Meet the Quirky Staff at Crafty Dog Towers

Sounds Intriguing?

Here at Crafty Dog Towers we have a fairly large (fictional) cast of staff;

Mr. Grout, the Head Gardener
Pendulous Sedge (Pendle, the lazy) Gardener’s Lad
Higgins the Butler,
Cook
Alice, the Kitchen Maid
Mrs Chamberlain, Housekeeper

Pendle,Pendulous Sedge,Gardener's Lad,Crafty Dog Staff, — Pendle, that Lazy Gardener’s Lad.

These whimsical tales largely revolve around the antics of Pendle and his mentor, Mr Grout, the Head Gardener. Pendle is a tall thin streak of a lad. He is not the sharpest shovel in the shed. Still, he is loved by everyone for his simple honesty. Grout is that typical earthy old sort who managed the gardens of country houses in the last century. He has a touch of ingenuity and cunning. This means he always has some idea to make him rich, usually without Mrs Crafty Dog and I knowing. These stories began during the dark days of COVID on our Facebook page. They are now a Blog in their own right.

I hope that they make you smile!

S.L. Bannatyne

The Giant Bat – Hallowe’en Story 2018 All in One Bite!

The Crafty Dog Cymru Hallowe’en Story for 2018

Rubbish the Rabbit Hound and The Giant Bat

Is It a Bird? Is it a Plane? Or is it…Nigel?

(Age range 5 – 95)

Bob the father rabbit shook his head. “It’s too bad. These Witches are becoming such a nuisance.”

Bluebell, his wife, agreed, “I know. They are frightening all the kits. They won’t even listen to Finn!”

She was talking about the local coven of witches who, as the weeks drew closer towards Hallowe’en were getting more and more rowdy – screeching and cackling, swooping low over the trees and scaring the baby rabbits, birds and other animals. Finn the deerhound had gone to pay these hags a visit, and he had politely asked them not to be quite so loud but they had just sent him off with a flea in his ear. It was a real flea too and he was not amused.

“I’m not amused,” he growled at Rubbish the rabbit hound. The young hound couldn’t help smiling even though it was not funny. Jeffrey the old marmalade cat grinned gummily as he stared over the top of his round spectacles at the two of them, “Frightful nuisance,” he harrumphed in agreement.

Finn was, after all, the Lord of the Glen and Warden of the Great Forest and so senior animal of the area. From the kitchen the Maid watched the three friends discussing the problem in the woods. She leaned towards the open window and called out, “Bacon roll anyone?”

Three animal heads swivelled as one, and nodded in unison. “That would be marvellous,” Finn replied.

Three chopped up bacon rolls arrived in three bowls. They had continued talking amongst themselves, and still did so even as they munched on their mid-morning snacks. The brindle greyhound could not understand why the witches would not listen to Finn. He shook his head and dropped a small piece of bacon onto the patio, from which it was quickly snapped up by a hungry blackbird that appeared to have just been passing by.

“Bless my soul! That was a bit of bad luck, young sir,” Jeffrey consoled the stunned Rubbish.

“I was just going to finish that,” the pup said.

Finn laughed out loud, “At last! Something that is faster than our speeding greyhound’s ravenous appetite!”

The blackbird had landed on the roof of the outhouse, scoffing his ill-gotten gains and appeared to be listening to the three animals talking.

As the bacon rolls were finally mopped up, there came a sound from the bottom of the garden as a little rabbit pushed through the gap in the garden door and scurried up the red brick path towards them. It was Scutter. He skidded to a halt, scattering chippings as he stopped. He was puffing heavily. “Mr Finn! It was terrible and frightening!” The rabbit’s eyes were wide with excitement as he spoke.

“Really? Take a breath young rabbit,” he patted the rabbit on the shoulder.

“And start at the beginning,” added the ancient cat.

Scutter took a deep breath and began his story. “It was late last night. The witches were dancing and singing in the clearing where they have their parties. You know what they’re like,” the rabbit made a drinking sign with his paw. “They had their brooms and everything, and then….” he paused for dramatic effect, “as the full moon shone over the trees, a huge black bat appeared and flew over them.”

The dogs looked at each other and Jeffrey pushed his glasses back up his nose.

Scutter continued, “They were terrified! They all packed up and went home sharpish. Most of them walked – they were too scared to fly.”

Jeffrey laughed out loud and rolled back onto his rather large bottom. Rubbish smiled too. Finn however, though he was amused by the thought of something disrupting the coven’s antics, was also concerned about what this flying thing could be. “Young Scutter – did anyone else see this?” he asked.

The rabbit nodded, Yes, the squirrel family saw it all. It was a giant bat that made a terrible screeching noise as it flew.”

Jeffrey gave the deerhound a nudge, “Let’s go and see then.”

Finn stretched. “Come on – I sense an adventure.”

Off the three friends went, following Scutter through the woods to the clearing where the squirrels lived, in a tree next to the witches’ party venue.

Finn and Rubbish looked around the clearing; in the centre were the remains of a huge bonfire, still smouldering slightly. There were a couple of abandoned broomsticks, broken glasses that had held witches potions (or more likely gin and tonic). There was even one witch’s shoe (like some sort of evil Cinderella!).

“Something definitely spooked them,” Rubbish said.

Finn had to agree, “And they left in rather a hurry.”

Jeffrey was questioning the two squirrels. He had his notebook and pencil (the ones he kept in a mysterious pocket somewhere in his fur, which so puzzled Rubbish) and was writing down what the squirrels said.

There were no obvious signs of any flying monsters. No signs of anything in the trees; all in all, very strange.

Back at the house over a bowl of kibble and smoked salmon, (Jeffrey just had the smoked salmon) they ran through what they had found.

“What is big enough to scare off a coven of hardened witches?” mused the deerhound.

“Can’t have been an owl or a nightjar as they see them all the time,” Rubbish answered.

Jeffrey stopped chewing to add, “And witches are a bit of an expert on bats.”

“True,” Finn confirmed. “It must have been one heck of a bat!”

Jeffrey suddenly sat up bolt upright and even dropped his bowl into his lap. “Aha! Hang on…” then he shot off, disappearing through the hole in the wall into his garden next door.

The dogs looked at each other. “Eh?”

Back in puffed the old moggie, carrying a huge book, “I know what it is!” The cat put the book on the garden table and opened it, flipping through the pages. It was “The Wonder Book of Dinosaurs.”

He pointed to a colour photo, “Look here! It’s a pterosaur – a flying lizard!”

Rubbish and Finn gazed at the illustration; an enormous bat-like flying lizard with a huge pointy beak.

“Blimey,” Finn said.

“Don’t know about the witches but it would scare the pants off me,” Rubbish gulped.

“Quite so,” Finn concurred.

Jeffrey was feeling quite pleased with himself and you could see his fur puffing up with pride.

“The only problem, my ginger pal, is that they have not been seen on this earth for over 100 million years.”

The cat frowned.

“That’s a really long time,” Rubbish had to admit.

The old cat frowned even more and his puffiness deflated a little. “But the description fits” he answered.

Finn and Rubbish had to agree with the cat; it sounded like this flying dinosaur, but where had it been hiding for the last 100 million years?

“Maybe it’s come through time through some sort of worm-hole in the space-time continuum?” Jeffrey suggested.

“Hmmmm,” said Finn. “Or it might be something less ancient and a bit more likely.”

“We have to see it for ourselves,” Rubbish told them.

“That, my young friend, is a good idea,” the deerhound smiled.

“Capital!” beamed Jeffrey. “I’ll start packing my night gear.”

It was agreed that the three of them would meet again at 5 o’clock – after tea, naturally – and they would go and wait near the Witches’ clearing to see what would transpire.

The moon was rising as the three friends slipped through the undergrowth at the edge of the trees to wait for the witches. There was a pronounced pong from the canvas backpack that the old cat was carrying.

“Cor – what a niff!” commented the greyhound.

Jeffrey hissed, “its garlic.”

“You don’t say?” chided Finn.

“In case it’s a giant vampire bat,” the cat explained. “I also have some stakes.”

Rubbish looked puzzled. “In case you get hungry?”

The cat tutted, “No – not that sort of steak! A wooden pointy one.”

Finn chuckled.

Jeffrey rummaged in the bag and came out with a large head-torch on a wide elastic headband. It was bright orange and matched his (albeit moth-eaten and ancient) fur. He slipped it on and adjusted the straps.

Now it was Finn’s turn to tut, and to shake his head.

A blast of very bright light in Rubbish’s face made him jump. “Oh, sorry. It’s a bit bright,” Jeffrey blushed under his ginger fur as he fumbled and turned the torch off. “I have boosted the light output a bit. Should help us see whatever it is.”

Finn put his head in his paws, sighed and muttered something under his breath. It was going to be a very long night!

As it grew darker, there was noise and movement – the witches arrived, mostly on foot as only a couple were brave enough to fly in. They lit the great bonfire and gathered around it and then started as did all meetings of the Witches Institute by singing the club anthem. As the singing died down the bottles of magic gin (mostly sloe, blackberry and pumpkin flavour) were opened and glasses filled and consumed. The crowd split into smaller groups who chatted and cackled amongst themselves. The atmosphere, Finn thought, was somewhat subdued – maybe they had taken on board his request for a quiet meeting.

However, they could see that each group had a member who was scanning the sky. It was very quiet up in the clouds as only one or two standard-sized bats fluttered past and one or two shooting stars dived through the darkening sky.

Suddenly, a couple of the “spotters” started to chatter excitedly and point upwards. The gathering changed as more and more of the hags looked up nervously towards the heavens. The moon by now was very bright.

Something was definitely coming. In the bushes the three adventurers prepared themselves for whatever was about to appear; Finn could just make out some movement in the clouds. A huge black shape was approaching, which definitely had wings – silent ones – and was coming down towards the clearing at a heck of a rate.

The witches started to worry, then panic! They started to leave, very hastily. As they ran around and scattered into the forest the giant bat came ever closer. It was definitely black, very large, and Finn could make out a head, body and..spindly legs?

It swooped lower. Any witches that were left were now shouting and screaming as they scampered about.

The monster had large ears and blood-red glowing eyes, and it was making a loud screeching a sound and giving off smoke.

As it flew over the bonfire it started to spiral upwards; like a buzzard it was using the warm air of the fire to give it lift and rise into the air. The witches were long gone by now, and there was only the group of stunned animals to witness the arrival of the bat. They stepped out into the clearing to see the monster more clearly. Jeffrey switched on his super-bright head torch and it shone on the flying beast like a searchlight. It picked out the black wings and the body underneath, the huge head with its red eyes and ears.

The monster screamed as the light hit its face. There was another cry as a tiny burning ember that was also rising on the thermals from the fire happened to catch the edge of one of the wings. There was a flash of flame – and the monster began another descent, this time at break-neck speed.

The beast flew across the animals’ heads but above the trees. It had gravity on its side as it sped earthwards. The animals tried to keep up but they lost it in the woods. Finn stopped them, “It’s no good – it’s too dark. Make a note of where it’s going and we’ll have a look in the light tomorrow.”

As they walked home they discussed what they had seen and what they thought the monster could be. Jeffrey was still convinced it was a flying dinosaur, maybe a new undiscovered species that had forgotten to become extinct. Finn suggested that it had not received the memo.. Rubbish was not sure what on Earth it was. Finn always put his faith in believing his own eyes. However, he was not convinced that what he saw was what this thing actually was. And what it was….that still remained to be seen.Howe

The next morning found Finn and his companions picking up their trail and making their way through the woods and out the other side onto the edge of a vast ploughed field of damp mud. The two dogs scented the air – there was no smell of monster, just the usual smell of mud and sheep. Jeffrey had brought along his ghost detector but it failed to emit one pop, crackle or beep. He was pretty disappointed by the lack of any result.

They began to step across the muddy patch. Half way over there was a patch of sheep prints but big ones that also looked like they had slid. Most peculiarly, they started in the middle of the field. Finn called Rubbish and Jeffrey to his side to examine them. As they chatted and pointed, Rubbish heard what he thought was a stifled laugh. A few yards away sat the very same blackbird that had snaffled his piece of bacon the day before.

“How d’you do?” the Blackbird asked.

“Fine, thank you,” Rubbish replied.

The blackbird eyed them curiously. “So what you looking for then?”

Finn answered, “These strange prints, and the flying beast?”

“Oh aye?” the blackbird cocked his head to one side.

“Do you have any ideas as to what these are?” asked Rubbish.

“Oh yes,” the blackbird smiled. “The name’s Morris, by the way. And thanks for the bacon yesterday, it was lovely.” He added.

The animals were stunned. “Well?” Finn looked at the bird.

“It’s Nige,” he replied.

“Nige?” the old moggie enquired.

“A flying monster called Nige?” Rubbish could not believe what he’d heard.

“No, Nigel the sheep,” Morris replied.

“What?” Finn, Rubbish and Jeffrey all asked in unison.

“Oh aye. Crash landed, he did,” the bird told them. “Wing malfunction.”

The dogs were now even more stunned. Jeffrey had to pick his jaw off the floor where it had metaphorically fallen. “A monstrous sheep with wings?”

Morris laughed, “Come with me.” He flew low over the field, the animals trotting close behind.

In the next field stood (and lay) a herd of sheep. Normal looking sheep, not at all monstrous, and not one with a pair of wings. Away from the herd towards the top end of the field one sheep lay on his own, evidently deep in thought. Morris landed next to him and coughed rather loudly (and Jeffrey thought, somewhat dramatically).

“I have some visitors who want a word with you,” he said. “I told you it would only be a matter of time before someone came to see you.”

The young sheep sat up and smiled rather sheepishly (which was very easy for a sheep to do) at the two dogs and the cat. He knew who Finn was (as did most animals in the area) and he bowed politely, “G-good morning, sir.”

Finn smiled back, “Good morning my young lad. I have heard from this little bird that you are the source of these tales of a flying monster?”

Nigel sighed, “Well….sort of.”

Finn sat on his haunches on the grass, and Rubbish and Jeffrey copied him. “You’d better start at the beginning.”

Nigel explained how with the help of Morris and Gilbert the owl he had built a set of wings and learnt to fly. He had had some initial issues with his non-aerodynamic shape and poor overall fitness but he had overcome these difficulties by applied engineering and mathematics and had been quite successful. He was surprised that no-one had seen him flying in daylight. He had become the world’s first flying sheep. Morris and Gilbert had worked hard to build the wings. The next challenge had been to master night flying (as he was less likely to get funny looks or complaints from the farmer or his family).

Gilbert had designed night-vision goggles, which were powered by a system of pulleys, pumps and valves by the sheep’s back legs. The visibility had been good but the valves and pumps made loud screeching noise. The owl had suggested some light engine oil might solve it but they had not had time to sort that out before their test flights. They flew anyway.

The evening before he had lost height and he was trying to get into a thermal of hot air to lift him upwards so he had headed towards the bonfire. It was going well until he was hit in the face by a blast of very bright light which had dazzled him, then a spark set light to his left wing. He had called out to Morris and had made an emergency landing in the ploughed field.

“Fortunately the only thing dented was his pride,” the blackbird grinned.

Finn and Rubbish were amazed (though it took more than a flying sheep to amaze Jeffrey) and they were very keen to see the flying suit. They took them over to the old sheep shelter across the filed. It had been abandoned when the farmer built a new one nearer the big oak tree. Nigel and Morris had fixed the leaky roof with the assistance of two hippie foxes who had helped them acquire the materials required for the flying suit (but that’s another story!). The shed had become ‘Mission Control’.

The suit consisted of two large flapping canvas wings and a tail – a bit like a hang-glider. There were a series of cables, pipes and springs too, which made the flying suit look most extraordinary. Jeffrey in particular (who loved his technology) was really impressed with the design and could not help making sketches and taking notes and measurements. Finn could see the old cat having a go at making his own version; the thought of the old moggie with wings didn’t fill him with confidence!

“I’m hoping to get the suit fixed and be flying again tomorrow night,” the sheep told them.

Morris added, “Aye – should be easily fixable. I’ve got a patch up kit and ‘Hat’ has got me some gaffer tape.” (Hat was one of the foxes).

“I need to do these night flights as I want to see how the goggles work,” the sheep told them.

“Gilbert reckons we could make our fortunes if we copyrighted the design,” Morris grinned.

Finn had an idea. “You know that you have terrified the local coven of witches, don’t you?”

Nigel was amazed. “You’re joking?”

The deerhound shook his head, “I have asked them politely to keep the noise down and stop scaring the animals but they have just ignored me. Hallowe’en is in two night’s time.”

Nigel and Morris looked at each other, and then looked at Finn. Morris could guess where this conversation was heading!

“It’ll be loud and scare the children again,” the great hound continued, “but with your help I think we can give those witches a taste of their own medicine.”

So Finn told them of the plan that he had devised.

As the sun was setting and the light grew warmer but dimmer, the witches began to gather in the clearing around the mound of timber that was growing into their party bonfire. Each witch brought a few branches which they added one by one to the pile. One witch (the one in the bright yellow and very reflective High-visibility hat) was carrying a torch with which she lit the fire. It first began to smoke, then burst into flame. They all cheered and the bottles of Witchy Gin came out. They were soon singing loudly (and out of tune).

There were a couple of spotters watching the sky. As nothing appeared to be happening up above the spotters lost interest and joined in the revelries around the fire.

Suddenly a terrified dog burst into the crowd of hags. He was shivering with fear, and shaking and eve foamed a little at his mouth. “It’s huge, it’s huge,” he babbled, “It has massive teeth…and big wings!”

Some of the witches stopped singing to turn towards the dog to hear what he was saying. A ripple of unease passed through the crowd of hags but they then continued their partying. The dog wandered back into the woods, muttering about the thing he had seen.

Not long after the dog had disappeared into the trees a very round cat staggered into the clearing. He too was shaking with terror, and his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. “It was terrifying!” he announced dramatically. “Vampiric in its beastly ferocity!” A few more witches stopped this time to look at the terrified old cat.

“And its coming THIS WAY!” he added at the top of his voice. A second ripple of unease ran through the crowd, larger than the first. Once again, the party restarted as soon as the cat disappeared back into the undergrowth. The party was a little more hesitant but then picked up.

From the dark of the woods there came a terrifying howl which shook the clearing; it was blood-curdling in its intensity. This time all the witches froze.

Into the light of the bonfire staggered an enormous hairy deerhound – clearly it was Finn, as everyone there knew the Lord of the Glen. He had blood all down his left side, and was dragging one of his back legs. He glared into the faces of the (by now) very worried witches. “I tried to stop it,” he told them. “It was too big and too powerful even for me. Its teeth are like daggers, and eyed like burning iron.” He saw the colour drain from the faces of a number of the witches and one even dropped their bottle of gin. He staggered forward and the sea of hags parted to let him through.

“Who did this?” the Hi-Visibility witch asked.

Finn shook his head, “It was a giant bat.” The hag caught her breath. “Its more vicious than anything I’ve ever seen,” he replied.

By now the witches were talking excitedly amongst themselves and were sounding very concerned.

Finn too staggered and limped towards the edge of the clearing. Just before he passed into the darkness he turned back to the quaking crowd and shouted, “It’s coming this way. And it says it eats witches!”

At this stage the witches were on the verge of hysterical panic. There was a lot of shouting and chattering amongst them and you could feel the tension in the air building itself to a fever pitch. Then “it” appeared.

It screamed out of the heavens though it looked like it had come from the very pit of Hell itself. It had blazing laser eyes, so bright that they lit up the quivering coven as it swooped low over them. Witches who were at fist rooted to the spot in sheer terror soon found their feet (and legs) and began sprinting into the trees. By the time Nigel came around for his third sweep there were only four witches left who were trying hard to kick-start their brooms. Almost as one they threw their brooms onto the bonfire and scrambled, practically on all fours, into the bushes.

The blackbird that sat on the black bat’s shoulder called into its left ear, “OK Nige. Time for a gentle landing on the far side of the clearing.”

“Wilco,” the flying bat-sheep replied.

“Full flaps,” called Morris.

“Full flaps,” Nigel adjusted his wings. The sheep descended slowly, lowered his landing gear (his back legs) and landed on the soft grass amongst the abandoned pointed hats, brooms, clogs and gin bottles.

Out of the trees emerged Rubbish, Jeffrey and Finn. The deerhound had a wet cloth and was wiping tomato ketchup from his side and his face, and then passed the cloth to Rubbish so he could wipe his face too. Jeffery was laughing so much that he thought he would make himself sick.

“Marvellous job!” Finn called.

“It really was,” Rubbish agreed.

“Haven’t had as much fun in ages,” the ancient moggie guffawed; he had tears running down his ginger cheeks and his ribs ached.

Nigel had taken his flying helmet off and said to Jeffrey, “That head-torch of yours was fantastic! It worked a treat!”

“I think it was the icing on the cake,” Morris nodded. “But more importantly, it was an excellent test flight. Night vision goggles worked to a tee!”

“I don’t think it was those witches will bother us for a while,” Finn said.

I know,” Rubbish laughed. “A quiet Hallowe’en tomorrow.”

“What do you think?” Jeffrey asked.

The animal turned to look at the old cat and laughed out loud. There stood the ancient marmalade cat, wearing a bright yellow high-visibility pointy hat. He grinned at them, “Elf and safety, anyone?”

This story and characters are copyright of Chris Dignam/Crafty Dog Cymru.Co.UK, except Finn who is copyright Sean & Kate Standing (World of Finn).

If you like this, search out The Largest Rabbit or The Winter Hare, available from the website www.Crafty-Dog-Cymru.Co.Uk/Books

New Book on its way! Tales of Crafty Dog Gardens!

After a long period of preparation, and lots of pushing by friends and supporters of my writing, the new book, Tales of Crafty Dog Gardens, is at the printers as they put the first printed proof together. The plan is to get it checked, amendments made, and the final proof back from the printers by the end of October. That means the first printed copies will be here at Crafty Dog Towers by mid November, in plenty of time for Christmas! I’ll be taking pre-orders from 1st November when it will be live in the webshop.

What’s the book about? I’ll be posting some tasters here and on the Crafty Dog Cymru FB page over the next few weeks. You’ll have probably guessed it’s about the characters from the Crafty Do Gardens Blog, but more fleshed-out and in more hilarious scrapes and adventures. Key to all this are the three main figures; Mr Grout, the Head Gardener, his lazy Gardener’s Lad, Pendle, and Cook – who’s name will be revealed for the very first time!

British country house comedy fiction ,Welsh gardening comedy stories,Humorous country estate adventures,Eccentric gardeners, British humour,Greyhound stories with British humour,Cosy rural comedy set in Wales,Comic greenhouse gin misadventures — The Mischievous Trio. Mrs Grainger the House Keeper had better not see them in those boots on her best Axminster!

More to follow – keep looking out, and feel free to share!

Tales from Crafty Dog Gardens – News!

Morning All! I haven’t posted a new Tale for a few months so you must all be wondering what Mr Grout and Pendle and the rest of the staff at Crafty Dog Towers have been doing. Well, they have all been very busy, helping me to gather up all their stories into the new book, titled, not surprisingly, “Tales from Crafty Dog Gardens”. Even Pendle, that lazy Gardener’s Lad, has been a bit workish and has helped fill out and polish his prose, and Cook, whose reticence is legendary, has told us a bit more about her background. There are also a few more characters who have emerged as the plot developed.

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Keep your eyes out over the next few weeks; as the text is being proofed I may release little tit-bits and tasters as well as keeping you all updated on when the book will be released. Or folllow us on our Crafty Dog Cymru FB page;

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61585016592320

A White Christmas, Carollers and a Greyhound

A White Christmas (Eve) at Crafty Dog Towers

The snow was falling quick but silent, or maybe it was masked by the sound of the be-scaffed and woolly hatted carollers gathered around the large oak doors at the front of Crafty Dog Towers. The doors were open, warmth and light flooding out , to the apparent delight of the singers. The lanterns that they carried on poles over their shoulders swung in time to the music, keeping the rhythm as they launched into “Good King Wenceslas”. The snow about them really was deep and crisp and even! We hadn’t had a white Christmas here at the Towers for many years but here we were – we only needed Bing Crosby for a complete set.

Princess Gwennie had heard the carollers long before the rest of us and she had run to the doors, waiting for Higgins, the Butler, to open them. She was standing on the doorstep, smiling and bouncing up and down on her four gangly legs, singing along with the songs. Unfortunately, she was at a bit of a disadvantage as she neither knew the tunes nor the words but being a happy greyhound youngster that didn’t dampen her incredible enthusiasm one bit! Still, it made the carollers laugh, and Mrs Crafty Dog and I, as we huddled together between the stone pillars of the porch. Some of the staff had gathered to see what the noise – I mean, the greyhound serenade – was all about. The kitchen girls, Mrs Granger the Housekeeper, and Higgins were trying to sing along but they were having difficulty following the tune; should they take the mixed voices of the choir or Gwennie’s wavering falsetto howl with a hint of tremolo.

Greyhound,greyhound christmas,christmas greyhound,Gwennie the greyhound,welsh tles,Christmas in Wales,Crafty Dog Towers,Crafty Dog,Crafty Dog Cymru,crafty christmas — God Bless us, every one!

Just as the songs started to fizzle out we heared someone approaching through the hall, joining in with a carol in French, and the baritone with a layer of woodbine induced catarrh, made me realise it was Cook. She was wheeling the drinks trolley from the drawing room, upon which was precariously perched the best Waterford crystal punch bowl (the one with 32 cups quivering from hooks all around the rim), from which thick steam was rising. Indeed, as she sped enthusiastically through the Hall it looked like the GWR Swanseashire Castle express heading into Victoria Station, puffing as it went. At one point everyone gasped as she hit a lump in the best Axminster carpet, and the bowl lurched a good foot off the trolley, but it landed safely and a derailment was narrowly avoided. In the bowl I could smell steaming mulled cider, made to Cook’s secret family recipe which she guarded fiercely (like she did most things). We knew it contained an apple eau de vie, and (probably due to her time in Marseille at the HQ of the Legion d’Etranger) a good glug of rum. At any rate, it warmed the parts most medical embrocations had never even heard of.

Everyone grabbed a punch cup and Cook sloshed out the hot mugs of the dark liquor to everyone. An application of the punch warmed the carollers’ vocal cords and, now well lubricated, the singers got a second wind and the carols began again. Gwennie wagged her tail and I could see she was winding up for the second verse but I coughed and shook my head, and she stopped. She grinned at me, and then sang along anyway. The carollers weren’t at all bothered, and after a couple more songs, they wished us a, “Merry Christmas!” striding off, crunching their way through the snow to the strains of, “Once in Royal David’s City”, to the accompaniment of a very happy and exuberant greyhound.

As the staff supped their mulled cider, and told jokes and stories around the raging fire in the Great Hall’s hearth, I put my arm around Mrs Crafty Dog. “We are lucky to live in such a wonderful place,” I told her. She nodded.

And tiny Gwennie added, “God Bless, us, every one!”

Gwennie’s Winter Walk; A Rustle in the Flowerbed

A greyhound’s morning walk in disturbed. What was that noise? Was someone watching her?

Winter mornings at Crafty Dog Towers aren’t usually crisp and snow-layered, and this morning was no exception; being Swanseashire, it was raining though not too heavily. The soggy drizzle didn’t seem to drop, rather it hung in the air, waiting for someone to walk past and then it would cling to them. Gwennie the little greyhound had her best new waterproof on, over her striped jim-jams, in an effort to keep her warm for her morning toddle around the gardens. Post breakfast, greyhounds had things that they needed to do, and she was looking for that special place. As she settled to have that little wee, she got the feeling that she was being watched. It put her off her game somewhat as she felt the hair on her neck prickle. She looked around but couldn’t see anything or anyone. Reassured she knelt again but even as she did so that tingle came back.

She stood up and turned around to look more carefully. As she turned, she saw the plants in the flower bed move. “Who’s there?” she asked, drawing herself up as tall and confident as a little greyhound could. She swallowed, not feeling that confident on the inside! She was aware that here at Crafty Dog Towers there were some very strange characters about, but it was too early for the ghostly Sir Marmaduke, and Myfanwy the llama was far too big to hide in a flowerbed.

The greenery rustled again and the leaves of the winter pansies gently parted, as a pointy nose poked out, followed by two dark eyes, and a head, then body, covered in spines. It was a hedgehog! Gwennie recognised it as she had occasionally seen them at night on the lawn when Mr Crafty Dog had let her out for her evening toilet trip. She had never seen one during the day though.

“Sorry to bother you, Missus,” the hog spoke. He was rather bedraggled – the rain hadn’t helped his appearance much. As he talked the droplets of rain dripped off his nose and the slid off the ends of his prickles.

“Good morning,” Gwen answered him, remembering her manners, curtsying lightly (as much as her winter clothing would permit).

“Oi’ve seen yer around,” the hedgehog said, doffing his imaginary cap in deference to the greyhound. “The names Bertrum, or Bert as is most usual. You must be the Lady of this ‘ere ‘owse?”

Gwennie smiled, “Not quite! But I do live here. My name is Gwennie.”

“Oh, ‘tis rather fine,” the hedgehog gazed around the lawn towards the distant house. From where he was, he could just make out the roof of the east wing, peeping over the garden wall, and through the gateway into the vegetable garden where Pendle could be distantly heard singing in his strange thready falsetto.

“It’s home,” the greyhound replied nonchalantly. After all, didn’t everyone live in a stately home with staff?

“Oi was wonderin’ whether you might be able to help us out,” the old hedgehog asked. “Seein’ as you are a lady in this fine house and all that.”

“How can I help?” Gwen asked, sitting on her haunches, the better to come down to the hedgehog’s height. As she looked at him, she could see marks on his face, and one of his eyes was slightly cloudy; evidently his life had been a hard one.

“Oi’ve a Missus of me own, and two young ‘uns what lives beyond those there red stone harses,” he nodded towards No 2 and 3 potting sheds. “This Autumn ‘as been real ‘ard, like. Too wet even for the slugs and snails. So we is rather ‘ungry.”

“I see,” Gwen agreed, though she couldn’t understand the necessity of eating slugs and snails (unless the latter were cooked in garlic butter and served on a piece of toast).

“What I means is, could you, Milady, see your way to getting us some food?” If the hedgehog had owned a cloth cap, at this point he would have wrung it between his front paws.

“I’m afraid my staff don’t do slugs. What about toast and cheese, or maybe dog food?”

“Ah, now then, dog food sounds good. Ain’t never eaten toast and cheese so, beggin’ yer pardon, I’ll give that a miss.”

“Dog food. Ok, what flavour” the young greyhound asked.

“Eh? Ain’t dog meat jus dog meat?” the old hog was a bit perplexed.

Gwennie was aghast, “My dear me, of course not! We have chicken, chicken with game, turkey with game, lamb, beef with gravy, beef with vegetables, and then there’s whatever Cook can rustle up.”

Bert took a few moments as he digested mentally what he could be digesting actually. “We used ‘ter go to the other ‘owse over yonder,” he indicated over the fields to the nearest neighbour. “But they ‘as moved and the new folk ‘as big ‘ungry cats as aren’t too friendly to us hedgefolk.” He was still musing over the menu options. “’Owse about some of that there chicken? That sounds grand.”

“Certainly. I will ask Mr Grout to bring some down. Should I ask him to put it here, on the edge of the lawn? Would that be alright?” Gwennie inquired.

“Oh, that would be right grand. I’ll bring the family to eat the nosh here, if that’s alright? This evening, once all the big people ‘as gone ter sleep?” Bert beamed.

“I’ll let Grout know.” She watched the old hedgehog turn and make his way back into the undergrowth. “Thank yer Milady,” he said over his spiky shoulder as he slipped away.

“One thing though,” Gwen called to the retreating hedgehog.

“Yuss?” Bert asked, halting to turn, his head peeped out between the calendula leaves.

“I know that Mr Grout will ask you something in return,” Gwen said.

“Anything,” Bert answered, “’as you is so kind and all.”

Gwen smiled, “Could you please stop eating his daffodil bulbs. It makes him furious!”

“We’ll leave them alone,” the old hog laughed. Gwen could hear him chuckling as he disappeared into the greenery.

Gwennie stood up. Now she only had to get Grout to deliver a tray of dog food here to the great lawn this evening. She raised her head and looked around. The rain had stopped and, miracle of miracles, the sun was coming out!

Debunking Myths About Crafty Dog Towers

In my recent article on the history of Crafty Dog Towers I commented on the large mound at the end of the croquet lawn and said that it was the remains of a motte from a motte and bailey castle. This created a bit of a fuss, and I had three replies from various quarters regarding the accuracy of my assertion. I was flabbergasted as I had never had my assertion criticised before.

One comment was from Dr J.K. Twiggley, of Swanseashire University (retired), who pointed to an article in the Swanseashire Historical Review Volume XXVI, 1928, in which Sir Mortimer Walker ( the well-known wireless archaeologist so popular on the BBC Home Service in the 1950’s) mentions a small dig he carried out on the side of the mound at the request of Colonel Mervyn Crafty-Dog in 1920. Sir Mortimer found the remains of a Roman bath-house, complete with three ancient loofers, a tin duck, a copper towel-rail and early shower fitting. It was the tiles, apparently, that gave it away as being Roman. By day 3 of the dig Sir Mortimer had changed his mind and decided that it was more likely to be a spoil heap from when the house was renovated by Laurence “Have a Bash” Brown (the less well known cousin of Lancelot “Capability” Brown) and the new water closets put in the north tower range in the 1790’s. I have read a copy of the article on-line and it does make interesting reading.

The second e-mail was from Cledwyn Griffith, amateur archaeologist and badger wrangler from north of Pontardawe. He has a firm idea that the mound was only a few centuries old and was indeed a spoil heap, but from the jam mines sunk in the park in the late medieval period. This might have accounted for the bits of pipe and tiles found by Sir Mortimer, being from an early shower-room for the miners when they emerged covered in thick jam from the bell-pit before they went home. I did ask him whether they would have had such sophisticated plumbing in the 1540’s, but he was adamant that that’s what the mound is.

The final suggestion was from a well-known local mystic, and member of the not-quite-flat-earth-but-with-big-lumps-on-it society, Ephraim Flump. He is a bit of an eccentric soul, given to walking backwards on Thursdays, and only wearing orange socks (no, he wears all his clothes, but the only colour socks he wears are orange), though he is pleasant enough. He is of the opinion that the mound is in fact a landing pad for extra-terrestrials, a sort of parking space for flying saucers. He is convinced that little grey men came from across the galaxy just to sample the rare grapefruit jam that exuded from the spring in the lower meadow (this spring has dried up long since). He even pointed out the small circle of indentations which he said were the marks of the feet of the spaceship (Sir Mortimer said these were the post holes of a round house, which I am more likely to believe).

I was surprised that my little article had created such a stir. No-one has ever been interested in my little article before, a bit like my assertion.

History of Crafty Dog Towers: A Family Legacy

People ask me how old Crafty Dog Towers actually is. On the far end of the croquet lawn is a small mound of earth; it is the base of a motte and bailey castle built by one of the local Welsh lords, possibly one of our distant ancestors. The first Crafty d’Og was Geoffrey who first appears in the 1300’s after the fall of the last Welsh Princes. It is said that he married one of the Welsh noble families or maybe was one of the Welsh lords who’d reinvented himself. He built the first stone castle – or a tower house really – which he named after himself Crafty d’Og tower. His ancestors despite siding with Owain Glyndwr survived and even built a proper fortified manor house with towers at each corner and a moat.

The thick stone walls were punched full of nice big windows in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries when the family lived a more relaxed lifestyle, and then during the English Civil War the Parliamentary forces knocked it about a bit and we lost most of the battlements and towers. When Dafydd Jones (Inigo’s cousin) came to see Major Cuthbert Crafty-Dog in the 1690’s to redesign the house he had pretty much of a blank canvas. He kept parts of the ancient house deep inside the east and west wings.

We laugh when people occasionally ask us whether we live in a castle – of course not! It can’t be a castle if it hasn’t any battlements! The gardens were redesigned by Cedric Crafty-Dog in the 1890’s when he tried to apply some of Gertrude Jekyll’s ideas. We have kept the walled garden with its orangery and greenhouses, and 3 compost heaps (well, Grout has to have somewhere to grow his exotic plants).

The croquet lawn was where in the past the local yeomanry used to practice their drill. They were quite a famous regiment – the 1st Crafty Dog Foot and Lancer. Why lancer? This was because General James “Mad-Dog” Crafty-Dog liked the idea of a brigade of lancers but they could only find one in the old armoury in the East wing so it was a Foot and Lance regiment (just as well, as they only had one horse anyway). They were very different times, and the regiment fought in the zulu wars (fought is a bit of an exaggeration as they got lost on their way to Rorke’s Drift and spent six weeks in a large hotel outside Port Elizabeth until they were thrown out for running up a huge drinks bill), then the Boer War, and finally the regiment went to France in 1915. Under Colonel Mervyn Crafty-Dog, VC, MC, DSO and Order of the Golden Teaspoon, they fought at the Somme, and Paschendaale.

The regiment was wound up after WW I and the banners now hang forlornly in the Great Hall. Mrs Grainger hates them as once a year we have to get a set of long ladders and a trapeze in order for her to be able to give the banners a shake and a dust.

Cabbages and Bowling: A Day at Crafty Dog Towers

As if the sherry trifle wasn’t enough to keep Cook entertained, the afternoon took a rather unexpected turn. Down on the croquet lawn, a most unusual spectacle was unfolding. Cook had enlisted young Pendle, the lazy gardener’s lad, in a game that could only be described as cabbages and bowls.

The croquet lawn, usually reserved for more genteel pursuits, was now the setting for a makeshift bowling alley. The cabbages, freshly harvested from the kitchen garden, were being skillfully rolled towards an improvised set of pins made from empty gin bottles. Cook, with a stern look of concentration on her face, took careful aim before launching a particularly robust cabbage down the lane. Her throw was met with an enthusiastic cheer from the gathered kitchen staff, who had abandoned their duties to become impromptu spectators.

Pendle, typically noted for his leisurely approach to gardening, seemed unusually animated. He lined up his cabbage with exaggerated precision, much to the amusement of the onlookers, and sent it careening towards the pins with surprising agility. The resulting crash of bottles elicited a wave of applause and laughter, ringing through the otherwise tranquil grounds of Crafty Dog Towers.

The game continued, each round punctuated by jovial banter and good-natured ribbing. Cook, despite her earlier irritability, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, her earlier gruff demeanour melting away in the camaraderie of the moment. Even the kitchen cat, having evidently decided that the coast was clear, crept back to observe the proceedings from a safe distance.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, the makeshift bowling match drew to a close, leaving behind a trail of cabbage leaves and empty bottles. The kitchen staff, in high spirits, returned to their posts, and Cook, with a satisfied smile, headed back towards her domain. It seemed that, for once, the sherry trifle would have to wait.

The Unforgettable Arrival of that Lazy Gardener’s Lad Pendle

I can remember the day that we first met our lazy Gardener’s Lad, Pendle. We had advertised in the horticultural magazines for the post of Gardener’s Lad, a vacancy that had been caused by Stan, the previous Lad, being dismissed for being caught selling cauliflowers and turnips from the gardens in a barrow at the local market. It also later transpired that this Lad had, as well as the veg, flogged off a couple of statues from around the parkland, one of them being the Henry Moore that had been on the lawn in front of the house. We thought it had gone off for a clean but when sorting out his room we found a receipt from Tommy “Fingers” Jones (the local fence for stolen goods). Like Stan the Gardener’s Lad, he too wasn’t the sharpest trowel in the garden, in that “Fingers” issued receipts for those stolen goods. The local constabulary were only too delighted to pay “Fingers” a visit, where they managed to recover the statue and return it to us a few months later only slightly the worse for wear.

There were three candidates for the Gardener’s Lad job, all of varying experience. First was Tom Spearfitt, who had worked at Kew Gardens for a number of years but had gained little experience of dealing with the gentry; next came Richard Ponsonby-Badgeworth, who’d trained on the Frummly Estate in Yorkshire (a lively chap, great at growing rhubarb and liquorish and keeping the bowels at Frummly Manor regular), and then there was this final young lad. I still remember him loping into the room; he was nearly six feet tall, with a head of bright ginger hair that refused to be contained by the rather small cloth cap that sat even more reluctantly, nay precariously, on his tall, thin head. He was ruddy cheeked, and bore what could only be described as a startled but mischievous grin. Lady Crafty-Dog whispered to me that she thought he looked like a well-known brand of long-lasting battery. His name was Pendulous Sedge, and he hailed from the border counties of England and Wales.

His gardening boots were a bit large for his feet, his trousers too short for his legs, and his tweed jacket bulged here and there with what turned out to be pork pies and cheddar and pickle sandwiches his Mum had given him for the train journey here and back. Pendle’s father had been gardener at one of the vicarages near Shrewsbury and then in Worcester before running off to sea and leaving his Mum and his six siblings. In spite of this, he had been studying horticulture at evening class and getting practical experience working in local gardens, for what little he could to supplement the family purse. His young brothers and sisters were also in service in local houses but Pendle wanted to go further afield.

He said that he had read about Crafty Dog Towers and the Gardens in an article in the Countryman & Fisherman’s Compendium, and that he liked the look of the parterres and walled garden in the photos. He had especially liked the Head Gardener’s ideas for the redevelopment of the former cabbage and broccoli beds. Grout (who was on the interview panel, naturally) was quite taken with this, and they bounced a few ideas across the table to each other, like a sort of horticultural table-tennis. We knew from that moment that this long thin streak of gardening staff was the right person for us. Lady Penelope especially liked him, and of course her view counted most of all.

As Lady Crafty-Dog and I called the other two candidates into the drawing room to break them the bad news (and give them a shilling each towards their train journeys home), Grout took young Pendle literally under his arm (or as far as he could reach) to show him round his future work area. Pendle used the telephone in the drawing room to ring the public house near his Mum to ask whether they could let her know that he had got the job and was going to stay. We kitted him out with spare pyjamas and night cap etc. so that he could stay that evening with Mr and Mrs Grout in the Gardener’s Cottage until we could sort out some accommodation with the house staff here at the Towers. There was Stan’s old room which we were in the middle of rewiring as the chandelier, light fittings, bulbs, sockets and copper cable had seemed to have inexplicably disappeared. And the inside door handle. And the paper off one wall.

To be honest, having Pendle stay at the Gardener’s cottage was a good thing, as Mrs Grout now had someone to fuss about and molly-coddle. We’d never appreciated how much she missed her two sons who were now working abroad, and only came home once or twice a year. She seemed to have had twenty years wiped off her, she looked so hale and happy.

Grout came to see me at the end of Pendle’s first week and asked whether the arrangement could be made permanent, his reason being that staying at the cottage meant that Pendle was closer to his place of work but as he spoke we both knew what he really meant. As it was, we couldn’t get a decent new light fitting for Stan’s room, and as for sourcing a Grindling Gibbons hand-carved and gilded doorhandle, the less said the better.

Grout and I’d talked a lot about his wife’s health and the noted improvement in her demeanour as we drove to the wayside halt on the branch line just beyond Crafty Dog Towers where the South Wales Railway company would drop off any goods destined for us. There we collected Pendle’s heavy metal trunk, full of his belongings from his former home. I must say, the young lad did have a tear in his eye as he opened the crate when we got it back to the cottage. I thought it might have been a touch of melancholic nostalgia, though Lady Penelope said that it was most likely due to the rather large number of industrial-size moth-balls lurking in the clothes inside!

Pendle, the Gardener’s Lad, and Mr Grout, the Head Gardener, hit it off from the very start. I walked down to the walled gardens a few weeks after he had started and was surprised to see a sign on the potting shed door saying “Do Not Disturb – Staff Meeting”. I knocked on the door, and coughed politely, before going inside. There’d been a frantic scraping of chairs on the flagstone floor, and the sound of rustling papers and drawers being shut as I opened the green wooden door that led into the old potting shed.

One side of the desk sat Grout, facing the door, with Pendle facing him, his back to me. They both smiled sheepishly, like two naughty schoolboys who’d been caught out. I knew that Grout was up to one of his plans, and I later realised that Pendle was just as canny. On the blackboard there was a chalk drawing of what looked like a plate of spilt spaghetti. I could make out the word “furnace”. Pendle turned a bit pink as he stammered that this was a design for a new heating system for the greenhouses. Grout took over, explaining that this was indeed a prototype for new heating system for the greenhouses, which was to be trialled on a small scale for greenhouse 1 and the small potting shed behind the one we were in now. It would not only keep the staff quarters and greenhouse warm but would help extend the growing season for pineapples, the lemon and orange trees and maybe even a banana palm or two. I told them I thought this was a capital idea, and asked what resources they might need.

Pendle and Grout looked at each other, then Grout scribbled some things down on a sheet of paper from his desk and passed it to me. I was puzzled at first by the seemingly vast amount of copper pipe and various joints, as well as the large copper boiler and water tank he wanted. “Oh yes,” Pendle assured me, “We’ll need a good sized water tank for the still.”

I didn’t quite catch what he said. “Still? Still what?”

Grout looked furtively at Pendle (or rather, I thought he did) and said, “He means we still need a water tank.”

I nodded, “Ah yes, of course, you still need a water tank for the heating water. Of course.” I knew a bit about central heating. It wouldn’t work without a reserve tank of water – I’m not stupid, you know.

Grout smiled, “He’s a sharp lad, young Pendle!”

I had to agree. They showed me the plans in more detail and, well, to be honest, they were all Greek to me. Reservoir tank, cooling water, heating boiler, condenser and the collection tank. I queried why there was a collection tank.

“Ah, that’s an emergency tank to collect any dripping water in case of leaks.” Pendle pointed to where there was a tap and bottle drawn on the diagram. “We can collect any drips and….put them back in so nothing is wasted.” “We can run it on old vegetable waste, such as beetroot, and herbs and such like. It doesn’t smell as bad as normal smoke and steam, it’s more like a garden pot-pourri,” the Head Gardener was very excited about the idea. Not being one to stifle their enthusiasm and desire to set up this new heating plant which I was told would be of massive benefit to the gardens I just bade them a good day and went off to order the various pieces of pipework and ironmongery for them. They were going to make such a great team – I could tell.

Sir Humphrey Crafty D’Og: A Ghostly Tale of Misadventure

Swanseashire has many strange stories. Most of them improved with darkness, distance, and someone else paying for the cider. But few were stranger than the case of Sir Humphrey Crafty D’Og: a ghost who had escaped death, taxes, and most forms of responsibility — but not the little problem of his body wandering off without him.

It began on a damp autumn evening. The sort of evening that gives mist a bad name. The old manor crouched in the gloom, trying to look ancestral rather than merely expensive to heat. Inside, Sir Humphrey drifted through the corridors, recounting Cavalier triumphs to the mice. The mice, being practical creatures, had learned that history was shorter if you kept moving. His noble head, with flowing locks and a moustache that seemed to have been designed by committee, hovered towards the place where the east tower had once stood. The tower, sadly, had lost an argument with progress. It was now a car park and several recycling bins.

Then Sir Humphrey felt the familiar absence. First a suspicion. Then a certainty. Then the sort of realisation no gentleman wants to have in public: he was missing everything below the chin. His body — velvet doublet, breeches, boots, and all the other equipment required for looking important — had gone off on its own. Gravity, which has never cared for breeding, seized the moment. Sir Humphrey’s head drifted down between “Glass & Tins” and “Mixed Plastics”, where the council had thoughtfully provided categories for almost everything except disembodied nobility.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Sir Humphrey, with the weary dignity of a man whose lower half had formed a breakaway government. “Body? Kindly stop behaving like a committee and return at once.”

This was not, regrettably, the first time. Sir Humphrey’s body had the stealth of a cat, the judgement of a goose, and the punctuality of a small railway. Usually, he pursued it with spectral determination. Tonight, reduced to an opinion with hair, he could only wait among the bins and hope no one mistook him for specialist waste.

Fortunately, Crafty Dog Towers employed Blodwen. She was a kitchen maid with red hair, quick hands, and the sort of common sense that is often mistaken for bravery by people who own portraits of themselves. Under Cook’s iron supervision, she made scones so light they seemed to reject gravity on principle. That evening, she had been sent out with the recycling. Even haunted houses, after all, produce packaging.

Blodwen approached the bins, humming one of her grandmother’s old tunes. It was the sort of tune used for keeping rhythm while doing unpleasant jobs. Then the bins spoke. This was not customary — even in a house where the curtains occasionally sighed.

“Excuse me,” said a deep, mournful voice. “Down here. No, not the bottles. The aristocrat.”

Blodwen looked round the bins. To her lasting credit, she did not scream. She made only a small noise — like a kettle reconsidering its career. There, hovering a few inches above the ground, was Sir Humphrey’s head. It wore the expression of a man betrayed by his own infrastructure. She recognised him from the portraits in the Great Hall, where he looked nobler, grander, and much more attached.

“Good evening,” said the head, attempting a bow. It came out as a wobble, but intent counts for something among the dead. “I find myself briefly separated from the rest of my argument.”

Once Blodwen found her voice, she stammered, “S-Sir Humphrey? Is that really you?”

“Indeed,” said Sir Humphrey. “I have mislaid my body. A regrettable habit of mine — or rather, of its. If you could assist, I should be obliged as both a grateful ghost and an embarrassed gentleman.”

Blodwen had been raised to help people in difficulties and not to ask too many questions before breakfast. So, very gently, she lifted the head. It was lighter than expected, which was fortunate. The responsibility was heavy enough. Together they set off through the yard, while an owl watched from the roof with the air of a critic awaiting the second act.

The old stable contained boxes, rusty tools, and spiders with the calm confidence of long-term tenants. Blodwen searched bravely. Sir Humphrey gave instructions. Most were useless. All were beautifully phrased. The body was not there.

“Perhaps it has gone inside,” Sir Humphrey suggested. “It always admired rooms with high ceilings. Gave it ideas.”

They entered the Great Hall. Ancestral portraits stared down with the smugness of people who had never been asked to justify their furniture. Sir Humphrey, carried in Blodwen’s arms, addressed the shadows in a tone normally reserved for unreliable servants and minor cavalry.

“Body! Present yourself immediately. A gentleman may misplace his hat, his temper, or — in politics — his principles. But his torso really ought to remain in communication.” Blodwen suggested, quite sensibly, that he keep his voice down before the household woke up and had to form opinions.

The hall replied with creaks, echoes, and the distant hoot of the owl, who was clearly following events with professional interest.

The library was next. It was a room full of books whose chief occupation was gathering dust and making visitors feel undereducated. Sir Humphrey had once come there to wrestle with the mysteries of existence. On this occasion, existence appeared to be winning by an embarrassing margin.

“If you do not return at once,” Sir Humphrey declared, “I shall be forced to take stern measures.” He paused. Blodwen waited. The pause grew longer. It became the sort of silence in which bad ideas quietly expire.

“When I have shoulders again,” he added, “I shall put them to excellent use.”

They searched the drawing room, the dining hall, and the wine cellar. In the cellar, Sir Humphrey became wistful in the way ghosts do when remembering drinks they can no longer enjoy and prices they can no longer complain about.

At dawn, they found the body in the kitchen garden. It was wandering among the vegetables with the solemn air of a man inspecting troops. It paused before a cabbage as if receiving advice from it. For a headless torso, it looked annoyingly self-satisfied.

“There it is!” cried Blodwen, hurrying towards the wayward body.

“There,” said Sir Humphrey. “My body has always been vulnerable to leafy authority. Blodwen, if you would be so kind, reunite us before it joins local government.”

Blodwen placed the head upon the body. There was a shimmer. A pop. And a brief moment in which the universe looked the other way and pretended this sort of thing happened all the time. Sir Humphrey straightened, brushed invisible dust from his doublet, and resumed being a complete nuisance with impeccable manners.

“My dear Blodwen,” he said, bowing, “you have performed a noble service. I am, in every possible sense, much obliged.”

Blodwen smiled. “Glad to see you back in one piece, Sir Humphrey.” She curtsied. Privately, she resolved that future trips to the recycling would involve a lantern, a rolling pin, and perhaps a signed statement from Cook.

Sir Humphrey drifted into the morning mist, leaving Blodwen with a story she would tell for years. It was proof, if proof were needed, that in a proper old house, even the recycling could become a matter of life, death, and administrative inconvenience.

More about John Rupert Jones, Welsh Entrepreneur & Adventurer – His Parents

Welsh jam,welsh inventors,welsh art,Welsh jam,Welsh chutney,Welsh canals,Welsh mining,Welsh Jam mines,Welsh humour,Wales,Welsh history — Dafydd Jones and Glenys in their worskshop/studio in the 1860’s. From an old ambrotype.

After posting the extract about John Rupert Jones from the Dictionary of Welsh Biography, I can add a few more facts about his family and life.

His father Dafydd Jones was a miner who worked the Graigola No 3 seam, which was accessed from the north-east of the current Mond Works. It was mostly a seam of industrial grade strawberry jam, with some outcrops of blackberry. The blackberry was particularly prized as it required little refining, and was much sought after by the military, especially the Royal Navy. It was naturally high in vitamin C and was a great aid in the battle against scurvy.

Dafydd was badly injured in a back-flow of strawberry jam which almost overwhelmed him and his team, but he managed to get them to safety, with the help of Myfanwy, one of the pit ponies (now immortalised by a metal statue beside the canal in Clydach). The local chapel raised funds to pay for his medical treatment after the accident, and he turned his hand to mechanical inventing instead. He was the first person to successfully invent a device for turning bottled jams and marmalades so that the rind didn’t settle at the top. With his friend Emrys Thomas, they copyrighted the “Automatic Preserve Turner” which meant that he never had to go down the dark and sticky Jam mines ever again.

His wife, Glenys Joseph, was a semi-professional arm-wrestler and barge painter. They met in the Copperman’s Arms in Landore one night when they bumped into each other and she spilt some of JRJ’s pint. What could have been a heated argument was smoothed over by his suave and diplomatic tongue, and the fact that he could see the victory notches cut into the leg of her favourite chair. There was also the way the gaslight flickered of her two gold front teeth, that gave her that certain charm.

They were married in Seion Newydd in Morriston, within sight of the copper and tinplate works that were making pans for cooking and tins for storing and distributing the jams and marmalades they worked on.

Glenys made a real name for herself in the fabulous designs she drew and painted on the jam and chutney barges in the drydock in Coed Gwilym. It has been said that it was her use of clashing bright colours that led to the phrase “Gaudy Welsh” design, later applied to pottery. Some panels from one of her barges (said to be “Florence Puw”, a barge named after her own grandmother) are on exhibition in the Louvre in Paris, and two framed portraits from the side of another barge were acquired by George V for the Royal Collection.