Once upon a time, there was a wise man who insisted that to live well, one had to be positive and thankful for all of life.
One day, a traveller came to him and said, 'How can I be positive? Nothing goes right in my life! I've been badly hurt by people I trusted, and now I want revenge!'
The wise man shook his head. 'What would you do to those who have hurt you?' he asked.
'I'd tear them limb from limb ... I'd ruin their business ... I'd ...' and he broke off. 'Can you help me to get revenge?' he begged.
'Yes,' said the wise man. 'I'll certainly help you, but first you must do two things for me.'
"I will,' said the traveller.
'First,' said the wise man, 'I want you to tear a branch off that tree over there.'
The traveller readily went to the tree and twisted off a large branch. 'There you are! What's the second thing?'
The wise man smiled. 'Now put it back,' he said.
The traveller stood staring. 'I can't do that,' he said.
'No,' said the wise man. 'So remember this: it's very easy to wound and to destroy, but it is more difficult to repair the damage that has been done. Note that the tree won't hurt you back. It will go on growing and bearing fruit.  It's much better to be creative than destructive -- even to people that have hurt you.'

Once upon a time, there lived in North Wales a handsome Prince called Llewelyn. He had fallen in love with a beautiful call called Rhiannon, and they had a beautiful baby boy they called Dafydd. Dafydd was their pride and joy: a bonny child with golden hair and blue eyes. And in their castle, they had many servants and nurses to help them care for the little prince. But Dafydd loved above all things the beautiful dog they called Gelert. Gelert was always by the little Prince Dafydd, and watched over him and kept him safe when it seemed he might fall, and guided him safely back indoors if it seemed the boy would wander too far from the castle.
    And Dafydd loved his parents, and admired his father. He would pretend to be Llewelyn going out to hunt, his dogs at his side; and the sound of the little boy's laughter was precious to everyone.
    Llewelyn was a good Prince, but he also enjoyed his recreation. He liked to ride out and hunt for the wild boar which threatened the herds of his people and also made a good meal at a feast.
    He went with Rhiannon and took his household, including little Prince Dafydd, to Diganwy Castle for a hunt. The whole company rode out in search of boar, while Dafydd was left alone in the castle with his elderly nurse and Gelert, his faithful hound.
    The hunting went well, and after many hours, the party came home, bearing wild boar on poles ready for s feast. As Llewlelyn and rhiannon neared the castle, Gelert came bounding out joyfully to meet them.
    But Llewelyn peered down at the dog.
    'It seems,' he said, 'as though Gelert also has been hunting. There is blood around his jaws.'
    A chill of concern went through Rhiannon. 'Dafydd!' she cried. Dismounting hurriedly, she ran into the castle, Llewleyn close behind, searching for their son.
    He was nowhere to be found; not him, and not the nurse.
    Llewleyn was angry. 'The dog has become wild and killed my son!' he cried. He lifted his spear and drove it through the dog's heart.
    At that moment, they heard a cry. Pushing through the crowd of his servants, Llewelyn found his son and the nurse huddling under a large bench in the kitchen. Nearby, its throat ripped out, lay the body of a wolf.
    'The wolf attacked,' the nurse sobbed. 'But Gelert sprang and killed the wolf, and saved our lives!'
    Llewelyn took his son in his arms, and went slowly back to the body of the dying dog. He knelt beside the dog, his hand on its head, and sobbed out his grief and sorrow. The dog gazed gently at the man, and licked his hand, and died
    Llewelyn insisted that the dog be buried with great honour, and marked his grave with a special stone. The place where the dog lies is called 'Bedd Gelert', (Gelert's Grave) and his story lives on to this day.
It is said that Llewelyn never again permitted himself to smile, and that he raised his son Dafydd never to act in haste, but to find out first all the facts of a situation before making a decision. And Dafydd grew in wisdom, and was a mighty Prince, but he never forgot that he owed his life to the faithful hound, Gelert.

Bing, bang, bong, went the drum. Bing, bang, bong. Slowly, then faster and faster -- bong-bang-bong, bing-bang-bong ...

'There you are!' cried Rhonwen. 'That's what we shall call the boys: Bing, Bang and Bong, after the sound of the bodhran!'

And so Bing, Bang and Bong were what they were called.

Bing and Bang grew tall and strong and very clever. Bong was small and slight and although he was clever, he never got a chance to show it. Whenever Bing and Bang played with the others in their clan, Bong was left out. He got sadder and sadder.

One day, when Bing and Bang were racing in their coracles along a stream, Bong went into the woods to find the fabled Derwen. The Derwen was waiting for him.

'Thought you'd be along sooner or later,' said the Derwen. "What's up?'
Bong told his story.
The Derwen shook his head. 'Size doesn't mean strength,' he sighed. 'When will those humans learn?' He grabbed his length of oak branch and walloped Bong on each shoulder. 'Go on, young feller,' he told the boy. 'You're as strong as a dozen men now. But use your strength carefully! Be gentle. Learn wisdom. Right?'

'Right!' agreed Bong happily. He went back to the stream where his brothers were lefting their coracles onto the bank.

"Can I sail with you in the coracles?' asked Bong.
'No,' said Bing.
'Silly idea,' said Bang.
'Oh,' said Bong. 'We'll see about that.' He reached out and picked Bing up in one hand, and Bang up in the other hand, and carried them over to the edge of the stream.
Bing and Bang were yelling with surpise and shock, and of course they allowed Bong to sail in their coracles. In fact, they fought hard about whose coracle Bong would sail in most! They each wanted him so much now that he seemed to be so strong.

Next, Bong went into the village where the student bards were gathering. Bing picked up a harp, and twanged a few strings, and sang a short verse of praise to the High King. Then Bang picked up a harp, and played a few notes, and sang another verse.

'May I play the harp, please?' said Bong.

All the other boys laughed at the weak little Bong trying to play a harp, which he couldn't even lift.

But Bong smiled and picked up the harp effortlessly and ran his fingers over the strings. Notes came flying out so fast and furiously, and in such magnificent melodies, that everyone was shocked. Not only that, but Bong sang such difficult rhymes and metres that his command of the language caused everyone to applaud.

"I do declare he'll be the chief bard, one day!' the villagers said.

And one day, Bong did. He was chief bard, and he presided over the biggest warband in Wales. But he advised his High King to keep the peace. 'Size does not mean strength,' he said, echoing the Derwen of long ago. Bong was known for his gentleness and wisdom, and Bing and Bang were always in awe of him and very proud of their brother. They too had learned that size does not mean strength ... and that strength does not mean violence but self-control.

And as for Bryn and Rhonwen, they lived long and happily, seeing all three of their boys growing to manhood and becoming wise and gentle men.

And the Derwen? Well, he's still there ... out in the woods, with his branch of oak, waiting to wallop the next person who comes along feeling out of sorts.

Once upon a time, in the legendary land of Munster, where mountain meets sea and sea parts reluctantly from land, leaving wee Skellig Islands in the Bay, there lived a wise woman called Maura. Not far from her hermitage, there was a crannog ruled by another woman called Shaelagh. Now Shaelagh was an acquisitive woman; having much, she desired more; gaining more, she desired yet more. And she wanted what she possessed to go with her on her journey through the Otherworld.
It seemed though, that Shaelagh had acquired just about everything she could ... How was she to gain yet more? She decided to take herself yonder to the hermitage of Maura the Wise.

Shaelagh went alone on her journey, riding a fine horse with dark flanks and red fiery nostrils. And she found Maura in a beehive hut, perched on the rocky sides of the Ring of Kerry, overlooking the sea.
Maura had seen and heard Shaelagh's approach and met her on the summit of that windy mountain, greeting her with a bowl of cool spring water.
'Drink and slake your thirst. There's a wee stream nearby where your horse can drink and graze,' said Maura. 'Now come into the hut with me, and let me be hearing why you've bothered to come from your pomp and your finery below.'
Shaelagh would never have thought of grazing her horse, but she did as she was told and then followed the Wise Woman into the beehive hut.
'I want that which is eternal, something to take with me into the Afterlife,' said Shaelagh greedily. 'I have no wish to leave behind that which I have worked for. Now, I want the eternal treasure.'
'And that you shall have, once you have given all that you possess away,' said Maura kindly.
Shaelagh had no interest in hearing this advice.
'What? GIVE it away? You surely are mocking me. I have fought and striven for all I have. I'll not be giving it away! Have you no other advice for me? For this is not wisdom, but folly!'

Maura knew Shaelagh's thoughts and merely smiled. 'There is something I can give you which will contain all you have strived for, all you have worked for, all you can dream of, all you could amass. Hold out to me your hand, and I will place it in your fist; but you must never release it; hold it fast, as you do all your treasures, and one day you will see the true value of all you own.'
Maura opened Shaelagh's fist and pressed something into it. Shaelagh closed her fist tightly, knowing that in her hand she held all she had worked for, dreamed of, hoped for, and ever desired. She bade Maura farewell, leaving no offering -- Shaelagh was no giver -- and departed for her crannog.

Many remarked from that day onwards about the closed fist of Shaelagh's right hand; but Shaelagh would only smile. The crannog grew richer and richer; enemies were defeated and the crops grew wild; the gold overflowed the treasure chests. And then came the day when Daghda Samildanac called Shaelagh into the Afterworld.
'What gift have you brought to do homage to your God and King?' asked the Daghda in a voice full of thunder.
'All I have worked for, all I have fought for, all I have lived for, all I have dreamed of, is in my hand,' said Shaelagh confidently.
'Then open your hand, for in this world there is no keeping but only sharing of all good things,' said the Daghda.
Try as she might, Shaelagh could not open her hand.
In all his power and glory, the Daghda approached her and with his swift right hand, opened her fist ...
And Shaelagh stared down at what it held ...
All she had strived for, all she had worked for, all she had acquired, all she desired and hoped for was there ...

NOTHING. Her hand was empty.
Sadly, the Daghda shook his head. 'Only what you give is counted for here,' he told her. 'Now I send you hence, back to your world, to put this lesson into practice. And again we shall meet here, and again you will open your hand.
'Next time, let it be filled.' 

Once upon a time there lived a beautiful girl called Llio who could play the harp beautifully. It was said that she could make the harp speak, that when she played you heard the true voice of the harp.
And so she was much in demand as a harper in her own village and beyond. She would play at funerals and weddings, at dances and at fairs; she played in the church on Sundays and she played at christenings and would rock the baby to sleep with the gentleness of her playing.
She was a beautiful girl, was Llio ... tall and white-skinned, with thick curls of shining black hair and deep, solemn blue eyes and a mouth that looked as though a rosebud was just beginning to open. She gave her life to her harp-playing, and she gave it all her love and her energy and spirit.
And the harp would speak, and its tone was seductive and bewitching, and it held Llio in its thrall.

One day, when Llio was almost twenty, she was walking to the village with her harp on her back, ready to play at a wedding for two of the young folk she knew well. Oh, what a wedding it was to be! And Llio was to provide the music for the dancing and romancing. The day was clear and bright, and Llio walked with a small skip in her step.
She was joined as she walked by a young man called Gerwyn.
'I love to hear you playing,' said Gerwyn kindly.
'Thank you,' said Llio. "I love to play.'
'What else do you do?' he asked. 'Do you sew or cook, or create furniture with your hands, or mind the sheep or milk the cows?'
'None of those things,' said Llio. 'I just play the harp.'
'Do you learn about other people and places, about the other lands across the sea?'
'No,' said Llio. 'I just play my harp.'
'What about the cries of children and the joys of motherhood, do you know about these? Or the joys of learning old stories, and who the bards are?' persisted Gerwyn.
'No,' said Llio, 'I just play the harp.'
'Then how can you play,' said Gerwyn, 'when you have no knowledge of the world?'
'I don't need knowledge or experiences of any kind,' said Llio. 'The harp speaks in its own voice.'
'Then you are slave, not master,' said Gerwyn, and disappeared.
Llio stood looking after him for a long time. But he had just vanished into thin air as it were -- gone. There was just Llio and her harp. So, she resumed her journey.

Well, she played for that wedding as she had never played before, letting the harp have its head, as it were, playing in its own voice and making magic of the sounds. They laughed and cried and danced and hugged, the people who heard it, and Llio sat aside by herself, the music pouring from her fingers.
Yet she realised that what Gerwyn said was true. This was the harp's voice, not her own. And she realised that she knew little of love, little of sadness and joy, little of what it was to be real. The harp sang, not she; perhaps one day she would make it sing because she had claimed her own voice and her own song.
On her way home, Gerwyn appeared to her again. 'Have you thought about what I said?'
'Oh, yes,' said Llio.
'Then marry me,' said Gerwyn.
'Not until I find my own voice,' said Llio.

So she went home, and from that day she spent time listening to her mother and her sisters and her brothers, to her father and the neighbours; to the people in her village and the children. She didn't play the harp quite so much.
Then came a dreadful day when sickness struck the village, and Llio spent her days nursing her father, who recovered, and her mother, who didn't. She helped the others bury their dead. And she brought out her harp and played of her sadness.
And she realised that at last, she was telling the harp what to do ... the sounds to make, the expression to create. She told of sadness and love, of self-scarifice and of dying in peace, of loneliness and longing.
And as she walked home, Gerwyn appeared and asked her again to marry him.
'Now I can do so,' said Llio, 'For I have found my voice and the harp plays the songs in my heart.'
'Then,' said Gerwyn, his eyes shining, 'Let us give it and you new songs to sing. Of gladness. Of children. Of learning and growing.' And he kissed her.
And Llio played the kiss in notes she chose, and she played the love and the safety she felt with Gerwyn. She played the traditional songs of her country, but now the harp spoke with her voice.
And when at last, white-haired and old, Llio was laid to rest, her harp was eventually placed in her grave with her.
'It was her voice,' they said. 'It cannot be separated from her.'

And in death as in life, the harp hung mute, because it had no longer any voice of its own. It had the voice of Llio the Harpist, and the depths of a lifetime accounted for in the trembling of its strings.
'It spoke for her,' said the villagers. 'It was her voice.' And, at the end, authentically, it was her voice ... the voice now stilled but living on in the person of her sons. And in the llais (voice) there was awen (inspiration), and in both was all that she was and could be.
Gerwyn kept her harp for a while, but then he decided to bury it with her, for it had been part of her life for so long ... And so he carefully placed it on her coffin, and as he did so, a cacophany of sound enveloped him. It was Llio, speaking through her harp. Bells and trumpets sounded from the litle modest instrument ... and above all, comfort and blessing. The harp would always sing from the heart of the harpist ... from the spirit and the soul of the one who played.
Gerwyn stood, watching the harp as it was covered with the soil. And in his ears that were still full of love and grief, he stood, watching the burial, and hearing in his mind's ear the voice of the woman he had loved.
It was her voice, he murmured. Nothing would change that. It was now and would be eternally her voice, the sacrifice she was making for him.
The sacrifice she had always made ... the giving of her own voice for the inspiration of others. 

The Celts were Christianised under the Romans in Britain. Many of the Roman soldiers were Christians, and the merchants and traders and colonists who followed in the wake of the invasion during the first century AD were also Christian. But the Christian faith was seen to be politically subversive, so it was common for persecutions to break out and the Christians tortured and put to death for their belief. From this tradition comes the story of the Forty Martyrs.

Forty Celtic Christians had been captured by the Romans in high midwinter, and were required to renounce their faith in Jesus Christ and their allegiance to Caesar, not just as emperor, but as God. The Christians refused. They were stripped naked and taken to a lake which was iced over, in freezing conditions. They were made to stand in the lake, in icy water up to their necks, until such time as they would recant and acknowledge Caesar.
On the shores of the lake, the Romans had their tents, with fires roaring and water boiling for hot baths, and food cooking on the spit. Soldiers patrolled the lake, watching and waiting for the Christians to cry out for mercy. But the forty stood silent and still.
Suddenly, one, overcome with cold and fearing death, cried out: 'I renounce the Christ and acknowledge Caesar! Take me out of this!'
He was hauled to shore and taken away to be bathed in hot water and fed. Of him, no more is known. But to one side stood a Roman soldier who watched the event, and who pondered the remaining thirty-nine who stood, proud and defiant, proclaiming the Lordship of Jesus Christ. Finally the soldier could stand it no more. He tore his armour and clothing from him, and leapt into the lake, shouting, 'There should have been forty to die for the Lord Jesus Christ! And forty there shall be!'
And he took the place of the deserter, and remained with the others until death claimed them all.

The story of the forty martyrs has been honoured by the Catholic church for many centuries, and other denomonations see in it a stirring account of belief and bravery. Whether it is factual or not, it contains the truth that it is worth giving one's life for the things one holds dear. Above all, there is the wonderful fact that, but for the Roman soldier's admiration of the thirty-nine, there would not have been forty martyrs on that fateful winter's day. 

Go to Ireland ... and stop at Kells. Here you will find the ancient Cross of Kells, and the magnificent church with its tall tower and yard full of ancient crosses. The ancient monks illuminated the manuscript of the Book of Kells here, integrating pagan and Christian design in a celebration of spirituality. Stay at the Kells Hostel and leaf through the facsimile of the Book of Kells the landlord keeps on hand! Travel to Tara ... and sense the spirituality there. For at Tara St Patrick lit the Easter flame and the King of Tara, angry, called in his druids.
'His name and his message will outlive ours and yours,' the druids told the King.
The King turned his men loose on Patrick, and some of the Christians were killed. St Patrick stood and faced the King and his warriors, and in a ringing voice proclaimed:

At Tara, in this fateful hour
I call on all Heaven with its power!
And the sun with its brightness
And the snow with its whiteness
And the sea with all the strength it hath
And the wind with its rapid wrath
And the hills with their steepness
And the vales with their deepness
And the earth with its starkness:
All these I place, by God's almighty help and grace
Between myself and the powers of darkness!

Whereupon the castle of Tara fell to the ground. The King, seeing this, fell on his knees, accepted Christ, and gave Patrick all the help he needed in preaching the gospel throughout Ireland. This rune or 'breastplate' is a prayer of calm or protection, common in Celtic prayers, which saw the world of nature expressing the glory and wonder of God, and the supernatural Otherworld. From Tara, visit Newgrange, the ancient stoneage burial chamber, with its amazing alignment with the sun, so that at the winter solstice, the rising sun illuminates the entire inner chamber -- for seven minutes. To witness this event, you must go on December 21 -- but it is booked out for 20 years ahead ... They simulate it for you, however, on every tour.

A tip -- the gift shop here is half the price, for equivalent items, of the one at Tara! Or anywhere else. Another tip: good quality Irish dolls can be bought at pound shops for 2 pounds Irish -- up to 16 pounds elsewhere! Watch for the sign that says, 'Pound Shop'.

A good souvenir -- a Celtic cross made of 'torf' (that's how they say 'turf'!). This is peat from the bogs of Ireland, still in use as fuel today.

The oldest Celtic Christian church still standing is to be found in Galloway, south of Glasgow, Scotland. It is well worth a visit. And even more remarkable is the Church of Scotland at Govan, in Glasgow. Take the Undergound to Govan, cross the street and call in at the Pierce Centre. Here you will find someone who will let you into the locked church. The current church is only 100 years old -- but what is inside is a positive feast of sarcophagi, one believed to have held the bones of St Constantine, a 5th-century Celtic hermit.
There are thirty-two stones in the church ... all around the walls, including some from the 7-10th centuries showing an unusual Viking influence. Take some change into the church -- postcards are on sale inside, on the honour system. In the grounds of Govan church are more stones and crosses, though none so ancient as those inside. Make sure you have a flash camera. The people at the centre are generous with their time: but please, be courteous. It really isn't their 'job' to show people around!

How many 'Arthurs' are in hiding ready to return? There's Bendigaidfran or 'Bran the Blesses' whose head is interred at the Tower of London ...
There is Owain Glyn Dwr the Welsh rebel Prince ...
There is Arthur himself ...
The Germans have Barbarossa ...
The Danes have Holger Danske ...
(Ravens are sacred to all of these!)
Do you know of any more? Do post me and let me know!!! 

Once upon a time in Ireland, there was a King of Ulster called Feanach, and he ruled with a wise and goodly hand. His kingdom was happy and prosperous; yet, Feanach believed that something was missing. He pondered much on the matter, but he couldn't quite work out what it was that the people needed to make them truly content. He was walking through the woods one day, when out of a rowan tree sprang a leprechaun.
'Good day to ye, Lord King,' said the leprechaun. 'You have a sad and worried face upon ye. What would it be that is troublin' ye?'
'I don't really know,' said the King sadly. 'My people seem happy. Yet deep down within me, I know something is missing. There's an emptiness in my heart.'
The leprechaun looked at the king with interest. 'There are not too many who'd be realisin' that prosperity is not all there is to life,' said he. 'I tell you what, Lord King. I'll give you a treasure that will make you wealthy beyond all your dreams. But you won't learn its true value until you stand with nothing at all in this life, when you have lost everything but the ring you'll be wearin' on your hand.'
And the leprechaun placed a ring on the King's right hand. 'When all of life is against you and you stand friendless and alone, prise the emerald from this ring, and you will find a treasure beyond all price.'
The King thanked the leprechaun, and wore the ring back to his castle. Almost immediately, there was a different atmosphere in the Kingdom. Not only were people wealthy, but they were content, and their hearts were at peace. And so it was for some years.
But then invaders came from the north seas, and from the south and the east, and the land was ravaged and the army killed. Those people who were not murdered by the invading hordes died of disease or fled. At last, when the wild tribes of killers had left and burned all the Kingdom, the King was alone, deserted, in the ruins of his kingdom. He had been wounded; he was almost starving; he was ill and feverish. He felt responsible for the deaths of his people. He had nothing. He sat among the ashes and wept with despair. He was ready to kill himself, so hopeless did everything seem.
Then he remembered the emerald ring. Wonderingly, he looked at his right hand. The ring was still there, gleaming through the dirt and the blood. The King removed it, and recalled what the leprechaun had said. He found a piece of rock to chisel the stone from its setting. The emerald dropped to the ground and rolled away. In the cavity lay a small scrap of paper.
The king sighed. So this was just another leprechaun trick, he thought. Another cheating game of fickle life. He withdrew the paper and carefully unfolded it. And immediately he took heart. For written on the paper were these words:
"This, too, shall pass." 

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