The Vicar Of Blaengwynfi

A Memory of Blaengwynfi.

In the summer of 1966, I (an American) was driving around the UK with a close English friend. In Wales, we found ourselves on a virtually impassable fog-covered road filled with sheep, and drove downhill at 1 mile per hour into the town of Blaengwynfi. Someone directed us to the vicarage, where we were put up by the vicar, his wife, and his daughter, very glad for the company, who gave us beds with warmers, after we looked at the wife's "peace paintings" for an hour. The Methodists, he told us, had left when a mine closed, but his flock, despite a stream running through the Church on wet days, refused to accept their offer of a better place of worship, convinced (he claimed) that God would not enter there. The next day, we toured the town with the vicar, before heading north toward Liverpool. Remarkable experience!