A man moves to a small Welsh village and gets chatting to an elderly local in the pub.

“Lovely place,” says the newcomer. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The old man’s face darkens. He points through the window.

“See that row of houses? I built every one, brick by brick. But do they call me Jones the house builder?”

He slams his pint down.

“Do they hell!”

“See those railway lines through the valley? I laid every one. Forty years in the rain, hauling sleepers and crawling under engines. But do they call me Jones the railway engineer?”

“Do they hell!”

“And those three bridges over the river? Designed two, built the third with my own hands. But do they call me Jones the bridge builder?”

“Do they hell!”

The pub has fallen silent. The old man leans towards the newcomer.

“And after all that, do they remember the paths, the parks, the houses, the railway, the bridges …”

He shakes his head bitterly.

“No. All they remember is that one sheep.”

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