Here is a another praise poem by Lewis Glyn Cothi to Philip ap Rhys and Gwenllian vz Owain Glyn Dwr of Cenarth, St Harmon. A nice image of the drunken bard staggering home to his own wife like a ship afloat on a sea of ale.
No 187 praise to Philip ap Rhys and Gwenllian vz Owain Glyndwr
The man with the four warhorses,
His course was love of office,
Philip son of Rhys, fine and generous,
His body is wise, generous and excellent.
One of the roots of the descent lines
Of Philip Fychan, from his share,
A stag who gives gifts without stop,
The heart of Gwerthrynion and her foot;
He gives full wine, the grandson of Ieuan Llwyd,
The foremost from the glen of Aeron.
It is known that in his majesty
The grandchild of Ieuan Moel shares mead.
Not one of his party was ever weak,
Not his ancestors nor his forefathers,
Not him, not his great grandmother,
Nor his father, nor mother, nor any of his tribe.
A son-in-law, so it is related,
In the sharing of truth, to old Gwyn;
Into his keeping, Gwenllian
Came up from Sycharth.
A laund web from Owain y Glyn
A daughter, too, of Cynfyn,
Molten gold from the body of Llowdden,
A golden thread from Gwen,
From Aron of Merionydd;
She is an Igraine, wise as an elected queen,
A generous daughter of Gruffydd Maelor,
A daughter of Rhodri Mawr,
This is the nobility of our island,
Who is second, Philip ap Rhys?
I dwelt in homely comfort
In his house for a short while.
Now it is high time that I,
As from the houses of Cheapside,
Turned my face toward home.
As is usual with the tribe of Cynfyn,
I am a ship afloat on a sea of ale;
Her head, amidst all the trees
Is a haven, a landfall.
I’m placed like a compass needle
In the box, although I am a grown man,
And her head, which is the diamond,
Is a sure sign of a northerly heading.
The hall of Philip is a rod,
The north of mead and wrought gold,
And my head turns to Gwynedd
And his white walled court.
Gwenllian shares from the court,
Upon her hand there’s gold for Lewis.
In giving wine from the pipe,
Philip will never fail.
Philip will govern every parish,
And so too will Gwenllian.
I sing a prayer for them,
Wine may be my reward.
I am their poet of the cywydd
Who praises Gwen and her husband.
For them let there be two lifetimes,
And after that, a third!
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Motor Racing on the Telly
One of the things about getting older is that what is history for younger people is memory for you. How many times have I read that there wasn't much motor racing on the telly before the age of Murray and James. Now this is just twaddle. Likewise the idea that the sport had a low profile in the 50s and 60s. People just repeat this nonsense and because it is churned out so often, it gets accepted as fact. How on earth do these fools explain how Stirling Moss got to be a household name! Anyway here is a list of live motor racing shown on British TV in 1962:
April 7, Oulton Park (BBC)
April 14, Silverstone (ITV)
April 23, Goodwood (ITV)
April 28, Aintree (BBC)
May 12, Silverstone (ITV)
May 26, Goodwood (ITV)
June 3, Monaco GP (BBC)
June 11, Mallory Park (BBC)
June 11, Goodwood (ITV)
June 23/24, Le Mans (BBC)
June 23, Goodwood (ITV)
June 30, Scotland (BBC)
July 7, French GP (BBC)
July 21, British GP (BBC)
August 4, Silverstone (ITV)
August 6, Brands Hatch (BBC)
August 11, Silverstone (ITV)
August 18, Goodwood (ITV)
September 16, Italian GP (BBC)
September 22, Goodwood (ITV)
October 6, Silverstone (ITV)
December 26, Brands Hatch (BBC)
April 7, Oulton Park (BBC)
April 14, Silverstone (ITV)
April 23, Goodwood (ITV)
April 28, Aintree (BBC)
May 12, Silverstone (ITV)
May 26, Goodwood (ITV)
June 3, Monaco GP (BBC)
June 11, Mallory Park (BBC)
June 11, Goodwood (ITV)
June 23/24, Le Mans (BBC)
June 23, Goodwood (ITV)
June 30, Scotland (BBC)
July 7, French GP (BBC)
July 21, British GP (BBC)
August 4, Silverstone (ITV)
August 6, Brands Hatch (BBC)
August 11, Silverstone (ITV)
August 18, Goodwood (ITV)
September 16, Italian GP (BBC)
September 22, Goodwood (ITV)
October 6, Silverstone (ITV)
December 26, Brands Hatch (BBC)
Monday, February 20, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 7
Owain Glyndwr's daughter Gwenllian lived at Cenarth in the parish of St Harmon with her husband Philip ap Rhys, when she died Lewis Glyn Cothi composed this elergy.
No 188 Eergy for Gwenllian vz Owain Glyndwr
The woman whose hair was golden,
Born of the stags of Rhuddallt
Gwenllian, daughter of old Owain,
Was cheerful, God greet her.
It would not be strange, were the mighty redeemer
To honour the fair moon of Cynllaith.
The tongue, since she went from her land
Into the grave, has been laid low.
The countryside is unlively now
Since the priests came to Cenarth.
It was a hall that was new to her,
With tables for three townships,
She filled them, every wine that was
She gave out and shared there.
I, for my part, had from Cenarth:
Silver from every corner,
Feasting from every square foot,
All that makes the old feel healthy.
From her giving they gave Gwenllian
The name of St Anne.
Gwenllian was never foolish,
Gwen was good and wise;
The moon of Owain was kind,
The best amidst gold and precious stones.
Her father was a strong prince,
All of Wales was his dominion;
Forty dukes were forced to pay
A tax of gold and silver,
And he paid, unto the grave
For sixty two widows.
Gwenllian gave birth to lions,
Men of her stock who will rule.
Maredudd, Dafydd an ashwood,
My hopes are with her sons.
As tall as Owain their grandfather,
They shelter under their father’s wing.
In Cenarth and Sycharth there is talk,
And sadness in Gwerthrynion.
All honest folk cry out in anguish,
Everyone, Philip ap Rhys!
Gwenllian was the colour of the wave,
She and her husband were fair of face.
They never hid on the high feast days,
Nor on working days, nor any day.
Every moment was one for giving,
Easter gifts to adorn the world,
Christmas gifts, almost to excess,
Gifts on the feast of St Garmon, again to excess.
If I had a tongue of steel
Which had never spoken, never been used.
If my heart and my breast were made of brass
And my chest was a white stone,
I could not, any more than a reed stem,
Express with one head all our pain.
God chooses to take the wise,
We are nothing much more than broken twigs.
Gwenllian, like a vineyard of mead,
Was the unassuming Luned of Gwynedd,
Oh Jesus be a welcomer
To the fair Luned of Glyndwr.
No 188 Eergy for Gwenllian vz Owain Glyndwr
The woman whose hair was golden,
Born of the stags of Rhuddallt
Gwenllian, daughter of old Owain,
Was cheerful, God greet her.
It would not be strange, were the mighty redeemer
To honour the fair moon of Cynllaith.
The tongue, since she went from her land
Into the grave, has been laid low.
The countryside is unlively now
Since the priests came to Cenarth.
It was a hall that was new to her,
With tables for three townships,
She filled them, every wine that was
She gave out and shared there.
I, for my part, had from Cenarth:
Silver from every corner,
Feasting from every square foot,
All that makes the old feel healthy.
From her giving they gave Gwenllian
The name of St Anne.
Gwenllian was never foolish,
Gwen was good and wise;
The moon of Owain was kind,
The best amidst gold and precious stones.
Her father was a strong prince,
All of Wales was his dominion;
Forty dukes were forced to pay
A tax of gold and silver,
And he paid, unto the grave
For sixty two widows.
Gwenllian gave birth to lions,
Men of her stock who will rule.
Maredudd, Dafydd an ashwood,
My hopes are with her sons.
As tall as Owain their grandfather,
They shelter under their father’s wing.
In Cenarth and Sycharth there is talk,
And sadness in Gwerthrynion.
All honest folk cry out in anguish,
Everyone, Philip ap Rhys!
Gwenllian was the colour of the wave,
She and her husband were fair of face.
They never hid on the high feast days,
Nor on working days, nor any day.
Every moment was one for giving,
Easter gifts to adorn the world,
Christmas gifts, almost to excess,
Gifts on the feast of St Garmon, again to excess.
If I had a tongue of steel
Which had never spoken, never been used.
If my heart and my breast were made of brass
And my chest was a white stone,
I could not, any more than a reed stem,
Express with one head all our pain.
God chooses to take the wise,
We are nothing much more than broken twigs.
Gwenllian, like a vineyard of mead,
Was the unassuming Luned of Gwynedd,
Oh Jesus be a welcomer
To the fair Luned of Glyndwr.
Innes Ireland Trivia, 2
Innes Ireland’s interest in motor sport was first aroused when he met the aged chauffeur to a wealthy family in Newton Stewart, Scotland. The family owned two Bentleys and the young Innes was allowed to run them up and down the drive with petrol filched from his father’s wartime ration. When the owner of the Bentleys, a lady called Frances, died, she left one of the cars to Innes.
I can’t be certain, but I wonder if that elderly retainer might have been Mr Arthur Cowling, coachman and chauffeur for 64 years to the Armitage family of Kirroughtrie, Newton Stewart. He died at the end of 1948, aged 84.
I can’t be certain, but I wonder if that elderly retainer might have been Mr Arthur Cowling, coachman and chauffeur for 64 years to the Armitage family of Kirroughtrie, Newton Stewart. He died at the end of 1948, aged 84.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 6
Ostensibly this praise poem by Lewis Glyn Cothi and addressed Maredudd ap Dafydd Fychan of Llinwent is about hunting but I guess it is really about sovereignty and politics.
No 181 Praise of Maredudd ap Dafydd Fychan
No better land for fine, liberal gifts,
Than Maelienydd the land of honey.
Within it, in the flesh once,
Were wonders as numerous as molehills:
Here, so it is reported,
Was held the marriage feast of old Arthur;
The ancient citadel of Caer Ochren once stood
On the headlands of Rhos Maelienydd;
Eight times the Red Ford on the Ithon
Flowed red with the blood of battle.
Maelienydd disdains the speech
Of any Saxon and any jot of his works.
I’ve one love for three lands,
For three men, unto the youngest:
The Cornish say, ”Gracious Arthur will live
In every ward, the power of Richard;
”Maelienydd says, “Old Owain
Will be alive by his side.”
The best of a land its men and feasts,
For a hundred years, Maelienydd.
There is more ale in Maelienydd
Than in all the seven oceans;
Maelienydd will be my foster sister,
Maelienydd is my sustenance.
One man is loved here,
A tall man, like Garwy Hir
A prince born in Llinwent,
With the body of a lion,
like the Earl of Gwent.
Maredudd ap Dafydd Fychan, yours
Are all the main lines of descent:
A hawk of the falcons of Deheubarth,
As powerful as Gwilym of Y Garth,
A fledgling of the line of Elystan,
A sword from the tree of Llowdden.
Your custom after fresh mead,
Spiced deer meat and ordering the feast;
Is to mount like a salmon
Upon a stallion, as your father did,
With purpose, advance on the headwaters of the Wye
And the hill pastures of Clun;
Ever heedful of the terrain,
And a hound calling, wo-oo.
Expectant, was it a true sighting,
Caused by a young stag;
Call for greyhound and huntsman,
Aim them after the hind,
Set hunting dogs upon the roebuck,
Await a kill below the court;
Cause for me with every gift
Fresh venison, as befits me.
He commands me on a stallion from Gwent,
To and fro, back and forth, to Llinwent.
It wears me out, Maredudd,
I would not come even to feast at the house of Nudd.
He soon provokes me
With talk of the rights of tall Jasper;
He invites me with a gift of gold,
And there he’ll give me more gold,
Joshing me, he’ll give three chests,
Commanding me to take a stallion.
No 181 Praise of Maredudd ap Dafydd Fychan
No better land for fine, liberal gifts,
Than Maelienydd the land of honey.
Within it, in the flesh once,
Were wonders as numerous as molehills:
Here, so it is reported,
Was held the marriage feast of old Arthur;
The ancient citadel of Caer Ochren once stood
On the headlands of Rhos Maelienydd;
Eight times the Red Ford on the Ithon
Flowed red with the blood of battle.
Maelienydd disdains the speech
Of any Saxon and any jot of his works.
I’ve one love for three lands,
For three men, unto the youngest:
The Cornish say, ”Gracious Arthur will live
In every ward, the power of Richard;
”Maelienydd says, “Old Owain
Will be alive by his side.”
The best of a land its men and feasts,
For a hundred years, Maelienydd.
There is more ale in Maelienydd
Than in all the seven oceans;
Maelienydd will be my foster sister,
Maelienydd is my sustenance.
One man is loved here,
A tall man, like Garwy Hir
A prince born in Llinwent,
With the body of a lion,
like the Earl of Gwent.
Maredudd ap Dafydd Fychan, yours
Are all the main lines of descent:
A hawk of the falcons of Deheubarth,
As powerful as Gwilym of Y Garth,
A fledgling of the line of Elystan,
A sword from the tree of Llowdden.
Your custom after fresh mead,
Spiced deer meat and ordering the feast;
Is to mount like a salmon
Upon a stallion, as your father did,
With purpose, advance on the headwaters of the Wye
And the hill pastures of Clun;
Ever heedful of the terrain,
And a hound calling, wo-oo.
Expectant, was it a true sighting,
Caused by a young stag;
Call for greyhound and huntsman,
Aim them after the hind,
Set hunting dogs upon the roebuck,
Await a kill below the court;
Cause for me with every gift
Fresh venison, as befits me.
He commands me on a stallion from Gwent,
To and fro, back and forth, to Llinwent.
It wears me out, Maredudd,
I would not come even to feast at the house of Nudd.
He soon provokes me
With talk of the rights of tall Jasper;
He invites me with a gift of gold,
And there he’ll give me more gold,
Joshing me, he’ll give three chests,
Commanding me to take a stallion.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 5
If your surname is Philpott and your ancestors originated from in Herefordshire, you might think they were English. Wrong.
This is my translation Lewis Glyn Cothi's elergy for Phelpod ap Rhys of Brilley:
No 144, Elegy for Phelpod ap Rhys
When the knell sounded for Ifor of Brilley,
There was a groan, oh why this?
Phelpod was kind to the poor,
The son of generous Rhys, a shoot of Sion.
Oh Holy Mary! Was there a better man
Than this since ancient Cadell?
From the storytellers
There was a world within his head;
Rarely has a living man surpassed
Him in knowledge of the Bible.
In his lands, he was the best Welshman,
He spoke the Welsh of Wales;
And because of this the son of Rhys knew
The chronicles of the men of the island.
Did he have a brother in faith?
Of course, there was Gildas ap Caw.
There are seven parts to earthly knowledge,
And just seven men knew them all;
He in the vale of Kington,
Knew something of each one.
Phelpod was an excellent man,
A leader whom all followed.
Scarlet, like the father of Tewdwr,
He wore, trimmed with fur.
Now his dress is quite different,
He is clothed in a new fashion;
A thin, tight dress of dark grey,
An overcoat of dull earth.
In the house of Jesus, his feet
Are both stuffed into one stocking;
His hands, folded gracefully about him,
Are pushed into one glove.
Oh Jesus! For placing him there,
In a house of roots and earth.
The soil consumes Phelpod ap Rhys,
Within three girdles of stone,
He has ended in the earth,
A short bed in a sealed grave.
How strange the death of a flower,
How strange the death of a man;
Every particle of a man withers to dust,
So too the kindly flower.
A forest like that on Cefn Digoll,
Once covered all of the land of Brilley;
Jesus has cut down a great oak
From the forest of Rhys, he was not old!
The tree is felled in a moment,
A riddle to the end of time.
His death came with
Plaintive harp song and mourning,
Boasting bells assault our ears;
Horns and trumpets, side by side,
Anchorites walking in a procession.
A single candle aflame in a stick,
Incense, like the church of Windsor,
Or that on the grave of St George.
In the church of St Mary, in Mary’s ward,
My fair leopard was ploughed into the earth.
His soul, with that of his parents,
Went to the grace of the One and Three.
The Trinity prepared a way for Phelpod,
Three prophets made three highways;
Three liberal heavens await the grandson of Sion,
Let there be three ages for his children and grandchildren.
This is my translation Lewis Glyn Cothi's elergy for Phelpod ap Rhys of Brilley:
No 144, Elegy for Phelpod ap Rhys
When the knell sounded for Ifor of Brilley,
There was a groan, oh why this?
Phelpod was kind to the poor,
The son of generous Rhys, a shoot of Sion.
Oh Holy Mary! Was there a better man
Than this since ancient Cadell?
From the storytellers
There was a world within his head;
Rarely has a living man surpassed
Him in knowledge of the Bible.
In his lands, he was the best Welshman,
He spoke the Welsh of Wales;
And because of this the son of Rhys knew
The chronicles of the men of the island.
Did he have a brother in faith?
Of course, there was Gildas ap Caw.
There are seven parts to earthly knowledge,
And just seven men knew them all;
He in the vale of Kington,
Knew something of each one.
Phelpod was an excellent man,
A leader whom all followed.
Scarlet, like the father of Tewdwr,
He wore, trimmed with fur.
Now his dress is quite different,
He is clothed in a new fashion;
A thin, tight dress of dark grey,
An overcoat of dull earth.
In the house of Jesus, his feet
Are both stuffed into one stocking;
His hands, folded gracefully about him,
Are pushed into one glove.
Oh Jesus! For placing him there,
In a house of roots and earth.
The soil consumes Phelpod ap Rhys,
Within three girdles of stone,
He has ended in the earth,
A short bed in a sealed grave.
How strange the death of a flower,
How strange the death of a man;
Every particle of a man withers to dust,
So too the kindly flower.
A forest like that on Cefn Digoll,
Once covered all of the land of Brilley;
Jesus has cut down a great oak
From the forest of Rhys, he was not old!
The tree is felled in a moment,
A riddle to the end of time.
His death came with
Plaintive harp song and mourning,
Boasting bells assault our ears;
Horns and trumpets, side by side,
Anchorites walking in a procession.
A single candle aflame in a stick,
Incense, like the church of Windsor,
Or that on the grave of St George.
In the church of St Mary, in Mary’s ward,
My fair leopard was ploughed into the earth.
His soul, with that of his parents,
Went to the grace of the One and Three.
The Trinity prepared a way for Phelpod,
Three prophets made three highways;
Three liberal heavens await the grandson of Sion,
Let there be three ages for his children and grandchildren.
Adverts on the Cars, an Early Example
From D.S.J.’s reflections on the 1965 Italian GP
“There was a strange little ceremony in the paddock on the morning of the race when Colin Chapman was presented with two cases of salami (and a pocketful of lire?) in exchange for putting an advertisement for this particular brand of salami on the Lotus that Geki was to drive……..The same was happening in the Brabham team, where Baghetti’s car was also carrying salami advertising, and this was brought about because the Italians have a national rule that permits their drivers to have advertising on their cars, in spite of an F.I.A. rule that forbids it.”
“There was a strange little ceremony in the paddock on the morning of the race when Colin Chapman was presented with two cases of salami (and a pocketful of lire?) in exchange for putting an advertisement for this particular brand of salami on the Lotus that Geki was to drive……..The same was happening in the Brabham team, where Baghetti’s car was also carrying salami advertising, and this was brought about because the Italians have a national rule that permits their drivers to have advertising on their cars, in spite of an F.I.A. rule that forbids it.”
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Welsh Racing Drivers
It's easy to forget that in its pre-First World War heyday the South Wales coalfield was the power house of the modern world. Great fortunes were made there, which by the inter-war years had passed down to a class of loafers with the money to indulge a passion for racing cars. Many of the leading Brooklands racers sprang from this class.
Clifton Penn-Hughes was the son of W. Walter Hughes (originally from Llanelli), chairman of the Hackbridge Electric Construction Company and the Hewittic Electric Company. Incidently Penn-Hughes married Judy Guinness the Olympic fencer, silver medalist at Los Angeles in 1932.
Tim Rose-Richards' father Thomas Picton Rose-Richards was a leading light in the Swanea Coal exporting trade.
Charles Martin's parents lived at "The Hill" Abergavenney, his father was killed in the Great War and his mother was a Hanbury, industrialist family from Pontypool. Grandfather Edward Pritchard Martin was manager of the ironworks at Blaenavon and then Dowlais and a vice chairman of Guest, Keen and Nettlefolds.
Owen Saunders-Davies who co-drove Rose-Richard's third placed car in the 1931 Le Mans race was somewhat different, a member of the Saunders-Davies family of Pentre, Pembrokeshire. An old landed gentry family.
Dudley Folland, son of a tin-plate manufacturer from Glanaman, was something of a Corinthian. He played rugby on the wing for Swansea and London Welsh, indeed was a Welsh trialist; he was also a Cambridge soccer blue and a pretty good amateur golfer. He raced pre-war under the name Tim D. Davies.
Lindsey Eccles was a director and later managing director of the Briton Ferry Steel Company, he was born in Neath (14th May 1908) and died in Swansea in 1991. His brother was Roy Eccles born in 1900 in Neath, the son of a manufacturer Herbert Eccles.
That old fascist Donald Marendaz was born in Margam in 1897 where his Welsh-speaking father was a merchant.
Interesting people, both as individuals and as representatives of a class.
Clifton Penn-Hughes was the son of W. Walter Hughes (originally from Llanelli), chairman of the Hackbridge Electric Construction Company and the Hewittic Electric Company. Incidently Penn-Hughes married Judy Guinness the Olympic fencer, silver medalist at Los Angeles in 1932.
Tim Rose-Richards' father Thomas Picton Rose-Richards was a leading light in the Swanea Coal exporting trade.
Charles Martin's parents lived at "The Hill" Abergavenney, his father was killed in the Great War and his mother was a Hanbury, industrialist family from Pontypool. Grandfather Edward Pritchard Martin was manager of the ironworks at Blaenavon and then Dowlais and a vice chairman of Guest, Keen and Nettlefolds.
Owen Saunders-Davies who co-drove Rose-Richard's third placed car in the 1931 Le Mans race was somewhat different, a member of the Saunders-Davies family of Pentre, Pembrokeshire. An old landed gentry family.
Dudley Folland, son of a tin-plate manufacturer from Glanaman, was something of a Corinthian. He played rugby on the wing for Swansea and London Welsh, indeed was a Welsh trialist; he was also a Cambridge soccer blue and a pretty good amateur golfer. He raced pre-war under the name Tim D. Davies.
Lindsey Eccles was a director and later managing director of the Briton Ferry Steel Company, he was born in Neath (14th May 1908) and died in Swansea in 1991. His brother was Roy Eccles born in 1900 in Neath, the son of a manufacturer Herbert Eccles.
That old fascist Donald Marendaz was born in Margam in 1897 where his Welsh-speaking father was a merchant.
Interesting people, both as individuals and as representatives of a class.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 4
This is my translation of a poem by Lewis Glyn Cothi which was probably composed for the Assembly of the Men of Elfael, the cantref that later became the southern part of the old county of Radnorshire.
No 141, Praise of Elfael and her Saints
What land is more welcoming
Than this wise land along the Wye?
What folk as generous,
Under a far sun, as her folk?
Is the land of yonder Elfael not generous?
Is liberality not amassed there?
God and the saints would not allow
Any harm to befall Elfael.
Yonder were thirteen saints
Or more whom God has named.
Blessed Mary, she and her maids,
The generous mother of God, she is a good mother.
Michael and his countenance,
High upon wings of gold.
On the day of sifting, who else?
Blessed Peter from his land, fair Padarn
Holy Dewi, blessed old Teilo,
God in his country, blest-holy Deiniel.
Elwedd, good and large, a kindly image,
Good Mariaith, St Bride the virgin.
Meugant that confident saint,
Proper Meilig, likewise Cewydd.
These saints of our generous land
Are the foundation of Elfael.
One day they will defend
Their obedient parishes.
Without question they will be
The lifeblood of this country.
Sons, tall beautiful daughters,
Mountain stallions, large and excellent cattle
Friendly, capable servants,
Ploughmen, husbands and fine wives.
Elfael is generous and wise,
Generous with her patrimony of wealth.
She sleeps well after wine,
Untroubled and fortunate.
Elfael is never vexed
Although she shares her mead and gold.
Her wisdom is never diminished
By any surly refusal.
In Elfael there is no hearth
Without a full table, without food and drink,
No woodland, no mountain, no spot
Not richly stocked with grazing beasts.
No ancient vale without some crop,
No fair brow not covered with wheat.
The fruits from her rivers are plentiful,
Fruits from woodland and from green hedgerow.
Halls long bound by obligation,
And firesides full of riches.
A strong land there to give warmth,
Fire we have and cosy houses;
Tasty food and drink everywhere,
All of everything, and Weobley ale.
Beneath the stars there are fine forests,
And all the designs of toilers,
And free land and long standing houses,
And firesides full of riches.
Elfael, which is below the mountains of Mael,
Elfael is well made.
No 141, Praise of Elfael and her Saints
What land is more welcoming
Than this wise land along the Wye?
What folk as generous,
Under a far sun, as her folk?
Is the land of yonder Elfael not generous?
Is liberality not amassed there?
God and the saints would not allow
Any harm to befall Elfael.
Yonder were thirteen saints
Or more whom God has named.
Blessed Mary, she and her maids,
The generous mother of God, she is a good mother.
Michael and his countenance,
High upon wings of gold.
On the day of sifting, who else?
Blessed Peter from his land, fair Padarn
Holy Dewi, blessed old Teilo,
God in his country, blest-holy Deiniel.
Elwedd, good and large, a kindly image,
Good Mariaith, St Bride the virgin.
Meugant that confident saint,
Proper Meilig, likewise Cewydd.
These saints of our generous land
Are the foundation of Elfael.
One day they will defend
Their obedient parishes.
Without question they will be
The lifeblood of this country.
Sons, tall beautiful daughters,
Mountain stallions, large and excellent cattle
Friendly, capable servants,
Ploughmen, husbands and fine wives.
Elfael is generous and wise,
Generous with her patrimony of wealth.
She sleeps well after wine,
Untroubled and fortunate.
Elfael is never vexed
Although she shares her mead and gold.
Her wisdom is never diminished
By any surly refusal.
In Elfael there is no hearth
Without a full table, without food and drink,
No woodland, no mountain, no spot
Not richly stocked with grazing beasts.
No ancient vale without some crop,
No fair brow not covered with wheat.
The fruits from her rivers are plentiful,
Fruits from woodland and from green hedgerow.
Halls long bound by obligation,
And firesides full of riches.
A strong land there to give warmth,
Fire we have and cosy houses;
Tasty food and drink everywhere,
All of everything, and Weobley ale.
Beneath the stars there are fine forests,
And all the designs of toilers,
And free land and long standing houses,
And firesides full of riches.
Elfael, which is below the mountains of Mael,
Elfael is well made.
Gary Hocking
This is Gary Hocking’s career record on four wheels:
26/8/62, Roskildering, Danish GP, Lotus-Climax, 4th
1/9/62, Oulton Park Gold Cup, Lotus-Climax, retired
10/10/62, Kyalami Rand Spring Cup, Lotus-Climax, 1st
24/11/62, Swartkops, Total Cup, Lotus-Climax, 1st
2/12/62, Kumalo, Rhodesian GP, Lotus-Climax ,1st
15/12/62, Kyalami, Rand GP, Lotus-Climax, 4th
22/12/62, Westmead, Natal GP, Lotus-Climax, killed in practice
And this is from the Motor Sport report of only his second race at Oulton Park:
“There was a select bunch of V8-engine cars out in front, but on their tail and not losing any ground at all came a lone 4 cylinder Climax car driven by Gary Hocking. This showed that his practice times were not luck, and he was holding 9th place behind eight V8-engined cars and going extremely well, his speed out of corners being quite exceptional, not by reason of lots of power, by reason of high cornering speeds, his Lotus continually showing three inches of daylight under the inside front, wheel, a thing not seen on a modern G.P. car for some time.”
The eight drivers ahead of Hocking’s Tim Parnell entered car were: Clark, G Hill, Ginther, McLaren, Surtees, Ireland, Brabham and Salvadori. Not a bad bunch!
Tom Pryce is recognized by many as a racer who would surely have gone on to win the World Championship but for his tragic accident at Kyalami in 1977. If Gary Hocking had lived Tom might have been the second Welsh Formula One World Champion.
26/8/62, Roskildering, Danish GP, Lotus-Climax, 4th
1/9/62, Oulton Park Gold Cup, Lotus-Climax, retired
10/10/62, Kyalami Rand Spring Cup, Lotus-Climax, 1st
24/11/62, Swartkops, Total Cup, Lotus-Climax, 1st
2/12/62, Kumalo, Rhodesian GP, Lotus-Climax ,1st
15/12/62, Kyalami, Rand GP, Lotus-Climax, 4th
22/12/62, Westmead, Natal GP, Lotus-Climax, killed in practice
And this is from the Motor Sport report of only his second race at Oulton Park:
“There was a select bunch of V8-engine cars out in front, but on their tail and not losing any ground at all came a lone 4 cylinder Climax car driven by Gary Hocking. This showed that his practice times were not luck, and he was holding 9th place behind eight V8-engined cars and going extremely well, his speed out of corners being quite exceptional, not by reason of lots of power, by reason of high cornering speeds, his Lotus continually showing three inches of daylight under the inside front, wheel, a thing not seen on a modern G.P. car for some time.”
The eight drivers ahead of Hocking’s Tim Parnell entered car were: Clark, G Hill, Ginther, McLaren, Surtees, Ireland, Brabham and Salvadori. Not a bad bunch!
Tom Pryce is recognized by many as a racer who would surely have gone on to win the World Championship but for his tragic accident at Kyalami in 1977. If Gary Hocking had lived Tom might have been the second Welsh Formula One World Champion.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 3
This is another poem by Lewis Glyn Cothi, no doubt commissioned by Elen Gethin of Hergest for the funeral of her son Rhisiart, Lord of Bleddfa, who was killed in the aftermath of the battle of Banbury and who was buried, like his father, in St Mary's Church, Kington.
No 128 The Elegy of Rhisiart Fychan
A sermon to Elen Gethin,
All my life I’ve spoken my mind:
Think about God, Elen,
And Mary his gentle, holy mother;
Mary who witnessed the death
Of Jesus, her son and her redeemer.
Elen , too, has witnessed, for her sake,
The cruel death of her prince.
From the court she brought him to the church,
Oh God, such a burden, Rhisiart Fychan!
I am sad from studying
The sadness of his mother for him,
Elen has grieved for two lands,
All the fair court of Herast has grieved.
Herast, oh more’s the pity, is saddened,
It was a good place for feasting;
In two days Maelienydd became
Weak, now it is worse;
Cedewain has run to gorse,
Ceri has become a withered forest;
In a hundred lands no man is praised,
Montgomery is nothing but a battlefield;
Llinwent, which was the world’s pattern,
Llinwent is less than nothing now,
The storm ravages Llinwent in the wake
Of this nephew of Tristan of Gwent.
Master Rhisiart, a powerful treasure,
Hidden at the edge of the choir,
A secret curtain over yellow hair,
There is white marble on his hair:
It is not unpleasing to Elen’s gaze,
The sight of her son in his white helm.
She sees him next to his father’s bed,
Lying together in a single love,
Two angels from the same house
Have gone to two rented beds.
God for better, between two altars,
Has taken a champion and a great soldier,
And she went to God himself,
High on the wind, Mary of Kington.
When Tomas ap Rhosier went
To God and the saints through the stars,
He was wise, my blessing to him,
Wishing his son to follow him.
The wood of Moreiddig is a bare pasture
Since every branch was blown down;
Yet there shall grow once more,
From a single sprout, two thousand trees.
Although men are brought down like twigs,
Tall ashes will grow again at Herast.
Master Watcyn desires such a world,
Master Rhosier will also be counted.
What God gives from the root
Both God and Mary desire.
If Tomas and Rhisiart have been taken,
The one Holy God has brought them to his ward.
A praiseworthy father and son,
Mary and her father will help them,
On her throne, as a protector
Of father and son, the Virgin Mary.
No 128 The Elegy of Rhisiart Fychan
A sermon to Elen Gethin,
All my life I’ve spoken my mind:
Think about God, Elen,
And Mary his gentle, holy mother;
Mary who witnessed the death
Of Jesus, her son and her redeemer.
Elen , too, has witnessed, for her sake,
The cruel death of her prince.
From the court she brought him to the church,
Oh God, such a burden, Rhisiart Fychan!
I am sad from studying
The sadness of his mother for him,
Elen has grieved for two lands,
All the fair court of Herast has grieved.
Herast, oh more’s the pity, is saddened,
It was a good place for feasting;
In two days Maelienydd became
Weak, now it is worse;
Cedewain has run to gorse,
Ceri has become a withered forest;
In a hundred lands no man is praised,
Montgomery is nothing but a battlefield;
Llinwent, which was the world’s pattern,
Llinwent is less than nothing now,
The storm ravages Llinwent in the wake
Of this nephew of Tristan of Gwent.
Master Rhisiart, a powerful treasure,
Hidden at the edge of the choir,
A secret curtain over yellow hair,
There is white marble on his hair:
It is not unpleasing to Elen’s gaze,
The sight of her son in his white helm.
She sees him next to his father’s bed,
Lying together in a single love,
Two angels from the same house
Have gone to two rented beds.
God for better, between two altars,
Has taken a champion and a great soldier,
And she went to God himself,
High on the wind, Mary of Kington.
When Tomas ap Rhosier went
To God and the saints through the stars,
He was wise, my blessing to him,
Wishing his son to follow him.
The wood of Moreiddig is a bare pasture
Since every branch was blown down;
Yet there shall grow once more,
From a single sprout, two thousand trees.
Although men are brought down like twigs,
Tall ashes will grow again at Herast.
Master Watcyn desires such a world,
Master Rhosier will also be counted.
What God gives from the root
Both God and Mary desire.
If Tomas and Rhisiart have been taken,
The one Holy God has brought them to his ward.
A praiseworthy father and son,
Mary and her father will help them,
On her throne, as a protector
Of father and son, the Virgin Mary.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Stuart Lewis-Evans
There are various sites around the web that list Stuart Lewis-Evans as a Welsh driver, so is there any truth to the claim?
Firstly TNF has already established that Lewis-Evans was not the name that appeared on Stuart's birth certificate, infact his surname was Evans, Lewis is a second forename. A search of TNF shows that Pop Lewis-Evans listed his place of birth in the Who's Who section of the Motor Racing Directory 1957, it was Plumstead, the date, 6 November 1899.
A search of the 1901 census again shows that the family surname was Evans and that Pop's birth name was Lewis Evans, the double barrel was obviously a later addition. Pop's father Charles Evans was born in........Plumstead, as was his mother. Go back to the 1881 census and we find Stuart's great grandfather Thomas Evans, a Stafford born beer retailer living in Plumstead.
Yes, we can safely exclude Stuart Lewis-Evans from the list of Welsh drivers.
Firstly TNF has already established that Lewis-Evans was not the name that appeared on Stuart's birth certificate, infact his surname was Evans, Lewis is a second forename. A search of TNF shows that Pop Lewis-Evans listed his place of birth in the Who's Who section of the Motor Racing Directory 1957, it was Plumstead, the date, 6 November 1899.
A search of the 1901 census again shows that the family surname was Evans and that Pop's birth name was Lewis Evans, the double barrel was obviously a later addition. Pop's father Charles Evans was born in........Plumstead, as was his mother. Go back to the 1881 census and we find Stuart's great grandfather Thomas Evans, a Stafford born beer retailer living in Plumstead.
Yes, we can safely exclude Stuart Lewis-Evans from the list of Welsh drivers.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Mrs Louise Bryden-Brown
Mrs Louise Bryden-Brown, Formula One entrant in the early Sixties? Who was she then?
Born 19th June 1916, she was the daughter of Mr and Mrs James H. Parke of Pacific Grove, California, and an occasional competitor in American races in the late Fifties when she was known as Louise P. Cano. Anthony Bryden-Brown of London ( his parents lived in Sydney, Australia ) married Mrs Laura Louise Cano in Reno, Nevada on February 8th, 1958, and so she acquired the surname known to motor racing.
Tony Maggs drove her pretty Lotus 18 in a couple of World Championship races in 1961, Dan Gurney raced the same car in a handful of Non-Championship events. In 1962 Mrs Bryden-Brown's equipe - Anglo-American Racing - even built a Cooper Special of their own, the Aiden-Cooper, which was campaigned in Non-Championship events by Ian Burgess.
Louise died in Penzance, Cornwall, January 4th 1972.
Born 19th June 1916, she was the daughter of Mr and Mrs James H. Parke of Pacific Grove, California, and an occasional competitor in American races in the late Fifties when she was known as Louise P. Cano. Anthony Bryden-Brown of London ( his parents lived in Sydney, Australia ) married Mrs Laura Louise Cano in Reno, Nevada on February 8th, 1958, and so she acquired the surname known to motor racing.
Tony Maggs drove her pretty Lotus 18 in a couple of World Championship races in 1961, Dan Gurney raced the same car in a handful of Non-Championship events. In 1962 Mrs Bryden-Brown's equipe - Anglo-American Racing - even built a Cooper Special of their own, the Aiden-Cooper, which was campaigned in Non-Championship events by Ian Burgess.
Louise died in Penzance, Cornwall, January 4th 1972.
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 2
In the Fifteenth Century the Welsh speaking lands extended into districts which are now part of Herefordshire. In 1469 Tomas Fychan of Hergest was killed at the battle of Banbury. His wife, the formidable Elen Gethin of Llinwent, brought his body home and constructed the alabaster tomb which can still be seen in St Mary's Church, Kington. Lewis Glyn Cothi was no doubt well rewarded for composing this cywydd. Here is my translation.
No . 125 The Tomb of Tomas ap Rhosier Fychan
Without an hour to waste, greetings
To the land and houses of Herast,
Houses of obligation, stone towers
A land with eight homes that serve wine,
The close of Tomas ap Rhosier,
Houses like the tower of Alaher.
When gold-embossed Tomas was killed
At Banbury, in a golden crest,
That Sunday his lady
Brought him back to his glass-windowed home.
Did Rhodes make, or her eight ancient men
In eight halls, what Elen has wrought?
A grave that cost as much as a distant conquest,
It cost more than a castle wall.
There is writing above the grave,
Two names joined together:
The name of generous Tomas, who alas is no more,
And then the name of Elen.
Every part of the grave is dressed
With posts of white alabaster,
And on them, a man of ancient gold
And a fair woman under a covering of gold.
There are angels set one by one,
And has not each a multi-coloured shield?
It was good work, work for a day, two such days.
The relic chests are gilded,
A pregnant bed with colour in the heights,
A gleaming square like the church of St Curig,
Cut rock like a white crag,
A stone cradle from the choir of St David’s,
A white coffer that no-one stirs,
A pale citadel closing over a face,
Steel about a soldier,
A screen circle of a man’s bones,
A stone altar like a full moon,
With golden light falling on the floor,
The form of a wooden chest under bright candles,
The form of a stall closing over the brother of an earl.
How futile the grave under a thick wall,
Next to the tomb of Tomas.
By chance the grave of Tomas
Is a cairn of gold in an elegant fortress.
Another grave like that of Huail,
A Canterbury for the deer of Kington,
As powerful as Thomas the Martyr,
He was a miracle for his men.
Master Watcyn is a graceful root,
The maintainer of Tomas’s yeomen,
A wise eagle over his father’s men,
A lamb of God for our two lands.
The root and branch of Moreiddig,
Head of the eighth part of Elystan’s line,
The foundation stone of Bleddyn ap Maenyrch,
The seal of Einion Sais, beloved spear.
Holy God preserve Watcyn and his tenement,
This Monday, the Eagles of Llinwent,
Was there born within its shelter
Any better than the falcon of Hergest court?
If the sun goes down into the salt sea,
If the sunshine goes with it,
If a stag runs on the hill slope,
If the roebuck wanders the river cliff,
If falcons go in threes to the forest,
A long life will go to the lion of Herast.
No . 125 The Tomb of Tomas ap Rhosier Fychan
Without an hour to waste, greetings
To the land and houses of Herast,
Houses of obligation, stone towers
A land with eight homes that serve wine,
The close of Tomas ap Rhosier,
Houses like the tower of Alaher.
When gold-embossed Tomas was killed
At Banbury, in a golden crest,
That Sunday his lady
Brought him back to his glass-windowed home.
Did Rhodes make, or her eight ancient men
In eight halls, what Elen has wrought?
A grave that cost as much as a distant conquest,
It cost more than a castle wall.
There is writing above the grave,
Two names joined together:
The name of generous Tomas, who alas is no more,
And then the name of Elen.
Every part of the grave is dressed
With posts of white alabaster,
And on them, a man of ancient gold
And a fair woman under a covering of gold.
There are angels set one by one,
And has not each a multi-coloured shield?
It was good work, work for a day, two such days.
The relic chests are gilded,
A pregnant bed with colour in the heights,
A gleaming square like the church of St Curig,
Cut rock like a white crag,
A stone cradle from the choir of St David’s,
A white coffer that no-one stirs,
A pale citadel closing over a face,
Steel about a soldier,
A screen circle of a man’s bones,
A stone altar like a full moon,
With golden light falling on the floor,
The form of a wooden chest under bright candles,
The form of a stall closing over the brother of an earl.
How futile the grave under a thick wall,
Next to the tomb of Tomas.
By chance the grave of Tomas
Is a cairn of gold in an elegant fortress.
Another grave like that of Huail,
A Canterbury for the deer of Kington,
As powerful as Thomas the Martyr,
He was a miracle for his men.
Master Watcyn is a graceful root,
The maintainer of Tomas’s yeomen,
A wise eagle over his father’s men,
A lamb of God for our two lands.
The root and branch of Moreiddig,
Head of the eighth part of Elystan’s line,
The foundation stone of Bleddyn ap Maenyrch,
The seal of Einion Sais, beloved spear.
Holy God preserve Watcyn and his tenement,
This Monday, the Eagles of Llinwent,
Was there born within its shelter
Any better than the falcon of Hergest court?
If the sun goes down into the salt sea,
If the sunshine goes with it,
If a stag runs on the hill slope,
If the roebuck wanders the river cliff,
If falcons go in threes to the forest,
A long life will go to the lion of Herast.
Brooklands Ladies
Some more biographical detail on Brooklands Lady racers:
Mrs Bill Urquhart-Dykes, maiden name Pauline Ruth Hegarty, daughter of Dr. Hegarty of Clonbur, County Galway, she died 9th April 1981 in Cobham, Surrey, aged 86.
The Hon. Mrs Chetwynd, maiden name Joan Gilbert Casson, afterwards Mrs Findlay, probably born circa 1899 and possibly in India where her father was in the Indian Civil service. When her husband inherited his title she became Viscountess Chetwynd.
Victoria Worsley, later King-Farlow, the daughter of Sir William Worsley 3rd Bt. of Hovingham Hall and hence an aunt of the present Duchess of Kent.
Violette Cordery, later Hindmarsh and thus Roy Salvadori's mother-in-law, died the night of 29th December 1983 at Oxshott, Surrey. It does seem to be Violette and not Violet as most sources have it.
Barbara Skinner who married John Bolster and was killed January 3rd 1942 in a traffic accident.
What about Coleen Eaton? I think she was born 1901 in Kent the daughter of Captain Harley Hixson of the Royal Australian Navy and that she remarried in 1938 to a Mr Norman.
With less than a hundred Maconochie's on the UK electoral roll there has to be a good chance that the Miss M. J. Maconochie who raced at Brooklands circa 1928 was Margaret Jean Maconochie, born in London in 1905. Her father A. W. Maconochie had built up the family firm, Maconochie Foods, from a Lowestoft fish paste producer into one of Britain's premier food manufacturers. A.W. died in 1926, so no doubt Miss Maconochie was doing her bit to dissipate the family fortune, successfully it seems, since Maconochie Kippers are no longer the household name they once were. Margaret later married a Mr Parry and moved to Rutland.
Mrs Bill Urquhart-Dykes, maiden name Pauline Ruth Hegarty, daughter of Dr. Hegarty of Clonbur, County Galway, she died 9th April 1981 in Cobham, Surrey, aged 86.
The Hon. Mrs Chetwynd, maiden name Joan Gilbert Casson, afterwards Mrs Findlay, probably born circa 1899 and possibly in India where her father was in the Indian Civil service. When her husband inherited his title she became Viscountess Chetwynd.
Victoria Worsley, later King-Farlow, the daughter of Sir William Worsley 3rd Bt. of Hovingham Hall and hence an aunt of the present Duchess of Kent.
Violette Cordery, later Hindmarsh and thus Roy Salvadori's mother-in-law, died the night of 29th December 1983 at Oxshott, Surrey. It does seem to be Violette and not Violet as most sources have it.
Barbara Skinner who married John Bolster and was killed January 3rd 1942 in a traffic accident.
What about Coleen Eaton? I think she was born 1901 in Kent the daughter of Captain Harley Hixson of the Royal Australian Navy and that she remarried in 1938 to a Mr Norman.
With less than a hundred Maconochie's on the UK electoral roll there has to be a good chance that the Miss M. J. Maconochie who raced at Brooklands circa 1928 was Margaret Jean Maconochie, born in London in 1905. Her father A. W. Maconochie had built up the family firm, Maconochie Foods, from a Lowestoft fish paste producer into one of Britain's premier food manufacturers. A.W. died in 1926, so no doubt Miss Maconochie was doing her bit to dissipate the family fortune, successfully it seems, since Maconochie Kippers are no longer the household name they once were. Margaret later married a Mr Parry and moved to Rutland.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Radnorshire Bardic Poems, 1
One of my great interests is the work of the fifteenth century bard Lewis Glyn Cothi who composed more than 80 praise poems to patrons living in and around what later became the old county of Radnorshire. I'm going to post English language translations of these poems here every now and again. This is a Cywydd Gofyn, a request poem, addressed to four female patrons living in Gwerthrynion, the area of Radnorshire bordered by the Wye on the south and the Ithon on the east. Glyn Cothi requests the gift of a new bed, but at the heart of the poem is in reality a description of the grave, and a sad echo of the death poem addressed to the bard's seven year old son Sion y Glyn.
No. 186 Request for a Bed
Four right living women,
Four whose like will never be again;
Four Marys under a splendid obligation,
Four Nons of generous St Harmon.
Gwenllian, daughter of old Owain,
Will be happy,
let us go to greet her;
Daughter of the prince of a privileged land,
This woman comes from Cenarth.
Efa is next, famed for her wine,
The high browed daughter of Llywelyn;
The Enid of Ricert ab Einion,
She is of the tribe of Llowdden.
Mallt, the daughter of Ieuan Fychan,
Will be praised in Maelienydd;
In Llananno, this girl is formed
From the ancestors of Elystan.
Elen Llwyd her word is good
As you will see, a daughter of Gruffydd Goch;
White wines and gowns were mine
From this Esyllt of the Gwenhwysians.
Cheerfully we greet each other,
Behold, four powerful good-women!
I know of no four in all the world
Who, in giving, can be compared.
From these four from Gwerthrynion
A thousand could learn between the Usk and Anglesey.
The doors of their four halls
To the world are like the gate of Bath;
To me, that is less, by the skull of St Oswald
Than the mead of Elen and Mallt,
Efa the good woman shares green wine,
Wine comes from Gwenllian’s hand.
Before them I am confident,
From six feasts, to ask for a bed.
A bed for when I am sick,
So I can escape from a long, pining sickness.
For me, it will be a place where
My guilty body can rest.
My little dice loves the night,
He throws himself, full stretch on the white coverlet,
To sleep for an hour away from me,
Stretched out on pure silk.
It is thick and many coloured,
Tender against the scorching frost,
A soft place of small feathers,
A place of rest for a labourer.
Square dice of white braid,
A high door between two bed walls,
An acre of superior green bedding,
An altar of sleep on the cell floor;
All is made of linen and cloth,
Of silk brocade and white feathers.
There, in the depth of the night,
One can sleep like Maelgwn in Rhos;
I’ll be like Eli with his mead,
Like Enoch, for sixty years.
There I would never see
Tenacious nightmares,
Or futile things that can never be;
Or any early morning dreams
Which find me at the altar of Rouen,
Or in the bed of the angels.
They gave it to me, four saints,
My saintly bed like a tennis court;
And flour from their four homes,
And gold, and ale, and mead,
And silver, and a fire, and a house,
A hundred feasts, and wine and a bed.
No. 186 Request for a Bed
Four right living women,
Four whose like will never be again;
Four Marys under a splendid obligation,
Four Nons of generous St Harmon.
Gwenllian, daughter of old Owain,
Will be happy,
let us go to greet her;
Daughter of the prince of a privileged land,
This woman comes from Cenarth.
Efa is next, famed for her wine,
The high browed daughter of Llywelyn;
The Enid of Ricert ab Einion,
She is of the tribe of Llowdden.
Mallt, the daughter of Ieuan Fychan,
Will be praised in Maelienydd;
In Llananno, this girl is formed
From the ancestors of Elystan.
Elen Llwyd her word is good
As you will see, a daughter of Gruffydd Goch;
White wines and gowns were mine
From this Esyllt of the Gwenhwysians.
Cheerfully we greet each other,
Behold, four powerful good-women!
I know of no four in all the world
Who, in giving, can be compared.
From these four from Gwerthrynion
A thousand could learn between the Usk and Anglesey.
The doors of their four halls
To the world are like the gate of Bath;
To me, that is less, by the skull of St Oswald
Than the mead of Elen and Mallt,
Efa the good woman shares green wine,
Wine comes from Gwenllian’s hand.
Before them I am confident,
From six feasts, to ask for a bed.
A bed for when I am sick,
So I can escape from a long, pining sickness.
For me, it will be a place where
My guilty body can rest.
My little dice loves the night,
He throws himself, full stretch on the white coverlet,
To sleep for an hour away from me,
Stretched out on pure silk.
It is thick and many coloured,
Tender against the scorching frost,
A soft place of small feathers,
A place of rest for a labourer.
Square dice of white braid,
A high door between two bed walls,
An acre of superior green bedding,
An altar of sleep on the cell floor;
All is made of linen and cloth,
Of silk brocade and white feathers.
There, in the depth of the night,
One can sleep like Maelgwn in Rhos;
I’ll be like Eli with his mead,
Like Enoch, for sixty years.
There I would never see
Tenacious nightmares,
Or futile things that can never be;
Or any early morning dreams
Which find me at the altar of Rouen,
Or in the bed of the angels.
They gave it to me, four saints,
My saintly bed like a tennis court;
And flour from their four homes,
And gold, and ale, and mead,
And silver, and a fire, and a house,
A hundred feasts, and wine and a bed.
Mrs Gordon-Simpson
What was Mrs Gordon-Simpson's first name, a question which has been asked on a couple of motor sport forums including TNF and which has seemingly baffled a few experts. Read the 30s reports of the Brooklands races and it's usually Mrs Gordon-Simpson or at best Mrs E. Gordon-Simpson. No forename in Sammy Davis's "Atlanta" nor in John Bullock's rather similar "Fast Women". There's a great picture of the lady in John Tennant's "Motor Racing, the Golden Age", where she look's the kind of woman who any sensible daughter would hesitate to introduce to her boyfriend. No first name there either of course.
.
Well, after a bit of searching through the Times archive and the GRO indexes, I found that Mrs Gordon-Simpson had divorced her first husband and married Hugh Conway, the well known Bugatti expert and future director of Rolls Royce in 1937. Her maiden surname was Brewer and she was born in Garstang, Lancashire on 30th July 1901. She died in 1980.
.
And that elusive first name? It was Eveline, Eva for short, Eva Gordon-Simpson.
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