There’s something unsettling about the way old stories stick with you. I’ve been thinking about mermaids lately—not the sanitized Disney version, but the proper folkloric ones. The kind that save your life one day and might drag you under the next.

I came across this story from Pembrokeshire that’s got that particular Welsh matter-of-factness to it. Here’s this creature, vulnerable and vain, caught in the most human of acts—fixing her appearance.

The Story

The following tale appeared in Welsh in “Y Brython,” Vol. I. page 73; and the writer was the late eminent Welshman Gwynionydd, father of the present Vicar of Lledrod :

“On a fine afternoon in September in the beginning of the last century, a fisherman named Pergrin proceeded to a recess in the rock near Pen Cemmes, (Pembrokeshire), and found there a mermaid doing her hair, and he took the water lady prisoner to his boat. We cannot imagine why the lady had not been more on her guard to avoid such a calamity; but if sea maidens are anything like land maidens, they often forget their duties when engaged in dealing with the oil of Maccassar, and making themselves ready to meet the young men.

We know not what language is used by sea maidens but this one this time at any rate, talked, it is said, very good Welsh ; for when she was in despair in Pergrin ‘s custody weeping copiously, and with her tresses all dishevelled, she called out ” Pergrin, if thou wilt let me go, I will give three shouts in the time of thy greatest need.”

Days and weeks passed without Pergrin seeing her after this ; but one hot afternoon, when the sea was pretty calm, and the fishermen had no thought of danger, behold his old acquaintance showing her head and locks, and shouting out in a loud voice : ” Pergrin ! Pergrin ! Pergrin ! take up thy nets ! take up thy nets! take up thy nets!” Pergrin and his companion instantly obeyed the message, and drew their nets in with great haste.

By the time they had reached the Pwll Cam, the most terrible storm had overspread the sea, while he and his companion were safe on land. Twice nine others had gone out with them, but they were all drowned, without having the chance of obeying the warning of the water lady.”

The Print

I’ve gone for a bold, simplified design that leans on the look and feel of traditional folk art. This is not one for perfect lines or polished detail. The rough edges and flowing forms are intentional—channeling the imagery of old storybooks or carved wood.

The mermaid here isn’t beautiful in any conventional sense. Her hair flows like water or smoke, her scales are rough-hewn, her expression unreadable. She looks human enough to be familiar, strange enough to be unsettling. That’s the point—these older stories understand that the most frightening things are the ones that almost look like us.

This print carries the raw, direct energy I love in lino work. There’s something about the medium that suits these old tales perfectly. The bold contrasts, the carved texture, the way the ink sits differently on each print—it all feeds into that handmade, folkloric quality.

The Welsh coast is full of these stories, places where the boundary between land and sea, human and inhuman, gets blurred.