I never tired of this view and still don't - partly because it is the one view that impresses upon me where I really am !

I've always hoped to visit this monument. Like most who were alive on that fateful November day in 1963, I remember exactly where I was when I heard - sitting watching Emergency Ward 10 with my grandad !

This is certainly one of the highlights thus far - the Giant Pandas in the Washington Zoo. I've always wanted to see one, and now I have !

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This building got my vote for the top D.C. visitor attraction - the Library of Congress. Apparently very few of the natives ever go there, silly, it is quite 'awesome'.

One of the things you notice quite quickly here is the grandeur and cleanliness of the 'rest-rooms', public loo to you and I. They are something else and I have become fascinated to photograph them. Once again, the Library of Congress stands out !

This tickled me, I thought dog walking services were just something that happened in films, like 'In Her Shoes', but no, it actually is a seriously important service, and it costs ! The other amusing 'service' I saw, but could not really snap, was a barrow, like a two wheel market barrow, on which were four rows of bench seats in which sat nursery kids being wheeled along by one nanny !!

The other icon of the D.C. skyline, the Washington Memorial.

The other iconic building is of curse the Pentagon, seen here from Arlington Cemetery. I found it strange that right outside the Pentagon is a huge bus stop and metro station with entrances into the building, no pictures are allowed there and there are a lot of men with short hair, dark glasses and machine guns......

The amphitheatre at the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior in Arlington National Cemetery is a sombre impressive place where all the dignitaries gather at times of National remembrance.

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The Frontier Heritage Museum of Virginia has houses from the U.K., Ireland, Germany and from the State itself, all depicting stages of the evolution of domestic farmstead architecture.

The 18th Century Irish farmhouse and buildings was my favourite exhibit at the Frontier Heritage museum. The display of old tools and equipment might have influenced me a little.

The interior of the Irish farmhouse had period (rare and real !) furniture and fittings such as this rush light - y'all know I love rush lights

I was enthralled by the zig zag fencing in the museum which is a traditional free standing cleft timber (oak maybe) structure that can be easily moved. I am going to have a go at making some when I get home.

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This is the famous Lawn area of Virginia University with small student flats around the sides. It is a very desirable University and only the cream get to live in this area.

Thomas Jefferson's mansion at Monticello outside Charlottesville, Virginia. For such an immense man the house was not at all over done. I especially liked the clever 'gimmicks' like his door mechanisms, clock systems and bed alcoves.

These old wooden cabin type houses and barns are still to be seen, dotted around the landscape or in the wooded areas, they date back into the 1800s.

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This is the house where we built the fire pit, it is early 20th century and wooden. I love the old swing o the porch and the setting, this is near Carrboro in North Carolina.

The fire pit we built was near the cabin in the distance, this is taken from the house.

The fire pit is a common accessory for garden / woodland living out here. This one is dug in clay and is therefore likely to have its own water supply for dousing !

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Statues and monuments abound in the Universities, this one, depicting slaves holding a great burden, is in Chapel Hill on the University of North Carolina campus (UNC)

The Atlanta skyline is dramatic indeed, the traffic is dramatic indeed indeed.

Fort Benning, Georgia, it is a huge base for the U.S. Army

The Colour Troop stand-to at the Ranger graduation ceremony

The tower where rope training takes place at the Ranger Training School, Fort Benning, Georgia

The display consisted of mock patrols and other daring do's

The extraction demonstration was impressive, four Rangers dangling under a Black Hawk ain't the sort of thing you get to see every day, even at Fort Benning !

Just a taster of the things I’ve seen and done so far on this amazing trip through the South.  Two weeks gone and two more to go, much of the next week will be spent earning my keep out in the woods at a cabin owned by a family member where Whitney and I have to build a dry stone double arched bridge over a ‘creek’.  As the last few days have seen nothing but rain the water level will be up and it will be an interesting little dual between us and the power of the stream.  We went out to buy the stone on Saturday, about 10 tons of it (stone is expensive over here, that little lot cost over $2000, which increases the pressure to do a good job) which will gradually be turned into a little piece of W & W stone art (Whitney and Welshwaller) here in the hills of Table Rock Mountain, South Carolina.  It may be a while before you hear from me again – mountain cabins are bereft of modern technologies (thank goodness !) but have no fear, I will re-appear before too long – unless a Grizzly gets me that is !!

We headed south out of D.C. on Sunday after a memorable few days.  I met up with the (now retired) Director of the Smithsonian Folklife Festival, Diana Parker and her delightfully humorous hubby, Dick, at their home out in Bethesda.  She honoured a long time promise of making me a pound cake which was quite exceptional (apparently, hubby says, she NEVER does that !) and talked with us long and generously.  The last afternoon was spent finishing off the visit to the American History museum and in particular the ‘America at War’ exhibitions, which I found very interesting, particularly the view from this side, of modern conflicts.  After a brief discussion with the ‘hosts’ (who had been away skiing) we loaded up and headed out (as they say here) toward the Shenandoah  National Park hoping to run down the 150 mile ridgeway that runs through it, alas ice had closed the road so instead we drove through the valley which was, to my mind, more fascinating.  The rolling fields and small woods were dotted with farmsteads of timber built houses and old style barns.  Now and then some old tractors or machinery was spotted in some ramshackle outback kind of place, just my kind of ‘poodling’.  We were heading for a museum I had heard about from a friend at the National Museum of Wales, St. Fagans.

The Virginia Frontier Heritage Museum has brought out to that part of of the State, complete farmsteads from Ireland, England, Scotland and Germany, and rebuilt them as they would have looked in the early 1700s.  What they have then done is to move similar American homesteads from a slightly later period – right through until the late 1800s – and rebuilt them to show how the earlier ‘cultures’ and building styles had been gradually immersed into the ‘New World’ farms.  It is a very fascinating place,  I of course, was particularly taken with all the old tools and equipment as well as the traditional breeds of animals.  I got to see my first Tunis sheep which I had heard about but as they don’t appear in Britain, they were unknown to me.

A short hop to Charlottesville and another culinary extravaganza at a Berito house (my food lore will keep on coming !) preceded a morning stroll around the University of Virginia with its amazing classical Georgian style architecture.  Thomas Jefferson created this University (UVA) after he was President (which ended in 1808) and it is one of the best to this day.  Nearby, on a prominent hill stands his old home of Monticello.  This old plantation and its un-pretencious Mansion, is one of the U.S. musts-to-see  (not withstanding my host had never been there !).  I found it a very worthwhile visit,  I even enjoyed the ‘Tour guide’ (normally something I would never engage in) and the eclectic (eccentric even) collection and ‘gimmicks’ of architecture and science is well worth the visit.

Onward towards Durham which was to be the base for the next 3 days, about 4 hours again – everything seems to be 4 hours apart down here !  For 2 days we were building a dry stone fire-pit at the home of one of Whitney’s close friend.  It was exactly the sort of homestead I had imagined, a wooden house with a porch (and a swing of course) sitting in mixed woodland, set back off the road.  Strange brightly coloured birds and ‘critters’ flitted about and it felt like real ‘pioneering’.  Deer are everywhere and every now and then a Possum or Racoon is spotted – often dead unfortunately.

It was in nearby Chapel Hill, where Whitney had completed her Masters Degree, that I got to have  my long anticipated meeting (and an exquisite steak au pouivre) with Bill and Marcie Ferris.  It’s not often I’m nervous about meeting someone ‘important’  (partly because I rarely do !) but I felt slightly apprehensive here; a silly notion indeed, like all ‘great’ men he was as nice and normal, unassuming and gracious as could be and I had a wonderful 3 hours or so discussing folklore, southern culture and topics such as Ireland and Welsh heritage and landscape archaeology.  A certainty for my list of highlights.

Another highlight and food extravaganza came the next night when a house party was held to introduce me to the close inner circle of friends which I had heard much about over the last couple of years.    It is the hallmark of everyone I meet here that politeness, genuine interest and immediate comfortability exudes, with the added pleasure of home made pizza (and toppings of vegetables which I had never heard of ), it too was a great evening with young and enthusiastic people.

A dayof tantric driving was to follow; 4 hours south to Whitney’s home town of Greenville in South Carolina – of course driving through a new country (or NOT driving but sitting in the passenger seat, as in this case) is as intersting as anything else.  Just looking at the landscape, the architecture, the funny road signs and advertising hoarding, old machinery of course and vehicles, all of it captivates me.

That, however, was not the destination, just a half-way halt.  Joining up with her folks we set off on another marathon drive (6 hrs) down to Atlanta and on to the old city of Columbus.  The driving is steady on the inter-state highway, a speed limit of 65mph or 55mph is good I think – but that’s because it’s my favoured speed at home – it does leave me wondering why everyone seems to want to drive a V8 engined pick-up or sedan.  Not that I wouldn’t like one of them mind you, especially the new highway patrol’s Dodge Charger, but somehow I think driving the little lanes of home would be problematic, to say nothing of the huge fuel bill.  Fuel prices over here are causing some complaints,  I mean, I’ve seen it as much as one pound eighty a gallon ! (it’s also strange to type on a keyboard with no pound sign and to constantly have my spelling corrected by auto-spell, like when I try to write flavour, and it wants me to put flavor ).

The trip to Columbus was long but interesting, especially as we got a little awry of the planned route and lost the inter-state to run on some ‘main roads’, it’s then you get to see the real landscape and homestead – and lots and lots of old tractors and trucks !  The city of Columbus, from the little I saw, has some superb old architecture and wide open boulevards (it retains the French influence) and the restaurant we ate in that night had THE most stunning tin ceiling I have ever seen.

Early the next morning we headed out to the event that was the reason for our (and the whole extended family) visit, the graduation ceremony of a younger son of the family.  This was no University parade of gowned scholars however, no sir.  This was a full-on military display and ceremony at the Ranger Training School located within the bounds of the massive Fort Benning military camp.  Rangers are an elite element of the U.S. army and to get through training and selection is quite an honour (sorry honor !) and an immense achievement.  To wear the famous Ranger badge on the shoulder is to stand apart, not just here but universally.  We were entertained by some examples of what Rangers can do, rappelling, helicopter insertion and extraction and lots and lots of big bangs.  It is a slightly strange type of ceremony by the normally reserved British standards but impressive none-the-less.  I gave Aeron a little bit of Wales by presenting him with a wooly ‘beany’ hat on which the word Ranger appears in its Welsh form too ‘Ceidwad’, which amused him greatly.

A family lunch gathering at a Mexican food house, where I had the most incredible fahitta, was followed by an en-mass visit to a store which supplied the soldiers of Fort Benning with all their extra, privately purchased gear, called (unsurprisingly) ‘Commando’.  I confess I could have bought a great deal, Lord knows I need some new goretex when I get back (Wales looks to be very wet just now) but I resisted, well almost….

A long, long beat home up interstate 85 was spoiled by heavy rain but a welcome restful night at the very comfortable home of my guests set the scene for the next few days here in South Carolina.  I’ve a bridge to design and build and some flea markets to visit before heading out to the coast at Charleston.  It does mean however, that I can upload some photos and get them out to you,  I know you are all just desperate to see what it is Welshwaller is enduring !!

In truth it is overwhelming, my senses are being satiated, the food, the scenery, the southern welcome, all too much, my poor heart indeed needs some ease or I will definitely explode !!

Entering the arrivals hall I found I was not in fact to met by a beautiful lady, just a throng of Germans.  Eventually my host arrived, breathless and apologetic, the snow had clearly panicked the working population into bugging out of the city early.  Traffic was indeed heavy but heading into the city mean we were going against the flow.  Some half hour later I arrived in the little hamlet of Shirlington which is in Virginia, close to Arlington.  Presents exchanged – the one I received was mind blowing (but I’m not going to tell !) – too much welcoming wine consumed and sleep ensued.  The five hour difference, which meant I took off at 11.30am, travelled for eight and a half hours and landed three and a half hours later, doesn’t actually have an effect, no, not until the night after.

It’s now four days later, and I am well into the ‘tourist’ mode.  I have been driven and walked, bussed and metro’d to every corner of the city and beyond.  Highlights thus far – apologies for no pictures just yet, can’t upload for a week or so but they will come – include meeting up with old Smithsonian colleagues, with whom a home dinner party was enjoyed last evening, all the main sites, the amazing National Art Gallery and Natural History Museum with lunch in the National Museum of the American Indian (traditional Indian food of course).  Following a quick call at the offices of the Smithsonian Folklife Festival to say ‘Hi’ we drove out to Arlington National Cemetery (which I only glimpsed last time around) and walked around the very daunting rows of graves to the military dead of the Nation, and their wives.  Lee’s mansion of Arlington house is impressive and the view from its vantage point out over the City is quite something.  Of course the mansion also stands above the grave of JFK and Jackie (plus the two infants who died at birth and brothers nearby) with its Everlasting Flame’, quite a day.  For the first time in my life I got to see Giant Pandas in the Washington Zoo, I can’t even begin to describe that experience (pictures will tell all) and enjoy a movie on a wet afternoon.  We saw the Spielberg’s latest, War Horse.  Go and see it, it is outstanding in my view.  Today Whitney drove me 140 miles for a crabcake lunch, out on the Chesapeake bay at a little place called Solomon’s Island.  Ever had crabcakes ?  Not like these you haven’t !!  We got back into DC before rush hour and walked the toll path of the Chesapeake and Ohio canal (partly to see a wall that a reader of mine had recommended – thanks RS) for a couple of hours before rejoining to the site of our hotel for the 2009 Folklife Festival, the Key Bridge Marriott which is across the Potomac from the old township of Georgetown.    

For a really surreal experience, drinking Guiness back in the bar of the Key Bridge Marriott, being served by the same barman, takes some beating.  As for the coming days, nothing much really, just the Library of Congress,  a few memorials and brunch with the most amazing lady I ever met, Diana Parker the now retired Director of the Folklife Festival.  Then its off down through the Blue Ridge to Charlottsville.  More in a week or so, but know I am gritting my teeth and getting on with it…….. 

Well the New Year arrived with an absolute hurricane.  Crazy wind and even more torrential rain added to a ground already drowned; I was little concerned.  My family get together came back to haunt me, and then some !  One of the problems of being an outside worker, especially one who operates ‘far from the madding crowd’ (I always feel it should be madening crowd, ‘cos that’s how it makes me feel), is that the common viruses, colds and flu and other such bugs like novo virus, passes me by.  Now that is all very fine, and I try my best to keep it that way, but once in a while I am forced to ‘join in’.  It is guaranteed that such excursions inevitably see my immune system attacked violently.  Viruses and germs seem to recognise that I am almost virgin territory and they home in like stuka bombers.  So it was that just a few days after the great Christmas get-together a tell-tale soreness in my throat alerted me to just such an assault.  I am a man and therefore a simple cold reduces me to a sad bed-bound blob, death is inevitable and everyone is required to be courteous and sympathetic.  Or at least, that’s how it should be, but as I live up a long track, tucked under a wild hillside, no such tenderness came my way.  I suffered and suffered, oh how I suffered and eventually I had to go see the old Doc – not something I do very often apparently (6 times in 20 years, so he told me !) so I expected some serious attention and instant cure.  So I got a dose, I don’t like anti-biotics, but sometimes needs must.

This particular sometime was determined by a looming departure to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.  I am embarking on the long journey, I am packing a (rather large) suitcase, I am endeavouring to negotiate my way through on-line Visa waiver and wondering how the dear Immigration Official will view me…. time will tell.  I am almost ashamed to admit,  I am excited.

I have adopted a simple approach and a simple motto, I’ve seen the films, read the books and -

I’ve got the ‘T’ Shirt

I think this pretty much encapsulates my mission............

For the next month or so I will be exploring some interesting regions of the eastern seaboard of the United States starting in the capital city of that New World.  The mountains of Virginia, the Blue Ridge mountains, the coast, the southern states of Carolina, great historic places like Charleston and Raleigh, all await my arrival.  First though, I have to try to assemble all the clothing and kit that may be required for such an elongated invasion of hostile territory – hostile in climatic terms only, I hope !  Not only do I have to try to anticipate nature and my hostess’ itinerary but I have to keep the dimensions within airline guidelines and at a maximum weight of 23 kilos (50lbs), oh yeah ?!  How come ‘T’ shirts are made so heavy these days……..

Once all that is done and bureaucracy has had its wicked way with me, once my home currency has been exchanged for some strange paper money with an old man on, once my toothpaste and hair gel has been binned by some pained uniformed individual, I get to enter the ‘great white bird’.  Now, for those that don’t know me, I stand at well over 6ft with a chest size around XXL, a waistline which would surround at least two of the cute little hostesses about to serve me a plastic meal.  For eight hours I will be inserted into a germ infested metal box zooming through the ionisphere at 0ver 700 miles an hour, secured into a chair like some infant in a baby high chair, unable to stretch my legs, overlapping onto my seating compatriots and unable to reach any of the hand controls that might provide some respite by allowing me to track my route or even watch some fairly up to date film. On arrival in that fair land I have to persuade the unsmiling automaton who awaits me, that I am not a threat to the ‘homeland’ nor have I the intent of remaining in that land beyond my time.  After all of that, all being well, I finally get to see all those wonderful places.  More importantly I get to meet up with old friends whom I have not seen for nearly three years and some I have not seen for nearly three months !  There are many people who, as I sit writing this, have never yet met me nor I them but who will leave a lasting impression upon this country boy from the wilds of Wales.  I am excited !

I am going to try to bring my journey to you in this blog as often as I am able but bear with me, I am hoping internet connections and lap top computers will not be too commonly encountered over the next month or so.  Better to travel in hope than arrive ?  Not this time, stay tuned !!

Unfortunately, my little expedition means this little one gets left behind, still, he gets to be visited by a good looking little gal from the village who is going to spoil him rotten - I expect he will need to be put on a diet when I get back.

]]> http://welshwaller.wordpress.com/2012/01/07/if-my-mind-can-conceive-it-and-my-heart-can-believe-it-i-know-i-can-achieve-it-jesse-jackson/feed/ 1 welshwaller Adventure before Dementia Little pussy cat http://welshwaller.wordpress.com/2012/01/01/it-wouldnt-be-new-years-if-i-didnt-have-regrets-william-thomas/ http://welshwaller.wordpress.com/2012/01/01/it-wouldnt-be-new-years-if-i-didnt-have-regrets-william-thomas/#comments Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:47:12 +0000 welshwaller http://welshwaller.wordpress.com/?p=2640 ]]> This helter-skelter year is nearing the crash mat, I’ve hit so many end of year crash mats I hardly blink anymore.  I remember writing this time last year about the notion of Auld Acquaintances being set aside.  I never got around to it actually, and to a greater degree I’m happy about that.  Friendships and acquaintances that I may well have appended to any list around that notion have actually grown stronger, have become more valuable to me, have brought forth new experiences.

Just this afternoon I set about putting together the annual laying bare of my soul to the honourable Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs – my tax return.  Every year I make the same two promises to myself; I will get the tax return done by the summer (rather than the last few weeks before my time runs out and the full force and might of those demons descends upon me !) and secondly, I will just bugger off from the wet, the cold, the snow and the winter in general.  For twenty years I have thought what a good idea it would be to get all the jobs done – meaning funds would be accumulated – and, instead of battling the elements for little reward, go away for a long holiday.  ”It’s cheaper in the long run because you save on heating and electric, food and everything.” are the words I hear from those to whom I suggest my idea.  Well, this year, it’s going to happen !  January will be spent in a far away land.  Not necessarily a warmer or dryer place, but a place where I will get to meet old friends, see fascinating places, explore history and generally just chill !  Watch out for blog posts from my secret destination……..

Back to the review of this ‘soon gone year’ in the life of Welshwaller.  I start with the last few days, that most taxing (forgive me, tax is heavy on my mind at the moment) of all the holiday periods, or so it would seem, according to many folk.  Not for me,  I have always enjoyed Christmas and still do.  It may be because I don’t expect too much of  it, I don’t build it up either positively or negatively, I certainly don’t over indulge on expenditure or input (well maybe just a few inches to the waistline !) but everyone gets a nice present and I manage a 6 to 8 hour stint ‘en famille’, after which both they and I are content to bid each other goodnight.

Home for Christmas but we must keep in touch ! "Phonio, phonio, wherefore art though ?!" I guess this is what most people's hall table looks like when the 'family' come home. How do they know which one to answer !!

At least I am pleased to see ‘my lot’, after all I haven’t seen them (I don’t think) since the summer holiday in Norfolk.

It’s funny how highlights shine through when looking back.  Like little dots on those drawing games whereby merely joining them produces a pretty picture.  So it is with our reflections, our recollections, our time altered view of how we enjoyed what we did, when we did it and who we did it with !  I always seem to have been on a different trip to everyone else, always have different memories, different level of enjoyment.  I seem to be the one who had the best time !

What I have been shocked at is how little I can remember about what I did this last year.  As for 2010 – the tax year I have just finished my accounts for – I simply have no idea where I was working, and where the hell all that income came from!  While I was living it I didn’t exactly feel as if I was ‘doing ok’ !  Luckily I keep a diary of where I am each day (80% anyway) and it is something of a revelation to look back and remember jobs.  On the other hand, it is increasingly worrying that what I remember is a shorter and shorter time past.  As I sit here writing I am straining the hard drive to bring forth what the hell I was doing at the start of the year !  To be honest, this year has really jet streamed;  I can remember parts but not much.  Highlights therefore are key, and each year it is important to make sure that high points are built in to the schedule.

A large part of the year seemed to be at the Dinas near Llansawel, a hard wall but a great site. I'll be back there in the summer this year.

On the wall building front I have fond memories of two long jobs, two short jobs and two ‘domestic’ jobs.  Only recently have I done a job that has a somewhat negative effect on the memory, that too will fade.

The return to one of my long standing jobs (‘long standing’ is an inevitable ingredient of my work !) was a particular high spot.  The great Deer Park wall of the old Edwinsford estate, between Talley and Llansawel, has been in my psyche for ten years and more, and it still ain’t finished !! It surely will be the wall where my skeleton will be found, one autumn, after someone realises they haven’t seen me about for a while – hopefully not just yet.

The year began with a peculiarly dry spell, once the snow went away that is !  Snow  through December and January caused a forced lay-off, not hugely problematic as long as one can ignore the growing pile of mail asking for bills to be paid……. there’s always ebay !  The return to work was also the return to a place high on the ‘best ever walling sites’, a definite contender for inclusion in to my book ‘Twenty Years, Twenty Walls’ (it started out as ‘Ten Years Ten Walls’ – but the time just seemed to pass…) the completion of which now has to be on the New Year’s Resolution list.

The 'Whitney' wall in the Rhiangoll valley. A place that defines the craft.

The mountain wall which separates the enclosed pastures of Grafog farm from the open hill of the Black Mountain, high in the narrow upper reaches of the Rhiangoll river, was the venue for the first quarter of the year.  It is without doubt a deeply spiritual place, steeped in history.  The wall itself is not particularly old, just some three hundred years or so, but surrounding the enclosures are prehistoric settlements and medieval summer sheilings.  The great ‘Dinas‘, the fortress of the Iron age tribe, the Silures, dominates the pass (note the name, it is the same as the place mentioned above, the common Celtic title for the defended hill fort) and it is certain that the slopes of the hill, now the fields of the Grafog and Rhyd-y-Car farms, were once the cultivated lands of the people of that pre-Roman settlement.  In the post Roman era, what we now call the Early Medieval period, the whole area was a preserved hunting forest of the local King (fforest in Welsh).  This preserved area continued well after the coming of the Normans and only in the early 1960s, with the creation of the Brecon Beacons National Park, were the rights of the titled owner to hunt over the land, extinguished.  However, by the mid 1400s the area was quietly being encroached by farmers who used the grazing in the summer months for their cattle.  The later middle ages saw the land being let to these farmers who then often built a temporary structure called a hafod,  in which some members of the family would spend the summer with the cattle.  Often a lluest, a dairy, was created in these remote upland place – always within a day’s walk of the hendre (hen meaning old and tre mea ning homestead or estate – the ‘t’ is mutated to a ‘d’ and the ‘f” is dropped) which was the main homestead.  Close-by my work site was just such a structure, undisturbed and unknown.  A remarkable place to work.

The stones in the wall of this cattle corral, not far beyond the mountain wall of Grafog, were put there five hundred years ago, maybe even longer.

An enjoyable couple of training courses also occupied my days in the early months and the lads of the Ebbw Vale Taskforce were an especially entertaining bunch who managed, in very difficult circumstances, to create a piece of ‘built environment’ worthy of any craftsman.  Another lengthy lay-off occurred sometime soon after – you see, I can’t even remember the exact month ! – when a calf muscle ruptured leaving me crippled for two months or so.  The rehabilitation and ‘back-to-work’ fitness was acquired at a garden, here in the village, where slate was the medium for a garden wall.  There then followed one of the more interesting little jobs of the year.

About 30 miles north lies the little village of Llangurig, on the main route into the Cambrian mountains and on to Aberystwyth.  I was called to restore a piece of garden history at the Clochfaen estate, an important Arts and Crafts house, lovingly being restored.  Just recently I happened to be passing and made a courtesy call – I try always to revisit my customers at the end of the year, not least to  check the structure is still sound and to see if anything else has cropped up – and inspect the two features after a long summer and recent heavy rain (as both involved the management of water!).

The water spout - called the Fountain - at Clochfaen, has survived and is pouring forth water. Alas the overflow system is still somewhat awry and hence the surrounding garden is a 'welly area' !

Both the water spout, or fountain as it is called by the owners, and the well are functioning as required and now that the vegetation has died back both can be seen to their best advantage. A cup of tea with the very kind host and seasons greetings and off to go.  As I drove down the long lane towards the village, my lasting memory of those seemingly hot steamy June days was………. those bloody midges !!

On the way south from Llangurig, the route follows the Wye valley and is, without question, one of my most favourite scenic roads.  The little market town of Rhayader hosts an inevitable bottleneck as the main north – south A470 squeezes traffic through a single width piece of road, whilst negotiating a busy cross-road where ‘right of way’ is open to interpretation.  The locals have a different view to those passing through, and neither has an interpretation that could be found in the Highway Code !  A few miles south is another of my sanctuaries, a place of work which is often intellectually taxing, always physically demanding due to the weight of the stones, and of late, incredibly wet and muddy, and yet the welcome and kindness of ‘mine hosts’ is without measure.  The grand house of the Penlanole estate is home to the Shakespeare link, a place where plays by the bard are performed outdoor in the Living Willow Theatre and in the surrounding wood copses.

It has finally filled, the old mangle acting as the windlass for the sluice gate will soon be turned methinks, water is once again impounded in the cart horse wash at Penlanole.

The main job this year has been to restore the cart horse wash which now acts as a duck pond for the resident water fowl.  It was a job begun back last year when ‘my little helper’ and I cleared the smoots which passed under the trackways and took down the old wall through which the water passed into the pond.  The lintels had collapsed and woodland debris caused blockages which any self respecting beaver would have been proud of.  This summer, with the mud mostly removed, and the water level low, I set about reconstruction.  It was here that another helper arrived and became consumed by the place.

She fell for a Massey 35, probably the most attractive tractor driving assistant any waller, and certainly any 1950s tractor, ever had.

I was relieved to arrive and find the pool had finally filled.  For a while it seemed that the absence of sufficient clay around the base of the stone walls was allowing more water to escape than was being impounded.  Of course, traditionally, the sluice would only have been closed when horses were working, such as when ploughing was carried out which would ensure their ‘feathers’ would be caked in mud.  The rest of the time the flow of the stream which feeds the pool was not impeded.  The problem with keeping it as a pond for ducks and geese is that mud accumulates very quickly and this becomes a smelly mire when the water level recedes in the summer.

One of the most satisfying jobs came near to home with the re-laying of the terrace at the mansion of Llwynmadoc.  The slate slabs were large and heavy and had been tipped and tilted by years of use and by poor sub layers.  It took a lot of effort and again midges were a constant nuisance but everyone, especially the mistress, was delighted with the finished product.  That also led to a number of other jobs around the gardens and buildings such as the restoration of the pig-sty recently reported and further work in the coming months.

The newly laid terrace and steps at the grand mansion - another pleasing job completed.

August saw three major events of the year, the holiday to Norfolk, the visit to the Great Dorset Steam Fair and, of course, the arrival of my American friend who came to reconnect with a land she has become very attached to.

The arrival of my overseas visitor was later reinforced by her whole family and I took on the  mantle of Tourist Ambassador for a few weeks.

My trip to the east of England was indeed a highlight.  The fenland of Cambridgeshire is a fascinating mixture of agriculture, nature, history and water management.  Of particular note was the visit to Flag Fen, the amazing prehistoric settlement and its oak walkway across the marshland.  So too, the medieval cathedral city of Ely astounded.

A wonderful facsimile of a Celtic roundhouse at the Flag Fen exhibition.

Norfolk and its varied countryside and agriculture was also very interesting to me and I enjoyed very much my visits to Blickling Hall and the bleak windswept coast line where seals captivated me for a long while.

Ely cathedral was even more impressive than I had imagined it would be. Visible from miles around, it is the dominant feature in the vast flat landscape of east Cambridgeshire.

The area was a leading centre of agricultural innovation during the 17th and 18th centuries and continued to be the centre for technological invention and manufacture of farming implements (by Ransomes for instance) well into the 20th century.  A number of museums provide a fascinating journey back to the agriculture of  Coke of Holkham and inventors like Tull.

The sight of seals bobbing in the water not far off the beach was certainly something I had not expected to see.

Following my short holiday I returned to work to complete a job that had been ongoing for what seemed like years – and indeed it is years, for I am still going there !

A large retaining wall begun in the summer of 2010 was approaching completion, my part having been held up awaiting machinery to move the last earth heaps and the landscape gardener to lay the granite sets (interestingly bought and brought from the industrial towns of Yorkshire !).

Walls either side of the set steps needed to be built and my Carolina trainee relished the chance to build something new, a set of curved walls.  Later I would introduce her to building dry stone steps, another very useful skill in gaining work in the garden landscaping field.

The old red sandstone side walls are curved so as to lose the change in height as the ground falls from right to left.

As August drifted away the trip of the year beckoned.  An attendance at Llangynidr show over the bank holiday weekend was the prelude to a week of vintage gluttony as we headed off to the Great Dorset Steam Fair. The fair is an extravanganza of restored vehicles and machinery, of steam engines and horse power, of nightime olde worlde fairground sounds and sights and, most memorable of all, amazing cider, beer, food and frivolity.  I enjoyed my few days in Dorset as much as anything I’ve done in a long while and the little village in which we stayed, Alvediston, was a real gem of olde worlde charm set amongst the glory of Cranbourne Chase in the Dorset downland.  The little church held an astonishing secret, the grave of the old Conservative Prime Minister, Sir Anthony Eden.

The evening sky is more about smoke than steam, but the old engines gave a great night time display.

The second weekend of September is always the local village show, this year it coincided with the arrival of guests from Carolina and me taking on the responsibility of showing them Wales.  It is not difficult in some ways to provide an enjoyable experience to overseas visitors but it is a very intimidating role to play.  Hopefully they left having seen enough of the beautiful scenery, met enough of the quirky hill folk and understood a little better why a certain member of their family bores everyone rigid going on about Wales all the time !!!  But she is right of course !

A lady from the other side of the world discusses farming with a man who has been at his all his life, I think this shows the real essence of experiencing the local when visiting abroad - just having a chat !. Or maybe they were just wondering who would win the vintage tractor award !

The autumn was somewhat anti-climatic once everyone had left but work soon immersed me again in complicated endeavour.  The roof of the old pig sty at the mansion was coming away from the wall against which it leaned, and the wall was falling.  A couple of hard weeks by Dan and myself created a very nice feature out of what looked like neglect and dereliction.  Then, to take us toward the end of the season, we moved to a farm high in the hills above Llandeilo, in the small hamlet of Gwynfe.  Here one of the saddest events of the year occurred with the passing of the matriarch of the family.  Some forty plus members of her immediate offspring attended the private funeral, and I lost a very dear old friend with whom I had spent many long hours.  The wall that was built in December will always remind me of her.

The Wall in the Mud, the last job of 2011, and what an endurance to get it done. Behind me (I'm taking the picture) is a clear unobstructed line to the Atlantic, and boy did it blow, and boy did it rain !!

I struggle to remember each job that was done, but once they have been brought to the front of the mind, hauled back from the recesses of my deepening hard drive, I can remember almost every stone that was placed.  If I go back to a wall that I have built, even those restored 20 years ago, I can look at individual stones and remember them, remember putting them in and what the shape of each one was. I don’t know why I can do that, it certainly explains why my hard drive is overloaded.

So, another year gone, another year beckons.  I can certainly remember sitting here last year at this time with no idea that what became the highlights of 2011 lay before me.  This year is somewhat different.  Soon I will set forth on an adventure that will surpass anything I have done thus far.  I am putting myself in the care of people that know me a little, in a land that I know very little but whose history has fascinated me for a long while.  For the next few weeks I hope to explore some of the early settlements in the Virginia and Carolina states, see where early farms were established and look at the walls that enclosed them.  I will see places I’ve only heard about, often in song, often as part of the turbulent past and conflagrations that tore the great land apart in centuries past.  I can’t wait to be where Blues and Soul music sweats out of bricks, where crazy Cajun violins and hot spicy food are the equal of male voice choirs and fish and chips.  I can’t wait to meet people I’ve only heard of from my dear friend, I can’t wait to see those who shed a tear as I left them over two years ago.  As if that were not enough for one year, the year of five rings and Diamonds, I am setting off to Orkney in late May, the place that is re-writing the Neolithic Age and our understanding of it.  I can’t wait to go see the Brochs and walls of those islands, to study the amazing archaeology which is everywhere, to enjoy the wildlife and the night life.

Somewhere, in the next twelve months, walls will have to be built, artefacts of  our farming past will need to be restored and shown and new, as yet unknown,  encounters and experiences met.  For now loyal readers, I leave you with the old Irish blessing

“In the New Year, may your hand always be outstretched in friendship,

and never in want”.

Blwyddyn Newydd Dda, ich y gyd

Mud, mud, Glorious mud, nothing quite like it for cooling the blood..... Though actually mine felt like it was boiling over, now and then. Each stone had to be retrieved from it and then carried to the wall. The 'photographer' is on the wall, I'm getting the stone, yep, it was that far !!

It’s an almost universal truth that men find it difficult to be complimentary about other men – except perhaps on the sports field.  It is certainly the case in my line of work, the hard working upland farmer takes toil and struggle in his stride and thinks nothing of someone who doesn’t match his efforts.  Thus, for me at least, to be treated with respect for what I do – which is more about the mystery of it, the fact that it is generally beyond the farmer’s ability or comprehension – is sufficient.  My current customer is, as I mentioned earlier, a long standing one, a grafter of a farmer, well respected in the community for his stockmanship and personality.  He doesn’t give out either “thank you’s” nor compliments freely or easily, thus to receive one is, I feel, quite an achievement.  He liked this wall, he didn’t say it directly, but he liked it.  It pleased me that he liked it, it was worth the effort.  He has built himself a new retirement home of which he is very proud, he wanted my wall to merely separate his garden from the field in which the house had been built.  The wall cannot be seen by any but the sheep, from the house it will be hidden by the raised lawn area – a Ha Ha.  He said something to the effect that the drive-way to the house should be moved to approach from the west so that the wall would be seen by those that visited.  That’s a compliment by anybody’s standards, wouldn’t you say !  It is not fully completed, decisions have to be made about how it is to be capped, but that awaits the levelling of the ground behind first.

The house, the wall, the mud, and just visible, my 'little helper' who has been immense in keeping my spirits up all these weeks.

It has been physically testing working in those conditions, the wind is by far the most debilitating aspect but the rain and the mud have contributed.  Throughout the weeks however,  my spirits have never faltered (though my language has !) and that is due, in part, to the demeanour of my accomplice, my ‘little helper’.  His daily updates on world affairs, conspiratorial events, the damned and unworthy Americans, the damned and unworthy supermarket slaves, indeed the damned and unworthy women who occupy his world, all have provided demanding, if less than intellectual, retort.  Each lunch time we wrack our ever diminishing brain cells to complete the ‘quick crossword’, and mostly do, then we attempt some quiz which generally requires knowledge far beyond our fields of operation – usually about pop stars or soap opera actors – and we end up with the perusal of our (and those we know) horror-scopes.  It appears that those we know are always  getting a better deal than us.  No matter, we are content in the sure knowledge that the rest of the world is doomed, deservedly so, and only we are worthy.  I have bought him a ‘T’ shirt for Christmas, emblazoned on the front is the word ‘Infidel’ - he’ll like that !

Only the sheep will get to see it, unless he moves the drive-way....... that ain't never going to happen !

I have joked about the site being like the ‘Trenches’, I shouldn’t really do that.  Working in the mud has made me realise just how bloody awful, how terrifyingly impossible, how moronically stupid, was the very notion of trench warfare.  Everyday the red mud infiltrated every part of my clothing, the inner sanctums of my person – try  attending to a call of nature without getting mud into everywhere ! – were inevitably caked by the time I stripped off in front of the rayburn stove.  The cost of laundering all my gear has been a noticeable expense, I kid you not.  Gloves, which normally last a week or more, have had to be changed after lunch, and generally disintegrate after a few days.  The wetness demanded rubber gloves be used, they are cold and lifeless, they are impossible to get off and, worst of all, they make your hands stink, a smell that ingratiates itself into your nostrils and, ultimately, into your bed.  The water that is drunk inevitably has mud in it, the food has mud in it, my stomach has mud in it, that which comes out of me has mud in it.  How on earth could anybody sleep in that and then, at dawn, go over the top.  That thought has been very much with me too these last weeks.

Anyway, enough of mud and moral fortitude – the Festive season beckons……..  The problem is that working as I do, living beyond the curtilege of everyday life, being oblivious to most of the happenings going on around and about, I don’t really get infected by the ‘spirit’.  I hadn’t seen any town Christmas lights until just the other evening when I ventured out after dark – realise if you will that normally, once I get home, negotiate a number of gate openings and closures, get the wood burning stove alight, cook supper (whilst attempting to wash away mud from nether regions of the torso) the temptation to then go back out is not strong.  In the nearby town of Builth Wells is a very fine theatre and cinema called the Wyeside, it is a great little place and has amazing live entertainment and a goodly selection of the most up to date films.  A film shot in the Black Mountain – close-by my work place at Grafog farm – was showing, it tells the imaginary tale of a successful German invasion of Britain and the men of this Welsh farming valley all go off to join the resistance movement, leaving their womenfolk to mind the farms.  The relationship between the struggles of the women and the German soldiers sent to the valley (in search of a hidden treasure which looks awfully like the Map o Mundi) presents a challenging and provocative scenario.  I of course, being the sad ‘B’ that I am, was just as interested in the farms and the farm ‘props’ which were used and then trying to work out where it had been shot exactly.   I was rather pleased with myself,  I immediately saw by the stone-work, the geology and the style of the farm buildings, that it was the southern valleys of the Black Mountain (of Monmouthshire).  I soon spotted some tell-tale architectural features in the farms that indicated they had been built by the Beaufort estate (Dukes of Beaufort owned much of the area for most of the medieval and post medieval periods) in the middle to late C18th.  I was fairly happy I had located the area where the film had been shot as being in or around the Llanthony valley.  Just toward the end of the film some scenes showed the actual abbey remains, big smile !!  If you get chance, go see the film, ‘Resistance’, but look at the scenery and the farming !!

A threat of severe snow allowed me to plan a day or two at home.  Some comfort food was purchased and fuel for the stove brought in.  Then, as usual when the weather gurus warn of  such events, nothing actually transpired, so I took myself off to find some presents for the family.  Mine I had already ordered – wonderful thing, ebay !!  You will not be surprised to learn that such an expedition does not involve visiting any sort of large shopping centre.  I cannot imagine a worse method of  trying to engender the Festive spirit.  What pleasure can there possibly be in herding through mass produced buildings looking at mass produced goods, buying mass produced goods.

I am a very lucky Christmas shopper, less than a dozen miles down the road is the little craft centre and gallery at the Old Station, Erwood.  It is a quirky little emporium on the banks of the river Wye.  As the name implies, it was once the old railway station on the line from Talgarth and Brecon to Builth Wells (and on into mid Wales).  It has an excellent assortment of craft goods made by local artists and is a popular gallery which offers a window for potters and painters alike.    Apart from all that it does good coffee and indescribably good mince pies !  It features on my itinerary quite often.

How's that for an entrance to a Craft centre and Gallery ! unless you don't like trains...

After an hour of perusing, a piping hot coffee and mince pie (as a ‘Friend of Erwood Station’ I get to have free refreshment) and with several presents under my arm, I returned home, happy and stress free – and no parking problems !!

It's got everything you could possibly want !! And no crowds !!

For obvious reasons I can’t reveal what I bought – though I can’t imagine for one moment any of my close family reads this ! – but I could, just in case you are interested, divulge my own little indulgences.

I am always looking for items that relate to the  practices of the Welsh upland farmer.  A couple of interesting artefacts came my way recently and they alone would have been sufficient to make my Yule tide jolly.  However, something far more important and valuable – read ‘not to be missed !’ – appeared on the horizon and I went in hot pursuit.

Photography is, today, a universal hobby.  Almost everyone, certainly every family, has access to a camera of some sort.  Increasingly mobile phones are replacing digital cameras, just as I began to catch up, having finally packed away my old 35mm SLR.  It’s difficult to think of a world where photography was very limited, non existent even.  For most people alive in the early twentieth century, family pictures were almost limited to the posed photograph taken by a professional at an arranged sitting.  Impromptu ‘snaps’ of people going about their daily lives, at work, in the home, on holidays and so on were indeed few and far between.  In my field of interest, agriculture in the Welsh uplands, such photographs are indeed rare.  I have managed to acquire several from local families which depict their relatives carrying out some farming activity in the period just before or just after the Second World War.  Even by the 1960s not all families had a camera, despite the cheaply available ‘Box Brownie’ produced by Kodak.  My first camera was a Brownie but very soon, when I was 11 years old, I bought myself a brand new and revolutionary little Instamatic.  It introduced the world to the idea of the cartridge film and was small and compact with a good 50mm lens.  Such mass photography of the family activities seemed not to penetrate the upland farms and hence such pictures are hard to find.  Early photographs of simple everyday farming are so rare (limited often to collections in National Libraries and museums) that when they do become available I go after them with a passion.

How rare to find this kind of photograph - it is by Llew Morgan of Ystradgynlais in the Swansea valley (family retains copyright)

I found a number for sale just this last week and moved quickly to secure them.  They are prints taken from the original glass slides amassed by the Swansea valley photographer Llew Morgan 1885-1960.   He covered a number of aspects of Welsh life but his portraits of the ordinary Welsh farmer is special – but remember, I am one-eyed !  An important element of my collection are the photographs which illustrate how and when the artefacts I display were used.  Because the various aspects of the farming year, ploughing, cultivation, sowing seeds and the harvest, the care of the stock and the marketing of the produce, were taking place throughout the land it was almost too common an activity to photograph.  It is the very basis of my collection, every farm had each and every one of the tools and artefacts,  but because they were so common they have been given scant attention and most have long gone, scrapped or rotted away.  ”We had one of those, what happened to it?”, is the most frequently heard comment at my exhibitions and displays.  The photos taken by Llew Morgan are priceless in bringing to life the actual people and places in which those long forgotten practices took place.  I am hoping to be allowed to view his original glass slides, now in the possession of his grand-daughter, the writer Carole Morgan-Hopkin.  Coincidentally she just happens to be involved with the restoration of the church of Llangiwg near Pontardawe, I wrote about it in an earlier post (6 April 2011) and it is a place I am due to be working in shortly.  Turn on the charm !!

It's a simple shot, the act of sharpening the scythe, he is using a wooden 'rip' stick, onto which goose grease was spread and a sand then added to provide the abrasive element. Every farmer could sharpen a scythe this way, who can do it today ? (Llew Morgan collection)

Christmas has come early for Welshwaller,  I am so thrilled to have found the prints but even more to have made contact with Llew’s family, hidden in his collection is the photographic evidence of how each item in my collection, or at least most of them, were used.

So, we approach the Christmas celebrations, less than a week in which to get my act together and prepare for entering the fray.  A number of dutiful visits, some festive consumption.  I try as far as possible to call upon customers for whom I have worked in the past year and some I have seen already.  I’ll give an update in my last post of the year.  For now, to all my faithful readers especially those of you who have been kind enough to make comment and those of you mad enough or sad enough to be a subscriber !!

Nadolig  Llawen

My little church at the bottom of my lane, Eglwys Oen Duw, Beulah. Happy Christmas everyone !

You may recall mention of an old wagon which I had acquired many moons ago; actually it is now  nigh on five years ago.  It came about quite by accident one August Sunday morning, a simple event which has had  an affect, albeit in a small way, on my life.

I was with a friend setting off to the ‘Three Cocks Vintage Day’ held each year (on the second Sunday in August) at a large arable farm called Boatside, on the banks of the river Wye at Hay.  It is an annual ‘must see’ event for both myself and my friend who is one of the Junkyard Angels from the ‘Kingdom of Rust’ over at the antique centre in Trecastle (www.kingdomofrust.co.uk).  As we joined the road that runs past the church at Cathedine (the one now for sale) and the farm of Lower Cathedine, I saw a black cat dead in the road, just outside the farmhouse.  Knowing that there were young children in the farm and thinking it would be rather upsetting should they come out and see their poor kitty in this state,  I stopped.  I carried the poor creature to the opposite side of the road and placed it in the tall grass then went to the house to tell Mr or Mrs Farmer – at that stage I did not know them other than by sight.  Walking into the yard and around the very fine old buildings – which of course caught my attention immediately – I was stopped dead in my tracks.  There, tucked in against the rear wall of the grand threshing barn and stable, was a wooden wagon.

The wagon as first sighted. It is a'Living Van' for pulling behind a Steam Engine in which the crew would live whilst on the job.

I admired it and pondered why it was there, then walked on to the house and knocked the door.  There was no answer so I scribbled a note and left it then went on to the fair.  I thought about the wagon and the farm for a while but soon it went to the back of my mind.  However, and here’s the ‘coincidence’ bit, some weeks later I was down at Ty Mawr, a matter of three miles or so from Cathedine,  and a farmer I know and to whom I had mentioned I was looking for an old dray (a 4 wheeled cart used for haulage), told me that a neighbour of his had an old hay dray that he wanted to get rid of.  It was the very same farm where I had spied the Living Van.

When I called again at the farm and mentioned the story about the cat, the farmer and his wife were pleased to see me and thanked me and then we got to talking business.  I did a deal on the dray and talked to him about the history of the Living Van.  It turned out that his father had bought it from Brecknock County Council at the end of the 1950s, it being one of three they were disposing of, having finally ceased using their own steam driven road rollers behind which these vans were hauled to provide accommodation for the driver and his crewman.  It had been towed home behind an old Fordson Major tractor (useful information as it turns out) and parked in the exact spot where it now stood and there remained for all that time.  In fact the farm yard had been concreted over many years ago and the concrete does not extend under the wagon.

The doorway is at the towing end; the wagon stands high so steps are needed though the originals have long since gone.

It transpired (probably because I mentioned “if you ever decided….”) that it had been agreed to sell it to one of the leading lights of the Three Cocks Vintage Society who himself had a steam engine (and was very well known in vintage / preservation circles).  Tragically he had been killed in a vehicle accident shortly after the deal had been struck and hence the wagon had never moved.  Leaping forward some months, it was eventually agreed that for a fairly lowly price and some wall repairs I could indeed have the living van as long as I restored and preserved it.  That, I think, was the autumn of  2007.

This week I finally got the farmer, who has since become a regular ‘chit chat’ stop of mine, to say nothing of the continuing wall repair work both for him and his neighbour (the very garden in which a certain young Carolina lady rebuilt a wall), to agree to spend the day removing all the accumulated (useful) junk from under and inside the wagon, the majority of which most folk would have just thrown away as being useless, but E has the same idea as myself on these matters – “that might come in handy one day….”.  It took us all day as each piece had to be carefully assessed and placed into a designated sack –  good wood, fire wood, scrap wood, plastic for disposal, plastic for keeping, paper sacks, paper for  burning, feed sacks, feed sacks no good, scrap metal, useful metal, might-be useful metal, rusty metal for disposal, rusty metal for scrap, other metal; galvanised pipes, cast pipes, plastic pipes, drainage pipes, plastic drainage pipes, glass bottles, glass bottles with stuff in it, glass bottles with dangerous stuff in it, glass bottles with God-knows-what in. So on and so forth.  Then we had lunch, now I need to just mention that E, presumably having done the rounds of local suitable maidens with farm wife potential, went on a farming visit to Spain and came back with THE most amazing wife.  She has that dark allure of the flamenco dancer and the paella cooking ability of the true peasant of the Sierra Madre, she is an absolute gem, lunch therefore was not to be missed – she has even taken on the traditional Welsh dessert of blackberry and apple crumble and turned into a new art form !

Another 'useful' piece of detritus is saved from under the wagon where it had lain for decades - good job really we were moving it, he might have gone and bought just that very item fully forgetting there was already one in his most prized depository.

I had attempted over the intervening years to persuade him to allow me to help him get it cleared so that I could bring it home and begin the restoration.  I had never really pushed it too hard, even after I had completed my end of the deal and paid the cash and rebuilt the walls, actually quite a lot more than had originally been agreed.  That’s something I am prone to do, once I become acquainted and get to enjoy visiting a place and the people I often lose sight of the fact it is my ‘business’ !  I take the view that if I had to ‘go out’ to the pub or some such to meet and chat it would cost me far more than the odd couple of hours lost on a job and is always more enjoyable.  I have learned so much from this man and, frankly, I admire him and his family for the way they conduct themselves and the high quality of their farming, especially the animal welfare side of the enterprise.  I remember Whitney and I being shown a batch of (late) young chicks which were being cared for as if they were children.  My very own resident killer, Marti, came from this farm, he was rescued from having fallen into the hay stack – involving moving a couple of hundred bales just to get to him – and when I first saw him he was laid out on E’s lap being gently stroked and purring contentedly.  All the animals, be they the highly regarded and valuable horses, such as the American Quarter horses which are his passion, the Welsh black cattle or the sheep, the ducks, the chickens, the seemingly dozens of cats and kittens, the four or five farm dogs, most well past their working days, are cared for with respect, dignity and loving attention.  For sure several are kept at immense cost over and above their value to the farm enterprise.  I like E and his wife immensely and value the fact I can call by whenever and be taken in and greeted as an old friend.

I knew he was actually quite reluctant to see the van go, it had been there as long as he could remember and thus had more than a commercial value.  Indeed the money side was not really an issue, he and I both know full well the living van is worth more than ten times what I’ve had it for but he has hopefully seen enough in me to trust that I will restore it to its former glory, for my part I will do so and have already said they must come over and see it once it is done.  I’d half expected that he would change his mind.  Soon after I had paid him the cash part of the deal I was laid up with my snapped achilles tendon, in fact my sister whilst chauffeuring me to the hospital at Abergavenny took me by so I could tell them it would be several months before they saw me again.  Not a week went by before she was on the phone asking if I wanted the cash back – it was put into a drawer not to be touched until after the deal was signed off and the van moved to my place – as they realised I would be struggling financially.  I, to my immediate shame, assumed he wanted to back out.  I think I even assumed he had been offered more by a local vet who desperately wanted it, how wrong could I have been, this man is of the old school, once a hand is shaken there is no going back.  No, it was genuine concern for me.  so I waited, knowing that when he was ready, when he had come to terms with it going, I would be called over to assist.  That happened last week.

A day of crawling under finally paid off, she was ready to attempt a move, 50 years of standing in that spot was about to come to an end..... or was it !

By the middle of the afternoon we had pretty much finished clearing the underside and then looked to the inside.  It had been an important vermin proof store and remained weatherproof throughout its 50 plus years in that spot.  Thus there were several valuable items, some quite heavy, to be carried into the cowshed.  Feed sacks are the farmer’s most valuable recyclable item and the paper ones are particularly valued; over a hundred had to be gathered-up.  It was actually the first time I had managed to have a proper look inside the living van.  the first thing that struck me was how large it was, a bunk box-bed across the rear end with a removable hammock type bunk above, a two tier cupboard and fold-away table, two windows and the hole where the stove-pipe passed through the roof.  The original green and pitch paint remains in good condition and the floor is like new with no sign of any woodworm or rot.  I began to rediscover the excitement which I had first felt all those years ago when I first saw her and then again when he agreed I could take her home.  In as much as I can recall, it was akin to the very first time a heart-throb agrees to go out with you !

The brake had been wound on in about 1960, would I ever get it off ? Can you believe the small wheel which operates it turned with not so much as a grunt ! Amazing, and of course it meant movement was possible..... or was it !

There had been much discussion over the intervening years as to whether or not the wheels would be seized.  E felt very much that they would ‘probably’ be all-right.  Paddy, the resident haulier who had agreed to move it for me when it was finally ready (he was quite convinced that I would never persuade E to let it go !) was convinced the wheels would be seized solid presenting an impossible task in moving and loading.  I was not sure, from my experience with old wooden wheeled farm carts I knew that pre-war grease (with which the hubs would have been packed) was far superior to modern equivalents and would still be soft and sticky – as long as water hadn’t ingressed.  The item that was causing me most concern however, was the small matter of brakes.

The iron-wheels are only braked on the rear, the front are set on a turntable for sttering - was that seized !

The braking system is a simple worm screw which presses wooden blocks against the rear wheel.  A small cast iron turn-wheel at the rear centre of the wagon operates the screw.  Clearly the brakes had been screwed on when the wagon arrived all those years ago and everything looked pretty well rusted up.  However, while I was crawling underneath to remove the trash I tried a small turn of the wheel.  Unbelievably it moved and by using a lever bar I was able to unscrew the brakes which, of course, was an immense help in the process of moving the wagon, if indeed move it we could.  The whole process of crawling under the wagon and reaching into the furthest recesses of the undercarriage where dozens of lengths of timber and pieces of piping has been cleverly slipped for decades of storage, raised my excitement and conviction that the wagon was indeed in excellent overall condition.  By the time darkness started to descend on the farm yard we were ready to attempt to move the great living van from its 50 year repose.

Gently does it, pulling slowly the living van is eased from her half century of idleness.

The motive power of the steam engine which was first used to haul such wagons was a slow strong pull through a strong steel ‘A’ frame.  The attachment through forged ‘eyes’ fixed in turn  to the front oak cross-member and secured with a long steel bar of an inch thickness enabled a horizontal pull as the towing pin on the engine would have been at a similar height.  Partly because the original ‘A’ frame has been somewhat distorted by inappropriate uses over the years and partly because the strength of the wooden cross member is dubious, we decided to affix the towing strops (4 of 2 tonne pulling strain each) to the front stub axles.  Using the modern farm tractor with the strops pinned to the front towing point the pull was exerted.  At first nothing seemed to be happening – remember we had no idea if the wheels would turn and half expected to have to drag the wagon from its resting place – but slowly, almost imperceptibly, the old iron wheels could be seen to turn. ‘E’ eased her slowly with deft clutch control until one full turn of the wheels had been achieved.  Both of us were delighted and surprised, all four wheels had revolved with ne’er a squeak !

All that now remains is for ‘E’ to clear out the stored ‘valuable’ trash in the rear external locker (which is actually the recess formed under the internal bunk) and she will be ready for transporting back home.  I was walking on air and even ‘E’ seemed delighted and voiced his view that she was now ready and deserving of a ‘new life’ and having her dignity restored.  Be assured you will see her triumphant arrival here at Land Rover Manor.

It's supposed to look like a letter A, but being used with powerful modern machinery has left the original towing frame mis-shapen beyond use. I need a blacksmith !!

The nature of the farmer often defines the continuity or otherwise of old traditions and old tools.  When I first saw the farm buildings all those years ago it was clear that here was a place which had not come willingly into the 21st century.  The scrap heap of any farm is always a good indicator of what lies hidden within.  ’E's’ scrap pile – not ‘scrap’ in the sense of waiting to be disposed of, you understand, rather ‘awaiting’ recycling – is an absolute treasure trove of old tools and farm implements.  He comes from a line of traditional farmers and among his close ancestors were some fine craftsmen.  Utilitarianism was the hallmark of nineteenth century and early twentieth century marginal farming, the legacy has lingered on in many Welsh upland farms.  As an example of the approach to using age-old tools in the modern farming enterprise I cite two examples of ‘E’s’ recent requests to me.  Firstly he asked me to find him a ‘hay knife’ as his had finally worn so thin as to be unfit for purpose – the fact he still cuts his hay from the stack is almost unique, I was able to oblige with a fine knife which had never been used, from my collection.  The second request was for a ‘drag’ rake, a five foot wide steel-tine rake used for scratching up the last straw or hay remnants from the field.  My summer visitor used one on my hay and can vouch for how hard a job it is to rake using one of these artefacts.

The old 5ft wide drag rake (often erroneously called 'heel' rake in these parts - the heel rake was only 3ft wide and had straight steel tines ) is hard to find in good enough condition to still be used.

I’ve yet to find him an example, or at least one which is priced at a level which will make it attractive to him.  I know of one with my friends, the ‘Junkyard Angels’ , at Trecastle antique centre but the decimal point is one place too far to the right.

As an example of the kind of little treasure that lurks around the farm is a quite amazing artefact.  Fashioned by his grandfather ‘E’ was proud to show me a trug of ash, hazel and briar which was kept in the small stable into which much of the internal collection of the wagon had been placed.  A quite beautiful piece of artisan work from the C19th my eyes were green.  It was, as we would term it today, ergonomic in the extreme.  Used for a number of carrying tasks, from potatoes to grain, the trug had survived the ravages of worm and rot exceptionally well.  I am not at all surprised at that, it is almost certain that his grandfather knew full well the correct time to cut the various species of timber and the briar to ensure its resistance to such attack.  The knowledge of when to fell and harvest our native species of timber, be it hazel or oak, depending on what the end use was to be, has long since been lost, save for one or two old craftsmen I know and one or two books.  I’ll maybe write more about it in a later post.

A beautiful piece of home-work, now over a hundred years old.

To end this week, and what a start to my Christmas, a few photographs of what I would have liked in my stocking, but I can’t complain, who else is getting a 100 year old living van !

Also I’m off to the big city again, an invitation from my esteemed friend Jon Gower, one of Wales’ most eminent writers, broadcasters and critics, to go and stay and have dinner with him, his dear American (fantastic cook – what is it with ladies from the U.S. and fine cuisine !) wife and some equally eminent friends, has me getting well into the festive mood.  I hope to meet up with some of the other Cardiff gang and have a browse at the food fair in the Chapter Arts Centre.  I understand JG has been suffering with ‘Deli-belly’ having been in Bangladesh for a couple of weeks,  so maybe his appetite is not what it usually is……. how much can I eat !!

This is how it would have been carried, shaped exactly to fit on the hip.

But the week hasn’t been all enjoyment; my happy state has been tempered by the passing of the dear old lady I referred to recently, the mother of my present customer.  She was ready to go, of that I am sure, she talked to me of her own excitement at going to a wonderful place, the existence of which was in no doubt in her mind.  She and I spent many hours discussing such matters, trawling through ‘meaning of life’ issues, wondering at things we had experienced – her life was hard and long, half as long again as mine has been – finding shared beliefs and values.  It is strange to me now to realise I knew more about her inner thoughts on such matters and her readiness to depart this life, than did her own daughters who nursed her these long last months.  Neither they nor her son, my present and longest customer, had any idea how close she and I were, how many hours over many years we had been talking.  Only a few short months ago she and I attended an evening lecture in the nearby village of Bethlehem where we joked (with others that knew us) that I was her ‘Toy boy’.  During my last visit, which lasted a long hour or so,  I remember that the daughter who was there, who doesn’t know me well at all, was fairly sure she wouldn’t want to see me – she was, after all, in her bed – and was quite surprised that I was welcomed and that, when she came up later, I sat holding my dear friend’s hand.  Apparently, after I left, she and her sister were scolded for not giving me tea !  I’m sad that she’s gone but glad that she’s where she was anxious to be but, oh my, how much knowledge and memory has passed with her.  Her son told me of her death on Friday morning when I arrived back at the job in the mud, but I already knew, she passed through on Wednesday night, quite late, I knew she had.

God bless you Mrs Davies, another I shan’t forget.

"Since golden October declined into sombre November, and the apples were gathered and stored, and the land became brown sharp points of death in a waste of water and mud ". (T.S. Eliot)

Normally, when I work, my mind is switched off to the task in hand and wanders to every corner of  the universe.  Not this week, no indeed, every step and every stone requires treble the effort and ten times the concentration.  Mud clings mecilessly to my feet, to my gloves, to the stone and anything else it can find.  The red earth of the western Brecon Beacons can be quickly turned to a claggy cement-like morass with the addition of some gentle rain.  Gentle rain has NOT been what has precipitated upon the land this last week, howling westerly gales have driven in torrential downpours.  The site of the wall I am currently building is in an exposed position, lovely views, yes, in fact the southern skyline is of Gower, the western skyline of the Carningli of the Presceli mountains; beyond both is nothing but the open Atlantic, where I stand and flounder is higher than both, thus there is nothing between the low pressure systems hurling themselves off the Atlantic and my little corner of  Wales.

It looks like a wall building machine - oh how I wish it was, the machine is still wreaking havoc amongst the wildlife, sadly, and I'm not sure if it is helping me or just making the ground more Somme-like than it otherwise would be.

Nevertheless the wall is creeping inexorably upward and onward.  It is painfully slow however, each stone needs to be extricated from the glue and cleaned off before being placed in the wall.  One good thing is that the wall face nearest the house is not going to be seen once the backfill has been put in, thus I can use big ugly stones without worrying too much how they look.  The outer face is turning out not too badly all things considered, mainly that I don’t really have sufficient stone readily to hand and visible from which to choose the best ‘next’ stone.  Virtually every stone I go and get (or which Dan throws in my direction having clawed it from its hiding place) is positioned in the wall albeit there is probably a better example hiding somewhere in the quagmire.  I am very aware of two important factors, firstly I have dubious lower leg strength given the snapped achilles and the recent calf rupture, secondly the amount being built each day – given the ‘day’ is only about 5 hours long in this weather and early darkness – is barely economical given the current cost of fuel to get there (it is a 60 mile round trip for me).  It has always been the same in the winter months, short days, hard conditions and slow progress means a low rate of earning but at least I am gainfully employed.  Increasingly the levels of unemployment are causing social unrest and despair, especially amongst young people with over a million of them on the scrap heap without ever having got work.  My ‘little helper’ has voiced his opinion several times these last few days as to the lack of sense and unworthiness of the undertaking on which we are embarked.  The future for dry stone walling (read ‘bloody wet winter walling’) is in question despite the high level of unemployment.  No one in their right mind wants to do what we have been doing this past week, but there’s always the sunny days !

Yes, that is a deep muddy puddle through which every stone had to be carried and out of which it was nigh impossible to extricate my feet if I stood for a moment too long.

The rain does at least give the stones a nightly wash off, in the photo opposite the stones that have been positioned that day can be clearly seen, mud covered.  The large blocks of silica have actually turned out quite attractively and certainly match the stone pillars of the house.  The worry for me with water sitting at the foot of the wall is that the sub soil will become soft and the foundation stones may start to tilt into it.  The answer is – and indeed always has been throughout the history of such walls built in wet areas – to dig a ditch along the foot of the wall, some half metre away from the foundations, to allow water to run off from the vicinity of the wall.  The wall height is now level with what will be the lawned area in front of the picture window.  In essence it is a Ha Ha, that much loved feature of grand houses which prevents  stock entering the grounds but allows an unhindered view out over the parkland or pastures with no apparent barrier.  So far, in this situation, the plan is to build slighlty higher than the lawned area so as to present a low wall from the house side.  Another week should see the wall completed, but the weather is the master at the moment so time will tell.

The wild storms caused me to change my normal ‘Monday’ visit to the Royal Welsh Agriculoutural Society’s Winter Fair in Llanelwedd, Builth Wells.  The fair is a mini version of the main summer 4 day show but is a worthwhile day out whatever the weather.  Last year the show, which events on the last Monday and Tuesday of November or the first couple of days of December, depending on how the calendar shapes, coincided with the arrival of the first major snowfall of the winter and it just kept on all through December and most of January.  This year it was just a cyclonic rain storm with 60-70mph winds.  The Monday promised a reasonably fair day but the Tuesday looked frightening, so I decided to forego my usual first day visit and go on the second day.  I would not have wanted to have been in that exposed spot trying to build a wall, I can tell you.

People and cattle, sheep and people, people and people, the Winter Fair !

The Winter Fair is the showcase event for fatstock breeders and sheep and cattle dominate.  The parade of fine cattle was quite outstanding and the sheep entries seemed bigger than ever.  Agriculture in general is doing reasonably well during this recession but everyone I speak to from the farming world is fearing the future.  The incessant rise in fuel price and the colossal cost of fertilizer and feedstuff is only sustainable because of the artificially high prices that beef and lamb is currently fetching.  That in turn due to the crazy international currency situation.  With the imminent end of most hill subsidy and the reform of the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) and  consequent changes to the Single Farm Payment which that will precipitate, farmers are worried about the future.  Nevertheless the Winter Fair is a time for getting out and meeting old friends and spending a little of the cash from under the bed.  Judging by the fact the number of visitors was up on both days and from what I gleaned talking to a number of stallholders I know, trade was brisk.

Some people think I am obsessed with 'butts', not true, but these three fine rear ends did make me chuckle, just wanted to give them a good smack !

As always there were lots of folk to meet (how many did I miss on the Monday?) and the past year to catch up on.  So too work gets proffered and I came away with several new walling jobs and a couple of training events for the first few months of the New Year.  One of the varied branches of my work has, sadly, been irrecoverably removed from the calendar, the demise recently of FWAG (and in particular FWAG Cymru) has left a hole in the environmental side of agriculture which will be sorely missed in my view.  The Farming and Wildlife Advisory Group provided a very necessary and scientifically based service to the landowner.  It was a service devoid of any political influence in terms of the ‘in-vogue’ thinking on Agri-environment schemes or “jump through this hoop and you can get this cash”  type carrot and stick advise.  The reasons for its demise is unclear though I suspect mis-management is a factor but so too is the problem of all environmental work – when things get tight the non-essential (or what is viewed as non essential by politicians) programmes have to be cut and we don’t really need environmental advise or even work in a recession…. do we !

I am truly in awe of the amount of care an attention that certain farmers (or their offspring) lavish on their show animals.  If you have never seen the ‘beauty parlour’ which the holding stalls become prior to the ring appearance, you will be astonished.  I can only say that the fuss and pampering which dogs receive at large shows such as Crufts, is as nought compared to what a heifer or ewe endures in order to look their best for the judges.

The 'poodle parlour' comes to the cattle pen. The hoover is blow drying the coiffure of this young heifer. I wonder if the Drovers did that before getting their charges to Smithfield !

Walking around the animal sheds is always an entertainment, not least because of the amusing conversations one hears about how best to get the animals looking ‘cool’ for the ring !  I am quite sure that I would not have the patience to do that kind of  activity, yes, quite sure.  I used to have a small flock of Jacob sheep and one of my customers was a champion breeder, I was shocked to find that in order to get the ram ready for the ring the poor old thing was tied to a ‘Y’ shaped post with its neck in the  ’v’ of the post, tied for days while being lovingly groomed !! Huh, not good for the ram or me, so, much as I admire the dedication of those that show their animals, it is not for me.  On the other hand, the Fur and Feather show is far more my kind of thing !

This is what it takes to get to the top in the world of Cow showing - or Bull .... in this case.

The problem for me was that by the time I got in the vicinity of the Chicken shed the heavens had opened, and then some, so everyone was diving for cover.  The crowded sheds are not places I can tolerate, in fact they invoke a certain panic in me.  The other problem comes in the differential that exists in the general physical make-up of the Welsh farmer and his family.  I am a southerner and hence stand rather taller and larger than the average upland Welsh farmer  and Mrs farmer.  That means I have a habit of stepping on or tripping over those below my eye level when imprisoned in crowds of people confined in narrow corridors in sheds !  The bigger problem is mothers pushing buggies in which are cocooned little people, protected behind barely see through plastic rain covers.  Inevitably I trip over them and sometimes even fall on top of the little person and, as occurred on Tuesday, cause the buggy to fold neatly into its ‘in the boot’ configuration.  This is somewhat distressing to the mother and the little person and causes something of a commotion, again making me feel like ejecting through the roof.  Escaping the swarming masses of stop / go /stop / chat / go /stop /look /go / hover / go / stop /greet / etc /etc /etc folk all dressed the same (in strange ‘country ware’ and caps) brings little respite for me.  When it rains all the little ‘Gladys’s’ (lovely little Welsh ladies who all look the same with glasses, blue perms and funny long purple waterproof coats) put their umbrellas up, well they would wouldn’t they !  That is a nightmare for me as the spike ends of the umbrella frames are inevitably on my eye level; the holder of course can’t see me – well maybe they are staring at my approaching torso – and so I get whacked in the eye.  I have learned to just grab the spikes and push upwards which has the effect of lifting them off their feet or bending the handle but generally alerts them to the damage they are about to inflict on those of us who operate at a higher level.  My tolerance of course gets gradually eroded and by lunch time, when I stupidly found myself in the food hall and had to egress most fastly, my fuse was well burned away.  I found myself caught in a one way flow of people moving in a narrow confined walkway which was periodically stopped and blocked by an idiot who decided to answer or call on the mobile phone thus bringing the whole movement to a halt.  Like traffic trying to pass a broken down lorry on a narrow busy road the congestion soon got to fever point, when my turn came to pass the culprit I heard the inevitable “I’m by the Curry van, I’ll meet you by here, what do you want”.    Moving on, the Gladys in front, with her raised umbrella, proceeded to stop, without warning as no rear red lights are fitted to raised umbrellas or purple waterproof long riding coats, which caused me to have to jerk my head vigorously to avoid the spikes.  After about five of these experiences I finally snapped and, catching hold of the long spiked lightning conductor at the top of her umbrellas, I thrust it downwards  and swerved around the little mushroom obstacle.  I was heading for one of my favourite stalls, and I was in a hurry !

Purple was even present at my favourite stall, an emporium of bygones from which I inevitably purchase an artefact.

A fine couple of goodly folk from the west country always attends the fair and almost always have some interesting items put aside for me – they know my particular wants and are well versed in presenting me with irresistible items – and this year was no different.  The other factor which added to the ‘charm’ of the vendors was that it was the last day of their last show of the year and hence they were more than happy to ‘haggle’ .

No rust here, all well restored and nicely priced artefacts for my temptation !

I am always interested in items that relate to my particular craft.  The tools of the waller are few but there are hammers which are specific to the working and winning of the stone.  The stallholders hail from the edge of Dartmoor and so they often come across old stone working tools, this year again they had a real gem for me.

A large 16lb hammer which was designed for breaking granite had made its way north for me and I gladly added it to my ‘walling’ collection.  I have used several of the items in that collection, there’s nothing better than using a tool which was designed and made well over a century ago.  Apart from anything else the metal is better quality and it has been hand forged, so a craftsman made it for another craftsman and now I get to use it.  For the price of two bottles of medium priced wine I get a piece of  history which will still be around long after I’ve gone.  What I get pleasure from as well is the fact that I am positioning the item back in its environment, where it was meant to be, rather than just in a pile of tools which somehow relate to bygone times.  It will be catalogued in my collection correctly so that, in future, it will be known for what it is.

The unusual sledge hammer for smashing into the laminates of sedimentary rock and splitting it into usable blocks.

I came home with two additions to my collection, the second item is not really something I would have gone out to buy but my friendly stall-holder had thought it was something that would be of interest, he had obviously failed to sell it during the several dozen shows he had attended since obtaining it so I was not too flattered but nevertheless he offered it to me at less than half of what it was marked up at, which itself was very cheap I thought (£18) and so, for the price, it was worth buying.  I often wonder if, behind my back, such people think me slightly eccentric – well I am ! – but I am always met with a greeting from these two and they are not pushy nor do they appear false, indeed at an auction a few years back where he and  I were obviously after the same items, he let me have the two items I really wanted and I, in turn, did not bid on the ones he was after.  That way I know he will keep things which he thinks might enhance my collection, albeit my area of interest is really confined to Welsh upland farming but of course, the upland areas of England had very similar agriculture and hence similar tools.

The two sledge hammers for splitting sedimentary rock into suitable sizes for wall building. The left one I got several years ago, the new one is different and heavier, it is for granite.

I’m not altogether sure what my other item does although it is something to do with tensioning or linking  a chain or such.  It is a lovely piece of engineering and will be a good item for my 2012 competition of  ”What is this tool”.  Someone of course will know and it is how many of my artefacts have ultimately been identified.  It really requires someone who actually knows what an item is by virtue of  having used it.

I don't quite know what this does, but I know a man who does ! Dai - it has 711 Chain Plier etched onto it and is made by the American chain and cable co. inc. of Bridgeport, Connecticut, USA.

The pliers are 2ft long (60cms) and the action opens the jaws or closes the snips - intriguing.

The Winter Fair is the start of winter for me, last year the snow was already causing havoc, this year it was just gales and rain.  I ought really to utilise the time at the show-ground to buy Christmas gifts and food – the food hall is an absolute Aladdin’s cave of fine foods and drinks, most of them manufactured in Wales.  Unfortunately everyone else has the same idea but, unlike me, they carry it out and hence every stall, in the food hall and the gift halls, is just jam packed; I like to shop in quiet places and buy my treats from local shops and craft makers.

One of my ‘must see’ displays are the amazing decorative items that children and the inimitable members of the WI’s of Wales.    I am both astonished at the skill level of all of them and also at the time and patience involved in making the cakes and articles.  As always however, it is the floral displays that make my jaw drop.  I have no particular interest in flowers, I certainly have no idea what type they are (if they are not daffodils or roses, forget it) but to see what these ladies can create from natural plants is quite remarkable.  I know a couple of ladies (at my bank actually) who indulge in such creative torture, they tell me of the hours involved and the incredible cost of such creations – £500 doesn’t do it !  I stand and stare at them and wonder who on earth has the time and dexterity to do that, how do they transport it to the show and set it up without damaging it, but most of all I wonder – why doesn’t it all just shrivel up and die !

Who has time to create this, such skill is beyond my comprehension...

The onset of December is often missed, dates mean very little to me, except that is for the fact that monthly bills need paying, again !  The Winter Fair and the Christmas lights in the small towns I pass through eventually begin to make inroads into my shell like brain and I begin to realise I need to do things.  Cards need to be sent, some have a long way to go, presents need to be gathered and work needs to be completed.  I like to end the year with all jobs done, not least because snow often covers my work sites for much of January.  It also means I have some ‘guilt free’ time at home working on some of my projects.  Hard days ahead then, the ‘wall in the mud’ to complete, a small patio repair to complete and, most exciting of all, a day at the farm where my Living Van resides, to prepare it for its move to my little hovel in the hill.

These two characters sums it all up for me, a jolly fine day out at the Royal Welsh Winter Fair, 2011

Amidst all this Christmas time enjoyment came an event that has saddened me immensely and the whole Nation of Wales as well as footballing folk everywhere

R. I. P.  Gary  Speed

‘Speedo’

Careful lifting of stones gives a chance of escape, and life; not doing so results in death and maiming..

I grew up with a respect for nature, a reverence for the secret  world of animals, a fascination for wildlife in all its form.  There are no obvious reasons for this in my upbringing.  Neither my parents nor grandparents had any influence in this, indeed they operated in the world of farming and food where death (of nature) was an everyday accepted activity, be it picking fruit, butchery of home raised poultry, elimination of vermin such as mice, rats and foxes or ‘discouraging’ birds, such as house sparrows and crows, from pinching newly planted seeds (this went far beyond the ‘Scare Crow’).  My obsession, for such it was when I was young, can only have come from elsewhere, within or without, nurture or nature.  I am fairly certain it has a foundation in my DNA, in my gene memory, but it also was greatly nurtured in my first school where the Nature Table and twice weekly ‘nature walks’, with enthusiastic knowledgeable teachers, gave light and voice to those dormant instincts.  Exploration of the natural world was my childhood passion and indeed, of my faithful friends with whom I grew and played.  We had two major benefits, a safe environment in which to indulge our passion, be it day or night, and a nearby dis-used canal which literally teemed with wildlife.  Yes, the Canal Bank Boy (as I was often called) had his very own ‘safari park’.  I reckon that by the time I was seven or eight I knew most of the aquatic life that was to be found in the clear waters of the Monmouthshire canal,  I knew too the majority of  the birds that occupied the adjacent woodlands and fields.  I was less good at plants and trees though that came later, but by the age of ten I certainly knew where and when all of the creatures of that habitat were to be found.  For some strange reason – strange that is because most of my peers indulged – I never ever got into collecting bird’s eggs, but then I never took to smoking in secret places either (nor anywhere else, I should add) again, strange given that the majority of my friends and school chums smoked, certainly from the age of ten onwards.

Of all the creatures of that aquatic and woodland environment the ones I really wanted to ‘find’ or catch, were the amphibians.  Frogs, Toads and Newts always but always fascinated me.  The annual appearance of spawn, gallons and gallons of it, which suddenly appeared even when the water was still frozen, was magical (I was much older before I got to see a frog ‘laying’ the spawn) but this was as nothing compared to the gradual emergence of legs !  The change from the tadpole which lives below the surface, to the froglet that climbs out and breathes air was astonishing to me.  Toads however were my most favourite, ugly and pointless (or so it appeared) they moved slowly, never hopping mad, just crawling gently away.  They were rarely seen in the water – indeed they only venture ‘in’ for a quick bit of mating then off to go again – and were thus mysterious as well.  Finding them under stones in our gardens or in the woods near the canal only added to their allure for me and I, alone amongst my group of friends, could happily pick them up and move them to safety if and when they were encountered.  I knew nothing of their life cycle in those days and thus was guilty of assuming they should always be taken back to the safety of the water !

That early interest stayed with me and eventually I learned as much as I could, indeed as much as is known (there is still much to discover) about the life cycle and habits of our families of amphibians.  What was little known was where Toads,  Frogs and Newts spend most of their time when they are away from water.  I have been fortunate in being able to contribute much to that gap in the years I have been walling.  It is commonplace to discover toads in walls, frogs do appear but very less often, newts too are fairly frequently found.  What always amazes me is the altitude and distance from any obvious pond or ditch where the creatures appear.  I have encountered them high in the uplands. above the 1000ft (300m+) contour and even up to 1400ft.  Clearly they are using the walls (and indeed the debris of fallen stones alongside old walls) as good shelter and protection from predators but so too it must indicate their preferred food is readily and plentifully available.

Who's a pretty boy !? This is another one safe.

These creatures will find sanctuary in any dark recess which offers some shelter from the wet and cold winter.  Thus it was no surprise that in my current work place I should be encountering these four legged friends.  The stone which I have to use has been in a pile, mixed with earth and grass,  for longer than I had realised.

Also, as it was a pasture there was never a thought in my mind that the great pile would be occupied.  I should have my bottom spanked !  Because the stone was so in a mess I took to using the farmer’s mechanical digger to spread the stone and separate it from the soil.  The job is a long job anyway and as the stone is some way from the wall line it adds greatly to the time factor. Time, as they say, is money, and indeed it is in my work.  I get paid for how much I put up and I therefore don’t need to be losing time carting stone or digging it out of a pile of earth.    A 5 ton mini-digger speeds things up.  The trouble is it lacks the care and discerning mind of a nature loving waller.  Once it had done the first ‘spreading’ I was pleased as it revealed the stones I needed and it dragged them closer to the wall.  The consequences were soon apparent, within a few minutes of lifting stones I found the first victim.

Machine, mud, stone and ....

Cavities in the stone pile, especially when there is earth in the pile, is where toads will hide.  Those cavities are easily found when man-handling stones,  I am well trained in lifting stones so as not to cause any collapse.  When I had my faithful Cocker Spaniel, Molly, with me there was never a problem in knowng where animals were in the stone piles.  She would sniff out voles, mice, newts and toads, hiding deep beneath such piles.  As I gently removed the stones and debris her excitement would mount, indicated by an increasingly frenzied wagging of her tail.  She never actually caught any of the animals, the voles she would have liked to eat but toads, no way.  I always made sure voles escaped and picked up any other creatures and put them into a safe part of the wall.  Today, I just have to be more careful, and I normally am.

This is what being lazy and using a machine causes. The right back leg is nearly amputated, the left leg was paralysed due to a broken back. He was still crawling away, anxious to escape, but life for a Toad this badly injured was an impossibility.

The first one I found was a shock; still able to crawl it looked at first as if it had got away with it.  Closer examination showed the awful extent of the damage wreaked by the mini-digger.  A paralysed left leg, a three-quarter amputated right leg and an impossible life expectancy.  Unable to crawl very quickly thus unable to get to food, in pain, evidenced by the saddest squeak I’ve ever heard, my punishment was to have to put it out of its misery.  You would not believe how difficult I find such an act, especially when I am responsible.  Within a few minutes more maimed toads were found – I was astounded just how many had been in the pile, it was not an abvious over-wintering site, or so I thought.

Mangled by man, the result of being lazy. Let that be a lesson to you - it is to me !

Fortunately I did find a number of live, undamaged creatures too, frogs and toads.  But it got worse as the day wore on.  The extra building speed I achieved was no compensation to me, I felt upset the whole day and took my guilt home with me.

If I had been high on the hill digging out stone or stripping a collapse, I would have been alert to the possibility of animals within.  Because I was not concentrating, seduced by the domesticity of the site, its newness and artificiality, I forgot all that I know, all that I teach, all that I am forever harping on about;  walls are a hugely important habitat area as is the debris that surrounds them !

Regular readers will know that my favourite all time creature of this land of mine is the Short Tailed Vole, the cutest yet saddest animal in creation.  It sits firmly at the bottom of the food chain, devoured by all the predators above them.  I have tried, in my years of working, to save as many as I have been able, though knowing full well they are a necessary sacrifice for the well being of other animals.  Amongst their predators are some of my other favourites, Owls, Foxes and the Mustelidae.  You can well imagine then my shame when I came across the limp squashed body of one of these furry little beauties, buried in the newly moved stone and mud.

Killed in Action - my action. A poor little Vole, squashed by my mini-digging antics.

So, people, do me a favour, don’t do it !  I have had to endure a very guilty conscience and continuing upset as more and more of the little bodies are uncovered in the building of the wall.  Of course the other consideration is that I have destroyed a very important over-wintering habitat, clearly it was regarded as most suitable by toads, frogs and voles.  Thus far no newts have appeared nor lizards or slow worms, fingers crossed !

The rain and wind is making the job heavy hard work but I am gradually getting it up.  The mix of geology is not causing the wall to look makeshift, as I had at first feared.  Once I have forgiven myself this error that has cost a lot of lives, I will be pleased with the finished article.  But, what a stupid ass I’ve been…

I mentioned last week that I needed to get going on some winter restorations (and promised or threatened to bring some of it to you this week), and I have made a sort of start.  I have moved some items into a position where things can begin to happen.  I also visited a couple of places where artefacts are to be found, though thus far nothing new has been purchased – watch this space !

Tractors litter the place here, this Nuffield Universal 3 of 1959 vintage is my next target, or it is until something else takes my attention !

Whilst I had my aspiring tractor driving farmer from Carolina with me I moved a number of the wheeled artefacts into positions where restoration could begin.  The tractor collection is always in need of attention and I am determined to get at least one done this winter.  There are some other wheeled items that are also in line for some restoration this winter, such as the Martin Bonser truck which spent its life in Hackney in London as a parks and gardens utility.  I aquired it many years ago from a little village outside Ammanford in east Carmarthenshire, how it got there is a long story !  I have a certain affection for three wheeled vehicles and trucks, perhaps I feel sorry for them, not quite the complete item, or something like that.  In my collection are several Martin and Wrigley three wheel utility trucks and an early ATV and a quaint little road truck which spent its life as a milk float in Newport, Mon.  The Reliant Ant TW9 is nowadays quite rare, although those of you who holiday in the Greek Islands will be familiar with them.

The Martin Bonsor is worth restoring, in fact a company has been set up to do just that and sell the finished articles for around £3000 ! All I need is a complete Kohler K181T engine...

I need to get stuck into these larger items as the ravages of time will overcome me and them.  Mostly the work required is in-house renovation, mainly stripping and re-painting the frame and running gear.  The Bonser has an incomplete engine, a powerful 11hp Kohler K181T, but replacing the parts is too expensive, it’s cheaper to buy a complete replacement engine which can be got for less than half the price of the bits I need for the original.  Of course, with petrol now costing about £7.50 a gallon, running these little trucks is no longer economically viable, but they are great for shows and running around the smallholding or stable yard.

The little Ant is a funny little truck but is a good economical workhorse. This one is from 1978.

I am becoming slightly more circumspect about my ‘collection’ of vintage artefacts.  I realise that not everything is going to be able to be restored, either because I don’t have the necessary technical skill or because the cost of the parts required and the time it will take is not justifiable in terms of the final value of the article.  It is true of most restorations, whatever the subject, that the time invested plus the cost of the parts etc., will never be recouped from a subsequent sale.  It is definitely the case when it comes to restoration of tractors or Land Rovers that it is cheaper to go out and buy one ready restored than to carry out the restoration oneself.  But where’s the fun in that !  Nevertheless, I have decided (with some pressure from sensible friends – who clearly have no idea what a sacrifice they have asked of me ) to start to dispose of some items, if only to fund the restorations I am going to do.

This Cyclemaster engined bicycle dates from 1950, it is being sacrificed for the greater good.

One of the (treasured) items I have decided to let go is an unusual ladies cycle dating from the 1940s.  it is fitted with an ingenious device, an engine which is fitted within the rear wheel.  It comes with a number plate and required a road taxation payment.  By releasing the clutch once speed had been increased to a sufficient level, the engine was bump started and took over the driving, not quite a Moped, but I’m sure it must have been a very welcome addition to those old big wheeled bicycles.

I’ve been getting back into Landscape Archaeology too, another academic course is dominating my spare time and much of any other time at the moment.   It’s hard, once such an interest emerges in you, to not let it dominate.  For me it’s even more difficult given that everywhere I work and go, there is something to see or wonder about.  The current work site is in the old Welsh Kingdom of Deheubarth and there’s not many places where the landscape doesn’t have a relic relating ot history or pre-history.  Just outside the little village of Bethlehem, on the crest of a hill, is an interesting standing stone, one of a line in the vicinity.  The view of it and from it out over the Tywi valley and the land north west of the river is quite something.  I caught it in some sunshine t’other evening so stopped by.  As one looks out over the river to the small hills beyond, most of which have ditch and bank defended enclosures on their summits, pre-history comes into focus.  Behind lies the massive Iron Age fortress of Garn Goch, the land of the Silures.  The Tywi is thought to have been the border between them and their near neighbours, the Ordivices (mentioned recently in my posts about  ’Dinas’) and yet, now I have begun to examine the view of the other enclosures from this point, what is called ‘line of site’, I am wondering if that is so.   A project being undertaken by my old university Prof. Ray Howell, is plotting these line of site hill forts to see if there is a pattern.  It is something I am going to get into in that area of the Tywi valley.

The probable Bronze Age stone marking a prehistoric boundary or route-way, stands alongside the Llangadog to Bethlehem road.

So November passes and we move towards the end of the year, the start of the new year on December 22nd, when the sun starts moving back north and the days begin to lengthen.  The Royal Welsh Winter Fair takes place and will be a place for meeting old friends and catching up on the latest news affecting the Farming community here in Wales.  A time to for getting into the Christmas spirit and start thinking about what pressies to get and what food to eat.  Lets hope, as December slips in, we don’t have a repeat of the last two winters; the Winter Fair last year was a white out and the snow stayed for over six weeks………   Walling jobs need to be completed PDQ methinks !

Back where I started - in a field of stone.....

I’ve come full circle and arrived back where I started, at the farm where it all began 2o odd years ago.  This time however I am adding to the newly built retirement home of the customer, Mr Huw D.  He has been a good customer over the years and there haven’t been many years in all that time when I haven’t been doing something or other for him.  The field walls of his farm were the first I restored under the very first pilot Agri-environment scheme, Tir Cymen.  In the 10 years of that scheme I rebuilt some 2000 metres (yes, 2 Kilometers !) plus a number of smaller new builds or repairs around the farmstead (for some strange reason walls associated with the farmstead were disallowed in the first scheme – not the second however).  He then entered the all Wales scheme, Tir Gofal and I completed a lengthy new build at another farm he owns where his dear old mother lives.  I am now back to build a Ha Ha wall in front of his new house, to separate the garden from the sheep, whilst remaining unobtrusive from the large picture window of his lounge, that is the wall is unobtrusive not me !

The rich red soil of the western Brecon Beacons contrasts with the silica rich blocks and sandstones which I have to build the new wall.

The house has been built in a virgin field and only got permission (from the fastidious National Park planning authority) by virtue of being ‘tied’ to the farm.  Now I have vowed not to be ‘political’ in my blog, so I must be careful but, this house was designed (or should I say the original design was forcibly changed by those planners) to look as if it was a ‘Barn Conversion’.  So, as if we haven’t got enough barns and farm buildings being converted for (usually) holiday homes, we now, at the undemocratic behest of some urban-minded planning officer, are creating ‘false’ farm buildings in an attempt to ‘fool’ people into thinking the new build is an old  building.  Is it me I wonder, after all, old farms are a passion of mine, or does this latest ‘decree’ smack of ultimate lunacy ? Ok, not ‘smack’ of, overflows with lunacy; we have struggled for over 30 years with stupid planning rules and even more stupid planners, most of whom come into the National Park not realising it is a living landscape where thousand of years of man’s influence has shaped the very treasures that make it so valued today, not appreciating that long standing communities have to live and work in it, not realising that it cannot and should not be some ‘playground’ for them to implement their middle-class urbane ideas of sustainability and traditionality.  Sorry, I just don’t rate these silly people.

The hills of this farm formed a part of my research into the historic building styles of dry stone walls, in other words, can a wall be dated, more or less, by how it has been constructed; how each stone relates to and is positioned next to others.  I believe differences do exist, I’ve had them in my face, or more correctly, my hands, for a long time.  The geology of this particular area is very confused and this has led to many knowledgeable historians, archaeologists and geologists, assuming that the differences relate to the type of stone rather than to who built it and when.  There is much prehistory in this area and the opposite ridge-line boasts a whole ensemble of Bronze Age burial cairns.  The walls of the hill on which the farm is situated date principly from the enclosing of this former ffridd, or common grazing land of the township (a township in early Welsh society did not mean an urban or built up town rather it was made up of dispersed farms) which took place in the early years of the 1800s (the Enclosure Act was passed in 1812) and hence the wall typology is distinctly of that period.  Not far away, just over the other side of the hill, are field systems and walls that relate to Iron Age farmers who lived close to the great fortress of Garn Goch.

After all the gapping and stone steps I have been doing in the last few months, it is quite satisfying to be back doing the real job, building a dry stone wall of some length.  This wall will work out at about 40 metres at a height of around 1.2/1.5 mtrs, the difference relating to the undulations in the field;  I want to end up with a flat straight top so I have to wall-out those discrepancies.  The stone is a mixture of the three main types that occur nearby and which he gathered for the house build and the curtilege walls.  Thus the foundation stones are large and extremely heavy blocks of silica or basalt from the exposed seams some 300 feet higher up the slope.  There are smaller but equally dense and chunk blocks of Ordovician sandstone and the inevitable flat slabs of Old Red Sandstone which gives the colour to the soil (as can be seen in the photos).

I’m not sure how the finished wall will look, often a wall of mixed stone can look somewhat dishevelled, not at all like it was built by someone who knew what they were doing – after all it has a detrimental effect on the inherent stability and morphology, the courses look odd, the colours and lithography are different, the whole thing looks artificial.  It is not the traditional way of wall building, or is it ?  Actually one of the ways of understanding the changes in the underlying geology is to closely look at the stone in dry stone walls.  Conversely, where the underlying geology is not reflected in the wall (which implies you know what lies beneath or have a geological map), it suggests that the stone has been transported a distance.  The further the stone has been transported – normally a question of hundreds of metres rather than miles, though miles can have been covered in some instances, such as the coastal field systems of  those counties which border the sea – the later in time the walls would have been built; thus by the main C19th enclosure period stone was being quarried and carted or sledged from a convenient outcrop which lay some distance away (or nearby).  Earlier walls tend to have used field clearance stones which are quite easily detected by their more weathered and smoother faces, sometimes topped by quarried stone from a small quarry often at the field edge.  Certainly the old farmsteads almost always have the quarry from which they were built very close-by.

This small quarry was the source of stone for the wall in the background; the stone was 'won' (the term winning' the stone is oft reported in documents of the C17th and C18th) close to where it was needed, in this case a Deer Park wall of the Abermarlais estate, built in the middle of the 1600s. Is it the case that the line of the wall took into account available stone sources I wonder.

I mentioned recently the vast quantity of stone that is required to build dry stone walls, and indeed farmsteads.  I am forever faced with comments about the magnitude of wall building and the astonishing skill and fortitude of the craftsmen of old who built them, far up on steep craggy hillsides.  My own wonderment relates more to the unimaginable effort and endurance of the men (and oxen) who gathered or broke down the stone and transported it to the building site.  It is often possible to discern exactly the spot that a new load of stone arrived at a wall for therein will be seen large stones placed at levels inappropriate and different from the next section.  In other words, as soon as the sled arrived bringing a fresh load of stone, the builders immediately grabbed the big stones and built with them regardless of where {up} the wall they were.  After all, then as now, payment was made on the basis of how much was erected, a wall goes up so much more quickly with large stones !

Here we see an early field wall - built to control cattle, either by excluding them or including them - but later made higher to manage sheep. The lower wall is of field clearance stone, rounded and uneven, the upper courses of quarried stone, the lower of limestone, the upper of sandstone.

We’ll see, and be sure you’ll get to see and judge whether mixed stone is palatable.  What is certain is that it will be a substantial structure which will (hopefully) contribute to the overall appearance of the house with its oak framed picture window and its stone pillars.  It will take a while, I would hope to complete it in two weeks – 10 days building – but that may be optimistic. Talk and tiredness will no doubt intervene, it is one of the downsides of working next to the abode, yes, tea three times a day is nice, but chatting and “come in a moment and take a look at this”, or, “that’s a very nice new Land Rover you have there Mr. D” ! all takes time.  I never worry about passing the time, who knows when it may be the last.  Since I first called to see him back in mid August to discuss the project, Mr D. has been twice at death’s door; undiagnosed diabetes and pneumonia nearly finished him off.  He was six weeks in hospital.  Whilst there, or so it is assumed, over 200 of his flock disappeared from the open mountain, gone for slaughter no doubt.  Others suffered similarly, all in all several hundred young ewes and lambs have been rustled off the hill.  A large reward (over £7000) has had little result.  The culprits are known,  unsurprisingly they have their own slaughter facility, it is only by slaughtering the animals that they could be turned to cash for the tagging and identitiy system of the European big brother has at least ensured traceability should they be sold in a market.  Of course proving such a crime is difficult.  It is a tragedy, fewer and fewer farmers are willing to put flocks to the open hill commons and the ecology of the mountain is suffering as a result.  Ironically Mr. D has been at the forefront of agri-environment scheme take-up, being one of the first to enrol (partly through his place in the Welsh Farming Union, FUW) and is currently driving the graziers on his Common (Mynydd) towards entering the Glastir Commons programme.

This is the typical state of the walls I had to rebuild at Dafadfa, the Old red sandstone has suffered from a poor initial build quality and two hundred years of wild weather, especially big snow drifts.

I began the week with some social interaction.  I ventured into the city, Cardiff to be precise, not a thing I would normally do out of choice, especially on a Saturday, but I had to receive a surprise birthday present.  Except I knew what it was, a ticket to attend an evening performance of a T.V. quiz show, ‘A Question of Sport’, courtesy of big sis.  The trip to the city always leaves me confused and in dread, particularly about where the hell to park (and how much that will cost !).  As it happens I know some little spots on the Riverside, conveniently near to Nos Da a useful pub on a Saturday afternoon, especially one on which Heineken Cup rugby is being played.  It is also, I should add, a hostel for International students/backpackers and is therefore a very ‘young’ place and cosmopolitan too.  As I sat awaiting the arrival of my fellow show visitors I enjoyed the rugby and a guiness, oh yes, and a certain feeling of deja vu, the place was over-run with American accents !

An Italian meal eased the transformation from State-side to South Walian accents, especially the Cardiff-speak, however I suddenly found myself listening to Swedish/Finish/Norwegian (don’t ask me which was which) speak, in the middle of the main street !

Ralio, the World Champion Sebastian Loeb, gives an interview in the middle of the main street in Cardiff !!

It was a total surprise to find the centre of Cardiff given over to the Wales Rally GB.  I live on the edge of one of the main ‘off road’ stages on Eppynt and Crychan forest.  Each year thousands of following rally fans invade this area and make it impossible to move around.  it only lasts for half a day before they all shoot off to the finish, in Cardiff.  This year, and a complete change from the usual timetable, the special stages on Eppynt were run on the Sunday (which was Remembrance Sunday and hence raised some eyebrows) which meant I was not too concerned to be out and about on the Saturday.  I used to follow the rally around many of the Welsh stages but it has become so commercialised and hugely popular I now watch from afar.  Hence it was a real thrill to find myself yards from the World Rally Champion (already crowned by Saturday night due to his main competitor crashing out) Sebastian Loeb.  The cars were brought into the main street and the drivers were interviewed.  It was a hard act to follow but the evening at the large and impressive (Cardiff International Arena) ‘Motor something centre’ rounded off the evening.

The show finished around 10pm and I then had to walk back through the centre of the City to my car which was over the river.  I find myself lost for words to describe the sights I saw nor the feelings of despondency I felt as I navigated my way through the hoards of young (and not so young) drunken people.  By their standards the night was young, yet they were already out of their heads – my sister and partner who enjoyed their own late-night found themselves in running battles and curb-side ‘illness’ when they eventually came through at 2 am.  I walked wrapped against the cold November night, they staggered and screamed their way dressed more like they were on a Costa holiday resort in the middle of August.    Society is doomed, or so it seemed to me that night.  It is a nationwide issue, it is a massive challenge for society to turn the tide of this alcohol fuelled loutish, ‘couldn’t give a damn’. behaviour.  I dread to think of the damage these young people are doing to their health, excessive booze and unsuitable clothing subjecting the body to extremes of toxin and temperature.

Much has been made this last week of the plight of the unemployed young people, not just in Britain but throughout the world.  I read an interesting essay by historian A.N. Wilson on the ‘Death of the Working Class’, in which he laments the dismantling of the tiered education system in the 1970s and the drive toward ‘everyone’ getting a university education and meaningless degree.  He argues that we (in Britain) have lost the ‘dignity’ of hard work and jobs in the ‘grafting’ sectors of the capital industries and manufacturing.  I have long argued that a young person is better off learning a trade than getting a degree, purely on the basis of job availability, although I think there is also the question of dispersal of families and the break down of communities which inevitably leads to the disrespectful behaviour I witnessed on Saturday night.  In my own areas of work there is little interest from young people, neither is there much of a future, environmental and traditional work is the first to suffer in times of recession.  In the rural areas the problem of out-migration of young people (to better paid jobs in the cities) has by-and-large disappeared, there are no jobs to go to.  The cost of housing and living in general means more stay at home but there are no jobs to be had in the countryside.  Aspirations to do well seems to have sidelined any consideration of taking up skilled manual work, even in agriculture those young people that remain on the family farm or enter the industry have little interest outside stock and the comfort of operating mechanical machinery.  What the future holds for this ‘lost generation’ is difficult to judge, what the future holds for my little grand-daughter frightens me.  Climate change, economic chaos, increasing failure of our education and health service all point to her generation having it as tough as those of my great grand-mother’s generation.  We are being dragged backwards and I don’t see the ‘I’ phone, the lap-top, the electric car, doing anything to reverse the change.  My feeling is that sooner or later we will be returning to working class jobs as the only means of increasing the wealth of the nation and the wealth of the masses who need them.  Maybe, just maybe, there will be recognition that the large amount of work that needs to be done – like the repairing of the 300 or so miles of dry stone walls in the Brecon Beacons and the re-laying and continued management of our native woodlands and hedge-rows (you will have heard this before !).  I have had long conversations this last week with my customer about these very issues, he sees the future of farming as in crisis, he agrees that the mountain commons will cease to be valued grazing and will revert to waste-land, we both despair at the breakdown in social values that allow someone’s sheep to be herded off the hill and no-one notices or cares.

Oh, woe, woe and thrice woe !  Enough of this methinks, back to the wall and the restorations.  I have actually been quite busy on the restoration front and have added a few items to the collection;  I will do a little update for you in the next post.  In the meantime I’m going to return to my first farm and get another wall built.  Dafadfa, the place of sheep (in translation) is an inspiring place and represents a huge investment of my life and a couple of generations of Mr D’s family.  As I write his dear old mum, Beryl, is preparing for the long journey after 87 years of hard graft.  Her husband lost his leg in a threshing machine in the 1940s and she had to do the lion’s share of the farm work whilst raising 5 of her own children and one waif.  I love her immensely and have spent many a happy hour chatting with her about times past.  The farm was right in the middle of an American training area prior to the ‘D’ day landings and she speaks fondly of them.  Indeed her husband’s life was only saved by the chance passing of an American doctor in his jeep at the time of  the accident so, she too, has a soft spot.  Coincidences abound around there, a light tank called a Stuart lies in the bog at the top of  the farm, stuck where it was abandoned and consumed by the wet claggy peat in 1944;  I continually unearth spent M1 or 0.5″ ammunition cases in or under the walls of the area at places where some young G.I. knelt to fire (live rounds mind you !) all those years ago.  Dafadfa is an important part of my life:

Dafadfa

Dafadfa’s walls stand as a shrine

To labourers from a bygone time

Who toiled and sweated placing stones

That now lay bleached like piles of  bones.

The first were Scots building mile on mile

And then the men from the Emerald Isle

Who climbed the hills after laying tracks

So trains could go and then come back.

And now comes me to fix and mend

These ancient boundaries which ascend

Up through the clouds and winds that scowl

And blast the walls that shape Carn Powell.

The two Dafadfas seem asleep

Despite the sound of countless  sheep,

Because of walls that seem to hide

The ancient homesteads deep inside.

To keep them thus is now my task,

Rebuild those walls to make the mask

That keeps the families, sheep and all

Protected by those Dry Stone Walls.

I know just how you feel little lamb. This is a lazy little critter, everyday he's on his knees chomping away. But then, I always sit down to eat, don't you !