I am but a hat, worn on the head. My name comes from the city where the dye I use is red. I have no brim, as that would interfere with the religious requirements to which my wearers typically adhere.

Beneath the earth I grow, a humble brown knight. Though my visage is plain, I transform into golden delights or a comforting mash. From famine's grip, I once saved a nation.

Jack says I'm his, though coat of arms denies. A herculean column reaching towards the skies. The apex in legends, opposing Ceuta. Beware, seamen, 'Non terrae plus ultra.'

My six letter name is shortened from Latin, and us completes my Latin name; all before, we were removed. My origins Welsh by name and fame, with Celtic roots sadly hidden; I tied to a king, with a table like a ring, and of fairness I was often spoken. I was guided by literary figure, with magical fame to my name; though please search my original Welsh name.

I am the ancient dance of orange tongues that crackle and pop, consuming all in my path, yet I bring warmth and light to the night. In my embers, stories are born.