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Armorica's District of
Cornouaille
Ceann mor:
Position is currently vacant
Cornouaille (Kernew) is the westernmost district of the Armorican peninsula and the last bastion of the Gallic Celts. The people are a hard-working and fun-loving folk as shown by the annual Festival de Cornouaille. Their capital, since the time of Gradlon, is Quimper (Kemper), once a sleepy fishing village and now bustling city of 63,000 Breton souls.
 ornouaille - the place where the land meets the sea; the last solid bit of Armorica before plunging off into the deep blue ocean of Atlantis. The land is as varied as her people. In some places it is rocky and forbidding, while in others it fairly pleads for plowing and planting. The famed forest of Broceliende did not extend so far to the west, but there are still stands of great oaks where the Drui of old may have held their secret services. The fields and orchards are extensive. They grow the finest apples outside of Avalon and from these they make a wonderful cider. Many of the folk also keep bees and, from their honey they make a delicious version of mead which they call hydromel. The crumpled coastline is a jumble of rugged rocks and beautiful beaches, with many safe harbors for ships.Please forgive me. I tend to wax poetic over this lovely land. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Merlin; sometimes known as "Merlin the Magician" or "Merlin the Magnificent". However, when not at court, I much prefer just plain "Merlin". I have traveled much of this country, on foot and on horseback. There are many tales told of my involvement in local events. Some of them are even true. Why, it was not far from here that I introduced a certain young king to the Lady of the Lake, and helped him to procure his famous sword and scabbard. Here also are the beginnings of the tragic tale of Tristan and Iseult.  King Mark of Cornwall called upon his nephew, Prince Tristan of Léon, to fetch his bride from Eire. The queen-mother of the fair Princess purchased a potion to guarantee the never-ending love of her daughter and the king. This she gave to Iseult’s handmaid for safekeeping. However, things never go as planned, and the potion was administered to Tristan and Iseult by mistake. Though they fell madly in love, right then and there, the dutiful Tristan carried the Princess to the King. After many trysts (and many times of nearly getting caught in the act), the potion finally wore off. Isuelt was reconciled to her King Mark and Tristan went off to Brittany and married another. Eventually, he received a poisoned wound, and only Iseult’s magic could heal him. She rushed to the aid of her "former" lover, but Tristan’s jealous wife told him she was not coming. He gave up the ghost of life just before Iseult arrived. On finding Tristan dead, she threw herself upon his body and expired, herself.What! Did you expect a happy ending? This is a Celtic tale, and Celts do not believe in happy endings. However, this story is no sadder than the Destruction of Ker-Ys.  In a time long gone, King Gradlon ruled all of Cornouaille from the marvellous city of Ker-Ys. Now the city had been built long before, when the sea was farther from the land. However, as the sea rose and came closer, Gradlon built a stout wall of stone to keep the water out. And in that wall was a single gate of bronze which could be opened at low tide, to let the ships in and out. Gradlon was both a merchant and a warrior, and he both traded and plundered in the cold lands to the north. On one particularly miserable expedition, his men all deserted him, leaving him alone in the frozen wastes. The queen of those lands, a fire-haired beauty named Malgven, took him in and saved him for her own enjoyment. (Her husband was very old and his sword was rusted from lack of use!) Together, they killed the old king of the north and then fled on the back of her coal-black steed, Morvarc’h. This magical sea-horse raced across the wave-tips and soon caught Gradlon’s fleet. As they sailed back to Ker-Ys, Malgven gave birth to a beautiful daughter, and then soon died. He called the girl Dahut or Ahes, and doted on her. He built her a fine citadel at the edge of Ker-Ys where she could see the sea which she loved so well.
Now Dahut grew to be a lusty wench (much like her mother), and her citadel became a place of revelries and debaucheries! One of her many lovers (some say it was Satan, himself) persuaded her to steal the key to the great gate, that they might go riding on Morvarc’h. When the gate was opened, the sea rushed in and crushed the fair city. Father and daughter escaped on the Sea-Horse but, as they rode out of the flooding city, the ghost of St. Guenole rose up before them. They could make no progress and the ghost commanded that Gradlon drop his princess. The ghostly saint scolded her for her wicked ways and repeated his command. Suddenly, a wave washed her from his grasp and drew her down into the depths. Morvarc’h soon made it safely to shore and Gradlon turned to look at the last vestiges of his drowned city. On the highest pile of stone left above the water, a beautiful mermaid (with the likeness of Dahut) was combing her long blond hair and singing her siren song. Gradlon moved his capital to Quimper and, when he died, many hears later, they made a statue of him upon Morvarc’h. To this day, he stands on the heights of St. Corintin’s Cathedral, looking longingly out to sea. Ah, but all this happened long ago. What, you ask, do the people do now? I shall tell you. They eat and they sleep, they live and they love, and they have festivals. Each year, in the midst of summer, they celebrate the Festival de Cornouaille. The ladies from each of the towns and villages put on their finery and compete to see which of them is the fairest. Each area has a distinctive cap made of stiffened lace and a fine dress decorated with more of the same. They join with the gentlemen of the villages and do their traditional folk dances to their traditional folk music. They seem to be particularly fond of the droning sounds of two instruments called the bombarde and the biniou. Now the biniou is simply the local version of the bagpipes, with a reedy single drone and a chirpy chanter. The bombarde, however, is something else again. It is a double-reed instrument descended from the ancient shawm. The sound has been lovingly likened to that of a strangled duck or a Ban-Sidhe in deep despair. The volume of these instruments is so great that they are usually only played out of doors, for street dances and the like. It is a sound that only a true Breton can love. Actually, I find it rather pleasing.   Credits Neighbourhood builders:
Article and Graphics by Merlinus Caledonii
Research Associate: Jacques Elliott Cruithni Hood design by Fedelm Cruithni  |
