"Dai Jones the blacksmith had a brother called Jack who played the drums and lived in nearby Manafon. He had the added advantage of owning a motor bike and sidecar and agreed willingly to become Dad's drummer.

Two ladies who lived on smallholdings near Bettws also joined. May Lewis played the violin and Ethel Evans the piano. These four became the Venetian Dance Orchestra and in no time had become so popular that they had a virtual monopoly of dance engagements for miles around. Village dances started at eight o'clock but farmers and smallholders had milking and other evening duties to attend to which prevented them attending until perhaps ten o'clock. To accommodate them the dances went on until 2 am.

I have two recollections of the Venetians. One is of the rehearsals held in our house once a week. Two particular tunes, 'Jealousy' and 'Wheezy Anna' are stamped indelibly on my memory from these. The second is of a ritual that would occur on a Saturday night when Jack Jones called for Dad. He would open our outer door and shout "Is anybody in?" and the whole family would reply "Yes, Jack. Come in"

I mentioned the everyday life that went on in Bettws. Dai Jones's blacksmith shop was right in the centre. How many times did I stand and watch as he deftly shoed a giant carthorse? The whoosh of water as the red-hot shoe was taken out of the fire and plunged into the bucket and then the wonder why the horse didn't jump when the nails were driven into its hoof. Dai with his leather apron and strong arms, not a giant of a man by any means, but horses of any size were all in a days work for him.

Dai was one of the first people in Bettws who my Dad got to know. When we first moved to the village he went into Andrews' shop and ordered a daily copy of the Daily Herald, the only paper which was sympathetic to the Labour Party. Mrs Andrews apparently said "Oh, that will be two copies of the Herald each day then. Dai Jones the blacksmith has one you know"

My father, a staunch Labour Party supporter, could never understand why people such as poor agricultural workers and domestic servants were invariably Conservative in their political leanings but it was some consolation to him that the parliamentary constituency in which Bettws stood was represented by a Liberal member.

Arthur Hind, the son of our landlords, was the village cobbler and plied his trade from a little workshop in the main street. Not only did he repair footwear, he actually made boots. From a very early age he would encourage me to sit and watch.

I marvelled at his dexterity. He would start with a sheet of thick leather and from it cut out and mould shapes which gradually became recognisable as a boot.

The most astounding thing about him however in my young mind was that he would put a handful of tacks into his mouth and take them out one by one with one hand and knock them into the leather with the other without swallowing any and all the time carry on a conversation with whoever happened to be in the shop.

I was too young to know at the time we were living in Bettws that Arthur and Dolly Andrews were sweethearts but for some reason I believe her father forbade them to marry and they had to wait years until he had died. This was probably the reason why they never had children.

Similarly I believe that Mary Davies, the daughter of the miller, was banned by her father from marrying the man of her choice and they too had to wait until his death. It may well have been snobbery on the parts of both Mr Andrews and Mr Davies. Arthur was a simple cobbler who rented his workshop from Andrews and Mary's sweetheart was a millworker employed by her father.

The mill was a fascinating place, set apart from the main road through the village in the only other street in Bettws, appropriately called Mill Street. It lay in the lee of the high rise of ground on which stood St Bueno's Church. On the same level as the church was the mill pond from which water poured onto the giant wheel which in turn drove the grindstones of the mill.

One of my friends was John Davies, the miller's son, and he and I were sometimes allowed to go into the mill and watch the whole process of wheat being transformed into dirty-looking brown flour. The noise was terrific, the constant rush of water and the clanking and groaning of the machinery. At times the whole building seemed to shake and it was usually a relief to go out into the fresh air.

Another friend was Derek Williams the son of Dai Williams. Dai was the village wheelwright and part-time landlord of the New Inn, one of the two pubs in Bettws.

I don't ever remember going into Dai's wheelwrights shop. He carried out repairs to carts and carriages but the work was intermittent, hence the pub.

Similarly, the mill was probably not busy all the time and Mr Davies had a workshop next door where repairs and servicing were carried out to the increasing number of mechanical appliances, cars, lorries, tractors etc which appeared. In addition of course he had a bus which was the only form of public transport for miles around.

Arthur Hind had a shotgun and went out rabbiting regularly. From the age of seven he invited me to go with him. We didn't have to go far. We'd walk to the end of the village, past the Village Hall and climb a stile into one of the fields belonging to Mr Jones of Bettws Hall.

There, on the other side of the field, was a grassy bank pock-marked with rabbit holes and a dozen or so rabbits would be out eating their evening meal. From a distance of something like fifty metres Arthur would raise his gun and fire.

One rabbit would be sure to be hit but he sometimes got two at once. We would go over and if there was any sign of life Arthur would hit the creature on the back of the head. He'd pick it up and give it to me to carry.

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By the time we returned to the spot from which he'd fired, rabbits would be re-appearing outside their burrows and Arthur would once again take aim. Once we'd got four he would say 'Time to go home'. We would each carry two and when we got back to the house he'd say 'Give one to your mother' and I'd go proudly indoors. My mother, raised in Bermondsey, London, who had probably never seen a live rabbit in a field before she went to Bettws, had been taught by Mrs Hind to overcome any squeamishness and skin and clean a rabbit. We'd have the rabbit next day. "

Article written by Bernard Hodgson