The ‘very true’ origins of the Wrekin

The Wrekin

I grew up in the shadow of the Wrekin. My childhood seemed to be a patchwork of long Sundays exploring its surrounding woods and treading its well-worn path. It appeared to me as something out of the mind of Tolkien (who indeed used to walk the same paths as me during his time living in Penkridge) The Wrekin- in my mind will forever be a place of magic, and wholly beautiful. I used to imagine fairies and Goblins, wild tree men as well as a Motley Crue of long-forgotten warriors, who once lived on its summit. The route up the Wrekin is steep, but whenever you reached the ‘Halfway house’ café you could ruminate and reflect on your journey over a Twix or mars bar, looking out over the green valley, and think about the view from the top. Sitting 5 miles west of Telford, It is a contained in the northern panhandle of the Shropshire hills, and at 1,335 ft on a clear day the views are to die for- including Staffordshire and the black country and as far as Winter Hill in Lancashire and the Manchester Beetham Tower. Thus, as a kid it felt like the mantle of the world, like nothing could be higher, or more important, it was my own personal Amon Hen.

The whole area has a rich geographical and historical significance. Now I am no expert Geologist, but it is worthy of note that at least in part it is formed from rocks of volcanic origin of Precambrian age. These include rhyolites, tuffs, and agglomerates. These rocks – layers of ancient lava flows laid down in a volcanic island arc, like modern Japan – are approximately 680 million years old (Though it is worthy of note that the Wrekin was never an active volcano) If this is something that interests you further you should definitely look into it.

Historically, the earliest mention of ‘The Wrekin’ is in a charter of 855. This was entered into a later 11^th century Worcester cartulary and spelt ‘Wreocensetun’. Its modern form is said to have come into being via the way of Mercia and have been taken from the early Celtic ‘Wrikon’ There also existed a minor Anglo-Saxon kingdom called ‘Wreocensæte’ which was later absorbed into Mercian reign. Interestingly, for several centuries the hill was known as Mount Gilbert which was given to it by the Normans after a hermit who lived there. 

 

One of the most captivating things about The Wrekin is that near its summit lies the site of an iron age hill fort. It is thought to be at least 20 acres in size, and was known as Caer Uriconio, an important site for the Cornovii tribe and was perhaps the site of their capital before the Romans had them moved to Wroxeter (Viroconium Cornoviorum).  The size of such a settlement suggests that it was occupied by a large community where centralised economic and social activities were practiced, including the storage and redistribution of food and the performing of ceremonies. The defensive strength of the hillfort is enhanced by its topographic location, with the surrounding ground sloping steeply in all directions. It certainly is enthralling to think that for a whole community- the Wrekin was home and wonder if this played a part in its later cultural importance to Shropshire folk- after all they say a ‘Shropshire mon is nevver lost if he can see the Wrekin’.  This hill is important to us.

 

When we reach the 18^th and 19^th century, the Wrekin was certainly a popular attraction. It became the ‘thing to do’ to ascend the slopes and was quite fashionable to walk up the Wrekin.

 

Similarly, during the 18^th century (and perhaps earlier, its origins are lost in time) a festival known as ‘The Wrekin Wakes’ took place on the first Sunday in May. This saw local people ascend the hill on mass, where the ‘pleasure seekers’ would be met…

“With ale-booths, ginger-bread-standings, gaming-tables, swing-boats, merry-go-rounds, three-sticks-a-penny, and all the etcetera’s of an old English fair.”

One cannot help but smile whilst imagining such a sight. The event’s climax was the yearly battle between the Colliers and the Countrymen for the possession of the hill. Such a ceremonial spectacle would have been great to witness and reminds me of the battle between The Green Man and Ice Queen at the Clun Green man Festival, just with far more violence. Charlotte Burne recounts that if one side was being seen to be losing early, they sent messengers around the local village for reinforcements. Sometimes the two sides were evenly balanced, and apparently the men of Wellington often took the side of the countrymen over the miners. Nevertheless, this was seen as such fun, despite the fighting being severe, and often causing fatal injuries.

 

Apparently, this practice caused such disorderly scenes, that when the Cludde family of Orleton bought the manorial rights, over the first portion of the hill, they determined to put down the Wake by force, and employed a party of Gamekeepers and Constables to clear the hill. The Wake continued in some form or another though as it was described in 1826 as a time to drink to the health of ‘all the friends around the Wrekin’ and was seen as more of a moral failing to participate. I love knowing such a ruckus took place and cannot help but admire the fitness of the poor messengers having to traipse up and down the Wrekin’s slopes.

The Wrekin also has a number of folk tales attached to itself, including two ‘origin’ stories. I have retold my favourite of the two here, I hope you find them as interesting as I do.

 

 

 

 

The ‘very true’ origins of the Wrekin

 

Gwendol Wrekin ap Shenkin ap Myndmawr was a man with a grudge. By man, I mean a grumpy Welsh giant with a searing hatred of Shrewsbury and all its inhabitants. It hadn’t always been that way- No, once he’d had a good thing going with them. He had an agreement with the mayor of Shrewsbury that he wouldn’t smash the town to pieces, as long as they provided him with a steady supply of young women to eat. Obviously, the mayor didn’t know he ate them… but then again, the mayor didn’t really ask.

 

This happened for some time, and Gwendol was satisfied- until one day, a young woman was sacrificed who was cleverer than the rest. She guessed her fate was sealed, and before being delivered to the giant- she concealed some herbs and special plants on her person and used them to send the giant into a deep slumber. So Gwendol had an early night- and the woman snuck away- not before taking note of the piles of bones and skulls that littered Gwendol’s cave. When she returned to Shrewsbury, she had a few choice words to say to the mayor- as well as telling him that Gwendol was in fact eating at Shrewsbury’s woman folk.

 

So, from that day- the Mayor never sent another woman to be eaten by a giant. How commendable.
however, when Gwendol woke up- and eventually realised he wasn’t getting any more free meals, he became very angry. And his anger grew and grew- The people of Shrewsbury were detestable, loathsome people, and their very existence insulted him. And as for that Mayor- well Gwendol decided he hated that Mayor most of all.

So days past and his anger was all consuming, he sat among the hills stewing on how much he wanted to wipe Shrewsbury out of existence. Day in, day out he imagined life without the lamentable town, day in day out he tried to think of ways he could complete his task, to no avail.

Then one day, the idea struck him, whilst he sat among the hills.

 

It seemed so simple; he had such an easy solution to his problems!  like a lightning strike he resolved that he had to act. Gwendol decided that he would dam the great river Seven that snaked its way through the county, past farm, and field and through Shrewsbury.  Thus, there would be a monumental flood, filling the streets and drowning all the towns inhabitants. Gwendol smiled at his plan, proud of his ingenuity. They would be his burden no more.

 

So that was that. He wasted no time in rising from his hilly perch and grabbing his spade. With one great swoop he plunged it into the earth and lifted a great mound of earth.  He then began his journey.

 

Mile after mile Gwendol marched, barely stopping to catch his breath, spade so full that even he struggled under its weight. He knew the route well, having terrorised the local area in the past. However, as the hot sun beat down on his back, he began to get tired, and confused. The roads all twisted and turned and despite being taller than the hedgerows and thickets, it all looked the same. Gwendol had got lost. 

 

It had to be close now, Surely, he had to be near…

 

A short while later he heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps belonged to a man, old and grey who hobbled along carrying a large sack of boots and shoes. The man was a cobbler and lived in the nearby town of Wellington. The cobbler would journey to Shrewsbury every day to collect customers shoes to mend, then return home and fix them before sunrise.  He had noticed Gwendol some time before, but walked without a care, pretending not to notice the ugly giant heading in his direction.

Gwendol was tired, and at this point his wits had failed him. He just wanted the journey to be over, so he could rid himself of the blasted town, and then he could rest his tired bones. So, he didn’t hesitate to ask the man for directions. He seemed old, and inoffensive enough after all.

 

The giant called out with an unmistakable growl. ‘I say good man… You look well- travelled… How far is Shrewsbury? Shrewsbury my good man, I need to know… Tell me NOW!’

 

‘Shrewsbury you say?’ The old man called back quizzically- He sensed that the giant was up to no good.  ‘Whatever could you want in Shrewsbury? There isn’t much there for… your kind’ he replied looking up at the giant.

 

Now Gwendol wasn’t well known for his intelligence, not many giants are, so he quickly gave away his plan. He was proud of it after all, and all the labour of the journey had made his senses dim further.

 

‘I am going to Shrewsbury’ he thundered. ‘To drop this earth into the river Seven. Then I will rid myself of that horrible town once and for all. I AM GOING TO DROWN THEM! HAHA that will stop them!’ he roared open mouthed, spit flying everywhere.  ‘So, tell me old man. Tell me how to get to Shrewsbury or I will squish you flat… I need to be there as soon as possible’.

 

The cobbler listened intently. Now it must be noted that he was a practical man, and he knew that if he let the giant succeed in his journey, he would be left with no customers, and no customers meant no food on the table for him and his family. He also didn’t really like the idea of being squished…

 

So, he looked up at the giant and smiled faintly. ‘well! Why didn’t you tell me sooner eh? Shrewsbury… Shrewsbury…’ he stretched out his old body. ‘Ah SHREWSBURY! You won’t get to Shrewsbury by sunset, that’s for sure, I doubt you will make it by tomorrow either, tis a long journey at that’

 

‘WHAT?!?’  Gwendol shrieked. He was sure he was on the right path. He couldn’t have strayed that far could he.

‘If it is Shrewsbury, you are after, you have wandered far from your course traveller,’ said the old man. ‘see this big bag I am carrying? Filled with worn out shoes, you can see the sky through some of them the holes are that big’

 

The giant nodded looking down upon the big sack.

 

‘Well friend, when I began my journey, these were shiny new shoes with thick soles. To tell you the truth I am heading back from Shrewsbury myself and have worn out every pair but the ones I’m wearing. I was a young fella when I began- but look at me now, Owd and worn out…  It is a long road and I still have miles to tread. Many miles. Gosh that certainly looks like a heavy burden to carry all that way! Especially in this sun!’

 

This infuriated Gwendol. How could he have been so foolish? He shouted and he growled and stomped his feet.  ‘I will never make it carrying this blasted load. I will never make it in time! Oh, cursed cursed foolish Gwendol!’  

 

he continued to shout, getting angrier and angrier. Suddenly he dropped the spade violently, the earth falling to the floor with a monumental crash, creating a large mound. 

 

  Then Gwendol scraped his boot on the spade and left the cobbler. He was angry, and embarrassed and stomped his way back to Wales. He was never seen again, perhaps his attention was diverted to other means, or perhaps he is still trying to think of a perfect plan.

 

The earth Gwendol dropped still stands to this day and has grown to be two great hills called ‘the Wrekin’ and ‘Little Ercall by locals. They stand as testament to the giants attempt and as memorial to the quick-witted cobbler. One can only assumed he continued down the road and continued to keep his customers happy.