Bred of Heaven, page 29
‘WALES! WALES! WALES! WALES!’
In front of us they go through the business of lining up, shoulder to outsize shoulder. They have never seemed nearer, never seemed more colossal. The crowd now stands to the visitors’ rumpty-tumpty anthem, which we alone in the stadium know how to sing. Silence descends in the great secular cathedral of Wales. The air is pregnant with the approaching noise. High in the gods I had to stand mutely during the national anthem the first time I came to the Millennium. Latterly I’ve been Redwoodising. I have never sung the anthem all the way through by heart, and yet it has not been necessary to learn the words. They have somehow flowed into my bloodstream. Now I’m down on the pitch. Over this last threshold is the end of my quest. I open my mouth. Breathe. And with my compatriots, sing.
Mae hen wlad fy nhadau yn annwyl i mi.
In front of me the wall of Welsh voices heaves into musical life. The old land of my fathers is dear to me, we sing. This is how giants must sound as they wake from their slumber in Eryri.
Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri.
We invoke celebrated bards and singers, such as those who have consented to guide me in the ways of Welshness. To whom I am eternally in debt.
Ei gwrol ryfelwyr, gwladgarwyr tra mâd
Tros ryddid gollasant eu gwaed.
In unison a whole stadium recalls the spirit of Welsh warriors who once spilled blood for national freedom.
Gwlaaad (= country)!
This one resonant syllable comes up six times in seven lines.
Gwlaaaaad!
I don’t think I have ever sung a single word with more heart ( = calon).
… pleidiol wyf i’m gwlad.
I am indeed partial to my country. The anthem is going far too quickly. If I could choose a Welsh moment of mine to last more or less for ever it would be this. The final couplet approaches, the great imprecation. As long as the sea walls protect this pure beloved domain …
Tra môr yn fur i’r bur hoff bau,
O bydded i’r hen iaith barhau.
… O let the old language endure! I sing these words – written in Pontypridd in 1856 as the Victorian Age plotted to legislate Welsh into extinction – with quite extraordinary force. Holding the highest note on iaith (= language), I am simply shouting in tune, though drowned of course by the thousands of voices rising into the night. O let the old language endure. Parhau = endure, continue. The stadium vibrates with approval and fervour. Our anthem has worked its spell yet again as few anthems can.
Choristers of Pendyrus have no time to turn to one another and smile. The teams are already shaking hands and we must make a rapid exit towards the corner tunnel. Yes, I think as I start walking rapidly, I am welcome to Wales. The players are making for their separate ends of the pitch. But I am listening hard to the Tannoy. I’ve requested a small favour of Rhys the Voice, my contact with the microphone. The Welsh Rugby Union will frown – they’ve banned this sort of thing – but I’ve asked if I can speak to Wales through him. A hush descends as the fifteen Welsh heroes assume battle positions. The whistle will sound the second we have stepped off the grass. Listen now, as I leave the pitch, listen. Suddenly, the amplified words of Rees the Voice reverberate around the entire Millennium Stadium.
‘YMLAEN, CYMRU! COME ON, WALES!’
Acknowledgements
My instinct is to give thanks to the whole of Wales, but that might be overdoing it. But I would like to acknowledge the many descendants of Corn Gafr who have been helpful in a variety of ways. My father Simon Rees and my uncle Brother Teilo Rees have allowed their memories to be tapped again and again. Thanks also to my mother Jacquy Rees, my brothers Rupert Rees and Ted Rees and my daughters Pascale Rees and Florence Rees. Cousins who have also kindly shared their knowledge are Hugh Rees, Andy Rees, Claire Rees, Philip Rees, Alys Russell, Steve Phillips, Elizabeth Moody, Catherine Moody and Elizabeth May Rees.
I would also like to express my thanks to the many Welsh people who have been generous with their time and knowledge. Chief among these is James Dodd, who helped me learn to speak a great and noble language. Any deficiencies in these pages and elsewhere are entirely mine.
I am also indebted to Leighton and Rhian Jones, not only for their considerable hospitality in Cardiff, but also for introducing me to the Archdruid Jim Parc Nest, also known as Jim Jones, and Manon Rhys; to Rhys Jones, also known as Rhys ap William and Rhys the Voice, who introduced me to Brian Lewis of Unity Mines and Haydn James of the Welsh Rugby Union. To all of them the words barely cover it, but thank you very much indeed/diolch yn fawr iawn.
I can never adequately express my gratitude to Pendyrus Male Choir for keeping a welcome in the Rhondda Fach. My particular thanks go to conductor Stewart Roberts, chairman Creighton Lewis, joint secretaries Graham Clarke and John Lewis and the committee, as well as the second tenor section, who were wonderfully tolerant of my incursions. Most of all I would like to thank Malcolm Long for his unfailing hospitality on my many visits to Penrhiwceibr.
The Pugh family of Blaencywarch were extraordinarily kind and patient as I learned the rudiments of sheep farming: to Hedd and his wife Sian and their sons Dewi, Owain and Carwyn, and to Hedd’s mother Margaret, I am deeply indebted. My thanks also to Helen Davies of the National Sheep Assocation, Wales Region.
Early on in my week at the National Language School in Nant Gwrtheyrn it became clear to my fellow students in Cwrs Uwch that they may well find themselves wandering into these pages. I would like to express my thanks to Roisin Willmott, Helen Davies, Richard Fairhead, David Smith and John Richards for their tolerance and understanding but most of all for their conversation. I would also like to thank our teachers Pegi Talfryn and Eleri Llewelyn Morris.
Various Welsh luminaries allowed themselves to be grilled by me. My particular thanks go to Bernard Thomas, Bryn Terfel, Dafydd Iwan, Alun Ffred Jones, my rugby uncle Elgan Rees and the minister Towyn Jones of Capel Yr Annibynwyr in Lammas Street.
Thanks also are due to Gareth John, press officer at the Welsh Assembly Government, Ceri Jones and Beverley Jenkins of Visit Wales for helping with accommodation on the Offa’s Dyke Path, as well as former ODP Officer Jim Saunders for his indispensable advice.
I would also like to thank the following: Gareth Rees (probably no relation), Catrin Griffiths, Monty Griffiths, Giles Smith, Hattie Longfield, Ian Warrell of the Tate and Martin Fowler of the Coracle Museum.
James Gill of United Agents took a diligent interest in Welsh matters, despite playing for another Celtic team. I am grateful to him and to Andrew Franklin of Profile Books. It has been a pleasure to work with my editor Lisa Owens, with whose wisdom (try as I might) I have found it impossible to disagree. And I am going to thank my father a second time for scoping the manuscript for errors of fact and – rhaid cyfadde (= it must be admitted) – judgement.
Finally, my lasting thanks to fy nghariad Emily (née Thomas) for travelling with me into Wales, towards Welshness.
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