JAN WESTMAAS concludes his story on his travels during the pandemic. The first article was published on May 8.
Returning to the village in the Welsh countryside where we went to live so many years ago was the realisation of a dream I had been harbouring inside me for a long time.
Ceunant, the semi-detached house, on the Pennwlyn Estate that we lived in for two years, was, at least from the outside, in as good a condition as we had left it. Similarly, Eryl, the Manse, which we occupied for one year, had hardly changed. The present occupants, the vicar of the local church and his family, were eager to have us in for a cup of tea. We respectfully declined the invitation as Tim, Christine and I were in the middle of a brisk walk up the valley.
We wanted to see for ourselves whether the back road to the Half-Way Inn still existed. The pub, which I guess was half-way between town and country (hence the name) was a favourite with townies, rural folk and students alike. We finally found the road to the Inn as well as the shallow, clear water stream with its rocky bed.
Earlier, we sat in the conservatory, watching the sheep and the lambs in the field grazing and gambolling, while a farmer drove his tractor in the distance, I recalled Timothy, at the age of four, singing the farmer’s song he composed:
“I want to be a farmer to drive a tractor
And to take care of the baby lambs
In the fi-ee-elds”
Tim did not grow up to become a farmer. Passionate about the sea since his time as a scout at Presentation College, San Fernando, and following family tradition, he joined the British Royal Navy. He eventually became a commissioned officer, achieving the rank of lieutenant. One day he may yet attain the rank of Lieutenant Commander.
[caption id="attachment_954730" align="alignnone" width="768"] The Half-Way Inn in 2022, where little has changed from 1986. The inn is popular with rural folk, townies and students (local and foreign). -[/caption]
We had the two Welsh couples we had been close to, the Lands (Alma, retired nurse and Gordon, retired builder and clerk of works in the local council) and the Mitchells (Howard and Carol, both teachers) over for tea at the bungalow at separate times. We had a lot to talk about and to catch up on, including Tim’s stealing away on the back road (probably half a mile away) to get to the village shop to purchase sweets without any money.
Sadly, the shop was no longer in operation. The same with the two pubs in the village and the post office. Similarly, so many of our dear friends in the community had long passed. Gentle Mrs Crees to our right, hospitable Mrs Roberts to our left, chatty Emrys and wife Blod obliquely opposite, reserved but supportive Mrs Forty a few houses away. “Mr Forty is still alive but now lives in care. His daughter lives in the house that you know,” said Alma. Mr Forty was one of the few Englishmen on the housing estate, He was a taxi driver. His accent was distinctly non-Welsh but I
