Ah excellent! I think I still have some old paperbacks that I could bring Grendle. May I bring some music? I have quite a selection of Celtic music (not necessarily Welsh), as well as a friend who plays the hammer dulcimer like a bard of old.

As I'm deep in the Brothers of Gwynedd books by Ellis Peters, I think I'll invite Llewelyn ap Griffiths to join us-he could us a bit of a rest from fighting off the English. Whiskey and a warm by the fire will do him nicely-but he can't stay too long-never know what brothers Owen and David are up to, not to mention mother dear.

Where are all your other invitees? My, but it is nice to meet such a well-behaved dragon. I've brought Grendal a few tattered junque novels to placate him.

I'm looking forward to hearing some D. Thomas poetry read aloud, with harp music in the background. I must say your cave has great acoustics!

Lovely dress,Dido. Can you enlighten me re Rhiannon?

I think I hear the "Men of Harlech" singing in the distance....

dido you must have the snow that we were promised today; please keep it.
Well, what a journey to reach Mynyddgruffyd. I must thank you for the warm welcome you organised. I reached Cardiff railway station to be greeted by hundreds of flags and lines of grannies and small children waving to me. I waved back and wandered towards the new Welsh Assembly building where a really nice chap leaning against a very smart Rolls-Royce kindly offered me a lift up to your place on condition I walked the dogs.
So here I am, and what a deluxe pad you have here. I recognise some of it from the article in Caves and Gardens. I was expecting the ty bach to be at the top of the hill, but there's nothing like indoor plumbing in this chilly weather.
Very wise move to feed Grendal on old Barbara Cartland romances, I know he likes nothing better than a few virgins and they are in such short supply these days. I don't like the way he is eyeing-up the dogs though. My driver friend says if they aren't back in half-an-hour all hell will break lose and I'll finish up in the Tower. Perhaps if you could just let me have a chip butty and a couple of Welsh mutton bones, really delicious meat, for the Corgis (famous Welsh cattle dogs) I'll get them back to their Mistress.

I can't believe I've finally managed to make contact! It's taken me AGES to log on to this.

Cindy, your music is lovely - thanks for bringing it. We, the Welsh, normally have either classical music or the most wonderful hymn tunes in the world, but they are all difficult to dance to.

Mary, Rhianon was a very nasty lady. Can't remember the details now, but get yourself a copy of the MABINOGION. Dylan Thomas's writings are lying around all over the place - help yourself. And my mate Maggs is playing the harp, as I speak (Penillion, of course. Still not to dance to, Cindy)

Cece, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd is my favourite. I have a published play about his daughter Gwenllian, the last REAL Welsh princess, and have been trying to write his story for years, as drama. I should have invited him to take my arm tonight and not that twit Aeneas who is STILL looking for Rome! I've told him he's too far east, the idiot!

Ouch! Grendal just nudged me with his teeth. So come on you lot - come and feed him.

Vee, I spoke to you before; and I shall speak to you again later. So: you sussed my padname of Mynyddgryffydd, did you, you clever little devil, and now you've gone and given it out to the elements so every Tom Dick and Ieuan will know, eh? As for the Ty Bach, you must realise we have an indoor one. We do keep up with the Times, you know. And if you call in, I can let you have a laverbread sandwich - I know how you like them.

Snow's nearly gone. Beethoven blares from the radio. I see there are more of you here than meets the eye.

Dido

I stopped off in the Lake District to get some Grasmere gingerbread. I've tried to make it from what was purported to be an authentic recipe, but I think they left something out. It surely couldn't be my baking skills.

Snow, is it? I have left unusual 72 degree weather to be with you, but I'm sure the party will be worth it. I've brought Brother Cadfael with me, hoping it would be all right since he is so sensitive; and if there should be another murder, he can certainly help us out.

(veer, I came home from a very long day, feeling under the weather and cranky. Your post above made me laugh several times -thank you!)

cc, funny you should mention Llywelln. Since its St David's Day, I had to let David escort me. He asked so sweetly that I just couldn't resist. I did insist however that he leave his broad sword and hand knife at the cape desk. Hopefully he doesn't have any more vials of poison with him. And don't worry, we have sent his mother and Owen to Paris to check on some new fabric for our summer dresses.

dido, I always wondered about Gwendolyn Sent to a convent by King Edward, poor dear). I'd love to read your book.

But on to more joyful topics - dance! I see my dulcimer is set up, the harp is being tuned, and I'm sure someone has a boldryn (sp) somewhere. I have my leather dance shoes which came straight from Paris, a lovely red gown embrodiered with dark purple roses, and am wearing purple roses in my long braided brunette hair (tho David insists that in some light, my hair is auburn. He is a dear, if a bit blind)

Hello, Dido, sorry I have not spoken to you earlier but I was back in the cave arranging the cakes I picked up from a bakery near Cardiff. (We always used to make a detour there whenever we had to deliver items to South Wales.) I also brought some bara brith baked by Kerry Greenwood's baker/detective Corinna Chapman.
Being part-Welsh, of course I had to make your party! What a lovely venue and such imaginative decor!

Hello all, and especially our gracious hostess Dido, sorry that I did not pipe up yesterday - I arrived early, before the party started and sat at the back of the cave trying to get warm. Grendel devoured my stack of Enid Blyton novels in one bite, they probably are a bit light and airy even for him.

For company, I brought my younger daughter Rhianna, who is rather proud of her Welsh blood. She is carrying the Red Dragon banner. We are guarded by our faithful border lurcher Bonnie, who is probably at least partly Welsh, and very brave until faced with danger.

While I prefer folk music, Rhianna has brought along her Catatonia CDs.

Woodnymph, you requested some Dylan Thomas - as it happens, I currently carry this one with me daily:

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night
by: Dylan Thomas

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

What a lovely party! Thank you all so much for coming and bringing such great music and food - and thanks for the D.T. poem, Anyanka. I've been trying to find a copy of Gillian Clarke's MIRACLE ON ST DAVID'S DAY to put up, but blow me, I can't find a copy in the house at the moment. It's the one where she is reading poetry 'to the insane', up the valleys with daffodils in bloom outside. Suddenly, an old man who hasn't spoken for years stands up and recites the whole of Wordsworth's DAFFODILS..... The last line is:

'And the daffodils are flame.'

I'll put up an R.S. Thomas instead:

THE BRIGHT FIELD
I have seen the sun break athrough
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
the treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

And on that note, lovely guests, I take my leave for the moment.

Dido

Dido Is this what you were looking for?

Miracle On St David's Day

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
The Daffodils by William Wordsworth

An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.

I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic

on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun, a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes, the woman is absent.
A big mild man is tenderly led

to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythm of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks.

He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer's voice recites "The Daffodils".

The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.

Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech, and that he once had something to say.

When he's done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers silence. A thrush sings,
and the daffodils are flame.

Gillian Clarke

Vee,

Indeed it is! Thanks so much for putting it up. I don't know why I can't find a copy: so many poetry books in this cave, including a collected G.C. (which, of course, I can't find. I think Aeneas must have borrowed it Grendal wouldn't have eaten it - too rich for him)

Diolch.

Dido

Here's to Wales and to Spring! For our hostess, a poem by A.A. Milne:

Daffodowndilly

She wore her yellow sun-bonnet,
She wore her greenest gown;
She turned to the south wind
And curtsied up and down.
She turned to the sunlight
And shook her yellow head,
And whispered to her neighbour:
"Winter is dead."

Cheers, Mary. I raise my glass to you - and to forthcoming Spring!

I learned that poem in Infants' School, at the age of about five. Haven't thought of it for years - thank you for giving it back to me.

Dido

Oh dido, I am so sorry for the mess. I know a wonderful cleaner who knows how to get blood out of the carpet. And ccr, my apologies, I had no idea that David had concealed his dagger in his boot. I do hope that Llywellen's wound heals quickly. To keep such from happening again, I spiked David's mead with some poppy juice. He should sleep soundly for the rest of the night, and possibly the next day.