Words: Ifan Jones, except verse 4 by Owen Shiers

Before sileage took over as the dominant means of feeding winter livestock, and big bales came to pepper the fields like giant black spores, the rural Welsh landscape featured a diverse patchwork of various crops, including some which were used for human consumption. These would have been uniquely suited to the soil and topography of each region, and due to their diversity, offered resilience in the face of disease and unpredictable weather. Harvesting was a large communal affair, with parties of workers building corn ricks or ‘helmi’ as a means of storing the grain outside over the lean months.

This now redundant practice was immortalised by Prengwyn farmer Ifan Jones in his poem ‘Helmi’. In it he speaks of autumn advancing over the bare hills, ripping the leaves from trees as it sweeps through the landscape. In its face stands a silent army of ‘helmi’ in their golden liveries protecting the farmhouse from the onset of winter. Today, farmers pay thousands of pounds to dispose of the miles of black plastic they use to wrap their monocrop rye grass. One does wonder whether Ifan Jones would have thought it much of an improvement…

He comes cleaving the (wooded) slopes,
And bruising as he pleases,
And leaves scars in his wake
On the bare side of the hill.

Although his flash is bright
As far as the furthest boundary
The wake of the storm and the chill of the grave
Is on the face of withered creation.

They are this year again
Protecting my father’s house;
I know watching the strong army,
That autumn’s to come to the land.

If the old hood is a bonfire,
I do not fear the betrayal –
There is a strong retinue in golden liveries
Guarding my father’s house.

If they were scattered,
Without our esteemed ancient grain
How we retreat from the cold winter,
And its intrepid old claws?

Words: Owen Shiers

Since 1930, lapwing numbers in Britain have plummeted by 90%. Changes in agricultural practices have without doubt been a major factor in this decline as mechanisation, intensification and changes to arable farming practices have all deprived this spectacular bird of its natural habitat. Their incredible aerial acrobatics and spring mating rituals were once a common phenomenon in the skies of rural Wales, but they are now mostly confined to a small number of protected areas.

The poet and farmer Dic Jones, who was raised next to the RSPB reserve at Ynys Hir, commented on the disappearance of the lapwings in his poem ‘Cornicyll’ (meaning ‘lapwing’ — however they are also known as ‘Hen Het’ in Ceredigion, as the name bears a similarity to their calls). This song is inspired by Dic’s poem and my own visits to the lapwing reserve at Ynys Hir and is a commentary on the bird’s disappearance from both the landscape and from cultural memory. Nowhere is this more poignant than the recent of example of the couple who bought ‘Banc Cornicyll’ farm in Carmarthenshire and then changed its name to ‘Hakuna matata’ — it means ‘no worries’, but try telling that to the lapwings who have been wiped from the landscape there, in this case both in a physical and linguistic sense.

On the edges of Ynys Hir, in the whispering sound of the wind
I heard the voice of the lapwing going on its way
A song from the sky, true and clear, now and then
Like that simple enough it came, to charm me near the shore
And then a flock came from the sky, flying towards the waves
And somehow a wave of peace came, quietly over me

Sprightly birds, fair birds they are every one,
Wheeling above the bare strand, like a divine air force
There they go with their swift wings, landing with a crash
Like a bunch of witty old pensioners, chattering by the water
And yet daring, yet hunting, the long enduring waters
Despite the harsh cold winter, for abundance on their journey

Here they are, a remarkable old force, without one showing disappointment
Do they see the shadow of progress now, across the barren landscape?
Oh how long, shall we see, their lively flight?
To see us through the long cold winter, messengers fair their world
There is talk that short will be the time of their greatness among us
but is the lapwing wiser than the noise of our sad anguish?

Words: D. Jacob Davies

Like other parts of Britain, Wales has a tradition of singing May carols as part of its folk tradition. In addition to dancing the maypole, groups of singers would rise early and go from door to door singing carols to welcome in the spring (as well as wake up the neighbours!). In addition to heralding the arrival of the new season, the singing of such songs was intended to rouse the earth’s energies to help grow strong crops and ensure a fruitful growing season.

In Wales, such carols were traditionally composed to light poetic metres which often had a strong discernible rhythm. This carol ( ‘The Heavens are Greening’) by D. Jacob Davies, is composed in a metre called ‘tri thrawiad’ and is a vivid and vibrant description of the greening landscape, with us being aroused from our winter slumber by the fair spring breeze. The processional feel of the metre is fairly obvious; however it’s always struck me that the slow, plodding nature of this rhythm sits in contrast to the joy and liveliness of the season and so I decided to give it its own rejuvenation and speed it up a little…

The heavens are blueing and the flowers are fresh,
And the sun rises nimbly on a summer day;
My heart expresses its gratitude constantly,
In charming cheer I carol.

The birds sing and the morning is leaping,
And the breeze demands to take us from the house;
The cock comes with its crowing, the dawn comes with its invitation,
From her rising comes a call from bed.

Chorus
Heat comes to the valleys, the fields and the lakes,
And sun on mountains and rivers in haste;
Every place will be light, healthy, and me
Without pains or notes of cold

In afternoon there is sunbathing, laying and singing,
And the seagull cries while sailing in the sun;
And enjoyment for me is waiting for hours
On the shores of such pleasant acreage

May your days be easy and your fruits abundant,
We get wonderful smells on dunes and meadow;
On a bed of buds I rest from my labor
Heal the soreness of a sheltered sleeper!

Words: Dafydd Isfoel

Before the arrival of the NHS, hedgerow plants and home-grown herbs held a significant place in the medicinal toolkit of people in rural Wales. I was fascinated to learn about the properties and uses of a handful of herbs from two elderly brothers, Cerdin and Elwyn of Rhiwlig farm in Tregroes whilst visiting them in spring 2022 . The brothers hail from a family of herbalists including their sister Marged, who was renowned locally for her knowledge.

One plant which cropped up in conversation — and of which I have heard a few tales — is that of wormwood, known locally as ‘Shili Ga Bwd’. Until relatively recently it seems it was grown and used widely to treat a variety of ailments but has since pretty much disappeared from folk memory. In his poem bearing the same name, the poet Isfoel affectionately describes how his ailing mother, who tended the plant with great care, slowly succumbs to the frailties of old age and the plant withering and passing with her. It is a poignant piece of writing which captures both the care and nurturing aspects of both his mother and the plant.

Mum had a small bush until the end,
On it not a flower or a crop,
One humble and completely common,
Which she called shili-ga-bwd

She looked after it like a child
In every weather, be it cold or hot,
Bringing her decanter of the drug
To the thirst of the shili-ga-bed.

When a friend called on their journey
She was unchanging in her mood,
She presented each one before leaving
With a sprig of the shili-ga-bwd

Mother became infirm from old age,
And the bush clung to its bag,
And soured did the smell and cheerfulness
That was carried by the shili-ga-bwd.

The root withered from heartache
And the leaves withered in their sulking,
And when their keeper went into the earth
So too went the shili-ga-bwd

Words: Richard Davies (Isgarn) except verse 4 by Owen Shiers

Of all the Ceredigion’s folk poets, the poet Isgarn more than any perhaps encapsulates the essence of what it is to have one hand on the handle of the plough and another gripping a pencil. Born in 1897, Richard Davies (bardic name Isgarn) spent a life married to the rough pasture of his isolated farm at Iscaron near Tregaron. A hill shepherd by trade, he would walk the four miles and back to Tregaron each week to attend poetry night class where he learned the craft of cynghanedd. Only following his death was a body of his work published and did Wales realise what a gifted poet it had lost.

Isgarn’s poem ‘Y Medelwr’ is a direct response to the rapid shifting agricultural practices he witnessed in his lifetime. One common sight which he witnessed disappear entirely from the rural landscape was that of the ‘parti fedel’ or reaping party, that would go from farm to farm harvesting corn. The poem lovingly describes the relationship between the land and the corn reaper, with the fields, wincing under the weight of modern machinery, yearning for their slow methodical footsteps. Back in the ‘hendre’ (the winter dwelling place) a sickle hangs rusting and forgotten on the wall, a reminder of the reaping party scattered like seeds to the four winds. 

The long acres under the cliffs
Where he once followed with his plough and harrow
Are uneasy, calling for him
Under a yellow ocean of pure grain

The summer matured his crop fields
His sheaf grew likewise at the same time
And he was seen carrying the crop at dawn
To the unceasing grain store of the great harvest

Chorus
But in the old town hanging on the wall
There sits an idle sickle like a steel rainbow
With rust eating it, piece by piece
And lost is the zeal that was once in its shaft

He was seen returning every time from his way
From the golden fields of old Hereford
But now his stay is hopeless
The homeless are walled off from God’s acres

Equipment comes to reap from hedge to hedge
A alluring promise of an easier task
But under the interference of heavy wheels
The land is writhing along the valley

Words: T. Llew Jones

We were fortunate as children in our tiny primary school in Capel Dewi to have the renowned author and poet T. Llew Jones come read to us from time to time. He had a certain way with children, a twinkle in his eye which spoke of mischief, wonder and of delight. As a child I devoured his children’s books, but it wasn’t until later in life that I came to appreciate his skill as a poet.

T. Llew had a way of communicating the profound in simple terms. He was also a ‘dyn ei fro’, a man very much of, and from, his ‘cynefin’. He found endless fascination in the people and places of his locality — and none more so than a place called Cwm Alltcafan. A deep wooded gorge near Pontyweli, Cwm Alltcafan is where the poet would spend countless hazy summer afternoons angling for a bite in the slow, swirling waters of the Teifi. His poem of the same name probes us with a series of questions. It wonders if we have been to such a place, then asks us if we find other places more exotic — daring us almost to declare them more heavenly. As tongue in cheek as his questions are, to me they challenge the modern malaise of escapism and displacement, reminding us of the beauty and simplicity that can sometimes lie right at our doorstep.

Have you been to Cwm Alltcafan
Where the summer lingers long?
Where there are the bluest bluebells
No really? No really?

Have you seen the river Teifi
Flowing slowly through the valley?
Did you see the gorse flowers?
On the slopes a heavy carpet?

Have I been to Switzerland? No,
Not in Italy Italy,
But I have been in Cwm Alltcafan
In June many times.

Go to Switzerland and Italy,
Or Ireland in your turn,
Go to Scotland, where there are
Magnificent views, I suppose

But to me give me Cwm Alltcafan
When summer is greening the world,
There is the best view,
And you can keep all the others.

Did you see the Alltcafan Valley,
Where are the trees and the deep river?
Go to Cwm Alltcafan,
But don’t tarry late… just in case!

Words: Owen Shiers

During lockdown I was invited to compose a piece of music based on an interview with a man called Caradog Jones, who for over 40 years worked as bailiff of the river Teifi. The tape itself was nearly 50 years old, and so I assumed that Caradog was long since passed — however a chance meeting with his neighbour revealed to me that at 95, he was very much still alive and kicking! I was delighted soon after to meet him in person and be regaled with his tales of a life lived along the banks of the river.

As one of Britain’s finest fishing rivers, Caradog told me of the Teifi’s renowned bounty (it was said that in places you could walk from one bank to the other on the backs of the fish). As a plentiful source of food, he had his work cut out catching the many poachers who would venture under cover of night to her banks to snatch a salmon or two from a pool. Many ended up in court, but such was the plight of the rural population at the time, that this was often seen as a source of pride. Today, the river stands in a precarious state with the numbers of salmon a fraction of what they once were — some are even warning that this silvery nomad could disappear completely from the river in the next few decades.

The giant on the riverbank. his face hidden
A torch in one hand and a clutch in the flow
Barefoot creeping silently through the gravel
To catch a fish under the cover of night

Following autumn since time immemorial
Salmon ran up from the sea
And the boys followed, working as a team
To escape from the bailiffs on the banks of Teifi

When the moon is down and black, while it is the colour of night
Landing until the dawn, ends the poacher’s meal

Life was hard, and money was tight
And the occasional salmon was a rare treat
Standing in a court was not a subject of shame
For catching a fish by the water’s edge

There was enough to feed the residents of each neighbourhood
And feed all of London, so everyone said
But the landlords insisted on persecuting
The needy people on the banks of Teifi

Trouble is at hand while we pollute our land
Will the fright be enough to save the poacher’s meal?
Save the poacher’s meal

If you happen to be seen in a river or stream
The salmon leaping, by god don’t you
Take without need, so fragile now are
The fish that run the Teifi river

Words: Rees Jones (Amnon)

It was the custom in rural areas of West Wales in times gone by to keep an eye out for one’s neighbours. Many lived a hand to mouth existence and a bad accident or illness — or worse — could easily leave a family with no food on the table. ‘Cwrw Bach’, or ‘Small Beer’ was one such way of helping those in need. The practice involved a neighbour making a batch of home brew, inviting the neighbours round for knees up and selling the resulting beer to raise some much-needed cash. This song is an invitation to such a gathering.

Composed by the poet ‘Amnon’ or Rees Jones, Pwllfein (1845) from Talgarreg and set to a melody adapted from the singing of Kate Davies, Prengwyn, the song imaginatively speaks of the eternal tension between the various aspects of the human psyche. Mr. Need and Sir Selfish, Sir Shameless, and Master Generous all battle it out for dominance as the poet pleads with us to give credence to the better aspect of our nature and err on the side of generosity and benevolence.

I’m encouraging each one lovingly
It will be unwise for me to say, I’m quite unskilled
Mr. Needy will shoot some words
And maybe Sir Selfish will close my jaw

Needy and Selfish were in a spiritual battle
And their sharp arrows were quite adverserial
Sir Selfish was wounded by Sir Shameless
And then Sir Needy was appointed chief

Refrain
To the generous, to the generous and the charitable

Now there is Needy and Worry to tire me
I don’t get much peace of mind when I’m asleep or awake
The back is bare and the feet through the shoes
Oh it’s quite troublesome I answer the bills

To add to this council in worry and need
Came Shameless to bear in his forehead
And the advice I got from Needy and Worry
Was going around to inviting diligently

Every grade and every age of those who can
Giving respect and obedience to Mr. Generous
And remember to say ‘give a warrant to call’
The use of rib, cakes, napkin and beer

Words: Phil Rowlands

At the end of 2022 I was asked to compose some music for a short film being made by a community group about an old milk processing plant near Tregaron. From its origins as a humble 19th century dairy, Pont Llanio (which was run by the state-run Milk Marketing Board) grew to employ over 120 people in its 1960’s heyday. Workers would collect and process milk from all over West Wales and distribute it nationwide via the train station which sat next to the factory. The company became a real community hub and would often host events and concerts as well as entertainment for local children. It also sported its own cafe, football team and even had its own in house-bard: Phil Rowlands, who documented many of the key events at the factory through verse.

Today the place stands in ruins, abandoned and choked by weeds. The trainline closed with the Beeching cuts in 1967 and privatisation and followed not long after, with the factory closing in the early seventies. During my research for the film, I was fortunate to meet a few former employees who were generous with both their time and memories, including Lloyd Jones who gave me this poem by Phil Jones. Written on the eve of the closure, it reflects both the fondness of the employees towards their fellow workers but also the potential devastation they were faced with at that time. It’s fair to say the area has never recovered.

Farewell to all my friends, the big dispersal is near
Some stay here, and the rest moving away
Happy has been the co-working, throughout the long years
All tasks just like singing, and no one with their cheeks moist

Refrain
Who remembers, the Pont Llanio company now?

On the banks of the still Teifi, near Jac JP’s station
Memories will linger for the exploits of the happy many
For many a long yellow summer, with the sun and its heat so hot
The red labels and the churns, and the refined women

Or old icy winters, and everyone like ‘on his guard’
To prevent a sudden skid or slide and falling on the yard
For lightning and rain and tumult over hill and marsh and moor
Or the big snow one year that made some stay the night

Farewell Rhys John and Morgan, Wil Rees fine old boys
Who carried according to the counting, thousands of woodbine
Farewell to the amusing company on the entertaining rounds of the night
Everyone with their wit or a story, and no one pushing back

I don’t know what the history of Pontio Llanio will be soon
There are great stories about walking, but are they true?
Someone told to me but I can’t really believe it
That the creamery soon became a woolen factory, soon a woolen factory

Words: Isaac Davies

When the Benedictine monks arrived in St. Dogmaels from France in 1118, they carried with them an age-old fishing technique developed on the Seine River in Paris. This effective method, which utilises weighted nets, was quickly adopted by the locals and became the principle means by which people on the Teifi estuary sustained themselves for centuries after. Fast forward 800 years and dwindling numbers of migratory salmon and sea trout have led to strict restrictions on the numbers being caught, rendering the practice untenable.

Just before the pandemic I was invited to perform at a concert for the fishermen and their families in St. Dogmaels. There I learned first hand the devastation the abrupt demise of this tradition has caused — not only financially, but in the ending of an identity that this way of life engendered in these people over countless generations. For the concert I managed to uncover a mid-19th century ballad which speaks of the Teifi’s reputation for fishing and the sheer numbers of fish and eels in her waters. It is a song which stands in stark contrast to today’s precarious situation, with the salmon’s survival in the river anything but certain.

I’m going fishing, in the summer, in the summer
Where shall I go first in the summer?
Maybe the Honddu River?
The green banks of the Tywi?
The hard rocks of the Cothi?
And also the Teifi Tiver in the summer

To Llandysul I’ll go first in the summer
To catch a fish in the summer
Some are encouraging me in Newcastle Emlyn
To have oat cakes and butter
And a pint of butter-milk in the summer

Aberteifi is remarkable in the summer, in the summer
For catching eels in the summer
But what is remarkable
I can’t find knowledge
Despite searching for many days
Of feathers for eels in the summer

If I can’t catch, in the summer, in the sumer
After fishing in the summer
I’ll go to the Black Lion in Llambed
And there I will seee
A crew of women
Flowers of the summer, flowers of the summer

If I get a comfortable place in the summer
I’ll spend two months there in the summer
I’ll insist on liveried servant, four horses
To drag me night and day
Through all the places in the summer
Through all the best places in summer

I’m going to go fishing

Words: Owen Shiers

Whilst researching material for the first Cynefin album I met a cheery elderly chap called Edgar Thomas who had at one time been a keen musician. Edgar was very helpful and generous with his time, and I would go round to his house in Llandysul from time to time for a paned (a cuppa), where he would reminisce about the good old days as a plucky youth growing up on the busy Faerdre Fach farm just over the valley beneath Pencoed Foel Hillfort.

The fort itself dates to the Bronze Age and there are rumours in the locality that Owain Glyndwr himself may have been born there. Faerdre Fach dates to at least the medieval period and is clearly of historic significance… but all this passed the new owners by when they decided to start a petting zoo and renamed it, quite unbelievably, Happy Donkey Hill. Place names are not protected in Wales and it is all too easy for names to disappear from memory in a generation. Acts of cultural vandalism such as this are increasingly common and there is currently very little one can do in the face of such insensitivity… except write songs!

On top of the stand in Faerdre Fach
There is a small basket of pretty flowers
And a new name for the place
The fair premises, formerly a hearth

Where the cowshed was ear the house
There is a bnb with a small pretty garden
And deadly silence about the palce
Emptiness where cattle called

Is it our names that are too much
Or the mouths of foreign people’s jaws?
Or is it understanding that is far
From the hunger for shelter in every heart?
And the land cries desperately
That we never forget

In the kitchen there is a screen
Showing a world in black and white
and the ffarm through a cctv lens
instead of the color of a child’s eyes

On the meadow below the fort
Where formerly there was the gold of August and its nourishment
There is a new owner proud his smile
Heeding not for longing

Is it our history that is so far away
Of the understanding of some so uneasy?
What a shock it will be the thing
To rid us of the stumbling block?
And the land cries desperately
That we never forget
Never forget