A TALE OF FARMS, CASTLES AND BOOKS IN WALES

How could a farm called Upper Trewalkin in a hamlet known as Pengenfford be anything other than enchanting?

So tiny is Pengenfford that the topographer skipped over the name altogether, choosing instead the name of the nearby village of Talgarth to pinpoint this gentle expanse of South Wales.

That said, meet the hostess of Upper Trewalkin Farm, Mrs. Meudwen Stephens, a member of an association of farmers’ wives who let rooms and prepare meals for paying guests.

While I can’t vouch for the culinary skills of the others, if Mrs. Stephens is any example, a star by Michelin is in order for the entire circle. Everybody. The entire lot.

Arriving at her door late one night, it was evident that this was to be an enjoyable encounter. Meudwen Stephens beams incessantly. What’s more, her farmhouse--it dates from the 1600s--glows with the warmth of a wood fire on a bitter night.

There were other guests. Peter Maller, a retired British civil servant and his sidekick, ex-journalist Harold Strong of Kent, had been exploring the back roads of South Wales for nearly a week and, by their conversations, both were totally enchanted with Upper Trewalkin Farm and particularly Meudwen Stephens.

These two vagabonds had the look about them of guests who’d just polished off a Christmas banquet entirely by themselves. Nearly everything Meudwen Stephens serves is raised either on her farm or one nearby. Sheep. Cattle. Garden-fresh vegetables. Nothing is frozen. Nothing is prepared from a can. The butter and eggs she collects from a neighbor and the pies she bakes drip with wild elderberries, blueberries and rowanberries that Mrs. Stephens collects along hedgerows leading to Upper Trewalkin Farm and from bushes in the far reaches of the Black Mountains that are visible from her front door.

Her garden contains rhubarb, cauliflower, leeks, cabbage, onions, spinach, lettuce, carrots, potatoes, beans and peas. Trout and salmon are delivered fresh from rivers and streams, and what’s more she prepares marmalade made with pears, apples, ginger, apricots, carrots and pineapple.

One Michelin star? Two? Why not three? Breakfast alone is worthy of such an award--bacon, sausage and eggs, cereals, porridge, grilled tomatoes, fried bread and mushrooms.

Guests have found their way to Upper Trewalkin Farm from the United States (including a ballet dancer from Los Angeles), Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Malaysia and a dozen countries on the Continent. They share the footpaths with three dogs (Spot, Rick and Toby) and three cats (Sam, Charlie and Silver).

With her husband, David, Mrs. Stephens raises ewes, does the marketing and serves as hostess in this charming farmhouse with its two-foot-thick walls, deep sofas, family heirlooms and polished oak furniture.

By Welsh standards, the farmhouse of Upper Trewalkin isn’t huge. Only a couple of bedrooms, a couple of lounges and a bath, which guests share (although plans are in the works for an extra loo and another shower).

When the Stephenses arrived at Upper Trewalkin in 1979 they discovered serenity. In this small village no one locks a door and crime is a stranger. In addition, Upper Trewalkin lies dead center of Brecon Beacons National Park with its 519 square miles of rolling hills and lush glens, sandstone moors and wooded gorges, with the Black Mountains rising like a brooding cloud on the horizon.

Guests explore Cardiff, the Southeastern Vales and Tintern Abbey, castles, Monmouth, Abergavenny and Llanfihangel Crucorney.

During the season, which begins at Easter and ends late in October, Upper Trewalkin Farm is booked full nearly every night. This is when Meudwen Stephens rings up another member of the farm association to find would-be guests other accommodations.

There is Mary Eckley’s Trewalter Farm, which takes in 230 acres of clover and thyme that’s shared by cattle, sheep and a spaniel named Trixie.

Inside the 16th-Century farmhouse a 300-year-old grandfather clock ticks away the hours while Eckley’s daughter, Claire, entertains guests on the organ. A sideboard (circa 1689) holds a planter and there is a hutch that overflows with Mary Eckley’s knickknacks. Guests fish for trout in Llangorse Lake and the River Wye, and during summertime Britons arrive from the cities to pick fresh vegetables, fruit and berries.

Trewalter supports five bedrooms, a couple of baths, a lounge that’s been converted from a dairy, and a passel of books. It’s cozy; what more can one say?

Others find shelter at 200-acre Trehenry Farm where cereals are cultivated and sheep and cattle are tended by Goronwy and Teresa Jones. Three bedrooms await guests along with a tiled bath and a lounge featuring a wood-burning stove, sofas and antiques.

Oak, ash, sycamore and beech spread their shade across the meadows and verdant hills of this untrammeled land with its friendly pubs and Old World villages.

At the Nantyffin Cider Mill in the hamlet of Crickhowell, the menu lists chicken and mushroom pie, pork and cider pie, home-boiled ham, cider syllabub, meade tarts and rum-raisin cheesecake--this in a 500-year-old setting with beamed ceilings, a stone fireplace and amber light.

Anne Boleyn Jailed Here

The ghost of Anne Boleyn is said to haunt the timbered Coach & Horses Pub at Llangyndr where Boleyn was incarcerated before an appointment with her London executioner.

Such gloom is dismissed by those who gather at tables to joke and gossip and sing Welsh songs and quaff foaming mugs of ale. It is close by that poet Henry Moore is buried in the churchyard at Llansantffraid, where a mournful wind whips through rows of ancient headstones.

On a cheerier note, travelers crowd the little market town of Hay-on-Wye that’s reputed to be the world leader in used books, with an eccentric “king” who occupies the town’s Norman castle.

A sign at The Book Dump on Castle Street announces that “all books are sold by weight.” Shelves in another shop are lined with six miles of manuscripts, classics to science fiction.

It was “King” Richard Booth who founded the village’s secondhand book trade--first in an old fire station, next in a cinema and now in an immense store whose shelves groan under the weight of an estimated 250,000 titles.

Losing Some Rounds

A graduate of Oxford, Booth declared Hay-on-Wye a republic a few years back. At the same time he sought to have his horse named lord mayor. None of this set particularly well with his “constituents.” Nobody came right out and said Booth’s crown was out of kilter, but they hinted. Furthermore, Booth had asked his “subjects” to allow him to ban cars in favor of horses. Another blow. Poor Booth lost this round too.

That’s when he holed up in his castle, which is rather messy presently. It was barely completed in 1200 when someone put it to the torch. It was sacked in 1265 and battered once more in 1460, this time by Welsh rebels. Worse, there was a more recent fire. As a result, “King” Richard is still in the process of restoring the old landmark. It goes without saying that the castle is out of bounds to the public. No tours, no changing of the guard. Just poor Booth brooding within its walls.

Hay-on-Wye gets high marks as South Wales’ most enchanting village. Narrow streets twist past dozens of shops that deal in knits, knickknacks and antiques. Hebbards of Hay displayed a hutch recently dating from 1750 that the store had tagged at 1,000. In another corner a century-old chair was up for grabs at 85.

Weary shoppers drift over to The Granary, a tearoom that serves fresh-baked scones, brownies and cookies along with spice-mulled wine, vegetarian pancakes, quiche and a special casserole filled to the brim with sausage, liver and bacon. The menu is scrawled daily on a blackboard next to tables covered with oilcloth. Not fancy, mind you, but The Granary is the busiest tearoom in town.

The nearest replica to “King” Richard’s castle is The Abbey Hotel in the Black Mountains at Llanthony Abergavenny Gwent. It’s the sort of place you expect to meet up with a highwayman. To reach the four rooms at the top takes a stout heart and 62 grueling steps up the spiral stone staircase of this 12th-Century Augustinian priory.

One has the choice of rooms with a four-poster bed and others with half-testers, all of which look out on the shadowy ruins of the abbey. In turn, the abbey shelters a marvelous pub with vaulted ceilings, a blazing fire and the pungent smell of centuries of burned coal. It’s the sort of setting Alfred Hitchcock would have chosen for one of his cinematic thrillers, complete with a barkeep with earrings and a bushy beard.

Down the mountain, the oldest public house in Wales does business as the Skirred Inn near Abergavenny, which has stood rock solid for nearly 900 years. It too has the smell of age as well as evidence of doom. Drag marks of ropes used during hangings centuries ago are still visible on beams supporting the ceiling. Altogether, nearly 200 prisoners dangled from the Skirred.

Inside those very same stone walls with their medieval windows, the barman pours strong ale while the chef whips up such delights as fresh salmon, lamb, loin of pork and roast quail served in a black cherry sauce. Britain’s celebrated restaurant critic, Egon Ronay, describes the Skirred as tops in Wales.

One shudders, though, as the wind cries mournfully at the door. Outside it’s as black as the hangman’s soul.

Best to stoke the fire, lads, and order another pint.

Note: For a list of farmhouse holiday homes in South Wales, write to Mrs. Meudwen Stephens, Upper Trewalkin Farm, Pengenfford, Nr. Talgarth, Brecon, Powys LD3 OHA, Wales, United Kingdom. (Rates at Upper Trewalkin range from 10 (B&B;) to 16 bed, breakfast and dinner.)

For apartments or cottage rentals contact Idyll, P.O. Box 405, Media, Pa. 19063 or telephone (215) 565-5242.

For other information about Wales, inquire at the British Tourist Authority, 350 S. Figueroa St., Suite 450, Los Angeles 90071 or telephone (213) 628-3525.