The bard Ifor ap Glyn travels Wales attempting to do 'Popeth yn Gymraeg' (Everything in Welsh).
Gwent
February 20, 2005
Some thoughts before heading out to shoot the first programme tomorrow in Gwent.
As I was born in London, I had to make the most of the chances I got to speak Welsh, and that tendency seems to have lasted in me to some degree on moving back to Wales. I soon learnt that starting a conversation in Welsh certainly doesn’t guarantee you a pint in Cardiff.
- "Peint o gwrw plîs" (Pint of lager please)
- “You Polish?!”
But you’ve got to try, haven't you? I wonder if that’s the kind of reaction I’ll get tomorrow? Over the years, I’ve developed a ‘radar’ regarding where to start a conversation in Welsh. For example: Cardiff – no. Rhyl – no. Denbigh, on the other hand, where we lived after getting married was more tricky. Welsh enough to make one carry on trying, but English enough to make it problematic.
But tomorrow, I’m turning off the ‘radar’...
Having said that, there’s a difference between starting a conversation and insisting on continuing in Welsh. We’re nervous as bilingual Welsh people... but if we insisted on speaking Welsh, other people in our community would have to try – that’s how we’ve got Baums and Stuhlfelders and Closs’ who speak Welsh. Their forefathers didn’t necessarily have a love for the language, they were just normal people who wanted to fit in, who had to fit in.
Is that instinct still in us? By protesting about the external things and official status, signage, forms, things like that – have we lost some of the passion, the dogged determination? Redirected our energy to the external things?
But I don’t want to hit people over the head with Welsh either – make it a ‘them or us’ thing. It’s an ‘us’ thing - it belongs to everyone in Wales, whether they can speak it or not.
What shall I do tomorrow then? Nervousness comes over me all of a sudden as I think about going out tomorrow and trying to do everything in Welsh. I feel like the boy from London again, on the platform at Euston, ready to go on my holidays… will people be unpleasant? Surely I’ll get at least the same respect as a tourist? And they can’t always speak English. We’ll see…
21st February 2005
We started off today at ‘Tafarn Rhyd y Blew’ - a pub in Beaufort, Blaenau Gwent: a lovely name meaning ‘the ford of hair’. (I’m sure that Gwent and Glamorgan have held onto more Welsh pub names than the North or the West – why’s that I wonder?)
The story goes that this pub was on a coaching road in the past, and the water of the ford used to wash the horses’ bellies as they crossed. Why this meant they shed their hair I couldn’t tell you. It sounds as unlikely as the following story, which I heard years ago in a pub in Mold when one of the locals noticed that my friend and I were speaking Welsh.
“Daniel Owen used to drink in this pub you know. The chapel deacons were dead against it and they used to come round and check. But that’s why they wore top hats in those days so if the deacons came in, the men in the pubs would put them over their pints and pretend they were praying. Now you’ve seen Daniel Owens statue in town? He’s only got a bowler hat – but that’s because he used to drink shorts.”
What may be telling about both stories is that people still feel ownership over matters concerning the language, even if the original meaning has receded.
At Rhyd y Blew, we had a pasty each, and ate them by the pool table in chrome chairs. As I lifted my pint, I noticed that two ants were walking along the bar! I looked, stunned, at the girl behind the bar. She shrugged; her eyes said “What can you do?” She and the other staff were all in black. There’d been a wake through in the main bar, a symphony of different accents and the village’s diaspora had returned for the day in order to pay their final respects. On a day like that, what matter a couple of ants?
After a rather surreal start, it’s good to report that people’s reactions in Rhymney were far more positive that I expected – brilliant, in fact. It bodes well for tomorrow and the rest of the journey.
February 22, 2005
At Llanover Church, you can see the names of the local farms on the pews, and the monogram of Lady Llanover on the seat next door to the door – at the back. She preferred to be there since it was easier to spot whether any of her tenants had failed to attend church!
Such was Lady Llanover’s commitment to the Welsh language that she insisted on giving Welsh names to her tenant’s houses. The names have lasted, but the way they’re pronounced – alas – has changed. A lady was doing some flower arranging in the church when I called in; she lived on one of the estate’s houses, she said, in “Ti kebby doo.” I nodded in polite incomprehension until I passed Tŷ’r Cerbydwyr (The Coachdriver’s House) later on!
Lady Llanover is primarily known for her efforts to protect the Welsh language and our traditional culture, but she was also something of a stickler on matters of temperance. When she saw her gardener’s bike outside a local hostelry, he was called to account immediately. He denied that he was ever in the pub, but what about the bicycle outside? He protested that it didn’t prove anything, but for her Ladyship it was evidence enough, and the gardener was scolded severely.
The following night, to prove his point, the gardener left his bicycle under her Ladyship’s bedroom window, and he never heard a further word!
February 23rd, 2005
The Eisteddfod I organized in Abergavenny went down well I think – at least it got people together and gave them the chance to speak Welsh, and that was the main aim I suppose. For example, there were two ladies from the Caernarfon area who’d lived in Abergavenny for years and had never met before tonight!
People in the west are lucky in that the Welsh language is anchored in a community experience – children playing in the street and so on. But there’s a real passion for the language amongst many here...