16/05/2025
Now, dearest soul, lean in a little closer, for this is a story best heard with your feet tucked up, your paws warm, and your heart listening just so. It was told one starlit evening in the Woods of Claughbane, where the trees bend kindly to hear what’s being said, and the moss remembers every tale ever told.
Rabbit was there, of course. You’d have known him by his coat—soft as twilight and stitched at the edges with starlight—and by the way he always carried that large, timeworn book. The one with bark for covers and fern-frond bookmarks and pages that smelt like leather.
He sat at the edge of a quiet fire, not roaring but dreaming—a little flicker-flame in a ring of stones, just enough to warm whiskers and toes. Around him, in a stillness made of rustle and breath, came the listeners. Hedgehog in her quilted shawl, Owl with his eyes half-lidded but never sleeping, Mouse nibbling something sweet, and even the wind paused his wildness to settle down and listen too.
Rabbit turned a page with a paw that knew how to be gentle.
“Tonight,” he began, and oh how the clearing grew still, “I shall tell you what I saw from the very top of mighty Snaefell, when the sky was so clear you could almost see dreams sailing through it. On that day, I saw not just land—but kingdoms. Seven of them, no less. Each one a marvel. Each one a song.”
He looked up through the pine branches to where the stars blinked knowingly, and then he began.
“To the west,” he said, “lies the Kingdom of Erin, where every word is a tune, and the people greet each other with laughter that dances like fiddle-strings. Even the grass there sings, and the trees sway to music only the heart can hear.”
Mouse let out a little sigh, and Owl gave a thoughtful blink.
“To the north,” Rabbit continued, “rests the Kingdom of Alba. Its waters run deep and true. If you peer into a loch on a quiet day, you won’t just see your reflection—you’ll see your soul, looking back at you with ancient knowing.”
Rabbit smiled at Owl. “It’s a place for watchers and wisdom-seekers.”
“And in the south,” he said, voice rising with the heat of remembered fire, “dwells the Kingdom of the Red Dragon. The earth there burns with spirit, and the people speak with fire in their veins. Their stories are brave, their laughter loud, their love fierce and lasting.”
Then he turned a little, nose twitching eastward. “Ah, and there lies the land of the White Cliffs, the Kingdom of Story and Stone. It’s a place of old legends—where swords once shimmered in lakes and great trees whispered names that echo still. The land itself seems to remember.”
“But that’s not all,” Rabbit said, and his eyes shone now. “Look up—yes, just there. That’s the Heavenly Kingdom, not of earth, but of sky. The stars move like elders dancing, shaping the seasons, keeping watch. They remind us that we’re never alone, even in our smallest thoughts.”
The wind gave a quiet nod.
“And beneath it all,” Rabbit went on, voice softer now, “there’s the Kingdom of the Sea. It surrounds us, you know. It kisses our shores and carries our dreams. The waves know secrets even older than I, and if you listen—truly listen—they will tell you things you’d forgotten you remembered.”
Mouse leant against Hedgehog’s side, and Cat—who had arrived silently and sat now upon a golden cushion—gave the tiniest approving blink.
Rabbit closed the book with reverence.
“And here we are,” he said, tapping his paw on the mossy ground. “Ellan Vannin. Our own small, mighty island in the centre of it all. The Kingdom of Spirit, where every creature, great or wee, has a place. Where the trees know your name and the soil sings your steps back home.”
And that, dear listener, was the end of the tale, though the fire glowed long after and not a creature stirred. The stars above blinked in peaceful satisfaction, and a quiet settled over the glade, the kind of quiet that holds a thousand lullabies. The kind that only comes after a good story has been told, and hearts have quietly remembered something they didn’t know they’d forgotten.
So rest now, gentle soul. You are part of the Seven Kingdoms too.
And in this Glen, you are loved. Just so, and forevermore.
🌌 If this story lit a lantern in your heart—or helped you remember something soft and ancient—you are already part of The Glen. These tales are for you, Best Beloved, and they will wait for you always.
🎧 You can listen to more stories like this on YouTube—perfect for quiet nights, wondering hearts, and anyone who feels the call of far-off kingdoms and homegrown magic.
🛒 And if you’d like to hold a piece of The Glen in your hands, visit www.victoriabeata.shop where illustrated books, cards, and prints await—each one a story stitched in ink and soul, made to last.
✨ Whether you read, listen, or dream beside the fire, thank you for being part of this tale. You belong here, among the stars and roots and wild, winding paths.
With love from the heart of the island,
Victoria Beata
Author & Illustrator of Tales of The Glen
