A meander through the tales that have shaped Gloucestershire’s largest river from its very beginnings
Inspired by the fabulous Tales of Witchcraft and Wonder weekend in September at the Folk of Gloucester, and the Inkubus Sukkubus song Sabrina – quoted in the title – I’ve decided to share some stories of the Severn this month. The River Severn is the longest river in England, 220 miles long, and it has the second highest tidal range, at 15 metres, of all the rivers of the world. It’s a place of power, as anyone who has witnessed the Severn bore will know, so it’s no surprise that there are legends about it.
Deep in the heart of Wales is a mountain, Pumlumon Fawr – or Five Tops the Great. It’s the highest point in Mid Wales and is made of ancient Ordovician and Silurian rock, more than 400 million years old. To us, it’s a bare, grass-covered hill, but under that covering lies a sleeping giant. Once, Pumlumon was lonely, even though he had the sky above him and could see far and wide. In his loneliness, he wept three tears – and these tears became his three daughters. They were the apples of his eye, darting little creatures who played in the water. But all children grow, and it was with a heavy heart that one day Pumlumon realised that his daughters were grown and ready to become rivers. He gathered them together and said to them, ‘Now is the time for you to make your journey to the sea. Choose your way carefully, and remember your old father when you dabble your toes in the Atlantic.’
The youngest daughter, Ystwyth, was a hasty young river. When she heard she could go, she raced off, taking the most direct route she could find. Soon the ocean was ahead of her and she plunged in, whooping and laughing. The placed where she found the sea is named after her to this day: Aberystwyth. The second sister, Hafren – whom we know as the Severn – was more considered in her choice. She craved culture and conversation, meandered her way up then down to the sea through towns and cities, learning as she went, and meeting the sea in the Bristol Channel. The third daughter, Gwy, or Wye, dilly-dallied all the way, finding the most beautiful places through which to travel, and finally reached her big sister Hafren and joined her on her journey to the sea. But when they met the salt water, someone was already there to meet them – Nodens, the god who guards the estuary. You can find a Roman temple to him at Lydney, down there where the river meets the sea, but it’s likely the deity is much older. Pumlumon was glad his daughters had all become such wonderful rivers, but, without his daughters, things were once again rather lonely. He lay down and went to sleep, and he’s been sleeping ever since, even though the three rivers continue to rise on his slopes.
But there’s a far darker tale about the Severn. The 12th-century writer Geoffrey of Monmouth tells how King Locrinus – son of Brutus, the Trojan refugee who had driven the giants out of Britain and made a place for humans – was engaged to be married to Gwendolen, the daughter of the King of Cornwall. Locrinus had never met Gwendolen, but it was a good alliance and he was content. Then, when he was up north defeating invaders, he took captive the daughter of the leader of his enemy – and lost his heart to her. The woman, Estrildis, was beautiful, kind, clever, and in time came to love him in return. He was ready to put aside his promise to Gwendolen and marry his love, but the King of Cornwall, when he found out, was furious. He swore he would raise an army against King Locrinus, and so Locrinus took the only sensible route. He did his duty and married the princess – but kept his lover in a secret place, underground in London’s catacombs.
In time, both his wife and his lover bore babies. Gwendolen bore a boy, Madden, and Estrildis a girl, Sabrina. Locrinus thought that his double life would go on for ever. He worried about his daughter growing up alone, underground. But then the King of Cornwall died. Locrinus acted fast. He put aside his wife, brought his lover out of hiding, and made her queen. Gwendolen didn’t go quietly. Furious, hurt, determined to have vengeance on her husband and his lover, she raised an army and came after Locrinus. They met in battle near Stourport. Locrinus was shot by an arrow and died. Gwendolen declared herself queen, and Estrildis, with her daughter, found herself captive once more.
The woman and child were carried from the Stour to the Severn, the mightier river, and Gwendolen ordered them both flung in, declaring that there would be no grave on British soil for Estrildis. When she saw the baby, just the age of her own son, and just as fresh and innocent, she nearly relented. But she knew the old tales – how a child fostered out would return and wreak havoc, like Paris who had caused her ancestors’ war in Troy. She hardened her heart, and the baby followed her mother into the grey waters. Gwendolen watched the river for a long time, then she turned to her followers and declared that it would now be known as Sabrina, in honour of the child, in whose veins royal blood had flowed.
In the river, Estrildis swiftly drowned. But Hafren had never had a baby fall into her waters before, and she caught Sabrina in her arms and gazed at her. Something stirred in her as it had in her father when he saw the tears he’d shed pool together to form little spirits. ‘You’re mine,’ she whispered, and bore the child away. The child grew as a nymph down there in the water, and to this day the river is known by both goddesses’ names: Hafren and Sabrina.
Did the memory of her drowning make Sabrina vindictive? There’s a saying that the Severn must have her man, and just a few years ago my husband was told in all seriousness that the river takes a man’s life every year. When the Romans came, it’s said, the druids prayed to the Severn to save them from Publius Ostorius Scapula’s troops advancing towards them with their war elephants. The Romans, who didn’t fear the druids or know the river, saw the tide was out and led their army on to the mudflats. But Sabrina had been roused, and she sent the tide crashing up into the Noose at Awre. Elephant bones wash out of the river occasionally to bear testimony to this event. Scientists say these are bones of Pleistocene hippos and mammoths, for the river is older than our tales about her, but let’s not let that get in the way of a good story! If the story is true, it would have been a bumper year for eels; it’s said that if there are many drownings then there are many elvers!
Stories run up and down the Severn’s length, of men and women and their interactions with her, from the fisherman who snaffled a water woman from the depths and captured her heart – was this Sabrina, looking for love? – to the Devil taking fishermen who were foolish enough to fish on a Sunday to the Parliamentarian ghosts who wail under the Prince of Wales Bridge. Somewhere in the river it’s said there swims a salmon as old or maybe older than the river herself, the Salmon of Llyn Llaw, the oldest of all the animals – but that is certainly another story for another day. Why not walk Severn’s banks, which is possible for much of her journey through Gloucestershire on both sides of the river, and observe her through all seasons and weathers, just as our forebears have done since first the river made her winding way down from Wales.
ESSENTIALS
Distance: 220 miles!
Places: The Severn flows through Llanidloes, Welshpool, Shrewsbury, Bridgnorth, Worcester, Tewkesbury, Gloucester, and many more places.
Walks: You can walk the whole route on the Severn Way from Pumlumon to the sea: bit.ly/3rhQXO4
Further reading: Shropshire Folk Tales by Amy Douglas; Worcestershire Folk Tales by David Phelps; Gloucestershire Folk Tales by Anthony Nanson; Tales of Witchcraft and Wonder by Candia and Tony McKormack.
Kirsty Hartsiotis is based in Stroud and available for hire as a storyteller and speaker. She is an Accredited Arts Society lecturer. Her books include Wiltshire Folk Tales and (with Anthony Nanson) Gloucestershire Ghost Tales and Gloucestershire Folk Tales for Children. She is also the curator of decorative art at a Gloucestershire museum.
READ MORE: A close look at the naughtiest bits in Cotswold churches.
