Rebekha took one more walk to the churchyard in the year of 1805. A bitterly cold morning. So cold that puddles had formed blocks of ice, hard as iron. Long icicles hung from trees and hedges. A few undiscovered holly sprigs were the only source of colour on this grey, dismal morning. Hardly any birds dared to take to the air. Even though this was Christmas Day, there was no joy in her heart for on this day, young Thomas, Rebekha’s youngest was to be buried besides his father in the lonely graveyard at St Madoc’s Church. We have words such as widow, widower and orphan but there are no words that describe a mother who has lost a child. These things are simply not supposed to happen.

There were no carols at the Griffith farm that Christmas.