Bedd Gelert

Bedd Gelert 2

Bedd Gelert – Pronounced Bathe Gel-aert (with a hard ‘g’) means Gelert’s Grave. The village is in North Wales, and no visit to the area is complete without visiting this grave.

And it is a grave; a grave with a legend attached. The legend has a number of versions, all essentially telling the same story. I will merely repeat what is written on the grave stones. (The one on the left is in English, the one on the right is in Welsh.)

In the 13th century, Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert.

One day, he went hunting without Gelert, “the faithful hound” who was unaccountably absent. On Llewelyn’s return, the truant, stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The Prince, alarmed, hastened to find his son and saw the infant’s cot empty; the bedclothes and floor covered with blood. The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound’s side, thinking it had killed his heir. The dog’s dying yell was answered by a child’s cry.

Llewelyn searched and discovered his boy, unharmed. But nearby lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain.

The prince, filled with remorse, is said never to have smiled again. He buried Gelert here. The spot is called, Beddgelert.

I make no judgements as to the veracity of the legend. But it does teach a lesson:-

We always need to hear both sides of the story.

3 thoughts on “Bedd Gelert

  1. Oh dear, what a sad fate for a brave and faithful hound. I do hope it’s not a true story D:
    PS I’m convinced I was following your blog, Michael, but there’s obviously been some kind of glitch that has caused an unfollow, or me clicking on the wrong thing by mistake! No wonder your posts weren’t showing up in my reader. Error now rectified.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thanks Sarah. I started a new blog for my Grandpa’s Way posts. So you may have been following the other blog. Also, I was using a self-hosted site but it became prohibitively expensive, this year.

      As for the story, as far as I am aware, it is based in reality. There was a Prince Llewellyn, and I have no doubt he had a hunting hound. But like all these legends, it’s always difficult to tell where reality ends and poetic license begins!


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