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A course in Welsh on Duolingo , the free language-learning platform, was launched earlier this year. There are now 405,000 registered Duolingo users from around the world learning Welsh – this compares with 18,000 adults attending Welsh language classes in Wales. There are also 499 virtual Welsh language classrooms in Duolingo serving schools and colleges.
Duolingo includes a language-learning website and app for mobile devices, and provides extensive written lessons and dictation, with speaking practice for more advanced users. The app is available on iOS, Android and Windows 8 and 10 platforms and there is also a Facebook group where Welsh learners can discuss matters related to the course. For more information, visit the Duolingo website on https://www. duolingo .com or download the mobile app from the Apple App Store or Google Play Store.
Congratulations to the developers of the Welsh language course in Duolingo on the success of the enterprise, and in particular to Draig Werdd committee member Richard Morgan, who is one of eight contributors to the course.
Lansiwyd cwrs Cymraeg Duolingo , y platfform dysgu iaith am ddim, yn gynharach eleni. Erbyn hyn mae 405,000 o ddefnyddwyr Duolingo o bob cwr o’r byd yn dysgu Cymraeg – mae hyn yn cymharu â 18,000 o oedolion sy’n mynychu dosbarthiadau Cymraeg yng Nghymru. Mae yna hefyd 499 o ystafelloedd dosbarth Cymraeg yn Duolingo sydd yn gwasanaethu ysgolion a cholegau.
Mae Duolingo yn cynnwys gwefan ddysgu iaith ac app ar gyfer dyfeisiau symudol, ac yn darparu gwersi ysgrifenedig ac arddweud, gydag ymarfer siarad i ddefnyddwyr profiadol. Mae’r app ar gael ar iOS, Android a llwyfannau Windows 8 a 10 ac mae yna hefyd grŵp Facebook lle gall dysgwyr y Gymraeg drafod materion sydd yn ymwneud â’r cwrs. Am fwy o wybodaeth, ewch i wefan Duolingo ar https://www. duolingo .com neu lawrlwytho’r app symudol o’r Apple App Store neu’r Google Play Store.
Llongyfarchiadau i ddatblygwyr y cwrs Cymraeg yn Duolingo ar lwyddiant y fenter, ac yn arbennig i aelod pwyllgor Draig Werdd Richard Morgan, sydd yn un o wyth o gyfranwyr i’r cwrs.
The original idea for a banner for every county in Wales was conceived by Gwenno Dafydd. Her vision was of hand-made banners the size of the coal mining lodge banners, based on the words and images of the Saint David’s Day Anthem, Cenwch y Clychau i Dewi – Ring out the bells for Saint David (Lyrics: Gwenno Dafydd. Music: Heulwen Thomas) and elements of local county history with the aim that they be paraded every Saint David’s Day in their respective local communities.
The first of these banners was the Pembrokeshire Banner, which is on permanent display in the East Cloister, Saint David’s Cathedral, Pembrokeshire. Every year the Pembrokeshire Banner is paraded around the Cathedral in the Saint David’s Day Service by the Head Boy and Head Girl of Ysgol Dewi Sant whilst the children of Ysgol Bro Dewi Primary School sing the Saint David’s Day Anthem.
The second of these County Banners is the Montgomeryshire Banner. Two textile artists Patricia Huggins and Angela Morris designed and made the banner to depict life in Montgomeryshire and the legacy left by St David. Contributions were also made by Pamela Higgs (drawing of Market Hall), Mavis Jones (Needle lace flowers), Shirley Kinsley (dove), Maureen Morris (dyed silk fabric) Also featured are elements from the tomb of the Herbert family to be found in the church of St Nicholas in the old county town of Montgomery.
Montgomeryshire St David's Day Banner
The third County Banner is the Carmarthenshire Banner and it was designed by Eirian Davies from Whitland and the fine handwork was done by Meinir Eynon from Gwm-Miles. The wooden frame supporting the banner and the wooden acorns on the top of the poles have been made by Denzil Davies from Whitland. The bells have been adapted by Dylan Bowen from Pant-bwlch near Newcastle Emlyn and Natalie Dennis, an ex-student from the Trinity Art Department embroidered the bees (University of Wales Trinity Saint David) Gwenllian Beynon of the Trinity Art Department was very supportive throughout the whole banner making development.
It was created to be paraded in the Carmarthen town Saint David’s Day Parade and will be carried for the very first time on the 24 th February 2017 by Gwenno Dafydd and Eirian Davies in the second town parade.
Some of the symbols The stones across the top and bottom represent castles and bridges across the county. Some of the most obvious examples would be Dinevor Castle and the Cynghordy Aqueduct.
The gold colour represents the gold mines of Dolaucothi.
The black colour represents the cover of the Black Book of Carmarthen and the coal industry in the East of the county.
The triangular shape in the middle is a Celtic symbol (Triskele /Triskelion) that can be seen in the Book of Llandelio (St. Chad’s Book or the Lichfield Gospels).
The coracles are a sign of the ancient craft which is connected to the Taff, Tywi and Teifi rivers.
In the middle of the net the circle formed represents the famous Glass House in the Welsh National Botanical Gardens in Llanarthne.
The oak represents the wizard Merlin’s oak. In addition see the beautiful hand carved acorns on top of the poles that carry the banner.
You can see the blue Celtic patterns on Eiudon’s Celtic Cross, a cross from Llan -Sannan-Isaf, Llanfynydd.
The blue colour represents water as Saint David was also known as Dewi Ddyfrwr (The water drinker) The blue also represents the lakes in the tales of ‘Llyn y Fan Fach’ (lake of the small place) and Llyn Llech Owain.(Llech Owain’s lake)
The bees are part of the tales about Saint David and also make a very prominent appearance on the Pembrokeshire Banner. They have been added to the Carmarthenshire Banner to symbolise the fact that Saint David’s message has spread from the city of Saint David to Carmarthen.
The bells play an important part in the Saint David’s Day Anthem (Ring out the bells for Saint David) and there are five bells, each one representing the five ‘cantref’ or ‘hundred towns’ or areas of Carmarthenshire, that of Cantref Gwarthaf, Cantref Emlyn, Cantref Mawr,(Big) Cantref Bychan (Small) and Cantref Eginog. The raw appearance of the bells also represent the tinplate and steel industries of Llanelli.
© Gwenno Dafydd & Eirian Davies. 24 th February 2017.
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Gwenno Dafydd - St David's Day Ambassador To The World
Gwenno Dafydd is the instigator of the Saint David's Day Anthem (Lyrics: Gwenno Dafydd Music: Heulwen Thomas) which was launched by The Presiding Officer of the Welsh Assembly Government, Lord Dafydd Elis Thomas in 2008. She has been promoting and developing Saint David's Day activities worldwide since 2006 when the Saint David's Day Anthem 'Cenwch y Clychau i Dewi' (Ring out the bells for Saint David) was performed in public for the very first time in the National Saint David's Day Parade in Cardiff. She has instigated the tradition of 'County Banners' throughout Wales to celebrate Saint David's Day. This year, the first County Banner, The Pembrokeshire Banner, which is kept on permanent display in the East Cloister in Saint David's Cathedral, will be joined by two new County Banners, those of Montgomeryshire and Carmartheshire.
The Saint David's Day Anthem, which will this year be sold from the very prestigious Ty Cerdd website, patron Karl Jenkins, alongside the music of Welsh composers such as Grace Williams, William Mathias, Morfydd Llwyn Owen and Gareth Glyn. The Saint David's Day Anthem has been performed not only in Wales but also numerous times in Canada, Los Angeles, Patagonia, Disneyland Paris and the Houses of Parliament. Every year the Pembrokeshire Banner is paraded around Saint David's Cathedral whilst local school children sing the Saint David's Day Anthem.
She has created an Iphone App to learn the Welsh National Anthem and is the author of 'Stand Up & Sock it to them Sister. Funny Feisty Females' which had been described by Funny Women, the UK's leading female comedy community as 'the ultimate canon of female stand-up comics'. She is a Leadership and Public Speaking Coach and works extensively via Skype and even has some clients in Los Angeles.
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Cai: My pleasure, it's very cool to be answering questions for you. Thank you for the opportunity to talk to your readers.
Gwaed y Cymry means 'the blood of the Welsh people', and music really is the lifeblood of Wales. The idea of recording a solo album came about after being away from home for a few years. For almost four years now I've been adventuring out in the countryside and wilderness of Minnesota; camping in the forests, staying on farms with friends and family and living in small towns surrounded by lakes and forests, and I am at my happiest when I'm outside, miles from anywhere. I'm very much an outdoors person, my soul is rarely at ease when I'm inside or walking on concrete city streets. But when I'm out in the woods or next to a lake, after a day cutting firewood or fishing, the first thing I want to do is get out an instrument and make music. There's nothing better than playing an accompaniment to the nightscape. Yet music is a thing to share, and music really is alive in many ways - it wants to be shared, and it will whisper in your ear and sneak inside your head and it can drive you to do its bidding. So the music told me to put a little studio together, and for the most part it makes itself, I'm just a vehicle for the tunes. And these Welsh tunes are so old that they have gathered a lot of power. They've been jumping from generation to generation and heart to heart for so long that they have their own will to live and to continue proliferating, and they have become strong. With each new host they gain more resonance. So these are the tunes that have been wandering with me for years, with my own little spin on them. This is the sound I make when I'm out in the wild and playing for the birds. They're pieces my grandfather carried with him and used to sing to me, that I used to play out in the landscape back home, and songs I play now when I'm missing the beaches and mountains of Wales.
AmeriCymru: You are a multi-instrumentalist. What instruments do you play on the album?
Cai: On this album I used the harp, the guitar and whistle as the core of the sound, I was planning to play fiddle as well but as fate would have it I snapped a string on the first day of recording so the violin parts are played as if it were a ukulele - three stringed pizzicato chords underpinning the guitar, which had a good feel so I let fate lead me on that. There's also a pibgorn, the ancient Welsh woodwind instrument, which was made for me by the excellent piper Gafin Morgan. For the song Y Fari Lwyd I used a lot of percussion, as well. The Mari Lwyd tradition is something that happens in pubs late at night, with family and friends, after a few pints, and it's a raucous, spectacular, lively affair, so I wanted to try to capture some of the energy and chaos of a real live Mari Lwyd; I wanted the noise and clatter of a country pub full of excitement and beer, the atmosphere of the winter rain outside kept at bay by a log fire and a band of drunken musicians. So for percussion there's a washboard, a set of bottles and glasses, and I used the dining room floor and dinner table as a drum kit to give the impression of a pub full of people clapping and stamping and hammering on the bar. The harp takes the lead for most of the album, backed up by the ensemble though I've included a couple of solo harp pieces, the pibgorn takes over from time to time as does the whistle and there are a few guitar solo spots here and there, and I also sing on four of the tracks.
AmeriCymru: You currently reside in Minnesota. How did you come to relocate there? Any plans for gigs in the area or the US generally?
Cai: My wife and kids are here in Minnesota, they hail from a farming town north of Minneapolis, and I've really fallen in love with the area over the last few years. I'm playing for the Saint David's Society of Minnesota on the 4th of March, they're hosting an event in the Twin Cities for Saint David's Day focusing on the work of Meredydd Evans, who I've always been a big fan of. I'm also hoping to arrange some shows further afield in Chicago and Milwaukee soon. Ive explored a lot of Minnesota in the last few years, America is a magical place with some fantastic people and I'm chomping at the bit to get rolling and investigate the rest.
AmeriCymru: Care to tell us a little about your Welsh and musical backgrounds?
Cai: Well my grandfather sang in a male voice choir, he had a superb voice and he adored anything Welsh, so the old songs were a big part of my childhood. His family were farmers and coal miners, and of course poets and bards as well. So when I hear their language and the sounds of the harp it feels like home to me. My mother's a big fan of Jamaican music, and plays a lot of ska and calypso which I'm sure has influenced my style. Growing up my dad was always buying me folksy stuff like the Pogues and Django Reinhardt, which gave me a hunger for traditional music. In school I experimented with a broad range of styles, my taste has always varied from early jungle/drum & bass through punk and rock to classical and jazz. When I went off to music college in England I was very lucky to have been tutored by a list of big names, one of whom was the late, great Eric Roche. Eric was an acoustic genius, and he was an amazing teacher. He did a lot to influence my musical direction. For theory lectures his style was to half hyptontize the class in his soft Irish accent and implant the music theory into our subconscious minds. That way, when I need a scale or a chord I don't have to think about it, it's just there. For practical lessons he'd bring in his Lowden acoustic guitar, always set up in some strange alternate tuning, and his skills were jaw dropping - he would play a bassline, two or three guitar parts along with a melody and drum on the instrument all at the same time. He treated the guitar like an orchestra and opened my mind to new ways of playing. And I've been very lucky to have been able to watch a lot of really excellent musicians up close, so when it comes to learning a new insrument I already have a fair idea of how it will work. I've learned a lot just by watching people like Robin Huw Bowen and Gwenan Gibbard play harp. Through my travels I've encountered lots of different musical worlds, from the vibes that the Jamaican and Indian immigrants brought to Britain and the Welsh Gypsy harping tradition to the music that Indonesian and African friends introduced to me when I was living in Holland. The way I perceive music has a lot to do with my mother's indigenous roots which are in northern Scandinavia, and through the work of Sámi musicians like Áillohaš and Mari Boine I've come to see music as something spiritual and much deeper than just a form of entertainment - for me it's more than a pass-time, it's an act of worship and a sacred medicine as well.
AmeriCymru: You formerly played with Welsh band Calan. How would you describe your experience with them?
Cai: Working with Calan was an awesome experience. They're such a very talented group of musicians and wonderful people, and we got to play the music we love in some supreme venues. Recording at Sain's legendary studios was an absolute privilege, and working alongside Maartin Alcock as producer was a massive honor, not to mention Paul Burgess of 10cc fame who played drums for us on the first album. The show that sticks in my mind as my favorite was on a tour in Italy - we were out in the countryside, the venue was a little stage looking out over a tiny village and a backdrop of steep wooded mountains, the day had been very hot and we'd been fed home-cooked Italian food with local wine and cheese and we played our show watching the sun setting behind the hills with a cool breeze in our faces. Playing at the Lorient Interceltique festival in Brittany was a lot of fun, too - one day we were invited to play at a party in the mayor's mansion, where we were filled with salmon, caviar and fine champagne before playing for the movers and shakers in a great, chandeliered marble hall; that was a pretty swanky gig. And then there were the small venues all around Wales with cozy atmospheres where it felt like the audience was all family, those were very happy times. And the audience we gathered are so enthusiastic and appreciative, the fans gave us a great deal of encouragement and inspiration. Making music with Calan was truly joyful. Most importantly, playing with Calan gave me the chance to give something back to Wales, and before Calan came along there was a perception of Welsh music as being kinda slow and sleepy and it was great to be able to show the world that's not the case.
AmeriCymru: Who are your favourite Welsh musicians/bands at the moment?
Cai: Right now I'm loving Elfen - a new trio I haven't yet met who have just put out a record called March Glas which has been going round and round my head for a couple of weeks. New on the scene is also Kizzy Meriel, a solo singer/songwriter act I'm really enjoying, and Patric from Calan is working with a new group named Vrï who are putting out some fantastic stuff. Of course I'm following Calan with glee - their new material is just brilliant, and last year I went to see them play in southern Minnesota when they were touring the States and was pleased to meet the new members and see the line up gels really well. Angharad from Calan has been doing beautiful work with her mother, the harpist Delyth Jenkins, under the name DnA (as in Delyth'n' Angharad). I'm very excited to see what all these guys come out with in the future.
AmeriCymru: What's next for Cai ab Alun? Any new recordings in the works?
Cai: I'm currently looking into starting a show on public access radio, focusing on Welsh music but not exclusively, and maybe there'll be some comedy thrown into the mix. Alongside that I'd like to set up some Welsh language classes, because the language is an important part of the culture and it would be very good to help reconnect the Welsh diaspora here with their roots. I'm beginning work on another album now, and for the next one I'll be adding some new instruments to the line up, though I'll be drawing on the same inspiration as before I'd like to open up some new horizons and augment the sound I've crafted with something more. I'm hearing drums, a double bass and perhaps accordion too. I'm adding flute and recorder to my wind section, I'd love to get hold of a crwth and I may do some experimentation with tuned percussion like steel pans and xylophone. There are lots of tunes and songs I wanted to do for this first album but I felt some of my absolute favorite pieces deserve to be given more considration, a little more rumination and some additional colors on my palette. I'd love to try collaborating with a couple of other musicians over the internet, as well - with modern technology it would be easy to do a duet with someone on the other side of the world and that could be fun. So I am planning to make a lot more music in the next few years.
AmeriCymru: Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?
Cai: Only that I'm looking forward to getting out there and meeting a new audience here in the States!
Gwenno Dafydd - 'St David's Day Ambassador To The World' Interviewed on 'Pryhawn Da'
By AmeriCymru, 2017-02-24
Translation of Tinopolis ‘Pnawn Da’ Interview on Friday the 23rd February 2017.
Pnwn Da Interviewers: Yvonne Evans (YE) & Owain Gwynedd (OG) talking to Gwenno Dafydd (GD) & Nan Lewis. (NL)
Time Code:
05 YE
Next week we will be celebrating Saint David’s Day but the celebrations are starting this week. Keeping company with us are Gwenno Dafydd & Nan Lewis. Welcome to you both. Let’s start with you Gwenno. You have been honoured with a very honourable title,that of Saint David’s Day Ambassador, not just to Wales but to the whole world, well congratulations. What does that mean to you?
29. GD
Well thank you very much. Well I have to say that I was a bit disappointed that they hadn’t included the universe in the whole title! No, it’s a huge accolade.
36 OG
We’ll add that to the title if you want! What does it mean exactly for you to receive this title, what did you have to do to receive it.
43 GD
You have to work very hard without tiring and without getting paid I’m afraid. It’s just something that I have done intuitively really, because all of us as Welsh speakers are very aware that our language is under attack, that we need to promote our culture as much as we can and I have been working for twelve years now promoting Saint David’s Day celebrations in Wales but also around the world.
1.11 YE
Yes. Well done and I’m sure that you are very happy that Nan is sitting next to you here because there is a parade in Carmarthen this Saturday isn’t there.
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Reproduced by kind permission of Tinopolis plc a Welsh independent television production company.
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Gwenno Dafydd - St David's Day Ambassador To The World
Gwenno Dafydd is the instigator of the Saint David's Day Anthem (Lyrics: Gwenno Dafydd Music: Heulwen Thomas) which was launched by The Presiding Officer of the Welsh Assembly Government, Lord Dafydd Elis Thomas in 2008. She has been promoting and developing Saint David's Day activities worldwide since 2006 when the Saint David's Day Anthem 'Cenwch y Clychau i Dewi' (Ring out the bells for Saint David) was performed in public for the very first time in the National Saint David's Day Parade in Cardiff. She has instigated the tradition of 'County Banners' throughout Wales to celebrate Saint David's Day. This year, the first County Banner, The Pembrokeshire Banner, which is kept on permanent display in the East Cloister in Saint David's Cathedral, will be joined by two new County Banners, those of Montgomeryshire and Carmartheshire.
The Saint David's Day Anthem, which will this year be sold from the very prestigious Ty Cerdd website, patron Karl Jenkins, alongside the music of Welsh composers such as Grace Williams, William Mathias, Morfydd Llwyn Owen and Gareth Glyn. The Saint David's Day Anthem has been performed not only in Wales but also numerous times in Canada, Los Angeles, Patagonia, Disneyland Paris and the Houses of Parliament. Every year the Pembrokeshire Banner is paraded around Saint David's Cathedral whilst local school children sing the Saint David's Day Anthem.
She has created an Iphone App to learn the Welsh National Anthem and is the author of 'Stand Up & Sock it to them Sister. Funny Feisty Females' which had been described by Funny Women, the UK's leading female comedy community as 'the ultimate canon of female stand-up comics'. She is a Leadership and Public Speaking Coach and works extensively via Skype and even has some clients in Los Angeles.
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AmeriCymru: Hi Susan and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. How and when did you first become aware of your Welsh heritage?
Susan: I'm a history nerd from a family with quite a few history nerds, so I don't actually really remember "learning" that I had Welsh ancestry. I've always known my surname was Welsh, but my earliest memories about it are sitting in my great aunt's living room and going through some genealogies and family history materials when I was probably about eight or nine years old. And I remember learning that we supposedly came from Brecon (which I have been totally unable to document!), so I always wanted to go there.
When I was in college, I had a Welsh flag on the wall in my apartment, but I've also always been a Britophile, generally. I always read as much as I could about Britain and wanted to live there, since I can remember. Like a lot of Americans, I've always been interested in when, where, how, and why my ancestors came here--and from where. I still haven't been able to make the jump across the pond on my Floyd line, but I have--thanks to the ability we now have to search, view, and share primary source documents using the internet--found out quite a lot about various ancestors, including immigrants to Virginia on my mother's side who came from Monmouthshire and Carmarthenshire. So that's all very exciting.
But , I also have to add: some of the most inspiring, most successful dysgwyr Cymraeg are people with no known Welsh ancestry. They learn the language because they moved to Wales, or they got into Welsh music, or they encountered Welsh literature, or they fell in love with a Welsh person, and then with the language. Welsh is for everybody.
Susan: I was fortunate to do a study abroad exchange at Lancaster University through UT-Austin as an undergraduate. While there, I joined the mountaineering club, and we went on weekend trips, alternating between the Lake District and North Wales. Our group leader was a Welshman named Huw who always took us to the best places. I especially remember climbing some (what seemed like) 200-foot rock face near Porthmadog and looking back over my shoulder to a sweeping view of the sea. I can't believe I did that now!
I also spent New Year's Eve 2000 in Cardiff, on a little road trip. I went to Britain twice on vacation during college with my best friend, because we were able to get some unbelievably cheap student airfares in the late 90s. So we somehow ended up in Cardiff for New Year's. I still need to get back there and see the city properly--our tour was confined to pubs, a B&B, and external views of the castle!
Then I lived in England for another four years in my early/mid-twenties. I went to Wales a couple of times on weekend trips. I finally made it to the Brecon Beacons in 2005, right before I returned to the US. I'd like to go back there, as well. It was lovely.
Finally, I went to Wales this past November/December on what turned out to be the trip of a lifetime. We've had a direct British Airways flight from Austin to Heathrow for about a year now--such a luxury, very exciting. So when there was a ticket sale, earlier this year, I bought one. I initially planned to just visit friends around England and have a low-budget, low-key trip. But then I started studying Welsh and realized I shouldn't pass up the opportunity to go there, so that became a big part of my trip.
I rented a car in Liverpool and drove around the perimeter of Wales, all the way to Swansea. It was absolutely amazing. I met up with some folks I'd "met" on Twitter during the Euros, one of whom took me on what turned out to be one of the best pub crawls I've ever been on (and I've been on a lot! Ha!). And I caught up with a new friend whom I'd met in Austin at our local Irish pub; she had been over here on holiday during the Euros, and we kept running into each other again and again as Wales progressed. We kept in touch on Facebook and ended up spending a day together, driving around Caernarfon and Eryri! Anhygoel! I met some other folks who had previously been online acquaintances, and they were all lovely--being shown the sights by locals gave my trip an entirely different flavor, and made traveling alone a lot more fun. I also walked about ten miles of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path on my own. I lucked out--the weather the entire time I was in Wales was sunny and gorgeous! I highly recommend visiting Britain in general and Wales in particular during the off-season. At several tourists hot spots I was one of the only tourists! This allowed me have private access to Bryn Celli Ddu on Anglesey, be one of about five people wandering around Caernarfon Castle on a Monday afternoon, and enjoy a very quiet sleepy weekend in St. David's (well, except for the local talent night at the pub, which was another highlight!). And, twenty years after writing my first English lit paper on Dylan Thomas as junior in high school, I finally made it to Laugharne. I also went to an Ospreys match in Swansea (they won). Those are just the highlights! Like I said, it was really the trip of a lifetime.
AmeriCymru: Many people in America were excited by Wales performance in Euro 2016? Can you give our Welsh readers some impression of the excitement that was generated by the contest here in the US?
Susan: I go to a couple of pubs in downtown Austin regularly to watch Liverpool matches with our devoted and rowdy LFC overseas supporters club; Fado Irish Pub shows all of the Premier League fixtures as well as CONCACAF, USA national games, the Euros, and World Cup. The Euros are always my favorite tournament to watch there, though. They decorate the place in the flags of all the competing teams, and give away T-shirts for all the participating countries. One of my friends in the Liverpool group is also a former Swansea academy player. So we planned ahead and took off work on the days Wales was playing. I'd been looking forward to it for months. So that was a blast. We started out with about 10 Wales fans but ended up more like 50 by the quarter-final. I'd say it was about half Welsh folks and half American Wales fans--most of whom, like me, seemed to have some Welsh ancestry but never the opportunity to even see the team play, never mind in the Euros! I still can't believe they made it to the semi-finals. It was just fantastic--like a dream. And also the catalyst for me becoming a Welsh learner.
AmeriCymru: What advice would you give to Americans who want to learn Welsh?
Susan: Americans who want to learn Welsh should know that there has never been a better time to learn the language! Thanks to the internet, it's easy to connect with other learners and Welsh speakers, most of whom are excited by the interest and are therefore very encouraging! I have met some truly astounding, friendly, wonderful people. And AmeriCymru has been an absolutely wonderful resource. As far as actual learning tips, I've just started, but I'd say that taking an actual class has made all the difference. Even though we meet online using Google Hangouts, the regular meetings and expert tutelage keep me on track and motivated to stay serious. It's hard to fit in second language acquisition as an adult--both because of the many demands on your time and the sluggishness of your brain. But practicing daily makes it more of a delight than a chore. I find listening to BBC Radio Cymru is invaluable--just hearing the language spoken as often as possible (even though you necessarily won't understand all that is being said!). If you can locate a real, live person to speak to in person , that's even better! Again, the internet can facilitate connections. I also listen to Jason Sheperd's Learn Welsh Podcast.
So if you're thinking about learning more about the language or doing a course--start now! I've only been studying for eight months, and seriously for only about five, and it's been so fun. To an Anglophone, Welsh looks very difficult. It's not the easiest language. But it's not impossible, either. You'll be surprised how quickly you start making sense of things. And every time you understand a phrase or exchange, you'll want to learn more. Conversations lead to poems lead to songs. It doesn't hurt that the spoken language is quite singularly beautiful.
And, of course, if you can--go to Wales! Flights from the US have been historically cheap for the past year or so, and the exchange rate is still good for Americans traveling to Britain. Who knows what's going to happen with the political situation. But I will say this: walking through the ancient landscape of Cymru and--especially--hearing the living language being spoken all around you... well, it really helps keep things in perspective. Yma o hyd, and all that.
AmeriCymru: AmeriCymru offers an online Welsh class - AmeriCymraeg. As a current student how would you rate the course?
Susan: The course--and especially John Good, our teacher--has been excellent. I am really impressed, especially considering the course fees (very reasonable!) and only one required textbook. Gruffudd's Welcome to Welsh is really user-friendly. I've enjoyed the way John brings his expertise as a musician and music teacher to his methods. I'm so glad there are multiple levels, so that I can continue taking these classes with AmeriCymru. I look forward to Monday nights and missed the class during our Christmas hiatus.
AmeriCymru: You were recently interviewed by the Western Mail Online. How did that come about?
Susan: I'm friends with a lot of other dysgwyr Cymraeg online, and particularly on Twitter. We've all been reading and enjoying Carolyn Hitt's adult learners column for the Western Mail. She saw the photos I posted from my recent trip, and we got to chatting, and then she asked if I'd be willing to be interviewed for her column. I hope to see profiles of more distance learners soon. I know there are a lot of us in the US. Because of the interview being published on Wales Online, numerous people have contacted me. I'm now in contact with a Brecon historian, was asked to do a radio interview in Welsh about my passion for football (maybe in another year!), and have a new weekly standing meeting to speak Welsh with another learner right here in Austin. The internet has made the world very small in a lot of ways, and I'm finding that the Welsh internet is especially tight-knit. It's nice.
AmeriCymru: What's next for Susan Floyd? How do you intend to further pursue your Welsh studies?
Susan: I'm going to continue with the AmeriCymraeg class as far as possible, and I hope to do an intensive wlpan in Wales sometime this year or next. I'd like to do two full weeks. I'm leaning toward Nant Gwrtheyrn, but suggestions are welcome! Just trying to save up the money.
AmeriCymru: Any final message for the readers and members of AmeriCymru?
Susan: I think I've said enough. The most important thing is to never give up! And come say hi on Twitter at @Texarchivist.
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"Nigel Jarrett is a freelance writer and music critic. He’s written poetry, essays and short stories for such journals as the Observer magazine, London Magazine, Planet, Agenda, Poetry Wales and Poetry Ireland, and many others of dim provenance and solemn obscurity.
He is a winner of the Rhys Davies Award for short fiction, and the 2016 inaugural Templar Shorts prize.. A collection of his stories, Funderland, was published in October 2011 to widespread acclaim. In November 2013, Parthian published his first poetry collection, Miners At The Quarry Pool. A novel, Slowly Burning, and a second story collection, Who Killed Emil Kreisler?, appeared in 2016."
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AmeriCymru: Hi Nigel and many thanks for agreeing to this interview. Care to introduce your latest collection of short stories - Who Killed Emil Kreisler? - for our readers?
Nigel: With pleasure, especially as it has an American link.
Collections of short stories consist almost always of previously published material; published in small literary magazines (SLMs), that is. It was ever thus. As most writers do not produce short fiction on an industrial scale, the stories chosen for a collection usually come from work written and published in SLMs over a lengthy period. One tries to seek publication in magazines one admires, if only for the pleasure of seeing one's efforts alongside work they might be considered to emulate. Among the magazines which first published the stories in Who Killed Emil Kreisler? are the The Lonely Crowd, The Lampeter Review, Tears In The Fence, Skald, and The Erotic Review. That a few of them are Welsh simply reflects the esteem in which published storytelling in Wales is held. But The Erotic Review, for instance, is a London-based, international publication, once manifest in print form, now digital. Increasingly I'm writing for online literary magazines. It may or may not be the way forward; but these sites are certainly ignored at the modern writer's peril.
My first collection, Funderland, was published by Parthian, the Welsh independent. It has been seen by some to have a family theme, in the sense of families dysfunctional, knocked askew by forces internal and external, or otherwise rendered unusual; though this was not my conscious intention. If there was a theme deliberately affecting the choice of stories for Who Killed Emil Kreisler?, it was variety of mood, time, and place; or just plain 'variety'. One reviewer has described me as being, in this collection, 'almost wilfully diverse'. I'm taking that as a compliment though I suppose it could be read another way. The stories skip from Sweden, to Africa, to New York, to Germany, to Los Angeles, to Paris, and to other places. I'll go with 'diverse'; the adverbial predicate of 'wilfully' seeming to suggest that diversity might be an undesirable quality, and that's just plain preposterous. Perhaps one story should be savoured before turning to the next. That way, any travel-sickness will be avoided.
The title story is a fictional take on a real event: the death of the composer Anton Webern, shot dead by a drunken US infantryman towards the end of the second world war. During a curfew in an Austrian town, Webern was visiting a relative who was being investigated by the military for black-marketeering. When Webern stepped outside the house to smoke a cigar, the soldier, an army cook named Raymond Norwood Bell, discharged his rifle in circumstances that remain confusing, and killed him. Bell survived the war and died an alcoholic, full of remorse. It was a tragic event from all angles. I've always been fascinated by the idea of an anonymous soldier unwittingly killing someone famous on the battlefield: the sniper who did for the poet Wilfred Owen, for example, in the Great War. Did he survive? Did he realise what he'd done? Not that this fascination takes anything away from my attitude to the millions who have died anonymously in wars. Writers develop fixations; they can't help it. My story is told by a Bell-like character; Emil Kreisler is the Webern-like one. I think it works. Among the collection's dedicatees, I've placed an in memoriam for Bell. He was as much a victim as the person he killed.
I'm reminded that this story is short, a piece of metafiction, or flash fiction, almost. Others are of various lengths. So, variety of form, too.
Buy 'Who Killed Emil Kreisler?' Here
AmeriCymru: You have won awards for your collections of short fiction. What is it about the short story genre that attracts you? What short story writers have influenced and/or inspired you?
Nigel: This is going to sound prosaic or flippant, but I write stories because it doesn't take long. I'm notorious for not revising. I should revise, and my editors for the two collections I've written have suggested changes which, somewhat reluctantly, I've made. Other suggestions I've rejected out of hand, on one occasion dropping a story rather than make the revisions put forward. One knows when a story is right, and that process happens for me almost at the point of initial completion. Not editing, not revising, is bad practice, however, and I wouldn't recommend it. It's just that revision takes time and, as I say, I like writing stories because I can do it reasonably quickly.
The foregoing is directly related to my career as a newspaperman. British daily newspapers work their staff to exhaustion. I used to say that I worked a 25-hour day and an eight-day week. For a long period in my career, it felt that way. When I began writing fiction and poetry, which was late in my case, I certainly worked long and unsocial hours as a reporter. I was married with two young children. I'm grateful to them for allowing me to write when I should have been cleaning the oven, watching Top Of The Pops with them on TV, or joining the search for an escaped hamster. I've seen marriages fail and individuals crumble because of these unrelenting demands. So I wrote at home when I had an hour or so free. It was not an arrangement conducive to the writing of novels. I got a lot of poetry written, which for years I kept to myself, only letting it go when I realised how much dross there was in poetry magazines to which I was subscribing. Another factor was the unswerving commitment needed to be a successful newspaper journalist. I never had it, though I was always pretty good at my job. Employers wondered whether or not your mind was fully engaged if they discovered you had a non-journalistic interest outside the workplace. So, that was additional pressure: you put in the hours to prove beyond doubt that you were doing your best, knowing that any ambitions you harboured in the way of 'proper writing' were being curtailed. Also, the necessity of writing concisely as possible for a newspaper was related to my liking for short fiction. To get it down in as few words as possible was something for which I was paid. Maybe, subconsciously, I thought the same would happen with short stories. But few SLMs pay their contributors. I once described the magazines that publish me as solemn and obscure. Well, most of them are obscure: just ask 99 per cent of the population.
All that said, I like short fiction for other reasons, the main one being a love of the reverberations it sets up. It's a bit like examining a photograph and wondering what events immediately preceded it and what came after. In many ways, and again like photographs, the story is a decisive moment, and no 'momentous' event should wear unnecessary trappings. It's a way in which the writer passes something to the reader for the reader's contribution, the reader's engagement. I like doing that; I like the idea of writing as a collaboration. Someone who'd read a story of mine predicted its imagined outcome in a totally different way from the one I'd envisaged, to the extent of making me think I'd written something dictated by an unseen hand; not that I have any truck with the idea of a Muse perched on my shoulder, ever ready to set me off in some direction or other over which I have no control.
I've always read short fiction for the same reasons as I write it: reading it is quickly accomplished. Thus, I've read a lot of stories, beginning with de Maupassant in my early teens and taking in the great Americans, such as Bierce and Poe. There's been some magical short fiction written in the UK, though I find the British obsession with social class wearisome. Somerset Maugham I like, despite his class proclivities, and among the 'younger' Brits, Hilary Mantel, Graham Swift and Ian McKewan. Pirandello, Brecht, Chekhov (pre-eminently), Tolstoy, Katherine Mansfield and many others have all added something to my understanding of what short fiction is able to achieve. In recent years, and since the advent of the American 'New Realists', my short fiction focus has been New World and South American: Carver, Tobias Wolff, Richard Ford, Lorrie Moore, Vargas Lhosa, Updike, Alice Munro, Marquez, Borges. I love Munro's work, love the way it often wobbles on the border between short story and novella. Her imagination is unstoppable and never less than vivid. I also like the short fiction of the playwright Sam Shepard (there's not much of it, to be sure), because weirdly I can relate it to his writing for theatre. Sometimes, it seems to be theatre-in-progress, notebook jottings for plays or film scripts. I'm always interested in how other writers do what they do, how their minds work, how they make choices. Top of my list at the moment is the American George Saunders, who has raised the short story to the level of high satirical art; he's very funny, as all satirists should be, but also compassionate. I'm a winner of the Rhys Davies Prize for short fiction, and for a while I bought and read all the out-of-print editions of the Welshman's work. But I now find it a tad dated, despite claims that he was a 'British Chekhov'. There was something suppressed in Davies's work that reflects perhaps his closeted homosexuality. Had he been living today he would have written about it. He was a gay writer who never wrote gay fiction, if we assume that his love of matriarchs were not Oedipal at source. As a stylist, though, he was in his day unsurpassed. Another thing I like about short fiction is that many of its practitioners were once journalists. Hemingway and Graham Greene are good examples. I see them as casting off as soon as possible, in order to get on with something else. In my case, that was work.
Nigel: This is a tricky question, because the description of what I did in that book came from a reviewer (Lesley McDowell, of the Independent on Sunday), not from me. I wouldn't deny it; it's just that I didn't set out to find complexity in the ordinary. Writing about the ordinary because it's ordinary won't get a writer very far, so it's almost inevitable that what interests a writer, what interests me, is something beyond that. A writer's fiction is always assumed to be autobiographical in some way, but on the surface, in terms of fiction's forward-rolling events, this is never the case. What I write about reflects what interests me about human inter-reactions, especially when they are destructive, disappointing, corrupted, or vulnerable to corruption. I once described the collection as 'dark'. I'm not too sure of that now. I do like to write beyond myself and my immediate surroundings. 'Write about what you know' is a common but flawed dictum from teachers of writing. I like to do the opposite: write about what I don't know but what I can imagine. One of the stories in Funderland, Doctor Fritz, concerns a musico-anthropologist who once made a startling discovery, was publicly ridiculed for an error of professional judgement, and is slowly going mad. I know nothing about anthropology or madness, but I believe I wrote an interesting story. I do know something about music, having been a music critic for the last forty years, and I bring some knowledge of that to bear.
When I say the collection is about families in some form or other, I don't mean that my own upbringing was in any way unstable or unsatisfactory. Of course, one has regrets that events didn't turn out as planned or were unfortunate or came about against one's better interests. We'd all do lots of things differently – and we can't choose our parents or the circumstances into which we're born. One must look critically at everything, even one's own growth to maturity, or immaturity, as the case may be. I like complexity. Simplicity or, rather, the simplistic, is a state not to be desired. Being the eldest of three children, or first-born to give my status the looming shadow primogeniture seems to attract, has always made me feel that I'm flawed, as I certainly am. I'm different from my two siblings, though we love each other. Perhaps the stories in Funderland are related to this incomplete person, and have a psychological dimension as a result. Whether or not this converts itself into some universal state that others can identify with is debatable. I hope it does. For certain, if all is well with a writer in terms of surroundings, beliefs, outlook and relationships, there won't be much to write about. Funderland includes the story Mrs Kuroda on Penyfan, which won the Rhys Davies Prize and is included in Story, the Library of Wales's two-volume anthology of 20th and 21st century Welsh short fiction. But my favourite Funderland story is Watching The Birdie, about a newly-married man and his innocent stepdaughter. I wanted to capture the decisive moment of sexual abuse, something I have never encountered in short fiction before, and I believe I succeeded.
Teasing out emotional complexities implies some kind of forensic procedure. For me, writing doesn't work like that. There may be an initial scheme, or roughly sketched plot, but in my experience narratives tend to take off and travel hither and thither, guided by nothing more insubstantial than the workings of imagination and memory. I think memory is important. Bits of my past, suitably transmogrified, pop up in the stories. Although there was nothing even remotely resembling the wickedness of Watching The Birdie in the Jarrett family – quite the opposite - the journey to the seaside undertaken by the characters is one I went on many times as a young boy. You don't forget things like that. They are embedded experiences, and for a writer all such experiences are there to be drawn on; used, if you like.
The Guardian
'...as a music critic by profession, Jarrett has a marvellous ear... And the stand-out story, 'Mrs Kuroda on Penyfan', is an enigmatic study of a Japanese woman's displacement in rural Wales.' Alfred Hickling
The Independent
'Nigel Jarrett's stories take seemingly ordinary or innocent situations and gently tease out their emotional complexity. Both 'Funderland' and 'A Point of Dishonour' confound expectations superbly...He's not afraid of unusual perspectives and his bravery is well rewarded in this unusual and sensitive collection.' Lesley McDowell
Planet Magazine
'Funderland, Nigel Jarrett's superb short story collection, demands the tribute of slow and careful reading [...] The revelation of these stories is the vast and subtle and inarticulate web that links and separates us all. Read them slowly, more than once, and learn.'
New Welsh Review
'Funderland is an excellent first offering, giving a thought provoking series of wry, often wistful fresh angles on the fragility of relationships. Readers will want more, anticipating the emergence of a strong, telling voice in fiction from Wales.' Robert Walton
Buy 'Funderland' Here
Interview on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
Funderland Facebook Page
Review in New Welsh Review
Nigel: Slowly Burning is a first-person account by a former Fleet Street crime bureau chief. He's been washed up on a weekly newspaper in Wales, where he receives a letter in the will of a minor London gangster and takes himself off to Dorset to investigate its implications. There are three stories intertwined, like a triple helix. There's the main narrative whoosh, Bunny's recollections of life as a tabloid reporter, and the story told to him by the gangster's daughter, whom he befriends and who is strangely attracted to his quest.
Bunny is a self-confessed fibber. But I wanted him to be more than that. The idea of the unreliable journalist who nevertheless writes no-smoke-without-fire reports is almost a commonplace in our cynical times, and justifiably so. But, having worked with people like Bunny, I can confirm that they are complex. Bunny is not very nice. Furthermore, I wanted to make him into the reckless and irresponsible scribe of legend. This was a high-risk strategy. I've littered his story with contradictions, misrememberings, inconsistencies, solecisms, errors and all sorts of other things which the reader would question – if the reader notices them at all. If they are recognised, of course, I risk the possibility of their being ascribed to me, not to Bunny. However, one reviewer didn't register any of them (Dan Bradley in the New Welsh Review, whose notice is included in full, below), which sort of gratifies me in proving my point. When the Sun newspaper told its readers that the Hillsborough football stadium disaster was caused by drunken Liverpool fans, its readers believed it. The assertion was proved to be wrong – and Liverpool is now a no-go zone for the Sun newspaper. (But not the rest of the Murdoch Press: the populace can often be dumb and unquestioning.)
The novel unwittingly foreshadows the current and continuing débâcle over truth, 'alternative' truth and half truth. It's no surprise that Brexiteer politicians in the UK lied to the electorate in the same way that President Trump does to his, as if mendacity were an essential part of a certain kind of politics. Not that Britain's 'Remainers' were paragons of rectitude, or that the American Democrats were without fault. Bunny Patmore's favourite author is Thomas Hardy; his nemesis is a woman who is also a Hardy-lover and who supplies him with a 'story' (all 'factual' newspaper reports are 'stories') that he will never publish, because what integrity he possesses triumphs over his newspaperman's instincts. He even has a go at writing a story – a fictional story, like Slowly Burning itself – when his investigations falter or peter out. This play on fact and fiction, truth and lies, error and exactitude, carelessness and attentiveness, is a feature of the book, maybe the main one. I reached the stage in writing Slowly Burning where I considered the manuscript as almost a 'found' object, someone else's musings – Bunny Patmore's. My main aim, I now believe, was to ventriloquise, to write a narrative as a real Bunny Patmore would. We don't often hear from the Bunny Patmores of the world; they are simply people fit to be vilified.
Readers might be interested in the provenance of Slowly Burning's front cover image. It's a photograph by the celebrated 'snapper' John Bignell. When the publisher and I were looking for a suitable illustration, we Googled the words 'Fleet Street pub scene 1950'. This photo was the first to appear, and it led us to the Bignell archive, which is held by the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea library. Bignell was active in the Fifties and especially the Sixties, photographing celebrities and others in the context of what was happening in London at the time – the Swinging Sixties and all that. The curator told us that Bignell was notorious for his lack of detailed captions, but thought the Slowly Burning image was of an East End pub scene from around 1958. It's the evocative image we were seeking, portraying a milieu that Bunny Patmore would have recognised immediately. Indeed, the central event in Bunny's recollection concerns the moment he heard about his sick wife's biopsy results (not good) and how he left Piele's bar in Fleet Street to sit outside on the pavement in shock. It's another fictionalised account of a real event, in which an inebriated journalist collapsed outside Piele's and was then retrieved by his companions and taken back inside for 'medication'. It was witnessed by the writer Michael Frayn from a high window at the old Guardian offices, and is included in the foreword to his novel about newspapers, Towards The End Of The Morning. Frayn's recollection is the leading epigraph at the start of Slowly Burning. The RBK&C library alowed us to reproduce the image without payment, as long as we credited Bignell and sent the library a copy of the book. We didn't hesitate.
AmeriCymru: In addition to writing fiction you are also a poet. What can you tell us about 'Miners at the Quarry Pool'?Nigel: Miners At The Quarry Pool was my first poetry collection, its contents garnered from about ten years' worth of published poems. Poetry magazines are often more solemn and more obscure than fiction ones, and in many cases shorter-lived. Three times I've had poems accepted for publication only for the magazine concerned to fold before it got round to printing them. I like to joke that the collection has nothing to do with miners, quarries, or quarry pools, in the way a lot of poetry these days seems to revel in its incomprehensible peculiarity. The reviewer in Poetry Wales, though calling me 'a clever writer' (a case of damning with oblique praise), thought some of the poems were 'resistant to reading'. He'd obviously never read the more arcane cantos of Ezra Pound. (I've made a few appearances in Agenda, the magazine co-founded by Pound, whose current editor, Patricia McCarthy, described my collection as 'a virtuoso performance'. So there you are. You take your pick.) Unlike stories, poems suggest themselves to me as out-of-the-blue bolts, and I have to start on them straight-away, even when I'm lying in bed at night, fully awake. There's a poem written directly after my mother died, which refers, inter alia, to my son high in her apple tree and spraying the blossom. There's another, written after a method was discovered of slowing down Great War film footage to normal speed, which suggested to me that it now took longer to wage, that its horrors would be prolonged. There's also a poem based on two famous American photographs.
When I say the collection's not about miners, etc., I nevertheless dedicate it to my grandfathers, who were at one time both coalminers, entering daily the former Cwmbran Colliery adit mine (they walked three more miles to the face after a lift on a conveyor). One reviewer likened the collection to excavations, thus partly vindicating the dedication, albeit tortuously. I would describe it as diverse in subject-matter, like the second story collection, and, more importantly according to my editor, Alan Kellermann, a celebration of poetic brevity. There are not many long poems in there, and I think Alan was referring to brevity of utterance at a time when much poetry tends to be dense, overloaded or verbose. I don't 'do' allusive. Pound looked for pin-point accuracy in a poem, the way a coin is made by the hammering nose of the die – hard, once-only and instantaneous - and that's what I strive for.
I continue to write poetry. I'm putting together a second collection, which might be called Brevities. I find it difficult to establish my own, unmistakeable, poetic voice, but I'll know when I've found it.
Buy 'Miners At The Quarry Pool' Here
AmeriCymru: What are you reading at the moment? Any recommendations?
Nigel: I tend to be catching up with books I should have read years ago. Amazon has many faults, but you can't beat it for finding the most long-lost title and often charging what it amusingly calls £0.01. Paying an extra £2.80 for packing and postage seems worth the cost. I'm a reasonably competent draughtsman, and I created the image for the cover of Who Killed Emil Kreisler? So many of my book purchases are volumes on art. I've just bought for 70p a lovely Phaidon copy of Otto Benesch's 1960 essay on Rembrandt as a draughtsman. I'll be reading that and looking at it soon.
Again for £0.01, I recently bought Margaret Atwood's Negotiating With The Dead, one of a number of books I have on writers writing about being a writer. Hemingway was the master of that, in letters to Maxwell Perkins, Scott Fitzgerald and others. When writers die, as William Trevor did a few months ago, I do them the honour of reading books by them that for one reason or another passed me by when they first came out. At the time of doing this interview, I was half way through his collection, Cheating At Canasta. Julian Barnes seems to me to be an increasingly important British writer, maybe greater in the long run than Amis junior, Swift, and McKewan; he's the most experimental. I read living Welsh authors out of patriotic duty, though I find patriotism a dubious trait. That's another story! Among the ones I've just read are The Scrapbook, by Carly Holmes; The Dig, by Cynan Jones; and Dangerous Asylums, edited by Rob Mimpriss. I reviewed this last one; it's a collection of fictions by North Wales writers and is based on patient records from the former Denbigh Asylum. I reviewed it for the Wales Arts Review. Just before Christmas I treated myself to a first edition of Arfon, by Rhys Davies. It turned out to be number 115 of a limited edition of 400, published by Foyle and signed by the author in his distinctive hand. I'll treasure that.
Review of 'Dangerous Asylums'
AmeriCymru: What are you working on at the moment? Can we expect any new titles soon?
Nigel: I'm half way through a second novel, provisionally called The Newhaven Foxes, about...well, I won't give that away just yet. And there's the second poetry collection I mentioned. I've just sent a few poems to Poetry Wales and The Lonely Crowd, the latter edited by John Lavin, former editor of The Lampeter Review and now associate editor of the Wales Arts Review. I try to write something every day, whether it's a review, a blog entry or a long email to friends. I just received a postcard from Alan Bennett, having written to him about his new book and suggesting that Northern humour and Northern life, of which he's an exponent, have echoes in the industrial valleys of SE Wales. What a gracious man to be bothered to handwrite a reply to one letter in what must be a weekly cataract of correspondence. I wish I could write a play. I've tried, but it never works. I've realised, too, that I'll soon have enough stories to put together a third collection. Although I started writing, proper writing, relatively late, I never remind myself of missed opportunities. I just get on with things. A colleague told me that if writers give up writing because they are not achieving success, they are not really writers. I know what he meant. I've been keeping on for a long time, and I'll keep on keeping on, no matter what.
AmeriCymru: Any final message for the members and readers of AmeriCymru?
Nigel: Do buy titles from independent Welsh publishers such as Parthian, Seren, YLolfa, and Gomer. But don't forget Welsh writers, such as Sarah Waters, Cynan Jones, Niall Griffiths, and, lately, Kate Hamer, who have been picked up by the big British publishers: Cape, Faber, and that lot. I like to think they've put to sea in a coracle on the Severn and paddled straight to the Modern Babylon, there to make the case for Welsh writing of a peculiarly universal sort. We've always been exporters. It shows that we are not regional or provincial, or anything else indicative of an immodest place in the scheme of things. Was Dylan Thomas a Welsh writer? Well, yes. But he was also more than that.
And finally – if you can get your hands on The Day's Portion (Village Publishing), a book of Arthur Machen's non-fiction edited by me and my old friend Godfrey Brangham in the late 1980s, you won't regret it. In the spirit of Machen the forewordsmith, there are three introductions: by me, Goff, and the esteemed publisher, Mel Witherden. Sufficient unto the day thereof.
Links to other interviews with Nigel Jarrett:
Interview on th 'Great Word Nerd'
Interview on Vanessa Gebbie's Blog
Interview on 'Writerchristopherfischer'
Interview on 'Writer's Corner Cymru'
. REVIEW OF 'SLOWLY BURNING' BY DAN BRADLEY
NWR Issue 9 'Slowly Burning' by Nigel Jarrett
Prolific Welsh wordsmith Nigel Jarrett has already excelled in a variety of shorter forms; his story collection Funderland won praise in these pages as well as in the Independent and the Guardian. His story from the collection, ‘Mrs Kuroda on Penyfan’ was a prize winner in the Rhys Davies Short Story Competition; his debut poetry collection Miners at the Quarry Pool was released by Parthian in 2013; and, in a journalistic career spanning thirty years, he has published countless stories, essays and music reviews. Jarrett draws on these decades of industry experience in this West Country noir about a former crime bureau chief drawn into one last mystery. But is Jarret’s nostalgic debut about the life of worldweary newspaperman front page news, or merely yesterday’s?
Our pun-toting protoganist is Bunny Patmore, a former Fleet Street journalist who once rubbed shoulders with the stars and athletes of the day, not to mention the criminals, but now finds himself languishing at a ‘solemn and obscure weekly called the Welsh Messenger’, and feeling ‘part of a vanished time, foreign to the youngsters I work with....’ One he day he receives a mysterious letter, left to him in the will of a grubby London gangster, which promises to cast light on a brutal gangland double murder from his past. This cryptic letter will lead our ‘rhino-skinned prodnose’ across Wales and the south west for one last scoop as he casts disturbing new light on the case, uncovers dark family secrets, finds love and maybe even peace.
The novel revels in vivid detail and humour. Bunny wonderfully describes a British boxer enjoying a brief time in the limelight before sinking ‘back into obscurity, like an ugly fish reversing under its stone after a spectacularly bloody meal.’ Jarrett has a great ear for turn of phrase, wordplay, and in Bunny, an erudite, hyperbolic, worldweary and self-deprecating newspaperman, Jarrett has free rein to enjoy himself. Bunny, pecking on his ‘tripewriter’, tells us: ‘Door-stopping. Now there’s an airborne duck of a word. And if you don’t know your rhyming slang[,] I, as Cockneyed as they come, couldn’t care a Margate candy floss.’
These kind of condescending and self-satisfied jokes could easily grow annoying but this tone often suddenly makes way for Bunny’s – or perhaps Jarrett’s – true voice, which is much sadder and more reflective. This is the writing that is most affecting, perhaps more so because it reveals Bunny’s fragility and loneliness beneath his carapace of bravado and knee-jerk cynicism. In particular, as he falls more deeply in love with Marian, the dead gangster’s daughter, he starts to make sense of his troubled, alcohol-sodden marriage to Bella:
Don’t believe the tossers who preach the attraction of opposites, because they know not what they utter. They certainly don’t understand [that] in a relationship of crunching personalities, different interests and eccentric ways all involve a kind of secrecy – a double lot when a couple can’t agree to compromise. I still stand at the kitchen sink, eighteen years on, saying ‘Sorry’ to an empty back garden.
Bunny and his turn of phrase are good company, and the thoughtful interrogation of truth and fiction are effective, but, in many ways, the novel fails to deliver on its promises. Bunny makes much of the unreliability of his own account, and the need for scepticism in reading his tale, but this never finds a satisfying pay-off. The first person perspective is ideal for misdirection but it is not used; apart from being an occasionally unscrupulous journalist, Bunny is completely earnest about his story and use of language. And as we know he lived to write this tale, we see our anti-hero facing peril but we never sense any danger. There aren’t enough twists to really justify the journey the reader takes, and the noir-suffused atmosphere and characters, like his side-kick Georg buried in the Guardian archives, busy finding Bunny new leads, too often lean towards caricature.
There is definitely a parallel pleasure in reading Slowly Burning, as we constantly wonder how much of Bunny’s story is imagined, and how much was taken directly from Jarrett’s own life as a newspaperman. And the novel is a moving portrait of ageing and a quickly fading way of life, not to mention being another showcase for Jarrett’s fine writing. But a strong voice – and Bunny is certainly a memorable narrator – is not quite enough to sustain a novel of this length when the plot and subject matter feel so well trodden.
The first of these banners was the Pembrokeshire Banner, which is on permanent display in the East Cloister, Saint David’s Cathedral, Pembrokeshire. Every year the Pembrokeshire Banner is paraded around the Cathedral in the Saint David’s Day Service by the Head Boy and Head Girl of Ysgol Dewi Sant whilst the children of Ysgol Bro Dewi Primary School sing the Saint David’s Day Anthem.
The Pembrokeshire Banner
Gwenno Dafydd’s maternal grandmother had a very strong connection with Montgomeryshire, having been brought up in Llangadfan where her father was the local school teacher. Gwenno’s great grandparents are both buried in the cemetery at Llangadfan and so she is thrilled that The Montgomeryshire Banner is the second of the County Banners to be completed.
Two textile artists Patricia Huggins and Angela Morris designed and made the banner to depict life in Montgomeryshire and the legacy left by St David. Contributions were also made by Pamela Higgs (drawing of Market Hall), Mavis Jones (Needle lace flowers), Shirley Kinsley (dove), Maureen Morris (dyed silk fabric) Also featured are elements from the tomb of the Herbert family to be found in the church of St Nicholas in the old county town of Montgomery.
In the centre of the banner sits the Montgomeryshire’s Coat of Arms, above which are a dove and some bees. St David was the patron saint of doves, bees and poets. The bees are very symbolic of Celtic mythology symbolizing here the Diaspora of the Welsh people. The bees are linked to many stories about St David. The bee also takes pride of place on the Pembrokeshire Banner, as they also do on the third County Banner, that of Carmarthenshire.
The needle lace flowers are the corn spurry, the county flower of Montgomeryshire. The carrying tabs at the top of the banner are the flag of St David and they also have bells attached which ring when the banner is carried
The banner is worked in dyed silk and the background features the rural life and scenery in Montgomeryshire. The hills, rivers, trees and sheep farming are all important aspects of the prosperity of the region.
The buildings featured are to be found in some of the main towns; The Clock Tower (Machynlleth), St David’s church (Newtown), Powis Castle (Welshpool), the Market Hall (Llanidloes) and the Town Hall (Montgomery).
Also depicted are three notable persons famous to Montgomeryshire. David Davies (1818-1890) a Liberal politician who built much of the railway network in Mid Wales and was a pioneer of the coal industry in the Rhondda valley. He is remembered for Barry Docks.
George Herbert (1593-1633) a poet whose parents are buried in the tomb in St Nicholas church Montgomery. Words attributed to George Herbert appear in the background of the banner “Kind words cost little and mean much”. These words also reflect the life and preaching of St David
Robert Owen (1791-1858) was a reformer and founder of utopian socialism and also the co-operative movement. He worked in the cotton industry in Manchester before setting up a large mill at New Lanark in Scotland. In 1824, Owen travelled to America to invest the bulk of his fortune in an experimental 1,000-member colony on the banks of Indiana's Wabash River, called New Harmony. New Harmony was intended to be a Utopian society.
The background is flanked by two columns inspired by the tomb of the Herbert family. On one column are the words “Cenwch y clychau I Dewi” (Ring out the Bells for St David) and “Gwnaeth y pethau bychain”(He did the little things) which resonate the last words of St David.
Construction techniques include hand and machine embroidery, quilting, appliqué, painting, machine made lace and handmade needle lace.
The Montgomeryshire Banner’s very first outing will be in the ‘All Saints’ Church in Newtown for their St David's Day Service on 27th January 2017.
Gwenno Dafydd - St David's Day Ambassador To The World
Gwenno Dafydd is the instigator of the Saint David's Day Anthem (Lyrics: Gwenno Dafydd Music: Heulwen Thomas) which was launched by The Presiding Officer of the Welsh Assembly Government, Lord Dafydd Elis Thomas in 2008. She has been promoting and developing Saint David's Day activities worldwide since 2006 when the Saint David's Day Anthem 'Cenwch y Clychau i Dewi' (Ring out the bells for Saint David) was performed in public for the very first time in the National Saint David's Day Parade in Cardiff. She has instigated the tradition of 'County Banners' throughout Wales to celebrate Saint David's Day. This year, the first County Banner, The Pembrokeshire Banner, which is kept on permanent display in the East Cloister in Saint David's Cathedral, will be joined by two new County Banners, those of Montgomeryshire and Carmartheshire.
The Saint David's Day Anthem, which will this year be sold from the very prestigious Ty Cerdd website, patron Karl Jenkins, alongside the music of Welsh composers such as Grace Williams, William Mathias, Morfydd Llwyn Owen and Gareth Glyn. The Saint David's Day Anthem has been performed not only in Wales but also numerous times in Canada, Los Angeles, Patagonia, Disneyland Paris and the Houses of Parliament. Every year the Pembrokeshire Banner is paraded around Saint David's Cathedral whilst local school children sing the Saint David's Day Anthem.
She has created an Iphone App to learn the Welsh National Anthem and is the author of 'Stand Up & Sock it to them Sister. Funny Feisty Females' which had been described by Funny Women, the UK's leading female comedy community as 'the ultimate canon of female stand-up comics'. She is a Leadership and Public Speaking Coach and works extensively via Skype and even has some clients in Los Angeles.
...
The man lay silently in the savannah grass of the Ngorongord valley in Tanzania.
He didn't dare breathe or move for startling the Thompson's gazelle that he had tethered to a small Acacia tree.
From his clothing, you would never have guessed that he was Welsh- only his WRU rubber wrist band on his right 'trigger' hand gave it away.
The Blackwood Dentist, Major Orion Jekyll- Hyde-Hunt, was the veteran predator of the Serengeti, as he approached his 75th Birthday intent on giving himself an early birthday present.
He wasn't using the little antelope for target practice- he was after much bigger prey.
During his 40 or so years, since he was honourably discharged from the Army, Major Hunt had spent most of his free time scouring the Dark Continent in pursuit of the 'Big Five'.
Elephant, Buffalo, Leopard, Rhinoceros and African Lion.
His house - called the 'Grange' -was filled with all kinds of 'trophies' of animal heads on his walls, mounted on wooden shields and was testament to the other love of his life- that of the 'dying' art of taxidermy.
To him there was no greater thrill of tracking his victim through the bush, shooting it and then skinning it and stuffing it and mounting it in his study wall.
He would have done that to his women to if UK Law would have allowed it.
He could not describe to an outsider, how big a man it made him feel to shoot a defenceless animal in cold blood.
It was the Major's biggest regret that he had missed the Second World War- on account of being too young- as he would have loved to have had the opportunity to shoot a man or better still a fellow Nazi.
His brain-washed army brain scanned the surrounding Serengeti Plain for signs of the pride.
He was after an African Lion which was on his 'to-do' list before he went to the 'Great White Hunter' in the sky.
The Major believed that all human life on Earth was Alien and came from a place close to the constellation of stars that he was named after.
The only Big Bang Theory that he believed in, was the big bang that came from the end of his hunting rifle.
And then he saw her.
A magnificent African Lioness of around 7 feet from head to the tip of her tail.
Just like in his native Blackwood, it was the women that did all the hard work- hunting and rearing their young- whilst the men laid around in the sun licking their own balls.
The Major didn't want to shoot this perfect evolutionary killing machine- he wanted Leo-the dominant male lion- the inappropriately named King of the Jungle (as Lions do not live in the Jungle but hunt on the open grassland of Central Africa).
The 'Mane Man' if you like- the Major had a vision of Leo, poking his head through the wall above his grey marble Louis X1Vth surround and open fire.
He knew that the lioness would have to kill the prey and then sit back while the dominant male would stroll over eat the 'lions share' of the raw meat and then leave her the leftovers for both her and the cubs.
Once again- like the Blackwood Men on a Friday Night with a kebab.
As in human life, there is a hierarchy or structure into which all animals - human or otherwise- fit- and he- Major Jekyll Hyde-Hunt complete with his high powered telescopic rifle had replaced Leo at the top of the food chain.
The Major wasn't interested in the environment or nature conservation.
He wasn't even interested in eating his prey.
He purely wanted to shoot the beast and brag to his social- climbing friends that he had the money and resources to do something they could not afford to.
When asked by his fellow Monmouth Golf Club members as to why he went to Africa to hunt- he replied arrogantly - because it was 'there'.
He even took in the severed hand of a Mountain Gorilla - an endangered species- so that he could use it as an ashtray for his Cuban cigars.
The Major was loved and loathed in equal measures by the elite golfing fraternity- most of whom secretly despised his opulence and attitude to life- but would not 'break cover' for fear of being ostracised from the 'Club'.
The Monmouth Club was an anachronism in the 21st Century with Members Rules that were a throwback to the days of the Raj in India.
Only the elite could afford its annual membership and green fees - so only the rich used it.
Back in the 21th Century, the Major used his excellent peripheral vision to spot the Head of the Pride, who was sitting in a small clearing of parched grass that he had flattened with his own body weight, casually flicking his tail at the tsetse flies that buzzed his massive bollocks.
He knew that he couldn't hit the beast at this range.
He would have to risk leaving his position and getting closer to the action.
As he did so- he could see the lioness dropping her shoulders and slowly padding forward towards the tethered gazelle- who was just beginning to pick up her scent.
It started to buck wildly and tried to pull herself free from the tree, as the lioness and the rest of the pride began to close in as one on the stricken animal.
Mercifully, the uneven contest was over very quickly, as the Lioness applied a choke hold to the little antelope's neck and the life quickly drained out of the poor creature, whose eyes were the only testament of the pain it felt in its final death throes.
Nature was both wonderful and cruel in equal measures.
The only difference is that animals hunt to eat while humans hunt just for sport.
Major Jekyll-Hyde-Hunt was just such a human.
He was regarded locally as a bit of an eccentric and a lot of a schizophrenic.
Most patients didn't return for treatment to him- as you didn't know which of the dentist's personas would turn up.
The mild mannered one or the raving lunatic one.
He was a nightmare for his nurses to work with, as he would throw instruments at them like he was a Zulu spear-chucker of the highest order at Rorke's Drift, when in his darker moods.
An Assegai from an Asshole Guy.
Yet on other occasions when Dr Jekyll was in the surgery, he could be the most caring, compassionate human being on the Planet.
Then he had patience with his patients.
But when he was in a rage -the only thing that seemed to calm him down was his love of killing innocent warm-blooded creatures.
His nurses would leave Hunting Magazines around the surgery and waiting room in an effort to distract their schizophrenic employer.
The Major, looked through his telescope lens, he could make out the lumbering shape of Leo ambling towards the dead antelope.
There was nothing more than Leo enjoyed than pawing his way through a Thompson Local.
The fact that the gazelle was still tied to the tree made it like a version of leonine swing-ball, as it batted back and for- losing body parts in each successive swing.
The Major held his head still, took a breath and held it without exhaling, as he steadied himself for the money shot.
There were lions all around and a circle of hyenas and other dogs hanging around the kill- waiting for the big cats to finish and take their 'lions share'-so they could scrap over the left-overs.
He was like Lee Harvey Oswald in that Dallas Book Depository just waiting for Jackal O to get its head out of the way so he could shoot the big guy.
As he finally got a clear shot- he lightly pressed to trigger only to hear a metallic clunk.
Something had clogged up the bullet chamber.
Orion could not believe it.
He cleaned his guns more meticulously than a baboon cleaned its red arse.
He inspected the bullet chamber and noticed that there was an obstruction.
As he pulled out the bullet- he could see the smiling face of Nelson Mandela beaming back at him.
There was a tiny African National Congress medal blocking the cylinder.
It was misshapen and bent and had scored the interior of the rifle.
How the Hell had that got there?
In an instant, he realised that last night at Base Camp, he remembered leaving his rifle unguarded for a few minutes outside whilst he used to 'Bush Telegraph' .
"I bet it was that little kid!" said the Major .
He was referring to one of the children of his 'Tour Guides' from the Masai-Mara tribe that had been hanging around his tent- the little disabled one with half a foot from stepping on a landmine- the one that he had clipped round the back of his head.
" I wished that I had hit that little Kaffe harder now!" said Orion.
Suddenly, the Major's blood ran cold.
He realised that the truck that had brought him out to this Protected Wildlife Reserve had buggered off.
What If in Post-Apartheid Africa, the tribespeople no longer had respect for their minority White Rulers and betters?
What if the same thing that happened in Zimbabwe- Rhodesia came to pass and the class structure was upset by revolution?
UDI or You Die?
It meant the same thing to a Great White Hunter with no transport or fresh water in a 300 mile radius.
Surely these people still relied on the illegal revenue that poaching brought to the tribe?
Bob Geldof and Live Aid couldn't have raised THAT much for the local economy?
All these questions started to go through the Major's head.
He appreciated that there were 'no flies on these people' but they wouldn't just leave a white man to die in the Serengeti with all these wild animals running about would they?
After all he would be missed wouldn't he?
The more questions he asked himself the worse his situation seemed.
He HAD been rude to the Guide, Boko Harram or whatever his name was...he couldn't pronounce it so why should he care what he was called.
His money too...surely they would care about that?
He remembered then he had breached his own rules.
His wallet containing his cash had been in the trouser pocket of his khaki shorts and would have been down around his ankles whilst he was distracted using the toilet.
With a ventilation gap under the door and the sides of the kharzi, any little pilfering hands- especially that a child- could have got his wallet out of the pocket.
The Major was in major trouble.
He checked his pocket for ammunition but found only around five bullets left.
He wasn't even sure if his gun would now fire in view of the damage caused by Nelson's Column.
For the first time in his privileged life, Major Jekyll-Hyde felt fear.
He was no longer the predator but was now potential prey and this new realisation brought with it a real sense of genuine terror.
Was Man the only animal intelligent enough to be scared by such a prospect or did that male Thompson's Gazelle killed by the pride early realise what was coming?
Did the animal rank the same as Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde, when it came to God's Master Plan for the Universe and would he get the blame from the Great Creator?
Either way the Buck stopped with him.
For the first time in his life- he felt insignificant.
Could he extricate himself from this life or death situation?
He knew it wouldn't be long before the predators on this vast grassland would pick up his scent- he prayed that they had not lost their fear of man and didn't view him just yet as 'prey'.
With successive holidaymakers and tourists invading this most sacred place on Earth- some of the animals associated human beings with the provision of food instead of actually being food.
But it was only a matter of time before that changed.
The Major decided he would have to be mentally tough as well as physically tough, if he was to survive this ordeal.
He looked at the hot African sun and noted its trajectory in the sky and decided his best bet was to head East towards the border with Kenya, and use the famous Mount Kilimanjaro as a guide.
He knew there were a few freshwater lakes up there in that area and that there were regular charity climbs by the Welsh Rugby Team and other Europeans - so he decided that would be his 'beacon' of hope.
He knew he would have to get rid of his scent to throw off any predators- so the first lump of elephant shit he came across, he would smear his body with as cover.
Lions were wary of elephants.
He decided he would use the long grass to stay out of sight- although it would be a risky strategy as he could just as easily stumble upon a lioness and her cubs which would mean an instant death.
But at least that would be an instant death.
His other big fear was that of standing on a poisonous snake and being bitten resulting in a slow lingering death.
He thought of how babyish some of his patients were in view of the fact they were living in their 'bubble existence' - being frightened of a small injection or a tiny filling.
Out here it was survival of the fittest and a life or death struggle with not just the elements but a lot of the deadly animals, reptiles and other critters found in the World.
He estimated that the journey at its shortest estimate would be at least a week, through some of the harshest terrain on the Planet.
Not like David Attenborough- who had all the creature comforts that the BBC could provide.
The Major cursed his luck and set off rifle in hand ready to make a great trek.
Every step could be his last - so he recced the area carefully before he moved on.
Like a commando, he would run in small bursts, take cover, watch for movement and then move on.
He estimated he had around five- six hours of sunlight left and he would try and find some cover - if possible off the ground to try and sleep.
He was aware that lions and snakes can both climb trees but the way he saw it - gravity would be his friend in that situation - and he needed all the help he could get if he would ever see Wales again alive.
Eventually, the line of tall grass stopped and the Major could see a vast plain of grass that had been grazed flat by the many herds of herbivores that inhabited this area.
Buffalo, antelope, zebras and giraffes to name but a few.
It never ceased to amaze the Major, at this living proof of Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution and the constant change in genetics and mutation that populated this landscape.
He knew that he had little option but to break cover and follow the herd to the nearest watering holes- (again like the Blackwood men) knowing full well that he would not be the only predatory creature doing the same.
In the searing heat, he pushed his safari hat down on his head - being grateful for the limited cover that the wide brim afforded his face.
In the far distance, he could see the heat hazes dancing like genies emerging from some unseen bottle.
Even the metal of his gun barrel felt 'steelworks' hot to the touch, as he slung it over his right shoulder as he began his yomp.
He knew finding fresh drinking water was his priority and also finding a receptacle he could use to carry it in.
Oh what he would give to find an empty Coca-Cola bottle or can, tossed from a visiting Wildlife fan- but there was none.
Just his luck -apart from Blackwood - it turned out to be the only place left on Earth with no litter.
He didn't like being exposed - out in the wide plain in full view of would- be- predators.
He knew he wasn't capable of outrunning them and being in his mid-seventies he couldn't 'stott'- like an antelope to show he was fit and healthy and capable of outrunning the opposition.
He knew full well that in nature it was survival of the fittest- and he was certainly not the fittest.
As he walked along as fast as his blistered feet would carry him, he noticed the giant termite mounds and an aardvark using his long tongue to get a meal in amongst the dust.
The last time he had seen a tongue that size it was attached to 'Kiss' lead singer Gene Simmons.
He marvelled at its ability to adapt to this barren terrain and the delicate ecosystem upon which it depended.
He didn't really care though- he shot it anyway- with one of the few remaining bullets- as he wondered what it tasted like.
Initially, he had missed the target by four feet- like shooting with an air-rifle with dodgy sights on a rigged Fairground booth.
He adjusted and made the appropriate allowance and hit the target right between the eyes.
He dragged the carcass to a nearby bush and began to light a fire by using two pieces of wood and rubbing them today.
The primitive peoples of the Masai Mara call them 'kaambebalongo' or 'magic sticks'.
The equally primitive people of Blackwood call them matches.
He created a wooden spit from some fallen dead branches and toasted the mammal over the fire.
The Major had to take a chance on cooking the creature- as he couldn't eat it raw- and realised that it was a risky strategy, as the smell of the meat cooking would undoubtedly draw attention which is why he had made camp under a small tree with low to high branches.
So when the inevitable predators came, he could merely climb out of danger and leave them have his leftovers.
He just hoped it wasn't a leopard or lion that fancied a piece of ant-eater- as it generally was not on their preferred menu.
Just before dusk- they came in the form of a pack of hyenas.
Each daring the others to make the first move on the Major.
Their black faces and tiny ears making these savage beasts look like soft and cuddly- when in reality they could rip apart a human in minutes.
As they are descendants of dogs - there was a silent mutual admiration for human beings which goes back to primitive times when cavemen first domesticated these canines- but the initial hesitancy and stand-off only lasts for a few minutes- especially when they are hungry.
The Major beat a hasty retreat to the upper branches - not wishing to waste any of his three remaining bullets on these wild dogs.
He grabbed a chunk of aardvark flesh and climbed as high as he could onto the few branches capable of supporting his weight.
He sat still frustrated that these scavengers would eat his dinner at his expense.
It was a similar feeling to that which he held on the subject of 'Family Allowance' payments to people who didn't want to work in his home Town.
From his safe perch, the Major looked up at the horizon and saw two long necked shadows in profile of the setting orangey-red sun - which must have been giraffes- he was surprisingly enchanted by this scene- as he remembered the one he had shot - a few years back- which he mounted and stuck through his conservatory roof- just to piss off the local Planning Department.
Life was so fragile and unpredictable- he could never have imagined this situation a week ago when he sitting in front of his hearth with an open-fire dressed in his bedroom slippers, cravat and 'Hefner' dressing-gown.
He looked in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro and it looked mystical- the summit surrounded by low cloud.
No wonder primitive people thought mountains were home of the Gods.
He was also surprised that he could hear the sound of the American Band 'Toto' playing the song 'Africa'.
Only to realise that he had left his MP3 player on.
Like an Oscar winning film of the 1980's- Major Orion Jekyll-Hyde just wanted to be 'Out of Africa' too.
He plotted his next move- as the last of the hyenas disappeared into the bush dragging the elongated nose of the dead anteater for them to chew on later.
The Major made himself as comfortable as was possible in a tree, linked his arms and legs around the branches like a sloth, tipped his hat over his eyes and nodded off to sleep.
It had been a long and eventful day.
His subconscious mind was whirring with thoughts, and proposed survival techniques that he was trying to recall from his army days.
He knew he would have to go 'native' if he was to survive this situation.
And boy did he love soft toilet tissue paper.
The Major awoke with the first rays of the sun.
He could feel something warm and sticky hitting his face.
He brushed his hand on his cheek and realised almost immediately that it was guano or bat shit to the uninitiated.
It stank to high heaven and was coming from one of the branches high above him.
It was almost like it was deliberate- that the Universe was trying to tell him something.
Or that the bat was the reincarnation of RAF trained 'Bomber' Harris.
Sonar or radar being their speciality- being used to hit a target in the dark.
The Major as he got over the shock of where he was- realised he would have to get moving soon.
It was much cooler at this time of day -as the Mid-Day sun directly overhead would cook him like a fried egg on this unforgiving Hell hole grill.
He mentally pointed himself in the direction of Kilimanjaro, set his MP3 to the minimal sound to conserve the battery, scanned the area for danger and then climbed down the trunk of the tree towards the ground.
He could hear all sorts of animals waking up- a cacophony of sound hit his ears- as he strained to identify if the noises were friend or foe- food or killer.
The scenery hadn't change much- inedible grassland and rotten trees.
There was no sign of water.
The best he could do was lick the moisture from the night off the tree leaves, before it evaporated and pray that the tree was not a poisonous variety.
He knew giraffes ate them - so logically - he hoped they would not be toxic.
His mouth was more parched than some of his diabetic patients.
He remembered why he had become a dentist in the first place.
He was a masochist not a sadist.
He enjoyed causing OTHER people pain but did not enjoy it himself.
In short- he could give it not take it.
Perhaps that is why he loved hunting so much- he loved the Power and hurt he could inflict on little animals.
Why did his ancestors bother fighting their way to the top of the food chain otherwise?
Rifle in hand, he carefully padded his way through the short grass- keeping a wary eye out for that hyena pack that had 'dogged' him last night.
Once again he yomped his way over the plains ignoring the pain from his blistered feet.
He knew that as the morning went on, the temperature would climb, and he would have to find some cover if he was to avoid heatstroke.
The climate of Central Africa was harsh at best to a pampered safari guest- but to have to revert to behaving like Victorian Explorers - Speke, Burton and Livingstone- as he 'presumed' that it must have been intolerable to have lived in such primitive times- let alone explore this mosquito-infested continent with its multitude of poisonous plants, dangerous wild animals and unfriendly natives must have been a nightmare.
The Major kept himself mentally alert by replaying in his mind- games of golf that he had played and won at the 'Rose' in Monmouth- as if nothing else if he could convince himself that the Serengeti plain was like walking a giant golf course, then he could pretend and ignore the harshness of his situation.
For every 18 miles that he walked- he felt like they were one 'hole' closer to the 19th Hole- or Club-house - that he could take that long awaited cool drink.
Suddenly, the Major made a startling discovery that would change his situation for the better.
No - it was not a 4x4 Range Rover hidden in the long grass.
It was a dead female elephant carcass, with its tusks removed.
Most normal human beings would have been reviled by the sight, but not the Major.
He being an accomplished taxidermist saw this as an opportunity.
He surmised that it had been shot quite recently by poachers for the ivory tusks.
It was covered in flies and had been pretty much stripped by all sorts of scavengers- with this once magnificent creature that was a direct descendent of the woolly mammoth, now just part of the eco-system and another meal on the Serengeti diners menu.
The Major was surprised to see that behind the remains of the fallen creature, was her dead calf too.
He had died standing up - probably from hunger or shock at the demise of his Mother.
In any event, the Major got to work quickly on the carcass with his Swiss army knife, quickly removing the remaining innards of the baby beast and placing its skin and head out to dry in the sun.
Like the flies all around him - the Major was busy 'hatching' a plan to aid his survival.
Within half an hour- he held the complete wrinkled skin of the baby elephant and like a scene from the 'Silence of the Lambs' he proceeded to wear it- trunk and all.
Like he was wearing a pantomime costume from 'Marigolds' in Brynmawr- the sunburned dentist took cover under the cool skin.
He knew that if he could find the rest of the herd- he would stand a greater chance of survival- as the elephants would lead him to water and offer great protection from the plains predators.
Like Lord Greystoke had become Tarzan before him.
Now the Major had transformed into a Jumbo.
He tried in vain to blow down the trunk of the elephant- but he was not musically trained to play the pachyderm.
The best he could do was raise a tiny squeak.
Now given the size of an African Elephant's ears, to Sir David Attenborough it would have come as no surprise that this sound would have been heard one mile away by the orphan elephant's aunt named Nelly.
She had been searching frantically for the 'orphan-ifant' and her sister for hours.
She headed in the direction of the sound before coming crashing through the savannah and light bush only to stumble on the horrific scene.
The Dentist hidden inside the 'Babar- elephant-skin raincoat' knew it was a life or death gamble, he was playing but what choice did he have?
He had to pretend he was a distraught elephant calf and walked about on all fours- raising the front paws by the aid of two tree branches.
Nelly smelt her nephew and prodded and poked him with her tongue and trunk.
She knew something wasn't right but her proboscis senses told her it smelled just like her relative.
She was distracted by the grief of seeing her fallen sister, who less than 24 hours ago was a living, but alopecia version of a Mastodon dinosaur.
She rubbed her sisters back and tried unsuccessfully to use her trunk and lift the fallen creature.
It was like trying to raise a single Blackwood mother from her DFS Sofa during an episode of Jerry Springer-it was completely hopeless.
The Major- like an inverted elephant rider-or inside mahout- all the while shuffled about like he was vulnerable- in the hope of pricking the Cow Elephant's maternal conscience.
He had never seen an elephant cry before- not even Disney's Dumbo- he assumed that they were dumb animals, with no sense of family or emotion.
These animals were starting to get under his skin- in a strange role reversal.
Eventually Nelly gave up the ghost, indicated for 'Babar' to follow her and slowly began crashing her way through the undergrowth in the direction of the herd.
Every so often she would raise her trunk in the air and give a toot for directional advice from her siblings.
When the Major finally caught up with the elephants- he was shocked to see how massive these creatures were and how gentle and affectionate they were towards each other, especially the dominant bull elephant that he christened 'Colonel Harty'
The hard hearted hunter was softening in view of his new experiences.
He knew that if any of his new travelling companions really wanted to they could crush him underfoot or break every bone in his aging body with one clout from their muscle-bound trunks.
He attached himself to the tiny tail of his newly adopted 'Aunt Nelly' and followed closely, as the herd blazed a trail through the jungle, crashing foliage, scoffing leaves and leaving 'behind' massive green 'jungle pizzas' as they went.
Relieving themselves by scratching their wrinkled arse-skin on the bark of trees.
Being at the back of the herd, the Major didn't have the best view of the World, as he stared up at the rump of Nelly, as it waddled and swayed along to the Jungle rhythm.
With all that ageing grey skin and furrowed lines, it reminded him of Helen Mirren on that L'Oreal advert under Brooklyn Bridge.
Not so much mutton dressed as lamb - more like crows- feet walking in play-doh.
The march was nearly thirty minutes long and during that time the dentist amused himself by checking the dead calf's teeth as they went.
" You need to brush those back wisdom teeth more thoroughly and those gums look a bit enflamed...I thought you elephants never forget?" said the Major tripping back onto Mr Hyde mode.
Eventually, the herd stopped at a small watering hole near Olduugi Gorge which had a beautiful waterfall cascading down from the rocks above.
It was really refreshing, as the herd used their trunks like portable shower pipes, spraying each other communally as part of a bathing ritual.
No ticks or insects stood a chance against these pressure hoses- as they were sprayed off into the water pool.
Not on your Nelly.
The Major suddenly noticed that the once sizeable herd had started to disappear.
But where were they disappearing too?
He made his way towards his adopted Aunt who was wading through the shallow water towards the waterfall and what appeared to be on close inspection a cave beyond it.
As he followed, taking a battering from the force of the water overhead, as he did so he was instantly blinded by the darkness of the cave.
As his eyes were struggling to adjust to the new light- he decided to remove the head of the dead baby elephant in order that he could squeeze through a gap to see out the other end of the cavern.
" My oh-my-....this must be the fabled Alley Barbar's cave!" he said to himself.
His voice booming around the walls with an echo.
Head under his arm, the Major walked like the Victorian ghost of John Merrick, as he made his way through the dark recesses of the Mountain.
He was shocked to see that behind the cave was an entire secret valley filled with the remains of generations of dead elephants, hiding amongst ancient African hardwood trees.
He had stumbled upon an elephant's graveyard.
All around him were white bones and yellow tusks that had lain here undiscovered for Centuries.
There was more ebony and ivory than both of Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney's keyboards.
The Major suddenly reverted to kind.
What was the street value of this little lot?
He knew he would have to get out of this elephant costume soon otherwise he felt he would be rumbled.
His plan had worked the elephants had led him to water but also inadvertently to their version of
Nel Dorado.
As he tried in vain, to get the elephant 'wet' suit off- he struggled as he had done too good a job of sowing himself in.
Try as he might, he could get out the conventional way.
He would have to find another means.
***************************************************************************
Kenyan Poachers, Ness Kaffe and D-Caff looked down at the watering hole somewhat mystified.
They knew that the African elephant was an endangered species and were disappearing fast -but not that fast.
Where had the entire herd gone?
They couldn't have ALL drowned in that little pool.
The pair weren't necessarily bad lads but they had to feed their family somehow.
They had tried to avoid the 'gang' culture by being employed by the Kenyan Coffee Company to grow the coffee beans- but it was really hard work.
D-Caff had tried a brief foray into rap music but it didn't pay as well as Ivory poaching did.
It was a return to the days of slavery - only economic slavery this time- ruled over by the white overseers and masters who gave all the orders.
Having to 'complete' with Brazilian and Columbian coffee, also meant that they didn't get a 'Fair Trade' price for breaking their backs in the hot African sun.
They were convinced that the 'white man' was the spawn of the devil.
As the baby elephant emerged from beneath the waterfall, the pair were shocked to see what appeared to show a White Man slowing emerging from the elephants arsehole.
The pair looked at each other like it was a Ju-Ju or curse and fled back towards their battered stolen Mercedes car left behind from the Top Gear African special.
The Major struggled to get out of the wet suit.
He realised that he had done TOO good a job on sewing himself into the elephant suit and the only aperture left big enough to squeeze through was the bum of the dead creature.
He wondered what any would-be witness to the scene would make of it.
However, the Major knew he was now - give or take a deviation- at least 200 miles from any civilisation - the closest being likely to be at the base of Mount Kilimanjaro.
Now - thanks to the elephants - he had a supply of clean drinking water- all he needed to do was to find a receptacle to carry it in.
He hunted the edge of the pool, lifted some vegetation but couldn't find anything to use.
He was just about to give up and try a different tack when something caught his eye- glinting in the sun.
It was a shiny plastic water bottle containing the logo of the London Olympic Games 2012.
As he fished it out it of the water, he could see an inscription of 'Go Mo for Bo Jo' written on the side.
It had also had a mark to show it had come from the Mayor of London's Office.
How could something have travelled this far- end up in an African lake...probably Labour wasting money again on foreign junkets he assumed.
" Livingstone... I presume?" said the Major.
Whatever was the cause, he was grateful for its use.
He filled it up to the brim, sealed off the top and started in the direction of Mount Kilimanjaro.
As he left the safety of the elephant herd behind, he made a mental note of its location - should he return one day to claim the fortune in ivory- hidden in that secret valley.
The Major could see in the distance the reason why the sacred mountain was known as the 'Roof of Africa'- as its summit was shrouded in low cloud and looked like the front cover of 'The Teardrop Explodes' Album.
It was quite an impressive sight, especially as in the foreground you could see animals as far as the human eye could see, as if clinging to the shadow of this monument of nature for safety.
Stripy Zebras- like horses in black n white pyjamas, long-necked giraffes, antelopes of every description and of course- the predators who relied on these creatures to survive.
It was an eco-system with a diverse habitat that was being destroyed slowly by mankind.
The Major marvelled at the scene- and was mightily impressed at the speed of a thirsty Mo Farrah running away from a pursuing cheetah.
This land was the cradle of civilisation.
It was a shame humans had been allowed entry to the Garden of Eden - as clearly they have spoiled it.
The Major stopped dead in his tracks - as an equine creature shot across his path.
Holding a full driving licence -he was programmed by society to stop at every zebra crossing.
He was also instinctively programmed to shoot on sight too.
Whilst he aimed for its head- the bullet ended up tearing a nearby okapi a new arsehole.
It startled him, as even so called 'family animals' in the wild were potential killers too.
He was aware of the fact that the biggest 'initial' killer in Africa - after ISIS, AIDS, and HIV was in fact the hippopotamus.
They, just like crocodiles can outrun a human (Mo Farrah excepted) over a short distance, have a body weight that is the equivalent of Vanessa Feltz standing on your toes in high heeled shoes, and a powerful jaw that can snap a man in half.
The Major staggered on - as the sun blazed down on him- he now had blisters on his blisters and knew that it was only his iron will to survive that was keeping him from being the next meal on the flying vulture menu.
He was thirsty, starving and scared half to death.
Perhaps, it was karma paying the old dentist back for all of those years that -he- the 'driller killer' had caused pain and suffering to other people and defenceless animals.
But there is another saying- 'shit floats' and perhaps this was the reason that he stumbled upon a nomadic member of the Masai Mara Tribe.
It was the first time in his life that the Major looked pleased to see a fellow human being.
The tribesman known as Cowadunga was startled by the 'ghost'- as he had not seen a White Caucasian before, but had heard tales from his ancestors about the appearance of the White Man being associated with bad luck and of course slavery.
"Kanyo Iyesita Oloiborry Endira?" he asked.
Which translated to:-
" What are doing White Devil?".
Cowadunga was frightened that he was an evil spirit come to take him or his beloved cattle away.
Neither man could speak a word of each other's language.
The Major stared at the pearly white teeth of the tribesman and was impressed with his dental hygiene.
How did he keep them that clean without toothpaste or a toothbrush?
What Den-Plan was he on?
He - like all Englishmen abroad- arrogantly expected the tribesman to speak the Queens English- after all it was the language of the internet.
Cowadunga -even if he could have understood him- he wouldn't know what the internet, broadband or a toothbrush was for that matter.
He could see that the Major had a rifle over his shoulder, and he had witnessed first-hand what a bullet could do to him or his animals- so he took several steps back away from the 'Endira'.
As he did so, the Major began to follow him.
He tried to use body language - by offering him the open palm front gesture to show he meant no harm- but Cowadunga had decided he would do a 'Mo Farrah' and put as much distance between him and the 'slaver' as he could.
The Major was shocked at the speed of the tribesman.
He had never seen anything move that fast- not that is -since that time as a kid, when he stuck a red hot poker up the arse of his pet tomcat.
As Cowadunga ran, his feet disappeared in a cloud of dust like he was a modern day roadrunner bird.
The Major thought briefly about shooting him, but decided it wasn't worth wasting a precious bullet.
Instead, he just stole his lunch and headed on towards the sacred Mountain.
He was very grateful for the milky drink, cow cheese and strip of biltong that Mrs Cowadunga had packed her husband that morning.
Further on, the terrain of the ground began to change- as did the animals.
In the rocky foothills leading to Mount Kilimanjaro, the Major encountered a flange of baboons, a couple of chimpanzees and the occasional Mountain Gorilla in the descending mist.
The temperatures in the Third World began to cool to just 96 degrees in the shade.
He laboured on until he was no longer physically able to walk- looking for a safe place to bed down for the night.
Like most humans- he had an innate fear of the dark and the time just before Dawn, he found the blackest.
He looked up at the beautiful starlit sky and once again marvelled at how insignificant he was, compared to the infinite galaxy of constellations that shone down from the Heavens.
There was even a constellation named after him- not Orion the Hunter- but that of the 'Great Bear'.
Just like Jekyll-Hyde- the 'Bear' was split in two personalities:-
Ursa Major and Ursa Minor.
And just like the Welshman you could not predict which one would come out at night.
The Major made himself as comfortable as he could in a tiny Acacia tree.
If only birdwatcher Billie Oddie could see him perched up on the middle branches- he really would 'twitch'- at the sight of this unusual bird.
He felt about as comfortable as Christopher Biggins would be in a thong.
But 'Safari -so Goodie' - he had thus far by some miracle the Bore with the Twelve Bore, had survived his 'Great Trek' across South Africa and reached the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro.
He had a lot of climbing up massive stonewalls tomorrow ahead of him- so he knew he needed to preserve his strength and get some shut-eye.
As he hung his weapon over the tree branch, and then his gun too, he started to drift off.
Every so often his leg would involuntarily spasm in a hypnic jerk, as his daytime motor control of his muscles failed to switch off.
It was a residual reaction left over from mankind's primitive arboreal past to prevent him toppling out of his perch.
The time when the first African man lived in trees- just like the modern-day 'Blackwood' Dentist.
When the Major awoke at first light- he had found that his toes and fingers had instinctively curled around the branches of the acacia- with his nob acting as an anchor too.
As he rubbed the 'eye snot' from his sleepy eyes, he blinked at the new Dawn.
He left off an almighty fart- that startled the Serengeti and sent a herd of rhinoceroses into a crash.
He stretched up with his arms and yawned loudly.
He rubbed a couple of pesky ants off his neck.
He then proceeded mentally to choose the easiest pathway up the ancient grey rocks - selecting to begin his assent up a narrow ravine.
He knew that one like a sewage worker during a 69 session - one slip and he would be in the shit.
But he had precious little option.
He would climb the rocks and then discharge his gun into the air to see if he could attract attention.
He would then wave his arms around and make a stone SOS signal on the ground, in the hope someone could spot it from the air.
As he reached the narrow cleft in the rocks- he proceeded to climb it with his back pressed firmly against the other side.
He knew a few days ago, the fuller figured dentist would not have fitted the aperture, but the newly malnourished African version would.
Ursa Major was evolving into Ursa Minor.
The Big Hunter had lost so much weight- he was now the Big Hunt.
Most of his disgruntled ex-patients had called him a version of that too.
The Major knew that he simply HAD to hold out for the 70 foot 'chimney-sweep-style' climb.
The 'Great Bear' Grylls had to grow a pair, if he wanted to live to see his phoney pals at the Golf Club again and 'brag' about his latest ordeal.
He remembered his climbing technique training from the Army and of course actor Gregory Peck in 'The Guns of Navarone'.
Each foothold and handhold was important.
You didn't release one until the other three were firmly planted in position.
Like a caterpillar version of Chris Bonnington, the gravity-defying inch-worm hunchback, crawled his way up the steep sided rock- carefully selecting his holds as he went.
In that heat, human sweat could be deadly and act as an unwanted finger lubricant.
With his rounded back touching the opposite wall of the narrow crevasse, he climbed up unaided thrown the narrowest point of the gap between the rocks.
His hunchback was hurting him and he also had a lot of cramp in his leg muscles- as his 'Charlie' and his 'Charley Horse' both slowed his progress.
His rifle too slung over his back was another impediment, as it swung violently, as he tried to fight the natural elements.
Once he had passed the point of no return, the Major had a plan to place his hands and feet on opposite sides of the chasm and power himself up the rocks like a star-jumping frog, using his entire body strength and speed to rise to the top of the 'chimney'.
It was a gamble but he had no other option.
He knew it was all or nothing.
He let go of the rock and tried to 'starfish' his way up to safety.
He hoped that once there he could build his distress boulder message in the hope of being rescued.
After all the Mountain had achieved charitable status itself, with everyone from Irish Models in red stiletto heels, to Welsh Rugby Captains and even Lord Geldof of Live Aid Fame raising money by climbing its peak.
As he made it to the top of the opening, the Major was expecting to see hordes of people, walking passed in fancy dress- Bugs Bunny costumes, blue feathered ostriches or Superman outfits- but there was no one around.
He was sweating and straining, preparing himself mentally for the final grab from his X wing position, when out from a small bush came a voice.
" Allo Der" said the African Man.
As he smiled he revealed perfectly white teeth to the sun and dazzled the Major in the process.
Blinded by the Sun God Amun Ra - the Major instinctively raised his right arm to protect his eyes from the glare of the reflected sun.
This move proved fatal, as he then fell face first back down the rock-face- much quicker than he had climbed it.
As he fell he once again wondered who was doing the veneers around here.
He landed with great force face up in the gap in the rocks wedged tighter than a pair of Cyril Smith's underpants.
The African stood on the edge of the vertical drop and shouted down to the Major.
" U' allright down der Man?"
" Not really!" replied the Major.
" Who the Devil are you anyway?"
The African tossed him down a business card which he caught in his open hands.
He read the card aloud.
" Idi Amin Junior- Last Prince of Scotland Tours of Kilimanjaro- Proprietor."
" You gander?" asked the African.
" Yes...but what are you doing in Tanzania?" replied the trapped dentist- ironically performing his last ever filling.
The poor man was trapped with his head facing up - as was his rifle - both pointing skyward like a Grenadier guard on parade.
The Major knew that he was hundreds of miles away from the nearest hospital and the chance of any form of rescue was out of the question.
This cleft in the rocks would be his final resting place on Earth.
And the responsibility for this had to fall squarely on the shoulders of the exiled Dictators Son.
" Sorry about that... but my family has a habit of making people disappear!" said the African peering over the edge tentatively.
" When I heard it was Kilimanjaro ....I didn't realise I had to take the first part LITERALLY!" said the Major.
He tempted the African out of cover by deliberately speaking quietly.
" What did you say Bwana?" asked Idi.
" Is there anybody else up there with sense that could get me out of my predicament?"
" No....nobody on Der Mountain till (he looked at his booking schedule) October...one Month from now!"
At that point the taxidermist knew he was stuffed.
It was now or never if he was to tick his last box on his Bucket List.
The Major fired off his shot which went straight up in the air, just missing the African's ear as it went.
" You nearly shot me then!" he screamed back down the abyss as the bullet sailed on and on up into the air.
The Major was disappointed that he had missed his quarry despite the fact he himself had not missed his.
" One bullet left!" he cursed.
He didn't want to die slowly of dehydration of starvation.
He would save that for emergency.
But there is a saying what goes up must come down, and this equally applies to bullets.
Whilst the bullet had missed it's target on first flight- it didn't miss poor Idi on the way back - as it struck him on the back of the ostrich feathered headdress on the way back down.
He teetered on the edge for a split second then plummeted lifelessly down the chasm towards the trapped climber.
He landed with a thump which knocked the Major free but sent him to a crumpled heap on the floor.
All broken and twisted he lay unconscious and oblivious to pain- a bit like it his old patients were under the old dentists black mask of gas.
But then he came around and realised that he had more broken bones than Motorcyclist Barry Sheen.
He was in excruciating pain- like a combination of all the root canal fillings he had ever given in his life.
Like Karma balancing out all the suffering he had caused during his dental career- which secretly he had enjoyed administering.
He decided that the only way forward was to put the rifle under his chin and shoot himself.
He pointed the rifle up and after a few seconds of deliberation and silent prayer- he squeezed the trigger.
The dodgy sight and bent barrel meant it missed the dentist- only taking off the tip of his nose before hitting an innocent monkey in a tree near the rocks- sending him plummeting to his death.
"Major Mistake!" he said as he collapsed in agony- knowing that he was food for the African vultures flying close-by.
" Orion- you really are a Big Hunt!".
