It Really is a Funny Old Game

Supporters of Wrexham Football Club

I was taken to see my first football match when I was about 3 or 4 years of age, and I've been captivated by the game ever since. Although, I fell out of love with the higher echelons in the professional game many years ago. This was at the time when the Premier League was formed; TV money poured in, and only a handful of league clubs seemed to benefit from the 'windfall'.

The first professional club that I supported was Wrexham Football Club, who played just six miles from my home. They were the only professional league club in North Wales. For a number of years in the 1960's, I was to be found on the terraces every Saturday afternoon (remember the days when all games started at 3.00pm on a Saturday?) whatever the weather. The Racecourse ground was my football home, and I was pleased to play there once in a cup final - we lost - just. Wrexham have certainly had a chequered history since they were formed in 1872, and like many clubs from lower divisions, it has had majestic highs, and unbelievable lows. I was there when they recorded their highest victory (still the highest today), 10 - 1 against Hartlepool in March 1962. This was also the first time that three hat tricks had been scored in a single football league game. While we're on records, the Racecourse ground is the world's oldest international stadium still in use. In 1984 they beat FC Porto in European competition, winning 1 - 0 at home, and winning the tie on away goals, after coming from  3 - 0 down in Porto. There have been many magic moments.

What has also dogged them for years is financial insecurity. Their plight has been no different to that of the majority of clubs in the lower two divisions of the football league. Wrexham were relegated to the Blue Square Conference League at the end of the 2007 - 2008 season, after 87 years of consecutive membership of the football league. After flirting with disaster for so long, the inevitable happened. The problem was spending more money than they took in (sounds familiar?). Wrexham have decided on a way forward, which I'll come to in a moment.

Plymouth Argyle Football Club are just one of a growing number of clubs in financial difficulties. In Administration, as a result of living beyond their means (football calls it 'Living the Dream'), they failed to pay taxes, failed to pay wages and failed to pay bills. Their liabilities exceeded their assets, and they were insolvent.

Or they should have been in the real world. But football doesn't exist in the real world, it is somehow different to other businesses, and there are always reasons why clubs shouldn't be wound up. Debts increase, but it still keeps on trading. However, it looks as if a new owner has been found, who will clear the debts (there's around £3.5 million of historic wage debts to clear on its own), and start afresh. But if the business model doesn't change, how long before the merry-go-round of uncertainty begins again? I'm not saying anything that hasn't been said before, and by more experienced people than myself, but how many people are listening.

Clubs continue to exist, when in reality they should fold, because of the unswerving loyalty of supporters, players, some managers and back-room staff. At the moment, Plymouth are bottom of League Two, and last month they sacked their manager, Peter Reid "to preserve their league status". This was a man who sold his cup final medal to pay the club's heating bill, and to help particularly younger players who were not being paid. His reward was the sack. Players and back-room staff have continued to do their jobs, when they were not sure of being paid on time. Some owners don't deserve to have such unswerving loyalty, but surely there is another way of running a club?

Wrexham have just agreed to go down another route, and to follow in the path of pioneers before them. The Wrexham Supporters Trust will now run the club, and they are asking people to contribute to a community share scheme, with the minimum you can give is £250, and the maximum, £20,000. This is the beginning of a longer process, and everyone who gives will have a say in how the money is spent. This means that supporters are in charge of the club, which ought to mean more responsible spending, but if it doesn't, they've only themselves to blame. In an article yesterday in the Daily Post Wales, Andrew Gilpin described what motivated him to contribute to the community share scheme. "In the last few months alone we've had unpaid tax bills(of around £200,000), unpaid wages and a £100,000 shortfall in a bond to the Football Conference to let us play at all". "We can't go on like this". In my view, a Supporters Trust is a great way forward, and hopefully it will bring some sanity back into football, but only if more clubs go down this route.

It will be interesting to see how this all develops. The Racecourse Ground has been bought by the nearby Glyndwr University, and it looks as if the ground will now be called Glyndwr University Racecourse Ground. So the University will run the ground, and the Supporters Trust will run the club. While this major asset will no longer belong to the club, it seems to be an excellent opportunity for committed partnerships. Supporters Trusts have been around for a number of years, and seem to be growing in popularity particularly among non-league clubs (there are currently 3 league clubs, and 14 non league clubs run by Supporters Trusts). But why can't clubs higher up the food chain also benefit from being run by Trusts? This of course is a pipe dream, for those supporters will only be content with 'success', and the money that goes along with this. If you're part of a Supporters Trust running a club, you will have to be patient, and review what you mean by being successful. This is so much healthier, and takes us back to what grass roots is all about. At the moment there are just over 1,500 members of Wrexham Supporters Trust; they will need more of course, but being the only professional league football club in North Wales means that there is a fair catchment area to call upon. Also, following today's win, the club are third in the league - perhaps this season is going to be a good one after all.

The video's not great quality, but I enjoyed seeing it. Wrexham 1 - FC Porto 0.

My Village, My Home, My Life - part nine

Dad - John Henry Evans about 1950

I'm coming up to the age of 64, and with the help of my Sister, and along with millions of other people, I have decided to trace our family heritage. (Millions are tracing their own families of course, not ours - though from what I've seen so far, I could do with their help).

It has now become an obsession, particularly on my Father's side. It is said that "Genealogy is where you confuse the dead and irate the living". If I'd have started this many years ago, I may have been able to take the advice of Mark Twain, "Why waste your time and money looking up your family tree? Just go into politics and your opponents will do it for you".

My family history has meant very little to me up until the last few months, as I was only ever concerned with the present and the future. Now in retirement there is a passion for reflection - I guess that comes with age, but it's also because there is time. I think that the words of Alex Haley ring true. "In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage - to know who we are and where we came from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning. No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness". And the one thing that I have come to really see the truth of is that Genealogy without documentation is mythology.

Map of Llanrwst about 1915

My Mother came from a long line of William Gronnow's, who up to my Grandfather, all lived in Farndon, Cheshire. There's still some details to complete, but I've settled with going back to the late 18th Century. My Mother and her three sisters were all born, brought up and lived in Penycae. As yet, the family tree has yielded no 'saps' or 'nuts'.

It's my Father's history that has caused me to be locked away in obsessive research - and soon I may be locked away for real.  I've had to wrestle with the stories I was brought up with, and the questions now being asked that challenge some of those stories. This means changing some of the information outlined in an earlier Blog. My Father died when I was quite young, and though I have vague memories of someone who was very kind and tender towards his Son and Daughter, there is still much to learn. I have battled to compose a timeline for him from his birth to his death, and I've had to explore information that is conflicting, obtuse or deliberately misleading, and I'm still not there yet.

One indisputable fact from his birth certificate is that he was born 17th June 1917 at Llanrwst Union Workhouse, and his Mother was Jane Evans, a Domestic Servant from Pentre Broughton, Wrexham. There is a line drawn where the Father's name should be. I'd often wondered why his Mother would have gone from Wrexham to Llanrwst to give birth, as it is around 50 miles away. Research has opened up the possibility that a Jennie Evans (Jane's were often called Jennie, as was the case with my Mother) came originally from Llanrwst, and in the early 1900's, single mum's to be often went to a workhouse as the cost of the birth would be covered by the institution.

The Morton Family

Now comes the fun part - what happened next? It's not so much looking for a needle in a haystack, as the stack has lots of needles, when what we need is thread.

Our family story is that Jennie Evans left my Father when he was about 18 months old, and he was fostered by a family called Morton who lived at Cae Glas Farm in Minera, Wrexham. Jennie is then supposed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

Unfortunately, this story has had to be questioned, at least the part about Jennie, because the Gwynfryn Council School admittance records show a John Henry Evans being admitted on the 26th June 1922, and the parent/guardian being named as Jennie Evans of Cae Glas Farm. Clearly his Mother was still about and living at the farm when Dad was 5 years of age. I hope that you are still with me.

What is not in doubt is that Dad was fostered by Benjamin and Margaret Morton, but when, is uncertain, as a clarifying Adoption Act did not come into place before the 1920's, so no records exist, and fostering may have been very informal. Dad left school in July 1931 and continued to live at Cae Glas.

Cae Glas Farm as now - very different from then

Benjamin and Margaret Morton produced ten children between 1898 and 1912. William (died aged 4), Allen, Richard, Henry, Stanley, Arthur, Gladys, Dewi (died at birth), Gwen and Nell.

The Morton family picture above shows the parents and the eight surviving children, which was taken sometime between 1918 and 1920. Was Dad fostered at this time? If so, why isn't he in the photo? Or did he come along later? You see, questions, questions.

On leaving school, Dad worked for the Morton family as a farm labourer, until the Morton's retired in 1944, and he seemed to move to Clith House (their home on retirement) with them. We were brought up to believe that Dad wasn't very happy at the farm, and that he wasn't well treated, but I now have to question that, as he was still with them when he got married at the age of 26, so things couldn't have been that bad. One of the reasons for the story I think, is that we were told that Dad slept in a shed on the farm, and not in the main house. Personally, I'm happy to go along with the Morton family history, where on this point, it records that "On the left in the front garden at Cae Glas was a corrugated tin hut in which, towards the end of his life, when he was unable to climb the stairs, Taid (Benjamin Morton) slept; not only Taid but two other workers or guests also - John Evans, aged about 20, and Simon Hughes, a much older man. Simon was probably a farm worker, but John, although also a farm worker, was much more a member of the family".

Information that I would love to be able to verify is that my Dad played the violin, but that one day, Benjamin, when a bit worse the wear from drink, broke the violin. My Son Chris is an accomplished violinist, and it would be lovely to think that this was in the Evans genes; if so, the musical ability skipped a generation with me. Again you see, questions, questions.

Mum & Dad's Marriage Certificate

Dad married my Mother on the 12th February 1944, when he was a farm labourer living at Clith House, Bwlchgwyn, and she was in the Land Army and living in Penycae. The photo below also shows Dad in the army in 1943.

Dad circled 1943

Dad didn't go overseas, and having had the photo looked at, it's possible that he was in the Home Guard, where he would be protecting Minera against the Germans. Sorry, that's a bit flippant; I know how important the work of the Home Guard was right across the country. The next few years are a bit unclear as per this timeline, and it may be that Mum and Dad were working a small farm together in the Minera area.

37a, Hill Street, Penycae

They were however, definitely living at 37a, Hill Street, Penycae in 1947, for that is the address on my birth certificate.

The photo opposite was taken by my Sister in 1968, and corrects a photograph I posted in an earlier Blog. Our house is the one immediately on the left of the picture, but was knocked down, and replaced by a later dwelling.

Round about 1950, Dad ceased to be a farm labourer, and went to work as a lorry driver for the local electricity company, MANWEB. He was there until his illness in 1956, and by all accounts was well thought of as an employee of the company.

Between 1956 and 1958 he was confined to home and Christie's Hospital, Manchester, suffering from Leukemia. He died on the 27th September 1958 as a result of that disease, at the age of 41. His was a simple, but hard life, and everything I can find out about him shows someone with great dignity and warmth. This is one of the reasons why I am now determined to try and fill in the blanks, and correct the myths. It may not be possible to find out who his Father was, but his Mother couldn't have just disappeared; there will be records somewhere, and I will do my utmost to find them. This is a hole in my history that just has to be filled. Oh, why didn't I start this search years ago, when so many more key people were alive?

Mum and Dad

If any family members are reading this Blog, you can view the Family Tree to date here.

Part of the purpose for posting the Blog, is to give people the opportunity to suggest corrections or additions; to try and complete the picture. Don't be afraid to get in touch.

"The family. We were a strange little band of characters drudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms ... and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together". - Erma Bombeck

My Village, My Home, My Life - part eight

Wrexham Lager Company

Having left school the previous month, I began work on the 5th August 1963 at Arthur Cudworth & Sons Engineering Works, Union Street, Wrexham. It stood beside the large Wrexham Lager brewery, which had been there since 1882. Cudworth's has long gone, and the Brewery closed in 2000, and all that remains is the Grade 11 listed building seen on the right of the photograph. Many years ago, Wrexham Lager used to sponsor Wrexham Football Club, and I believe to this day fans still sing, to an old Welsh hymn tune,

"Wrexham lager, Wrexham lager
Feed me 'til I want no more". - I think you've got to be there to appreciate it.

1963 was an interesting year. In March, the Beatles released their first album, 'Please Please Me'. In August, the Great Train Robbery occurred. In November, the first episode of Dr Who was broadcast, and in the same month, President John F Kennedy was assassinated (I'll return to this later).

Belt driven centre lathe

I joined Cudworth's as an apprentice centre lathe turner, but as it was a small general engineering works, you had to turn your hand to anything. I earned two pounds, ten shillings a week, of which one pound was given to Mother.

The owner was what you might affectionately call 'eccentric'. He had one eye, and drove a Triumph sports car. Unfortunately, his one eye was his left one, and being driven by him was an experience to forget. Because he didn't have a right eye, he had to pull out further than other drivers to see any approaching traffic, and he did like to overtake. The car had a turbo boost button, which he pressed when overtaking. It was a nightmare.

The engineering works had an office, staff eating room, machine shop and a large area with a blacksmiths shop to erect large structures. My area was the machine shop, with a couple of different size lathes, drilling machines and sawing machines. Even at the time, the machines would not have been out of place in an Industrial Heritage Museum. Being belt driven, the belts stretch with use, and I seemed to spend more time shortening them, than I did using the machines. However, I did produce some nifty work, even if I say so myself.

Between my machine shop and the office, was the eating area. A small room with one large wooden table, and benches down either side. I'm starting to have horrendous flashbacks at the thought of this, so give me a moment to compose myself. [Imagine period of quiet contemplation]. Thank you, I feel better. Before entering the room, I would make a lot of noise and give the door a few kicks. Why? So that the mice would scurry away. Droppings would then be brushed from the table, and we would make a drink and sit down to lunch. Mine was often beetroot sandwiches. Have you had beetroot sandwiches, made at 6.30 in the morning and eaten six hours later? No? Well don't bother. I don't believe that I've eaten beetroot to this day.

Blacksmith at work

Cudworth's had one Blacksmith who occupied his own area of the works. He mostly made wrought iron gates and railings to order. He was an old fashioned skilled artisan, who mostly did everything by eye, rather than using templates. Believe me that is one skill to have. He also rarely used welding or bolts, preferring to hold every piece of wrought iron together with strips that he would heat and then cool to hold things in place.

He was also old fashioned in the sense that he reluctantly shared his skills with others, for fear that someone would take his job. He was kind to me though as a young man, and though he wouldn't directly teach me anything, he allowed me to watch, so I learnt by observation.

I put this to use in my lunch break (I couldn't wait to get out of that eating room). I was allowed to gather waste metal that was no good for anything else, or to purchase some metal at cost price. My task was to make wrought iron furniture for home. My pride and joy was a coffee table with wrought iron legs curled into lovely shapes, and held together by bars of wrought iron turned into a spiral shape. Unlike the Blacksmith, I cheated and welded the parts together. The top of the table was as nice a piece of wood that I could find or afford. This was taken home with pride (though as I'm writing this, I wonder how I got it home), and sat uncommented upon in our living room. I never did know whether my Mother liked it, but I did notice that it disappeared from view as soon as I moved out of the home. Ah well, every artist has suffered some disappointments in their life.



Denbighshire Technical College, Wrexham



During my time at Cudworth's, I studied for, and gained a City & Guilds in Mechanical Engineering. This was a five year course, one day a week, plus two evenings. It was held at a satellite building of the Denbighshire Technical College, next door to where I worked.

I enjoyed those times, and I studied with a great group of lads. I remember coffee time during the day release. We all bought a milky coffee and two wagon wheels each. Without fail, every week. The tutor on one of the evening courses was an interesting man. He'd spent many years working in Argentina, and it was no problem getting him to talk about that time. Also, we would spend the first 15 or 20 minutes of every session talking about the Magic Roundabout that had been on the previous evening. Come to think about it, when did we ever do any work? We all got our C&G's though. On leaving college, one friend and I played one game of postal chess for the next two years, until we eventually called it a day. The excitement of one move a week was just too much to cope with.



Portmadog, North Wales

A couple of months after joining the company we won a contract to install a heating system in a new factory in Portmadog, North Wales. See what I mean about having to turn your hand to anything? Three of us were to spend the next few months in Portmadog during the week.

If I remember correctly, we would travel down very early on a Monday morning, and return on a Friday evening. This was all so new to me, and I think quite exciting.

I did learn a lot (which I forgot years later) about industrial heating systems. One thing that fascinated me was the use of a 40 - 50 foot length of clear hose pipe, filled with blue coloured water and used to find a level mark over a long distance - water always finding its own level of course. My job was to ensure that there were no air bubbles in the pipe, so ensuring that the system would work. You're fascinated by this aren't you? Riveting is the word. But to me, poor sod that I was, it was one of the most responsible jobs I'd ever done. I've been similarly deluded on many occasions since. Our intrepid band of three completed the contract on time, and to budget, which pleased Arthur Cudworth no end. I do not remember us getting a bonus.

Life in Portmadog settled into a comfortable routine. We would breakfast at a local cafe, and have an evening meal at a local restaurant. Showers were taken at a local swimming complex, and clothes were washed when we got home for the weekend.

The other two members of the team slept in a caravan that we brought with us from Wrexham, and I slept on a camp bed in a 6 foot by 4 foot garden shed. I was on my own, and very comfortable. Both caravan and shed were placed within the empty factory unit, so rain, wind and troublesome residents were no problem to us.

You know how years ago you were asked where you were when President John F Kennedy was assassinated? Well, I knew exactly where I was, for on the 22nd November 1963, I awoke in my garden shed to the news of his assassination in Dallas, Texas. Unless you were around at that time, it's hard to imagine the impact this had. He was seen as the vibrant, charismatic leader of the free world, and somebody had gunned him down. Without exaggeration, there was little else talked about in Portmadog for the next few days. My subsequent garden sheds, have all been reminders of where I was when that dreadful deed occurred.

So, finishing in Portmadog, we returned to work in Union Street, and the daily travel from Penycae to Wrexham (about six miles).  I would catch the 7.25am Crosville bus to work, and hopefully finish by about 6.00pm to catch the bus home - anything much after 6.00 would only go as far as the Rhos, which meant a two mile walk home. As a slight aside (you do like your asides don't you Evans?), I would often leave the house about 15 minutes early and go into the Chapel, which was next door to home and the bus stop (they were never locked in those days). Ascending the pulpit I would read out loud from the Bible; this was to experience projecting my voice, which I took seriously for one so young. Actually, it was worse than that, for I would often on nice, long summer evenings, cycle up to the mountains, park myself in a suitable spot, and preach a sermon to numerous confused sheep. Again, this was about voice projection. Do you think that I needed counselling at that time?

Honda 49 CC Moped

In may 1967 I had my six month provisional licence, and passed my driving test during that period. I also bought myself a motorbike to go to and fro work. Actually, that's not true. I bought myself a Honda 49 CC Moped (like the one opposite). You know the one with the pedals to help you get up the hills.

I had a classy helmet (!), and all the wet weather gear. I really looked the part, that is until I wheeled out the moped from the back of the house, then I just looked a prat. But hey, I got 150 miles to the gallon, so was saving me money, what did I care. The problem was that whichever way I left the village, and whichever way I wanted to return, there were steep hills. One stretch in particular between Penycae and Rhos was not to be looked forward to.

Either way, there was a steep hill down, and then a steep hill up. My plan always was to race down the hill as fast as I could (maximum moped speed 35 mph), and with full throttle race up the other side. I never got more than two-thirds up before losing engine speed and having to start peddling. With no one about, this was no more than a minor inconvenience (par for the course you may say), but with the inevitable groups of school children or young people about, it was an embarrassment, as they fell about laughing, and shouting out all manner of unsavoury things. You can imagine what added delight I brought to their day, when in my flustered state, my foot would slip off the pedal just as I was about to climb the rise, and be away to safety. But did this put me off? No it didn't. We Evans are made of sterner stuff.

I just changed my route.  It was a bit longer; full of narrow country lanes and some hills, but at least there was hardly anyone about to see the frantic pedalling which was an inevitable part of the journey. The country route it was to be. It all went well until one day, a moron in a car took a sharp corner on my side of the road and drove me into a ditch. I still have the scar on my knee. Granted you need a fairly strong magnifying glass to see it, but I know it's there - a legacy of being a 'biker'. That was enough for me. The bike was sold, I hung up my helmet for the last time, and it was back to the 7.25am Crosville bus, Penycae to Wrexham.

The following year, my wife to be and I moved to Birmingham, got married, and settled down. I'd left my village, my home and started a new life. But that's another story altogether.

My Village, My Home, My Life - part six

Painting by J Davies, Penycae

Wales is often described as the land of song, but I prefer to see it as wider than that, and call it the land of culture. This can be seen in all walks of life, and in many different ways. The above painting of various scenes in and around Penycae was done by John Davies, who has lived in the village all of his life. He was affectionately known as "Johnny Paraffin" (Wales does like its nicknames), as for as long as I can remember he drove a van around the village and surrounding area to deliver paraffin and a variety of household goods. He could talk for Wales on any subject, and never seemed to be in a hurry to get to the next customer. He was also a leader at Zion English Baptist Chapel (which I've mentioned before), and I shall be eternally grateful for the help and support he gave to me in my early development. He is now part of Penycae Art Club, which shows how important it is to document the life and history of a village, whether in painting, prose, poetry or song, while people are still alive.

The culture of Wales is very much kept alive through the Eisteddfodau (singular is Eisteddfod) held every year. There are two main ones: The Royal National Eisteddfod of Wales (very much Welsh language), and the Llangollen International Eisteddfod (promoting culture from across the world). In 1961 I was part of the National Eisteddfod when it came to my area, but more of that later. I'll also mention the International Eisteddfod, and its relation to the village in another blog.

The word Eisteddfod literally means 'eistedd' (to sit), and 'fod' (to be), so its historic meaning is The Sitting. I believe that this refers to the early days when 'judges' sat in a circle with the performers in the middle. The National Eisteddfod is the home of literature, music, dance, recitation, theatre, visual arts, science and technology, and all types of culture in Wales. Its purpose is to encourage the preservation of Welsh music and literature, and only those who sing or write in Welsh may enter the competitions.

Eisteddfod Field

Eisteddfodau have been in existence for hundreds of years. It is believed that the first Eisteddfod was held in Cardigan Castle in 1176. Records then show Carmarthen in 1451; Caerwys in 1568, and Corwen in 1789, which was the first time that the public were admitted.

The modern National Eisteddfod is very much from the 19th Century, and I have a theory as to what was one of the driving forces for change. The Government (in London) commissioned a report which had the title, "Reports of the Commissioners of Enquiry into the State of Education in Wales", which was published in 1847. The commissioners visited every part of Wales in 1846 gathering evidence and statistics. One of the problems, though, was that none of them spoke Welsh, and teachers and children did not speak English. The commissioners relied on information from witnesses, many of which were Anglican clergymen, at a time when Wales was a stronghold of Nonconformism. The report was not complimentary, and was not helped by a conclusion which said that " the Welsh were ignorant, lazy and immoral, and that among the causes of this were the use of the Welsh language and nonconformity".

The Blue Books

The report was presented to Parliament on the 1st July 1847 in three large blue-covered volumes, which resulted in a furious reaction. In Wales, the report was given the name, "The Treachery of the Blue Books". Robert Jones Derfyl, a Bard, wrote a book-length response, which some historians say was instrumental in the genesis of the modern Welsh self-government movement.

The general public felt that the report was an attack on the character of the Welsh as a nation, and the belief grew that it was important for the Welsh to create a new national image. In the 1850's people were talking of a national eisteddfod to showcase Wales' culture. One was held in Llangollen in 1858, and only three years later, in 1861 the modern, annual National Eisteddfod of Wales was born. 2011 marks the 150th anniversary of that date, and this years Eisteddfod is being held in Wrexham, just 5 miles away from my village, my home.

Wrexham Eisteddfod Proclamation Ceremony, 3rd July 2010

According to tradition, the intention to stage an Eisteddfod must be announced at least one year and a day before the actual event. On the 3rd July 2010, this is what happened in Wrexham. A procession of over 1200 people marched through the town centre, concluding with the proclamation ceremony.

At the heart of every National Eisteddfod are the Bards and the Gorsedd. Bards go back hundreds of years, and in their simplest form are poets and musicians, many of whom were professional, in that they were employed in the service of some Lord. The Gorsedd is a community or coming together of modern-day Bards. They hold the right of proclamation and of governance, while the Eisteddfod Council organises the event.

Ranks of the Welsh Gorsedd

There are three ranks of membership in the Welsh Gorsedd.

• Ovates - who wear green robes
• Bards - who wear blue robes
• Druids - who wear white robes

The Bard's Chair

There are three Gorsedd ceremonies at every Eisteddfod, which happen at the end of the three main competitions.

• The Crowning of the Bard - awarded to the poet judged best in the competition in free meter
• The Awarding of the Prose Medal - for the winner of the prose competition
• The Chairing of the Bard - for the best long poem

A new bardic chair is specially designed and made for each Eisteddfod, and is awarded to the prize-winning Bard each year.

Eisteddfod 1961

When I was 13, in 1961, the National Eisteddfod came to Rhosllannerchrugog (the Rhos) just one and a half mile from Penycae. With a population of around 10,000 people, it was one of the largest villages in Wales. Because of its built up nature, the Eisteddfod was held on the outskirts of the village on the fields of Rhosymedre.

I was attending Rhos Secondary School at the time, and somehow we entered a group in the Choral Speaking competition, and I was a member. Choral Speaking, for those unfamiliar with it, is projecting your voice and speaking in chorus. Imagine the finest choir. Take away the music and the singing, and just speak the words. I have always loved this form of art, and when done at best, it is powerful, evocative, intense and very moving. I have looked up some choral speaking on the Internet, but to be honest they were mostly rubbish, and I refuse to give a link in case you become tainted. I have no idea how we did in the competition, but as I had by then begun to love public speaking, I'm sure that performing on stage in front of thousands was a magical experience.

Not much about me or my village I know, but there is a link, and I hope that having a brief look at the magic of the National Eisteddfod is of some interest. This year in the Eisteddfod in Wrexham, there will be stiff competition for the three main prizes. The entries received are;

• For the Crown = 35
• For the Chair = 13
• For the Prose Medal = 11

I think that Marcus Garvey is right, "A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots".                                                       

My Village, My Home, My Life - part five

Yes, I know. I know. I said that the last one would be the last one, but I've changed my mind. Self-indulgent it may me, but I'm enjoying myself, and a few comments have encouraged me to keep it going.

Hill Street, Penycae

I went back to Penycae last Sunday to have a look around, and refresh my memory. I travelled around the lanes outside of the village to remember the walks taken in my youth. I took this photograph looking down Hill Street, with Lampit Street on the left. The house in the middle is where I lived for the first five years of my life. I'd always believed that the original cottages were pulled down and another house built on the site. On looking at the house a lot closer, it seems to be of an age from the late 1940's, and I now think that the original two semi-detached cottages have been knocked into one dwelling.

Continuing past the house on Hill Street, you pass over the Pentre bridge, with the river flowing beneath it. Just past the bridge, higher up the bank, (you can see a white house to the right of mine) lived the first girl I was ever keen on. I was only about 5 or 6 remember, and never told anyone about it. To be honest, I'm as useless today as I was then about mentioning feelings to females. Our respective families were quite close, and I remember walking up the steep path to their house from off the road. There were fruit hedges on either side of the pathway lined with the biggest, juiciest gooseberries you could ever imagine seeing. We ate loads of them, and I still love gooseberries to this day.

Hill Street Shop

The shop on the left was at the top of Hill Street, opposite the War Memorial. The picture was taken around 1973. The then owners had bought it the year before, and they say that the deeds to the building were 150 years old then.

There are two things that I remember about that shop when I was growing up. One was the range of sweets you could buy, that you could get from nowhere else locally. The weekly treat while very young was worth waiting for. The second thing that I remember is being absolutely terrified of the daughter of the shop owners. I have no idea why - time has been kind and erased this from my memory. It must have been of sufficient scale though, as my sister has occasionally referred to it. Terrified I may have been, but the need for sweets was all consuming in an age of general austerity, and purchases were made with the speed of a Usain Bolt.

Two doors up from the shop nearer Chapel Street stood the Cross Keys pub (I'll return to this later). Built at the back of the pub was the Post Office and the men's Barber Shop.

The Barber's shop was a small room where I used to have my hair cut on a Saturday morning every 4 - 6 weeks. Prior to going to secondary school, the style (don't imagine for one moment that there was any style about it) was fairly short on top with a parting down the left side. A pudding bowl, suitable to the size of your head was placed on it, and all the hair cut off that was not hidden by the bowl.

On going to secondary school, I rebelled. I had enough problems in school to cope with without the shame of a pudding bowl haircut. I needed a more sophisticated look. Unfortunately, the Barber had two styles available. One with the pudding bowl and one without. I think that the hair styles in the three periods of my life - junior school, secondary school, and everything after - could be summed up by one word, crap.




Pub Map of Penycae

The village during its history had thirteen pubs, but only two of them remain in business today.

1. Wheelwrights Arms
2. Bricklayers Arms
3. The New Inn
4. Royal Oak
5. The Anchor
6. The Cross Keys
7. The Bird in Hand
8. The Queens
9. The Black Horse (still operating)
10. The Cross Foxes (still operating)
11. The Eagles
12. The Red Lion



The Anchor Pub

13. Name Unknown

The Anchor Pub was opposite our house in Hill Street. It was the only pub in the area that had a thatched roof. A pathway down the side of it led to the Recreation Ground. It is said that a famous Welsh boxer (though I can't seem to find his name) used to train in the stables at the back of the pub - a bit like Rocky.

Unfortunately, on the 26th June 1953 a stray spark set the thatch roof on fire, destroying the pub. We moved from Hill Street in 1953 to live on the farm. I don't know if the move was before the fire, or after it. The Pentre area of Penycae was an interesting place to live.

Wales has always liked its beer. It may seem as if Penycae had a lot of pubs, but this was nothing compared to Blackwood (in South Wales area now known as Gwent), which boasted in 1842 to have one pub for every 5 inhabitants.

It is said that Wales has been brewing beer for 4000 years, and enjoying every minute of it. An 1850 report on public health in north east Wales stated, "Drunkenness I found complained of, by all parties, as the disgrace of Wrexham". The historian Russell Davies said in 2005, "The real opiate of the Welsh was alcohol. Alcohol was a thirst quencher, a reliever of physical pain and psychological strain, a symbol of human interdependence, a morale booster, a sleeping draft and a medicine. The hopelessness of destitution demanded a short-cut to oblivion".

We often hear today about marketing policies (offers on drink by supermarkets and pubs), youth drinking and binge drinking as if they are all new, and life was so different in the past. Look at some examples.

Marketing - in 1836, One Merthyr Tydfil publican was found to be offering three drinks for the price of one as an early morning special offer.

Youth drinking - in 1891, the popular novelist, Daniel Owen complained that pubs "were now filled with empty-headed youths, not old enough to shave, drinking like animals and going home in a worse state than any animal".

Binge drinking - in the 1830's, members of the Ebbw Vale Temperance Society were allowed two pints of beer a day, similar to the current recommended maximum for men of 3-4 units per day. However, problems arose when some adherents decided to save up their weekly beer allowance in order to knock back 14 pints at the weekend. The Society soon moved to the view of total abstinence.

Wales' love of rugby is well known, as is the fact that it went hand in hand with drink. The period from 1964 to 1979, when Wales won seven Triple Crowns and England failed to record a single victory in Cardiff, led according to John Davies to "a redefinition of the characteristics of the Welsh" from "puritan chapel-goers" to "muscular boozers who were doubtful whether there was any life beyond the dead-ball line".

Through pressure from the religious communities and the temperance movement, the Welsh Sunday Closing Act was passed in 1881 which meant that no pubs could open on a Sunday in Wales. This was the case until 1961 when every local district in Wales could separately vote whether to open pubs on Sundays in their District. Wales gradually became 'wet' on Sundays from 1961 to 1996, when the local government district of Dwyfor became the last district to lift the ban.

When pubs were closed on Sundays in Wales, people came up with all manner of creative ways to get a drink. In Penycae, buses came to the village on a Sunday to take people to Oswestry for a drink - this was a small town just across the border in England. This was one of the benefits of living near the border with England.

There's a wonderful story of ingenuity in Penycae concerning the Cross Keys pub. There was a house next door attached to the pub, and the house owner and pub owner agreed to knock a hole in the wall between the pub and the living room in the house. Drinkers would go to the house and be served drink through the hole in the wall, so technically people were not drinking in the pub on a Sunday. I loved the description given to me that the pub was closed, but the house had lots of friends.

Throughout Wales there were examples of man's cunning spirit. In the 1890's, Cardiff's Hotel de Mari arranged for gatherings of up to 2000 men on Sunday mornings to meet at a disused clay pit, where barrels of drink were provided free of charge in return for a 'voluntary' fee. Drinkers also made use of a clause in the legislation allowing the provision of drinks to genuine travellers, by walking to the next parish for a pint. Finally, one very enterprising brewery sought to take advantage of the ban by selling 'Sunday sustainers': two pint flagons of beer that could be bought on Saturday to drink on the Sunday.

I'm strangely proud that my village had its fair share of cunning plans to get a drink on a Sunday. We've spent a lot of time on drink here, which was important to my village, and I hope that the wider context has been of interest. Let me finish by pretending that we're in a pub quiz, and ask two questions.

1. What is the highest pub in the United Kingdom? - it is the Tan Hill Inn, Yorkshire at 1,732 feet above sea level.
2. What is the remotest pub on the British mainland? - it is The Old Forge in the village of Inverie, Lochaber, Scotland.There is no road access and it may only be reached by an 18 mile walk over the mountains, or a seven mile sea crossing. See http://www.theoldforge.co.uk/

Until next time, when I may subject you to stories of my first job on leaving school.