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Crickhowell, Beaufort Street c1955
Crickhowell, Beaufort Street c1955 Ref: C188095
Memories of Crickhowell, Beaufort Street
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 Crickhowell, Youth Hostel c1955 (ref: C188097) |
Year: 1973
Sevenoaks scouts go youth hostelling in Wales
I remember taking the patrol leaders from my scout troop, the 3rd Sevenoaks (Riverhead), on a visit to Wales as we wanted to check out posiible sites for a summer camp the following summer. "Skip" was Mick Ryan who was then an RAF Squadron Leader and his plan was to use his contacts to fix a visit to St Athan where the RAF engineers were based. We found our campsite, made all our arrangements and even had time to explore the Crickhowell Castle. Its surprising what you can do in just a couple of days if it's planned properly! Posted: 05/10/2008 21:06 by John Howard Norfolk |
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 Crickhowell, the Bridge 1893 (ref: 32606) |
Where I started out
I was born in the War Memorial Hospital, Crickhowell in 1949. I don’t remember that bit, but I remember traveling down to Crickhowell on days out just to sit on the bridge watching the water pass by - so peaceful, outstanding scenery, I thought it was beautiful. We lived in Brynmawr, not too far away. Then years later I loved to go down to Crickhowell in my boyfriend’s car even though he drove too fast down the country lanes. Yes, Crickhowell is beautiful. I will always love it there - it's my birthplace. Last edited: 04/10/2006 20:45 by Jackie Haynes |
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Year: 1958
LLangattock people A memory of Llangattock, Powys I did not know many of the people of the village or much of the history of the village. However there were some who stay in my memory and to this day I often think about them. All too often I cannot remember their names. I know nothing of their lives. Their trials and tribulations or indeed if they were born in the village. One such person was a Mrs Baker (at least that's what I think her name was), a very elderly lady who lived in the centre of the village in an extremely small cottage at the rear of the shop. The floor of the cottage was laid with flag stones, the walls were bare bricks and it had a very small fireplace and it seemed to be empty of furniture. I suppose that I should quantify my observations of her home, by pointing out that they are the first impressions of a twelve year old boy who at the time was extremely nervous of entering into what seemed to be a very decrepid hovel and in the company of an extremely old and decrepid woman. How wrong can one be. She was a very gentle person and showed her good nature and loving attitude towards me just because I helped her to carry a load of kindling to her home. I had seen her on several occasions carrying those large bundles of wood and I felt sorry for her. When finally I overcame my fear of her and asked if I could carry it home for her she accepted my offer and I shouldered the bundle instantly realising that it was very heavy and that it was perhaps beyond my strength to go the distance to her home. How that bent backed woman carried those loads is beyond my understanding. However I did get it home for her and was rewarded with a slice of apple tart and to my absolute embarrassment she offered me money for my help and no amount of refusal would deter her. She would not let me go until I accepted it. I found out in later years that she could not afford to buy coal subsisting on a very small pension which after rent would have left her with very little to live on. Hence her need to carry wood for heating and yet despite her poverty she insisted that I take payment for helping her. How magnificent and how sad! I do not know what happened to her. I know nothing of her life and yet she always remains in my memory and oddly I have always wanted to help others who are struggling and ignored by society. I hope that God smiled on her. Another character in the village was Arthur Hemmings (I think that was his name). He was by today's definition mentally retarded (I think) further burdened by having artificial legs and someone we children were afraid of, why I am not certain, and of course he was tormented by us. Where were the adults that should have admonished us for tormenting him. They never did! And yet on the one occasion that I talked to Arthur it was the conversation of a childlike mind not the ravings of an ogre that we thought he was. He was a child trapped in a crippled and old body and he also lived alone in a dilapidated hovel. I never overcame my fear of him but I never tormented him again either. I know nothing of Arthur's life or what happened to him. But I remember him . and I hope God was kinder to him than we children were. I remember the two elderly women who lived at the top end of the village, their names I cannot recall at this moment. They seemed to devote their time to looking after injured animals. They were very private people but were instantly changed the moment one took an injured animal to them. I found myself in awe of their knowledge of animals and their habitats and the ability to mend injured animals. So finding an injured animal resulted in it being taken to them for caring. This also seemed to make them drop their reserve and one was invited into their home and we would be rewarded with a lemonade drink and a cake. I well remember the time that my friend and I found a wounded buzzard. Some goon had shot it and it had an enormous hole in its chest, a shotgun blast so the ladies informed us. Again the usual reward and this time we were shown around the property and it was an amazing place. Given over to some weird and wonderful animals. While we were being shown this, I become aware of a peculiar sound. It seemed to be a mixture of mewing and snarling and I must admit it scared me. At this point a large and very ferocious looking cat showed itself the like I had never seen before. I knew instantly this was no ordinary cat and it looked positively dangerous. The ladies assured us that it was not and that it was a Scottish wild cat which they had tamed. It did not look very tame to me and I was glad to get out of there. It came as no surprise to find out that it had attacked the ladies and injured them quite badly and the evil looking creature was shot. I do not know what happened to the ladies thereafter. Kind people but a little misguided. Scottish wild cats cannot be tamed. Last edited: 10/07/2007 11:50 by David Palfrey |
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Year: 1955
A new home. A memory of Llangattock, Powys My family and I relocated to Llangattock in or about 1955/6. We came from the American army camp at Dan-yr-Park. I rather think that the local people thought we were aliens of some sort and regarded us somewhat disdainfully and not to be trusted. However we soon integrated into village life and I hope we are remembered as decent folk. We occupied a house in the new estate Plas der Wen and it was a great home to grow up in. I retain fond memories of it and life in Llangattock. Some of the memories are unpleasant. If only because of the attitude of local people towards we people from Dan-yr-Park. I well remember the local school and its headmaster Mr Parry whom I believe reflected local attitudes. He was inclined to segregate the camp children from the village chlidren, in as much that we were made to eat our school lunch on a separate table well away from village children. This made me feel inferior and unworthy and resentful, so much so that I feel it has remained with me most of my life and has only soothed by my marriage in later years to a local girl Jean Carr. We both lived in Australia for 30 years unaware of each others existence until I did some research on the internet and found to my delight that she lived in Perth WA. We met and found that we still felt the same towards each other. I had loved Jean from the moment I saw her. I was grimly hanging onto the school gates (it being the first day of school for me). I was 5yrs of age and determined not to enter the premises no matter what my mother said. Jean walked past with her mother and I was sold. I hated the school and every thing about it. I was never able to express my feelings to Jean, such were my feelings of inferiority and anger. Since meeting Jean and marrying her all those feelings have dissipated. Talking to Jean made me realise what a wonderful place Llangattock was to grow up in, the woods, the mountains, the history of the place. I was able to step back and appreciate how fortunate I was to have lived there. How sad that it has taken me all my life to realise it. My essential view of the village is unchanged in that it often reflected the best and worst of human behaviour. Llangattock was too small a place to get up to mischief. Those who stole/committed adultery/cheated /prostituted themselves or committed the frailties that people are so wont to do. They should know that someone is always watching. Then as now! While I did not take part in any of the village activities such as scouting/drama groups or any community activity, I am assured that such activities did occur. My wife was involved in many such activities and talks fondly of them. Llangattock was and still is surrounded by large country houses and they in turn are surrounded by high walls. In those days the inhabitants were strange looking people who spoke with a strange accent, not unlike someone who speaks with a mouthful of plums! I still don't know who they were or indeed where they came from. I suspect that they were aliens and that the high walls were there to keep them isolated from the locals, because I am sure I never saw any of them in the village. It remains to say that high walls were meant to be climbed and I climbed them many times and invited myself to tour those alien abodes. The village church was a place of great awe to me. Its great age and majesty, its permanance so steeped in history. The tower was of great fascination to me and I connived to get to the top of it. To this end I joined the church choir sure in the belief that I would get to be shown the stairs to the top. Stupidity and mischief got me the sack and I never got to the top so to speak. It's been many years since I visited Llangattock so I would imagine it has changed radically. Many of the children from that time in the fifties will have moved on and dispersed throughout the world. But I suspect they will always have a small place in thier hearts for Llangattock. Last edited: 08/08/2007 11:15 by David Palfrey |
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 Brecon, High Street 1955 (ref: B192056) |
Year: 1955
So Quiet ! A memory of Brecon, Powys This photo evokes memories of Brecon when it was a small peaceful market town with little traffic. I find it difficult to imagine now that this street had two way traffic. We had no traffic lights in Brecon then, just a traffic controller at the top of Ship St. Today this scene would be of traffic everywhere, parked cars and lorries and of course it has been one way for very many years. This street is closed to traffic for the May and November fairs by an ancient charter. Posted: 03/10/2008 21:54 by Margaret Sommers |
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