Tagged: y teithiwr twp
Y Teithiwr Twp at Cwmdeithas Yr Iaith Gigs With 'Y Brodyr Magee' at the Welsh National Eisteddfod
Outside the slate mining town of Blaenau Ffestiniog, in the foothills of Snowdon, in Trawsfynydd, is a house with the “black chair.” Yr Ysgwrn was built in the 1830’s and only one family lived in it until 2012, when Gerald Williams sold the house to the Snowdonia National Park. It has since been renovated for visitors, but maintains the look it would have had in 1917 – the year Ellis Humphrey Evans, known by the bardic name Hedd Wyn, was killed in a battle in WWI. The bardic chair at the National Eisteddfod is awarded to a living poet, but Hedd Wyn died in battle on August 31, 1917, and was awarded the chair before news arrived of his death. When the ceremony was held for the award, the chair was draped in black, and has famously become known as Y Gadair Ddu.
I visited Yr Ysgwrn three days before the 100th anniversary of the death of Hedd Wyn. A bilingual tour of the house was given, and during the tour, Gerald, who still lives nearby on the property popped in to say hello.
Gerald lived in the house with seven bardic chairs awarded to Hedd Wyn, and kept the house basically unchanged through the years. He did not have a refrigerator. He used a slate pantry to keep things cool. His oven and the heating for the house were the same wood stove from the days of Hedd Wyn. When he moved out to allow for the renovation, he insisted that the place remain as the home it would have been for Hedd Wyn, instead of becoming a stuffy museum. Gerald appears to be cut out of the same cloth as one of Wales most famous 20th century poets, R.S. Thomas, who was a bit of a cantankerous prophet – seeing the machine of anglicized modernization as the death of the Welsh langauge and the rural Welsh community spirit.
Gerald walked into the room during the tour, was introduced to everyone, and upon discovering that I was an American who spoke a bit of Welsh, smiled, hung and my arm, and talked with me for a while.
The scenery around Yr Ysgwrn evokes poetry. A hundred years after the death of the Welsh Bard, Hedd Wyn’s home and his story touched my heart as deeply anything I’ve experienced on this trip. If you listen closely enough, musical words bounce on the winds from the surrounding mountains and valleys.
Gwae fi fy myw mewn oes mor ddreng,
A Duw ar drai ar orwel pell;
O'i ôl mae dyn, yn deyrn a gwreng,
Yn codi ei awdurdod hell.
Pan deimlodd fyned ymaith Dduw
Cyfododd gledd i ladd ei frawd;
Mae sŵn yr ymladd ar ein clyw,
A'i gysgod ar fythynnod tlawd.
Mae'r hen delynau genid gynt
Ynghrog ar gangau'r helyg draw,
A gwaedd y bechgyn lond y gwynt,
A'u gwaed yn gymysg efo'r glaw.
Y Teithiwr Twp #11 – Yn yr Ysgubor efo Meinir Gwilym (in the barn with a cute Welsh pop star)
By , 2017-09-08
The week of concerts began on the first Saturday of the Welsh National Eisteddfod. I had already been on the Rebel Alliance farm for four days. Cymdeithas Yr Iaith Cymraeg was running affordable concerts – designed for the not-so-well-off people - at Penrhos Dairy Farm, and it was not an official part of the National Eisteddfod events. Thus, I dubbed them “The Rebel Alliance”. Gwyn and I had been helping Pastor Rhys Llwyd from Caersalem Church in Caernarfon, and Ieuan the farmer and his farm hands to convert the barn into a concert venue.
The first Saturday started off big. Bryn Fon was the draw of the Saturday night. The heartthrob actor/musician from the 80’s/90’s packed the cow house with screaming women of all ages, but it definitely leaned a little gray. Over the week Candelas, Meinir Gwilym (one of my favorite Welsh songwriters), The Welsh Whisperer, Steve Eaves, Bob Delyn, Gai Toms (one of my favorite people and favorite performers), and Geraint Jarman (the Welsh version of Mick Jagger) took the stage at our little cow palace. Tuesday night became a night of bards, and the poets took over the evening. The cows were getting milked at 6am and 4pm, and by 8pm the people rolled in and the music began each night.
There were some acts of particular note during the weeklong event. Candelas performed a set as tight as any I’ve ever seen. They were professional in every respect, and as approachable as your next door neighbor. Of course, I am assuming you have an approachable neighbor. Steve Eaves is the consummate professional as well, and he has a long history of great folk rock in Wales. His set was emotional and beautiful. Geraint Jarman rocked the house, and even in his seventies, he pops around the stage with his gangly, lanky frame and performs his reggae infused Welsh rock to make your body move. Meinir Gwilyn’s set was as fun as I had expected, and even more fun when I was able to hang out with Meinir a bit after the show, and again a couple days later on the main Eisteddfod field. The Welsh Whisperer is an act that transitions between bands, and introduces the performers, but is as entertaining as any of the bands. But, the surprise of the week was my friend Gai Toms. I’ve seen Gai perform solo a few times. I even jammed with him, when we first met in Washington D.C. This was the first time I had seen Gai perform with a full band, and he knocked it out of the cow pasture. The drummer was playing with him for the first time, but it didn’t matter. The band was tight. The performance was funny, emotional, dramatic and musically stunning all at once. I told Gai, “I used to like you…but after tonight, I love you.” Gai gets my nod for best performance of the Penrhos Farm/Cymdiethas Yr Iaith Cow Palace Festival. Well, that’s my name for the event.
On the second weekend of the National Eisteddfod, I met Meinir on the Maes (the main field of the event). We talked music, we talked Welsh langauge, and we talked about life in North Wales, and I recorded the time together. Please check out the interview. It will be worth your eight minutes. Meinir is one of the kindest, most approachable people you can find, and considering her popularity in the Welsh language music scene, that is noteworthy.
I also spent some time with one of the most engaging and happy groups of the Cow Palace Festival. Y Brodyr Magee (The Magee Brothers) from nearby Caergybi (Holyhead) were in the house for one of the evenings. This group of brothers ranging from nine years old to late twenties sang traditional Welsh songs, had some originals, and were as cool a group of brothers as one an find. Move over Jackson 5! I spent a few minutes talking with them, and you can catch that interview here on AmeriCymru as well.
By the end of the week, I was knackered (one of those words an American learns to say in the UK). Since my flight was heading off early Monday, I had to beat feet for London before the barn was returned to its pre-concert venue state. I said my goodbyes to the boys on the farm, and Ieuan told me to return anytime I was anywhere near Bodedern, Ynys Mon, North Wales. I will definitely be back to say hi to Ieuan and the gang, but I imagine next time it will just be the girls getting milked in the back who will be singing.
Bodedern is nearly at the end of Ynys Mon (Anglesey) – not far from Holyhead and the ferries to another shore. This is where the Welsh National Eisteddfod is going to be this year. The Welsh National Eisteddfod is a festival of Welsh language and culture. Now, it is only a few days before the pomp begins, and the Gorsedd of the Bards don their robes for the crowning and the chairing of the bards. The small two lane roads are all a bustle with construction and road crews hoping to complete their work before the weekend and the Gorsedd strike. The maes (field) for the event is just out of town, before you reach the little one shop and a post-office village. But as for me, I am hanging out with the rebel crew in a barn on a dairy farm.
Cymdeithas yr Iaith (Society for the Language) once ran Maes B – the youth field. Maes B is where the Eisteddfod sends the kids for their rock n’ roll. In a squeaky clean poetry and classical music event with white robed “druids” awarding medals and crowns and chairs, Maes B is a coming of age party for Welsh language youth sneaking in pints and who knows what else. But, back in the early part of the century (the century we now live in) Cymdeithas yr Iaith lost their spot running the gigs to corporate interest and hopes of raising funds for the Eisteddfod. So, the rebels that they are, they have been running an affordable fringe concert event ever since. As is usually the case, my friends are part of the rebel alliance. Of course, its really not as dramatic as I am making it sound. The Gorsedd do not wear the white of Storm Troopers. But then again, we are setting up our week-long set of gigs in the village – on Ieuan’s dairy farm, inside the barn, and that’s where you can find me.
I have been pounding stakes into the field to map out parking and camping locations. I have climbed ladders to set pigeon spikes on the rafters of the barn, so that Bryn Fon and Meinir Gwilym don’t get pooped on while performing. I’ve been shoveling gravel to fill holes in the drive, and setting up multiple levels of safety fencing, because the cows need protection from the concert goers, and someone perchance might climb over brambles and fences to fancy a drunken swim in the slurry pond. But, all this work is the easy part. The challenge of week for me is doing it in Welsh. I am not succeeding well at this task.
The accents in the North of Wales befuddle me. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between Welsh and English when these accents are added to a discussion. All the work is being done in Welsh this week, and I am able to catch about 70% of any conversation. Unfortunately, the other 30% is usually the critical part that defines the parameters of the dialogue. It all feels like being on a train, and trying to listen to the train conductor as the train nears the next station. Train conductors are taught to speak clearly until the pertinent info arrives:
“Mind the gap between the train and the platform. Our next stop ibsn Frnkl@#34kjbqwcz.”
This is how my brain is processing information in Welsh this week. It comes to me something like this, “We still need to i9uerig%$jvbc in the field, and niuyqg&@#swx87ubwec.”
Americanwr Twp ydwi. But at least I’m giving it a college try out in the rebel alliance fferm in Bodedern.
Due to the number of festivals I have attended over the last 2 months, I have spent more time hanging between trees in my hammock tent than in any bed in a room with a shingled roof overhead. But, don’t feel sorry for me. This is a planned adventure – a bit of Jack Kerouac without the sex and drugs. More like a British version with camping in noisy rock festivals, and the Welsh cheering the long sunny days as though they were some kind of minor miracle.
The second weekend of July brought me into the valleys north of Cardiff, and the sunny days were still smiling on the Welsh summer. In a little village near Caerphilly named Rudry, which some of the Cardiffians have never heard of, at the village parish hall, is a folk festival called Between the Trees. Needless to say, I would be quite at home here. I had already spent a bit of time on and off with my friends Andrew and Dawn in Gwaelod y Garth. Andrew Thomas is a proper good, mildly rebellious Welshman who also happens to be one of the founders of Between the Trees. I had arrived at Andrew’s place shortly after the massive Glastonbury Music Festival in Pilton, and a quick revisit to the wonderful little New Age-y hippie town of Glastonbury, and then the work began. I was here to help with the festival. It is always far more fun to help work in a festival than it is to simply be a “punter.” My first task was to help my friends Charlie and Becky set up the lighting: strings of white lights 12 feet of the ground around the festival site, and colored flood lights on the perimeter giving an ambient glow to the trees surrounding the field. I had done this with Charlie in another festival back in May, but now he was busy moving out of his apartment, so Becky and I set up the posts and strung the lights around the grounds, and decided we were the new lighting masters. Move over Charlie!
Andrew cleared a cozy little gathering space in the woods, and I dragged hay bales into the clearing. This was going to be the place for my shenanigans during the festival. I was slated to lead a poetry workshop, arrange for some poetry sessions and storytelling, and lead an evening of Cigars, Whisky, and Philosophy.
After three days of set up, running around picking up supplies with Andrew, the two-day festival began. Friday evening started as we had only just finished the lighting, and the set up crew was busily buzzing around in that semi-panicked state known to all festival organizers. I had already made a mild stir for being the American who spoke Welsh. There were a few fluent speakers I tried to keep up with, and a whole lot of people who felt mildly guilty, because the American spoke Welsh better than they did. But, it was all good fun and we drank beer, listened to live music from local bands, and talked about life. As the night ended, I found a place in the trees to hang my hammock tent, and slipped into my little cocoon, as one noisy bird periodically screeched at me through the night.
On Saturday morning, after breakfast, I went into my cozy little hay bale nook of the woods. It was a fortunate location from which to work, because the day was sunny and muggy-hot. With a group of 8 people, we held a poetry workshop, and I had everyone write a limerick, because limericks are fun way to learn rhyme, meter, and include a short story within the small poem. I was wearing a tall steampunk hat, which had been given to me by some new friends from a conference in Sheffield. (The picture of me playing the guitar shows the wild hat.) Consequently, I ended up as the topic of some of the limericks. For example:
There once was a man with a hat
And people would flee when he sat
He brought a foul scent
Wherever he went
Because in his hat he had shat
Later that same day, I ended up playing a short music set to cover for one of the musicians who could not make the festival. A few of the limericks were read, and so I became the font of laughter again. I ended my short music set with a Welsh translation of the doxology, which translated into Welsh in the 1700s.
I Dad y trugareddau i gyd
rhown foliant, holl drigolion byd;
llu'r nef moliennwch, bawb ar gân,
y Tad a'r Mab a'r Ysbryd Glan.
That evening a group of about 30 people gathered in our cozy little clearing in the woods, and we held a lively philosophical discussion about language and oppression. My nerdy interests in post-colonial theory came out, and soon the discussion danced around the subject of English oppression of the Welsh language through the centuries, and how this affected Welsh culture and life. There were two fluent Welsh speakers in the group, a large smattering of people who had been taught Welsh in school, but felt guilty that they did not speak the language better, and some random slightly nervous Sais (Englishmen). The discussion was friendly, but a clear tension was evident, and it was not a tension between the English and the Welsh, rather it was a tension between North and South Wales. Only one person in the group had lived in North Wales, and even though she was fluent in Welsh, she had felt a bit left out as a kid, because Welsh was not her first language. It was interesting to hear the people from South Wales discuss how they it seemed to them that the people in North Wales believed that the only real Welshman was a Welsh speaker. Having spent a lot of time in North Wales over the years, I ended up being the North Wales defender for the discussion. I have heard about this tension from some of my friends, but this was the first time I experienced it in such a fashion as this. I love these kinds of events, where hard topics are discussed in safe environments, and I am hoping to repeat the difficult discussion on this topic in other locations around Wales. These events are where life happens and peace can be created between differing opinions.
The festival had two stages playing live music through the two days. One had full bands and the other was an acoustic stage. The music was folk and folk rock primarily, and was of a high quality. Most of the bands were from Wales. Here’s to hoping that this festival continues, grows and keeps singing and swinging Between the Trees in Rudry.
Link to Between the Trees Festival: http://www.
I rented a car from Enterprise. This seems to be my regular rental action for autos in the UK, unless it is a van. Usually, it ends up cheaper than other companies. I left downtown Cardiff. Then I left it again. I think I might have done it a third time as well. Somehow getting out of the area between the downtown near Brains Brewery and the Bay doesn’t instill any sense of direction for me. This happens every time.
45 minutes later I was finally heading in the correct direction – toward West Wales, and adventures with monastics, hippies, and poets. Destination 1: Saint Govan’s Chapel.
Saint Govan was an Irish Saint living in the 6 th Century – that wondrous Age of the Celtic Saints. Tradition says he was pursued by pirates, perhaps because he had once been a thief himself, and the cliff opened up to hide him. He remained in this spot on the sea in a cave in the cliff. Today you can visit Saint Govan’s and walk down the steep steps to see the chapel. You will want to become an ascetic monk yourself after seeing the location of Saint Govan’s Chapel. Check out my two-minute tour of the chapel.
After leaving Saint Govan’s, I was driving down the narrow lanes, and came across a weary couple hiking the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path. I gave them a short ride to their destination, and they invited me into the pub for a pint. Moral of the tale: pick up weary hikers. It’s worth a free pint.
From the saint’s cliff-side home, I found myself arriving that evening at one of the hippiest Hippy Festivals I’ve ever been to, and yes, that is saying a lot. “Unearthed in a Field” is hard to find, but after driving down single lane farm roads, and having to back up long distances for large tractors to pass, I arrived in a field somewhere inland from Saint David’s Cathedral near the end of Pembrokeshire. I listened to storytellers and reggae music, and ate vegan food and found all the expected things that come with hippy festivals in fields. I don’t think this is what Saint Govan found here in the late 6 th Century. I sat around the fire that night talking about as varied subjects as the theories of Russian Philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin, the local communes in West Wales, and the space where spirituality meets talking to people we radically disagree with. Yes, this was surely a hippy event.
I slept at Unearthed in Field for the night, and in the morning headed out. I found myself drawn by the tourist signs pointing me to some Dylan Thomas thing. Soon I was at Laugharne Castle a couple hours before anything opened. The sky was miraculously blue, and the day prepared to become ridiculously warm. Shortly before opening time for the Boathouse, I wandered around the castle, up the hill, and through the town, where the path to the boathouse wound along the rising cliffs by the sea. I met a lady standing on the corner, and we talked. She was waiting for her fellow workers, who ran the Dylan Thomas Boathouse. She quickly became impressed with me, because I was an American who could speak Welsh. Strangely, those who know a little Welsh think I am fluent, and those who speak fluently have to put up with my baby-talk. When her work-mates arrived, I carried their bags of food and supplies along the path, and down the steep steps to the house. I ended up with a free tour, and free cold drinks for my simple help. So, now I had visited the spaces of an ascetic monk, a pile of hippies, and the last get away home of a brilliant drunken 20 th Century poet. Being a writer and poet myself, I found equal inspiration in all these spots. Wales is in all ways a land for poets and singers, and a place you can find whatever it is you are looking for.
By late morning I headed off for Cardiff to return the car. As usual, I got stuck in the Cardiff Bay to Brain’s Brewery loop, but this time my circuitous and repetitive route was stalled by a parade. It was the Cardiff World Naked Bike Ride Day, and a pig pile of naked people on bicycles gently rolled by between me and my destination. Now, it is true, that I previously mentioned that you would not get any “Naked Blond” pics. But, I have now trangressed those words. There isn’t really anything to see, but here you go: this is World Naked Bike Ride Day in Cardiff, which delayed my return of the rental car.
It is true that you really can see everything in Wales – literally everything. I went from a crazy Saint, to hippies, to the home of a great poet, to naked bike riders all in barely over 24 hours. Yes, “barely” over 24 hours. And to top it off, I did “barely” get the car back in time.
links:
Saint Govan’s Chapel - http://www.visitpembrokeshire.com/attractions-events/st-govans-chapel/
Unearthed in a Field - http://www.unearthedinafield.co.uk/
Dylan Thomas Boathouse site - http://www.dylanthomasboathouse.com/
Cardiff World Naked Bike Ride Day - https://www.facebook.com/groups/194410707262234/
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I was surrounded by Whos. There were two women and six men, and I was the only guy who was not Doctor Who. I stood out like an alien in a blue Police Box. Even the women were Doctor’s companions. Eventually, a few other mere mortals joined the queue, and I felt a little less out of place.
I’ve been bothering Jonas and Mary-Alice for a couple years now. I’ve been bothering them, because they are nerds – nerds of the best kind. They are good friends from Salem, Massachusetts. They are also regular attenders at Doctor Who conventions. They have the paraphernalia. They have the costumes. They regularly show up at our Pub Theology gatherings in Salem with Who t-shirts and sonic screwdrivers and such. So, I’ve been bothering them to visit Cardiff with me as I make my annual pilgrimage to Wales. Cardiff is the home of Doctor Who, and the heart of the Who-home is the Doctor Who Experience on Cardiff Bay. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that the Doctor Who Experience is closing September 9 this year. I was going to wait until they joined me in Cardiff before I visited the mecca of Whodom, but the season of waiting had come to an end, so I made my way to Cardiff Bay, wandered past the Wales Millennium Centre, the Welsh Assembly, the Norwegian Church, and around to the holy place of Who.
The long, low blue dome of the Doctor Who Experience stands out on the edge of the bay like something between the Tardis and a beached whale. Just walking past the massive airplane hanger of Who trivia has the draw of a black hole. It sucks you in and threatens to keep you there in its “timey wimey” soup. So I got sucked in, and was standing in line to experience the Doctor Who Experience with these serious Who fans. It was a walk through an adventure with the 12th (and perhaps my favorite) Doctor, Peter Capaldi. We were attempting to save the Tardis, and presumably the entire universe from utter destruction by finding three necessary crystals to power the Tardis. We entered the Tardis control room and got bounced around in time travel. We were accosted by Weeping Angels. Eventually our team of Doctor Whos and Who companions found the crystals and we were saved from certain destruction.
After saving the world (and our own little skins), we wandered around the Who Museum filled with outfits, statues, and paraphernalia from the many years of Doctor Who. I have attached a few of the dozens of pictures I took in this wonderful place. If you are making it to Cardiff in the next couple months, go to The Doctor Who Experience before it is no more. Supposedly, now is the best time to go, because they are going to be doing some really special stuff as they close out their time on Cardiff Bay. Of course, there are whispers about Doctor Who Experience reincarnating in another form somewhere in Cardiff. The Doctor seems to do that sort of thing.
Link to the Doctor Who Experience: http://www.doctorwho.tv/
The last week, I’ve been in and out of Cardiff, or the ‘Diff. I am staying a little over 6 miles outside Central Cardiff with my friends Dawn and Andrew in Gwaelod y Garth. Gwaelod y Garth was once officially part of the Rhondda, but more recently has been incorporated into Cardiff. Consequently, it has become quite posh. I am staying at the foot of Mynydd Y Garth (Garth Mountian), which inspired the fictional location Fynnon Garw for the movie The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill and Came Down a Mountain . I still have yet to discover why the hill/mountain in the movie was named “Garw’s Well”. Oh well.
It’s a short travel to Cardiff from Taff’s Well, the nearest station from Gwaelod y Garth. So, I‘ve been coming down the mount to hang out in Wales’ capitol. I will go ahead and announce my prejudice now: Cardiff is my favorite big city in the world. Big is a relative term here. It is estimated to be about 360,000 right now (2017), which makes it a little over one-tenth the size of the Boston area, where I live. But, this is one vibrant and creative 360,000. A good deal of the BBC is moving to Cardiff. Doctor Who is filmed here. It has a vibrant nightlife, and lots of good food – and good craft and cask beer. Of course there is sport – especially Rugby. Principality Stadium in Cardiff is the 4th largest stadium in the UK, and each of the stadium’s bars is able to pour 12 pints of beer in 20 seconds, making it the fastest beer park in the UK – almost double the speed of Twickenham. It also has a resident hawk named “Dad” that chases pigeons and seagulls away.
I’ve been to Cardiff a number of times. I’ve been to a Six Nations tournament game. I’ve wandered Saint David’s Shopping Center, the Llandaff Cathedral. I’ve been to Saint Fagan’s Museum of Welsh History, but there were things I had not done. So today, I did a few of them.
I finally toured Cardiff Castle. Little of the Castle dates back to the ancient days of knights fighting dragons (which, of course, actually happened in Wales, but the big red dragons always beat the English posh-type-Lordy-dudes, and made friends with Welsh Princes and Princesses – true story, honest to Guinevere), but it is a worthwhile visit nonetheless. You can get the audio tour of the castle in Welsh and English. Always opt for the Welsh, unless of course, you want to understand it, and you haven’t learned any Welsh yet.
I stopped at Marchnad Caerdydd (Cardiff Market). It smelled of fish, curry, fresh fruit and Welshcakes. I walked away with Welshcakes in 5 variations. Last of all, I went to Chippy Alley. Caroline Street, as it is known by old folk (nod to Chris Castle here), is host to curry and chip shops, and I stopped at Dorothy’s for Chicken Curry and Chips – far more than I could eat. Dorothy’s is supposedly the original chip shop on Chippy Alley.
I have a few favorite stops in Cardiff: I love Waterloo Tea in Wyndham Arcade, Spiller’s Records (the oldest record store in the world established in 1894, and now located in Morgan Arcade), and a few pubs like Brewdog, City Arms, and Mochyn Du (Black Pig). Did I mention that good beer is a thing in the ‘Diff?
Tomorrow I am planning on visiting the Doctor Who Experience. So, until then Teithiwr Twp signs off while having a Session IPA at Brewdogs – that’s a beer, if I didn’t mention that there is good beer in Cardiff. Good beer makes a ‘Diff you know.
Some links:
Spiller's Records: http://
Fun history on Chippy Alley: http://yourcardiff.
The Hay Festival is a two-week affair. I spent the second week at the festival working as a steward. Thus, I was able to experience the festival for free, and get fed along the way. I worked two, sometimes all three shifts, on most days. Consequently, breakfast, lunch and dinner were covered by the event. They treated us well, and I ate far more than I am normally used to eating. And being able to experience the events completed my intellectual feasting as well. Y Teithiwr Twp slowly became Y Teithiwr Tew (The Fat Traveler).
My first stewarding stint at the festival was with the kids. Someone needed to watch the ‘Make and Take’ door. As children came in and out from Make and Take tent, I monitored them to make sure no one was lost, or was purposely being left behind to have the festival babysit as the parents got all intellectual. Needless to say there were always a few free-range children pecking around the Make and Take tent, and typically it was not the children, but the parents who were lost. I greeted the children and parents with a “bore da”, a “p’nawn da” or a “croeso”. Some of the people responded back in Welsh, and did so with huge smiles. I joined the kids for a class on drawing unicorns one afternoon, because – well, everyone should know how to draw unicorns. I now have a book I have written about Spikey the Unicorn whose dream it was to play lead guitar for Metallica on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury.
One afternoon and evening was filled with an India/Wales mashup: poetry and music from Indian and Welsh artists working together. The night ended with the group Khamira, a combination of the Welsh jazz/folk group Burum, and musicians from India. (YouTube link to Khamira here)
The next few days I spent at the BBC tent. On the last weekend of the event, Saturday became Bernie Sanders day. The crowds were huge, the events were sold out, and everyone wanted to talk about American politics. Bernie is a rock star in the UK, and the excitement was almost as large as Bernie’s campaign on the way to the Democratic National Convention. In the end, the stewards all decided that Bernie Sanders and Jeremy Corbin were the really same the person, as were Donald Trump and Boris Johnson. Clearly there are competing conspiracies happening here.
Meanwhile, a Dalek from the Dr. Who stood at the entrance to the BBC tent. I was briefly accosted by the Dalek, and lived to tell about it. Steven Moffat the former and most recent writer for Dr. Who and the current writer for Sherlock closed out the BBC tent sessions on Sunday Morning.
The last event of the festival featured comedian Bill Bailey. A thousand Brits laughed uproariously, as he talked about American actors mumbling through their lines. As he pranced around mumbling like Vin Diesel and Helen Mirren from Fate of the Furious, I couldn’t tell where his thick West Country mumbling began and Vin Diesel imitations ended. Everyone howled while I understood one word in a hundred. I finally decided that he was speaking Cornish, and I was in a room with a thousand radical Cornish nationalists, which is apparently more than double the number of Cornish speakers who actually exist, but my personal conspiracy theory still made more sense to me than his West Country mumbling.
Throughout the week at Hay, I found myself repeatedly being asked if I was the American who: 1) spoke Welsh, and 2) was sleeping in a hammock in the trees above the Wye river. At one point the Quaker tent at the festival needed a Welsh sign to say that their Welsh language brochures were free. They approached the Steward tent to ask if there was a Welsh speaker who could help write the sign. The fact that an American was sent to handle the task became a source of jokes for the next couple days.
My experiences in Welsh ranged from a Welsh speaking father and son who stared at me as though I was an alien speaking Clingon, to a conversation with pair of couples from North Wales who told me that I spoke quite well and should continue to embarrass the Welsh people who have forgotten their Welsh.
In the evenings, I typically went into town. My favorite watering hole was a pub called Beer Revolution. It has a nice little garden out back, and a fine line-up of ales for nerdy micro brew lovers like myself. Then I spent one late night at Kilvert’s with my friends Stephen and Jed, whom I met from the previous years stewarding at the HowTheLightGetsIn philosophy festival.
I’ll be back at Hay-on-Wye next year for both festivals: The Hay Festival, and HowTheLightGetsIn. It is a place that feels like a home for nerds. Hay! Are you coming next year? Perhaps we could form an AmeriCymru takeover.
For now, hwyl fawr from Y Teithiwr Tew.
Link to Khamira: <a href="https://youtu.be/BzuyOt5ov30" target="_blank" data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q&source=gmail&ust=1496941053612000&usg=AFQjCNEaEB4iDbrarVnypoxrCR_FSCTYng" rel="noopener noreferrer">
Link to Hay Fest: https://www.hayfestival.com/
Link to HowTheLightGetsIn: https://hay.htlgi.iai.tv/
On my third day at Hay-on-Wye, The New Welsh Review hosted a writing awards ceremony. The ceremony was sponsored by AmeriCymru and Aberystwyth University. I puttered my way to the Summer House. It was a particularly warm Welsh day. The festival had seen little rain, which may be attributed as a minor miracle. At the festival in Cornwall, I found an injured pigeon, jokingly presented it to the set up crew as dinner, but when I let it go, it flew away. With the pigeon healing event I had already considered calling the pope to ask for the canonization process to begin, but now good weather was following me through Cornwall and Wales. I figured I had two minor miracles under my belt at this point.
A pretty lady in a beautiful peach dress met me at the door of the Summer House. Gwen Davies turned out to be the judge of the contest and the editor of the New Welsh Review. She introduced me to the three short list finalists for the novella prize, which was co-sponsored by AmeriCymru. Nicola Daly wrote The Night Where You No Longer Live . Olivia Gywne wrote the The Seal . The winner of the prize was Cath Barton from Abergavenny who after retiring has pursued writing as a new career. Cath had been a contributor to the former Celtic Family Magazine out of Los Angeles. Her book The Plankton Collector is a fantasy realism piece about a magical individual (The Plankton Collector) who appears as a variety of everyday common people to bring help to others in need, and the resolution to their difficulties comes in common ways. The prize-winning piece was good for a £1,000, plus an extended excerpt of the book was professionally read and placed into a beautifully animated video. Catherine Haines won the New Welsh Review Memoir Prize (co-sponsored by Aberystwyth University) for her book My Oxford about a young woman studying at Oxford who survives severe anorexia.
As the ceremonies began, we drank wine and nibbled on tasty bites. Then the awards were announced, as the photos were snapping. I caught Cath Barton after the event in a nine-minute interview, which you can watch here. She is a gracefully engaging woman. I made a point of asking her about her emotional acceptance speech. She cried, she laughed, and she made us all love her to pieces. Her short thank you was my personal highlight for the afternoon ceremony.
The New Welsh Review describes itself as the foremost English language Welsh literary magazine. It seeks out the best in new fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry, and offers a vibrant outlet for expression and discussion. Gwen Davies is a wonderful host as are the other staff members: Marketing Dude Jamie Harris, and Administration Maven Bronwen Williams. (I suppose I should admit to Californizing their titles.)
Since I am traveling, I signed up for the New Welsh Review in digital format, which was only £6.99 for the year. If you are a writer or an avid reader with a serious case of Cymrophilia breaking out all over your body like a Red Dragon rash, then you should consider signing up. You can go online to www.newwelshreview.com and find the link to sign up for hard and digital copies for £16.99, or if you want to get the e-format only, you can contact Bronwen Williams at admin@newwelshreview.com .
Next post, I will finish up my thoughts on Hay-on-Wye and the Hay Festival. I somehow became mildly famous for being the American Steward who spoke Welsh and slept in a hammock in the trees. Bernie Sanders spoke at the event. It turns out that he is a rock star in the UK, and I had to answer all kinds of questions about American politics. Then I tried to follow the cawl thick accent of a British comedian, who told jokes about American actors mumbling.
For now, hwyl fawr from Y Teithiwr Twp.
The video for Cath's book can be found at http://www.
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1. In red: Olivia Gywne, in black: Nicola Daly, in pink: Cath Barton
2. Jamie Harris and Gwen Davies
3. The beginning of the award ceremony in the Summer House
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I am an obnoxious Cymrophile. Everyone I know knows that I am obsessed with all things Welsh. Over the last dozen years, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in Wales. It has always been in month to six-week increments. There are dragons all over my apartment. The lilting noises of that beautiful singsong language regularly float out my windows in blaring BBC Radio Cymru programs and online Welsh Lessons. But now, I am packing the dragons away, and moving out. I have four days left to accomplish this task, because I am becoming semi-permanently nomadic, starting with a three-month visit to Mother Jones Land. Yes, my mother is a Jones.
But I am your typical stupid American Traveler (Y Teithiwr Twp). Although I took languages in school (French and Spanish), and even lived near the Mexican border for forty years, I have been monolingual most of my life. You know the joke, right?
What is a person who speaks three languages called?
I don’t know.
Tri-lingual.
Oh. Yeah, yeah.
What is a person who speaks two languages called?
Bilingual!
Yep. What is a person who speaks one language called?
Monolingual!
Nope. An American.
Well, that was me, until fairly recently. Now, I can say that I speak Welsh - rather haltingly, and a bit like a toddler, but I can do it. I can hold a discussion with you if you are a learner or a teacher of the language, but the moment I step into Blaenau Ffestiniog my face is as confused looking as the proverbial deer in the headlights. What are those people saying? Why are they swallowing their words, and blowing them out their noses? Nonetheless, I am more excited for this year’s trip to Wales than I have been for any other I’ve taken. It will be a longer trip to the U.K., and I will be spending most of it in Wales and a good amount of that time yn Gymraeg.
I will also be sharing periodic stories from Mother Jones Land with you, and hoping to make you drool and yearn (which seems like a decent definition for “hiraeth”). I’ll visit pubs in Cardiff, where I met Chris Segar “The Ferret” last year, and had a full conversation in Welsh. I will be working as a Steward at the Hay Literary Festival, and will encourage you to go and bust the bank (and your back) bringing books home from the antiquarian bookshops. I will wander along the coast and hills of South Wales looking for ancient chapels, holy wells, and perhaps the Blue Stones in the Preseli Hills before I head to Stonehenge for the Solstice to actually touch those stones that somehow miraculously walked all the way to the Salisbury Plain by themselves. I will hang out with musicians (my friends Sera Owen, Gai Toms, and many more), and writers (The Naked Blond Writer – yes, that is what she calls herself) and hopefully be able to send you some pictures (no, no, no, not pictures of Naked Blonds!), video and stories. I will spend time in the North, and struggle to keep up with the “Cofi” pace of Caernarfon Welsh – minus the easy to understand and infamous four-letter word familiar greetings. Then I will end my three months of traveling at the National Eisteddfod helping to build stages and run sound for a fringe music festival put on by Cymdeithas yr Iaith.
I am extremely excited to share my travels with you, but if after the trip you don’t immediately buy your tickets to join me next year yng Nghymru, I will pout like a four-year old, because I won’t have fully accomplished my task.
Till, my next posting…Pob Hwyl.
I was flying United.
That was a paragraph in itself, don’t you think? I tried to pack everything as tightly as possible. I was planning to have nothing but carry-ons. I am a ridiculously passionate tea nerd that hates coffee. (Na, dw i ddim yn hoffi coffi. Dw i’n casau coffi!) The day before traveling, I stuffed eight ounces of loose-leaf tea into the metal canister for my small camp fuel stove. It wasn’t until I arrived at the airport that I nervously stood in the TSA line wondering what they would make of a canister of dried leaves. Fortunately, United shuffled me off to Air Canada, and apparently the Canadians don’t care whether I transport dead leaves.
After 36 hours, I arrived at my first destination: bus to plane, plane to plane, plane to train, train to bus, bus to Cardiff. In Cardiff I helped my friend Charlie pack his van full of lighting equipment for a festival on an estate in Cornwall. Charlie, Paul, and I arrived at Boconnoc Estate at 3:30am. I stumbled around the in the woods looking for a place to hang my hammock tent, and finally climbed into it as I saw the morning light beginning to break on the horizon.
Over the next week, I ran into only a few Welsh speakers. I was speaking with a girl who grew up near Llanberris one night. I asked, “Ti’n siarad Cymraeg?” She responded, “tipyn bach.” Then I launched into my best excessively mediocre Welsh. Behind her thick glasses, her big doe eyes got wider – not in some romantic way, but more like a deer in headlights. Somehow this stupid formerly monolingual, barely Welsh speaking American scares the daylights out of those who feel like they have forgotten their Welsh.
After a week in Cornwall, it was time to make my way to Hay-on-Wye – the famous little book town with the famously big book festival. Y Gelli (the Welsh name for Hay-on-Wye) must be the place from which the words were penned, “You can’t get there from here.” After being dropped off in Exeter, I went to the train station, and asked how to get to Hay-on-Wye. The man in the train station said, he had no idea, and never heard of it. So, I bought a ticket to Bristol. At Bristol, I asked the lady in the train station how to get to Hay-on-Wye. After asking me to spell the name, she said that I couldn’t get there from Bristol. I had to take a train into Wales and back out again in order to find a bus to Hay. Six hours later, a train from Exter to Bristol, another from Bristol to Newport, a third from Newport to Hereford, and a couple hours waiting for the last bus from Hereford station to Hay-on-Wye and I arrived at the Hay Castle at 10:30pm. A pint of Butty Bach at The Three Tuns later, and I was hunting for a tree to hang my hammock tent in again.
It’s now my third day at the Hay Festival. I am able to experience events for free, because I volunteered as a Steward. I’ve been working shifts watching the door at a Children’s area called the Make and Take tent. I think I might be the only Steward greeting people in Welsh. Yesterday, a mother and her two young girls beamed when I said, “Bore da. Croeso.” Mom then asked her oldest daughter, about six years old, “Do you remember your Welsh from school?” The young girl nodded, and smiled a smile to melt your heart, and then a conversation at my level of Welsh began.
“Wyt ti’n cael hwyl yma?” (Are you having fun here?)
“Ydw. Mae’n hwyl iawn.” (Yes. It is very fun.”)
And this deeply philosophical discussion continued for a few minutes. I am not sure whose world was impacted more: mine, or the little girl who was able to use her Welsh with an American in an English language event on the borders of England and Wales. Okay, that’s not true. I know that my world was impacted far more than hers, for sure.
Hay-on-Wye is the quaintest little book town. It sits on the river Wye on the Welsh/English border, and the Hay Festival is one the most influential literary festivals in the world. It is an example of one more way that Wales punches above its weight in respect to influencing the world. For two weeks every year the sleepy little book town, filled with antiquarian bookshops of every kind, is inundated with nerdy people who love books and attend the Hay Festival just outside town. On most years, a Philosophy Festival called HowTheLightGetsIn occurs at the same time inside the village, and that is typically where you can find me hanging out. This year the Philosophy Festival took a year off, and I jumped over to the book festival.
You my not be able to get here from there, but when you finally arrive, this is one of the most quaint little villages, with two of the most vibrant festivals for nerdy people you will find anywhere.
In about two hours, the winners of a novella competition sponsored by The New Welsh Review and AmeriCymru will be announced. So, I will sign off until next time. Hwyl Fawr from Y Teithiwr Twp.
