History of the Area

Throughout his busy professional life culminating in his role as Chiet Officer of Berkshire County Council, rewarded by an OBE, Clive Williams harboured fond childhood memories of holidays at Llanpumsaint. During the mid 1940’s he’d often visit his Uncle Davey and Aunty May at Pantycelyn, to feast aplenty on their-ever full table with lots of butcher’s meat. A real treat away from the frugal fare of his post war Cardiff home. And there were other delights! Trips to Tenby in the cleaned out meat van, clinging on in the back to two improvised deck chairs, trying to cope with his uncle’s erratic driving. Scared stiff when put in charge of a hay waggon about to cross the railway track as a train approached, he breathed relief when the wise old horse stopped just short of the track. After allowing the monster through he plodded on to Pantycelyn’s barn. Clive mixed with the local kids and evacuees but his best pal was a Trevor Thomas, who lived at Darfryn. His local claim to fame remains his one time exploit as a youthful fast bowler, who removed two of the batsman Vicar’s teeth during a local cricket match. Clive and Trevor eventually went their differnt ways and inevitably lost touch as so often happens. Recently however having just read “The history of Llanpumsaint” Clive Williams contacted the author, who with some local help, tracked down a sprightly Trevor in Carmarthen. So two 80+ very old friends were able to re-connect and re-live their distant youthful exploits. The co-incidences don’t end there however! Being in charge of Berkshire Council in the 1980’s brought Clive right into that famous Greeham Comman women’s protest movement, who eventually succeeded in getting rid of those menacing Cruise missiles. It surprised him to learn, on reading the Llanpumsaint book, that though that first march began from Cardiff, the idea first sprang into being. Led by Ann Pettit, three worried mothers met at Gwastod Bach at Easter 1981, and from there grew one of the most famous feminine peace movements of the 20th century. Lately the old Control Tower at Greenham was turned into a Visitor Centre. Clive’s wife, who opened it, noticed an anomaly, no mention of how it all began. The record will now be put straight with a copy of the History of Llanpumsaint, signed by Ann being added to the Centre’s Library. They should also add a copy of her own book on the subject. Finally, Clive Williams intends to revisit Llanpumsaint next summer, hoping to walk up up the river Cerwyn to the Saints’ Pools once more, on the longest day perhaps, to cure all ailments.

They vary, depending on where you were!   In China some mourned whilst others felt relieved by the news of Mao Tse Tung’s death.  Democrats in America celebrated the election victory of Jimmy Carter,, the first President from the Southern States since their Civil War back in the 19th century.  Yet over in South Africa the brutal repressive white regime killed 176 black protesters in Soweto.  Back in Britain readers mourned the passing of crime writer Agatha Christie, and Harold Wilson’s suddenly handing over the Premiership to Jim Callahan, drew comment . Despite all that the main talking point around here that summer was the weather.  Day after day of hot sunny skies had by August produced a brown carpeted countryside.  No rain brought a drought resulting in water shortages and the inevitable hosepipe bans.  The source of the Thames apparently dried up in Gloucestershire  and London recorded its lowest river level ever.  Lorry after lorry arrived at local farms with vital animal feed for those parched cattle and sheep.

Visitors to the National Eisteddfod at Cardigan found conditions underfoot totally different to their muddy wet memories of Carmarthen in 1974.  Clouds of Sahara-like dust blew around everywhere, even getting into the ice creams, as competitors and spectators alike sweltered in the oppressive heat.  It’s still referred to as Eisteddfod Y Llwch (The Dusty Eisteddfod).  Temperatures soared as we prepared to stage our evening performance of Wil Angladde.  It was a black comedy farce, (a bit risqué in those days), set in a graveyard with an open hole, coffin and actor corpse for good measure.  Some five minutes before curtain up a lady in the audience collapsed in a heap. Pandemonium!   Our ashen faced producer arrived backstage to announce, “If that lady’s died, there’s no way this play can go on!”.  Fortunately she’d only fainted in the oppressive heat and after two glasses of water resumed her seat to enjoy all the ribaldry of that performance. Yet four days days later, the real life graveyard at Bwlchycorn Chapel,  Rhydargaeau, bore witness to a tragic funeral . Hundreds congregated to mourn the loss of a highly popular local lad.  Emyr, from nearby Gors farm, had died as a result of tractor accident on those parched fields. He’d been a hard worker.  His cheery smile and garrulous nature had made him universally popular in the thriving Llanpumsaint Young Farmers Club, and a star turn amongst that lively congregation of youngsters at the then highly popular Stag & Pheasant.   It was a huge funeral on another blazing hot day!

When Eifion Jones placed that final bottle to his last house in August 2016, it signalled the end of 35 years of doorstep delivery and the demise of yet another country service. Things had been quite different a hundred years earlier, when the few country house dwellers collected their milk from nearby farms and smallholdings in jugs or containers. Prosperity after the Second World War saw many more houses and later estates appear to fuel a rural demand for milk. So milkmen, long established in towns appeared in the countryside. Eifion Jones, from his home in Cwmduad took over the Round from Henry Conwil, in 1971. That daily run would take in Conwil and Hermon, before descending to Cwmdwyfran and then Bronwydd, up as far as Rhiw Graig. There his Round met Defi John Llanpumsaint’s domain, later taken over by Gwyneth Thomas Bronallt. She supplied Nebo, the whole of Llanpumsaint village and beyond as far as Ffynnonhenri, before returning to attend to her much admired flower garden above Rhiw Coopers. In some rural areas competition could spill over into aggression, but here, as all sides confirm, there was always a spirit of mutual respect for boundaries The milk from Unigate and later dairy Crest, arrived from Swansea and Pontardulais and then Haverfordwest. At 6 am Eifion set out. “When I started a pint was 11pence in old money, or four pence halfpenny in the new”.He’d be at it doorstepping until around 9.30. As more houses were built, swelled by the emergence of Bronyglyn and Gelli Aur estates in Bronwydd, the Round prospered. Over those decades a succession of Pick-ups could be seen pulling in to the clink of glass on concrete. He went through 2 Morris Thousands, 2 Datsuns, a Mazda. and the well recognised red Vollkswagen. No matter which those children in Cwmdwyfran enjoyed climbing up on the back. Many a resident opening the door to an avalanche of white on that snowbound morning in 1983, which closed all roads, got a huge surprise to find the daily Pinta already there on the doorstep. Eifion recalls the drama. With his supplier unable to move, he borrowed a Fergie and transport Box to plough his way down to Ben Lleine Conwil, whose milk could not be collected by tanker. Then in a borrowed land rover away he went to deliver and shock his customers. Ingenuity! When he lost his wife Evelyn in 1994 both sons Endaf and Edryd came to the fore to help out at a difficult time. There could be mishaps, a bold Robin or a hard frost could remove tops, and once something very unusual. The Barrett business always took a crate of milk by the quarry, but one morning found all the bottles empty. A note stuffed inside offered an apology from some thirsty early morning Australian tourists, who’d been unable to find a shop open. No payment though! Operating in a traditionally open and trusting society saw Eifion stride unannounced into a house, place the bottles in the Fridge and be on his way again. As he collected the money on a Friday afternoon he’d be looking forward to his last call with Daisy in Hermon, where that cup of tea and slice of tart awaited. There is evidence of unrecorded kindnesses, a family in difficulties could find that Eifion chose not to collect his dues. The sympathetic policeman attending a sudden death, became totally confused when he advised the widow to make funeral arrangements. “All right! I’ll tell the milkman!” she replied. He wasn’t to know of Eifion’s other role in life, the dignified and highly respected local Undertaker.

Gwyn Thomas, the late Anglo-Welsh author and raconteur, told a tale of a Glamorganshire village’s deep pond. So dangerously deep that no local had ever ventured further than the shore’s edge. The dark waters apparently reached down into the mysterious underworld, and the fear of drowning kept even summertime boy swimmers away. Then one day an inquisitive stranger arrived. Bent on debunking this silly myth he rowed a boat right out to the middle, to stick his oar all of five feet into the bottom. Gwyn in his unique style concluded by saying, that this was also the exact distance between the fleeing interloper and the pursuing village posse, as he was promptly run out of town. We have a few local tales as well. On your interrupted way to Carmarthen at the red light just below Bronwydd, look far left at Cwmgwili mansion. The 4th out of the five upstairs first floor windows apparently held a sad secret. Locals passed down the tragic story of a boy who went to war and was killed. So the grieving family bricked up the window to keep the room exactly as he’d left it. A visible memorial to commemorate a war victim! When a young boy I made a stupendous discovery on reading an old copy of the church magazine Y Cyfaill Eglwysig (The Church Friend) for 1937. There, in an article on Llanpumsaint parish, it revealed a massive secret. At the base of the old quarry, on that last downward bend on Rhiw Graig. lay the opening to a hidden tunnel. Not only was it a secret escape route from Pantglas castle above, but ran all the way along the forest to Troedyrhiw fields, to link up with the Roman Road, a whole mile away. Bois bach! What a discovery! Could there be treasure, skeletons or coins hidden away there? One afternoon, after gulping one last lung full of fresh summer air, I switched on my borrowed torch, hoping the battery would last, bent double and crawled in through the narrow cave entrance, into the great unknown........ Locals avoided Pantybwci in the dark, particularly on windy winter nights. Roughly translated Pantybwci means the goblin’s hollow, but worse than that the sow in chains rose from the underworld there at Halloween and other dark nights. For Hywel, who once lived at Gwynfryn Bronwydd, a stout fearless countryman, it was a place to avoid. Walking homewards from his courting trips around 1900, he’d make a huge detour to avoid Pantybwi, he’d rather not risk tangling with the forces of the other world. Rachel Hannah, brought up at nearby Blaencors, confirmed this fear and apprehension amongst locals. So where is Pantybwci? It is that first road junction, south of Pontarsais on the B4301 towards Bronwydd. Do not drive there on full headlights, but rather walk to it in winter darkness, on a night when the wind howls through the trees of this eerie hollow. You may then appreciate Hywel’s apprehension. At the risk of being run out of the area I venture to reveal more. That sad window at Cwmgwili mansion? Mr Griffie Philipps, the current Lord of the Manor, tells me that no boy got killed in war. A mundane explanation revealed that the window had been bricked up by his father, Sir Grismond Philipps, in order to install a fireplace there. After his time Griffie decided to open it all up and place two small glass windows. And what of my great voyage of discovery under Rhiw Graig? After three timeless yards my torch revealed a solid stone rock face, to end all hope and expectation. Perhaps one should just live with one’s dreams!!

The year had begun sadly, as revealed in a Carmarthen Inquest on a 2 year old boy at Blaenpant, Llanpumsaint. His clothes caught fire, not in the forge where his father worked, but from the kitchen fire. Some paper he threw in set his clothes alight, just when his poor mother had gone outside to get more coal. Despite all efforts by family and Doctor he died next day. Verdict – Accidental Death! There had been heavy snow (9 inches deep even in the village) back in December, and now early April brought a further surprise downfall. With just 12 pupils arriving the School closed to hearty cheers, but with mixed feelings for some boys, they’d miss that popular new Woodwork class... Whilst the War raged and intensified in France it became a war of words at home, as casualties mounted conscription intensified. The local economy felt drained when more and more young men were taken, concern and resentment came to the fore. Press reports of Tribunals and Appeals became frequent. Unsuccessful Appeals upset both families and employers, and successful ones accentuated the anguish of families whose dear ones had departed. No decision would please everyone! John L Roderick of Pandy, being a Mill owner won his Appeal. So did David Evans Brodawel, the farm bailiff to David Parry Evans at the busy Pantycelyn, but he’d have to put in hours at another farm as well. The Tribunal this time being swayed because one Pantycelyn son worked in Munitions. Timber merchant Rees Thomas of Manbras (nowadays Helfa Hall) sorely needed his Haulier son to shift 2,000 tons of timber destined as vital pit props for the coalmines, so he stayed. The farmer at Glangwili Bronwydd also got a sympathetic hearing as he’d already sent 3 sons and an adopted one to the Army. “With more men like you we’d finish off the Germans in no time!”, so that last son remained on home soil. Others, like the farmer of 57acre Tyrbach, Bronwydd failed to keep his servant, probably because he had 4 daughters, and the joint partner at Pante farm surprisingly had to enlist. In amongst all these Tribunals and Appeals an unusual tale emerges. An Austrian man, just released from the Sanatorium with consumption, appeared before the Carmarthen Board of Guardians. Married to a hardworking local milliner with two children, he couldn’t get work and needed help; turned down each time by drapers and others because he was an Alien. He’d offered to billet soldiers but that was also alien. Though he genuinely needed help the reactions of some Board members was bucolic to say the least – “Send him to the stone Quarry! - Pack him back to Austria! – Put the whole family in the Workhouse!” Reason thankfully prevailed with an allowance of 12s made for 2 weeks as he tried once more to get work. We think Local Llanpumsaint member R Howells voted sensibly. No luck for Llanelli saddler and owner of Lanfawr woods in Nebo that August. The Judge at Carmarthen Court turned down his £79-17-6 claim against the Great Western Railway. He reckoned that packers burning rubbish had set fire to the woodland, but his Lordship declared that it could have resulted from sparks from passing train engines. To end on positive note. The one time farm servant at Clover Hill, Daniel Evans, born at Typicca Bronwydd was awarded the Military Cross for Bravery in France. Eventually Dan retired to Clifford House next to Awelfa in Bronwydd. In 1917 it was a public House, the Clifford Arms at the junction of Graig Hill. The Landlord there in that year felt aggrieved, as he’d just been fined 10 shillings at Carmarthen Petty Sessions for having no rear light on his horse and cart at 5.30 p.m in November on the Llanpumsaint road. This excellent piece of detection on that lonely road being the work of P.C. John Morgan based at Conwil Elfed. One is drawn to speculate that having failed to catch him serving after Time; he’d got him for something. Surely not!

This year the longest day on the 21st of June falls on a Tuesday. It will doubtless, for most people be a normal day of commuting to work, harvesting in fields or busying oneself at home. Yet for over a thousand years and more this was always the busiest day of the whole year in Llanpumsaint, a day when people arrived in their hundreds, bent on visiting the five pools of the local Saints in the hope of being healed from the ailments of the day, be it rheumatism, toothache, sore eyes or whatever. Even as late as 1710 Archdeacon Tennison noted during his church Visitation, that between two and three hundred souls came to view and bathe in the sacred pools , one for each of the five saints – Gwyn, Gwynno, Gwynoro, Ceitho , Celynin. 

It had been a long tradition, well established before the Saints arrived to found a church here in the 5th century, on the site of the Druids temple. Farm names like Derimysg and Pantydriw confirm a druidic connection and clues to Pre-Christian practices. Even today those brave enough to venture down the steep ravine, will find that on the shortest day of the year, the sun at noon shines directly down the waterfall above the pools. Here we have a local example to mirror similar significant celestial events at Stonehenge, Carnac in Brittany, Egypt, and further afield on the American continent. Christianity adopted the site and dedicated the pools to its own heroes. Where exactly are these pools and how do I get there, you ask? At the top of Coopers Hill as you leave Llanpumsaint, between Bronallt bungalow on the right and Gwarcwm, a hundred yards or so on your left, pause to peer into the steep ravine below. Yes! A good hundred feet below, oblivious to our traffic dominated modern busy world, you enter the tranquil past age. If feeling unwell, just go down, no appointment is necessary, there‟s no waiting list, no prescriptions to collect and no cancellations; go directly down, bathe in the sacred waters of the Cerwyn to be cured at once. A word of warning though, the descent is treacherous. 

All this leads one to plea. In this 21st century when we are encouraged to respect our past and persuade visitors to do likewise, why not secure a footpath with suitable signs and an Information Board so that all could savour this hidden gem of an experience. There must be many locals who‟ve visited Devil‟s Bridge and Bettws-y-coed and yet be unaware of the Saints Pools and Cwm Cerwyn. What about it?

The current generation in Llanpumsaint now enjoy the enhanced facilities of the Memorial Hall, and nowadays partake in a variety of activities, as illustrated in this publication. None however can compare in length or intensity with that annual first Saturday in May Eisteddfod, held in the immediate post-war days of the forties and fifties. Eisteddfod competitions go back centuries, and before the hall was built in 1928 were held in a variety of chapels, vestries and the village school. 

Being of a local nature they afforded parishioners, both young and older, with an invaluable experience to perform and compete on stage and in front of an audience. Such opportunities would benefit many in later life. 

Things changed dramatically in 1944 on the appointment of a new Vicar to Llanpumsaint. The Rev. Emlyn Lewis and his wife Decima were an electrifying partnership. Apart from his ecclesiastical duties he was into Drama and she a National Eisteddfod vocalist winner; both were very well known in eisteddfod circles. They, with the help of enthusiastical locals, set up that May Saturday Eisfeddfod here; an event which began in the early afternoon with singing and recitation competitions for children, to climax between two and three o‟clock next morning with the Champion Solo marathon. A twelve hour entertainment, all for half a crown ( 12p nowadays). 

Soon both the number and radius of competitors increased rapidly. Whereas in 1944 over 90% of winners were locals, by 1954 no more than two or three parishioners could hope to capture a top prize. From an ever increasing circle they came by train and bus and only a few by car; from Llandysul and Cardigan, to Cross Hands, Pontardulais, Trimsaran and beyond. Llanpumsaint hall was their Mecca on Cup Final day! Once, the Champion Solo attracted no less than twelve competitors, each one a previous National winner, and all for a fiver, no more. But winning at Llanpumsaint placed a huge status symbol feather in your hat. So many came that eventually preliminaries had to be held at the Vicarage and Pantycelyn, to select only the best to tread the stage. 

Successive comperes guided the event along throughout the long day, afternoon and evening usually proceeding smoothly, but late night was another matter. That last session would always fall to Emlyn the vicar and he could get short-tempered. No wonder! With the clock ticking away well past midnight, competitors arriving late on stage, a tiring and restless audience, not helped by a few late arrivals from the Railway hotel, all entombed in a tobacco smoke-filled hall of dripping condensation walls. All that and the prospect of delivering three sermons the next day after not much sleep, one had to sympathise with him. Once fighting a losing battle to establish silence for the next soloist he publically admonished the ineffectual local policeman at the back of the hall, “You‟re paid to do your job! I‟m not!” Having established silence for the next recitation a small man fidgetted and loudly scraped his chair at the back “What‟s the matter with you?” barked Emlyn. “I‟ve lost my cap!” came the reply. “ Listen here. There‟s a totally bald man sat at the front here, and he hasn‟t said a word all day!” The ensuing roar of laughter released tensions and silence reigned once more. 

Awakened oround two o‟clock in the morning on the first of January, by strange sounds on your lawn or garden, a person recently moved to live in Llanpumsaint would naturally feel apprehensive. On seeing two or three shady figures whispering mysteriously as they moved around below, you‟d be tempted to phone the Police. Yet if the same had happened half a century ago, you‟d have smiled in anticipation and opened the bedroom window, after first checking that the pile of coins you‟d placed on the sill the night before were still in place. 

Then, the figures below would have formed into a group, before suddenly bursting into song to echo melodiously in the night air. Verses completed they‟d shout in practiced unison, “Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!” (A Happy New Year). Leaning out you‟d respond wishing them likewise the seasonal greeting, and then enquire as to their identity before throwing down some coins as a reward. Normally the first group to arrive would get the most, with the final choristers having to accept what was left on the window sill. Nevertheless the quality of synchronised rendering, who you were, or how well the bedroom committee liked your family, all these could add or detract from the value of the coins landing on gravel or grass. 

For young country lads it was a once a year bit of lucrative fun. We‟d plan ahead of course. Where to start? Obviously the most generous dwellings. There were houses to avoid , too mean, who pretended to sleep through even the second or third blasted rendering. You only had a few hours so time couldn‟t be wasted below barren windows . It was wise to choose a farm, where they‟d stayed up late, to be invited in for food and drink half way around. They‟d get a few extra songs. 

Generally the singers concentrated on their immediate home area, so the Nebo boys worked the farms up there, pulling in a remote one only if it might be profitable. It was far easier and quicker going aroud Llanpumsaint village. Some ventured further afield, the Ffynnonhenri boys strayed from Penfoel towards Cynwil. If you‟d been invited somewhere you had to respond no matter how remote that dwelling. The prospect of casting your eyes on some pretty girl of your fancy would carry a high priority, especially if you caught a glimpse of her nightdress in the candlelight. 

Canon Lloyd at the Vicarage had established a tradition; he‟d dole out a whole sovereign to the very first chorus after midnight. One New Year‟s Eve unbeknown to each other, three separate groups crept into his extensive lawn to hide amongst various rhododendron bushes, eyes glued to pocket watches. On the stroke of midnight all emerged simultaneously to burst into competitive chorus, which echoed around the village. The triumphant group had done that extra bit of homework, they knew exactly at which bedroom window the Cleric slept, to grab the prize off the gravel pathway before hastening towards Pantycelyn. 

Next morning it would be the children‟s turn to arrive at daylight doorways to similarly greet the occupants in verse and song. They were treated to sweets, mince pies and goodies as well as money. A minority of our youngsters in the area have pursued this ancient Celtic celebration into the twenty first century, targeting Welsh speaking homes, who they know understand and support the old tradition. It would be nice to see a lot more children venturing out into the community on New Year‟s Day morning, to maintain the old custom, and equally nice to see them welcomed at every doorway. So whatever your background why not join in and support something friendly, happy and social, which brings together both young and old in mutual celebration. After all it only lasts a couple of hours each year. What about it!