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Front Cover: a lino cut by Alison Jones

Decorative text dividers are from lino cuts by Alison Jones and drawings from Virginia Robotham

Other illustrations are generally captioned

Brecon U3A: Registered Charity no. 1074288

Secretary: Agi Yates

Web Site: https://u3asites.org.uk/brecon/welcome

Contact: https://u3asites.org.uk/brecon/contact

THE PHOENIX Summer 2018

The Annual Magazine of Brecon

University of The Third Age

No. 71

Editor: Mike Ingram

Editorial Team: Elaine Starling, David Mitchell, Trevor Jones, Richard Walker

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Contents Editorial 6 From the Brecon U3A Chairman 7 Adventure in Hay-on-Wye - The Siege Victim 8

by Jean Hosie The Royal Oak, Pencelli 13

by Virginia Robotham By Classic Car to Classic Trains 13

by David Mitchell Ty Bach Tales 14

by Phillip Dey Gadfly 17 Brexit 18

by David Mitchell True Style 18

by Hugh Thomas Le Chateau Rose 19

by John Davies Ayrton Wragge 20

by Deanna Leboff Toadstool 22

by Corrine Thomas Making Gardens 23

by Poppy Weston Twrch 29

by John Davies A Thing of Some Significance ... 30

by Fiona Ciai Brown Frisky Friesians or Hazards of the Artist 33

by Fleur The Nesting Place 34

by Cathy Sims (written 1966) The Meal 36

by Hugh Thomas Lino Cut 40

by Alison Jones

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Vitticulche A Guide for Whining Snobs 41 by David Mitchell

Round the Bend 42 by Vivienne Williams

Chilterns 44 by Lyn Rees

Frank Sinatra 45 by Robert Poole

Cardiff Library 46 by Robert Poole

Suspended 47 by Rosey Budd, Canterbury U3A Sports Slacks Label 49

By Vivienne Williams U3A and Co-Production 50

by Richard Walker The Tree 52

by Mike Ingram Farmyard 55

by Corrine Thomas The Dormouse 56

by Linda M Dainty 2017 Ancient Places 57

by Jean Ruston Rabbit 58

by Joan Stanesbury Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit 58

by Joan Millard Disappointment 59

by Joan Stanesbury If I were Just William for a day, I would have a riotous time 61

by Deanna Leboff A Welsh Family in New Zealand 63

by John Underwood Remembering Snowy Winters Ago 66

by Fiona Ciai Brown

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A Thursday Round 68 by Hugh Thomas

Betrayal 69 by Linda M Dainty

Summer Delights 70 by Margaret Blake

Déjà vu 71 by Richard Walker

Thoughts of a Would-be Thespian 73 by Robert Poole

Broken silence 76 by Linda M Dainty

Travels in Patagonia – November 2017 77 by Viv Williams

Archaeology 81 by Elaine Starling

Classical Literature 82 by Elaine Starling

Creative Writing 82 by Elaine Starling

Y GAER - NOT JUST A ROMAN FORT 84 by Mervyn Bramley

The Canal at Pencelli 87 by Virginia Robotham

Brecon U3A Archive 88 by Gill Evans

Literature – Philosophy – Theology 89 by Richard Walker

Wildlife 2017/18 91 by Gill Evans

Film Club 92 by Nesta Thomas

The Travel Desk - Review of the Year 2017/18 94 by Joan Millard

Picton Castle 96 by Virginia Robotham

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Art Appreciation and Family History - Erased from History 97 by Mike Ingram

Gardening 98 by Pat Wilkie

Sky Dive 100 by Margaret Lloyd

Rise to a Challenge. 102 by Chris Kamutikaoma

Using the Brecon U3A Website 104

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Editorial This is my first year of editing the Phoenix. On everyone’s behalf I would like to thank David Mitchell for the great work he has done with the previous issues. David has given me a great deal of help this year and I am sure that you will be glad to know that he is still on the editing team.

I was worried at first that I would not get enough contributions to fill a magazine but that has not been the case. As you will find out when you read it through there are many excellent and varied contributions.

My emphasis has been on layout and have avoided tampering with text. A few of you who have submitted material may find the odd word changed or missing. I have only done this where it has been absolutely necessary to avoid odd words or lines going onto the next page. I have also tried to be consistent with the design of previous issues.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the privilege of being the first in the audience to read these pieces. And would like to congratulate and thank those who have provided art work which is all of excellent quality. In fact, thank you to everyone who has provided all of these excellent items.

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From the Brecon U3A Chairman The term “Chairman” first appeared in the Oxford English Dictionary in 1658. It has several citations around 1720 for those occupying the “Chair” at formal meetings. I remember when I was much younger enjoying the tradition of the chairman being a “Master of Ceremonies” in the old Music Hall, whose job it was to control the rowdier elements of the audience. I was living in Leeds when “The Good Old Days” was regularly broadcast from the Leeds City Varieties. The term “Chairman” was used in both Russia and China in it’s respective revolutions, and in China Mao Zedong is still referred to as “Chairman Mao”. Being chairman of Brecon U3A, it’s nice to know you are following a long historical tradition!

For me, the role of chairman is simply being one of a team that seeks to make Brecon U3A work for all its members. I have other roles outside U3A but picking up the office of chairman in an organisation with a reputation for excellence is rather daunting. Part of it at Brecon are the traditions established by my predecessors, but without the support of a talented and committed team, a chairman can achieve nothing.

Organisations like U3A only function because people give up their time and use their talents to organise, arrange, keep people informed, as well as dealing with a myriad of rules and regulations that seem to be dreamed up by those in authority as obstacles to achieving anything. Like all other Third Sector organisations U3A only has a future if people volunteer to make them a success.

I may be biased, but I think Brecon U3A is a great organisation feeding those most important human traits of curiosity and imagination. On your behalf, my thanks to everyone on the committee; to all of you for your support and friendship, and finally to Mike Ingram, who does so much for us, but very practically has produced this magazine. Enjoy it.

Richard

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Adventure in Hay-on-Wye - The Siege Victim by Jean Hosie

On Friday 10th December 1993 Bruce and I having just returned from a 12-week visit to Australia, New Zealand and Malaysia decided to make a start on serious Christmas shopping and arrange appointments with our dentist so drove over to Hay-on-Wye. On leaving the car park we separated, Bruce to the Post Office enroute to the dental surgery and I into the Pavement Bookshop. I was astonished when he

appeared moments later saying he had heard in the Post Office that there was man armed with a gun going “around the town” and having reported to me went off to the surgery. I thought little of this message, confident that no villain was likely to come into a second-hand bookshop.

Some ten minutes or so later, about 3.00pm, I was amazed to hear a policeman come into the shop and insisting premises be evacuated immediately as there was an “incident”. I made my way to the car park, expecting Bruce to join me very shortly, but realised he had the car keys and that I had foolishly left all my keys at home, having failed yet to transfer them from my holiday bag into the one I was carrying! When he did not appear, I started back to the Dental Surgery only to find the town now full of police and all the streets closed. The man with the gun was making his presence felt, and I learned he was already well known to the authorities; it later transpired that he was one Mark Williams, “on leave” from prison for the weekend to visit his foster-mother in Llanwrtyd Wells.

Mark and his foster-mother had fallen out over a Christmas present he

Bruce Hosie 1929 - 2017

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wanted but that she could not afford, and he had hit her and thrown her downstairs before fleeing the house. He stole a car in Llanwrtyd and drove towards Hay but before reaching the town stopped at a farm and persuaded the farmer to buy the car from him.

The farmer gave him a cheque, so he walked into Hay to cash it in a bank, but it was incorrectly made out and he was refused. Frustrated, he left the bank, crossed the road and went into the Agricultural Merchant’s where he found a young man, Andrew, on his own. He produced a gun and proceeded to propel Andrew, who developed an asthmatic attack, round the town with the gun in his back.

They met the local police constable who immediately questioned Mark by name and asked what he was doing. Mark showed him the gun and demanded the constable hand over his mobile phone and his keys, both of which he then threw away over a high wall. The constable turned tail heading for the police station and Mark continued with his captive into town.

Building work had been going on at the dental surgery and the builders had left the door propped open when they left. Mark shoved Andrew, now considerably distressed, in through the doorway where he was greeted with concern by the Receptionists, who were then alarmed when Mark appeared waving his gun at not only two receptionists but two or three patients (including Bruce) immediately threatening them all.

The kerfuffle attracted the attention of the junior dentist and his nurse from the back premises, and they were gathered into the group in the very small reception area. Stairs opposite the doorway, lead to the upper floors, so Mark with his gun instructed them all to make their way to the staff room on the second floor.

On the first floor landing was a filing cabinet and a sofa, and as the party climbed the second very narrow stairway, Mark told the last two captives to throw these to block the lower stair! A hygienist who was with the senior dentist in the first floor surgery, appeared and was swept into the party, but the dentist on hearing the activity looked through the door frame and stayed quiet until they had all gone up and then rang the police.

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This then became a major incident with police drafted in from all over Dyfed-Powys; an incident room (caravan) was set up opposite the main car park, and a safe area for relatives (!) in the Swan Hotel. A dark December afternoon had become truly dark and having enquired of various policemen in the street what was happening and getting absolutely no information, by 5.30pm I was directed to the Swan Hotel. The hotel was swarming with people all apparently relatives of the ten or so patients and staff now trapped on the second floor of the dental surgery by an unstable man with not one, but two guns. There was an extraordinarily emotional atmosphere with tears and borderline hysteria, but I, with the three or four books I had purchased before leaving the bookshop felt remarkably calm and awaited developments.

In due course it was my turn to be interviewed by a Police Inspector as to the age and state of my husband’s health, and whether he was likely to challenge the perpetrator. Bruce, then aged 67 was fit, and I assured the police was unlikely do anything heroic but would be able to give them a detailed account of everything that transpired. They wanted a photograph in case there should be any gunfire and were anxious that I was alone and unsupported. I did not feel the need for anyone and in any case our pregnant daughter-in-law was due to be confined with her first baby and her need was greater than mine; our son did come from Brecon with a photograph but I sent him home again about 8.00pm. The baby did not appear until a week later!

Bruce’s detailed account of the scene in the tiny staffroom was graphic. The senior receptionist at once suggested they needed a cup of tea, and once Mark was satisfied he had barricaded the room by having the two nurses pile boxes of supplies against the minute window, had a patient tie the hands of both the junior dentist and Bruce, whom he regarded as likely to be the most troublesome of his captives, remove their shoes and empty their pockets, he agreed to tea and demanded that a bowl of water be placed in the middle of the floor so any radio or telephone equipment the police threw in could be rendered useless. He proceeded to question each of the group as to their background and experience then for hours regaled them with his life story, his demands and grievances – a tragic story of neglect, abuse and dysfunctional family life, concluding with his

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considerable prison sentence for threatening a village post-mistress in Carmarthenshire with an axe - but he was being rehabilitated before discharge and thus the weekend leave.

In the course of the evening the police went into full siege mode, setting up a presence in a little shop across the road from the surgery complete with telephone service and psychological negotiator. Initial contact was through a loud-hailer, but with Mark’s agreement a field telephone was sent up to the window (to be immediately immersed in the bowl of water but of course it was waterproof so unaffected) and Mark entered into conversation demanding firstly, food (chips were duly delivered in a basket from the local fish and chip shop together with cans of coke) and a helicopter, which he claimed he could fly, but he had no idea of where it could land in the middle of Hay. During the night the situation become more and more bizarre with Mark continuing to talk and rage against everything, sitting with his back to the door of the room and nursing his two guns as various members of the group fell asleep.

About 3.30am Bruce, who had been put to sit facing into a corner of the room, said he realised Mark was at last becoming sleepy but also that the Hygienist, Joan (who had served in the Army) sitting next to him, and the junior dentist (Nigel) who had been lying on the floor were both moving into positions from which they could move swiftly - both Bruce and Nigel had managed to free their hands from their fairly loosely tied bonds. Noises were heard from above - the police effecting entrance through the skylight on to the landing, when suddenly, Joan and Nigel leapt on to the now gently snoring Mark and grabbing his arms, shuffled him away from the door while Bruce punched him in the face.

The SWAT squad burst in with fearsome weapons, dressed in the full black outfits familiar from the TV, terrifying the whole party who felt more threatened by them than the unfortunate Mark Williams. Joan was outraged to discover that both the guns were in fact replicas – toys, she said – which rather summed up the whole affair.

Over at the Swan Hotel the police were looking after the relatives as best they could; providing reassurance and comfort and talking to them individually all through the night. Victims’ Support volunteers had come

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in and were doing their bit to support parents, siblings, aunties and uncles, cousins and at least one fiancé. By 5.00am we were informed it was all over, that Mark Williams was once more in custody and removed from the scene, that the “victims” were being taken to the Community Centre for de-briefing and the relatives would be taken to meet them there – by coach (all of five minutes’ walk from the hotel).

A couple of hours later we were free to go home, and because of our particular circumstance with no car or house keys to hand, we were taken home by the Chief Constable’s driver whilst our son came up from Brecon to open the house. The following day a policeman called at the house before 9.00am (Sunday morning) to take a full statement from Bruce and was still with us at 8.00pm having gone over every detail and questioned every statement, leaving absolutely nothing to chance or misinterpretation. Hay was of course crawling with journalists and reporters for days afterwards, but Bruce was absolutely adamant he would talk to none of them and months later when the BBC wanted to make first a radio programme and later a television film about the incident, he continued to refuse to co-operate. When the film was made and some six months later shown, the family saw it and were much amused to find that Bruce, as the oldest victim was played by a little, stooped, white-haired chap bearing absolutely no resemblance to the truth.

It was an extraordinary experience being an outsider/incomer and keeping an objective view of the whole incident, entirely confident that my husband would behave impeccably – although the punch in the face was completely out of character! It put Hay-on-Wye on the map briefly making national news and even Giles drew a cartoon, which the Senior Dentist acquired and now graces the waiting-room in the present Dental Surgery. Dyfed-Powys Police found the whole exercise useful – it’s not often they have the chance to implement their training and they said Mark Williams behaved as though he had read the manual on how to conduct a siege – he did everything by the book! He eventually came to trial on various counts and was given four life sentences which meant he would be in prison for a long time and happier than he ever was outside where life in the community was beyond his comprehension.

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Virginia Robotham – The Royal Oak, Pencelli

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By Classic Car to Classic Trains by David Mitchell On 28th March Andrew Pyne and his brother, together with David and Suzette Mitchell set off for the Swindon Steam Centre in Andrew’s 1951 Armstrong Sidley Whitley. First impressions are the closeness of the dashboard and the long bonnet ahead as one negotiates the by-roads in state! It is hard to realise that this fine car is 67 years old.

At Swindon we met other Armstrong enthusiasts and their classic vehicles before being guided round the Railway Museum where reside both early locomotives and those of similar age to Andrew’s car.

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The Armstrong cars were mostly named after Armstrong Whitworth aircraft, the Whitley being a twin engine medium bomber. The car was produced between 1949 and 1954 as an ‘Executive Light Saloon’.

Andrew is keen to share his classic motoring exploits with fellow Brecon members so keep an eye on the travel programme to be able to relive the motoring of your youth!

Ty Bach Tales by Phillip Dey In Welsh "ty" means house and "bach" means small. Therefore, one would think Ty Bach means a small house. But that is not the case, it means a toilet. Welsh for a small house is Ty Bachan. A few other names for toilet: the WC (water closet), the Jacks (Irish),the Khazi (Liverpool),the John (American),the Privy (North of England and Scotland),the Bog and the Loo. A toilet is a sanitation fixture used for disposal of human urine and faeces.

The subject is interesting and vast so only a few selected aspects are presented.

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Some current examples of toilets around the world are shown in figures 1-3. Both flush and dry toilets are used by sitting or squatting. In the world as a whole there are probably more squatters than sitters.

Indoor toilets existed in the Indus valley more than 4000 years ago. In Britain at the Skara Brae settlement on the Orkney Islands, 3100-2500 BC, there are examples of indoor toilets. Romans ruled Britain during 43-410 AD and established their culture and way of life including the construction of public toilets. Fig 4 shows an open air Roman public toilet in England. I wonder whether in those days people liked to chat when having their constitutional. ln Fig 5 the Roman influence on the British 18th century three-seat privy is quite remarkable.

Figure 1 Pedestal Flush Toilet Figure 2 Squatting Flush Toilet

Figure 3 Pit latrine, dry toilet

Figure 4 Roman Public Toilet Figure 5 Early 18th century British 3 seater

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There are currently about 2.6 billion people around the globe, that is, four out of every 10 people without access to sanitary toilet facilities. What's more one in seven people do not use any form of toilet at all, instead they defecate in woods, next to rivers and streams or even in street corners. This results in the spread of cholera, dysentery, typhus and other infectious diseases.

It was in Britain the flushing toilet system as we know it was born. In 1596 Queen Elizabeth I used the first flushing toilet invented by her godson Sir John Harrington. The now familiar S Bend syphon design, Fig 6, was invented and patented by Albert Giblin, an employee of Thomas Crapper. Thomas Crapper was a plumber, founded the well regarded Thomas Crapper and Co. London, manufacturing and supplying baths, toilets and sanitary products.

A description of the working of the Giblin's toilet. Water held in the S-bend water closet (Fig 6) prevents the worst of the smells from escaping. The pulling of a chain or depressing of a handle in the cistern (Fig 7) which is located above the closet opens a valve allowing water to gush into it and wash away the waste. Upon emptying, the cistern refills with water until a floating ballcock closes the inlet valve and the whole thing is ready to use again.

However, the flush toilet requires a drain to take away the waste and dispose of it safely. The Sanitary Act of 1866 compelled local authorities to require all houses to be connected to a main sewer. This was followed by a dramatic growth in sewerage systems especially in London which made the s-bend syphon toilets particularly attractive for health and sanitation reasons.

Figure 6 S-bend water closet Figure 7 Cistern supplying water to Closet

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In 1858, the year of the Great Stink, Parliament passed an enabling act to revolutionise London's sewerage system. Chief Engineer of the London County Council Joseph Bazalgette's solution was to construct a network of 82 miles of enclosed underground brick main sewers to intercept sewage outflows, 1100 miles of street sewers to intercept raw sewage. The plan included major pumping stations, sewage outfalls etc. The system was opened by Edwards, the Prince of Wales in 1865. It is still in everyday use subject to maintenance and repairs. The unintended consequence of the system was to eliminate cholera everywhere in Britain. It also decreased the incidence of typhus and typhoid.

A MAJOR ACHIEVEMENT THAT THE NATION CAN BE PROUD OF Phillip Dey 23 November 2017

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Gadfly Every month Gadfly visited his local aeronautics parlour to make sure that his wings were maintained in good order. There were always newspapers there and he would glance through the happenings in the increasingly mad world. Over the year he had been particularly fascinated by the rise of the Trumplebee. He was not familiar with this new species which was different from the familiar Bumblebee in having a rather orange body colour and a strange protuberance of yellow hair over its forehead. It was not solitary either but had been voted leader of the Great Hive by the workers who had rejected their erstwhile queen. The rest of the insect world had considered this to be a great mistake.

In spite of this the Trumplebee was emerging with all the qualities of a great leader. Gadfly was quite knowledgeable about the history of the human world and considered that the Trumplebee shared many characteristics with the Emperor Augustus, Genghis Kahn, Ivan the Terrible and Vlad the Imputin, in that he was ruthless, unpredictable, temperamental, licentious, misogynistic, and somewhat paranoid. It was

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just amazing that over half the Great Hive just loved him, for he promised to make that hive even greater by subduing a dangerous little Rocketfly in the Far East.

Of course, Gadfly realised that the ambitions of great leaders were now moderated in half the human world by the democracy of Senates and Parliaments – in the other half however the story was rather more Darwinian - just like the insect word in fact.

As Gadfly left after his wing treatment he was delighted that his newly refurbished flying ability would get him out of trouble fast and that if things got really bad, his sting could be lethal

Brexit - The Final Negotiations - David Mitchell

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True Style by Hugh Thomas Recalling his experiences of the 1937 Coronation, Dr Hensley Henson, then Bishop of Durham, wrote:

A Scottish peer generously offered me a draught from the flask which he had concealed under his robes, but I thought it prudent to decline since the comfortable exhilaration might be too dearly purchased by the suggestive aroma.

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Le Chateau Rose by John Davies Some while ago; so long that I cannot recall the exact area, we spent a family holiday in a gite in Brittany.

One afternoon, we walked down to the nearby village, where there was a flower show. It was unusual because it was for only one species -Hortense (Hydrangea to you and me!)

As we were leaving, we were told about a ruined castle, nearby which was worth a visit.

We walked out across a park-style terrain and as we breasted a small mound, there was the castle.

Far from being ruined, it was a handsome pink medieval style castle: perfect, except for a hole in the top left corner of the facade.

This intrigued me because in the hole I could see twisted iron. Medieval castles were not built with reinforced steel girders (RSGs)!

Closer examination and enquiries revealed that the castle had been built in1910 and because it was a German control point; it was bombed in 1941, presumably because of the date, by RAF.

We could enter, only the ground floor and there was no information about the builder/owner.

I wonder: was he too friendly with the Germans and in so far as the local populace were concerned, he had got his just deserts and was persona non grata

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Ayrton Wragge by Deanna Leboff I want to share my latest research into the Ayrton clan with you, as it is such a poignant story.

In 1921 the head of Dulwich College School was creating a book listing details of the young men who had attended the school and died during the First World War. He wrote to Ayrton Wragge’s sister asking for particulars of his life and how he met his end. She wrote back the following letter, Prepare to cry – I did.

Dear Rev. Christison,

I send the particulars about my brother Ayrton Wragge that you ask for. On leaving Dulwich College he gained some experience of business method in a London office, and of farming in a Cheshire farm – then in the Spring of 1903 he went out to Canada, where he proceeded to learn the conditions of farming there by working as a hired man on various farms.

He returned to England for a few months in 1906, but he always wished to farm, and this being impossible in England without capital, he went back to Canada in the Autumn of 1906, to take up a farm of his own.

Finding it impossible without capital to rent and work a farm in the settled districts of Manitoba, he went further west and, under the government grants to settlers, took up a quarter section (160 acres) at Quantock, Saskatchewan. The land had, of course, never been cultivated – he was the first homesteader in the district – when he pitched his first camp no trace of human existence was to be seen – though it was not long before other settlers took up land in the same part. There he went through the homesteader’s struggles – built his turf house – sank his well – ploughed up the land – and we were beginning to hope he was through the worst when the war came.

He joined the Expeditionary Force as a private in June 1915, was in camp in Canada for 3 months, and reached England on October 30, 1915. He was then in training in a camp at Bramshott, Surrey, till June

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16, when they went out to France and were in action almost at once though I do not know in what part of the line. He was mortally wounded on Sept 5, 1916, in the battle of the Somme, Moquet Farm, and died the next day at the Clearing Station. He is buried in the Puchevillers British Cemetery.

A friend, Private L. Wells, wrote us this account.

‘Ayrton, three other chaps and I, volunteered to take rations to men in the front line. They had only just been relieved from a long spell in the front line themselves. We could not find the way of the trench in from anyone, it being cut off. Well, we ran the gauntlet of shells to the nearest part, but could find no communication trench, so we had to go back. Some 200 yards from our part of the trench we halted by a fairly good parapet shelter, until we rested, and three shells burst close, the 4th right over us. It was this that wounded Ayrton.’

As I told you, he died the next day at the clearing station. His army description was: Private 427405, 13th Batt., 3rd Brigade, 1st Canadian Division.

I think this is all you will want to know. I enclose a photograph and must ask you to take great care of it, as it is the only one we have.

Yours sincerely,

Sybil Wragge

Isn’t it sad – just when Ayrton’s dream of having a sustainable farm had come true after all his hard work, the life of this brave young man was cut short by that dreadful war. Note that he volunteered for the foray that led to his death.

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Toadstool by Corrine Thomas

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Making Gardens by Poppy Weston You have probably come across one of those articles in gardening magazines about some lovely people who have created and developed a beautiful garden over a period of 20 or 30 years, with fantastic results. Lucky them! The benefits of stability! What if you’re peripatetic? In my case, I was undoubtedly lucky in one way – all my married life we had a garden, but for 40 years it was ‘our’ garden in the practical rather than the legal sense; that’s what comes of being married to a clergy person. And don’t think sweeping vicarage lawns – these were all eclectic spaces, from the front of a terraced house, through various corners of college estates, and a Leeds suburb. And anyway, gardening had to be fitted around work and children, and I only knew what my mother had taught me – sound but a bit random.

Only in 2001, approaching retirement, did fate present us with our very own gardening nirvana: a large walled garden in need of a makeover. This was supposed to be a joint effort, and we did indeed initially tackle it together, although my husband had up to now been of the mainly mowing persuasion. But then again fate

intervened, less helpfully, and it was to prove a solo project. So, I did actually get a total of 14 years to make my garden, at a point when I was quite happy and able to build raised beds, a willow tunnel, a brick path, large flower beds etc, etc, as well as all the inevitable clearing and weedkilling that precedes any creative work. The local community provided an additional spur to action when it was decided to mount a ‘Secret Gardens’ weekend as part of our Old Town summer festival. This became an annual effort, so for 10 years horticultural effort was steered by the self-imposed demands of that two-day event. The gardens were ‘secret’ because they hid behind the Old Town’s Georgian high street, so curiosity was a great driver, and after a few years we’d get over 1000

The Garden at Bridlington

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people coming through. The whole experience of creating and developing the garden was undoubtedly satisfying, despite all the predictable frustrations and upsets (e.g. the winter of 2010-11). I’m delighted to say that the two conservation architects who bought the place are also committed to the garden and are taking it forward in their own way, as is right, but building on what had been done.

So, when I moved to Brecon I was looking forward to downsizing, house AND garden – just a small manageable space ……. which indeed I now have but, as they will say nowadays, it’s been a bit of a journey.

I arrived at 9 Bridge Street in mid-September 2015, after a protracted house-sale in Bridlington – it took two years altogether – and several pre-purchase visits. As the house had been empty for some time I was able to have a good poke around. And not surprisingly the garden was in a sorry state. So, I knew there would be lots to do. It was only when I moved in and had a more thorough inspection that it became clear just how much. The only ‘crop’ was bindweed, which was doing extraordinarily well. In fact the first gardening effort was a combined family effort to strip back and remove it. This

revealed a sadly bare series of spaces all covered in hard material of some kind – paving, gravel, concrete and stone. And a partially collapsed fence between me and my neighbours.

I wasn’t at all clear how I was going to proceed, given the scale of the task and the unusual shape of the garden – approximately 80’ long and 13’ wide. Then I was kicked into action by my horticulturalist daughter Vicki who created four alternative garden plans as a Christmas present for me! I began on the hard surfaces, starting with the small paving stones, which were bedded on a thick layer of dry mix. Their removal made it possible to embark on actual digging, revealing an unbelievable tangle of bindweed roots as well as rubble of all kinds. In general, the

Arrival at Brecon

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assault on the bindweed all over the garden was two-pronged: lots of glyphosate during the growing season and endless digging- never being sure if the roots I removed had actually been effectively poisoned.

Another good step forward during Spring 2016 was the removal of an oppressive leylandii As I hacked ineffectually at the lower branches, my helpful neighbour-but-one, John, put his head over the wall and offered his help – a much better plan! Within a very short time he had the whole thing down and chopped up, and the garden was full of light

During the rest of the spring and summer 2016, I made slow progress with the destruction process. It was becoming increasingly clear that more effective muscle power would be needed if it was ever going to be completed. As is so often the case, the only people I identified were already fully occupied. But then through my friend Fiona, who lives a few streets away, I found Wayne and Beth who persevered doggedly, coming for a few hours a day over a prolonged period, and gradually piling up all the detritus in a couple of enormous heaps at the far end of the garden. One of their tasks, which I had already started on, was clearing and removing the oppressively straight path which ran all the way up the garden on the right-hand side. It appeared to be just an ugly gravel path, but when my granddaughter and I cleared the gravel we found tarmac – just a thin coating – hiding some impressive Yorkshire (or probably Welsh) flags. These weren’t going on the heap! I was sure they could be re-used, so we (or rather my sturdy helpers) piled them up in a heap of their own. I also planned to re-use some of the stone from the low walls which had edged the path.

By August, I had been mulling over Vicki’s excellent plans. I agreed with her that something had to be done to counter the long/thin dimensions of the garden. This could be done by breaking it into sections or ‘rooms’ or somehow creating an illusion of width. By this time, I had had a further and perhaps overambitious thought: since there was a fall of two feet or so from the far end down towards the house, how about incorporating a stream, which could meander sinuously down, crossing with a winding path. You get the idea. I wasn’t at all sure this was manageable

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technically, since I wasn’t bringing in a water garden expert; if it happened at all it would be a strictly DIY project. But it pushed me into drawing out a possible route for stream and path in the lower half of the garden which was now more or less clear and dug over. I took ideas from several of the designs and planned a patio on the sunniest side half way up the garden, using the flags. I brought some spare blue 32mmpipe from Vicki’s to use for the ‘up’ course of the stream and laid this in the trough I’d dug out for the stream in the area nearest to the house, covering it with sand and then some old black tarpaulin also from Vicki’s to serve as the stream bed.

And then everything stopped: the builders arrived in September to work on the kitchen area and that put paid to any further outdoor work for a couple of months or three, by which time it was too cold for heavy work to have any appeal. However, before they left, one of the team – a strapping S African rugger player – did a great job breaking up the 10’ square of concrete halfway up the garden.

While the lower half of the garden now looked a mess, with the remnants of the building project to clear, and the stream bed needing some reconstruction, it was high time to tackle the upper half. Wayne and Beth returned to shift the broken concrete and attack the rest of the path and walls. Then I could dig over the cleared are …... except that the concrete removal revealed a new sub-stratum: the concrete slab had been covering the extensive remnants of a brick shed of some kind (pigsty?) with slate roof. So, every brick and slate had to be removed and added to the now towering pile of rubble. Richard the builder had kindly agreed to make a start on its removal. Wayne and Beth and I all had a go at assisting. The trouble was that every time he removed some we rebuilt the heap - Greek myths come to mind. In all, he carted away four loads,

Progress at Brecon

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although that was not the end of the matter. Luckily my neighbour was also doing some landscaping and he and his mates helped with the rubble from both gardens as well as providing me with valuable top soil he no longer wanted.

By Easter 2017 the path across the upper section was complete and graveled, the course of the stream set out and the patio area defined. Meanwhile in the section nearest the house, I had embarked on the hole needed for the sump. This was the key to the stream project: a container would hold the water to be pumped up the blue pipe to a ‘natural’ heap of rocks at the top end from which – I hoped – the water would gush (gently) down the streambed back into the sump. I wasn’t sure about any of this: how deep a hole? What kind of container? What type of pump?

All I knew was that I wasn’t prepared to pay lots of money, but that it had to be robust and powerful enough to work. Hours were spent on pond websites where I learned much about carp and their requirements and how to construct an elaborate waterfall, all both labour-intensive and expensive.

So back to basics: I picked up my trusty spade and began digging a hole for the sump. A foot down I hit rather attractive cobbles – roundish stones from the riverbed, stood on end. But I hardened my heart – uncovering all of these cobbles was not part of the plan, so

I dug on down. Rapidly this became thick clay (the house is only 50 yards or so from the river, and I suspect the whole area was often flooded until modern defences were constructed) which was challenging, but at least meant the hole didn’t collapse. I had opted for a high-quality container: a plasterer’s bucket, about the size of a small dustbin. Once the hole was deep enough I inserted the bucket and packed round the outside with some of the excavated clay. I selected a pump on Ebay: the type used mainly for emptying flooded cellars. It was guesswork deciding how powerful it should be, but the good news was that there were a number of reputable brands coming in at around £50.

Building the Patio

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To complete the lower path and patio I had to call in heavy lifting assistance to move the conserved flags to their new positions: I accepted with alacrity son Simon’s offer of a day’s labour. Again, quantity surveying was problematic, but it turned out there were enough flags to make the lower path and the patio, with the largest flags serving as bridges over the stream as it winds up the garden.

The following week the long-awaited new fence was constructed between my garden and my neighbours. It’s called a ‘hit and miss’, meaning vertical planks are placed alternately either side of horizontal rails, so both sides have a good-looking boundary.

So, by the end of May 2017 I was ready to plant – and here it was of course Vicki and her nursery (www.bigskyplants.co.uk) who came up trumps. Not only did she provide me with an excellent range of suitable plants, but she helped me to place them appropriately. And by July the transformation was almost complete: the plants had put on an incredible amount of growth and were flowering freely.

During the winter the beast from the east swept away several plants and the cold wet spring damaged others, so it all looked a bit sad….. but I needn’t have worried; nature has extraordinary recuperative powers and in their second season most of the plants, have flourished mightily and by June this year the whole garden had become a mass of colour, mostly blue, pink and white – poppies, roses, geraniums, ragged robin, linaria, lupins, lychnis - and even some of the stricken salvias were re-emerging. And the clematis and other climbers planted last year had begun to cover the fences. So just right for sitting on the patio with friends, a glass or two of wine and the sound of the stream.

June 2018

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But there’s plenty of room for additions and development, a small tree, more plants and bulbs - maybe a little summerhouse? - not to mention weeding; that’s gardening!

Twrch by John Davies During a geology session with David Mitchell. He said that a special mineral was found in the valley of Cwm Twrch which gave its name to the mineral. Cwm Twrch is a village near Ystradgynlais, It is small, but even so, has two districts, Upper and Lower Cwm Twrch.

That prompted me to relate the story of a resident of Cwm Twrch, who won a good lottery prize. He was delighted and said that he could realise a long wish to visit Beijing.

With his kit packed, he went to the railway station and asked for “A Single to Beijing Please”. The clerk said that he could not issue such a long distance ticket and advised him to go up to Paddington Station in London. The lottery winner did that and got the ticket.

After an enjoyable time in Beijing, he went to the station to buy his return ticket and asked for “A Single to Cwm Twrch Please”

The clerk calmly asked “Upper or Lower Sir?”

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A Thing of Some Significance ... by Fiona Ciai Brown Let it be known first and foremost that I personally set no store by possessions: material goods mean little to me really; I could live in a bare space with nothing and indeed I have done just that - though it was for but a very short time that is how I see myself-travelling through time with nowt but the clothes I stand up in to cover my austere soul.

But ... I pick up pebbles from the beach and I allow all manner of Christmas and Birthday gifts to have their claim on my space until there is none. Surfaces become cluttered and things accumulate to such an extent that every downsizing house move has been accompanied by tiers of those stalwart banana boxes you can pick up from supermarkets for nothing-filled with what all the world would recognise as 'Junk' or 'Rubbish'. Yet I seem unable to rid myself of them -at least until I have written the story of each item. Out of sight, out of mind they say and indeed I have only to open a box and pull out my memories and I'm flooded by those past happenings and perhaps, one day, I will get around at least to sticking the merest provenance on each one and then leave it for others to sort out. My son whose soul is even more austere than mine will return the pebbles to the beach and that will be that.

If I must choose one particular item which is meaningful to me I would dig out a piece of rock I picked up from the bottom of a strange crater formation in the Negev Desert in Israel.

It was 1965 and I had been one of many volunteers working on an archaeological dig at Masada-a huge battleship of a mountain overlooking the Dead Sea. As the weather grew extremely hot the digging season ended so I was wending my way back home with an artist friend I had met on the dig. We hitched a lift to Mitzpe Ramon, a small settlement perched on the edge of a great cliff face which stretched for miles to the south east. It was an astonishing sight.

The colours of the far landscapes were brighter and clearer in those days-there was not that bluish brownish haze everywhere hanging in the air from diesel fumes. The sun was intense and there was every shade

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of ochre, umber and siena- raw and burnt- yellows, oranges to purples, reds to black in the striated angular cliffs maybe 1000 feet high above an area of chaotically broken ground below. Great black crows launched themselves into the thermals and soared away over what seemed to be a landscape hostile to life. Somewhere down there was the border with Egypt seemingly unmarked at that time of relative quiescence.

We walked along the top of the cliffs and every half a mile or so we came to a huge, massive abstract modern sculpture carved from marble or granite or polished travertine limestone or bronze or aluminium; and we sat a moment in their shades and got into conversations about time and civilizations and the meanings of works of art and symbols and emblems and flags and the things these things can memorialise and the actions which they can cause ... I was surprised that Toni (for that was her name) had never, even with all her art studies, come across the Egyptian 'Ankh' - an artefact shaped like a crucifix though it is far older than Christianity, with a loop shape on the top. It signifies PEACE I told her.

Whereupon we both agreed there and then to climb down the cliff somehow into the crater and lay out a huge 'Ankh' with rocks in the bare desert space of Nomansland.

We did it.

It took all day till darkness fell. The long climb down after leaving the track felt very exposed. Toni was utterly fearless and seemed to enjoy the agonies of rock heaving heat whereas I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible-my heart thumping with sweated fears imagining being strafed with hidden machine gun fire or at least hauled before Mossad officers and Israeli soldiers and having to explain ourselves!

'We are doing it for Peace'

- seemed a foolishly naive embarrassment of an explanation - to me - but then I never did have the courage of my convictions. And that is a fact I am reminded of whenever I look at a particular rock which I picked up from the ground where we were labouring.

It was a brownish orangish twisted bit of rock shaped like a grotto, like a shelter, like one of those waterfall installations in Romantic garden

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designs. If it had been 7 feet high it could have taken its place amid the sculptures on the cliffs but it was only 7 inches, so I carried it away and wondered at the sandy looking bright ochre stone where it metamorphosed into threads and chunks of iron. How did it get that way? We were told the crater was caused by an asteroid or maybe it was volcanic, and part of the rift valley scattered from the Jordan and Dead sea valley through to east Africa. Who knows? Do I need answers?

Probably not - After all this time I just like what it conjures up in my mind and the stories one can tell the kids about wandering reclusive little folk finding shelter under its jagged roof.

So now after all this I am looking round for it - and I realise that since moving to Brecon I have not seen it - and there are still some of those banana boxes packed and unopened and it must be hiding, like Peace in the Middle East, waiting to be dug up once more to remind myself of my best deeds done with the worst grace - Unless, of course, my children-who helped with the move-have seen fit to dump it on a beach in Anglesey — I think I had better try and find it now.

I have looked on Google Earth, but I cannot find our great Ankh nor has anyone ever remarked on it as far as I know and it doesn't seem to have done much good- like all of our memorabilia it will end up on the bleak shores of an ocean or the bottom of another burnt out crater.

I could go on … But NO.

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Frisky Friesians or Hazards of the Artist by Fleur In a green field a yellow car became The apex of attraction of some young cows. Though colour-blind they were and tame This object did their curiosity arouse.

To rid him of this audience bovine Ralph, driver-artist, revved and honked his horn Sending his audience wildly scampering Across their lush, invaded, spacious lawn

On they rushed towards Rosemary’s Honda, Redly tempting ‘neath a sheltering oak. “Help”, yelled Rosemary, “Wont somebody sound a Halting signal. Go on wave a cloak!” “Or something!” No sooner said than done.

Fleur grabbed a branch and waving it cried ‘Stand, You lot! This kind of thing is just not fun’ Crowding, uninvited like some funky band.

Thus they stood encircling the Honda, ‘Till we’d loaded up the paints and brush, As wand aloft in ever increasing wonder Fleur frantically defended heifers’ on-rush. A toreador in spirit ‘till then thwarted. While Rosemary’s Honda and company departed.

(Rosemary is Rosemary Maling. Fleur is a member from the past or present)

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The Nesting Place by Cathy Sims (written 1966) Here we were, our own community, Cousins all, and friends, at Nythfa ( Welsh for "Nesting Place".) Here, term ended, Granny welcomed us Within those peaceful, warm grey walls.

Our grandmother, a widow - A proud, erect, and vital woman - Was always there. A Beacon, her love was constant; Each day she'd join the fun of "Kick Tin" - Scrambling in the bushes as we screamed and ran!

As soon as I awoke, I used to creep Through the dark passage, past the wheezing clock To Granny's room. There I'd massage her and hear her tales Till La-La's breakfast brought me down.

Then out to find More - Buddy - In the potting shed or stables or the lawn Or raking leaves perhaps. He, in Granny's presence, froze with awe - A shy adult, respectful and restrained.

With us he argued, laughed and played And gave us bumping barrow rides Or came for walks Through Groves which sparkled with the dew, Or gathered daffodils in moist green fields.

The countryside was ours, all ours, To climb the hills, to roam at will, To swim in pools and streams. Rules were few, except on NO account to play with other kids: - she little knew

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Lulled by the voice of an eternal stream Down in the valley, and by ghostly owl hoots In the wind, we slept. Then morning light and pigeon calls Cooing "Take two cows, Taff, Take two", And creeping quickly past the wheezing clock.

Granny died. A Will was left, Voices raised and schemes discussed: - Wrangles and estrangement. Parents at odds, the house at length was sold, The Nesting Place and all that it had meant. Much richer those that loved and knew her love.

Cathy, holding the dog, with her cousin Jo Copping

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The Meal by Hugh Thomas On the coffee table, in a blue and white bowl, was a strikingly blue hyacinth. Not for the first time Philip reflected on his wife’s skill in making their living room so welcoming.

“All looks lovely. Luce” he called out. But he was apprehensive, and had been ever since Lucilla had told him that she had invited his parents to lunch. He had not been pleased. Relations with his parents had been cool ever since the wedding six months previously. He had heard his mother talking to a friend, expressing regret that he had chosen to marry a career girl and not someone who would settle down into home-making, with children in due course. A ‘retro wife’ he had heard friends call it. He had taken offence and had avoided inviting them to visit, using the redecoration of their flat as an excuse.

His mother had a point, he mused. Lucilla’s career to date meant that she had hardly ever worked in the kitchen: sixth form college followed by university, where she had graduated with high honours, and a junior management position working long hours. The redecoration of their flat, in the evenings and at the weekends, had taken up most of their spare time since their marriage and they’d usually gone for a pub lunch on Sundays. And she’d not had much encouragement in the domestic arts at home. Her parents were both professional types; they generally “ate out” and hardly bothered with breakfast. He could imagine his mother’s scorn; she was an accomplished cook, her skills honed by long practice at home-making ever since she and his father married.

The doorbell rang.

“That must be them at the door, Phil,” called out Lucilla. “You go.”

“OK, darling.” He squared his shoulders, made his way down the corridor and opened their front door. His parents stood there, his mother carrying a bunch of flowers - from a florist, not a supermarket, he noted.

This seemed a good sign.

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“Hullo.” he said. “Welcome. Come in. Good to see you.” His parents entered the little lobby.

“Are you sure about that?” said his mother offering him her cheek to kiss.

“Quite sure. Mum”, he responded, extending his hand to his father who took it and warmly shook it. “Would you like to give me your coats and I’ll put them in our bedroom,” he added. This done he ushered them in to the room which served as both dining room and sitting room.

His parents looked round the room. “You’ve been busy, son” said his father approvingly.

“Very plain, though,” said his mother.

Philip winced inwardly: he and Lucilla had deliberately chosen a ‘minimalist’ décor,

as a matter partly of style and partly of economy. “It suits us - for the moment” he replied rather more curtly than he would have wished.

As he spoke, Lucilla entered from the little kitchen. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to greet you,” she said. “Things were getting a bit out of hand.” Philip felt his anxiety level rise sharply.

His mother held out the bunch of flowers. “These are for you, dear. Thank you for inviting us. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No thanks,” replied Lucilla hurriedly. “I’ve just got one or two more things to do. Phil, offer your parents something to drink, and the bits and pieces. Won’t be long.”

“Lord. Yes. Of course. Silly me.” Philip went to sideboard. “Sherry for you, Mum? And a dram for you. Dad?”

“Thank you, Philip,” his mother remarked pointedly, “And not too much for your father. He’s driving.”

Philip poured the drinks and he and his parents sat down before the fire. His father began to talk about a recent court case with which he was involved, and which turned on a fine point of law. Philip only half listened his attention also being attracted by the “noises off” coming from the kitchen. His apprehension level rose.

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Then Lucilla entered. “We’re ready to start,” she said. “I hope you all like Prawn Cocktail.”

“Sorry, dear. I’m allergic to shellfish. Didn’t Philip tell you?” his mother said briskly.

“Darling, I ...” Philip was overcome. He began to panic. “I ... I’m sorry. I just didn’t remember. I’m really sorry.” He went over to Lucilla and took her hand. She squeezed it encouragingly.

“Not to worry, son.” His father broke in very quickly. “It’s because your mother can’t eat shellfish - brings her out in a rash - that we never have it at home. Just one of those things”, he added lamely, then turned to his daughter-in-law. “Lucilla, perhaps it might be a good idea to pass on the first course.”

Lucilla smiled back in agreement. “Of course,” she said, “but I hope you like chicken casserole”.

“Well, I do hope it’s not one of those battery hens” his mother commented sharply.

Philip experienced a sharp wave of anger. He was on the point of rebuking her when Lucilla caught his eye. “I’m sorry you think I would have anything to do with that sort of thing, Edna”, she said. “I couldn’t agree with you more. The way those poor creatures are treated is absolutely disgraceful. No, this chicken is farm fresh - from Bentink’s actually.”

Philip held his breath. Bentink’s was the best butcher’s in town and he knew his mother knew that. She said nothing. Then Lucilla turned to Philip. “Darling, come and give me a hand with the plates.” They went in to the kitchen together. She turned to face him, winked, and put her finger to her lips. “Fifteen all” she whispered, and Philip began to smile.

“Here we are” Lucilla said returning. “Chicken casserole with new potatoes, asparagus and green beans.” She served Philip’s parents, his mother first then his father. “Do start,” she added. “Don’t wait for us”.

Philip served his parents with wine then looked on in amazement as they ate heartily. He was wondering when his mother might offer some sharp

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criticism, but none came. On the contrary, she and his father murmured words of appreciation and both accepted second helpings.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Lucilla began while Philip was clearing away the plates, “I’ve not prepared a pudding. I felt it would be too heavy after the casserole.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of fresh fruit and an ample cheese-board.

Philip’s apprehensions began to disappear. It was exactly the right choice. He remembered that when he had taken Lucilla to meet his parents and they had had supper with them, the desert had been fresh fruit and cheese. Clever to remember that. His mother couldn’t possibly object. And she didn’t; on the contrary she selected fruit and cheese and ate with obvious relish. Thirty fifteen he thought.

The meal over, Lucilla offered coffee and Philip began to cheer up. He knew that Lucilla made very good coffee, much better than he had ever had at home. Come to think of it, his mother served Nescafé. Gold, it might be, but ‘instant’ none the less. Lucilla had noticed. The coffee was excellent. Forty fifteen.

The afternoon passed agreeably in conversation though Philip noted his mother had less to say for herself than usual.

Then the time came for departure. His mother went over to Lucilla, took her by the hand and said “Thank you, my dear. It was an excellent meal and I’m sorry over the business at the start. You weren’t to know about my allergy, and I do know that you have gone to a great deal of trouble for us today.”

“No trouble at all” responded Lucilla offering her mother-in-law a hug which was not rejected. His father simply smiled and gave her a resounding kiss. ‘Goodbyes’ were said at the door and they were gone.

Philip shut the door and turned to his wife. “Crickey, Luce. How the hell did you manage all that?”

His wife took him by the hand, led him to the sofa, sat him down, sat beside him and ruffled his hair. “You chump,” she said. “Do you honestly think I’d ask your parents to lunch without careful preparation, especially since your mother’s such a caustic old biddy - with a great big chip on

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her shoulder. Your dad’s OK, though,” she added hurriedly.

Then she snuggled up to Philip. “Confession time, darling. You remember those evenings when I told you I was working late, and you were a bit cross because you thought I was skiving off the last bit of

painting. Well I wasn’t in the office. I was at Sophie’s, one of my college friends - you know. She’s a whizz cook and’s been putting me through my paces. Including today’s that’s three bloody chicken casseroles in a

week. And you thought ... No matter. By the way, Sophie’s put the other two in her deep freeze for us so they haven’t gone to waste.”

They both started to giggle. “Game, Set and Match,” he said.

Alison Jones - lino cut

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Vitticulche A Guide for Whining Snobs by David Mitchell

Do you ever read the labels When you're out to buy some wine? Labels always tell you That it's really rather fine. It's got an appellation Or at least some sort of cru It could be a 'Reserva' Or good with Irish Stew. Everything is fine with cheese, It takes away the taste But drinking it with vindaloo Could be a total waste. You might choose a Rioja From the sunny slopes of Spain Or maybe buy a British wine That’s ripened in rain. There ain't much wine from Scotland They have such rotten weather But if there was you'd surely find Some overtones of heather. You could go antipodean, To Chile or to Oz Where the wine is new and lusty, Quite reliable because It's mostly made in steel tanks.

The taste is clear and strong, With earth and plum and blackcurrant And a whiff of stockman's thong. But even when you think you've found The wine you love to drink, A different year or numbered batch Might end up down the sink! So never read the label, It's just a total bluff, The only way to judge a wine Is drink the bloody stuff!

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Round the Bend by Vivienne Williams It began I suppose, when I was a small child. Each birthday meant a surprise way of receiving a present from my parents. It could be that the parcel was hidden somewhere and the way to find it I had to open a card attached to a long piece of string. I had to follow the string wherever it led. Certainly, all round the house, and maybe the garden. Eventually it would lead me to my surprise present. (There was only one in those days!) My excitement mounted as I followed the string, and then pleasure in finding my parcel and unwrapping it.

Sometimes the present would be a small item, in a small box, placed inside a larger box, with the boxes getting bigger and bigger and the biggest wrapped in birthday wrapping paper hiding the true size of the present. A bit like the ‘pass the parcel’ game, excitement mounted as I opened each wrapped box. My mother would play the piano and I could only begin to unwrap when she stopped playing, having to stop when she resumed playing. The game added great fun and expectation. One time I remember getting a pair of silver bracelets with my name and address and identity number engraved on the inside, practical, but a pretty way of ensuring I had essential information with me at all times.

The joy and excitement of my mother’s innovative and thoughtful ways of giving me my valued gifts has remained with me. No wonder then, when I bought my first iPad and discovered the joys of internet shopping, that my sense of excitement was once again rekindled! Browsing that Aladdin’s cave that is Amazon.com for simple household items to wedding presents etc., has meant all that joy and fun of having found something on line, placing an order and then waiting for it to be delivered to my front door. Excellent delivery services, but with a little time to experience the anticipation and excitement of the delivery. The ring on the doorbell heralds the arrival of the item. Scissors at the ready, I set about unpacking the parcel. I particularly enjoy it when the parcels are packed in brown paper and cardboard as my birthday presents often were.

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But here’s what drives me round the bend; many items are packaged in plastic which is difficult to remove, and cellophane on compact disc cases ... have you discovered how to open a new cd without damaging its plastic case? When all you want is, to unwrap the disc ... and play it but ten minutes later you are still struggling with its wrapping trying not to score the plastic case in the process!

Most recently, I sent for a floor mounted reading lamp. I could track its progress hour by hour to within minutes of its arrival on my doorstep, brilliant! On its arrival I could see it was a ‘flat pack’ item. Cardboard box, tick! But then, loads of plastic, wretched expanded polystyrene spilling out everywhere, Grrr! Just getting the item out of its box took ages. Each bit of plastic had to be cut with scissors and even more elements of the lamp packed with more packaging held with ‘sticky backed plastic’! The living room filled up with packaging each lot sorted into separate piles for responsible recycling, or not! I had to stop, get a glug of strong coffee before I could even attempt the assembling of the lamp.

The plastic casings of some of these items defy the most earnest attempts with craft knives and scissors. Sharp scissors are a must. It’s not unusual to experience cut fingers and thumbs on the sharp edges of the casings when trying to prise open to extract the actual item. The result is not the joy of opening a parcel but relief at it has been accomplished!

It’s not just when internet shopping that packaging annoys and infuriates, most items from food to everything else have too much packaging with most of it non-recyclable. Foil backed paper, non-recyclable cellophane envelopes, then there’s the sticky labels ... they drive me round the bend! They are on tomatoes, pears apples and worse, on those things you want to give as presents and you end up spoiling the packaging getting rid of the sticky mess ... Grrr again!

I should have expected it I suppose, but when my kitchen scissors finally gave up the ghost after battling with all this packaging lark I sent for a new pair, ... Anyone got any ideas on how to get the scissors out of their blasted tough plastic sealed packaging?

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Chilterns By Lyn ReesI walked along From Emmer Green To Kidmore End Up Tanner’s Lane unseen It and I unsung At Summer’s End In a mellow honeyed sun Autumn just begun.

Glowing red and raw With hip and haw The hedgerow shone In the warm sun Fields on either side Lay stubbled and wide Where the corn had gone And the harvest had been won.

Beyond the hedge They stretched Quilted and patched To the Chilterns edge Beyond my eye Above the chalk To the horizoned sky On the ridge where I walked

Then my eye caught hold Of a chimneyed cottage Before a copse of trees Its wispy smoke Left hung without a breeze Perhaps its fire stoked By someone in their dotage Who felt the cottage cold.

Suddenly it seemed It was a dream I’d dreamed The whole thing had that look

Of an illustration From a children's history book “The Anglo Saxon Nation” A drawing of Piers Plowman on the cover Behind him, furrowed earth turned over and over

Nothing had changed in all those years From then t’ill now I felt myself to be the man behind that plough Speaking softly to the horses ears All had that feel of endless days That same timeless look As the illustration in the book All peaceful in the sun’s soft rays

It was as if I’d stepped From one world to another I stopped For my senses to recover. Shaking, I leaned upon the farmer’s gate And watched the scene before me. I slowly brought my senses up to date By letting sounds restore me.

At Kidmore End I found the village seat And sat me down I felt myself a king without a crown. The pleasures of the day Had soothed my cares away And I wished the sun’s soft heat Would never end.

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Frank Sinatra By Robert Poole My life changed during the hot summer of 1954. I was sixteen, taking in every new experience life had to offer, and like many teenagers then and now, I was in need of a role model. I found one, from a very unexpected source.

Record buying was a mandatory pastime for teenagers then, and one day my friend Howard called me, telling me to drop in when I was passing because "There is something I think you should hear. It will blow your socks off." … or words to that effect.

A day or so later, on my arrival full of curiosity, he said, "Listen to this. This is the future," and he placed a record on the turntable. Long before the advent of CDs, there were 78s, 10 inches in diameter, black, breakable, made of shellac, and back then the only way to hear recorded music.

This one was a revelation. It was called "Learnin’ the Blues", and sung by a half-forgotten, out of fashion ex band singer called Frank Sinatra. Only this was no has-been crooner. From the opening, incisive 2-beat drum intro, through a pulsating rhythmic arrangement of brass and saxophone, with an insistent, repetitive 8-bar riff holding it all together, it was the most mesmerising sound on record I had ever heard

The voice was urgent, vibrant, brash, masculine, full of confidence, setting the benchmark for quality popular singing for others to follow. Moreover, there was a promising new young arranger given him by

Frank by Robert Poole

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Capitol Records called Nelson Riddle, and the two of them were to create musical magic for the next 30 years. (Listen to the 1958 album called "Only the Lonely", arguably the most technically proficient LP ever made.) The man sang as if he meant every word, directly to you, every nuance of phrasing and breath control giving standards by Cole Porter and Rogers and Hart a new freshness of interpretation, at times raising them to an art form of epic proportions.

My friend Howard was right. This was the future. My record collection began in earnest the next day when I went out and acquired my own copy of "Learnin’ the Blues", a pivotal moment in my young life which introduced me to a man called Sinatra.

________________________

Robert Poole - Cardiff Library Reading Room

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Suspended By Rosey Budd, Canterbury U3A and friend of Catherine Sims of Brecon U3A

Let’s keep it general. There are over 66 million displaced persons in the world,

Trekking over ravaged lands. It’s the particular that pierces. Shrapnel shattered our windows. Men shouldered in and wrecked, Kicked our dog. He whimpered, whimpered, died. My mother wandered, crazed. We wandered after her. My land has bitten, killed, devoured. Where to go? What to do? We wander.

Let’s keep it general. It’s always been like this, treks around the globe;

Part of collateral damage of war, crop failure, political unrest. In any case, over 120,000 of us die daily.

The crush is suffocating. We’re packed in far more than possible, Each breath a scrambling of the air. I stink. They stink Of filth and fear. On this calm sea, without boundary, Scary, scary depths that claim so many. The boat lurches. I see A litter on the sea floor, Our lives a grave pollution?

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Let’s keep it general. It happens in displacement.

Families cannot hold together; Some go, some stay, some get lost.

I have one photo only, my sister, smiling, six years old. Her pink T shirt with the sequined, silver butterfly. An image only: I cannot hold the flesh, be held. The authorities destroy our tents, take our sleeping bags. I do not hope: survive. A boy near me has rotted toes - we’re always cold. It’s raining.

Let’s keep it general. This is the way of things.

The world sorts out its weakness. The world’s choice has crucified me; Suspended between dead past and trembling future. Your choice to welcome explodes as resurrection Through all our dwindled days.

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The label from a pair of sports slacks bought in Madera

And the zip broke after one week!

Vivienne Williams

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U3A and Co-Production by Richard Walker Since retiring from full-time work I have been involved with four charities and am now chairman of two – BCA (Brecon Independent Citizens Advocacy) which provides advocacy services for adults with learning difficulties, and Brecon U3A. When Judi and I moved to Powys 11 years ago I was working as a volunteer with Citizens Advice, and Faith in Families. I regularly attended meetings with Powys CC who are eager to encourage the growth of the Third Sector (Charities), which they hoped would fill the gaps left by the Public Sector as less and less generous financial settlements took their toll on local services. This sort of partnership working was given the rather unlovely title “Co-Production.”

Since the year of my birth in 1945 the state has played an increasingly larger part in the lives of individual citizens, particularly in the fields of health and welfare; since the financial “wobble” of 2008 the Third Sector has arguably become more important. Within the Third Sector U3A stands out as one of the most successful, numerically growing at the rate of around 6% per year. There are now over 1100 individual U3As under the umbrella of the Third Age Trust.

You will know what Brecon U3A means to you, but personally it encourages me to remain engaged with the world and provides the better things of our shared humanity – friendship, mutual interests, an opportunity to share our views and experiences, and perhaps to pursue an interest in some aspect of the world that we find interesting, or even fascinating. More than anything else it provides access to a network of people who bring their own experience of the world to a common endeavour that we call life-long learning.

The down-side is that it doesn’t just happen! We need people to do the organizing, look after the money as well as things like health and safety, safeguarding and data protection, and the list is not going to get any shorter. Being a Trustee means accepting certain legal responsibilities for governance and oversight, and sadly, some U3As with very healthy membership numbers are finding themselves in trouble because people

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are not coming forward to take on these roles.

Since joining Brecon U3A I have been very fortunate in working with a team of members who consistently manage to make Brecon one of the Jewels in the Crown of the U3A movement. They produce a programme of first class speakers, a web-site, audited accounts, a magazine, a wonderful programme of travel events, and much more. As your chairman I want to thank all those involved, and of course you the members for your support and enthusiasm in making Brecon U3A such a success. However, we need to look to the future. Any organisation needs new blood to keep it vibrant and innovative, so give it some thought – come to a meeting (they are exciting!) – shadow a committee member – get involved.

Education at its best produces people who are more than just foot-soldiers in the business of living; it produces people who are better informed, more reflective, and this leads to self-fulfillment and human flourishing. In a world of constant change, it enables us to be more aware of that change and how it impacts on our ideas and judgements. In the past we harnessed our education to the business of earning a living, but Aristotle maintained that we educate ourselves so that “we can make noble use of our leisure.” U3A is aimed at the continuing development of individuals as ends in themselves. Finally, as my mother always taught me to say – “thank you for having me!”

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The Tree by Mike Ingram Once outside the house my world began with the back yard, a garden really - there was a flower bed. Bricks had been removed from a long strip, parallel to the house. Here, marigolds and lupins were in bloom surrounded by chickweed which I sometimes fed to the chickens. The chickens were kept in an area that was fenced off with wire netting along the wall opposite the flower bed. I knew that the eggs were collected and eaten but if the chickens were eaten, I was never told.

It was a bank holiday and my father was throwing grain to the chickens while my mother stood by the kitchen door enjoying the warm air and a Monday free from washing.

At the far end, away from the house was a great high wall which was the end wall of the Trotter’s house. It was against this wall that family photographs were taken; in the 1940’s, me with Laddy, our dog, Johnny Wells, and me in a sack; in the late 1950’s, Dad and Mom with her four brothers, my sister’s neurotic dog, and many more. Today would have been a good day for photographs but soon we would be visiting an aunt and uncle.

To the left were the big gates. Beyond gates was the Barracks. Not an army barracks but a court yard behind our house and containing fourteen three story, three roomed houses that had been built in the nineteenth century. The yard had always been known locally as the Barracks because of the large number of families living with large numbers of

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children living in the small close packed houses.

I pulled back one of the big gates and ran out and over to the tree in front of the Trotter’s house where Johnny Wells and Duncan Bagley were trying to lasso one of the branches. I changed my run to a gallop and rode over to them; “Howdy” drawled Duncan and we galloped to the end of the yard to lasso the lamp post that stood near Johnny’s house. We pretended not to see the four older children, who ignored us anyway, and who were kicking a ball against the dustbins in the corner of the yard

Me and Duncan climbed the lamp post and swung on the two cross bars. As Johnny’s father, George Wells came out of his house we jumped to the ground and ran back to the tree. Across the yard Bert Evans could be seen through his open door winding up his gramophone in order to play his only record ‘Hallelujah I’m a Bum’ by Al Jolson for the eleventh time that morning.

Christine Trotter, who sat on her front step talking to her dolls ignored us. She wasn’t interested in playing cowboys and Indians. She knew that

if she were made to join in she would have to be an Indian who would be very quickly captured and tied to the tree. Duncan tied his rope around the tree while I tried to climb up. Feeling the sun on my head I

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remembered my cowboy hat and jumped down from the tree and back towards the house to fetch it.

A wide entry ran from the Barracks to the street. At the top of the entry George Wells was now leaning on the wall by our font door, sunning himself and talking to his brother-in-law Charlie, Duncan’s father, and Frank Trotter, Christine’s father. The three men wore their summer suits; their only suits bought from the Fifty Bob Shop. They had come out to leave their wives to prepare the dinner and to wait for opening time. The pubs would be open a half hour earlier today. Fred asked a passer by the time and with relief the men headed towards the Guildford Arms on the corner. They would stagger back mid afternoon and if they were capable, would eat the dinner that was by then drying out in the oven.

Johnny and Duncan would have eaten their dinner and would be back around the tree again. I would be dressed in my best clothes waiting while my parents were getting ready to go to visit Aunt Jean and Uncle Harry ……………………………………………………………………

……… I parked the car and sat looking at the houses, then got out of the car and stood on the pavement. It was too warm for a jacket, but I kept it on; I didn’t want to leave it on view in the car. I could hear music and an occasional shout coming from open widows of the houses and somewhere a motorcycle starting up. There was no one in the street although it was mid morning and no one was at work this Monday.

The area had been redeveloped and new houses built about fifteen years before but already looked in need of renovation. The layout of the street was unfamiliar to me now, but I knew I was nearby, working out the distance from the corner. Just past where I had parked, part of the street was set back and contained a row of garages. I walked over toward them and found an opening which led to a small children’s play area behind the houses.

There was a metal climbing frame and various brick and concrete blocks forming a semi-circle; some covered with graffiti, some chipped. There were no children around. One of the blocks was cylindrical with a wooden centre. When I came close to it I realised that the wooden centre was a tree stump about two feet high. I could see that originally it had

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had been cut with a smooth top but now it was rough and broken. There were scorch marks suggesting that there had been attempts to set it alight. I pulled a small piece of wood from the tree and put it in my pocket.

A few feet from the tree stump I could see the crumbling concrete wall that formed the back of the garages. I looked over to where the big gates had been, where Christine Trotter had sat on the step playing with her dolls, where Jonny, Duncan and I had played and where and the older children whose names I now couldn’t remember had kicked their ball.

Corrine Thomas

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The Dormouse by Linda M Dainty 2017

The dormouse scuttles

Across the shed floor,

Halts, sits motionless

Large ears twist, turn.

Alert eyes dart

From side to side

Search for danger.

The flowerpot askew,

Warmed by autumn sun,

Glows, invites inspection.

Nose twitches, whiskers quiver.

The dormouse nestles

Secure in the straw.

Awaits the dawn of spring

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Ancient Places by Jean Ruston

Step lightly through my world, stranger in my land

You think you've made to be your own.

Those trees you plant, dry, dusty, black limbed in the gloom

Mine were mighty oaks, green light on the bright grass below

Do you ask if Druids chanted spells beneath their boughs?

Do you feel their ancient presence here?

Listen to the sighing wind if you want to catch their echoes.

Your way is barred by cruel wire fences.

I was free on my endless moors and hills

Open to our running and our hunting, our loving and our living.

Do you look for someone, you standing in your bright strange clothes

You will not see us, melting into shadows.

Climb the mountain ridge and wonder at the view

Do you know we watched from that same place?

Saw the scarlet of the Romans marching far below

Their campsites in the valleys, ours in the sweeping clouds.

I stand beside you in the ancient rocks

But you will not know me. I am silent.

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Rabbit, lino cut by Joan Stanesbury

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit by Joan Millard Do you remember Snoek? If the name was not enough to put you off, the appearance did. It was greyish and came in tins. It tasted absolutely foul. When rationing finally ended, they relabeled the tins “cat food” and sold it as such.

Then there was whale meat, which was only slightly less palatable, which the powers that be tried to palm off as “steak.” I don’t think as a nation we ate as much fish as we do now, or perhaps it was just our family, so anything “fishy” was simply not tolerated, with the exception of salmon, which also came in tins – if you could get it at all. So, in an effort to get more protein into my sister, my brother and me, my mother got

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hold of a rabbit. She spent a long time cooking it, removing all the bones and then served it up as “chicken”. At that time, we three children had tame rabbits, and although she did her very best to disguise the fact that this was, in fact, rabbit, we somehow twigged. “It’s not chicken,” we complained, as we pushed it round the plate. “It’s rabbit.”

Looking back, what ungrateful brats we all were in refusing to eat what, in other circumstances, would have been delicious. My poor mother!

Disappointment by Joan Stanesbury When I was a child growing up in the War, parties were few and far between. For one thing, there was not much to celebrate, and for another, ingredients for cakes were unobtainable. My mother used to make a chocolate cake, which relied for the fat content on liquid paraffins, as butter and other fats were rationed, and had dates in it to make up for the small amount of sugar. Sugar was on coupons and very restricted. I thought it was quite disgusting and it put me off chocolate flavoured cakes for life, but my sister loved it.

We were lucky enough to live opposite a huge Catholic family who welcomed all children with open arms, and as there were so many of them, hardly a month went by without someone’s Birthday. The father was a chemist, but he was also an extremely nice man, and would attend these parties to show us Popeye films which we children adored. How on earth they managed to produce jellies, blanc mange and all the other

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tempting things required to produce a Birthday tea we never knew. Of course, they had eggs, as they had chickens, and I suppose, like my mother, they could swap their tea ration for sugar. All the elderly needed tea more than sugar, so they were eager to part with their sugar coupons for the joy of as many cups of tea as they wanted.

As I say, party days were indeed Red Letter Days and my sister and I had a so-called party frock. These were made from the extraordinary garments sent to us by an aunt in America. She also sent food parcels containing dried egg, tins of ham and sweets. Sweets were rationed – you could have one pound per month. I would give some of my ration to my much loved brother who had a terribly sweet tooth. He even raided the pantry to eat sultanas, when they were available, and those terrible dried bananas which looked just like huge slugs.

So the annual Sunday School tea was indeed a treat to look forward to. It was on a Saturday in June. The sun shone and I spent a lot of time brushing my hair and making sure that my one party dress was ready for the occasion. My sister had rather grown out of such babyish things as Sunday School, and was not invited. The party was due to start at 3.30 p.m. Dressed and ready, I sat in the hall watching the grandfather clock tick away the minutes until I could bear it no longer. It was only a five minute walk away, but I left at 3.15 p.m.

I crossed the avenue of ilex trees that ran down the centre of my road, crossed the road the other side and walked towards the house of Miss Adams, the Sunday School teacher, trying not to hurry too much, as it would be rude to arrive too early before she was ready. I slowed my footsteps as I got closer to her house. I didn’t really stop to think that it was strange none of the other children seemed to be around, but I eagerly rang the bell, stepped back and waited.

Miss Adams appeared almost at once, took one look at me in my party dress and said, with the utmost kindness, “Oh, my dear child, it was last week.”

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If I were Just William for a day, I would have a riotous time by Deanna Leboff Off to Old Barn with Jumble. Outlaws being Tramps today. Roll in dich and rub mud on hair and fases to look like propper tramp with dog. Suck gob stopper.

See Hubert Laine larfing at me. Cach him and rub his fase in mud!

Ginger tramp-like. Henry and Douglas too cleen. We fite them. Better now. Henry tares shert, Douglas has black eye. Both well mudded.

Have drink of likorish water and cold sossages wot Henry hid at brekfest. Plan Tramps. Ginger says wot about Farmer Jenks cos he hates us. Agreed. Little things to be pinched else steeling.

Play Pirates before Tramps. Make Douglas walk plank and push him in pond. Dry him off in barn. Suck bulls eyes and I show my mouse Atlas wot I’m traning to do tricks. Stop Jumble eating him.

Tramp pinching ‘sessful! Got bent iron thing next to lorry**. ‘scaped farmer.

See Violet Elizabeth Bott come to mess up our day. Harts sink. Very werst sort of girl with yellow curls and blue eyes. All sweet and mimsy. Only six but as orful as big sister Ethel. Run away, but we hear her screech, ‘Let me play or I’ll thcream and thcream until I’m thick’.

Outlaws in gloom. Must get rid of pest. Henry wants to bern her at the steak and we all dance round. Yes! Yes! Then think wot farthers would do to us.

Have brillant idea (that’s why I’m leader)!! Douglas off to farm to roll Jumble in pig muck. Ginger home to get cloths marker with red ink wot don’t come off. I’ll get Secret Weppon.

Douglas chased by Farmer Jenks but back safely - Jumble smells orful!!!

Violet’s coming. Outlaws reddy.

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“You do look nith William” she sez. She likes dirt. “Will you kith me?” I shut eyes and do it. Go outside to recover.

Red Injuns game – Violet ‘grees to be capchurred squaw. Outlaws tie her up and cover her eyes. Ginger very gently dots red blobs on her legs. Then does mine plus bigguns all over my fase.

Capchurred squaw forsed to eat 30 speshal tribal foods. She gobbles them all up.

They’re cherry brandey likeurs wot brother Robert was going to give this girl he’s soppy over. It’s my Secret Weppon mother sed wood make me sick ‘cos only for grown ups.

Jumble put next to Violet. Violet shreeks ‘POO! THMELLY’! Ginger ‘xplains he’s our mascot wot never leeves us.

Uncover squaws eyes. She screems when she sees me. “I’ve got Brite Red Bubonik Plage”. I groan. “xpect I’ll die soon.” “O dear” sez Henry “You shouldn’t have kissed William. You’ve cort it. Look at your spotty legs.”

Squaw turns green, moans and wobbles about. “Goin’ home” she mumbles miserbly and zigzags out. She doesn’t ‘Thcream’ but we can hear her being ‘thick’!

Perfec’ day – pirates, fites, mud, tramps, sweets – and a ‘sessful cunning plot.

Home happy!

(Author ** essential starting handle)

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A Welsh Family in New Zealand by John Underwood In 1996 my mother, on what would be her last visit to the UK from New Zealand before she died, brought me a photograph album. Not your run of the mill sort, but a classy red leather volume, an oblong quarto 32cm x 25cm. Diagonally across the centre of the front cover tooled in gold leaf is the word PENCOED. Inside are 20 large black and white photographs of a house, garden and family. At the bottom of each page is inscribed “E. Wheeler & Sons ... Christchurch”. The photographs were taken c.1905. The house is Pencoed and the family depicted is my mother’s maternal grandmother, Dora Williams (nee Stephens) and her three daughters, Dorothy, Aldwyth and Gwen. The girls would be aged about 14,12 and 10. A comfortable middle class family with a large house and garden in the suburb of Fendalton in Christchurch, on the South Island of New Zealand.

How did they come to be there? Why Pencoed? In 1876 Dora 16, with her widowed mother Elizabeth Stephens, aged 45 and 5 siblings, Sarah 26, Robert.jr 24, Maiy (Polly) 20, Ann 19 and Charlotte 14, left their home in Machynlleth, Montgomeryshire to make the perilous voyage by sailing ship to start a new life in NZ.

Elizabeth, the 7th child and 6th daughter of the Rev. William James

Morgan who would end his life as vicar of Trefeglwys (Montgomeryshire), had married in 1849 her cousin Robert Stephens, a currier and leather merchant in Machynlleth. Robert died in 1875. What

The Williams Family

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was she to do? She a middle aged widow, with no fortune and 5 daughters. A problem worthy of a Jane Austen novel! Elizabeth's elder sister Ann had married Richard Davies, a farmer from Cardiganshire. They had emigrated to Christchurch in 1860 and were farming to the south east of Christchurch at a place called Tai Tapu. She had a connection. She also had a fairy-godmother.

Her cousin, Mary Cornelia Edwards, whose father Sir John Edwards had been MP for Montgomeryshire, had married in 1849 George Vane-Tempest-Stewart, 5th Marquess of Londonderry. They were then living at Plas Machynlleth, a very grand house, which is still in the centre of the town. One can imagine the embarrassment of having an impoverished widowed cousin and family living on your doorstep. Pack them off to NZ where at least the daughters would have better prospects for marriage and Robert might even make a fortune.

At the end of September 1876, they set off for London to join the three-masted Cardigan Castle at Gravesend and along with another 318 emigrants to make the 95 day voyage down the Atlantic and around the Cape of Good Hope into the southern ocean, skirting the south of Australia, to arrive at Lyttleton, the port for Christchurch, at the beginning of January 1877.

Elizabeth's eldest daughter, Sarah, kept a diary of the voyage which she sent back to her Uncle William, Elizabeth's brother in Wales. It is now in the National Maritime Archives in Liverpool. It has been transcribed and conveniently posted online on the website of another family who were also on the voyage, (see www.bint-family.com in New Zealand - The Diary of Sarah Stephens. - well worth a read.) Good fortune would have it that the Captain of the Cardigan Castle, Lewis Davies, was a good friend of Richard Davies, Elizabeth's brother-in-law. This resulted in the family, who although they shared many of the discomforts of the other passengers, were given privileges (such as access to the poop deck, a special bench for Sunday Services- known as The Plas Pew - as well as being sent cakes and treats) that gave rise to resentment among their fellows.

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On arrival in Lyttleton, the passengers spent 3 weeks in quarantine on islands in the harbour before finally being permitted to go ashore. There had been “fever” on board and several had died. Richard and Ann Davies had found a house for them. Sarah found employment in a “large store” and Robert (who is described on the passenger list as “lawyer”, though probably was no more than a solicitor's clerk) with a timber merchant.

This still doesn't answer the question. Why Pencoed? Here is an answer.

In 1864 Walter Jones Williams, who would eventually marry Dora Stephens, arrived in Christchurch. He was bom in 1837 in Coychurch between Pencoed and Bridgend in Glamorganshire. His father was a fanner. Before going to NZ he worked in the limestone quarries around Merthyr Tydfil. He claimed he left UK with 18 sovereigns and had 2 left when he arrived in NZ. He found work as a builder and eventually had his own business. He had a great interest in NZ trees and became skilled in marquetry, using native woods. In 1874 he married Jane Fullerton King and with her had 7 children of which 3 survived. She died in 1888. It was he with whom Robert Stephens had found work in 1877. Robert eventually went into partnership with Walter establishing the firm of Williams and Stephens. Walter, after the death of his first wife, married Dora Stephens in 1889, with whom he had three daughters, who are pictured in the album. He was prosperous enough to build himself a large house which he named Pencoed in memory of the area of Wales in which he grew up.

Elizabeth Stephens died in 1895 aged 63. Dora died aged 52 in April 1912 on the morning that her middle daughter Aldwyth was to be married. Aldwyth was my grandmother. Walter died in 1924 aged 77 and Robert Stephens, who never married, in 1927. Of Elizabeth's other daughters, neither Sarah nor Ann married, and both returned to the UK in 1917. Polly and Charlotte married and remained in NZ.

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Remembering Snowy Winters Ago by Fiona Ciai Brown 1939/40 - Scotland. Steep, icy roads tipping straight down into the Clyde estuary over the cliffs. Me clinging onto the pram skidding its descent - just saved.

Icicles hanging off the roof 6 ft long- A gift - I wrapped one in a bath towel to stop it melting, so precious a sparkled jewel it looked and placed it carefully on top of the grand piano - Of all places! Who let me do that I wonder?

1947 - Snow fell and lay from Christmas till Easter. What a cold there was on the high hills of Hertfordshire! The grim clay soil grudgingly giving up the Jerusalem artichoke and as for picking Brussel sprouts ... Chilblains. The one small fire for heat, the coal shortage. The frigid bedtimes ameliorated slightly by my father's wartime desert water bottle filled to boiling. Waking in the night to the far off sound of steam trains struggling to shift wagons on the icy rails. A sunny day filled with birds waiting for the milk float's horse to drive along the snowed -up lanes as though he didn't know the way himself. My father flailed his ski sticks showing off his Kristiana technique across the countryside to work.

1963 - An old home on the western slopes of Snowdonia. Its walls yards thick of Herculaneum scale. The roofing slates 5ft x 3ft and an inch thick held up by sagging timbers. It had stood but sinking into the bog between Cwms Silyn and Dilyn since the 14C just where the winds met together from each - no - from every direction and suddenly made visible by the swirling whirling snows of a tremendous blizzard. I had, earlier in the season, ripped out all the rotten tongue and groove of the poky, damp rooms and stripped out all the rough lime plaster lining the massive rocks of the dry stone walling; the interstices of which were filled with bits of moss and clay. I had discarded the plastered hessian sealing the slates from beneath- So there was one great wide primitive looking and empty space - A huge fireplace and bread oven at one end as yet unusable and at the other, a newly installed and proudly modernist Pithers stove- a shining cylinder of stainless steel - faultless in its austerity but

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nonetheless greedy for anthracite 'nuts'. (I've just looked them up on the internet and they are still supplied from South Wales, nicely bagged). It was lucky that it was in place at that time for when the storm came in - it surely did come in! The fine white powder blew seemingly through the very rock walls themselves and from under every slate.

I rigged up a makeshift shelter around the stove with just space for me to sit and sleep inside it with another bedsheet above the stove which I had to keep poking the snow off of before it melted hissing on the hot surface. The electricity failed. I sat by candle-light painting icons as the snowdrifts piled up around me inside the house while outside the drifts reached over the eaves, so I could neither see through the windows nor open a door but had to dig the way out with the coal shovel. It was all rather exciting, but I could not communicate with anyone. The telephone line had gone as well. The stone walled lane of access was completely blocked which became less exciting weeks later when everyone else's snow had disappeared!

My water supply, which was an iron gutter stuck into a nearby stream, froze solid and it did not take much imagination to realise how the lives of folk in the ice age must have been lived- hunting whatever came their way ... My neighbours, the poor woolly sheep - it would not have taken very much hesitation, (me thought); but with the nearest post office stores of baked beans and porridge oats but one mile away I was content. As for the rest of the country I was quite ignorant of until the heroic Postman made it through the Arctic wastes walking as he did for miles between the scattered homesteads. He was worth his cup of tea!

1980 something - And another dire tale of getting stuck behind jackknived lorries on a motorway, digging the car out and - coming down backwards the wrong way off a slip road and finding the A5 completely clear with lights and snowploughs and gritters and fast moving traffic - no problems – What a contrast! I think that will be all for now ... Till the next time?

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A Thursday Round1 by Hugh Thomas Thursday morning's comin' round

Time for U3A:

Coffee, chat, and all things that

Make up a happy day.

Sing 'Hooray'!

Learned lectures, group discussions

In the Third Age Way,

Going for a Study Tour

("It's not a holiday")2.

U3A – A - A.

It's so "life enhancing"3 -

There's nothing more to say.

___________________ 1 This little ditty dates from the time that there was a Singing SIG capably led by Peter Starling. It was used once or twice.

2 This is a kind reference to Rosemary our founder. On one overseas visit she heard someone say, "It's a great holiday". Whereupon she observed in her most magisterial manner "This is a Study Tour. It's not a holiday."

3 This I heard attributed to U3A by John Grant, a member over many years. He was a fine man and he and Audrey are much missed. Here he hit the nail on the head.

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Betrayal by Linda M Dainty Betrayal - me betray you - he spluttered into his water. Methinks you have it wrong. What about the time when you went on holiday and left ME at the kennels, they put me in a pen on my own. (Didn't tell her it was next to a lovely little lady Westie and I could see all the comings and goings). Well I got my own back as I lost my voice with the enjoyable evening sing-song every night so that when I got home I couldn't warn her when anyone knocked on the door, not that I do much anyway. What about the times you go out with your friends and leave me behind? You know I hate being left on my own. I consider that a betrayal. Also only the other day when I really really hurt my leg you took me to the vets and you left me there! That felt like a betrayal especially when they shaved a patch of hair off my leg- you know I don't like having my legs touched-then they stuck a needle in. After that I don't know what they did but I'm one tooth short. I must admit my teeth feel cleaner and better, but what else did they do. Betrayer. Well I refused to pee for them when they wanted me to, so there.

Is this your revenge? I don't feel I betray you just because I ignore you sometimes to follow men's denim clad legs and you have to come running after me. What do you mean you were only joking? Oh look there's another pair of denim clad legs - I'm off - Caio. C'est la vie.

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Summer Delights by Margaret Blake The waves whispered gently on the shore. A small child stood there, laughing with delight as the cold water tickled her toes. Her knitted swimsuit sagged against her damp skin but she was oblivious of any discomfort. Her eyes were fixed keenly on the shore-line as she began to move slowly along the beach. Every few moments she swooped with glee on yet another sea shell. Each was treated to the same reverential gaze as she absorbed the various shapes, textures and colours: everyone a source of wonder.

Beyond her the water reflected the sapphire blue of the summer sky. Downy clouds drifted lazily across the heavens, stray wisps floating away into the great beyond. The sun smiled benignly, caressing bodies more used to the chill of northern skies than Mediterranean warmth.

A woman’s voice called across the beach. “Susie! Lunch!” The child turned and trotted obediently to where her parents sat on a plaid picnic rug. A thermos flask was wedged firmly upright alongside them. A large square biscuit tin was carefully opened. Inside sat an array of little packages, each tidily wrapped in greaseproof paper. One by one they were made to reveal their culinary contents. Fish paste sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, tomatoes, twists of salt were all proudly presented to the gathered family. Then, as far as Susie was concerned, the best treat of all: a bottle of ‘pop’.

As they ate, a mischievous breeze sprung up, blowing sand over the picnic. But the food was not to be wasted. Hot tea or fizzy drink soon washed away the gritty taste. Then came the ‘star turn’: homemade fruit cake and jam tarts. Delicious! Afterwards, Susie lay on her back and eyed the blue sky. She sighed with contentment. It was a perfect day.

One of those halcyon summer days that provide warm memories to store up against the chill of old age. But, as yet, Susie knew nothing of that.

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Déjà vu by Richard Walker As I approach my 73rd birthday, I get the impression that I have heard the news before. Sigmund Freud first used the term “Déjà vu” in 1901 to refer to the memory of a sub-conscious day dream; but in relation to many items of current news, I know I have been there before.

In 1982 as a Police Sergeant in Bath, I worked with young people in schools, clubs and through community organizations to try and dissuade (mainly) young men from embarking on a life of crime or anti-social behaviour. Later in the early 90’s we worked with Bristol Housing and the Crown Prosecution Service to tackle the scourge of Domestic Violence. In the same decade the Police faced criticism in Employment Tribunals of unfair employment practices and sexual harassment, which disadvantaged many men and women and detracted from the overall effectiveness of our Service. We embarked on a long and expensive programme of what the Police called training (I’ll correct that description later) about prejudice and discrimination. We also tackled the problem of racism because we knew that (particularly) young black men were disproportionately targeted for “stop and search”, but who once they were in the Criminal Justice System suffered disproportionately harsher penalties. On the International Front, Glasnost was at last thawing the Cold War, and under the leadership of US Senator George Mitchell there were even rays of hope for peace in Ireland.

Somewhat counter-intuitively I agree with Steven Pinker, a Harvard psychologist, who maintains that whatever you may hear and think, things are getting better! This year he has published his latest book “Enlightenment Now”, and I’m with Bill Gates – “This is my new favourite book of all time.” Steven Pinker accepts that there are always going to be set-backs in the rocky road of progress, but we seem to have failed over a very wide front!

Pinker introduces his thesis by quoting from Immanuel Kant’s essay on “Enlightenment”, which was published in 1784; 200 years before I ended up in Bath! The basis of “Enlightenment” according to Kant is “Dare to

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Understand”, and his foundational theme is freedom of thought and speech. He follows it with a great insight – “One age cannot conclude a pact that would prevent succeeding ages from extending their insights, increasing their knowledge and purging their errors. That would be a crime against human nature, whose proper destiny lies precisely in such progress. “

So where did it all go wrong?

Steven Pinker points out that in all areas of our physical and material well-being we are better off. In Syria, Yemen and many other parts of the world the most appalling privations still exist, but for the most part we live longer, less people die in wars and on our roads (a reduction in the UK from 6,000+ in 1970 to around 1,600 in 2017). We have access to greater varieties of food than any previous generation, and the internet has put the accumulated knowledge of the world’s libraries in or homes. So, we are healthier and wealthier, but it seems that it is wisdom that’s the problem. It’s not how much you know, but how that knowledge impacts on the decisions we make that is important.

It is with a heavy heart that I listen to the accounts of knife crime in London, sexual harassment in almost every organization, and the way that so many events in the past are now coming back to haunt us. It seems that we constantly fall into the trap of not learning from the lessons of history. In 1995 I was presenting evidence of disproportionate sentencing of black and minority ethnic defendants. Last year David Lammy, the MP for Tottenham produced a race audit showing that nothing had changed. Why? We took our eye off the ball – you must keep banging home the same message; reminding people of the consequences of lazy thinking, or worse not thinking! Many of my audiences were very hostile – they didn’t want to know, or they resented having their opinions challenged. That is where I think the Police, and many other organizations have gone wrong. The fault lies in leadership, and an inability to understand the role played by power. Abraham Lincoln in his second inaugural address famously said – “Most men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” I actually think that generally women handle power better than men, but maybe that could form the topic for a debate!

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200 years before I was wrestling with the problems of Domestic Abuse in Bristol, Mary Woolstonecraft published A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792). She said that it was the “possession of reason in both men and women that provided the foundation for all morality.” The problem is that reason is often overcome by a sense of entitlement; justice and fairness overcome by self-interest, and importantly a seeming deterioration in the idea that to serve and lead comes with enormous social and civic responsibilities, instead of an inflated salary and bonus package.

Like Steven Pinker, I know we can never have a perfect world, and it would be dangerous to seek one. However, like my teachers said of me – we can and must do better. In the unfolding story of our shared humanity, I want to leave this world after writing, if not a happy ending, at least one with a hint of optimism.

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Thoughts of a Would-be Thespian by Robert Poole It is quite true what they say. Anyone who has had a go at it, even reluctantly, will testify to the undeniable fact that once you put a foot on that stage you lose your own identity, and for a brief, surreal segment of time, you become someone else. You become The Character. If you choose, you can get quite involved in being someone else to the point where you take The Character home with you.

I recall Peter Schaffer’s “Black Comedy" when I was cast as an antique dealer of distinctly dubious gender, and for the eight weeks of rehearsal and the subsequent week of production my wife began to look at me very quizzically without actually saying anything.

When I did Elyot in "Private Lives" I was Noel Coward all over the place. In class one day an anxious pupil said to me, "Are you all right, sir? You’re talking funny." It happens. It really does.

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But the best thing about trying your luck on stage is the opportunity to constantly refine your role because it is an integral part of the creative process. Like an artist at his easel, or a musician at his keyboard, you begin with nothing except an idea. You read the play, you like it, you want to do it. The director will give you the bare bones, but you put the meat on it, for better or worse.

Sometimes it works a treat, and when it does you know for certain all the time, effort, heartache and frustration you have put into it becomes worthwhile. I was the Major in Rattigan’s "Separate Tables", and in his big scene where he confesses his shameful double life to the young girl who

admires him so much, the director asked me how I would like to play it. I said that there was a settee centre stage and I would like to sit, looking into the blackness of the theatre, without moving, and just say the lines. "Great! " said he with a happy smile, "Tell ‘em what a rotten piece of rubbish you are." So that is just what I did. Every night. There was no sound from the audience. They may have been asleep, but I preferred to think they were silently absorbing the Major's plight, wanting there to be a happy outcome. It was a memorable moment for me. I think I felt the spirit of Sir Henry Irving giving me a wink and a nod of approval!

I always wanted to have a go at Shakespeare, but the ultimate prize in my 25 years in Am-Dram slipped through my fingers at the last minute, and from this distance I am mightily glad it did.With the tide of middle-aged misplaced confidence taken at the flood, I auditioned for and was offered the part of Shylock … I think the first choice backed out … but there it was, nonetheless, for the taking, and I was thrilled and fearful in

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equal measure. In the event, however, it was not to be. The company I was with at the time failed to find a Portia, and the whole thing was shelved "for another day”, they said evasively. It was never mentioned again. Instead, at short notice, we put on "Not now, Darling", which was as different to the Bard as champagne to engine oil. Still, it was probably for the best. I would have been out of my depth, not waving but drowning. You cannot ad-lib with Willy Shakespeare.

Come the performance, and the worst bit for me was when the stage manager called out "Five minutes, everyone", and conversation backstage was stilled and silent panic took over. There was nowhere to run. You wish with all your heart you were down the pub with your mates with a pint of Worthington and a packet of crisps. Too late.

You are in the wings, certain you have forgotten every word as you listen for your cue coming up. The continuity girl hisses " Go!" and you are on. You say your first line and suddenly it all makes sense and you know everything is going to be all right. On the last night the mood is cheerfully different. The director says, "Let your hair down tonight, you guys and dolls", and you do just that, on and off stage. There are the lovely curtain calls …" Go on, one more" … , the applause of the audience, exhausted, happy hugs all round, with bottles of wine and things on sticks backstage, with the adrenaline still flowing like a mountain stream and nobody wanting to go home. Its over. But it is never really over. Six weeks later the guy producing the next play calls. "Robert, I have just the part for you. Come and read next week" … It starts all over again. And I love it. - The End

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Broken silence by Linda M Dainty

They had not talked for many a year, They closed their ears, would not hear

The words each had to say. On that dark, dismal day.

They both were right, they both were wrong.

Could not agree, it was not long Before they turned went their own way.

On that dreadful day in May.

Long years passed by, they grew old. They never meet, no reason told Why their faces each had turned,

Or why each other they had spumed.

Until one day, unknown to each, They search for shells upon a beach,

They meet, forget the hurts of old They broke the silence, tales were told.

Joy and laughter had returned.

The flame of love rekindled, burned, Words filled the air, love was awoken

They kissed with joy, the silence broken.

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Travels in Patagonia – November 2017 by Viv Williams

Torres del Paine

Patagonia- an area in the southern half of South America, both in Argentina and Chile, about twice the size of France. A 14hour flight to Buenos Aires where we landed to a warm sunny morning. The first sight which impressed was the Jacaranda trees in full bloom throughout the city. Imagine instead of spring growth of green leaves on avenues of trees but pale lilac flowers.

We had a day and half in the city (pop 16.66million in BA province, over a third of population of Argentina). Some of the highlights on an organised tour were:

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Floralis Generica – a 70 foot, weighing 18tons, stainless steel flower, created in 2002, which opens with the rays of the sunrise and closes La Recoleta – a world renowned cemetery of about 4700 vaults where Eva Peron was finally laid to rest.

La Boca - if you are a football fan which most Argentinians are, think Boca Juniors, a famous team. Also the first area to be inhabited after de Mendoza made landfall in 1536.

Plaza de Mayo – named after the date Argentina gained independence from Spain in 1810. An area where regular demonstrations are held, including the white head scarfed ladies looking for their sons who disappeared during the 1970s in the military regime. Also the site of La Casa Rosada, the presidential palace. Think Evita and her speech from the balcony.

What most impressed us was the Ecological Reserve which we visited

Mount Fitzroy

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on our own. An area between the city and the River Plate which has reverted to tropical swamp. We saw coypu (large rodent), tegu (a 2/3ft lizard which apparently is very intelligent and can be housetrained), heron, ducks, kingfishers and numerous other species of bird, beautiful flowers, butterflies and bird song.

An early rise next morning (a flight at 4.30am of 4hrs) took us to Ushuaia, the most southerly town in the world, on Tierra del Fuego. Once a penal colony and now a naval base, surviving because of the tourist trade - ski resorts, cruise ships, the No 3 highway which runs from here to the wilds of Alaska (19,000miles) which is transversed. Why? Because it’s there!

Dandelions abound everywhere, accidentally introduced, but totally suitable due to the almost permanent wind for dispersing the seed.

A boat trip on the Beagle Channel (waterway between the mainland and Tierra del Fuego) was a highlight where we saw in particular, sea lions

Iguazu Waterfalls

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and cormorants, but also numerous other birds. The channel was like a millpond, not always like this, I’m sure.

We also had a walk in the National Park where we saw caracara (type of large falcon), night heron, upland geese, black necked swans and more. We learned about the original people that once lived here (only one full blooded person still living), the introduction of beaver and the problems this caused, the current difficulties of climate change and other facts.

Next day involved a 12hr bus journey over the border to Chile. The border crossing long winded and eventful. We crossed the Magellan Straits on a ferry.

Our destination Torres del Paine National Park where we walked and trekked over two days experiencing sun, rain, hail and snow. We saw and learned about guanaco (related to llama), rhea (American ostrich), condors (largest land flying bird). We missed the elusive puma - only 70 left in the Park. We learnt about the devastating fire of 7 years ago which destroyed 40,000acres, caused by one person setting fire to his toilet paper. The effects can still be seen.

Back to Argentina and the Perito Moreno Glacier, third largest in the world. Holding its own, not retreating nor advancing. Listened to and watched the huge chunks of ice breaking off, called calving.

On to El Chalten, a town created in the 1980s to establish territory along a disputed border with Chile, a population of 500 rising to 60,000 in the season with trekkers and climbers. Our aim, a 20km trek to the base of Fitzroy granite peak, a challenging climb but well worth it.

Our last excitement, a visit to the Iguazu waterfalls, on the Argentinian/Brazilian border. The largest series of waterfalls in the world but situated on the second most polluted river in Brazil. Amazing, especially when traversing along metal causeways in a thunderstorm. Must mention the coati (like a raccoon) who have developed a liking for human fast food. Have also developed obesity and diabetes!!

Back to Buenos Aires, and alas home.

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Archaeology by Elaine Starling Do you know what the quality serendipity Is? As a young trainee, aspiring archaeologist I had no idea. I had to borrow a dictionary to find out. Professor Eric Birley, a principle Roman Archaeologist from Durham University (and the father of Robin Birley of Vindolanda fame) told me I possessed it because l helped to uncover the box which later became known as the Corbridge Horde (Look it up on the internet)

Archaeology is a subject which is multidisciplinary. Most of you will have watched Time Team and come to understand the various skills that are used to interpret a site or an artefact. The examination that follows a discovery includes an examination of its past and present history. Interpretation and understanding includes historical knowledge, scientific investigation, restoration, technological skills but without a basic understanding of people, the landscape, the seasons nothing would ever have been discovered.

But discoveries are just the beginning! Very recently, I held a jade axe which is estimated to be some 6000 years old. Where was it discovered? The answer is above Hirwain on the site of a new wind farm. However, a cursory understanding of geology, would indicate that it was not native to this site or indeed Wales: that it was bought here probably from Italy. It was found in a boggy area and may have been of a religious nature and deposited in the bog which was probably a lake, as a votive offering.

A few weeks ago, some 15 of our members went on a field trip to Ogmore Castle and Ewenni Priory in the Vale of Glamorgan. The weather was brilliant but so were the sites. Ogmore Castle is located in a valley beside a tidal river. At low tide the river is crossed via stepping stones. Ewenni Priory is memorable because of the Norman carving which has not been interfered with by subsequent generations. But the icing on the cake for me was the unexcavated site at Monknash. Monknash was the Grange for Neath Abbey. We saw a very early dove cote. And the remains of substantial walls and earth platforms.

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We also found a very nice pub to have a late afternoon drink. This coming term we have a talk and possibly a visit to The First World War pacifist site on The Black Mountain. Hugh Purcell is talking about Talgarth Mental Asylum and its possible links to Rudolf Hesse.

Philip Cope is talking about Wells in Wales with particular reference to this area. Large parts of Wales have laid undisturbed for aeons. There is always the opportunity to discover and learn about our ancestors their lives and where they lived.

If you have any suggestions for future speakers or subjects, please let me know.

Classical Literature by Elaine Starling For the past three years David Morgan a classicist has run two sessions in the Autumn Term on a Classical Theme.

The first year it was Homer and the Iliad, the second the Aeneid last year on Theatre and a selection of Greek and Roman plays. This year the sessions will be looking at 'The Histories'. At the time of going to press the specific area has not been decided but it will be fascinating. David is a great story teller. So, please sign up for the sessions in the Autumn Term.

Creative Writing by Elaine Starling Everybody can write! All of you have it within your grasp to comment in writing on your life, current events or to create a scene or character to tell a story. Your writing does not have to be shared with anyone else, but your reflections and comments may help somebody else now or in the future and bring enjoyment.

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I will give a personal example. A few years ago one of my aunts died. She was 96 years of age. Her daughter, my cousin, sent me some letters written by my mother to her sister. They are both historical and sentimental but as well they are a recording of their lives at a very difficult time for both sisters.

Every week when I first left home, I received letters from my mother and Grandmother. How many young people of this generation will possess letters written by hand, to read when they get older?

If you do nothing else write a diary for your grandchildren and descendants.

A number of the past members of this group used Creative Writing to tell us about their younger lives. One of these was Philip Dey from whom we learnt what it was like to spend his first Christmas in this country, his early life in the subcontinent, his respect for his native customs and generally his very interesting life. It was a privilege to be present and to share and enjoy his writings.

Creative Writing; you might think it is difficult. No, it's not! What is difficult is having the confidence to discuss with other people what you have written and perhaps placing your writing in a magazine like this one.

The Creative Writing group continues. Many U3A members both current and past have been members.

So please come and join us and even if you don't write in our group, please keep writing, it keeps the little grey cells alive!

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Y GAER - NOT JUST A ROMAN FORT Breconshire’s new Museum, Art Gallery and Library

by Mervyn Bramley As leader of Brecon U3A’s Architecture and Landscape Special Interest Group, it seemed fitting to give Phoenix 2018 a preview of y Gaer - Breconshire’s new cultural hub complex. It’s scheduled to open at the end of the year and Brecon’s residents and visitors who travel along the Watton, Captain’s Walk or Glamorgan Street are getting used to this striking addition to Brecon’s townscape. The renovated Shire Hall containing the enlarged Museum and Art Gallery has emerged from the wraps of stone restoration, and the steel frame of the adjacent new Atrium and Library is receiving its glass and sandstone cladding.

Planning: The earlier Brecknock Museum and Art Gallery housed in Brecon’s Grade II* listed Shire Hall closed its doors to the public in 2011. The roof was leaking and the exhibition areas and facilities needed modernising. Over the following five years, Powys County Council - with support from its local funding partners the Brecknock Society and the Brecknock Art Trust, and an eye to Heritage Lottery and Welsh Government funding - was involved in a roller coaster exercise of surveys, studies, design work, funding applications, consultation,

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statutory reviews, planning applications, tenders and approvals to plan and finance a new centre with wide appeal to both the Breconshire community and to visitors. Work on the ‘Brecon Cultural Hub’ project - as y Gaer was initially known - finally started on site in July 2016. Wearing a non-U3A hat, I’ve been the Brecknock Society’s lead for the project since 2011.

As a chartered engineer, I’ve worked on several controversial and complex projects including the Dinorwic Power Station in Snowdonia and London’s future Flood Defences. Brecon’s y Gaer has been equally complex - albeit for different reasons. Why so? - tight public sector finances at a time of increasing costs in the building industry; consulting our Breconshire public on options; raising the £5M+ external funding from the seven main partners to Powys CC; achieving planning permission to redevelop a listed building and to add a major new building to Georgian Brecon; dealing with refurbishment issues that could not reasonably have been foreseen; and of course bat surveys! Of course many of these are not uncommon with the restoration of iconic public buildings. And, yes, all this has generated plenty of column inches in the Brecon and Radnor Express as many readers of Phoenix will know.

The Buildings: So let’s take an ‘architecture and landscape’ look at the new y Gaer (see aerial perspective view) as designed by Swansea architects Powell Dobson. With the refurbished Shire Hall, we see a landmark building of classical Greek style restored to its original external form as completed for the County Assizes in 1842 to the designs of London architects Wyatt and Brandon. This is a civic statement of the power of the judiciary and the law. Gone is the clutter of the now-demolished Old Police Station and New County Hall, which had been built onto it. Inside, there is a significant increase in exhibition area with the Museum’s new Brycheiniog gallery that has been engineered into the roof space across the front of the building. The Courtroom is restored to its original size and layout, including access to the cells below and reinstatement of the semi-circular public gallery, which had been hidden for years under a false floor. So the impressive Courtroom will not only be a major historical and architectural attraction, but also a place for events such as talks and concerts.

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The concept of creating a ‘hub’ bringing together the museum, art gallery, library, café, shop and community and education rooms has been central to the planning of y Gaer. This is both to provide interest to the visitor and to rationalise delivery of public services. Multi-functional developments have worked well in Heritage Lottery funded projects elsewhere in the UK and are also popular cultural attractions in other countries. A further local benefit given our mid-Wales climate is to provide a significant indoor tourist and community attraction for rainy days!

The overall design and layout of y Gaer is a celebration of both old and new, of the solidity and formality of the restored Shire Hall and the transparency and fun of the new library and education rooms. The design creates different engaging spaces including the central atrium area with reception, café and shop. Mainly glass walls surround the library, spread across the ground floor. The sandstone cladding above, the angled roofs and the outlook from its very large window all associate with the landform of the Brecon Beacons.

And what exactly will be inside? That’s for you to come and see! The theme of the Heritage Lottery Fund grant was ‘Connecting communities and collections’. It’s hoped are that y Gaer will interest, inspire and connect with all three ages - particularly our Third! Whether it’s the outstanding collection of Welsh paintings, the coffee and IT facilities, the

books on offer, the spaces for activities or just contemplation, or the museum galleries on Brecon and on Breconshire - there’s plenty there. And as the future operation will involve both Powys County Council staff and community volunteers - so some familiar faces will also be there.

The Name: y Gaer was chosen in 2017 following widespread research and consultation. Of course it reflects the name of the Roman fort three miles to the west of Brecon. But this was not the

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only reason. The word Caer in Welsh means fortress or rampart as in early hill forts, and so in this sense y Gaer is somewhere to safeguard what is precious to our community. This concept is taken up in the logo with the stylised walls of the buildings. So this y Gaer is a treasure house - more than just a Roman fort!

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Virginia Robotham - The canal at Pencelli

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Brecon U3A Archive by Gill Evans Why exactly did early members of Brecon U3A go around muttering to themselves “Possibly camels often sit down carefully”? You’ll have to visit the archive section on our website to find out the answer! This section of the Brecon U3A website contains a description of the sort of material we hold in our archive, with some examples of items held. Currently displayed is the original poster used by Rosemary Maling in 1984 to advertise a public forum in Brecon library to establish whether there was any interest in forming a U3A in Brecon, together with an early programme.

I’m constantly adding new material to our archive such as the notices displayed on our weekly noticeboards advertising various SIG activities. I collect these notices after each event has taken place – so please SIG leaders, don’t beat me to it and take down your notices and destroy them. They are a valuable addition to our archive, not just in demonstrating exactly what each SIG gets up to, but also in showing off the artistic skills of our SIG leaders – poster art in fact!I also copy any items relating to Brecon U3A which appear in the national magazine U3A News, such as the recent tribute to John Bolingbroke, a long standing member of Brecon U3A, who made such a major contribution to the U3A movement both locally, regionally and nationally

Recently I’ve been helped by long standing members of Brecon U3A to identify people and places in historical photographs held in the archive which weren’t adequately labelled. This has enabled me to reorganise and relabel the older photographs. In order to maintain a photographic record of our activities, I’d very much welcome new photographs from members of Brecon U3A. Just one or two photographs from a trip or of a specific SIG activity for example would be gratefully received, labelled with brief details of the event, its date, location and the names of anyone in the photograph.

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What a shame that I don’t have any photographs related to the comments below on various trips and activities featured in early newsletters in the archive -

“Brecon U3A members are hardy, but not foolhardy”

“There was some doubt as to whether the coach from Birmingham would make it back to Brecon”

“The Foreign Office is advising caution”

“Swimming – there seems to be some backsliding here, which requires a push over the side and into the pool”

“The Swimming Group seems to have stopped paddling”

“If you can’t stand wet feet and creepy crawlies, why not just join in the pub lunch?”

Literature – Philosophy – Theology by Richard Walker Rather than write a list of what we have read, discussed or thought over the last year, what follows is the way that these disciplines are of necessity inter-related.

Literature usually places characters in the context of a particular age, time or culture, and the author invites us into the world of that character. Sometimes it is a deeply uncomfortable journey following characters like Dicken’s Oliver or Little Dorrit, children suffering the effects of the workhouse and the Marshalsea Prison respectively. Dickens gave us a graphic insight into Victorian Britain, and the philosophy that underpinned it.

In 1842 George Eliot (the J.K. Rowling of the 19th century) had a crisis in her religious life, which caused a rift with her father. To placate him she continued to attend church but did not receive communion! Her

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doubt persisted. Arguably, her most famous book Middlemarch followed the lives of men and women born into the period just before the advent of the railways and the Reform Act of 1832. Dorothea Brooke wants to make the world a better place, and at the age of 18 makes a disastrous marriage to an (elderly!) clergyman of 43 years. A young doctor called Lydgate, who also wants to change the world makes a disastrous marriage to a beautiful woman called Rosamund and ends up in debt. Her novels are full of clergymen, doing their pastoral work, not preaching! The received theology of her day was based on the Biblical accounts of creation, and the idea of William Paley’s Divine Watchmaker. For all of them, their age was dominated by the gloomy predictions of a famous philosopher – Rev. Thomas Robert Malthus. One of the effects of rapid industrialisation was a huge increase in the rate of population growth, and Malthus saw this as a problem that would see the resources of the world decimated. The consequence would be most of humanity reduced to starvation, disease and pestilence. His solution, and the only way to counter this apocalypse was “moral abstinence”, which for most people appeared to be a non-starter! It was this book that had a huge influence on Charles Darwin, who published his On the Origin of Species in 1859.

Students encounter all sorts of difficulties because they do not understand the theological underpinning of works by authors like Charlotte Bronte and D.H. Lawrence. In Jane Eyre for example there are 144 Biblical references. One of the books we read over the summer term was Erewhon by Samuel Butler (it is Nowhere nearly spelt backwards). It was written in 1872, and takes the reader into a dystopian world, which is a mirror image of our own. It is a world where human perfection is prized above everything else, and to be ill is a criminal offence. No account is taken of of being born poor or having inherited illness. People who commit crime get a great deal of sympathy and are assisted by people known as “straighteners”, nor is there the opprobrium attached to crime that we see in our own society. Butler followed Swift, Voltaire, and others in writing a satire on the inconsistencies, contradictions and injustices of the society into which he was born, and perhaps the greatest compliment I could pay him from 2018, is that it made me think about my own age, and the injustices faced by so many people.

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The best way to appreciate any subject is to discuss it with others – everyone has a view, and everyone brings a unique perspective to these works. There is always a place for you and your opinions in any of our groups

Wildlife 2017/18 by Gill Evans Now at the end of its second year, the Wildlife SIG is continuing to provide a mix of talks, nature rambles, visits to sites of wildlife interest and joint activities with other special interest groups. In 2017/18 speakers talked to us about otters, the RSPB Great British Birdwatch project and wildlife photography and photographers.

We also ventured out into the wild. Last June, a small but select few of us visited the Brecknock Wildlife Trust nature reserve at Ystradfawr for a guided walk, where the display of orchids in a meadow on the reserve was magnificent. The feedback forms given to us to complete at the end of our walk left us somewhat baffled however, asking us what practical and social skills we had acquired through our time on the reserve. I’m not sure that managing to avoid tripping over tree roots and refraining from bad language when hit in the face by a low branch were the sort of skills they had in mind.

My own special skill at choosing a day of unparalleled abysmal weather for a wildlife event, first demonstrated on our trip to the Elan Valley, was displayed again on our visit to the Epynt last October. Horizontal rain meant we had to abandon our plans to visit sites of interest on the ranges in the afternoon. Fortunately, the morning session took place under cover, when we joined a meeting of the Epynt Conservation Group at the Sennybridge Training Camp. The meeting was also followed by a free lunch in the Officers’ Mess, so all was not lost!

The benefits of joint SIG events were shown in the Wildlife/Gardening visit to the Weir Garden near Hereford, we were blessed with glorious weather in which to stroll along the bank of the river Wye, clearly the sun

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always shines on gardeners. The sun was also out on our most recent event, a trip to the Centre for Alternative Technology near Machynlleth, where we enjoyed a ride on the water balanced cliff railway and a guided tour of the new Quarry Trail, visiting the old slate quarry, reservoir, broadleaved woodlands (home to dormice) and some examples of alternative construction dwellings including Ty Blewog or “the hairy hut”.

There’s no fixed membership of the Wildlife Group – everyone is welcome. So come along to our talks and trips, and take a walk on the wild side.

Film Club by Nesta Thomas There have been two highlights for me this year – The Death of Stalin and Oh, What a Lovely War. Having visited Communist-era Leningrad in 1964 and very much post-Communist St. Petersburg in 2017, I was interested in seeing whether The Death of Stalin would throw some light on the demise of Soviet Communism. The film deals with the events around Uncle Joe’s death and funeral. It proved to be funny, frightening and thought-provoking – often all three at the same time. For example, the opening scene of Stalin demanding a recording of a radio concert which had not, in fact, been recorded was hilarious until you realised that the radio producer was terrified of incurring Stalin’s wrath. Again, the childish but brutal jockeying for power after his death, while depicted humorously, suggested that the Communist ideals of those in the upper echelons of government were swamped by their ambitions for personal power and glory.

Another film which uses humour to pack a punch is Richard Attenborough’s 1969 masterpiece ‘Oh, What a Lovely War’. In the fifty or so years since I first saw it, it has lost none of its impact and is still the best war/anti-war film I have ever seen. It manages to show the horrors of war without the usual scenes of bloodshed and mutilated limbs – rather with the use of simple devices such as poppies to show death and

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stark statistics on billboards (for example, 600,000 lives lost at the Battle of the Somme with no territory gained). And, of course, there are the highly evocative songs of the period, including ‘Hush, here comes a whizz-bang’ and ‘The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling’. This was a very relevant Film Club choice for the centenary anniversary of the end of ‘The War to End All Wars’!

The Film Club meets monthly in the Autumn and Spring terms at the Coliseum Cinema – look out for the notices!

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Friday 11th May 2018 on the way back from the RHS Malvern Spring Festival

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The Travel Desk - Review of the Year 2017/18 by Joan Millard Well, what have we been up to for your delectation and delight over the past 12 months? Patrick, Margaret, Jenny and myself, have had fun planning a whole host of outings to places of interest and theatre shows.

The year wasn’t without incident as three of us have had a variety of health issues, but all are now well back on the road to recovery.

During our summer break, Patrick had booked a Steam Train ride in August from Cheddington to Toddington. Nothing quite matches the thrill and the noise and the sheer weight of a steam train puffing slowly into a station. The weather could have been better but, hey, one can’t have everything.

A shorter coach ride in September took us to the Llanelli Wetlands Centre. This is a sister centre to Slimbridge and is run on the same principles which Sir Peter Scott instigated there. What a visionary that man was and what a legacy he has left. Again a wet day!!!

Come October and we were on our way to Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire, and the sun shone for us. Coffee and lunch were included in the visit but most of us were underwhelmed with the catering arrangements. I did make quite strong grumbling noises on our return and was given some free entry tickets for use this year. I still have them, should anyone wish to make another visit. This is the castle where Edward II met his end with a red hot poker and no, I do not mean the flowering kind. Dr Jenner’s House, he of the smallpox vaccine invention, is in the grounds.

For me though, the highlight of the day was a visit to St Mary’s church. The whole of the inside of the church had originally been painted. A lot remains and the colours and shapes seem so contemporary that they could have been lifted straight from a design magazine of today.

Poor Jenny, who had worked so hard to organise the trip to the SS Great Britain and Underfall Yard in Bristol had to miss it all, having just had an operation on her knee.

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We had such an interesting day and we learned all about the Underfall system for regulating water flow from the Bristol Floating Harbour. The person responsible for the engineering side of the yard was a young woman. The first woman to hold the post, she proudly told us, so we were able to present to her our very own Angela Briggs who was the very first woman electrical engineer to graduate from Swansea University,’ummpty tumpth’ years ago. She was suitably impressed! Lunch was taken in the dining room of the Great Britain using replica china and cutlery from the days of the ship’s heyday. Very atmospheric indeed!

We had tentatively planned to go to a Christmas Market in December, Birmingham was to be the venue but somehow it never came off. Better luck next year.

Instead we opted for a trip to The Everyman Theatre in Cheltenham in January to see ‘The Play that goes Wrong’. It was a hoot; a farce in Brian Rix mode and enjoyed by all. It’s always a joy to visit these provincial theatres, decorated as they are in traditional red and gold and above all, prospering.

In February we went to Bath and were given a guided tour of the city by The Mayor of Bath Guides. What a wealth of knowledge they possess and with what skill and humour did they impart that knowledge. The tours were expertly tailored to the physical ability of the two groups. Hats off to them! Lunch was taken at the Holburne Museum where there was a retrospective of the paintings of Anthony Fry. Definitely not to everyone’s taste!! The worry then was how to find our way back to the coach park where we had been dropped off. No idea was the opinion, but luckily we

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were able to get hold of our coach driver and he turned up and met us at the Museum.

March saw us take a coach trip to Cardiff to St David’s Hall for a concert given by the National Orchestra of Wales, always a treat to hear them play. This time it was music by Mozart and Debussy and with just a snatch of Messiaen. Not enough to frighten the horses!

Our most recent trip was to Picton Castle, Castell Pictwn in Welsh, in Pembrokeshire. Our best visit to a castle for a long time. We had lovely weather and the whole day went like clockwork. It was built at the end of the 13th century and has been remodelled several times during its history finally becoming a stately home for the Philipps family. Now run by trustees and often used for weddings.

One can see why. Photo opportunities abound in the lovely grounds but the highlight for us all was the quality of the lunch. Have I mentioned lunch before in this report? We are a U3A that likes its food! Spectacularly good at Picton! So, a whole year of excitement and adventure and many more delights in the pipeline.

Joan Millard together with my colleagues, Patrick, Margaret and Jenny

Virginia Robotham, Picton Castle

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Art Appreciation and Family History - Erased from History By Mike Ingram Throughout this year I have come to realise how many people and events are erased from history or have been ignored, it seems to be becoming a current theme to make us aware of this. I supposed what first bought my attention to this phenomenon recently was the TV documentary by David Olusoga, Black and British: A Forgotten History which was a very powerful reminder of how history can be manipulated.

Then I discovered Pauline Boty. She was an artist who was part of the Pop Art movement in the 1950s and 60s, who was, a contemporary, a friend and fellow student of artists such as Peter Blake and David Hockney. Sadly, Boty died of cancer in 1966 and became forgotten. She had exhibited with people like Peter Blake and had figured in a BBC documentary on Pop Artists by Ken Russell.

Her existence remained mainly dormant until in 2013 when an exhibition of her work was held in Wolverhampton. Since then she has been gradually remembered and recognised as a major artist of that time.

It may have been this that sparked the gradual growth in museums and galleries now of many other forgotten artists (who often happen to be women) being acknowledged more and more in recent years.

Another artist of significance was generally invisible throughout his life. Roger Cecil was an artist who chose to be invisible. After spending a few weeks as a student at the Royal College of art in the 1960s, he left and decided to take his own direction. He returned home to Abertillery and worked at home supporting himself by working at labouring jobs and in open top mining. He was helped exhibit by Pauline Griffiths who runs the Art Shop and Gallery in Abergavenny and was recognised by many people in the art world but was generally unknown in the wider community.

Sadly, he died of hypothermia while walking home alone from hospital in Newport in 2015 aged 72. He was suffering from Alzheimers. He is now becoming recognised as a major Welsh artist as a result of exhibitions held in recent years and a book of his life and work by Peter Wakelin.

I was made aware of him by one of our members, Pauline Paterson and using Wakelin’s book and the internet gave a talk about him this year.

Since then I have been lucky enough to see an exhibition of his work held at the Llantarnam Grange Art Centre in Cwmbran and two large works of his at the

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home of David Moore and Sue Hiley Harris during the Brecon open studios weekend.

Of course, many artists have not disappeared; some of us were stimulated by the Picasso exhibition at Tate Modern which we visited; thanks to Angela Briggs who organized a joint trip to London.

Other people who disappear are members of our past families or at least details about them.

Two people who have shared newly discovered information about their families are John Rath and John Underwood. (See page 63). It is very easy to find records of our ancestors now on the internet, but even so, many things remain hidden but sometimes turn up unexpectantly.

Not only are people and events sometimes erased from history. As in my life the area where I grew up has been erased from the landscape. (See page 52).

It is important, I think, to write things down. I used to ask my mother about her early life in the years before she died and thought then that I would remember everything she told me. I do remember much of it but even when memories are not erased, they do fade.

Gardening By Pat Wilkie The Gardening Special Interest Group was reformed during the autumn of 2013, by the time you read this we will be celebrating our first ½ decade. Our activities include occasional talks on a Thursday afternoon, visits to noteworthy gardens and an annual plant sale to help finance all things horticultural.

My annual dilemma is what to write for The Phoenix – the editor’s suggestion was ‘pruning roses’1. This idea threw me into a total tizzy and finds me finally settling down to write after the final deadline. Why a tizzy? Well, Pruning is not a skill I excel in - I am not a happy pruner of roses, shrubs or climbers in fact the use of secateurs does not come

1 Fake News, Editor

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naturally to me, even though I know it is an essential process – I just hate cutting off all the growth. In addition to swotting up the subject it would require illustrations and diagrams, certainly not my forte. However, his suggestion has made me think, perhaps we should include a regular talk on ‘how to …’; please give me your suggestions as to possible topics that would prove helpful.

Most members of Brecon U3A enjoy garden visits; so often they can be a good source of ideas or techniques to try out at home. A visit to a really good garden is inspirational; for many people it is the equivalent to visiting an art gallery. Gertrude Jekyll described herself as ‘paint[ing] living pictures’ or as ‘painting a landscape with living things’. Certainly, gardens and plants have inspired artists, craftspeople, poets and writers over the centuries. Furthermore, gardens can enhance our understanding of past times as well as cultures other than our own. We can and do appreciate gardens as a work of art; gardens can also be part of or compliment the natural landscape or architecture. Although the product of human creativity, ingenuity or even tweaking the natural world they are an essential factor in our stewardship of Earth and the life it sustains.

Thus, Gardening as a Special Interest Group does not stand alone. This year we have highlighted environmental matters in talks or organised visits that relate to the interests and activities of the Wildlife group; this will continue to be a theme, particularly in helping us to consider how gardens can best support a rich diversity of living creatures – the bonus being the enrichment of our own lives as we watch the visitors. We will be building on the occasional link with the Architecture & Landscape group by holding three ‘back to back’ sessions, during the course of the coming year, focussing on a particular area or region.

All in all, 2017/2018 has been a great year and there is so much to look forward to in 2018/2019. Green fingers are not essential to join in with Gardening just an enquiring mind, an appreciation of beauty, a commitment to the planet we share and a willingness to have all of one’s senses blown away as we take time out to gaze in wonder at the wonder of creation. The opportunity to enjoy sharing interests and responding to opportunities with fellow members is a continuing joy of belonging to

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Brecon U3A especially when combined with a sense of fun and a readiness to be adventurous.

Sky Dive by Margaret Lloyd An ordinary Thursday morning in January, and members of Brecon U3A had heard another excellent presentation by the speaker. At the end of the proceedings the Chairman announced that a young woman would like to address us briefly.

Olivia told us that the company she worked for was producing a programme for BBC Wales for the Sport Relief campaign. The programme was to be called ‘Alfie’s skydiving challenge’ (later changed) and they needed volunteers over 60 to participate in a tandem skydive; was anyone interested?

Before I knew what was happening my hand was in the air. This was not something I had ever even thought of doing, but once I had involuntarily volunteered I was hooked on the idea.

Over the next few weeks Gareth Thomas and a small filming crew visited Brecon U3A to see us ‘at work’ as it were (not ultimately included in the programme), there were forms to be filled, and an assessment and training session at Swansea airport to be attended. At this session we met the other participants, although we had little time to spend with them, and had the whole process explained to us.

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This included trying on the jump suits and adopting the positions we were to take for exiting the aircraft and landing. We also met Dilys, an amazing lady who at 85 holds the world record for being the oldest female skydiver. Gareth of course was there too. We also were given a folder from Sport Relief with advice about fundraising and sponsorship forms etc.

The skydive was scheduled for Sunday 5th March. This had to be postponed as the “Beast from the East” took over the weather system, and the event was rescheduled for Fri 9th. We all went down to Swansea on Thursday afternoon to attend a get-together so that we could get to know each other, have advice and a mindfulness session with Dilys, and realise that this was actually going to happen!

At 7am on the Friday we arrived at Skydive Swansea to be met by a flurry of activity. Bad weather was forecast for later in the day, and as eighteen of us were skydiving in five groups, there was no time to be wasted. We were introduced to the instructor who was to be our tandem partner, quickly donned the jumpsuit and harness, and practised our exit and landing positions. We were provided with a rather inelegant soft helmet, some gloves and a snood for warmth. It was going to be cold at 12000 feet!

With little time to think I was on my way out to the aircraft. The instructor was able to tell me the colour of our parachute, so that my ‘support team’ would know which dot in the sky to cheer. There were four of us on this flight, together with a professional photographer with cameras on his helmet. We sat on the metal floor of the aircraft next to the roller (shutter type) door. As we moved along the runway it felt as if I could put out my hand to touch the concrete rushing by. Very shortly we were airborne and climbing steeply to attain dive height. Jane was first to leave the aircraft, and quickly disappeared from sight. Almost immediately it was my turn. We sat in the doorway of the aircraft, and momentarily it felt as if the whole of the Gower peninsula was in view. Then we were out.

We had been told that the 6000ft freefall would take about 45 seconds, but it was over in what seemed like a few seconds. Then a sudden jerk as the parachute was deployed; now I had time to take in the magnificent

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view, and feel the joy and freedom of gradually descending through the air. Suddenly the ground seemed very close, and on a signal from the instructor I adopted the landing position. Then we were down. It was over, much too quickly. I would happily have gone straight back up again, but of course that was not possible.

During the period before the TV programme was broadcast I was asked to do an interview – in Welsh! – with Sian Cothi for Radio Cymru. Despite my reservations, and with help from my Welsh speaking sister in law, I survived the experience – but didn’t have the courage to listen to the programme! I was also asked to appear on ‘BBC Breakfast’ with Gareth and Ken. This involved staying overnight at Media City in Manchester, waiting in the green Room, and a visit to make-up before sitting on the infamous ‘Red sofa’ with Dan and Louise. The highlight was seeing at first hand the Oscar won for ‘The Silent Child’.

This was an interesting experience, but I would have preferred another Skydive!

I was so fortunate to have been given the opportunity to take part in this amazing activity, and to raise funds for such a good cause.

If you see someone walking down the street with a silly grin on their face – it’s probably me, reliving the experience

Rise to a Challenge. by Chris Kamutikaoma Earlier this year in January, an opportunity was presented to the Brecon U3A to do a Skydive Challenge with Gareth Thomas ex Wales Rugby captain to raise funds for Sport Relief charit

Four of us accepted the challenge. We had a short filmed interview as to why we liked to face this event and whether we had done this sort of thing before. None of us had but I had done hand-gliding at the Black Mountain Gliding Club near Talgarth and I had always loved getting into planes and helicopters flying but not jumping out of them!!

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After some preliminary checks including medicals and an initial practice day at Swansea Airport two of us were approved and ready to take on the challenge with other people from other parts of Wales.

Two dates were scheduled for the 4th and 9th of March as skydiving is very dependent on weather conditions - and we do have "weather" in Wales! the first date was cancelled as we were snowed in by the "Beast from the East" The delay however fired me up more to do the jump. The weather improved enough for us to meet in Swansea and prepared for the early morning start as rain was focused for the afternoon on the day of the challenge.

After a hearty breakfast we went to the airport to get kitted in our skydive suits with goggles and gloves because it gets colder up there. We went up in groups of fours into the aircraft and flew up to 12 000 feet. This was exhilarating and the views of Pembrokeshire and the river Tawe estuary were breath-taking. We also had cameramen with us to record our episodes and our excited and petrified faces.

The door was open, and we shuffled to the edge of the exit and the wind was now buffeting our faces. As I was in front of the row I came out first - what an experience!! We plummeted at 120 mph and it felt like I had loose skin flapping on my face. The feeling of freedom of just being in the sky with the earth below me and also not enclosed in anything was

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just unbelievable. The whole experience lived up to all my expectations and beyond, the parachute was then deployed - the small one first to just slow us down and then the big one which felt like being lifted up into the air again. I the enjoyed the gradual glide to land. Touchdown was an amazing experience and overwhelming sense of achievement just filled me up.

We also raised money for the Sports Relief Charity which was great. We give big Thanks to all U3A members in Brecon who sponsored Margaret Lloyd and me. Thank you again for your generosity. The sense of rising up to this challenge and the feelings of achievement will live with me forever.

Using the Brecon U3A Website We are trying to encourage members to use the Brecon U3A website. It is easy to use - depending on your experience, saves paper and can be kept up to date.

Finding the Web Site The address is:

http://u3asites.org.uk/brecon/welcome

You don’t need to remember this address or use it, however. The easier way is:

Go to Google (in Safari, Edge, etc.,) and type ‘Brecon U3A’ (you don’t need the quotation marks). Google will give you something like this:

‘Brecon U3A: Welcome - U3A Site Builder Home Page’.

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This can look confusing but as Google is a machine not a person it doesn’t always get things right, but don’t worry!

Just click on what it gives you and you will arrive at the Brecon U3A website.

Finding Your Way Around This should be easy and gets even easier the more you use the site

At the top of the page you will see a row of words:

Home Welcome Groups Events Magazine Contact Links

Gallery Sitemap U3A

This row is actually a menu which links to the various sections. You will probably be on the Welcome page and you will see that the word Welcome has a blue background indicates that this is the page you are on. By clicking once on one of the names you will be taken to the appropriate page. Home will take you to a page with a picture of Brecon.

Groups takes you to the page with information about the special interest groups. On this page, below the introduction there are two columns listing all groups; each group name is a link to a group page. Click once on the name and you should arrive at the group’s page.

Some pages will give you general information about the group and some will give you up to date information about events.

To return to a previous page or go to another one click on the appropriate name at the top.

The Events Page On the Events page you will find the programme for Thursday’s sessions.

The top section gives general information but it is important to check here, as, from time to time announcements are made, such as special meetings coming up.

The section below, ‘Dates for your diary’, is a clever section; it always shows the current Thursday at the top.

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Links At the top right of the Events page (and also on other pages) there is a section called Links

Clicking once on one of the words here will take you to extra information. On some pages, there may be a link which helps you send an email to a group leader.

You can also send an email to the Chair Person, Secretary or me from the Contact page.

Now explore the site yourself. Remember, you can’t break it.

Brecon U3A Committee 2018 Chair Richard Walker

Vice Chair Mike Ingram

Secretary Agi Yates

Treasurer Kath Hopkins

Membership Secretary Alison Jones

Committee members:

Pat Blake

Janet Bodily

Gill Evans

Lynn Rees

Lynda Roberts

Poppy Weston

Co-opted as Programme Secretary Trevor Jones ____

Web Coordinator Mike Ingram Magazine Editor Mike Ingram Printer Lyn Rees Archivist Gill Evans Travel Desk Coordinator Pat Blake