her. The lad was never seen again, but the old folk used to say that his voice was sometimes to be' heard singing to his wife, like the bells of Cantre'r Gwaelod, 4 deep beneath the waters. Having been used to believing that it was the lure of mermaids' singing that drew poor sailors to their watery graves, it seemed to me that there was somehow a hint of truth in the Zennor story that had turned the temptation on its head. As I came out of the church and looked about me at the quiet hollow and the cluster of ancient houses that huddled there, and then towards the inviting blue sea that filled the far horizon, I could almost have believed that every kind of magic and fantasy was a daily possibility in Cornwall.
Gwannyn yn y Ddinas ( Gwasg Gee, 1975)
I'm old enough now to be able to begin cherishing my memories, and, to bring them to mind with a delicious feeling of nostalgia. And in living them over again I sometimes find myself following a pattern' or sequence of images that are connected in some way or. another. One of these came back to me vividly the other evening in Llandrindod, 1, through which I happened to be passing on a short holiday with my family.
The very name of the place, Llandrindod, brings back a host of memories from the days of my childhood. An aunt of mine had lived there for quite a long while and I used to spend many a happy week in her home being pampered in all sorts of ways, wandering through the parks or practising what passed for rowing on the lake, chasing after the red squirrels that swarmed in those days in the wood near the lake, or taking the tasteless waters of the Pump Room, 1 where to this day the glass that was used by some prince or other in 1910 can still be seen.
But as far as I know, there's no place in these particular memories for caravans.
Nor do they figure in my recollection of the other holidays I spent with other aunts and uncles, and since not even one of them lived in