Richard Lloyd

INTRODUCTION
Food for thought, in abundance !
Nothing quite focuses the mind as does a stroke. What had hitherto been the normal, everyday functioning of your so familiar body suddenly becomes alien.
Strokes, being idiosyncratic, affect each individual quite differently, and the degree of disability varies enormously; but virtually every affected victim undergoes, overnight, a life changing experience. So it was for me.
Having enjoyed a particularly agreeable early evening pub meal in the equally agreeable company of an attractive violinist friend and colleaque, I gallantly bade her farewell and eventually retired to bed in the contented solitude of my home. I awoke in the early hours of the morning with that familiar feeling of \"pins and needles\", invariably associated with the adoption of an awkward sleeping position; on this occasion, however, and despite the vigorous application of massage, the sensation persisted. \"Ullow, ullow\" I thought, \"something\'s amiss here, mate !\"
Thankfully still able to move about, I donned some clothes, went downstairs and swallowed a humble aspirin. The wisdom of this action and, indeed, the potency of the aspirin has been indicated to me some years previously when I suffered a brief disturbance of vision. The very attractive ( so my vision was already recovering ) female locum who attended asked if I had any aspirins in the house, to which I inanely replied, \"Why love, have you got a headache !?\"On this occasion, however, having contacted the emergency out-of-hours service I was, surprisingly, requested to \"pop up to the hospital\" which happened to be just a few miles up the road: amazingly, I had no problem in driving my doughty Renault Clio to Llantrisant\'s Royal Glamorgan Hospital even though, unbeknown to me, my stroke was increasingly beginning to affect the right side of my body. Having parked my car near the emergency department, I assumed that in an hour or so I\'d be able to drive back home to the comfort of my own bed. In fact, I would remain in that hospital for two weeks, and eleven months would elapse before I would be able to resume any driving whatsoever: and then only after a rigorous series of physical and psychological assessments, held at the inspirational Rookwood hospital, Cardiff. I was eventually adjudged fit to drive by the DVLA after which I purchased a delightful new Fiat Panda Automatic specially adapted to suit my particular disability.
Meanwhile, however, following my initial examination at the Royal, I was allocated a bed in Ward 12, and within 4 hours of my arrival underwent a variety of tests, including a CT scan. Whilst all these activities were ongoing, i was becoming increasingly aware of the stroke coursing through my body, with the consequent weakness of my right leg and arm; but thankfully, neither my speech, sight nor cognitive faculties were adversely affected.
Being a fairly gregarious individual who enjoys stimulating conversation, I dread to think of the psychological effect of speech impairment on anyone, and, being such an inveterate \" gas bag\", me in particular.
So there I was, Jeff Lloyd, fairly well known, even notorious, as a competent fiddle player, teacher and orchestral conductor, occupying a cosy hospital bed with plenty to contemplate. Although my right side had virtually given up on me, and my gingerly excursions to the toilet were made only with the support of a zimmer frame, I was not in any pain and did not feel ill in the accepted sense of the word. My appetite was as healthy as ever, though my sinful desire for \"naughty\" foods was immediately frowned upon by my nursing \"angels\". So my gastronomic cravings for juicy fillet steaks complemented with fatty french fries and succulent mushrooms, all immersed in an exotic sauce and ultimately washed down with a vintage claret, were suddenly thwarted. Instead, sensible Shepherd\'s Pie accompanied by a wholesome salad, and followed by an alluring fresh English apple, fast became my new food regime.
A fortuitous advantage of my admittance to the Royal early in October, 2003 was that it co-incided with the rugby world cup. We Celtic male patients were naturally glued to the TV set: and whenever the onfield action became overtly exciting, our ward would be invaded by a veritable cavalry charge of nurses anxious to check our collective blood pressure levels, and with dire threats to \"pull the Plug\" unless we calmed down !
Whilst I can honestly assert that, in the immediate aftermath of my stroke, I never lapsed into a depressed state of mind: the realization that i would probably never again play the violin, quite understandably, gave me much food for thought. One could not blithely erase from one\'s psyche a beloved activity which had become ingrained as the dominant part of one\'s life for over fifty years. Predictably, of course, a few of my erstwhile musical colleagues wiley observed that my enforced absence from public performance might even have acted as a balm to those of especially sensitive musical ears ! With friends like these eh........
Residing as I did in the pleasant, but ever expanding village of Talbot Green at the foot of the Rhondda valleys I was fortunate to have first rate care upon my discharge from hospital. I was very soon referred as an out-patient to the ancient, dillapitaded, but heroic Llwynypia hospital\'s stroke unit. Indeed, my daughter Cathy, a GP in Yorkshire rang me to triumphally proclaim that - \"Dad, you couldn\'t have had your stroke in a better place !\" - and went on to explain that the Rhondda\'s stroke unit is regarded as one of the best in the country ! she bemoaned the absence of equable services for her own affected patients. Even as I write, a brand new state of the art stroke rehabilitation centre is being built on the valley floor, replacing the old buildings which have clung perilously high up on the mist-shrouded mountain of Llwynypia for decades. Not a bad advance for a supposedly socially deprived area. But lets face it, for at least half a century, the Rhondda has led the way in so many vital facets of life, and no less so as in the fundamental elements of health care, education and culture. But more of that later.
After a stroke, those mechanical actions controlled by the central nervous system, which have been taken for granted since early childhood, are no longer intact and cannot be relied upon to respond to your bidding. Simple actions like picking up a pen, coin, cup, book or newspaper becomes difficult or impossible. Therefore, the delicate finite art of holding a violin bow, itself achieved only after years of diligent practice with all senses intact, becomes unachievable. My own feeble attempts to replicate that original bow hold was futile and fraught with such frustration, that I quickly dispensed with the attempts. However, all was not lost, as Diane, Llwynypia\'s tough, no nonsense senior physiotherapist gradually proved to me. By employing a regime of exercises which i suspect were originally devised by Attila the Hun, she eventually had me walking with a reasonably normal gait. I would be upbraided with the verbal chastisement, \"Jeff, for God\'s sake stop walking like a man who\'s had a b***** stroke !!\"
The physical demands she imposed on her patients were, of course, supremely tempered with a patient compassion and tender understanding. I shall be forever indebted to Diane Davies and her dedicated colleagues for restoring a self confidence that had been severly dented. I later received similar care and attention from the ultra gentle Anna Evans and her brilliant team at Bridgend\'s Princess of Wales hospital.
Ok, so I couldn\'t hold a bow; but wasn\'t I still actively involved in orchestral conducting ? And, unlike Dudley Moore\'s one legged attempt to audition for the part of Tarzan, at least I still possessed two arms which, thankfully, still moved and enabled me to resume some baton-less conducting ( I actually conducted in a concert just three months after my stroke ). The other furtive advantage is, as Michael Caine would have it - \"Not many people know this\"--, but you never hear conductors play a wrong note ! Much more on \"carvers\" or \"stickwaggers\" later.
My humble advice to any stroke victim is to make the most of that which you have left and capitalise on it. Also, with the skilful guidance of physio/ occupational therapists you will definitely make progress. It may take some years, but you will notice tiny, infinitessimal improvements each day: celebrate these small forward steps as certain sensations partly or wholly return. I\'m still getting a satisfied thrill each time I observe yet another tiny improvement which was absent until today: I am also mindful of how much worse it might have been.
Still in retention of my thinking abilities, I can now at long last, write the book that my dear, late friend, Mark Roberts, vowed we\'d write together, of the laughs, sorrows, joys, highs and lows, that we shared together through music.
Well, so much for the medical preamble; but I\'d now like to take you on a journey around my life, in which music has played such an important part.

CHAPTER 1
Early beginnings and the dark winds of war
That irritating little man sporting a pathetic apology for a moustache, and with slick hair drooping limply over his forehead, certainly gave me an inauspicious start in life. Dear Adolf Hitler, had already been strutting his stuff over much of Europe for quite a few months before I decided to emerge from the cosy warmth of my mother\'s womb on November, 20th. 1939, therby bestowing upon myself, the dubious status of being an early, \' war baby\' !
This momentous event took place in the tiny village of Nat-y-Cafyn, nestling smugly between Crynant and Seven Sisters, in the Dulais valley, just a few miles up the road from the historic town of Neath. Of course, I was blissfully unaware of the terror, privations and fearsome dramas that held Britain enthralled during the next five years. Indeed, my earliest general recollection, and of the war in particular, was being roused from by bed by the heavy rhythmical beat of marching men, American troops, en route to Swansea, in preparation for the \"D\" Day assault, that would precede the liberation of Europe. I clearly remember rushing outside the house, and \'marching\', with my buttie, alongside these gigantic warriors. Just outside our village, and in a raucous American southern drawl, the command, \"Halt, at eeeeaze !\", was given, and the soldiers slumped wearily down for a short break in the verdant hedgerows lining the main road.
I gasped in awe as, out of their bulging knapsacks came all manners of luxuries never previously seen, or imagined, by me. We two rustic Welsh kids were bombarded with chocolate bars and juicy slivers of sugary chewing gum, which we proceeded to gorge voraciously, long after the Yanks had moved on.
Predictably, our delicately poised digestive systems, attuned to the basic diet imposed by war time rationing, could not cope with this sudden invasion of rich alien treats; in a short time, up it all came ! But, between bouts of nausea, I noticed that one of the American soldiers had marched off minus his dull, green helmet ( possibly a chargeable offence ). This helmet instantly became a prized possession, which quickly diverted our minds from our earlier gastronomical discomfort. Adhering strictly to the schoolboys\' accepted code of, \"finders, keepers\", i promptly claimed the newly acquired item of military headgear, as my own, and rushed home, eager to show it, proudly, to my mam 1 her reaction was quite uncanny: ever the practical homemaker, she announced that : \"It\'s just what we need to keep the coal in !\" And, for many years to come, it fulfilled its newly designated purpose, housed cosily by the open fireside, the ideal repository for lumps of small coal !
During the war years, our little village escaped relatively unscathed; but one night, returning from one of many raids on Swansea, a Luftwaffe pilot decided to ease his bomb load by dropping a few hundred pounds of lethal explosives on a nearby field. this caused the deaths of five cows, a few sheep, and peppered the local rugby pitch with four enormous craters. The local rugger boys never forgave that German flyer for his inconsiderate attitude toward our national game; but the germans have traditionally, been far more appreciative of the round ball version of football. Some small mitigation, I suppose !
Many returning Welsh soldiers, invariably, returned with trophies of all kinds - German weaponary, splendidly tailored Nazi uniforms etc, often purloined from the defeated Wermacht. But, unbelievably, a resourceful young serviceman from our tiny tiny hamlet, returned with a sizeable section of the cockpit of a Messerschmidt fighter plane ! One can only but marvel at just how on earth he managed to drag this cumbersome souvenir all the way home. Anyway, in common with our Yankee helmet, it was put to immediate practical use by his delighted parents, being variously utilised to encourage the hatching of chickens\' eggs, and the growing of beautiful tomatoes !
Another war trophy of my parents which survives to this day, having been treated more reverentially than the poor old helmet, was my father\'s Home Guard bayonet, complete with shiny leather scabbard. Oddly enough, this deadly weapon, now in the proud possession of my son Richard - a keen collector of military regalia - was never actually used in anger on the fields of battle in France or Germany: my father\'s instinctive pugnacity and pugilistic inclinations were, fortunately, not matched by his feeble eyesight.
Consequently, Churchill\'s War Office wisely judged that George Gwynfor Lloyd, unable to quickly differentiate between friend or foe, would better serve the nation as a member of that glorious body of men, the Home Guard, in which he achieved the esteemed rank of corporal !
My father was a self educated man who did his stint \'underground\', but who educated himself to the surface, where he worked for many years in the finance department of the Evans Bevan corporation, which owned the collieries, breweries and pubs in the locality - meaning that they controlled the entire Dulais valley ! Predictably, the miners would be paid in cash on the Friday afternoon; but much of that money would be recouped via the public houses by the following Monday ! Tough times, and tough men; but even tougher and incredibly resourceful women !
Many of these hardy men who laboured daily in the foul, coal-dust laden mines, possessed a robust religious faith, and every Sunday, resplendent in their sombre \'Sunday best\', suits, would attend the local chapels for morning service, afternoon, Sunday School, and final evening service. Dragged along reluctantly, by my devout mother, to chapel every Sunday, I gradually came to regard these serious, black suited gentlemen, with a deep reverence and respect. Sitting as deacons, in the \'Set Fawr\' ( Big Seat ) of our Methodist chapel, \'Seion\', in Seven Sisters, they exuded an aura of immense dignity, coupled with a profound sense of professional wisdom. All but a few, had been denied, through social privation, the opportunity of a university education; yet, they compensated for this with a diligent study of the Arts, sciences, philosophy and politics, in the local Miners\' Institutes which became pivotal centres of learning in the mining valleys throughout Wales. Over a decade later, as a young \'fresher\' at Cardiff University, I attended a debate held at the Students Union, in Dumfries Place. The principal speakers included the Abbot of Downside Monastry, the fearsome history professor, Dr. Chrimes, Vincent Kane, Student Union President, and the celebrated Rhondda born author and playwright, Gwyn Thomas. Afterwards, proudly clutching my precious pint in the crowded union bar, and with Gwyn Thomas eloquently holding court, I clearly recall him proudly assert that the best debating chamber he had ever addressed was in the NUM club in Tonypandy, many years before.
Towards the end of the war, we moved from Nant-Y-Cafyn to the larger township of Seven Sisters, further up the valley. This curiously English place name, set in an area clearly identified as intrinsically Welsh, with names such as Banwen, Onllwyn and Cynant, was unique; but it was apparently named after the great coal magnate\'s sisters- of which there were, Seven !
Prominent amongst our chapel-going friends, were the Gethin family. Whenever I visited this warm, homely family, as a young child of six or seven, I recall a morbid fascination with the sinsiter paraphenalia of oxygen tubes and masks which were, sadly, so vital to the survival of Mr. Gethin senior. He was riddled with pneumoconsiosis ( euphemistically nicknamed, \'dust\' by the miners ), the killer disease that ravaged mining communities throughout the country.
Consequently, this frail, but intensely proud miner, who fought stoically each day for every breath, was doggedly determined that no child of his would ever go down the pit. Apart from his eldest son, Meredith, who became a collier upon leaving school, his wish was fulfilled. To prevent his remaining sons entering the colliery, their father insisted that Ray and dennis would concentrate their energies on academic pursuits: and eventually, each of the boys graduated in Aberystwyth and Cambridge respectively, with their three sisters achieving similar distinquished careers in nursing and education. In fact, Dennis Gethin, a Cambridge \'Blue\', was to gain prominence as a high scoring rugby player, later as secretary of the Welsh Rugby Union, and also as Chief Executive Officer of a major Welsh local authority. His brother, Ray, became a highly respected secondary Headteacher in Merthyr. This fervent, almost paranoid, parental determination to educate their children away from the lure of the colliery was replicated throughout South Wales. Much later, as a teacher in the Rhondda, I was to encounter the same laudable product of such sound forward thinking: beneath the grimy veneer of coal dust and blue scars, which became the cheerless emblems of a life working at the coal face, lay an uplifting vision of a better life for the miners\' precious offspring. These heroic working men were, indeed, educational luminaries, way ahead of their time.
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Tom Walden, a great uncle on my mother\'s side of the family, had been HM Inspector of Mines in the South Wales coalfield a decade or so before World War Two: blessed with a keen intellect and sharp memory, he would regale us with fascinating tales of life, \'underground\'. he reminded us that it had not been too far back when young children were regularly employed in the collieries to perform light tasks, but, which nevertheless, made them particularly susceptible to grave danger in such a tyreacherous environment. Inevitably, quite a few of these wretched infants were tragically killed by runaway journeys of trams, rockfalls or gas explosions. This monumental scandal was further compounded by the fact that the death of one of these fragile mites, merited far less \'paper work\' than that of a pit pony. An equally shocking indictment was revealed in the log book of a great aunt who had served as a midwife in the mining village of Caerau, in the Llynfi valley. This historic leather-bound document was later handed down to my daughter, Catherine, when she was a student at St. Mary\'s, School of Medicine in London.
Whilst delving through the pages of this tome, which recorded the births in Caerau in the nineteen twenties, Cathy was horrified by some of the entries contained in the log book. One such entry noted: \"....I was, consequently, obliged to deliver the infant on the pavement, outside the house\".
Increduously, the poor expectant mother\'s husband had been killed, a few hours
earlier, in a rockfall underground. The mine owners immediately ejected the heavily pregnant widow, and her children, onto the street. Then, with the beds still warm, a new family was hurriedly installed in the same house. With such situations being fairly commonplace in the mining communities, is it any wonder that Maerdy, at the top of the Rhondda Fach was dubbed, \'Little Moscow\' !? No writer has chronicled, quite so vividly, than Alexander Cordell, the social injustice and inhumanity, meted out by many of the mine owners, and their ironmaster counterparts, in the blatant pursuit of greed and profit, to the total exclusion of their employees\' human rights.
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My memories of the post war years were the occassional visits to the badly ruined seaside city of Swansea, which had been mercilessly blitzed by Field Marshal Goering \'s unrelenting Luftwaffe. Very few buildings in the city centre seemed to have escaped major damage, and the human cost was enormous. For quite a few years, my recollections of Swansea were of, seemingly, a perpetual building site; but as rebuilding work painstakingly got underway, and with a partial return to normality, one could indulge in the heady delight of travelling, by tramcar, alongside the seashore to nearby Mumbles : this was always a special treat. My affection for Mumbles and the glorious Gower Peninsula, remains undimmed to this very day. For sheer beauty and charm, this coastline, for me, on a warm sunny day, compares favourably with the Mediterranean - truly exquisite.
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Any musical influences during my early years, came about, loosely, by association. My mother, Ceinwen, had a pleasant soprano voice, and sang in the chapel and local choral society. I would, inevitably, hear disjointed segments of the great oratorios - Mendelssohn\'s, \'Elijah\', Mozart\'s, \'Requiem\', Haydn\'s, \'The Creation\', and, of course, Handel\'s \'Messiah\'. Strangely though, whilst being regularly exposed to such musical influences, I was never actually encouraged to study an instrument, even though my diminutive Aunt Maud taught the piano, and my uncles Emlyn and Aneurin, both played the violin ( Aneurin via the Tonic Sol-Fa system, traditionally more acceptable to vocalists than instrumentalists ). Unfortunately, these musical gurus lived a million miles away ( or so it seemed ! ) in the Maesteg valley. I do, however, remember being placed, at quite an early
age, to kneel on an upright chair in the kitchen : and, clasping a thin piece of stick, I would proceed to \'direct\' the \'Workers\' Playtime\' orchestra in Eric Coates\'s lively march, \'Calling All Workers\', which was the staple fare on the wireless at the time. This was, undoubtedly, a subtle device of my mother\'s to keep me occupied while she got on with her household chores, unhindered by my demands.
I also recall being taken to the Seven Sisters Workmen\'s Hall, where my father was involved in organising the old, \'Celebrity Concerts\' : then, the description, \'celebrity\', really was merited, with supremely talented international artists such as sopranos, Gwen Catley and Amy Shuard, Welsh tenor, David Lloyd, and virtuoso pianist, Soloman, among others, who would grace the stage - such a rich array of talent. During one of these concerts, my father was despatched, by an anxious Master of Ceremonies, to locate the missing tenor, David Lloyd ( no relation ). My dad found him, resplendent in army uniform, downing his third pint in the nearby Dulais Arms, entertaining, between swigs of ale, the local patrons with a few popular songs of the day ! Here was a man blessed with the gift of a beautiful tenor voice, who had sung at the personal invitation of great maestros such as Bruno Walter, exhibiting the early signs of an addiction which, ultimately, ruined what promised to be a long and fruitful career.
Sadly, the entertainment business is littered with examples of highly gifted artists whose lives and careers were blighted by alcohol addiction, with many orchestral players seeming to be particularly susceptible.

CHAPTER 2.
A new move - Scholastic disaster - A new interest
My father\'s gradual rise up the career ladder of the Evans Bevan corporation continued apace; but in 1947 Britain\'s vast coal industry underwent a massive re-organisation under Clement Atlee\'s post war Labour government . Within a short time my father was transferred to a job with the newly established National Coal Board at the NVB\'s, No 2 Area Offices, in Tondu, near the Glamorganshire town of Bridgend. In an age when car ownership was confined to the wealthy few, he was obliged to travel the considerable distance between Seven Sisters and Tondu each day for almost three arduous years. This ultimately took its toll on his health, and we had to consider moving nearer his place of work.
Classified as a, \'key worker\', my father was allocated a house by the NCB in 1950. This was a new house in the village of Sarn, situated at the foot of the Ogmore and Garw valleys, and just a few miles from Tondu. Moving to the council estate of Heol Bryncwils, which was still in the process of construction, was an exciting new adventure for my elder brother David and I, tinged as it was with elements of uncertainty.
Quite a few decades on, there would evolve a social stigma that attached itself to the many decent folk living in council houses; but I only became aware of this absurd class distinction when, as a university student, I took home a girl friend, Sian, who lived in the spacious, sprawling mansion of Castle Mews, outside the ancient market town of Cowbridge, in the Vale of Glamorgan. Her father was the
distinquished Welsh musician, Mansel Thomas, then Head of Music at the BBC in Cardiff. One night, after a party held at their fabulous house, he very kindly drove me back home to Sarn, and I felt slightly embarrassed at the perceived contrast between our two homes. As he had insisted on meeting my parents, I felt compelled to explain that we lived in a lowly council house, to which he blisteringly retorted: \"My boy, there\'s nothing wrong with living in a council house: I was brought up in a lesser abode than this !\" He stayed in our , \'humble abode\',
for well over an hour, conversing alternately in Welsh and English with my parents, whilst eating heaps of my mother\'s delicious Welsh cakes, washed down with copious cups of warm tea. Concerned that he was being deprived of the convivial company of his \'show-business\' party guests, my mother offered her apologies. He quickly set her mind to rest, stating that he was deriving far greater pleasure at our hearth than \"with those damn pseudos back home !\" Mansel Thomas, despite his eminence and fame, remained an honest, basic son of Rhondda, totally lacking any affliction.
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A few years earlier, whilst living in Seven Sisters, I had developed a nervous ailment, then loosely defined as, St, Vitus\'s Dance, which was basically a serious nervous tick ( I must have been a worrying pain for my parents ! ). Our doctor ordered a complete rest for me which resulted in my losing twelve months of schooling. During this protracted period, I became an avid reader, with a voracious appetite for Richmal Crompton\'s, \'Just William\' stories, \'The Adventures
of Rupert the Bear\', and numerous other literary masterpieces ! However, my fascination with the written word was not matched by a similar understanding of, or the slightest interest in, the lurid mysteries of basic mathematics. Consequently, my time in the \'scholarship\' class at Tondu junior school was a period of unrelenting misery during arithmetic lessons: and I attracted a certain notoriety as the \'dunce\' of the class ! Despite the Herculean efforts of our teacher, Jack Evans, who bubbled enthusiasm from his every pore, I failed my eleven plus examination, not once, but twice !! The failiure of any child in the ludicrously premature selectivity of this exam brought disappointed parents and wider family alike: and as a further indignity, I didn\'t get the new bicycle that became the acknowledged reward bestowed upon successful pupils. It was such a humiliation for a sensitive young lad, such as myself, to bear ! So I was packed off, with the other academic \'dropouts\', to Bryncethin Secondary Modern school, just a short walk from my house; but this was to ultimately transform my future life.
The school was a tough establishment with some hardy, troublesome kids who initially scared the pants off me. I lived in constant fear of being beaten up by some of the trucculent older lads. Meanwhile, one afternoon, a Mr. Saunders visited the school, enquiring whether any of us wished to learn the violin. With a view to escaping those dreaded maths lessons, I and a few of my pals put up our hands and were recruited into the violin class: after all, this guy appeared fairly docile to our unperceptive eyes. So began the musical journey that was to map out my life.
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I remember proudly taking home a shiny red violin, which had inscribed inside, the magic words, \'Antonio Stradivari\' ! Within a year of diligent practice, I was producing a reasonably acceptable sound, although my poor parents must have endured agonies during my early scrapings of bow over gut ! Amazingly, in the following year, bringing honour to the White House team, and my first ever taste of success - in anything ! My violin teacher, Mr Saunders, who had seemed so benign, turned out to be a hard nut whose penchant for sarcasm became quickly apparent. When i eagerly told him of my success, he responded with the cynical observation - \"How long had the poor souls ( adjudicators ) been suffering from deafness !?\" But instead of feeling deflated, I instantly recognised the black humour, and grinned widely.
During the next seven years, Stan Saunders was to have an enormous influence, not only upon my musical development, but also in building my self confidence, which had sorely been dented by my eleven plus debacle. Also, a physical feature which i had inherited from my mother\'s side of the family, namely a prominent proboscis, haunted me throughout my adolescence. I regularly had to suffer the cries of : \"Hi Big Nose !\", from my more vindictive peers in school and on my estate: and my nose invited the sort of cruel comments that only kids can make. I would often stand in front of the bedroom mirror, trying to squeeze a reduction in its size ! One day, however, at tough Bryncethin sec mod, I snapped, and retaliated against a particularly obnoxious bully, who seemed to delight in his verbal and physical assaults on myself and other vulnerable pupils. As we wrestled, I managed to put him in a headlock, with my right fist threateningly poised in front of his face. It was then that I decided that all bullies needed to be confronted, a maxim which I was to use throughout my adult life. Also, with the self confidence that only adulthood can bring, I capitalised on my less glamorous feature and derived much hilarity in the nose-related jokes and observations of my mates ! Many years later, I was leading an orchestra for a performance of Verdi\'s \'Requiem\', in the St. David\'s Hall, Cardiff. At the start of the afternoon rehearsal, Dave Hughes, principal horn, complained to the young, nervous conductor, about the lighting. Eager to please, the conductor was about to seek out the hall\'s chief electrician, when Dave, in front of the combined forces of a choir and orchestra, blurted out audibly: \"No need to both the \'sparks\', conductor: just ask the leader to turn his nose a fraction to the light !\" And I loved it !
I pity those who cannot, occasionally laugh at themselves, as they could shed so much of their hidden insecurity.
Stan Saunders got me started in a local youth orchestra which met weekly, on Friday nights, in Bridgend Girls\' Grammar School, where I encountered an array of talented instrumentalists from the surrounding area. Amongst this group were, I quickly noticed, a number of pretty girls. The sight of the beautiful Heather Dyer, from Blaengarw, at once set ablaze my simmering pubescence ! But alas, this desirable creature was beyond my reach, as she was in a Grammar school, whilst I still lanquished in a lowly \'sec mod\' !
Fortuitously, a new headmaster with the amazing name of, Obadiah Thomas, arrived at Bryncethin, and seemed to perceive some glimmering vestige of ability
in me. With the tremendous support of our maths teacher, Mr Cyril Robbins, who was also an exceptionally gifted artist, and Miss Nancy Wynne Richards, who taught English and Music, and who was an accomplished pianist who regularly accompanied me in my early solo appearances, my scholastic horizon began, dimly, to glow. Under the wise guidance of these dedicated pedagogues, I underwent an intensive regime of study designed to propel me into the garw Grammar school, as a \'late entrant\'. On the day of my entrance examination, I journeyed by bus up to the narrow village of Pontycymer, which seemed to have been squeezed into the valley floor, surrounded as it was on both sides, by ominously high mountains. Here, I again encountered the black faced, blue scarred colliers that were so familiar in Seven Sisters. The Garw valley boasted three thriving coal mines: the Ocean, Ffaldau and ballerat, which had been producing the precious steam coal that helped keep the British Navy afloat during the war. So here I was, in this frankly unattractive, grimy and dismal valley town, where the steep side-streets clung precariously to the mountainsides; but I would grow to love this seemingly grotesque geographical cul-de-sac, totally unaware
then of the impact that it was destined to have on my future life.
Interestingly, whilst we \'sec mod\' kids were technically classified as academic failiures, I recall only one fellow pupil of mine at Bryncethin leaving school unable to read or write; this contrasts sharply with the current situation where sadly, whole battalions of adolescents end their years of education both illiterate and inumerate. I shall be ever indebted to my old \'sec mod\' for recognising and harnessing that minute iota of latent intelligence which had remained dormant within me for so long.
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Resplendent in my shiny new grammar school blazer, I entered the Garw in September 1954. It was an awesome new world for me. My biggest surprise was to discover that many of the boys who had trounced me in Tondu junior school, had nonchalently sat back on their 11 + laurels, and were now struggling.
The school had its share of eccentrics amongst staff and pupils alike. There was Physics teacher and rugby trainer, Cyril \'Killer\' Mathews, who was respected and feared equally by us all. His definition of force would not appear in some formula on the blackboard, but was more likely to be demonstrated with a swift clip around the ear of an inattentive pupil ! Another science teacher, the tractible Hector Garfield, who doubled as Deputy Headmaster, was a fine musician who conducted local choirs and was married to a skilled violinist and teacher, the redoubtable Nesta Garfield. The school\'s art teacher, Vincent Brown, was an Australian emigre who had studied at the famous Slade School of Art, and whose paintings still command quite high prices: always wearing the same bow-tie and suit he had worn for years, he would wander around the school, aimlessly oblivious to the chaos that might be ensuing in his class; the chaotic, chain smoking but inspirational, English teacher, Mrs \'Ma\' Ellis, instilled in me a love of the written and spoken word. There were also the brilliant academics amongst the pupils: headmaster\'s son, John \'NG\' Davies, who went on to carve a fine career as a physicist in the USA; the quiet, undemonstrative, David Pugh, who went up to Oxford university; Robert Ford, who came from humble beginnings in Llangeinor, to become Professor of Physics at a top Australian University; Carys Davies, who I joined as Head Boy to her Head Girl, and who was destined to become a senior science advisor to the National Curriculum Board many years on. These were but a few of the distinquished alumni of Garw. With a flourishing debating society, school orchestras, choirs, rugby and cricket teams and numerous social clubs, this was a fine school of the old tradition.
It was here also that I met my future wife, Margaret, whose elder brother, Hopkin, exhibited a keen interest in classical music. He and I became good mates in the sixth form, and I would be invited to their home in Oxford Street, Pontycymer for tea. I was very soon attracted to his very alluring sister, whose long blonde hair fascinated me, as it seemed to cascade endlessly down her back. After an on and off relationship lasting some years, we eventually married whilst still in university. We brought up two delightful children, Richard and Catherine; but sadly, after twenty six years together, and with our respective careers pulling us in opposite directions, we effected an amicable parting of the ways. But my immense respect for Margaret, who went on to develop a highly successful career in the competitive world of cosmetics, has never diminished: and we enjoy a close friendship, allied to an immense pride in our children\'s respective achievements.
Chapter 3.

Wearing that Grammar school blazer - arrival at Ogmore

Prior to actually taking up my newly acquired place in Garw Grammar school, the ubiquitous Stanley Saunders suggested that it might be a good idea for me to join their school orchestra in an end of term concert. He had also arranged that I play both a solo and a fiddle duet with a pal and neighbour, Barry griffiths, whose musical ability was outstripped by his formidable athletic prowess which culminated with a Welsh junior schools rugby cap.
Attending this concert, as a guest, was a man who was to play a major part in my musical development and teaching career over the following two decades. Mr Russell Sheppard was a general inspector of schools for Glamorgan Education Authority, with \'special responsibility for music\'. Immediately after the concert, he approached me with the words: \"Right, you have passed the audition, and you are now a member of the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra !\"
Audition, what audition ? My teacher had deviously given me a solo spot, in the knowledge that Mr Sheppard would be in the audience, and could assess my potential. Within a few days I was whisked off to the bracing coastal resort of Ogmore-by-Sea on my first residential orchestral course at Ogmore School Comp. Little did I then realise that I would have an unbroken connection with this establishment, as a student and tutor, which would span over thirty years. This was the beginning of yet another new enterprise in my young life
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The youth orchestra, affectionately known as, \'The Glam\', was the brainchild of Mr Sheppard and was made up of talented young instrumentalists from secondary schools in the county together with older players who had proceeded to college and university. For me, essentially still a \'sec mod\' kid, to be suddenly thrust into this maelstrom of musical and intellectual accomplishment was an awe-inspiring experience. But wait a moment, I was now actually a grammar school boy, complete with blazer: so the previous discomfort of mixing with such intelligentsia was now partially diffused. And intellectuals there were in abundance ! Bleddyn Davies, a skilled violinist from Bargoed, who went on to become a professor at London\'s School of Economics; superb flautist, Ken George, from Neath also destined for a distinquished academic career; Gowerton \'cellists, Gwynallt and Howard Thomas, who both became prominent medical men; double bassist Malcolm Williams, another Gowertonian, rose to the acme of the medical profession in Canada. Alongside these were \'the virtuosi\', starting with Leonard \'Bill\' James from Aberdare who was the outstanding student of the legendary Max Rostal at London\'s Royal Academy; the placid Rhondda trumpeter, laurence Evans, who became principal trumpet of the London Philarmonic Orchestra at the personal invitation of conductor Bernard Haitink; the ebullient Tony Randall from Neath, who carved an impressive career as a French horn player, conductor and composer; the previously mentioned Ken George whose outstanding young talent attracted the attention of quite a few London orchestras, before he opted for the lure of academia; and the captivating Neath violist, Susan Salter, who became a member of the Philarmonia Orchestra.
There were also a few of the musical icons who returned as tutors. Among these were, Haydn \'Kuke\' Davies, who could elicit a tune out of most instruments, but whose superlative \'cello playing possessed an emotional intensity reminiscent of Jaqueline du Pre; Glynne \'Jingles\' Evans could play solos on his double bass that one would normally expect to hear only from a fiddle: and his intellectual prowess secured him a distinquished position in Welsh music education. Glynne was later succeeded, as Double Bass tutor, by the extremely talented musician and teacher, Alan James from Neath. Alan\'s inspired tuition propelled quite a few young Glam aspirants into professional orchestras. Assisting with the violin tuition was the ultra courteous figure of Jeffrey Francis, a skilled violinist, who was destined to succeed Mr. Sheppard, as Music Advisor and Conductor of the Glam, or \'Mid-Glam\' as it ultimately became.
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Ogmore School Camp, set high up on a windblown hill overlooking the Bristol channel, could house up to a hundred children and a dozen staff. The fairly spartan accomodation comprised three wooden dormitories, with a seperate block for ablutions, a canteen, main assembly hall, and two \'activity\' huts.
Slightly reminiscent of a wartime POW Stalagluft, the camp was pretty basic and totally bereft of those comforts which today\'s young people take for granted. On many a Winter\'s morning we would awaken to discover a fine coating of snow on our beds: these wooden dormitories were peppered with holes which admitted all that the elements could throw at us ! During the warm summer months the constant sea breezes ensured a natural cooling system which was a bonus to the domestic staff: they would hang the washing out on the clothes lines and collect them dry in ten minutes. Yet, despite its bleak edifice, Ogmore camp became a musical Mecca to we young players who gladly made pilgrimages up to three times a year.
The first few days of an orchestral course would involve intensive sectional rehearsals, under the direction of a distinquished professional musician. The string sections were fortunate to receive the expertise of the Cardiff based University String Quartet whose members were: - 1st Violin, the fiery but brilliant, Alfredo Wang; 2nd Violin, the ultra calm, erudite English gentleman, Stanley Popperwell; Viola, the equable, ever patient Gordon Mutter, who had previously ( as a violinist ) led the famed Boyd Neel chamber orchestra; then, on \'cello, the unflappable, self taught virtuoso, George Issac. Although we realized at the time that these were top flight performers, we certainly didn\'t appreciate how lucky we were to have them as our coaches. The double basses benefitted from the vast experience and virtuosity of the indiginous \'Jingles\', Glynne Evans.
The brass section under the control of Arron Trotman who was 1st Trumpet in the old BBC Welsh Orchestra. He was a hardened pro who \'took no prisoners\' at rehearsals. His younger brother, Dai, was a veteran trombonist with the orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Convent Garden: and the story goes that during a particularly fraught rehearsal of Wagner\'s \'Die Gotterdamerung\' with an incensed George Zolti, the maestro kept demanding that the trombones should \"..attack ze notes !\". After yet another futile attempt, the irate conductor shouts at the hapless trombonists \"..vy, vy, vy u not attack ze notes !?\" Dai\'s reply is legendary: \"We are attacking the notes,Maestro, but the bastards are fighting back !\" Possibly apocryphal, but its a damn good yarn nevertheless !
The woodwinds were coached by the same Stanley Saunders who had taught me the violin: he was a superb clarinettist and saxophonist who frequently broadcast with the popular Sid Phillips band. The percussion section seemed to proceed quite effeciently under its own steam, with very talented executants such as Glyn Hale, Peter Rees and Della Jones from Neath who was destined to become one of the country\'s finest coloratura sopranos.
The sheer brilliance of the Maesteg harpist, Ann Griffiths, rendered further tuition superfluous !

Chapter 4.
My Love Affair With Ogmore And The Glam Begins
Such was the impact of Ogmore, that even now, over fifty years on, I still retain a vivid recollection of my first course. In a thoroughly electic programme, we performed Rossini\'s overture to his opera, \"Semiramide\"; a fully orchestrated version of Handel\'s \'Occasional Overture\'; Delius\'s, \'The Walk to the Paradise Garden\' ( it turned out to be an English pub ! ); two movements from the sugary, \'Petite Suite de Concert\', by Coleridge Taylor; Bach\'s sixth Brandenburg Concerto for violas, \'cellos and double bass; Haydn\'s famous Trumpet concerto which revealed the wizardry of Lauri Evans; and Bill James delivered a masterful account of Wieniawski\'s challenging second Violin Concerto; the programme ended with the finale of Brahm\'s First Symphony.
As I recall, we gave concerts in Aberdare\'s Coliseum, and at the Paget Rooms, Penarth ( in that era there was a dearth of decent concert venues in the whole of Wales ). After the Aberdare rehearsal, a few of us decided to go on the local boating lake, got marooned, and got back just in the nick of time for the concert.
I also remember dear Bill James, never an example of sartorial elegance, trying to scrounge the use of a belt to keep up his tuxedo trousers: he finally had to make do with a rough piece of string, discreetly concealed by a generous cumberband. Bill was an inveterate smoker who would nonchalanty rehearse with a fag clinging perilously to his lips, and quite oblivious to the cigarette ash sprinkling freely onto the \'table\' of his beloved fiddle, which boasted quite a few burn marks ! Such imperfections, nevertheless, failed to diminish the allring tone quality that he was able to deftly coax from that sorely abused instrument. Many years later I was to share many a musical collaboration - and many pints of beer - with Bill.
The full orchestral rehearsals were held in the confined space of the main assembly hall. Each day commenced, after a hearty breakfast, with morning worship conducted by the students, and which hymns accompanied by an instrumental group. One of the keenest participants in the morning services was a young violinist from Clydach in the Swansea valley, Brian Benjamin Thomas, who became known as Benj. Until the age of sixteen he was a devout chapelgoer who was seriously considering becoming a Methodist preacher. Then the mother whom he adored, developed cancer and died after months of unrelieved agony, without the palliative care that is, thankfully available today. Overnight, Benj cast off his former belief in a God and became something of a hellraiser. We struck up a deep friendship which lasted right up to his premature death, ironically also from cancer, at the age of thirty eight.
In his early twenties and having switched to the viola, Benj gravitated to London where he enjoyed a successful living in the world of \'session\' musicians as a player and a \'fixer\'. He can clearly be seen ( and heard ! ) in that classic Morecambe and Wise Xmas TV show featuring Andre Previn as the exasperated maestro in Eric\'s parody of the Greig Piano Concerto. Frequently on tour with the likes of Sinatra, Bassey and similarly high profiled icons in the upper echelons of entertainment, Benj packed into his all too brief existence far more than most people would achieve in three lifetimes.
Thankfully, just a few years before his premature death, he met and married the lovely actress, Margaret John, who was to be seen regularly on TV. She achieved great success and popularity as Doris, the sensually blunt elderly neighbour of Gwen and Nessa, in the very popular BBC TV series \'Gavin and Stacey\'. We will encounter my exhuberant, and much missed, chum again on this sentimental journey.
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The \'Glam\' was conducted by its founder, Russell Sheppard, who could occassionally be finickety over the minutest musical detail. More importantly, however, he was instantly recognised and respected for his superhuman organisational gifts and his impecaable musical pedigree. His inspectorial duties embraced, geographically, one of the largest education authorities in the UK, emcompassing Barry in the East, Gowerton in the West and Aberdare in the North. Despite the fact that music was but one small segment of his remit, he managed, through sheer hard graft, to create an instrumental music service unsurpassed in the rest of Britain, and which became a prototype for many other education authorities. A gifted pianist and organist who hailed from the valley township of Mountain Ash, Russell Shephard never sought the limelight, and shunned the obsequious cult of \'celebrity\'. He could also be quite adroit in his dealings with those whose work ethic fell short of the high standards he set himself. So it was no suprise that this remarkable man, whose visionary zeal laudably influenced the lives of thousands of young people, never received the plaudits so lavishly bestowed upon lesser mortals. But, as he once confided to me after his final concert rehearsal, and pointing proudly to the vast assembled orchestral and choral forces before him, \"What better honour ios there for me than this ?\" He was a truly amazing person to whom I, amongst many, will remain forever indebted. The ingrained respect I have retained for this gentleman prevents me from ever referring to him without the obligatory \'Mr\'.
He was, without doubt, a most formidable champion in the field of music education throughout Wales. His pioneering work in the field of instrumental tuition, throughout the schools of the old administrative county of Glamorgan, sent audible shock waves through the county which are still reverberating to the present day. He was an educational luminary, whose vision of music as an homogenous element in the overall educational scheme, enriched the lives of so many. The county youth orchestra, his beloved \'Glam\', bestowed upon youngsters throughout the county the privilige of performing the works of the great masters. The recipients were largely, ordinary kids from ordinary homes; the odious and socially divisive label of \'elitism\', simply did not apply.
Each course was eagerly awaitted, and became an integral part in life\'s pattern. Such was the effect of these courses, that on the mournful morrow of departure, a touching torrent of tears was released, as heady, new born courtships were temorarily suspended, and many of the orchestra\'s overtly enthusiastic devotees would not allow the atmosphere to simply evaporate. Bridgend bus station, our final dispersal point, would suddenly erupt with impromtu, \'jam sessions\', as the brass players entertained queues of unsuspecting passengers with a free concert ! As I lived but a few miles north of Bridgend, my ever resourceful mother regularly expected, received, and fed a motley gang of Ogmore refugees ! Invariably, the names of Mark Roberts, \'Picc\' Axtell, Tony Randall, Viv Davies, Benj Thomas plus many others, were on the guest list at our house in Sarn. We lads simply could not sever that umbilical cord which still tenaciously connected us to our beloved Ogmore.
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As a young raw recruit, I regarded Mr. Sheppard with an almost tangible degree of awesome fear; but over the yearsI began to relax more in his presence. And whilsy he constantly strove to maintain he stiff upper lip of propriety, the mask did once slip. The occasion was a rehearsalof, \"Lo, Hear the Gentle Lark\" ( popularised by the famous Gwen Catley ) for colaratura soprano and virtuoso flut obligato. As the beautiful tones of the superb soloist, Sylvia Rhys Thomas, began surprisingly to falter, the ever alert Mr. Sheppard looked up to behold the quite bizarre spectacle of flautist, and zany comedian, Michael \'Picc\' Axtell, playing brilliantly, but with his mouthpiece precariously positioned directly under his nose ! Totally bereft of his innate reserve, Mr. Sheppard dissolved freely into paroxysms of pure laughter.
After each evening orchestral rehearsal, we lads, fuelled with high octane levels of testosterone, would swiftly remove all the musical paraphenalia, and transform the hall into a dance floor, which enabled us to romantically while away the evening with the seemingly endless supply of nubile young females that adorned the orchestra. By today\'s standards, the dances were pretty innocuous - the quick step, fox trot, tango, and with a slow, langurous \'smoochie\' waltz to finish off: an occasional, \'Gay Gordons\', ( the word \'gay\' had yet to be hijacked by the homosexual fraternity ! ) might also be includedto brighten up the festivities. Of course, I and my sidekick Benj, would often surreptitiously sidle off, with our respective female conquests, for a bit of illicit \'canoodling\', in various secretive enclaves on the campus. We were frequently assisted in our quest for a comfortable spot, by the camp\'s caretaker, Dai Leyshon. Short and squat in build, Dai was as strong as an ox: in the village, if a heavy far bar gate needed shifting - send for Dai; if a flighty mare needed breaking in - send for Dai; if a fight needed stopping - send for Dai ! His doughty agrarian toughness belied a gentle inner self that could be totally captivating: the elegant, refined, cultured lady to whom he was happily married, was entirely opposite to her rugged husband. But, the chemistry that worked so well for this devoted couple invariably drew much fascination and even greater admiration from all of us at Ogmore. Benj and I established a happy rapport with Dai Leyshon which remained constant: and many years on, Benj, loaded with cash after a lucrative recording \'session\', paid a visit to an Ogmore course where I was now a tutor. That afternoon I suggested we pay Dai a surprise visit at his favourite \'watering hole\', The Sea Lawns, where he and Benj would be reunited after years apart. With Benj exhibiting his characteristic largesse, neither Dai nor myself were allowed to touch our pockets that afternoon, and consequently, Dai was repudedly put to bed in the pub until he sobered up next day !
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We string players derived such an abundance of knowledge, technical advice and musical insight from our inspired tutors. When I eventually elevated to the position of orchestra leader, I would absorb like a sponge, the vignettes of musical wisdom that would be liberally dispensed like confetti. Alfredo \'Freddy\' Wang would assert that, \"...when Beethoven wished for strength and power he would invariably invoke an, E flat, chord in its various forms\", citing for example, The \'Emperor\' Piano concerto, the Eroica Symphony, the surging Fifth symphony, with its insistent victory motif, and many other examples. Freddie would also demonstrate, with infinite clarity, the alternating feminine and masculine elements of Mozart\'s symphonic writing, as are especially evident in the Minuet and Trio movements. On their final day at the course, the quartet would invariably treat us to a free recital.
Impromptu chamber music sessions would also take place among the more advanced members of the orchestra: and I shall never forget one such occassion when \'cellist\', Haydn Davies, during a particularly sublime moment in a Beethoven slow movement, suddenly erupted and berated the hapless Bill james, because of his smelly feet ! Poor Bill, not averse to wearing the same shirt and socks for a whole week, would frequently invoke the wrath of his fellow musicians for such less appealing personal habits !
For many of us, who either became professional players or, like myself, remained on the periphery, whilst enjoying the security of a teaching job, the vast array of important works to which Mr. Sheppard introduced us would stand us in good stead in the future. We performed most of the standard repertoire such as the symphonies and concertos of Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Schumann, Tchaikowsky and others, together with numerous miscellaneous items. later on, with the advent of the Youth Choir, another creation of our founder, there opened up a new dimension of gllorious compositions for our youthful eager minds to absorb - the Requiem Masses of Mozart, Verdi and Brahms, the \'Creation\' and Masses of Haydn, Mendelssonn\'s \'Elijah\', \'Hymn of Praise\' and \'Laude Sion\' ( a delighful, but rarely performed work ), \'Toward the Unknown Region\' and \'Seranade to Music\' by Vaughan Williams, and a veritable cornucopia of additional items. Consequently, when we nervously ventured forth into the professional orchestral world, we already had much of the \'bread and butter\' repertoire safely under our belts. In the seventies I played regularly, as a freelance extra, with the orchestra of the Welsh National Opera. One year at the Fishguard Festival, I well recall rehearsing Verdi\'s mighty, \'Requiem\', in the hallowed precincts of St. David\'s magnificient Cathedral: and I became acutely aware that our principal second violin, Bernard Duffy, was unusually about to miss
an important fortissimo entry, so I dived in on full power ! He glared at me, both mystified and annoyed, having been \'shown up\' by this deputising upstart. But some weeks before, of course, I had been coaching the Glamorgan Youth Orchestra in the very same work and knew it backwards ! Anyway, after a few pints in the pub, Bernard, who could be a formidable foe, regained his composure, and we became the best of friends. He, in fact, offered me a full time position in his section which I gratefully, but wisely, declined. Wisely because, whilst it was great fun and financially rewarding to play with various pro ensembles once in a while, the daily drudge of a permanent orchestral job was certainly not for me.
As the number of qualified instrumental teachers, many of whom had come through the Glam system, increased, Mr. Sheppard was able to staff the courses with existing teachers from within the county. Running parralel with the senior courses, were Junior and Transitional courses which catered for the younger, less experienced pupils. Mr. Sheppard had devised a splendid scheme which ensured a constant flow of players progressing through each level of ability, and which ultimately provided a host of indiginous instrumental teachers. Some cynical onlookers have criticized this firmly established institution for being educationally incestuous; but its lasting success, until it fell victim to the shortsightedness of meddling bureaucracy and local government reorganisation, is sufficient testimony to its success.
The youth orchestra courses would normally be held in late July, early New Year, and at Eastertime; but a smaller group of players would also assemble at Ogmore for the Choral course in late August. Consequently, during the period of July, right through to early September, I was hardly ever in my home in Sarn. As soon as
the Glam July course was over, I was off on the \'Nash\' ( National Youth Orchestra of Wales ) course in some distant part of Wales, then immediately back to Ogmore for the Glam Choral course. Very hectic, but we all enjoyed every minute of it: for us, boredom was merely a word confined to a dictionary, but which had no relevance in our fulfilled lives.
The Glamorgan Youth Choir also spawned some characters who achieved considerable eminence in later life. The distinquished international operatic soprano, Della Jones from Neath exhibited her embryonic talents at Ogmore, the Pontypridd sopranos, Beverley and Gillian Humphreys, and tenors Stuart kale and Ryland davies, were among many young vocalists for whom Ogmore became a musical springboard. One particular singer\'s mellifluous tones were to be later used to great effect and delivered somewhat more stridently in the House of Commons - Neil Kinnock was yet another Glam lad ! But some superb vocal soloists were to be found amongst the vocal tutors - the magnificient soprano, Ann James, always impressed us, particularly in Verdi\'s \'Requiem\'; Bass baritone, John Davies, who had understudied Sir Geraint Evans for WNO, and lyrical tenor, Emlyn Jones, from West Wales, were a great asset to the choral courses.
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The school camp was originally built in the late thirties to accomodate evacuee children who sought sanctuary from the horrors of the blitz. The first Headmaster was a charming and highly intelligent man called, Islwyn Williams, who, as a hobby, wrfote scripts for the BBC on diverse topics which required his undoubted erudition: and his wife, always appearing deceptively severe with her hair in a tight bun, was the matron. Following his sudden death in the mid fifties, Islwyn Williams was succeeded by, Bert Davies, who skilfully steered the camp through its mammoth rebuilding programme shortly after his arrival, and ran the camp most efficiently for almost two decades. For this alone, he deserves due credit.
Prior to the rebuilding operations, the camp suffered its share of heating breakdowns, and similar disabling crises; but never once did Mr. Sheppard cancel an orchestral course. With a combination of characteristic stubborness and ingenuity, he seemed able to magically secure an alternative venue, almost at the drop of a hat. One Xmas course was transferred to the Residential School for the Visually Handicapped in Bridgend, but referred to in those politically incorrect days as, \'the Blind School\' ! An amusing incident occurred one afternoon when a group of us led by a soccer mad fellow fiddler, Bill Rogers, from Caerau, started kicking a ball around on the neat lawns, with intense vigour: an elderly lady passer-by was overheard commenting to her companion: \"Isn\'t it wonderful, that those poor blind boys can have such fun !\" - if only she knew ! On other occassions, courses were held in Cardiff\'s Whitchurch High school, and Barry College of Education - Mr. Sheppard always kept the show on the road ! The Ogmore School Camp, or Residential Centre, as it later became known, had for its last Headmaster and Matron, John Philips and his lovely wife; Margaret. Living with them were their daughters, Bethan and Rhoswen who, sadly were both severely handicapped; but the overwhelming love and devotion afforded them by their heroic parents was an inspiration to us all: and the two girls were, at once, accepted by visiting course members as part of the extended family that the Glam ethos generated.
On one cold January course during my time as senior tutor ( no elevated designation - just the oldest member of staff ! ), and following a concert in Bridgend, which was conducted by Mr. Sheppard\'s admirable successor, Jeffrey Francis, we were stranded at the camp by the worst snow conditions the country had experienced since 1947. Fortunately, after the concert, the majority of the orchestra, including my own daughter, Catherine, had returned home with their parents; but a dozen or so of the older players were determined to mark their last course with a final fling at Ogmore preceeded by a farewell libation down at the Sea Lawns. We staff up at the camp, were becoming increasingly alarmed at the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions, andpromptly mounted a \'rescue\' operation for our inebriate charges. As we set out, suitably clad against the prevailing Artic weather, we soon encountered the students, still clothed only in their thin concert dress, slowly advancing towards us in a state of approaching hypothermia. Safely in the camp, after gulping down gallons of warm coffee, they quickly recovered, and hastily retired to their dormitories, closely foloowed by we staff, to our rather more commodious en-suite habitats. Next morning we awoke to a dazzling white, lunar landscape of pure snow. What would normally have been a swift stroll of three minutes to the canteen for breakfast had overnight, been transformed into a challenging obstacle course. Having dug our way into the canteen, we suddenly realized that the snow would havde made it impossible en-suite habitats. Next morning we awoke to a dazzling white, lunar landscape of pure snow. What would normally have been a swift stroll of three minutes to the canteen for breakfast had overnight, been transformed into a challenging obstacle course. Having dug our way into the canteen, we suddenly realized that the snow would have made it impossible for the, ever reliable, cooks and other domestic staff to get anywhere near the premises. But we had not counted on the resourcefulness of \'cello tutor, Diana Thomas, who swiftly requisitioned some helpers and organised the cooking. Meanwhile, her mechanically minded husband, George, who was a long established violin tutor, managed to restore the camp boiler back to life. We could not have been marooned in a better equipped establishment than Ogmore: with ski kits, sturdy wellingtons and storm lamps, together with enough food to last us a few months, we were well catered for. To keep us occupied and entertained, we \'raided\' the vast music library that Mr. Sheppard had diligently amassed over the years, and we ploughed through symphonies, overtures and suites by the dozen, supplemented by smaller groups playing chamber music. At the end of our first week of enforced \'imprisonment\', headmaster, John Philips, acutely conscious of a dip in morale, organised an evening visit to the Craig-yr-Eros pub down in the village. The storm which had brought most of Britain to a standstill had abated, but the snow was still piled in deep drifts preventing any form of access by road. So, linked together, we cautiously set out on our expedition to the pub, where we imbibed merrily beside a blazing log fire. Suitably fortified by a few drinks, some pub grub and a sing-song, we eventually returned to camp, with uplifted spirits ! After a sojourn of eight days, we were extracted by the army who had managed to reopen the side roads with snowploughs; but it was an exciting, if inconvenient, adventure !
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Returning back a few decades before my tutorial involvement in Ogmore, Mr. Sheppard retained me as orchestra leader until 1962, then immediately brought me back as a member of the tutorial staff. In that same year three important events took place in my life: I was married to my old school sweetheart, the very lovely Margaret Rees from Pontycymer, I started my teaching career in the Rhondda, and Margaret gave birth to our first child, our son, Richard. Quite a year !