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From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams FROM A CASTLE IN WALES By Tracy Williams 1

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A gothic ghost story connected to historical fact around the history of Craig y Nos Castle and its Victorian owner, opera superstar Adelina Patti. A story about 'hiraeth' - the Welsh word for 'longing' or 'yearning.' Catherine's journey back to her longed-for 'home' teaches her how home is ultimately where the darkness is. A novel-in-progress exploring the ties between past and present, the living and the dead, the power of the imagination and the terror of imprisonment.

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Page 1: From a Castle in Wales

From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams

FROM A CASTLE IN WALES

By

Tracy Williams

© Copyright Tracy Williams 2009

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From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams

Dedication:

For Adelina Juana Maria Patti or Baroness Cederstrom

Affectionately known as The Queen of Hearts

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From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams

PREFACE: 2000

I came because of hiraeth. Hiraeth is a Welsh word meaning longing or yearning. If

you are not Welsh, you will never fully understand. Hiraeth is the lump that rises to

your throat whenever patriotism overwhelms your soul and if, like me, you have been

blessed (or cursed) with a Celtic soul, you will never escape from it. Hiraeth is that

voice calling deep in the well of your stomach, calling you home to the green grass

and wild sky. Hiraeth is the driving factor behind our passion for Wales. We Celts

are a passionate bunch. We may be small, we may be politically inferior (to the

superpower, England; our enemy) but when the Welsh choir sings, there is not a dry

eye in the house. Hiraeth is the element of force behind such singing. Hiraeth is the

longing for home. Hiraeth is the yearning that can bring a woman back across miles

no matter how successful she may be in her new world, and restore her to the land that

gives her life. My longing, my hiraeth, brought me back to Wales in 2000. But this

was no general hiraeth. No – my longing, my yearning, was for a very specific place.

Wales has a nickname, most of you will know it. She’s called the Land of

Castles and Song. I yearned for a castle in the middle of the Brecon Beacons. A

Castle which had been built by the Queen of Song. I had longed for the castle since

ever I remembered. From the earliest days of childhood this castle had symbolised

home to me. Strange how one building can have so much power over a such a little

girl. For I had never been inside the castle, not even into its courtyard. The place of

which I speak is called Craig y Nos Castle, and sits in the middle of the Brecon

Beacons National Park, in the borough of Powys, Wales. Craig y Nos Castle, a

building which had called for me since the first time I set eyes on it.

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During my childhood it was a hospital for the terminally ill or incredibly old.

You could only enter with a visitors pass. And then in the mid 1980’s the patients

were removed to nearby Ystradgynlais. Thus, Craig y Nos Castle fell into dereliction.

No one in the area had the financial means (or courage, or respect for history – I know

not which) to even attempt restoring the building. And so the force of entropy set in.

I made insane resolutions for a child too young to know the harsh ways of the wicked

world; one day I will be rich enough to buy the castle, one day that castle will be mine.

The story which follows will show that I never succeeded in my ambition. The

kind of money it takes to restore a building such as this never came into my

possession. For years I watched as the entropic force stamped on the building, helped

along by the harshness of Mother Nature, the roof caved in in various places, rain

soaked through the rafters, dry rot infested the walls, dust gathered with insects and

ate their way into the foundations. Craig y Nos Castle was dying, and there was

nothing any one could do about it. It had fallen victim to the elements, a fairytale

castle without its queen, a tragedy waiting to happen.

Once upon a time this castle was reigned over by a beautiful, loving force. Her

name was Madame Adelina Juana Maria Patti; an opera diva, a child protégé. Her

career began at the age of sixteen. By thirty five, Patti was one of the richest

performers in the world and, as a present for her second husband, Nicolini (who was

also an opera singer) she bought what was then just a gothic mansion. Patti spent

£100,000 expanding it, adding turrets and vast rooms with billiard tables and

accordions. The culmination of this expansion came to life in the erection of a

miniature opera house based on Wagner’s place in Bayreuth. It was called the Patti

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Theatre and gave its opening performance to a host of celebrated fans in August 1891.

Patti was a rock star before rock stars existed, as rich, as ambitious, as successful and

with a string of husbands which made her personal life as fascinating as her

professional life.

Patti died in her bedroom at Craig y Nos Castle in September of 1919. She

was seventy six years old. Her body lay embalmed for seven months before she was

hastened to her place of rest at Père L’achaise in Paris by order of King George V

(there was a war on and no bodies were to be shipped out of Britain).

On one level, I am writing this story to tell you about the most wonderful opera star

our world has sadly forgotten. Patti’s era was long before television, before silent film

and even before the recording industry had started. Adelina Patti is my inspiration.

Her story needs to be told. I can feel her calling me home. And on one level I dedicate

this story to Patti. For Patti has welcomed me to her castle. She knows that this castle

is my home too. It has always been my home, this castle.

On another level, I am writing to relay to you the strange, frightening course of

events which lead to my eventual breakdown. Insanity, some will call it, but to me it

was a breakdown. Or perhaps a break-through. A break through the walls of this life,

aided by a break into the past which has established me here as a permanent presence.

I will never leave this castle, not now, not after what happened. I am hoping that

through these pages the reader may find some clarity, some insight into the terrible, or

wonderful, string of events which caused my presence at Craig y Nos Castle to

become an eternity. I shall be here, watching you read. Perhaps as you read you shall

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be inspired to take a journey to Wales and sit in the very place about which I write.

Should you be so bold I would be delighted to have you with me, as you read through

my story, I shall be watching you. For nowhere in the castle is now inaccessible to

me.

Before I begin, there are certain questions I would like to set down. Questions

which – I hope – the reader may answer. For if the reader is of some extra sensory

perception, or has psychic ability, or even an inkling toward the spiritual side of

things, perhaps he or she may come up with some answers to these questions. My

story is an attempt to find answers. Should you think of any, I would be happy to be

contacted in order that you may relay them to me. Perhaps in so doing, you will lay

my soul to rest.

.

So. Where to begin? Firstly; how can a place have such a hold over some

one? I have spoken of hiraeth – but is that reason sufficient explanation for the intense

obsession I felt for the castle? Did I, perhaps, live there in a past life? Did I find

happiness here? Is this castle my womb? Is Patti my God? My wish was to stay here,

at the castle, forever and ever. And yes, I am aware of the expression, ‘be careful

what you wish for.’

1980

‘Horrible place that castle is, they shoulda pulled it down years ago,’ said an adult

voice from somewhere behind me. I did not speak. I knew my place. I was a strange little

girl of extraordinary sensitivity. I made a secret sneer at the speaker and looked up at Craig y

Nos Castle. It was a beautiful place, and it was mine. I belonged in that castle and one day,

one day...

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The clock tower had frozen, some year long ago, some unknown month, once upon a time. Its

hands were stopped just before midnight.

‘It gives me the creeps,’ another adult voice said. ‘Imagine all the ghosts in there, after all

those who died.’

Someone else shivered as I turned around to observe the scene. They were a group of summer

families, sitting on a blanket, distributing sweets and sandwiches to each other. We came

every summer, to the country park which looked up at Craig y Nos Castle. We never called it

the country park, we children. Whenever I was asked where I wanted to go for a picnic my

response was always the same, ‘I want to go to Madame Patti’s.’

Madame Patti, is an household name in the valleys of South Wales and in the operatic circles

of London. She seemed like a Goddess to me.

I declined sandwiches and sweets and turned away from them again. I had never belonged

with my real family. They were too ordinary, too boring. There is little more I can say about

them. I wandered across the grass and dared myself to walk up the steep bank which lead to

the iron fence surrounding the castle. Something, some strange feeling, halted my movements

then. This is a blurred recollection, as are most of our childhood memories. I felt compelled –

as though some force was willing me – to look up. There was something up there, something

in the top window of the castle, looking down on me. I squinted. It was a child, a little girl,

no younger than me. She wore a long loose gown and as I looked harder I could see that her

skin was yellow, her eyes were sunken with heavy rims of fatigue around them and she was....

yes.... she was calling to me.

Catherine...Catherine.

‘Come on Catherine!’ I heard a shout from behind. The tablecloth gang were

preparing to leave. The day was turning to evening and back to our housing estate we must

go.

Catherine... Catherine.

‘She’s so bloody weird,’ I heard one of them say, probably my own mother.

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I ran then, up the grassy bank, determined to get to the little girl in the window. Determined

to save her from whatever sickness was making her face so yellow and her eyes so red and

sad. But I was suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing and forced to stop.

As the table gang came running toward me I was without strength to move. I sunk down on to

the grass and began to cry. When one of them picked me up and carried me towards the car I

heard myself, between coughs, say, ‘tuberculosis.’

The adult who held me looked at me, stunned.

‘What did you say?’

But immediately the word was gone. I could not remember it, let alone realise what it meant.

‘That’s a big word for such a little girl,’ the carrier said. Then I struggled to get free,

took a pink notepad out of my dungarees and wrote, in my best hand

‘This castle, here in the mountains, is my home.

Please, beautiful castle, please bring me home.’

Then I ran from the car and dropped my note into the red post box in the castle wall.

I coughed again. Then another adult said, ‘aye, you shouldn’t run off like that. That place is

dangerous. It’s infested with disease. Little girls like you used to die in there, from TB, like

you just said.’

I was then told I ought to be grateful to live in the modern age, when diseases such as

this TB thing were no longer so dangerous, when little girls like me had a chance of growing

up without dying from horrible sickness. I had no place in the castle, they told me. The castle

was for the terminally ill. Terminal meant forever, incurable, terminal meant they would

never get better. But I knew that my terminal illness would get better if I was allowed to go

home, home to the castle. My terminal illness was a sickness of the heart, a longing, a

yearning for home. I did not then know the word hiraeth, but it seems to me now that, looking

back at that day, I was not yearning for Wales, but specifically for the castle. My yearning

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was for a building which happened to be in Wales. Had Craig y Nos Castle been in Outer

Mongolia I suspect I would have longed for it just as much.

Long ago, people died there, they told me. Children died there, Catherine, children

just like you died in that place. It is full of death, and still highly contagious. You must never

go inside!’

I was taken under duress to the car, and sulked on the back seat while the normal, less

sensitive children sucked on ice cream and chocolate. What need had I for ice cream? My

appetite had completely disappeared. I felt sick, nauseous, and couldn’t understand where the

coughing fits were coming from.

I have read about people whose sensitivity levels are so well-developed that they can

introject other people’s pain into their own bodies. That day, I was suffering from TB just as

the little girl in the window was suffering. We were both going to die in there. But it

occurred to me that perhaps the best way to stay in the castle for all eternity was to die in it, to

become one of the spirits who live in close proximity to the living if, that is, the living ever

show up. That was the first moment in my eight year old life that I became unafraid of death.

It is dark thought, for such a young girl, I know. But death seemed to me perhaps the best

way to wander those corridors for ever and ever and ever.

Through the car window I watched as the castle diminished. When the last of its

turrets had disappeared behind the mountains surrounding the valley road I sat back and made

a careful, secret wish. This is just one example of the many excursions we made when I was

a child. Every time I was taken to the grounds of Craig y Nos Country Park it was a challenge

to get me back into the car. Next time I returned, I was determined to go inside, determined to

meet the dark side. For I am not afraid of the ghosts, undeterred by the TB epidemic. I

wanted to hear the sounds of patients coughing and dying, young or old. In some strange way

I believed that my part in the castle was not in the light side but that I would join its dark side

– perhaps for all eternity.

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1989

The Castle gates had been padlocked for years by then. A sign on them said

‘DANGER, NO TRESSPASSING.’

My boyfriend, being older than me, could drive a car and loved to take me out late at night. I

only ever wanted to drive to one place. The darker the better, the more eery the castle, the

more my fascination grew.

“It’s freaking me out, let’s go,” said my boyfriend.

We were again parked outside the iron gates of the Castle. It was late and perfectly dark.

He never understood me, poor love-struck fool. I was an unusual teenager of eccentric taste. I

did not love him. After our third or fourth drive, as young lovers do, he stopped asking where

to go and just headed straight for the building that had possessed my soul. While most girls of

my age were out at nightclubs or getting drunk, I was watching my beloved home fall into a

state beyond repair. How I longed, how I wished, how I yearned to have enough money to

save it!

My boyfriend sat there; dejected, nervous, squeamish. You could say we were a bad match.

‘Either stop smoking or open the window!’ I said.

‘A hand might grab me,’ he sucked harder on his cigarette.

He drove miles for me, poor boy. It was I who had forced him into getting his driver’s

licence. Miles and miles he drove, from Neath, from Swansea, from the dark corners of Seven

Sisters - always to the castle.

How many hours did I sit silently in his car while the wind or the rain or the snow or

the warm air carried that sweet voice to my ears? He thought I was delusional. But I could

hear her singing: Home, home, sweet, sweet home. And the singing was coming from the

theatre.

‘Can you hear it?’ I cried, enamoured. ‘It’s her, she’s singing to us.’

‘It’s just the wind. How many acid pills have you taken?’

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I had taken none. My boyfriend, an advocate of street drugs was clearly coming up on

a bad trip. Craig y Nos Castle at night can do this to some people. But I was perfectly sober,

perfectly clean. From the theatre I could hear Patti singing, and her song had such relevance

that I truly believed she was singing directly to me.

Home, home

Sweet sweet home

On the roof was a statue of her: Queen of the Castle, Queen of Hearts. I used to force

him to stare at the statue with me. In the dark winter nights it looked real, a real living diva,

poised on top of the roof of her castle, poised ready to jump or fly through the air.

“Madame Patti we used to call her,’ I told him, ‘Adelina Patti.”

“I know,” said my boyfriend, “Come on, let’s go, I feel sick.”

“Do you know what her favourite song was?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Home Sweet Home. She was the greatest opera singer that ever lived.”

I asked him to climb the wall with me. I wanted to break in and see the theatre.

The statue, I had heard, was standing on top of an opera house.

Poor boy, all he wanted was a cheap, quick, modern day kiss.

‘Oh my God! Did you see that?’

The statue had moved. I was sure of it. I raced to the wall. My self-appointed

knight in shining armour made a failed attempt to follow me and dropped his cigarette.

‘There’s no place like home!’ I shouted at the statue. My voice echoed through the

cold air.

As Patti is my witness, I swear that, there and then, one of her cement hands came

loose and went crashing into the courtyard. My knight, in his chariot, skidded off without me.

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I can’t even remember what he looked like, I must admit. I only recall him now as a witness

to the sign that Patti’s castle was, literally, falling apart without me.

After Romeo had left me I felt free. I climbed the wall and landed in the courtyard. I

walked boldly towards the front door, which was locked. I circled the castle, searching for

windows or doors which might help me get inside. I was sure I heard the clock striking

midnight, but its hands were still frozen. And then, as if Patti has planned it, I found a side

door unlocked. I was not scared. I was not afraid. It is my belief that in our world, only the

living should be feared. The dead wish me no harm.

It was impenetrable darkness once I got inside, and I had not a torch, just a lighter and

a half full box of matches. I stumbled about for a light switch and, finding none, continued my

solitary search around the corridors. Not a sound, except for my heavy breathing, the beating

of my heart and the creaking of floorboards and doors, which was, I reassured myself, to be

expected in such an old building.

And then I came upon a room. It was well furnished, but still smelled of damp and

dust. I lit a match and circled the room. And then my heart stopped. In the far corner, sitting

on a chair, was a very old man. I moved closer to him and could just about make out that he

was blind.

‘Get out!’ he said, in an upper-class accent. His outfit was a black suit and a

Victorian top hat.

‘Get out of my castle, I warn you. There are things here you don’t want to find. Take

your firelight and leave me along. This is my castle. Every body else must leave.’

From some unknown strength, and spurred on my curiosity, I dared to ask this hostile blind

man his name.

‘Captain Rice Powell Davies. I built this house, in 1842. I built it for my family, and

I ran out of money. My whole family were killed in bizarre accidents. In the end there was

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only me left. I ran out of money during the building. But it is my house! Even though I sold

it to her, I want her out! I want you all out!’

Then I heard myself ask, ‘Captain Davies, when did you die?’

‘Long ago, child. Long, long ago. I lived in the greatest era ever known to man.

They said I was insane toward the end. But I am not insane. This is my house! It has always

been my house. There is no future here. And that man, the outsider...’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘A man will come. Watch out for him. He has no morals. He cares not about the

castle and he cares even less who he will have to destroy to get what he wants. This castle is

not a hotel. This is a home. It is my home. You can never banish me, I am here forever and

ever and ever. He will banish the poor. He will banish you, the minute you step out of line.’

Despite his blindness he seemed to sense that I too had a love of the castle and wanted to stay

forever.

As if overhearing my thoughts, he said, ‘stay then, but watch yourself. The living are

to be feared. The castle will not like this new man. He will destroy you when the opportunity

comes along. Beware the dark side, Catherine, beware the dark force. It battles with the

opera singer night after night. She, in some ways, is our protection from the dark side. Find

Patti, talk with her and she will protect you from the forces of evil which the living are now

planning to use against us. Even the castle may fall, if their treachery is extreme enough.

Now leave me in peace. This is my house! My home! I built it with nothing! Out, all of you,

out!’

He was getting loud, so I left the room and, in my haste to escape from him I forgot

his name. Captain Rice Powell Davies. He had made his money abroad, as a merchant

seaman. He had a large family, three of which were killed in horse-riding accidents, and there

was a curse set against him by his wife’s family. It was called the Overbeek curse, which

might explain the bizarre deaths of his children, and ultimately his descent into madness. I

intended to find out more. The dark side of the castle, an omen given to me by the spirit of the

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original owner of my beloved castle. Back then it was known as Brynmelin Mansion. During

its construction the Captain ran out of money and if you look very carefully at the diversity of

the building while standing in the courtyard you will clearly see the dark stone of the Gothic

Mansion, with its narrow, pointed, masculine windows, side by side with the bright pink stone

and large curved feminine windows of Patti’s choosing. Was I imagining all of this? Had

someone told me? Did I read it somewhere? Or was I part of the collective memory of those

who had lived and died at Craig y Nos Castle?

I moved on further. There was a doorway labelled ‘NO ENTRY’ which I opened with

ease and set foot on a creaking staircase. The matches had gone, but I still had the lighter. At

the far end of the corridor was a dark room, a wall covered in dry rot, dead flies and insects

covered the window sills and from far away I could hear people coughing in unison. I came to

a large wooden staircase, all carved, beautiful handrails, definitely an original fixture – not the

way architects make things today. At the stop of the stairs I could hear whispers and I must

admit that at this point I was beginning to get nervous. The Captain had shook me up. But

there was more to see, and I was adamant that I would not run away.

As I stepped towards the darkened corridor, in direction of the whispering voices, I

passed two blue doors. One said ‘PATIENT’S TOILET,’ the other; ‘NURSE’S TOILET.’

And then the whispering got louder, calling me deeper down the long dark corridor. I could

just make out the silhouette of a nurse in starched white uniform. In her arms she held a little

girl, and the little girl was coughing. The nurse called out then

‘Help me! Please help me! The other children need me and poor Catherine is dying.’

I stepped closer. The child in her arms was the very same child I had seen all those years ago,

as she stood on the top floor of the castle, calling my name. But the child could speak no

more. She let out a violent cough and a red clot of blood vomited through her mouth, soaking

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the loose yellow gown in the colour of death. And then one final cough came, and there was

no more blood.

‘She’s dead,’ said the nurse, ‘Catherine is dead. She’s five years old. I have to take

her to the incinerator. Can you please take her for me.’

I looked at the sobbing nurse, I looked at the blood soaked child. Her name was

Catherine, and she had just, right before my very eyes, died. And suddenly I was running

frantically away from them, not caring whether I slipped or fell or died myself. I ran as if my

very life depended on it, Captain Rice Powell Davies was right, there was a dark force in this

castle, the ghosts were very much alive. I ran out into the courtyard and sobbed, on my knees,

begging for mercy, begging for Patti, begging that the child, Catherine, might live. And

somewhere in the silence of what was now well after midnight, I heard a gentle song, not

coming from the courtyard, but coming from the top floor of the castle. And a little child

appeared, her face pressed up against the window and by some miracle I could make out her

words,

Don’t worry, the Lady is here. The Lady will sing Catherine to her other world.

The Lady is always there to welcome the children into the light!

I sobbed and sobbed for what seemed like an eternity and when I thought I could take

no more, my knight showed up in his chariot.

‘Have you see enough?’ he said.

I was shaken up, shaking, scared, but so intrigued. I would have to get back there as

soon as possible. But for that night I was relieved he had come to drive me away.

1992

With aspirations to become a singer, I attended a performance of The Marriage of

Figaro with my singing teacher. Where was it to be held? At Adelina Patti’s private opera

house, at Craig y Nos Castle. This was the first time I had ever been legally inside the castle,

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and with the living. A backstage hand showed me through all the derelict corridors, as I held

my hand over my mouth to protect it from all the dust. Room after room was jammed packed

with 1920’s hospital beds. Some of the rooms (which were wards back then) still had the old

hospital light fittings over each bed. I was fascinated, and soon forgot the dust. How many

people had died in here?

‘They used to wheel the very sick ones out onto the balcony, they covered them in

heavy rubber blankets to keep them still while they breathed the clean air. That was the only

cure for TB back then.’

‘TB,’ I repeated under my breath, recalling the yellow skin of the little child who had

stood at the window calling to me. The child who died in the corridor. Her name was

Catherine. Suddenly I felt something move through me. But there was nothing there. The

stagehand looked at me, ‘are you alright?’

‘I just felt something strange...did you?’

‘No. But lots of people feel strange things when they come here. There must be

ghosts here. Imagine how many deaths there were. And little children too.’

He took me to a large room, Patti’s favourite room in the house; the conservatory. It

was falling apart. But you could see, if you looked with the right kind of eyes, that it had once

been a Shangri-la. An enormous conservatory all made of glass, with triangular stained glass

in rainbow colours at the top. They were beautiful, and I could imagine Patti sitting there,

quietly, relaxing before more work demanded her attention.

‘I love this room,’ I said, smiling at my tour-guide. ‘It’s so beautiful with all the

glass.’

Then he gave me a very odd look.

‘Glass? It’s made of wood,’ He said, ‘and it’s a wreck.’

I looked around, all I could see was pristine glass, garden furniture and Patti’s chair in

the corner. I described this to him and his face went white. I asked to explain what was going

on, but he was too taken aback to speak at all.

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I stood there and waited. He lit a cigarette. And then suddenly the room changed. It

was all made of wood and there hospital beds everywhere, and in those beds were very young

children, young yet with the skin of old men. And all of them coughing, dying.

‘I want to leave this room,’ I said.

He took me into the cellar. This was where the bodies were burned. He opened a

door and showed me the old incinerator. I shuddered. Somewhere, far off, in another part of

the cellar, I was sure I could hear a baby crying.

Shaken, but intrigued, I wondered would I ever be granted a conversation with Patti. I

had never believed that I possessed psychic abilities, but this castle had brought strange things

out of me. There was no logical explanation, so I chose to use the excuse that I have an

overactive imagination. But it was becoming clear to me that I had been brought back to the

Castle for reasons beyond my understanding. Reasons beyond it being my home.

We moved on to the theatre, where the present was reassuringly waiting in the

courtyard. Men in tuxedos, women in ballgowns. I was dressed in jeans, having come to

work back stage, and watch the performance from the wings. As the paying guests were

ushered into the tiny theatre, I climbed the ladder to where the backdrops on ropes would be

manipulated up and down during the nights’ performance.

When the music started I was standing on a ledge with the other stage hands, looking

down on all the bright lights and sparkle of the jewel coloured costumes on stage. A soprano

began to sing, and the show began. It was in English that night (no doubt the Welsh audiences

couldn’t stretch themselves to Italian). I knew Italian quite well by then, and was mildly

disappointed by the translated version, but it was my first opera and, ultimately, it changed my

life.

Ah the music! Ah, those voices! How they soared over the rafters upon which I stood

and flooded out over the roof of the castle, like some strange, beautiful mist, like a fairytale.

The beauty of those overstuffed dresses, their colours, their shiny fabric. What lungs those

performers had! What hearts, what souls! What it must be to be able to sing like that and

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uplift an entire auditorium, all of us mesmerised. Patti did this for forty seven years. Forty

seven years of unbroken work, in which she stunned the world with her voice, such a powerful

voice emanating from such a tiny body. Adelina Patti was no more than four feet and eleven

inches high, she was not built like the average opera singer, she was small, perfectly formed,

petite, a tiny Victorian lady with the voice of a Goddess. Ah, the spectacle of opera! The

drama of it all! How I longed to be on that stage.

But I could never sing like that. My voice was too thin, my lungs too puny. I was

without talent, little more than a mediocre pop singer. If, however, I could live at the castle, it

would bring me closer to the beautiful world of opera. There is no doubt in my mind that

opera is the light force of the castle. I could sit alone in the empty theatre and listen to Patti

singing, imagining her all those years ago, before television and radio and cinema had made

such music commonplace.

As the Marriage of Figaro came to a close my eyes were drawn to the corner of the

stage. I peered down from above and squinted. There was a tiny woman dressed in a grey,

long gown not of our time, standing at the edge of the stage, nodding her head in approval. It

was Patti. Patti was here that night. I tried to lean further over the rafters, and was pulled

back by a protective stage-hand. As he pulled me back, the image of Patti disintegrated. The

curtain fell, the actors bowed and curtseyed, and, as I clapped and clapped, with tears in my

eyes, I felt like the luckiest young woman alive – here, in this castle, I had made contact with

the ghost of the Queen of Hearts. In the musical womb of Patti’s castle, I was safe and warm

and home.

And then, for what seemed like a lifetime, no more music came to the Crai y Nos.

The roof was leaking too badly, and there weren’t enough people buying tickets to see the

opera. It was too far away to travel, no one wanted to make the effort to keep opera alive at

Patti’s theatre. There were plans too, official plans, reported in the newspapers: Craig y Nos

Castle was too dangerous to enter. The local authorities were going to knock it down, and

build council flats in its place. Council flats! On this sacred ground! I was in disgust of my

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From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams

own country, the apathy, the lack of conviction, the unwillingness to fight for their heritage.

No block of flats was going to obliterate my castle!

I got involved with a petition group. ‘Save Our Castle!’ we chanted as we stood

outside the gates. But who, in their right mind, would take on such an enormous task? Had

Craig y Nos Castle been in Swansea or in Cardiff (or some other relevant Welsh town) it

would have been saved, funded, re-built, turned into a museum or some such venue to house

an important part of our country’s history. But the valleys are forgotten. No body cares about

the valleys. But let me tell you, these valleys, these valleys are real Wales. You can’t get

more Welsh than the Brecon Beacons. No way is Craig y Nos Castle going to be bulldozed to

the ground. I remember praying to an invisible God,

Please God, please save my castle. It is my home. Please help me to go home. This

castle is my home. It has always been my home, this castle.

Perhaps it was divine intervention, though highly ironic to boot, that by some miracle,

some strange fortune (as if the castle itself demanded a renaissance) a millionaire came from

London; an outsider, a businessman, to consider buying Craig y Nos as a prestigious building

which might serve as headquarters for the business which made him rich.

The story goes that this millionaire arrived in the afternoon, late summer in the year

2000. He took one look at the castle, amidst the drizzle and grey skies, thought it the most

dreary and depressing building he had ever seen and decided not to buy, even though it was on

sale for only £750,000 and well within his budget. He went to his nearby hotel, resolving to

head back to London the next morning. But the next morning Mother Nature had set her

globe of fire in the blue sky. The outsider, the millionaire was thus inspired to take another

look.

When the sun shines down on Craig y Nos Castle, it is a Shangri-la, a heaven on earth,

the most beautiful fairytale castle you have ever seen. It is a home waiting for a family. The

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From A Castle In Wales by Tracy Williams

outsider from London bought the castle that day. It was the year 2000. The year he later

renamed ‘The Year Dot.’

But when the skies are dark and our power is cut for hours, sometimes days, and when

the rain beats down incessantly and when its cold merciless winters set in, the castle has a dark

side. A terrifying and powerful dark side which... but enough.

Now, how did I come to live there?

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