of the valley had changed drastically and I couldnât pick out a single landmark. What should I do? I asked myself. Press on through the snow, hoping to reach the next village over the mountain? Look for a barn to shelter in? Turn round, and try to find my way back?
I cursed myself for my stupidity. What had I been playing at? Plynlimon was no mountain to mess around on. It was completely unpredictable, as anybody with sense knew. The sun could shine on it one minute, and it could be shrouded in the deepest and most treacherous mist the next.
In the end, unable to decide what else to do, I carried on. Trees surrounded me until I couldnât see the valley any more. Fingers of mist started weaving their way towards me, and I was beginning to panic when I suddenly saw a gate with a house set back behind it.
It was a long, low, half-timbered house that had obviously seen happier days. Some of its windowpanes were broken, and I couldnât see a light in any of them. But I
could
see smoke rising from a single, tall chimney pot. The smoke of hearth and home â or so I hoped.
I hauled myself over the gate, and made my way towards the house, trudging up a snowy drive. As I drew level with the stable block I saw a couple of abandoned cars and a battered-looking old bus decorated with the slogans â
WONDER OF ALL WONDERSâ
and
âTHE AMAZING DR KATTERFELTOâ
.
As soon as I saw the words, I realised where I was. Ididnât know âthe amazing Dr Katterfeltoâ personally but, like everybody else, I knew that he lived at Clockvine House, halfway up Plynlimon Mountain. Down in the village he was the source of endless speculation. He was a Doctor of Conjuring, internationally famous, living with his daughter, Gilda, who worked as his assistant.
The village was full of gossip about them both, but nobody knew anything for a fact. Sometimes youâd catch a glimpse of light between the trees of Clockvine Wood, but, for months at a time, they would be dark because the Katterfeltos were away on tour in their battered old bus.
I only saw it once, but it stuck in my memory because it happened just before Grace died. Weâd been returning home from the Black Lion Hotel, and the bus came tearing past us, driven by Dr Katterfelto in his black four-cornered conjurorâs hat and cloak, Gilda by his side, wearing a green silk costume.
The moon had caught them both as they shot past â caught their eyes and made them glint like silver. Then theyâd been gone, carrying on up the pass road, leaving a distinct impression of something strange having passed our way.
The word about the village â depending on whether you drank in the Bluebell Inn or the Black Lion Hotel â was that the Katterfeltos were either eccentric millionaires who conjured for a hobby, or were living in destitution without even electricity. Either showmen or reclusives, father and daughter or lovers, Prussian aristocracy or as Welsh as anybody else, having taken on a fancy stage name in their desire to impress.
And now I had the chance to find out for myself! Ihammered on the front door, knowing that I was done for if I couldnât make them hear.
Please God, I thought, raising the knocker. Please let them answer. Please may they be in. Please, oh please!
A cat miaowed inside the house, but that was all. I knocked again, and then again, and was about to give up and go round the back when a voice came towards me from what felt like a great distance.
â
All right, all right!
â it called. âIâm coming. Donât be so impatient.â
I heard footsteps behind the door, and suddenly it flew open to reveal a man with sandy-coloured hair, a holey sweater with dandruff on its shoulders, baggy trousers and Winnie the Pooh slippers. We stared at each other. It was hard to recognise him as Dr Katterfelto, but that was who he was. I tried to speak, but didnât need to.
âGood grief!â the man
I cursed myself for my stupidity. What had I been playing at? Plynlimon was no mountain to mess around on. It was completely unpredictable, as anybody with sense knew. The sun could shine on it one minute, and it could be shrouded in the deepest and most treacherous mist the next.
In the end, unable to decide what else to do, I carried on. Trees surrounded me until I couldnât see the valley any more. Fingers of mist started weaving their way towards me, and I was beginning to panic when I suddenly saw a gate with a house set back behind it.
It was a long, low, half-timbered house that had obviously seen happier days. Some of its windowpanes were broken, and I couldnât see a light in any of them. But I
could
see smoke rising from a single, tall chimney pot. The smoke of hearth and home â or so I hoped.
I hauled myself over the gate, and made my way towards the house, trudging up a snowy drive. As I drew level with the stable block I saw a couple of abandoned cars and a battered-looking old bus decorated with the slogans â
WONDER OF ALL WONDERSâ
and
âTHE AMAZING DR KATTERFELTOâ
.
As soon as I saw the words, I realised where I was. Ididnât know âthe amazing Dr Katterfeltoâ personally but, like everybody else, I knew that he lived at Clockvine House, halfway up Plynlimon Mountain. Down in the village he was the source of endless speculation. He was a Doctor of Conjuring, internationally famous, living with his daughter, Gilda, who worked as his assistant.
The village was full of gossip about them both, but nobody knew anything for a fact. Sometimes youâd catch a glimpse of light between the trees of Clockvine Wood, but, for months at a time, they would be dark because the Katterfeltos were away on tour in their battered old bus.
I only saw it once, but it stuck in my memory because it happened just before Grace died. Weâd been returning home from the Black Lion Hotel, and the bus came tearing past us, driven by Dr Katterfelto in his black four-cornered conjurorâs hat and cloak, Gilda by his side, wearing a green silk costume.
The moon had caught them both as they shot past â caught their eyes and made them glint like silver. Then theyâd been gone, carrying on up the pass road, leaving a distinct impression of something strange having passed our way.
The word about the village â depending on whether you drank in the Bluebell Inn or the Black Lion Hotel â was that the Katterfeltos were either eccentric millionaires who conjured for a hobby, or were living in destitution without even electricity. Either showmen or reclusives, father and daughter or lovers, Prussian aristocracy or as Welsh as anybody else, having taken on a fancy stage name in their desire to impress.
And now I had the chance to find out for myself! Ihammered on the front door, knowing that I was done for if I couldnât make them hear.
Please God, I thought, raising the knocker. Please let them answer. Please may they be in. Please, oh please!
A cat miaowed inside the house, but that was all. I knocked again, and then again, and was about to give up and go round the back when a voice came towards me from what felt like a great distance.
â
All right, all right!
â it called. âIâm coming. Donât be so impatient.â
I heard footsteps behind the door, and suddenly it flew open to reveal a man with sandy-coloured hair, a holey sweater with dandruff on its shoulders, baggy trousers and Winnie the Pooh slippers. We stared at each other. It was hard to recognise him as Dr Katterfelto, but that was who he was. I tried to speak, but didnât need to.
âGood grief!â the man
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