Tales from Wales

Photo of Criccieth Castle, taken by me


When I was on my solitary writer’s retreat in North Wales in late June, I heard two stories.

I was wandering along the banks of the river Glaslyn, following the path through ancient woodland. I met an English lady walking her dogs who told me about a secret valley in the Berwyn mountains where in ancient times women and children would seek shelter when other tribes came raiding. During a breakout of the plague, the sick were sent to this hidden valley and people would leave them food. The lady wished she could remember exactly where this legendary valley was …but of course it was secret.

I heard the second story from a farmer named Eifion. It concerns Cwm Pennant, the valley where the river Glaslyn has its birth. Pennant Valley has been called the most beautiful valley in North Wales, yet its stunning beauty conceals a sad history. The land is very poor and the families who lived there barely survived on subsistence farming. You can still see ruins of the copper mines of the 19th century – they were meant to bring prosperity to the valley, but they failed. The last time I was there, over ten years ago, much of the upper end of the valley had been fenced off as private farmland. It was May, and bluebells were everywhere, and cuckoos were calling, and there was the sound of falling water. Yet the valley felt lonelier than it had when I was a child, even foreboding. The financial crises of recent years have taken their toll on many farmers: there was a farming couple in Pennant Valley who went bankrupt because they’d taken out a bad loan. They were evicted from the farm their family had owned for generations.

Eifion told me a similar tale. He’s a cattle farmer but helps fellow farmers in Pennant Valley with the sheep. One of his farming friends, Bob, was due to retire. He’d farmed in the valley for decades and left his farm to his son … who blew his money on gambling (if I remember correctly) and accrued massive debt. The family had to sell the farm. Bob's entire life’s legacy was gone.

He was eventually found, dead, in a van on a quiet lane. There was an empty whisky bottle on the dashboard … and pills. The coroner ruled ‘accidental death.’

Eifion and Bob had another friend, an Englishman who was originally from the North and had made his home in Wales. He didn’t learn any Welsh, and Bob hardly spoke any English. Yet the two of them would often stop for a chat, Bob talking away in Welsh and the other man not understanding a word, but smiling and nodding in response.

When Bob died, the friend said to Eifion: “I miss Bob. I used to really enjoy our talks.”

That story stayed with me. It says something so profound about the way we can connect deeply with each other ... sometimes even beyond words and the barriers of language.

Everyone has a story. And their story is worth hearing … and remembering.

I’m an Anglican lay minister: my day job is administrator for the education and learning department of the United Reformed Church. I wrote a devotional for the anthology Light for the Writer’s Soul published by Media Associates International, and my short story ‘Magnificat’ appears in the ACW Christmas anthology Merry Christmas Everyone.