Introduction

The Principality of Wales juts from the west coast of England, separated from West Country England and Cornwall to the south by the Bristol Channel, and The Isle of Man, and eventually, the county of Lancashire and the Lake District to the north. The Snowdonian and Clwydian ranges in the North link to the backbone of Wales, the Cambrian Mountains, which finally connect to the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains in the South of the country, which causes Wales, in effect to be two countries, the North and the South, separated by the largest, highest and most inhospitable mountains south of Scotland. It is from the Clwydian range that I originate, from a small but beautiful village, with good warm weather; a village that nestles quietly in the rain shadow of the great range of Snowdonia.
Some of the most impressive scenery in Britain is to be found in North Wales. Indeed its magnificent mountains, its cascading waterfalls, winding streams, remote lakes and hills, heather clad moors and a wild and glorious coastline encompassing rocky shores and broad sandy beaches are the inspiration for the choral prowess and poetic emotions of many famous men and women who recorded its beauty in hymns and songs which are now sung and listened to globally. Where hard miners kept themselves in touch with each other in the darkest bowels of coal and slate mines by tune and song, as they lamented the deaths of their brethren, and their thanks for their own short lives of toil and hardship.
Wales was always, and will always remain, a country to stir the imagination; a country of myth and folklore, poetry and song; all products of the mystic quality of the marvelously diverse landscape, shaped by God and glaciers, seas and rivers and the hand of primitive man, as an outpost of ancient humanity from time immemorial.
It comes as no surprise therefore, to discover that parts of Wales abound in the verbal telling of its most famous King, Arthur, and that Merlin, his revered seer and concocter of medicines and spells, should be born in the mountains of North Wales.
Wales abounds in the unexpected. Here is the smallest house in Britain, said to have been inhabited by one of the tallest men in Wales, and here too, the longest place name, which to this day I can still write and repeat, it having been the location of my teenage military school for adolescents such as myself, HMS Conway, on Angelsey Island. Portmeirion, a village inspired by the Italian village of Portofino is also here, as the realization of a dream by the wonderful Welsh architect, Clough Williams-Ellis, and made famous in the sixties as the location and setting of “The Prisoner,” with Patrick McGoohan in the starring role.
Here in Wales is the Tal Y Llyn railway, the oldest working steam hauled narrow gauge railway in the world, and so it goes on, always the unexpected, the unusual, and always the mystic, brooding quality of the landscape.
There is a history of extensive coal, iron, copper, silver, lead and even gold mining that once provided so much employment in the hills and valleys, brooding in cloud shrouded myth. The souls who tended the industries with pride and heroism had a language of their own, and talked musically amongst themselves, albeit with its attendant tragedies and heartaches, while they embraced God and life and death. For the people of the valleys and hills of North Wales, much if not all the landscape remains unspoiled, and those areas where industrial activity was as recent as the second half of the last century, the proud Welsh have cleaned and recovered their land to present industrial memories of their efforts, and those of their forefathers, to the benefit of new generations, who can now explore them as museums and trails, and educational trips back into the history of this wonderful land.
The shores of North Wales provide sanctuary for great colonies of sea birds and seals, and inland there are still red squirrels, otters, martens, deer, and wild ponies, all watched over by soaring kites and buzzards and other rare birds of prey.
In the north still roam wild herds of white cattle, said to be descended from those cows and bulls brought here by Roman legions, the first invaders who attempted to create any orderliness from the extremes of the climate and topography.
Wales is the water fountain and energy well for Central England, with huge dams and lakes and hydroelectric plants hidden away in flooded gorges and ancient cave systems. Wales has long been the principal reason the populations of Central England could drink fresh water and turn a light to glow at peak periods.
In times gone by, this caused minor resentment amongst those of us who are pure bred with linguistic integrity, and during the sixties the letters FWA were seen as a representation of The Free Welsh Army, painted on bridges and overpasses used often by the invading settlers from England and their encroachment and attempted assimilation into our villages and culture.
The army was organized into orderly regional cells which were set upon removing English control from the fine estates that were once our own, by burning their homes and crops and by that most hurtful method of all, the cold shoulder, whereupon when an Englander came amongst us, we would converse only in Welsh, and deride their accent and all they stood for, putting them down in front of us while smiling in their face. This has since become a thing of the past, and in fact Wales, with its highly literate and well educated, bilingual populace now enjoys home rule, having finally been recognized by Whitehall as being more capable than they of protecting their wealthy heritage. In reality, no two countries could be as diverse in heritage by settlement and invasion than England and Wales, only it seems, the Irish had any empathy with the Welsh, and from a time immemorial there is still a strong Celtic bond that binds the Welsh and Irish, which is now a global tradition celebrated in music and song, as expatriates of these two clannish nations maintain their caution of all things English.
Up on the wild moors, and hidden in the glades and streams that carve through them, one can often come across rare flora, one would expect only to find in a more Mediterranean setting, such as the strong Tuscan garlic and wild coriander, palmettos and peach trees, associated with palettes far different from the native Welsh.
Whatever the landscape, the monuments, the small picturesque cities and the quiet valleys, the real wealth that Wales offers the world is its people. It is here that Wales is rich indeed. Uniquely talented orators, poets, singers, writers, painters, composers, actors and actresses have been, and continue to be, Wales’ gift to the world. The high regard in which the Welsh hold their arts is exemplified in the numerous eisteddfods which are held each year, many conducted exclusively in the Welsh language and which consist of drama, song, music and verse, with the proud Welsh harp taking pride of place amongst the instruments, as the oldest and most revered instrument of our historical tradition. Adorned with leeks, and daffodils, the national emblems of our proud little nation, to the worshipful thanks of St. David, our patron saint, celebrated every March the first, Wales keeps itself to itself. Our patron saint has yet to be as vulgarly commercialized as that of our Celtic cousins in Ireland, just a few hours’ sail across a shallow gray sea, who have sold the soul of St. Patrick, the hater of snakes, around the world in chintzy parades of green hat drunkenness led by fraudulent leprechauns sporting plastic shamrocks and brews the color of coal water. No, not the careful Welsh, St. David remains in his mountains and valley, and amongst the poets and choral societies of our nation as a private blessing uniquely ours.
Wales is a proud country, proud of its language and traditions, its chapels and choirs, its folklore and legends. Proud of its beauty and countryside, its varied shoreline fed by giant Atlantic tides, and a forgiving gulf stream wind. Above all else, Wales is proud of its identity and determined to cling to its uniqueness.
It is of this land, where I was born and grew for the first sixteen years of my life that I write, this the first of three books. As a monument and reminder to my beautiful son Philip, of who his father was, and from whence his father came. I write about a childhood that was, to say the least, when I reflect, very dysfunctional, but at the time seemed so normal. I was not a normal child, any more than I am a conforming adult, which is why this book has to be. Please enjoy the child within these pages as I did at the time, and forgive me for what I was, and understand the time from which I came and the family that raised me. Above all else, enjoy my journey with me, as I walk you through the wild and wonderful countryside, and the events that occurred, which ultimately result in the resolution of murders, and the shaping of a family.