"It was 1942 and I was two and a half. It was one of those lovely warm days with a soft southerly breeze. Mr Pugh had valiantly offered to take me off up to the "ffridd", the moutain pasture, out from under my parents' feet.
Oh joy! Promotion! Grown ups' work with Mr Pugh. "Come on, boy bach!" Well, we were all boys bach to Mr Pugh. His girls, Gwynnie and Nona, and father and mother and I, who were there evacuees, Mr and Mrs Pugh embraced us all as family and despite the blitz we felt far removed from the war in this haven of love. However my father did once observe an ominous object bouncinig along Aberdovey beach.
Anyway, off we marched, heading for the fridd, Mr Pugh with his crook, Belle and Mot, the sheep dogs and me with my hazel wand just in case the cows need chivvying with a "Whup, whup!" We made our way along the lane past the watercress stream, through the gate towards the upper meadows to do a job "by passing", as Mr Pugh would say. The cows were way up out of sight so we concentrated on the thistles, nettles and replacing fallen stones from the walls.
After a while I felt peckish. I remembered the watercress. Off I trotted only to be greeted by the piglets Mrs Pugh had let out, hurting towards me. I joined in with their squeals of delight as we splashed and chased only stopping at Mr Pugh's anguished cry, "Oh, piggy mochyn Pugh!""