On a perfect August day with blue sky clear and bright as childhood memory, I went to the funeral of Alan Bevan, a close, dear friend for 60 years. Trelystan’s timber framed church – the last one left in Wales – squats in submissive magpie posture within its ancient enclosure, a half-dozen venerable yews adding gravitas to this exquisite rural scene. The Stiperstones, with the rocky knoll of the Devil’s Chair prominent on its long ridge, defines the eastern horizon. Round to the south, a placid elephantine shape is Corndon Hill, luring the eye.
Wandering around the old clas (circular Celtic Christian monastic enclosure), I could just make out the stone circle of Mitchell’s Fold beneath Corndon. It’s associated with one of the sharpest and most apposite eco-legends – of a magical white cow that provided all the people with milk, so long as nobody took more than one pail each. But a witch came along, milked the cow into a sieve until she was dry. The cow went away, and the people became hungry – a timely parable!
This borderland where Wales marches with Shropshire hill country is as fascinating as any region of Britain. DH Lawrence, in his powerful novella St Mawr, thought it imbued with the spirit of aboriginal England. I looked around at the old faces attending Al’s funeral and interment and there was a strength displayed there that expressed knowledge and character you seldom find on faces in a city street. I think that’s why Al came to live here. It suited him. He fitted in entirely naturally, delighted in country ways. His wife became an eminent local historian on this church and the whole region. When she and Al were first courting, nearly 50 years ago, they used to spend weekends at my cottage in Cwm Pennant – another old, gorgeous and spirit-thronged location.
Even then his yearning to return to country ways of living was very strong. I’m so glad he, his wife and sons found its perfect version up here on the Long Mountain. He was a good, kind man; genial, sociable, fond of his pint, his glass of wine, his roast pheasant. His wicker coffin was lowered into the grave. We took handfuls of earth. Buzzards wheeled and mewed above Trelystan Dingle. A raven flew over, its call like popping a cork. It felt so humorous and appropriate. Al would have smiled at the intervention.
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