Seren Valley Tales.

By R.W. Finlan and Darren Powis

Not so very long ago, in the bottom right-hand corner of Wales, there was a valley. It wasn't a well known or important valley, but it was called The Seren Valley and it bridged the dimensional frontiers between realities and beyond.

Some weird and wonderful characters lived in the valley, including Wandering Dai, The Mop Lady, Mad Mike, Dodgy Dick and the inimitable Mr O.L.D Mann.

Now, let's go back for a final visit to meet them again in this collection of short stories, ghostly tales and other oddities from the archives of the valley's local newspaper, The Ffhâgdiwedd and District Inquirer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dawen Publishing
• Release date: Nov 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386308843

Book preview

Daric Books

(A Division of Dawen Publishing).

This print edition first published by Daric Books, an imprint of Dawen Publishing, in The United Kingdom 2018

© Richard Finlan and Darren Powis 2018.

www.dawenpublishing.co.uk

Edited by Andrew Spiro, Carl Hardifinn and Gary Malm

Cover design by Darren and Wendy Powis.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording or by information storage and retrieval system, without the permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

The characters in this story are entirely fictitious and are not meant to represent any real persons living or dead.  Any such resemblance is purely coincidental.

Foreword and dedications

AFTER THE COMPLETION of the Waliens saga, Darren and I decided to revisit old files and leftovers to see what we had. What is in this book are little sections on the lives and backgrounds of the many characters that appeared in Waliens and its sequels.

We ‘both’ felt that some of the lesser characters needed some back stories and here they are. We have also included a timeline for the evolution of the Inquirer and events from the 90’s leading up to Waliens. I feel that these people have become my friends over the years and it’s hard letting them go, one of the reasons for this volume. It’s a kind of addendum to the main Saga and, hopefully, will serve in giving more depth to Gaz and Pablo, Dodgy Dick, Wayne Dee, Mad Mike and the other colourful people we’ve populated the Seren Valley with.

There are so many more tales in this quirky little corner of Wales and our archives are vast. Is this really the end of the Seren Valley? Only time will tell. 

I’ll sign off now, but just want to add my thanks to Jo, Kelly and Sinead for their support down the years, and also to our readers and followers.  Keep reading.

Richard Finlan, Author, Editor.

November 2018.

FOR WELL OVER A DECADE, Richard and myself produced various spoof/satirical news collections, websites and five novels all set in the fictional county borough of South East Wales we called Ffhâgdiwedd.

Now, in 2018, looking back to the other world that was 2001 when all this started, spoof news has become redundant. Real – and I used the word advisedly – news has far surpassed it. 

There’s no way we could make anything up that sounds crazier than anything that now actually happens in these dark and troubled times.

Anyway, after much demand and a nice little advance from our publishers (we wish!) we’ve finally ventured back to our old creation for one last sift through old hard drives, memory sticks, and floppy disks. What we found and considered worth publishing is in this book.

One thing to bear in mind when reading this material, is that time in Ffhâgdiwedd can be a bit, well, different.  After all the odd and weird things that went on there over the years the timelines have become a little blurred and tangled.  Some might say that we actually made it all up as we went along...

So, make the most of it, because it is the final end of The Seren Valley. Richard and myself are moving on to new projects and creations. I’m currently working on my first solo novel which is called Trevethin Junction, so stay tuned for details. We are active on Facebook and Twitter, and our publisher’s website www.dawenmedia.co.uk has regular updates.

And finally, many diolchs and thanks to all those who have helped make this book possible, including my wife Wendy for her sterling work on the cover and for encouraging me to keep doing my writing.  To our editors for their sharp eye and spitting all my tyops; and finally to mam and dad for all their help and support. This book is dedicated to you all.

Darren Powis, Owner Dawen Publishing.

November 2018.

Live Forever

THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT Ffhâgdiwedd that draws you back.  They all said I was bloody mad to come back to this shithole.

But the time seemed right.  I'd been away, travelled the world, met people, formed a short-lived grunge band,'  and worked various dead-end jobs to get by. I also met Dawn, the love of my life. In general. I’d gained some good life experience that I wouldn't have got if I'd stayed put. But when home beckoned, I knew I had to answer the call. It came to me one day in the summer of 1994, in a New York motel. I knew what I wanted to do for the rest of my working life and that was to be a journalist, back home in my native Wales. Bloody hiraeth, it gets you every time.

I’d always liked writing, and here it comes, the old cliché, I enjoyed doing essays and stories in school, but not poetry, that was never my scene. My first published piece, can't remember what about, appeared in my school magazine back in '83. No bugger was the slightest bit interested, apart from Mrs Jones, my English teacher. She recognised where I was going before I did. She wanted me to do English Literature for my O Levels, but young know sod all I was that I was, I couldn’t see the point. Wherever you are now, Mrs Jones, I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I got there in the end, of course, but it might have been quicker if I’d heeded your advice.

I got myself a place on a journalism course at Ffhâgdiwedd College that was due to start in September 1994. I had a month spare and got myself an unpaid placement on The Inquirer to get some experience. I knew Richard Siwop, an old family friend and he put in a word with Don Salter, who was the then editor. I went back every Friday during my course – and the holidays - for further experience. I had a great time and I learned much. I loved going there. This was where I was meant to be.

Monday, October 9th, 1995, saw me finally realise my ambition when I joined The Ffhâgdiwedd and District Inquirer proper as a qualified junior reporter. Every Friday the paper would be out with all that's news in The Seren Valley. And it was my job to help fill it.

I was carrying on where I'd left off. I already knew people there and was familiar with how things worked. But this time I was finally going to be on the payroll properly.  I know some will say I shouldn't do things just for the money, but fine words and principles don't pay the bills.

The paper was still then based at Wynn Parry-Jones House, a large red brick building on the Lion Roundabout at the southern end of Ffhâgdiwedd town. The editorial office was on the ground floor, next to the typesetting room, with the advertising department located upstairs. The editorial room itself was around twenty feet long and ten feet wide with a smaller side room which served as Editor Don Salter’s office.

Don was sitting at the desk in his office pouring over some documents when I arrived. He liked to go in there to think and plan.

I knocked on the door and went in to see him. Now he was a great and long-standing editor of the paper. He was a decent bloke who treated his staff properly and fairly, unlike his successors in the role who seemed to think to be in charge gave them carte blanche to be total bastards to everyone working for them. Don was a no-nonsense character. If he wasn't happy about something, he'd let you know but it would not be with the vicious psychopathy of his successors who were quick to criticise and slow to praise.

Don was good and supportive, he'd help you and stand by you, and stand up to those further up the ladder from him. He was a great mentor, and I’d happily say that he was my Yoda.

His successors we're very much company people and would side with the top bosses against the ground floor staff every time. They were too worried about their bonuses and wanting to gain brownie points by sucking up to the high ups.

‘Geraint, my boy’ Don greeted me and rose to shake my hand. ‘Good to have you on board properly at last.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I'm looking forward to making a proper start.’

‘Good, good. I've got something lined up for you but need to check a few things first. Have a word with Richard and he'll give you some sports reports to type up.’

‘Okay, Don. I'll do that. I've got my P45 and bank details as well.’

‘Great. I'll have them from you later. Off you go then and get started,’ Don said and turned back to the documents. That was him. Once he'd finished speaking that was it.  He wasn't rude, just factual and to the point. It was a sign he trusted you to get on with things.

Back in the newsroom, Richard gave me some sports reports to input. As my PC booted up, whirring and grinding away as it loaded the OS from the floppy disk, I passed the time going through the items. It was the usual mix of closed type reports, faded and incomplete faxes, and, as always, incomprehensible handwritten notes, some of which were in crayon. I went for the easiest to type up first. Some things never changed, people were still sending in items with misspelt and mangled versions of Richard’s job title, including sprot editor, strop edditer, spon editor, or even eddy strop, and the best ever one, which caused much hilarity, titer droops.

I smiled and got busy at the keyboard. After I’d typed in several reports Richard looked over and said, ‘That’ll do for now, Ger.  I’ve got plenty to be going with. I’m going for a smoke. Have a break now.’

‘Cheers, Rich, I will.’

I went upstairs the upper landing, where the hot drink dispenser machine lurked. It was located next to the toilets. Some might say that was the most appropriate place for it to be.

I put my money in and selected a coffee, white with sugar.  I say coffee but I knew from experience that what it dispensed might just give me grounds to take the matter up under the Trade Descriptions Act. Well, it wasn’t bad, hardly like Luigi’s in town, but it would do. As I took a sip, Don emerged from the door to the advertising department.

‘Ah, Geraint. I’ve got a story for you to follow up. It’ll give you a break from the sports reports.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Come and see me in my office when you’ve had your coffee. No rush.’

‘I will,’ I said.

‘Good lad,’ he replied, and hurried down the stairs.

After finishing my coffee and visiting the small room close by - input means output and all that – I headed back down and made my way to Don’s office. He was sitting at his desk, studying a piece of paper. He looked up, peering over his glasses. ‘Right, my boy. I’ve had this in from a Professor Howe. He’s got some sort of invention and I thought you might like to interview him. He’s a Cambridge man so he’s worth talking to. He’s asked for you, specifically.’

‘Me? I don’t know him.’

‘Well, this your chance to change that. I’ve got a feeling there’s something good in this. Don’t let me down now.’

‘I won’t, Don. Where do I go?’

‘He’s up at Cwman Top, got a house on its own, going up towards the mountain.’

‘I know the one.’

‘Good. Give him a call and arrange to go up.’

‘I’ll get on it straight away.’

Not long after lunch, I drew the car to stop outside the gate to Professor Howe’s house. He was waiting for me. He opened the gate and beckoned me in. The house was located away from Cwman Top, a settlement so small, even the term hamlet was a stretching it a bit. It consisted of a few houses, a pub called The Minty Lamb, and a phone box clustered around a junction on either side of a junction in the single-track mountain road. A large green open space nearby played host to some sheep that wandered down off the mountain. There was, as ever, more of them around the place than people.

Professor Howe’s house was located a little distance away from the others, behind some trees with the slopes of Mynydd Ffhâgdiwedd looming above. He was waiting at the gate for me and waved as I arrived. He was in his 60’s, tall and distinguished looking, despite his tattered looking old clothes. He had a beard and wavy grey hair.

I drew the car to a stop inside the gate, not far from a pile of rubble and a rusty cement mixer. A line of washing that looked like it had been out for days was hung on a line reaching from the house to a rusty pole at the other end of the garden.

A friendly border collie came to greet me as I got out of the car. The dog jumped up, wagging its tail in a friendly and excited way.

‘Get down, Daisy!’ Professor Howe said.

The dog obeyed.

‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I love them.’

‘You must be Geraint,’ said The Professor.

‘Guilty as charged,’ I replied as we shook hands.

‘Right, well. Come in, I’ve just put the kettle on.’

I followed the professor and Daisy into the house. It was traditional inside and not the tidiest of places. Scattered around were clothes, books, newspapers and various bits and pieces of equipment, instruments, tools, cables, etc. On a coffee table next to a battered green sofa was a plate containing a half-eaten sandwich and an empty mug. The wood stove, glowing nicely in the corner was very welcome. It was chilly up here on the side of the mountain.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ said the Professor with a grin. ‘I’ve got me in.’

‘That’s okay,’ I replied with a smile. ‘It looks very cosy here.’

‘Please sit down. Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes, I would, thank you. Milk and no sugar please.’

‘Right. Won’t be two minutes.’

The professor went off to what I presumed was his kitchen. I glanced around and took in more of my surroundings in. The books were a mix of classical myth and science.

I was interrupted by Daisy nudging me with a squeaky toy and looking at me with the pleading eyes that only dogs can do.

‘Want me to throw it for you do you, girl?’

She looked at me as if to say, ‘well duh!’

I took the squeaky toy and threw it into a clear space a few feet away. The collie dived after it, picked it up and fetched it back to me for another go. I was happy to oblige and she was happy to keep bringing it back.

The professor returned with two steaming mugs of tea a few minutes later. He handed one to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘I haven’t got any biscuits, sorry. I haven’t been to ASDA yet.’

‘That’s okay. I haven’t long had my lunch.’

The professor sat down on a wooden chair nearby and took a long swig from his mug. Daisy had brought the squeaky toy back to me yet again and was looking at me expectantly. I suspected my training was going rather well.

‘Is she bothering you again? Daisy, go and lie down.’

‘No, she’s no trouble at all. She’s lovely. I like collies. Used to have on.  Very bright, loving and loyal.’

Daisy did as her master commanded and went and flopped down in the corner with a sulky sigh.

‘Right then,’ said the Professor. ‘Once we’ve had our tea, I’ll show you the lab.’

‘So, what exactly do you want to talk about, professor?’

‘It’s something I’ve been working on, and this might sound a bit weird, but it concerns you.’

‘Me? How?’

‘I’ll explain later, as the saying goes,’ the Professor said, and quickly drank the rest of his tea.

I was intrigued. Who was he exactly? ‘Forgive me asking, Professor, what exactly is your field of expertise, just for the article background.’

‘Theoretical and applied physics. I do both. No point just chalking on a board, got to do something with it – and I have,’ he said and jumped to his feet and put his mug on the table.

I finished my tea.

‘Leave your mug on the table as well. Come on.’

The Professor strode off towards another door. I followed him through it. Beyond the door was a staircase going downwards. The steps led down to the lab.

‘This is my lab,’ he said. He led me into an area that divided into two sections. There were benches and desks with various scientific instruments on them. There were computers, of course, several on different work surfaces, including a portable and an Apple Mac with a large screen, bigger than the ones used for editing back at the paper. It was connected to a helmet headset, like some sort of virtual reality set up.

‘This