shepherds than the other Bethlehem’
Jon Ronson
Gwylym Richards says that, in some ways, Bethlehem, Wales, is better than Bethlehem, the West Bank. “We’re a lovely place to pray and meditate,” he says. “The other Bethlehem is all about hustle and bustle, but we’re all about peace and quiet. Also, we’ve got more sheep and more shepherds than the other Bethlehem.”
“So the spirit of this Bethlehem is more akin to how people mistakenly imagine the spirit of the other Bethlehem to be?” I ask.
“Exactly,” says Richards. “If you want to pray and meditate, this is the Bethlehem I’d recommend you visit.” Richards pauses, then he adds: “I say to people, there’s only one Bethlehem, which is where Jesus Christ our Lord was born. That’s very important. But there’s only one Bethlehem, Llythyrdy. The Llythyrdy is what makes us unique. Do you know what Llythyrdy means?”
“No,” I say.
“It means post office,” says Richards.
Richards is Bethlehem’s postmaster. He is one of only 100 residents of the village. In all, there are 20 houses. The school has six pupils. Bethlehem is the tiniest of places.
It would be a model of tranquillity if it wasn’t in the flight path of a nearby Ministry of Defence new technology training centre. So, every hour or so there’s a violent roar and a low-flying jet zooms terrifyingly over our heads. Nobody looks up, only me, the out-of-villager. Today, I have seen enough UFOs and unmarked helicopters to send a conspiracy theorist rushing to the Internet. But in the silences between the jets, Bethlehem seems peaceful and serene.
Richards is doing well. He charges 20p to stamp, by hand, Christmas cards for tourists who want an authentic Bethlehem postmark. What they get instead is a “Llythyrdy Bethlehem” stamp, and a slightly defensive (and unnecessary) explanation from Richards that the Llythyrdy part is unique and cherishable, rather than an inconvenient addition to the key word, Bethlehem.
Visitors come from far and wide to get their Christmas cards stamped by Richards. This year, he says, an extraordinary number of people have come from Sweden for this purpose. On the side, he sells keepsakes and festive ornaments and Welsh cakes in a tearoom attached to the post office. Over the years, Richards has stamped Christmas cards addressed to Maggie Smith, the pope, Gary Glitter, John Major, the queen, Bill Clinton and the president of China.
“I’ll always remember this one man,” says Richards. “He was a very old American diplomat. He came in here and he said: `I want to do this before I die.’ So he sat down in the tearoom and he wrote out Christmas cards to Desmond Tutu, the pope and the president of China, in Beijing. He knew all those people personally. Imagine that. And you know what was so special about the card he sent to the president of China?”
“What?” I say.
“It was written entirely in Latin,” says Richards. “It was very moving.”
“Does living in Bethlehem give you pause to think about holy matters?” I ask.
“Well, I certainly believe in a supreme being,” says Richards. “And Bethlehem is a very special, spiritual place. And these people take the time and trouble to make a pilgrimage here to the post office. That makes this place special.”
“How many Christmas cards do you stamp each year?” I ask.
“Well, I wouldn’t say hundreds, because that would be a blatant lie,” says Richards. “I’d say thousands.”
“Really?” I say.
“And not just at Christmas,” says Richards. “People want their Christmas cards stamped all year round. I’ve already got 350 cards ready to be stamped for December 25 2000.”
I look at my watch. It is 3.30pm.
“I want to meet the mothers as they pick their children up from school,” I say to Richards, “but I’ll be back.”
“You should go and see the ancient monument,” says Richards. “It’s right behind the post office. You can’t miss it. It’s the most important ancient monument in northern Europe. It’s so important that you’re not told about it. That’s how important it is. Nobody wants you to know about it. But it’s a fabulous place to see the red kite.”
“I’ll take a look,” I say.
“Okay,” says Richards. “But if you get lost on the way back, follow the star. That’s right. You follow the star to Llythyrdy Bethlehem. Ha ha!”
“I hope that you won’t be too busy when I return,” I say, “or else there’ll be no room at the inn! Ha ha!” There is a small silence.
“That’s right,” he says, kindly.
On my way over to the school, I meet George, a hedger from Brecon. George is pruning the hedges near the Bethlehem sign, ready for winter. “I was just thinking,” says George, “here I am, on the road to Bethlehem, just like the three wise men.” George puts down his chainsaw.
“This isn’t the first Bethlehem I’ve been to, either,” he says.
“Have you been to the West Bank?”
“No,” says George, “but I’ve been to Bethlehem, Jamaica.”
“Really?” I ask.
“Oh yes,” says George. “Nineteen-fifty- four. The year of Hurricane Fifi. I was in the Royal Welch Fusiliers.”
“What was it like there?” I ask.
“I didn’t think much of the hurricane,” says George. “But I met a lot of lovely people. I met Winston Churchill, you know. I met him in Bethlehem. We spoke to each other.”
“What did he say to you?” I ask.
“Well,” said George. “We were all lined up. When he got to me, he said: `Do you think that your job is worthwhile?’ And I said, `I think so.’ That’s right. I said, `I think so.’ And then he addressed us all. He said: `Two pints of beer on me for everyone!’ He was taken ill that night and he had to be airlifted back to London. And all that happened in Bethlehem, Jamaica.” George picks up his chainsaw and starts pruning the hedges again.
“I’ve been doing this job for 40 years,” he says, “but I’m still learning. See that holly bush over there, growing out of the hedge?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m going to leave that alone,” says George. “And you know why?”
“Why?” I ask.
“Bad luck for hedges,” says George. “You prune a holly bush, and it’s bad luck for hedges.”
Just up the road, the school day is finishing. The six pupils, aged between five and 10, are saying their prayers in Welsh. The mothers are standing out at the gate in the cold wind. When the prayers are over, I introduce myself to everyone.
“What have you been to see so far in Bethlehem?” asks Mrs Jones, the headmistress.
“Well, I met the hedger,” I reply, “and I’ve been to see Gwylym.” As one, the mothers raise their eyes to the sky.
“What’s wrong with Gwylym?” I ask.
“The less said about that man the better,” mutters Janet Davies.
“He’s raking it in,” says Ann
Evans. “And does he give anything back to the village? Of course not.”
“There’s more to Bethlehem than the post office,” says Mrs Jones, the headmistress. “Just remember that.”
“What else occurs here?” I ask.
“Well,” she says, “for a start, they want to close down the school. They say we aren’t viable any more. You
need a minimum of 16 pupils, and we’ve only got six. Any day now, they’re going to put up a sign on the door saying: `Marked for closure.'”
“And where will the pupils have to go then?” I ask.
“To Llangadog,” says Davies. “Two miles [3km] down the road.”
There is a sad silence. “You know what I’ll miss,” says Davies. “I’ll miss hearing them laughing and playing.”
“Couldn’t Gwylym help out?” I ask. “You know, with his profit margin.”
“Ha ha,” say the mothers, sardonically.
“The school used to get a present from him every Christmas,” says Davies. “But not any more.”
“When the school goes,” says Evans, “the whole community will go. It’s quiet here now, but imagine how much quieter it’ll be when there’s no school.”
“And then there’s Gwylym,” says Davies, “raking it in down the road.”
“He gets two coach-loads every week. Just from Liverpool,” says Evans.
Back at the post office, Gwylym Richards picks up his Llythyrdy Bethlehem stamp. This is the stamp he uses to postmark the Christmas cards for 20p. “That’s worth more than the cottage,” he says.
“How much do you earn a year?” I ask him.
“I’m not going to tell you,” he says. “Put it this way. I have a very tired arm at the end of the year. But look at this stamp. It’s round, you see. Nobody wants a square one. Nobody likes a square post mark. The collectors don’t like it. The public don’t like it.”
Richards tells me that those who come into the post office to see him personally are the lucky ones. Many tourists travel for kilometres just to post their letters in the postbox outside. Those letters go straight to Swansea and so are sent out with the disappointing Swansea post mark.
“When people come in here and send Christmas cards to celebrities,” I say, “do you ask them what their relationship is with the celebrity?”
“I did once,” says Richards. “This lady came in with a card addressed to Mrs Clinton at the White House. I asked her. She didn’t say anything for a while, and then she just said: `We’re family.’ I didn’t pry any more. It isn’t my business to pry.”
Richards and two tourists who have just arrive get talking about how things aren’t how they used to be. Specifically, they discuss how many recipients of letters don’t bother looking at postmarks any more.
“There are a lot of thoughtless people about,” says Richards. “They rip open their Christmas cards and, in doing so, they rip the unique Llythyrdy Bethlehem postmark.”
“It’s a gamble,” I say, “coming all the way out here and just hoping that the postmark will even be noticed by the recipient.”
“We’ll take the gamble,” say the tourists as they set off home, 130km away.
“I was talking to the mothers up at the school,” I say. “Did you know that it’s marked for closure?”
“Oh yes,” says Richards.
“If only there was something that could be done,” I say.
Richards picks up on my subtext immediately. He grabs his Llythyrdy Bethlehem stamp. “This stamp,” he says, “pays for my electricity and my gas. If it wasn’t for this stamp there’d be no post office at Bethlehem. There’d be no Llythyrdy Bethlehem. This stamp has saved me from closure. How many little village post offices do you see these days? That’s right, hardly any. And I’ll tell you something else. If it wasn’t for Llythyrdy Bethlehem, there’d be a lot of disappointed people. If this post office went, there’d be no community any more.” Richards pauses.
“That’s right,” he says. “There’d be no community any more.”