#symbolism — Public Fediverse posts

Casting into Dark Waters

During this time, when I have been troubled by thoughts that lead me down shadowed pathways, when my nights have been filled with dreams that disturb even my waking hours, I have found myself standing again and again on the shores of ponds.

I cast into the dark water.

Then cast again.

And again.

Places that earlier this summer yielded fish after fish have gone strangely silent. I use the same bait. I cast into the same places. I work the shoreline where I remember the splashing, the sudden tug, the frantic reeling as something alive fought beneath the surface.

But now my line keeps returning empty.

And because my mind is already inclined toward such things, I begin to wonder whether the universe is somehow responding to the inner landscape of my disquieted soul.

I know how strange that sounds.

Perhaps the fish simply aren’t biting.

Perhaps the water has changed, the temperature shifted, the season moved almost imperceptibly onward.

And yet there are times when the world outside seems so closely joined to the world within that I cannot keep myself from wondering.

Why now?

Why the silence?

Why do the places that once seemed so abundant suddenly refuse to give anything back?

This morning I followed a friend to a pond I had not fished for many days. Earlier in the summer the surface had become so thick with algae that casting was nearly impossible. I stopped coming.

That pond had spoiled me at the beginning of the season. For a while it seemed as though wherever I cast there was a bite. Fish splashed in the shallows. The line tightened. I reeled frantically, laughing sometimes, trying to bring them safely to shore.

Abundance everywhere.

This morning, when I arrived, the algae was gone.

The water was open again.

Immediately something in me lifted.

Maybe today.

Maybe this place had been waiting.

Maybe the season of silence was ending.

I cast.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

I changed directions, changed distance, worked the shoreline.

Nothing.

The same bait that once brought fish after fish came back untouched.

And once again I found myself standing there staring at the water, wondering why.

But before I reached the pond this morning, something else happened.

Driving down the dirt road, I saw a hawk sitting on a telephone line.

As I approached, it lifted itself into the air and flew away.

I don’t entirely understand what happens inside me when I see these birds. Hawks, eagles, the great winged raptors—I have encountered them at different moments of my life, and somehow they have become signs of hope to me.

Not omens exactly.

I don’t know that the universe sends hawks specifically for me.

But sometimes the heart recognizes a symbol before the mind knows what to do with it.

As that hawk lifted from the wire this morning, emotion rose unexpectedly inside me.

By the time I reached the pond, I was almost in tears.

Then I stood beside the newly cleared water and cast into it.

And caught nothing.

Still nothing.

Yet perhaps that is not the whole story of this morning.

I came looking for fish.

Perhaps what I needed was the hawk.

Perhaps I needed the moment when something resting quietly above an ordinary dirt road suddenly opened its wings and rose into the sky.

Perhaps hope does not always arrive as a tug on the line.

Sometimes the water remains silent.

Sometimes the bait comes back untouched.

Sometimes the thing we were hoping would return does not return, at least not yet.

And still something flies.

I leave the pond without a fish.

My hands smell faintly of bait and pond water. The line is reeled in. The surface closes behind my final cast as though I had never disturbed it.

But somewhere inside me there remains the image of that hawk lifting from the telephone wire.

And with it, fragile as it may be, a thought:

perhaps today is not the day when everything becomes clear.

Perhaps it is only the beginning of calm.

A small clearing of algae.

A little open water.

A winged hope rising into the morning.

A quiet, gentle place where, for a little while, my spirit might rest.

✮ To That Potted Plant ✮

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✮ To That Potted Plant ✮

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

✮ To That Potted Plant ✮

Subscribe to keep reading

Become a paid subscriber to get access to the rest of this post and other exclusive content.

The Three Lions

There are few symbols in England more instantly recognisable than three golden lions marching proudly across a field of red.

Today they adorn football shirts, cricket caps and rugby jerseys. They are painted on pub signs, stamped on passports, embroidered onto military uniforms and waved from terraces whenever England dares to dream.

Millions sing Three Lions without ever stopping to ask a simple question.

Why three?

Why lions?

And why has this particular emblem survived almost nine centuries while kings, dynasties, empires and governments have all faded into history?

Like so many ancient symbols, the answer lies somewhere between history and mythology.

The lion itself had never roamed Britain. Wolves, bears and wild boar once stalked these islands, but lions existed only in stories carried home by pilgrims, crusaders and Roman writers. To medieval Europe, the lion represented everything a king was expected to be: courageous, just, noble, watchful and fierce.

Long before heraldry became an organised system, lions appeared throughout Christian art. Medieval bestiaries claimed that lion cubs were born dead before being brought to life by the breath of their father three days later. Whether believed literally or symbolically, the tale became an obvious parallel with the Resurrection of Christ. Lions were therefore not merely dangerous beasts; they were creatures associated with kingship, divine authority and eternal life.

It is hardly surprising that Europe’s rulers eagerly adopted them.

England’s relationship with lions began with the Norman kings. William the Conqueror himself probably bore no official coat of arms because heraldry had not yet fully developed, but by the twelfth century shields and banners had become increasingly important on crowded battlefields. Knights hidden beneath mail and helmets required instantly recognisable devices.

The first English royal lions seem to appear during the reign of Henry I. Henry married Matilda of Scotland, linking Norman and Anglo-Saxon royal bloodlines. Some historians believe one lion may have entered the royal family’s symbolism through this marriage, while another emerged through subsequent dynastic alliances.

Heraldry during this period was fluid, with symbols evolving rather than appearing fully formed. The decisive moment arrived with Henry’s son, Richard I.

Richard Plantagenet.

Richard the Lionheart.

Few English monarchs have acquired such legendary status. Ironically, Richard spent remarkably little time in England. He spoke French, regarded his continental possessions as more important than his English kingdom, and devoted much of his reign to warfare and the Crusades. Yet he became the king most closely associated with English courage.

Richard originally used seals depicting two lions passant guardant – walking with one forepaw raised while turning their faces towards the viewer. During his reign a third lion appeared, creating the royal arms that remain instantly recognisable today.

Whether Richard consciously chose three lions or inherited an evolving design remains debated by historians, but by the end of the twelfth century England possessed one of Europe’s most distinctive coats of arms. Three gold lions with blue claws and blue tongues, marching one above another upon a crimson shield.

In heraldic language the animals are not technically “lions” at all. They are described as lions passant guardant. Passant refers to the walking pose. Guardant means the head faces directly towards the observer. To medieval eyes this posture conveyed confidence rather than aggression. A rampant lion, rearing upon its hind legs, symbolised battle. A passant lion suggested calm authority – a ruler who possessed strength but had no need to prove it.

There may also have been another layer of symbolism. Throughout medieval Europe, the number three carried profound meaning. Three represented the Holy Trinity. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. Faith, hope and charity. The symbolism would have been immediately understood by contemporary audiences. Whether Richard deliberately chose three lions because of religious symbolism remains uncertain, but medieval rulers rarely ignored such powerful associations.

Once adopted, the badge spread rapidly.Royal seals, coinage, castles, government documents,military banners. It became the visual signature of the English Crown.

As English armies marched across France during the Hundred Years’ War, three golden lions marched with them. The emblem flew above the armies of Edward III, the Black Prince and Henry V. It fluttered above muddy battlefields at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, becoming associated not simply with monarchy but with English identity itself. Ironically, the badge survived periods when the monarchy itself seemed close to collapse.

During the Wars of the Roses, rival claimants fought beneath variations of royal heraldry. Under the Tudors, dragons, roses and portcullises joined the royal display, yet the three lions remained.

When James VI of Scotland inherited the English throne in 1603, the royal arms expanded dramatically. Scotland’s rampant lion and Ireland’s golden harp joined the shield, yet England’s three lions retained their place.

Empires rose. Empires fell. The lions remained.

One reason for their remarkable survival maybe lies in what they came to represent. Originally they belonged solely to the king. Gradually they became the property of the nation.The shift happened slowly over centuries. The English Civil War challenged royal authority. The Industrial Revolution transformed society. The British Empire reshaped Britain’s place in the world. Yet somehow the ancient lions adapted, and by the nineteenth century they had become less a symbol of monarchy than of England itself.

Then came football.

In 1863, when the Football Association sought an emblem, it turned naturally towards the ancient royal arms. The modern FA crest retained the three lions while adding Tudor roses between them. Few sporting badges possess such extraordinary ancestry. Every England football shirt carries a design whose origins stretch back to the Crusades. Every chant echoes nearly nine hundred years of history. Every major tournament briefly reconnects modern England with a medieval kingdom.

Of course, symbolism rarely remains fixed. To Victorian imperialists the lions represented national destiny. During the World Wars they became symbols of resilience. For football supporters they came to embody hope, frustration and stubborn optimism in equal measure.

The song Three Lions, first released during the European Championships in 1996, captured something far older than football itself. “It’s coming home” resonated not simply because the game originated in England, but because the badge itself already felt timeless. The lions seemed to belong to history rather than any particular generation.

Yet there is another, older way of looking at them.

Folklore often blurs the line between animal and guardian. Across Britain, churches possess spectral black dogs, castles harbour ghostly ravens and forests boast white stags. England’s lions occupy a similar symbolic space. Not literal creatures. Guardians. Sentinels. Beasts that exist not in the countryside but in the collective imagination of a nation.They have watched Norman knights become Tudor courtiers, Georgian soldiers become Victorian industrialists, and factory workers become football fans. They have witnessed plague, civil war, empire, Blitz, victory and defeat. Kings have died beneath them. Queens have ruled beneath them. Governments have come and gone. The lions simply continue their silent march.

Unlike flags, or borders, which shift. Unlike politicians, who disappear into history. The three lions remain reassuringly constant. Almost nine hundred years after Richard the Lionheart’s reign, children still draw them in school exercise books. Soldiers still wear them into battle. Sportsmen still carry them onto the world’s biggest stages.

Most never think about where they came from.But perhaps they should because hidden inside those three ancient beasts lies the story of England itself. And it’s a story of crusaders and kings, of heralds and holy symbolism, of battlefields and belief, of history transformed into legend.

And that is one of the greatest mysteries of all.

Not that three lions came to symbolise England.

But that, after nearly nine centuries, England still instinctively recognises them as its own.

The Three Lions

There are few symbols in England more instantly recognisable than three golden lions marching proudly across a field of red.

Today they adorn football shirts, cricket caps and rugby jerseys. They are painted on pub signs, stamped on passports, embroidered onto military uniforms and waved from terraces whenever England dares to dream.

Millions sing Three Lions without ever stopping to ask a simple question.

Why three?

Why lions?

And why has this particular emblem survived almost nine centuries while kings, dynasties, empires and governments have all faded into history?

Like so many ancient symbols, the answer lies somewhere between history and mythology.

The lion itself had never roamed Britain. Wolves, bears and wild boar once stalked these islands, but lions existed only in stories carried home by pilgrims, crusaders and Roman writers. To medieval Europe, the lion represented everything a king was expected to be: courageous, just, noble, watchful and fierce.

Long before heraldry became an organised system, lions appeared throughout Christian art. Medieval bestiaries claimed that lion cubs were born dead before being brought to life by the breath of their father three days later. Whether believed literally or symbolically, the tale became an obvious parallel with the Resurrection of Christ. Lions were therefore not merely dangerous beasts; they were creatures associated with kingship, divine authority and eternal life.

It is hardly surprising that Europe’s rulers eagerly adopted them.

England’s relationship with lions began with the Norman kings. William the Conqueror himself probably bore no official coat of arms because heraldry had not yet fully developed, but by the twelfth century shields and banners had become increasingly important on crowded battlefields. Knights hidden beneath mail and helmets required instantly recognisable devices.

The first English royal lions seem to appear during the reign of Henry I. Henry married Matilda of Scotland, linking Norman and Anglo-Saxon royal bloodlines. Some historians believe one lion may have entered the royal family’s symbolism through this marriage, while another emerged through subsequent dynastic alliances.

Heraldry during this period was fluid, with symbols evolving rather than appearing fully formed. The decisive moment arrived with Henry’s son, Richard I.

Richard Plantagenet.

Richard the Lionheart.

Few English monarchs have acquired such legendary status. Ironically, Richard spent remarkably little time in England. He spoke French, regarded his continental possessions as more important than his English kingdom, and devoted much of his reign to warfare and the Crusades. Yet he became the king most closely associated with English courage.

Richard originally used seals depicting two lions passant guardant – walking with one forepaw raised while turning their faces towards the viewer. During his reign a third lion appeared, creating the royal arms that remain instantly recognisable today.

Whether Richard consciously chose three lions or inherited an evolving design remains debated by historians, but by the end of the twelfth century England possessed one of Europe’s most distinctive coats of arms. Three gold lions with blue claws and blue tongues, marching one above another upon a crimson shield.

In heraldic language the animals are not technically “lions” at all. They are described as lions passant guardant. Passant refers to the walking pose. Guardant means the head faces directly towards the observer. To medieval eyes this posture conveyed confidence rather than aggression. A rampant lion, rearing upon its hind legs, symbolised battle. A passant lion suggested calm authority – a ruler who possessed strength but had no need to prove it.

There may also have been another layer of symbolism. Throughout medieval Europe, the number three carried profound meaning. Three represented the Holy Trinity. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. Faith, hope and charity. The symbolism would have been immediately understood by contemporary audiences. Whether Richard deliberately chose three lions because of religious symbolism remains uncertain, but medieval rulers rarely ignored such powerful associations.

Once adopted, the badge spread rapidly.Royal seals, coinage, castles, government documents,military banners. It became the visual signature of the English Crown.

As English armies marched across France during the Hundred Years’ War, three golden lions marched with them. The emblem flew above the armies of Edward III, the Black Prince and Henry V. It fluttered above muddy battlefields at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, becoming associated not simply with monarchy but with English identity itself. Ironically, the badge survived periods when the monarchy itself seemed close to collapse.

During the Wars of the Roses, rival claimants fought beneath variations of royal heraldry. Under the Tudors, dragons, roses and portcullises joined the royal display, yet the three lions remained.

When James VI of Scotland inherited the English throne in 1603, the royal arms expanded dramatically. Scotland’s rampant lion and Ireland’s golden harp joined the shield, yet England’s three lions retained their place.

Empires rose. Empires fell. The lions remained.

One reason for their remarkable survival maybe lies in what they came to represent. Originally they belonged solely to the king. Gradually they became the property of the nation.The shift happened slowly over centuries. The English Civil War challenged royal authority. The Industrial Revolution transformed society. The British Empire reshaped Britain’s place in the world. Yet somehow the ancient lions adapted, and by the nineteenth century they had become less a symbol of monarchy than of England itself.

Then came football.

In 1863, when the Football Association sought an emblem, it turned naturally towards the ancient royal arms. The modern FA crest retained the three lions while adding Tudor roses between them. Few sporting badges possess such extraordinary ancestry. Every England football shirt carries a design whose origins stretch back to the Crusades. Every chant echoes nearly nine hundred years of history. Every major tournament briefly reconnects modern England with a medieval kingdom.

Of course, symbolism rarely remains fixed. To Victorian imperialists the lions represented national destiny. During the World Wars they became symbols of resilience. For football supporters they came to embody hope, frustration and stubborn optimism in equal measure.

The song Three Lions, first released during the European Championships in 1996, captured something far older than football itself. “It’s coming home” resonated not simply because the game originated in England, but because the badge itself already felt timeless. The lions seemed to belong to history rather than any particular generation.

Yet there is another, older way of looking at them.

Folklore often blurs the line between animal and guardian. Across Britain, churches possess spectral black dogs, castles harbour ghostly ravens and forests boast white stags. England’s lions occupy a similar symbolic space. Not literal creatures. Guardians. Sentinels. Beasts that exist not in the countryside but in the collective imagination of a nation.They have watched Norman knights become Tudor courtiers, Georgian soldiers become Victorian industrialists, and factory workers become football fans. They have witnessed plague, civil war, empire, Blitz, victory and defeat. Kings have died beneath them. Queens have ruled beneath them. Governments have come and gone. The lions simply continue their silent march.

Unlike flags, or borders, which shift. Unlike politicians, who disappear into history. The three lions remain reassuringly constant. Almost nine hundred years after Richard the Lionheart’s reign, children still draw them in school exercise books. Soldiers still wear them into battle. Sportsmen still carry them onto the world’s biggest stages.

Most never think about where they came from.But perhaps they should because hidden inside those three ancient beasts lies the story of England itself. And it’s a story of crusaders and kings, of heralds and holy symbolism, of battlefields and belief, of history transformed into legend.

And that is one of the greatest mysteries of all.

Not that three lions came to symbolise England.

But that, after nearly nine centuries, England still instinctively recognises them as its own.

The Three Lions

There are few symbols in England more instantly recognisable than three golden lions marching proudly across a field of red.

Today they adorn football shirts, cricket caps and rugby jerseys. They are painted on pub signs, stamped on passports, embroidered onto military uniforms and waved from terraces whenever England dares to dream.

Millions sing Three Lions without ever stopping to ask a simple question.

Why three?

Why lions?

And why has this particular emblem survived almost nine centuries while kings, dynasties, empires and governments have all faded into history?

Like so many ancient symbols, the answer lies somewhere between history and mythology.

The lion itself had never roamed Britain. Wolves, bears and wild boar once stalked these islands, but lions existed only in stories carried home by pilgrims, crusaders and Roman writers. To medieval Europe, the lion represented everything a king was expected to be: courageous, just, noble, watchful and fierce.

Long before heraldry became an organised system, lions appeared throughout Christian art. Medieval bestiaries claimed that lion cubs were born dead before being brought to life by the breath of their father three days later. Whether believed literally or symbolically, the tale became an obvious parallel with the Resurrection of Christ. Lions were therefore not merely dangerous beasts; they were creatures associated with kingship, divine authority and eternal life.

It is hardly surprising that Europe’s rulers eagerly adopted them.

England’s relationship with lions began with the Norman kings. William the Conqueror himself probably bore no official coat of arms because heraldry had not yet fully developed, but by the twelfth century shields and banners had become increasingly important on crowded battlefields. Knights hidden beneath mail and helmets required instantly recognisable devices.

The first English royal lions seem to appear during the reign of Henry I. Henry married Matilda of Scotland, linking Norman and Anglo-Saxon royal bloodlines. Some historians believe one lion may have entered the royal family’s symbolism through this marriage, while another emerged through subsequent dynastic alliances.

Heraldry during this period was fluid, with symbols evolving rather than appearing fully formed. The decisive moment arrived with Henry’s son, Richard I.

Richard Plantagenet.

Richard the Lionheart.

Few English monarchs have acquired such legendary status. Ironically, Richard spent remarkably little time in England. He spoke French, regarded his continental possessions as more important than his English kingdom, and devoted much of his reign to warfare and the Crusades. Yet he became the king most closely associated with English courage.

Richard originally used seals depicting two lions passant guardant – walking with one forepaw raised while turning their faces towards the viewer. During his reign a third lion appeared, creating the royal arms that remain instantly recognisable today.

Whether Richard consciously chose three lions or inherited an evolving design remains debated by historians, but by the end of the twelfth century England possessed one of Europe’s most distinctive coats of arms. Three gold lions with blue claws and blue tongues, marching one above another upon a crimson shield.

In heraldic language the animals are not technically “lions” at all. They are described as lions passant guardant. Passant refers to the walking pose. Guardant means the head faces directly towards the observer. To medieval eyes this posture conveyed confidence rather than aggression. A rampant lion, rearing upon its hind legs, symbolised battle. A passant lion suggested calm authority – a ruler who possessed strength but had no need to prove it.

There may also have been another layer of symbolism. Throughout medieval Europe, the number three carried profound meaning. Three represented the Holy Trinity. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. Faith, hope and charity. The symbolism would have been immediately understood by contemporary audiences. Whether Richard deliberately chose three lions because of religious symbolism remains uncertain, but medieval rulers rarely ignored such powerful associations.

Once adopted, the badge spread rapidly.Royal seals, coinage, castles, government documents,military banners. It became the visual signature of the English Crown.

As English armies marched across France during the Hundred Years’ War, three golden lions marched with them. The emblem flew above the armies of Edward III, the Black Prince and Henry V. It fluttered above muddy battlefields at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, becoming associated not simply with monarchy but with English identity itself. Ironically, the badge survived periods when the monarchy itself seemed close to collapse.

During the Wars of the Roses, rival claimants fought beneath variations of royal heraldry. Under the Tudors, dragons, roses and portcullises joined the royal display, yet the three lions remained.

When James VI of Scotland inherited the English throne in 1603, the royal arms expanded dramatically. Scotland’s rampant lion and Ireland’s golden harp joined the shield, yet England’s three lions retained their place.

Empires rose. Empires fell. The lions remained.

One reason for their remarkable survival maybe lies in what they came to represent. Originally they belonged solely to the king. Gradually they became the property of the nation.The shift happened slowly over centuries. The English Civil War challenged royal authority. The Industrial Revolution transformed society. The British Empire reshaped Britain’s place in the world. Yet somehow the ancient lions adapted, and by the nineteenth century they had become less a symbol of monarchy than of England itself.

Then came football.

In 1863, when the Football Association sought an emblem, it turned naturally towards the ancient royal arms. The modern FA crest retained the three lions while adding Tudor roses between them. Few sporting badges possess such extraordinary ancestry. Every England football shirt carries a design whose origins stretch back to the Crusades. Every chant echoes nearly nine hundred years of history. Every major tournament briefly reconnects modern England with a medieval kingdom.

Of course, symbolism rarely remains fixed. To Victorian imperialists the lions represented national destiny. During the World Wars they became symbols of resilience. For football supporters they came to embody hope, frustration and stubborn optimism in equal measure.

The song Three Lions, first released during the European Championships in 1996, captured something far older than football itself. “It’s coming home” resonated not simply because the game originated in England, but because the badge itself already felt timeless. The lions seemed to belong to history rather than any particular generation.

Yet there is another, older way of looking at them.

Folklore often blurs the line between animal and guardian. Across Britain, churches possess spectral black dogs, castles harbour ghostly ravens and forests boast white stags. England’s lions occupy a similar symbolic space. Not literal creatures. Guardians. Sentinels. Beasts that exist not in the countryside but in the collective imagination of a nation.They have watched Norman knights become Tudor courtiers, Georgian soldiers become Victorian industrialists, and factory workers become football fans. They have witnessed plague, civil war, empire, Blitz, victory and defeat. Kings have died beneath them. Queens have ruled beneath them. Governments have come and gone. The lions simply continue their silent march.

Unlike flags, or borders, which shift. Unlike politicians, who disappear into history. The three lions remain reassuringly constant. Almost nine hundred years after Richard the Lionheart’s reign, children still draw them in school exercise books. Soldiers still wear them into battle. Sportsmen still carry them onto the world’s biggest stages.

Most never think about where they came from.But perhaps they should because hidden inside those three ancient beasts lies the story of England itself. And it’s a story of crusaders and kings, of heralds and holy symbolism, of battlefields and belief, of history transformed into legend.

And that is one of the greatest mysteries of all.

Not that three lions came to symbolise England.

But that, after nearly nine centuries, England still instinctively recognises them as its own.

The Three Lions

There are few symbols in England more instantly recognisable than three golden lions marching proudly across a field of red.

Today they adorn football shirts, cricket caps and rugby jerseys. They are painted on pub signs, stamped on passports, embroidered onto military uniforms and waved from terraces whenever England dares to dream.

Millions sing Three Lions without ever stopping to ask a simple question.

Why three?

Why lions?

And why has this particular emblem survived almost nine centuries while kings, dynasties, empires and governments have all faded into history?

Like so many ancient symbols, the answer lies somewhere between history and mythology.

The lion itself had never roamed Britain. Wolves, bears and wild boar once stalked these islands, but lions existed only in stories carried home by pilgrims, crusaders and Roman writers. To medieval Europe, the lion represented everything a king was expected to be: courageous, just, noble, watchful and fierce.

Long before heraldry became an organised system, lions appeared throughout Christian art. Medieval bestiaries claimed that lion cubs were born dead before being brought to life by the breath of their father three days later. Whether believed literally or symbolically, the tale became an obvious parallel with the Resurrection of Christ. Lions were therefore not merely dangerous beasts; they were creatures associated with kingship, divine authority and eternal life.

It is hardly surprising that Europe’s rulers eagerly adopted them.

England’s relationship with lions began with the Norman kings. William the Conqueror himself probably bore no official coat of arms because heraldry had not yet fully developed, but by the twelfth century shields and banners had become increasingly important on crowded battlefields. Knights hidden beneath mail and helmets required instantly recognisable devices.

The first English royal lions seem to appear during the reign of Henry I. Henry married Matilda of Scotland, linking Norman and Anglo-Saxon royal bloodlines. Some historians believe one lion may have entered the royal family’s symbolism through this marriage, while another emerged through subsequent dynastic alliances.

Heraldry during this period was fluid, with symbols evolving rather than appearing fully formed. The decisive moment arrived with Henry’s son, Richard I.

Richard Plantagenet.

Richard the Lionheart.

Few English monarchs have acquired such legendary status. Ironically, Richard spent remarkably little time in England. He spoke French, regarded his continental possessions as more important than his English kingdom, and devoted much of his reign to warfare and the Crusades. Yet he became the king most closely associated with English courage.

Richard originally used seals depicting two lions passant guardant – walking with one forepaw raised while turning their faces towards the viewer. During his reign a third lion appeared, creating the royal arms that remain instantly recognisable today.

Whether Richard consciously chose three lions or inherited an evolving design remains debated by historians, but by the end of the twelfth century England possessed one of Europe’s most distinctive coats of arms. Three gold lions with blue claws and blue tongues, marching one above another upon a crimson shield.

In heraldic language the animals are not technically “lions” at all. They are described as lions passant guardant. Passant refers to the walking pose. Guardant means the head faces directly towards the observer. To medieval eyes this posture conveyed confidence rather than aggression. A rampant lion, rearing upon its hind legs, symbolised battle. A passant lion suggested calm authority – a ruler who possessed strength but had no need to prove it.

There may also have been another layer of symbolism. Throughout medieval Europe, the number three carried profound meaning. Three represented the Holy Trinity. Birth, life and death. Past, present and future. Faith, hope and charity. The symbolism would have been immediately understood by contemporary audiences. Whether Richard deliberately chose three lions because of religious symbolism remains uncertain, but medieval rulers rarely ignored such powerful associations.

Once adopted, the badge spread rapidly.Royal seals, coinage, castles, government documents,military banners. It became the visual signature of the English Crown.

As English armies marched across France during the Hundred Years’ War, three golden lions marched with them. The emblem flew above the armies of Edward III, the Black Prince and Henry V. It fluttered above muddy battlefields at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt, becoming associated not simply with monarchy but with English identity itself. Ironically, the badge survived periods when the monarchy itself seemed close to collapse.

During the Wars of the Roses, rival claimants fought beneath variations of royal heraldry. Under the Tudors, dragons, roses and portcullises joined the royal display, yet the three lions remained.

When James VI of Scotland inherited the English throne in 1603, the royal arms expanded dramatically. Scotland’s rampant lion and Ireland’s golden harp joined the shield, yet England’s three lions retained their place.

Empires rose. Empires fell. The lions remained.

One reason for their remarkable survival maybe lies in what they came to represent. Originally they belonged solely to the king. Gradually they became the property of the nation.The shift happened slowly over centuries. The English Civil War challenged royal authority. The Industrial Revolution transformed society. The British Empire reshaped Britain’s place in the world. Yet somehow the ancient lions adapted, and by the nineteenth century they had become less a symbol of monarchy than of England itself.

Then came football.

In 1863, when the Football Association sought an emblem, it turned naturally towards the ancient royal arms. The modern FA crest retained the three lions while adding Tudor roses between them. Few sporting badges possess such extraordinary ancestry. Every England football shirt carries a design whose origins stretch back to the Crusades. Every chant echoes nearly nine hundred years of history. Every major tournament briefly reconnects modern England with a medieval kingdom.

Of course, symbolism rarely remains fixed. To Victorian imperialists the lions represented national destiny. During the World Wars they became symbols of resilience. For football supporters they came to embody hope, frustration and stubborn optimism in equal measure.

The song Three Lions, first released during the European Championships in 1996, captured something far older than football itself. “It’s coming home” resonated not simply because the game originated in England, but because the badge itself already felt timeless. The lions seemed to belong to history rather than any particular generation.

Yet there is another, older way of looking at them.

Folklore often blurs the line between animal and guardian. Across Britain, churches possess spectral black dogs, castles harbour ghostly ravens and forests boast white stags. England’s lions occupy a similar symbolic space. Not literal creatures. Guardians. Sentinels. Beasts that exist not in the countryside but in the collective imagination of a nation.They have watched Norman knights become Tudor courtiers, Georgian soldiers become Victorian industrialists, and factory workers become football fans. They have witnessed plague, civil war, empire, Blitz, victory and defeat. Kings have died beneath them. Queens have ruled beneath them. Governments have come and gone. The lions simply continue their silent march.

Unlike flags, or borders, which shift. Unlike politicians, who disappear into history. The three lions remain reassuringly constant. Almost nine hundred years after Richard the Lionheart’s reign, children still draw them in school exercise books. Soldiers still wear them into battle. Sportsmen still carry them onto the world’s biggest stages.

Most never think about where they came from.But perhaps they should because hidden inside those three ancient beasts lies the story of England itself. And it’s a story of crusaders and kings, of heralds and holy symbolism, of battlefields and belief, of history transformed into legend.

And that is one of the greatest mysteries of all.

Not that three lions came to symbolise England.

But that, after nearly nine centuries, England still instinctively recognises them as its own.

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