The Best Time of My Life: Leaving Wern Fawr Road

13 Oct, 2025

A farewell to the street that shaped my early childhood

Moving to Blaenymaes

When I was about eight, so around 1962, the first big upheaval of my life took place: the whole family moved. The Murphys went to Blaenymaes, and my maternal grandparents, the Davieses, crossed the River Tawe valley from Kilvey Hill to Mayhill (also known as Townhill — or just “the hill”). Welsh place names don’t make life easy: one hill, two names, three opinions.

I don’t know exactly what prompted the move. It might have been the size of the Murphy clan — by then there were five of us children: me (8), Peter (7), Violet (5), David (4), and Vivienne (2). A bit of a handful, even for a woman who had, by that point, spent her entire adult life having children.

Mam’s Story

It’s worth pausing here to consider just how young my mother was. She was barely 17 when I was born, 16 when she became pregnant. By the age of 23, she had five children. She went on to have two more while we were living in Blaenymaes, but tragically, they were stillborn. After that, she was sterilised.

I can only imagine the relief and sense of freedom the contraceptive pill must have brought to women in the 1960s. Finally — choice. I still struggle to understand the religious hand-wringing that goes on about birth control. For people like my mother, it was a lifeline.

Rows and Rumblings

Another possible reason for the move might have been the blazing row between my father and grandfather that I mentioned in an earlier article. I remember my father calling Grandpa a “fucking hypocrite”, which shocked me, not because I understood the insult, but because he said fucking. Up to that point, “bloody” was the worst I’d heard from him.

By then, Aunt Cynthia had moved out. She’d run off with a man from North Africa — or maybe the Middle East. I was never quite sure. My grandmother wasn’t pleased and referred to him as “Black Sam” in that uncomfortable, casual-racism-of-the-times sort of way. I visited them once or twice in a dingy bedsit in Cwmbwrla (which we pronounced “Come Buller”). Sam made me beans on toast and seemed a kind, charming man. I don’t think they ever married, but they had three sons. I lost touch after that.

What I Left Behind

Strangely, I don’t remember being sad about leaving the only place I’d ever known. I was born at 14 Wern Fawr Road, right there in the house, with the help of a midwife. You’d think I’d have felt something, sadness, anxiety about saying goodbye to:

• Christopher Pike, the frog-roasting French food expert
• Clive Jones, the gentle giant with Down’s syndrome
• Ben, the dog the size of a small donkey
• The Ebenezer Gospel Hall and Mr Godsel’s warnings about the Devil
• The Bridgend Park Sunday school trips and their precious slices of angel cake
• The peeing contests at Danygraig school
• My Spitfire dogfights against imaginary Messerschmitts
• Alan Russ, even if he did once hit me over the head with a cricket bat

But no, I don’t think I felt that sense of loss at the time. I imagine I was excited, maybe a bit apprehensive, about the new adventure ahead.

Looking Back

It’s now, at 70 years old, that I feel the loss.

Life on Wern Fawr Road was simpler, full of danger, mischief, laughter, and wonder. Apart from the birth of my daughter, Jennifer, it was probably the best time of my life.