Essay: Darklands (1996) and the Question of Welsh National Identity

Darklands (1996) dir. Julian Richards, Director’s Cut (2023)

Title: Darklands
Director: Julian Richards
Country: Wales/UK
Genre: Horror
Age: Adult
Format: Feature Film

Film blurb (Shudder): A newspaper reporter is lured into a conspiracy of pagan rituals and human sacrifice when he investigates the death of a steelworker.

This essay/review contains full spoilers for Darklands, and discussion of its context in 20th-century Wales.

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“The First Indigenous Welsh Horror Film Produced by Welsh Filmmakers”?

I first became aware of this film via the site Wales in the Movies, and this post, which I basically agree with. On my first watch, as part of the #100HorrorMoviesIn92Days challenge, I wrote this review on that version, with the 6mins of footage uncut. I decided to rewatch it, but this time the 2023 Director’s Cut version, to see what difference the 6min shorter runtime made, and what exactly got cut and where. This was quite revealing, as were the director’s interviews about the new version, given to various Horror sites and screenings in 2023.

This film is considered “one of the three cornerstones on which the 21st century British Horror Revival would be founded”,  according to M.J. Simpson in his book, Urban Terrors.

(The other two films that influenced this revival are, for Simpson, I, Zombie (1998) dir. Andrew Parkinson, set in London, and Urban Ghost Story (1998) dir. Geneviève Jolliffe, set in Glasgow.)

This positions it as an important film in the British horror scene, but Richards went one step further in his interviews around the Director’s Cut release, where he described the film as:

“the first indigenous Welsh horror film, produced by Welsh filmmakers and financed by the Arts Council Wales … exploring contemporary Welsh themes including nationalism and cultural identity.” – Blazing Minds, January 2025: Horror-on-Sea Interview with Julian Richards

This is also stated as fact by the Horror Society article about the Director’s Cut release, which the version currently on Shudder.

This statement isn’t accurate.

In fact, it isn’t even the second Welsh horror film produced by Welsh filmmakers.

(We’ll leave ‘indigenous’ as a term aside, as, while the Welsh are closest to the DNA of Ancient Britons, the Britons were not the indigenous group, as they weren’t the first settlers in Britain, just the ones who hung around the longest. We can argue the toss about what the definition leaves room for, but let’s not.)

What Richards meant to say, I’m sure, is that this is the first Welsh horror film produced in English, or perhaps the first truly feature-length Welsh horror film.

To find the first Welsh horror film made by Welsh filmmakers, we have to go back to the 1970s.

I was wondering if the psychosexual drama/horror, The Other Side of Underneath (1972) written and directed by Jane Arden, should count, but it was produced by Jack Bond, who is not a Welsh filmmaker.

Arden was a Welsh writer and director from Pontypool in South Wales, and a leading figure in the Women’s Liberation Movement, who wrote this film initially for the stage under the title, A New Communion for Freaks, Prophets, and Witches (1971). It was the sequel to her previous stage play, considered the first play of the Women’s Liberation Movement, Vagina Rex and the Gas Oven (1969). I am sad this film doesn’t count, but Arden deserves an honourable mention.

The first Welsh horror film produced by Welsh filmmakers and financed within Wales was, as far as I’m aware, Gwaed ar y Sêr/Blood on the Stars (1975), dir. Wil Aaron, with a 60mins runtime.

The second, again, as far as I’m aware, was Aaron’s second film, O’r Ddaear Hen/From the Old Earth (1981), with a runtime of 50mins.

Both films were funded by the Bwrdd Ffilmiau Cymraeg [The Welsh Film Board], and were more recently remastered on Blu-ray by Severin Films, who included them both in their Folk Horror volume 2 box set, All the Haunts Be Ours.

Now we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get on with the film, and you’ll see why Richards has chosen to frame it in this way.

Darklands (with Spoilers)

Content Warnings: adoption reveal, forced adoption, animal sacrifice (graphic), anti-indigenous discourse, antiziganist tropes, Arabophobia, and male rape in a prolonged scene (by a woman dressed as Lilith, character name ‘Rebecca’, for an added dash of antisemitism).

Cult member with a chainsaw

Darklands is essentially The Wicker Man meets Rosemary’s Baby set in Port Talbot, with a Goth folk punk/industrial metal aesthetic that reminded me very strongly of the cannibal cult in Doomsday (2008), and I watched it mainly because the anti-Welsh Nationalism discourse was really interesting.

From the get-go, in addition to the content warnings, expect all the usual misconceptions about paganism, completely garbled historical inaccuracies, and all the usual ‘Celtic’ inaccuracies.

(Port Talbot’s steel works and industrial skyline were the inspiration for Blade Runner (1982), by the way, and they also form a core part of the Darklands aesthetic and setting. If you watch the film and think, hey, that looks weirdly familiar: that’s why.)

The Director’s Cut was released in 2023. This is the 86min version currently available on Shudder.

The film opens with some absolutely iconic footage of the steelworks at sunset to set the mood, and our folk-punk druidic cult in a warehouse, sacrificing a pig. A Man in Black (played by Dave Duffy) looking like a gangster in a Guy Ritchie film, is presiding.

Pay attention to him, we will see him again later.

No pigs were actually harmed during filming, but there is a graphic throat-slitting scene.

The Man in Black stands in front of the Women in White

The protagonist, Frazer Truik (Craig Fairbass), is a journalist who grew up in Port Talbot but moved to London as a Welsh child with a strongly Scottish first name and a very rare surname in Britain and Ireland, and acquired a strong London accent. He has returned to his hometown because he upset some powerful people in London while reporting on an embezzlement case.

This foreshadows the conspiracy he is about to face, which extends across every facet of society, from the police to the local council, and even into the National Health Service (NHS).

He meets fellow journalist and newbie at the paper, Rachel Morris (Rowena King), and immediately fancies her. They go off to cover the opening of some new thing in town, at which David Keller, the local councillor up for re-election, will be cutting the ribbon and giving a speech.

It’s very notable that almost nobody in this film has a Welsh name. Welsh names are almost erased entirely, and perhaps this is due to Pembrokeshire’s unique flavour as being a “Little England”, historically a melting pot of settlers from England, Flanders, and Normandy, but it does seem very incongruous here.

Wales for the Anglicised vs Wales for the Cymuned

Frazer strongly dislikes Keller, because, in his words, “I’m just not into this back-to-your-roots shit.” That’s quite a thing for a Welshman to say when he has, quite literally, come back to his hometown after years away.

He expands on this opinion, which just makes it worse: “You see, Keller is a nationalist,” he tells an amused Rachel. “If he had his way, we’d all be dressed as Arabs, playing harps, and speaking gobbledegook.

There’s a lot to unpack here, from the casual Arabophobia to the casual denigration of the Welsh heritage and language using cultural stereotypes, but to get at what Frazer really means, we don’t have to wait long. Before Keller can give his speech, Frazer interrupts and asks him what he means by his talk of cultural change; Frazer asks what about the culture that already exists in the town?

(We never get a definition of this – the only subculture we see is a rave, and two amiable lads outside the club selling drugs, which, arguably, was peak 1990s culture).

It’s probable that, at the time, no description or definition was actually necessary. I know, for example, what that would mean in the context of my majority-English-speaking hometown, without someone having to tell me. I also know that its culture is distinct from other areas of Wales while being (for me) quintessentially ‘Welsh’ in its own specific way, and impossible to erase or disentangle from the history, heritage, and landscape of the place.

I think what’s really interesting here is Frazer’s apparent fear that the town he only briefly grew up in and calls “the armpit of the world“, should become a place that has nowhere for him, a wandering, monoglot Anglophone, to fit into.

That prompts this foreshadowing exchange:

KELLER: And what sort of culture is that? It is a culture born from the rape of this fair country. It is a culture left to rot on the scrapheap like a knackered pit-pony.

FRAZER: What about the people who were born here, grew up here? Do you deny their culture?

KELLER: Oh, not at all. We are giving them their chance to regain their pride. To rise to the challenges of life, like their Celtic forefathers. We will give them jobs, not welfare. Let them earn their own homes, and feed themselves.

[audience applauds]

This exchange comes out of tensions between Welsh Nationalists, a minority in the 1990s, and those who saw them as dangerous extremists.

Paramilitary groups like the Meibion Glyndŵr (the Sons of Glyndŵr) were active into the early 1990s. They firebombed around 220 English-owned homes in Wales between 1979-1994, and planted bombs in the Conservative party offices in London and in estate agent offices across England and Wales. In 1989, clarifying their position and explicitly rejecting violence against migrants and immigrants of colour, they declared, “every white settler is a target. We will bury English Imperialism”.

The reasons for the founding of the Welsh-language TV channel, S4C, in 1980, were also controversial. The late Plaid Cymru MP, Gwynfor Evans, threatened to go on hunger strike if the channel was not funded, a move that was criticised both at the time and since by political opponents and some of his political successors.

For more, you could read Freedom Fighters: Wales’s Forgotten ‘War’ 1963-1993 by John Humphries, (University of Wales Press, 2008).

The problem with somewhere like Port Talbot, and indeed the Welsh Valleys, is that a lot of people were or were descended from ‘white settlers’ from England who migrated to the steelworks and coalfields over a period of several centuries. These are people who count themselves as Welsh, and heard in these more extreme nationalist statements an explicit rejection of their identity and heritage, their familial and historical ties across the border, and their (English) language. I think this is where Richards’ script for Darklands is mainly coming from; but it swings too wildly and misses to wide.

For monoglot English-speaking Welsh people, those with English heritage due to migration, and those who clung to Anglicisation as a civilising force thanks to the prevalent attitudes within the education system, political rhetoric, and mainstream media, Frazer’s attitude was far from a fringe position in 1996.

We only have to look at the Devolution’s No Vote campaign and its supporters to see this was true. By the time this film was released, the 1997 Welsh Devolution Referendum was around the corner, but it only won by less than 7,000 votes, squeaking in by the narrowest of victories at 50.3% to the Yes Vote.

It wasn’t until 2011 that these concerns had largely dissipated, and all but one local authority area (Monmouthshire, a border county which has been batted about between England and Wales historically and whose population are traditionally more Anglicised, wealthy, and Conservative), voted in favour of further devolution of power to the Senedd.

Frazer (Craig Fairbass) realises he has bitten off more than he can chew

Signs of the Times

Frazer is positioned in this film as an everyman who voices the concerns and anxieties of a lot of people at the time, and the focus on modernity versus a return to a savage, incomprehensible past is a major preoccupation of the film.

One of the main stories he covers is the desecration of local Church in Wales parish churches, which Frazer suspects is the work of a modern-day druidic cult trying to reclaim sites coopted by Christianity. (The film’s grasp of the actual historical process of Christianisation of Wales, its subpar understanding of ‘Celticness’, and its conceptualisation of modern/contemporary Paganism, is frankly painful).

Frazer thinks the cult are getting their pigs from a Kale camp on private land near the steelworks. When he goes to check this out and take photographs without permission, he’s beaten up by Welsh-speaking Kale men.

The strange Man in Black appears and makes the men at the camp leave Frazer alone, but tells him to go away and get permission next time. (The Kale are initially positioned as defenders of their privacy, but are ultimately thugs for hire and turn out to be druidic cult members/sympathisers/muscle).

It is darkly funny that the Welsh(?) spoken on the camp is subtitled as “speaks foreign language”. Foreign to whom?

Rachel, meanwhile, tells him that she’s really in town because her brother, Edward Morris, was in an accident at the steelworks, but the last time she saw him made her suspect he wasn’t killed in a work accident. She believes Edward was mixed up with the cult and became a human sacrifice.

Frazer believes the druidic cult is recruiting from the disaffected steelworkers like Edward, 20% of whom have been laid off recently. There are some really interesting (to me) shots of the steelworks, and some great footage that shows what a dangerous job it is. (My grandad was a steelworker who suffered third degree burns up his legs when his overalls caught fire at one of the blast furnaces).

I like that the film doesn’t have a rosy view of either industry or modern Wales, and it’s interesting that even the druidic cult is presented as diverse and not ethnonationalist (Rachel and Edward are cast as Black British/mixed race), implying that neither recruitment nor sacrifice have racial conditions.

This isn’t a point in the cult’s favour, of course, it’s more to say that everyone, including Welsh minorities, will suffer equally if the cult’s activities continue.

Indigineity Meets Modernity: The Civilised Future is Anglophonic

Rachel and Frazer quickly become lovers – cue my favourite cutaway of the steelworks with a tower of flame going up at the moment of climax – and she tells him about a book “in Celtic” (she means Welsh), which her brother had. This sets Frazer off to the library, where he swiftly locates a copy of Yr Arwydd Paganaidd, or, The Pagan Sign, written in Welsh by Keller’s father.

Here comes another, very telling exchange, between Frazer and Keller.

At Keller’s ancestral pile, Frazer examines a painting of native South American peoples depicted beneath the Virgin Mary and conquistadors. Seeing Frazer examining it, Keller asks what this painting means to him.

FRAZER: The modernisation of the native world.

KELLER: I prefer to see it another way. On one side, you have the manipulative powers of the Church, on the other, the conquistadors, who forced their laws and beliefs on the natives at gunpoint.

FRAZER: A very interesting argument, and partly why I came to see you…

I believe that there was a longer discussion here originally, which contained more explicitly anti-indigenous sentiments from Frazer, which, fortunately, seems to have been cut. I remember there being some discussion along the lines of, “but they were cannibals and savages, and so white colonialism was a good thing actually”, so I can very much see why this conversation has been trimmed down for the 2023 re-release.

But that line, “the modernisation of the native world”, is also how Frazer sees the Anglicisation of Wales, and he resists the drive to turn the clock back to a time of pagan savagery, as if this is the only natural outcome of a Wales that honours and remembers her history and heritage.

Keller cooperates with him, saying he doesn’t want to align himself with the druidic cult either, and helps Frazer out with his father’s book, and some information. He asks Frazer what he learned from the book, and Frazer says that he can’t read it.

Keller responds: “You should learn. It’s your language.”

Frazer has no response to this, except apathy; according to the 1991 census, only around 18.5% of the population were fluent Welsh speakers. Welsh was seen at the time as an insular language, which wouldn’t help you get a job or be useful anywhere but in a few Welsh-speaking areas, where everyone spoke English anyway. We wouldn’t be expecting anything from Frazer, of course: we already know he’s “not into this back-to-your-roots shit.”

Frazer then gets a visitor at the news office, the local reverend, who drops the bombshell that Frazer is actually adopted, and he is part of something much bigger than a few dead pigs and goats descecrating the church – he is, in fact, integral to the cycle of rebirth and regeneration that has been going on since before the birth of Christ, and he is in danger, and can trust no one.  

This is where everything goes downhill for Frazer, and people around him start getting murdered.

The Midpoint Twist (into Misogynoir)

His parents are indeed from Port Talbot, but are not who he thought they were. Rachel turns out to be lying about who she is – Edward Morris never had a sister.

Unsurprisingly for our noir-coded protagonist, she is a paid actor, under the control of the Man in Black – and she is being paid to conceive Frazer’s child, a condition that primes Frazer for human sacrifice. The other is that Frazer must enter the place of sacrifice of his own free will, like his father before him, and then the sacrifice can be made.

Who’s There? Rachel Morris (Rowena King) realises she is not home alone…

Rachel is murdered for trying to hide her infertility from the Man in Black and escaping with his money; this is an extended cat-and-mouse scene, one of the better moments of tension in the film, but also the murder of the only main character of colour. It also repositions a mixed woman as someone who cannot be trusted by the white male hero, and her body and reproductive abilities is a site of contension and ownership by the white male villain.

Again – while the cult don’t seem to care about race and ethnicity, in that it is fine for her to carry the regeneration cycle child, her body is simply a vessel and a site of coercion and violence.

This is also the case with the (white, Jewish-coded) woman who replaces her, so the druidic cult remains intensely patriarchal, and is a backwards step for modern ‘90s women regardless of race and ethnicity.

Frazer, for all his striving for a Wales that embraces its modernity, is the product of a regeneration cycle that primes him as the human sacrifice required to end the economic recession.

Darklands tries to show that while the conditions of modernity and recession are shit, and Port Talbot is, to Frazer, “the armpit of the world”, going backwards would be worse, because Back There is the savage Land Incomprehensible, inaccessible to a modern, English-speaking man.

(I genuinely think there is something fascinating about the apposition of modern ‘90s rave culture, which is the only actual ‘90s subculture we see in the film, versus the industrial metal/folk-punk aesthetic of the May Queen and her druidic cult entourage, and the way alternative cultures were demonised in 1990s Britain, but I’m not sure that is something to get into here.)

The Ending

The graphic rape of Frazer at the end of the film by another (white, female) cult member, while senior members of the community stand around his hospital gurney looking on, is in itself a manifestation of the No Vote’s anxieties.

The cyclical nature of corruption at all levels of society, the violating coercion of the working man, will continue, especially if the Nationalists gain power. The English-speaking Welsh, especially those who welcome and defend Anglicisation and don’t want their current culture to change, will be violently forced into a world they don’t understand. Their children will grow up in a world filled with the same corruption and backwards-leaning ideology pulling the strings of their lives, and their parents will have no say in it. The cycle goes around and around.

I am pretty uncomfortable with the female cult member being called Rebecca and being dressed as Lilith (in red with her tits out, a very typical Lilith pose), and these Jewish-coded elements add to the mess of conspiracy and prejudicial biases against Welsh Nationalism in the film.

It really does feel like there isn’t any group the script hasn’t casually thrown under the bus; literally everyone has, at this point, turned out to be evil or been brutally murdered or both, except the protagonist who has a Scottish name and a Cockney accent, and he ends the film by being raped, brutalised, and having his throat cut.

The end of the film, with its victory for the cult and its leaders, and the shout of “The old flesh is dead! Long live the new!” as Frazer is finally killed alongside the hanging bodies of the pig and the goat from earlier, rings out through the warehouse.

It echoes The Wicker Man (1973) dir. Robin Hardy, with the added kicker of the forced adoption of Frazer’s daughter nine months later. The cycle must continue, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.

Similarly, the Wales of Darklands is presented as being forever trapped in cycles of recession and oppression, and this is partly, implicitly, blamed on the backwards-looking Welsh themselves, who cannot fully let go of the things that hold them back from embracing a hybrid, Anglicised, modernity.

Conclusion

In many ways, Darklands is a time capsule, as well as a horror film. While it doesn’t do anything new with its themes and tropes, it positions them in a pre-Devolution landscape that speaks directly to the status-quo conservatism of the time and is in direct conversation with the fears of that demographic, whether or not Richards intended it to be when he wrote it. I think this is partly behind its 2023 retconning as “the first indigenous Welsh film, produced by Welsh filmmakers”, which seeks to legitimise the film and perhaps answer criticisms in reviews that point out it makes most of the Welsh characters in the film look like a bunch of lunatics.

It also repositions Richards himself as proud of his heritage – an ironic contrast to the message of the film, where almost none of his characters even have Welsh names – and therefore telling an ‘authentic’ story that represents some form of Welshness and tackles themes of national identity from within.

The anxieties that shaped the script of Darklands were indeed Welsh views and fears that have taken decades to reckon with; people who still hold these views are now a political minority, but in recent days, we have Reform trying to reignite these old tensions to undermine devolution and restore Wales to Westminster.

So, while it is easy to dismiss Darklands as a time capsule, perhaps the true horror is that it cannot be so readily ignored. The Director’s Cut, released in 2023, still finds some resonance in contemporary political discourse.

It also, perhaps unintentionally, lays bare the underbelly of these fears via Frazer’s mix of apathy and aversion to his own heritage and history; his unexamined racism, particularly his anti-indigenous, pro-colonial biases, are a large part of this.

This offers Welsh audiences a very uncomfortable mirror in which to examine our pre-Devolution past, ourselves in our current Reform-beset present, and the trajectory of our future.

For audiences who will miss the conversation with the sociopolitical landscape of Wales in the mid-1990s and the present day, it offers good shots of the steelworks, a solid thriller/giallo-paced plot, some dated and offensive 1990s attitudes and language, and a blend of The Wicker Man meets Rosemary’s Baby with an industrial/black metal aesthetic.

Darklands is streaming on Shudder (UK), and you can find your own subscription service with JustWatch.

#filmReview #horrorFilms #horrorMovies #welshGothic

#AmReading: Cambria Gothica II: Welsh Ghostlore & Folklore before 1830

Introduction

In the previous post we looked at texts featured in Chapter 1 of Jane Aaron’s Welsh Gothic, and very briefly at the postcolonial framing of some of these narratives. This post looks at the ghost stories and dark tales that were associated with different parts of Wales, used as inspiration for the Gothic tales of the 1780s-1820s, and which were so alluring to early tourists. The previous post was not exhaustive, and you can buy the book to read the complete chapter: https://www.uwp.co.uk/book/welsh-gothic-ebook-pdf/

Some of these ghost stories and folkloric tales are briefly listed in one paragraph of Welsh Gothic Chapter 1, others are additional and attested prior to 1780. You might also want to pick up a copy of Mark Rees’s Ghosts of Wales: Accounts from Victorian Archives (2017), and/or Richard Holland’s Haunted Wales: A Guide to Welsh Ghostlore (2011). If ghost walks and tours are your thing, then there are plenty of these to choose from across the country, and Haunted Wales has a handy list by location. Happy reading, spooky people!

Dark Tales of Wales

More ghosts and goblins I think were prevalent in Wales than in England or any other country ~ William Howells (1831)

 

Southerndown & Dunraven Castle

Southerndown, Glamorgan, once a notorious ‘wrecking village’, was/is home to the Blue Lady of Dunraven and the ghost of the insatiable ‘wrecker lord’, Thomas Wyndham, who appears at midnight on the anniversary of his death. Not much is known of the Blue Lady, but Thomas Wyndham’s tale is a variant of one told up and down Wales where such practices took place.

‘Wrecking’, or luring ships onto rocks on purpose in order to plunder their cargo, was lucrative. Survivors were killed so they couldn’t report back to the authorities, or identify any of the men who set lights for the ships and plundered them. Wyndham was miserly and obsessed with amassing treasure, although he was also devoted to his only surviving son and heir, who (of course) went to sea. You can guess where this is going… and indeed, of course, it goes there in style. Gothic style.

After some time, a rich galleon appears, probably on a dark and stormy night. Wyndham orders it to be wrecked, the survivors are killed, and among them is… obviously… his beloved son. Wyndham (naturally) goes mad, hence his becoming an unhappy ghost. Some sources claim Wyndham’s ghost can be heard screaming and wailing along the beach on the anniversary of his death.

This tale is also told of the unlucky Vaughan family who also lived in Dunraven Castle at one time, except in this version the lord got a nasty gang to do his wrecking, led by Mat of the Iron Hand. Mat brings back the severed hand of Vaughan’s son, still wearing his identifying signet ring, to Vaughan as a ‘special gift’. It is also told of an unnamed old couple, who have a much-loved sea-faring only son that the father discovers half dead in the shallows after wrecking the boat he happens to be on, and, not recognising him in the dark, the father takes a rock and bashes his beloved son’s head in.

It is interesting that both the Wyndhams and the Vaughans had this tale told about them, and both families lived in the same place. It would appear that this is a formulaic cautionary tale that can be applied to either of these lords of Dunraven, and one that perhaps had political overtones, considering their status and political offices.

Not mentioned in Aaron’s brief notes but also in Glamorgan, not far from Southerndown, the White Lady, a twelfth-century spectre falsely accused of adultery and starved to death by her husband, haunts the ruins of Ogmore Castle. (When he realized she was innocent, he, of course, also went mad).

St Donat’s Castle

The Stradling family of St Donat’s Castle, Llantwit Major, also had their share of family spectres, including, apparently, a ghostly panther. The (murdered?) Lady Anne Stradling, whose husband died on Crusade, was a death omen for the family akin to the Irish banshee (for the Welsh, this spectre was the cyhyraeth, sometimes conflated with the Gwrach-y-rhibyn), and appeared with a pack of cŵn Annwn, the hunting dogs of the Underworld.

Also connected with the Stradlings is the witch, Mallt-y-nos (Matilda of the night). She is meant to be the ‘witch’ or ‘crone’ apparition that has been seen in the castle’s armoury, an apt place for her considering her hunting obsession, but there is a lot of folklore about Mallt-y-nos which predates her Norman origin story.

Welsh Witches of the North and South

I’ll be doing a separate series of posts on Witches, Druids, Hellhounds and Sin-Eaters, the four main figures that populate Welsh Gothic, set out in Part II of Aaron’s book. Here, however, are a few select tales of witchcraft.

Matilda-of-the-Night, whether Norman noblewoman or Hag of the Wild Hunt, was not the only witch around. Brandy Cove, another smuggling hotspot this time on the Gower Peninsula, is reputedly haunted by the ghost of ‘Old Moll‘.

Old Moll made a home for herself in one of the caves at Brandy Cove, and was reputedly both a witch and cursed. Wherever she went, bad luck followed. Children were beset with night terrors, animals went lame, crops failed. A vigilante group melted down silver coins and turned them into bullets, but they failed to kill her – she escaped, but was shot in the leg. Old Moll left the Gower and went further inland, spreading her curse wherever she went.

In a similar tale of warning about letting (cursed) strangers into your tight-knit community, but this time with strong anti-Irish and anti-Catholic overtones, is the tale of a ‘tribe’ of witches (both men and women) of Llanddona, Anglesey. The Tales of the Llanddona Witches are not some of Wales’ best-known, but there are two potential origins for it. First, if it’s a post-Civil War-era tale (1640s) then this accounts for the boatload of supernaturally gifted (Catholic) Irish turning up in a boat and causing trouble for the locals – the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland was bloody and genocidal, demonizing the population. Second, if it’s post-1736 when the repeal of the Witch Laws meant people took things into their own hands, usually by putting “witches” in an open boat without oars, food or water and setting them off out to sea, this could also account for the particulars of this fable.

There are dozens of tales about the Llanddona Witches. While most versions say they were Irish, others say they were Spanish.

You can find some versions and re-tellings online, here (Angelfire); here (myths & legends of Wales), and here (Llanddona Village Hall).

 

If ever there was a country made for Gothic fiction, Wales is probably it. Check out some Landscape Photography if you don’t believe me. Anything can happen in a place like this…

More Spooky Tales of Wales

14 Welsh Ghost Stories – WalesOnline

Ghosts in the Land of Legends – Wales Land of Legends

The Ghosts and Legends of Wales – Haunted Wales

Not mentioned by Aaron but one of the most [in]famous haunted buildings in Wales is the Skirrid Mountain Inn, Crucorney, which claims to be a 900-year-old inn that during the Middle Ages was both courtroom and place of execution (by hanging the convicted from the rafters). There is no evidence for this, but local legend has it that 180 criminals were hanged here and that you can see the rope marks on the wood. It is apparently first mentioned in this context, with the hanging of a man in 1110, but it’s unclear whether there was actually an inn on this exact site at this time. It is also associated with Owain Glyndwr’s fifteenth-century rebellion against Henry IV, but this is a later story. The inn itself is a mid-seventeenth-century building, Grade II Listed.

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#AmReading: Welsh Gothic by Jane Aaron

This is the first of a series of posts looking at the ambitious book Welsh Gothic by Jane Aaron. If you’ve not heard of Welsh Gothic fiction, start here!

From the University of Wales Press [UWP] description: Welsh Gothic, the first study of its kind, introduces readers to the array of Welsh Gothic literature published from 1780 to the present day. Informed by postcolonial and psychoanalytic theory, it argues that many of the fears encoded in Welsh Gothic writing are specific to the history of Welsh people, telling us much about the changing ways in which Welsh people have historically seen themselves and been perceived by others. The first part of the book explores Welsh Gothic writing from its beginnings in the last decades of the eighteenth century to 1997. The second part focuses on figures specific to the Welsh Gothic genre who enter literature from folk lore and local superstition, such as the sin-eater, cŵn Annwn (hounds of the Underworld), dark druids and Welsh witches.

Contents

Prologue: ‘A Long Terror’
PART I: HAUNTED BY HISTORY
1. Cambria Gothica (1780s–1820s)
2. An Underworld of One’s Own (1830s–1900s)
3. Haunted Communities (1900s–1940s)
4. Land of the Living Dead (1940s–1997)
PART II: ‘THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE CELTIC TWILIGHT’
5. Witches, Druids and the Hounds of Annwn
6. The Sin-eater
Epilogue: Post-devolution Gothic
Notes
Select Bibliography
Index

You can buy it, and others in the Gothic Literary Studies series, from the University of Wales Press: https://www.uwp.co.uk/book/welsh-gothic-ebook-pdf/

 

Context of the ‘Long Terror’

The context, for those unfamiliar with Welsh history, is laid out in the Prologue ‘A Long Terror’, which takes its title from a [translated] line from Gruffudd ab yr Ynad Coch‘s thirteenth-century ‘Lament for Llewelyn ap Gruffudd, the Last Prince’.

‘A long terror is on me’, grieved the bard, following Llewelyn’s death in 1282 and Edward I’s conquest of Wales.

The prince’s death shatters the poet’s world, his fall marking the end of the Welsh struggle for independent rule. Edward I’s conquest was more or less complete by 1284.

Gruffudd ab yr Ynad Coch laments the loss of safety and the destruction of his world:

Nid oes le y cyrcher rhag carchar braw;   |  There is no refuge from imprisoning fear

Nid oes le y triger; och o’r trigaw!   |   And nowhere to abide; O such abiding!

A version can be found here.

This poem is part of a lament tradition that goes back several centuries. Early Welsh poetry in particular is what Jane Aaron describes as ‘a litany of such terrors’, and it is not a coincidence that these texts were rediscovered, translated into English, and published at a time when Gothic Fiction was a popular mainstream literary form. This was part of a parallel cultural movement of the 18th and 19th centuries that tried to reclaim a sense of Welsh cultural identity in the face of active Anglocentric suppression.

Other poems include the anonymous ninth-century saga poem, fragmented, about the sacking of Cynddylan’s Hall, Pengwern (Shrewsbury). The following extract is from part of the saga of Heledd, the sister of Cynddylan, and her lament picks up after the English/Saxons sack and destroy Pengwern:

Dark is Cynddylan’s hall tonight,

With no fire, no bed.

I weep awhile, than am silent.

Dark is Cynddylan’s hall tonight

With no fire, no candle.

Save for God, who’ll keep me sane?

(‘Cynddylan’s Hall’, from Tony Conran’s translation in his Welsh Verse).

The following part of this saga evokes the Eagle of Eli (sea-eagles of the river, possibly the river Meheli [Eli is a contraction of the river’s name], suggested by Conrad), concerning the birds who feast on the flesh of the fallen:

Eagle of Eli, loud was its cry tonight –

Had drunk of a pool of blood,

The heart’s blood of Cynddylan Wyn.

Eagle of Eli, it cried out tonight,

It swam in men’s blood.

There in the trees! And I’ve misery on me.

Eagle of Eli, I hear it tonight.

Bloodstained it is. I dare not go near it –

There in the trees! I’ve misery on me.

(Tony Conrad’s translation in his Welsh Verse)

There are other such examples – but these serve to demonstrate how the ‘Celtic revival’ found ample texts that resonated deeply. While Welsh novelists presented Welsh protagonists as ‘vulnerable innocents’ morally threatened by invading English gentry or enforced (sometimes exilic) residence in London, also known as ‘the devil’s parlour’. (Jane Aaron, Welsh Gothic, p. 5).

For more on the Welsh cultural renaissance and its champions in the 18th and 19thCs, you could look at:

Iolo Morgannwg (1747-1826)

The Rise of [Welsh] National Consciousness (BBC History)

 

Conversely, Welsh locations were used as settings in ‘first contact’ Gothic novels, of (English) travellers who found themselves ‘startled and sometimes alienated’ by the Welsh landscapes, castles and ruins. The Welsh language was equally alienating to these English-speakers, and by its very nature echoed what was to their mind an older, more primitive and less civilised, world. The speakers of this indigenous tongue populating this striking landscape were therefore themselves more primitive, less civilised, and altogether more barbarous than the inhabitants of England, but language was only one of several alienating factors. Religious habit was another, with English Anglicanism butting against Welsh nonconformist (‘free church’) chapel culture.

As preachers and deacons tightened their control over their congregations in the face of Anglican criticism and attack, and the persecution of revivals, so their grip became a stranglehold from which some sought to extricate themselves – with difficulty. In Welsh Gothic literature, Dissent is often demonized for this reason.

Political messages and anti-industrial views also come through in early twentieth-century texts, covered in the chapter on Haunted Communities (Chapter 3). The coal industry dominated South Wales, and communities were ‘haunted’ by the spectre of ever-present death, the lack of choice of career and destiny, and the sense that these mining communities were doomed, sacrificed to the needs of Westminster and the British Empire, saw the pits and the industry represented as demonic powers, draining the life from the workers and their families.

I come from a family of several generations of miners. I worked underground as a collier for the best part of thirty years, though you may have gathered by some of my comments that I hold no feelings of regret for the passing of the coal-mining era.

Some ill-informed people might say that South Wales was blessed with an abundance of rich coal seams. But it’s my belief that an industry that caused so much destruction of a once beautiful environment and cost the lives of thousands of men, women and children can hardly be called a blessing. It is my opinion that South Wales and the vast majority of its people were in fact cursed with an abundance of rich coal seams. – paul-neath, website owner of the Welsh Coal Mines website.

There is also a sense in the later twentieth-century texts that the Welsh people should heed their folklore and their heritage, or risk being haunted by the spirits of their forefathers. Post-devolution, argues Aaron, some political wounds were healed, so that the dead princes of the medieval period rarely haunt these later stories. In these later works, Gothic tropes are played with more humorously, intentionally evoking laughter rather than horror. (Although my own book is not set in Wales, I tend to do this too, so I’m glad I fit within a recognised strain of writing!)

Aaron ends her prologue with a brief explanation regarding the lack of previous critical recognition for Welsh Gothic as a sub-genre of Gothic Fiction. According to the 1998 Handbook to Gothic Literature, Wales has contributed ‘virtually nothing’ to world Gothic literature, and Welsh Gothic doesn’t appear at all in the 2002 Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction. ‘Scottish and Irish Gothic’ are included, but lumped together in their own chapter. The 2002 Companion does include Arthur Machen (the pen-name for Arthur Llywellyn Jones, most famous for his novella The Great God Pan), but identifies him as ‘British’, erasing his Welshness.

Yet, despite this lack of critical recognition, Aaron notes that there is a rich haul of literary materials (much of which is in English) that could be categorized as Welsh Gothic. The purpose of her book is to demonstrate this fact, and to show that Welsh Gothic writing not only exists in abundance but also has much to tell us about ‘the changing ways in which Welsh people have historically seen themselves and been perceived by others’ (Aaron, Welsh Gothic, p. 9).

I’ll be reading through this book for fun and interest this month, and will probably drop some links and reading lists in later posts here for those who’d like to read some Welsh Gothic tales, or learn more about it!

You can also read a full review of the book here, by Prof. Jamil Mustafa, Lewis University.

You can also check out my other posts on Gothic Fiction:

Goth is [Not] Dead: Genre Chat

Goth is [Not] Dead: Sub-Genre Chat

Goth is [Not] Dead: What is Gothic Weird Fiction?

Goth is [Not] Dead: Characters

Goth is [Not] Dead: Isolation

Goth is [Not] Dead: Darkness

Goth is [Not] Dead: Corruption

Gothic Tropes to Feed Your Soul: (1) The Creepy Old House

Gothic Tropes to Feed Your Soul: (2) A Town With Dark Secrets

Gothic Tropes to Feed Your Soul: (3) Meet The Locals

Gothic Tropes to Feed Your Soul: (4) The Grande Dame

Gothic Tropes to Feed Your Soul: (5) There’s Something In The Attic

Free Gothic Bingo Card!

Some posts for further reading on the suppression of Welsh language and culture:

The Treachery of the Blue Books (1847) (National Library of Wales)

The Treason of the Blue Books (1847) (BBC Blogs)

The Welsh Not (Wikipedia)

Further Information:

Welsh Coal Mines (poems, memorials, list of disasters, and more)

People’s Collection Wales (a Welsh Government site set up in partnership with the National Library of Wales, the Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historical Monuments of Wales, and the National Museum of Wales, enabling organisations, institutions, clubs, communities, charities and private individuals – literally anyone – to upload pictures, audio files, text and video relating to Welsh history or their own communities or families so that things can be shared rather than lost).

 

#amreading #gothicFiction #reading #sinEater #wales #welsh #welshGothic

Two smashing #WelshGothic days at #Gregynog. The weather and gardens provided a nice mood board.