Short story: 'Wild Bill Tudno (of Llandudno)', by Julia Davey ref Pioneer
THE Gweifer Gang trot into town, swaggering in white Kashmir and mountain hooves; Wild Billy goat Tudno at the helm. No saint - his two pronged ‘hat’ slanted down- battle worn ridges, boasting. Fringed eyes squint, crusty grin; his goatee catches the breeze. No sneeze to be heard as Bill’s musty stench rots Llandudno’s sweet, salt breath. Unperturbed, he reccees the haul, confirming rumours on Cyngrewdr, that time is ripe. Rich pickings to be had. Easy heist.
And so, with his ten best goats in tow, Bill heads south down Tudnor Street, sniffing out the best joints to loiter and eat - astride walls, borders, and gob-smacked gnomes. Alert, as shutters shift, curtains crease; burping, smirking, wiping clean, ‘daffs’, privet, anything green. Evening draws in and as the Celtic mist wraps around, Bill signals it’s time to be homeward bound. Seeing flowers scattered and bushes torn, locked-in locals appear slightly forlorn, but grateful to laugh, as they watch the gweifers climb Great Orme, the rocky pile where the goats were born.
Whilst the Gang lie low in the hideaway cave of St. Tudno, Wild Bill runs towards the eastern Head, casting his sharp eyes over the frothing bay to check on their wives and kids - on holiday - grass-full, content, at Little Orme; unaware of how Bill’s day was spent. He breaks a cheeky grin, and satisfied but with lips now dry, he joins the others at his adopted home, where the gweifers seem well behaved, considering their unruly roam.
Bill downs a few pints from the trickling spring then settles at the opening, Sheriff of all he surveys, catching the fading russet rays above the ink-splashed Irish Sea. Then goaded by his ‘men’, Bill enjoying the attention, recounts legendary tales of Orme gone by, of Neolithic hunters and ancient copper mines; of Romans, Victorian trams and Saints - the goats lie entranced by the pictures he paints.
Bill then flies them miles across land and sea to their ancestral home beyond Delhi. The Himalayan foothills, Bill explains, are the babes of the mountain range, crowned by Everest, the highest peak on this fragile earth; summer home to their cousins frolicking on its turf - milking their status as Kashmiri Gods in the sky. Not a dry eye in the place, and as the hours pass, the ‘blind’ bats wake and race catching moths, but no goat notices, so enthralled are they, by the magical tales that continue to flow, from Wild Bill Tudno (of Llandudno).
