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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Pulpit, Maesyronnen Chapel |
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.
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| Memorial, Maesyronnen Chapel |
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.
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| 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.
