William bridged that gap between his healthy mother and his sick mother through physical contact. Each morning he went to her and lay on the bed by her side. This always calmed her. When she was ready, William helped her to rise, dress, come downstairs and enter the kitchen. This daily ritual became a genuine comfort to them both.
Under Olwen’s careful guidance William gradually learned to manage on his own. He learned how to pour tea into his cup, by placing his finger on the rim to gauge the level. He got into the habit of taking his supper with him from the farmhouse to the bungalow, preparing it himself when he got there. After tea each afternoon he put on a coat and his Wellingtons. Methodically, he scanned his basket with his hand to check the constituents of his supper: a Tupperware box with a slice of meat or hard-boiled eggs, bread and butter wrapped in greaseproof paper, a slice of currant loaf, a flask of tea, some milk in a brown medicine bottle. All in place. Then he’d begin his slow journey across the farmyard and down the hill toward his own home.
I went to Mother each afternoon, leaving the far end of the cwm to be with her. She looked as sweet as ever: clear eyes, snow-white hair and fair complexion.
But she was not the same woman. She had been transformed by her illness. She recognized neither me nor Bob. She was obstinate. She’d sulk. She vanished before our eyes into another world. We could not reclaim her. She was a creature of our own flesh, sustained by the same breath of life. Mother and I had always been particularly close. But now she was a stranger. Even as I embraced her, she went further and further away. The disease stole her. My only hope is that she never knew the cruel distortion of her own self.
The illness lasted four years, worsening pitilessly. Mother died in her bed at Tynybraich on December 20, 1968. We had lost her long before.
I shall never forget her radiant, peaceful face against the white sheet, her still body, which had labored through her long life. Another stitch unraveled. My hold on the world loosened again.
There is an essay written in commemoration of my father’s father. The words are truly fitting for Mother too:
That self-effacing will … was the mysterious component of his strength and greatness. His rich inner life had been hidden from view. And he himself was unaware of that which struck all who saw him—that the skin on his face shone brightly.
Decades later, my longing for Mother still takes my breath away.
I spent Christmas 1968, like every other Christmas, at Tynybraich. This was a dark Christmas. I barely remember it. The only star that shone was a visit from Bob’s grandchildren on Boxing Day. Evan came to see us with his wife, Mair, and their three children, Gareth, Ann and Eleri. And Kate came from Shrewsbury with her husband Wyn, her son Geraint and a baby—Alwyn—on the way.
I had meant to return to my own home on New Year’s Day, but snowstorms and snowdrifts on the path prevented me. I departed at last on the Feast of Epiphany—January 6, 1969. The stream at Maesglasau had frozen hard.
The tips of the trees wear white lace and the eaves hold sharp swords. Everything endeavours to hide its head under whatever guard it can find, to save itself from the tempests and icy frost which seek to obliterate it.
Hugh Jones
I remember shutting my door on the cold cwm and promising myself I’d go traveling.
But who in mid-Wales in the 1960s had heard of an “old maid” going traveling alone? There was no hope. I did not have the means. I had no car, could not pay for bus, train or ship—let alone the price of an airplane ticket.
All I had was a lift to Dolgellau every Friday afternoon in Olwen’s Morris Marina. But in Dolgellau there was a library, and it was there that I started to travel through books—and my imagination.
I pored over a world atlas by the light of a paraffin lamp. But I knew already where I’d go. I had a long-standing wish to visit Europe’s great cities.
Through picture books and travelogues, I started from the kitchen of my home, leaving by ship and destined for France. I spent three days in Paris, where I traveled on the bateau mouche along the Seine, awestruck by the magnificent buildings on its banks. I gaped at the treasures of the Louvre. I took trains to the beautiful cities of Belgium and Holland: Ghent, Leuven, Antwerp, Amsterdam. Onwards to Scandinavia, to Copenhagen, Oslo, Stockholm and Helsinki, coming back via the wonderful cities of Germany: Berlin, Cologne and its great cathedral; Munich and its galleries; the damaged glories of Dresden and Leipzig. I crossed Charles Bridge in Prague, and followed the footsteps of Kafka. And in Vienna I had the best seat at the opera house, drank coffee with the ghosts of poets and musicians and waltzed at Schönbrunn. Then I traveled on the Danube to Budapest.
I kept my own imaginary travelogue: my impressions, the names of places and people, dates and contacts which did not really exist.
Who would have thought that the whole world could be seen from Maesglasau?
Two cities delighted me more than all others. I went to Istanbul on the Orient Express and stayed at the Pera Palas Hotel. I saw the Golden Horn and the river Bosphorus. Asia lay to the east; Europe to the west. I saw minarets and the domed roofs of mosques. I heard the call of the muezzin and gazed at the great Byzantine church of Aghia Sofia, the beauty of the Blue Mosque, the opulence of Topkapi palace, with the Sea of Marmara on one hand, the Black Sea on the other. I saw the Sultan’s harem and learned of his concubines. I crossed bridges between rows of fishermen, and saw the graceful devotional dance of the Whirling Dervishes.
But it was in Rome that I lingered longest. I saw the cruel Coliseum and the beautiful square on the Capitoline Hill. I threw pennies into baroque fountains, and walked to the Vatican, submitting to the cold embrace of St. Peter’s colonnades and placing my hand on St. Peter’s foot. I would see the Popes’ tombs, before rushing back to daylight.
And through all my days in the eternal city I searched for one familiar face, but found his likeness only in sculptures, portraits, in the reflections of fountains, or in echoes of young men’s voices.
I cannot remember how long I spent traveling. Whether it was days, weeks, months, I cannot say. It was a time of sweet enthralment, and for the first time in my life I felt carefree. I was away for so long I forgot about home.
As it approached its four hundredth birthday the old house at Tynybraich was demolished. The wind had been whistling through gaps in the windows. The walls had begun to decay. The old hallway had been saturated with damp and cold. Repairing such an old house was too expensive. The money just wasn’t there.
And so when I returned from my travels—and woke as if from a dream—I found a new Tynybraich raised on the site of the old. It became a comfortable home for Wyn and his wife—another Olwen. A smaller house was built to accommodate Bob and his own Olwen, both of them grandparents to Aled and Catrin who lived on the farm, and the children of Mair and her husband Emyr—Irfon, Iolo and Angharad.
The years passed. Bob was semi-retired by now and Wyn became head of the household at Tynybraich. Gruff and Lewis became grandfathers, to Gwilym, Lynne and Mark, and Mark himself shared the blindness of his grandfather.
But Gruff died in 1982. He was buried in the graveyard at Little Marcle. I didn’t go to his funeral. I no longer wanted to leave the cwm. The stitches that held me there were unraveling too quickly.
A year later, in July 1983, Bob died of lung cancer. His hair had still been black, with just a few streaks of silver. On the day of his funeral Ebenezer Chapel at Dinas Mawddwy overflowed with mourners. The singing was passionate.
Olwen had lost her husband, and Evan, Kate, Mair and Wyn had lost their father. I in turn had lost my brother—my friend for nearly eighty years.
I lost a third brother, William, in 1990. His last few years were cruel. He lost his hearing, as Gruff and Bob had done. He could no longer conduct a conversation with ease. He couldn’t hear his beloved radio. His links with the world and with his kin were broken. Walking was hard because of pains in his leg. Of his five senses, only two remained. Touch and taste. He
would hold the hand of one of Bob’s grandchildren, and a tear would run down his cheek. He would savor his meals, and in tasting each morsel he retained a degree of independence: he could commune with each slice of meat, the bread and butter, the fruit loaf, and the tea that he poured with such dexterity into his own cup.
With Lewis I continued to speak regularly on the phone. We talked about books, occasionally reminiscing and often laughing. But my closest companion in the last decade of the twentieth century was Olwen, my sister-in-law.
We had differing personalities. Olwen was amiable and even-tempered, always ready to forgive and forget. I, like the rest of the Tynybraich clan, was apt to be stubborn and obdurate, often moody or lost in thought.
Yet, Olwen and I had been friends from the moment she’d arrived at Tynybraich half a century earlier. She was easy to talk and laugh with; always obliging; forever running some errand in her blue Ford Fiesta. She took meals on wheels to the “old people” of Dinas Mawddwy, though most of the recipients were years younger than her.
Olwen had a natural gift for empathy and this, along with her strong sense of independence, was the source of her quiet dignity and grace.
She died in the last year of the twentieth century. I still miss her. No day goes past without my thinking of her, wanting her company. As I take my daily walk from the end of Maesglasau valley to see Wyn and his family at Tynybraich, I think of the Olwen I knew and recall the lovely Olwen of the Mabinogion myths. Olwen: “she who leaves white traces.” Wherever she walked, white clover would grow in her footsteps.
And as I walk past the fields of Maesglasau my eyes, in all their weakness, seek that modest white flower, so that I might follow the footsteps of my friend. And I would take her hand, and pull her back into this world, so that we might talk and laugh again, and share our life together in Cwm Maesglasau.
There has been much discussion about the origins of the name “Maesglasau.” It was first recorded in 1425 as “Maesglasivre.” It had mutated to “Maesglasfre” by 1695 and then “Maesglassey” by 1765. This suggests, say the experts, that “Maesglasfre” was the original form of the name, meaning “the meadow of the green hill.” “Maesglasfre” became “Maesglase” and then “Maesglasau.”
Others disagree, claiming the name is founded on a Celtic personal name, “Glasan” (comparable to the Irish name, “Glassán”), linked to the adjective “green.” This name can be found in many Welsh place names, such as Pen Glason, the old name for Peniarth Hall, Bodlasan near Llanfachraeth in Anglesey, and Dôl Lasau near Bleddfa in Montgomeryshire.
The tradition in these parts is that “clas” is an element of the name, suggesting that there was a monastery at the head of the valley.
But one thing is certain, Maesglasau will be linked forever with the name of Hugh Jones, the hymn-writer. Born at the end of the cwm in 1749, he received a good education, and was a talented singer and musician. While still a young man he exchanged the quietness of Maesglasau for the noise of London. There, in the “babble and tumult of the world” he composed his first book, Cydymaith yr Hwsmon (The Companion to Husbandry), a medley of prose and poetry, Biblical quotations and religious musings comparing the seasons of the year to the natural course of man’s life …
Hugh Jones returned to his birthplace to run a school. He threw himself into an intense life of writing, hymnody and translation. His publications were numerous: two volumes of poems and hymns, essays and sermons, and translations of religious, historical and medical matters. He died in penury, in the village of Henllan near Denbigh, halfway through translating Isaac Watts’ Y Byd a Ddaw—(The World to Come).
The best known hymn by Hugh Jones, Maesglasau, is “O! Tyn y Gorchudd” (“O! pull aside the veil”). Once called by the scholar, O. M. Edwards, the best hymn written in the Welsh language, it is a prayer to God for the removal on the mountain at Zion of “the veil which shrouds the people of the world.” At the same time it celebrates the cleansing powers of the water on the hill at Calvary.
This is not just a reference to a verse in the Book of Isaiah. The mountain above Maesglasau, with its constant mists, must also have inspired this hymn. And the mighty waterfall in Maesglasau is surely the cleansing stream invoked by the poet.
In his hymn Hugh Jones sought a clearer vision: the removal of a veil—a curtain of darkness—from those in need of light.
This is astonishing. Hugh Jones could never have imagined that these words would resonate with such sadness in my family home, many generations later, in Cwm Maesglasau.
“O! PULL ASIDE THE VEIL”
O! pull aside
The veil which masks the mountain,
Let the bright white Sun of Righteousness shine down
From yonder hill, where once a gentle Lamb
Did suffer nails of steel
To show the purest love for me, in pain.
Where, where
In all the world will I find sanctuary
Else in His heavenly wounds?
The sturdy spear which tore his breast
Begat a well to cleanse me;
There is a place for me therein, and I rejoice.
Yes, yes
The bloody cross has virtuous power enough
To clean away all worldly sins:
His holy agony, his everlasting plea
Of prayer on my behalf to God
Will be my liberation, and my heavenly key.
Wash me
Of my many worldly sins
Within the crimson stream of Calvary;
A wealth of virtue in her flows today,
Ne’er shall she ebb again;
Outlasting every morning, every evening too.
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And though the earth be barren at this time and infertile, failing to bear fruit and flowers as it doth in the summer, yet may we draw much sweetness from it, and hive from it honey for the thoughtful mind, which moves the heart to burgeon with love for the Creator.
Hugh Jones
A pall of mist conceals the cwm. I cannot see beyond it. Through the gaps in the hazel by the stream there is nothing but white. I cannot see beyond the mist. The light of the rush candle cannot show me the way …
I take my daily walk from my home at Maesglasau Bach to Llidiart y Dŵr, in order to strengthen my body and mind, just as my blind brothers were taught to do at their gentlemanly school.
I know this way as I know myself, and there is no need to grope. I have walked this path almost daily for nearly a century. Perhaps I have become the path itself—my steps, at least—as the flow of water becomes a stream. I could walk this path even if I too were blind.
Indeed, I am blinded by the mist today. I am the only living thing in this valley, though I can see the shades of trees, looming ghostlike, whispering silently on the periphery of my vision.
I know, too, that others stand there, in the mist, their invisible lanterns moving around me as I walk my steady path. Therefore, I am not astonished when they turn toward me, their shining lights making me close my eyes.
Sheep shine ghostly white in the gloom. Cowslip flowers glitter in the hedgerows.
I always thought that mist was cold, but it enfolds me today and keeps me warm, penetrating my old bones, warming me through. I remove my shawl and return home to drink tea and stir the fire.
I must have been daydreaming to the sound of the ticking clock. I might have dozed: it is so cozy here between the thick walls of this old house, though the fire has long since subsided. The tea in my cup is cold, a disc of light lies on its surface. The butter in a dish on the mantelpiece has melted in a golden lake. The candle has burned away.
My thoughts have been wandering all day. I must pull myself together before going for Sunday tea at Tynybraich.
I walk to the remains of the big house and raise my eyes to the crag at Maesglasau. I watch the mist roll back from the upland, a dancer slowly raising the hem of her skirt. The mountain itself is half mist, half air, its lower slopes invisible.
I hear voices coming from the mist, telling me what it is like there. Each voice has its own vision, though none has a face.
I know that the mist will soon clear. I can feel the sun’s heat pressing down on my skin. And soon I shall see a patch of grass glowing like an emerald on the upland meadow, reminding me on a gray day of mist that colors do exist.
Continuance is painful. It is the cross onto which we are tied: its beams pulling us this way and that. A longing for continuance lies at the heart of our nature, and we lie at the center of those forces which pull us this way and that like some torturer.
Our basic urge is toward continuance. Yet, we are born to die. And we spend our lives coming to terms with that paradox. Transcendence: to put our everlasting life in the hands of a god. Displacement: to exchange subject for object and live for the land, our culture, language or fellow humans. Sublimation: to produce offspring, in the form of children, accomplishments, works of art.
The impetus of the flesh (says the Apostle) is towards death; the impetus of the Spirit is towards life and tranquillity.
Hugh Jones
I was given a long life. It has spanned the whole of the twentieth century and has been full of experience. I have felt the rough fist of misfortune and the soft palm of joy. I have spent many hours in darkness. Yet light came anew. I learned that the price of having is losing.
Most of my contemporaries have already gone. I know that I too should accept death. Yet, I am not ready for departure. With all the strength of my frail body I crave life. As I wake each morning the beat of my heart amazes me. My faltering senses enthral me: the smell of damp earth in autumn; starry nights; the ripeness of blackberries; red berries on the hawthorn; sloes on their barbed branches.
As my days on Earth diminish my pain grows. But I do not wish God to intercede. I shall carry the cross myself. For only thus will I find rest.
The Life of Rebecca Jones Page 9