - Tim Carrington

was born on the mountain, the one we called Cartref, just north of the Moel y Gwylfa in the same year that the Roman Army left us. The stories of how we fought the invaders were the first I remember. Four hundred years is a long time for any race to lie under the yoke of another but I was told that the benefits outstripped the losses. At first all the tribes within this land fought, sometimes uniting and sometimes as individuals. In the soft lands to the far south the tribes who had grown fat on the gentle landscape were the first to bow to the inevitable, but even there some refused to submit and they migrated slowly retreating before the might of Rome until they came to the hills. In doing so their lives changed. The harsh landscape of the mountains was both an enemy and ally. In winters, the mountains were cursed for their inhospitality as men clung to the slender patches of green in the deep valleys for their sustenance. But when challenged from mortal foe the mountains became our friend and we were able to fight, then disappear into the hills we came to know like the backs of our own hands.
oooo Some of us chose to live a life in the middle, between a life under Roman rule and a life ruled by the wild landscape around us. We used the might of Rome, rather than letting the might of Rome use us, and in doing so we became what we are today. (*1)

for a hundred years we fought against the yoke or Rome until the one they called Hadrian came and ruled not by force but by example. His administration of our people was good and slowly we came to accept that, although his laws were not ours, we at least were ruled by people who spoke our language. For almost two hundred years we prospered, even those who lived to the west in the mountains, and there was a migratory pattern to the lives of many as they would work for the governors of our country, not the rulers of our country, returning to their homes and families whenever they wished.

It was only in our religion that we differed with Rome. Many still believed in our old beliefs, others absorbed those of Rome, but as that seemed to change with the seasons, many simply absorbed what they wished, mixing old with new to create beliefs that fitted our way of life, simply cursing a God or gods when things went bad, and thanking a God or gods when things were good. Such is the way of all men. Then came the one they called Magnus Maximus. He was not of our tribes, but he was, nevertheless, one of us. A man of independent thought and deed who used Rome when it was of convenience.

In my early years I never remember travelling further than the river bank which lay to the north and west. Neither do I remember seeing other people, yet I never felt isolated or alone as I knew no different, then. For company there was my mother and my grandfather whom I always called Father, and as soon as I could walk I helped them as best I could. Our farm was small, tended mainly by ourselves with only occasional help when there were harvests to gather when neighbour would help neighbour in the tradition of our people.

And so I grew up, one season blending with the next as we welcomed the sun in the Spring, cursed it for drying the grass in the heat of Summer, welcomed the cooling winds of Autumn, and cursed the cold west wind which brought the snows of Winter. Each year was very much like another, except one. I remember that one because father carried me to the very top of the mountain to see the floods. It was a cold, crisp clear morning and the sun glinted off the flood waters which covered Gwastadedd Gwyn (White Plain) to the north, almost as far as the eye could see. The other reason I remember that year was because it was when Father lost his sight and I became his eyes.

Until that time I had never been conscious of the fact that often he would leave our home, perhaps being away for days, other times weeks, during which my Mother would be my only companion. But when Father lost his sight and I became his eyes my education began, as it seemed that his loss of sight sharpened his memory, and he would talk and talk and talk. I never tired of his stories, even though he would oft repeat them. Sometimes he would miss out, or even change, part of his story, and when he did, I, like any child who finds security in routine, would question him and repeat the words he normally used. At the time I thought little of it, but now I realise it was part of his teaching, part of my education, because it was only in this manner that he could ensure I had learnt what he had told me.

When he lost his sight, he did not travel so much, and I think he missed his wanderings. Then, when people started to visit us, the word spread about his blindness. In doing so, the number of visitors increased. Many of them were different than us. Important men not only in our community but also from the hills to the west and the plains to the east. Many is the time I struggled with water and food from the house to the rude barn which stood a little way off, and where commoner and lord would lay down to sleep amongst the animals. It was then that I slowly realised who my Father was and who I would become.

The first time I travelled with Father was to where the Romans called Mediolanum close to the Afon Efyrnwy. (*2) It was not a long journey as it was easily seen from the mountain, but it was the first time I was his eyes, and I still remember every step of the way as he guided me from his own memory of the route. When questioned, I told him what I could see, and he would nod, reassured that we were on the right path. I remember little about the town except that it was small and crude and in decay. I think it was soon before it was abandoned as there was little left to mine and little reward for those that did find the precious metals deep in the dark holes which honeycombed the hillside.

After that first journey we travelled more often, although the weakness which one day would end his life was already in his bones. Perhaps the journey I remember most was to Caer Guricon, the city the Romans called Viriconium. Never before had I seen such a place. It could take a man almost an hour to walk around its horseshoe shaped walls returning to the start along the bank of the river. When we walked through the city I could not help but stop and stare and Father would ask what I was looking at, then explain to me its significance or its use. It was, to me a place beyond belief. The walls, the buildings, the paintings and the statues all were so alien to me. The shops and market place were of particular interest and many was the time on that first visit that I simply asked "What is that?" not knowing at what I looked. But already there was an air of decay, and father told me repeatedly, "Ah, my son, you should have seen it as it was." I never quite understood what he meant by that, except that perhaps I was witnessing the beginning of the end of Caer Guricon in some mysterious and, as yet, unknown way.

Then came the day the messenger arrived, I think it was in the ninth year of Gwidol Gwrtheyrn's rule. (*3) and told of visitors from Rome and how my Father must come and tell the stories. I did not hear what exactly was said as I was tending the sheep on the hillside, but I could sense from what my Mother said that despite my father's illness, he must attend.

Two day's later my Mother woke me early that morning, and I struggled to my feet aware of the numbing cold and the crisp, still dark air about me.

"Hywel, come quickly. Father needs you."

I could not understand why it was still dark. We could not start until dawn. My Mother must have guessed my confusion, for she added.

"He is dying. He will not last the day."

For weeks now my father had lain abed, coughing hollowly, spitting out the reddish green phlegm that was starting to fill his body. When he did have the strength to talk it was in a rasping voice which I had to strain to follow.

At his bedside, I was conscious of his ragged breathing. He sounded hollow, as if all the life inside had already left him, and only his spirit remained to give life to his frail form

"Father?"

"You must go without me. They need the stories. It is important, for they have decisions to make."

Suddenly, I was aware of the responsibility which lay before me, not just for that day, but until I, too, died. I was afraid, and I was conscious of my fear showing in my voice as I reasoned with him

"It is you they need, Father. I do not know all the stories. I need more time."

"There is no more time." he persisted. "Remember, as I have told you often, and as you have heard me, tell them what they want to hear. That is all."

I was frightened of the responsibility. Frightened of the journey alone, and frightened of seeing him die before my eyes. I could feel the tears in my eyes, and he must have sensed them because he gripped my hand in his. "I have taught you well, my son, and you have been a good pupil. One day you will find someone to carry on the skill I know you have, the skill I have and the skill that those before me had. It is our destiny." He paused and another fit of coughing racked his body. Eventually it subsided and he whispered, "Go now."

"But what if I forget what you have taught me?"

He managed a weak smile and beckoned me nearer. I bent my head and could feel his cold breath on my ear as he whispered. When he had finished, I looked at him, not sure whether I believed what he had said.

He nodded his head, as if in confirmation, even though he could not see my disbelief. "It is the truth. Now go."

My Mother pulled me from where I knelt beside his bed, thrusting the bag he had often carried and that I had carried as soon as I had the strength. I turned to look at her and could see the tears in her eyes. She nodded as if in reassurance, and pushed me towards the door and the pale light which now lit the hillside.

I was still a child when I left my home in the cold morning air, my eyes streaming from the tears I shed over the man I had always known as father, but by the time I arrived at Caer Guricon I had become the man who from that day forth was known as Hywel y Cyfarwydd - Hywel the Story Teller. (*4)

NOTES
1. This has been equated to the Breidden Hills. Cartref simply translates as 'home'. Moel y Gwylfa is most likely Moel y Golfa - the bald hill used as a lookout. The exact location of his home could equate to the settlement and field system shown on present-day OS maps, just south of Rodney's Pillar.

These hills are not walked as much as others in Shropshire, such as the Longmynd, Stiperstones and Wrekin. Perhaps the trees spoil the impression of its remoteness at times, but they are well worth a visit. Access to Breidden Hill can be made from the B4393, turning off on the outskirts of Crew Green. Footpaths lead up the hill from the Admiral Rodney Pub, Brimford House, and again at Tan-y-Bryn. Alternatively, much of the climb can be avoided by finding the road from Trewen on the A458, Shrewsbury to Welshpool road. A car park can be found between Middletown Hill and Moel y Golfa, then the footpath through the woods can be followed with ease. OS Map SJ 21/31 refers. On this map can be seen a number of early fortifications, such as on Middletwon Hill and Breidden Hill. A settlement and early field system are also marked in the fold between Breidden Hill and Middletown Hill.

The date can be estimated quite accurately as around 410 A.D. which is the year Rome fell and the last of the Roman legions was withdrawn by Honorius.

The comments about the people to the south are interesting. Perhaps today's north-south divide is older than we first imagine. His implication that the Roman conquest created the character of the people is also interesting. Today, ie, the present century, rather than the time he lived, the Welsh, descended mainly from those who never truly subjected themselves to the rule of Rom, Saxon or Norman, still hold their independence proudly. Although over the centuries their blood has been mixed with that of others, it has been invariably mixed with like minded people, and in doing so they have generated a race which may be thought of as being true Brit!

2. This is obviously the Llanymynech area. It is known that the Romans mined and quarried in this area. Stone was quarried for Viriconium and copper was mined as was, perhaps, silver. Mediolanum refers to the Roman town or village built to administer their interest in the area. Its exact location is not clear and perhaps it was little more than a mining camp. Again there are signs of early settlements with a hill fort, now located in the centre of a golf course. To a certain extent the golf course spoils the atmosphere of this historic hill, but, nevertheless, it is well worth walking, and a footpath, which traces the edge of Llanymynech Hill,l can be followed. Like The Breiddens, Llanymynech Hill is now in Wales.

The route that he may have taken from his home to Llanymynech is an interesting one. There are two rivers to cross, first the Afon Hafren (Severn), then almost due north through what is now Four Crosses to Llanymynech, crossing the Afon Efyrnwy (Vyrnwy). Coincidentally, that route is now mainly a footpath which follows Offa's Dyke which was built some three centuries later.

3. Assuming his memory is correct, this confirms that the Kingdom of Powys was founded in 420 A.D., because it is known that Germanus visited Britain in 429 A.D. Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre and an envoy of the Catholic Church, was sent to Britain to combat the pelagianism. According to his biographer, Constantius of Lyon, he initially met with success at St. Albans, and continued through the country, converting those he met. Then he met with Vortigern the king who ruled most of central and southern Britain at the capital. Vortigern has been translated as more of a title than a name, possibly meaning 'Lord of Lords' implying a council system between the tribal leaders, of which Vortigern was the nominated leader. His actual name was Gwidol Gwrtheyrn - Gwidol the Thin (Gwidol being his family name)

4. It must be remembered that travellers, particularly on foot, were not hampered by rights of way and wandering road systems in those days. The only obstacles would be natural, such as rivers, swamps or marshes and unscalable hills. It can only be assumed which route was taken on his journey to Viriconium, but assuming he took the shortest route, it passes a number of landmarks which are recognisable today.

From Middletown or Bulthy Hill, his route would be south-westerly across countryside not marked today by roads or footpaths in that direction, although a number of later settlements can be noted, such as the moat site at Wattlesborough, the Rough Burrows earthwork just east of Rowton, the ring and Bailey at Heath Farm, the road junction at Nox on the B4386, then crossing the Rea Brook at the ford near Cruckmeole on the A488 Shrewsbury to Pontesbury road, past the Moat site at Hanwood and on to the Fort known as The Burgs at Bayston Hill, then finally, skirting the bank of the River Severn at Cronkhill near Atcham to the bridge which then spanned the river at Viriconium. The distance travelled would be about eighteen miles and would probably take five or six hours.

There have been many attempts over the centuies to write a definitive history of the area which is now known as Shropshire. Some have been done as fiction, and some have been factual. Hywel y Cyfarwydd - Hywel the Story Teller is a mixture of both. A fictional character telling of the legends and history which has created the Shropshire of today. As this book is not yet completed, check back occasionally and see our history unfolding. - Tim Carrington

I was born on the mountain, the one we called Cartref, just north of the Moel y Gwylfa in the same year that the Roman Army left us. The stories of how we fought the invaders were the first I remember. Four hundred years is a long time for any race to lie under the yoke of another but I was told that the benefits outstripped the losses. At first all the tribes within this land fought, sometimes uniting and sometimes as individuals. In the soft lands to the far south the tribes who had grown fat on the gentle landscape were the first to bow to the inevitable, but even there some refused to submit and they migrated slowly retreating before the might of Rome until they came to the hills. In doing so their lives changed. The harsh landscape of the mountains was both an enemy and ally. In winters, the mountains were cursed for their inhospitality as men clung to the slender patches of green in the deep valleys for their sustenance. But when challenged from mortal foe the mountains became our friend and we were able to fight, then disappear into the hills we came to know like the backs of our own hands.
oooo Some of us chose to live a life in the middle, between a life under Roman rule and a life ruled by the wild landscape around us. We used the might of Rome, rather than letting the might of Rome use us, and in doing so we became what we are today. (*1)

For a hundred years we fought against the yoke or Rome until the one they called Hadrian came and ruled not by force but by example. His administration of our people was good and slowly we came to accept that, although his laws were not ours, we at least were ruled by people who spoke our language. For almost two hundred years we prospered, even those who lived to the west in the mountains, and there was a migratory pattern to the lives of many as they would work for the governors of our country, not the rulers of our country, returning to their homes and families whenever they wished.

It was only in our religion that we differed with Rome. Many still believed in our old beliefs, others absorbed those of Rome, but as that seemed to change with the seasons, many simply absorbed what they wished, mixing old with new to create beliefs that fitted our way of life, simply cursing a God or gods when things went bad, and thanking a God or gods when things were good. Such is the way of all men. Then came the one they called Magnus Maximus. He was not of our tribes, but he was, nevertheless, one of us. A man of independent thought and deed who used Rome when it was of convenience.

In my early years I never remember travelling further than the river bank which lay to the north and west. Neither do I remember seeing other people, yet I never felt isolated or alone as I knew no different, then. For company there was my mother and my grandfather whom I always called Father, and as soon as I could walk I helped them as best I could. Our farm was small, tended mainly by ourselves with only occasional help when there were harvests to gather when neighbour would help neighbour in the tradition of our people.

And so I grew up, one season blending with the next as we welcomed the sun in the Spring, cursed it for drying the grass in the heat of Summer, welcomed the cooling winds of Autumn, and cursed the cold west wind which brought the snows of Winter. Each year was very much like another, except one. I remember that one because father carried me to the very top of the mountain to see the floods. It was a cold, crisp clear morning and the sun glinted off the flood waters which covered Gwastadedd Gwyn (White Plain) to the north, almost as far as the eye could see. The other reason I remember that year was because it was when Father lost his sight and I became his eyes.

Until that time I had never been conscious of the fact that often he would leave our home, perhaps being away for days, other times weeks, during which my Mother would be my only companion. But when Father lost his sight and I became his eyes my education began, as it seemed that his loss of sight sharpened his memory, and he would talk and talk and talk. I never tired of his stories, even though he would oft repeat them. Sometimes he would miss out, or even change, part of his story, and when he did, I, like any child who finds security in routine, would question him and repeat the words he normally used. At the time I thought little of it, but now I realise it was part of his teaching, part of my education, because it was only in this manner that he could ensure I had learnt what he had told me.

When he lost his sight, he did not travel so much, and I think he missed his wanderings. Then, when people started to visit us, the word spread about his blindness. In doing so, the number of visitors increased. Many of them were different than us. Important men not only in our community but also from the hills to the west and the plains to the east. Many is the time I struggled with water and food from the house to the rude barn which stood a little way off, and where commoner and lord would lay down to sleep amongst the animals. It was then that I slowly realised who my Father was and who I would become.

The first time I travelled with Father was to where the Romans called Mediolanum close to the Afon Efyrnwy. (*2) It was not a long journey as it was easily seen from the mountain, but it was the first time I was his eyes, and I still remember every step of the way as he guided me from his own memory of the route. When questioned, I told him what I could see, and he would nod, reassured that we were on the right path. I remember little about the town except that it was small and crude and in decay. I think it was soon before it was abandoned as there was little left to mine and little reward for those that did find the precious metals deep in the dark holes which honeycombed the hillside.

After that first journey we travelled more often, although the weakness which one day would end his life was already in his bones. Perhaps the journey I remember most was to Caer Guricon, the city the Romans called Viriconium. Never before had I seen such a place. It could take a man almost an hour to walk around its horseshoe shaped walls returning to the start along the bank of the river. When we walked through the city I could not help but stop and stare and Father would ask what I was looking at, then explain to me its significance or its use. It was, to me a place beyond belief. The walls, the buildings, the paintings and the statues all were so alien to me. The shops and market place were of particular interest and many was the time on that first visit that I simply asked "What is that?" not knowing at what I looked. But already there was an air of decay, and father told me repeatedly, "Ah, my son, you should have seen it as it was." I never quite understood what he meant by that, except that perhaps I was witnessing the beginning of the end of Caer Guricon in some mysterious and, as yet, unknown way.

Then came the day the messenger arrived, I think it was in the ninth year of Gwidol Gwrtheyrn's rule. (*3) and told of visitors from Rome and how my Father must come and tell the stories. I did not hear what exactly was said as I was tending the sheep on the hillside, but I could sense from what my Mother said that despite my father's illness, he must attend.

Two day's later my Mother woke me early that morning, and I struggled to my feet aware of the numbing cold and the crisp, still dark air about me.

"Hywel, come quickly. Father needs you."

I could not understand why it was still dark. We could not start until dawn. My Mother must have guessed my confusion, for she added.

"He is dying. He will not last the day."

For weeks now my father had lain abed, coughing hollowly, spitting out the reddish green phlegm that was starting to fill his body. When he did have the strength to talk it was in a rasping voice which I had to strain to follow.

At his bedside, I was conscious of his ragged breathing. He sounded hollow, as if all the life inside had already left him, and only his spirit remained to give life to his frail form

"Father?"

"You must go without me. They need the stories. It is important, for they have decisions to make."

Suddenly, I was aware of the responsibility which lay before me, not just for that day, but until I, too, died. I was afraid, and I was conscious of my fear showing in my voice as I reasoned with him

"It is you they need, Father. I do not know all the stories. I need more time."

"There is no more time." he persisted. "Remember, as I have told you often, and as you have heard me, tell them what they want to hear. That is all."

I was frightened of the responsibility. Frightened of the journey alone, and frightened of seeing him die before my eyes. I could feel the tears in my eyes, and he must have sensed them because he gripped my hand in his. "I have taught you well, my son, and you have been a good pupil. One day you will find someone to carry on the skill I know you have, the skill I have and the skill that those before me had. It is our destiny." He paused and another fit of coughing racked his body. Eventually it subsided and he whispered, "Go now."

"But what if I forget what you have taught me?"

He managed a weak smile and beckoned me nearer. I bent my head and could feel his cold breath on my ear as he whispered. When he had finished, I looked at him, not sure whether I believed what he had said.

He nodded his head, as if in confirmation, even though he could not see my disbelief. "It is the truth. Now go."

My Mother pulled me from where I knelt beside his bed, thrusting the bag he had often carried and that I had carried as soon as I had the strength. I turned to look at her and could see the tears in her eyes. She nodded as if in reassurance, and pushed me towards the door and the pale light which now lit the hillside.

I was still a child when I left my home in the cold morning air, my eyes streaming from the tears I shed over the man I had always known as father, but by the time I arrived at Caer Guricon I had become the man who from that day forth was known as Hywel y Cyfarwydd - Hywel the Story Teller. (*4)

NOTES
1. This has been equated to the Breidden Hills. Cartref simply translates as 'home'. Moel y Gwylfa is most likely Moel y Golfa - the bald hill used as a lookout. The exact location of his home could equate to the settlement and field system shown on present-day OS maps, just south of Rodney's Pillar.

These hills are not walked as much as others in Shropshire, such as the Longmynd, Stiperstones and Wrekin. Perhaps the trees spoil the impression of its remoteness at times, but they are well worth a visit. Access to Breidden Hill can be made from the B4393, turning off on the outskirts of Crew Green. Footpaths lead up the hill from the Admiral Rodney Pub, Brimford House, and again at Tan-y-Bryn. Alternatively, much of the climb can be avoided by finding the road from Trewen on the A458, Shrewsbury to Welshpool road. A car park can be found between Middletown Hill and Moel y Golfa, then the footpath through the woods can be followed with ease. OS Map SJ 21/31 refers. On this map can be seen a number of early fortifications, such as on Middletwon Hill and Breidden Hill. A settlement and early field system are also marked in the fold between Breidden Hill and Middletown Hill.

The date can be estimated quite accurately as around 410 A.D. which is the year Rome fell and the last of the Roman legions was withdrawn by Honorius.

The comments about the people to the south are interesting. Perhaps today's north-south divide is older than we first imagine. His implication that the Roman conquest created the character of the people is also interesting. Today, ie, the present century, rather than the time he lived, the Welsh, descended mainly from those who never truly subjected themselves to the rule of Rom, Saxon or Norman, still hold their independence proudly. Although over the centuries their blood has been mixed with that of others, it has been invariably mixed with like minded people, and in doing so they have generated a race which may be thought of as being true Brit!

2. This is obviously the Llanymynech area. It is known that the Romans mined and quarried in this area. Stone was quarried for Viriconium and copper was mined as was, perhaps, silver. Mediolanum refers to the Roman town or village built to administer their interest in the area. Its exact location is not clear and perhaps it was little more than a mining camp. Again there are signs of early settlements with a hill fort, now located in the centre of a golf course. To a certain extent the golf course spoils the atmosphere of this historic hill, but, nevertheless, it is well worth walking, and a footpath, which traces the edge of Llanymynech Hill,l can be followed. Like The Breiddens, Llanymynech Hill is now in Wales.

The route that he may have taken from his home to Llanymynech is an interesting one. There are two rivers to cross, first the Afon Hafren (Severn), then almost due north through what is now Four Crosses to Llanymynech, crossing the Afon Efyrnwy (Vyrnwy). Coincidentally, that route is now mainly a footpath which follows Offa's Dyke which was built some three centuries later.

3. Assuming his memory is correct, this confirms that the Kingdom of Powys was founded in 420 A.D., because it is known that Germanus visited Britain in 429 A.D. Germanus, Bishop of Auxerre and an envoy of the Catholic Church, was sent to Britain to combat the pelagianism. According to his biographer, Constantius of Lyon, he initially met with success at St. Albans, and continued through the country, converting those he met. Then he met with Vortigern the king who ruled most of central and southern Britain at the capital. Vortigern has been translated as more of a title than a name, possibly meaning 'Lord of Lords' implying a council system between the tribal leaders, of which Vortigern was the nominated leader. His actual name was Gwidol Gwrtheyrn - Gwidol the Thin (Gwidol being his family name)

4. It must be remembered that travellers, particularly on foot, were not hampered by rights of way and wandering road systems in those days. The only obstacles would be natural, such as rivers, swamps or marshes and unscalable hills. It can only be assumed which route was taken on his journey to Viriconium, but assuming he took the shortest route, it passes a number of landmarks which are recognisable today.

From Middletown or Bulthy Hill, his route would be south-westerly across countryside not marked today by roads or footpaths in that direction, although a number of later settlements can be noted, such as the moat site at Wattlesborough, the Rough Burrows earthwork just east of Rowton, the ring and Bailey at Heath Farm, the road junction at Nox on the B4386, then crossing the Rea Brook at the ford near Cruckmeole on the A488 Shrewsbury to Pontesbury road, past the Moat site at Hanwood and on to the Fort known as The Burgs at Bayston Hill, then finally, skirting the bank of the River Severn at Cronkhill near Atcham to the bridge which then spanned the river at Viriconium. The distance travelled would be about eighteen miles and would probably take five or six hours.