The Magical World of Tylluan Penry

It’s surprising how cold it is at the moment. I could even see my breath out of doors yesterday morning. However I must admit I haven’t noticed any real anomalies in the way the plants and birds are behaving in my part of the world. Even if there were, these aberrations are far from unique, and folklore is full of references to it. An apple tree with both blossoms and fruit on the same branch, for example, foretold disaster. Exactly what type of disaster wasn’t always specified, but most ‘unlucky’ plants seem to have foretold death – presumably that being considered the most unlucky thing for most people.

Most people, as they get older, seem to hark back to the days of their childhood and remember only long, hot, glorious summers. Not me. Mine were always cold, wet and miserable. My mother always talked about the long hot glorious summers of her youth – she might as well have been describing a childhood spent on the far side of the planet, not fifty yards away in the same street.

Perception of Winters brought more of the same. My winters were cold and damp, there was ice inside the windows, and the season was marked by coughs, chilblains (oh, the pain of those bloody things, I can feel them still!). I remember snow but it was always an ‘event’ somehow… and even when it came the adults did nothing but moan about it. My parents’ generation however remembered all winters as cold and crisp, with fresh falls of snow every morning and icicles dripping off the rooftops. When the thaw came it was never wet and dirty, but seemed to melt away overnight.

I really cannot believe that the seasons changed so much in such a short time. Maybe their memories were selective – and maybe mine were too. Maybe the whole world is living in different realities, all chosen selectively.

This is a little (true) story I promised I would write up for Usksider. It’s not terribly spooky, but perhaps it illustrates how odd things can happen when you’re not expecting them, things you never really explain. It all happened a very long time ago, but I shall try and keep the details to bare minimum without embellishment.

Many years ago when I was young, my family went up to Ross on Wye for a day trip. I think we just went to see the place, we certainly didn’t have any relatives there or anything like that. There were about six of us altogether, although on this particular day I remember there was just my father, myself and one of my brothers walking down one of the narrow little streets in the town.

It was the afternoon, and I strongly remember that there was a small row of houses (I thought of them as cottages, and looking at pictures of Ross now I think they could have been the Rudhall Almshouses, but obviously I can’t swear to that.) My father always walked quickly, it was a job to keep up with him, and I was always a bit of a dawdler anyway (and truth be told, I still am.)

I remember noticing that the cottages had maroon coloured front doors, and that the paint was ‘flat’ or matt looking. I looked in at the tiny window of one and it was lit by candlelight. I’m not that old, so this was unusual even then! Also there was a dusty, cobwebby look to the place as though I was looking at it through net curtains.

Nobody else remarked on the house and I didn’t mention it. Even now I am prepared to accept that this may have been the house of some eccentric who dwelt by candlelight.

Then my father, who had slowed down his walk considerably suddenly said, ‘For God’s sake, let’s get out of here! This place feels like the plague!’ and he hurried us all away.

Later, he began asking around (he’d talk to anyone and everyone, my father – it’s probably where I get it from) and discovered the place he had taken exception to had at one time been known as the plague cottages. Now I can’t vouch for this last bit being true, but I’ve searched on the net and discovered that near to the Rudhall Almshouses is the Plague Cross which marks the burial site of over three hundred plague victims who died in 1637.

I can’t offer any explanation. If I’d been older I would have asked my father (and others!) a lot more questions and probably written up the account. Maybe he was just particularly sensitive and picked up on the sadness of those times.

Most amazing of all, I’ve found that almost everyone I’ve ever known can tell me a similar story…. Is it really paranormal – or just another facet of reality?

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann, for more details watch this space!