They say that near Ferryside in Carmarthenshire there is the thirteenth century village of St. Ishmael, But it is rarely seen. That is because it is submerged in the bay.It isnt clear why it disappeared. West Wales was a remote place and news didnt often travel very far. Often the news never made the leap from Welsh into English. Often it was never written down. There is certainly no record of what happened. The local people say that it was swamped by an enormous tidal wave caused by a volcanic eruption in the Bristol Channel but here is no evidence to support this.These days the ruins are rarely exposed, especially since they have diminished over time. Local farmers have on occasion helped themselves to the stone to build up their walls when it has emerged from the sea.Of course the wind and the tide continue to do their work.Some say that it isnt a village at all. They say that the stonework that is sometimes exposed is part of an elaborate fish weir, built to trap fish for Whitland Abbey. It fell into disuse when it became silted up. This makes sense too.The parish of St Ishmael lies on the estuary of the River Towy and this might give a clue what might have happened. A catastrophic storm of some kind could have re-arranged the shoreline. Certainly the tides constantly change the landscape. The shifting sands of Cefn Sidan, which is always reshaping itself, are never still. Maps drawn at different times throughout history show a changing shoreline. Maps of the estuary where three rivers the Gwendraeth, the Taf and the Towy - flow into the sea have never been much more than an approximation.The church of St Ishmael is still there, built upon higher ground, and the main railway line to London rushes along next to estuary whilst the stones rest quietly and mysteriously alongside.It is a perfect example of hidden history. There are still untold and undiscovered stories from the past wherever we look. It is our job sometimes just to move aside the clinging sands that obscure them so that we can see more clearly.

On Saturday I was out once again, meeting my public. This time it was Borders in Cardiff, a shop in the old David Morgan building on The Hayes. It is a nice shop, large and busy and I was certainly very well looked after by the staff, especially Vicki. However, promotion remains hard work. My grandmother was a hard working and successful market trader in South Yorkshire but I am afraid I dont seem to have inherited her gifts. People out and about on a Saturday dont want to be harassed; they just want to be left alone. They certainly dont want to be approached by a writer with a wild look in his eyes. I can clear an area around me almost instantly, so sales in the Biography section must have plummeted, because that is where they put me between bargain cookery books and Buy One Get One Free offers.I did manage to waylay the unsuspecting on a couple of occasions and I was questioned for a while by one young woman who seemed to believe that the book was in some way about architecture.Even after I had explained it all to her.A way to go, as they say.Everyone who looks at the book is impressed by the production values and is fascinated by the stories, but it is hard to get people to commit their cash in these difficult financial times. Still, it is always interesting to observe the people around you. If nothing else, it helps the time pass.One young woman was pacing up and down in a very agitated state. She was shouting into her mobile phone. It had nothing to do with that! Thats not why we split up! She stamped off and then reappeared a little later , still shouting, and getting very excitable about bed linen. If it was genuine then it was mightily tense. If it was an avant-garde type of street theatre then it was highly effective. Either way I thought it best not to intrude. A book that contains murder might not have been the best idea. On the other hand...In the end I sold four books, which I was quite pleased about. I was only there for a little over an hour. One young man and his partner strode up very purposefully. Yes they wanted a book. His mother had just given him a car so he wanted to buy her a present in return. Stories in Welsh Stone was apparently ideal.I was pleased to oblige. It is important that we all do our best to keep families in a state of harmony. You do wonder though what sort of car it was and what condition it was in.So Jenny, if you do ever read this blog, I hope you will feel that you got the best end of the bargain...Next stop Aberystwyth in Waterstones Bookshop, on Saturday 16 May 2009.

The facts of the story are simple.Charles Jeffreys, a gentleman of independent means. Prosperous. Had a big house called Gwynfryn near Aberystwyth. A county magistrate.He was sued by Evan Williams, a farm worker. 23 years old.The crime? A violent assault on 4 May 1870.You see, Jeffreys thought that Williams was a burglar and you can understand why, but he wasnt. I better explain.Evan Williams was courting Sarah Williams, a housemaid in Jeffreys house. She invited her beloved to come to the house one night where they could indulge in the Welsh courtship practice of bundling.He took his pal with him for company. This was Evan Jenkins, who was keen to visit Ellen Jones, another servant at Gwynfryn. Jenkins was also to sue Jeffreys for assault as we shall see.Anyway, they turned up, full of anticipation I am sure, at 8.30 pm and were told by the cook, Eliza , to wait until the man-servant had finished his supper. The two boys slipped into the wash house and took off their boots. Well, its important.Then, when the coast was clear, they nipped silently up the back stairs to the maids bedroom.Now, this bundling business.It did exercise quite a lot of opinion at the time since it wasnt an English way of proceeding, but there was nothing complicated about it. All very straightforward actually.The two sweethearts would lie side by side in bed, talking. It was called car war y gwely courting in bed. And the staid English saw it as immoral, pagan behaviour? Cant think why.Lets be honest, it is not without its attractions. Comfortable. Warm. And most importantly, dry. No secret assignations in a wet barn. And it beats standing around in the driving Welsh rain. It gives you a chance to talk about other things too, not just how wet your feet are.As you might imagine, bundling was blamed for all kinds of immorality, for high levels of rural illegitimacy or a hasty marriage to cover shame. You will not be surprised to learn that Ministers preached against it. Bundling was condemned from some pulpits as The Great Sin of Wales. Parents and employers were urged to stamp it out. But the point about the rain swings it for me.Anyway, picture the scene. By 10.00 pm the candle was snuffed out. We have Evan and Sarah bundling in one bedstead and Evan and Ellen in another. All very cosy Im sure. Eliza the cook was in a small bed on the floor, presumably feeling a little left out. Of course everyone was fully dressed, obviously, though the two boys had taken their coats off. Well, it doesnt rain indoors.And everything was fine. As the court report indicates and I shall, where possible, let those involved speak in their own words, as reported to the court, They continued in this position and chatted away until early morn. Very cosy. Entirely innocent I am sure.Then, at 2.00am, they heard someone coming upstairs. Mrs. Jeffreys had heard voices you see. Sure enough, she appeared in the bedroom with a lighted candle. Evan Williams attempt to hide under the counterpane was futile. Hed been spotted. So whilst he was grabbing his coat, she was screaming downstairs to her husband.Charlie! Charlie!It was clearly time for the boys to make their excuses, especially when Charlie appeared, carrying a big stick. Hed been outside, searching the garden, thinking the girls had been talking to men from their window. But it was worse than that. They were inside. It was two in the morning. He was not a happy bunny.I beg your pardon sir, said Evan Williams.I am going to kill you, replied Mr. Jeffreys. To be honest, he does seem rather tetchy.He attacked Williams with his stick, immediately breaking his nose. The poor boy crashed back into the washstand and Williams and Jenkins desperately tried to get downstairs, with blows raining down on their heads and shoulders. They got into the kitchen but the backdoor was locked and bolted. Trapped.In the kitchen there was Jeffreys brother in law, the Reverend Mr. Truman, who happened to be staying at Gwynfryn. This was not the sort of nocturnal entertainment that came his way that often. Tonight he had a ring-side seat. He watched as Jeffreys put his stick on the table and started to thump the two boys mightily and to man-handle them along the hall and out of the front door.According to Reverend Mr. Truman they seemed rather glad to get away. One of them was heard to say, Well I shall never come here again, which shows that at least hed picked up the hint. They also stopped to pick up their boots, though they were apparently too frightened to put them on.Things hadnt quite gone to plan. A bad night all round.The Reverend gentleman, on giving evidence, did say that it was a lucky thing that Jeffreys had not firearms with him, as he might have fired upon them, under the impression that they were burglars. And that was surely the point. As the defence pointed out, could the custom of bundling be any justification for the presence of strange men in a gentlemans house at any time they pleased to come? A good point I think, and certainly one the two girls had ever considered.As it was, the boys injuries were extensive. Cuts, bruises, black eyes, a dislocated thumb and a broken nose. The girls were dismissed. Ellen was back at home with her parents in Ruthin and Sarah was back with her Dad, a master butcher also in RuthinLoves young dream shattered.Ellen told the court that she didnt know whether Jenkins and herself would make a match of it. Evan Williams, on the basis of his annual wages of 14 10s, had, apparently, made up his mind to marry Sarah, though what she thought about the idea isnt clear. What is clear however is that he wasnt going to go courting according to the custom of the country again. The public gallery was quite amused by this comment.But hang on a minute, he had issues.He was unable to go to work as a result of this misfortune. Not only that, but he was in a sick club. And the sick club declined to give him his sick pay because of the way in which hed received his injuries. On the whole, his evening of bundling hadnt worked out at all well.So he wanted compensation for his injuries.The crux of the case was whether Jeffreys had the right to take the law into his own hands in this way.Mr. Johnes expressed some sympathy, speaking as one gentleman to another. The servant girls had violated the trust put in them. But Jeffreys response had been excessive. The assault was serious and the men didnt retaliate or resist. So Jenkins and Williams were entitled to damages. So far so good. They had in fact asked for 50 each, but his honour hoped the jury would consider the gross misconduct in trespassing in Mr. Jeffreys house for what was clearly an immoral purpose. Minimal damages seemed right to him. But he was out of step with rural sensibilities.The jury were only out for 15 minutes and, on their return, showed more sympathy than Mr. Johnes for the old way of doing things. They awarded 15 to each of the would-be lovers, which was the equivalent of Williams annual wages.The English press were rather amused by the whole business, especially since the jury showed some sympathy for the nocturnal adventurers. The Illustrated Police News that ran with the story - and commissioned some lively art work that showed the assault in the bedroom points out that bundling also happened in Scotland. It then goes on In Orkney the very same practise prevails and is no doubt the cause of much rural immorality and shame. Though why Orkney should be identified as a seething hotbed of immorality and shame, rather than the Scottish mainland isnt explained. Perhaps hed had a bad experience with a kipper. He continues, Welsh courtship is a curiosity. No woman, however humble, shows proper self respect who allows a man to approach her unbecomingly and irreverently.Quite right too.But I am afraid to say that these are obviously the reflections of a man who has no experience of Welsh rain.

I spend a lot of my time rooting around the damp undergrowth of the internet, like a pig looking for truffles. Sometimes you find them and sometimes you dont. And sometimes you can pick up a faint scent. Often it is fascinating stuff but it doesnt really lead anywhere. You know there is a story there,but you just haven't got enough material. Details have slipped through the fingers of history.A gravestone is the most important item. There is no point having a story but having no headstone. That has been the central part of the project since we started. I have been known to cheat when I have found a really good story. I did this with Martha Nash from Swansea. We know where she was buried but the grave itself has disappeared. It was such a sad story I wanted to publish anyway. (See the November 2008 edition of Welsh Country Magazine)But generally there isnt much point if I havent got a headstone or a substantial story. But, as I say, sometimes...I came across this little story some months ago. It comes from 1607, which means that a grave is almost an impossibility. It might have survived if it was that of a nobleman, but as the grave of an ordinary person? 400 years ago? No chance.The story comes from Hanmer in Flintshire and concerns Elinor Evans who was a maidservant. She had injured her ankle and a surgeon named William Jones was called. She had financial assistance from her friends and neighbours to pay for treatment. It cost 30 shillings. You can judge for yourself whether she got value for money.You see, it did not go well. Once he had the money the surgeon neglected his duties. In a short tyme (her) legg and bonn did putrifye and petrishe. Now personally I would regard this as bad news. Elinor did too.She called him back and gave him more money, this time to perform an amputation. For those of you who know Flauberts Madame Bovary there are certain echoes here. But it gets worse. He now decided to devote more time to her than he had originally, for he did so perswade and entise (her) to yeald and consent to his leud and fleshly desire that he begat her with child. Perhaps in those pre-anaesthetic days it was the only way he had to take her mind off things. Perhaps his best hope of success came with a woman who might struggle to run away, but perhaps I am being unkind.Jones had been bound over to appear at Denbigh Great Sessions, since he was being pursued for maintenance and he had gone into hiding. Sadly I dont know any more than this, but it certainly adds a little something to the traditional doctor/patient relationship.But if Elinor had had access to those amputation tools the story might have ended very differently.

We went to Anglesey to carry out vital research. Well actually it is more accurate to say that we went to enjoy ourselves. Graveyards can be an unattractive proposition when it is raining but in the pleasant weather we had, it was very nice to stroll around and read the messages our ancestors had left for us. It may have been February but it was dry and the countryside around us was pleasant, with a definite hint of spring. The roads were clear and the towns and villages slowly emerging after their winter hibernation. It felt as if North Wales was ours. It is exactly the right time of year to escape the urgent concerns of everyday life that can be so insistent. And for me, of course, that involves seeking out the slumbering stories beneath the stones.We drove over the Menai Bridge, negotiated the roadworks and made our first stop in Beaumaris. It was lovely, the beau marais (beautiful marsh) that the Normans identified, with fantastic views over the incoming tide to the Great Orme. It was a pleasure to arrive and to taste the hint in the air that spring was just around the corner.We went to the Triple 8 coffee shop for lunch on Church Street, in a distinctive building that had been a Wesleyan Chapel and then a fudge factory. The tiny kitchen produced an excellent soup velvet smooth sweet potato and red pepper and we had a chance to explore the art gallery in the same building, which had excellent pictures of glass by Jean Bell.But then of course it was off to work, to the parish church a short distance up the road. We wanted to see the tomb of Siwan, the illegitimate daughter of King John and the wife of Llywelyn Fawr (Llywelyn the Great). Hers is an absolutely fascinating story and one I really want to write up as soon as I can. The tomb is easy to find, for it is just inside the church. But the great thing was that we found another tomb, a superb chest tomb, by the door. Thats the thing you see. No matter how much you prepare and plan, you must still be receptive to the unexpected, even if it threatens to take you in a completely unexpected direction.We found this inscription.Here in hope of a joyful resurrection lieth John Hughes, gentleman, descended from the worthy family of Plas Coch. The loss of his sight from nine days old, God was pleased to compensate with some inward illuminating gifts. So good and gracious is God! His knowledge in the Holy Scriptures, poetry and music was wonderful. He sung in seven several languages, composed in some as well as sung. Thus blind and musical like Homer he pleased himself and diverted others. He knew the revolutions of the moon, the feasts and fasts of the church, whether backward or forward for sixty years. He was interred here the tenth day of December 1710.What an unexpected pleasure. How can anyone say that snooping around cemeteries is grim and morbid when you come across unexpected pleasures like this?And how many of us today would merit such an obituary?