The Sudden End of All things

Some thoughts on the Grave of John Thomas Reese in St Cynogs Church Ystradgynlais and the fragility of Life by Owen Staton

Come close, my friends, and let me tell you a story from the heart of the Swansea Valley, where the mountains of Bannau Brycheiniog cradle the town of Ystradgynlais like a mother holds a child. Here, where the winds sing of ancient days and the rivers hum secrets, stands St Cynog’s Church—a place stitched into the tapestry of time. Its Victorian stones rise proud on the bones of a Celtic shrine, built when saints like Cynog walked these hills, their voices soft as mist, preaching a faith as wild as the land itself.

I was a policeman here once, ten years treading these streets, my boots kissing the cobbles of a town that feels like a dream half-remembered. Ystradgynlais is a place where heaven brushed the earth, leaving behind a valley so beautiful it could make your heart ache. They say, “When work weighs heavy, look out the window,” and oh, what a window this valley is—framed by peaks that hold you close, whispering, *You’re home.*

In those years, i’d wander in Uniform, heart open, serving a community where tradition is a living thing, warm as a hearthfire. My paths often led to St Cynog’s churchyard, a place where history lingers like dew on grass. Cynog, that old Celtic saint, knew these lands in the dim dawn of the fourth century. He spoke of a humble God, but jealousy turned his followers’ hearts, and they struck him down, their names lost to the wind. Yet Cynog’s spirit endures, woven into churches like this one, its doors flung wide to all, a beacon of welcome that would make the saint nod in quiet pride.

But it’s another story in that churchyard that tugs at me, a tale carved in stone that stops the breath. Just off the path, where shadows pool, stands a cross, older than memory, its weathered face bearing words that chill the soul.

“IN LOVING MEMORY OF JOHN THOMAS REESE, SURGEON, YSTRADGYNLAIS, WHO WAS KILLED BY LIGHTNING ON THE DRIM MOUNTAIN WHILE ON HIS WAY TO VISIT A PATIENT ON SUNDAY, JULY 21, 1895, AGED 51 YEARS. “In the midst of life, we are in death.” THIS MEMORIAL WAS ERECTED BY PUBLIC SUBSCRIPTION.”

Oh, can you see him, friends? John Thomas Reese, a healer, striding up Drim Mountain, his bag heavy with hope, his heart set on a patient in need. Did the sky growl a warning that July day? Did clouds bruise the horizon, or was there a sharp tang of storm in the air? We’ll never know. Duty called, and he answered, as he always did, for a town that loved him. But the heavens roared, and a bolt from the blue claimed him, leaving only silence on the slope.

I stood before that stone, and it spoke to me, not in words but in shivers down the spine. A man, 51 years young, with dreams of tomorrows—laughter with kin, quiet evenings by the fire—snuffed out in a heartbeat. The folk of Ystradgynlais, hearts broken, raised that cross, their coins and tears a testament to a life well-lived. And there it stands, a sentinel of stone, asking every soul who passes: “What is your time worth?”

This valley, this church, this cross—they’re threads in a story older than us all. Ystradgynlais holds its history tight, like a child clutching a treasure. As I walked its streets, I felt it: the pulse of a place where the past isn’t gone, but alive, whispering in the rustle of leaves, the creak of St Cynog’s gate. John Thomas Reese’s name lives here, etched not just in stone but in the air we breathe, urging us to listen.

And what does it say, this tale from a summer’s day in 1895? It says life is a fragile thing, my friends, a candle flickering in the wind. Tomorrow is a promise no one keeps. Reese climbed that mountain, never dreaming it was his last step. Cynog preached, never knowing his flock would turn. And we, walking our own paths, know not what waits around the bend.

So, pause here, in the shadow of St Cynog’s, where the mountains watch and the stones speak. Hold close what matters—love, laughter, the warmth of a hand in yours. Live each moment like it’s a gift, for it is. The stories of this valley, free as the breeze, beg us to seize the day, to weave our own tales before the light fades.

“Carpe Diem, my friends. Time is fleeting. Make it yours.”

Tomorrow is promised to Nobody