Obliv(i)on

An evening stroll took me past the old and new farms of Castell Corwynt, where the original dwelling (seen here last year with Guinea Pig Zero) stands hard by its 20th century replacement. A pile of recently dug up glassware caught my eye and I went to inspect. There were old bottles and jars of all sorts: sauce bottles, beer bottles, medicine bottles, jam jars, ointment jars, a meat paste pot, a green polka-dot cup (broken), a hob-nailed leather boot (on the left) - all the detritus of a modest agricultural life where season followed season in peaceful succession, simple lives waxing and waning in bucolic contentment...

But what's this? A small metal canister (on the right of the boot sole) faintly labelled Oblivon.

'Oblivon' was a sedative to calm anxiety and fear and was launched in 1953 by British Schering Ltd. The label advises adults to take two capsules about 15 minutes before an ordeal such as the dentist. The trade name for the drug, 'Oblivon', was probably a play on the word oblivion - a state of complete forgetfulness. Unfortunately, the drug did not relieve pain. 'Oblivon' was only available on prescription and was completely withdrawn in 1967.

Oblivon (methylpentynol) was known as 'the confidence pill' because it was advertised to help with such emergencies as public speaking, job interviews, asking for pay rises and visiting the dentist. There were reports of brides using Oblivon to gain confidence as they walked down the aisle to marry and of dogs being dosed with it on Fireworks Night.

Well! My mind started to race. Was it a shy bride, a dentally-challenged labourer or a panic-stricken dog that had need of a sedative here? Or did the stress and worry of farming on a rugged coastline produce insomnia and tension in the inhabitants. I wouldn't be surprised. Doctors once prescribed these sedatives for all manner of social and emotional woes. How strange that the evidence lingers here among the nettles.

Welsh Hill Country
Too far for you to see
The fluke and the foot-rot and the fat maggot
Gnawing the skin from the small bones,
The sheep are grazing at Bwlch-y-Fedwen,
Arranged romantically in the usual manner
On a bleak background of bald stone.

Too far for you to see
The moss and the mould on the cold chimneys,
The nettles growing through the cracked doors,
The houses stand empty at Nant-yr-Eira,
There are holes in the roofs that are thatched with sunlight,
And the fields are reverting to the bare moor.

Too far, too far to see
The set of his eyes and the slow pthisis
Wasting his frame under the ripped coat,
There's a man still farming at Ty'n-y-Fawnog,
Contributing grimly to the accepted pattern,
The embryo music dead in his throat.
R.S.Thomas