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I had a regular chore to do about once every couple of weeks - ride over to our landlady, Mrs Skelding, who lived in Backhall Street, Caerleon, to pay the rent. Mrs Skelding was a kindly old lady, who always gave me a bit of money for making the journey, and more often than not a salmon and cucumber sandwich, and on occasion bit of trifle or cake. She told me that the correct name for the 'castle walls', a prominent feature of Caerleon, was 'The Mynde', and was the first person to tell me of the distinguished history of Caerleon, or Isca Silurum as it was called in Roman times. It was the Roman fortress of Isca and the amphitheatre and barracks were already very famous. The fortress still had evidence of the hypocaust style of central heating, and the amphitheatre was still very easily seen. In later years the Roman Baths were found, and I took my family to see it. This is an awesome sight, and was well worth a visit. Venta Silurum (Caerwent) is just a few miles to the east. The reason for 'silurum' in the name, was a reference to the local population, the Silures over whom the garrisons had dominance.

The journey to Caerleon meant going over the crossings up past Alway, down Dents Hill through Bishpool and Treberth Estates, past the Royal Oak up the hill to Christchurch, and down Catsash Path. Occasionally, for a change I'd go down the main road to Caerleon, but it was more fun riding down the path. The path was very steep at one point and at that point was a fairly sharp left hand bend. I had a few narrow squeaks on that bend with people walking up, or the occasional motor-bike, or even more rarely, a sports car coming up the hill. I had several attempts before I managed to cycle up the full length of this path, but I did manage it once. The road was easier, but both were trials of strength and endurance. The problem was the road started to rise at Bulmoor, and then there was a slight respite where the path branched off from the road, but then it was 'game on' as the steepness increased. The road at least was wide and fairly consistent, but the path was reasonably 'shallow' at first, but this could be quite tiring, before you met the 'wall', which was the very steep bit, which was on a bend to right going up the hill. Several times I got to this point, but had to concede defeat. I put extra effort on one try, and actually made it. It meant having to zig-zag of course, but I was elated at finally conquering it. I did drive a van down and up this lane later in life, but that was a hairy experience too. At the steepest point, the feeling is that the vehicle will tip over, and coming up, the worry is that you will stall.

On another occasion, I recall that a friend of mine, Clive Burnett (through school we knew him as Clive Jones, but his mother remarried and given the choice, he took the adoptive name) who was an expert guitarrist in all styles, pop, jazz, classical etc., suggested after we had had a 'jam session' in the 'cellar' of his house, that we go for a walk. Clive lived in East Grove Road, and later in Aberthaw Circle, overlooking the old 'cutting', and was the first house on the left, at about this time. We walked down the hill to Aberthaw Road, along Chepstow Road to the Royal Oak, up the hill to Christchurch, and down Catsash Path. As we were walking down the hill, we could hear the voices of a couple of girls coming up the hill. They were out of sight around the steep bend, and Clive suggested for a laugh, that as we go around the corner, we hold hands. I looked at him in shock, and asked what the hell he was thinking about. He suggested that it might crack the ice with them, and if they thought we were 'a bit queer' the girls might try to 'convert' us. I was not convinced, and said so. It was just as well really, as we rounded the corner, they were with two rather large blokes, so at best all we would have got were some funny looks. I dread to think of what else might have happened. Clive was always trying bizarre ways of trying to 'pull' girls, and he certainly had his fair share. With our travels to 'gigs' around South Wales, we were always being chatted up by girls, and usually we were successful. There are a load of anecdotes which I might add at a later stage, concerning some of the hilarious antics we got up to. I last spoke to Clive around 1984, and I was lucky to do so as he was on a holiday back in UK from his home, which was by now in Spain. He was still single, and still the randy devil I always knew him to be, from what he told me. He was working as a guitar teacher - in Spain no less! Talk of 'flogging fridges to Eskimos' or of 'coals to Newcastle'. It would be nice to hear from him again.

Just up the road at Catsash, there were some prefabs, and Grannie had a friend living there, from whom she would buy carpets made from discarded cloth which were painstakingly stitched together. Grannie referred to her as "Auntie Lloyd". It was funny how many of these pseudo 'aunties' there were. There was an "Auntie Sarah" who was, I think, a schools inspector. I remember one occasion when I was in the school canteen at Lliswerry Juniors, and she appeared. I mentioned to some of the others on my table that she was 'my auntie Sarah', and one of them came back with a line which has stuck in my mind ever since, "Auntie Sarah, Auntie Boomti-arah" which I thought was quite funny at the time. Grannie, Grandad and I would go to 'Auntie Lloyds' now and then to fetch these carpets and other goodies, and en route would pick hazelnuts from the trees lining our way. There were occasions that we would pick blackberries too - not something to be recommended these days with all the pollution. One time we went, I went exploring with some kids I met who lived on there and we went to some fields with marvellous scenery, which I can still picture now. The fields were accessed via a stile and the sight that greeted us was breathtaking. The vista stretching before us was a beautiful sea of verdant undulating countryside bordered and flanked by some tall stands of deciduous trees. I drove past that area in June 2003, but the whole area had been swallowed up by the golf courses of the Celtic Manor Hotel. It was the first time I had travelled that way for over thirty years, but with the exception of the disfigurement caused by the advertising signs, and the cutting accommodating the M50, the area is largely untouched. The nearest I have been to it in the interim years, has been my visits to Christchurch cemetery, where rest the bodies of my Granny, Grandad, Uncle Reg, and my mother and father - Kitty and Cyril, and now I believe my cousin Susan, and her mother, Aunty Sylvia. They were joined in February 2009 by Aunty Gwyneth.

©Len Jones 2004