I was born shortly before the outset of the Second World War. So although raised in the village of
Cefn Mawr, I have fond memories of
Llangollen International Musical Eisteddfod, especially during the early years.
During eisteddfod week, my mother worked as a table waitress at Goring's Restaurant and Café, which was located near the road junction of Heol y Bryn and Regent Street. As a treat on a Sunday, father used to take my brother, Leonard and I to the town to see the colourful spectacle of competitors carrying out impromptu performances in the streets often in their national costumes. Later and certainly throughout the summer months we'd visit the paddling pool and listen to the brass band play in the bandstand nearby followed by a visit to see mother at the Café where we enjoyed afternoon tea. On other occasions, we'd call on my Nain Bartley's relatives, who lived in the old mill at Dee Lane, for we were always assured of a warm welcome accompanied by a nice cup of tea and slice of Bara Brith. I understand that the old mill is now a restaurant.
As soon as mother finished work, it was time to make our way home so we'd walk along Castle Street, which was generally packed with both competitors and visitors alike, before crossing the bridge to the junction with Abbey Road and Mill Street. Throughout summer but especially during eisteddfod week, this was always a busy junction with a police officer on 'point duty' struggling to control the heavy traffic with hand signals, his arms encased in white fabric pull-on sleeves to emphasis his hand and arm movements.
Crossing the road we'd make our way to the bottom of Wharf Hill and bus stop for Cefn Mawr and beyond. And, as was always the case, I'd desperately search for the end of the queue which, in those days when buses were the main mode of transport, would almost certainly be four or five deep, and extend to at least half way up the hill and often to the canal bridge itself. Joining the queue we'd wait patiently for what seemed like hours before finally reaching the bus stop and our turn to board. Climbing aboard the Crosville double decker bus I'd keep my fingers crossed that there'd be room upstairs, for this gave uninterrupted views of the countryside and boat traffic when the driver struggled to negotiate the Wenffrwd canal bridge and notorious road accident black-spot. This was, to a young motorcyclist in the 1950s, viewed as a challenge to be negotiated at speed. In recent years of course, this difficult chicane has been greatly modified and is now nothing more than a gentle rise on the hill and approach to Sun Bank.
Once clear of the bridge we could settle back and admire the view of the Dee Valley with
Froncysyllte and
Telford's Aqueduct in the distance. On passing Sun Bank however I'm reminded of the railway disaster that occurred here one dark night in September 1945 when the canal breached and subsequently washed away a 200-yard section of banking, including the railway line and Sun Bank Halt immediately below. Unaware that anything was amiss the engine driver and guard of the Ruabon to Barmouth Mail train perished when their train plunged into the abyss with the engine fireman being the sole survivor.
The loss of canal water had serious consequences for Monsanto Chemicals who relied heavily on the water for cooling and processing purposes at their Cefn Mawr plant. With production seriously compromised the company, together with Shropshire Union Canal Engineers, made strenuous efforts to carry out temporary repairs to the canal by forming a dam each side of the canal breach using sandbags filled with clay. With the open ends of the canal plugged and Telford's Aqueduct sealed off at Trefor, water was restored to the Llangollen section. It was now a matter of pumping water from one side of the breach to the other which was achieved when Monsanto engineers set in place one of their works fire engine pumps, which ran for 24 hours a day until the canal banking, was finally repaired.
Continuing our journey home it's fingers crossed that the road at Trefor isn't temporarily closed for a goods train leaving Roberts and Maginnis Ltd, Australia brickworks, for this often seemed to take an age to clear and delay our arrival home for supper.
1950s
In the early 1950s, I became a regular daily visitor to the eisteddfod, not as a competitor, but as a cadet with the Cefn Mawr, St Johns Ambulance Brigade, for both mother and elder brother Leonard were members, and with others manned the eisteddfod,
St John's Ambulance tent during the week.
In 1954, as a 16 year old, I took up motorcycling and often visited Sun Garage motorcycle showroom and workshop and petrol outlet located on Regent Street opposite the junction with Church Street. These were exciting times for it was an opportunity to view the new machines in the showroom and chance to talk to Alan, Les, and Horace who I believe were partners in the business. It is amazing now to think that at this time petrol was dispensed from attended pumps located at the busy roadside. On one occasion sitting astride my BSA bantam motorcycle, Horace, a heavy smoker, served me with fuel. I recall I was horrified and too frightened to move or say anything, for Horace dispensed the fuel with a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips. I never ever went back there for fuel again.
1953
It was at this time that my parents, like many other people in Cefn Mawr and surrounding villages, decided to become hosts to the many competitors attending the eisteddfod, for in 1952 we were allocated a three bed-roomed council house in Coronation Street, Cefn Mawr. With my brother and I temporarily sharing a bedroom for the week, this left one room free to accommodate competitors.
So it was with great excitement and anticipation that we waited to see which nationality of choir or dance troop was allocated to our village. To our surprise, this turned out to be a German choir. Surprised! Well, yes for it was only eight years since the ending of hostilities between our two countries, with Monsanto Chemicals and other local industries having been targeted during at least one bombing raid. Nevertheless our village adopted the spirit of the eisteddfod and welcomed them with open arms.
Our two competitors turned out to be a father and son from the industrial city of Essen, located deep in the heart of Germany's Ruhr Valley. Both were very pleasant but neither spoke English nor, for that matter, us any Deutsch, but I recall that this was no barrier, for with lots of hand gestures we managed to communicate with each and we all seemed to enjoy each other's company and the fun and challenge of communication. Finally, at the end of the week and their visit at an end they presented my parents with a bottle of white wine, which they'd brought over with them. This was a kind gesture, for I suspect it was to show their appreciation for the time they'd spent with us.
At this time, beer was the staple drink of most British men, and father was no exception. With commercial wine almost unheard of, and certainly not readily available, the wine was put aside for a future, special occasion. Some months later that occasion arrived, and amidst a gathering of friends the bottle was finally opened. Father was first to taste, whereupon, amidst a lot of coughing and spluttering and with his face now becoming a torturous mask of horror, he immediately spat out the contents. Gaining his composure, he explained that it was the foulest drink that it had been his misfortune to taste, and that if this was a typical wine that he had no further intentions of tasting wine ever again. Courteous, as was his nature, he immediately invited those present an opportunity to taste the wine. Naturally, there were no takers.
Now greatly disappointed and suspecting that this was not typical of wine, he decided that it needed to be examined by experts and subsequently took it to work (Monsanto's) for analysis. The experts duly tested and tasted the wine and their conclusion was that it had simply 'gone off'. It would, however, be many years before father finally picked up courage to try another glass of commercial wine, meanwhile trusting only in mother's homemade whinberry wine.
1953 was also a memorable year at the Eisteddfod, for it was visited by Her Majesty the Queen, and my brother, a keen amateur photographer, visited the eisteddfod field and took a number of photographs of the occasion, one of which was published in the Herald of Wales where he was awarded a prize of 7/6d. But the main prize of 10/6d was reserved for when the photograph was published in the Tuesday edition of the Llangollen Review. He was chuffed to pieces with his success.
In the early years of the eisteddfod and I suspect even today, there are people who carryout unselfish deeds that seldom make the headlines but without which the eisteddfod would not be the success it has become without the part played by these unsung heroes. Family friend Mervyn Hughes tells of the early years when Mr Tom Clutton was Chairman of ticket sales and responsible for organising Llangollen men, who like himself were employees of Monsanto Chemicals. On completion of their night shift, and before returning home to rest and sleep would make their way to the eisteddfod field to collect litter and make the field presentable prior to the eisteddfod opening at 10am. Tom Clutton was presented to the Queen during her visit.
Mervyn was also part of the Cefn Mawr Boy Scouts troop who lined the Queen's motor route on the eisteddfod field.
1954
Another year when mother played host to a further two competitors. These were a mother and daughter from Indiana in the United States of America. This was the first time that I had had the opportunity to hear, at first hand, a real American accent other than on a Hollywood film set. I think what impressed me most was the quality of their clothes and design of the mother's spectacles, which were a lot different to the ones I was used to seeing around our village. After a couple of days the mother, now feeling far more relaxed than when she first arrived, confessed that they had brought their own soap and toilet paper with them, for she had heard that in the United Kingdom we used carbolic soap and had no toilet paper at all, but used instead torn-up pieces of newspaper (probably a throwback to the American GIs' experience whilst serving over here during the war years). She was pleasantly surprised to discover that this was not the case. On their return home they left all their supplies with us.
The American choir were all hosted in the Cefn Mawr area and on their last day I well remember, elderly Mr Edwards of Tabernacle House, Well Street, gathering them together at the junction of Coronation Street and Cae Gwilym Lane. I recall that this was at their request for they wished to thank everyone and to say goodbye. They then sang a number of songs from their repertoire, before completing the performance with a rendition of the Stars and Stripes.
1955
This year brought another competitor to stay with us, and the last to leave an impression on me. She was a young female in her mid 20s and was rather special for she was the pianist for, as I recall, the Bulgarian State Choir. The lady spoke perfect English, was very friendly and an absolute pleasure to host. During conversations, she admitted that she was very excited at competing in the Llangollen International Musical Eisteddfod, and rated the event even higher than the time she was principle pianist at the Moscow State Theatre.
On one occasion, when she had a little time to spare she asked if she could accompany me on a shopping expedition around Cefn Mawr. I clearly remember her gasps of astonishment seeing all the food in our shops. But what surpassed even that was the amount of wrapping paper on our food, and sweets in particular. And this was in the mid 1950s. What would she think of our food wrapping now?
1977
Another memorable year in the eisteddfod calendar for this was the year that the Zulus, from Durban in South Africa arrived and my aunt, Jessie Hughes from the Nant, Coedpoeth, hosted two young female competitors - a school teacher and a nurse, with the remaining choir members and dancers also staying with neighbours in the village.
My cousin, Howard Hughes recalls calling with mother Jessie at the parish hall in their car to collect their two female competitors. On reaching home it became obvious that the two young ladies were not at ease, with the situation becoming even tenser when asked whether they would like something to eat. Finally, when he showed them to their room they finally broke down and confessed that they had never been treated so courteously, especially to be waited on, and the final straw came when they realised that they would be sleeping in the same house as a white person. This, as it turned out was not an isolated case, with other Zulu members asking local shopkeepers if they could enter the premises to be served! Remember, the year was 1977, and at the time apartheid was the official government policy of racial segregation in South Africa.
I seem to recall that as a choir, they were very good, but what made this particular dance troop different from anything that had preceded them was the fact that the female dancers, when performing, wore traditional costumes, which meant that they were naked from the waist up. Naturally, this caused quite a stir with the media with lots of newspaper and television coverage.
At this time I was living in Cardiff, but it was a coincidence that this was the first year that my wife and I returned to the eisteddfod field. Like many other visitors we failed to find a seat in the packed marquee, so settled down in the chairs provided on the grassed area outside, and to the rear of the marquee which had been opened for the occasion. Whilst we could still see the stage it was now some considerable distance away and difficult to pick out the finer points of the dancers national costumes etc. Sitting immediately in front of us was an elderly couple, and under normal circumstances I wouldn't have paid much attention to them, but this was to change, for finally, and with a great deal of excitement, the Zulu dancers arrived on stage. At this moment the elderly gentleman began rummaging through the contents of his carrier bag before finally producing a pair of binoculars to the envy of all those around. Raising these to his eyes I was saddened to see that that his arms were shaking very badly and suspect that he suffered with Parkinson's disease. I felt desperately sorry for him, but resisted the temptation to grasp his hands with mine to hold the binoculars steady.
On the day of their departure, the Zulus gathered on the bowling green at Coedpoeth to give a final dance performance for the village, which meant of course, that once again they would be naked from the waist up. My cousin, Howard, recalls that this didn't go down too well with the elderly gentlemen of the village, who simply just wanted to get on with their game of bowls. Later, the choir members retired to the Parish Hall, which was packed to the doors, and sang a number of their traditional Zulu songs.
At this time my cousin, Anne Andrews from Llewellyn Road, Coedpoeth, recalls spotting a male member of the Zulu choir sitting alone on a park bench and deep in thought. Concerned for him, she approached and asked if there was a problem that she could help with. His reply surprised her for he couldn't get over how peaceful and quiet the village was.
