Issue 14

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

Croeso!

This Winter edition of our Newsletter is no 14, and contains some seasonal tales including a ‘ghost’ story for Halloween, the problems encountered by a small boy on Bonfire night, and a Christmas poem written from the trenches of WW1 100 years ago. Plus a diary extract of a former Betws man, written in 1910, and some recipes from more straightened times.

Read an 1911 account of a visit to Pandy on page 7

NOTICE: All items printed in our newsletters come from archive material which in turn has been given to us by contributors, or researched from acknowledged sources by our members.

If any reader has additional information on the subjects listed, or wishes to correct an error, please get in touch with us via the website or ring the editor on 01656 856091.

Find us on Facebook!

@garwheritage

enquiry@garwheritage.co.uk

PAGE 1

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016 WHAT WE HAVE BEEN DOING IN 2016

The year started off with the move into our new premises above the vestry at Tabernacle ongoing. Much work was carried out by Roger to get rid of the woodworm in the floorboards and old cupboards, as these hadn’t been used for many years. Once Colin and Mel had installed the computer and printer it was then a matter for setting up a cataloguing system to label file and record our extensive collection. This has been taking much longer than anticipated, but it is an aim for completion by the end of 2017.

Exhibitions have been held in late Spring early Summer at Betws and Bryngarw House, both well attended (Bryngarw’s saw the first official engagement of the newly-appointed mayor and Mrs Reg Jenkins),recorded on the website, and a chapel- related exhibition was held at Tabernacle in conjunction with Cadw’s Open Doors project. A special concert, compered by the BBC’s Huw Edwards, was held in Tabernacle in September to commemorate the life of Merlin Maddock and we were able to display items and photographs relating to his life and work, as well as other Garw Heritage files. We were greatly encouraged by the enthusiastic support of Huw, who stressed how important it was to not forget the Valley’s heritage and to ensure 'that as much as possible be preserved for future generations'.

Gerald has continued his involvement with Ffaldau school, as a parent governor, always encouraging the young people to take an interest in their parents’ and grandparents’ history.

Of special note: Keith Brocklebank, one of our founder members, has completed the project he started at the onset, which was to photograph every street in the Garw, and his photographs can be seen on our website, www.garwheritage.co.uk.

WHAT WILL WE BE DOING IN 2017?

More exhibitions are planned for the Spring, and co-operation with the Garw Valley Railway Society may lead to further enterprise.

Starting after Christmas will be a monthly update box on our website and on Facebook which will relate what has been going on in the Society, what is current, and what we are trying to do. An invitation also, for suggestions and ideas from our followers.

WELSH PIÑATA - A GAME FOR A VICTORIAN CHRISTMAS Taken from Monmouthshire Merlin. 24/12/1859 Fill with sugared plums a large paper paper bag, and tie with string around the top to keep it closed. Then suspend it by the string from the centre of a large door-frame (a folding door, for instance, is ideal), or to the ceiling, if convenient. Each of the children must be provided with a with a long stick. They are then led one at a time to within reach of the bag, and direct them to try while blind-folded, to strike the bag with the stick, they are allowed three attempts; after which, if they are unsuccessful, they must give up their place to another. The play goes on in this manner until some one strikes the bag so as to tear a hole in the paper; upon which the sugar-plums fall out, and are scattered over the floor, whence all the children can scramble for them.

PAGE 2

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

THE DEVIL ON BRYN Y WRACH Old Morgan was a Coelporteur, a Bible hawker, who spent his days travelling the valleys of South Glamorgan.

From Brynmenyn he would set off up the Ogmore Valley and follow the road north-east, passing through village after village until he reached Lewistown.

There he would climb the winding path over Bryn-yWrach to Llangeinor and wend his way down into the Garw Valley and then back to his home in Brynmenyn.

Whenever he was thirsty or weary he called in at the taverns along the way for a mug of ale or a night’s rest.

Throughout the valleys he was a familiar sight,with his three- quarter length coat, brimmed hat, and a pack full of black bound samples.

At sunset one winter’s day he was climbing the slopes of Bryn-y-wrach.

The sky was overcast and an icy wind swept down the mountain path.

His legs were weary and his satchel weighed heavily on his shoulder.

Then he saw the grey walls of Ael-Y-Bryn, a little hillside farm, and a thankful sigh escaped his lips. “ My old friend Elias John,” he muttered to himself, and he trudged on, anticipating a wholesome supper, a blazing log fire, and a warm bed for the night.

At length he reached the farmhouse door and knocked upon it. It was the farmer’s daughter, Mair – a frosty uncharitable wench – who came to the door. She looked at the old hawker coldly.

“Noswaith dda, fy ngeneth.” ( Good evening, my young lady). “ Tell your father that his old friend, Morgan, has called on his way to Llangeinor.”

“He's gone to the village and won’t be back until long after nightfall.” Mair said sharply. Then the door was slammed in Morgan's face and he was left standing there, wearing a frown of indignation.

With darkness falling fast and the wind biting through his shabby coat, the hawker was too cold and weary

to continue his journey over the mountain, so he decided to shelter in Elias's barn and await the return of his friend. He knew that he would never be so inhospitable.

For a time he shuffled about on the straw strewn floor while the old brown cow nuzzled around in the trough beside him. Presently he saw a bright glow when the lamps were lit in the farmhouse, and once he thought he heard the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

Curious, he crept over to the farmhouse window and peered through the shutters, and there he saw Mair, the deceitful wench, sitting at the table with Meredith, a field-hand whom, only last summer, Elias John had chased from the barn with a pitchfork for philandering with his daughter. He had dared him to set foot on his land again.

For a while the two sat close together, and then Mair brought a large pie from the oven and laid it before her lover. Next, she brought two flagons of ale from the larder. Watching, Morgan licked his lips as the golden crust was broken. There was nothing he liked better than a freshly baked meat pie.

It was just then that the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves was heard on the cobblestones. Mair was startled. She rushed about the kitchen wondering how to conceal the evidence of her young man's presence, for she well remembered her father’s promise that if ever he caught Meredith skulking around Ael-Y-Bryn he would stake his carcase out in the fields to scare away the crows.

It was hardly any time at all before Elias John's footsteps crossed from the stable to the house. Mair rushed this way and that. The steaming pie was hidden beneath the pendulum of the grandfather clock, and the flagons of ale were hurriedly concealed in the butter churn. Meredith, with no time to escape, crouched out of sight inside a spacious boiler which stood in the corner of the kitchen.

Continued…..

PAGE 3

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

THE DEVIL ON BRYN Y WRACH CONTINUED Elias leaned forward in his chair and said “ Morgan, we are old friends and I always enjoy a good tale so please carry on.”

“Well”, said Morgan, “if you are sure.” “ It was back last summer I was just crossing the mountain on my way to Blaengarw, when who should I meet upon the path but Old Mallt!” Elias started at the name. “Not Old Mallt, the witch herself ? ” “The very same,” said Morgan. “What did you do?” enquired Elias excitedly. “Well I was a little afraid I must admit, coming face to face with the witch of the mountain,but I could see that she had a heavy bundle of firewood and I asked if I could carry it for her!”

“Diawl you did!” said Elias, “ what did the old crone say to that?”

“She thanked me most kindly and I took the bundle from her, and we walked on together for some of the way until the path forks and she took it back. She thanked me again and gave me a reward” “ Reward you say”, gasped Elias, “Tell me it was gold!”“ Well was it?”

“No Elias it was not gold. It was better than that!”

“Duw man, what can be better than gold I ask you?” laughed Elias. Morgan went on to say that for his kindness Old Mallt had told him a secret spell. Elias John's eyes lit up with enthusiasm. He drew his chair closer.

“Magic spells is it?” he whispered.

A mischievous smile wrinkled the corners of old Morgan's mouth. “You might wonder how she never starves, all alone there on the mountain.”

There was only the tick of the old grandfather clock and the crackle of burning wood when Morgan raised his arms and in a solemn voice, recited Mallt's spell.

“Gwrando arnaf, o Yspryd y Mynnydd!” (Hear me , Spirit of the Mountain!)

He began with much volume. Then he took a handful of salt from the table and sprinkled into the fire, gazing into the blue flames as he muttered the secret words At length the spell was cast. Morgan searched around the kitchen, first behind the little door of the grandfather clock and then inside the milk churn, he returned to the table with two flagons of ale and delicious looking meat pie. Elias's eyes widened in surprise.

The two men tucked in to the 'magical' supper with relish. Then after exchanging more reminiscent tales, Morgan volunteered another demonstration of his powers. Old Mallt, he explained, had taught him a spell with which he could summon Satan himself.

“Arglwydd Mawr!”(Great God!) Elias John exclamed, crossing himself, for he had no wish to encourage the Devil.

“He would never appear to good Christian folk,” Morgan assured him. “But should he be seen on the slopes of Bryn-y-Wrach, then you will know how to drive him off with the fear of God, and he will never darken your door again.” So with much trepidation the old farmer agreed to the demonstration.

Once more Morgan raised his arms, and after calling “Gwrando arnal, o Yspryd y Mynydd” many times each with more volume than the last, he recited some sinister spell. Whilst doing this he lit the kindling wood beneath the kitchen boiler with a spill from the fire. Mair, the farmer’s daughter gave a stifled cry and fled the room.

“Take this stick,” said Morgan. “and if Old Nick appears you must fill his black heart with terror, and banish him from this place!”

The minutes passed. The farmer watched anxiously as the flames licked around the base of the boiler. But Meredith still crouched silently inside.

“He'll know that there will be no welcome for him here,” Elias whispered.

Then, as the wood crackled and smoke curled towards the farmhouse ceiling, a sound like the rumble of thunder was heard within the boiler.

A moment later the boiler lid flew off and, with a startled cry, the figure of Meredith sprang into view, howling and panting as though he had escaped from the very fires of Hell itself. Through the smoke and shadowy light he rushed towards the two men.

With an oath – and surprising agility for one of his age – Elias John chased Meredith around the room, raining blows upon his head with the stick. It was hardly any time at all before Meredith managed to find the door and fled through it and disappeared howling into the night. “ Arglwydd Mawr!” Elias John gasped when he had regained his composure. “ I would never have dreamt it...Arglwydd trugarha!”

Then he gave a little chuckle. “You know, Morgan, I could have sworn...Well, as he dashed past me in fright –- in the dim lamplight and all – he had about him the wicked, shiftless look of that field hand from over Bryn-y-Wrach, that one I chased off last summer.”

That night Elias John slept with a clear conscience.

Morgan curled up on a blanket on the chair by the fire. As for Mair, perhaps she cried herself to sleep.

From a collection of Tales of South Wales by Ken Radford. Published by Charles Skilton.

Abridged by G.Jarvis

PAGE 4

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

Remember, Remember!

Back many years ago when Bonfire night really meant something to a child, and we were not beset by the Health and Safety bullies, any child could go into a shop and buy fireworks if they had the money. I am not talking about the aerial mines and mega explosives of today which can be heard throughout the year, fired off in volleys in celebration of almost any event, but the ancestors of these blockbusters, the humble penny banger, which was within the reach of most children pockets. In those days fireworks were only sold about a fortnight before November the fifth, and not at all afterward. You could see in some shop windows the large multi-coloured boxes, which contained Roman candles, Catherine wheels, and the more exotically named Pharaoh's fire or Sparkling Snowflakes. There were also rockets which could only be handled by adults using an empty milk bottle launching pad, which flew off into the night sky with a terrific Whoosh!

My attentions however were always drawn to the 'bigger bang'. Penny bangers went off with a satisfying enough crack but the anarchist in me thirsted for more, which is why I hatched a plan for my Shilling banger. This was quite simply 12 penny bangers let off with a single fuse. There were technical problems involving fuses and after several failed attempts I decided to open up the fireworks and pour the gunpowder into an empty 12 bore cartridge case. When this was done I still had the fuse problem to solve but I got around that by using an impact fuse made from live match heads. Next, where to explode this little beauty? I needed a hole in which to put the cartridge so I could drop a weight onto it to ignite the match heads. Looking around outside I found the perfect place. Our front gate was cast iron (heavy) and it hinged in a round hole set into the front step, perfect! Setting this up was no problem. Fitting the 'super banger' into the hole and propping the gate up with a block of wood, I tied some string to the block and retired to a place of safety, behind my front door, using the letter box as an observation slit. I yanked the string and the gate dropped: there was an almighty Bang, lots of smoke and that beautiful firework smell that you always used to get on the morning after Bonfire night. When the smoke cleared I realised that the experiment was not the success I had expected. The front gate was in pieces, shattered by the explosion! This was not part of the plan at all! How was I going to explain this to my Mother, who at this time was at her regular Bingo session in the Memorial Hall?

I had to think, and fast. I had to cover up this disaster, but how? Then it came to me, at this time most of the houses in the Garw had iron gates like mine: I would search for an identical gate and replace ours. There was no time to lose as it was getting dark, so I dashed around the surrounding streets looking for a substitute. I found just the gate in a nearby street, lifted it off its hinges and carried it back home. No mean feat for an 11 year old, but I was fuelled with adrenalin from the fear of being found out. It was a simple job to fit it into our gateway (thank God for standardised housing). I cleared away the remains of the old gate and went in to bed. Like most people we usually used the back door, so my mother would not be suspicious when she came home. continued page 6 PAGE 5

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

REMEMBER, REMEMBER CONTINUED

I slept the sleep of the innocent and went to school the next day confident that I had pulled off the perfect crime. When I came home from school I went in and all hell broke loose around me. My mother laid into me like a prize-fighter at the fair, slaps and curses fell on me in equal measure: she was shouting about the gate, damage, Police , Borstal, it was all I could do to protect myself. When she had worn herself out a little, she demanded to know my side of the story. I snivelled my version from the comparative safety of beneath the kitchen table and plucked up courage to ask her how she had found out. She told me that a very angry man had come to the front door that morning and demanded his gate back! " How did he know it was his gate?” I asked, “it was identical to the one I blew up!" Well, in my fearful haste to find a gate like ours I had not allowed for colour difference! Our gate was painted black and white and the 'stolen' gate was painted dark green and yellow, and in the dark it looked identical. I was sent out to take the gate back to its owners and to apologise: it was strange that that gate weighed far more taking it back! I did not have any fireworks that Bonfire night; I had to console myself by watching everybody else's from my bedroom window (and secretly dreamed of perhaps a Two Shilling banger next year)?

FROM THE ARCHIVES A recipe from the 1930’s for those who like a tipple Parsnip Wine Wash 3 and 1/2 lbs of parsnips (no metric then) but do not peel them. Put them into a large pan with 5 quarts of water. Bruise 2oz of ginger and add to the pan, together with 2 lemons, sliced. Let it stand for 24 hours then boil the mixture until the parsnips are soft but not pulped.

Stir in 2lbs of sugar and let the mixture cool. Put 1oz of yeast on a piece of toast and float it on the liquid, letting it work for 12 hours. Skim, and pour the liquid into a stone jar with ½ lb of raisins and allow it to work over before corking up. Let it stand for 3 months and then put into glass bottles.

This makes a splendid wine (we are assured), at little cost.

And to eat with this, a recipe for fig pudding, also from the 1930’s : Ingredients are: 4oz suet, 5oz breadcrumbs, 1oz flour, 3oz caster sugar, a little salt, 1 egg, 1/4lb figs, a little milk, 1teaspoon baking powder.

Method: Mix dry ingredients together. Add egg and enough milk to make the mixture fairly wet, and lastly add the baking powder.

Steam for 2 hours.

Footnote: With the benefit of hindsight I do realise that my actions could have had far more disastrous consequences, although a 'hammering' from my Mam was not to be sniffed at. I was lucky not to be injured in the explosion, and lucky to live in a time when this sort of experiment was possible. Children today will not understand the joys of wandering the streets in search of Bonfire material, and the pride in protecting it from all comers until November the Fifth. They will not enjoy eating semi- raw charcoaled spuds 'cooked' in the embers, and they will not enjoy walking to school the next morning picking up dead rocket sticks with a view to perhaps making your own Super Rocket, capable of reaching the furthest reaches of the galaxy, or even Wyndham! Bearing, of course, a fraternal greeting from the people of the Garw Valley.

PAGE 6

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

Edward Thomas (Cochfarf), 1853-1912 Edward Thomas was born in 1853 in Betws at Nantymwyth farmhouse, son to Llewellyn Thomas, who died when he was 10 years of age. He was educated in Betws, but on his father’s death the family moved to Melin Ifan Ddu. By 1878 he had gone to Cardiff to work as a carpenter on the old Cardiff Town Hall in St Mary Street, a building he was to frequently enter as a representative of the Cardiff ratepayers, becoming a councillor in 1890 and mayor in 1902. He was deeply interested in history and antiquities and a passionate supporter of the Society for the Preservation of the Welsh Language, as well as being a staunch liberal, working for the disestablishment and disendowment of the Church in Wales. His second marriage was to a daughter of the Rev. Richard Hughes of Maesteg, who as Madame Hughes Thomas became widely known for her Welsh Ladies’ Choir which toured world-wide. It was when Edward accompanied her on her tour to Pittsburg in Pensylvania that he was able to help and advise on the setting up of the international eisteddfod that was held at Pittsburgh in 1913, an event he was unable to live to see.

Here’s what he wrote in about his birthplace in 1910: BETTWS: HOME OF THE AWENYDDION. (BARDS)

By Mr. Edward Thomas J.P. ( Cochfarf), 30/9/1910 In my rambles up and down the hill and dales of this lovely Glamorgan, I would like to take you on the path leading to the ' Land of Awenyddyion,' Bettws Ty Iarll, the rendezvous of the Bards of Glamorgan. Follow me from Tondu up to the quaint village of Coytrahen, and across the Llynfi river, over the old arch-bridge, and turn to the style that leads into a fairy-like and romantic path, after a walk of about fifteen minutes we reach a notable old farm-house called Nant-y-mwyth, which nestles peacefully under the hill of Bettws Tir Iarll, where I lived for some time. A little higher up Ton-y-Bettws is reached, then down to Pandy, once the home of that master bard, Ieuon Bradford, who gave lessons on Reolan Bardas to Will Hopkin, Iolo Morganwg, and others of the Beird Tir Iarll. Pandy is still in a good state of preservation after bearing very many winters, and an aspect of stability is impressed on the beholder when he comes into view the impressive thickness of its walls. But it is a crying disgrace that the old fulling mill building and Tynerdy is now going into total ruin. Bradford's house is now in the hands of a Mr. William Hall, and long may it shelter him.

The truth must be owned: my trouble about writing about my native parish was to know what to mention and what not to mention. Every inch of ground from Llwyniorath and Nantymwth to Ton y Bettws is sacred to me. Well I remember plodding through the snow and sleet, on the back of my grandfather's old mare 'Brown,' to the 'old' mill at Pandy, where our corn was ground and was subsequently made into good 'Bara gwenith.' I have benefited in good health until this day having been fed on it.

PAGE 7

ISSUE 14

WINTER 2016

A ‘CHRISTMAS’ POEM A ‘Christmas’ poem written from the trenches of WW1, a hundred years ago, by Staff Sergeant Evans Last year in comfort and good cheer, We swanked in civvy clothes, All blooming gentlemen of worth, Who slept in soft repose; Today beneath the German guns, At any rate near enough, We wait in Flanders for the Huns Christmas, without Plum Duff.

Cambria's mountains, phantoms faint, Come to us in dreams; The little village on the hill, The woodland and the streams.

OUR WEBSITE

Full of photos from our archive and local stories and memories, the Garw Valley Society website is building up a collection of local stories of past events and personalities. www.garwheritage.co.uk

Now in front, or somewhere near, Marooned without one plea, In a brewery without the beer,* And very little tea.

When Christmas comes a year from now, No Flanders mud for me, No brewery without the beer, No dishes full of tea.

But then we shall have thrashed the Huns, Or sent them straight to Heaven, And home to glory we shall march, Our noble Twenty seven.** * 27 was the number of the 77th Sanitary Section of the Welsh Division. ** Staff Sergeant Evans was billeted in a bombed out brewery at the time of writing this.

CHRISTMAS CARDS New designs!

Please see our website for cards available showing local views with a seasonal flavour.

They are also on display at the Community Centre in Pontycymer where they can be bought for 60p each, or 4 for £2 from GVHS Secretary Jean on 01656 856091.

PAGE 8