Roald Dahl once said, “The greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.” So with this in mind let’s venture forth into the past with nothing but a pick-axe to chip away at the rock of ages and a rope to return us to the present safe and sane as we venture into, the hidden realms of the Abergavenny area in a brand new column by Chronicle reporter Tim Butters, called, you guessed it, Hidden Abergavenny.

Here you’ll find tales wandering aimlessly off the beaten track, down the wayward path, and through a gate clearly labelled ‘notoriety’.

Let us now journey into a world of hidden truths, barely formed half-rumours, and factual evidence as fragile as a whisper on the wind. Be warned! No stone will be left unturned and the mess beneath will not always be pleasant. So sensible and sturdy footwear is advised.

A Day At The Races

Nowadays the only races you find in Abergavenny on a regular basis are that involving two-wheels and a lot of lycra, but between the heady days of 1860 and 1880, the ‘Gateway to Wales’ was considered to be one of the best meeting ground for horse racing in many a mile.

At Abergavenny, five furlong races were sandwiched between steeplechases and hurdle races, and in 1872, the town was home to the National Hunt Chase.

The once famous racetrack which now lies buried beneath the 18 holes of the Monmouthshire Golf Club, saw Red Nob romp home by two lengths on on a bright Spring Thursday morning in April, 1872.

It wasn’t just Abergavenny where the gees gees were all the rage though, both Brecon and Monmouth held horse races frequently, albeit rather flat ones with the odd hurdle thrown in.

Then, as of now, horse racing attracted its fair share of colorful characters.

One of them was Master of the Monmouthshire Foxhounds, Reginald Herbert of Clytha, who was described as “a fanatical follower of the turf.”

Renowned as polo pioneer, intrepid gambler, and absolute spendthrift, Herbert also owned his own racehorse and as a gentleman jockey enjoyed plenty of success on it.

Herbert’s trainer was another interesting gentleman who went by the memorable name of Fothergill ‘Fog’ Rowlands.

Fog’s father was a doctor at Nantyglo Ironworks and although our Fog also became a man of medicine, his heart belonged to the races and his wallet to to the bookies.

Perhaps one of the most memorable races Fog had a hand in, was the notorious Monnow Street dash.

The legend goes that after a fine dinner of mutton and ale, for a bet, Fog decided to race fellow diners 50 yards up Monmouth’s famous street, carrying Reginald Herbert as a handicap. Fog one by half a length as he stumbled over the finish line and sent poor old Herbert shooting over his head.

Of course there was none stranger in the topsy turvy world of local racing than the deformed dwarf known affectionally as “Little Dyke.”

Little Dyke was the clerk of the course at Monmouth, and always wore a top hat to make himself appear taller than his three feet and six inches would suggest.

Although diminutive in stature, Little Dyke had no qualms about standing up for himself. He once famously got into a bit of a quarrel with the then well-known owner Epsom. Why? Because Little Dyke believed Epsom had cast an outrageous slur upon his honour. So he subsequently challenged him to a duel.

Lord Jersey was a mutual friend of the argumentative pair and not wishing to see either come to any harm, insisted that instead of guns or sword, their dueling weapon of choice should be none other than their tongues.

Intrigued by such a fantastical notion, the dueling duo agreed and much to the amusement of Monmouth racegoers, the two combatants spent a full ten minutes screaming in their opponent’s face and turning the air blue with their non-stop abusive tirades.

As is only sporting, once the two had finished slinging their verbally vitriolic volleys at one another, they shook hands and the crowd roared their delight that their would be no unsightly corpses to contend with on this day.

Little Dyke ran horses under his assumed name of Adams, and in 1873 a native of Abergavenny and well-known jockey called Jack Goodwin was involved in a controversial romp on one of the Monmouth dwarf’s mounts. (More of which later folks!)

At the time, Goodwin’s father was the landlord of the town’s Swan Hotel, and the popular publican was involved in an unusual equestrian type tale of his own which is worth retelling here for the price of a pint.

The story goes that it was a blustery and ferociously foul night in Abergavenny when Father Ignatius of the newly-built Llanthony Abbey burst through the doors of the Swan like a messenger straight out of the pages of the Old Testament.

Dripping from head to toe in a rain-soaked monastic carb and shrouded in a heavy air of righteousness, Father Ignatius struck an imposing figure to the gin addled regulars in the Swan.

However, on that night, the holy man’s mission in this particular drinking den wasn’t to save sinners but to commission a cart to take him to Llanthony.

Unfortunately the regular driver was bed-bound with a fever, so Goodwin volunteered to drive the man he called ‘the Abbot’ back to Capel-y-Ffin,

On such a dark and desolate night, the only ride on offer was a decrepit nag and a ramshackle coach, but beggars or men of the cloth can’t be choosers. And so it came too pass, Father Ignatius and Goodwin senior, who was fortified against the elements by half-a-bottle of rum, set off from Cross Street into that hellish night.

Roads which were poor at the best of times, now became harder to navigate as they streamed with water.

Swearing at the storm like a sailor at sea, Goodwin continued to plough on, but coming to the end of both his endurance and his wit, the landlord came to the grim conclusion that holy or not, his passenger was going to have buckle down and put his back into it if they were going to get to Capel-y-Fin intact. Goodwin bellowed, “Tumble out your holiness and put your shoulder to the wheel.”

As so it came to pass, with his skirts pulled high, Father Ignatius pushed the man he’d paid to pull him to shelter and safety.

Now let us return to the Swan landlord’s son, Jack.

In the immediate aftermath of a certain race in 1873 where many local lost significant bets, backing Goodwin to win, rumours began to circulate that the hapless jockey had lost on purpose.

Post race many a disappointed gambler surrounded Jack and his mount as they headed to the weighing room.

With his horse lashing out in panic and keeping the angry punters at bay, a running fight was made back to the enclosure.

Goodwin vanished into the weighing room, out of the racetrack, into the street, and away.

The mob however, were just getting warmed up.

Surging around a bench on which the Duke of Beaufort was sat with some friends, the commotion went from bad to worse, as our old friend Reginald Herbert, who was present, recalled at the time.

“Over went the bench, over went the Duke - His Grace, Josey Little (who fought like a Trojan) and sundry others, all struggling on the ground together. The Duke really seemed to enjoy the situation as he picked himself up, and, our forces rallying, we began steadily to drive back the now somewhat discomforted rioters.

“The uproar still continued, and I could see Little Dyke who, being badly adapted to a rough-and-tumble of any sort, had managed to scramble up into the grandstand, waving his arms, while screaming at the top of his shrill falsetto voice, “Save the Dook, gentlemen, for Gawd’s sake, save the Dook!’”

If you know of a relatively unknown or little obscure oddity from the past, which happened in the Abergavenny area, have any interesting pictures from times gone by, or indeed have knowledge of any interesting characters which once walked these here parts, then don’t keep them to yourself. They could feature in a future ‘Hidden Abergavenny’ column.

You can get in touch by emailing [email protected] or telephoning 019873 852187 and asking for Tim.