Prologue - One Last Spring

The village of Llanwddyn looked much like many of the other small communities nestled in the protective valleys of mid-Wales. Gray river-rock houses with purple slate roofs were common enough in that part of the country. So were the neighboring sheep farms sprinkled across the rolling green hillsides. But to those who lived there, the beauty of the area was inseparably connected to a feeling of belonging—of knowing they were walking the paths generations of family members had walked before. For them, there was nowhere else quite like Llanwddyn. It was their home. And in September 1880, they learned they were to lose it.

Rumors had been flying for almost a year. It had all started with the arrival of two tight-lipped Englishmen who spent three weeks in the village, hauling mysterious boxfuls of equipment up and down the hills, measuring and recording their findings in a black, leather-bound book. Owen Morgan, the blacksmith, who spoke the best English in the village, couldn’t get anything out of them about what they were doing or why. All they’d say was that they worked for the Liverpool Corporation and that any questions should be directed to their office. They left Llanwddyn with no one in the village any the wiser.

A few months after the Englishmen left, the Earl of Powys sent his foreman, Jack Gittens, to the village. Virtually everyone in Llanwddyn was a tenant of the Earl of Powys, and they knew his foreman well. Mr. Gittens had a reputation for being a decent, fair-minded man, and whenever his work brought him to the area, he’d stop in at the Powys Arms so he could catch up on all the comings and goings of the village.

Although he was generally well liked, there was no doubt Mr. Gittens took great pride in his position on the earl’s staff and in his superior view of the world from the back of his horse. On that particular day, however, as he rode his horse through the village, he didn’t seem to sit quite as tall in the saddle as he usually did. Rhys Jones, the tailor, and William Richards, the sexton, called out friendly greetings as he passed, but he responded with little more than a slight nod of his head. And when he reached Pont Cedig, the bridge at the center of the village, he steered his mare away from the road that led to the Powys Arms and toward the village hall instead.

Once at the village hall, Mr. Gittens got off his horse and drew a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. Taking a hammer from his saddlebag, he nailed the piece of paper to the door. Then he mounted his horse and rode back the way he’d come without exchanging a word with anyone. By then, he didn’t need to say anything. His grim expression told the villagers all they needed to know. He’d brought bad news.

Within seconds people began gathering in front of the village hall’s front door, and it didn’t take long for someone to send for Owen Morgan. By the time the blacksmith arrived, a large crowd had assembled. Not many of them could read Welsh; even fewer could read English, so they relied on the blacksmith to tell them what the notice said. Owen read it slowly and deliberately, his face becoming more and more grave.

“What’s it all about, Owen?” someone called out.

“Yes!” A general cry of agreement rumbled through the crowd. “What does it say?”

Owen turned around. “As near as I can tell,” he said, raising his flat cap a little and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, “the English government has given permission to the Liverpool Corporation to build a dam here in the Vyrnwy valley.” He looked out over the people in front of him, his jaw working as he tried to control his emotions. “They’re going to flood the village.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before everyone started talking at once. As the cries of consternation increased, Reverend Jones crossed the road and made his way up the village hall steps.

“Now, now!” he said, his sonorous preaching voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. “Let’s make sure we understand things properly.”

The cries became whispers as the villagers watched Reverend Jones quietly consult with Owen Morgan before turning to read the document himself. Minutes ticked by, and as more and more people joined the waiting throng, the tension mounted. At last Reverend Jones cleared his throat loudly, and complete silence fell over the crowd again.

“Thank you for your patience,” Reverend Jones said. “This is not easy news to hear or to deliver.”

He paused, his eyes flitting from one anxious face to another. “The paper Mr. Gittens hung on the village hall door today is an official notice to the people of Llanwddyn of the passage of the Liverpool Corporation Act.

“It appears that on the sixth of August, royal assent was given to the city of Liverpool to develop a reservoir in the Vyrnwy valley, along with an aqueduct that will pipe the collected water north to the city of Liverpool.

“According to this paper, the building of the dam will necessitate the relocation of the village of Llanwddyn.”

“Relocation?” someone shouted incredulously. “How do they think that’s going to happen? Some big giant’s going to appear from underneath the Berwyn mountains, pick up our houses, and drop them in another valley?”

Reverend Jones shook his head sadly. “All property owners will be compensated. The Liverpool Corporation is to rebuild a new village a mile farther down the valley. Once they’ve done that, this village”—he reached out his arm to encompass the small community—“will be razed to the ground.”

Several women were now openly weeping. Men muttered together in small clusters, some of them obviously stunned by the news, others looking as though they were ready to pick a fight.

“Reverend Jones,” John Ellis, the Welsh Methodist minister, said, having arrived in time to hear the Anglican minister’s report. “Very few of our parishioners are property owners. As Mr. Gittens’s presence here today attests, they’re all tenants of the Earl of Powys. Is there any provision made for them in this despicable act of the English Parliament?”

Mr. Morgan leaned forward and spoke urgently to Reverend Jones. The minister nodded thoughtfully, then turned to face John Ellis. “Your point is well made, Mr. Ellis,” he said. “Owen Morgan here has volunteered to go speak with the Earl of Powys. He will discover what is to be done about the matter.”

“I’ll go with you, Owen.” Everyone’s eyes turned to Rhys Jones. “You shouldn’t have to shoulder the responsibility for the village alone. Two of us will go.”

Owen gave the tailor a nod of appreciation. “Thank you, Rhys. I’ll be glad of your company.”

With a respectful pull on the brim of his flat cap in Reverend Jones’s direction, Owen walked down the village hall steps and made his way through his assembled friends and neighbors until he reached Rhys. He clapped his hand on the tailor’s shoulder and led him out of the crowd toward Pont Cedig and the road to Powys Castle.

Behind them, a few men argued, their voices becoming more and more animated as they reviewed what little they knew. Most of the villagers, however, slowly made their way to their respective homes, shock and dejection apparent in their slumped shoulders and shaking heads.