The Ridge-Fort Of Pant-y-Llyn

Chronicle Entry – Secret Annex
Recorded by Brother Wyn of Caermynach, Anno Domini 923
Known As: The Hidden Stronghold, The Silent Hall
Date of Events: Built c. 2800 BC (Cymroth), expanded from 860s AD (Ffernfael ap Tewdwr)
Location: South-eastern ridge above Pant-y-Llyn, Epynt
Status: Unknown whether still garrisoned
Primary Source: Testimony of my father, who walked those heights in his youth

This entry records military knowledge that could endanger the kingdom of Buallt if widely known. I set it here in the Secret Annex because the marvel of its construction deserves witness, though the Church would rightly question why a monk concerns himself with fortifications. My father saw this place before I took orders. His account carries the weight of a man who climbed that ridge and stood within chambers cut into living rock. What he described speaks to engineering that surpasses the common run of Welsh hillforts. If this knowledge aids enemies of Buallt, may God forgive the scholar's weakness that compelled me to record it.

The Ancient Foundation

The ridge-fort above Pant-y-Llyn was not built in Ffernfael's time, though he made it greater. My father learned from the men who showed him through its passages that the oldest chambers were cut when the great stones of the old peoples still stood across Britain. The Cymroth raised this refuge in an age when their unity stretched unbroken across the whole of what we now call Wales. They chose Pant-y-Llyn for reasons that remain evident to anyone who walks that ground. The dark water below gives no reflection of the fort. The sandstone shelf provides both concealment and strength. A traveller might pass within a hundred paces of its entrance and see only bracken and sheep tracks.

The original builders understood that the greatest defence is not to be seen at all. They carved chambers into the ridge itself, roofed them with timber beams and slabs of flatstone, then covered all with turf and soil until the hillside appeared unbroken. Smoke from their fires rose through stone-lined vents that from any distance looked like rabbit burrows or natural cracks in the rock. The entrance they disguised as a shepherd's shelter built into the hillside, crude enough that no lord would think to look behind its stones. My father said that when he stood before it, knowing what lay beyond, the deception still worked. His eyes wanted to see a sheepfold. His mind had to insist otherwise.

The skill required to cut chambers of such size into sandstone without collapse speaks to knowledge that the Cymroth possessed but did not pass to later generations. The walls show tool marks still, precise and methodical. The roof beams fit into sockets carved with such accuracy that no mortar was needed to hold them steady. The air within those chambers stays dry through the wettest winters because the builders understood how water moves through stone and carved channels to lead it away. This was sophisticated work by a people who thought across generations and built for their children's children.

Ffernfael's Expansion

When Ffernfael ap Tewdwr became lord of Buallt in the middle years of the ninth century, he faced a kingdom pressed on all sides by powers greater than his own. The English kingdoms lay to the east. Gwynedd held the north. Brycheiniog and Deheubarth controlled the south and west. He inherited a title that some would say rang hollow without the strength to defend it, yet Ffernfael refused that diminishment. He kept the old royal title and sought means to preserve Buallt's independence.

He might have taken his seat at Caer Fawr or Caer Einon, where the Cymroth had ruled before their fracture. Those great hillforts stood empty, their ramparts still visible across the high moors. Ffernfael would not build his hall where the old capitals had seen so many sieges. Whether he believed the sites carried misfortune or simply preferred to forge his own legacy, he chose instead to strengthen the hidden refuge above Pant-y-Llyn.

Beginning in the 860s, he turned his attention to this ancient stronghold. The work he ordered transformed the old Cymroth chambers into something more formidable. He expanded the outer defensive ring, raising turf banks reinforced with timber palisades that followed the natural contours of the ridge. He cut additional passages deeper into the sandstone, creating storage chambers for grain and salted meat sufficient to sustain a small garrison through a winter siege. Where the original builders had made a refuge for a handful of families, Ffernfael created a fortress that could hold twenty fighting men in concealment while appearing to hold none at all.

The true genius of his expansion lay in adding defences that remained invisible until the moment of attack. My father described mechanisms he saw that day which still trouble my understanding. I record them here because their ingenuity deserves acknowledgement, though I pray this knowledge never serves those who would assault Buallt.

The Dragon's Eyes

The most remarkable achievement of the Cymroth builders, and perhaps the most dangerous knowledge I set down in this account, concerns what my father called the Dragon's Eye. The ancient builders cut a shaft through the ridge from the deepest chamber straight to the surface, narrow enough that a man must climb with care but wide enough to permit ascent. At the shaft's height they set a bronze mirror of such size and craft that three grown men could not have lifted it between them. This mirror stood in a wooden frame that allowed rotation, though the weight and precision required meant that turning it was no casual matter.

My father witnessed the mechanism in operation. The fortress keeper summoned an ox team to the surface, where beams and ropes had been prepared for the task. With careful coordination between men below ground calling instructions and men above managing the beasts, they rotated the great mirror through perhaps a third of a circle. The labour required half a morning. When I first heard my father's account, I thought the mirror's purpose was to see distant riders. The truth proved more ingenious. The mirror catches the light of warning beacons lit on the heights of the Rhiwlen hills to the east.

The shaft faced east when the Cymroth built it, and with good reason. Every great threat to these lands has come from that quarter. Those who keep vigil on the Rhiwlen hills' heights watch the approaches from what was once the kingdom of Mercia and from the Black Mountains to the south, where dangers both mortal and otherwise have been known to stir. When threat is sighted, the beacon on the Rhiwlen hills is lit. Its fire sends smoke by day and flame by night. The mirror above Pant-y-Llyn catches this light and reflects it down through the shaft into the chambers below. Men in darkness below ground see the warning without ever showing themselves above.

The genius of this design lay not merely in seeing without being seen, but in receiving warning while remaining hidden deep enough that no attacker could readily silence the watchers. A beacon burning on a distant height tells those in the underground chambers that danger approaches from the east. They have time to gather supplies into the hidden refuge, to bar the concealed gates, to prepare for siege while their enemies believe the country empty and undefended.

The vulnerability in this marvel lies in the mirror's surface. My father learned that in certain lights, particularly when the sun stands low in the east at dawn, the bronze can catch and throw back a glimmer visible to sharp eyes watching from below. The fortress keepers therefore kept the mirror covered with leather wrappings except when genuine need required its use. Even then they watched the sun's position carefully. A betraying flash at the wrong moment could undo the advantage the mirror provided. This weakness suggests the Cymroth understood their creation's limits. They built for strategic superiority, not perfection.

When Ffernfael expanded the ridge-fort beginning in the 860s, he recognized that the pattern of threats had shifted since the days of Cymroth unity. My father believed, though he could not confirm this with his own eyes, that Ffernfael ordered additional shafts cut to give coverage in other directions. Whether he succeeded in replicating the Cymroth achievement I cannot say. The cutting of one such shaft and the casting of one such mirror required knowledge and resources that may not have survived the centuries between the Cymroth golden age and Ffernfael's reign. If three such shafts exist, if three great mirrors watch for beacons lit on different heights, then the ridge-fort possesses warning that no other stronghold in Wales can claim.

I suspect the original eastern shaft still serves, or did in my father's time. The care with which the fortress keepers demonstrated its operation spoke to long familiarity. The sentinels on the Rhiwlen hills have not abandoned their posts so far as any man can tell. Whether additional mirrors were ever completed, or whether they endure if they were, remains hidden behind the same silence that surrounds the ridge-fort's present garrison strength. If I were charged with defending Buallt against enemies who might read these words, I would let potential attackers wonder whether one eye watched them, or three, or none at all. Uncertainty costs the defender nothing while it costs the attacker sleep.

The Hidden Defences

The single approach to the ridge-fort from the north rises along a path that appears to offer easy access. This appearance is calculated deception. The path narrows as it climbs, forcing any group of attackers into a column no more than two men wide. The angle of ascent seems gentle until the final stretch, where it steepens enough to slow horses to a walk and leave men breathing hard before they reach the entrance. Loose sandstone rubble stored in hidden recesses above this approach can be released to cascade down the slope. My father watched the fortress keeper demonstrate how a single man could trigger this rockfall using a lever concealed beneath a flat stone. The rubble would not kill attackers outright, but it would break their formation and send them tumbling backward into those climbing behind.

The entrance itself holds further surprises. What appears to be a simple sheepfold opening is in fact a double passage. Behind the outer stones stands a second entrance, offset so that anyone forcing through the first gate finds himself trapped in a narrow space between two barriers. Timber gates drop from above when wooden pegs are pulled. My father said these gates are weighted with stone and fall with such speed that a man would have no time to retreat. The rear gate prevents escape while defenders attack through gaps in the forward barrier. I understand the principle but marvel at the execution. To design a defence that reveals itself only when it is too late to withdraw requires a mind that thinks like a hunter setting snares.

The chambers within offer no relief to any attacker who somehow breaches the entrance. The passages turn sharply every few paces, preventing clear sight lines and making shields more burden than protection. Defenders holding those turns need only spears and patience. The low ceilings rob attackers of height advantage while defending men who know the space can strike from positions already chosen. My father said he felt the weight of the earth above him while walking those passages. The sensation was deliberately cultivated. Men who feel trapped fight differently than men who feel free.

Perhaps the most remarkable feature of Ffernfael's work lies hidden beneath the fortress itself. The original Cymroth builders had carved a sloping passage that led from the deepest chamber down to the shore of Pant-y-Llyn. This passage emerges among reeds at water level, concealed unless a man knows exactly where to part the growth. Ffernfael widened this escape route and added vents that bring light down from above, disguised as natural cracks in the hillside. A garrison besieged within the ridge-fort can be supplied by coracle under darkness. More critically, the ruling family can escape unseen while attackers batter at gates they believe are the only way in or out.

The observation platform cut into the highest point of the ridge gives clear sight across three valleys. A watcher stationed there can see smoke rising from Builth Wells to the north, track movement along the old Roman road on Epynt to the south-west, and observe anyone approaching through the Gwenddwr pass to the north-east. Signal fires lit on this platform can be seen from Builth, allowing swift communication when danger approaches. My father said the view from that height made clear why the Cymroth chose this place above all others in the Epynt uplands. From that single vantage point a handful of men can watch the approaches that matter most to Buallt's survival.

The Question of Its Present State

When my father visited Pant-y-Llyn in my childhood, the ridge-fort was clearly maintained. He saw fresh timbers in the gate mechanisms and new turf laid over the roof chambers. The men who showed him through the passages carried themselves with the careful silence of those who guard living secrets. They answered his questions about the ancient construction but offered nothing about the fortress's current use or garrison strength. He took this reticence as evidence that the place still served the purposes for which Ffernfael was then expanding it.

Whether the ridge-fort remains garrisoned in this present year of 923, I cannot say with certainty. The kingdom of Buallt endures under the rule of Ffernfael's descendants, though pressed ever harder by neighbouring powers. It would make sense for the royal line to maintain a hidden refuge against the day when open strongholds fail. Equally, it would make sense to keep such maintenance secret. A fortress whose strength lies in concealment loses half its value if every travelling monk can report whether it stands ready.

I suspect the silence surrounding Pant-y-Llyn's present state is itself a form of defence. A potential enemy who knows the ridge-fort exists but cannot confirm whether it is manned must plan for the worst possibility. Uncertainty in an attacker's mind is worth more than many spears. If Buallt's rulers have allowed their hidden stronghold to fall into disuse, they would be fools to let that knowledge spread. If they maintain it still, they would be equal fools to confirm the fact. Therefore I read nothing into the silence except shrewd judgment.

The men who guard that place, if such men exist, are sworn to secrecy. My father understood that the privilege of seeing what he saw came with expectation of discretion. He told me these things only after I had taken monastic vows, trusting that a man dedicated to God would not carry tales to powers that might threaten Buallt. I honour that trust by placing this account in the Secret Annex rather than the open chronicle. Let those who come after weigh whether this knowledge serves scholarship or endangers the innocent.

Final Entry

I have recorded this marvel of ancient engineering and later expansion because some works deserve witness even when prudence counsels silence. The ridge-fort above Pant-y-Llyn stands as testimony to what the Cymroth achieved when they worked in unity, and to what later rulers could accomplish by building on foundations their ancestors laid. If the Church questions why I concern myself with military fortifications, I answer that the skill and forethought embedded in that hillside teach lessons about preparation, patience, and the long view that ought to inform any community's defence.

The Cymroth built for generations they would never see. Ffernfael built upon their work to preserve a kingdom against powers that sought to erase it. Both choices speak to faith in continuity, to belief that what we build today might serve purposes we cannot fully imagine. That principle applies as much to the work of chroniclers as to the work of fortress builders. I set this knowledge in the Secret Annex not because it is shameful but because it is dangerous. May those who find it use it wisely.

The dark water of Pant-y-Llyn gives no reflection of what stands above. That may be the deepest lesson of all.