Cae’r Ffynnon

In the back-alley, lean-to cottage of Cae’r Ffynnon: ‘field of the fountain’, the young mother screamed with horror. In the hallway the coach-built pram with its precious cargo of new-born wonder, rocked gently as sea-water swirled about its brightly-spoked wheels. From Cardigan Bay the wind plucked at the eaves. Waves were breaking over the shingle bank in front of the house and tugging at its foundations. From birth the child knew the tension between land and sea. 

With every wave another surge of salt water came under the door. The locks rattled under the onslaught of the storm. The sandy lane outside, often waterlogged, was now an inlet of the sea. Air bricks (essential, of course, for the healthy circulation of post-war air) spouted water into the tiny kitchen. The girl splashed to the pram, where her son Michael gurgled with pleasure, keeping time with the waves that rocked it. She seized the carefree lad and clutched him close, splashing to the stairs. “Ach-y-fi!” she cried, “Cae’r Ffynnon indeed!”