House Music

In which The Author devises a new game

On Saturday night, in the Lighthouse, I was talking to Tony A. when the singer arrived, with her boyfriend/roadie/minder in tow. At first glance she reminded me of my cousin Aimee. In fact, I had to look twice, just to make sure Aimee hadn’t decided to revive her career as a professional singer.

Professional singers are everywhere these days. Most of them are competent enough, but whether they’d inspire any of the panel on The Voice to turn their seats around is a moot point. It’s an easy line to get into, though. Good-quality backing tracks are readily available. The hardware is relatively portable, too; all you need is a decent laptop and an amplifier, and you’re up and running.

This means that just about every pub and club can host ‘artists’ (or ‘shows’, in the popular idiom), performing the solo equivalent of the Great Valleys Songbook. Personally, I call it ‘professional karaoke’, as this sort of performance requires absolutely no ability to play a musical instrument.

There was a time, not too long ago, when pub singers would have to bring a guitar (or, less often, a keyboard) with them. Pete Morley, who used to play regularly around Aberdare nearly thirty years ago, was a good example. I remember he played a set in the Waynes Arms, halfway up the Gadlys hill, in June 1987. It was a Wednesday night. There was a small crowd present, and Pete’s first few numbers didn’t attract much applause. Then I had an idea.

That week, the UK music industry had been celebrating the twentieth anniversary of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. It seemed like a good opportunity to mark the occasion ourselves.

I caught his eye in between songs and called across the room, ‘Play some Beatles, Pete.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. And, entirely from memory, unaccompanied by any backing tapes, with only a semi-acoustic guitar and some effects pedals, Pete played the whole Sgt Pepper set from start to finish. If you’ve never heard one man and a guitar play ‘A Day in the Life’, I can assure you it’s a memorable experience.

In due course, the spread of digital technology made instruments redundant. Now, anyone who can carry a tune can set themselves up in the marketplace, and trouser a fair sum for a couple of hours’ professional karaoke singing on a weekend.

And that’s exactly what Saturday’s unknown bint did. Her set included that old warhorse ‘Black Velvet’, which every amateur and semi-pro female singer in the world has done at some time.

It also included ‘Stuck in the Middle With You’, which was almost completely unknown until it was included in the soundtrack to Reservoir Dogs. Now it’s bloody everywhere.

It included ‘Uptown Funk’, another song which pretty much nobody had heard until about six months ago, and which now gets played about seventeen times a night.

It included ‘Valerie’ (the Mark Ronson/Amy Winehouse version), last seen being murdered by Sam E. and your humble author in the Lighthouse in January this year.

It included a Katy Perry song, and some very up-to-date techno/hip-hop stuff which I wasn’t familiar with. But you get the general idea, I’m sure. There was nothing out of the ordinary; just the sort of jukebox standards which you’d hear any night of the week.

I didn’t bring the entire set list with me today, and I can’t reel off her whole repertoire from memory. But it gave me an idea.

It’s not a new idea, mind you. It’s a revised version of a game which I used to play online with the guys from Cripple Creek, while they were hosting their Sunday evening show on Dapper FM.

If you haven’t encountered Dapper FM, it’s an online radio station which broadcasts from the Cana Centre in Penywaun. Several friends of mine have been involved with it over the years, presenting regular shows (usually with a bias towards heavy rock, of course, which has been the staple musical diet of the Valleys since the genre came into existence).

Over a few months of watching live bands, I was able to compile a definitive list of ninety numbered songs. You were (and probably still are) guaranteed to hear a fair proportion of them during any Sunday evening gig. (I lost the original list ages ago, but it would have needed updating anyway. ‘Uptown Funk’ would undoubtedly have been added, for example, and I daresay Stereophonics have released a single recently.)

Anyway, armed with my list of ninety songs, I’d sit in the corner of the pub, announcing each song (and its number) on Facebook. Meanwhile, in the Dapper FM studio, Justin B. and Chris D. would read out the updated information and tease their listeners that, say, ‘Dai in Llwydcoed is sweating on a line.’

I even found a website where you can generate your own bingo cards and print them out. I suggested to the boys that people could make their own cards and play Bar Band Bingo for real. I don’t know whether anyone took me up on the suggestion, but the boys used to enjoy my acerbic comments, delivered in real time, while ‘Summer of ’69’ was blasted through the pub again.

Judging from Saturday night’s performance, I think the time has come to update the idea, and make some cash for the Anthony Nolan charity into the bargain. First of all, of course, I’d need to compile a revised definitive list. Once I’ve identified ninety songs which are almost certain to turn up at some point, we’re in business.

Using that handy website I can create a number of unique bingo cards (blue for a boy singer, pink for a girl), which players could buy for a quid each. Every week, the players would pay 50p for their cards to be validated for the Saturday night’s ‘draw’, and all the stake money would go into the prize fund.

On Saturday night, I’d mark off the singer’s set list against my definitive list, and publish the numbers online afterwards. I’d also print off a list of the numbers and display it on the wall in the pub. Players would check their cards against the latest results, and would be able to claim their winnings. If anyone had a full house, they’d scoop two-thirds of the prize pot. The remaining third, and the purchase price of the cards themselves, would be donated to Anthony Nolan.

In the event that nobody claimed a full house, the jackpot would roll over to the following week.

I’d need to keep revising the definitive list, of course, as new songs come into vogue. Songs which fall from favour would be dropped, and new ones would take their places. I’d issue an updated list online and in print every couple of months, so that all the players know what to listen out for. It would provide a competitive frisson to the humdrum Saturday night ‘entertainment’ in Aberdare.

I’d need to publish a full set of terms and conditions, of course. Most importantly I’d have to run it past, Mark, the guv’nor. But I outlined it to Gareth, the DJ, last night, and he thinks the idea’s got legs. (Legs, eleven, in fact!)

I think it would be an unusual and amusing way of raising money for a very worthy cause, as well as highlighting the criminal lack of imagination which goes into the ‘live music’ scene around Aberdare these days. If it does take off, I’ll let you know.

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Further Up the River

In which The Author hits the great outdoors again

This chapter is somewhat unusual in including a Health and Safety warning.

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO EXPLORE THE AREA DESCRIBED HERE WITHOUT SUITABLE FOOTWEAR AND OUTDOOR CLOTHING, AND (PREFERABLY) A COPY OF THE ORDNANCE SURVEY MAP OL 12 (Brecon Beacons National Park: West and central areas).

[A digression: I’m just covering myself here, in case any of you are inspired to follow in my footsteps. I was walking around Penderyn one day in July last year when a middle-aged couple asked me for directions to the Sgwd yr Eira waterfall (see Going Down the River). He was carrying a fairly old copy of the Reader’s Digest Road Atlas, which is fine if you’re driving, but fairly light on detail otherwise.

Almost instinctively I glanced down at their feet. He was wearing trainers; she was wearing sandals.

‘You must be joking!’ I said. ‘You really aren’t dressed for the walk over there.

After a few minutes I managed to talk them out of their plan, and directed them to Pontneddfechan instead. Their footwear wasn’t ideal for that terrain either, but at least they could see some nice waterfalls without risking their necks into the bargain.]

Yesterday morning I felt like getting out of Aberdare for the day. I wasn’t in the mood for Bores and Lo Teks. I wasn’t in the mood for people at all, to be honest. I listened to the first half of Ken Bruce’s radio show, and after ‘Popmaster’ I headed for the hills.

Stagecoach offer a Day Rider ticket for £4.80, which is valid on all their buses in and around Aberdare. (Admittedly, that only means it’s good until about 1830 in reality, but that was plenty of time for me to get out and about.) I caught the 1050 departure to Glynneath from the stop near my house, and by 1130 I was well on my way to the back of beyond.

When we reached Glynneath, I got off opposite the Halfway House and walked the mile or so to Pontneddfechan. This is the village I mentioned in Going Down The River, where a number of smallish rivers converge at the head of the Neath Valley. I’ve explored the Nedd Fechan stretch on many occasions, so I decided on another route this time. I walked through Pontneddfechan as far as the Dinas pub, then took the steep road uphill, heading for Ystradfellte. I was (just about) inside the borders of the Brecon Beacons National Park.

The early part of the walk took me through Millionaires’ Playground, a winding road lined with very impressive detached houses, and as far as the village school. There was no sign of life there, and I assume it’s closed. I carried on walking past the golf club and within a few minutes I’d left the houses behind. I emerged onto a fairly level stretch of road, with open moorland to my right and farmland on my left.

In the distance, the increasingly familiar wind turbines had positioned themselves on the mountain top. Coming back from the hospital with Rhian a fortnight ago, I teased her that the turbines were attacking Aberdare from all sides. It seems that Aberdare’s not alone.

When I looked back towards Hirwaun, I saw more turbines. I’m fairly sure these must be the same ones which Rhian and I got fairly close to when we walked around the horseshoe in Dare Valley Country Park a while ago.

I carried on walking, surprised by how little traffic there seemed to be. A Royal Mail van had driven past me a few minutes earlier, obviously delivering to the scattered farms on this high ground, but I hadn’t seen much in the way of tourists. It’s still comparatively early in the summer, I suppose.

There were plenty of sheep around, of course. They roam freely on the moors, keeping the vegetation under control and occasionally darting in front of cars. There was also a lot of logging going on. The first sign was a huge pile of timber just inside a fence at the side of the road.

Although I hadn’t (very) long had breakfast, I decided to start on my packed lunch here. I arrived at a junction between my minor road and an even smaller track, marked with some large boulders. I sat on one of the boulders, ate a pasty, drank some water, and examined the map for a couple of minutes. If I followed the track, I’d eventually emerge at Pont Melin-fach, further up the Nedd Fechan, from where I could walk back into Pontneddfechan. That seemed a bit of a waste of the day, so I pressed on for a while.

There are fine views in all directions once you hit the high ground. Just look at the spread of the Brecon Beacons, facing approximately west from here.

A few minutes after this point, I found a wooden signpost for Sgwd Clun-gwyn, pointing down a gravel track towards a farmhouse. There are so many waterfalls in this area that it’s difficult to remember which ones I’ve visited previously, and which ones are new to me. I decided to take a chance, and made my way through the gate towards the farm. The path skirts the farm buildings and leads downhill through thick deciduous woodland. At this time of year, I was pleased to see the ground carpeted with bluebells. Mother loves a bluebell wood, but they’re increasingly rare these days.

We’d had some torrential rain on Sunday and Monday. It must have helped to swell the upland rivers hereabouts, because I could hear the roar of the waterfall long before it came into view. A middle-aged couple (wearing appropriate gear, I’m pleased to say) were approaching from the opposite side, accompanied by a golden labrador. (I was relieved that Stella wasn’t with me, because she’d have dived straight into the raging water and ended up miles away.)

There’s a fenced-off area just above the waterfall itself, which gives you a decent view.

I decided to try and get a bit closer, though. I scrambled down the slope and made my way over some large rocks to reach the shelf which breaks the fall into two stages. The upper drop is a bit higher than I am tall (just under six feet), and the crashing water was unbelievably loud as it cascaded into the gorge below. I clambered over more large rocks and eventually reached the bottom, where the river Mellte has carved out a deep gorge in the rock.

As you can see from the photos, even after the downpour earlier this week, the river flows over only about a third of the width of the shelf. It must be a terrifying sight in the middle of winter, when it rains heavily and continuously for days on end.

I made my way back to the top of the fall and walked onto the dry area. The rock here has been eroded into a strange undulating surface.

On the opposite side of the river, another couple were taking photos from their vantage point some distance above the fall. Having established that I was on the Mellte, I now had a couple of options open to me. I could try and follow the river downstream and eventually re-emerge in Pontneddfechan. Unfortunately, I didn’t know whether the whole way would be passable after all that rain. I didn’t fancy getting halfway and then having to turn back. I wasn’t even sure whether there was a path the whole distance. I’m fairly sure that this was where Phil, Jason and I had got lost when we did our mystery trip to the waterfall country.

Alternatively, I could head upstream and arrive at Ystradfellte via the Blue Pool and Porth yr Ogof. (Yes, I know the Firefox spellchecker is whimpering in the background again; just try and ignore it.) I knew my way to the Blue Pool, so it seemed a sensible plan. I found a narrow path along the river bank and struck out northwards.

The river here is quite smooth and gentle, with no hint of what awaits a few hundred metres downstream. It wouldn’t be any good for canoeing, of course, and probably much too cold to paddle in, but I expect there’s some decent fishing along this stretch.

I’d only been walking for a minute or so when I came to a narrow bridge across the river. It took me to the opposite bank, where two wooden signs pointed in different directions. One pointed to Swgd yr Eira, and gave the walking time as thirty-five minutes. The other pointed to Cwm Porth car park. That sounded promising; I knew my way there.

Now that I was on the other side of the river, I decided to walk as far as the waterfall and get a look at it from above. The path wasn’t as easy as I’d hoped, and it involves a bit of up-and-down scrambling in places. A few minutes from the bridge, though, I found the viewpoint I’d been aiming for.

I retraced my steps to the bridge, and met a small party of students heading downstream.

‘Excuse me,’ one of them said, ‘is there another waterfall along here?’

‘Oh yes,’ I grinned. I gave them brief directions to Sgwd Clun-gwyn, and added, ‘It’s a whopper!’

They got very excited when I told them that, and headed off eagerly. In the meantime, I followed their footsteps back along the river bank. This is another part of the route where you need sensible walking boots. Just look at the way the path winds in and out of the tree roots here.

A few minutes further along, the path emerged onto a large flat grassy area. The river was some distance below, rushing along with renewed vigour. I was approaching the Blue Pool.

When I was growing up, the Blue Pool was a bit of a legend in our circle of friends. The cyclists amongst us would often set off for this mysterious destination; it was a popular picnic spot for families with cars, too. I never knew where it was until Mother and I were driving around one day, and asked somebody for directions. It didn’t exactly live up to its bill matter.

The Blue Pool is just downstream of the point where the Mellte emerges from a brief spell underground. The water must be bitterly cold (I’ve never braved it myself), and I can only assume that it takes its name from the skin colour of those reckless people who do take the plunge. Having said that, there’s a large rock which slopes gently to the water’s edge, which must be a great spot for a picnic when the sun is blazing down.

The terrain here is fairly challenging, too, and just getting to the Blue Pool on foot is a bit of an expedition. It’s a few minutes’ walk from the car park at Cwm Porth (currently £4.00 for a car, £7.00 for anything larger, in case you’re tempted). In between the car park and the Blue Pool, there’s a rather frightening chasm in the ground where you can hear, but not see, the Mellte as it barrels its way underground.

There’s a little shop-cum-tourist information kiosk in the car park, and well-maintained public toilets nearby. When I arrived at the car park a small party of walkers were setting off downstream, and a large group of schoolchildren were kitting themselves out to head into the cave system. I finished my lunch and had a breather at one of the picnic tables, wondering which way to go next. I wanted to get some photos of Porth yr Ogof before I headed off again, and it seemed as though Ystradfellte was closer than I’d thought. It was still comparatively early, so I decided to kill some time here before moving on again.

There’s a steep path from the car park to Porth yr Ogof, and one group of youngsters were climbing the stile when I reached the bottom. I looked around and spotted a small cave behind me. I hadn’t noticed it on my previous visits, so I decided to check it out. I had no intention of entering it, of course – and that idea was reinforced by a notice I found a few metres from the entrance.

It doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it?

While I was taking a couple of photos a group of about a dozen youngsters arrived behind me, with two adults to supervise their progress underground. One young lad sounded quite apprehensive at the idea of heading into the cave, and I smiled at them.

‘I know exactly what you’re thinking,’ I said. ‘Suddenly double maths doesn’t seem like such an awful proposition.’

The adults and some of the kids laughed, and then they gradually made their way into the cave. Rather them than me!

I made my way around to Porth yr Ogof, the huge cave that marks the entrance to this particular subterranean labyrinth. Another group of youngsters were already inside, making their way into a very small gap at one side of the mouth. I could feel the temperature plummeting as I approached the entrance, and I could see my breath misting as I followed the river inside. I didn’t venture too far inside, but I got some fairly decent photos.

The approach to the cave was partly blocked by some colossal sandstone boulders which have fallen from the slope above. It’s no wonder the signs nearby warn people of falling rocks. Each one of these was about the same height as me, and they must weigh several tonnes apiece.

I made my way back up to the car park, where I had a choice of routes again. I could either rejoin the minor road and walk into Ystradfellte that way, or take a footpath from the end of the car park and arrive at the village across some farmland. The chap from the shop assured me that the way across the farmland was straightforward (yes, it’s that word again!), so I set off.

The first part of the path was straightforward, following a dry stone wall through some woodland and then along the edge of a field. Then, needless to say, the waymarkers dried up. I didn’t want to double back, so I climbed over a low fence and into a field with no sign of livestock. I carried on heading north and soon became aware that I was walking into a farmyard. I wondered how I’d be explain my detour to an angry farmer, but I didn’t need to. There was a large tractor parked between the house and a barn, but no other sign of life. I strolled through the farmyard and out along the driveway to the minor road beyond.

I’d emerged slightly east of Ystradfellte, so I followed the road downhill until I reached a bridge across the river. Just beyond lay a blue sign, announcing that Ystradfellte had won the title of Powys’ Best Kept Village in 2004. Beyond that lay the village itself.

As with Llanwynno, calling Ystradfellte a ‘village’ is stretching the definition. There’s a handful of houses, a very nice sandstone church, an old phone box, a new village hall, and a shop (which was closed. I was in Powys. It was a Thursday afternoon. Go figure!) Most importantly, there’s a pub – and it was open!

Last time I was in the New Inn, it was with Mother, several years ago. We’d called in for lunch, which wasn’t up to much, and we never bothered going back after that. I heard a while ago that it had changed hands, so it seemed rude to walk past without checking it out.

I was glad I decided to give it a second chance. The barmaid was very friendly and welcoming, even though it seemed that I was the only person in there. They have an extensive menu, including a selection of vegetarian and vegan dishes, and they had some very tempting cakes at the end of the bar. I paid £3.00 for a pint of lager, which is average for this part of the world, and went to sit in the beer garden. No traffic came past, and there was hardly anyone else around.

From my vantage point, I was able to watch a crow occasionally ducking into a hole on the roof of the barn opposite. Each appearance was greeted by a chorus of harsh cries from inside, and it seems that there was a nest hidden beneath the old slates.

When I was looking around the pub, I’d spotted a nice sign on the wall. I don’t know whether J. R. R. Tolkien originated this saying, but he definitely used it in his books. It seemed appropriate for the afternoon’s adventure.

‘Not all that wander are lost; some of them are just wondering what happened to the right of way signs.’

I drank up and headed back to St Mary’s Church for a look around. The building was locked, of course, but there were some interesting monuments in the graveyard. Amongst the older ones there were a couple of headstones commemorating people from Blackwood, of all places, and a huge memorial to a doctor who had served in India before returning to Wales. The graveyard is still used for burials, and there’s an appeal to raise funds to renovate the building. It would be a shame if it was allowed to fall into disrepair after standing there for so many centuries.

It’s a steep, winding climb from Ystradfellte towards the A4059. The main Aberdare to Brecon road is only few miles distant as the crow flies, but as the walker walks it seems like double that. The minor road runs through the middle of a large forestry plantation, and logging was under way in a grand fashion. Look at this lot, just piled up waiting to be transported to wherever logs go.

I glanced round at one point, just in time to see a tree crash to the ground behind the fence. There’s a superb view from here, but without a tripod it was difficult to get a decent panoramic shot. This will have to do for now.

I was on a downhill stretch when a car came towards me and pulled up. A youngish couple asked me where they could find ‘the waterfalls’, and I told them they were spoilt for choice. I advised them to head for Sgwd Clun-gwyn, as I’d seen it for myself that afternoon and knew it was worth seeing. I gave them fairly decent directions (for a non-driver, anyway) and they set off again. I hope they managed to find it. If they didn’t, they’d soon have found one of the others easily enough.

As I was approaching the junction with the A4059, I spotted a hangover from our local area’s recent(-ish) history. I need to mention this to Cerith when I see him, as a possible photo opportunity for his blog.

I emerged onto the A4059 near a lay-by where an ice cream van is always parked during the summer. I wasn’t surprised to see the ice cream van, but I was surprised to see a bus pull in to the lay-by. It was in NAT colours, and had a destination indicator reading ‘Abercrave’. I can’t explain why it would have appeared there, miles from Abercrave on completely the wrong road, but it’s given me a bit of a research project. If NAT buses do cover that area, it opens up a bit more scope for the Vanishing Valleys project.

The walk into Penderyn along the A4059 isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s not particularly arduous; in fact, it’s a fairly easy stroll over some gently rolling hills. However, vehicles travel along that road at a hell of a pace. Since there’s no pavement on either side, the Highway Code recommends that you walk on the right, facing oncoming traffic. Luckily there’s a fairly decent verge for most of the distance, so I was able to step up and out of harm’s way as trucks, coaches, artics and tankers thundered past just a couple of feet away. You certainly couldn’t do it with a dog in tow, much less a pushchair.

I made it into Penderyn just after 4.30, and called into the Lamb Hotel for a can of ginger beer. Phil, the landlord, was surprised to see me, so I told him how I’d come to be there on a random Thursday. He asked to be remembered to Mother, and in return I promised him I’d try and make it to the church fundraiser on 24 June. (That’s not the Ystradfellte church appeal, mind. It seems that St Cynog’s, on the hill overlooking Penderyn, is also in need of a facelift.)

I was back home by 5.30, and started making something to eat. I was toying with the idea of karaoke in the Lighthouse, but by the time I’d eaten and had a nice hot bath, I decided an early night was called for. I played with the photos for a while, and then dozed off in the chair while listening to Radio 4. Instead of being in town until midnight, I was in bed just after 10pm.

Not bad going for a Bore- and Lo Tek-free Thursday, was it?