Pembrokeshire Folk Tales E-Book

Christine Willison

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 306

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Pembrokeshire, often referred to as 'Gwlad yr Hud' (the Enchanted Land), is home to a rich and diverse collection of tales – from the ancient saga of the Mabinogion, and stories of Owain Glyndŵr, to accounts of smugglers, haunted vessels and pirates. The village of Brynberian has been tormented by the gigantic and frightful Afanc; fishermen from St Dogmaels have been forewarned of storms by mermaids; and captivating princesses have been kidnapped from Cilgerran Castle. These stories, beautifully illustrated by the author, bring to life the landscape of the county's spectacular coastline and rolling hills. Christine Willison has told stories all over the world since 1982, when she created and ran 'Bookbug', bringing books and stories to schoolchildren across East Anglia. She tells yarns from many traditions in schools, arts centres, stately homes and parks.

Leseprobe

‘Some books take you by the hand and lead you into enchanted lands where advice can be ignored at your peril, but if taken can bring you all you have ever wished for. This is one such book. Walk with care and listen intently.’

John Row, storyteller and poet

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank all my family, particularly my daughters Pippa, Stephanie and Mitzi, who encouraged and believed in me. My grandchildren – Solar, Pixel, Toby and Tiggy – were happy guinea pigs in the early stages of writing. I am grateful to the staff at the archive at St Fagans: Museum of Welsh Life; and to Sue Baldwin, the librarian at Tenby Museum. Support for this book has been worldwide, and I thank Robyn Wright and the children in her class in Melbourne; as well as the teachers and children at Collingwood College, who heard and responded to the early writings. Thanks to my partner for his patience, suggestions, amendments and support, for his help with translations, and particularly for his contribution to the retelling of the stories from theMabinogion. Thanks also to Lucinda Murray for editing the final manuscript and for her advice throughout. I am grateful to Beth Webb for her foreword, suggestions, and encouragement, and especially for her wise words about chocolate.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Beth Webb

Introduction

Pronunciation guide

Pembrokeshire Folk Tales

The Long House

Llandudoch, St Dogmael’s

Poppit Sands

The Shepherd of Allt y Goed

Back to Llandudoch

The White Lady of St Dogmael’s

The Golden Coffin

Peregrine and the Mermaid

Killer Toads of Cemaes

Pentre Ifan

Sioned

Sudden Riches

Sacred Well

Trewyddel, Moylgrove

Mallt of the Mist

Mallt y Nos

The Tithe War

Nanhyfer, Nevern

The Bleeding Yew

The Cuckoo

Glimpses

Brynach

Culhwch and Olwen

Mynydd Preseli

Mamgu

Cwm Gwaun, Gwaun Valley

Mari Lwyd

Noson Gyflaith

(Toffee Evening)

Brynberian

The legend of the Afanc

Trefdraeth, Newport

Butter Maker

Sounds in the Night

Baying at the Moon

Dinas

Heart Doctor

Abergwaun, Fishguard

Tom Furlong

Wdig, Goodwick

Abercastle

Iwan Llewellyn

Trefin

Medi yn Sir Benfro – Reaping in Pembrokeshire

Tyddewi, St David’s

St David

Cwn Annwn

The Islands of Ramsey and Bardsey

Mererid

Arberth, Narberth

Pwyll Prince of Dyfed

Haverfordwest (Harford), Hwlffordd

Haverfordwest Castle

The Silent Twins

Pirate John Callice

Contraband

Martin Davy’s Stone, (Hangstone Davy)

Roch

The Legend of Roch Castle

Druidstone, Llech y Derwydd

The Tragedy of Llech y Derwydd

Broadhaven

The Broadhaven Triangle

Milford Haven, Aberdaugleddau

Cabin Boy

Neyland

Redberth

Orielton

Unclean Spirits

Maenclochog

Crymych

The Dream of Macsen

Wledig

Temptation

Tenby, Dinbych y Pysgod

Green Gown

The Spectre Ship and

Pirate Chief

Manorbier

Customs and Excise

Captain Jack Furze

Pembroke, Penfro

Princess Nest

Weasels

Pembroke Dock, Doc Penfro

Betty Foggy

King of Smugglers

Ghosts on Board

St Govan’s

St Govan

Castlemartin

Monkton

The Wood Family

Message in a Bottle

Looking After the Light

Solfach, Solva

Bird Omen

Smuggling

Waxing lyrical

A Seer and his Prophecies

Casblaidd, Wolf’s Castle

The Wolf and the Lion

Owain Glyndwr

The Fiery Wagon

The Tunnel to St David’s

The Elephant

Llanwnda

Mermaid’s Advice

Jemima Nicholas

Cwm Cych

Now it’s your turn

Bibliography & Further reading

Copyright

FOREWORD

A good storyteller will say that behind her shoulder stands another storyteller, who heard his tales from a storyteller, who heard … you get the picture.

It sounds a bit daft to say that old stories are old because they are very old, but the point is that some tales just work and even after a thousand years or more, we simply never get sick of them. We might give them a new lick of paint or give the characters new clothes, but the ideas dance on. Tellers with creative flair like Christine Willison have the courage to swap a cart for a clapped-out car if it makes the story more relevant to the listener – but a really good tale timelessly explores the joys, fears and patterns of life that are common to us all – whatever our culture or religion.

The Indigenous Australians have a wonderful tradition of ‘Singing up the Land’. This refers to their belief that in ancient times the Ancestors made songs about every detail of the world: rocks, deserts, trees, rivers and even rainbows. As they sang, these things came to be. Where the Ancestors walked, they left their words and music in their footprints. It is these songlines that their descendants now follow as they go walkabout.

As Christine’s lovely tales take you on a ‘walkabout’ across Pembrokeshire, you’ll discover that landscape and history are tightly interwoven, often dictating how we think and experience the world. Heaped rocks become wolves in the moonlight, stones have secrets, gold turns to red dust and toads become murderous. Dreams lead to true love and a wild boar keeps a comb and scissors in his bristles!

And each and every tale has its own meaning, tears and laughter. In recent years, the western world has almost lost storytelling and traditional song as a vital part of our culture. Stories old and new offer us awareness of our dreams and hopes; they help us to discover who we are and how we fit into the world.

And this is something Christine is particularly good at.

I first met her one particularly wet Glastonbury Festival. She was organising the storytelling in the Earth Lodge on the Green Field. It was my first booking as a teller at such a big event and I was rather scared and lost. She took me into her caravan, fed me, gave me bottled water from her own Pembrokeshire springs and told me stories – wonderful, magical, spellbinding tales, some of which she has recorded here.

‘Always remember,’ she said, ‘when you are telling a story, take your time, sit back, smile and let the listener wait, for you have something they don’t … the ending.’

So allow me to invite you into Christine’s world of Pembrokeshire folk tales. Pour yourself some spring water, treat yourself to a piece of homemade cake and listen.

As some old tellers like to say: ‘Make yourselves comfy and we’ll put food in the eating place, drink in the drinking place and stories in the listening place.’

Croeso!

Beth Webb (www.bethwebb.co.uk)

INTRODUCTION

I have collected these tales from my existing repertoire and original research. Firstly I made a list of towns and villages to have broad geographic coverage. I then toured the county looking, noting, and taking photos. I researched in museum and library archives. I uncovered many tales and innumerable anecdotes. Two tales are from the Mabinogion. Many parts of Wales lay claim to these stories, but Pembrokeshire or Dyfed (the ancient name for south-west Wales) are specifically mentioned in the stories retold here, and support the claim that this western county is the true home of the ancient legends.

Some spellings, particularly of place names, have many different versions. Both languages of Wales have grown and changed, and are subject to translation and misunderstanding. This can create confusion for readers, but also adds colour and flavour. I have included different spellings as they appeared in original papers and archives. I have retained some archaic phraseology from Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation of the Mabinogion, whilst attempting to remove some of the Victorian overtones. I hope it gives you a feel for the ancient times in which the stories were first told.

I have, as all storytellers do, taken a few liberties with names and settings. None of the essence of the stories, or the places in which they are purported to have taken place, have changed. It is rather like the story I was once told about a traditional African village where each of the houses had changed only by the addition of a television aerial. My friend asked why people still assembled at the end of the day at the storyteller’s house, because surely the stories on television were just as good. The respondent informed my friend that the stories were better because the storyteller knew them.

Much of this tour through the tales and traditions of Wales’ far-west is a journey through countryside. The English word countryside is revealing: it sees the rural world standing to one side of the hectic urban mainstream. The Welsh equivalent is quite different – cefn gwlad – literally, the country’s backbone, the core from which the whole land takes strength. The Preseli Hills, at the centre of Pembrokeshire, are very much the county’s backbone; and the tales that arise from the very rocks and cliffs of this place are as ancient and resistant as the landscape.

Christine Willison, 2013 (www.christinestories.co.uk)

PRONUNCIATIONGUIDE

WELSH CONSONANTS

As in English with the following exceptions:

c

carol – never as in cedar

ch    

loch – never as in churlish

dd

this – never as in think

f

of – never fat

ff

off – never of

g

girl – never gem

ng

sing – never angel

h

hat – never silent

ll

put your tongue in the ‘l’ position then breathe out

r

trilled or rolled as in Italian

rh

put your tongue in the ‘r’ position then blow

s

sit – never rose

si

when followed by a vowel (siop) pronounced sh as in shop

th

thin – never the

WELSHVOWELS

Can be short or long:

a

hanes/cat

ar/father

e

cerdyn/pet

cewch/bear

i

chwilio/sit

i/machine

o

os/pot

to/more

w

dwfn/cook

cwn/pool

y

Crymych/sit

ty/machine

yna/cut

DIPTHONGS

ae, ai, au

aye

aw

ah + oo

ei, eu, ey

ay

iw, uw

dew

oe, oi

oil

ow

Owen – not down

yw

ee + oo

wy

gooy – two vowels compressed into one syllable

PRONUNCIATIONOFSOMECOMMONNAMES

Cai

Kigh

Culhwch

Kil – hooch (with a guttural ch)

Owain

Oh wine

Pwyll

Pooy – ll

Rhiannon

Hree – an – on

Ysbaddaden

Us – bath – ad – en

PEMBROKESHIRE FOLK TALES

THE LONG HOUSE

The journey begins at home.

April. I am sitting in my studio, once a barn for cows. If I think hard I can imagine them chewing the cud, being hand-milked and lowing gently. The problem is that too many thoughts and demands encroach on my writing time. If it isn’t the flower border, it’s the vegetable garden, with hedge-banks to shelter it from the wind, sticks to prop up peas and beans, and Brussels sprouts neatly stripped by caterpillars and slugs. We must have the best-fed slugs in the county, produce grown naturally, without chemicals. A perfect feed.

The truth is my thoughts wander too readily because I am a bit stuck. I have done my research, adapted some of my repertoire of oral stories and met people to hear their anecdotes. Perhaps I’ll go and do some baking for inspiration.

My home is an ancient, traditional Pembrokeshire long house. Very typically the original bwthyn, or hovel, had three rooms, one of which was a kitchen, which is the height of two rooms – this helped the house keep cool in summer and enabled things to be hung in the rafters. It is the main room of the house and serves as a place to cook and eat – everything necessary for the running of a home and for relaxing, although I suspect there was little of that in the old days.

The second ground-floor room, off the kitchen, now a sitting room, was a bedroom with its open fire and smoke-blackened chimney, where probably, the farmer, his wife and various elderly relatives slept. Above this room, reached via a ladder from the kitchen, is a Croglofft – a room right under the eaves, where grain was stored and children slept (out of the way of rats).

As the farm prospered and grew, and as livestock became more plentiful, a barn was added to the north-east end of the house, then another, used as a cow byre. As time went on, further barns were added. Eventually, the original barn next to the house was turned into a dairy, where butter and cheeses were made.

Finally, 200 or so years ago another barn was added as a cart house, together with two calf pens. The roofline reflects the additions over the centuries by being higgledy-piggledy. All barns can be accessed from the kitchen. Farm workers in past times slept in Croglofft areas above the various barns. It was primitive but I am sure very cosy. It was a firmly held belief that cows who saw the light from the fire gave better milk.

There has been a settlement on this site for centuries, always constructed from the rocks and stones lying on the land and sometimes just beneath the surface. On occasion now, in the twenty-first century, we curse these very stones for distorting or breaking the blades of mowing machines. Perhaps they have always borne the brunt of bad temper in the growing season. But their very density and robust quality is what has made them useful as building materials.

But it isn’t of course just about the stone. Settlements were always built close to a good and reliable water supply, my reason too for wishing to live in the house which exists today: delicious sweet water unadulterated by chemical additives and always on tap. We drink it, bathe in it, water our plants and vegetables with it and couldn’t feel more indulged.

The stones from which the walls of the house are constructed are similar to the neighbouring bluestones that were taken (somehow – and that’s another story) to Stonehenge, for building that megalith.

These stones have memories imprinted in their heart and on their surface. Sights and sounds now fleetingly glimpsed and heard in the whispers and sighs and creaks that all old buildings make. It is a colourful backdrop and an inspiration for the creation of oral and written stories which I love to share with people of all ages, hopefully inspiring my listeners and readers to create their own tales.

Some time ago I was invited to a quiet corner in the north part of this beautiful, magical county, to find out more about Plant Rhys Dwfn – the little people – sometimes called the Tylwyth Teg, mischievous fairies who reputedly enjoy teasing, but sometimes provide help when it is needed and who play a large part in the stories of this place.

LLANDUDOCH, ST DOGMAEL’S

The elderly woman had many stories to share and much information about Llandudoch – St Dogmael’s, where she lived. Because she spoke only Welsh, I took my partner, a Welsh speaker, along with me to translate:

There was a man in St Dogmael’s who was one hundred years old when he died. Revered as a wise man, he used to say that the whole neighbourhood was considered ‘fou’ (a place of fairies.) It was, apparently, a common experience for men to be led astray all night. After marvellous adventures and frightening excursions, which seemed as if they would be endless, they found that when day broke, they were close to their own homes.

One man, who was led astray on his way home from a day working with the blacksmith, happened to have with him a number of hoop rods. (Hoop rods are what the blacksmith uses to make hoops. The rods are heated in the forge and hammered into shape ready for the cooper to use in making barrels). As he was transported about by the spirits he dropped the rods one at a time. The next day he gathered together his friends and neighbours to follow the dropped rods and retrace his footsteps. They were surprised to find that the rods were scattered over many miles of countryside.

Another time, a St Dogmael’s fisherman was returning home from a wedding at Moylgrove. It was very dark and he had been celebrating. The fairies led him astray, but after a few hours and a bit of sobering up he spotted the North Star in the sky and used it to navigate his way home.

On another occasion the mischievous faeries forced an elderly and ‘not so sprightly’ clerical person to join in the magic dance of ‘St Dogmell’s’ and kept him dancing there until morning. The poor man spent several days in bed recovering from exhaustion following this adventure.

This was the work of the ellyllon (elves) who led all these folk astray, and put a ‘cap of oblivion’ on their heads, which prevented them from ever telling their adventures clearly.

Her words drew me into a world about which I had only previously read. She continued:

There are many stories which describe how easy it is for a mortal to enter the ‘Otherworld’ through fairy circles. For centuries there have been reports of fairies dancing, their little feet making a ring on the ground. If they discover that they are being observed they like nothing better than to persuade the observer to join them. Some people have run away, and then regret not being brave enough to join the fairies in their dance. Some have reported good to come from this, and others have reported evil.

The old woman paused, stared at me intently, leaned forward, and spoke in a way that left me in no doubt that she was serious:

There are three places in this county from where you can either see the Otherworld, or start a journey to it. The first is Pen Cemaes (Cemaes Head at the mouth of the River Teifi), where it is possible to see the land of Plant Rhys Dwfn sometimes called Tylwyth Teg or fairy folk. At Pen Cemaes you must stand on exactly the right spot to see this land. Unfortunately, no one can tell you where that is.

I had heard many stories about this magical place, now I leaned forward making it difficult for my partner to hear her soft words. There was more:

Arberth (Narberth), the second place, is named in the Mabinogion as the place where Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed first met Rhiannon, who was to become his wife. There is a mound just on the edge of the town, where you will find the ruins of Narberth Castle. If you are brave enough, you can sit on the mound, just as Pwyll did over six hundred years ago. You may either see a wonder beyond your wildest imaginings or be dealt severe and wounding blows. It is also said that this mound is an entrance to the Otherworld.

Cwm Cych is the third place she told me about:

This is a place of turmoil. Here the entrance to the Otherworld is easy to find, but impossible to pass through, unless you are favoured. Indeed it is a memorable place, and at this very spot the three counties of Pembrokeshire, Ceredigion and Carmarthenshire meet.

These fascinating pieces of information, translated for me by my partner, whetted my appetite. When I reached home my head was filled with the old woman’s advice and snippets of stories were whirling around in my head. I made notes about the places, marked them on a map, and decided that I would see them at first hand to embed the images in my mind, and add colour to the many stories. Sunny weather several days later cemented my resolve to find out for myself. So I packed a rucksack, put on my walking boots and headed for Pen Cemaes, the first place mentioned by the woman.

POPPIT SANDS

I decided to start at Poppit Sands, from where Pen Cemaes can be viewed. I have been told that the name Poppit is derived from ‘Pot Pit’ and that the clay in that place was coveted by local potters. As I sat on the sand dunes, looking out to sea, I remembered the story of Dai Pots, a potter from Cardigan on the other side of the River Teifi. Dai had a secret spot amongst these very sand dunes, where he dug the clay from which he threw beautiful earthenware. He then fired them in a Heath Robinson-style wood-fired kiln. Alas, Dai Pots was lost in a boating accident on a Scottish loch. The accident mystified his friends because Dai was well-known locally as a competent swimmer and boatman. This was many years ago, but at home we still have some of his beautiful jugs made from Poppit clay.

Walking along the beach to get a better view of Pen Cemaes, I came across a cleverly constructed castle, with flags and a castellated wall which surrounded four central towers. A wooden fence provided an avenue towards the main entrance of the castle. Building it had taken time, care and attention to detail. I smiled at the thought that this castle would be washed away with the morning tide. Strange how as an adult this becomes poetry, but a child would be saddened by the loss of their creation.

Realising that I needed to get closer, I walked along the lane that winds towards Pen Cemaes. As I approached it, the peninsula looked like a goat swimming in the sea.

I thought how powerful the elements were, how even though we imagine that we are sophisticated, the wind, the sea, the earth and the sun still control our actions.

Upon reaching the headland, I climbed over a stile into what is now a nature reserve. It was a sunny day in spring, and birds were actively swooping and diving into the yellow-flowered gorse, the clumps of heather and the reeds. I listened to the sounds they made; in my reverie I stood at the cliff edge and looked out to sea. I was taken aback when I saw an island shrouded in mist. Upon checking the map, there was no island shown. Perhaps it was a ship, come too close to the rocks. Then the wind became strong and blew away the mist. There was neither island nor ship. It was probably a trick of the light, sparked off by my imagination.

As I sat on a mound to study the map, a hedgehog came past. He stopped, lifted his head and looked at me, went along a well-worn path, stopped, looked over his shoulder, shuffled further, and then looked over his shoulder again. Usually when this creature senses danger, it curls into a ball to protect itself from predators. But this animal was behaving oddly. Clearly it wanted me to follow. It reminded me of a story about a shepherd who was from here.

THE SHEPHERDOF ALLTY GOED

Once, long ago, in a place not far from Pen Cemaes, there lived a shepherd, Dewi Rhys. He barely scratched a living from tending his sheep. After paying for the grazing in the nearby woodland, there was barely enough left from the sales of wool and animals at the end of the season to keep him, his wife and baby daughter.

But he was deliriously happy. He loved his wife and baby very much. He was content that he could provide for them. They lived in a tiny cottage, just one room up and one down. Upstairs, where they slept, was reached by a ladder, and had a bed with a straw mattress. Downstairs, the room was sparsely furnished with bits and pieces from relatives.

On the day of our story, Dewi woke as soon as he heard the cockerel crowing in the nearby farmyard. That morning he wanted to set off early because the day before he had noticed one of his ewes looking uncomfortable. Her first lamb was due any day and he wanted to be with her in case she needed help.

He got out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb his wife and daughter, went down the ladder, and lit the fire in the range so that it would be warm for his family when they arose. In the yard outside he washed in icy cold water from the pump. That certainly washed the sleep from his eyes. Dewi Rhys rubbed himself dry with a towel hanging on the range and warmed himself by the fire. He put on the clothes which he had left on the fireside chair the night before. At the table he cut himself two nice doorsteps of bread – not those nice dainty slices that his aunts cut for Sunday tea.

These thick slices would sustain him for the day. He spread them both with dripping from the pot, put them together, wrapped them in a clean cloth and put them in his bag along with a bottle of water. He stoked the fire in the range and went upstairs to kiss his wife and daughter who were just waking and had that sleepy look which he adored. He gently tweaked his daughter’s cheek, which made her giggle. He waved from the top of the steps, went down the ladder, and then went out of the cottage and along the garden path. At the gate he looked back and smiled, and as he did so the door opened and his wife and baby waved to him, framed by the open door of the cottage. He blew a kiss and went on his way. He smiled as he went and counted his blessings.

He was in such a dream that he almost tripped over the draenog which was sitting in the middle of the path. He looked at the creature; it looked back at him and blinked. Dewi Rhys was surprised; usually these small creatures rolled into a ball when they sensed danger, using their prickly spines as a defence. But this animal looked at him with its bright round eyes, turned and walked away from him, then looked over its shoulder and looked at him, then shuffled along the path again and looked over its shoulder again. It was as if the hedgehog wanted him to follow.

He decided to leave the ewe to fend for herself. This was an adventure! He followed the draenog. It led him past the place in the forest where his sheep were grazing, further into the deepest, darkest part of the woodland, rarely visited by woodland dwellers. The creature made its way to a large stone which blocked the pathway. It pushed at the stone with its sharp, pointed nose and looked at him. It seemed to Dewi Rhys that the draenog wanted him to move the obstacle. Dewi pushed it, but it was heavy. He tried again and eventually it shifted. He shoved again and it moved some more, to reveal the edge of something shiny underneath. Our shepherd’s eyes widened and he put all his effort into moving the stone.

Underneath was a gold coin! Never in his life had he seen a gold coin before. He picked it up. This was more money than he could have ever imagined. He turned it over, and over again. It really was a gold coin. He put it in his pocket and looked around to see if anyone was watching. By now the draenog had disappeared. Dewi ran and ran all the way home.

His wife was surprised to see him return. Last night he had told her about having to be up early to look after the ewe, and now here he was back at home. She was concerned, was something wrong? She started to question him but he pushed past her with a strange look on his face, went up to their bedroom and reached underneath the mattress for the small wooden box he kept there.

Somebody had once given him this box for treasures. He opened the box, it was empty – no treasures were secreted there. He carefully placed the gold coin inside the box, and looked round to see if he had been observed. He was alone in the room. He placed the box back under that mattress and went down the ladder to the room below. His wife continued questioning him, noticing he still had that strange look on his face. He ignored her questions, left the house and went to tend his sheep.

He sat by his sheep that day dreaming about the coin and what it could buy. Maybe he could buy his wife a dress. She hadn’t had a new dress since her mother had made her wedding dress. Perhaps she would prefer a new bonnet, or maybe they should buy something for the baby. On the other hand, it was probably enough to buy his own piece of land. Then he could graze the sheep on his own land and avoid payments to landowners. His thoughts took him through the day. He barely paid any attention to his sheep and almost forgot to eat his bread and dripping.

When he arrived home, he was greeted by the warm smells of cooking and the dimpled smiles of his daughter. His wife looked troubled. She asked him again what had happened this morning. Why had he returned? Why was he rummaging around in the upstairs room? He told her she didn’t need to trouble herself. She was insistent, but he wanted to keep the news of the find to himself, so he determined not to tell her, no matter how many times she asked. There was, for the first time ever in their marriage, a frosty silence over supper.

Next morning he didn’t dally in bed, no extra hug for his wife, and he rose as soon as he heard the cockerel crow. Getting ready quickly, Dewi Rhys didn’t think he had time to light the fire, and didn’t kiss his wife and baby before he left. He wanted to check that place again. He ran through the forest until he reached the stone. Someone had put it back to its original position. He pushed it to one side again, to reveal – another gold coin!

His eyes gleamed as he saw it. He bent down and picked it up, put it in his pocket, looked round to see if anyone had seen, and then ran home. His wife was shocked at his early return, but when she started to question him again, he pushed her to one side and climbed the ladder to the upstairs room. He reached under the straw mattress, pulled out the box, opened the lid and put the second coin in with the first. He closed the lid and pushed the box back under the mattress, and then made his way downstairs.

His wife started to question him again but he left quickly to avoid another argument. He wanted to keep the coins a secret. After all, he told himself, it would be a nice surprise for his wife if this continued and they became rich landowners. He also worried that someone else would hear about his good fortune and perhaps try to steal his coins.

That evening when he returned home, he and his wife sat at the table and ate supper in silence. She was concerned that something was going on. He had changed, he hardly noticed her or their daughter. He had an odd look on his face, was inattentive, didn’t answer her questions, and appeared not to hear anything she said.

After the meal was finished, there was not the usual warm thanks from her husband: he didn’t help to clear away the dishes and he didn’t pick up their daughter for her usual goodnight cwtch (cuddle).

After putting the child to bed, his wife tried again to find out what was going on. She stood at the end of the table and spoke. She raised her voice and finally shouted to get his attention. He looked up in surprise. She then asked what was going on. He was annoyed. Nothing was going on, he said. What did she mean? She explained her fears, but instead of telling her about his good fortune, he kept it to himself. He said it was none of her business.

This infuriated her. ‘We are partners,’ she said. ‘We promised to share everything and to tell each other everything. There is something you are not telling me and I am concerned!’

He told her to stop badgering him; he was tired and going to bed.

That night they slept as far away from each other as the bed would allow; she on one edge of the mattress and he on the other, with their backs to each other and with a cold panel down the middle of the bed – and no touching.

The next morning he got up and she followed him to the downstairs room. Her eyes were red and swollen with crying and with insufficient sleep. She insisted on having the truth of it. He was determined that she would not. Again she reminded him about their marriage, their partnership – their promises.

He became angry and shouted at her. She cried, and when she cried the baby cried, as they always do. Dewi Rhys left the house saying that he needed to get away from the noise. No wash under the pump, no fire lit, and no hugs and kisses for his wife and baby. No bottle of water, no bread and dripping. But he was determined, and he was late.

He ran down the garden path; she didn’t even expect him to turn and wave as he used to. He ran along the lane, through the forest, and then froze. There, on the path in front of him, was another figure, making his way in the same direction, through the forest.

It was Harri Pritchard, the miller’s son. Dewi Rhys needed to get in front of him, so he started to run. Harri looked round and he started to run too. Dewi speeded up; so did Harri. They both ran through the forest, but the miller’s son reached the stone first. He pushed it to one side with ease. He was a muscular man who spent his working life moving sacks of grain and sacks of flour, moving and fitting millstones and milling grain. He reached down and picked up the glittering gold coin. He had a gleam in his eye as he pocketed the coin.

Dewi reached the stone, panting and breathless. He looked at Harri and put out his hand. ‘Give it to me, it’s mine!’

‘No it’s not,’ said Harri. ‘Finder’s Keeper’s – I found it, I’m keeping it.’

‘But it’s mine, I was led to this place, it’s rightfully mine!’

‘No it’s not!’

Dewi pushed the flattened palm of his hand closer to Harri. ‘Give it to me, it’s mine!’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’

The argument went on for some time, the two men starting to shout at each other. Their eyes blazed as they looked at each other. Both were set on having the gold coin. Once, these two men had been friends, but now they eyed each other with contempt, each sure of his rights.

Then Dewi Rhys, that gentle shepherd, did something contrary to his usual gentle nature. He made his hand into a fist and punched Harri Pritchard on the nose.

Harri Pritchard was surprised and insulted, but not hurt. That puny shepherd could not hurt him. But he had had enough of the annoying Dewi Rhys. He now made his hand into an extremely large fist, and punched Dewi on the nose. He knocked him out cold and left him there, with blood trickling from his nose, to cool off.

When Dewi recovered consciousness, he rubbed his sore nose, frowned, stood up, brushed himself off, and then made his way to the field where his sheep were grazing. He sat, scowling all day. No food, no drink, a sore nose and, what was worse, no gold coin!

That night when he went home his wife saw his injured nose and approached him with sympathetic words, but he was having none of it. They ate in silence and both retired to bed. Once again they slept as far away from each other as the bed would allow, she on one edge of the mattress and he on the other, with their backs to each other and with a cold panel down the middle of the bed and no touching.