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Whilst evading the attentions of The President, it was deemed apt that he not be aware of my current wheeling and in fact dealings for both tax and legal reasons (needless to say that his signature is not of the type that would require a “specialist” to obtain), I came across a small bed ‘n’ breakfast in the welsh county of Dyfed. I felt myself to be safe from the presidential gaze if I kept my movements within the Welsh borders. In a year that I don’t care to mention The Society felt that it was necessary to re-enact the Battle of St. Fagans of 1648, needless to say that the Societal Historian was nowhere to be seen, even in this time of need (it was felt that the complete lack of a post called Societal Historian was not an excuse for this utter failure of duty, and as such a vote of no confidence was passed unanimously, with the obvious exception of the Belgian who was too busy “grooming”, an d thus the post became vacant). Nevertheless we divided the Society into Parliamentarians and The New Model Army with reckless abandon such that, purely by happen stance, the President was nominated as the only member of the New Model Army. Needless to say he was not impressed with what he termed “treacherous, treasonous behaviour from a bunch of quislings”, but donned his bright red uniform nonetheless. We set off, Presidentless, in the direction of a purveyor of confection, for our army marches on its collective stomach. After 7 (seven) hours of desperate searching/hitch-hiking/begging (delete as appropriate) we came across a “gentleman” who claimed to hold the secrets of the Y Ddraig Goch and for a small amount of silver he was willing to impart said information to whomsoever cared to listen. “Not I,” said The Secretary, “I have not an interest in such pish and twoddle. This Y Ddraig Goch is merely some jumped up lizard!” After restraining the “gentleman of a travelling persuasion”, the Belgian decided to indulge his curiosity on the grounds that this dragon could perhaps teach him how to ensnare a young maiden in a tower for his own devices and so gave the “Lord of Roads” 5p (fivepence) for his troubles. The “King of Lanes” immediately stooped to kiss the feet of the Belgian, but recoiled at the slight stench of something unholy on his shoe. At this, he jumped up and started to tell us a wondrous tale of magic and destruction reaped by this iconic dragon. And this was that tale:

He was a man in mind, in years a youth,

And gallant in the din of war;

Fleet, thick-maned chargers

Were ridden by the illustrious hero;

A shield, light and broad,

Hung on the flank of his swift and slender steed;

His sword was blue and gleaming,

His spurs were of gold, his raiment was woollen.

Alas, Grydd! my beloved friend;

It is not meet that he should be devoured by dragons!

There is swelling sorrow in the plain,

Where fell in death the only son of Havvo.


We Ordovices rue that day

When from far land this “President” did come.

Red as the fire that made it, its breast did shine,

Fearsome as the plains of hell that spawned it.

The Beast did ravage all good folk,

In a fit of anger shouting “Death to those traitors!”

“New Model Army? They will pay for this!”

All who heard this words despaired,

Fleeing from its horrific form.

Pray for safety, prepare for death.

He comes this night, Y Ddraig Goch.