There's Something About Martin: Held Captive in the Welsh Countryside

Deep in the picturesque Welsh countryside lives Martin, the maddest man in all of Britain. Once at the centre of the UK music industry, Martin now lives alone in the ruins of his empire. Desperate for company, he won’t let Will McGuire and his friends leave Wales.

Jen’s older brother, Andy, was just an aspiring musician when he played at a Welsh countryside estate.

What he saw introduced him to rock and roll.

Thousands of drug-addled revellers had descended upon the property, which transformed into a huge rave. A DJ pumped beats while lasers fired.  Young kids writhed on the ground like zombies, ‘completely warped.’ The greatest light show Wales had ever seen illuminated the night sky. It was a Great Gatsby party for the electronic generation.

The man at the centre of this hallucinatory maelstrom was Martin Rees. The enigmatic genius was the most extravagant and well connected man in the entire UK music industry.

He made his fortune designing live productions for the biggest bands in the world. Andy attached himself to Martin to propel his own fledgling career, and was whisked along to the greatest festivals, partying with the famous musicians.

But three months ago Martin suffered a horrible injury. In the early hours of the morning, after one of his raging parties, Martin took his quad bike and raced his friend around the tracks in the back hills of his property. They collided around a corner at 100 miles per hour. Martin’s leg snapped instantly.

Confined to a hospital and unable to attend to his business, Martin lost huge sums of money. Once surrounded by thousands, he was now alone. Desperate for company, he banged on at Andy, threatening to scratch him off his friends list if he wasn’t visited immediately.

When Andy and his girlfriend Mel invited Jen and I to tag along, I knew a trip to Wales and a chance to meet such a character was too good to miss.

Andy entertained us on the car ride with tales of how his band would get hopelessly lost, in search of Martin’s house, driving in circles for hours. We found this hilarious, until we were hopelessly lost, in search of Martin’s house and driving in circles for hours.

Martin’s estate is situated in the middle of some kind of Welsh Bermuda Triangle. All navigational tools go haywire. Phone reception cuts out and GPS is lost. We had to try reading the confused road signs which are all written in a made-up language.

There was palpable relief when Andy spotted the sign for Llanybydder and recognized the dirt track that lead to Martin’s house. As we pulled up, a window opened out of the roof and a half naked, dishevelled Martin popped out his head. ‘I’ve been jamming all night,’ He reported, ‘And I will need at least an hour’s rest.’

We were happy to explore the vast property on our own. Andy knew it well. In one field was a burnt out van, no doubt a relic from parties past. We even met Martin’s flock of sheep. A lamb had found her way through a tiny hole in the wire mesh fencing and become separated from her mother. They bleated to each other desperately. I picked her up and gently lifted her back over the fence.

We stayed in a stone cottage, next to the house. It had been unoccupied for months and was so cold and damp that the mattresses squelched.

‘Now I would normally charge £200 a night,’ Martin explained, appearing suddenly at the cottage door, having found a shirt to put on. ‘But for you guys – it’s free!’

Martin was only in his mid thirties; young for such a successful entrepreneur, with shrewd blue eyes that looked each of us up and down. But his face was grainy and weathered like a fisherman who had been out at sea for too long. He insisted on being our tour guide and started by showing us his incredible recording studio, probably the best in Wales. He wanted to turn his estate into a retreat for big bands to record their albums.

Martin limped ahead of us as he spoke, his one leg strapped up in pins and braces. No gritty detail was left spared as he recounted his near-death experience. Martin even pulled down his jeans to horrify us with the scars. Jen staggered away, her face white and clammy.

We piled into Martin’s van for a trip into town. I was alarmed that there were no seatbelts, as he drove at a hostile pace, overtaking every vehicle and occasionally thumping against curbs. In the seaside town he took us, every house was painted in pink, yellow or blue. We were starving, having missed every meal that day and hoping for dinner, but he wouldn't allow it until we tried the ice cream at his favourite shop. Only then did he let us have the fish and chips from his second favourite shop.  

Back at the house, Martin switched on the Jacuzzi to get the party going.

‘You don’t want to know the things I’ve done in here.’ He grinned, as we lowered ourselves into the hot, stinky pond water.

I really didn’t. Pushing the thought away, I sipped a glass of champagne and let the bubbles pummel my back.

Martin revelled in the attention, as we circled around him in the tub and listened to his stories. He described his gig setting up the screen for the Pope’s inauguration at the Vatican. ‘I convinced security I needed to run a feed through the Pope’s bedroom. And once inside, I tried on his robe and hat!’

But for all the celebrities he has met from Nelson Mandela to the Queen, his greatest source of pride were his parties, where thousands turned up and he was the king. One such event was his Welshwitz Nazi Party. Martin told us how he dressed as Adolf Hitler and his guests came as Nazis. He dunked apple juice over his German girlfriend and tried to set her on fire. An entire cabaret performed. ‘But it wasn’t a musical,’ Martin smirked. ‘It was a Jewsical.’

He lamented that the last few months were the worst of his life. ‘I broke my leg, lost a hundred thousand pounds and all my friends have gone.’

For someone seemingly so adored, he endured his long stint in hospital and his painful rehabilitation alone. Realizing the shallowness of his relationships had hit him harder than the quad bike, I felt sorry for him.

Exhausted, Jen and I retired to the cold stone cottage while Andy and Mel stayed up till the early hours jamming with Martin in the studio.

The next morning Andy cringed as he recounted the night. Martin had assumed control of the creative direction of the jam and kept lowering the mood, demanding that Mel sing his lyrics which were all variants of ‘I’m so depressed/ I just want to die.’ His mental health was certainly in a dark place.

Martin was concerned to see us packing up the car. ‘There is still so much more to show you!’ He kept making excuses to delay our departure. I don’t think he could bear being alone again. Andy had anticipated this kind of behaviour, but was unsure how to resolve it without causing offence.

After cleaning the stone cottage, Martin roped us into cleaning his entire house. Exhausted, Andy, Mel, Jen and I sat around the dinner table in silence, watching Martin eat, hoping that once his meal was over we would finally be allowed to leave. Martin wiped his mouth with a napkin, and then instructed us to collect firewood.

Andy sighed, as we stacked branches into our arms, in the woods by the stone cottage. ‘Martin can always get everybody around doing things for him.' The real cost of accommodation became apparent. We’d have been better off coughing up the £200. Sure we had paid our dues, we sent Andy to negotiate our release. He returned, explaining that there was just one last sight Martin had to show us. The girls were inconsolable. 

‘As your tour guide,’ Martin explained, ‘It would be on my conscience if I didn't show you.’ The girls told him not to be silly, but he was adamant.

Atop a large hill and under gloomy skies, being battered by wind, we stood freezing. Martin cheerfully explained that it is the only spot where you can see all the counties in Wales.

‘Very c-cool,’ Andy stammered, his teeth chattering. ‘Well thanks Martin, it was g-great to see you.’ Jen, Mel and I reached for the car.

‘Wait!’ Martin shouted and pointed to a town in the far distance. He claimed it had the highest percentage of Welsh speakers of any town in Wales and insisted he would have to take us. ‘As your tour guide, it would be on my conscience if I didn’t.’

The rest of us scrambled back into the car and fled at speed.

Having abandoned the disabled Martin at the top of a high hill, we assumed our troubles would be over. But Andy had forgotten to fill the tank and the petrol light was blinking. The Welsh Bermuda Triangle effects started over, scrambling the GPS.

No matter which road we took it lead us back up Martin’s dirt track. And each time, Martin, who had somehow found his way home, waved, delighted that we had returned. As he staggered towards the car, Andy slammed it into reverse while we screamed for him to go faster.

We cheered and hugged when we found a station. 

But a sign above the pump read that they were out of petrol. Had Martin orchestrated this?

The car spluttered and limped to the next town, where there was fortunately still petrol left to buy, and we made our escape.

But it was far from over. 

Martin demanded another visit, this time from Andy - and his friends.