LLADOS

Llados

Written in the style of Dylan Thomas. In the voice of Richard Burton.

To be read

Aloud.

Standing up.

~.~

Llados

Nestling in Snowdon’s shadow; forgotten, unobserved, undisturbed. A slate-lined, hill-pocked, stone-faced, tumble of buildings, battered by the snows and rain and life. But a happy village, despite its fate. For its better times; slate-quarry, sheep-farming, packhorse- guesthouse, journeys-end; crouched in the wind chill valley. With its slate grey, long day, raised chapel graveyard, full of its worst times; of Silent-fevers, snow killed-travellers, mad-men, and desperate women. And the hungry children with their dead, dead fathers; worked to their slate graves in the slate quarries.

Butty bach to Machynlleth town, it sits on the mantle-shelf like some family photo, just gathering the dust of its memories. Yet if you listen, at the times when the wind doesn’t take the words from your mouth, you will hear the children singing in the school, come chapel, come village hall. For they will all come to the slate grey hall in the end, to be raised up by the reverend Thomas Jones and laid out by Dai-Coffin the undertaker.

Policeman Phew, embraced in the warmth of the Slaters Arms sups his pint and waits. Placed in the times of the Riots of Rebecca he is forgotten now, and condemned to scolding wayward sheep and drinking beer and knowing everyone’s business. And doing nothing about it.

It’s evening now, yet it’s only four o clock and the candles are lit. The sheep are in the pens, the mothers in the kitchens, the children in attics and the men; The men are in the arms of the Slaters Arms. To turn pennies to pints and quarrels to fights and songs to keep warm before the cold of their homes and the chill in their bones, and their talk is of the impending disaster. For it is Christmas and the Snow-down has closed the road to Machynlleth town, so the quarts will become pints until the snow filled road relents its hold and the ice run of Caradog Hill finds salt to free its cobbles. And in this time a hero is to be found from among this sheep pen of men. For it is Christmas Owen; Carter, Farmer, Sheep-Rustler (Adulterer) is to be sent to save the village in his one-horse donkey trap of a tap tap tap along the cobbled ice road in the white light of the dark night.

Morning comes with swirling snow filled fridged air, down the Snowdon valley street, to snuff the muffled noses of the Llados children, sniffing and running to the dark hall that is school. As all that are not gathered in their frosty houses, or seeking lost sheep and crow pecked lambs in drift filled ditches, sit in the Slaters Arms to pray and wait for Christmas Owen to return, before his name sakes day.

It is night, listen, for there is no sound but the song of the wind sung from Snowdon along the penny whistle streets of Llados. Only the moon to cast its shadows on the night white snow of the rooves and lanes. The village breaths its night time breath. Nestling, snuffling, coughing barks of dogs and men with steamboat noses, like a shark fin breaking through the sea of rough wool blankets and knotted bedspreads of psalms and sheep and bless this house. To freezing ice on the un-curtained window panes that look out like blind eyes upon the snowy fields and foxed footed trails to chicken sheds and lonely barns huddled into the hillside.

It is silent. Silent as the stars that prick the black night, but the air is full of dreams. Children dream of Christmas sweats. Mothers dream of their children’s faces. Young men dream of the girls of their dreams as the girls dream of strong arms and warm bodies. And the men; husbands, fathers and stalwarts, dream of gold, golden beer in quart pots with frothing tops.

The Slaters Arms are locked and shut on the Sabbath Sul and all of Llados sit in reverend Thomas Jones Chapel, bar the cussing farmer Braddoc up upon his hill swearing at his loving cows, for he has forsaken God since his Megan died and blocks his ears to singing in the valley. As fathers, sons, mothers and daughters, prey, prey, prey for the tap, tap, tap of Christmas Owens cart up Caradog hill, to crush the uncrushed snow of the Machynlleth road and save the cheer of the coming year. And as he sidles in, silent as the swirl of snow that announces his arrival, unseen by all the eyes upon him, to a great praising of the Psalms in anticipation of the forthcoming Christmas “hwyl” and the re-opening, of the Slaters Arms.

The sun did shine on the rain-washed rooves and streets of Afon Tawe, with its stone bridge, houses, a pub, a Chapel and the Schoolhouse.

And though there was the stillness, softened by the wind and the song of the river as it passed under the stone bridge, there was no music to the village. But for this morning. This morning there was beautiful notes, never heard before, drifting upon the air, for Afon Tawe had a pi’ano. To be sung by the school-mistress, Megan Evans, to the children, young and old, mesmerised by the rush of sounds, not known to them before now.

It’s not that the village had no music, why sheep-dip-morgan had his fiddle and would play well after a pint or three in the ‘Stone-bridge’ on Saturdays. And of course we had our choirs. The children sang in the school, the ladies sang in the chapel and the men sang on Fridays, to keep them out the pub.

Myfanwy, was often heard along the valley to bring the Drovers home. ‘Give it some hwyl boys’ the choir master Gerrydd Jones would cry, to the raising of throats as if downing the last pint.

But now ours, at this time, was the only village in the Tawe valley with a pi’ano, so the people came from as far as ‘Ynys-Tal-y-Feran’ to hear it sung. And concerts were held at a penny a chair or a half-penny for the standing.

This good fortune of course could not last, for we feared the school-mistress Miss Megan would be snapped-up, by the boys of Neath with their fine money and fancy clothes. But Miss Megan would have the none of it.

No, for our disaster came not in the form of young man’s wants, but from the damp. The mist rising from the Tawe did play upon the pi’anos fine heart, to the great displeasure of Miss Megan. But what was to be done?

To us, who did not know the sounds of the pi’ano, we did not hear it, but Miss Megan was most annoyed and as, in her wilful way, did seek out from Swansea, (oh my god!) a man who could put the tune back into our pi’ano. And though it would be fifteen shillings and a day’s free lodge, through dark mutterings, it was paid; for we feared the losing of our good school teacher, more than the tuning of the pi’ano.

This was all when I was a little girl and sang at Miss Megan’s side, long, long ago.

Miss Megan is gone now, to the Swansea man it was, and so has our lovely pi’ano.

But we still have our song, for we are musical nation, and ‘Myfanwy’, is still heard on Fridays, and the ladies on Thursdays, and the men on fridays.

And the children ...

Well, they sing all the time.