Now that I have a moment to myself I shall take this opportunity to diarise my visit to this strange little town…

It is late in the afternoon and I am seated in Evans Restaurant, which sits upon the banks of a river with waterfalls, swirling ponds, and floral trees smelling faintly of pollen. Children play happily on the riverbank. Diving in, fully clothed, they splash their comrades who retreat to the hillside where a miniature steam engine circumnavigates the town. Stone bridges and narrow cobbled streets, lined with brass lanterns, lead toward its centre. There are brightly decorated shop-fronts tended by men with neat moustaches, making them look like strange fraternal brothers. A vibrant buzz fills the town and a melodic tune carries through its streets from a brass band, playing from a central rotunda. Sounds surrounding Sunday picnickers with red-checked blankets and wicker baskets filled with sandwiches and treats. High upon the hillside a horse-drawn barge carries passengers along a narrow canal. Freddie Ruxpin, a seventeen-hand Clydesdale, tows slowly his passengers who seem comatose, staring vacantly over the valley that is shaded with the amber hue of autumn. I can see mire, it is in the distance and shadowed by a tall ring of mountains that are green then barren grey toward their peak. Spikes of shale protrude like pinecones, meeting thin-grey clouds in the sky, which form a mountain bowl that encloses the valley to the outside world. I look toward the river where the ducks struggle with the current. Mother Duck leads a procession of yellow ducklings that tumble with the whitewash like corks in a Jacuzzi and I watch them with the interest until interrupted by a waitress with a lisp.

‘Whithky thir? Courthey of Mr. Evanth?’

Evans approaches my table with an apologetic smile. His accent is strong and I have trouble following his words. One in five is indecipherable and he has a tendency to wink when he makes a joke, which he does frequently, not effectively. I feel that I am trapped within a dream and that our conversation is surreal. He has a face that is ruddy, weather beaten like a vagrant’s. Eyes dance like snowflakes within a snowstorm, over thick-matted brows that remind me of a moth. He wears a moustache, black and waxed, like the other men in the town that he preens like a nervous cat.

‘First vis’ter for a while,’ Evans says, looking me up and down.

‘It’s nice to visit you. My car broke down up the road and I was lucky to find you.’

‘Lost?’

‘Uh-huh. My map, well … I must have been mistaken.’

‘Ha, ha.’ He pauses then continues. ‘Biggest secret in Wales, is we. Your car, it’s with Evans?’

‘The mechanic?’

‘Aye’

‘He’s collecting it for me.’

My encounter with the mechanic, Evans, was brief. I guess that I was three miles from the township when my Jaguar gave up the ghost. I left it at the roadside on that mountain. Lost. The map showed no sign of a township and there was no coverage for my mobile phone. I tried anyway to no avail.

‘Beep, beep… British Telecom cannot connect you,’ it told me.

The dim light that rose from a clearing in the distance was appealing…

The road wound steeply into the mountain. Twisting and turning as it climbed toward its peak. Branches overhung the road, forming a natural archway that twisted narrow, filtered light, pointing me toward a clearing where the sun blazed through. When I was there I saw a panoramic mountain bowl, dissected by a busy river with a quaint thatched township seemingly spawned by the mountain. I wanted to go there.

The road twisted downwards, presenting a steeply convoluted trail until it levelled suddenly as it ran toward the township where a weather-beaten truck stood sentry by the roadside, it’s driver sleeping at the wheel.

‘Hello!’  

The man moved slowly as he woke, pulling his cap from across his eyes.

‘H_u_l_l_o’, he said, pronouncing each consonant as though his life depended on it.

‘My car has broken down. Can you help?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Is there a mechanic about?’

‘Evans?’ he said. 

‘Evans?’

02/10/2007

Posted on 02/09/2007
Copyright © 2025 Graeme Fielden