PEOPLE I MEET
BY SIMON LAWRENCE
TAMPAX, TENT PEGS AND A PINT OF MILK
SIMON MEETS ROGER CAULER
2002
Beddgelert is a tiny village nestling beneath a thousand-foot mountain in North Wales and within striking distance of Snowdon, the highest peak in England and Wales. Snowdon rises to over three thousand five hundred feet, its peak usually obscured by the clouds, and for all its plunging scree, razor-sharp ridges, rushing streams and icy lakes, stands amongst the gentler grassy hills and lush valleys of the Snowdonia National Park. There are few places in the country where so much beauty can be found in every square mile, and this has to be a major contender for the 'Garden of Britain' award.
There's much legend in the mountains, too; a heavy mist frequently ascends from one of the most dangerous heights of Snowdon, the Devil's Kitchen. In the depths below, rumour has it that the Devil keeps a cauldron boiling continuously for anyone courageous enough to dare scaling those sheer walls.
Beddgelert has changed little over the years. There are no new shops or any development either, and half the houses have a grade two listing. The villagers are proud of this place and want to keep it as it's always been.
The village was made famous by the faithful hound Gelert, who belonged to the Medieval Welsh Prince, Llywelyn The Great. In a tragically 'fair-haired' moment, Llywelyn mistakenly assumed his dog had killed his child when found covered in blood. Gelert was immediately executed by his master before Llywelyn realised the heroic hound had, in fact, saved the baby from attack by a wolf. A stone monument to Gelert still stands in the village. There is a local myth, too, that the village innkeeper invented the story, who thought it might help put Beddgelert on the tourist map! But then some people will believe anything.
On the edge of the village, adjacent to a steep mountain track, is a small cottage called Penlan·. The author, Alfred Bestall, lived there from 1956 until his death 30 years later. Bestall wrote and illustrated the Rupert Bear stories. I remember Rupert as a purveyor of great moral fortitude, obedient, considerate and warm-hearted, with a natural curiosity and an anxiety to please everyone. As a child, I loved his adventures.
Between the Prince Llewelyn Pub and a little gift shop called The Welsh Lady is the village Grocers and Off Licence. Now… there are those of us who whinge about working forty hours a week, and there are those who still believe that it's worth putting as much work into every waking hour, however much they hate it, to get a decent pension in the end; only to begin the task of getting a life during their retirement. And then, there is Roger Cauler.
In his generously stocked store, Roger spends seven days a week amongst the Tampax, tent pegs, milk cartons, and agreeably smelling fresh bread. It's like Harrods in the hills. Measuring no more than two large living rooms knocked together, it provides for all our dietary and bodily needs; and for the hardy, there are even reusable heat pads to warm the nether regions whilst hill walking, nylon rope to keep their tents out of the tree tops, torches and lanterns for the evening and fishing nets for the children's aquatic fun-filled afternoons. There's also miracle grow to spruce up the garden and candles for a romantic evening if you're not home alone. In fact, whatever you need, Roger will have it secreted somewhere amongst his pile of boxes. There is one exception, though; he doesn't sell newspapers. Roger boasts he can spot someone wanting a newspaper, redirecting them to the post office across the bridge before they make a single utterance.
His daily schedule is punishing. He potters around from about 7 am, and the doors open at nine sharp. During the summer, I usually stay open till 11 pm but rarely get to bed before 2 am, 'there's always the web ordering and accounts to catch up on,' he says.
Someone's come in to buy a phone card. Roger swipes it through the machine, but nothing seems to be happening. He swipes it again while five more customers join the queue. He stretches his arms above his head as he awaits a response, unhurried, still smiling, joking, and talking to me at the same time.
'During the summer, if I haven't had one hundred customers in the first hour, I think it's a little quiet.'
I first visited Roger Cauler's grocery store six years ago; I was passing through Beddgelert and needed a sandwich. I remember he had trouble getting into his seat behind the till. Even with the seat way back, the counter must have worn a groove in his stomach. At twenty-six stone, he was the largest, most cheerful man I had ever met. Now, he is almost unrecognisable.
'I've lost eight stone so far. All I've done is cut down my chocolate intake by about fifteen bars a day. Although I still can't sell Turkish Delight because I'd eat the entire stock.' Roger opened a box of baked beans and began stacking them on the shelf. An older man shuffled through the door and picked up a basket. He selected a few things, presumably for his dinner. At the till, he keyed in the items he was buying, took out his wallet, paid the money into the till, bagged up his goods and left without acknowledging either of us. 'I suppose that's what you call self-service!' I said to Roger
'One day,' he said, 'I was really busy. This young woman comes in and says quietly, "Have you got any Tampax? Anyway, that's what I thought she said. Down the end of this display unit, last on the left, second shelf. A few moments later, she came back to the till. I can't see them, she said. I told her I had just had a delivery, and they were on the shelf. I asked if she wanted regular or super? I'd better have super. It was pretty bad last night. So I went and got them for her and rang them into the till. She just stood there with an embarrassed look on her face. I wanted tent pegs, she said.'
I brought a Mars bar and stood on the bridge below which the Glaslyn and Colwyn rivers join to become one torrent of gushing cold water. Roger appeared backwards from beside the shop, dragging a heavy bundle of crushed boxes. He was already twelve hours into his nineteen-hour day. I suggested I buy him a drink after work. 'I'd love to,' he said with a sigh. 'But the pub closes at eleven.'
© SIMON LAWRENCE
Beddgelert is a tiny village nestling beneath a thousand-foot mountain in North Wales and within striking distance of Snowdon, the highest peak in England and Wales. Snowdon rises to over three thousand five hundred feet, its peak usually obscured by the clouds, and for all its plunging scree, razor-sharp ridges, rushing streams and icy lakes, stands amongst the gentler grassy hills and lush valleys of the Snowdonia National Park. There are few places in the country where so much beauty can be found in every square mile, and this has to be a major contender for the 'Garden of Britain' award.
There's much legend in the mountains, too; a heavy mist frequently ascends from one of the most dangerous heights of Snowdon, the Devil's Kitchen. In the depths below, rumour has it that the Devil keeps a cauldron boiling continuously for anyone courageous enough to dare scaling those sheer walls.
Beddgelert has changed little over the years. There are no new shops or any development either, and half the houses have a grade two listing. The villagers are proud of this place and want to keep it as it's always been.
The village was made famous by the faithful hound Gelert, who belonged to the Medieval Welsh Prince, Llywelyn The Great. In a tragically 'fair-haired' moment, Llywelyn mistakenly assumed his dog had killed his child when found covered in blood. Gelert was immediately executed by his master before Llywelyn realised the heroic hound had, in fact, saved the baby from attack by a wolf. A stone monument to Gelert still stands in the village. There is a local myth, too, that the village innkeeper invented the story, who thought it might help put Beddgelert on the tourist map! But then some people will believe anything.
On the edge of the village, adjacent to a steep mountain track, is a small cottage called Penlan·. The author, Alfred Bestall, lived there from 1956 until his death 30 years later. Bestall wrote and illustrated the Rupert Bear stories. I remember Rupert as a purveyor of great moral fortitude, obedient, considerate and warm-hearted, with a natural curiosity and an anxiety to please everyone. As a child, I loved his adventures.
Between the Prince Llewelyn Pub and a little gift shop called The Welsh Lady is the village Grocers and Off Licence. Now… there are those of us who whinge about working forty hours a week, and there are those who still believe that it's worth putting as much work into every waking hour, however much they hate it, to get a decent pension in the end; only to begin the task of getting a life during their retirement. And then, there is Roger Cauler.
In his generously stocked store, Roger spends seven days a week amongst the Tampax, tent pegs, milk cartons, and agreeably smelling fresh bread. It's like Harrods in the hills. Measuring no more than two large living rooms knocked together, it provides for all our dietary and bodily needs; and for the hardy, there are even reusable heat pads to warm the nether regions whilst hill walking, nylon rope to keep their tents out of the tree tops, torches and lanterns for the evening and fishing nets for the children's aquatic fun-filled afternoons. There's also miracle grow to spruce up the garden and candles for a romantic evening if you're not home alone. In fact, whatever you need, Roger will have it secreted somewhere amongst his pile of boxes. There is one exception, though; he doesn't sell newspapers. Roger boasts he can spot someone wanting a newspaper, redirecting them to the post office across the bridge before they make a single utterance.
His daily schedule is punishing. He potters around from about 7 am, and the doors open at nine sharp. During the summer, I usually stay open till 11 pm but rarely get to bed before 2 am, 'there's always the web ordering and accounts to catch up on,' he says.
Someone's come in to buy a phone card. Roger swipes it through the machine, but nothing seems to be happening. He swipes it again while five more customers join the queue. He stretches his arms above his head as he awaits a response, unhurried, still smiling, joking, and talking to me at the same time.
'During the summer, if I haven't had one hundred customers in the first hour, I think it's a little quiet.'
I first visited Roger Cauler's grocery store six years ago; I was passing through Beddgelert and needed a sandwich. I remember he had trouble getting into his seat behind the till. Even with the seat way back, the counter must have worn a groove in his stomach. At twenty-six stone, he was the largest, most cheerful man I had ever met. Now, he is almost unrecognisable.
'I've lost eight stone so far. All I've done is cut down my chocolate intake by about fifteen bars a day. Although I still can't sell Turkish Delight because I'd eat the entire stock.' Roger opened a box of baked beans and began stacking them on the shelf. An older man shuffled through the door and picked up a basket. He selected a few things, presumably for his dinner. At the till, he keyed in the items he was buying, took out his wallet, paid the money into the till, bagged up his goods and left without acknowledging either of us. 'I suppose that's what you call self-service!' I said to Roger
'One day,' he said, 'I was really busy. This young woman comes in and says quietly, "Have you got any Tampax? Anyway, that's what I thought she said. Down the end of this display unit, last on the left, second shelf. A few moments later, she came back to the till. I can't see them, she said. I told her I had just had a delivery, and they were on the shelf. I asked if she wanted regular or super? I'd better have super. It was pretty bad last night. So I went and got them for her and rang them into the till. She just stood there with an embarrassed look on her face. I wanted tent pegs, she said.'
I brought a Mars bar and stood on the bridge below which the Glaslyn and Colwyn rivers join to become one torrent of gushing cold water. Roger appeared backwards from beside the shop, dragging a heavy bundle of crushed boxes. He was already twelve hours into his nineteen-hour day. I suggested I buy him a drink after work. 'I'd love to,' he said with a sigh. 'But the pub closes at eleven.'
© SIMON LAWRENCE
