Ten out of Ten!

Martyn Rhisiart Jones

Madrid, Saturday 10th January 2026

What do Richard Burton and Anthony Hopkins have to tell us about the magical Celtic number ten?

To capture the essence of these two titans, we must look at the number ten through two different lenses. One lens is the thunderous, poetic gravity of Richard Burton. The other is the quiet, rhythmic precision of Sir Anthony Hopkins.

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Part I: The Voice of the Storm (Richard Burton Style)

(Imagine a voice like aged oak and volcanic ash, rolling over the vowels with Shakespearean weight.)

“Listen… listen to the wind off the Mynydd Hiraethog. You think it’s just air? No, boy. It is the breath of kings. And those kings, they knew a secret that we, in our modern, plastic fumbling, have forgotten. They knew the Ten.

Look at these hands! Ten fingers. Not nine, not eleven. Ten! It is the Roman decad, yes, but it is something older in the marrow of Cymru. It is a complete strike. The ten is the hammer-fall on the anvil of the gods. You count your enemies, you count your sins, and when you reach that tenth bead on the wire… ha!… that is where the soul meets the soil. It is the ‘Tithe of the Mist.’ It is the moment the actor leaves the stage, and the man begins to bleed. Ten is the finality of the grave, and the thundering roar of the rebirth!”

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Part II: The Voice of the Shadow (Anthony Hopkins Style)

(Imagine a stillness. The voice is melodic, clipped, slightly breathy, and terrifyingly calm.)

“Do you see it? Just… look at it for a moment. Don’t blink. Most people are afraid of the dark. But the shepherd… old Lanto… he wasn’t afraid. He was… meticulous.

He understood the… geometry of it. He’d sit there, by the peat fire, watching the visitor. And he’d say… ‘It’s the tenth sheep, isn’t it?’ That’s the one that matters. The first nine are just… noise. Biology. Habit. But the tenth? That’s the one that belongs to the Otherworld. It’s the one that watches you back.

Ten is the circle closing. Ticking. Like a clock in an empty room. It’s the number of… completion. You reach ten, and the game is over. The wheel turns. Tick, tick, tick. You don’t fight the ten. You… you invite it in for tea. And then you hope it decides to leave.”

The Oak: A Monologue for Richard Burton

(Imagine him standing on a windswept cliff, a glass of something dark in one hand, his voice vibrating in his chest like a cathedral organ.)

“The Oak! Ha! See him there? He is the first. He does not bend; he does not plead. When Gwydion spoke the word, the Oak did not merely move, he marched. He shook the very foundations of the earth!

The Alder… he was the second. Impatient. Primal. But the Oak? The Oak is the Tenth king in a line of nine. He is the weight of the forest. He is the splinter in the eye of the void! He is the thunder made wood! When he strikes, he does not strike for glory, he strikes because he is the Earth. And the Earth, my boy, has a very long memory. Listen to the roar of the leaves… that is the sound of a god waking up!”

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The Willow: An Inspired Monologue for Anthony Hopkins

(Imagine him sitting in a high-backed leather chair, the room dimly lit. He leans forward, his blue eyes unblinking, his voice a soft, rhythmic purr.)

“And then… there was the Willow. Everyone forgets the Willow. They’re so… distracted by the Oak. The noise. The… drama of it all.

But the Willow… she’s different. She doesn’t march. She… seeps. She’s the eighth, or perhaps the ninth… it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because she’s the one who waits. She’s the one who knows that even the strongest wood eventually… rots. She was late to the battle, they say. But she wasn’t late. She was just… timing it. Watching the others break themselves. There’s a certain… elegance in the way she sways. A silence. Like a breath held just a second too long. Do you hear that? The rustle? That’s not the wind. That’s her… deciding where to put her roots.”

Many thanks for reading.

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