Remembrance

So today, at war memorials across the Western world, in cities, towns and villages, we have been remembering the fallen in wars since 1914. Even this small village has a long list of fallen in the First World War, and some in the Second. Some are pictured here, along with some of the graves of Welshmen killed on the Western Front,

Usually in the UK, part of that poem beginning "You shall not grow old..." is read. My own preference is for that used widely in Canada by Canadian authour John MacRae.

In Flanders Field
In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place: and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead.

Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch: be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.
by Royal Canadian Army Medical Corp officer, Dr. John MacRae [1872-1918]

Books

Have you ever thought what awkward difficult characters books can be? Especially in a particular one disappearing just when you want it. I've spent half an hour searching my shelves for a particular book on Welsh history, whose whereabouts I 'm certain I knew only yesterday. But no, its sensed my approach and made off, and is no doubt hiding somewhere among a lot of other books of the same size and colour, or even slipped away down the back of a shelf, to lie gathering dust for ages, or wait until, despairing, I order a new copy from Amazon, when it will promptly pop back to where it should have been in the first place. There's a couple of which I now have three copies, as a result of the original one instilling its evil ways into the first new copy.

Of course, you might say, wouldn't a sometime librarian have his books in such perfect order, cunningly classified, that these misadventures could never happen? Err, not quite. In fact I know very few librarians, past or present, whose home bookshelves aren't in a state of total chaos. A rebellion against the enforced order of their working lives, maybe.

Normally I rely on memory for roughly where a particular book might be. But that would rely on me returning a volume to the same random place I got it from. And as I don't do that, the system quickly collapses. Others arrange their books by size and colour, the latter possibly working quite well... Not me of course, which is why I'm about to spend another half hour searching before ordering again from Amazon.


Though perhaps if I announce aloud my intention of purchasing a replacement, the little brute will think itself safe, and reappear.

Alternatively, it may be that the silence of a typical Welsh village Sunday afternoon is finally getting to me, and I'll be imagining that the books are talking to me, next.

Funny I should say that;I could have sworn I just heard a voice uncommonly like that of Madame Desfarge, singing a French Revolutionary anthem, coming from that copy of "Tale of Two Cities"... ;-0

Country Life

The autumnal gales have begun here, tearing the leaves from the trees in handfuls, and also the slates from my roof. There are disadvantages to living on the highest point in the village. Now I know my roof has probably been more or less in place for over 200 years, and will probably last me out. But eventually it starts to look a bit thin on top. Now clambering around on roofs, with my notorious lack of a head for heights, isn't ideal.

So, get a roofer. Not easy. First one didn't turn up at all. Second, finally arrived a day late. to enquire: "Have you got a ladder?" I had, so clearly disconcerted, he disappeared, with the promise to "come back tomorrow". He didn't, but arrived a day later, explaining, "I decided to go to Wrexham "[ a nearby largish town]. Obviously sensing my lack of delight in this, he added pacifyingly, "I had a nice time." He then wisely discovered that he had forgotten his mallet. "I'll be back tomorrow", he asured me. He wasn't.

All part of the slower pace of rural life. I wish my roof tiles were as slow in blowing off.

Moggies

Here are the other two family members. Brother and sister, Jasper (Top) Jessica (below). Both are about eight years old now, and were stray kittens living rough with their mother who I adopted from a cattery. Jessica is a very timid soul, happiest, as here, asleep on the bed. Jasper is bolder and more confident, though he also likes sleeping on the bed. Fortunately both get on well with the dogs, though the dogs can't abide any other cats.

Beaumaris

And here's the last of Edward's purpose-built castles. Beaumaris, meaning "beautiful marsh", on the island of Anglesey. Seen here with the mountains of Snowdonia behind. Begun after the great Welsh rebellion of 1294-5, Beaumaris was never fully completed. Edward, tied down by wars with Scotland and France ran out of funds, and none of his successors ever finished Beaumaris either. So its walls and towers are lower than would have been intended. The Castle didn't have a very eventful history, possibly because it was difficult to defend. Probably the people most affected by it were the original Welsh inhabitants of the area, who were transplanted to the other end of Anglesey to make way for an English town.

Harlech Castle

Harlech has to be one of the most dramatic of all Edward's Welsh castles. It stands on a headland looking out over the sweep of the Glaslyn Estuary, with Snowdon ("Yr Wyddfa") in the backgound. It was always remote, and still is. Indedd its remoteness sometimes saved it from serious attack. In both the Wars of the Roses and the English Civil War it was the last garrison of the defeated side to hold out, largely because its distance from anywhere important made a major siege not worthwhile.

It had a much more eventful time during Owain Glyn Dwr's Rebellion though, when it became Glyn Dwr's headquarters for a number of years, and its recapture by the English in 1409 marked the beginning of the end of the Rebellion. In a fascinating direct link with Glyn Dwr, some years ago excavations uncovered a brass piece of horse harness (top) probably Glyn Dwr's own, from which we know the coat of arms he had as Prince of Wales (as in the flag on my page). One of those finds which makes people from back in history somehow flesh and blood.

Conwy Castle

Andso, after my little trip into the modern world (a place I try to avoid) in my last post, back to Edward's Castles. Conwy is, to me, the most beautiful of them, with its drum towers, overlooking the estuary of the River Conwy, and linked to some of the most substantial surviving medieval town walls in Europe.

Conwy had a fairly colourful history, giving refuge to Edward I in 1294 when he was almost trapped by a Welsh revolt, witnessing the surrender of Richard II to the supporters of Henry Bolingbroke, and being surprised in 1401 by a Welsh "cunning plan."

It withstood a lengthy siege during the Civil War in 1646, when a number of captured Irish troops serving the Royalists were, in the words of the Roundhead commander "tied back to back and sent home by water". That is, thrown in the harbour to drown. Bitter times which belie the castle's present peaceful setting.