CHAPTER 74
I succumbed on Saturday morning, spending a few hours getting wet along with Candice, followed by a memorably graceless display of utter inability on the Centre’s little dry-skiing slope, where I was made to look even worse by the effortless performance of Lisa and Lexie, the little sods. The sun was out again, and Barry just sat on the terrace, headphones on and eyes closed, recovering his life in his own fashion.

Blake had made some very pointed comments about getting bruises on his arse and disappeared with the rest of the team for some zip wire thing in the Dinorwic quarries, but after I had watched the video Enfys had shown, I had made my own, even more pointed, comments. It wasn’t just the publicity video that did it; Enfys had several of her own helmet-camera depictions of brains-out insanity that she had insisted on sharing with us, all but smacking her lips in delight.

No. Not ever, thank you. I stuck to a paddle around in a canoe and a lot of falling off a pair of planks. My friends were all back by late afternoon, nothing visibly broken or traumatically detached, and we had a buffet dinner /tea meal before settling into more appropriate clothing for a night in the pub.

That actually felt odd; after days in walking trousers or wetsuit, a pair of jeans seemed almost unnatural. I kept the outdoors jacket with me, though, as I had more than enough experience of North Welsh weather to have developed a proper distrust of ‘fine’ evenings. That moment on the Horseshoe had been reminder enough, as the rain and low cloud had sped in far faster than we could ever have walked. Local weather came in capital letters. Lisa, however, was in a dress, which made me hope, perversely, for ran and high winds.

Now we were all hardened crag rats, real people of the mountains, we looked down on such frippery and unsuitable kit! Or so I kept telling myself, while ‘myself’ laughed at may delusions of competence. Still: I knew I would be back, and soon, with my little man.

Out to the bus, one of the eighteen-seaters or thereabouts, a lad from the taxi company to drive, and off along the A5 we went, as far as the long lay-by where we had parked to drop off the Woodruffs, who were waiting for us, clutching their instrument cases.

Ah. One of THOSE evenings. I remembered Deb, and prayed that at least some of the evening would be in English. Sammy stood up at the front, cheeky smile in place, after Steph’n’Geoff had found their seats behind me and Blake.

“Mates! And mates of mates! And Hywel!”

“Not a mate then, aye?”

“Shut it or you’re the designated driver!”

Sammy waited for the laughter to end, before holding his hands up for silence.

“This is a team night, mates. We’ve had our silly games, near drownings, sore bums—yes, Di, I was watching what you called skiing! You bounce very well! Anyway, this is a night for letting your hair down, and it will be Chatham House Rules. I could never say that back South, because everybody knows us there, but for a very good reason, whatever happens here, stays here, OK?”

Jon had to bite, as always.

“Why here especially, Sammy?”

“Folk club, Jonny Boy. Floor spots, aye? We’ve all heard how, um, talented Diane there is, and if the rest of you get drunk enough to be tempted, and you are of similar levels of ability, I am told there are other pubs I can escape to. Seriously, now, OK? This is our evening to let ourselves relax. Forget work. Don’t get too pissed. Enjoy the music, or at least act as if you do. And don’t eat any of the locals!”

Past the lake again, and down the long slope to a village I remembered as having a chip shop, and a supermarket, that Dad had taken me into on our camping trips before my world had turned to shit on a rainy night in a beach car park. Steph reached round to tap me on the shoulder.

“Not quite as your boss described, love. There won’t be that many floor spots, cause it’s a guest night. Part of the plan, really”

“Eh?”

“Friend of ours is booked. One of the reasons we came up with you, to be honest. He’s very good”

I flashed back once more to Deb’s story, and chuckled, which meant that I had to explain.

“Friend of ours, Steph, went on a couple of dates, both to folk clubs, and she’s not a Welsh speaker, and everyone else was, including the acts. This friend of yours: he speaks English?”

Her mouth worked a couple of times before she got the answer out,

“Um, sort of English. Your mileage may vary on that one”

We slowed down a lot, well before the village, and Enfys was the one to explain that time.

“Caravan park there: the police often park in the entrance for a play with their speed guns. Only idiots and tourists get caught, ah? Anyway, nearly there. See that road off right? I’m from up that way”

I wondered if that was meant for me or Lexie, but never mind. If she wanted to drop hints, I doubted her target was paying attention just then, or at least not to anyone except Lisa.

There was a Tesco I didn’t remember, but the rest of the High Street was much as it lived in my dreams, right down to the Co—Op and the chip shop. We parked just along from the latter, where a chalk board outside a pub called the Spotted Cow announced ‘Clwb Ffolc Heno’. We all filed off, and considering the rather narrow frontage there was quite a bit of room inside, as the place went back a long way. Steph was straight up to the bar, and the man behind it grinned happily on seeing her, coming to the little door for a hug of welcome.

“Shw mae, Steph! Sut wyt ti’n bod yn cadw?”

She launched into a lot more Welsh, and the landlord nodded before returning some more of their vowel-limited banter, pointing off to his left, and I realised we had a group of tables reserved. Right in their middle was an elderly man in a tweed jacket and a flat cap, apparently dozing. Geoff was simply handed three pints, after another effusive greeting from the barman, this time in English, and carried them over to the tables, where the ‘sleeping’ man casually extended a hand for one of them, sipped, grinned at Geoff and stood to wrap Steph up in a hug even more encompassing than the barman’s had been.

The rest of us started to sort our own orders out, and the landlord held up his hands.

“Right, now. Steph and her husband have put a little bit of money behind the bar, and so has… Where are you, ah? Sammy. He’s put a hundred in. Nothing from you till that’s gone”

The man in question called over Jon’s shoulder.

“No going silly tonight, mates. Enjoy a drink, enjoy the music, and keep the memories, OK?”

I saw what he meant, and resolved to do my best. We collected our drinks, worked our way through a gathering crowd to our tables, and settled down for the entertainment, which I assumed was going to involve the old man, as he had an instrument case just like Steph’s sitting on the table before him. I leant across the table to ask her what the format would be, and Mr Flat Cap replied for her.

I had absolutely no idea what he said, because it was utterly foreign to any language I had ever heard before. Steph slapped his arm.

“Behave, Jimmy!”

She turned to me.

“I have never worked out whether he does that deliberately or not. Jimmy, this is Di Sutton, a very old friend of Annie’s. Di, Jimmy Kerr, a very old piss-taker. Try again”

He turned an utterly winning smile on me, and spoke again, and I realised he was a Geordie. That explained the foreignness. I managed to decipher most of it this time, and it appeared that there was a traditional order to such clubs. Floor spots, as they were called, a sort of amateur bit, would be followed by ‘The Act’, which was him, and after a break the process would be repeated. Steph, thankfully, took over the explaining before my brain melted under the onslaught of his own versions of the vowels that had been missing on our arrival.

“Geoff and I will be doing a spot in the first half, then a set with Jimmy after the break, so settle down and just go with the flow, aye?”

Her husband snorted.

“She’s away! It’ll take me weeks to get her back into English. Always the same”

And so it went, exactly as described, but with surprises. The first was seeing Alun, Barry, Rhys and Rob stand up with Hywel to sing ‘A Miner’s Life’, and even though it was in unison rather than harmony, it was still bloody good. I even found myself singing(ish) along with them.

Candice and Ellen sang something heart-breaking they said was by Suzanne Vega, about Calypso and Odysseus.

The Woodruffs played tunes that got my feet tapping, and some of the patrons by the bar sort-of-dancing.

Local people as well, of course, did their own party pieces, but I was watching friends, people I knew, and taking joy in the fact that there were still new depths to find in their souls. Jimmy did his sessions, and he was superbly talented on the fiddle, as well as funny, as he toned the accent down, but the high point was when he brought the Woodruffs and Enfys up, that girl producing a harp that must have been kept behind the bar for her. Geoff was strumming something like a round guitar, there were two fiddles, and a delightfully pure sound from our guide.

It wasn’t like the Christmas event, because Steph kept her sanity close by, but it warmed my heart. The regulars obviously knew both the music and Jimmy, as well as Steph and Enfys, and their enthusiasm and appreciation lifted the mood. The reception they gave our boys was more than politeness, it was delight in a song well known and well sung.

I was hooked. Next Summer we would be back in Horley, and I would bring as many of the team along as I could, starting with Alun.