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        <title><![CDATA[@Geoff Brookes - blog]]></title>
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        <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes</link>
        <lastBuildDate>Tue, 07 Apr 2026 11:03:16 +0100</lastBuildDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Sin Eaters - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1273/sin-eaters</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1273</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[The term Sin Eater does sound like the title of a dodgy horror film. In fact perhaps it is. I wouldnt know. But I came across it in a news item on the BBC last month (September 2010)<br>It is a fascinating idea and perhaps you will not be surprised to learn that this ancient tradition survived in the east of Wales and just over the border in Shropshire and Herefordshire longer than anywhere else. Indeed, it was still practiced into the early 20th century.<br>It is a bizarre adoption process I suppose. After a death someone would be paid to eat and drink over the body. As a result of the ritual the sin eater would take on the sins of the dead person and their soul would then be able to rest, free of sin. The church wasnt that keen on the idea but often the local vicar would turn a blind eye in order to keep his parishioners happy.<br>Often the ritual was performed by a beggar, although some villages had a resident sin-eater. They would turn up at the bedside, where a relative would place a crust of bread on the chest of the dying and pass a bowl of beer to him. I imagine that if you thought you were just a bit under the weather and the sin eater was lurking in the background, waiting for a snack, you would start to worry. Anyway, after praying or reciting the ritual, he would then drink and eat the bread, thus adopting the sins of the dying.<br>As I said, it was mentioned on the BBC in connection with the grave of Richard Munslow who died in Ratlinghope in 1906. The grave stone has recently been restored since he was a well known farmer in the area who had a second career as a sin eater, munching on scraps of bread whilst others squabbled about the inheritance. I would have thought that for those with rather more interesting lives, a three course meal would have been more appropriate than a dry crust in order to absolve them of sin, but perhaps I am being unkind. However, I have to say it is odd to think that this sort of thing was going on in the lifetime of my grandparents.<br>I end this piece with this passage by B.S. Puckle in a book called Funeral Customs (1926) which goes to show how odd people can be.<br>"Professor Evans of the Presbyterian College, Carmarthen, actually saw a sin-eater about the year 1825, who was then living near Llanwenog, Cardiganshire. Abhorred by the superstitious villagers as a thing unclean, the sin-eater cut himself off from all social intercourse with his fellow creatures by reason of the life he had chosen; he lived as a rule in a remote place by himself, and those who chanced to meet him avoided him as they would a leper. This unfortunate was held to be the associate of evil spirits, and given to witchcraft, incantations and unholy practices; only when a death took place did they seek him out, and when his purpose was accomplished they burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption"A bit mean when all is said and done. You provide a valuable service and this is how you are treated. No wonder that as a career option it never really caught on.<br><br><br><br><br><br>]]></description>
                <pubDate>Wed, 13 Oct 2010 20:37:50 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Phreno-Mesmerism in Denbigh - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1155/phreno-mesmerism-in-denbigh</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1155</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[Thats a headline you never expected to see on the Americymru website is it? Neither did I to be honest. I found it in a copy of The Caernarvon and Denbigh Herald. It is all about two lectures delivered in October 1843 in the County Hall in Denbigh. Bet you wish youd been there.On the first of the two nights the Mayor turned up and spoke in support of Mr. Jones, who clearly had remarkable gifts for all to see. The Mayor began his introduction by hoping that the people of Denbigh would be more charitable to the esteemed gentleman than the people of Mold. Well, they have always been a hard and cynical lot in Mold. Now we cant be sure exactly what he Mold-ites did but I think we can guess.You see, it appears they were not grateful for the opportunity to witness so strange a science. Indeed, they were not, apparently, impressed by some striking phenomena. In fact they seem to have let themselves down rather badly by being not terribly polite about what they saw. It was ever thus, in Mold.I cant tell you how it went on that first evening in Denbigh, but I do know that on the following night the audience was thin and that they were inclined to be sceptical until Mr. Jones mesmerised his two, presumably tame, patients  the dumb young man and Miss C. Davies at the same time.I dont find that terribly impressive to be honest, since I myself have seen whole classes of children slip into a deep coma the moment I start to speak, but perhaps we should let that pass.Anyway, these two patients were then separated and the young man was taken into an adjoining room where Mr. Jones started to work his magic.He excited in the male patient, in the presence of several persons...the organ of thirst, which was no sooner done, than the female, who was left in charge of some gentlemen on the platform, manifested, by sympathy, the same desire to the complete astonishment of all.Whatever was suggested to him was illustrated by the girl on the platform. Everyone was mightily impressed. All doubts and scepticism were dismissed. Truly a triumph. The article ends with the re-assuring words that the demonstration has advanced the science in the town of Denbigh. A proud boast indeed.I am not sure to what extent Denbigh is still regarded as a leading edge community in the development of phreno-mesmerism, but on the whole I think my sympathies lie with the good people of Mold.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sun, 04 Jul 2010 12:19:01 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Harold Lowe, the Welsh Hero of the Titanic - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1040/harold-lowe-the-welsh-hero-of-the-titanic</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/1040</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[In June 1912 there was a reception for him back in Wales, at the Barmouth Picture Pavilion, and over 1000 people attended. Here he was presented with gifts of nautical equipment from grateful survivors. They were inscribed:To Harold Godfrey Lowe, 5th Officer RMS Titanic. The real hero of the Titanic. With deepest gratitude.Harold Lowe had found a place in history  and he was born and died in Wales He ran away to sea when he was perhaps as young as 14. An impetuous decision perhaps, but it was one which set him on the path of fate.Harold Lowe was born in November 1882 in Llandrillo yn Rhos and spent his childhood in Barmouth, learning to sail on the Mawddach estuary. When the time came, he objected to his fathers suggestion that he should take up an apprenticeship. I was not going to work for anybody for nothing. So off he went. He ended up spending five years working along the west coast of Africa before he joined the White Star Line. He worked his way up the ranks. He served as Third Officer on a couple of their liners before he was assigned to the Titanic in March 1912. The largest, safest and most luxurious ship in the world. A great honour that promised to be the start of a glittering career. To be sure, he would make his mark, but not in the way he anticipated.Lowe was one of the officers who tested two lifeboats to fulfil Board of Trade requirements before the Titanic left Southampton. But because this ship was truly unsinkable, lifeboat provision was hardly important. In fact Captain Smith decided not to hold a lifeboat drill to familiarise passengers and crew with procedures. It was the last time such a thing was allowed to happen.To begin with everything was entirely routine and Lowe got on with his watches.On Sunday 14 April 1912 he was relieved at 8.15 pm and went straight to bed. This would explain why, when the ship hit the fateful iceberg at 11.40 pm, he was fast asleep. Contact with a large solitary iceberg popped rivets and buckled hull plates below the waterline. From that moment the great ship was doomed.When Lowe responded to the commotion and made it up on to the deck, there were passengers wearing lifebelts and the boats were being made ready for lowering. It was at this time that they started to realise that there were insufficient berths in the boats for the number of passengers they carried. But then, why should there have been? The Titanic was unsinkable, an idea offering little comfort as the great ship began to settle and tilt in the water. Harold could feel it under his feet, the bow moving downwards and, anticipating the imminent chaos around him, he returned to his cabin to collect his revolver.He started to help passengers into boats, though he was particularly concerned that some were being over-filled and that the boats would thus collapse. He had experience of boats from his childhood, but many of the other seamen had not, and they had to man and lower 20 boats without even having practised the necessary procedure.It was for this reason that he had an encounter with Bruce Ismay, the managing director of the White Star Line, who was travelling on this auspicious voyage. He told Ismay to get out of his way, for he had work to do. In fact he told him to get the hell out of the way. He knew what he was doing, he knew experienced crew had to take control and because of this they lowered Boat 5 with 39 people on it. His outburst would later endear Lowe to the press, since Ismay was vilified for surviving when so many others who put their faith in his company did not. Thus Harold became a spokesman for so many others in that moment.To us, Lowes use of excitable language to his boss is understandable in such circumstances, but it was a shocking transgression to his contemporaries. It became a notorious moment, a key element in the mythology of the sinking, but it was not half as notorious as when Lowe fired his revolver to establish a sense of order when he crossed over to the other side of the ship to supervise the lowering of Boat 14.These were completely unexpected circumstances and Lowe rose to the occasion, taking control and bringing an order that would allow a lucky few to survive. He took responsibility, seeing that duty transcended status. The scene on the decks was peculiar. People were having to deal with the one thing they never felt would happen, and in the early stages of the sinking many of them thought it would all be sorted out. It was impossible to think that the cold open sea was safer than the huge illuminated liner. It was nothing more than a ghastly mistake.The instruction that it was women and children first meant that some couples refused to be separated and watched the drama in an almost detached way, arm in arm. With insufficient boats and no ordered way of allocating places, such a random approach to survival was perhaps inevitable.Some boats were lowered with insufficient passengers. In other areas of the ship there were scenes of chaos, with men disguising themselves as women to get themselves a precious place in a lifeboat. These boats were in danger of being overloaded, particularly Boat 14, where passengers tried to force themselves on board as it was being lowered. Lowe forced out a young man hiding beneath a seat, and fired his revolver into the night sky to stop the boat being swamped by desperate men. He was the officer with responsibility for the boat. I saw a lot of Italians, Latin people, all along the ships rails and they were all glaring, more or less like wild beasts, ready to spring.Lowe later apologised to the Italian Ambassador for such unnecessary comments.The tackle for lowering the boat had become jammed and it stopped about 5 feet from the surface. Lowe ordered the ropes to be cut and the lifeboat slapped down into the sea. Whilst they baled out the boat with their hats, Lowe took them all away from the Titanic.He assembled other lifeboats into a small fleet , tying some of them together for safety. He was completely the man in charge, squashing more survivors into the boats under his control. Whilst the survivors felt they were overcrowded, Lowe knew there was still room.From the comparative safety of their vantage point, Lowes passengers saw the Titanic sink. The stern rose high into the air, the lights went off, came on again and then went out forever. She slid beneath the calm sea. It was 2.20 am, a little over three hours since the collision with the iceberg. In the silence that followed, those in the lifeboats could hear the terrible cries of people struggling in the freezing water.When he decided it was safe he took his boat back into the wreckage to see if he could rescue anyone - the only person to do so. Even so it was a hard choice. He knew that he could not go back in too soon or he would be swamped by desperate people clinging to the boat in huge numbers. He had to wait for their numbers to diminish.When they eventually went back they were confronted by a terrible scene. There were hundreds of bodies, dead from hypothermia, floating in the sea, supported by their lifebelts. They could not row because of the number of corpses. They had to push their way through. They rescued four men, one of whom died quite soon afterwards. As they retreated from the awful wreckage they all burst into tears.As dawn broke he sailed the lifeboat back to the others and they waited, ready to be rescued by the Carpathia.His job was done. At the Board of Enquiry he was asked what he did next. He replied, There was nothing to do. All they could do was wait and stare at the huge expanse of water under which the Titanic had disappeared so quickly. It was an unlikely scene, for the Atlantic had been flat calm throughout the night.Of course many of the passengers were grateful for what he had done. But he refused any money that was offered him. I will never take money for doing my duty.The Titanic was his place in the sun, though in later life he rarely spoke about it at all and he willingly settled back into a more welcome obscurity. He married Ellen Whitehouse in 1913 and had two children. They were the future; the Titanic was behind him.But Lowe never lost his connection with the sea and spent the rest of his working life on it in some capacity or other. The First World War he spent in the Royal Naval Reserve and the second as an air raid warden. He died of a stroke on 12 May 1944. He was 61.Much later he would be played by the Welsh actor Ioan Gruffudd in the famous film which acknowledges his role in recuing survivors when he rescues the fictional lead Rose from the icy sea. In reality it was a Chinese man called Fang Lang who Lowe found and rescued from a floating door, not a love-lorn heroine.I cannot imagine that he would have enjoyed all the fuss and attention of a film.If you wish to pay your respects to Harold, you must leave the A55 in North Wales and take the B5115 to Llandudno. As you reach Rhos the road takes a sharp turn to the right and there, at the top of the rise on the right hand side, you will find the church. Harold is close up against the boundary wall of the ancient Llandrillo Church, next to the road.As befits a modest man of principal, his grave is understated and discreet. It carries no hint at all of the part that he played in one of the events of the century.Devoted HusbandHarold Godfrey LoweCom.R.D. R.N.R.I Thank my God uponEvery RemembranceOf You.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Wed, 07 Apr 2010 22:52:07 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Hywel Sele and the Demon Oak - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/992/hywel-sele-and-the-demon-oak</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/992</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[I was inspired to write this by a wooden drinking vessel which you can find in the National Museum in Cardiff, one of many such objects apparently, made from a great oak tree which blew down in a storm in 1813. The tree was called Derwen Ceubren yr Ellyll  the Hollow Tree of the Demons - and it once stood on the old Nannau Estate near Dolgellau. And the legend will tell you that Owain Glyndwr once used the tree as a handy place in which to store the body of his cousin.The story of Owain Glyndwr is far too complex to explore properly here. His celebrity is based in part upon the fact that he was the last Welshman to hold the title of Prince of Wales although his dates are vague, from 1354 or 1359 to perhaps 1416. In the centuries since his death, so many different legends have accumulated around him. He has become a notable figure in popular culture and a famous military hero, beating the English forces through intelligent strategy and cunning. Like King Arthur he merely sleeps, waiting apparently for the moment when he will rise as the saviour of his homeland.He lived in turbulent times and his life was defined by conflict, leading a revolt against the rule of Henry IV. The rebellion ultimately failed and his last years were shrouded in mystery. He was neither betrayed nor captured and instead faded from view. Where he lived at the end of his life remained a mystery, although today it is generally believed that he lived with his daughter Alys at Monnington Straddel in Herefordshire, perhaps disguised as a friar.The episode which concerns me here comes from the height of the rebellion, in 1402. His cousin Hywel Sele, Lord of Nannau , was a supporter of the English crown. He invited Owain to his estate for what he claimed was to be the cut and thrust of political debate, with a bit of hunting thrown in. However, it appears to have turned into an assassination attempt.The two cousins went out hunting. Hywel Sele raised his bow to shoot a stag, but suddenly turned and fired directly at Owain. Clearly their relationship was not based upon trust on either side, for beneath his clothes Owain had prudently selected a chain mail vest. Owain did not have a particularly forgiving nature...At least that is one version. Another would suggest that as Hywel Sele aimed and turned to follow his target he suddenly discovered that he was aiming unexpectedly straight at Owain. He, well versed in the techniques of self preservation, immediately ran him through with his sword.Either way Hywel Sele was dead. Owain hid his body in the hollow oak tree and made off.Another version has an enraged Glyndwr obviously surviving the assassination attempt and imprisoning Hywel Sele in the tree before burning down his house, which just goes to show you how cross they could be in those days.But whichever version you prefer, they all come back to the idea of the body in the tree. And this legend certainly gave the tree its reputation as a haunted place of evil. Fire was said to hover above it; strange noises could be heard. It was the terror of every peasant for miles around.The family searched for Hywel but could not find him. He remained on the missing list until his skeleton was found inside the tree trunk 40 years later. Hywel Sele might have drifted into obscurity but at least the trees reputation was assured.Of course by the early nineteenth century Derwen Ceubren yr Ellyll was misshapen and ancient, in the last stages of decay. When the oak fell after being hit appropriately by lightning the wood was used to make commemorative items for the coming of age party of Robert Vaughan on 25 June 1824. He was a direct descendant of Hywel Sele and later became 3 Baronet of Nannau. It was quite a party they say, for which the Great White Ox of Nannau was slaughtered and roasted, which is certainly more dramatic than sending out for a pizza. The newspaper, the Salopian Journal said that the air was, resounding with joyful acclamations and that a number of Welsh bards and harpers were in attendance. It was definitely the place to be seen that special June day.At least the ancient tree wasnt just turned into firewood. A nineteenth century text tells us that the items made from the oak were valued by their fortunate possessors...as relics of so venerable and remarkable a parent.  If you chose to believe the legends then those objects were made from a living coffin from long ago. It is one of these Ceubren cups that the museum holds.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sun, 28 Feb 2010 19:05:59 +0000</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[E. T. Willows of Cardiff - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/955/e-t-willows-of-cardiff</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/955</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[ He is remembered in the name of a street a pub and a school in Cardiff. His achievements are recorded on a clock face in Cardiff Bay but his grave lies forgotten and neglected in Cardiffs Cathays Cemetery.  His gravestone tells us  Captain E. T. Willows  Only beloved son of Joseph and Eva Willows  Died August 3 1926  At rest  The letters on the simple stone are metal and are falling off. Without them his grave will lose its identity and become no different from the others that have faded beyond recognition. Yet it is a perfect example of a story in Welsh Stone  a fading,unremarkable gravestone, quietly shedding letters behind bushes in an overgrown part of a large cemetery, slowly slipping into the past and taking a fascinating story with it.  Ernest Thompson Willows, aviation pioneer and celebrity, 1886  1926.  He was born on 11 July 1886 at Newport Road in a house which is now used by the University. His father was a dentist and Ernest always intended to follow him, beginning his training in 1901. His great enthusiasm was flight. These early days were exciting ones, when the sky seemed to be opening up to all sorts of possibilities. It was the time of the Wright Brothers, of Bleriot, of Latham. Ascents by balloon had been commonplace for over 100 years but Willows wanted greater control and to reduce the effect of the wind on such flights. What he wanted to do was construct a rigid framed balloon or dirigible and to provide it with a motor and a crew who would be able to steer it. He was sure that the future of travel lay with the airship rather than the aeroplane. He had no formal technical training, no financial backing, merely blind enthusiasm.  He built his first airship,  Willows 1 , in 1905, two years after the Wright Brothers significant achievement, when he was only 19. It was a silk envelope 74 feet long and 18 feet in diameter with a gondola beneath. It was driven by a 9 h-p Peugeot motorcycle engine. It had neither rudder nor elevator, relying upon the twin propellers which provided steering capability. It was flown for the first time at East Moors Cardiff for 85 minutes on 5 August. It had six flights. An improved version was built in 1909 which was called  Willows 2.  The craft was a little longer and bigger. He landed in a great publicity stunt outside Cardiff City Hall on 4 June 1910 and then flew back to his shed at East Moors. He wanted to win a 50 prize for the first such flight over Cardiff. A week later he repeated the flight to raise funds for the Infirmary. Willows was always trying to attract attention to his projects. He was a committed enthusiast but always lacked sponsorship or support.  In July 1910 it flew from Cheltenham to Cardiff in four hours and then in August  Willows 2  flew from Cardiff to London.  This was a significant moment.  The flight was a record for a cross country flight in Britain at 122 miles and he became the first aviator to fly across the Bristol Channel under power. The journey took 10 hours. He had to descend to about 12 feet off the ground and ask for dircections from stunned people via a megaphone. The world was not yet ready for this simple SatNav prototype. In the end he followed the train line.  He made sure that he flew down the Thames and over St. Pauls cathedral for he was always eager to place his airship in the same frame as important landmarks.  On arrival he heard of a prize of 2000 for the first man to fly from Paris to London so he decided to take the airship over the channel in order to make an attempt.  Willows 2  was re-built and lengthened and called originally  Willows 3 . It first flew at the end of October 1910 over White City. Then it was re-named  The City of Cardiff.  It was now time for adventures.  On 11 November 1910 he flew the City of Cardiff across the Channel heading for Paris with his mechanic Frank Godden. The journey was not without incident.  There was thick fog over the Channel. There was a mechanical problem which required Willows to climb out on to the balloon envelope to fix it in the dark Petrol froze in the engine. Then Godden dropped their maps over the side and into the sea.  Eventually the airship came down at Corbehem, between Arras and Douai because of a problem with the silk envelope. On landing the French customs tried to charge him 30 import duty on his fuel. In the end it took almost 8 weeks to reach Paris.  He arrived on 28 December 1910 and on New Years Eve he was taking flights around the Eiffel Tower to illustrate the manoeuvrability of the design. This however illustrated his constant difficulty. His balloon fascinated as a novelty but he could not attract he investment he craved to take his concept further.  He returned to Cardiff with his balloon by road, unable to face any more continental dramas  and also apparently to escape the customs officials.  Ernest Willows moved to Birmingham and built a new airship   Willows 4  which was flown in 1912 and was sold to the Admiralty where it became  His Majestys Naval Airship Number 2.  They paid 1,050 for it. This one was more streamlined and has two four-bladed propellers and a two-seater gondola which was soon extended to accommodate a third man. It had a maximum speed of 50 mph.  Production was moved to Welsh Harp in Hendon in 1913, where he developed  Willows 5 . This one had a rubberised fabric and a gondola for 4 people. He used it largely to take people on trips above London.  Of course the war intervened and he built barrage balloons in Westgate Street in Cardiff and also in Llanishen. In fact he developed a barrage balloon which flew twice as high- at 10,000 feet -as the previous limit. In 1916 he joined the Royal Flying Corps and became a captain, constantly suggesting new ideas and refinements.  His enthusiasm however made him little money. After the war he continued with ballooning though perhaps with a growing realisation that great success would elude him. By October 1921 he was living on a decaying river boat on the Thames and watching others develop the airship.  There is a great sadness that just before he died he would have known that Amundsen had flown over the North Pole in the airship  Norge  piloted by the Italian Umberto Nobile. It could have been him. If only....  Willows was reduced to tethered balloon flights at fairs. And that is how he died.  He was killed on 23 August 1926 at a Flower show in Hoo Park Kempston, Bedford whilst taking people on aerial joy rides. The net covering the balloon tore away and the basket plunged to the ground killing him and his four passengers.  He had been the first person to hold a pilots certificate for an airship from the Royal Aero Club but he had been left behind by a lack of support and finance and his dreams and schemes fell to earth just as he did.  You will find him in Cathays, in the largest municipal cemetery in Wales. It is very hard to find your way around but the very helpful Cathays Cemetery Heritage Trail will guide you to Grave Number 20.  You can download the guide from  http://www.cardiff.gov.uk/objview.asp?Object_ID=3764&amp;   I have also posted this story on my own website - and if you go there you will find some pictures of the man, his balloons and his grave...  www.storiesinwelshstone.co.uk   ]]></description>
                <pubDate>Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:59:18 +0000</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[The Coachman's Cautionary - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/933/the-coachmans-cautionary</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/933</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[On the A40 at halfway between Llandovery and Brecon there is a memorial to a stage coach disaster. If your speed is as unrestrained as that of the coach driver you could miss it. There is an obelisk enclosed by iron railings, next to a busy road. At the bottom of a steep slope on the other side of the road the Afon Gwydderig rushes and roars just as it did in 1835. On some maps it is marked simply by the word Memorial. But that single word does not do justice to the surprising nature of this simple pillar that stands under the trees in a dark lay-by.So what is it?It is one of the earliest warnings against drink-driving, thats what it is. It is called the Coachmans Cautionary.It marks the spot where the Gloucester to Carmarthen coach plunged off the road and down a precipice on 19 December 1835. According to the inscription the driver, Edward Jenkins was intoxicated at the time and drove the mail on the wrong side of the road ...at full speed or gallop. The coach went over the precipice 121 feet where at the bottom near the river it came against an ash tree when the coach was dashed into several pieces. Obviously Jenkins was the single common ancestor of White Van Man.The memorial was erected as a caution to mail coach drivers to keep from intoxication. Quite right too in my view. No one should ever be asked to entrust their life to a man in charge of a bottle, a whip and a number of horses.The obelisk was designed by J. Bull, Inspector of Mail coaches. It is reassuring to know that he took his responsibilities seriously. He tells us that Colonel Gwynn of Glan Brian Park , Daniel Jones and a man called Edwards were sitting outside, up there with the driver. Didnt they notice that Jenkins was over-refreshed? Or were they passing the bottle around? Not wise really when you consider that one of the three inside passengers was a solicitor from Llandovery called David Lloyd Harris. A solicitor can be very touchy in certain circumstances, I find.Bull used the 13 pounds 16 shillings and sixpence he received from 41 subscribers to erect the obelisk in 1841. How very public spirited they were in those days. As an Inspector with both technical and human resource management responsibilities how he must have yearned for the breathalyser and the invention of traffic calming measures.But I think it was money well spent. It might not have been as hard hitting or as effective as recent road safety campaigns but it has survived a great deal longer.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sat, 16 Jan 2010 12:33:46 +0000</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[The Story of Gelert - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/919/the-story-of-gelert</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/919</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[The Story of GelertGelert is the name of a legendary dog which has become entwined with the village of Beddgelert in Gwynedd. And if you dont already know it, the knowledge that the name of the village has been translated as Gelerts Grave might give you some clue where this story is going.The inscription on the tomb down by the river tells the story in both English and Welsh.In the 13 century Llewellyn, prince of Wales, had a place in Beddgelert.One day he went hunting without Gelert, The Faithful Hound, who was unaccountably absent.On Llewellyns return the truant, smeared in blood, sprang to meet his master.The prince alarmed hastened to find his son, and saw the infants cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered in blood.The frantic father plunged his sword into the hounds side, thinking it had killed his heir.The dogs dying yell was answered by a childs cry.Llewellyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed.But nearby lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain.The prince filled with remorse is said to have never smiled again.He buried Gelert here.The spot is called Beddgelert.It is a touching story of course and an important Welsh Folk tales. However, things are never quite what they seem. It is more likely to be an early equivalent of a modern urban myth. The name of the village for example is probably a reference to Saint Kilart or Celert, rather than any faithful and vigilant dog.Also the dogs grave mound, which can be found just south of the village, on the footpath which follows the river Glaslyn is more likely to be the work of the landlord of the Goat Hotel in Beddgelert in the late eighteenth century. His name was David Pritchard and his motive was simply to boost the tourist trade by connecting an old folk tale with the village.Of course this is not unusual. This is what happened in France in the village of Rennes le Chateau, where a hotel owner used rumours and speculation to boost his own business and in doing so created a conspiracy industry that lead directly to The Da Vinci Code.The story of the faithful dog appears in many different cultures .We will never know whether they are all variants of the same story so we can never know which one came first. Was it the Welsh story? Or was it the native American version? Or perhaps it originated in the Alps where a shepherd kills his sheepdog which he finds covered in blood. Naturally it had been protecting the flock from a wolf, not indulging in a forbidden snack. In India the story involves a mongoose that kills a snake and is wrongly punished just like Gelert, and in Malaysia the story is about a tame bear that protects a child from a ravenous tiger and is killed for his efforts.Did the stories evolve separately in different cultures, bringing together grief, anger and guilt in a gripping plot designed for children? Who can tell? But certainly the story of Gelert is not unique.It doesnt matter. It has been a fruitful subject for artists, poets and other writers and if it attracts people to a beautiful part of North Wales then it really doesnt matter much. And certainly as a story it will run and run...]]></description>
                <pubDate>Wed, 30 Dec 2009 11:02:43 +0000</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Halloween - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/832/halloween</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/832</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[<br><br>
Halloween. It is one of the oldest festivals of all, and represents a curious mixture of many different traditions. The Celts called it Samhain, a festival that provided a boost for people as they entered the long dark winter months, when the countryside seemed dead and the days seemed so short.<br>
Over time it became mixed in with All Saints Day, a day set aside for those poor saints who didnt have a day of their own.<br>
Originally it represented the end of the harvest season and the beginning of a new year. The Welsh term for the festival is Nos Calan Gaeaf - a reference to the beginning of winter. As we all know today it is regarded as a time when the boundaries between the living and the dead become blurred.<br>
A door to another reality opened up briefly and all sorts of horrors spilled out. So bonfires were lit to frighten away the spirits. This was the time in the Welsh tradition when Hwch Ddu Cwta appeared the Black Sow.<br>
They would light bonfires and roast apples (and in later years potatoes) and leap through the flames to bring good luck. Then they would throw stones in the fire and run home to escape Hwch Ddu who would be on the prowl. On the first of November they would return to look for their stone. If they could find it then you were guaranteed good luck for the New Year. If you couldnt then you were facing bad luck, or even death.<br>
Apples played an important part in Samahin because it came at the end of the apple harvest and there were plenty around. Apple bobbing was common. The most successful technique, assuming they had no stalks, was to plunge into the barrel and trap the apple against the bottom. Boys have always been so competitive.<br>
In another apple game, one was tied to a stick suspended from the ceiling with a candle tied to the other. It was spun around and you had to catch the apple with your teeth. How they laughed when someone got a face full of wax.<br>
There was also the Puzzle Jug. It had many spouts and you had to guess which one was correct. Get it wrong and you would be soaked by beer or cider. I bet they could hardly wait for the invention of television.<br>
A lot of the traditions seem to centre upon finding a partner.In Montgomeryshire villages they would make a large vegetable mash in which a ring would be hidden. The local girls would dig into it with wooden spoons. The one who found it would be the first to be married. In Carmarthenshire nine girls would gather together to make a pancake of nine ingredients. They would divide it up into nine pieces and eat it. As a result they would, before morning, have a vision of their future husband. Which may or may not have been a good idea.<br>
In Scotland, as you can see similar traditions outlined in Robert Burns poem Halloween. A girl could eat an apple in front of a mirror and she would see her future husband looking over her shoulder, presumably telling her that the porridge needed stirring.<br>
Alternatively she could hang a wet shirt sleeve in front of the fire to dry and watch it closely. At midnight the spirit of her future partner would appear and turn it round a fascinating idea completely destroyed by the invention of the tumble drier.<br>
Everywhere Halloween has been a time for the universal walking abroad of spirits, a time when the boundaries between our world and the spirit world are momentarily lowered. A time of inversion, when everything was turned upside down. In parts of Wales it became a bit of a cross-dressing festival. Boys and girls would swap clothes and go from home to home, chanting verses and spells and asking for gifts of fruit or nuts which were used to predict the future.<br>
Other boys might dress up in sheepskins and rags and blacken their faces. They were the gwrachod (hags or witches) and they would look for gifts of apples or nuts or beer. Their job was to drive away evil spirits from the home. Clearly an early variation on the theme of trick or treat.<br>
Of course, these days the role of the Trick or Treaters themselves has changed. They are the evil spirits who should be driven away.<br>
]]></description>
                <pubDate>Fri, 16 Oct 2009 18:12:39 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Catapult Aircraft Merchantman - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/810/catapult-aircraft-merchantman</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/810</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[I have been working for quite a while on a fascinating story and I have finally managed to get it on my website - Stories in Welsh Stone. The address is at the foot of this blog. You can find it in the Shorter Tales section because there are too many gaps in my knowledge for me to publish it at present.It is about Robert Everett a fighter pilot who died when his Hurricane crashed on the beach at llanddona in Anglesey in January 1942. He had an eventful life. In 1929 he won the Grand National horserace at Aintree leading home the largest ever field to contest it on Gregalach. He might also have been involved in the great MacRobertson airrace from England to Australia in 1934.However what interested me most was the part he played in the development of the Catapult Aircraft Merchantman, a design born of desperation in an attempt to protect Allied Convoys from U_Boats and long-range German aircraft.Here is an extract from my piece about Robert Everett...Convoys bringing supplies across the Atlantic were vulnerable not only to the U-boats but also to long- distance planes that could attack shipping and act as a spotter for U-boats. It also reported shipping movements and locations to the U boats, so they could intercept in areas where it was not possible for the Allies to provide any air cover. The Focke Wolf 200 Condor was extremely effective and sank nearly one million tonnes of Allied shipping in a few months. It was the first military aircraft capable of flying within range of the East coast of the USA, with a range far in advance of any planes the Allies could use to provide protection.In fact in 1943 a Junkers long distance patrol aircraft flew from Mont de Marsan in occupied France to a point 12 miles north of New York City and was completely undetected before it returned. It was too expensive to produce but it revealed a technological potential the Germans possessed. If they had persisted the plane would have changed the American perception of the war completely.As far as the convoys were concerned they were effectively alone in the Atlantic without the benefit of air cover.Their solution was the Catapult Aircraft Merchantman.Ships were equipped with a single catapult-launched Hurricane fighter  a Hurricat or a catafighter. It was essentially the worlds first rocket-propelled fighter. Battleships already had steam powered catapults to launch spotter planes, but these catapults were not powerful enough to launch a fighter. So a rocket sled, using solid fuel rockets was developed at Farnborough.The planes though were not fitted for landings. A bit of a disadvantage you might think. But then there was actually nothing to land on. The pilot would have to ditch in the sea at the end of the flight and the plane would be lost or occasionally recovered and hoisted aboard. It seems to be a desperate rather than a practical measure, a one-way mission in the middle of the ocean with nowhere to land.Everett was the first to test the strategy on 3 August 1941. He was launched from CAM ship Maplin which was part of convoy OG. 70...If you want to find out more about this fascinating story then go to my websites and follow the links to the story.www.storiesinwelshstone.co.uk]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sun, 04 Oct 2009 10:39:47 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Hedd Wyn - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/720/hedd-wyn</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/720</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[I have just returned from my holiday in France and found that there had been some activity in my absence about Hedd Wyn, the Welsh Poet who was killed in the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917. I was pleased that there was recognition for him, for he is a highly significant figure, another artist of huge potential cut down before his potential could be realised. But I was alarmed that his family home is under threat, as if Ellis Evans somehow no longer has relevance for us today. How wrong that is. We need to remember our past and preserve what we have, or the future will forget. And if the future does forget, then it will be our fault.Look at Huw Davies' pages on Americymru and you will find out more about the threat that hangs over the family farm, Yr Ysgwrn.In November 2005 I wrote an article for Welsh Country Magazine and I thought it would be appropriate to put it here so that those who are unfamiliar with him and what he represents can find out a little more.Hedd Wyn  The Black BardOur grave this month takes us overseas. To Belgium and the site of the Third Battle of Ypres in 1917. But it is a journey that begins on the hills of North Wales above Trawsfynydd. For this is the story of the Black Bard.We visited his grave on a cold February afternoon. Artillery Wood cemetery, at Boesinge just outside Ypres. A mass of white headstones, each an individual life snuffed out too soon. The occasional poppy left by a relative who can now never have met the fallen. So many lives. I am sure it was only the biting wind that made our eyes water.But one grave stands out. More acknowledged than the rest. And the grave register too is full of childrens projects and tributes.For this is the grave of Private Ellis Humphrey Evans, 61117, Royal Welch Fusiliers, the great Welsh poet. He became known as The Black Bard. But to begin with he was known as Hedd Wyn. White Peace.He was born in January 1887 at Penlan in Trawsfynydd and he spent his childhood on the family farm, Yr Ysgwrn. He left school at 14 and worked as a shepherd but was determined to continue with his education. He would walk to Bala to borrow books from the library and he would spend his days on the hills writing poetry. His bardic name of Hedd Wyn was awarded at a local poetry festivalHe did work as a miner in the South Wales coalfields for a while but he realised that his vocation was out on the hills, writing poetry. His reputation grew and he won his first chair at Bala in 1907, followed by others at Eisteddfodau at Llanuwchllyn, Pwllheli and Pontardawe. It was his ambition to win the National, and in fact he came second at Aberystwyth in 1916. Always his bardic name was Hedd Wyn.Evans did not embrace the war. He was a pacifist. Here are the first two lines of his poem Rhyfel (War.)Gwae fi fy myn mewn oes mor ddrengA Duw ar drai ar orwel pell(Woe is my life in such a bitter age,/ As God fades on the horizons canopy.) There is no sense of glory or triumph here. Only the thought that God had turned his back on man.He had no desire to join the army and was protected initially by his occupation. Some farm workers were exempt on the basis that theirs was a vital occupation.But even in the hills the war scarred families, their sons never to return home. His contemporaries were dying and he was writing poems in their memory and working on he farm. However as casualties mounted, the rules were changed and Ellis Evans fate was sealed. The army needed more men and there was not enough work at Yr Ysgwrn to keep all the Evans boys at home. Someone had to go.In order to spare his more enthusiastic younger brother he joined the Royal Welch Fusiliers in February 1917 as a private. From Wrexham Barracks the new recruits were sent to Liverpool but cut unconvincing military figures. Coming down from their farms they would have seemed like foreigners, reluctant to speak English and all at sea in an alien world. Soldiers they were not. It was said of Ellis, He was a silent fellow. It would appear he could speak but little English, or if he could, he did not. The army represented a world he did not wish to join. He was only there out of duty and he was more concerned to complete his poem Yr Arwr (The Hero) in time for the National Eisteddfod in September.It was to be held in Birkenhead. Outside Wales of course, but home to many Welsh people working in the city, either in essential war industries or teaching and nursing.His chance to refine it came when he was sent home after basic training for 7 weeks. This was the last time he would see his family and his home.Private Ellis Evans, of the 15th Bn. Royal Welch Fusiliers, was despatched on active service to Flanders on 9 June 1917. It was a grim place. He wrote in a letter home, Heavy weather, heavy soul, heavy heart. There was, he said, a curse upon the land. He wrote in his poem Y Blotyn Du.We have no right to anythingBut the old and withered earthThat is all in chaos.The rhythm and the certainties of the seasons that he knew so well and that he had just left, had been replaced by mud and blood.The poem was submitted just in time, sent from France on 15 July 1917. It describes the realities of war for both the soldiers and their families at home. It escaped censorship by the army since, naturally, it was written in Welsh. All the subalterns were English.It was his misfortune that the 15th Battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was part of the 38th Division which had been selected to lead the assault on Pilckem Ridge. This would be the Third Battle of Ypres, also known as Passchendaele. The division was regarded as having under-performed in the action at Mametz Wood in the Battle of the Somme. This was a chance for them to redeem themselves.They practised their role on a replica of the German trenches built behind the front line in France during June and they were moved up for the attack on 30 July. In the assault the 15th Battalion were required to attack a regimental headquarters and a telephone exchange. They succeeded in this objective, but every officer in the battalion was killed. So was Evans. General Haig described it as a fine days work. 31,000 soldiers were casualties on that fine day.A plaque made of Welsh slate on a brick wall at the Hagebos crossroad now marks the place where the wounded Evans was taken on 31 July 1917. The first aid post received him with chest wounds from shrapnel. He died 4 days later. Although his first language was Welsh, his last words are said to have been English. I am very happy. And so he died, so far away from the hills of north Wales. In their peace and solitude he had reflected and written. In the noise and chaos of Flanders he died, like so many others.Back in Liverpool a group of refugees from the Belgian town of Mechelen were given warm hospitality. One of them was Eugene Van Fleteren who made reproduction furniture. In an act of gratitude for the help he had received, he made the traditional carved chair for the National Eisteddfod. It was to be awarded on Thursday 6 September 1917. A Flanders chair for a Flanders casualty.As a day of celebration it was not a success. Of the two choirs from the Royal Welch Fusiliers who had sung to such acclaim two years earlier, only the conductor had survived and he was badly injured. And when Archdruid Dyfed announced the winner of the bardic chair, for his work Yr Arwr, there was no reply, for Hedd Wyn had died six weeks earlier.Instead of the usual chairing ceremony the chair was draped in a black pall amidst death-like silence and the bards came forward in long procession to pace their muse- tribute of englyn or couplet on the draped chair in memory of the dead bard hero. (The Western Mail.) Hedd Wyn. The Black Bard.After the ceremony the chair was taken away by train and cart to the family farm, to a room set aside in his memory.At the end of the war Hedd Wyns poems were published as Cerdir Bugail (Shepherds Songs) and a statue was erected in Trawsfynydd, not as a soldier but as a shepherd, which is probably how he would have liked to be remembered. It was unveiled by his mother in 1923. A petition to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission was granted so that his grave in Artillery Wood does not read simply as E.H. Ellis but Y Prifardd Hedd Wyn -Principal Bard, Hedd Wyn.He has not been forgotten. His old school in Trawsfynydd is now called Ysgol Hedd Wyn in his honour and school projects take children to his graveside. A Welsh -language film of his life was nominated for an Oscar in 1992 and in the same year, on the 75 anniversary of his death, a joint venture between the people of Trawsfynydd and Ypres produced a slate plaque on a wall at Hagebos crossroads, where he received his fatal wounds. In Welsh, English and Flemish it is a fine Welsh slate on fine Flanders brick. Made to last, like memories.At the base of Ellis Evans statue in Trawsfynydd there is a tribute he wrote for a friend killed earlier in the war. He could have written this about himself.His sacrifice will not be forgottenHis face so dear will ever be rememberedThough Germanys iron fist by his blood was stained.Every November our thoughts turn to the past, to the awful destruction of a generation. The world would never be the same again. We should never forget what happened and what the world lost. All that potential, all those possibilities, snuffed out. Forever. Andamongst all the other things we lost, Wales lost a great poet.Published in Welsh Country Magazine, November 2005 (reproduced here with permission.)Since I wrote the article I have come across some additional information which is held in the National Museum of Wales. It is an interview from 1975 with Simon Jones of Aberangell, who saw Ellis fall on the battlefield."...we were going over the top at half past four. We started over Canal Bank at Ypres and he was killed half way across Pilkem...I saw him fall and I can say that it was a nosecap shell in his stomach that killed him. You could tell that. You couldn't stay with him - you had to keep going you see...there were stretcher bearers coming up behind us, you see. There was nothing - well, you'd be breaking the rulkes if went to help someone who was injured when you were in an attack. Your business was to keep going."In Trawsfynydd there is a memorial to Hedd Wyn. I shall include some pictures of it on My Page.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Tue, 18 Aug 2009 19:05:56 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[The Channel Tunnel - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/652/the-channel-tunnel</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/652</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[Finally our summer holidays have arrived and we are off to France on Sunday (26 July 2009). For the last couple of years we have gone on holiday with our eldest daughter Laura and her family, but this year it is just the three of us- my wife Liz and myself and our son David.We are looking forward to it immensely, for all the usual reasons. The beautiful peaceful countryside, the dramatic scenery, the fantastic food and the lovely wine.We are particularly looking forward to some sunshine! We had a good spell of weather in June here in Swansea but since then it has been rain all the way. After a busy year at work for both of us, we need to feel the warmth.We are driving right down to the south, to Bacares, which is on the Mediterranean near Perpignan, about 20 miles from Spain. It is a long drive but it gives us an opportunity to stay at two of our favourite hotels, Val Moret near Troyes in the Aube (www.le-val-moret.com) and Chez la Rose in Julienas in Beaujolais (www.chez-la-rose.fr)As always we will be crossing via The Channel Tunnel. This will be our 38th crossing under the sea. It is so easy and generally trouble free, though we have had some memorable delays. But usually you sit in your car, you sway gently from side to side for a while and then suddenly you emerge into the sunshine of France  you hope!The Channel Tunnel is a wonderful thing, an engineering marvel. It had been talked about for many years. The Victorians talked of a tunnel to match the achievements of the Suez Canal and the Panama Canal. The geology under the channel was checked during the 1870s and trial tunnels on either side were dug in 1881 and within the first year each side had bored almost 2 kilometres of tunnel. But the political will didnt exist for its completion, especially since there were vociferous objections from the military about the possible compromise to national security that it would represent.It was over 100 years before it was eventually completed in 1994.The French developer of the Suez Canal, speaking in Dover in July 1882 said that the one day England and France would be equally desirous of it, seeing the benefits to both countries.Well we certainly see the benefits, for it speeds us so quickly towards our holiday and still represents the perfect cure for sea sickness!As a result of our holiday I wont be around for three weeks, so my pages will remain untouched until the middle of August. But I am sure I will return warmed and refreshed and ready to throw more stuff at Americymru in a random sort of way!So thanks for reading and enjoy your own holidays if you have the chance, swine flu permitting of course!]]></description>
                <pubDate>Thu, 23 Jul 2009 12:06:15 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[SS Polaria - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/645/ss-polaria</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/645</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[You never know what you will find when you start rooting about in old newspapers. I came across this beautifully written piece quite by chance. I was looking for details of a ship that brought Yellow Fever to Swansea and instead found in The Cambrian a story about a ship taking German and Jewish emigrants to America. It is absolutely fascinating.The story comes from July 1882 when The Polaria docked in Swansea.The ship had been launched on the Tyne in the north of England by Mitchell and Co. in February that year for the Carr line of Hamburg. It was 300 feet long, 38 feet wide, with one funnel and two masts. It was built of iron, with a speed of 10 knots. It had been specifically designed for the emigrant service between Hamburg and New York and had accommodation for 1100 passengers. The company was contracted to carry 18,000 people over the subsequent six months and The Polaria was an important part of the huge fleet populating America. Crossings normally took between 17 and 19 days. This was its second trip, the maiden voyage docking in New York on 15 May 1882.Swansea has always been a busy port and sailors from all over the world have always come ashore, but it was unusual to see foreigners in such large numbers as this. Early on Monday morning the passengers from the ship were suddenly on the streets, no doubt grateful to feel the solid ground beneath them for a while. They still had a way to go, across the Atlantic. Few of them would ever have travelled this far before.The Polaria was docked for three days, during which time it became the object of the highest interest on the part of the local community. It was a drama from another world with 731 characters, which had called briefly into Swansea to pick up tin plate and coal from Wenallt and Resolven collieries.The paper tells us that he majority were Germans from various areas of the newly constituted but not as yet well consolidated German Empire. Whilst the cargo was being loaded, the passengers became a local curiosity. They were, we are told, stared at and joked about by the small minded and the thoughtless idlers which is very reminiscent of Shakespeares Merchant of Venice where all the boys in Venice follow Shylock and laugh at him. Certainly, Swansea has never been the most cosmopolitan of places. Soon the locals gathered at the docks for a closer look and many were taken on a tour of the ship, as if it were some kind of entertainment.The ship is described as a small town, with a most diverse population. There were nearly 200 Russian and Polish Jews from the troubled dominions of the Czar where they had been cruelly treated. They are of a very degraded standard dressed in rags. Their faces and hands would be all the more seemly for a freer use of the soap and water which are so liberally supplied on board ship. Their fares were paid by international relief committees, which seem to suggest to the reporter that he can treat them as curiosities.The newspaper adopts a rather superior tone throughout, with a curious mix of sympathy and outrageous prejudice. The odours that ascend from their quarters are not of the sweetest kind. The writer was not at all troubled by the sort of restrictions we have today and at times there is an awful cruelty in some of the things that are written. He is confident that no one will see anything improper in what he says. He tells us that the Jewish emigrants may not be as poor as they look, he writes about the Semitic type in their physiognomy and their peculiar genius for petty bargaining and money changing.The reporter is more comfortable with the Germans, who are respectable working class, clean in habits. They paid about 5 for their passage, though 140 of them had tickets pre-paid by family and friends who had already made the journey. There were new passengers as well, for two children were born, one off Mumbles Head and the second whilst the ship was in dock.Thousands of people gathered to see the departure of The Polaria at 9.00pm on Wednesday. It was apparently a touching sight. The poorer spectators allegedly expressed their wish to join the emigrants. 30 men went to the captain and offered to work their passage. 50 loafers and would-be stowaways were found and sent back in the steam tug. Is any of this true? It is hard to say. The reporter adopts a narrative style throughout and perhaps such details just helped to make it a good story.The article ends with some reflections on emigration and how it is most successful when families and neighbour hoods go together. There is no loneliness, no misery save through the unavoidable accidents of life. For this reason he appears to be encouraging entire Irish villages to relocate across the Atlantic.Sadly I have been unable to find the passenger list for this particular voyage. However, the list for the maiden voyage of The Polaria which docked in New York on 15 May 1882 is available on-line and it brings all the stories about emigration to life. You can see whole families desperate to improve themselves. They uprooted themselves completely and headed into the unknown. For them it was a new beginning in the New World.Back in the Old World boys still laughed at strangers in the street.You will find a longer version of this piece, containing additional information, on my website - www.storiesinwelshstone.co.uk.You will find it in the Shorter Tales section.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Mon, 20 Jul 2009 23:49:02 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Taking the Water - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/621/taking-the-water</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/621</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[I havent been able to get on to the website for a while because I have been so busy in school. As always the summer months are a particularly busy time. I am sure it is the same in America. As teachers approach the end of the school year there is so much that needs to be done and everything else, like normal life, takes a back seat. But at last things have started to calm down and I have been able to get out into the countryside once more.My wife Liz went up to see our daughter in Chester and I travelled to the half way point to meet Laura and her family and bring her home. That half way point, right in the middle of Wales, is Llandrindod Wells.It is an unexpected place, a Victorian town that seems to erupt unexpectedly from the beautiful isolation of the green countryside around it. As the name suggests, Llandrindod is a spa town.It owes its status to the medicinal waters from a spring with the wonderful name of Ffynnon Llwynygog- which means The well in the cuckoos grove. This was a saline spring, though some of the others in Wales were, and remain, much more pungent. Many of the spas across the country provide water which is rather unpleasant and sulphurous but is widely believed  on little real evidence at times  to be very good for you, apparently based on the premise that the more vile it is the better. The most southerly of these at Llanwrtyd was very smelly indeed. The spring was in fact called Ffynnon Drewllyd which means stinking spring.In Wales there are a number of spas, all very close to each other  at Llandrindod, Llanwrtyd, Llangammarch, Builth now all include the word Wells in their name. It is Llandrindod Wells that is the only one which is still commercially operative. You can still take the water by the glass in the Pump Room.The saline spring was in use in the 17th century. In the next century Mrs Jenkins discovered sulphur water close by and started offering cures. Some verses which appeared in The Gentlemans Magazine in 1748 started to attract interest and soon people were travelling to the developing town.The real boost to visitors however came in the 19th century, with the development of the railway. A line linking Llandrindod to South Wales was opened in 1865. So, where there were about 180 people living there in 1817 by the end of the century there were over 80,000 visitors. The town flourished and became a fully-inclusive holiday resort. There was musical entertainment from early in the morning, exercise and visits to the spa. You could even sit in radioactive mud if you wanted. All the time you were surrounded by those beautiful Victorian buildings.In those days the water was a penny a glass. However, since it was generally believed to be necessary to drink as much as a gallon a day, it was better to buy a day ticket. For a small fee you could then drink as much as you liked. Some authorities felt however that it was better to bathe in it.There were warnings though. On no account should visitors take the water in the afternoon, since it had, shall we say, a purgative effect. It was certainly more than capable of ruining your evening.What it offered was an apparently natural remedy for a whole range of complaints including skin disease, kidney trouble, rheumatism, bladder disease and gout.There was a genuine belief that taking the waters worked and I suppose in the end that is what mattered. Personally I find a glass of champagne to be far more effective in all circumstances, but perhaps I am just weird.I had a pleasant walk around the pretty town whilst I waited for Liz to arrive. It was quiet and calm. The hotel guests were sitting on the verandas enjoying the warmth and the soft evening light, as people have done since the waters became important. It seemed a very civilized sort of place. In the past it was a much racier, full of fashionable gamesters and libertines. On summer evenings like that one it was hard to imagine it was ever like that. And although its grandeur appears to be fading, I think I prefer it as it is.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Thu, 09 Jul 2009 23:49:11 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Getting Elected in West Virginia - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/544/getting-elected-in-west-virginia</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/544</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[When the reputation of politicians here in the UK is at a very low ebb, it is good to know we can turn to the past for a better model of how things should be. I found this instructive extract in the Swansea newspaper, The Cambrian, of October 1900 about the canvassing techniques developed by Judge John D. Holt, the Democratic candidate for the post of Governor of West Virginia.He may have been campaigning on the other side of the Atlantic but The Cambrian was mightily impressed by his determination and his versatility. To be frank there appears to have been nothing he would not do to secure a vote. In the first place he was an accomplished fiddle player, who plays quadrilles, waltzes, reels and two steps to the entire satisfaction of young people in the country districts. Apparently, as soon as he arrived anywhere on his canvassing tour he was playing away at a dance.Clearly it was hard work getting elected in West Virginia. You have to ask yourself, was it worth it? Was it really worth the humiliation of being the major attraction at some kind of ancient disco full of clumsy adolescents?But there was more. He was a good cook and handy at all kinds of housework. He didnt stop at kissing a baby. He could soothe it even in its most tempestuous moments. Obviously a man of real talent. His blackberry roll was apparently the best anyone had ever tasted. He would peel potatoes if it got him a vote or sweep the house or even undertake essential needlework in a way that defied criticism from the envious.What does this suggest? Madness? Desperation? Were there such advantages in getting elected that made it worth nursing someones ugly child to sleep? As a father I have always been uncomfortable with the idea that a politician might want to kiss any of my babies. But I know now that what I really wanted was for them to clean my house. Certainly it would have given me a real basis on which to make an informed judgement. Forget about their position on foreign policy. Lets see if they clean behind the sofa. In fact if you had lots of candidates you could get your house cleaned for a week on a rota basis. It works for me.I know nothing more about Judge John D. Holt but I am grateful to him. He has given me a model on which I can judge our current political leaders. Forget policy. Consider their pastry.Would I have given Judge Holt my vote? I would have given him a room in my house on the basis of his blackberry roll alone.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Tue, 02 Jun 2009 22:42:09 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Living Stories - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/520/living-stories</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/520</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[When I look at the stories I have written so far I am convinced that some of them will never be finished. There are always new and important details to be added. Time has frayed the details sometimes and it isnt easy to restore them in their entirety. The tales are not complete and probably never will be.It is part of their attraction I suppose. I was made aware of this a few weeks ago when I had new information from a direct descendant of the murderer Henry Tremble that added to my understanding of his actions. I reported this new information on my own website, www.storiesinwelshstone.co.uk. (See the blog entry 20 April 2009  Henry Tremble)Well, I have had more fascinating information today (26 May 2009). I started the day with a radio interview on our local station Swansea Sound. They only wanted five minutes from me so it was over very quickly and so I went off to the Central Library to meet the convenor of a local history group, Marilyn Jones. They have asked me to speak on Saturday 20 June 2009 and I wanted to look at the room where I will be speaking. I was completely reassured. Not only does it have an inter-active whiteboard but also an absolutely fantastic view across the bay to Mumbles, so if the audience get bored when I am talking at least they will be able to take in the view.During our conversation Marilyn told me something very interesting. It was all because her husbands family came from Felindre, where I found the story of Eleanor Williams, who appears on page 84 of Volume One.Now this story gave me a lot of trouble when I was writing it because there never seemed to be enough detail about her. She was murdered and thrown into a well on Llwyngwenno Farm in Felindre near Swansea in 1832 but apart from that the poor girls trail was very cold indeed. In the end, I based my writing upon the startling similarities between her death and that of Margaret Williams in Cadoxton, the very first story I ever researched. Two servant girls, both from Carmarthenshire, both pregnant and both murdered.If you have read the piece, either in the magazine or in the book, you will remember that I speculate about why the gravestone in Nebo Chapel names the farmer for whom she worked as a servant, Thomas Thomas. Well of course it is a very significant detail, and once more it reflects the Cadoxton murder in an uncanny way.Quite simply the community in this rather small and enclosed little village believed they knew who had killed Eleanor. It was the son of Thomas Thomas, just as the Cadoxton Community believed that the farmers son Llewellyn Richard had killed Margaret Williams nine years earlier. Indeed Felindre modelled its response on their reaction. They were convinced they knew who had done it. They couldnt prove it but they didnt really need the law. What they wanted was justice. So they erected their accusatory gravestone, just as they had done in Cadoxton. They might not have had the revenge they wanted, but they never forgot. Marilyn told me about the people painting the gates of the Nebo Chapel red on his wedding day. She said that they painted parts of the road red too. Even at that moment he could not escape from what he had done. Or at least what they thought he had done.These are not the sort of details that normally find their way out of the oral tradition. I am sure there is more information like this waiting for me. Just as it was with the story of Sara Hughes in north Wales in Brithdyr (Welsh Country Magazine  May 2009) there is a residual memory of these dramatic events in local communities that needs to be captured.That means that this project of mine is still a work in progress  and about this I am extremely pleased.(Because of the additional information I include about the story of Eleanor Williams, I will post this blog on my own web site and on the Welsh Country Website.)]]></description>
                <pubDate>Tue, 26 May 2009 22:19:51 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Cnapan - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/503/cnapan</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/503</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[Cnapan means two things to me. The first and perhaps more important is that it represents an excellent restaurant with rooms in Newport Pembrokeshire. It is a beautifully elegant place, a listed Georgian townhouse on East Street and I love going there. It is so relaxed and comfortable. You are made to feel at home from the moment you walk through the door. The bedrooms are full of character and we sat in ours for a while before our meal on Friday (15 May 2009), watching the wind drive the rain in from the sea. From the window we could see the church looking down on us and Mynydd Carningli behind, drifting in and out of the low cloud.I can recommend Cnapan without reservation and I can definitely suggest the fish stew, whilst Liz would recommend the chicken cooked with puy lentils and chorizo. The wine was good too. Then the weather, which had been wet and miserable all day, unexpectedly lifted. It was suddenly a lovely spring evening and we walked down to Parrog and watched the sunset. It was beautiful. I have added three pictures of Fridays sunset to my page on the website. I really enjoyed it.Here is the Cnapan website. http://www.cnapan.co.ukHowever, Cnapan is also the name of an ancient and vicious game which was popular in medieval and Tudor times. It is an ancestor of rugby apparently. It didnt spread much outside Pembrokeshire and you can understand why. Modern re-creations of the game have not prospered largely because no one will provide insurance cover. When it was revived for a match between Wales and England, the Welsh won easily, as a consequence of not explaining the rules. Not that here are many to be frank.It must have been quite an event, with the game stretching for miles. It was played with a hard wooden ball, rather like a cricket ball. It was perhaps a little larger than a tennis ball. This was the cnapan. The object was to take the ball back home to your own parish church. Simple really.Opposing teams were huge, with hundreds of players. In fact a team was usually the entire male population of a village.There was an annual grudge match between Newport and nearby Nevern. The game would start on the beach  Traeth Mawr and the game would rage its way along roads, across fields and through hedges. Players were on foot, although the gentry took part on horseback, armed with staves and cudgels. Their objective was probably to remain fully clothed in order to preserve a little of the dignity appropriate to their position. The others played in only trousers or breeches since any other clothes would be ripped off. It was a good idea to keep your hair and beard short, apparently. You might ask yourself how in such circumstances you could distinguish members of the other side but I dont suppose it mattered that much. Injuries were common as you might expect, and deaths not unusual.There were tactics  of a kind. There were positions like backs and forwards, and tacklers. There was passing and marking. But mostly it was fighting.The game usually ended either when darkness intervened or when the players went home because victory for one side seemed inevitable.In the still and peaceful sunset on Friday it was hard to think that this village had once been the home of such mayhem. To be honest, as an outsider who doesnt carry the rugby gene, cnapan doesnt seem a great deal different from its modern-day counterpart. But then what do I know? What I do know is that I have no doubt as to which particular Cnapan I prefer.And we shall be going back. ]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sun, 17 May 2009 18:00:25 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[The Lost Village - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/482/the-lost-village</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/482</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[They say that near Ferryside in Carmarthenshire there is the thirteenth century village of St. Ishmael, But it is rarely seen. That is because it is submerged in the bay.It isnt clear why it disappeared. West Wales was a remote place and news didnt often travel very far. Often the news never made the leap from Welsh into English. Often it was never written down. There is certainly no record of what happened. The local people say that it was swamped by an enormous tidal wave caused by a volcanic eruption in the Bristol Channel but here is no evidence to support this.These days the ruins are rarely exposed, especially since they have diminished over time. Local farmers have on occasion helped themselves to the stone to build up their walls when it has emerged from the sea.Of course the wind and the tide continue to do their work.Some say that it isnt a village at all. They say that the stonework that is sometimes exposed is part of an elaborate fish weir, built to trap fish for Whitland Abbey. It fell into disuse when it became silted up. This makes sense too.The parish of St Ishmael lies on the estuary of the River Towy and this might give a clue what might have happened. A catastrophic storm of some kind could have re-arranged the shoreline. Certainly the tides constantly change the landscape. The shifting sands of Cefn Sidan, which is always reshaping itself, are never still. Maps drawn at different times throughout history show a changing shoreline. Maps of the estuary where three rivers  the Gwendraeth, the Taf and the Towy - flow into the sea have never been much more than an approximation.The church of St Ishmael is still there, built upon higher ground, and the main railway line to London rushes along next to estuary whilst the stones rest quietly and mysteriously alongside.It is a perfect example of hidden history. There are still untold and undiscovered stories from the past wherever we look. It is our job sometimes just to move aside the clinging sands that obscure them so that we can see more clearly.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sat, 09 May 2009 18:34:16 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Signing books in Cardiff - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/471/signing-books-in-cardiff</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/471</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[On Saturday I was out once again, meeting my public. This time it was Borders in Cardiff, a shop in the old David Morgan building on The Hayes. It is a nice shop, large and busy and I was certainly very well looked after by the staff, especially Vicki. However, promotion remains hard work. My grandmother was a hard working and successful market trader in South Yorkshire but I am afraid I dont seem to have inherited her gifts. People out and about on a Saturday dont want to be harassed; they just want to be left alone. They certainly dont want to be approached by a writer with a wild look in his eyes. I can clear an area around me almost instantly, so sales in the Biography section must have plummeted, because that is where they put me  between bargain cookery books and Buy One Get One Free offers.I did manage to waylay the unsuspecting on a couple of occasions and I was questioned for a while by one young woman who seemed to believe that the book was in some way about architecture.Even after I had explained it all to her.A way to go, as they say.Everyone who looks at the book is impressed by the production values and is fascinated by the stories, but it is hard to get people to commit their cash in these difficult financial times. Still, it is always interesting to observe the people around you. If nothing else, it helps the time pass.One young woman was pacing up and down in a very agitated state. She was shouting into her mobile phone. It had nothing to do with that! Thats not why we split up! She stamped off and then reappeared a little later , still shouting, and getting very excitable about bed linen. If it was genuine then it was mightily tense. If it was an avant-garde type of street theatre then it was highly effective. Either way I thought it best not to intrude. A book that contains murder might not have been the best idea. On the other hand...In the end I sold four books, which I was quite pleased about. I was only there for a little over an hour. One young man and his partner strode up very purposefully. Yes they wanted a book. His mother had just given him a car so he wanted to buy her a present in return. Stories in Welsh Stone was apparently ideal.I was pleased to oblige. It is important that we all do our best to keep families in a state of harmony. You do wonder though what sort of car it was and what condition it was in.So Jenny, if you do ever read this blog, I hope you will feel that you got the best end of the bargain...Next stop Aberystwyth in Waterstones Bookshop, on Saturday 16 May 2009.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Sun, 03 May 2009 20:31:17 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Bundling - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/463/bundling</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/463</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[The facts of the story are simple.Charles Jeffreys, a gentleman of independent means. Prosperous. Had a big house called Gwynfryn near Aberystwyth. A county magistrate.He was sued by Evan Williams, a farm worker. 23 years old.The crime? A violent assault on 4 May 1870.You see, Jeffreys thought that Williams was a burglar and you can understand why, but he wasnt. I better explain.Evan Williams was courting Sarah Williams, a housemaid in Jeffreys house. She invited her beloved to come to the house one night where they could indulge in the Welsh courtship practice of bundling.He took his pal with him for company. This was Evan Jenkins, who was keen to visit Ellen Jones, another servant at Gwynfryn. Jenkins was also to sue Jeffreys for assault as we shall see.Anyway, they turned up, full of anticipation I am sure, at 8.30 pm and were told by the cook, Eliza , to wait until the man-servant had finished his supper. The two boys slipped into the wash house and took off their boots. Well, its important.Then, when the coast was clear, they nipped silently up the back stairs to the maids bedroom.Now, this bundling business.It did exercise quite a lot of opinion at the time since it wasnt an English way of proceeding, but there was nothing complicated about it. All very straightforward actually.The two sweethearts would lie side by side in bed, talking. It was called car war y gwely  courting in bed. And the staid English saw it as immoral, pagan behaviour? Cant think why.Lets be honest, it is not without its attractions. Comfortable. Warm. And most importantly, dry. No secret assignations in a wet barn. And it beats standing around in the driving Welsh rain. It gives you a chance to talk about other things too, not just how wet your feet are.As you might imagine, bundling was blamed for all kinds of immorality, for high levels of rural illegitimacy or a hasty marriage to cover shame. You will not be surprised to learn that Ministers preached against it. Bundling was condemned from some pulpits as The Great Sin of Wales. Parents and employers were urged to stamp it out. But the point about the rain swings it for me.Anyway, picture the scene. By 10.00 pm the candle was snuffed out. We have Evan and Sarah bundling in one bedstead and Evan and Ellen in another. All very cosy Im sure. Eliza the cook was in a small bed on the floor, presumably feeling a little left out. Of course everyone was fully dressed, obviously, though the two boys had taken their coats off. Well, it doesnt rain indoors.And everything was fine. As the court report indicates  and I shall, where possible, let those involved speak in their own words, as reported to the court,  They continued in this position and chatted away until early morn. Very cosy. Entirely innocent I am sure.Then, at 2.00am, they heard someone coming upstairs. Mrs. Jeffreys had heard voices you see. Sure enough, she appeared in the bedroom with a lighted candle. Evan Williams attempt to hide under the counterpane was futile. Hed been spotted. So whilst he was grabbing his coat, she was screaming downstairs to her husband.Charlie! Charlie!It was clearly time for the boys to make their excuses, especially when Charlie appeared, carrying a big stick. Hed been outside, searching the garden, thinking the girls had been talking to men from their window. But it was worse than that. They were inside. It was two in the morning. He was not a happy bunny.I beg your pardon sir, said Evan Williams.I am going to kill you, replied Mr. Jeffreys. To be honest, he does seem rather tetchy.He attacked Williams with his stick, immediately breaking his nose. The poor boy crashed back into the washstand and Williams and Jenkins desperately tried to get downstairs, with blows raining down on their heads and shoulders. They got into the kitchen but the backdoor was locked and bolted. Trapped.In the kitchen there was Jeffreys brother in law, the Reverend Mr. Truman, who happened to be staying at Gwynfryn. This was not the sort of nocturnal entertainment that came his way that often. Tonight he had a ring-side seat. He watched as Jeffreys put his stick on the table and started to thump the two boys mightily and to man-handle them along the hall and out of the front door.According to Reverend Mr. Truman they seemed rather glad to get away. One of them was heard to say, Well I shall never come here again, which shows that at least hed picked up the hint. They also stopped to pick up their boots, though they were apparently too frightened to put them on.Things hadnt quite gone to plan. A bad night all round.The Reverend gentleman, on giving evidence, did say that it was a lucky thing that Jeffreys had not firearms with him, as he might have fired upon them, under the impression that they were burglars. And that was surely the point. As the defence pointed out, could the custom of bundling be any justification for the presence of strange men in a gentlemans house at any time they pleased to come? A good point I think, and certainly one the two girls had ever considered.As it was, the boys injuries were extensive. Cuts, bruises, black eyes, a dislocated thumb and a broken nose. The girls were dismissed. Ellen was back at home with her parents in Ruthin and Sarah was back with her Dad, a master butcher also in RuthinLoves young dream shattered.Ellen told the court that she didnt know whether Jenkins and herself would make a match of it. Evan Williams, on the basis of his annual wages of 14 10s, had, apparently, made up his mind to marry Sarah, though what she thought about the idea isnt clear. What is clear however is that he wasnt going to go courting according to the custom of the country again. The public gallery was quite amused by this comment.But hang on a minute, he had issues.He was unable to go to work as a result of this misfortune. Not only that, but he was in a sick club. And the sick club declined to give him his sick pay because of the way in which hed received his injuries. On the whole, his evening of bundling hadnt worked out at all well.So he wanted compensation for his injuries.The crux of the case was whether Jeffreys had the right to take the law into his own hands in this way.Mr. Johnes expressed some sympathy, speaking as one gentleman to another. The servant girls had violated the trust put in them. But Jeffreys response had been excessive. The assault was serious and the men didnt retaliate or resist. So Jenkins and Williams were entitled to damages. So far so good. They had in fact asked for 50 each, but his honour hoped the jury would consider the gross misconduct in trespassing in Mr. Jeffreys house for what was clearly an immoral purpose. Minimal damages seemed right to him. But he was out of step with rural sensibilities.The jury were only out for 15 minutes and, on their return, showed more sympathy than Mr. Johnes for the old way of doing things. They awarded 15 to each of the would-be lovers, which was the equivalent of Williams annual wages.The English press were rather amused by the whole business, especially since the jury showed some sympathy for the nocturnal adventurers. The Illustrated Police News that ran with the story - and commissioned some lively art work that showed the assault in the bedroom  points out that bundling also happened in Scotland. It then goes on In Orkney the very same practise prevails and is no doubt the cause of much rural immorality and shame. Though why Orkney should be identified as a seething hotbed of immorality and shame, rather than the Scottish mainland isnt explained. Perhaps hed had a bad experience with a kipper. He continues, Welsh courtship is a curiosity. No woman, however humble, shows proper self respect who allows a man to approach her unbecomingly and irreverently.Quite right too.But I am afraid to say that these are obviously the reflections of a man who has no experience of Welsh rain.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Tue, 28 Apr 2009 11:37:48 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[Bedside Manners - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/456/bedside-manners</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/456</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[I spend a lot of my time rooting around the damp undergrowth of the internet, like a pig looking for truffles. Sometimes you find them and sometimes you dont. And sometimes you can pick up a faint scent. Often it is fascinating stuff but it doesnt really lead anywhere. You know there is a story there,but you just haven't got enough material. Details have slipped through the fingers of history.A gravestone is the most important item. There is no point having a story but having no headstone. That has been the central part of the project since we started. I have been known to cheat when I have found a really good story. I did this with Martha Nash from Swansea. We know where she was buried but the grave itself has disappeared. It was such a sad story I wanted to publish anyway. (See the November 2008 edition of Welsh Country Magazine)But generally there isnt much point if I havent got a headstone or a substantial story. But, as I say, sometimes...I came across this little story some months ago. It comes from 1607, which means that a grave is almost an impossibility. It might have survived if it was that of a nobleman, but as the grave of an ordinary person? 400 years ago? No chance.The story comes from Hanmer in Flintshire and concerns Elinor Evans who was a maidservant. She had injured her ankle and a surgeon named William Jones was called. She had financial assistance from her friends and neighbours to pay for treatment. It cost 30 shillings. You can judge for yourself whether she got value for money.You see, it did not go well. Once he had the money the surgeon neglected his duties. In a short tyme (her) legg and bonn did putrifye and petrishe. Now personally I would regard this as bad news. Elinor did too.She called him back and gave him more money, this time to perform an amputation. For those of you who know Flauberts Madame Bovary there are certain echoes here. But it gets worse. He now decided to devote more time to her than he had originally, for he did so perswade and entise (her) to yeald and consent to his leud and fleshly desire that he begat her with child. Perhaps in those pre-anaesthetic days it was the only way he had to take her mind off things. Perhaps his best hope of success came with a woman who might struggle to run away, but perhaps I am being unkind.Jones had been bound over to appear at Denbigh Great Sessions, since he was being pursued for maintenance and he had gone into hiding. Sadly I dont know any more than this, but it certainly adds a little something to the traditional doctor/patient relationship.But if Elinor had had access to those amputation tools the story might have ended very differently.]]></description>
                <pubDate>Fri, 24 Apr 2009 20:44:30 +0100</pubDate>
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                <title><![CDATA[On a visit to Beaumaris - @geoff-brookes]]></title>
                <link>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/455/on-a-visit-to-beaumaris</link>
                <guid>http://americymrunet.jamroomhosting.com/geoff-brookes/blog/455</guid>
                <description><![CDATA[We went to Anglesey to carry out vital research. Well actually it is more accurate to say that we went to enjoy ourselves. Graveyards can be an unattractive proposition when it is raining but in the pleasant weather we had, it was very nice to stroll around and read the messages our ancestors had left for us. It may have been February but it was dry and the countryside around us was pleasant, with a definite hint of spring. The roads were clear and the towns and villages slowly emerging after their winter hibernation. It felt as if North Wales was ours. It is exactly the right time of year to escape the urgent concerns of everyday life that can be so insistent. And for me, of course, that involves seeking out the slumbering stories beneath the stones.We drove over the Menai Bridge, negotiated the roadworks and made our first stop in Beaumaris. It was lovely, the beau marais (beautiful marsh) that the Normans identified, with fantastic views over the incoming tide to the Great Orme. It was a pleasure to arrive and to taste the hint in the air that spring was just around the corner.We went to the Triple 8 coffee shop for lunch on Church Street, in a distinctive building that had been a Wesleyan Chapel and then a fudge factory. The tiny kitchen produced an excellent soup  velvet smooth sweet potato and red pepper  and we had a chance to explore the art gallery in the same building, which had excellent pictures of glass by Jean Bell.But then of course it was off to work, to the parish church a short distance up the road. We wanted to see the tomb of Siwan, the illegitimate daughter of King John and the wife of Llywelyn Fawr (Llywelyn the Great). Hers is an absolutely fascinating story and one I really want to write up as soon as I can. The tomb is easy to find, for it is just inside the church. But the great thing was that we found another tomb, a superb chest tomb, by the door. Thats the thing you see. No matter how much you prepare and plan, you must still be receptive to the unexpected, even if it threatens to take you in a completely unexpected direction.We found this inscription.Here in hope of a joyful resurrection lieth John Hughes, gentleman, descended from the worthy family of Plas Coch. The loss of his sight from nine days old, God was pleased to compensate with some inward illuminating gifts. So good and gracious is God! His knowledge in the Holy Scriptures, poetry and music was wonderful. He sung in seven several languages, composed in some as well as sung. Thus blind and musical like Homer he pleased himself and diverted others. He knew the revolutions of the moon, the feasts and fasts of the church, whether backward or forward for sixty years. He was interred here the tenth day of December 1710.What an unexpected pleasure. How can anyone say that snooping around cemeteries is grim and morbid when you come across unexpected pleasures like this?And how many of us today would merit such an obituary?]]></description>
                <pubDate>Wed, 22 Apr 2009 20:52:17 +0100</pubDate>
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