LAZARUS’S BLA BLA BLOG

Hanging on for fear of my life’s imminent demise, I used every drop of strength I could muster, blood pulsing through my muscles, straining with effort in the name of survival. My arms wrapped around Tan-y-Mynedd’s thick muscular neck, thighs and heels digging into a scaly armoured body provided me with some illusion of safety. Allowing myself to be cajoled into flying at such great speed aloft in the heavens, riding a dragon, in itself warranted an examination of my sanity. But I had been given no choice in the matter, none at all. Tan-y-Mynedd’s great wings flapped, glided and flipped this way and that, as we flew on through the night. Our destination, the ‘Great Council of Blue Stone’.

            The full moon illuminating a dark night sky gave light to all below and the stars above twinkled. Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon glided with ease, trapping draughts of air beneath huge wings, tail swishing left then right and back again. With the dip of an appropriate wing tip, gathering speed, he hurtled on. The great Dragon flew in and out of large fluffy clouds, limiting vision to the end of my nose, reminding me of the many times I had been temporarily blinded by a mountain mist. But as he flew on, the clouds dispersed and I could see for miles around, above and below. Peaks of mountains glistened, seemingly so small, far below. Valleys flashed into sight – there, then gone. Rivers wound their courses from source to sea, crisscrossing, twisting, splitting and turning, giving the appearance of an enormous spider’s web guarding the earth so far below.

            Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon twisted a wing, dipped downwards and flipped his long scaled tail. He glided down through the sky slowly from the heavens in ever-decreasing circles, the mountains, valleys, pastures, lakes and rivers getting closer and closer with every twist of his tail. Suddenly, he turned back on himself, shooting off at an angle level with the ground below. Following a river through a shadowy gorge, flying just above the treeline of the forest, Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon soared skilfully ever onwards. The ground below rose and then dipped away again into a deep valley, shrouded by mountains on all sides. The darkness of night began to fade, rose-pink and magenta flecks and flashes streaked across the ever-lightening sky. Dawn lingered in wait upon the horizon.

            The great Dragon pulled back both wings, thrust out a proud armoured chest, extended four thick, muscular, scaled legs, flexed talons and swished his tail high. Expelling hot air from both nostrils in clouds of steam, he landed rather less than gracefully on a scree covered mountainside. Scree, rocks, dust and debris flew in all directions. As the dust cloud settled, a morning sun was just beginning to rise, shrouded in streaks of multi-coloured cloud – a landscape in the sky, and painted by wizards.

            Scrambling from this ‘steed of the air’, legs shaking like jelly clothing brawn, my feet touching solid ground again, I heaved a sigh of relief. After hanging on to dear life on a dragon’s back for heaven knows how long and also not knowing how far we had come, I had a need to take a deep, deep breath.

            Standing perched on a rock while looking down the valley at the lake below, Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon pointed with one great wing towards a cave set back in the rock-face and quietly spoke in the ancient language.

            “The Great Council of Blue Stone.”

            A golden sun rose across the horizon. I stared in wonder at such magnificence lost, and yet immersed, in the glory of this immense universe where all created therein is truly one. An early morning daydream would be an easy indulgence amidst this beauty. Standing high on this scree-covered ledge, I saw mountain ranges, deep craggy valleys and great forests lurking beneath blankets of green. I was looking far into the distance when I was disturbed by a voice from behind.

            “Crach, it is time.” Tan-y-Mynedd spoke softly.

            Turning at the sound of the Fire Dragon’s voice, I did not immediately see Tan-y-Mynedd as he stood almost invisible, hidden in darkness inside the cave mouth with just the end of his great snout protruding ever so slightly out into the light. Sliding rather clumsily over the scree, I scrambled in silence up to the cave entrance. The great Dragon edged deeper away from the sunlight. Such brightness stung his eyes. Spending life for so many years in the great darkness of those deep subterranean caverns, emerging to fly only at night, had created difficulties for all dragons, not just Tan-y-Mynedd.

            There was a moment, not far off in the mists of time, when dragons flew in dark or light, day or night. Wars and hunting had put an end to that. Either battle or bloody-minded cowardly actions in the name of sport had depleted their population considerably, almost to the point of extinction. Eventually all the surviving dragons sought safety deep underground, emerging only in the darkness and safety of night.

            The last female dragon was slain by the English over two hundred years ago as she attempted to protect her eggs. She had drawn the murderers as far away from the nest as she could before falling from the sky, punctured by hundreds of arrows. She lay on the ground, her broken body staining the dust crimson when her last breath came, but not before she managed to bite the head clean off an archer when he got too close. This tale was told to me long ago when I was a young apprentice by my old Master, Llwyd ap Crachan Llwyd.

            None knew how many dragons survived, but it was known that all were male. The time of the dragon would end one day because of this great travesty and for many, they were already nothing more than folk-lore. Of course, as I said before, dragons do possess the gift of making folk forget they had encountered them. If they do happen to be seen by unwanted eyes, green vapour sneezed from great nostrils always does the trick. But the reality, as plain as the wart on my face, means their beauty will one day be nothing more than a tale to be told around a warm blazing fire at the ‘time between times’.

            A rumour had been buzzing amongst wizards and seers across our great land for many years that somewhere a batch of dragon eggs lay hidden deep in the caverns of Ffestiniog. Tan-y-Mynedd and his brothers had long searched for them but to no avail, although admittedly there were still many hidden depths yet to explore. Whilst ever one dragon still lived, there was always a possibility, slim though it may be, that the eggs could be found and thus hatch. Hope always sprung eternal in the heart of a dragon.

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It is a beautiful evening as we drive back home after a nice few days, soaking up the sun and scenery in Cardigan. On the road we pass through hamlet after village, round hairy bends and cast from bright sunlight, into the shade and shadows of fleeting forests. Round another bend and we are doing twenty-five through a small hamlet. We see a man staggering along the very narrow grass verge about twenty meters ahead, coming towards us. Suddenly he seems to stumble and then nose-dived into the hedge at the side of the road. We pass him and stop, clicking the hazard warning lights and we both jump out of Dippy Crach’o’Magic Van. He is clearly elderly and having trouble getting up. Thankfully, it was fortunate he stumbled into the hedge as it broke his fall somewhat, avoiding anything more serious than a little shake up. We checked him over and he was fine but we were alerted to an incongruity in dress of the old chap. On one foot he wore a slip-on shoe and the other, a slipper. His baseball cap firmly gripped in a an old but once upon a time, strong and muscular hand, hovered over the slippered foot. “Out for a walk are you?” I said, as we checked he was okay and tried to lift him to his feet. He was an enormous fellow and probably weighed in around 140k, more than twice of little old me. We abandoned the idea as he carried on trying to put his hat on his slippered foot. He did not smell of alcohol and his confusion may have been Alzheimer’s. But nevertheless, we chatted about the weather and asked him where he was from. I suggested the hat should be on his head to stop sunburn, he laughed and put it on.

By this time a number of vehicles stopped to help and between us all, were able to establish, he was fairly local and lived up the road in the next village in the opposite direction. Two first-aiders came to help and a large people carrier stopped, the driver of which, fortunately recognising our friend, agreed to take him home. How fortunate that we still live in a world where folk will stop and help each other. How fortunate were we or any other driver that the old mans fall was into the hedge. For lack of this, we may be telling a very different tale. And the old man…. he went home non the worse for his outing.

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Presently we were joined by a lone seagull landing on the beach. I say landed, he/she, plunked down in an ungainly fashion, glanced at us and looked surprised. Now as to whether he/she was surprised at us, or the fact a landing, no matter how ill-conceived, worked. We were not sure, but of his/her look of surprise, no doubt existed. Comical in the extreme is how the next couple of hours panned out, and this lone seagull was our entertainer. We quickly decided on him being a male, possibly due to observing a little ineptitude of interpersonal relationships, with other species as well as his own. A quizzical look here and there and he hopped over to Mother Duck and brood to say hello. Needless to say, his presence was most unwelcome and this small duck turfed off Cecil (we named him) with a flutter of wings and a smack of her beak on his silly face. Cecil jumped back, surprised once again, that look in his golden eyes (most unusual for a seagull) full of indignation. Half fluttering and staggering Cecil approached a baby crow. I am sure he was simply curious but the baby crow went in for the attack, and before Cecil could say, thanks for the fish, Mother Crow appeared. Cecil beat a hasty retreat landing in the river, where for the next twenty minutes he bathed and bathed and preened, followed by more splish splash and yes, more preening. He looked like a different bird, pristine white and mottled feathers shining in the fading sunlight as dusk approached. An orange razor-sharp beak, finished its work as a shiny head reappeared from under immaculately preened tail feathers. He could have entered a beauty contest, if such a thing existed in the world of seagulls.

I know they say, don’t feed the seagulls, but we liked Cecil, he was rapidly becoming a bit of a permanent fixture. So we found an egg and tomato sandwich left over from our journey, and despite being somewhat tempted ourselves, decided to give it to Cecil. Now, it is most interesting, not another seagull was in sight and Cecil stood alone. Until that is, the egg and tomato sandwich left my hand, spinning flight towards Cecil.  Before I had finished saying, “There you go Cecil.” Half a dozen seagulls appeared from nowhere, spinning and amusing us with aerial acrobatics, beady eyes upon the flying morsel of human kindness

None had the piercing golden eyes like Cecil but were very keen to share his tit-bit. Cecil, however, had other ideas and they did not include sharing. In a millisecond Cecil moved like lightning, a flash of white, a flutter of wings and crash. He beak dived into the mud missing the sandwich on first lunge, and covering his aforementioned pristine seagull cleanliness, with sticky wet mud. No mind to Cecil, brain, golden eyes and beak firmly focussed, he lunged again beating a flying opponent to the prize. A flick of his head and Cecil spooned the sandwich into the air, two big chomp’s and three gulps, and he retired the victor. The others, clearly disappointed made a few cursory swoops on the off-chance there may be more, then disappeared as quickly as they arrived, without a trace. Cecil returned to the shore and began bathing, seemingly for ages, actually for well over an hour. Amusing us in his now familiar comical way, Cecil, scrubbed, dunked, fluttered crazily, preened and preened until clean and shining again. A true angel of the seagull kingdom.

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It is Sunday lunchtime in sunny Cardigan Car-Park. We are sitting enjoying the wildlife and watching folk potter on their boats, some venturing off into the wild blue yonder. A car pulls up nearby and four folk, clearly retired and out for a run (In the car, in the car) get out and stroll over to look at the scenery (and who could blame them). For a little while they nattered and snapped photographs of each other in various poses.

Then the man in the ‘hat’ announces. “Time to go and get out of this gentleman’s way.”

“Worry not!” Say I. “You are not in my way at all.”

Now we all exchanged the usual pleasantries, are you local, come far blah bla bla? They were on holiday from Evesham in their mobile homes and were staying sixteen miles up the coast for some extortionate amount. The other chap was staring into our van and looked astounded as he said to his wife. “Look at this. They have a 365.”

Debbie and I looked at each other perplexed, if not a little confused, wondering what in the name of ‘Crach Ffinnant’  is he going on about. He continued to point and was quickly joined by his wife who also looked amazed.

“Does it have an electric flush?” He asks, and obviously we realised he was referring to our porta-potty, clearly visible under the bed (seat down, seat down).

“No!” Replied Debbie. “Its manual.”

“But its got a green light.” Came the response.

“It’s a colour gauge!” Said Debbie.

“We have a 264. It does not have that and its much lower than yours.” He said.

As I looked at this man, who stood over six feet tall in his sandals and thought. His knees must be under his chin when he sits down. Well I could not resist my next comment. So I said. “Goodness me, that must be difficult to sit down on?”

“Not at all!” He said. “But its a bugger to stand up once you are sitting and its electric.”

Debbie and I, relieved we seemed to have a sought after  porta-potty, more by good luck than intention, bade them a fond farewell as they wandered off muttering about toilets. What a rich tapestry of life we weave.

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