So I bought four of the spring type trap.
 
I set two traps in the garage and the others in the greenhouse, where there were alsosigns of nibbling, more droppings and that familiar stench.
 
The following morning, there was a trapped mouse in the garage and one in the greenhouse. My feeling had proved correct!
 
By the end of March, when the vermin had finally decided to encroach into my buildings no longer, my total haul was thirteen; five in the garage and eight in the greenhouse.
 
The following year my total reached 16 and last year I caught a staggering 20. 

Up to now, I have notched 18 with a couple of months still to go.
 
If the cute little dears would stay in the fields, they'd be safe. But they never learn, do they!
 

It is only during wartime or blockades and disputes that the government and general public realise and appreciate the enormous hard work and skills our farmers do for our country.

They are the backbone of our country.

On my first day of call-up I caught the train from St Asaph to Padgate, near Warrington, via Rhyl. On arrival I, along with many other new recruits, was ushered into a hut for a mug of tea.

Then we were lined up outside and drill instructor corporals rushed us at jogging pace to our billet, which was to be our home for a week before being moved on RAF Hednesford for eight weeks tough military training and ‘square bashing’.

That evening we were ordered to write home to our parents and friends to assure them we had arrived safely.

In addition to my parents I wrote to Mr and Mrs Ralph Humphreys of Prestatyn who were good friends of my parents.

A few days later Ralph wrote to the letters column of the Daily Post and I quote his words: “Sir - Can you imagine my feelings recently when reading Gwilym Roberts’ article about the scarcity of shepherds and the necessity of taxpayers’ money to be spent on teaching students at Llysfasi the art of shepherding.

“I received a letter from a farmer’s son who was taken into the Forces last week.�

He then quoted from my letter to him: “I arrived here this afternoon. I’ll get no sheepdogs here. I’ve got to rise at six o’clock tomorrow and do some scrubbing.�

Ralph’s letter continued: “This young fellow has been born and brought up on the farm. He is a shepherd and has an inborn talent for training sheepdogs that no college training will ever give.

“Last year he paid £20 for a dog in order to train it for work and trials. He is taken away during the busy lambing time, and his £20 savings to buy the dog is wasted (the dog will be too old for training in two years time).

“His father will have to leave his ploughing and cultivating now and again in order to attend to his flock.

“With such frustration can you expect a young fellow to have any zest for his old ‘cynefin’?

“I ask you is there any wonder that we are short of shepherds, short of lambs or short of food in this underfed land?�

Amid current talk of impending world shortages of food, I was reminded of Ralph’s letter written 56 years ago!

But there was some sense in that old saying. Today’s television presenters have started saying something similar. They call it the �Feel Like Factor�. The actual temperature reading on the thermometer may be plus 6 degrees celcius but with the wind chill,  it “feels like� one degree below freezing. 
 
Grannie and Granddad knew best. My father wasn’t talking through his hat after all! 

Perhaps I have started a new fashion circle because I‘ve started wearing braces again.

I haven’t worn them since I gave up farming over 40 years ago.

I tell them: “To help reduce my tummy!�

Next question: “How does wearing braces reduce your tummy?�

“Well, if I wear braces I can use my stomach muscles to pull myself in and my trousers won’t fall down!�

Obvious, isn’t it!

“Why don’t you tighten your belt�?

“Because tightening my belt would squeeze my intestines which is bad for digestion and assimilation of my food.�

When farming I always used braces but I also used a slack belt to support my tummy to prevent hernia.

My parents always advised me and my brothers: “Work hard but don’t strain.�

In those hard-working days we handled, lifted, loaded and unloaded, bags of corn and fertiliser weighing a hundred weight (I think that’s 50kg in today’s money), and we didn’t have elevators or mechanical lifts.

Yesterday a friend looked at me and said to me in Welsh: “Ti wedi colli pwysau�,
which means, “you’ve lost weight�.

“Na,� I replied. “Dwi wedi colli dipin o bol,� meaning, “no I’ve lost some of my belly�.

Oscar Wilde said: “Clothes should hang from the shoulder not the waist.�

It seems Oscar and I are on the same wavelength. Great minds you see!

Mind you, braces have been around for along time. Suspenders, as the Americans call them, and braces were first made in 1820 by Albert Thurston from his emporium at 27 Panton St, Haymarket, London.

In 1851 Albert Thurston had become a by-word for quality gentleman’s accessories and their braces and suspenders were destined to be sported by kings, princes, presidents and successful businessmen across the world for the next two centuries.

So I’m good company.

Bobby Ball, of Cannon and Ball, wears braces, as does legendary singer/impressionist Joe Longthorne.

My wife doesn’t like my braces but as her favourite entertainer, Joe Longthorne, wears them, I can get away with them; If Joe wears them, they must be right!!

Current prices can vary from about £12 to £60. Needless to say I chose to wear the lower price range.

Over the last six months I have been conducting my own little survey of braces wearers in North Wales and borders and I can count on one hand the number of people using them to support their trousers.

A couple of days ago I saw a picture in the national press of David Beckham displaying braces; even he is following my trend.

Now watch all the world copy me!

I thought it might some people might find it interesting.

The Welsh in the London milk trade

FROM the mid 1800s, the London milk trade has been predominantly operated by the Welsh as they were the few with the knowledge, strength and conviction to earn a living in the city in this difficult field.

“Dairy fanners� kept cows behind their shops and Welsh “milkmaids� became familiar in every street.

The milk was collected twice daily by several Welsh girls and taken out into the city streets for sale. The milk was taken in two tin pails carried out on a yoke weighing sometimes up to 130lbs, across the “milk walk� route, usually a few miles long.

The milkmaids went about their work in a cheerful manner, often calling out through the market squares for casual customers to buy their “milk below�.

A city milk maid, around 1900

By 1900, half the dairies in London were Welsh, and in 1950 there were well over 700 Welsh dairies; but modern commercialism has destroyed most of the trade - today there are only a handful of the Welsh dairies left.

Morgan’s Dairy began in 1894 and continues today from their original premises in Fulham as one of the few flourishing Welsh independent dairies remaining in London.

Brothers Gareth and Geraint Morgan and their grandson Hywel operate the family business and pride themselves on their quality of service, which still includes doorstep delivery for their Fulham cliental. (Morgan’s Dairy, 67 Aspenlea Rd, London W6: 0207 3857715; www.morgansdairy.co.uk.)

Jones Dairy still offer a wide range of fresh organic cheeses although it’s best known today for their stellar breakfast cafe menu.

This site was a Welsh dairy from 1902 and cows were milked on the premises until 1932. After the death of Mr Jones, his widow converted the dairy into a cafe which thrives especially on a Sunday, thanks to the nearby flower market. (Jones Cafe, 23 Ezra Street, Bethnal Green, London E2; 0207 7395372; www.jonesdairy.co.uk. Opened only: Fri-Sat 9am-3pm Sun 8am-2pm.)

Lloyd’s Dairy in Finsbury became Naturally Myddeltons organic grocery shop on December 2005, after almost 100 years as a Welsh dairy.

The new owners have redecorated the interior but are keen to keep the unique former style of Lloyd’s intact.

Part of the shop still specialises in and promotes Welsh organic produce. (Naturally Myddeltons, 42 Amwell St, Finsbury, London EC1R 1XT; 020 7837 4131.)

I’m referring to the local Llandyrnog and District Village Clubs’ summer football league.

There had been discussions within the Vale of Clwyd farming community for many years about the possible formation of an inter-village football competition, but it is not until 1927 that words were translated into action.

Following a notice in the Denbighshire Free Press, representatives from Llandyrnog, Llanrhaeadr, Trefnant and Tremeirchion met at the Cocoa Rooms, Llandyrnog on March 14 that year.

The clubs represented at the meeting were anxious that farm workers, who comprised of almost half the population of some parishes, should be given the opportunity to take part in some form of organised games.

This would bring them into line with those engaged in industry and commerce, who usually had Saturday afternoons to themselves.

Because farm workers toiled for 12 hours-a-day, seven days-a-week, Saturday sport was not possible.

It was felt, however, that if there was a goodwill on the part of their employers they could play football on possibly two evenings each during the long summer evenings.

The decision was taken to form a summer league and its official title was to be the “Llandyrnog & District Village Clubs� Friendly Football League.

The name Llandyrnog appeared in the title for two reasons: the meeting had been held in that village and the majority of those who offered their services as unpaid officials of the league also came from Llandyrnog.

The four clubs represented at the meeting, along with Bodfari, which had tendered an apology, were to become founder members of a league which has long out-lasted any other football league in North Wales.

Three of the ‘founding fathers’, Llandyrnog, Llanrhaeadr and Trefnant, are still members.
Further meetings were held to draw up rules and fixture lists. It was also decided that each club should pay a membership fee of two shillings.

The Llandyrnog and District Village Clubs' summer football league and shield 1955 double winners Llanrhaeardr village football team

Champions of the first season were Trefnant and, in keeping with a tradition, which is still honoured today, the champions were matched against a ‘Rest’ eleven at the end of the season.

During the fifties, when I played for Cefn Meiriadog, I can boast that I was frequently selected to play for the ‘Rest’ side.

That tells you, of course, that I never played in a champions team.

Cefn joined the league in 1929. It was very hard going playing two competitive games a week while slogging hard on the farm all day, mucking out deep litter calf pans with forks and shovels, hoeing fields of mangolds and swedes, shearing sheep, carrying heavy hay bales with no elevator and then, at night, running, tackling and kicking a heavy leather ‘Casey’ for 90 minutes in the hot summer evenings.

Then, of course, there were the usual physical injuries, kicks, twisted ankles and knees - followed farm work the next day as usual.

My mother made good nutritious well-balanced meals to build up my stamina. Plenty of eggs, home-produced fresh meat and I must have consumed about four pints of milk every day.

My father’s speciality was to advise me to crack into a glass of fresh milk with a little added sugar which I had to take at 11am every day.

Substitutes weren’t invented then but Cefn must have been ahead of its time. At one period, before I started playing, the club fielded identical twins Eric and Hubert Williams.

One of the lads would play in the first half before being substituted by his brother for the second half.

No-one knew about the change because they were so alike!

A very good book, all about the league, was written in 1995, by former Llanrhaeadr stalwart Robert Emlyn Jones, who is now league president.

It was printed and published in Wales by Gwasg Carreg Gwalch, Llanrwst.

So in theory you can have a nap at lunchtime and your boss can't admonish you for it.

 Company bosses are encouraged to let their staff have a nap as part of their lunch break,  avoiding disruption to work. The siesta is a sure way of helping us to be productive, more alert, healthier and happier.

 Even five minutes can be beneficial! 

My late father always had a little mid-day nap after dinner when we were farming in the 1940s and 50s. 

He often said: “After dinner rest a while... after supper walk a mile.�  

Mind you, he earned it - he was out and about the farmyard and the fields every morning at five o'clock, summer and winter.

When I became sales representative I was lucky to work for a very shrewd sales director. He always said to me: “Make sure you take an hour off work for your lunchbreak.�   

I was travelling along North Wales roads and lanes selling agricultural products to farmers. At about 12.30pm I would find a good lay-by and take a “breather� for an hour. 

I used to spend my hour by having my sandwiches and a glance at the Daily Post for 20 minutes, followed by 20 minutes snooze. For the final 20 minutes I would take a brisk walk. 

After that, I was refreshed, energised, alert and enthusiastic, and I was ready to do many more hours of work. 

Believe me, selling is a hard and exhausting profession, and physical and mental fitness is vital.

Britain is alowly adopting the siesta, but unlike the Spanish equivalent that can take up to two hours, we are shortening it to 10 or 15 minutes, making it an effective tool in helping us to be more alert and productive in the afternoon.
 
Famous people who napped:
 
- Brahms napped at the piano while he composed his famous lullaby.
 
- Napoleon napped between battles while sitting on his horse.
 
- Churchill maintained that he had to nap in order to cope with his wartime responsibilities.
 
- Geniuses such as Edison and da Vinci napped.
 
- Margaret Thatcher napped in order to be at her best.
 
It appears I'm in good company. I still nap for 20 to 30 minutes most days. Maybe I could be the next Prime Minister!

They usually start when an old hedge is torn up to increase the size of a field. I understand that the seeds are so hardy they could lie dormant deep among the hedge roots for decades: when the roots are dislodged, the seeds are dispersed and germinate.

Another way they spread, so the experts tell me, is by pigeons. They eat the seeds which are so hard they pass, undigested, through their bodies. 

This is why wild oats can frequently be seen growing under trees. The pigeons perch in the branches and each time they fly out of the trees they discharge the virulent seeds.
 
Latin name: Avena fatua. Wild oat is an introduced annual grass weed of arable, waste and rough ground. In Britain, wild-oat was a more serious weed after the Second World War than in the pre-war years.

It occurs on most types of soil but is particularly troublesome in cereals on heavy land. Wild-oat grows over a wide climate range but prefers cool, temporate conditions. 

Over the past few years I've noticed quite a rapid spread of the the weed in the field near our house.

In fact, I reckon this year shows the increase may have quadrupled in 12 months. 

In the absence of competition, a single well-tillered plant could produce up to 2,000 seeds.

  However, in a cereal crop the average seed production is 60 seeds per plant. Wild-oat seeds are shed as they ripen and this occurs over an extended period. 

When I was a seed salesman, on one occasion I got a complaint from a customer saying that his crop was infested with wild-oats. He claimed it must have been in the quality-tested seed he had bought from me.  

I made a field visit with the farmer to see for myself. The first thing I noticed was that the wild-oats were in patches. 

If, and there was no possibility, the weeds had been supplied in the company's seeds, they would have been spread evenly all over the field. 

Secondly it was noticeable that the wild-oats were growing around the base of the trees, which confirmed my earlier point that pigeons were distributing the dreaded weed.

When I asked the farmer if he had removed a hedge, he admitted he had.

“Well, there's the answer,� I assured him.

The only real way to clear wild-oat from the field is by hand-roguing. 

The plants must be pulled up completely and disposed of, preferably by burning. 

Combines and other harvesting machinery should be cleaned to remove wild-oat seed.  

Seeds collected during combining or seed cleaning should be burned and not fed to stock or tipped on manure heaps.

And finally: Did you hear about the young farmer who sowed his wild oats on Saturday night; on Sunday morning he was hoping for a crop failure!

I shall be following the trails along roads and lanes that these tough characters used to trudge as they moved from workhouse to workhouse and from farm to farm.

Twenty years ago I collected/compiled almost 200 original, untold stories which I obtained from the general public, farmers, church leaders and police officers. I even interviewed “retired� tramps. 

My filming will take me back to sites and locations from where I got my tales. As I go along I shall shoot landmarks that the “gentlemen of the road� frequented, such as pubs, the blue bridge at Queensferry, castles and, of course, the workhouses. Not forgetting the breathtaking scenery they would have taken in. 

No doubt I'll be tempted to impersonate a few farm animals as I pass the fields; I might even play a few tunes on my mouth-organ, comb and paper, and sing along to my own accompaniment on my ukulele. 

Many tramps entertained with a song and a dance in village squares, much to the amusement - and snickering - of the locals.
 
“Milestone Inspectors�, as they were sometimes called, used their own slang terms. They would wash their “tugs� (shirts) in rivers and wear “chockers� (boots) on their feet.
 
Some were “jake walkers� (meths drinkers) and these would usually attempt to dodge a “cave mush� (policeman).  

 Occasionally they would “downright� (beg or bum).

Furthermore they left signs on gateposts to inform eachother what kind of person lived at a house, vicarage or farm - whether they would get a good reception or not, and whether they would get a meal or a little money to help them on their way.

Most tramps had only the possessions they were standing in but there were a few very rich ones too.

Sometimes these would have large bank accounts, others would stash some cash away in  holes in stone walls. 

A majority of them were well-loved characters, although some were more devious. Many were hard-working and willing to do a goods day's work on the farms in return for a meal and a good night's sleep in the hay barn.
 
A couple of well-known tramps in Wales were Dic Aberdaron, master of 15 languages, and WH Davies, author and poet.

I'm filming these tales because I believe they should be preserved and recorded as part of our heritage. 

I shall be producer, director, scriptwriter, actor, cameraman,  editor, researcher and all the other jobs that go with film-making. 

I hope that my mini-camcorder is up to the task.  If you see me on the road, come and have a chat and if you have an old, true, funny story to tell me, well, it's not too late to be included.

You don't have to have any particular talent - though it helps - and it's not hard work. It's much easier than mucking out, milking, sorting sheep, shearing and, as I used to do, flogging feeds to farmers.

 You just have to look vaguely similar to some well-known celebrity, pose around and claim your fee and expenses. 

“Money for old rope,� farmers would say. 

Some of the celebrities that people claim to mirror are: Joan Collins; Marilyn Monroe; Diana Ross; Frank Sinatra; Burly Chassis (Shirley Bassey); and Prince Charles. Perhaps the most famous is Jeanette Charles, who impersonates the Queen.

This idea seems to be an easy money-spinner so I'm trying to get in on the act. Trouble is, I don't know who I look like.

My wife came up with a brilliant idea.  She was sorting the cupboards and came across a little soft-material figure of a Tetley tea folk father figure. 

“Oh look! he looks just like you,� she said.

That's it, I thought, my search is over after all these years.... I’ve found my double. 

Now all I need is a top lookalike agent! 

The picture's not great - but I really do look like the Tetley folk

I hastily wrote an email to Tetley outlining my ambition, along with a photograph, explaining that I had an uncanny likeness to the Tetley figure. 

I had a prompt reply from Amanda Parkinson, representing their consultants, to the effect that they couldn't use me as they not longer use the Tetley folk in their advertisements. 

But the email added: “You’re right! There is an incredible likeness.�  

Now it's alright for me to say that, but for them to agree with me was a bit off. I didn't know whether to go into a “huff� or to take it as a compliment for my 40 years experience as a comedy actor.

Three days later the postman brought me an unexpectedly large package. I was all smiles again. When I opened it I was surprised and delighted to find five complimentery boxes of Tetley teabags.

In the meantime it's back to the drawing board as I keep looking for my double. 
 

The weather was wet and cold but the welcome, hospitality and kindness from the Irish people was very warm indeed.

The view from our residence was stunning. The Emerald Isle lived up to its name with its 40 shades of the green fields, rolling hills and forests. 

The sheep and the cattle sucklers in the nearby fields looked in good condition too!

I couldn't resist doing my impressions of lost lambs and the mother sheep understood what I was saying in their language: they responded by bleating and scuttling around looking for their babies. 

About 300 yards away the cattle were lying down peacefully when I bellowed like a cow and a bull. 

They all leapt to their feet and galloped down the slopes to me, curious to discover who this new beast was. 

In the late afternoon rabbits ventured into the half-acre front garden. And one early morning about  5.30am, as I drew the curtains back, I spotted, through the thick mountain mist, three wild deer grazing on the lawn. 

As I dashed for my video camera they sensed I had seen them and they quickly vanished into the nearby forest. 

It may be over 40 years since I was farming but I still have my “farmer's eye� for an animal in trouble. 

Scanning the meadows with my binoculars, about a mile away, across the valley, I could see a cow or bullock lying down for a long time, while its colleagues were grazing and moving around the field. It appeared to be unable to get up so I informed the neighbouring farmer.

On the Tuesday I had to drive to Sligo, the home town of my daughter's favourite boy band, Westlife. The locals told me where they lived so I was able to drive past their luxurious homes.
 
We stayed for one night B&B on a large dairy farm near Sligo. The lady of the house told me they ran 480 Friesian cows and it took over four hours to milk them all.

On another occasion we boarded a train from Rathdrum to Dublin and we all had to have a half of Guinness.... a neccessity for any holidaymaker! 

And of course, we had to see the sculpture of Sweet Molly Malone, commonly known as “the tart with the cart� and “the dish with the fish�. 

One joker said: “She would do well selling melons.� It is said that by day she was a fishmonger's daughter and by night she was a member of the “oldest profession�.

  A good time was had by all. So much so that we have already booked for 2008.

It would do all youngsters the world of good and our country would be better off for it. 

There are so many facets of military life that help and develop character and sense of responsibility: discipline, behaviour, teamwork, square bashing, cleaning of living quarters, polishing and dusting, dealing with frustrations, assault courses, military exercises, out-door survival and so on.

They would go in as boys and girls and after 18 months they would come out as men and women. 

I know, I speak from experience. I’ve been there, done it! 

In 1952, when I was farming with the family, I was conscripted for two years into the Royal Air Force.

 I didn’t particularly want to go but I can now look back over the years, recall my experiences and feel that National Service did me a power of good. 

One becomes loyal to the particular division one serves in. I’m still proud the boys in blue - I still easily remember my service number: DAVIES 2554275.

On the day I went into the RAF I travelled from Rhyl railway station to RAF Padgate. 
I was a young-looking 18-year-old standing just 5ft 5ins small and weighing about eight stone.
 
Fortunately the tough life on the farm prepared me better than most for the hard months ahead.
While I was used to wearing heavy steel hob-nailed boots, most of the lads had worn town shoes and they developed painful blisters. 

I was used to mud and muck while the others, with their office-clean hands, had difficulty coping with the new conditions. 

 When I arrived at  Padgate station there were canvas-covered lorries waiting to transport several new recruits to the camp. 

Once we got to the reception hut the corporals yelled and shouted at us and we had to do every thing in double-quick time. 

We were given mugs of horrible tea. I was so small a South Walian, referring to me said: “Hey, look at ’im, he’s smaller than the cup!�    
   

Yours truly in RA uniform, back on the farm - but only for 48 hours leave - at Tan-y-Bryn, Cefn Meiriadog, in 1952.

In the evening we were all ordered to write to our parents (no mobile’s then) to inform them of our safe arrival. 

I also wrote to my father’s friend Ralph Humphreys, of Prestatyn. Part of my letter I related that, “I’ll be getting up at 6.30 in the morning and polishing the billet floor,  no sheepdogs here.�

A few days later Ralph had a letter printed in the Daily Post quoting sections of my letter. He said the Government was, “foolish to take (me), a keen young farmer with a natural-born talent for shepherding and training sheepdogs, off the land, to polish billet floors. 

“No wonder we are short of food in this underfed land. He has just bought a pedigree Border collie for £20 and it will be too old to train when he comes out of the force.�

  We all went in as independent, different individuals but after eight weeks of meticulous training  we were proudly marching on the square in our smart uniforms and gleaming boots as our steel-tipped heels hit the tarmac with a “left...right...left...� crunch, crunch, crunch in unison.

Over the years we had some good times, good comradeship and good social times. My wages in the beginning was £1 all found and I had quarterly increments as I qualified as a storeman.

For the final three months I earned the handsome figure of £2/10/00. 

 We got paid on a Friday morning and most lads were broke by Monday and were sending begging letters to their parents for money and food. 

I had been brought up by my parents to “look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves� and “save a match and buy a farm�. 

I didn’t save enough to buy a farm but I secretly saved the massive sum of 30 pounds. To boost my meagre wages I’d volunteered to do gardening around the camp.

National Service was introduced in 1947. Although World War One had finished, the world situation was still unstable and the Government of the day considered it wise to create a reserve force to cover any future situation.   

Firstly it was for one year which soon increased to 18 months and finally to two years at the start of the Korean war in 1950. 

All young men reaching the age of 18, unless serving an apprenticeship or college course (they could apply for deferrment to 21), were called up. 

In the beginning miners and farmers, because of the importance of their work, were exempt. The law changed just before I was 18, which is why I was called up.

If conscription were to return, I’m aware there would be a few tears and tantrums as the boys and girls had the apron strings cut from mum. But they would soon get over that and society would be all the better for it.

On demobilisation I had gained a stone in weight and had grown three and a half inches to 5ft 8½ inches and, I hope, a better person for my experiences.