The A-Z of Curious Wales E-Book

Mark Rees

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 245

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Wales' history is packed with peculiar customs and curious characters. Here you will discover alien landscapes, ancient druids and a Victorian ghost hunter. Find out why revellers would carry a decorated horse's skull on a pole door to door at Christmastime, how an eccentric inventor hoped to defeat Hitler with his futuristic ray gun, and why a cursed wall is protected by a global corporation for fear it might destroy a town. From the folklore surrounding the red dragon on the flag, to the evolution of the song 'Sosban Fach', this compendium of weird and wonderful facts will surprise and delight even the most knowledgeable resident or visitor.

Leseprobe

First published 2019

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Mark Rees, 2019

The right of Mark Rees to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9181 0

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Introduction

The A–Z of Curious Wales

For more than fifteen years, Mark Rees has published articles about the arts and culture in some of Wales’ bestselling newspapers and magazines. His roles have included arts editor for the South Wales Evening Post, and what’s on editor for the Carmarthen Journal, Llanelli Star and Swansea Life. He has written a number of books including The Little Book of Welsh Culture (2016), Ghosts of Wales: Accounts from the Victorian Archives (2017), and The Little Book of Welsh Landmarks (2018) for The History Press.

This collection of curiosities would not have been possible without the help of everyone kind enough to join me on this journey into the unknown.

I would like to wish a huge diolch o’r galon to my family for their support, and to Nicola Guy and all at The History Press for commissioning the book that you now hold in your hands.

There are some incredible images and photographs throughout this tome, and all the contributors have been individually credited.

Finally, in no particular order, my thanks go to: Emma Hardy and Bolly the cat; Kev Johns; Chris Carra; Owen Staton; Alistair Corbett; Cymru Paranormal; Mal Pope; Wyn Thomas; Simon Davies and all at The Comix Shoppe; Sandra Evans and Dan Turner; all at the South Wales Evening Post and Media Wales; Peter Richards and all at Fluellen Theatre Company; Lesley and Simon Williams at The Bay magazine; the Lotus Sisters; my long-suffering footballing companions Jean and Lindsay; and to all the ghosts of Wales gang, who make it all worthwhile.

Wales is a weird and wonderful country. Curiosities can be found in all four corners the land: from the world’s largest lump of coal, to the UK’s smallest house. Magical fairy folk lurk in the shadows after dark, hounds from hell stalk the lonely roads by night, corpse candles spell doom for unfortunate travellers, and Arthurian knights lie in wait to rise once more. Scandalous works of art contain hidden messages, ancient burial sites are guarded by deadly curses, mighty fortresses conceal gruesome secrets – and that’s not to mention some of the more eccentric characters who have called the country home over the years. From the peculiarly funny to the downright strange, all of these and more will be explored in these pages.

As the title suggests, this book has been structured in an A to Z format. However, the most important thing for me while compiling this compendium was to gather together as many fascinating facts from the country’s rich history as possible, regardless of which letter they happened to start with. I also wanted to strike a balance between the topics included, which range from fantastical folklore to more gritty true crime cases. This is why you’ll find real-life accounts of bed-shaking poltergeists and spectral murderers side-by-side with more light-hearted entries on the origins of beer and a magical Christmas tree.

The most rewarding aspect of researching this book was how many new facts I’ve discovered for myself along the way, about subjects that I thought I was already more than familiar with. In some cases they were so overloaded with interesting titbits that it was a challenge just to squeeze everything in, and I was barely able to scratch the surface with a volume of this size.

The majority of these stories relate to real people, places, objects and events – which means that if you find yourself inspired to learn more you could set off on a cultural adventure of your own. If the tradition of the Mari Lwyd fascinates you, there are several locations where the peculiar horse’s skull is still brandished today. If you want to make a pilgrimage to some of Wales’ holiest sites, there are mystical islands ready and waiting to be prayed at. Or if you want to sample the traditional food and drink, dance with the Tylwyth Teg, pay your respects at the site of a witch hanging or even go skinny-dipping with a mythological lake monster, all this and more is out there waiting for you in curious Cymru.

I hope you enjoy reading this collection as much as I enjoyed trawling through the archives to compile it, and who knows – maybe you’ll never look at Wales in quite the same light after turning the final page?

Mark Rees, 2019

THE ABANDONED ASYLUM

Denbigh Asylum, or North Wales Hospital as it became known, was Wales’ first hospital for people with a mental disorder. Long since abandoned, this haunting yet wonderfully atmospheric ruin treated patients for 147 years before closing its doors in 1995. The building has suffered badly from neglect and decay over the decades, and while a little ivy and natural ageing might add to its Gothic ambiance, looting and vandalism have left parts of it in a very sorry state. With a reputation for being haunted, its most regular visitors in recent times have been paranormal investigators rather than patients.

In the nineteenth century, before an asylum had been established in Wales, Welsh patients with serious disorders would have to cross the border for treatment in England. Gloucester Lunatic Asylum was their main point of call, and Dr Samuel Hitch, who worked at the asylum, played an instrumental role in founding a hospital on Welsh soil. He stressed that Welsh language-speaking patients were not receiving the treatment they required in an English-speaking hospital, and his views reached a large audience after being aired in The Times newspaper. As a result, his claims were investigated by The Metropolitan Commissioners in Lunacy, who agreed with his assessment, and the project to create Denbigh Asylum was given the go-ahead. It was followed by a public appeal for money, which was backed by members of the royal family including Queen Victoria herself, and was boosted by a sizeable donation of land in Denbigh on which to house it.

Completed in 1848, the imposing building was created from local limestone, and based on a design by prominent architect Thomas Fulljames. Originally built with the intention of housing as many as 200 patients, the demand for a Welsh-language institution proved to be so popular that, by the turn of the twentieth century, it had expanded to host more than 1,500.

The treatment provided at Denbigh Asylum was very much in line with what were considered to be the best practices of the time, and included such obsolete, and at times brutal, methods such as shock treatment and prefrontal lobotomy. One of its most well-known residents was the pacifist George Davies who, in the build up to the Second World War, had preached for world peace but, suffering from depression, took his own life there in 1949.

Now a Grade II listed building, there have been long-standing plans to convert the once-grand structure into luxury homes and flats, or maybe a hotel, but these have been hampered by what are believed to be repeated and targeted arsonist attacks. In November 2008, a fire broke out that destroyed the ballroom. Further devastating blazes in 2017 resulted in areas of the building being demolished, while an outbreak in April 2018 saw the premises gutted by black smoke that more than thirty firefighters battled for more than fourteen hours to extinguish. As a result, parts of the building are now beyond repair.

In 2008, Denbigh Asylum received national attention when the TV series Most Haunted filmed a week-long Halloween special edition of Most Haunted Live! in the area. They dubbed it ‘the Village of the Damned’, and claimed that the area was cursed by witches.

North Wales Hospital. © Robin Hickmott (Flickr, CC BY-ND 2.0)

The Anglesey copper mountain near Amlwch. © Mark Murphy (Wikimedia, CC BY-SA 3.0)

THE ALIEN LANDSCAPE

Just outside the town of Amlwch is an area of land that more resembles the scorched earth of a distant planet than any luscious green mountainside that you might expect to find in Wales.

The landscape of Parys Mountain in northern Anglesey has gained its unique appearance thanks to centuries of copper mining in the area, which could be traced back as far as the Bronze Age. But it was during the eighteenth century that it truly began to transform into the extraterrestrial-like terrain that we see today, when the mines, the largest of their kind in Europe, flourished as a world leader in copper production.

Mining initially began on the mountain in 1764, when Charles Roe was given permission to work the land. But it wasn’t until 1768 that its fortunes thrived when, purely by chance, a miner called Rowland Pugh came across a plentiful supply of ore. Named the ‘great lode’, it was a substantial source of wealth for those in charge, and Pugh himself was rewarded for his discovery with a home to stay in rent-free for the rest of his life, and a bottle of whisky to drink in it. For a period between 1787 and 1793 the mine even produced its own currency, minting pennies and half pennies known as the Parys Penny or Anglesey Penny. They were used to pay the men working the site and, during a national shortage, by others in the local area as well. The success of the mine would also allow Amlwch to considerably expand its port, with copper being shipped far and wide from the most northerly town in Wales to be smelted in places such as Swansea, which became known as ‘Copperopolis’.

Mining on such a grand scale has long since ceased, but the industrial scars from those days still remain. Dotting the barren land are distinctly coloured craters and canyons that radiate in deep coppery oranges, purples, reds and browns. There is very little natural life in the area, with the contaminated earth making it difficult for plants to grow, but even so some rare species have found a way to survive against the odds. Its unique look has also made it a destination for film and TV camera crews, and there is still believed to be some 6 million tonnes of ore remaining underneath the old workings.

Nowadays, anyone wishing to experience the ‘alien landscape’ can follow a trail around the site, or join an organised tour inside the old mines.

THE AMELIA EARHART CONTROVERSY

On 18 June 1928, an aeroplane carrying Amelia Earhart touched down in Wales. As a result, she entered the history books and made newspaper headlines as the ‘first woman to complete a transatlantic flight’. This, in and of itself, might sound like an interesting piece of trivia, but where it gets a bit more controversial is determining the exact location of where she landed.

A debate rages to this day between two communities in Carmarthenshire that can both lay claim to being her final destination on that day, and they both have the plaques to prove it. One of them is the town of Burry Port that, in 2003, marked the seventy-fifth anniversary of the landing by rededicating a memorial plaque in Earhart’s honour with an RAF flypast. The plaque, put in place by Llanelli Borough Council, states that: ‘The first woman to fly the Atlantic Ocean came ashore at this point from the seaplane Friendship.’

But just 2 miles away in the direction of Llanelli is the village of Pwll, which has a blue plaque of its own declaring that the ‘first woman to fly across the Atlantic Ocean landed here in the estuary near the village of Pwll’.

But they can’t both be right – or can they? Therein lies the problem.

On that historical day, Earhart had been flying in a seaplane that came to a halt on the waters of Carmarthen Bay. After travelling for twenty-one hours from Newfoundland, she and her two pilots had managed to land in an area that had no clear defining boundary lines. According to one account that is told by some in Pwll, when Earhart landed she is said to have opened the window and asked where she was, to which the locals naturally replied that she was in their village. In another version of the story, she asked the same question of a man who was sailing past in his boat, who presumably gave her the same answer, but she was unable to understand his accent.

The Fokker F.VIIb-3m Friendship. © San Diego Air and Space Museum Archive (Wikimedia)

But there are two sides to every story, and according to those in Burry Port, it didn’t quite happen that way. After landing, Friendship was towed to the nearest harbour, which happened to be Burry Port Harbour. Which means that, when Earhart first stepped ashore onto Welsh soil, she was actually in Burry Port.

As such, both communities have a valid claim to the title, and can both share the glory. And yet, when spoken to today, there are rivals on both sides of the debate who can recall how they know of a friend of a friend who can categorically prove that it was in their part of the world that she landed.

But it’s worth noting that, while both plaques record that Earhart became the first woman to fly across the Atlantic when she landed in Wales, neither claim that she was actually flying the plane at the time. A popular misconception, Earhart was still learning her trade in 1928 and was only a passenger, and wouldn’t pilot a plane across the Atlantic herself until 1932.

THE ASH DOME

The Ash Dome is a large-scale top-secret work of art that was never intended to be seen by the public and which, sadly, might no longer exist by the time you read this book.

The artist David Nash is well known for his imaginative works of land art, which are created using natural living materials such as wood. Born in Surrey in 1945, he spent a large part of his childhood in Wales, where his father owned a forest near Blaenau Ffestiniog. During this time he got hands on by helping to plant and care for the trees, and he is said to have developed a dislike for planting them in straight lines, something that would become evident in his art in later life.

Having relocated to North Wales as an adult, in 1977 he planted a ring of twenty-two ash saplings that would become known as the Ash Dome. Tucked away in a hidden location somewhere in the vicinity of Snowdonia, the exact spot is only known by a select few people, and any visitors who are granted temporary access to it are taken along a long and winding route to disguise its whereabouts.

What is known is that he planted them within commuting distance of his home, which allows him to visit them regularly and oversee their development. Ever evolving, the decades-spanning artwork grew into a majestic dome of fully grown trees that, if it looks half as spectacular in reality as it does in the photographs snapped by those lucky enough to see it, is an incredible achievement.

But this was not Nash’s first attempt at creating an Ash Dome. While talking to BBC Radio 3, he explained that the original saplings had suffered a tragic fate – the local sheep had eaten them. It was only through trial and error that he was able to create the desired effect, shaping their structure and directing the growth using hedge-growing techniques. As well as the aesthetic appeal of the ‘organic sculpture’, he also alluded to a political message behind the conceptual work, with the long-term environmental project being a reaction to what he saw as the short-term policies of the leading political parties of the 1970s.

The living sculpture was always intended to outlive its creator but it was reported in 2018 that the trees were suffering from ash dieback, a fatal disease caused by a form of fungus. When asked about the damage during an interview, Nash had something of a philosophical outlook, saying that: ‘It’s a work depending on natural forces, so ash dieback is a natural force. I have to accept that as part of the original concept.’

On a more positive note, he does believe that if the trees were to die, they would grow back at a later date, and having been busy drawing them in all of their glory, they will live forever as works of art, whatever the future might hold for the sculpture itself.

THE BARDSEY APPLE

Bardsey Island (Ynys Enlli) is a remote and sparsely populated island 2 miles out to sea from the end of the Llŷn Peninsula. One of the ‘holiest sites in Britain’, the Gwynedd landmark is known as the ‘Isle of Twenty Thousand Saints’, who are said to be buried in its saint’s graveyard.

The island could also be the final resting place of the legendary heroes King Arthur and his magician Merlin, but the emphasis really should be on the resting, as the pair are thought to be lying in wait until they reawaken during the country’s darkest hour. According to one story, Arthur was whisked away to Bardsey Island after being wounded in battle. His ship now lies at the bottom of the Bardsey Sound, and some believe that the island itself could be, or at least be the inspiration for, the Arthurian island Avalon.

Avalon, as it turns out, could be translated as ‘the isle of apple trees’, with the Welsh word for apple being afal. Which is quite appropriate, as not only is the mile-long island steeped in myths and spirituality, but it is also home to unique fruit. The Bardsey Apple (yr Afal Enlli) has been dubbed ‘the rarest apple in the world’ by the press, and its mother tree grows on the side of Plas Bach, a nineteenth-century house on a site that is thought to have originally been built in the thirteenth century. It could be the only remaining apple tree from the island’s ancient monastery, which was founded by the sixth-century Breton nobleman Saint Cadfan.

News of the apple first broke in 2000 when it was brought to the attention of local fruit tree rejuvenator Ian Sturrock. Being unfamiliar with the variety, he passed it on to the experts at the Brogdale Agricultural Trust in Kent, who discovered that it appeared to be resistant to disease.

Speaking to the BBC at the time, apple expert Dr Joan Morgan said that it was ‘the only one of its variety in the world’. She described them as being ‘boldly striped in pink over cream, ribbed and crowned.’ And as they were unable to put a name to the variety, there could be no better moniker than the Bardsey Apple. It has also been called Merlin’s Apple, because the wizard’s resting place is said to be in a nearby cave or glass castle.

THE BATTLE OF FISHGUARD

The last time that Britain was successfully invaded was during the Norman conquest of England in 1066. But what is less well-known is that the last attempted invasion took place in 1797, and it took place in Wales.

More precisely, it took place in the Pembrokeshire coastal town of Fishguard, where the French arrived to launch one of three planned attacks. With the French revolution in full swing, France was, at the time, governed by the five-man Directory committee. Between them, they concocted a plan to conquer Britain and, by doing so, they would ‘liberate’ the working classes, who would presumably be eternally grateful to their new French saviours.

But with France’s elite fighting forces busy conquering large parts of Europe under the command of Napoleon Bonaparte, the men assembled for the mission were not the ideal candidates. They included the not-so-elite fighters who had been left behind from the more important missions, and their numbers were bolstered by contingents of ‘irregulars’, which included former convicts and those who were released from prison early for the purpose of fighting.

Named La Légion Noire (The Black Legion), this motley crew of 1,400 men was commanded by Colonel William Tate, an Irish–American with a strong anti-British sentiment, having retreated to Paris after fighting against the British in the American Revolutionary War.

Setting sail in four warships from Brittany on 18 February, their intended destination was Bristol. The plan was to level what was, at the time, England’s second biggest city, before marching on to Wales. But the severe weather conditions made landing in Bristol near impossible, and so they took a detour and headed straight for Fishguard instead where, according to some later reports, they were welcomed by cannon fire that was used to warn the locals. As such, the invaders eventually set foot on land at the more secluded Carreg Wastad Point nearby.

Arriving in the early hours of 23 February, the ill-fated attack would last a grand total of two days. The French had no real intention of doing any real soldier work, and were too busy looting and drinking when they were quickly defeated by a force of around 500 local men led by John Campbell, 1st Baron Cawdor. But while the men get all the glory for the victory, it is the unsung women of Wales who are the real stars of the story.

It is said, according to local folklore at least, that when the French, who had been enjoying an alcoholic tipple or two, saw thousands of red-coated militia men marching towards them, they were quick to desert their posts. But what they had actually seen, in their slightly inebriated state, was the amassed force of the local women, who had assembled at a distance, dressed in their traditional Welsh shawls and tall black hats to give the illusion of being soldiers.

The gravestone of Jemima Nicholas outside St Mary’s Church, Fishguard. (Wikimedia, public domain)

The most famous of these ladies was Jemima Nicholas, also known as Jemima Fawr (Big Jemima/Jemima the Great), who it said to have arranged the display and had singlehandedly confronted the landing fleet armed with a pitchfork, which she used to round up a dozen men who were imprisoned in the town’s St Mary’s Church.

THE BED-ROCKING SPOOK

In February 1905, there was ‘great excitement’ in Lampeter when reports emerged of a ghost that rocked the bed of an 11-year-old boy, and would reply to questions with ‘loud, metallic clanks’. These strange noises were heard at Bank House on High Street in the Ceredigion town, which was home to the solicitor Mr Hugh W. Howell, his wife, four sons, and servants.

Mr Howell claimed to be ‘an absolute sceptic about ghosts’, but the events had changed his mind, as reported by the Evening Express:

My whole ideas on the subject have been altered, because I have seen and heard it myself. I am glad that there are thirty or forty outsiders who have had the same experience as myself so that they can verify what I am going to tell you. My wife has for a long period persisted in repeating that she had heard the tramping of feet and other sounds in the garret, and now the servant girl won’t sleep there for the world. About a fortnight ago, about midnight, I heard Jane, the servant, shouting. She was sitting up with Jack, in his bedroom. I called out, ‘What the deuce is the matter with you, Jane?’ and she replied, ‘Oh, master, there is something very funny knocking in this old wall.’ I went up and I thought I heard a knock. ‘There are rats there, very likely,’ I said. Then followed the astounding part of it. I rapped on the wall, and said, ‘Come out, old chap, let’s have a look at you.’ This was said in a sarcastic way, and before I came to the last word I heard a terrific noise near the water closet. It was exactly as if they had got into a rage and resented my remark, and as if they would break the door.

The activity escalated quickly, and before long the bed started moving:

One night I was just falling off to sleep when Jack called out, ‘Daddy, there’s the noise.’ He then cried, ‘Oh, daddy, the bed is beginning to move.’ I said, ‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ ‘Well, look yourself,’ he said, and as I stood watching the movable top part of his little bed kept moving and banging against the wall behind. This was a bit too thick, but I watched, and, after a short time, I noticed the vibration increasing, until at last it was going like lightning. The noise was fearful. The neighbours heard it from the street. At last I got into a rage and shouted, ‘Hang the thing; confound the thing,’ and at the same time took hold of it. As soon as I let go it went worse than ever. I was strong enough to hold it quiet; it could not get the better of me, but I could feel the force squirming to get loose.

It was noted that the ‘phenomenon’, which intensified to shaking the sofa as well, could be expected around 7 a.m. But it wasn’t just heard, it was also seen. Mrs Bowen, Mrs Howell’s ‘lady help’, had long claimed to have seen apparitions in the house:

She persisted in saying that they had heard a woman going along the passage, rustling her dress. She was going upstairs in the dusk when she saw a lady in black coming down towards her. I used to take all these yarns with a grain of salt, but one Sunday morning outside evidence came in. Jack and Hughie and Mundy’s boy were playing in the kitchen. Hughie went to the kitchen door, and he saw a white figure, a woman dressed in a long white robe, like a nightshirt. He shouted out, ‘Mundy, look at that.’ Mundy saw it and was terrified. The apparition went up a little passage, and the lads were too frightened for anything. That incident made a deep impression upon me, because Mundy had never heard of it.’

BEDDGELERT

The legend of Beddgelert, in which a heroic dog is mistakenly slain by his master, is one of Wales’s most famous folk tales. It is also the name of a picturesque village in Snowdonia National Park, where the events of the story are said to have taken place. But while many people might be familiar with the old yarn, what is less well known are its true origins.

Beddgelert is Welsh for Gelert’s grave, and a grave dedicated to the dog can be found in the Gwynedd beauty spot. The tombstone gives a summary of the events which led to his death:

In the 13th century Llewelyn, prince of North Wales, had a palace at Beddgelert. One day he went hunting without Gelert, ‘The Faithful Hound’, who was unaccountably absent. On Llewelyn’s return the truant, stained and smeared with blood, joyfully sprang to meet his master. The prince alarmed hastened to find his son, and saw the infant’s cot empty, the bedclothes and floor covered with blood. The frantic father plunged his sword into the hound’s side, thinking it had killed his heir. The dog’s dying yell was answered by a child’s cry. Llewelyn searched and discovered his boy unharmed, but nearby lay the body of a mighty wolf which Gelert had slain. The prince filled with remorse is said never to have smiled again. He buried Gelert here. It’s a nice story, but there’s just one snag – he didn’t actually bury Gelert there. Or anywhere in the village, for that matter.

Statue of Gelert at Beddgelert. © Ian Angell (Wikimedia, CC BY 3.0)

The tale is thought to be a variation of one of the popular ‘faithful hound’ stories that can be found around the world in many other cultures, and which usually end with the tragic demise of man’s best friend. As for the memorial, it has been credited to David Pritchard, who was the landlord of the nearby Royal Goat Inn at the end of the eighteenth century. He is said to have embellished the tale to help boost tourism, and centuries later his marketing ploy is still working its magic, with visitors flocking to the area to see the grave.

More than that, the village isn’t even believed to be named after an animal at all – the Gelert in the title is thought to be Saint Gelert, a seventh-century Celtic saint who spent time in the village.