By Anne Merino
Special to CSMS Magazine
In this new article, writer Anne Merino offers a captivating glimpse into Anglesey, or Ynys Môn as it’s known in Welsh—a land where history and myth intertwine to create a rich tapestry of inspiration. Nestled off the northwest coast of Wales, this rural island brims with ancient mysteries, lyrical landscapes, and a deep connection to its Celtic roots. From the haunting echoes of its Druidic past to the timeless beauty of its rolling fields and dramatic seascapes, Anglesey serves as both a sanctuary for tradition and a beacon for storytelling. For Anne, as you’ll discover below, this island is more than a mere location—it is a living link to her ancestry, a cradle of legend, and an enduring source of creative wonder.
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My Welsh family descends directly from the Celtic Druids, those enigmatic figures who once traversed the legendary “Gold Line.” This fabled route stretched from Ireland to Gwynedd in North Wales, then down to Southern England and up north near Scotland. Along the way, we presumably crafted gold, spun poetic epics, and – if legend holds – burned people alive in wicker baskets, all before the fateful year of 60 AD.
That year, still whispered as the “Black Year” in island lore, saw the brutal massacre of the Druids by the Roman general Gaius Suetonius at the Menai Straits. Few survived the butchery, but those who did settled on the island of Ynys Môn, becoming farmers. Among their descendants is my uncle, Richard Cyril Hughes, a highly regarded Welsh historian who has remained on the island, as has much of our family.
As a child, I loved spreading out the sprawling family tree my uncle painstakingly compiled, tracing its lines back to ancestors with names as evocative as Rhodri ap Cunedda (Rhodri, son of Cunedda). Even now, it feels grounding and deeply honorable to know where my people come from and where they lived.
Ynys Môn—the Welsh name for Anglesey—is a rural island off the northwest coast of Wales, covering roughly 275 square miles. Nearly everyone here speaks Welsh (“speakers,” as they’re called) and, even if they don’t farm, knows a thing or two about livestock. This lyrical land, steeped in natural beauty, is known in Old Welsh as Ynys Dywyll (“Dark Isle”) and Ynys y Cedaim (“Isle of the Brave”).
History hums in every corner, from megalithic monuments scattered across rolling fields to the elegant Beaumaris Castle standing sentinel by the sea. The low, undulating landscape is punctuated by hedgerows, grazing livestock, and weathered 18th-century chapels. A Georgian law once required a chapel to be built every two miles so that no one had to walk too far for worship. Small, pristine lakes dot the island like uncut diamonds, their surfaces reflecting a quiet, ancient magic. One such lake, Cors Cerrig y Daran, is thought to have been a sacred site where Druids offered copper cauldrons and swords to the mirrored world beneath its shimmering waters.
During the age of the Druids, Anglesey was home to the Sacred Grove, a mystical cluster of trees believed to possess elemental powers. The same Roman forces that massacred the Druids destroyed this grove. I often wonder if my ancestors stayed to farm the land in hopes of restoring the grove, leaving behind their nomadic ways to nurture something sacred. Though there’s no evidence to support this idea, the thought appeals to me. Perhaps they were terrible horticulturists, or perhaps they were simply distracted by the joys of sheep farming.
My mother used to say that crossing the Menai Bridge—Thomas Telford’s iconic suspension bridge completed in 1826—was like stepping back 200 years in time. In her youth, bonfires for Ceridwen, the Moon Goddess, were still lit on certain nights, their distant glow flickering against the darkened horizon. Her grandfather, she recalled, would take summer evening walks to “hear the Tylwyth Teg sing.” The Tylwyth Teg, or “Fair Ones,” are said to guard important dimensional doorways across the island. When he returned, he would sing their otherworldly melodies to her, passing down an oral tradition steeped in wonder.
As a child, I found the island’s folklore thrilling and unsettling. Each year, we stayed indoors on the night the giant black sow, Yr Hwch Ddu Gwta, was said to fly around devouring those foolish enough to venture out. But nothing frightened me more than the Cŵn Annwn, the hunting dogs of the Underworld. These spectral hounds, with their brass teeth and glowing yellow eyes, were said to roam near the Menai drovers’ crossing, their eerie howls chilling the winter air.
Though modern life has crept into Anglesey, I believe the island’s old ways linger, whispering beneath the static of the 21st century. Grandmothers still call the fireplace the “burning place,” an echo of Druidic rituals. Children gather blackberries along hedgerows for their mothers and scavenge tidepools in Red Wharf Bay after storms, searching for treasures the sea has carried ashore.
My parents spent their final years in Arizona, where the warm, dry climate eased my mother’s osteoarthritis. But despite their love for the American West, my mother never stopped longing for her ancestral home. On one of my visits, shortly before her passing, she asked a favor. She planned to be cremated and hoped I would discreetly bring her ashes to Anglesey.
Today, my mother rests on Ynys Môn. A true Celt, she wanted nothing more than to go home.
Note: Anne Merino is the author of the critically acclaimed novel titled Hawkesmoor: A Novel of Vampire and Fearie. To learn more about Anne Merino’s work, you can visit her website: Rivercliff Books and Media
