The Purple-Headed Mountain (the magic of names and naming) by Philippa Linton



Mynydd Carnguwch, copyright Anton Ciritis, hillsummits.org.uk



The purple-headed mountain,
the river running by …

Lyrics from ‘All things bright and beautiful’ by Cecil Frances Alexander

My family spent many summer holidays on the Llŷn Peninsula in North Wales.  We stayed on a working farm and since the Llŷn is one of the sunniest regions in Britain (yes, really), my memories of that idyllic time include dreamy afternoons spent on golden sands with crystal-clear turquoise seas (the Irish Sea, cold but pure!)

We adopted a special hill as a favourite picnic spot. Situated on a high point on the Llŷn, this hill looks out on Abersoch Bay on the south side, while behind it stands the ancient volcanic range of Yr Eifl.  Snowdonia lies to the east. The Welsh name of the hill is Mynydd Carnguwch, which means ‘breast hill’: it’s crowned with a stone cairn at the summit. There are a few similar summits in this area, foothills of ancient volcanoes. 

My family christened this heather-smothered hill the Purple-Headed Mountain, inspired by a verse from that old Victorian child’s hymn. Along with the beaches, castles, valleys, steam trains and gift shops of the Llŷn, the Purple-Headed Mountain became an unmissable destination. When the sun was shining we would picnic on its summit in the shadow of the stone cairn, drinking in the spectacular views all around, while the bees hummed in the heather. There would often be adventurous people pony-trekking in the distance.

Place-names are fascinating. Recently, as I was flicking through the travel section of a magazine, I learned about the Bay of Fires in Tasmania, a wonderfully evocative name that could easily feature in George R.R. Martin’s fantasy saga A Song of Ice and Fire.

Or how about Baie des Trépassés, the Bay of the Dead, on the Finistère coast in Brittany?  I’ve stood on that wild and lovely beach, watching the Atlantic waves roll in. I used to think that its name was connected to the deadly history of shipwrecks in that region, but the Breton name is Bae an Anaon and it’s possible that avon, the Breton word for ‘river’, was mistranslated as anaon, meaning ‘the dead’.  ‘The dead’ might refer to local legends about the bodies of druids being ferried from the bay to be buried on the island of Sein. The history of place-names is complex, as language, history and myth all come into play.  Language also changes and evolves so that the original meaning of the place-name can become obscured, and original legends become lost in time. 

The skill to create convincing names for places, as well as characters, is often part of a writer’s tool-kit.  This ability need not be limited to the fantasy genre. Hearing ancient place-names in Gaelic, Gallic or Welsh gives me an indescribable sense of longing, not just to know more about the history of our islands, but a deeper yearning for another world, full of magic and wonder.

As writers we are creators. Inventors of imaginary worlds. God says as a constant refrain in Genesis 1, “Let there be …” and, made in his image, we reflect that creativity and carry the creative spark with us. Made in his image, we name and create.

Whatever genre you write in, whether it be fiction or non-fiction, what place-names inspire you as a writer, or have even inspired you to create your own?



Baie des Trépassés, S.Möller - public domain, Wikimedia



Philippa Linton is a Reader (lay minister) in the Anglican church.  Her day job is working for the Education and Learning office in the United Reformed Church.  Her short story ‘Magnificat’ is featured in the ACW Christmas anthology Merry Christmas Everyone.