MAESYRONNEN

Maesyronnen is the oldest surviving chapel in Wales and two Welsh poets have written verses about it - Roland Mathias and R.S. Thomas. It seemed like a good place to journey , being very accessible from Cardiff and so I plan a visit on a warm early summer’s day. As always travelling north via the A470 imbibes me with a sense of freedom; a sense of leaving something behind and heading towards the open and spaciousness of the Beacons onto Mid-Wales. But even though this day had some spiritual intention it is important to sustain the body first and so to Marian’s caravan cafe a frequent stop of mine on a morning journey north. Descending after Storey Arms, its location is declared by a large Welsh flag fluttering in the breeze. I call it ‘Marian's’ because that is the name of the lady who runs it, with whom I, like many others, have exchange chatty conversations numerous times. The caravan however bears the name ‘Paddy Sweeney’s’, the butcher from Brecon who owns it and who provides the excellent bacon for the breakfast roll I now sought.

Marian's cafe caravan A470

At the caravan, no Marian. Another lady is serving helped by a man cooking Paddy’s bacon on the griddle.

"Where is Marian?"

"She retired just two weeks ago."

"Oh,” I say disappointedly “It seemed as if she'd been here forever."

"Well, her forever was 20 odd years. She’d done her stint and she just thought it was the time to go."

I send my best wishes and wonder if the new lady would last as long as Marian.

A large Curry’s van draws up; on its side it declares that it will help me, “with all life's kit". I begin to ponder whether that life lasts over 20 years and now know it is time to leave and journey onward.

I travel the road from Brecon toward Herford and the Welsh Marches and getting to my chapel destination is straight forward as it is signposted off the main road and then on a steep country road it is again signposted. The lane up to the chapel is almost overgrown with cowslips in their full summer growth. I arrive at the building which is set on its own, I leave the car and walk up to the door. There is a notice announcing that if entry is sought  the key can be obtained from the workshop up the road. I am pleased that I may get in, being luckier than poet Thomas, who in his short prose piece on the place describes how he was unable to enter; he spent his time quietly lying on the grass in the small graveyard while his wife Elsi sketched. As directed I travel in my car further up the country road until in the small village of Ffynnon Gynydd I come to a large modern barnlike structure which is the rural steel fabrication workshop from where I have been instructed is the key. There are iron girders all around, the strong smell of oil and welding sparks bursting at the back.  A man appears out of the shadows, “Can I help you?”

"I was wondering if I could have the key to the chapel."

"No problem." He goes up some steps to an overlooking office and returns with a big key which he gives to me. I'm a little taken aback by the ease of this, "Don't I have to sign for something. Don't you need my address?"

"No need. Just bring it back when you're finished." He smiles and then casually walks away.

I'm touched by the trust given to me in holding the key which now suddenly has acquired a considerable value in its own being. I go back to the chapel securing the key in my trouser pocket and checking on it twice during the short journey.

The chapel building looks like many old Welsh farm constructions. A longer white section defines the religious side of the building with an appended cottage of bare stone at the other end. The chapel was converted from a barn in about 1690 and was licensed as a place of worship in 1697. It is quite possible that the old barn was used as a secret place of worship for Dissenters from about 1640 before the time of the Civil War, and Oliver Cromwell is said to have visited to worship here. 

Maesyronnen, cottage and chapel

I open the door and immediately am taken in by stillness, becoming very aware of being there on my own. The midday sun shines through the end windows and shadows lie across the oak fittings and wooden furniture. 

Maesyronnen Chapel

The flagstone floor looks wet from a newly completed wash but it is just condensation on the cold stone. A strong scent of lilies wafts through the space arising from vases of fresh flowers. With a degree of ceremony I place the key on the table - the table around which the congregation sit when they partake of Holy Communion. 

Communion table, Maesyronnen Chapel

Such is the way the serenity inside the building gently infuses everything that any motivation to look around is immediately lost. All there is to do is to sit quietly on a chair. It felt a privilege to be there on my own. There is just the sounds of country silence soothingly entering into the space; the occasional baaing of sheep, the moo of the occasional cow, the cackling of crows, somewhere a tractor moves, there is the rustle of leaves and branches as the wind stirs the nearby trees and in the distance birds singing.

Pulpit, Maesyronnen Chapel

After a while I rise from my seat and look around at a place that has already acquired a familiarity for me. I survey the bookcase with all the volumes of the People's Bible, noting Genesis by the witness of its wornness as being the one most consulted. On the pulpit I read the names of the people who have been the ministers of this small place, who as Mathias records “launched the lighted Word within these walls”. 

The list starts with a gentleman called Richard Powell who commenced his ministry on the uncertain date of “164?” and completed his service in 1658.  The last recorded of those who have officiated to the needs of the congregation is Greg Thompson - “2004 – 2014”. Those who continue the same task today will know that their names will be added when the time comes. I think about the length of time that spiritual practice has been engaged. This time has concentrated the effect of that practice here and explains the ease with which the calmness of one's own spirit is evoked. Little wonder that Thomas labelled the place as “The Chapel of the Spirit”, as it was here that he experienced an epiphany  “As with St. John the Divine on the island of Patmos I was `in the Spirit’ and I had a vision, in which I could comprehend the breadth and length and depth and height of the mystery of the creation. But I won’t try to put the experience into words. It would be impossible. I will simply say that I realised there was really no such thing as time, no beginning and no end but that everything is a fountain welling up endlessly from immortal God.”  The timelessness in the sense of the ceasing of time is almost palpable as indeed is the presence of generations of previous worshippers. Thomas alludes to this presence in his sonnet ‘Maes-yr-onnen’ in the last three lines which read,

“You cannot hear as I, incredulous, heard

Up in the rafters, where the bell should ring,

The wild, sweet singing of Rhiannon’s birds.”

These are the supernatural birds of the Mabinogion who by their beautiful singing can "wake the dead and lull the living to sleep".

I look at the gravestones on the wall where several record a woman who survived her husband as a ‘relict’. How did that word become associated with widowhood and when did we thankfully give up its use? I read the small plaque on the bench which testifies to the sacrifice of two men in the congregation who gave their lives during the First World War. 

Memorial, Maesyronnen Chapel

Thomas Williams of the 2^nd Battalion South Wales Borders died October 3^rd 1916 which would have been during the Battle of Transloy Ridges, a phase of Battle of the Somme. The other, Williams Edward Jones, maintained a Welsh Marches tradition of joining an English regiment, the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry; he died on March 21^st 1918 which was the first day of the German Spring Offensive of that year. I reflect on the way the chapel holds the life of those who have died. The memorial plaque states “We are debtors”. I wonder what the poet Mathias made of this on his visit as during the Second World War he registered as a conscientious objector; he would not accept non-combatant duties in support of the war effort, as his choice was to continue teaching without pay. His principled determination resulted in a sentence of three months' jail with hard labour in 1941 and again in 1942 but during the latter, his pupils in Reading collected money to pay the fine and obtain his release. We are also indebted to such ethically and morally led men and women.

Time and again I am drawn to the sunlight resting on the furniture and flagstones with it possessing a settling effect. Quite naturally I know the thing to do before I leave is to sit and meditate once again. During the silence I faintly hear birdsong and the two old poets, no doubt also responding to Rhiannon’s Birds, look in through the window. I wonder if they'll come in, but it is only I who is honoured by the solitude and sanctuary that the chapel offers today.

It is time to leave and as I am locking the door with the sacred key, a car draws up. An older man and woman and presumably their two grandchildren get out. The woman asks if I have the key, I show it to her and explain that I had just locked up. “I wonder if you would mind letting me in,” she says, “we have hired the cottage next door and I want to buy some of the postcards that I know are there.” I enter again this time with her and the chapel itself seems to smile at our social conversation and this allows her and I to carry on whilst the chapel itself continues in its own serene way. We both purchase some postcards and feeling responsible for the security of the place I make sure we leave it tidy and secure. Outside as we chat we discover that we worked in the same type of jobs. She wonders where I come from and remembers a place that she was on placement as a student for a short period of time. We compare times and, yes, she was at the place I worked nearly 40 years ago. I do not remember her and she vaguely remembers my name. Another ghost - the ghost of my younger self; Rhiannon’s birds have indeed been singing.

 

that long sleep's breathing
resurrected
by sun, shadows and birdsong

I return home by the same route I came. Passing the cafe caravan I notice it is being closed and shut up. Forever has ended for today and all of life’s kit is safely stowed.

Eddy Street. Cardiff. June 2018

 ‘Maesyronnen’ by Roland Mathias

Across the field, beyond the lordly hedge,

One side as anciently toward the poor,

The long white chapel leans, a living pledge

Left by the men who broke their Babylon,

The staple of the state.

But now the roof with four blue feet of sky,

The half blocked up with boards, lifts ominous:

A blackened stove with scaly tenebrate

Climbs roundly to the beams: and boxed nearby

Lie dusty hymn-books only ten years old

To indicate the poor and present few,

The incubus

Of braver days.

This angle hides a stiff-necked family pew:

One worthy on his haunches saw the lips

That poured forth assonance of truth, the while

He balked with thick eclipse

Dry contemplation of the undevout.

This oaken pen would hide his children too,

The sidelong smile,

The bag crackling uncomfortably out

And little hands drumming the sermon through.

Here at this curious benched table sat

In controversial quorum, face to face,

The leaders of the faith.

Beside the door, in that more cumbered place,

The stranger man, the last uncertain lout

Hunched quickly on his form the cheap machine

Has planed to poverty. In front set out

One hoary bench, thick as a quarried flag

And sagging with the dropsy, bellies back

Into an older age.

Upon the pulpit board new bossed with black

Gleaming with gold leaf, gallant as a page

On which the day’s illumination falls,

Start out the names of tens of serving-men

Who launched the lighted Word within these walls

Three hundred years ago, who flung the gage

Downhill across the Wye.

Stand by the door. Be silent, see

Jogging evangelists come in aflame

And seeking men stride out of Breconshire.

Now it is Lord’s Day evening. Hear the free

Sonority of Welsh come hushing out

Over the nodding heads, the English psalms

Of a believer with a Hereford name

Choiring the neighbourhood.

Up many a lonely cwm for miles around

The disputatious climb, mouthing the good,

To rack the Church and curse Her Popish springs.

Now by each lonely fire the ashes sound,

The finger in the book falls on the text

Weighing the household sin. And lo who sings

The penitential round ...

This was the anvil. Now the sparks beat out

In darker hammering and a little dust.

'Maes-yr-Onnen' by R. S. Thomas

Though I describe it stone by stone, the chapel

Left stranded in the hurrying grass,

Painting faithfully the mossed tiles and the tree,

The one listener to the long homily

Of the ministering wind, and the dry, locked doors,

And the stale piety, mouldering within;

You cannot share with me that rarer air,

Blue as a flower and heady with the scent

Of the years past and others yet to be,

That brushed each window and outsoared the clouds’

Far foliage with its own high canopy.

You cannot hear as I, incredulous, heard

Up in the rafters, where the bell should ring,

The wild, sweet singing of Rhiannon’s birds.