Additional Knoweldge

The stories below may help towards gaining some of the history through past characters of Ynysybwl as recorded in:

Glanffrwd’s History of Llanwynno, translated from the Welsh by Thomas Evans; printed and published by: H.W.Southey and Sons, Ltd, “Merthyr Express,” Merthyr Tydfil (about 1950 while the original Welsh was published in 1913) Glanffrwd was and Ynysybwl teacher then preacher. Glanffrwd was his bardic name as a writer and poet of some renown.

7 Pieces of information or Stories relating to walks around Ynysybwl:

1) The Ffrwd (p.49 of Glanffrwd's Hisory of Llanwynno)

I don’t know how the fussy little river which flows from Mynydd Gwyngul down to Ynysybwl, to lose itself in the Clydach came to be called Ffrwd. But there you are, that’s a fact. Frwd is its proper name, just as Clydach is the name of the other and Taf the river on the east side of the parish….

...It’s birthplace is in cold, peaty soil, full of deep and dangerous holes, which would prove perilous for a wandering traveller at night. Indeed I have often been afraid there myself when crossing the mountain. The treacherous holes and the peat swamps whose depth no one knows, make the source of the Frwd a place to avoid on a foggy day or a moonless night. There is one notorious hole which once swallowed up a mule laden with firewood and never a trace of it has been seen since.The mules were bringing wood over the mountain and one of them wandered off the road a little way, seeking some nice juicy grass, when he suddenly vanished, never to be seen again. John, the carrier, was telling the story, with tears running down his cheeks, of how the mule wandered away, the best mule too, and how the little creature went to eternity in a minute.

2) Pistill Golau (The Fountain of light) (p.25)

The old people were apt at naming places and they were always right. How true and descriptive is the name Pistyll Golau. Down in the dark hole in the glen, under the branches of stout oaks and brushwood, the waterfall is whit and foamy, lighting up the whole of its narrow retreat when in spate, in full agreement with its name.

3) Dick the Donkey( p.37-38)

For many years people had encroached upon the banks of the Ffrwd on the south side of Mynachdy in their search for coal...The old level was but a narrow hole with scarcely enough room for a donkey and its load to come through, but many a load did come out of the hole to keep warm the people of the Cwm and the hillsides during the cold cruel winters….

In this level was a donkey, more notorious than any of his long eared brethren…. He was the most villainous ass I ever saw. He had many a hiding from my grandfather for doing things no one thought a donkey would ever dream of…

I remember a couple of the old donkey’s wicked tricks. One of the residents - Dafydd Rhys by name - had come to assist the cutting coal for a week or a fortnight in the winter when coal was in great demand. One day, Dafydd had started out with Dick and the tram somewhat early in the afternoon. Morgan Jones had told them to go while it was still light, so out they went quietly enough. Dafydd took his dinner of bread and cheese, and Dick had some of hte hay in the lodge. Having eaten and rested a while, preparations were now made to re-enter the level. Dafydd, however, noted signs of great unwillingness in the region of Dick’s ears. He walked slowly towards him, intending to seize him by the head and lead him in on his underground journey. Dick flattened his ears, his hair stood up like a fierce lion's mane, and a pitched battle began. Dafydd was first on the ground, where Dick tried his best to kick him. The tumult lasted for an hour or more, while Dafydd bled freely from his injuries. In the end help came, and Dick was persuaded to start again for the coal face, where Morgan Jones was waiting for them. In they went, but were slow reaching the far end of the level, so Morgan tired of waiting, thought it would be wise to go and look for them. When he had gone a little way he found them in a most distressing situation. Dafydd had got out of the tram to open the door through which they had to go. Dick saw his chance, and as Dafydd was passing him, he squeezed him hard against the side of the level, so that he could not move either way. He was like a piece of cake, quite defenceless, and, to make matters worse, his lamp had gone out. When Morgan reached the spot, Dafydd had gone blue in the face and could scarcely breathe. Dafydd’s opinion of Dick was expressed many times in these words: “I don’t believe he’s a donkey at all, he can’t possibly be; I think he’s the Old Nick himself, indeed I do.”

4) The Name - YNYSYBWL (p.29)

I take it that nature and the geographical position have given Ynysybwl its name. However, one can naturally call it Ynys-y-pwll. In English it is called Bowling Green. I don’t know who anglicised the name, but there’s doubt he is wrong. The place was called Ynys- y-pwll long before it was called Bowling Green. Ynys- y -pwll it has been since the creation, but fairly recently the game of skittles (bwl-binnau)had been introduced. Therefore I think I owe thanks to nobody for giving and English name to the place. Ynsybwl eventually became the name of the whole district, up to the Parish houses.

5) Llanwynno (p. 177-8)

..Of the three houses near the church, two were public houses. Often when the weather was wet and stormy during a funeral, it was a comfort to have places like Brynffynnon and Bryn-sych-nant to go to and warm oneself. But today, the latter has become a coffee-tavern, and those who prefer tea or coffee to beer and spirits can turn in there to get what they want.

Thomas Morgan’s old house has now been pulled down;it has always been pretty near the ground, and it carried on its back a tremendous load of thatch to bring warmth and shelter to its inmates. Thomas and Mari now rest in their ‘eternal home’ in the nearby cemetery. Mr Williams the Glog, decided it was high time to rid the old house of its heavy burden of wood, clay and thatch and so it was pulled down to make room for a neat, compact house for Thomas Morgan junior.

Old Brynffynnon has also been swept away, and everything here now, apart from the church, is new. Instead of the small house, with its white walls sheltering under the ridge of the church, and the sign of the pine-end, which was a bit too high to reach from the ground, a new hotel was put up, equal to anything from the streets of Cardiff. Mr Jenkins, worthy successor to his father, has made many improvements. It was no small venture to build a big house in such a spot, but it has been well built.

6) The Cwm (p.124)

We are now in Cwm Clydach, a whole village completely in ruins. The old houses in front of Ty Coch, Ty Draw and Ty Canol are all gone and so is the Pandy. Cwm Clydach was once a place of importance, far more important and populous than Ynysybwl, until the Parish Houses were build on Mynachdy land. To these houses went the aged men and women of the parish, and not the Cwm.

7) five stories about Guto ‘Nyth Bran (p. 90-94) Famous in Welsh culture and has become the legend of Llanwynno

A little higher up, on the same hiss a mile or so from Troedrhiwtrwyn, stands another old farmhouse, named Nythbran. There’s nothing unusual about the place, which is and old white-washed house with a roof of grey stones, standing several fields up from the river…...I have the history of one man who lived there, and he has made the place famous and well-known to all, even to people in North Wales. The house is not more distinguished in position or resources than any other farm in the parish, but it has been immortalized owing to its connection with the fastest runner in the country, perhaps the world - Guto Nythbran. The story of Guto or Gruffudd Morgan is beyond all doubt. I have spoken to old people, whose fathers knew him, and one in particular, Dafydd Rhys of Llwynperdid, whose father had often run with Guto and helped him when training on Mynydd Gwyngul. Guto was born in Llwyncelyn in 1700, but his parents moved to Nythbran when he was very young. He grew up a fleet-footed boy, and there was no-one who could beat him on the flat, on the steep hillsides, or on the wild mountain top. He was so fast that he could catch a young sheep whenever he liked. Many had performed similar feats, but Guto did things that had never been done since the days of Kind David. Sometimes he would be sent by his mother to Llantrisant or Aberdare for yeast. It is said that his mother would put the kettle on the fire for breakfast as he was leaving on the errand. He would cross the Rhondda river by the Pyllau Duon near Britannia, climb up the side of the mountain in a dead straight line, taking no heed of road, wall, hedge or ditch, and although the distance was over twelve miles, Guto would be back with the yeast in time for breakfast.

His mother once sent him on a message to Aberdare while she had some business to attend to, with hopes of a gossip and a pinch of snuff, in Hafod Fach. Away he sped over Cefn Gwyngul to Cwmaman and Aberdare with the message. His mother thought it was time she returned to prepare Guto’s dinner, only to find that he was back. She would not believe he had been to Aberdare until it was proved by the fulfilment of the request in the message.

There is a story and a tradition that he was once asked by his father to gather up the sheep ont he mountain and bring them down to the yard at Nythbran. “Go,” said his father, “and take the dogs with you, and bring the sheep down as quickly as you can.” Guto answered, “Keep the dogs here, I’ll do better without them,” and away he went.

He brought the flock into the yard in a very short time, without the aid of man or dog. “Did you have any trouble with the sheep Guto?” asked the old man. “No,” said Guto, “except with that reddish-grey one over there, but I caught her and broke her leg.” “Listen boy,” said the father, “that’s a hare. What on earth are you thinking of? Where did you find her?”

Guto replied, “She rose from the ferns on Llwyncelyn mountain, and before she reached the Hafod, I caught her and then she had a nap with the flock.!” “You are a silly fellow,” answered his father.

I heard many of the older people tell of Guto’s great courage when he followed the fox with the Llanwynno hounds all the way to a corner in Cardiganshire. It was dusk when the fox, two hounds and Guto reached a spot near a gentleman’s house, and both Guto and the hounds were too exhausted to catch the fox. Guto was warmly welcomed by the gentleman, and later ran several races with the man’s horse, which had lost him much money, through having been beaten by another gentleman’s horse. The result was that Guto ran against the man’s horse and beat him, winning back all the money which had been lost, and more with it. Guto returned to the Rhondda Valley, where he was greeted only by the strong breezes of Mynydd Gwyngul singing, “See the conquering hero comes.”

I can remember hearing some of the old people - many over eighty years of age and in their graves by now - relating with great relish of the journeys and race s of Guto. Although he completed long journeys in what appear to us to be incredibly short times, these old-timers had not the slightest doubt of their truth. They could recall his preparations for a race. He would sleep on a warm manure heap in front of the stable, the natural heat of which would loosen his limbs until his muscles were like whip-cord and as flexible a whalebones. Although there were many fast runners to be found on the hills in this pastoral community, there was no one to touch him on a 12 mile race. He was more like one of the deer Solomon mentioned on the hills of Judea. It is on record, as I said before, when he led the hounds to Cardiganshire, that he kept up with the dogs over hill and dale, through the briers of the lowland and the solitude of the upland, over moor and meadow, often capturing the fox by its tail.

Sian the Shop was Guto’s best girlfriend. She rushed a lot of money on his legs, and it is said that many rich gentlemen in the country today are some of her descendants or have derived their wealth through her. Near Troed-rhiw-y-cymer there were two small houses, and no doubt many still remember these two thatched houses as the Shop, the home of Sian, whose name will always be linked with Guto Nythbran. She made a small fortune when a race was arranged between Guto and and English army captain from Carmarthen, stationed with his troops at Hirwaun. The course was over four miles and the prize money was £500, which Guto won with the greatest of ease. Then came a challenge from another Englishman, named Prince, for a match over a twelve mile course for a great sum of money. It was joyfully accepted by Guto and his friends, and away they went to Caerphilly to arrange the terms and the course. A day was fixed and the runners were to start from Newport and finish by Bedwas Church, beyond Caerphilly. Hundreds of pounds had been wagered on the race, and the wealthy men of the parish had gone along to bet on Guto’s feet. Sian the Shop, now regarded as a rich woman, was there, of course. They said she wagered an apron full of sovereigns on Guto’s legs. She was always generous where Guto was concerned, but this time she risked her all on him. The runners started, and they soon left Newport behind, with Prince in the lead and drawing father ahead all the time. Guto lagged behind and stopped to have a chat with some onlookers until Prince was well out of sight. But when Guto saw it was time to move, he said, “I must remember Sian the Shop,” and he sped like a hind over the dale. When some of the other man’s supporters saw that Guto was gaining, they threw glass on the road to cut his feet or cause him to slip, but he leapt over it and ran like a deer. As he was going up the steep slope towards Bedwas church, Guto overtook Prince, and on reaching him, asked him if he couldn’t travel a little faster. It appears Guto ran for a time side by side with Prince, but remembering Sian and her money, he ran on like a mountain breeze and finished the course in seven minutes under the hour - 12 miles in 53 minutes. So overjoyed was Sian the Shop that she ran forward to clap Guto on the back, shouting, “ Guto Nythbran forever. Well done Guto.” So she clapped him heartily on the back, little thinking of the hard race he had run and that his heart was beating fast as a result of the final spurt. His heart jumped out of its place, and Guto finished, not only the course of twelve miles, but his last race on earth; and while Sian the Shop was taking her wining of two aprons full of gold, Guto was closing his eyes on all the trouble and kindness, the wealth and poverty of this world, at the age of 37.

Great was the grief in Llanwynno. The remains of this wonderful man were placed to rest under the south wall of Gwyno’s church, and on the grave was erected a suitably inscribed stone, on which was carved a heart, indicating how the great runner died. Twenty years ago the people of the parish placed a large tombstone as a new memorial on Guto’s grave, and on it are the following two verses, the work of Meudwy Glan Elai and Glanffrwd.

(translation)

“He was a grand and courageous runner,

A giant who always won;

May his name forever

Be kept fresh and radiant.

This stone was placed by us

As a token of affection;

May his ashes e’re remind us

Of this justly famous man.”

I have not exaggerated the story of Guto, but rather depicted the highlights sorted out from the thicket of tradition.