Good Old Radnor Days

A newspaper report from 1879

Welsh on the March

Which was the last county in England to have indigenous native speakers of a Celtic language? I guess most people would say Cornwall but infact Herefordshire and Shropshire are more certain candidates.

The last speaker of Herefordshire Welsh is said to have died in the parish of Clodock in 1883, although Ffransis Payne maintains that five or six native speakers lived on into the twentieth century in the Golden Valley. In 1878 the statistician E G Ravenstein found that the Shropshire parish of Sychtyn was overwhelmingly Welsh speaking, as was the western half of Llanyblodwel, with substantial numbers also found in Selattyn. Looking at the 1901 Census for the neighbouring Denbighshire parish of Llansilin it is apparent that the great majority of those born in the Shropshire parishes noted above and also in Oswestry itself are listed as Welsh speakers. The Welsh language must have survived well into the twentieth century in these "English" districts.

What I find interesting about this is the complete lack of interest in this survival of the Welsh language in Shropshire and Herefordshire. The topic does not seem to excite those interested in the history of either county. Why on earth is it that such an important part of each county's heritage is ignored? Do local historians in the two counties perhaps have some psychological hang-up about the subject?

Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 41

This ode by Lewis Glyn Cothi is addressed to Morgan ap Hywel of Croescynon, Llanbister.

No 160 Praise to Morgan ap Hywel

To you talisman of Llanbister through the three quarters
Of the world, be good health and a long life;
Your land which shall be tripartite,
will come to you in part.

Morgan, a man who shares, with a crested iron helmet,
The son of Hywel son of Philip,
Morgan the unbesmirched vineyard,
Who buys Burgundy wine by the pipe.

Tuns, pipes, with every finger
The soldier of Brwynllys gives;
A Tristan over part of the dominion,
A shield from Elystan's court.

Your gold, from the fair court, the bards' berries,
Son of the Wrist of Cymaron;
You gave the goods of this earth,
To minstrels as numerous as green trunks.

As the squirrel heads for the green trunks,
So we, the ten grades, to your hall, where there is praise;
By Mary and Egwad! I'll come to you,
Like the trout to the fishing line.

You bought from me a cywydd deuair,
Just as you would buy cattle at the market of St Mary's feast;
The man from the north who sells two heifers,
He knows the road to the fair.

Here I have a road to your house for my convenience,
A by-way is bad to a great fair;
A main road, a straight road is made to your hall,
Every course of worked stone fills my hand.

Twice as wide as the circulation of every groat,
The circulation of your chaired song;
Two courts, two lands were one word, for your father,
You'll rule two townships, two lands, three!

Morgan, your face will never be slandered,
Your spear, your breastplate, have been praised,
Your drove horses are fed on oats, in warfare
Your arms shine like dishes.

Your men wear steel, they are like haymakers,
Your stallions wear steel, your honour demands it,
And steel you've worn for your praise in Wales,
Your steel you'll wear down to the legs.

You turn above the perjures,
The turn of a wheel on a cart in springtime;
The turn of the harvest moon across the stars,
Like an eagle turning above the hens.

A just spear and sword,
That strike in battle to bring order;
Place a collar or two on petty squabbles,
Be a fetter upon the war host.

he'll not go for long without my laughter,
Morgan, I am nothing without you to praise;
By Christ, I'll not let you, by the relics,
be forgotten, not even one word from ten.

Anglesey, Man and Lundy will talk
Of your generosity and of your praise;
My tongue spills praise, a measured mass,
To you the apostle Paul of Llanbister.

Bogged Down?

Back in the big freeze of 1963 Innes Ireland imported a VW engined Swedish Snow-Trac, which he proceeded to use taking supplies to remote farms in the Scottish borders. Ireland was so impressed - he called it the world's greatest sporting machine, despite it having a top speed of only 16mph - that he became the vehicle's UK agent. The picture shows Innes demonstrating the Snow-Trac to an American journalist.

Down the Hatch

The past, they say, is a different country and the contrast between today's binge drinking culture and the Wales of the November 1961 vote on Sunday opening of the pubs surely bears that out.

The vote in favour of opening in Radnorshire came as a surprise to the mainly chapel led opposition to Sunday drinking - the county had been expected to vote against. On a turnout of 55% the 4205 "for" votes won the day with 58% of the ballots cast. Breconshire, too, fell to the pro-drink lobby 53% to 47% with a similar breakdown of the vote but this time in favour of the antis seeing Montgomeryshire continue as a "dry" county for another seven years.

In hindsight the continuing strength of the traditional chapel vote throughout Wales is remarkable. The vote was seen as being about the "Welshness" associated with nineteenth century non-conformity - the cosmopolitan cities of the south showing least interest, while in the Welsh-speaking heartland of Merioneth less than a quarter of the voters supported modernity and the "wets". At the same time it is wrong to think that all those supporting Sunday closing did so for the same reasons. Clubs were in any case unaffected by the ban and no doubt some of their members feared the loss of revenue which would result from the pubs being allowed to compete. Another group against Sunday opening, although they had to be careful not to do so openly, were those tenant landlords and their families who resented the fact that they were to lose their only day of rest during the week.

Howey Man's Story of Zulu King's Capture

Click to enlarge

Victorian Radnorshire

Victorian Radnorshire, Chartists, Rebecca Rioters, evictions, lawlessness associated with the fisheries, the workhouse, the emigrations in the wake of agricultural depression, the links with the coalfield - none of this gets much of a look-in with Llandrindod's somewhat middle-class, somewhat English Victorian festival. Here's a glimpse of that other Radnorshire from the 1891 census, just click on the image to enlarge.

Book of the Month

With hundreds of photographs and illustrations of Radnorshire pubs, past and present, this 358 page book from Logaston Press is good value for money at £12.95. A must buy for students of Radnorshire history, family history researchers will also almost certainly find something of interest here. For example one familiar photograph shows a rather cheerful gentleman who happens to have been my paternal grandfather, another photograph shows the long forgotten Clywedog Arms in Gwystre, home of my maternal great grandfather. I'm sure that most with Radnorshire connections will find similar items of interest in the pages of this excellent and fact filled book.

Buggered Up

The mention of Howey in the previous post reminds me that there was a time when the postal address for Llandrindod was near Howey. Of course Llandrindod forged ahead, especially when the owners of the new hotels in the town insisted that no railway halt be provided for the village. It seems they wanted to put a stop to the long-standing practice of visitors taking lodgings in the locality. At least that is the tale told in Howey, where the inhabitants took comfort in the following little rhyme:

Howey was Howey when Llandrindod was a pup.
Howey will be Howey when Llandrindod's buggered up.

By all accounts this prophesy has now come to pass.

Howey Choir c1912

There's no better book on Radnorshire than Ffransis Payne's two volume travel book Crwydro Sir Faesyfed. The inhabitants of Howey might not agree, however, with his dismissive comment about their village: Fel y dywedais yn barod yr oedd y lle hwn yn adnabyddus am ei gôr meibion hanner canrif yn ôl, am a wn i nid yw'n adnabyddus am ddim heddiw - "As I said before this place was well known for its male voice choir half a century ago, as far as I know it's famous for nothing today."

Well Mr Payne was wrong on one count at least as the choir in question was mixed rather than male voice. Here is a picture dating back to perhaps 1912, and in order to placate any wounded spirits perhaps we should try to put a name to as many of these faces from the past as we can.

Back Row standing (left to right): Stan Jones, Bill Lloyd, a Mr Tidman, George Thomas, Sid Thomas, a Mr Smout, David Charles Jones, Les Brick. Middle Row seated (left to right): Nelly Thomas, Ada Jones, Ida Webb, Veenie Jones, Phillip Gough, Nelly Cadwallader. With the cup: (?) and (?). Kneeling (left to right): Anne Jones, Dolly Jones, Katie Hughes. Any corrections or additions welcomed.

Fred Melenydd Roberts

This young fellow doesn't look particularly happy about things, although he was an heir to a great musical tradition - y delyn deir-res or triple harp. It's well known that the triple harp tradition was kept alive by members of the Romany clan, the Woods, at a time when a combination of Methodism and the fashion for pedal harps had all but driven the instrument out of the cultural mainstream.

Llandrindod Wells with its thousands of visitors was a lucrative market for the triple harp players and young Fred - a great great great grandson of Abram Wood, the clan patriarch - was the son of the harp player John Lewis Roberts (1853-1928), himself a son of the leading player of the nineteenth century, John Roberts, Alaw Elwy (1816-1894). Fred's uncles also played in the town, you can read about the Roberts family here.

At the time of the 1901 Census young Fred and family were living at Bank Cottage in Builth moving to Oak Cottage, Llanyre in 1902. Fred's mother Eliza Davies was from Llanbister and his grandmother Eleanor, who was born in Rhayader, was the daughter of another famous harpist Jerri Bach Gogerddan (1778-1867).

London Gazette

The London Gazette is a good source for filling in the biographical gaps for some of the more obscure pre-war racers. The Welsh-born Brooklands driver Philip Turner is a good example, the Gazette records his change of surname in 1919, the collapse of his business in 1935 and his death in Brighton on 30th March 1949. Irene Schwedler, her real name was Ilse, was a well-known competitor before the war who seems to have disappeared without a trace as far as the motor-sport world is concerned. What happened to her? The Gazette shows a change of name to Sadler in 1947.

Another good thing about the Gazette, you can check which of your neighbours has ended up in the bankruptcy courts.

Silver John

Silver John is dead and gone
So they came home a-singing.
Radnor boys pulled out his eyes
And set the bells a-ringing

According to W. H. Howse in his book Radnorshire this little ditty was sure to provoke trouble if recited in the presence of a New Radnor man, commemorating as it does the murder of the charmer and bone-setter Silver John by a gang from the village in the late eighteenth century.

According to this site Silver John was a member of the Lloyd family of bone-setters and the deed was done in 1830. Meic Stephens, a descendant of the Lloyds, in his Oxford Companion to Welsh Literature agrees that Silver John was John Lloyd and tentatively dates him as living between 1740-1814.

The records of the Court of Great Sessions have a different tale to tell. Here Silver John is named as John Jones of the parish of Llanfihangel Rhyd Ieithon. Now there is no reason at all, given the longevity of the Welsh patronymic system, why a John Lloyd should not also be known as John Jones. The murder however is dated to 12th December 1773, the body not being found until the following April.

Jones was described as an idle drunken person, who had been very troublesome on the night of the murder and had to be dragged out of the house of Edward Breese, a New Radnor carpenter. Others indicted with Breese were David Bedward, know as Edwards, also a carpenter; Margaret Herbert (alias Morgan); Jacob Holl, butcher; William Holl; John Meredith, labourer; and Alice Price (alias Phillips). The verdict "No True Bill" - no case to answer.

You don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows

Time was we blamed bad weather on the wrath of the gods and placated them by sacrificing a virgin or some such. Nowadays we blame bad weather on the new god of global warming and are asked to sacrifice ….well, our cars.

According to the Independent; “It's official: the heavier rainfall in Britain is being caused by climate change, a major new scientific study will reveal this week, as the country reels from summer downpours of unprecedented ferocity. More intense rainstorms across parts of the northern hemisphere are being generated by man-made global warming, the study has established for the first time ­ an effect which has long been predicted but never before proved.”

Well done the scientists, although it took them long enough. After all the UK record for rain in an hour was set as long ago as 12th July 1901 in Maidenhead, 3.6 inches. Most rain in a day, Dorset, 18th July 1955, 11 inches. Funny how July keeps popping up in these records. Reminds me of the great Howey flood of 9th July 1853.

Anyway thank heavens the scientists have finally worked out the reason for all these unprecedented downpours, I’m off outside to slaughter the Metro.

Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 40

Here is another praise poem to Philip ap Rhys and Gwenllian of Cenarth, St Harmon. Ffransis Payne considered it the best of the poems composed for the family. It is the only surviving work by the bard Ieuan Gyfannedd.

Praise of Philip ap Rhys and Gwenllian vz Owain Glyndwr (IG)

Philip, a generous royal stock,
Ap Rhys, there‘s mention of you,
Lover of our song;
And much, too, of Gwenllian;
Honour to you and this goddess,
Famed Arthur of Gwerthrynion.

You dwell in the house of fame,
You and the girl from Glyn;
You are firmly seated
On the bench of the men of estate;
Loyally the bards, all who would cultivate
Your land, would not leave its support
In summer or in winter,
God’s blessing on your house.

I’ve composed a wide acre of praise
In the borderlands, it’s honourable;
Like an agreement for joint-ploughing,
I refer to you in furrows of harmonious praise.
The datgeiniaid have sung, have harrowed,
Have dug over an acre of song.

It has been sown a hundred times
With the blessings of the weak.
Chieftain of our land, your praise was ever
A fresh shoot, like that of Rhys,
It has been sown, like the seed corn
From the wheat, the world’s blessing.
Your dominion is more than a saint’s,
The land has been sown with a chaired poem
In your praise, Mary’s blessing upon you;
The world has been sown, unto the grave,
With songs to the girl from Gwynedd.

This tall house in the hill’s fold
Is the wheat store of blessings;
You are the best of men, with a fair wife
And a house for every charity;
Your hall has been stitched
With good poetry, your delight;
The carpenters of praise measure their trunks
By a man’s goodness, not with greenwood;
Today, Rhydderch’s nephew, is lifted up
By the work of carpenters of love,
And on high, the belfry of their praise
Will be ready by morning.

A long life to you and the girl from Gwynedd,
To give there in mead and song.
A long life was given to Moses,
Old Noah lived to a great age,
You and Gwenllian will grow old
In the land of fame, in the hill’s fold.

Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 39

Philip ap Rhys of Cenarth, St Harmon was the son-in-law of Owain Glyndwr. After Maredudd, Owain's son received a pardon from Henry V in 1421 it seems that Philip refused to surrender and continued the war against the English. In this poem the bard Llawdden praises Philip, still at large in the woods of Arwystl.

Praise of Philip ap Rhys of Cenarth (10)

I’d love to go with a fine poem,
Merlin’s gift, to where great fame is found,
Dear Philip, form of a stag
The lover of this southern land.
The stag of Rhys loves to give
Gold and a steed, in maintenance,
A lord from Philip Fychan, a true support
A Bendigeidfran of provision.
More than anyone he’s our life,
The face of Arthur for Gwerthrynion,
Another Ieuan Llwyd, lord of Glyn Aeron,
On to victory, chieftain!
Proof of the spirit of the nobility
Is found with this heir and his mead,
The wood in the apple-tree then
That causes its branch to sprout on high.
Philip ap Rhys is a tree from
The highest bud of the Isle of Honey,
The fine customs of a baron,
Generous God bestow on him,
The generosity of Einiawn’s race,
The face of a Goodman with the fairest look.
Majesty was given to my eagle,
The manner of a falcon amongst the goodmen,
A fine sight on a stallion, without ugliness,
Princely, God’s salvation for him!

There’s a longing amongst his nation
For the fair governance of Cynan’s grandchild.
In our land none but the birds and
The woodland branches care for him,
No minstrel, we who once made merry,
None can be found to salute him.
A fine journey awaits me, for love of him,
By the three months of summer,
I’ll cross yonder Pumlumon
With poems as gifts for him;
By my faith, how distant the respected one,
I’ll meet with my swan.

Jesus, I have a great longing,
He was in his beloved land,
A generous ruler, tall son of a chieftain,
When he left, a hunting ground.
Give him, powerful ruler,
A blow like Owain ab Urien;
In his story he succeeds,
Like the man on the Llychwr shore.
Old and fitting was the one who made,
A long campaign, a fine outlawdom,
Until he had justice and land and houses
From on high, he did not make peace.
After the nobleman’s son fled,
Philip is the equal of the Goodman:
He has rejected unjust rule,
And calls for victory,
Until which he dwells where he wishes,
Free like one of the stags.

As long as there is a fine mead feast
In the bright lands of Arwystl,
Swiftly to our land from Powys
A fair chieftain will come.
Where the houses and haunts of the father are found,
And the cultivated land of the great grandfather,
There one as old as Rhys’s son will dwell,
There he’ll deign to be by Christmas,
Let a long lifetime of fame and affection
Be given to the nephew of Rhydderch!

Book of the Month

After Lewis Glyn Cothi the bard Llawdden was perhaps the most prolific of the Fifteenth Century poets writing to patrons in and around Radnorshire. At least half the poems in this newly published book in the University of Wales's Centre for Advanced Welsh and Celtic Studies' series Beirdd yr Uchelwyr have a Radnorshire interest. As usual the book is full of genealogical and historical interest for students of local history with copious notes on every poem.

It seems that Llawdden retired to farm in the parish of Cefnllys and what was to become Radnorshire was certainly his main area of bardic activity. Of particular interest are the five poems to the family of Phylib ap Rhys of Cenarth, St Harmon, poems to patrons at Croescynon and Garddfaelog in Llanbister, a fine obituary to Elen Gethin of Hergest and poems to patrons in what is now Herefordshire

What's in a Name?

Some of the old mechanics, who were around in the late 50s when Ireland first started to make a name for himself in the world of Motor Sport, still call him McGregor, rather than Innes. Why so? Well the answer is that this was the name that Innes himself used at that time. Here's an example from the 1958 Telephone Directory, where Ireland is described as a Sports Car Builder, his previous Rolls Royce repair business at the same address having closed as his interest turned to sport.

Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 38

This is a translation of a cywydd by Lewis Glyn Cothi in praise of the Sion and Hywel, two sons of Ieuan Coch. Lewis composed a number of praise poems to members of this family living in various parishes in Elfael Uwch Mynydd

No 155, Praise to the two sons of Ieuan Coch

Two generous men in fair Elfael,
Two braves, two oaks,
Two good sons and heirs
Of Ieuan Coch, a generous chieftain,
Both grandsons of Cadwgan,
The stags who break castles;
Sion with his successful look,
And Hywel, no-one is more generous.

There’s no more than an archer’s mark
Of woodland between their liberal homes,
And I am Lewis the strong archer,
Their two courts are my target,
I’ll shoot a poem from
My jaw at the two marks;
I’ll shoot a cywydd across the Ithon
At Sion, that is my office;
And then a bolt to where Hywel comes,
An ode of gwawdodyn metre.
I know well an idle game
Of bars between these two pure stags.
My feet have been running
Down between their fair homes.
I’m as swift as a swallow
As I follow after them.
I’m quicker to the sons of Ieuan
Than a breath of wind to a high bank,
Than white snow along the moorland,
Than a brown falcon to the forest,
Than an old eagle to the great cliff,
Than a wounded roebuck to the river cliff.
I’m a man of no use, in Llanfaredd,
For Sion, rose of the tribe.
I do not need to call for poems
From a book, just for Hywel his brother.

There are two more brothers
Who both learn the books of the others.
They’re four saplings from one oak,
They’re four fledglings.
There is no feebleness with these on side,
They’re loyal to a man.
Sion is the trunk in place of Ieuan Coch,
A stag, whom you know;
Hywel is the longest branch,
An old coffer I’ll get from him.
Two stags in the two battles,
Two swords of their country.
God gave Moses two tablets,
Golden images in two cloths;
Two are earth and sky,
Two bodies which are related;
Two days were one for a man,
For Roland against his enemy.
Two brothers are the men who permit us,
Stags, the same charity.
Two stars are special,
Two men dwell to turn steel aside.
Jesus, he who is an old man
Would give an age to these two men.

Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 37

In this jolly poem addressed to Ieuan ap Gruffudd Fychan of Gladestry, Lewis Glyn Cothi mocks a bardic rival called Hywel Bongam, none of whose work has survived.

No. 160, Praise of Ieuan ap Gruffudd Fychan.

You are a terror to the unwise,
Wise, silver-tongued Ieuan;
You are the liberal limb of yonder land,
A lieutenant over the land below.
Where you give, you are a Daniel,
A prophet, son of Gruffudd,
A Solomon seen throughout the March,
A Sir Ffwg of Llwythyfnwg and her lands.
Let the life of Gruffudd Fychan,
Be there upon your face, goodman.

Your strong word comes from the root,
It stands throughout Maesyfaidd
Like the green trees of Meifod
Stand above any snowfall.
You are a man who has grown wise,
An oak or some such tree;
Silver coins are your berries,
There is gold in the roots,
Under your branches, good prince,
I come quietly to shelter.

Yonder are my brothers.
We share an oath on the relics of Enlli;
Between us, by the image of Thomas,
There is a noisy battle for silver metal.
Hywel Bongam was very loud,
Not a single word is tolerable;
He comes from Manafon,
A servant of Morys ap John;
For myself, like office for the English,
If he deserves it, then I resign!
Jovial Dafydd asks you,
"Is every man to be a victor?"
This suitor is an adulterer,
The man has sought your patronage,
He seeks to seduce your oath;
For his own ends he does so.
I must insist, Ieuan,
To have my share from an Ifor Hael.
Men of poetry, my knave!
Who praise you in the dialect of Gwynedd!

You are a member of the chief council,
You are the Duke's right ear;
Do you deal justice fairly
Between the men there?
You are a foot in the land,
To uphold the office of the lord.
Along a road of propriety it should run
To the pathways of high law.
Ieuan, you are the right hand
Of the earl, watching over his share;
Hold that patronage like a harp string,
Through the means at your disposal.
Bring profit there for the Duke,
The Duke has given you good office.
Duke Richard brings and has given
The land of Llwythyfnwg to your ward,
He takes in Llanfar four lifetimes,
God will give you four lifetimes.