Where I Go in My Dreams (Part 23)

In which The Author finds a place to revisit and one to avoid

I had a strange semi-lucid dream this morning, possibly fuelled by the painkillers I had to take in the early hours. (My shoulder is playing up again.) It was probably inspired in part by the many walks I've taken around the Cynon Valley in the last year and a half. I've been narrowing down possible routes for this year's sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, and also the cycling event I've outlined a couple of times.

It might also have something to do with this street in Merthyr Vale – currently scheduled for demolition, I've been told – which I stumbled upon at the end of April, while exploring the Trevithick Trail north from Abercynon.

To begin with I was on the 'old road' between Penrhiwceiber and Abercynon. That doesn't sound especially interesting, as it's pretty much one long stretch of ribbon development with side streets branching off now and again. But in my dream I'd somehow found my way to a back lane, separated from the main road by a steep bank and a dry stone wall. Thinking it might be an interesting diversion for the cyclists, I decided to explore it.

I went down a gentle slope for a few minutes, with no vehicle tracks or sign of recent activity. I was half-expecting it to end at a farm gate (I've been caught out like that a few times), but instead I arrived at what appeared to be a short row of abandoned cottages. I decided to stop and take a few photos before retracing my steps.

The outsides of the houses were pretty dilapidated, and the small front gardens were full of weeds and junk – broken kids' toys, bits of old cars, discarded furniture and domestic appliances, bags of rubbish that had split and spilled everywhere. It looked as though whoever had lived there had left in a hurry. The whole place was extremely eerie, and (even though I was dreaming) I was thinking about the terrifying episode of Torchwood called 'Countrycide' the whole time.

I was making my way around to the back of the row when I realised that the houses weren't abandoned at all. There was at least one very large family still in residence. Suddenly a whole gang of youngsters, scruffily dressed and unkempt, had appeared from nowhere. They were sitting on the low back wall or scattered around the broken furniture. A minute later they were joined by a small group of adults ranging from their late teens to (probably) mid-sixties. They seemed to be descended from travelling folk (or were possibly just squatting), as the kids and teenagers had obviously never seen the inside of a classroom, and I'm not sure the adults had either.

I explained that I'd managed to get lost while exploring the path, and apologised for invading their space. They weren't aggressive by any means, but I felt very intimidated the whole time. One of the men, who seemed to be the least frightening of the whole tribe, pointed to a gap between two of the cottages. He told me that if I followed this narrow, overgrown path for its length, it would take me back to the main road. I thanked him, apologised again, and made my excuses and left. Very quickly. When I saw a bus drive past the end of the path, I was extremely relieved to know I was almost back in civilisation again.

The second part of the dream took me along another path off the 'old road' – although how I got there is still a mystery. It was a very steep gravel slope, which you'd need a mountain bike or a 4×4 to negotiate if you weren't on foot. I followed it downhill for a while, came to a stile near a gate in a dry stone wall, and found another path branching off to the right. I had a feeling I knew where the right-hand branch would take me, so I crossed the stile and headed across a field full of sheep. Another stile led me to another steep downhill path, just compacted earth and bits of stone here and there. Further down I could see two large houses, so I decided to check them out.

This was a completely different story. The owners of one of the houses were in the front garden, which was well tended and welcoming. They were older than me, and were probably ageing hippies who'd bought this isolated spot as a retirement retreat. They could see I'd been walking for a while, and asked me if I'd like a glass of water. Their house was a warren of small rooms at odd angles to one another, decorated in a variety of bright clashing colours, and crammed full of books, records and interesting nick-nacks, rather like the home of two old friends in Aberdare. We chatted for a while until (in the words of Damon Albarn) I was rudely awakened by the dustman.

In real life, that is.

As with the strange village of Sychbant, which I visited in a dream nearly nine years ago, I'd love to revisit my new friends and their semirural hideaway in the South Wales Valleys. It could be time to heed the old advice and Keep Taking the Tablets.