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.

The "English" Prince of Wales

And here, rather cruelly, is the lad himself. In fact, I'm not condemning Charles any more than I would any of his predecessors in a title which was eventually passed off as a kind of "con trick" on the Welsh people.

The old story, still told in school history text books when I was a boy, is that Edward of Caernarvon, son of Edward I and born at Caernarvon, was presented as a baby before the Welsh chieftains as their "Prince, who could not speak a word of English", and that they rallied to him enthusiastically. All baloney, of course. For one thing, there were virtually no Welsh "Chieftains" left by 1284. They had been either killed or disposed. And secondly, whilst Prince Edward could certainly not speak English, neither could he speak Welsh. In fact, its quite likely that the only language he ever spoke fluently was French.

The title "Prince of Wales" was not created as a compliment to the Welsh, but rather as a symbol of the addition of conquered Wales to Edward Ist's planned united British Isles under the Plantagenets. And this would remain its main association for the remainder of the medieval period and indeed beyond, though being made use of from time to time as an assurance of the Crown's affection" for Wales when, for example during the Hundred Years War, and much later in the 17th century Civil War, the Crown wanted to raise troops in Wales.

Even as late as the outbreak of World War I, the then Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII) was employed in similar fashion to whip up recruits in Wales.

Until Prince Charles learnt a few words for his Investiture, no "Prince of Wales", (except, maybe,
the future Henry V, and possibly Prince Arthur, son of Henry VII) actually spoke Welsh. Many seldom, if ever, set foot in Wales. Charles wasn't the first to be invested at Caernarvon; his ill-fated uncle, Edward VIII, was also invested there in a ceremony upon which the one for Charles was closely modelled.

Charles' Investiture aroused more controversy than previous ones partly because Welsh Nationalism was by 1969 a significant political force in the country. The Investiture was also largely organised by the then Secretary of State for Wales, George Thomas, a Cardiff politician who was regarded as being one of the "Taffia" -the group of prominent Welsh people in various fields who were seen by many to have "sold out" to the London government and "establishment".

As well as peaceful protest, the Investiture also led to a campaign of arson and bombings by a group calling itself the "Free Wales Army". At any rate, this was the "front" organisation, although more shadowy activists were aloso involved. The violence culminated the day before the Investiture when two men were killed when the bomb they were attempting to plant on the rail line to be used by the Royal train exploded prematurely. They are still held by some to be political "martyrs"


The Investiture was largely an English and Welsh "establishment" affair. Holding it at Caernarvon, symbol of English conquest and rule, was probably more the result of ineptness than a deliberate slight, though it was seen by many as being the latter.

Well, that's the view of the "Princes of Wales" held by an English historian with strong Welsh sympathies. It would, I'm sure, be possible to present a case arguing the opposite!

A Ring of Stone

Among the greatest tourist attractions of North Wales are its castles, especially the great fortresses built by the English King Edward I after his conquest of Wales in 1283. These massive strongholds, Conway, Caernarvon, Beaumaris and Harlech, along with various lesser refurbished castles, were intended to establish a ring of stone around Snowdonia, the heartland of Welsh resistance, and ensure that any rebellion was snuffed out quickly.

They never entirely succeeded in this, and the cost of building this chain of fortresses almost bankrupted the English king. Most, indeed, were never completed. Yet they remained as massive symbols of the new order in Wales for centuries. Usually with a town attached, populated by non-Welsh settlers, and from which the Welsh were excluded, they were viewed as symbols of alien conquest.

Almost immune to ordinary attack, the great Edwardian fortresses resisted even cannon fire during the Civil War of the 17th century, but over the following centuries gradually mouldered into the romantic ruins which became the tourist attractions of today.

The greatest of Edward's castles was and is Caernarvon (Caernarfon in Welsh). It was intended as the centre of English government in North Wales, and its walls were built with bands of different coloured stone, in imitation of the walls of Byzantium, for King Edward saw his Welsh possessions as part of an Empire similar to that of Rome.

In a particularly insensitive act in 1969, the London government held the investiture of an (English) Prince of Wales at Caernarvon (centuries' old symbol of English domination). Hardly surprisingly, this provoked considerable bitterness, including violence, and two deaths.

It is to be hoped that no such insensitive action will mark any future Prince of Wales.

The Dogs

It occurs to me that I've never really mentioned the canine friends who are now part of the title of my blog. So here they are. This was taken late last year, when Bruno, on the right, was still a pup. He's now considerably bigger than Kate on the left. Totally different in character. Bruno is bumptious, naughty, and an extrovert. Very intelligent. Kate is a quiet, very good, little girl. A litte bit boring at times, like the "good girl" in class. But very loving. I wouldn't be without either of them.

Welsh weather

For centuries one of the most steadfast allies of the Welsh was the weather. In the earler medieval period, when armies were generally only levied in large numbers after harvest time, campaigns to conquer the Welsh almost invariably seemed to encounter at this time of year the wild wet weather we are experiencing now. If this alone did not defeat an invader, a harsh winter to follow probably would.

The weather seemed so to conspire with Owain Glyn Dwr in his earlier campaigns against the English that he gained the reputation of being a magician, as described by Shakespeare. Though in the end, it was the harsh winter of 1407-8 which probably broke his rebellion.

Even today, with modern roads and transport, the Welsh hills can seem a very hostile place even in the kind of autumn weather we have today. How much more so must it have been six centuries and more ago, to the average English peasant soldier struggling in an alien wilderness.

Magic must have seemed a very present threat to them.

Here we go again

Right, as we were saying in another place. Autumn has come with a vengeance here to Wales in the last few days. Lashing rain, cold winds, and the autumn leaves beginning to be torn from the trees even before they have chance to change colour. Up on the hill today, the sheep have gone, moved down to lower pastures for the winter.

And yet, for a brief time, there was sunshine, glinting on the distant mountains of Snowdonia, and a reminder that even the worst of weathers can provide their moments of splendour and beauty.