About 10 or 12 years ago, it was discovered that Castell Bran was the site where, for thousands of years-right back to the Stone Age, the witch doctors and medicine men had held an annual orgy of worship of the great god Bran. Wild dancing and noise making took place and, and an enormous amount of human sacrifice. Dr Hugh Jones Griffiths Pritchard - a Welshman, had discovered the sacrificial altar on which runnels had been cut to carry the blood away. A stone channel - or the remains of it - was also found, by which the blood was carried right down to the river. It was said that at this time, the Dee ran red with blood, and afoot if as a result, the catches of fish were much increased for some weeks afterwards. The modern medical men had decided to revive these ancient rights and once a year - I think it was when the moon and Venus were in conjunction - they meet there and dancing and singing takes place. Songs are composed and sung about Bran, and the composer of the best one, judged so by a bench of Super Consultants, is crowned King Bran. He is also awarded one hundredweight of bran delivered to his very door, every day, for a whole year. This enables him to enter the bran market and make a considerable fortune. The human sacrifices are also kept up, though the method of killing is a less crude and more subtle than in days of old. The whole affair is a known as the Bransteddffodd and it is attended by medical men from all over the world.
No one, of course, would believe this story, but it is quite surprising how far one can get in the telling before the penny drops!
Three miles of narrow, quiet road - only one car in the whole distance - with glorious views of vales and hills, and then off along a track continuing the escarpment for for another three miles-excellent walking, still with a superb scenery, to reach the road again at Worlds End, where were a few cars and a few people. Up the road towards Minera - on open moor, and, at the highest point, across the moors to the distant forest. As I climbed, a stream of cyclists raced downhill at tremendous speed. I turned off the road at the correct point but must have missed the true track across the moor, for, when I arrived at the forest there was no visible access and I walked up and down, half-a-mile in each direction without coming to the stile and beaters. I entered at last along a green forest glade which soon reached a forest road. Decided to keep to my line and plunged into the trees. Plunged out again 10 seconds later - quite impossible. Walked along the forest road and suddenly, there was the Offa's Dyke Path, clearly crossing. Hooray! But I had lost at least half-an-hour. Would I reach Llandegla in time? i.e before closing time? It was reminiscent of the race I had in Yorkshire on the Coast to Coast Walk. But this time I was in luck. I reached the "Plough" at 10 to 2, ordered a pint and asked about food. The handsome young barmaid was sorry but it was too late for a meal. But the landlord appeared and she spoke to him. He was large and authoritative, with grey silk trousers (rather tight!) and a yellow a Sherlock Holmes pipe. He relented and I had one of the best fresh plaice I have ever tasted, plus chips of course, washed down with one-and-a-half pints of best bitter. At five minutes to two a bell rang to warn customers to give the last orders and a minute later the biggest, most majestic great dane I have ever seen came sneaking into the bar, followed by a retriever. The landlord rushed at them and they fled through a doorway. "When they hear the bell", he said, "they know it's nearly time for them to come down". There was, in fact, a notice at the entrance - 'We love dogs, but not inside'! I suspect that dogs can't read! I telephoned Marjorie from here and then had a pleasant stroll across to the beginning of the Clwyd's where, at a stile I met an interesting young man and we conversed for half-an-hour of mice and men and conservation about footpaths and at the visible (here) erosion of moorland by kale. We parted, both saying how much we had enjoyed the chat. Climbed steadily and met one or two Offa's Dyke walkers. Found a heather flat at about 6:45 and decided to call it a day. Magnificent views across the plain with Ruthin and Denbigh (the cities of the plain, I thought!) clearly visible. The day had been much cooler than before and as I camped the temperature, under a clear sky, dropped quickly. I had, at one point decided on a short day with B&B at Llandegla but now was glad to be four miles further and well camped. However, the day- and night were not yet over. At 9pm I woke from a doze to hear an engine - a Land-Rover crawling up the stony track. It passed but then stopped. Noises of a man climbing stile were heard and then - "Anybody in there?" Extricating my body from the sleeping bag, I opened my two doors and kneeled in the entrance. The farmer, for it was he, was reassured as soon as he saw I was not a young hooligan vandal and we chatted for, I suppose, 20 minutes of Wales and farming and footpaths and young vandals. I was pleased, nice as he was, to bid him goodnight, for by now I was just about freezing. A wind got up and the tent noises made sleep sporadic, and at about 10:30 decided to check pegs and guy ropes. The view was astonishing - the whole plane was ablaze with orange lights - orange because seen through the imperceptible night mist. The night was clear and very beautiful with a silver moon and a sparkling of silver stars. I pulled my bedding around me and wrapped my head in a towel and the wind, dying down (and so did the temperature!), got some sleep.