In my recent article on the history of Crafty Dog Towers I commented on the large mound at the end of the croquet lawn and said that it was the remains of a motte from a motte and bailey castle.  This created a bit of a fuss, and I had three replies from various quarters regarding the accuracy of my assertion.  I was flabbergasted as I had never had my assertion criticised before.

One comment was from Dr J.K. Twiggley, of Swanseashire University (retired), who pointed to an article in the Swanseashire Historical Review Volume XXVI, 1928, in which Sir Mortimer Walker ( the well-known  wireless archaeologist so popular on the BBC Home Service in the 1950’s) mentions a small dig he carried out on the side of the mound at the request of Colonel Mervyn Crafty-Dog in 1920.  Sir Mortimer found the remains of a Roman bath-house, complete with three ancient loofers, a tin duck, a copper towel-rail and early shower fitting.  It was the tiles, apparently, that gave it away as being Roman.  By day 3 of the dig Sir Mortimer had changed his mind and decided that it was more likely to be a spoil heap from when the house was renovated by Laurence “Have a Bash” Brown (the less well known cousin of Lancelot “Capability” Brown) and the new water closets put in the north tower range in the 1790’s.  I have read a copy of the article on-line and it does make interesting reading.

The second e-mail was from Cledwyn Griffith, amateur archaeologist and badger wrangler from north of Pontardawe.  He has a firm idea that the mound was only a few centuries old and was indeed a spoil heap, but from the jam mines sunk in the park in the late medieval period.  This might have accounted for the bits of pipe and tiles found by Sir Mortimer, being from an early shower-room for the miners when they emerged covered in thick jam from the bell-pit before they went home.  I did ask him whether they would have had such sophisticated plumbing in the 1540’s, but he was adamant that that’s what the mound is.

The final suggestion was from a well-known local mystic, and member of the not-quite-flat-earth-but-with-big-lumps-on-it society, Ephraim Flump.  He is a bit of an eccentric soul, given to walking backwards on Thursdays, and only wearing orange socks (no, he wears all his clothes, but the only colour socks he wears are orange), though he is pleasant enough.  He is of the opinion that the mound is in fact a landing pad for extra-terrestrials, a sort of parking space for flying saucers.  He is convinced that little grey men came from across the galaxy just to sample the rare grapefruit jam that exuded from the spring in the lower meadow (this spring has dried up long since).  He even pointed out the small circle of indentations which he said were the marks of the feet of the spaceship (Sir Mortimer said these were the post holes of a round house, which I am more likely to believe).

I was surprised that my little article had created such a stir.  No-one has ever been interested in my little article before, a bit like my assertion.

As if the sherry trifle wasn’t enough to keep Cook entertained, the afternoon took a rather unexpected turn. Down on the croquet lawn, a most unusual spectacle was unfolding. Cook had enlisted young Pendle, the lazy gardener’s lad, in a game that could only be described as cabbages and bowls.

The croquet lawn, usually reserved for more genteel pursuits, was now the setting for a makeshift bowling alley. The cabbages, freshly harvested from the kitchen garden, were being skillfully rolled towards an improvised set of pins made from empty gin bottles. Cook, with a stern look of concentration on her face, took careful aim before launching a particularly robust cabbage down the lane. Her throw was met with an enthusiastic cheer from the gathered kitchen staff, who had abandoned their duties to become impromptu spectators.

Pendle, typically noted for his leisurely approach to gardening, seemed unusually animated. He lined up his cabbage with exaggerated precision, much to the amusement of the onlookers, and sent it careening towards the pins with surprising agility. The resulting crash of bottles elicited a wave of applause and laughter, ringing through the otherwise tranquil grounds of Crafty Dog Towers.

The game continued, each round punctuated by jovial banter and good-natured ribbing. Cook, despite her earlier irritability, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself, her earlier gruff demeanour melting away in the camaraderie of the moment. Even the kitchen cat, having evidently decided that the coast was clear, crept back to observe the proceedings from a safe distance.

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, the makeshift bowling match drew to a close, leaving behind a trail of cabbage leaves and empty bottles. The kitchen staff, in high spirits, returned to their posts, and Cook, with a satisfied smile, headed back towards her domain. It seemed that, for once, the sherry trifle would have to wait.