The Garw
The Garw is the first serious piece of writing I did with Stone Breakers. I was asked to write about a place in this area that held special memories for me. I thought long and hard before I realized that the place I had to write about was The Garw in Croesyceiliog.
One Way Street - The Garw
We turn off Brynhyffryd and I hurry up the Garw. It time for my granddaughters feed and her mother will be wondering where we are. I have forgotten how steep it is and the pushchair makes it seem even steeper today because of the heat. My shirt sticks to my back and the sun burns my neck. I check to make sure the parasol is positioned so as to keep the sun off Charlotte. One look tells me Helens little girl is asleep. As we pass the large old house on the corner I want to tell her thats where we used to live, Number 37 the Garw, once known as Chestnut Farm or simply The Chestnuts. I want to tell our youngest granddaughter that this is where we used to live with her Mummy and Auntie Catherine when they were little girls. of a pavement brings the old house so close to the Garw you can touch its walls and windows as you pass. Many used to do just that, their voices so loud that lying in bed on a Friday or Saturday night you could swear they were in the dining room downstairs. Sometimes rowdy youngsters would bang on the window but mostly it was just the sound of laughter or snatches of loud conversation as small groups of people made their way home from the Upper Cock at the top of The Garw or the fish shop that used to be half way up the hill.
was the first time Id stood on the Garw for ages. I never drive up now. Its a one way street and safer to use the main roads. I turn to look back down the hill over the crossroads of The Garw and Brynhyffryd.
Florence Place where Nanny was born I say even though I know at eighteen months old my youngest granddaughter would not understand me even if she were awake. Nanny used to walk up here every day when she was a little girl on her way to school. head a video plays out a scene from forty years ago of Jill and myself on our wedding day. Outside Jills parents house I see us in our blue Mini surrounded by family and friends as we manoeuvre through showers of confetti with tin cans tied to the back bumper as we set off on our honeymoon against a backdrop of the mountain rising half way up to the sky. The unique outline of Twm Barlwm silhouetted against it.
turn back up the hill and walk on past The Chestnuts. The wall of the old house stops and turns 90 degrees to the road before turning another 90 degrees as if someone has taken a pair of scissors and cut a rectangle off the bottom corner of the building. A slab of concrete large enough to hold a car fills the space that was once the dairy and which is now overlooked by the kitchen window.
my head starts playing. It is a sweltering day in July twenty - eight years after our wedding day. The wedding cars have left taking Jill, our younger daughter Helen and the other bridesmaids to the church. Catherine and myself are waiting for the bridal car to arrive. Its a strange feeling the first time one of your children gets married and leaves home. We share a glass of Champagne together as we wait. After the hubbub of the mornings preparations the old house is now silent. are so mixed I dont know what to say to Catherine. She asks me if she looks alright. I tell her she looks beautiful. Its true, she looks as radiant as any bride Ive ever seen. I mumble something about her Mum and Dad always being here if she needs us. Some of our neighbours have come to see us off. We stand together smiling in the garden as someone takes a photograph. The air is hot and heavy with the scent of flowers. It is the hottest day of the year and her white wedding dress is dazzling in the harsh sunlight. I brush away a bee buzzing around the fresh flowers in her bouquet. The wedding car arrives and pulls to a stop on the concrete slab. The driver smiling as he helps us into the car. We both wave to the little group of neighbours wishing us luck as the vintage car slowly pulls away up the hill.
Opposite The Chestnuts nothing remains of the Cambrian Inn now replaced by several smart detached houses. The Camba has gone forever. I stop for breath where The Garw bends to the left. Garw Row, once known locally as Bulls Panch, runs off to the right with its terraced row of fashionably renovated cottages. This whole area is honeycombed with underground streams. Uncle Bill always swore Hoppys father came home from the pub late one Saturday night and drowned in the cellar of one of the cottages on Bulls Panch and even to this day Im not sure if he was joking or not. You never knew with uncle Bill. It was uncle Bill and his best friend Hoppy whod introduced me to rough shooting. I went with them on a number of occasions and still recall the excitement of the recoil of a twelve bore shotgun against my shoulder and how that excitement drained from me when I came face to face with the animal Id just killed.
fishing on the river Usk on the other hand was a different matter. Now with the sun on my back I hear again the sound of the river rushing over the stones beneath our feet as uncle Bill and I wade in the shallows. I try to cast the line so that it snakes out over the water and drops where I want it to drop. Now this is the only thing that matters. Nothing else exists outside what I can see and what I am trying to do. I concentrate as I cast the line time and time again trying to find the perfect rhythm and in between casts the harsh clicking of the fly reel as I reel it in.
The trickle of water falling from a cast iron pipe known as the spout consigns these snapshots to the attic of my mind and I am back on The Garw. Parents used to bring their children here to hold sprained wrists and ankles in the spouts healing water that comes from deep underground. I bend down letting the water trickle over my hand. It is crystal clear and icy cold as always. The only thing that remains unchanged. My hand feels numb in the icy water. A video plays scenes of loss and sadness in my head. People who now live on only in my video, playing out the same scenes, saying the same lines over and over like a long running play. I cannot erase these scenes. Even if I could I know the video would be incomplete and I would not be the same as I am today. I am aware I have changed as much as the Garw but from this moment I choose to become Producer, Director and scriptwriter of my video. I edit the scenes so they take on only the significance that I choose to give them. I cut the umbilical cord to the past choosing to capture the uniqueness of each new moment of the present. Your video Charlotte has just started to record and I shall be in yours as you are in mine.
A butterfly alights on a bramble in the hedgerow. I watch the heartbeat movement of its golden wings as it basks in the sunshine. I too bask in the warmth of the sunshine and continue up the hill joyfully anticipating the videos we will make together.