THERE can’t be many people of a certain age who hasn’t watched the drama unfolding on Frogmore Street this week with tears in their eyes, as a once iconic part of Abergavenny’s history fell apart in front of them.

As someone commented, “I feel a bit like I did when the old Queen died in that something that had been there all my life wasn’t going to be there any more.”

I know exactly how they felt because for as long as I can remember the old Richards’ shop has dominated that part of Abergavenny and been used as a grounding stone for everything from meeting friends to helping with directions.

Ask a local where the bus stop was and the answer would invariably come back, ‘down by Richards’…where the supermarket was…’down by Richards’…the war memorial…’down by Richards’.

As far as Abergavenny went the old department store was the closest we had to a one stop shop when I was a child. Whether you were looking for a bike for Christmas, a cooking utensil, a new mug or a can of paint there was a fair chance you’d get it in Richards.

Growing up with a father who harboured dreams of living the good life on a smallholding, I spent a lot of time in Richards.

“I need something which will fix this bit of wood to this bit of wood and this stone wall,” he’s explain to my endlessly patient mother.

“Pop into Richards and ask them what I need,” he’d instruct.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you went because you know what you’re talking about,” The Mother would reply.

“No. They’ll help you because you’re a woman but they’ll just think I’m stupid,” he’d reply with his 70s sensibilities on full display.

It was a very rare day when the knowledgeable and endlessly patient group of middle-aged, brown coated gents who held sway in the ironmongery department, couldn’t help.

“I know what he needs,” they’d say with a knowing smile before heading off to collect the perfect item, always handed over graciously in a brown paper bag.

Of course, any trip to the shop for ironmongery provided the perfect excuse for a ‘quick look’ in the china department next door, where as I grew older I bought countless birthday and Christmas gifts for my mother, and of course a clamber up the always slightly rickety staircase to the toy department staffed as always by a team of slightly grandmotherly ladies, who kept a watchful eye to contain any over exuberant children.

Back downstairs at the back of the store sat Mr Richards himself, keeping a hawk-like eye over his empire and occasionally popping out to engage familiar customers in conversation or to dispense advice.

He was an honourable man who once completely shattered my late father’s dreams by refusing to sell him the ride on lawnmower he had coveted for so long.

Arriving at our Llanfoist home to give a demonstration of the machine he took one look at the steep part of the garden my father hoped to cut and firmly shut the doors of the van containing the mower.

“I’m not even going to get it out for you to try,” he told my stunned Dad.

“Why?” He asked in shock.

“Because you’d use in on that bank and almost definitely overturn it and quite probably die and I’m not having that on my conscience,” he replied getting back into his vehicle.

We won’t see the likes of him or his shop again.