"Harp Scratchings" is the title of a series of short stories about growing up in Wales, the eldest of two daughters of local Innkeeper and his wife, Bill and Alice Price. At age 10, The Harp Inn was the centre of my universe. After all, many of the villagers appeared to spend a great deal of time "in the pub". It seemed that my sister Julia and I had a lot of good-hearted "uncles and aunties".This 1964 picture is an aerial shot of part of our village, Glasbury-on-Wye. The Harp Inn is in the centre of the picture. Dad's meadow, to the bottom of the picture was a three-acre field - Ruby and Minstral - our Herefords visible to the right. The area in the top of the picture shows "The Grove" the common land between the houses and the River Wye, and site of "The Bonfire" this first story from Harp Scratchings.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
High water on the River Wye was eyed with glee by Glasbury kids – that is if it occurred before 5th November – that ubiquitous day on the calendar when Guy Fawkes received his reward for trying to blow up the Houses of Parliament.
The River Wye would often flood after heavy rain and the waters could swell even more if a decision was made to let water out of the reservoirs upstream. What a sight to see those fast moving waters engulf the Grove - the name given to the common land along the riverbank and the dividing point between our row of houses and the river.
While Dad worried about getting his sheep and pigs to higher ground – we dreamed about a new source of firewood after the flood had abated for our November 5th bonfire, yet to be constructed.
The sheep would be moved to our meadow on higher ground above the pub, but the pigs were more of a challenge. On one occasion, squealing as though their end had come, Dad and some willing neighbours herded two smelly adult pigs into the cellar under the house to a makeshift straw-filled pen in between the beer barrels.
And when the waters did abate, we could hardly wait to venture out on to the muddy wet grass. Pulling on our wellington boots, off we set, the self-appointed gang tasked with building the bonfire that year.
All sorts of debris from the flood lay on the Grove waiting to be collected. Adding to the drama was the fact that other children in the village whose parents had had a falling out with ours, were in search of the same wood for their own bonfire – the “unofficial” one. So it was with a matter of great importance to reach the spoils first.
Carefully constructed like a giant tepee, as the bonfire took shape we played inside our temporary playhouse, ultimately filling it with more debris, empty boxes or any other combustible we could get our hands on. Size mattered.
In the meantime, our effigy of Guy Fawkes took shape. Using old clothes, string and newspapers, a lifeless form emerged, sporting a drunken grin as its head lolled to one side. Our effigy was used to raise funds from bar patrons or anyone else willing to part with a shilling so that we could buy fireworks.
And then on November 5th our guy was hoisted on to the bonfire and the carefully built structure set ablaze. The crackling of the fire and the whooshing and popping of fireworks excited us all as Mum handed out sausages and onions in bread rolls with hot chocolate.
The next morning we examined the burned out remains of the bonfire with some sadness – now mostly a sea of grey ash and burned out fireworks. It was over for another year and already we were musing how it could be bigger and better next time.
The River Wye would often flood after heavy rain and the waters could swell even more if a decision was made to let water out of the reservoirs upstream. What a sight to see those fast moving waters engulf the Grove - the name given to the common land along the riverbank and the dividing point between our row of houses and the river.
While Dad worried about getting his sheep and pigs to higher ground – we dreamed about a new source of firewood after the flood had abated for our November 5th bonfire, yet to be constructed.
The sheep would be moved to our meadow on higher ground above the pub, but the pigs were more of a challenge. On one occasion, squealing as though their end had come, Dad and some willing neighbours herded two smelly adult pigs into the cellar under the house to a makeshift straw-filled pen in between the beer barrels.
And when the waters did abate, we could hardly wait to venture out on to the muddy wet grass. Pulling on our wellington boots, off we set, the self-appointed gang tasked with building the bonfire that year.
All sorts of debris from the flood lay on the Grove waiting to be collected. Adding to the drama was the fact that other children in the village whose parents had had a falling out with ours, were in search of the same wood for their own bonfire – the “unofficial” one. So it was with a matter of great importance to reach the spoils first.
Carefully constructed like a giant tepee, as the bonfire took shape we played inside our temporary playhouse, ultimately filling it with more debris, empty boxes or any other combustible we could get our hands on. Size mattered.
In the meantime, our effigy of Guy Fawkes took shape. Using old clothes, string and newspapers, a lifeless form emerged, sporting a drunken grin as its head lolled to one side. Our effigy was used to raise funds from bar patrons or anyone else willing to part with a shilling so that we could buy fireworks.
And then on November 5th our guy was hoisted on to the bonfire and the carefully built structure set ablaze. The crackling of the fire and the whooshing and popping of fireworks excited us all as Mum handed out sausages and onions in bread rolls with hot chocolate.
The next morning we examined the burned out remains of the bonfire with some sadness – now mostly a sea of grey ash and burned out fireworks. It was over for another year and already we were musing how it could be bigger and better next time.
No comments:
Post a Comment