“How Green Is Your Valley”

 

                        “How Green Was My Valley,” a 1941 movie starring Walter Pidgeon, Maureen O’Hara, and a young Roddy McDowall, told the heartwarming and sometimes tragic story of a Welsh coalmining family in the late 1800’s.  I had always wanted to see this movie, but could never find it on TV or in a video store.  A couple of years ago my wife did locate it, I think in a catalogue, and gave it to me for my birthday.  Although kind of corny and schmaltzy by today’s standards, it nevertheless was about my people, and according to the video jacket, “one of the best films ever made.”

                         Last week, I had the opportunity to see how green my valley really was.  My wife and I, and her sister and brother-in-law, went “on holiday” as they say, to Ireland and Wales, homelands of some of our ancestors. 

                        Three years ago, my Uncle Hugh wrote his autobiography, telling not just the story of his life for his children and grandchildren, but also as much as he knew or could find out about our ancestors.  Although not a New York booklist bestseller, it did make mention of me, so is, therefore, one of my favorite books.

                        Included in this book were several old photos including a grainy snapshot of some buildings and mountains with “Melinbyrhedyn” written across the top front of the picture.  The largest building, a church, was the birthplace of my great-grandmother Jones, Mary E. Thomas.  Her father was the sexton of the church building, and they lived in a tiny dwelling built on the rear.

                        All four of us had goals for this trip.  Gary wanted to see castles, the Egan sisters wanted to do an “Amazing Race” tour of Ireland, and myself, all I wanted to do was find this 130 year old picture.

                        We stayed three nights in Wales, near Corwen, in an old hunting lodge -  manor house run by a somewhat uptight Englishwoman named Johanna, who I think could have used a little more “fibre” in her diet.

                        What she lacked in warmth and hospitality, however, she made up for by having a really good map, a map far better than any of the ones we had, a map that had a little, bitty unnamed road leading to a little, bitty village called Melinbyrhedyn.  And, God bless her, Johanna let us borrow it.

                        We drove for about an hour and a half southwest through some of the most beautiful countryside and mountains you could ever imagine.  And sheep!  There were literally millions of them.  It was heaven if you like sheep, and I think you know I do.  Most were of the Welsh Mountain breed, but as we got closer to Machynlleth, close to my ancestral village, we saw more and more Welsh Hill Speckled sheep, a stylish breed with distinct black markings on their faces.

                        Based on the map, we drove through Machynlleth, and took the first left out of town.  We quickly passed a little golf course that made the Delphos Country Club look like Augusta National.  But I bet they don’t have sheep greenskeepers at Augusta like they do in Machynlleth.

                        About a mile later we came to a fork in the road.  A weathered wooden sign, bearing the name “Melinbyrhedyn,” pointed down a one lane road that can only be described as a “hedge tunnel.”

                        This road led up a hill, and at the top of the hill we crossed over a cattle guard, which I thought was a little strange, as there were no cattle in sight.  As we rumbled over the guard, the hedges gave way and we could see the valley below.  The hills were covered mostly with bracken fern, and there was a little river running on the valley floor.

                        On the far side of the river sat a tiny village, and as we made our way down the hill, comparing the mountain pattern in the old photo to the mountain pattern before us, it was evident that I was “home.”

                        The stone church wasn’t very large, but its lines were still straight and true.  A stone at the peak showed that it was built in 1851; my great-grandmother was “built” in 1857.  We snooped around the church a bit, and knocked on the door of the residence in the rear, but nobody was home.

                        In fact, it didn’t seem like anyone was home anywhere.  We continued our snooping down the lane behind the church, and were very close to the neighbor’s house when I heard a somewhat apprehensive “Hellooo.”  I looked up to see a mop of gray hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes peering over the wooden fence around the patio.

                        “Hello, I’m John Jones from Ohio.  Would you like to see what your house looked like 130 years ago?”  I said as I held up Uncle Hugh’s book for the man to see.  The apprehension withdrew from his face, and was replaced with a big smile and a “Would you come in for tea?”

                        One would think that the highlight of my trip would be finding the church.  The real highlight was meeting Geoff.  Geoff and his wife, Margaret, were just the nicest people.  Geoff was a retired engineer from England, and they had first come to Melinbyrhedyn in 1982 to visit a friend-and never really left.

                        They were, that day we were there, actually unpacking and moving into the house they had used as a “holiday house” for years, to live in Melinbyrhedyn permanently, and to increase the population to eight.

                        Yet, they took the time to chat with us, show us old photos that looked eerily like mine, and gave us some refreshing tea.

                        During our conversation, Geoff mentioned that he had heard us coming down the hill...Aha! I knew it.  That cattle guard wasn’t for cows, it was for us.  The guard was their “community watch” program.

                        As we were saying our goodbyes, Geoff asked if we would do him a favor.  At the fork in the road, he wanted us to take a left and climb up the mountain before going back to Machynlleth.  “Please do it for me,” was the last thing I remember him saying.  As we drove up the hill, it felt good knowing the village was in such good hands.

                        We did exactly as Geoff said.  And, oh my!  The view from the top was the most magnificent and beautiful thing I have ever seen.  Mountains and sheep for as far as you could see.  Thank you, Geoff, for this great gift.

                        Although we only stayed for a few minutes, it seemed like dozens of thoughts raced through my head.  I wondered if my own sheep would like to live on this mountain.  I thought of my dad, and how much I wished he were here to see all this beauty, and of course I thought of my great-grandparents.  How could they have ever left a place such as this?

                        But leave they did. With three little boys, they came to Venedocia sometime before 1882, the year my grandpa was born.  He was the first American-born Jones.

                        How green was my valley?  Pretty darn. But as we came down the mountain, I realized it wasn’t as green as my valley here in Ohio.  I don’t know what forces drove my great-grandparents from Wales, whether it was the abject poverty of the mines, or just the hope of something better in America, but I do know that their decision to leave had a profoundly positive effect on my life.  America has been very good to my family and me, and for that, I am forever grateful.

                        The choices you make can affect generations to come.  Make good ones.

Author:  Dr. John Jones, September 2005