Land of My Fathers

Tredegar Town Clock on VE Day. Tredegar is a town in the Sirhowy Valley of South Wales, UK and the 19th Century ancestral home of the Constance family.

Some reflections about our recent family time in Wales.

Those of you who have been readers of this blog know that I have deep pride in my Welsh heritage. Both my father and his sister, my Aunt Jean, had a reverence for their father’s homeland and stayed in touch with aunts, uncles and cousins through regular correspondence and Christmas cards.

The connective tissue was my grandfather, Reverend Bert Constance, who in April 1912 travelled from his native land to become a Methodist missionary in Liscomb, Nova Scotia. One year later, he rode a train across the US border in Maine on his way to a new charge as a pastor in Maryland. He married Grace Skillman on June 2, 1915, and my father was born nine months and 20 days later. I’ve chronicled Bert’s life story from the coal mines of Wales to Maryland politics in two installments:

https://www.constancelyhoping.com/post/bert-chapter-1

https://www.constancelyhoping.com/post/bert-chapter-2-of-a-two-chapter-profile

Bert was a renowned preacher and speaker throughout Maryland and reminded listeners of his heritage every time he opened his mouth. He never lost the lilting Welsh accent from his blessed homeland.

My dad gravitated to all things Welsh. I accompanied him to Welsh church services in Cardiff, Maryland, Welsh society “singsongs” in Baltimore, Welsh men’s choir performances, and a delightful Smithsonian Associates program in Washington, DC featuring the director of the Welsh Folk Museum in St. Fagan’s, Wales.

But Dad never made it to Wales.

Hayden and I made our pilgrimage in November 1978. We drove from London to a rest stop on the M4 motorway where we met Graham Francis, the son of my grandfather’s sister, his wife Anita, and their two daughters, Sue, 15 and Lyn 13. We followed them back to Graham’s sister’s home in Blackwood for lunch, and their home in Tredegar for dinner. It was a whirlwind day, but the bonds were instant and return visits quickly arranged.

Multiple “crossings” occurred through the years and Brittany, who won a post-graduate fellowship to the Welsh Assembly in 2009, lived with cousin Lyn in Radyr outside of Cardiff.

This trip, 47 years after that first meeting on the M4, was to meet little Harry Alford, the newest member of the clan, and to introduce our granddaughters to their Welsh cousins and the land that we have grown to love. Magical.

From the first hug to my fleeting kiss as I literally ran for my return train at Bridgend, it was warm, family time. My prayer is that it sets in motion generations of future visits for the Constance, Kitto, Alford, Roberts, and Rees families.

The Grands

One of the true joys of this visit was experiencing Wales through the eyes of our granddaughters. They suffered some pre-trip anxiety about their ability to understand the accents of the Welsh, but they found that asking folks to repeat themselves was neither awkward nor unwelcomed. The hugs at the train station, the car with a steering wheel on a different side, the drive to the beautiful village of Llantwit Major, and meeting the family cockapoo Milo was a magical start to our adventure.

Cousin Lyn took us on a walk through the fields to the closest beach on the Bristol Channel. As we traversed the hedgerows,* avoided the protective mother cows, and the “pies” they left behind, the anticipation of seeing the channel was palpable. Each hedgerow crossing was unique from stone steps to old gates to creaking iron turnstiles, and all added to the adventure.

A low ceiling gave an unusual vista as we sighted the coastline and began our descent along an improved pathway. It was hard to tell where the sky ended, and the water began, with a lone ship appearing to float in midair. When we reached the beach, the kids experienced the extreme tides of the Welsh coast for the first time. The tide was out, and a wet expanse of sand and rocks stretched before us toward the channel. To them, it was just more wonderful space to explore and with their dad, they ventured out while the rest of us drifted toward the little ice cream shop in search of rum raisin cones.

After we all enjoyed some treats, we began our ascent up the winding path, trying to keep Milo on task, and weaving back over the hedgerows to home. When we came through the old gate at the house, cousins and friends had already arrived for the party and a new round of introductions were in order. We all met little Harry for the first time and both he and big sister Alice lit up when they saw our two girls. All very special.

The Party

We all agreed that the party that night was the highlight of the trip. A feast for twenty accompanied by laughter, song, stories, and fond remembrances. The grands paired off with little Alice, and Harry remained the center of attention for much of the night.

As for the food, Adrian's cheeses (all unpasteurized of course) and wines took the culinary trophy; sausage rolls and local prawns the regional ribbon; and a sumptuous carrot cake served as the grand finale. They were accompanied by carved ham, delicious chicken, quiche, fruits, vegetables, wonderful artisan bread, and other side dishes too numerous to name.

Adrian and his brilliant kids Trystan and Carina, who were teenagers when Brittany met them in 2009, serenaded us with a Welsh classic Calon Lân. Always sung in Welsh, the English translation of this 1890's hymn begins:

I don’t ask for a luxurious life

The world’s gold or its fine pearls,

I ask for a happy heart,

An honest heart, a pure heart.

What a beautiful accompaniment to a wonderful evening together.

Addendum: The Welsh

The relationship between the Welsh and their more powerful neighbors to the east has been a complicated one to say the least. The fact that the English term "Welsh" literally means “foreigner”, is all you really need to know about their historic relationship.

But ironically, the Welsh and their fellow Celts were there first.

The Celtic people first arrived and began living in Britain - across all of Britain, not just the extremities like Wales, Ireland and Scotland - in approximately 1,000BC.

By the time the Romans arrived, the Celts were the dominant influence in Britain. These Celts were a fierce and warlike people, but were gradually pushed back, out of the rich farmlands of England, to find refuge in the wild and rugged mountains of the west and north.

Wales, in particular, was seen as something of a frontier zone. When the Romans left in the years after 410 AD Celtic culture was strong enough to resist that of the in-coming Saxons. By now in the regions that would become Wales and Cornwall a unique form of the Celtic language called Brythonic was spoken. And when King Offa built his dyke in the 8th century it gave Wales, for the first time, an eastern border.

Secure behind this 150-mile ditch, the Celtic people of Wales were free to continue their lives, unhindered by what was going on over the border.

As there was no written language at this time, knowledge and ritual were remembered in verse. Poets, storytellers and musicians flourished among the Druid class (later the Gorsedd). In Wales, you can draw a direct line from a form of literary festival at Cardigan Castle in the twelfth century to an 18^th century revival of national and regional eisteddfod (including song, dance, poetry, and literature) that continues to this day.

So, while Edward I began the conquest of Wales and completed the subjugation of the independent Welsh kingdoms by 1283, the Acts of Union later retained a level of political autonomy for Wales to match their unique cultural heritage, identity, and language.

But history is not a straight line.

A 19^th century report commissioned by the British Parliament on the schools of Wales identified the Welsh language as the key obstacle to a full unification of Wales and England. The “Welsh Not” movement was born. A wooden plaque was hung around the neck of any child who was caught speaking Welsh in school. This board inscribed with the words Welsh Not was only removed and transferred when another child was caught using their native tongue. Whoever was wearing the board at the end of the day was caned by the teacher. This effort to literally beat the language into submission lasted in some form until the beginning of the 20^th Century.

In the 1860's English horseracing even turned the name Welsh into a pejorative verb. To “welsh” on a bet implied you were avoiding payment or more generally just breaking your word.

The unintended consequence of these and other acts of discrimination was ripples of Welsh nationalism that eventually grew into a mighty wave. When you’re branded the foreigner, the cheat, the other, where do you turn? Like the ancient Celts, you turn inward. You embrace your differences and make them your strengths. A unique language, a deep faith, a love of song, poetry, and your stories set you apart. To the statement you’re different, you say, "you bet we are, and we wouldn’t have it any other way".

In 1993 a Welsh language act from Parliament put Welsh on a more equal footing with English in Wales and in 1998 the Government of Wales Act created the National Assembly and gave it a secondary legislative role in certain matters impacting the life of the Welsh people. That only took 100 years to accomplish.

The good news is that while deep pride and insularity has been a long-held national trait, Wales is ready to “keep a welcome” with open arms.

Is it the pub culture or a modern understanding of the benefits of tourism? I think not. I think the Welsh are just a naturally happy lot whose love and curiosity are behind the smile and the embrace. Of all the places to visit, of all the choices that we have today, you picked their country, their town, their pub, and their demeanor implies thanks.

*Hedgerows. I've always been fascinated by the hedgerows that quilt the landscape of England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. As you observe the verdant landscape from a car, train, or an airplane on take off or approach, these strips of hedge, brush, and other native vegetation separate the fields in a distinct and natural manner. They are an ancient practice dating back to Neolithic times and in their earliest forms were a logical place to pile timber and brush as you cleared the woodland for agriculture. As a natural boundary, a wind-break, and a means of preventing erosion, they were a practical part of early farming that has continued to this day.