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Anon
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Wild Wales, a Beddie and a cockerel called Rufus

I have just realized that by purchasing a beddie to move my belongings from Broadstairs to Christchurch where I am happily in sheltered accommodation, I am at the age of 74, unconsciously repeating an adventure that I began in the late 1960’s when I and my first wife moved from a little cottage near Windsor Great Park to a farmhouse in the wilds of Wales high up in the Cambrian Mountains near Tregaron where we cut peat for the fire and took in guests for pony trekking.
The move presented enormous difficulties for we owned two ponies, six geese, three cats and several chickens including a magnificent cockerel called Rufus. At this time I was a postman just 35 earning £12 a week and paying a mortgage of £2 a week on a cottage that had cost us £1600 - remember those days? Perhaps not, for I am a lot older than most of you I suspect.
I searched around for some form of suitable transport and saw a 1935 Bedford horsebox for sale just £40! Strangely enough we never moved the ponies in it, only the furniture, buying an Austin Champ (Rolls Royce Engine), the army’s answer to the American jeep and borrowing a small horsebox to tow behind.
By the time everything was settled it was November and the worst of the weather had set in, as it did in those days quite regularly – winters were proper winters then, as I expect some of you will remember. I knew that the most difficult part of the journey would be the hill out of Tregaron, a 1 in 4 on the Abergwesyn Road, an ancient drovers road that wound up over the mountains and down to Beulah. Measglas, our farmhouse with five acres, was eight miles into the hills the nearest neighbours at Nantllywd six miles away and the nearest point of communication a telephone box three miles away. I had spent two weeks on my own there camping out in a mini van before we moved. Other than sheep the only movable objects I encountered were welsh farmers on ponies with rifles slung across their backs like something out of a Russian film, for at that time a stray Irish wolfhound was killing sheep – over 300 in all; it made the national news at the time. I sensed the loneliness that four years later I was to succumb to, retreating back to England leaving my wife and my marriage behind. She is still there, happily involved in ponies and sheep nearer to Tregaron, a well respected judge at most of the welsh shows. She was born for the isolated life. I wasn’t. We still see each other and despite my two other marriages we are all good friends.
My brother-in-law Dick and I went ahead in the Bedford loaded to the brim with some of our belongings plus all the chickens, the remaining furniture left to pick up on the second trip, which I would have to complete on my own. It was a bright moonlit night when we set out at midnight; we had loaded the Bedford on the grass verge opposite our cottage and we found that it had bedded down refusing to budge; then at the very moment of despair all our neighbours up and down the lane appeared magically, some with coats over their pyjamas and with a great deal of shoving and puffing we were launched out on to the road with an accompaniment of cheers and shouts of good luck.
The roads then, were almost completely free of traffic at that time of night; about an hour later we came upon a man sitting on a grass bank head in hands his car wrapped around a tree; he had dozed off; luckily a phone box was near and with our help the police were soon on the scene. I prayed that they wouldn’t ask us to open up the back of the beddie and suspect us of burglary and luckily they didn’t and we eventually continued our journey.
Over the bridge at Chepstow we pulled into a layby for a rest. I woke hours later with dawn breaking, a slight drizzle and the unexpected sound of a cockerel crowing. It took me quite a time to realize where I was and that it was Rufus in the back performing his daily dawn ritual!
As we neared Tregaron a scattering of snow appeared on the fields and it grew bitterly cold. Through the square past the Talbot Inn and we were on the dreaded 1 in 4 hill, icy patches appearing, the engine bravely struggling. We almost stopped dead halfway up as I double declutched and slipped the gear into first, my heart in my mouth; slowly all too slowly we recovered and made the top with a great sigh of relief. I fully believe now that vehicle would have gone up anything. Eight miles of narrow mountain road later we arrived. Unloading two armchairs into the freezing empty house living room we lit a fire in the huge inglenook and drifted off into a well earned sleep only to be shaken awake some hours later by the following party, the room full of smoke – a slate had been put over the chimney to keep the rain out!
My wife, my brother and our friends had had an even more eventful journey, as the road had increasingly iced up, the Champ and horsebox nearly going over a huge drop. After that they had walked, leading the ponies about six miles. My brother swears to this day that as he followed wearily at the rear, someone touched him gently on the shoulder; glancing back in surprise only the white surrounding hills met his gaze! Maybe it was our guardian angel protecting us that day.
I drove the beddie up through Rhandirmwyn on the second trip; The Brianne Dam was being built and I knew that a rough track led up to the farm from that direction. She boiled over conveniently at Wimpeys main campsite and I was able to let her cool down and top her up. On down then, a dizzy difficult descent to the bottom of the dam where I was presented with three possible routes all rough uninviting tracks stretching up through the forestry. It was raining hard and a mistake now could have been a sheer disaster. A huge hut lay near by, no sign of life anywhere. I knocked on the door without much hope. To my amazement six forestry workers were sheltering inside playing cards! They must have thought me mad. One pointed me on the right track and with my heart in my mouth I set forth upwards, ever upwards, the beddie lurching on the wet mud, until the lonely chapel of Soar-y- Mynnydd came into to sight and I was thankfully on hard tarmac; then the trees surrounding our farmhouse appeared in the distance. With a great feeling of joy and happiness I jabbed down on the horn and soon I could see tiny figures tumbling out of the house in the distance to greet me.
Some months later we sold her on to a local farmer. That was indeed a beddie with a personality and courage all of her own. I wish I had her now. At least I know that my move to Christchurch should be slightly easier.
I only wish dear old Rufus were there in the back to crow on arrival!
Fieldfare

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Tue 14 Aug 2007 @ 12:40 Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
Anon
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you are going to drive em all daft wiv all those welsh names.

chicken pie tonight

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Tue 14 Aug 2007 @ 16:08 Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
Anon
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Nice story Fieldfare - real pioneering just like in the Old Wild West - well them Welshies are near as bad as the injuns!

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Thu 16 Aug 2007 @ 00:38 Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
Anon
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that is a great story.

thanks for sharing!
Wed 22 Aug 2007 @ 15:10 Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
Bob Hillier
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Thanks Fieldfare, the relief at no longer being the oldest (declared) poster is immense. I know more about being young, than all these sprogs know about being old. Thanks for the story and good luck.:*

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We don`t stop when we get old, but get old when we stop

Wed 22 Aug 2007 @ 22:43 View Bob Hillier   Email Bob Hillier   Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
Anon
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Thanks guys. I'm glad I'm able to oblige by being the oldest member! It's the same with the cricket team I play for - they are all pleased at having someone much older than them - makes them all feel young. Still dive around in the gully on occasions! Must have been that welsh air!
Thu 23 Aug 2007 @ 23:06 Edit this messageQuote this messagePMQuote this message
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