CHAPTER ONE DINNER NEAR BRIGANDS

Chapter One - Dinner near Brigands

It really was quite an extraordinary room. The reason I say that is that all the things in it, such as the furniture, the pictures, the carpets and yes even actually the gathered people were pretty ordinary but, and this is the odd bit, the combined effect of them all together was sort of extra-ordinary.

It was all old stuff, mostly threadbare and tatty and yes, again, that does include the people, yet somehow it was so very …. sort of…classy. Sophisticated. Affluent.

I was sat in a very old lounge in North Wales. The wooden floor was the original uneven dark wood boards and there was an ancient rug in the middle, with a lot of full blood red colour in it and some parts that were worn almost completely through. The whole room seem to slant this way and that as the floorboards were extremely ancient and warped.

In the centre of the room to the outside wall, there was a magnificent fire blazing away and I shuffled across the uneven polished timbers, a bit like I was at sea, to sink into a very deep and comfortable leather chair. It swallowed me up with consummate ease. It did feel unusual with no shoes on, that’s why I had found walking across the room difficult, but I had obviously had to leave my huge dirty wellington boots on the doorstep.

Anyway, I sat back and exhaled.

I was very aware that my white hairy legs were now protruding over the top of my mustard-coloured shooting socks but below my brown tweed plus fours that had thin blue and red lines running through them. I thought to myself how a snooze would be just the job right now. Having been out in the cold wild blustery wind all morning, this room had ‘cat nap’ written all over it.

However, right at that moment I had to jump back out of that lovely deep chair when a very pretty young country lass walked through the hall door and up to the gate-leg table in the corner by the window.

Looking up to where she was, the end of the room appeared to be about two foot higher than where I was.

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The table there was heavily laden with bottles and glasses. She asked me if I would like a drink. My reply was immediate, as I had already thought through what I would have when asked:

‘An alcohol free but spicy Bloody Mary please. This didn’t sound like me. I don’t just mean that I would normally drink alcohol but that it actually sounded a lot posher.

This does seem to happen to me quite a lot. I appear to seamlessly adapt the accent of whoever I am in direct contact with and for no reason.

There we go again, that sounds posh!

When I go down from where I now live in Birkenhead to my very first rugby club at Talgarth in South Wales where I spent most of my teenage years, I am told by anyone that comes along with me that I have suddenly developed a noticeable Welsh twang. Anyone who might have come along from the Merseyside region interrupts me along the following lines:

’Err, what’s up with your voice mate, you’ve gone all boyos? You’ll be fancying sheep next!’

If I then reply to their comment, the Welsh lads present will launch into a mimic, generally in unison, of my now apparent scouse twang. I can’t hear any of this at all and I can’t understand how on earth I can have two accents at once in consecutive sentences.

‘Eh calm down’, all the Welsh contingent chant.

and ‘who are you looking at?’.

Anyway, back in the cosy lounge, I watched the lovely lass make the requested Bloody Mary. She was a magnificent example of a country lass, even her hands were perfect. She was so rosy cheeked and so healthy looking. I did wonder if there wasn’t anything sporty that she couldn’t thrash me at!

And she made a good drink too, the Bloody Mary was an absolute clonker. Spicy and rich and it burned its way down my throat and into my rotund tum. After last nights’ supper at Bettwys Hall, which as usual had involved one or two too many alcoholic beverages and a legendary steak, this was just what I needed.

It was a shame that I couldn’t have a proper Bloody Mary because it would have been an ideal cure for the previous night and that, by the way, does work.

Later on though I would be driving the couple of hours home over the mountains back to Birkenhead.

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I would be tired enough as it was without the additional soporific effects of just one drink.

I was in Brigands by the way, in the hills above Dolgellau near a place called Dinas Mawddwy.

I leant back to my chair, drink in hand and looked out of the misshapen window at the misty Welsh hills over and above the roofs of the assembled vehicles belonging to the party. The Range Rovers, Q7s, even a Porsche and at the very far end my, at the time, 13-year-old Nissan Terrano. Still quite shiny but probably worth about a grand.

Was it actually hiding in embarrassment from the other vehicles like a stray donkey at the Grand National? Maybe, but I loved the old girl and also could never really see the point in flash and/or new cars.

Couldn’t afford them either.

This mansion of a house was up the hill slightly and set in its own huge grounds, with a sweeping drive lined with enormous dense rhododendrons. It was white and I guess Victorian, a country pile from the largely bygone era of servants and landed gentry.

I thought on the spur of the moment that I would pop to the car and put my shoes on as it would make me feel a hell of a lot more comfortable at lunch. I rushed out and back to carry out this manoeuvre and the whole party was now assembled in that same small room around the fire and generally also drinking Bloody Marys. They were probably alcohol based as most of them there that day had drivers for the day.

I did worry how strong the old floor was but it been there centuries, so I dismissed the thought.

All now rosy cheeked and all dressed in very splendid country kit, they chatted about the morning’s shooting. How high the birds were, how hard they were to shoot and how well ‘ young’ Johnny (Prestt) had done in hitting two birds with two shots at an almost impossible height.

‘Young’ Johnny was actually about 61 at that point, so he was not that young, but he was definitely below the average age in the room. He is also quite short (5ft 2 inches I believe he told me adding ‘I’ve bloody shrunk even more!’) hence the achievement was all that more remarkable as he had been shooting from one and a quarter feet below me. Quite a disadvantage.

More on Johnny later, he is a right character and has his own chapter, numbered

9.

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Now suddenly, here’s Barry Owen in full flight, quite a sight to see. Barry must be in his 70s, is over six foot and now has white hair and tanned skin. He must have been a handsome devil when he was younger. He looks a little bit like Robert Redford, but he has worn much better than the film star. Barry is one of the two founders of property behemoth Mason Owen and a well-known figure in Liverpool and the North West property world. He has a story for every occasion and, unlike many folks in their advancing years, these stories are actually interesting and amusing.

Barry is a very likeable man and like me he also has six kids, so we have a lot of notes to compare.

‘Do you remember that classic tale at the something or other shoot with the earl of thingy?’ Barry commenced, sort of asking the room in general it seemed.

‘You’ll have to be a bit more specific with that one Barry’, interrupted Jim Davies (also the founder of a huge business, DWF, and also more on him later in chapter 8).

Jim’s comment caused an outburst of general hilarity, but Barry didn’t break stride.

‘With that chap from a famous pop band………’, he continued.

Jim was with him now:

‘Oh Yes indeed, that was a cracker, Barry. Mark… er……… Knopfler’

‘ yes, well remembered, Jim. Jim, you tell it, Jim, go on.’ said Barry.

I think Jim was able to get about six words out, something about it being down at the shoot in Mold or similar, before Barry seamlessly interrupted him and took over again.

‘It was the Welshpool shoot with that Duke of thingy’ he continued, ‘a cracking host and a great shot, his wife had been married to so and so who’s eldest son went to Harrow and got a boxing blue.’

Jonny had a point here to add:

‘it was Eton, Barry, he accidentally shot his French teacher at Bisley or Sandhurst.’

Barry heard none of this:

‘Anyway, one of the guests brought another guest to the shoot called Mark Knopfler. In a pop band or some such. Now the Duke didn’t know who everyone was at his own shooting day as he had invited guests and had let them invite their own ‘plus one’ in turn.

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‘It was a great day indeed, he did really great days, didn’t he?’ said Jim, maybe wondering if he might get the story telling roll back.

No chance.

‘It was a magnificent day indeed Jim,’ continued Barry and the Duke summoned over one of his lackies:

‘Who’s that over there, old boy?’ he asked, ‘with the denim clobber on? With all the greasy hair, bit scruffy?’’

The reply came that it was Mark Knopfler.

Pause.

‘Right, tell me more, I don’t know him’, the Duke had then asked.

‘Well, he’s in Dire Straits your lordship.’

‘Oh, is he indeed?’ replied the now intrigued Duke,

‘Good lord’.

As you can all now anticipate, the Duke soon made his way over to the legend Mark Knopfler and engaged him in a quite unusual conversation which went something like:

‘Hello Mark, I’m the Duke of whatsit, pleased to meet you old chap. I’ve just been chatting to my pal over there. Look, old boy, cut to the chase, I am very sorry to hear that you are in dire straits and if there is anything I can do to help please let me know. Job leads and so on, you know the script, just say the word.’

The present room erupted in laughter.

I made a mental note that despite never remembering funny stories until years later I really, really must try and remember this particular one.

As it happens, I didn’t really remember it but heard it told again a few weeks later but this time with completely different names, locations and so on. But it really doesn’t matter as all the narrative is probably completely made up anyway.

Nevertheless, on the grounds that I have been in the company of all the people in this book on many occasions since that shoot at Brigands and I have heard myriad different versions of the tale, I am leaving it as it is.

If you wanted accuracy in this book hard luck and no, you can’t have your money back.

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