Rhiwatton of the Yellow Hair - Gŵyl Awst 2025
Long before the stones of Dinefwr stood proud against the sky, before Myddfai was anything more than mist and pasture, there was a lake hidden in the fold of the Black Mountain. Llyn y Fan Fach, they called it later, but its true name is older than words.
On the first morning of Gŵyl Awst, the sun lifted gently over the hills, and from the silver glass of the lake stepped a woman. She wore a cloak of light woven from dawn itself, and her eyes held the stillness of time uncounted. Her feet never rippled the water. Her name was not known, for she never gave it—only that she came
with the sun, once each year, and would leave before the dew dried.
That day, a shepherd wandering with his dogs saw her. Not in a dream—though for the rest of his life he would question it—but clear as sunrise. He did not fall to his knees or call her goddess. Instead, he greeted her as if she were a traveller. She smiled, and for a time, she stayed.
In a valley no map remembers, they made their home. And in the turning of the seasons, a son was born.
They named him Rhiwatton, a name that held the sound of rustling oats and golden broom. His hair was bright as the first light on water, and though he laughed like any child, there was something ancient in his gaze. His mother taught him what she could before the year turned. How to hear the voice of a stream. How to draw fever from the skin. How to ask permission before picking a plant.
When Gŵyl Awst returned, she vanished with the rising sun.
Each year she returned for just one day. And each year she taught him more. Rhiwatton grew wise, not only in herbs and waters, but in listening—to pain, to land, to silence. He never asked why she came and went. He only waited, learned, and remembered.
When he was a man grown, he walked to the hill fort at Dinefwr and cured the fevered son of a chieftain. The grateful lord offered gold, but Rhiwatton asked for nothing. “Teach your children what you’ve seen today,” he said. “That is enough.”
He married a girl of Myddfai, and in time, his children learned as he had—how to heal with leaf and root, how to balance humours, and how to see the body as the land itself, shaped by wind, wounded by storm, but always able to bloom again.
His line became known as the Physicians of Myddfai, famed across Cymru and beyond. They carried their mother’s knowledge quietly, never claiming the sunlit woman by the lake, only honouring her each Gŵyl Awst by rising before dawn, walking into the hills, and placing their hands on the cool stones by the water.
They say she still comes, just before sunrise on the first of August. Some claim to have seen her just once in their lifetime. She does not speak, nor does she stay, but the waters stir, and the plants seem to lean toward the shore.
And sometimes, when the right herb is picked in the right hour, healing comes faster than expected.
The Light Between the Stones - Midsummer 2025
In the green heart of Eryri (Snowdonia) where mists cling like old secrets and the stones remember everything, there once lived a young woman named Elain, whose laughter was as wild as the streams and whose hair held the red-gold of dusk.
Elain was the granddaughter of a derwydd, a druid of the old ways, though few dared speak of such things openly. Her people feared the stone circles and the whispers in the hills. But Elain, like her grandmother, could hear the land breathe, and it often spoke to her of a name: Brân ap Llyr.
Brân, son of the sea god, was not born of this time. He was a myth carried on moonlight, a prince of the Fae long buried beneath the Cader Idris, where it is said dreams become prophecy. Yet every Midsummer, when the sun stood still and the night barely touched the sky, Elain would dream of him.
In her dreams, he stood at the stone circle of Bryn Cader Faner, clad in ancient armour of ivy and starlight, his eyes silver like still lakes. He would whisper to her, “The gate opens but once, Elain. Will you cross?”
And every time, she woke before she could answer.
But this solstice, something had changed. The village cows lowed restlessly. Birds circled in strange patterns. Her grandmother took her hand and pressed a key of rowan wood into it. “The door opens tonight,” she whispered. “Not all gates are meant to stay closed.”
Guided by instinct more than courage, Elain climbed under the full sun to Bryn Cader Faner. The air shimmered. The stones, like antlers of a giant stag, pulsed faintly. And there, as real as thunder, stood Brân.
He was more than beautiful, he was other. He smelled of sea salt and old forests. Around him, the grass bowed, and the birds stilled. “You came,” he said, his voice like waves on a distant shore.
“You’re real,” she breathed.
“For now,” he said. “Until the sun tilts again. This is the hour between, where fate and choice meet. Will you walk with me?”
She took his hand, and the world changed.
They danced through the dusk, handfasted by shadow and light. He led her through the realm of the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, past rivers that flowed backwards, trees that sang, and skies lit by a second sun.
In those few hours of enchantment, they shared lifetimes, and a love so deep it echoed into the stones. But time, like tides, can’t be held back.
As dawn bled gold into the world, Brân’s eyes dimmed. “I am bound to the old laws,” he said. “Until the world remembers us. I must sleep again beneath Idris.”
Elain’s heart splintered. “Then let me come with you.”
He smiled sadly. “You are of this world. But love is stronger than even the veil.”
He kissed her brow and pressed a silver feather into her palm. “Keep this, and remember every midsummer, we will meet again. If not in flesh, then in a dream. And dreams are where all things begin.” He
vanished with the last star.
Each year after, Elain returned to the stones. Sometimes she would see a shimmer. Sometimes she would dream. And always, she carried the feather.
And they say, even now, if you stand among the stones at solstice’s peak, and you believe enough in love, you might hear her laughter, and the sigh of a wave against an invisible shore.
The Beltane Ride of Gwyn ap Nudd - May 2025
In the green, folded hills of North Wales, where mists cling to stone and sheep graze under the ancient gaze of the mountains, there lies a forgotten valley, Cwm Nudd, said to be the secret domain of Gwyn ap Nudd, lord of the Otherworld.
It was Beltane, the day when the veil between worlds thins like breath on a mirror. Fires were lit on the hilltops, and songs rose into the evening air. The people of the valley danced in circles, hand in hand, their faces bright with joy and fear, for they knew that this was also the night the Tylwyth Teg, the Fair Folk, roamed freely — and their king, Gwyn ap Nudd, might come seeking souls for his hunt.
That year, a young woman named Elen, known for her cleverness and her voice as clear as the river glass, dared to stay behind after the last dance. She lingered by the old standing stones at the valley’s edge, weaving a garland of rowan
berries and primroses, charms against faerie mischief.
As the moon rose full and white, a low horn sounded across the moor — a sound both beautiful and terrible. Out of the mist rode Gwyn ap Nudd himself, mounted on a horse as pale as snow, his hair like woven starlight, and a silver hunting horn at his belt. Behind him came his wild court: shadowed riders with hounds whose red ears burned like coals.
Gwyn's eyes, cold and bright, fixed on Elen.
"You have called me," he said, though Elen had not spoken a word. "Tonight, mortal, you may ride with me, or forever remain earthbound, never touching the stars again."
Elen, though trembling, met his gaze. She knew the old tales: to refuse the Fair Folk's king was perilous, yet to ride with him could mean never returning.
"I will ride with you," she said, but she set one condition: "Only until the first fire of dawn is lit."
Gwyn, intrigued, agreed. He lifted her onto his horse before him, and with a cry that split the night, the Wild Hunt thundered across the hills.
They rode through rivers that turned to silver streams, over hills that shifted into towers of mist. Stars spun above them, and the world below seemed to vanish. Elen sang as they rode, songs of earth and fire and growing things — songs of Beltane.
Her voice, human and warm, softened even Gwyn’s wild court, and for a moment, the Wild Hunt slowed. The horses’ hooves no longer struck sparks; the hounds lapped at pools of starlight instead of chasing lost souls.
At last, on a faraway hill, Elen saw the first glimmer of fire — the Beltane flame lit by her people. She pointed, and Gwyn, bound by his word, drew his horse to a halt.
"You are brave, mortal," he said, his voice like the wind in winter branches. "Few have ridden with me and returned."
He took from his belt a brooch shaped like a crescent moon and pinned it to her cloak. "Remember this night. You will walk between worlds all your life, a singer of the old ways."
Then Gwyn and his host whirled away into mist and shadow, leaving Elen standing alone by the fire, her hair shining with starlight and her heart forever touched by the Otherworld.
And so it was that Elen of Cwm Nudd became a wise woman, a keeper of stories and songs. Each Beltane night, it’s said, if you listen at the standing stones, you might hear her singing — and if you are brave enough, Gwyn ap Nudd may offer you the ride of your life.
Ostara and the Hare -
Spring Equinox 2025
As winter's grip loosened over the land, the world lay silent beneath a heavy frost. Trees stood bare, and rivers, frozen in their slumber, awaited the touch of spring. Ostara, the radiant goddess of dawn and renewal, stirred from her winter's rest. She looked down upon the world and saw the first glimmers of life yearning to awaken. It was time.
Ostara was dressed in robes woven from the golden hues of morning light. With every step she took, the frost melted beneath her feet, and flowers burst forth in a riot of colour. She walked the meadows, her touch bringing warmth to the soil, coaxing buds to bloom and songbirds to sing.
But as she wandered, her keen eyes fell upon something unusual—a small bird, shivering in the snow. The bird was so laden with frost that its wings did not open, meaning it could no longer fly and would soon perish. The sight pained her, for no creature should suffer in the wake of spring’s return. She knelt beside it, cradling its fragile body in her hands.
"You are too delicate for winter's cruelty," she murmured, her voice as soft as the first breeze of spring.
She pondered how to save the bird, for its wings were beyond repair. Then, with a gentle breath, she wove her magic through the creature, reshaping it with divine energy. Before her, the bird’s form stretched and shifted until, at last, a hare sat in its place—sleek and strong, its legs built for swift movement across the thawing earth. Yet, as a final gift, she left it one reminder of its past: the ability to lay eggs, a token of the life it once knew.
The hare, sensing its new form, twitched its nose and gazed up at the goddess with shining eyes. No longer trapped in winter’s grasp, it leapt through the meadow, revelling in its newfound agility. But it never forgot Ostara’s kindness.
As the days grew longer and the land bloomed in full, the hare wished to offer thanks to the goddess. And so, it laid the most beautiful eggs, painting them with the colours of the dawn—rosy pinks, sky blues, and golden yellows. With great care, it placed them at Ostara’s feet as a gift.
The goddess smiled, deeply moved by the hare’s gratitude. "Every year, when spring awakens, you shall bring these gifts to the world," she decreed. "Let them be a sign of rebirth, of joy, and of my return."
And so, each spring, the hare ventured forth, leaving its vibrant eggs as symbols of the season’s renewal. The people of the land soon discovered these gifts, marvelling at the wonders of Ostara’s blessing. And thus, the tradition of the Easter Hare and its eggs was born, a reminder that even in the coldest winters, the promise of spring—and the warmth of kindness—always returns.
The Winter Wyrm and the Lightbearer - Imbolc 2025
In the deep forests of the Harz Mountains, where the old gods still whispered in the wind, there was a legend of Brigga, the Lightbearer. She was a spirit of renewal, waking the earth from its icy slumber each year on Imbolc, the first day of February.
But one winter, the earth did not stir. The rivers lay frozen, the trees stood barren, and no green shoots peeked through the snow. The people, fearing an endless winter, gathered in the village square, whispering of Nachtwyrm, the Winter Wyrm, an ancient serpent said to hoard the last ember of the sun in his icy cave beneath the Brocken mountain.
Brigga, knowing that life could not return without the ember, wrapped herself in a cloak
woven of starlight and set out for the mountain. She climbed through the snow-laden pines, her footsteps melting the frost beneath her. When she reached the mouth of the cave, she called out "Wyrm of Winter, yield the ember! The earth must wake!"
From the darkness, a voice rumbled like breaking ice. "Why should I?" hissed Nachtwyrm. "Winter is peaceful. The world sleeps. Let it remain so."
Brigga stepped forward, her presence casting a golden glow in the cavern. "Without light, there is no life. Without spring, there is no renewal. Release the ember, or I shall take it myself."
The Wyrm laughed, cold and hollow. "Then face my challenge, Lightbearer. Melt the ice around my heart, and the ember is yours."
Brigga knew what he meant. Nachtwyrm was not merely a beast of ice; he was the spirit of winter’s deep sleep, of stillness and silence. She knelt before him and began to sing—an ancient song of warmth, of firelit hearths, of mothers’ lullabies, and children’s laughter in fields of green. Her voice wove through the cavern like a golden thread, and as she sang, the ice on the Wyrm’s scales began to crack.
For the first time in centuries, Nachtwyrm felt warmth. A single tear of molten gold fell from his eye, landing at Brigga’s feet—the ember of the sun.
She took it in her hands, cradling it like a newborn flame. As she carried it from the cave, the frozen rivers began to flow, buds swelled on the trees, and the first snowdrops broke through the frost-kissed earth.
The people of the valley awoke to birdsong and the scent of damp earth. They knew then that the Lightbearer had triumphed, and Imbolc had brought the promise of spring once more.
But high in the mountains, in his darkened cave, Nachtwyrm curled into slumber, dreaming of the warmth he had felt, waiting for the time when winter would come again.
Der Moosmann -
Yule 2024
The forest whispered its secrets, even in the depths of winter. Snow clung to the branches of pine trees like silver lace, and the world was quiet—except for the soft crunch of young Friedrich’s boots. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with gentle eyes the colour of summer moss. At twenty-two, he had just begun his role as the village forester, learning to navigate the ancient, dense woodlands that bordered their home.
It was Yuletide Eve, and the villagers of Schwarzwald celebrated with firelight and songs. But Friedrich found little comfort in the festivities. The forest called to him, its voice a whisper in the cold air. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the snow-covered landscape in a soft, golden glow, he ventured deep into the woods, guided by an
instinct he couldn’t explain.
The shadows lengthened, and soon the only light came from the crescent moon, pale and watchful. The air was thick with frost, but Friedrich moved with purpose, his heart thrumming with a strange certainty. For years, he had heard the elders' tales of Der Moosmann—a mysterious spirit clad in furs and moss, said to protect the forest during the darkest nights of winter. No one had ever seen him, but the legend spoke of his watchful eyes, ensuring that the forest's secrets remained safe.
As he reached the heart of the woods, a soft rustle broke the silence. Turning swiftly, Friedrich came face-to-face with a figure emerging from the shadows. It was a man, or something that resembled one. His cloak was woven from moss and bark, his hair tangled with ivy, and his eyes glowed faintly like the embers of a dying fire.
"Why do you trespass here on Yuletide Eve?" the figure asked, his voice a rumble like the shifting of roots.
"I mean no harm," Friedrich said, bowing his head slightly. "I’m drawn to the forest, especially tonight. It... speaks to me."
The figure tilted his head, studying Friedrich with an intensity that made him feel both exposed and protected. "Perhaps it is because the forest knows you," he said. "I am Der Moosmann, guardian of these woods. But my time grows short, and the forest has called you here for a reason."
Friedrich's heart raced. "You’re... real?" he breathed. “The villagers speak of you only in tales.”
Der Moosmann smiled, though his lips barely moved. "Yes, real, but not eternal. The world changes, even for the spirits of the wild. The forest needs a new guardian, one who will protect it through the coldest nights and darkest winters. The Yule has chosen you."
Friedrich was silent for a long moment, the weight of the offer settling over him. It was not a choice to be made lightly, for he would leave behind the life he knew, the village, and the friends he cherished. But as the wind whispered through the snow-laden trees, he realised that the forest was already a part of him.
"I will take up your mantle," Friedrich said softly. "I will protect the woods and its creatures."
With that pledge, the transformation began. Der Moosmann placed a hand on Friedrich’s shoulder, and the warmth of the earth seeped into his bones. The cloak of moss and bark wrapped around him, merging with his skin. His senses sharpened; he could hear the flutter of an owl’s wings miles away, feel the slow pulse of sap in the trees, and smell the distant scent of pine needles and frost.
Years turned into decades, and Friedrich, now Der Moosmann, watched over the forest through countless winters. The villagers still celebrated Yuletide, leaving offerings of fruit and nuts at the forest’s edge, hoping to appease the mysterious spirit that watched over them. They never knew that the new guardian was once one of their own, for Friedrich’s humanity had slowly faded into something older, more timeless.
As the decades slipped into centuries, Der Moosmann's hair turned silver, and his once-muscular frame grew frail beneath layers of moss and vines. Yet his eyes remained sharp, glowing like twin lanterns in the darkness. He had seen the forest through many changes—fires, storms, and seasons of abundance and scarcity. But he had kept it safe, just as he had promised.
As the chill of another Yuletide settled over the Black Forest, a blanket of fresh snow covered the ground, and the bare branches sparkled with ice. The villagers were preparing for their winter feast. Evergreens were strung with candles, and garlands of holly and pine adorned every doorway. At this time of year, families huddled by their fires, sharing stories of old magic to ward off the long, dark nights.
That year, young Lena was especially enchanted by the tales. She loved exploring the woods, and her heart ached to think of the deer, foxes, and rabbits hiding from the cold. So, on the night of Yuletide, she gathered a small bundle of apples, nuts, and dried herbs from her family’s pantry, wrapping them in a scrap of wool. Then, clutching the bundle to her chest, she slipped out into the snowy night, her breath fogging the air as she ventured into the trees.
The forest was quiet, save for the crunch of snow under her boots. Shadows stretched long and mysterious in the moonlight, and Lena felt the thrill of adventure tinged with just a touch of fear. She walked deeper and deeper, leaving little piles of food for the animals as she went.
As she lay her last offering beneath a tall fir tree, a soft glow appeared through the trees—a deep, green light like none she had ever seen. Lena froze, her heart racing, but a strange warmth washed over her. She had heard about this light in the stories. She knew who it was.
From the shadows stepped Der Moosmann, taller and more magnificent than she had ever imagined. Cloaked in moss and branches, with icicles hanging from his shoulders and a crown of holly on his head, he looked like the forest brought to life. His eyes were deep and kind, glowing with an emerald warmth that seemed to melt the cold.
“Young one,” he rumbled, his voice like the crackle of a fire, “why do you wander here on this dark night?”
Lena’s voice was barely a whisper. “I wanted to help the animals—to give them a little extra food on Yuletide.”
Der Moosmann regarded her with a long, thoughtful look, and a smile broke through the solemnity of his face. “Kindness is a rare gift, child. The forest remembers such things.”
With a wave of his hand, Der Moosmann cast a soft, shimmering mist across the ground. In its wake, green moss began to grow, blanketing the snow in a lush carpet. Sprigs of berries and delicate flowers blossomed in the cold, casting the forest in a strange and enchanting beauty. Lena gasped, for the air seemed warmer, gentler somehow.
“You have shown kindness to my forest, and so it shall return the favour,” he said. “Take this gift, child.” Der Moosmann reached out and placed in her hand a small evergreen sprig, sparkling as though touched by stardust.
“Hold this close, and whenever you are lost or afraid, think of the forest, and I shall guide you home.”
Lena looked down at the sprig, then up at Der Moosmann, but he had already begun to melt back into the trees, his form dissolving like mist. The glow faded, leaving only the faintest trace of his presence, as if he had been nothing more than a dream.
With the sprig clutched tightly in her hand, Lena felt wonder fill her heart that would stay with her long after Yuletide had passed. And from that night on, she never feared the forest, for she knew that its guardian was watching over her. Every Yuletide, she would leave small offerings in the woods, gifts for the animals and the spirit that protected them all.
And each time, when she turned to leave, she could swear she saw the faintest green light flickering among the trees, a silent promise that Der Moosmann was watching, keeping the forest safe through the longest nights of the year.
One Yuletide, in the heart of the longest night, the forest spoke to Der Moosmann once more, just as it had on that fateful evening so long ago. He felt the roots beneath his feet tremble, heard the trees sigh with relief. It was time, they said. Time for the forest to choose a new protector.
As the moon rose high above the snow-covered trees, Der Moosmann found himself at the edge of the village where he had once lived. He watched from the shadows as the villagers, now mere echoes of a life he once knew, danced and sang by the fire. Among them, he saw a young woman—her eyes as green as his once were, her heart as wild as the winter wind.
He stepped from the shadows, and for the first time in over a century, the villagers saw Der Moosmann. The girl froze, her eyes wide with awe and wonder. "Who... who are you?" she asked.
"I am the forest's guardian," he whispered, his voice a soft wind rustling through dry leaves. "But my time is ending, as yours is beginning. The Yule has chosen you."
Without hesitation, the young woman knelt before him, her breath visible in the cold air. Der Moosmann placed a hand on her shoulder, just as his predecessor had done for him so long ago. The forest came alive around them, the trees shivering in joyous acceptance.
Friedrich’s form began to fade, the moss and bark slipping away like shadows at dawn. As he vanished into the wind, the new Moosmann—now Die Moosfrau—rose to her feet, her eyes glowing softly in the moonlight.
The villagers would speak of this new guardian in whispers and fireside tales for generations to come. But the forest would always remember Friedrich, the latest in a long line of people, who became a legend, the guardian who protected it through countless Yuletides.
And deep in the heart of the Schwarzwald, the forest sang its eternal gratitude, wrapped in snow and moonlight.
