This is the story of meetings made while walking last year, on the oath to Saint Davids (Dewi Sant).

It takes place while Ed and Will were accompanied by Rose, and sees them arrive in Carmarthen, or Caerfyrddin, the City of Merlin.

It tells of Merlin and his Oak, of throwing axes, of Carmarthen Police Force, and of the most beautiful music we’ve ever witnessed in a pub folk-session.

And it has interesting recordings too. So please press ‘more’, and read on…

We were tired, as the day was already long. The night before’s sleep had been wet, and thorny, in an unkempt copse. Today Ed had a knee problem, causing him pain and worry, which he deemed the fruit of soul troubles.

unsettled skies

So we headed for the City of Carmarthen, source  of the famous black book of Cymraig myths, home of the historic Merlin, and hopefully a good place for rest and strengthening.

yawn and sneeze?

As soon as our feet touched the concrete pathways of the city outskirts, the rain, in warm lumps, began to fall.

ufos zapping trucks

As well as too wet, it was also too late  for busking, for the shops were starting to close, and the centre almost deserted. We took shelter at the friendliest inn we could find, and consulted our possibilities (we checked emails).

We soon discovered the invitation, kindly sent 3 months before, for us to join a small group of musicians, on any monday night, in a particular Carmarthen pub. Checking the calendar (for the weeks pass like clouds), we discovered that today was monday. We would make the meeting, and hopefully find some soul relief for Ed’s troubled patella.

But not wanting to spend the next 5 hours in the pub, we stepped out into the now gentle rain, and rejoiced as clouds cleared abruptly into strong new sunshine.

Sitting in a small park, we decided to benefit from this sun, and so we spread our damp sleeping bags and clothes over the bushes.

A policeman approached. He stepped up to Will, and asked: “So what do you lot think you’re doing?” He was using the words of authority, but with no aggression behind them, to see how well we would meet this challenge. He was guaging our reactions, and sounding our intent.

Such challenges we have met many times, and we know now that they are only tests to see if we will become angry, and seal our own unwelcome. Knowing this, but nonetheless slightly flustered, Will replied: “Well, we’ve walked here from Canterbury, and we’re just drying our kit a little bit. We’re travelling singers, you see, ans we collect traditional songs from people, to learn and perform back in the community. We’re not setting up a camp or anything, we promise. We’ll be off in an hour or two.”

“From Canterbury, eh? Singing old songs?” He may have been trying to sound credulous, but their wistfulness in his eyes was clear, as he muttered: “Men after my own heart”, and half-smiling, strolled slowly away.

trustworthy types

The second park meeting came a half hour later, as we were re-packing our now dry kit back into the nooks of our backpacks.

A young-looking man, with sunglasses and a bandana, had been hanging around on the other side of the park for some time, and as he slowly approached in a familiar looping trajectory (closer, but seeming further; curious, but cautious), we called greetings loudly. He seemed relieved, and came over, to release the questions he held.

His name was Cash, and as he removed his shades, we saw he was older than we imagined. We guessed his roots were from Bangladesh, which he confirmed. He set to gripping the details of our situation (“You’ve been walking for 6 months? And you’ve got no place to stay? No place to wash and eat?”), and then had a flash of inspiration (the kind we love), as he announced: “Why don’t you use my place? I’ve only just moved in, but the shower was plumbed yesterday, and you’d be welcome.”

So we walked to his flat, and took turns in the new shower. It is a sweet relief to wash the road from your body, with hot water, after a long day.

Cash asked Ed about his knee problem, and questioned its link to earlier foot pains, before massaging his leg for a half-hour, which Ed professed helped greatly.

And then we made dinner for us all, a huge salad, which Cash found to be an amazing revelation. “How do you do this? You have a gift…”

We told him our plans for the pub, and music that evening, and he asked for a song before we went. We sung. He nodded, happy. “But guys”, he asked slowly, calculatingly, “do you do any reggae?”

How could we say no? Tthree little birds, and chatty chatty mouth, with all joining in, made the whole flat rang. He was right, we thought. Traditional Folk, sometimes, is just not quite it.

Then it was farewell to our new friend Cash (although we were to meet him 3 months later, as we attempted to bicycle back from St Davids back to Canterbury).

And onward, to the pub, at the promised time, to make the next meeting, we went.

We won’t tell you which monday night pub is the one. If you’re in Carmarthen, listen out, and find it yourself. The gang who meet here go by the name of Elin and the Tribalites, and they involve one beautiful young girl on the harp, a tough lad on watchful violin, an older chap on epic complex guitar, and a fellow called Simon, playing sundry homemade stringed things, and singing.

And singing. With power we hear rarely in the ‘best’ of the professional performers. The second song they played together, about a local river, had us gasping for breath with the sheer beauty of it. Their music was awesome, huge and sweet and devestating. Small weeping seemed perhaps inapporpriate, but it was necessary to cope with the music.

We were overwhelmed as they ended their song, to the applause of 3 or 4 listeners. Ah, there is the quiet majesty of folk music, the unbelievable sublime heights, in the quiet backroom of a pub with no-one listening. We were lucky to be there.

At first, we had no songs to return, but we soon told a ‘Rolling in the Dew’, with Will as the girl character. They laughed, appreciating the comedy, and soon enough it was time to close.

“You’ll be coming back to the farm with us all, won’t you?” Simon asked. We would.

will and the ax target

And here we stayed for 2 more days. Simon taught us to throw the doubled-edged axe, and a solid war-cry to guide our efforts. He showed us his chainsaw carvings, which astounded us.

And the cherry of all was the carving of Merlin, from an oak which was said to be related to the now-fallen famous ‘Merlin’s Oak’.

Merlin’s Oak was the most famous of all Carmarthshire trees, and a prophesy protected it: “When Merlin’s Tree shall tumble down, Then shall fall Carmarthen Town”. It was indeed pulled down by an impatient council, at the turn of the 20th Century, and the year it went, Carmarthen, tallying with the 6th Centruy prophecies, suffered the worst floods it has ever known. So there you go.

But now Merlin in the Oak is returning. A shopping centre in Carmarthen has agreed to buy the statue, and display it proudly from the front of their roof, where Merlin can once more look out over his city, a good thing we feel. For whether or not you care a jot for the historical figure of Merlin (a well documented personage), or think there is anything in his written prophesies, you must know how important it is for a town or community to have its own story. This is not an isolation thing, to close doors to other people, but a handle, by which a community can identify itself, a secure context from which to welcome the world in.

While staying with Simon, we visited the town centre and made sure we sung for the wandering shoppers. This was the second time in town we caught police attention. Two PC SOs (support officers, unpaid volunteer uniformed people), saw us singing, and came over to cause trouble.

They started to tell us the law, and we held up a hand, while we finished the last verses of the song. You cannot stop mid-song, it would be bad DJing. This aggrivated the PCSOs, but it gave us the support we needed, as watching coffee drinkers applauded massively at the end, far more than they had done before the coppers turned up.

A little surprised at such a warm reaction from the seemingly indifferent crowds, the police people looked around again, a little more unsure now.

“Listen up, you need a license to sing here, and I bet you’ve not got one, right?”

“That’s right officer, we’re just passing through.” we informed him in politest gentlest fashion.

As this exchange was going on, a number of people got up, and came over to throw money in our now heavier hat. “Nice one lads” said one; “Best thing i’ve heard in hours” said another. “You’d better keep singing” said an elderly lady, looking firmly at the young police peoples as she spoke, “I like songs with my tea, and i’ve not heard enough yet.”

The police chap sighed, confused perhaps, but unwilling to cause a scene for no good reason. “Well, we’ll be back in an hour. You’d better be finished by then, ok?”

“As you say.” we nodded, “we’ll just sing a few more and get moving, shall we?”

“Right then.” And they left. Looking back quickly as if there were something more to say, but thinking better, the policeman disappeared up the street, looking for more illegals to hassle.

So on we sung, and good fun it was too.

We’ve no problem with police doing their job. It seems to us, however, that things like industrial pollution, dangerous driving, abuse and violence, racism and theft, should present a more pressing concern than a little unauthorized singing.

Anyway, that was that. We recommend Carmarthen as a place to visit. There are many good people to be sought. Be nice to the buskers there, you’ll have more influence on their day than you can know.

And look out for Elin and the Tribalites, and of course for Merlin in the Oak of Carmarthen.

Lastly, please enjoy these recordings made of Simon, singing his own songs, in his home. They are the proverbial marmite: certainly good for you, but something you’ll either love or not like. The instrument Simon plays is the creation of his own hands. The singing/playing style is, likewise, idiosyncratically his.

Ride of Green

Come Along

Thankyou Simon, and Carmarthen, and Myrddin Emrys too.

wizard carved the day we left,with Ed as handmodel

chain-sawn protection

We leave you with poems of Myrdin, ‘the fosterer of song among the streams’. c.573ad

He speaks of the fall of Celtia, the driving out of their traditions by the Saxons and the Roman church. He draws our distracted attention away from human concerns for power and wealth and directs our sight towards nature’s bounty.

Myrdin was said to be receptive to the new ideas of christianity when they first came to Britain, and for a time the Celtic circle and the teachings of Christ stood side by side in mutual understanding. It was when the Saxon church started to persecute those who did not adhere to the Roman doctrine and the church’s authority that trouble started, and the end of Myrdin’s time drew near. He is said to have ended his life at that time  in the wilds, lamenting a broken circlet of beauty as the poets are shunned and a new order is established in Britain, which he calls ‘the enemy of the city of the Bards’.

Listen, O little pig! Is not the mountain green?

Listen, O little pig! Are not the buds of thorns

Very green, the mountain beautiful, and beautiful the earth?

Listen to birds whose notes are pleasant.

Listen, O little pig! Hear thou the melody

And chirping of birds by Caer Reon!

Listen, O little pig! thou little, speckled one!

List to the voice of sea-birds! Great is their energy!

Minstrels will be out, without their appropriate portion;

Though they stand at the door a reward will not come,

I was told by a seagull that had come from afar.

To me it is of no purpose

To hear the voice of water-birds whose scream is tumultuous.

Thin is the hair of my head; my covering is not warm.

The dales are my barn; my corn is not plenteous.

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/carmarthen-and-the-people-of-myrddins-city/feed/ 1 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/ryan-in-the-woods-a-digital-recreation http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/ryan-in-the-woods-a-digital-recreation#comments Sat, 19 Jun 2010 09:09:29 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/

gosh

Ryan Weston. A name that strikes fear into those who watch the Canterbury skies at night. Young women quiver in pale delight, when this monster comes scalloping round the lofty corner.

mr Ryan at ease

Ryan Weston. A pal to us all. When Ed and Will were midst dreadful turmoil this winter, while living in the woods, it was the visit of friends like Ryan who brought the simple smile back to our faces.

Ryan and Alaric help us pack it all away

Ryan plays his banjo loudly, whooping yee-haws to the blue-tits, and he gets raucousfully stuck into whatsoever is going on. While staying in the woods, he made a bow and arrow, a hurdle, a sword, and he carved a fortress from a standing oak stump.

Chez Ryan

view from the top

motif

In Ryan’s honour, we enclose a video montage of his better bits:

And we also wish to share an interview we made of Ryan’s opinion, in response to some biting and poignant questions.

Please enjoy. And know that Ryan is available for building repairs, kitchen fitting, plastering, and general skilled labour. We use him…isn’t it time you did too?

twang

]]> http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/ryan-in-the-woods-a-digital-recreation/feed/ 0 http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/victor-freeman-and-his-war-stories http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/knowledge/people/interesting-folk/victor-freeman-and-his-war-stories#comments Thu, 16 Apr 2009 18:28:30 +0000 Branching Arts http://www.awalkaroundbritain.com/ We met Victor in the Cooper’s Arms, near Crowborough. He was in the Royal Navy during World War II, and enjoyed greatly the sea shanties we were singing that night. “Adieu Sweet Lovely Nancy” was his particular favorite. Victor tried toget us singing “Heysborough Light”, but we couldn’t quite follow his melodies. We will look into it further.

HMS Bleasdale -

What Victor told us…

was the D-day flotilla, of which he was part, that landed at Juno beach. One of the officers on board, “the best of them all”, was Cedric Dickens, who was ‘the spitting image of his great-great-great-great-grandfather.” We were told how Cedric had met his wife, Elizabeth, when falling off his bicycle at the Portsmouth Docks.

The boat they were on was the Bleasdale, a destroyer LSO, Hunter Class. All destroyers in the fleet at that time were names after Hunts in Britain, which tells us something of the link between the Naval establishment and the landed gentry, perhaps. “O, a hunting we will go” sung Victor…

Victor’s was the first ship back into Portsmouth after the landings – “something odd had happened to British Summer Time” he told us, and soon after, on the Destroyer Faulkner, he saw Mongomery come ashore. He watched him on deck as he sailed in past the Boom Defence (built to keep U-Boats out), and then watched as he was transferred onto HMS Kelvin (“to hoodwink the enemy – there were enemy spies everywhere!”)

Victor told us that it was a German agent in the Cooper’s Arms who learned, from the garrulous Canadians stationed nearby, of the Aug 19 1942 Dieppe raid.

Victor saw de Gaulle, as part of the Free French Fleet, aboard the “Combattante”. “He was a great big chap” we were told. “When the French saw that ship come in, well then they cheered, cos it was their own lot, and they knew they were free at last.”

He recalleda  man he met, who ran off the “Combattante”, and who jumped aboard his own ship, shouting in a Cockney accent “anyone got the News of the World?” – he was half English and half French, and when it came to decision time, he threw his lot in with the Free French instead of the Royal Navy.

Victor loved being in the Navy: “wonderful cameraderie” – and he had joined back in 1941, in Derby market. He had previously been in the Chelsea Sea Cadets. He told us how he ‘stepped up to the recruiting officer, and said “I’d like to join for 22 years”. “You must be stark raving mad” the officer told him.

He was paid £1 per week, which was about the price of 3 pints of ale. But he didn’t drink. He saved up all his tots of rum, and put them in a bottle in his locker, and one Christmas, he drunk half a bottle. “How they laughed, the others, with me in the mess all laughing and bleary – cos they hadn’t never seen me like that before.”

Victor had found love, when he met a young lass at the Queen Cinema in Portsmouth, when on shore leave. He was 20, she was 19. She wrote to him twice a week: “a lovely little girl”. Then one day the letters stopped. “Well, i knew what had happened. She lived on the Sultan Way, all old houses, and i walked along there, and sure enough, her house had been flattened by a bomb.” Victor got misty eyed, distant in his memory, and silent for a moment. “Poor little darling. That broke my heart that did.”

After the war in Europe was over, Victor and his ship was sent to the Far East. They were “scared shitless”, of the Japanese, the diseases, the Kamikaze. They thought they’d won the war in Europe, only to go and die in Asia.”Then it was all over, quickly, of course, and we were bloody glad.”

Victor told us that many years later he visisted the graves in Dieppe, and he said it made him cry to read, on one grave, the message: “Tread carefully, my son lies nearby.”

He then wished us good luck, and said it was a pleasure to hear the old songs sung, and wished him the same.

The accuracy of the story cannot be confirmed, but anyroad, it goes thuswise:
Livingstone was a Scottish Missionary, a man with a great heart, and with the balls of an elephant. As a missionary, he was not hugely successful, being accredited with only one conversion to the Church. But as a hero amongst men, he was (as all heroes) uniquely spectacular.

So what did he do?

Born in Lanarkshire, he worked in cotton mills from the age of 10 till 26. He grafted and saved, until he became a minister, and was inspired to go to South Africa, to try to end slavery by the spread of trade and Christianity.

His prowess and zeal were more focussed on physical, actual freedom, than the theoretical liberty typically espoused by churchmen. Armed with a Bible (no loose term), Livingstone wandered in deep Africa from 1840 onwards, and in 1852 was the first European to see Mosi-oa-Tunya (the Smoke that Thunders), which he named the Victoria Falls. He learned the languages, studied the customs, and travelled lightly, with only a few helpers, so was not seen as a threat by the powerful tribal kingdoms.

The middle of Africa was uncharted to European civilization at this time. It was only 150 years past, but the maps were blank. There were no satellites looking down watching everything.

So Livingstone found the Slave kingdoms, where tribesmen from all over Africa were sold, by Slaver Africans, to the rest of the world. Britain in particular bought a great many of these slaves, for labour on her new colonies. Livingstone waltzed right into the Slaver Kingdoms, waving his Bible, and said ‘you must stop this’. They did not know what to do. Some said they should kill him, but most were so impressed by his bravery, which was a coin of unmistakable value in tribal Africa, that they let this crazy white man live. But the slave trade would continue uninterrupted.

One day, watching the slaves being led in chains toward the coast, Livingstone snapped. With his few helpers, he freed the handful of slaves, and started some sort of war with the local Slaver King. Returning to Britain for men and supplies, to fininsh this fight, Livingstone found he was both celebrated and unpopular – slavery was big business, but exploration was glorious. So, with the resources he could gather, he returned, by boat up the River Zambezi.

The discovery of unknown rapids forced them to turn back. A new boat was built, one that could be completely dis-assembled, and it was sailed back to the rapids, where two years were spent taking it apart, carrying it around the rapids, and re-building it, before the mission could continue. Such determination and patience defies modern standards.

So then battle could re-commence, and after some years of small melees, the slaver kingdoms around Lake Malawi fell, and Malawi became the first British Colony that was taken for entirely the right reasons, for freedom and humanity. Empire was not always a monster.

Then Dr Livingstone went missing, wandering in dark Africa, discovering places no European had ever seen. His exploits had become internationally famous, and were hugely popular in America, which meant they caught on in the British Press soon after.

An American journalist, called Stanley, realized that if he could track down the missing hero, it would be the Scoop of the Century. He resolved to do just this, with a huge retinue of bearers, guns, and equipment, in true American fashion.

Stanley was an Anglophile, which meant he was an admirer of the understated British mode of expression, perceived to be an inimitable style, rather than evidence of irritated reserve and gloomy self-awareness. On the voyage to Africa, we imagine Stanley, in front of the ship mirror, practising the words, till they sounded just dull enough: “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

Stanley found his man, and the world got its story.

Livingstone eventually died in Africa, and his heart was buried under a Baobab tree, the spiritual temple of the Malawian people. Then, despite it being taboo in Africa, his body was carried off, wrapped in Bamboo, and for four years his faithful friends suffered drought, attack, disease, persecution and plague, before Livingstone’s body was eventually carried back to Scotland, to be buried.

A hero with the balls of an elephant; we say may men like this be born every day.