Rape of the Fair Country, Clywd Theatr Cymru, Mold, review Watching this beautiful stage-adaptation of Alexander Cordell's best-selling 1959 novel about life - toiling, toxic, deadly life - in South Wales in the early 19th century is a bit like drinking the sweetest-tasting water from a mountain stream. The evening wraps the plight of the industrial poor in picturesque splendour and in language majestical-poetical: it's as if the compassion and indignation of Dickens had been wrought into fine filigree at a word-forge presided over by the spirit of Dylan Thomas. For some, the seductive nature of Cordell's approach - his joy at new-minting phrases, which Manon Eames's potent distillation faithfully preserves - might be reason enough to rail against the whole thing as treacherously sentimental. The relish shown in every line - "The tramp of boots on a frosty road takes a swing to the senses" being one achingly lovely, lyrical example - almost represents a distraction from the cold, hard facts of Victorian injustice and potentially clutters the winding road of history that Cordell traces, taking in early unionism, the rise of Chartism and the brutal crushing of the Newport Rising of 1839 as it affects the downtrodden townspeople of Blaenafon. Yet, for me, the savouring of every detail that is Cordell's hallmark isn't just testament to his undersung talent (he died in 1997) and love of his adopted homeland, it conveys all the untapped resources of the human spirit that the ruthless pursuit of profit threatens to destroy but can't quite vanquish. The evening begins by showing us this harsh world through the eyes of an eight-year-old child - our hero, Iestyn Mortymer, played in a semi-narratorial style by fresh-faced Sion Ifan - who rejoices at joining his father at the gruelling iron works and sides with his suspicion of unions and respect for the employers, while his older, wilder, man-eating sister Morfydd looks on in defiant scorn. Even though the passage of time - which sees him marry and have a child of his own - brings with it rebellious disillusion at the status quo, something of Iestyn's innocence remains to the bitter end and as the 16-strong ensemble chorus a final battle-cry, Welsh flag aloft, it's as if the rural Eden lost to rapine industry returns, too. Finely lit to evoke hellish furnaces and sweet, long-gone summers alike, and handsomely designed on an epic scale, Tim Baker's production tours across Wales over the next few months. It deserves to travel further. Tickets: 0845 330 3565; clwyd-theatr-cymru.co.uk