大象传媒

I suppose you could say the gypsy started it, moving from door to door, in the hope of collecting salvage an act encouraged by the war government where every effort was being made to, redress the shortage of everything from rags to paper, to scrap metal. Dressed in a long black and white flowing costume set off, the a bright red scarf totally covering her head, knotted under the chin.These together with large curtain rings through her ears, and the inevitable large wicker basket crooked in her left elbow would be her credentials as a genuine gypsy traveller.
The year was 1940,and the war in its early stages; great efforts were being made to collect raw materials. This same gypsy in peacetime regularly called, selling pegs or lucky heather, and for a small fee would even read your palm? However times had changed, now the basket contained not pegs, not heather, but day old chicks, wonderful fluffy, cuddly and irresistible. All that was required was rags, any rags, of any material the more rags, the more day old chicks .I had pre-empted her visit and had collected Enough to make us eligible for six very small day old chicks. I recall watching one die almost immediately, it was the first thing I ever saw die. Even then at that early age I remember a great sadness one which was to have a great impact on my psychological make up in the years to come.
Time moved on, the chicks seemed to grow when I was not looking, and soon reached maturity I recall there was four hens & one cockerel. The hen's brown, and mouth wateringly plump certainly earned their keep, producing eggs, when eggs were at a premium. As for the cockerel, there is a tale all of its own .It grew into the fowl equivalent of Attila the Hun. To this day no one will ever convince me it was ever hatched from an egg, instead it must have been cultivated in a laboratory, by a mad scientist, and fed on raw meat. This creature was highly territorial and primed to attack, anyone or anything it considered invading its territory, a task carried out with great gusto, and determination.
It was not beyond the realms of possibility that this special breed had a full set of canine teeth, which it was more than ready to use.

Now came the real conflict of interest. The, only available toilet was situated at the very top of the garden at the point farthest from the house, just behind the chicken shed. In order to reach your goal, you had to attempt to run the gauntlet, trying to reach your objective, without being seen by the mad rooster. Not easy. A little like entering Apache country with the same sense of fear, not knowing from which direction the attack will be launched, while making a mental note of available reachable shelter, should it be necessary to seek refuge midway between the bottom of the garden, and the bog. There can be little doubt that I became the prime target, being nearest in size, to the cockerel itself and by far, the easiest to catch, without doubt the easiest to terrorise.
For all his aggression, this was a magnificent bird, his multicoloured plumage, glistened, he was a fine example of everything a good, healthy cockerel should look like. He stood erect and proud, towering over the hens who he totally dominated.. As I stood at the bottom of the garden I visualised how much more wonderful he would look, flat on his back,lying on an oval dinner plate, stuffed with sage, having swooped his feathers, for an all over crispy brown sun tan, but, this was wishful thinking, this was here, and this was now. I had to get to the top of the garden. Experience had taught me that the first few steps onto the garden path would be enough to elicit a response. Instinctively he locked on with the precision of a state of the art radar gun, confirmed by the fixed stare, in his eyes the dingle, dangles below his head became gorged with blood, feathers standing on end, scratching the dust like some mad bull, with wings half extended, he seemed to be asking the question" was the path twenty steps, or was it twenty five? In all the excitement I had forgotten myself.
The question you have to ask yourself is. Do I feel lucky?
Woo betide anyone who had not armed themselves with the long handled brush, kept at the bottom of the garden especially for the occasion. This made it possible to joust your way up the garden path looking like Ivanhoe. If you thought Jurassic park was scary, try a trip to the loo at number 10,Springfield Terrace.

Describe our homes as satisfying the basic needs of life would be the understatement of the centaury. There was no electricity, no central heating, and no bathroom. One brass water tap delivered cold water and was, situated on the outside of the house, This had to satisfy our many personal, and household needs, only one step up from drawing water from the well. In the depth of winter even this would be frozen as the temperature dropped below zero, washing outside was not number one, on my must do before breakfast, tasks. It took considerable courage to wash outside in winter and almost required a general anaesthetic, not for the faint hearted, especially as you then had to hunt around for an area of the one available towel which was still dry. First to wash got the dry towel.
Preparation for having a bath had to be experienced. A large boiler of cold water had to be lifted onto a coal fire and left to heat to the required temperature .It was then transferred steaming hot into the tin bath in front of the living room fire. The room had to be evacuated of all living beings above the age of 12 years for the sake of modesty Notice of not less the 48 hours had to be given to the household. Where you went, no one cared. Keeping clean was made no easier by the fact that there was one large Bar of all purpose green soap, usually impregnated with sizeable lumps of grit left by the scrubbing brush, kind to skin it was not. Over time as the bar of soap reduced in size the proportion of residual grit increased taking on the texture of a very stiff wire brush. As a small boy I soon learned that bath nights like death were inevitable, and should be put off for as long as possible. Turkeys must have regarded the approach of Xmas with less apprehension. We were all in the same boat, the few who had longish slim line tin baths were considered slightly up market, and were treated with a certain reverence by those more humble souls who could only sport the conventional and common oval model, where full length in the bath was understood to mean our knees did not actually touch your chin.Over the years People died as a result of any number of things, but not one ever died as a result of, drowning in the bath.
. Under very difficult circumstances the women did a remarkable job of keeping us kids clean, as well as the house. Working with only a long handled broom (the same one that was used to subdue the cockerel), and the ever-present all faithful scrubbing brush, accompanied by the all-purpose, all singing, and all dancing green bar of soap. Great pride was taken to ensure the front door step sparkled. It would be scrubbed, and rescrubbed, then lovingly completed in red Cardinal doorstep paint, until it glistened. The greatest compliment a housewife could be paid was, not how nice her hair looked, or the design of her dress, but how well her doorstep stood out from all others.. The one cardinal sin would be to stand on the step while gaining entry to the house. How uncomplicated life was, how little things generated great pride, and took on a great sense of importance.

It came with a totally, unpronounceable name of Bwlch-y-Gwynt,a small community of no more than a hundred families,living in four streets of small terraced houses all ,without bathrooms,electricity,and the one outside toilet ,situated deliberately or otherwise at the most remount point from the house where at night only those of a reasonably sound constitution stood a hope in hell of making the long trek to the bottom of the garden without even a light to help guide them,to what the welsh called ti bach.
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The architect was either a machosist,or a tee-totler with little or no compassion for those of us who liked a drink or two
.Waking at three on a cold frosty January morning, could strike fear into the heart of the strongest of men. Mental gymnastics would begin. Could you stick it out until morning? Was your trip really necessary? Where were the matches to light the candle? Where was your coat, and boots? Would this unavoidable activity wake up the entire house?. These were just some the high powered decisions which would run through our sleep inhibited brain. Today when we are bombarded with the press chuntering on about those suffering from depression as a result of pressure at making bigh powered decisions. How would they have coped with life in my dayThese were high powered decisions, and these were options to be made while half awake..

The same architect, with presumably the same sense of humour,renamed our street,from WELLFARE tERRACE,TO , Springfield Terrace.WHEN THERE WAS there was not a spring for miles, but then again that's not strictly true. When it rained, there was a spring boy was there a spring not outside but inside the house.Water came from all directions ,through the windows,under the doors ,but above all,through the roof,.I used to feel that the wind and rain deliberately worked together in order to make life imposible
Wind would dislodge the slates on the roof,to be carried by the wind never to be seen again. Your social standing was gauged in part by the number,of buckets,pots and pans available to catch the water cascading from all points of the compose It was now that the insubstantial dreamings of our architect took on a more solid sense of purpose the street really lived up to its name of Springfield Terrace, but what the hell,a spring is a spring is a spring. These events would become the focal point of conversation at Mr Rees's shop for days on end ,each claiming to have sustained greater damage and claiming a higher priority,. for repair This I suppose was what you could call the plus side an overwhelming reason to meet at the local shop let off steam and curse Richard Thomas & Baldwin who owned what was then,steel works property, and were therefore responsible for its maintenance.and as far back as I can recall fought a loosing battle against the elements .
The other plus side would be the resulting water stained ceiling taking a very bland white expance,and transforming it into a place of magic,.Lying in bed at night I was able to look up and see the most wonderful world of pictures.There was Roy Rogers and trigger.Or it could be a bird,it could be almost anything you wished,subject to which way the stain was running.The cistain chapel would be green with envy.Whats more,if the draft under the bedroom door caused the candle to flicker,there was the added bonus of moving pictures.Everything was possible,and everything had a piece of magic if only you knew where to find it.
Bwlch-y-gwynt, loosely translated means "gap for the wind If anything this was an understatement. Because of its geography, being situated opposite the Gower peninsular, and seperarated by Carmarthen bay,gentle breezes would reach us as force eight gales.Rains,winds,gales forged us into a tightly knit community,where each looking out for the other where neibour helped neibour,here mutual help was always available ,and no one ever died alone, here was the true Dunkirk spirit, even before Dunkirk happened .
To grow up in this community I realize now was a great privilage,we had nothing, but we had everything,we were poor,yet surrounded by great richness. The beach was only a short distance and a world unto itself.I only have to close my eyes,and look down a time tunnel, in the days before pollution cast a blight over the entire sea shore. Large pools teamed with fish, crabs under every stone, cockles and, muscles for the taking, sea weed could be used as fertilizer, or to make laver bread, but in addition to all this there was wonderful almost unlimited space to roam and explore, The underside of this stone or that, each its own self contained little world with one sort of life or another ,to be able to breath air, which in the early morning seemed so pure it would not allow you to die There was always movement. Seagulls quarrelling, curlews,oster catchers ready to screech a warning alerting the beach to danger, beware of the fishermen arriving preparing to fish the incoming tide, or others , arriving to dig worms digging up half the beech in the process ,. Looking back now it seems as though it was a million years ago on a different planet. There was fish in abundance, the nets were rarely if ever empty The entire infrastructure to sustain life was in situe in a pristine and as yet, unpolluted seashore.It was a vast
bountiful larder of inexhaustible food, both to man and wild life, and all were happy to come and join in the feast.
It was the local farm the" bottom farm" as it was known run and owned by Mrs Williams her two sons ,and daughter Mary She ,Mrs Williams presented as everything one would expect in a farming wife.Portly,extremely hard working, and enormously generous, always ready to do that little bit extra,distite her advancing years. The farm now would came a close second in its power to absorb my time,and attention. War had been declared and, the acute shortage of men give me a sense of self importance I was welcomed with open arms to make any contribution which could help keep the farm ticking over, collecting the cows from the field, helping with the hay, feeding the chickens, and glory be ,taking the cart horse to be shoad,all this made me feel I was making a vital contribution to the war effort. Every task was performed by hand, no tractor ,no milking machines. Electricity was not available,it was said, that the area was waiting for radio to come on gas whatever the task,it required great muscle, and effort, and was time consuming but time was the one thing I had plenty of If I had to award a prize to the most intriguing and magical section of the farm .it would ,without doubt be the hayrick This structure, made from corrugated sheets on a steel frame, enclosed and protected the hay during the winter months, and had to contain enough. Hay to provide the entire farm stock through the winter and into to the next spring . Hay which was transported from field to the hay Rick. This large conventional horse drawn cart was specially modified with four,or six vertical post in order to support the small mountain of hay from falling and every child capable of climbing rode ontop. .The immediate area was without doubt the main shopping percent for every chicken,duck,or goose that happened to be passing the centre of activity for anybody, who was anybody in the animal, or fowl world.
The constant movement of farm birds,and animals created a tiny section which became a world unto itself during the very rare and valuable periods time was made for the building hay dens hay with its great softness,and unique smell, totally versatile able too be used for any number of projects; turning a place of relative insignificence,into a unforgettable and very special world. It was the world of a small boy,every goal achievable, every dream reachable Here one could lay in the hay, watching fat brown hens scratching around for corn , and just day dream of ,tall ships and far away places mountains of gold,or glory holes filled with diamonds, just waiting to be stumbled on by chance, and then proclaim myself, king of the world.
When war was declared it presented just another adventure, at 7 years, another opportunity to become a hero. Everyone including myself was to be given a revolver, a six gun "just like Roy Rogers". The reality was to prove a lot different. The converted revolver never materialised, but there was always tomorrow, this dream was helped by rumours of an imminent German invasion. France had already fallen, the twenty one miles that separated England from the French coastline now looked narrow and easy to cross .Rumours of parachute landings by isolated spies and saboteurs were rampant, identification cards were rapidly issued. as were ration cards , but not alas revolvers ,and I was becoming trigger happy., there were standard issue gas masks, with their cardboard carrying cases looped over the shoulder by a thin string. Great until the novelty wore off but wonderful for frightening the girls or playing dragons. Everywhere we went, they went. .Change came at an unimaginable speed. First to go were the street lights, there were only two I remember but they did give a certain degree of comfort, and far more importantly, a rallying point on a dark night, to just talk, or better still, just listen, to those older and wiser than I, discuss the direction of the war, and how it could be won if only those in authority would listen, to old man Griffiths perched as he was, on his one leg, and sipping his flagon of beer from the local Tavan,outlining tactics and correct strategy which would make it possible to outflank the Germany army then advancing on France. If only we had listened.
Next all young men considered suitable for military service began to disappear after receiving the dreaded call up letter requiring they attend for the medical, a medical which no one ever seemed to fail, it was said "they never tested your eyes, just counted them". Man shortage was so acute; this may well have been true. True or not, off to war they went, the long, the sort, and the tall, as they say. Leaving the village, a less colourful and poorer place. The younger men took with them the talent required to form a viable football team. As I remember league games at senior level were suspended for the duration of the war. A sad day indeed for the large following, and obvious pride we all had in our soccer team.

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