Post by Old Dragon (Al) on May 27, 2004 14:36:59 GMT 1
About the author: Bryn Rhys (pseudonym)
Born in the South Wales mining valleys, Bryn moved to Mid Wales in 1956 and there discovered that most sheep really were white after all. Also that there were far more sheep than people inhabiting the valley he has chosen (for the purpose of many of his stories) to rename Cwm Cariad or, for the benefit of non-Welsh speakers, Love Valley. However, although passions often ran high, there was not much love lost between many of the resident human families in the ‘Cwm’. Despite having little to talk about except sheep, the weather and each other, Bryn found in them great inspiration for many a story or humorous verse.
Widowed, Bryn now lives with his two younger sons, three collies, several Welsh ponies and cobs, a variety of goats, geese, ducks and chickens, and surrounded by more sheep than he can count.
DAI DUSTBIN
‘I’m tellin’ yer, missus, that’s the finest stock-getter you’ll ever lay eyes on, that he is,’ says old Merv Jones, shoving his cap further back on his head and wiping sweat from his forehead with a grubby fist. They’d been haggling a full half-hour.
‘That he might be but he’s still the dirtiest! Why, I’ve not seen a blacker tup since leaving the Rhondda… Looks like he’s been in a fire, too, so he does!’
‘Ah, well now… happen that’s ’cos he has… Kept him in me yard last night and reckon he must’ve lay down in the ashes of me bonfire, I do… Look, fifteen guineas and he’s yours, missus and that’s me final offer,’ says Merv.
‘Twelve. And that’s mine,’ says Mam starting to count out the notes and moments later she was the proud owner of the filthiest beast to set foot in Cwm Cariad.
That morning we’d set off to the sale with three of the finest Border Leicester tups my father had ever owned. Despite the price they’d fetched, I felt gutted. Nothing I’d said made an ounce of difference. Mam was adamant, they had to go and in future only pure bred Welsh sheep would set foot on our farm - and those preferably Rhondda bred.
The pungent stench of singed wool overpowered the dog-farts as I drove us all back to Cwm Cariad, and with that tup just stood in the back of the Land Rover staring over our shoulders. Getting his bearings, I reckon, and surveying the local talent. He had a bold, insolent look about him and one of those knowing expressions that spells trouble, even in a sheep and, had I been given any say in the matter, he’d have been on a one-way ticket to the nearest abattoir. Word had it that was where he’d been destined until old Merv overheard Mam holding forth about the merits of Rhondda-bred sheep. Didn’t know where to look, I didn’t, and it was then that I began to suspect my mother of surpassing the bounds of eccentricity and entering the realm of full-blown insanity. Deeply embarrassed, there was nothing for it but to plead urgent need for a leak and vanish into the crowd.
‘A bargain I got there, Bryn, you mark my words. That’s a fine Rhondda bred ram if ever I saw one,’ says Mam. ‘Tough as a miner’s pick, he’ll be and live on fresh air. He’ll do us proud, boy.’
There was nothing to be said and two weeks later Dai, as Mam named the stinking tup, was introduced to his harem and under her watchful eye.
Fair play now, he was keen to get down to work and even seemed to appreciate an audience. To have half a canny eye cast back toward the gate where Mam stood, deep in self-satisfied concentration. Dinner was going to be late that day.
When we finally sat down at the kitchen table it was hard to summon an appetite. Not whilst still being lectured on the finer points of Rhondda bred Welsh Mountain sheep.
‘Your dad would never listen, see? Not when he was alive. But it stands to reason you’ve got to keep the blood pure, see? Start mixing the races and it’s asking for trouble, you mark my words, boy.’
‘For God’s sake, Mam! A sheep is a sheep! That’s different breeds not races!’ says I, unable to hold my tongue a moment longer. For my pains I got a ladle wrapped around the lugs and I must have been all of twenty-eight or nine then.
Barely two mouthfuls of sausage and mash had gone down before the telephone rang.
In those days Mam treated the phone with great deference and respect. Nobody else was permitted to touch it, least of all me. Mam had a special telephone voice. Posh, some folks would call it, and on that occasion it lasted the duration of the brief call – then she erupted.
‘Bryn! I thought I told you to repair the wall in the bottom field before the tups were turned out?’
‘I did repair the wall,’ says I.
‘Then why’s Dai out on the road and heading for the village?’
The ‘why’ turned out to be a gaping hole that had suddenly appeared in the bars of the gate. We saw it as we sped past.
‘Tourists!’ says Mam. ‘They’re all bloody vandals! Shove their cars into any gateway and never mind what they smash, they will.’
I didn’t have the heart to mention the splintered wood lay on the road’s side of the gate. Damn thing had been rotten anyway and tied together with more baling string than it took to bind a ton of hay.
We caught up with Dai on the outskirts of the village. Cornered him finally in the school yard and he spent the night in the shed. The following morning I wired the gate over and Dai was reacquainted with the rest of the flock. By noon he was out again, only this time it was the school secretary who telephoned.
Who says sheep lack intelligence? Dai had, on his previous brief visit to the school yard, discovered the swill bins and, thanks to the local bush telegraph, everyone for miles around knew who owned a dirty grey tup with half his fleece singed brown. In fact, such was Mam’s popularity that I reckon they were all looking out for the beast for after that episode the phone calls came in thick and fast. I’m sure some folks waited purposely until they’d a good idea there’d be a meal on the table or that I’d just turned in for the night.
Two in the morning was another favourite time to telephone. The urgency of the bell downstairs in the hall would wake me unless I’d had a good skinful down the local. In the next room I’d hear the click of the bedside lamp going on, the thump as Mam’s feet hit the floorboards and made their way across the room. Her bedroom door creaked open and again the feet. Ten paces, twelve stairs, then across the hall, a click and, ‘Hello, Pentwyn Farm, Mair Rhys speaking.’ By then I’d invariably be struggling into my jeans.
To be honest, half the Pentwyn sheep were usually where they shouldn’t be but no one ever gave a damn about them until the gatherings. Then again, they usually headed off up the mountain out of the way instead of making a beeline for the village dustbins. They were never found sauntering through the pub car park with bin lids tied around their necks or raddled boldly with their names and Pentwyn phone number on their backs courtesy of the local youths. But he was still a fine stock-getter according to Mam – and he was, for when he wasn’t running amok down the village he was having his wicked way with half the neighbour’s ewes… Oh, and wrecking their walls and fences. Mind you, according to Mam it was always hooligans or tourists who decimated the dry stone walls clambering over them or who put their hiking boots through the bars of gates. Aye, even on Christmas Day!
Continued in part 2...
© TRPD - 2000 - Bryn Rhys
Born in the South Wales mining valleys, Bryn moved to Mid Wales in 1956 and there discovered that most sheep really were white after all. Also that there were far more sheep than people inhabiting the valley he has chosen (for the purpose of many of his stories) to rename Cwm Cariad or, for the benefit of non-Welsh speakers, Love Valley. However, although passions often ran high, there was not much love lost between many of the resident human families in the ‘Cwm’. Despite having little to talk about except sheep, the weather and each other, Bryn found in them great inspiration for many a story or humorous verse.
Widowed, Bryn now lives with his two younger sons, three collies, several Welsh ponies and cobs, a variety of goats, geese, ducks and chickens, and surrounded by more sheep than he can count.
DAI DUSTBIN
‘I’m tellin’ yer, missus, that’s the finest stock-getter you’ll ever lay eyes on, that he is,’ says old Merv Jones, shoving his cap further back on his head and wiping sweat from his forehead with a grubby fist. They’d been haggling a full half-hour.
‘That he might be but he’s still the dirtiest! Why, I’ve not seen a blacker tup since leaving the Rhondda… Looks like he’s been in a fire, too, so he does!’
‘Ah, well now… happen that’s ’cos he has… Kept him in me yard last night and reckon he must’ve lay down in the ashes of me bonfire, I do… Look, fifteen guineas and he’s yours, missus and that’s me final offer,’ says Merv.
‘Twelve. And that’s mine,’ says Mam starting to count out the notes and moments later she was the proud owner of the filthiest beast to set foot in Cwm Cariad.
That morning we’d set off to the sale with three of the finest Border Leicester tups my father had ever owned. Despite the price they’d fetched, I felt gutted. Nothing I’d said made an ounce of difference. Mam was adamant, they had to go and in future only pure bred Welsh sheep would set foot on our farm - and those preferably Rhondda bred.
The pungent stench of singed wool overpowered the dog-farts as I drove us all back to Cwm Cariad, and with that tup just stood in the back of the Land Rover staring over our shoulders. Getting his bearings, I reckon, and surveying the local talent. He had a bold, insolent look about him and one of those knowing expressions that spells trouble, even in a sheep and, had I been given any say in the matter, he’d have been on a one-way ticket to the nearest abattoir. Word had it that was where he’d been destined until old Merv overheard Mam holding forth about the merits of Rhondda-bred sheep. Didn’t know where to look, I didn’t, and it was then that I began to suspect my mother of surpassing the bounds of eccentricity and entering the realm of full-blown insanity. Deeply embarrassed, there was nothing for it but to plead urgent need for a leak and vanish into the crowd.
‘A bargain I got there, Bryn, you mark my words. That’s a fine Rhondda bred ram if ever I saw one,’ says Mam. ‘Tough as a miner’s pick, he’ll be and live on fresh air. He’ll do us proud, boy.’
There was nothing to be said and two weeks later Dai, as Mam named the stinking tup, was introduced to his harem and under her watchful eye.
Fair play now, he was keen to get down to work and even seemed to appreciate an audience. To have half a canny eye cast back toward the gate where Mam stood, deep in self-satisfied concentration. Dinner was going to be late that day.
When we finally sat down at the kitchen table it was hard to summon an appetite. Not whilst still being lectured on the finer points of Rhondda bred Welsh Mountain sheep.
‘Your dad would never listen, see? Not when he was alive. But it stands to reason you’ve got to keep the blood pure, see? Start mixing the races and it’s asking for trouble, you mark my words, boy.’
‘For God’s sake, Mam! A sheep is a sheep! That’s different breeds not races!’ says I, unable to hold my tongue a moment longer. For my pains I got a ladle wrapped around the lugs and I must have been all of twenty-eight or nine then.
Barely two mouthfuls of sausage and mash had gone down before the telephone rang.
In those days Mam treated the phone with great deference and respect. Nobody else was permitted to touch it, least of all me. Mam had a special telephone voice. Posh, some folks would call it, and on that occasion it lasted the duration of the brief call – then she erupted.
‘Bryn! I thought I told you to repair the wall in the bottom field before the tups were turned out?’
‘I did repair the wall,’ says I.
‘Then why’s Dai out on the road and heading for the village?’
The ‘why’ turned out to be a gaping hole that had suddenly appeared in the bars of the gate. We saw it as we sped past.
‘Tourists!’ says Mam. ‘They’re all bloody vandals! Shove their cars into any gateway and never mind what they smash, they will.’
I didn’t have the heart to mention the splintered wood lay on the road’s side of the gate. Damn thing had been rotten anyway and tied together with more baling string than it took to bind a ton of hay.
We caught up with Dai on the outskirts of the village. Cornered him finally in the school yard and he spent the night in the shed. The following morning I wired the gate over and Dai was reacquainted with the rest of the flock. By noon he was out again, only this time it was the school secretary who telephoned.
Who says sheep lack intelligence? Dai had, on his previous brief visit to the school yard, discovered the swill bins and, thanks to the local bush telegraph, everyone for miles around knew who owned a dirty grey tup with half his fleece singed brown. In fact, such was Mam’s popularity that I reckon they were all looking out for the beast for after that episode the phone calls came in thick and fast. I’m sure some folks waited purposely until they’d a good idea there’d be a meal on the table or that I’d just turned in for the night.
Two in the morning was another favourite time to telephone. The urgency of the bell downstairs in the hall would wake me unless I’d had a good skinful down the local. In the next room I’d hear the click of the bedside lamp going on, the thump as Mam’s feet hit the floorboards and made their way across the room. Her bedroom door creaked open and again the feet. Ten paces, twelve stairs, then across the hall, a click and, ‘Hello, Pentwyn Farm, Mair Rhys speaking.’ By then I’d invariably be struggling into my jeans.
To be honest, half the Pentwyn sheep were usually where they shouldn’t be but no one ever gave a damn about them until the gatherings. Then again, they usually headed off up the mountain out of the way instead of making a beeline for the village dustbins. They were never found sauntering through the pub car park with bin lids tied around their necks or raddled boldly with their names and Pentwyn phone number on their backs courtesy of the local youths. But he was still a fine stock-getter according to Mam – and he was, for when he wasn’t running amok down the village he was having his wicked way with half the neighbour’s ewes… Oh, and wrecking their walls and fences. Mind you, according to Mam it was always hooligans or tourists who decimated the dry stone walls clambering over them or who put their hiking boots through the bars of gates. Aye, even on Christmas Day!
Continued in part 2...
© TRPD - 2000 - Bryn Rhys