“This can’t be it, there’s no way through that wall of trees”.
Pulling up at a gate, we noisily climbed over as there was no way to do otherwise. Metal gates make lots of noise, clang together and are the bane of silent ninja explorers. In front of us was a huge field with a sharp gradient halfway down.
If this was not the right way, we were in for a pain in the arse walk back to square one. Things were not going well and to top it off, a distant mangy dog was barking away loudly.
"Fuck, fuck fuck…", it was a muggy humid day in the middle of June, and I was up for quitting this one already.
After another round of clanging gates, we gazed down the narrow lane which forked off and was the most direct route to 'Jonesy's Place'.
If the house we were now forced to walk past had any inhabitants, they would likely already be aware of us… (as well as that fucking annoying dog).
“Let’s go for it, the worst that can happen is some vigorous exercise with some buckshot up the arse”
This was Wales and if you don’t speak Welsh the locals can get dangerous and unpredictable.
Luck was with us, as we crept past the house and didn’t see a soul, even the dog seemed to have lost its voice.
"This must be the place", I said flatly to 
We spotted what looked like some derelict outhouses until one of us motioned a halt.
“Look over there”...
We had been heading in the wrong direction and it's little wonder we almost missed it. Now how the fuck were we going to get anywhere near that?
A wall of green shit was in the way, literally. These are the perils of summer exploring, and the day would not get any easier. Creepers, vines, brambles, and nettles of giant proportions would be hindering us for the rest of the day, especially at 'Jonesy's Place'.
…'how do you get past a wall of green shit that's 40 feet high?'…
Swearing, tripping and severely scratched we found a little used trail that contained several hidden dips, one of them tripping 
After a good fifteen minutes, we approached the house which was conspicuously clear of 'green shit' and peeked around the back.
If we had forced our way the trees in the field we would be in the same place, probably with a lot more scratches and cuts.
"This had better be worth it", I muttered, but it also felt a little special and rarely visited.
The Jones’ house did have kids, and maybe old man Jones used to sit outside surrounded by those thick trees smoking his pipe. I suspect the wall of the house did not used to be covered in vines.
I can just imagine it. Mr and Mrs Jones, in their separate chairs, having a cup of tea sat next to the gas fire. What a cosy sight and that kettle is the ancient type you need to plonk on a hob and boil the water. None of this electric shit.
The photo album was diverse with images of cars from the 1920's at a guess. Is this house among those pictures, perhaps before it was buried under piles of wild green triffids?
The Ultra Radiogram is a museum piece. It probably doesn't work and at best I can identify it as a four-valve device from the 1950's, though I can't seem to find an exact match.
The scribbles hail from 1996, a lot later and are a mishmash of random notes. 1 cat and 3 dogs, or is that Wogs..., how very racist!
I can see the Jones family were not exactly 20th century, with huge urns for their boiling water. You could get used to a harsh rust tinge when drinking your tea I suppose.
If that certificate is genuinely from '22nd December 1892' then I am shocked. I can't make out who it was awarded to or what for, but the age…, beats everything I have seen to date. The 'Tonic Sol-Fa' College did exist and was formed in 1875.
The goat's head trophy was a little shitty which is an understatement. It was something to view from a distance.
A letter regarding the 1988 season and the Jones family were obviously sheep farmers. The scribbles look like offspring possibly with the word 'sire' and are from the 1960s and 1970s.
This is what happens if you don’t wash the dishes frequently enough. The Jones family must have taken in a lot of tea. I thought the English were bad, teapots and urns everywhere.
‘The Tale of Mystery Mountain’ looks like the Jones’ house now, the towers being the top windows. A little green colouring and you won’t be able to differentiate.
It looks like there’s a backup oven in the corner. Can you imagine the difficulty dragging a replacement in here, with all that shit surrounding the house; a wise decision methinks.
You do need to keep warm in deepest Wales. What would happen if one tried to use that fireplace now I wonder?
As well as ornaments on the mantelpiece, there's an odd piece of pure rust to keep you thinking and wondering.
Doesn’t it make you want to jump in and get freshened up?
There’s something aesthetically pleasing about this image, I figure it to be the best, but it could be just me.
An unusual uncluttered room with an extensive view of trees, weeds and all things green.
I would suggest some new wallpaper, what do you think?
The floor was unusually stable, for once this one was not a waterlogged mess.
Did you know that ‘Jones’ is the de-facto surname of Wales, a little like ‘Smith’ is for England?
Climbing up the muddy hill and chopping our way through the trees to escape into the fields crossed our minds, but we thought better of it. If the Jones' had a machete handy then that could have forced a rethink.
“Let’s get more scrapes, scratches and cuts”, I said enthusiastically to
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