Down the sweeping valleys and over the flowered glen, little streams are flowing through the heart of kith and kin. The colors of the valley are red and gold and green, but there are other flowers growing, flowers growing but unseen. Two worlds here come together, two worlds, two Wales, two Times. And in the balance, The In Between. The place where all things rhyme...
The In Between is a state of being, a state of fortune, a state of curse. It is a point at which Dark and Light are balanced, where all things -- or conversely No Things -- are possible. It is upon that very junction, not strangely, that a castle sits. High upon the plateau, overlooking the sweeping valley, with terraced gardens, where all things seem to grow. To fairy eyes, this place is golden, full of Summer and Light and Goodness. The home of the wandering Oak King.
No matter how cursed he is...
To mortal eyes, the castle is a red wonder, the gardens are without compare and the little town of Welshpool is quaint, happy, traditionally normal. There's nothing to see here but people going through their lives in the country, smiling to their neighbors, and simply grateful not to be in London.
Davydd ap Owain, the Oak King himself, is for all intents and purposes as regular as the next man in Wales wandering through his yards in rubberboots, a slicker, with a shovel, followed by two very fat and very happy Welsh corgis. There's nothing to see here but a man checking over his garden. Even if the gardens are among the most celebrated in Europe.
This, it seems, is quite in contrast to the estate that Gwendolyn Meyrick visited yesterday. Or, more correctly, the ruin. While green of hill and beautiful, certainly, in its desolation, there were no happy people meandering about the site. This, of course, could have something to do with the rumors that it is inhabited by a vampire or some other form of night creature that preys on those who trespass. As decrepit as this place is whole, the only thing remaining at the other site intact is a single tower, wherein the reputed fiend resides.
Our young artist, however, has opted for more publicly accessed venues for her work today. Set up in the gardens with her easel, she is taking advantage of the fading light to try and get the last touches on the pen and ink of the lively view from where she stands despite the cooling weather. Welsh wool sweater covering her person along with her painters pants, a knit cap matching the jumper only in its woolen qualities tucked on her head, black curls escaping contrarily from the edges. While the sweater is a more subtle blue, the bright green and pink of the topper sticks out in the evening light.
The dogs are the first to notice -- as they usually are -- and trundle forward with their fat selves, waddling more than running. And yipping. Not threateningly -- it's hard to be threatening when you're a corgi -- but certainly persistently. Bwci (bugbear) and Rhyddid (freedom) are a mixed lot -- Rhyddid is a blue merle, a swirl of blue-grey, black and white; Bwci is a tricolor, black-brown-white. And now they are cavorting around you and your easel.
A rabbit! A rabbit!
That's not a rabbit, Bwci. It's clearly a weasel. Why, just look at the nose!
A whistle loud and shrill sounds, getting the dogs' attention. "What ho, boyo... leave the girl alone. Sorry miss," Davydd rumbles as he comes into view. "Come, lads," he calls again and this time the corgies return to him, cavorting around him instead, their excitement not abated.
The black slicker covers a mountain of a man, bronzed hair and solid as the plateau and castle itself. Very Welsh, from the freckles and small nose to the high-cut cheekbones and the quick smile. "Evenin'. You'll have to forgive them, they get excited about art. Quite cultured for dogs," he smirks, accent lilting and trippling over the English he speaks. Quickly. The slicker lies over a hand-knitted jumper, the same color as the earth, the trousers are a darker shade of brown and the shoes are rubber mud boots. He looks like he could be off fishing as much as digging.
Davydd shoves the shovel into the earth and lets it stand on its own.
"Nag helcyd." The girl says easily after the corgies run over to her, smiling and reaching down to give each of them a good scratch behind the ears by way of introduction.
"Boys will be boys, after all." She smiles when the dogs trot back over, looking up at the sky briefly with a wrinkle of her nose, "They were probably just warning me to pack in anyway."
She is, herself, obviously a national girl, though not from the borough nearby, if recognizing's anything. Unconcerned about the moisture in the air with the exception of how it might tamper with her progress. Pulling the nib off her pen she drops it into a little case that sits on the ledge of the wooden box easel, adding the pengrip to it and closing it up before she taps the cork into the ink bottle.
"They look it, certainly. They've an eye about them." Smiling she opens the clamp holding her paper in place on the stand and pulls it off, setting it on the bench near her as she starts to disassemble her contraption.
When he laughs, it comes with sunlight. When he grins, it comes with warmth -- a comet streaking across twilight sky. "Ah well, they've a better eye for it than I, for certes." He makes a wave, continue if you like. "What's it," a jerk of his chin toward your picture. "The gardens?" He grins. "Davydd Llywelyn," he says, by introduction. He starts to reach out with his hand, sees his work gloves, then smirks at himself, drawing his hand back, removing the glove and then offering it again.
"If you like," he offers in Welsh, since you started it, "... you can come up to the house," a castle called a house, "... and get another view... would you like some tea?"
Cookies and cakes!
Bwci, cakes and pies!
Davydd glances down to the dogs at his feet, one now rolling over one of his boots and begging on his back with paws in the air and tongue lolling out. You've had enough cakes and pies. You can barely get up the stairs, boyo. Davydd chuckles, shakes his head and looks to you, artist. "Come on, it feels like it's about to dew on us," light rain, common in Wales at all hours of the day or night. "I'll put a kettle on..."
"Y ceyrydd, actually. She's lovely, it's obvious you take good care of her." One wouldn't call a sight such as this by the Angles term for it. It's a Welsh beauty, through and through. "Though through the gardens, aye."
She leans over at the offer of the hand, not seeming to mind the glove, and smiling when it's removed and returned. Her knuckles and fingertips slightly colored by the inks off her pen, "Gwendolyn Meyrick. Pleasure." The raven brows arch slightly at the invitation, "If you're sure it's no trouble? Give me a chance to let the ink set before I roll her up, which would be brilliant."
The easel it seems folds into a briefcase of sorts. The back a box that holds paints, brushes, and nibs; Legs folding against the back so that it's carried with a handle. Purposefully cartable.
The smile lights his expression again -- you could probably follow him in the dead of night and his smile would light the way. "Aye, well..." a chuckle, "... the families through the years tended her well," he gives them their due. "I tend her as well as I may, custodian that I am." Custodian, he calls himself, not owner. What man truly owns anything? We are all custodians on this earth, aren't we?
"And no trouble at all," Davydd adds, your hand released and he's half turning toward the path that leads through the lower gardens to the terraces and the road that leads to the castle around the gardens. "Lads," he says to the dogs and they sit up, pricking their large ears forward, "...go up the castle, tell Marti we'll have a guest for tea," he looks at you and winks. But the dogs obediently gambol up the road toward the castle. "And don't eat all the cakes!" he calls out after them.
"Shall we?" he gestures toward the castle. "Road less traveled," he wonders, meaning the rocky path through the gardens, "...or the smooth and easy way?" He chuckles.
Picking up her case and her sheet of paper, she chuckles at the dogs as they amble up the path. Grinning in return to the smile she tugs on her cap a bit with her other hand, keeping it in place before a nod, "Well, you've done a lovely job of it."
Following along side she says, "Either's fine. Less traveled has some appeal though, since I don't have to worry on getting turned around." Might walk into something you don't want to if you haven't a guide to show you the safe way through places like this.
"Plus we might have a chance to beat them to the cakes and save some for ourselves that way." Her disposition is certainly sunny if nothing else, looking around the gardens again and marking her place before she sets over for the path, "And it'd give us a chance to check on them and see if they've conveyed the message properly." Dogs conveying messages either not at all a confusing topic for her, or she's just along on the joke.
He always appreciates a sunny disposition. Taking his shovel in his hand, he props it up on a broad shoulder and turns toward the road that leads to the castle. "We're fortunate that they're both short and lacking opposable thumbs. Otherwise, we'd have been eaten out of home and kit years ago," Davydd chuckles.
"Your art bring you to y Trallwm," using the old name for Welshpool as he leads you up the road, between the shrubberies and toward the great red castle on the hill.
Or are you from here? You don't look like one of the local girls, but you're definitely a countryman... woman. Davydd looks to you, questions unasked floating over his expression, hovering brightly and unuttered in green eyes. "Aye well," he says at last on the tending, "...diolch," thanks.
She chuckles, "Aye. Our hounds are ravenous beasts. It's a wonder they haven't learned to open pantries." She's obviously fond of them in any case, either way.
"Aye. I'm doing a study of the castles. Well, some of them, of course." Wales being renowned for its castles and their numbers. "So I thought I'd hop counties and come over here to pick some up. I'll take a couple days here, though, I think. Maybe go around and do some other sketching. I wanted to get this one for certain though." The one she was working on, it seems. Approaching the doors she waits for them to be opened as not to be presumptuous or rude, glancing at the walls contemplatively as she comes up the walk.
Davydd's stride quickens as the two of you approach the castle itself. It turns to a jogged hop up the few steps and he opens the great door with a sweep. "After you, miss Meyrick," he offers.
The granite steps lead to red and white marble tiled floor. Such grandeur! You can thank the Herberts and Clives for that. "You're welcome to grab some interior sketches if you like," he notes. "We'll be up for a while and ...what with it autumn, all the tourists are gone." A smile cuts across his features, "We're getting a might lonely in the shire. Everyone's packing up for the season," autumn and then winter. The seasons of rain.
Davydd pauses behind you and motions to the east. "I'll have the tea brought to the gallery. Make yourself comfortable. I'll go see about that kettle..." There are certainly servants around, but the castle appears not to be crowded with them. For all its grandeur, the castle does have that warm, lived-in feel to it. It's a home. A real home.
"Thanks, that'd be lovely." She says easily, "And Wendy's fine."
She looks around at the room as she makes her way over to the gallery, not overwhelmed with the size or richness of the rooms, but certainly interested. In all aspects of the rooms, not just the artwork.
"They miss out, though it does make the pastorals a trick. I was hoping to get more done than I have so far, but I'll probably just scout for the season." Turning back at the mention of the tea fetching, she smiles appreciatively, setting down her kit next to a chair.
By the time you come back, she's got out a sketchbook and pencil, doing something or other of the windows across from her chair looking out on the now deep grey of evening that comes so quickly with the clouds in the damp. Her hat still tucked on her head as though it hasn't occurred to her to remove it at all. Smudging something deliberately with her thumb she glances briefly at the page, though most of her eye is on the windows themselves, looks back to the work only to keep her place.
Davydd doesn't get far, in fact, he doesn't leave the porch really, pausing there to remove his rubber boots and slicker. Sock feet appear on the marble after and he grins up at you. "Wendy it is, then. I'll be right back..." He comes in fully and turns, that stride of Mars taking him out of sight. Who knew a mountain could move that fast? Or that well...
To fairy eyes, the castle is a glittering, humming realm. Is it the returned presence of the Oak King to his country that makes it so, or is it something in the earth, beneath the earth, something the In Between creates?
To mortal eyes, the interior has a warm, homey but polished feel. The artifacts are everywhere and history is everywhere. Some of the marble squares are slightly loose, it happens with age, but truly the castle is in marvelous keeping.
It's a few minutes before you hear the sound of steps again. A few moments more before he rounds the corner into the gallery. And when Davydd returns, energy returns with him. Is it a matter of the man being warm, congenial and lovely? "It will be a few minutes. Apparently the dogs were distracted by their constant need to piddle," he clips. His earthy voice echoes slightly with all the granite and marble. Davydd smiles broad and warm to see you've made yourself comfortable. He found an indoor pair of shoes at some point and takes a seat on one of the benches to pull them on. "So, a tour of the castles of Cymru, eh? You'll be traveling a while then," he chuckles, coming upright. "You going down or coming up from Cardiff?" The capital with its own old castle. "You should go to the Black Mountains," Davydd suggests, fiery eyebrows raising a bit. "Down southwest to Brecon. There's a 2,000 year old castle there. Pre-dates Arthur... ruins still around."
The girl looks up from her work with a chuckle, "Hopefully they satisfied that before they got back up?"
"Well, not all at once." She smiles, setting her pencil down and moving the pad over to the table next to her. "It's kind of a long term project, really. But yeh, I'll keep that one in mind."
"Up from Llanymddyfri." Llandovery for the uninitiated, "Mostly I'm just doing day trips, getting a piece done, tidying it at home, filing it away. There's a part of me that wants to make a book out of it. History bits to go with the pictures, that kind of thing. But mostly I just want to paint them."
He seems interested in the idea of the book and nods, smiling easily. He seems to do that frequently, his eyes wrinkle at the corners. And it looks good on him. "It's a good way to see the country, aye. I tend to travel similarly. Pick a hub and branch out," like an old tree. Davydd's smile slants. "But I don't get out much," a short laugh. As his friends are wont to tell him.
The sound of something rolling approaches, a tea cart presumably. And a servant! At long last! The servant is younger than Davydd (appears to be), a young woman in a smart skirt and sweater, very Welsh. She appears with a cart and a smile. "Sorry for the wait," she says, "...let me know if you'd like anything else." And what would that be? The cart is full of scones, tea, biscuits, honey, sugar and cream. She smiles to you both.
"Nothing else for me, Marti, this looks wonderful." Davydd waits to see what the guest has to say. He rises to do the pouring himself. "Diolch," he says to the young woman.
When the cart comes in, Wendy smiles at the other woman politely. She doesn't seem ill-at-ease with the servant's arrival, nor does she seem to feel above her in station. Somehow instead more accustomed to it, either as though it simply comes as part of the castle or part of the world in general, "Everything looks wonderful, thanks. I missed tea earlier so this will top it."
Going over to pour she gets two cups going and looks to see if you'd like anything in yours. "But, I suppose it's good, yes. The traveling I mean." She considers, "I'd never really thought about that part of it. It's more destinations."
She waits to hear how the tea should be made up before bringing it over and going back to add to hers, a healthy amount of sugar and cream, one scone put on a plate before she goes back to her seat again.
"We tend to 'tea' late here. To hell with," fuck, "...the British tea time," Davydd laughs as he takes his seat again, you beating him to the punch with the pouring. Marti is congenial, she smiles, bobs her head and leaves you both to it.
"Just a bit of cream and sugar," Davydd notes as he sees you waiting, "...thank you. And two scones," he tacks on. As if he could ever forget food! Not that he looks like he overeats. He's solid for a'that. A solid man has a healthy appetite he always says.
"So what do you do when you're not illustrating personal travel guides of Welsh castles?" He's making small talk, seems to take to it easily enough. In truth, Davydd could talk to walls and be perfectly content. Most walls have pretty good stories to tell, if the truth be known.
Tea is prepared and carried, scones are brought, and Wendy retakes her seat with her own. Taking a sip from the cup and settling it on her lap politely she shrugs a bit, "Help my folks at home, mostly."
"Our house is next to Dienfwyr Park. Most days there's a tea room open in the old formal parlor for people coming up to the forest. And an exhibit in the basement about the park, and the castle, and the house itself. Sometimes there'll be a holiday group that calls ahead and we'll do a walking tour of the gardens and the deer path." She says easily after a bite of the scone, "So, leaves me days for the weekend and holidays to go paint."
Her attitude seems to suggest that in her mind it's more the other way round. When she's not painting, she helps with a tea room and park.
Both fiery eyebrows cock upward. "Dienfwyr Park," he says, taking the tea and scones. Ah, Sandrine has been in the kitchen again. Grinning he takes a bite, "That's nice property. Quite a bit of land, good estate." He seems to know it pretty well. Don't all owners of castles belong to the same club?
He's quiet for a moment as he takes a swallow of the tea, another bit of the scone elicits a sound and slight rolling of the eyes. She outdid herself. There's honey inside! The woman knows the straightest way to Davydd's heart. Food. And sweet food at that.
Davydd twists about where he sits on the bench, as if suddenly thinking about the lack of tables in the gallery. Smirking, he uses the nearby windowsill. Outside, the gardens tumble downward out of view. "I'm sure the tourists would love to buy such prints at the tea room. Or a book of them. They seem to love that. And anything else that makes Cymru seem quaint," dark forest eyes flash out a wink and Davydd sits back. "It makes them happy," great shoulders roll. Before he was a custodian of a castle, he must have been a footballer or worked outside or sommat...
"It's lovely. National Park right out the back is perfection." She takes another sip of her tea and enjoys the scones herself, "I should ask your girl about these scones though, they're marvelous. My cous does most of the cook work in the kitchens, and I haven't seen him make ones like these."
She nods a little at the remark about people who come to tea houses, "I have cards? They buy them pretty regularly. Mother had them made up a few years ago, I keep telling her I should do some better ones. There are some of the house, the castle, and the white cattle." One of the things the park is famous for. "Right now it's where most of my watercolors are. On the walls I mean. Framed up like some 18th century girl did them, it's kind of weird."
He chuckles a bit, twisting to take his tea back. "Aye... well, Marti's a good cook, but I can tell these aren't hers. The Lady of the House," that must be Mrs. Llywelyn? "... is behind this. Honey worked right in and baked straight through, I can eat an entire plate of them," and that's no exaggeration. "If it weren't for all the gardening and chasing the dogs, I'd be as plump as they are."
He pauses for more food and he polishes off his cup of tea. He's a resplendent man about the manor. He seems to gleam. Let's call it what it is -- at the taste of her inspired scones, he feels a wash of Glamour. Maybe he's just in love with the Lady of the House. Maybe that accounts for it, for mortal eyes.
For fairy eyes, he is the Oak King after all. Inspired, he shines like a Beltane bonfire. And dragons curl and coil against his skin, tattoos unseen beneath his clothing.
At the shift of energies in the room, the painter blinks a bit, though mostly from confusion it seems. She doesn't get the look of someone who understands what they're seeing, just that they saw it. "Must be getting darker out." That would account for the briefer brightness of the room... of course... She looks past towards the windows.
Recovering herself so she doesn't look simple, she smiles, "Well, if you'd tell Lady Llywelyn that they're lovely, I'd appreciate it." She takes another sip of tea, settling from the odd experience, the hint of peat in the water calming her nerves.
Do you all let out on season?" There were remarks earlier about guests leaving the shire and all. With manor houses and castles what they are to keep up, one has to make ends how they can.
Popping the last bit of scone in his mouth, Davydd folds large arms comfortably against broad chest, smiling till the corners of his eyes crinkle, eyes twinkling in that Welsh Way -- full of merriment, maybe a little mischief. "Oh, aye... I'll tell Lady Llywelyn, for certes. She'll be pleased to know that they pleased." It does make Sandrine Jorgenson (nee Llywelyn) happy to know her food is enjoyed.
"Oh no, we only let April through September. It's still a residence. From October through March it's full of family and private guests, for the holidays. We have rented out for wedding parties, however. We have plenty of space, truth be told. But for general travel, only between April and September. The gardens, though, are open year round..."
"We have a faire." Wendy says in response to mention of the holidays, "The village all do different trades, some of them come as clowns or whatnot if they don't make a craft. We're really down in Llandielo, closest major center other than Carmarthen's Llanymddyfri. People come over from both though."
"St. Tielo's Fair is what they call it, King Street's closed and they set up vendors all down the sides. So we have special events up at the house. Some charity balls, sometimes a concert if there's someone coming through."
"Aye, we make exceptions for the old Trallwm festival as well. The village loves a good faire. Myself, I can do without the clowns, but shows and carts, booths and such are nice. It's a good fair, St. Tielo's. We have the three-day fair in November and then again in summer to go with the market, coincides with market days in Somerset as well. Those are ancient carnivals. They've been in practice for over a thousand years," they even outdate me!
Davydd grins and, hands going to his thighs with a pat, he makes to stand. "You're welcome to stay a bit if you like. I need to go tend to a few things m'self. Check on the missus."
Taking another sip from her tea she shakes her head, "I should get out or I won't get back before morning." Wendy smiles, "Thanks for the cuppa. When I went to that craggy ruin next door yesterday I thought I was going to get shot up or somethin like." She wrinkles her nose a little.
Setting the cup back on the tea wagon, scone well finished without any crumbs left, she smiles, "Have a good even."
The craggy ruin next door...
That stops Davydd a moment, he pivots back toward you, eyebrows raised. "That old heap?" his voice gravels it out, rolls earthy over consonants and vowels. "Lowe," Loo-veh, "... isn't exactly a charmer. But," a sigh, "...not everyone can be Mr. Sunshine." He barks a laugh at that and waits to walk you to the door.
"Bah, but you shouldn't put much," note he says 'much', not an outright denial, "...stock in the rumors. Sure, he's a bit moody..." As most of His Kind are. "And the castle's a right dump. Still... what one man calls home..."
"Oh, it's lovely." Wendy says of the ruin. Actually sincere about her appreciation of the tumbled down castle itself as she follows you over to the door once she's picked up her sketchpad and contraption. "It's him."
Wrinkling her nose a little again she says, "Figures a mosher would've already gotten in there. Said I could come back if I wanted as long as I let him know first, which was sporting, but... I don think I will. Maybe up from the hill, but not much closer." She lowers her voice a little, "I can see why the people tell stories about him, he's right queer."
"Eh, he's not a bad sort," Davydd exhales, "Really." He's not a good sort either. He's sort of In Between. "He's a bit of a private sort, though. Moodyish," hands go in his pockets. "Private, you know... keep to the road, stay off the moors sort of spooky private, but he's not the Bogeyman."
He's the Bogeyman's first cousin. The actual Bogeyman lives in the suburbs of London and tends his little roadside garden. I hear he's opening up a B&B.
Davydd looks to you, smiling warmly and perhaps a little reassuringly. "I don't know that I'd call him a mosher. I'll grant you that he's quirky. Still, he's a good neighbor. I've a mind to help him fix his roofs before the rain starts in serious like."
"He fed me some line about having gone to the clubs in Germany and getting his name there." Wendy says, in explanation of her name for him. The story that's served him fairly well over the ages most recently about his odd affectations seems to have gotten seen right through for whatever reason. World traveller, eccentric, clubber. Bollox. At this, she also rolls her eyes, "Like anybody keeps names you get in German clubs. He could've just said he didn't like his given one. Or sommat. I don't care what his name is, I'll call him King of the Hill if he wants." Odd...
"Anyhow. Thanks again, I'll drop you a watercolor after I've done the garden one." This seems to be her standard practice from the way she states it, handing out artwork like calling cards.
Davydd stands there, stunned, for a minute. Blinking rapidly at least four times as he tries to process the Vitriol From Nowhere. Wow. Bitter much? "Uh... well...so anyway," he clears his throat as he pauses at the door, forcing a smile as he opens it after another shocked half-moment. "Sure, the picture would be nice, actually."
Pause.
"Have a good night and ...enjoy your travels, miss..."
"Sure." Wendy smiles again, like there wasn't anything at all odd about running at the mouth about neighbors and their nicknames.
"Night." With that, she heads back up to the parking area, not at all worried about loosing her footing in the gardens or the set in darkness of the grounds. Either she's oblivious to it or feels comfortable enough in general that it doesn't worry her overmuch. She turns and waves a little when she's somewhat down the path, just before getting out of the main lights of the house and presumably driving away.
Posted by rowan at November 23, 2003 02:06 PM
