Wales Feed

On the buses

Roy Noble — Fri, 10 Dec 2010 14:58:34 +0000

In man's 'roaming about' development, horse-riding followed walking, coaches followed horses, trains followed coaches, bikes slipped in there somewhere, along came motor cars and then, my favourite group movement conveyance trundled out: the bus.

Man oh man, my love affair with the bus goes back years. As I write I can see seven of them, all models, sitting on one of our bookshelves. My father was a coal-miner, but for years he changed to transport, and, when I was a little boy, his life was buses.

He worked nights in the James & Sons garage in Ammanford, fueling and cleaning the single and double decker buses, and, if a conductor or driver did not report in of a morning, he had to crew the service. I never wanted to be an engine driver; my dream was to be at the wheel of a Guy Arab double decker.

In fact, my dad arranged it on many an occasion. At night, when the buses turned round near my grandmother's house and then prepared to head down the road a couple of bus-stops to our house, I'd be lifted on to the driver's lap to cover the journey in the closed cab. It was a sacking offence for the drivers, but they didn't seem to mind.

My father fueling a Leyland double decker in James' garage

The South Wales Transport AEC buses took us on shopping trips to Swansea from the terminus near the Derlwyn Arms. If we went to Swansea, it was a 'big shop', something like a suit for a funeral, otherwise we'd go on the lesser journey to Ammanford.

Buses took us to the grammar school every day. I remember one tipping over two miles from the school. No-one was hurt but it blocked the road, so in the following buses we all had a choice: a two-mile walk to school or five miles home. We went home.

Buses took us to Barry or Porthcawl on the Club and Institute annual trip, when over a dozen of them lined up to take the woman and children to the seaside. No-one wanted to go on Twm from Garnant's bus. He was a slow driver, always the last to get to the sea. On the journey I swear the bus, a 29-seater Bedford, was never further than two feet from the hedge or pavement. You could pick daisies as you went.

Once a year, on our holiday, an Ebsworth double decker would take us, as a family, from Carmarthen to Tenby to stay with my grandparents for week. I was allowed to stand all the way, grabbing the rail at the front window upstairs so that I could be first to see the sea and shout "I can see Caldey Island look... over there Mam... over there!"

Gwaun Cae Gurwen was Check Point Charlie. You could get a bus there for anywhere in the world, with connections. Western Welsh passed through the village, as did the United Welsh, the South Wales Transport and James of course. The James buses had a green light hanging in the front so that you could identify them in a fog and the older double deckers had wooden slatted seats, so coal-miners in dirty clothes could sit on them with no bother.

Pitted baths were not built in coal-mines then, and some bus companies were fussy, Miners coming off shift were not encouraged on the Western Welsh buses, which served the longer routes to Carmarthen and Cardiff, because they were 'posh' with plush seats.

When the sap was on the move, buses took us home from dances. They left the Regal Ballroom at a quarter to 12 and there was no point getting interested in a girl who was taking a bus in the opposite direction to you. After the question, "Do you want to dance?", the next one was "Where do you live then?" If she said Tycroes, there was no point having a second dance because that village was not on the Amman Valley route. If she was from Glanamman, Garnant, G.C.G., Brynaman or Cwmllynfell, that was a different kettle of fish. Things could develop as it were.

Oh yes, buses and me, we've been very close. Some years ago, on a New Year's resolution whim, I decided I wanted a bus licence. I got it too, although learning in Skewen was hell. It's all uphill, with double parking everywhere. I even bought half a bus - don't ask which half - an ex-Aberdare Council 1973 Bristol RE single decker. I haven't got it now, but I look back on it fondly.

Me and my son Richard leaning on my bus, the ex-Aberdare Council 1973 Bristol RE.

I even wanted to have a series on television called Return Ticket. Someone could hire the bus, or coach, fill it with their friends and re-visit somewhere that held fond memories for them. I'd drive it of course. Now wouldn't that be something?

Roy

Roy Noble is bringing his famous storytelling skills to a computer near you as part of the BBC First Click Campaign - aimed at encouraging people to take their first steps to getting online. If you know somebody who needs help to get online, call the free BBC First Click advice line on 08000 150950.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

Roy Noble — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 16:13:38 +0000

Our immediate world is under snow. Well, large tracts of the the Heads of the Valleys are anyway and, walking with Dylan one morning this week. I found the snow to be the noisiest I've ever known.

The temperature was very low - minus 8 according to one pundit I met in the closed off corrie that is Cwmdare. The sun was shining, low but brightly over the ridge that leads to Maerdy in the Rhondda Fach, and the snow was at its glistening best, hard and crunchy to the foot-fall. So crunchy in fact that everyone who had ventured out commented on it and you could hear people walk at a distance of 100 yards. All right, metres.

The snow, although not deep, has made an impression this past week. On Friday night, on a visit to Tesco to get Dylan's biscuits, it started snowing and the flakes were the biggest I have ever known. They were the size of side plates in a table setting. Quite magnificent, but not good quality, for they were very damp.However, the low temperatures meant they froze quickly on the roads and caused mayhem.

Snow for me, feeds the memory with the ghosts of snow storms past. I'm sure I remember the heavy fall of 1947, when I was only four. I could walk over my Mamgu's garden gate. No bother at all and one night there were strange lights in the sky. The aurora borealis over Brynaman, the Northern Lights dancing over the Derlwyn Arms pub and Danny "Rhiw Ddu"'s farm. No doubt about it, and to see them again remains an ambition of mine. It's a pity really that Joanna Lumley has stolen my thunder, but, no odds, I'll get there one day, be it Norway or Canada.

In 1963 I was in Cardiff Training College. It was a winter so deep and severe that Roath Lake froze for a couple of months. We could walk across it from one campus to another and, on one occasion a short game of rugby was played on it. The lake lay like concrete. I can't recall where the ducks went for solace.

My father clearing our drive in Brynaman, 1963

Up in Cwmdare this week, there was still enough unfrozen water for the Canada geese and other duck varieties to paddle about, leading to one dog walker to comment: "If there is reincarnation I don't want to come back as a duck. Not in weather like this." Mind you, when the Canada geese start their pre-flight squawking and they take off in formation, slowly rising above the lake, what a sight they make. It's beaten only when the squadron comes back in and each duck uses its wings in a full flap brake angle and its legs in cushion landing mode. Even then, not every duck has mastered the art and one or two are all over the place.

Ah, the memory too of gaining Brownie points from my son on a snowy week in 1978. He was only three and was excited by the snow. You couldn't buy plastic sledges then, but I was his hero when I went out to the garage with a chair that was surplus to requirements. I knocked the legs off, screwed some cut planks across the legs for a seat and added thick cord as the uphill towing line. Man oh man, what a cresta run vehicle it proved to be. We had years of snowy service out of it.

Braving the elements on a slope in Landare, Aberdare in the late 1970s

The magic of snow. Apparently, the Inuit have over 40 names for it... or is it more? I'm looking out of the window at it as I write. What a sight it makes. And under this covering our lawn looks just as good as any one else's.

You have to wonder about global warning don't you? At minus 8 in Cwmdare, the only thing hot around here is the argument about global warming.

Roy

Brass for Christmas

Roy Noble — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 15:14:55 +0000

I wonder if the Llwydcoed Brass Band will tour the village on Christmas morning this year. I really hope they do. Elaine and I have been living here for 18 years and members of the band have always appeared at the gate at some time on the Blessed morning. Up until last year that is.

They failed to make it in 2009 - not enough volunteers, the band committee said. It was a great pity because it's such a wonderful interlude. Funnily enough, the church Christmas songsters didn't make it last year either.

It was all part of the festive season. The ad-hoc choir, quickly gathered-together church members, doing a tour of an evening, singing in the road, then adding a carol inside the house when they're invited in for mulled wine or a whisky and mince pie. Then, on Christmas morning, the unmistakeable sound of the local brass band taking us out to the gate to enjoy their good cheer in exchange for a contribution in the box for band funds and refreshments. They were all greatly missed last year.

A magical moment occurred two or three years ago. We heard the band approaching and as they stopped at our gate to start a new carol. As they hit the first note, snowflakes began to fall. It was a Hollywood moment, though no film director could have planned it better.

Tuba players (photo: Charlotte Griffin, Ty Cerdd)

I've got a lot of time for brass bands. Their performances on stage can be rousing, colourful, inspiring and, on occasions very animated and theatrical. They have working class roots and they nurture youth. Any youngster showing interest is hugely encouraged and allowed to borrow an instrument until circumstances allow one to be purchased.

I've spoken to members of many bands very often. The subject of musical snobbery is often discussed, the orchestra being at one 'posh' social level, the brass or silver band at another cloth-cap level altogether.Thankfully, things are so much better now with a blurring of the attainment, acceptance and musical excellence.

I've learnt a lot too. Brass bands are divided into divisions and competition allows them to attain promotion. In many ways, they are like soccer teams and the bands in the lower division suffer from the temptations of transfer for their better players. A good player gets invited to join a band in a higher division and the band they leave are stuck in a lower division because some of their quality and expertise has gone.

The Cynon Valley has been rich in banding. The Cwmaman Band was in the Premier Division, but loss of sponsorship, especially after the big benefactor, Tower Colliery, closed, hit them very hard indeed. Llwydcoed Band continue to carry the banner, so good luck to them. I'm visited often by committee members in search of contributions and raffle prizes and I'm pleased to support them. Continued success to them all.

Wales has many great brass bands. I could mention half a dozen, but it's dangerous ground because I might miss one out. I will mention one though: Cory Band of the Rhondda. Last year I was privileged to compère their 125th anniversary concert in St David's Hall, Cardiff. They were then European champions and, within three weeks, they became world champions. It was a stupendous night, packed to the gunnels with dignitaries and composers, some from the north of England, which is a hot-bed area for banding.

These bands carry the Welsh dragon everywhere and they take Wales to the world at the highest level. They deserve praise and support for honing this cultural field in the way they do.

I'm not a great expert on band music, but I will readily be in their corner if required. I do hope Llwydcoed Band do the annual village tour on Christmas morning. They lift the spirit and, in their playing, they send forth the true Christmas message of goodwill to all.

Roy

The Black Mountain

Roy Noble — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 14:54:10 +0000

The Carmarthenshire Vans form the western reaches of the Brecon Beacons. The wild, high, open moorland that stretches on as far as Carreg Cennen Castle is the Black Mountain.

This mountain is not as pretentious as the Black Mountains of Hay on Wye and the Welsh borderlands. Those hills gather together in the plural, but the Black Mountain that stands brooding above Brynaman is content enough to be singular. It is self confident as one.

This area came to mind this week because I'm due to visit Bethlehem to open the village Christmas Fair. This is not Bethlehem, Judea, but Bethlehem, Carmarthenshire, which lies at the foot of the northern slopes of the Black Mountain, just above the magnificent flow of the Towy and its valley, heading downwards to Llandeilo, and upwards to Llandovery.

The mountain has a dominant colour that has a clue in its name, although dark grey would be nearer the mark and, from a distance, that shade is widespread, nature having carried massive boulders and scree on an ancient ice-flow to dump them as soon as Swansea Bay was in view on the far horizon.

This land is border country of another kind, marking the impressive ridge of carboniferous limestone that separates the coal measures of old industrial south Wales from the northern Old Red Sandstone that stretches under the agrarian quilt of fields that towards mid Wales.

It's a funny thing, but fate has always decreed that I be drawn to limestone. I was born on the slopes of the Black Mountain, I had two teaching headships in Pontneddfechan and Llangattock, and I now live to the north of Aberdare, near the quarries of Penderyn and Cefn Coed. They are all on the band of limestone that circles the south Wales coalfield.

The Black Mountain is wild, an open moorland where no trees grow, and when you walk there it exudes a clearly discernable feeling of being at one with the ancients. To the west are three cairns viewing the valley of the Cennen and the dramatic limestone ridge that firmly holds the famed castle. Carreg Cennen is a good name, a strong name.

For me the mountain was a part of life. As a child I played my games there, I swam in Pwll Du Uchaf and Pwll Du Isaf, the Upper and Lower Black Pools.

When the summers were good and reliable they turned up when they were expected, and I hiked to Carreg Lwyd, the grey stone, that formed the peak, carrying my ex-army haversack stuffed with dandelion and burdock pop and condensed milk sandwiches.

In later year I did my courting there and on occasion, when sadness and loss beset the family, I walked the moorland just 'to let it'. Only the mountain saw the weeping and it allowed you your space and time to release that emotion.

Oddly enough, in those days, if a man was seen regularly walking the mountain on his own, it got around the village that he was depressed. I don't know what modern lone day hikers would make of that.

I have also been lost on the mountain. Well, not so much lost, as late, after the annual pilgrimage to Carreg Cennen Castle that was always undertaken by children on Whit Monday. I don't know where the tradition came from, but we all did it, from every village in the Amman Valley. It was our version of going to Mecca.

John Salter, Tecwyn Thomas and I left it late to leave to the castle one year and by the time we got to the ridge of the mountain, the mist and darkness was upon us.

My mother had already reported to the police that we were missing, but the good Lord proved again that he never works a three day week, for he placed a parked car on the Brynaman to Llangadog road, just where the road begins to dip towards the south.

Mind you, it must have been a shock to that courting couple to be quietly sitting there, when suddenly, out of the mist and darkness come three vagabonds desperate for a lift. Just to put the record straight, he did marry her a few months later!

The Black Mountain, my spiritual home and a place of the ancients, stretching down to Gwynfe, Bethlehem and Llyn y Fan Fach, of Lady of the Lake fame. It is a wild, rugged open moorland and the fact that it forms the Carmarthen Vans and the western reaches of the Brecon Beacons is true, but it is a place in its own right: proud, independent and quite unique.

Roy

Just face the music and dance

Roy Noble — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 15:55:50 +0000

I was told once that I've got natural movement. The beat of the music could be matched by the beat of my heart. "You play it... and I'll sway it."

This came home to me this week when I chatted, on air in my programme, to Gavin Henson about his progress in Strictly Come Dancing. My word, he's getting better. His quickstep was a vast improvement on his previous displays. His problem, up to then, according to the judges, was his inability to let himself go: he couldn't unleash his personality. For years I had this problem - my natural movement was caged in a body beset with too many shy genes.

My grammar school days did not unleash my potential on the dance floor. They did try: in the sixth form, from September to December in preparation for the Christmas party, there were compulsory ballroom dancing lessons. We were frogmarched to the gymnasium, twice a week, for lessons in the waltz, the foxtrot, the cha cha cha, the tango and even the gay Gordon's.

I quite liked the latter, for it was quite structured and easy and you changed partners without too many mishaps. The rest was a maelstrom of arms, legs and a back so stiff it would have doubled as a gravestone.

Being allocated a partner was also a lottery. Boys would be lined against one set of wall-bars and the girls would be lined along the opposite bars. You could easily see which number in the row you were and, as you counted the girls to find who was opposite you, there was many a whispered groan of "Oh God, look who I've got," followed by a plea of "Go on, I'll give you half a crown if you change places with me".

Actually, I had a load of luck, I was allocated Delia, an attractive girl from the upper sixth, so I was a toy-boy. She was great, but the downer was that I was only comfortable with her and at the sixth form Christmas party I was hopeless in dancing with others.

The great things about those dancing lessons were the actual dancing teachers, who were the heads of PE for boys and girls. Mr Adams, for the boys, was in the autumn of his teaching career. He was 56. Miss Norman, head of PE for girls, was in the early spring of her teaching career. She was 24 and out of some glossy magazine.

She was lovely and the great joy was that if, as a young lad of 16, 17 or 18, you couldn't do a dance, she'd come and help you and hold you close. I have to tell you, one dip and turn in the tango with Miss Norman could advance a boy's education by a leap of years.

Roy and Elaine Noble dancing on their honeymoon

Over the years I've had lots of lessons and, to be fair, I have loosened up. My wife Elaine and I attended lessons together and it did help, up the point that the tutors in the class suddenly took a contract on a P&O liner to South Africa and left us mid-cha cha cha.

I can waltz, though, and I do like a jive, even though Elaine always says that the past landlord of the Gloucester Arms in Aberdare was the king of jive. He was better than me, even if he had to wear daps because of his bad feet.

My last musical lunge at dancing was my New Year's resolution, a few years ago. I wanted to learn the Argentinean Tango. I was given lessons, in a hall in Tumble, filmed by Heno for S4C, by a very lithe lady from Llanelli.

She was too good for me too powerful. Whenever she wrapped her leg tightly around my upper thigh it stopped all the blood getting to my ankles. I always ended up with nasty pins and needles. No, my body's beat being in tune with the beat of the music it may be, but only in the waltz I think. So, altogether now: "One two three, one two three..."

Roy

Bouncing around history

Roy Noble — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 11:30:52 +0000

So, how was it for you? I'm talking about Roy's First Click, which was on BBC Two Wales on Wednesday night at 7pm. I thought the programme was excellent, but then again I'm biased. It was all very encouraging for those of us who have, not so much been surfing the net, as gingerly dipping our toe in the surf first. There were so many positives and possibilities for us - how shall I put this? - mature internet explorers. It was all very exciting.

I must say that the visit to Pilleth and the Glyndŵr verses Mortimer battle was something I really enjoyed, and computers can add so much to the story, even when you're there. It set me thinking of history and our place in it.

Don't you feel that sometimes you are of another time and place or there are elements and feelings within you that take you back to a world that once was and to characters that were of your ancestral bloodline, whether real or imagined? Dear Ray Gravell, who passed away three years ago, Welshman to the core that he was, was convinced that he was a re-incarnated warrior from Owain Glyndŵr's time. He could relate to the period, he could live it.

As for me, well, I suspect that I'm a mongrel. And yet there are historical periods that hold a solid place in my mind and psyche. Take the Vikings. I'm sure there is something in my background that has a touch of Norwegian fjord about it. When I went on a cruise to Norway last year, I was up at 4am just to catch the thrill of sailing up a fjord, and for a couple of hours I was Kirk Douglas in a scene from that film The Vikings.

Elaine and Roy Noble

You see, they say that the Nobles, us as a family, came to this country with the Normans, but the Normans were really re-settled Vikings from the north. On the cruise ship there was a man from Garnant who had the same feelings as me .He even had a Viking finger, diagnosed by the doctor. When he held his hand up, his middle finger always dropped, the sinews were gone. It was well known, his doctor said. Nordic finger, lots of Vikings had it. He couldn't do press-ups, his dropped middle finger was always in the way.

Then again, if I'm really a Celt, some of those came from the Halstadt region of southern Germany region, and I've had some good times in the Black Forest and Bavaria, let me tell you. That's why, if I was invited to a fancy dress party in Aberdare some years ago, I always tended to end up as a Viking or a Bavarian in lederhosen, hence the attached photographs. There was a definite calling to do that.

Roy Noble in lederhosen

Mind you, I was also quite well known as quite a convincing Henry VIII, but I put that down to the Noble name, my girth and my deep down longing to live in a house with a tower.

I still hold that yearning. It doesn't have to be a castle, just a nice detached abode... but with one corner forming a tower. One day, perhaps.

Roy

Art for art's sake

Roy Noble — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 17:01:41 +0000

I haven't raised an artist's brush with intent for years. As I look up at the bookshelf in my study, there are books that underline a promise to myself that I will get back to it. They have titles like Painting In Watercolour, Painting With Oils... or acrylics... or pastels... and even one entitled The Complete Artist.

My past flirtation with art goes back to school days when it was one of my subjects at A level. I was reminded again of my interest last week, as I officially opened an art exhibition in St David's Church Hall in Fleur de Lys near Ystrad Mynach.

I was definitely a B-grade artist with C-grade aspirations. I include a couple of my attempts at sketching for your consideration. The course consisted of three elements: architecture, still life and composition - or landscape scenes if you like.

In the sixth form with me was Judith Williams, who lived in the shop on the corner near Amman Valley Grammar School. She was stupendous in art. What a natural talent. Although our teacher was Bryn Samways, of whom I had a very high regard, I also learnt a lot from Judith, especially in the use of light and shade to create solid forms. We worked mostly in powder paints but she could have taken on any medium with a delicate sweep of her brush and a sensuous flick of her blonde hair.

On making my move to higher education, I ended up in Cardiff Training College, being hell-bent on a teaching career. The college was a cell of Spartan sporting warriors. Physical Education was the main religion and the place was awash with young men walking about in green tack-suits. The air was permanently filled with the niff of winter-green or industrial strength liniment.

We, of the non PE wing, felt a wee bit intimidated. The fact that art was one of my main subjects, geography being the other, left me a little vulnerable in the macho pecking order. To add to my discomfort, I was the only boy in a class of 16. To be fair, I dug in, and was doing quite well until the entire class moved on to embroidery. That was it, I dropped art and replaced it with history.

Years later, on a teaching course, I tried art again. There was a choice of still life or life drawing. Rumour was on the road that the model in the still life class had been sent from heaven... or Playboy magazine.

Either way, the class was heavily over-subscribed. Just two had enlisted for the flower pots and fruit of the still life class, and 37 were queuing for Miss Cosmos in the life drawing group. In fact, we were so packed in that it was positively dangerous. You could have had your eye out from the pencil of the person sitting next to you.

Life, however, is full of troughs and pot-holes. As we sat, in anticipation, for the model to make her breath-catching appearance, the door finally opened... and in walked a green track-suit, inhabited by one of the PE students from my past college.

The air was a mixture of mass disappointment, hissed expletives and the familiar aroma of wintergreen. This time, history was not an option. My 2B Steadtler pencil and I were trapped.

Roy

Roy Noble is bringing his famous storytelling skills to a computer near you as part of the BBC First Click campaign - aimed at encouraging people to take their first steps to getting online. If you know somebody who needs help to get online, call the free BBC First Click advice line on 08000 150950.

The last chord... many times over

Roy Noble — Fri, 29 Oct 2010 07:15:38 +0000

Crotchets and quavers came up in abundance this past week. Music was in the air.

On the radio programme I mentioned that a German sausage producer plays Mozart and Beethoven while the sausages are being made. He swears that because of the lilting and uplifting ambience, the sausages are so much better quality.

Now, I've heard of cows giving more milk to a musical background, chickens laying more eggs and even vines producing better quality wine, but I'm not sure about sausages. Then again, if it works, don't knock it... there's more to heaven and earth than we fully understand.

Boyhood pals: Berian Evans and Roy

We had a visitor at Noble Towers to add interest over the past few days. Berian Evans, a lifelong friend of mine, originally from Brynaman but now of Perth Australia, stayed with us on his tour of relatives and friends in 'the Old Country'.

Berian is a professional musician, still playing the viola for the Western Australia Symphony Orchestra. For many years he was a violin player, of some note may I say. When he was about 12 he was selected as one of the youngest members of the Welsh National Youth Orchestra, and at 16 became one of the youngest leaders.

I remember his early flirtation with the violin. His parents were very strict about his practicing and he was one of the first boys I knew who wore prickly vests. The harsh linen concentrated his mind I suppose, keeping it on the musical straight and narrow, avoiding temptations that weakened the will.

I have always been jealous of musicians. I know I could have done something about it and taken up an instrument and it is never too late, so who knows?

Mind you, things mitigated against me sometimes. In the Brynaman Infants School percussion group, I was never let loose on the drum. It was always the triangle or tambourine for me.

The percussion group at Brynaman Infants School

Thinking back to the days in school, when they were looking for choir members for the combined schools choir at the National Eisteddfod at Ystradgynlais in the 1950s, it was Berian Evans himself who told the teacher that I got dizzy when I tried to reach high notes.

I was away ill, with measles, so I couldn't tell the teacher that Berian was talking through his knitted balaclava, which was just as prickly as his vest. His assessment was utter musical garbage, but the teacher still put me in the inter-school group recitation troupe instead.

Musical acumen did jump a generation in our family, because Noble Junior, our son Richard, did play the cello and performed in St. David's Hall, Cardiff, with the Mid-Glamorgan County Orchestra. He also went on to form a group, playing a bass guitar and being a lead singer.

So, deep down there must have been something hidden in the blood trying to get out for it does manifest itself in me on occasion. Give me four or five pints and I will give a passable rendering of Don Williams' I Recall A Gipsy Woman. Push me further with a malt whisky and Dean Martin's Little Ole Wine Drinker Me just flows out.

Roy

A good Welsh funeral

Roy Noble — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 13:30:24 +0000

Jon Dee's passing away has got me thinking of funerals. His funeral takes place this week, and I'm sure it will be a fine one.

It's funny to think of a funeral as a fine one or a good one, but this has been important in the Welsh psyche for many, many decades. Of course, in the old days, when I was young, there was a definite format and structured style and arrangement.

Immediately, on a death, curtains were drawn in the house and, out of sympathy, in all the adjoining houses in the street. Relatives would visit with their condolences and if other family members, or friends that they were not talking to, arrived while they were there, then they went out through the back door and the new visitors would come in at the front door.

On the day of the funeral, the preacher would call at the house for the first service and if, in his oration, he had not managed to get everyone crying, or weeping or wailing, then he hadn't done his job.

Men gathered on the road outside the house and a hymn was sung before the funeral moved off. Men would walk in front of the hearse, many in bowler hats and with a strong air of mothballs about them, as the overcoats had their first trip out of the wardrobe for a couple of years, and the mourners would travel in the accompanying undertakers' car. It was always only men that attended funerals, whether it was a woman who had died or not.

At the graveside another hymn was sung and then, many mourners would return to the house for 'ham on plates' and refreshments. It was a great lifting of the spirit and a joyous lightening of the air when the curtains were, at last, opened.

One fellow I heard about from Cwmgors had a real love of funerals and he would look in the paper for details of one he might fancy. It was not unusual for him to go to three or four funerals a week. He'd often go back to the house for food as well, because the family was usually confused enough to believe he was a long forgotten cousin from 'the other side' of the family, so no-one asked close questions.

There can be confusion, because I, recently, went to the wrong post-funeral refreshments. I was on my first pint in the pub's gathering before I realised.

There can be great levity at such occasions too. I remember being at one funeral in Seven Sisters when, on the return from the cemetery, one fellow was stating that it was becoming a regular event for him. It was like having a Debenture Ticket at the Crematorium. He also said to his mate "Iorrie, you're not looking too well to me, is it really worth you taking the walk back from the cemetery now?"

Roy

Remembering Jon Dee

Roy Noble — Thu, 28 Oct 2010 09:50:17 +0000

Great sadness this week. Jon Dee, who was the regular astrologer on my radio programme for twenty years, suddenly passed away. It was a great shock and a deep sadness because he had only recently moved to Bridgend and was setting up a publishing film.

Roy Noble with Jon Dee and Radio Wales colleague Kathryn Martin

His great gift was beyond just astrology. He had an impressive retentive memory and his reservoir of facts was beyond compare. When he came in to relate his cosmic surveying, it was the interlude of 'This day in history' that fired the imagination and interest. He always had so much more title-tattle to add to the subject.

For instance, did you know that the Battle of Waterloo was a very close run thing. It was touch and go until the Prussians arrived around about four o'clock of an afternoon to join in the fray. They were led by General Blucher, who was widely regarded as being off his head and was convinced, allegedly, that he had given birth to an elephant.

Further, would we have won if Napoleon had not had haemorrhoids? He was on pain killing drugs and had need of a lie-down during the fighting.

All these facts are an example of how Jon and I batted the points back and forth. It was a great shame that we changed the slot, and stopped having astrology on the programme. Jon was a great broadcaster, an author of several books and a man of lateral, colourful thinking. He will be deeply missed.

Roy

Berlin beer but no Cabaret

Roy Noble — Thu, 21 Oct 2010 12:45:37 +0000

'Ich bin ein Berliner': I am a Berliner. I hope that's right, because President Kennedy went slightly amiss with his podium cry. His declaration came out as 'I'm a Berlin doughnut', or so I'm led to believe.

Our annual visit to an autumnal European capital city with Aberdare Rotary Club went superbly well. Vienna in November last year was very imperial but very 'parky', so this year we went for the falling leaves of October.

Now, I don't mind cut-price airlines. In fact, I've always found them very efficient and courteous, but is interesting to see people trying to rush, but not blatantly so, to the aircraft to get a good seat. There is definitely an art to walking quickly across the tarmac and holding your elbows out in an arch to make yourself bigger so that anyone trying to pass you will have to curve in a wide detour.

The coach driver who picked us up at Schönefeld Airport seemed very German in word and deed and he complained a lot about nuisance inefficient countries who were a burden on the EU and about too many immigrants. All the more amazing when he said he was from Albania.

Berlin turned out to be very impressive. A great deal had been been changed and built since unification and, even though the war damage was originally extensive, some of the famed landmarks were still there or had been rebuilt. The Brandenburg Gate still had that definite dramatic historical air that marked the great divide of East and West.

Checkpoint Charlie is now little more than a shed in the middle of the main road but it is such a magnet for tourists that the German authorities are thinking of re-opening Checkpoints Alpha and Bravo to meet demand. Of course the Berlin Wall, still there in a few tourist-attracting spots, holds its own poignancy of past division and death for many who tried to cross it.

The Reichstag is back to its brooding height and presence and the many museums on Museum Island are testament to German culture and art. Our visit to Potsdam, with memories of films like The Spy Who Came In From The Cold, with scenes of the famous bridge where spies were exchanged and the great house where the famed Potsdam Conference took place, all added to the ever-present feeling that you were walking in the steps of great historical moments.

As for the repast, well, we generally went native and ate German. We couldn't quite face the typical Berlin delicacy... pigs trotters, sauerkraut and potato mash, but the drink was very local. "Ein bier" was a frequent cry in the bierkellers.

My one disappointment was failing to find a touch of 1930s decadence. I was dying to enmesh myself in the entertainment of Cabaret in the company of a modern day Liza Minelli, just to test my resolve really. I mean, how can you, with a chapel deacon's clarity and purity, decry sin when you haven't encountered it at close quarters? Maybe next time, for the German capital city is back on song and worth a second visit.

The journey back was uneventful, except for the noise and whine from my suitcase as I rolled it down the road. Had that noise manifested itself at the airport, my suitcase would have been blown up for security's sake. As it turned out, it was only my beard clipper. For some reason it had turned itself on.

Thinking back, it was a close shave.

Roy

Dog days

Roy Noble — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 12:33:05 +0000

Dylan didn't come with any certificates, so we can't lay claim to a pedigree lineage. Noble Junior bought him, online, from a place in Lincolnshire. I suspect it was a puppy farm and although he was dubbed a Border Collie, I have to say his mother must have had the odd Friday night liaison with a good-looking and smooth barking greyhound.

Dylan does all the things a Collie is supposed to do, he likes us all to be neatly in the same room of an evening,nicely penned in, but he has long legs all right and is pretty fast when he hits the over-drive button. I did think he was a Lurcher, but a knowing doggie person has suggested that he's a throw back to an older Collie breed, so now we boast about that.

Anyway, I don't care if he is a mongrel really. I have a lot of time for mongrels. They're loyal and clean around the house. Actually, most of the south Walians are mongrels when you think about it: they came from all over to the iron and the coal during the Industrial Revolution.

Roy Noble with Dylan

Dylan, to his credit, has changed my personal habits. This dedicated couch potato is taken for walkies every morning now and we are regulars 'up the Cwm'. The Cwm is a a dead end valley, or corrie, crowded and pock-marked by coal mines and diggings in the days of industry. Now it is an attractive Country Park sweeping down from the harsh rocky ridge where the peregrine falcons nest, through woodland and walkways,to the lake that takes you towards the village of Cwmdare.

I am now a doggie groupie. I know all the dogs , and their owners, who lay claim to their patch every morning. We all follow a set pattern - well, until a fortnight ago. Something strange happened.

Dylan, as usual, bounded from the car, heading for his favourite bush to do... well, you know, what dogs do. However, he hesitated, cowered back towards the car and wasn't keen to hit his usual trail. I thought he was just going through a funny phase, until, over a period of days we came across several owners whose dogs had reacted in the same way. This lasted for over a week.

So, what scent had the canines picked up? Was it a wild animal, or was it something else, deeper, older and not discernible to the human instinct? After all, up in the furthest curve of the Cwm there is an ancient grove of alder trees, near the pathway stone that has on it a roughly hewn Celtic drawing.

If you enter the grove of trees, minding the mud as you go, you'll find it serene, quiet and contemplative, even in the gentle breezes that caress the branches. It was there, it is said you see, that the ancient Druids met. Maybe, just maybe, a gust had brought the old days back, fleetingly... and Dylan and the pack had picked the ancient scents. Who knows?

Roy