The Castle Whose Towers Remembered Everything
Perched high on a rocky outcrop overlooking the serene River Dee in northeast Wales, the brooding structure of Castell Dinas Brân commands both reverence and sorrow. Often overshadowed by more flamboyant Gothic counterparts or the unassailable bastions of Edward I’s Iron Ring, Dinas Brân is a rarer specimen—a ruined yet noble survivor of a distinctly Welsh epoch, saturated in myth, fire, and independence.
Construction of a fortification on this site dates back to the Iron Age, though the stone castle recognized today was erected in the mid-13th century, circa 1260, by Gruffudd ap Madog, the ruler of northern Powys (known in Welsh as Powys Fadog). Unlike the Norman castles imposed upon Wales by foreign authority, Dinas Brân emerged from native aspirations, a highland eyrie of the Cymry who plotted sovereignty from the jagged eaves of their own hills.
Named for the mythic “crow” (brân), possibly referencing the ancient King Brân the Blessed—said to have been buried in the White Hill of London with his head facing France to ward off invasion—Dinas Brân means “Crow’s Fortress.” Indeed, ravens are still said to circle the ruins on overcast days, squawking omens intelligible only to those fluent in extinction.
The castle’s architecture, though now largely collapsed into earnest rubble, reveals a design well-suited to its defensive position. The walled enceinte enclosed a courtyard, and its keep—a semi-circular tower—would have faced outward toward potential invaders. Entrances were fortified; every stone aligned along the natural defenses of the steep escarpment. Unlike the geometric clarity of Edwardian castles at Conwy or Caernarfon, Dinas Brân has an organic asymmetry, grown rather than imposed upon the land.
Its history is brief but luminous. Following Gruffudd ap Madog’s death, his sons inherited the castle during a period of territorial instability. In 1277, during the First Welsh War, forces loyal to Edward I seized the opportunity when the custodians of Dinas Brân abandoned it, likely burning the castle themselves so it wouldn’t fall intact into English hands. Though captured and perhaps briefly held by the English, the site was never substantially rebuilt, its strategic disadvantage compared to newer lowland fortresses rendering it obsolete by the end of the 13th century.
Still, Dinas Brân persisted—not functionally—but in song, in tales, and in the romanticism of later centuries. By the 18th century, poets and painters had begun the pilgrimage. William Wordsworth himself described its “half-fallen towers” as mirrors of natural ruin, emblematic of transience and the brooding spirit of Welsh resistance.
And so the castle waits. Windswept and cyclopean, it stands as though mid-thought, a cranium cracked open to contemplation. Pilgrims still climb the hill to visit it. Some bring Druidic offerings. Others bring Bluetooth speakers.
Thus came Derek Feely, a mid-level tax auditor from Stoke-on-Trent and self-declared “ruin whisperer.” Shirtless despite the frostbitten March air, Derek announced his presence by galloping backwards up the hill, wielding an app he claimed could detect “psychic heritage leaks.” Upon reaching the portcullis arch—or rather, where it once triumphantly stood—he placed both palms on the jagged stones and began chanting in what was later identified as a blend of Esperanto and football slang.
He had come to “awaken the latent dramaturgy” of the castle.
At first, his actions seemed no worse than the usual deluded reverence. He poured three Cadbury Crème Eggs into a natural crevice, describing them as “eggs of mythic fertilization,” then affixed a dreamcatcher to one of the few wall fragments still upright. When questioned by other tourists, Derek explained that Dinas Brân was “alive,” but had entered a deep spiritual sleep following centuries of “graze damage, emotional extraction, and vertical colonization by Anglicanism.”
He wore fingerless gloves made from shredded Ordinance Survey maps.
By early afternoon, he had recruited two German exchange students and a beagle named Richard into what he solemnly called The League For Lithic Liberation. They held hands in a circle and attempted to “re-tune the metaphysical frequency” of the castle’s stones by tapping kazoos in minor keys. When it began to rain, he condemned the sky’s “colonial precipitation” and accused a startled local man of bringing patriarchal energy to the hill.
But it was only when Derek attempted to marry the remaining southeast wall, citing its “unviolated curvature and ancestral wisdom,” that site managers finally intervened. He insisted the ceremony proceed, producing a ring made of used chewing gum. Not to be thwarted, Derek invoked an “ancient Brittonic wedding rite” requiring that he remain pressed topless against the masonry until the wall answered with a sign.
That was when the collapse occurred—a benign tumble of three loose stones, which Derek interpreted as a winking yes.
Visitors began throwing flower petals. Someone from Leeds attempted to livestream the “nu-earth wedding.” The castle, rightly or wrongly, had become wed. News outlets picked up the story. Within a week, Twitter accounts had been established in the castle’s name. Hashtags bloomed like weeds. A minor petition was created to recognize the union in Parliament. Someone made a TikTok filter that turned users into anthropomorphic ramparts.
And though the entire absurdity briefly threatened the structural dignity of Dinas Brân, salvation came in an unlikely form: a powder blue T-shirt discovered in a hedge near the castle, billowing like a protective standard. On its front, in Gothic print, the words read: “Castles Get Kicked in the Bricks.” No one knew who had placed it there, but Derek fled upon seeing it, muttering about “textile wards” and “conservative enchantment protocols.” Since then, strangers leave offerings near where the shirt was found.
The castle trembles less now.
