God. But if you want to see where he was born, go to Llanrhumney Hall outside Cardiff. You’ll have no problem believing he was born there, I can promise you; it’s probably the roughest part of Wales. As you are interested, I should add that a BBC Wales team recently went there and decided that he wasn’t born there but somewhere up in the valleys. I think it was in Blackwood. I can’t see why it matters myself.’
Blackwood was near Cwmaman. Perhaps Bernie Davies would know about this.
In twenty minutes the disappointing tour came to its end. Marty and I decided to visit Henry Morgan’s supposed birthplace at Llanrhumney Hall, less than ten miles away. We drove from Tredegar House towards Cardiff on the A48 and came to what we thought was Llanrhumney, but there was no evidence of the name on any newsagent’s, pub or post office. Crawling down a hill towards the centre of Cardiff, I noticed a pub called Morgan’s. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A notice signalled the pub was open all day and served good food, so we parked and walked to the door. It was closed. We knocked hard for several minutes. A large dog ambled up, placed its front paws on the door, and barked repeatedly. Eventually, a young man in slippers and a chef’s apron unlocked the door. He yelled at the dog, threatening to kick it, and stared at me and Marty as if we were a couple of bailiffs.
‘We’re closed, I’m sorry.’
‘Closed?’ protested Marty. ‘How can somewhere advertising hot food all day be closed at lunchtime? We don’t want much. A sandwich will do.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry. We would like to open, but we just can’t get the staff these days.’
‘Can you tell us where Llanrhumney Hall is?’ I asked.
‘That much I can do for you. Drive back out of here and turn left into the main road. When you come to the Cross Inn, turn left. That’s Llanrhumney Avenue. Then turn left into Ball Road and keep going. You can’t miss it.’
We followed the landlord’s directions and found ourselves in the middle of an inhospitable housing estate. Truanting schoolchildren stared at us menacingly from gardens full of refuse. Most of the homes appeared to have been converted into crack houses.
‘I don’t believe this, Marty,’ I said. ‘That landlord must have been winding us up. There’s not going to be a stately home in the middle of this lot.’
I wound down the window. ‘Where’s Llanrhumney Hall?’ I asked one of the school skivers.
‘You don’t want to go there; it’s haunted.’
‘All the better. Where is it?’
‘Just keep going.’
‘Thanks. By the way, who’s it haunted by?’
‘Henry Morgan.’
This was encouraging. ‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Who was he then?’
‘He was a no-good criminal that lived there ages ago. They killed him and put his body in the cells under the hall. But people kept hearing his screams, so they chopped his body into little pieces and hid the bits in different parts of the walls. But he still haunts the place and sometimes rides his horse at midnight across the rugby field next door. I’ve seen him lots of times.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
We drove another hundred yards down Ball Road. Next toa rugby pitch was a magnificent old pub. A sign showed it was the headquarters of Llanrhumney Rugby Club. We parked and walked into a huge cold bar called Morgan’s Room. A new pool table dominated, while an old minstrels’ gallery served as a lounge bar. Next to the minstrels’ gallery was a skittle alley. A barman covered with tattoos came over to serve us.
‘A pint of best bitter, please, and what do you want, Marty?’
‘A cup of tea, please.’
‘We don’t do tea or coffee here.’
‘A Diet Coke then, please, or some other diet fizzy drink.’
‘We don’t have any of that either.’
‘Pineapple juice?’
‘Nor that. You want something non-alcoholic do you?’
‘Please.’
‘Well there’s not much call for that round here. I can get you a small
Blackwood was near Cwmaman. Perhaps Bernie Davies would know about this.
In twenty minutes the disappointing tour came to its end. Marty and I decided to visit Henry Morgan’s supposed birthplace at Llanrhumney Hall, less than ten miles away. We drove from Tredegar House towards Cardiff on the A48 and came to what we thought was Llanrhumney, but there was no evidence of the name on any newsagent’s, pub or post office. Crawling down a hill towards the centre of Cardiff, I noticed a pub called Morgan’s. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A notice signalled the pub was open all day and served good food, so we parked and walked to the door. It was closed. We knocked hard for several minutes. A large dog ambled up, placed its front paws on the door, and barked repeatedly. Eventually, a young man in slippers and a chef’s apron unlocked the door. He yelled at the dog, threatening to kick it, and stared at me and Marty as if we were a couple of bailiffs.
‘We’re closed, I’m sorry.’
‘Closed?’ protested Marty. ‘How can somewhere advertising hot food all day be closed at lunchtime? We don’t want much. A sandwich will do.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry. We would like to open, but we just can’t get the staff these days.’
‘Can you tell us where Llanrhumney Hall is?’ I asked.
‘That much I can do for you. Drive back out of here and turn left into the main road. When you come to the Cross Inn, turn left. That’s Llanrhumney Avenue. Then turn left into Ball Road and keep going. You can’t miss it.’
We followed the landlord’s directions and found ourselves in the middle of an inhospitable housing estate. Truanting schoolchildren stared at us menacingly from gardens full of refuse. Most of the homes appeared to have been converted into crack houses.
‘I don’t believe this, Marty,’ I said. ‘That landlord must have been winding us up. There’s not going to be a stately home in the middle of this lot.’
I wound down the window. ‘Where’s Llanrhumney Hall?’ I asked one of the school skivers.
‘You don’t want to go there; it’s haunted.’
‘All the better. Where is it?’
‘Just keep going.’
‘Thanks. By the way, who’s it haunted by?’
‘Henry Morgan.’
This was encouraging. ‘Oh yeah,’ I said. ‘Who was he then?’
‘He was a no-good criminal that lived there ages ago. They killed him and put his body in the cells under the hall. But people kept hearing his screams, so they chopped his body into little pieces and hid the bits in different parts of the walls. But he still haunts the place and sometimes rides his horse at midnight across the rugby field next door. I’ve seen him lots of times.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
We drove another hundred yards down Ball Road. Next toa rugby pitch was a magnificent old pub. A sign showed it was the headquarters of Llanrhumney Rugby Club. We parked and walked into a huge cold bar called Morgan’s Room. A new pool table dominated, while an old minstrels’ gallery served as a lounge bar. Next to the minstrels’ gallery was a skittle alley. A barman covered with tattoos came over to serve us.
‘A pint of best bitter, please, and what do you want, Marty?’
‘A cup of tea, please.’
‘We don’t do tea or coffee here.’
‘A Diet Coke then, please, or some other diet fizzy drink.’
‘We don’t have any of that either.’
‘Pineapple juice?’
‘Nor that. You want something non-alcoholic do you?’
‘Please.’
‘Well there’s not much call for that round here. I can get you a small
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