A Little Girl in Cardigan.

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Nightmare Farm on Hangman’s Hill....

.....where all your dreams come true.

Putting more peat on the fire,sizzling and steaming, smelling of old things,

serious things, things that I do not understand: messy, tarry, sticky and black,

but to be respected. Devoutly. I am so small and young, I just listen and

learn. Learn much, about who did what and with whom, and what the vicar

said....

I look up at all the pictures on the wall of the room that was kept “for best.”

 The Front Room. The Parlour. The room of beeswax and home-made bara

brith and ale and coffins, perfumed with old age and age old stories untold.

 The pictures. That man with the stern look about him, he looks cross and

strict, but he is my family; he seems mean and vinegary sour, frighteningly

stern. I tell my mother what I think; I shrink, I get a clip. Behind the ear.

The family line-up, stiff and starched and black and grey. I cannot see any

white to relieve the fright and fear I feel inside my seven year old mind,

 already embroidered, enriched with ghosts and spirits and C.S Lewis.

But I love the farm. Penrallt Uchaf. A different world, a kernel of Cymru,

 a million miles from the market towns, the seaside traps of South West

Wales.

In the happy, sunny, heliotropic holidays, I love the farm. Warm,

comfortable, welcoming.

“Come and milk Seren Fach...”

No way.

“Watch out for the sow, she’s a mean one...”

Oh my God.

“Try some of this , we just milked Seren Du a minute ago....”

I do look into the green plastic mug, still warm and slightly frothy.

 I heave.

 Four meals a day or even five. Rigidly living by the clock and the land,

 my aunts’ security hugged them close, bound them to the farm, fields and

each other.

Chasing chickens,but  never catching even the slowest of them,

 petting Seren Fach’s calf, so soft and sweet-breathed, destined for

Carmarthen mart on Thursday, but I haven’t been told.

 Picking daisies and buttercups and foxgloves.....roundly scolded;

 my mother, her arms folded, bristling with anger at the imagined danger

from the poisonous purple flowers.

 Playing “dare” with my cousin from Carmarthen,one year older, ginger and

freckled like the skin on rice pudding.

 Shy at first, then he shows his colours.Dodging the nasty, child-eating sow,

leaping over the mud,we ran up the lane, giggling wickedly, our blood

was up.

Up to the ruined farm we dashed, for the light was fading fast, until we

arrived at lastat  Hangman’s Hill.

A hill unnamed except by us, two children keen to feel the chilly thrill of

make-believe.An ancient shack, tumbledown sheds and fallen doors,

Nightmare Farm held all the fear our thirsty minds required.

Starkly black against the peachy sky, silhouetted on our souls

for ever, the dead windows invited and excited us.

Dark, drifting through time and space, the abandoned farm stood still and

hungry,wanting our sweet, seven year old souls for supper.

Terrors and tortures tumbled quickly into our waiting imaginations;

Gwdihw. Lonely owls hooted bleakly, a fox ran boldly before us,we jumped.

Then weakly laughed.

Time to leave the deliciously devil-filled forgotten farm,we raced helter-

skelter down the lane,breathing in the late summer hay, the horse sweat

from Pili Pala as she peered over the gate.

Back at Penrallt, a row of eager faces intently watching Toni ac Aloma

ignored the two little rascals who were late.wo little rascals who were late.