Burning Feet

A Memory of Glasbury.

When I was about 12 years old, with feet as thick as young, strong leather, my father, who was a pilot (Allan Dyson) and Nina (my mum, Nina actually) took us all from our home on a plot of land in Halfway House in the Transvaal (some distance from a town or city) to Glasbury on Wye.
There, in the blacksmith's house, the farrier was beating iron.  We stood to watch and then the farrier asked 'What's burning?'.  We all looked at each other and sniffed.  Then I felt it.  A hot coal had made its way through the sole of my Transvaal foot and we had trouble removing it quickly enough.  My Welsh cousins were impressed with that only, my gran, May Saunders, amazed.  We were a little too wild.  But I remember how we loved Pop Pop; Fred Saunders, fisherman extraordinaire!

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