Plas Newydd, November 1993
Before opening a bookshop at Plas Newydd, the Trust used to organise an annual book sale event there in mid-November. Surrounding the house are large gardens, woodland walks and a marine walk along the Menai Strait where we bump into the current Marquis of Anglesey. He seems to be doing a spot of impromptu gardening, from which he breaks off to politely acknowledge us. ‘It’s a good book sale,’ we say in passing. ‘Good. Good. Buy lots of books,’ he instructs in jovial fashion. We already have. Several hundred in fact. Dad has helped by being on hand to carry the books I pick out. You don’t have much time when other dealers are engaged in the same activity. There are thousands of books; scanning their spines is exhilarating. The sheer pot luck of the experience; what author and what title will crop up? Pick and pass and scan. Pick and pass and scan. Your mind is racing. Recognising titles and estimating their resale value. Pick and pass and scan.
The Interaction of Books, Life and Death, Llanfihangel, Late August 2006
To the north and west of Llanfihangel are the high moorlands of the Berwyn, while south-eastwards the land falls towards the Vyrnwy and Severn valleys. Nain (my grandmother) was brought up in the area on a farm.
Her mother gave her a book entitled Life in a Welsh Countryside — A Social Study of Llanfihangel yng Ngwynfa by Alwyn D Rees. On page 86 is the following paragraph.
‘Since the household is asleep when the young man appears on the premises, it is necessary to signal the girl, and this is done by throwing turf, gravel or dried peas at her window. Hence, the practice is called mynd i gnocio (going to knock). An appointment is not essential, a young man may go to knock up a girl to whom he has never spoken before. If he is lucky, she will come to the window, the young man will introduce himself, and if he is acceptable she will let him into the kitchen, and they will have a light meal or a cup of tea together. In Merioneth, the custom is called mynd i gynnig (going to offer, or to try one’s luck).
Priceless. I can’t sell this book. Can I?
My Nain’s ashes lie in the village cemetery. Today we are interring my father’s ashes alongside. Family has assembled. My children recite a poem by R. S. Thomas.
I have some irreverent thoughts that I keep to myself. Earlier, in reading to myself the R. S. Thomas poem ‘Gifts’, I come across the line, ‘From my father my strong heart’ and I can’t help but hear the word ‘fart’. For diplomacy’s sake, we do not use this poem. And we refrain from using another of Thomas’s poems, ‘Welcome to Wales’, although this has lines that seem uncomfortably relevant. Come to Wales / To be buried; the undertaker / Will arrange it for you. / We have the sites and a long line / Of clients going back.
Years later, a dealer whose quarry was manuscripts and authors’ letters contacts me. Believing me to have the ‘right’ name and connections, I am handed the following in February 2009.
Thomas (Ronald Stuart)
A small archive of mostly typed material, mostly early 1980s, including a rare cassette and material relating to a BBC Radio 3 broadcast in 1983 celebrating the 70th birthday of RS Thomas, including a rough sketch of the programme/script in the hand of Kevin Crossley-Holland. Twelve folio sheets, a further set of twelve leaves being a second sketch plan for the programme, heavily corrected by Crossley-Holland, plus a further forty-six pages in his hand, a further revised version, typed interviews with D.Z. Phillips, Gwyn Jones, Robin Young, Andrew Waterman and R.S. Thomas himself, all with corrections by Crossley-Holland. Plus an original typescript of Thomas’s book Cymru or Wales?, a related letter from the editor Meic Stephens, a short note in the poet’s holograph written at the end of the letter with his signature, plus a thirteen page typescript of a broadcast by Thomas entitled ‘The Living Poet.’, from 17th November 1980.
Before submitting the R. S. Thomas material to auction, I decide to give Bangor University the opportunity to acquire the papers. The university has set up a special Research Centre which seeks ‘to promote research into his work, the Centre’s archive contains all of R. S. Thomas’s published works, together with a comprehensive collection of reviews, critical books and articles, interviews and audio-visual material.’
There is some initial enthusiasm before their interest wanes. Maybe they have a surfeit of material.
Near to Llanfihangel is Llanfylin, which lies on the River Cain amid gently rolling hills. My Nain went to school in the village as did my father in the war years of the 1940s. We have spent happy days on holiday visiting family in the town.
Situated at the top of Greenhall hill, south east Llanfylin, is ‘The Lonely Tree.’ It stands above Y Dolydd workhouse and legend has it that if you intend to stay in the area, you must make the trek up the hill to give the tree a hug. Whenever I read ‘Fern Hill’, I think of great afternoon expeditions, as they seem to us then as children, to reach ‘The Lonely Tree’. Used to London streets, we saw the countryside as so exotic, with its gigantic ferns in which we could hide.
My cure for feeling blue in Paris is to visit the Pompidou Centre and listen to recordings of the poem made by the author. I recall an oceanography field trip to Laugharne lying on the estuary of the River Tâf. The town is widely known for having been the home of Dylan Thomas and may have been an inspiration for the fictional town of Llareggub in Under Milk Wood.
As oceanography students, we dyed the beaches by day (to detect movements in the sands) and drank beer by night in what was Dylan’s ‘local’ — Brown’s Hotel. We were let out of a lock in, which means that our 3 a.m. walk down to the beach was really a drunken stagger. A couple of no good boyos up to no good. Joe wanted to ‘contribute’ to the experiment by peeing on the sand in the test area.