Well here’s to a welcome in the hillside, yes your Willoughby Bedford is in Wales, where old Welsh legends remain alive through the imaginations of Welsh poets and writers.

 

Here amongst the hills and mountains is the stuff of myth and Celtic magic, whether it be Wishing Wells or Holy Springs, Saints and Magicians just look to the skies and you’ll see above the rooftops dragons flying.

 

I’m starting my tour to explore north and mid Wales and have heard of yet another phantom monk. Oh dear, I’m being haunted by them, already done a monk at Chester.

 

But look you, 10 miles SE of Prestatyn on the A548, I’m with Byron Jones in a crowded road side cafe and yes he sings, what Welsh man doesn’t, what a voice.

 

I felt somewhat self conscious when he let rip those tonsils in that great Welsh voice. He made up a song would you believe, about me and my ghost hunting in Wales. I have to admit a little OTT for me being somewhat a self conscious Englishman, amongst all these Welsh people about to join in the chorus at the slightest encouragement to do so.  Byron also had a habit of slapping me on the back as well.

 

Byron and I set off for Greenfield in Flintshire and the 12th-century Basingwerk Abbey.

 

It is what you might expect, a ruin. We took a walk around the site and you’re immediately aware of that serenity these old Abbeys bestow upon the atmosphere. Yes it was cold and raw this time of the year, being winter, but so peaceful and a delight to be around the place.

 

It seemed a little too cold to sit so we walked around while Byron told me of the sad plight of the monk haunting this site who is trying to rebuild its past.

 

The story according to Byron is that the monk heard the sound of a nightingale singing in a nearby wood. Seeking out the source of the songbird he became mesmerised by its tune and became spellbound by the magic of its voice. Delighted by what he was listening to it held him for what seemed like hours.

 

When its song was over the monk returned back to the Abbey only to find it in ruins. The people he saw around him strangers. At first nobody seem to understand him when asking what had happened. It was one bystander who then remarked that his sudden appearance amongst them all reminded him of the story of another monk. This other monk had disappeared just as suddenly centuries before. The people of this place offered the monk some food, but the moment he touched it, he crumbled to dust.

 

Byron’s eyes looked straight at me; he looked far beyond me to be honest. Suddenly he felt moved to sing a song for the monk just as I stubbed my toe on a large jutting piece of stone. It felt inappropriate to yell out as Bryon delivered such a moving ballad in Welsh. I kept my Anglo Saxon words to myself.

 

 

Willoughby Bedford Esq.
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