A Rough Kind of Magic

by Louise James

  “Right you are follow me then.” She led the way down a dark passage and up a wide polished oak stairs at the top of which she opened a door on the left. Greg stepped into a room softly lit with side lamps. He took in the charm of old beams and tapestry hangings. It was warm and welcoming. The bathroom she showed him was tiled in blue and white with big fluffy towels on a heated rail.

  “There’s plenty of hot water, Mr Morgan. You just relax now. George will be up directly. Have you any other luggage?” Carol nodded towards his single holdall.

  “No I haven’t but thanks.” Greg looked around appreciatively. “This is fine.”

  “No trouble at all. Goodnight!” The door closed softly. Greg collapsed onto the bed, sounds from the bar, muted sliding further and further away as he dropped into a sudden deep sleep. He was startled awake by a rapping on his door, on his call a portly man in a white apron edged his way in bearing a covered tray.

  “I’ve brought your sandwiches Sir. Is everything alright for you?’ Greg struggled to concentrate. ‘Perfect, thank you’

  “Thank you Sir. Anything you need just give a shout for Carol or me. I’m George.’

  “I certainly will. Thank you again.’

  “Goodnight Sir, sleep well.’

  As the door closed behind him Greg gave a sigh of relief, shrugged of his jacket, kicked off his boots and ate the thick beef sandwiches realising he was hungry and they were very good. Later he relaxed in a hot bath then climbing into bed within minutes he was soundly asleep only waking as early morning sun peeped through a gap in the curtains. His watch told him it was only six o’clock but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep any more, swinging his legs over the side of the bed he fully awoke to the sick realisation that what he thought had been a nightmare was harsh reality and he realised it anew. It was not going away. Once again he faced his adversary. He was never going to get used to the awful knowledge that his tide was running, that each day brought him nearer to an untimely end. Why was he fooling himself and what was he doing here? He might as well go back and die in his flat instead of pretending he had time to go on a wild goose-chase. Depression, fear and panic momentarily held him paralysed. Since his breakdown when he trashed his flat, he had been relatively calm. The night he told his father had been a bad one but they had been together giving each other strength. For a moment now Greg was fighting his demons again until a realisation of his surroundings reminded him of his quest. A touch of excitement caught him and he moved across to the window hooking back the curtains. He was immediately gripped with awe and wonder.

  An early sun was replacing the night clouds of rain that were rolling like a carpet away to the west. Long fingers of pink and rose streaked the sky above broad bands of pale turquoise while deeper bands of violet and blue streamed out pushing the dark grey of night from the sky over the edge of the world. Silhouetted black against the bright tapestry were the ruins of an old priory or abbey, half hidden in trees of deep grey each branch and tiny twig etched onto the background of a great mountain that stretched from the valley floor to meet the pink band of sky. A great chorus of birdsong burst upon his ears as he lifted the window, as if every bird in the world had gone mad with praise for their creator. It vibrated, echoed and repeated throughout the valley; the joyous outpouring of a blackbird singing as if his tiny heart would burst was repeated in fifty blackbirds’ throats. Thrushes asking questions about the weather and other matters of the day were answered by cousins across the hill. Robins sang creamy songs in the heavily scented lilac bushes in the garden below and great drops of water fell each time a tiny wren hopped in and out with a piping little tune. Cuckoos called over the hill to be answered by doves cooing on the ridge top and lambs on the mountain called to their mothers as if they too would sing if they could.

  The great cacophony of sound and the huge sky painting took Greg’s breath away. He was transported, pure delight caught him by the throat and he felt as if he dare not let go of the window or he would join the larks and whatever else he could see high in the golden light that grew brighter by the minute. The heady perfume of lilacs and wallflowers growing beneath his window filled his nostrils so that nose, eyes and ears were completely filled. The whole heady mixture made him feel small as an ant and as powerful as an angel, his troubles dropped from his back like a stone, love beauty and pure worship filled him from head to toe. The air was like wine and he reeled from its potency, just when he could bear it all no longer and must fly out of the window, a voice spoke below him.

  “Morning Mr Morgan. It’s a lovely morning after the rain. Sleep well did you?”

  So far had Greg travelled in the last hour, he would not have been surprised to see an angel complete with wings standing in the garden below him but after blinking rapidly a few times he could see it was Carol in a blue and white dress looking up at him, a large box of salad in her arms.

  “Hope we didn’t wake you. We start a bit early around here especially when there’s Trekkers coming over for lunch, got to get the cleaning done early see. Breakfast in half an hour suit you?”

  Greg finally found his voice. “Ok, thanks, I’ll be down directly.”

  He managed to ignore the glory around him and get back from the window in one piece but the passion stayed and he found himself for the first time since learning of his illness, whistling while he showered and dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt. He was the only person in the old fashioned dining room facing a table laden with cereal, bacon, eggs mushrooms and tomatoes before he could cope with this, a young girl entered with toast, marmalade, honey and a large pot of coffee. Greg who had been in terrible trouble with his mother for not eating did manage to eat enough not to cause comment this morning his head and heart still full of his introduction to the dawn chorus and the Welsh mountains in spring. He now couldn’t wait to be on his way. He would like to have been able to explore the ruins but promised him another time. The early morning joy was driving him on he knew he would find Graig-y-dorth this morning.

  After a consultation with George and his map, Greg found that he had to retrace his steps almost to the main road. Settling his surprisingly modest bill and promising to come back soon, he headed down the lane, a far different picture than that of the night before; either the euphoria of the morning had coloured his vision or because the sun was shining, the way seemed shorter and although a bit of sharp braking was needed now and then the distance was covered in a relatively short time. As Greg turned back into the hills, a strange sense of Deja vu came upon him almost as if he were heading for a well-loved home. He took the lanes slowly enjoying the feel of the day. It was bright and sunny now with the promise that spring often gives but does not always fulfil. The road was good until he reached a hump-backed bridge when it narrowed dramatically as he spotted the sign for Graigwen and dropped almost immediately into the village. It began with a pub ‘The Green Man, passed a general store, several houses which had notices over their doors declaring the butcher and a gift shop among them. A large house standing on its own with the word Surgery over the wide gateway, then a garage and another shop of some kind, further on another pub ‘The Lion’. At the top of the hill a cluster of council houses, bungalows clustered around the church with a Norman tower peeping over the trees. A school stood at the crossroads near a small chapel where he had to consult the map again as several lanes led into the mountains which ran behind the village on both sides. He finally left the village with its bright flowers. So far he hadn’t seen many people, a woman coming from the butchers, a couple walking, a man with his dog and several children going to school. He was going to enjoy exploring later, the map mentioned an old castle hereabouts but at the moment his whole being was geared to finding the farm. The lanes were very green and bright with young leaves, daffodils and tulips filled cottage gardens, lilac and golden forsythia hung in the hedges, dandelions edged the roadside with gold and birdsong filled the air rather muted now the busines
s of the day was on, nesting and feeding darting in front of him in a fluttering of wings.

  Greg had spent so much time on the Rig or in his town flat he had never experienced the full force of country springtime since a boy and then had not taken it in. His elation and delight grew as the road climbed higher. The lane seemed to go on for ever until he came to a shallow ford where water crossed the road then gurgled its way into a brook which ran through fields bright with buttercups and daisies. A little further he had to stop. A stony track looked as if it led to a house and he dared not take the car down it to look. Water from last night’s rain lay in ruts among the stones; locking the car realised this might be the end of his journey. He had no idea what might happen next, there could be people living here who might not like strangers, it was very quiet and lonely only the sound of the brook and some sheep on the hillside broke the silence, maybe he should have stopped in the village and asked about the farm, there didn’t appear to be any neighbours, he had passed a couple of farms and a ruined cottage a mile or two back perhaps he should go back and get some information. Greg realised he was only putting off the moment so slipping on his jacket and wishing he had brought wellies he picked his way between banks thick with primroses and violets down as far as a gate tied up with string. He stood looking over at a cobbled yard. To the left he could see part of a stone built stable, further on the corner of a cottage or house, to the right of his vision trees overhung a brook which was diverted out of its course with branches and debris partly flooding the yard further down. High above him a great mountain reached great arms around the little farm protecting it on two sides so that snow or high winds was safe from the worst of the weather. It rose softened now with the green of young fern pushing through last year’s bracken. Huge stones reared above the waving green as if they too would answer the call of spring. Above them the granddaddy of them all; the rock the house was named for, the one Greg had heard stories of as a boy. The great rock, even as he stood below he could feel the sense of timelessness, the everlasting endurance, a feeling of security and peace. Silence flowed, broken only by larks high above out of sight, their notes falling like silver droplets from some heavenly fountain, the sound of lambs calling from the hill; nearer the soothing babble of the little brook chuckling it’s way to the fields even as he stood his hand resting on the gate, his other hand moved the ivy which had crept up the post. He felt the edge of a board. He knew even as his fingers traced the almost illegible lettering what it said. ‘Graig-y –Dorth’. Here at last were his roots.

  Chapter 4

  The gate stuck on the uneven stones because a rail which had been attached to the bottom of it at some time to keep lambs on the yard. Caught in big tussocks of grass, in fact there were so many weeds growing around the yard Greg had doubts anyone lived here. He passed a stable, divided into two, the inner door hanging off its hinges, the outer falling inwards. He approached the house cautiously half expecting a dog to come hurting around the corner or someone to open the door and ask his business. The house was strongly built of stone, facing south and overlooking a walled overgrown garden. A door set in a porch under a tangle of bushes had obviously not been used in a long time, further around the house another was more accessible, here Greg knocked almost certain that no one was going to answer. A dirty net curtain covered the little window set in the door preventing him from seeing in. He knocked louder finally hammering on the door but all remained silent. Stepping back he looked up; to his dismay he now saw that the entire roof which should have been slate or stone tile was instead corrugated sheets painted black, surely no one lived here now.

  He walked to the back of the building where an upper window faced the mountain and two lower ones overlooked the garden. He peered in at the first, inside was dark and gloomy he could just make out a stone sink under the window, some shelving, a huge dresser filling one wall and an old coat hanging behind the closed door opposite.

  “Certainly looks abandoned.” He muttered.

  Walking with great difficulty through nettles knee high to the far window, he could see even less except for a huge beam which seemed to be crossing the centre of the room until he realised he was standing in a dip much lower than the kitchen window. There were no curtains on these windows and he was now certain that the house was empty. Some distance behind him stood an old apple orchard, the trees gnarled and twisted although they were coming into full leaf with fat buds.

  “It will be pretty in a month’s time.” He muttered to himself. The ground where he stood was rank with docks and nettles. Someone had laid an ash path from the house to the orchard through a wicker gate also tied up with string. To his left trees blocked his way while to the right stood a large shed of bricks and wood, the bricks rosy and mellow, the upper wood weathered to a silver grey. It was in quite good condition except for the far end where a tree had come down in some storm and actually crashed through the roof. The double doors were padlocked but through a knothole Greg could just make out the shape of some machinery, he managed to push his way through some brambles to a side window where with a toe on a stone, he could just make out a tractor and behind it some kind of jeep or Land rover he just couldn’t see. The tree had come through the roof at that point and had been there some time. There appeared to be other pieces of machinery but as there was no way of getting in or seeing properly, Greg reluctantly abandoned the idea.

  To his right a small waterfall fell three feet into a pool which in turn fed the stream running through the yard where it was supposed to drain away under hedge and across the road into the brook which ran down the fields but as the stream was full of debris it overflowed and flooded the yard. He stood looking about him. The farm nestled like a small animal in the curve of the mountains, its fields running along the roadside and towards the mountain behind the house. High above him stood the great rock, a sentinel guarding the way into the hills.

  He spoke aloud. “This is a special place no wonder Gran loved it so much. It must be magic to own this, live here all your life; have your children born here and know that it’s yours and theirs forever. I wish she had never sold it.”

  The walled garden was a riot of spring flowers and flowering shrubs flanked by the house on one side and stables on the other the remaining walls were mossy stone making an oasis of warmth and growth. Daffodils, tulips and narcissi had grown undisturbed for many years so huge beds of colour glowed through the weeds. Blocking the way to the door and windows and over the porch at the front of the house rambled a mass of early clematis and roses, they scrambled where they wished and from the size there were many more to come. Many more plants were waiting their turn as the season moved on, soft fruit trees would feed the birds later, rhubarb poked spears through the grass and an old pear tree leaned over the wall to whisper to the raspberry canes below. The garden was alive with birds, early bees and butterflies, wild and very beautiful.

  It filled Greg with another wave of the joy he had experienced that morning, a sense of home coming as he stood in the warm spring sunshine. Shades of his grandparents moved about the garden, grandfather digging his vegetable plot and grandmother picking her herbs. He felt as if he had lived here as long as they, mentally he shook himself back to reality and tried once more to see in the windows of the house but curtains were drawn in the one nearest one to him and roses and brambles refused to let him even try to stamp them down. A branch caught and held him cutting his cheek drawing blood and an oath. As he turned away a blackbird dived out of the bushes screaming a warning so close he felt the brush of wings.

  “Damn and blast, serves me right for being so nosy.” Greg dabbed at his face with his sleeve. “Hell I want to know about this place. Who owns it? Is it for sale or let? I must find out.”

  He made his way back to the car where he had a flask and a sandwich, checking his watch he saw he must take his tablets and have a rest. ‘Strange’ he thought that while he was poking around he had felt no pain, now his heart
dropped as he remembered why he was here. He was roused from sleep by the sound of footsteps, opening his eyes he watched a woman walking up the road towards him, he idly wondered where she came from as it was a long way back to the last farm or cottage. As she drew nearer he noticed that she was exceptionally tall, her height more pronounced by the crown of white hair she wore piled on her head. Her bearing was regal, although big boned she walked with grace and lightness, an air about her of someone much younger. As she became closer Greg could see she was weather- brown and wrinkled, her head held high and chin jutting as if in defiance of some unspoken criticism. She wore brown cord trousers, a high necked jumper of indiscriminating colour an open barber jacket and knee high boots. She carried a large basket on her arm. As she drew longside Greg suddenly thought she might be able to tell him about the farm.

  Good day” he called. “I wonder if you could help me?”

  She stopped and turned towards him, Greg caught his breath, startling in her tanned face were eyes of the lightest blue he had ever seen, very large, the gaze penetrating, as they met his the urge to drop his own overwhelming; he held steady with difficulty.

  “Good day to you.”

  Her voice was clipped somewhat abrupt but deep and attractive. ‘Are you another lost motorist? It’s becoming the season for them.’

  Greg smiled. “Not exactly, no, I rather wanted to know about Grag-y-Dorth, who owns it or if it’s for sale?”

  “And why would you want to know these things?” Greg was taken back at the barely veiled rudeness.

  ‘I had relations living here many years ago.’

  “Well I didn’t live here many years ago.’ She hitched her basket higher on her arm. “So I don’t know who it belongs to now but I can tell you it’s for sale, there is a board in the hedge somewhere, it will tell you who by but for whom I can’t tell you that either.’ She turned to continue up the lane.