Words on Wales

Firstly, I need to point out something incredibly important before I continue with this writing.
I am a Francophile. I love everything about the country and I am more determined than ever that France is my place. It is and shall be my haven, my sanctuary but not my escape. The move will be positive and purposeful. Having spent the last couple of days travelling, I have not had the Tour de France on and have missed the final stages of this brilliant, intriguing and unique competition. As the weather is gloomy today in my current part of the world, it looks as though I am going to be able to enjoy seeing Paris in glorious sunshine for the conclusion of what has been an interesting Tour.

So, having established that I am a Francophile, I wondered whether there is an alternative for a lover of Wales. Am I a Cymruphile or a Pembophile, loving the extremities in the west more than other places in the country? Who knows but there must be a word for it somewhere, and once we have decided on an English word for a lover of all things Welsh, then what might the Welsh translation be? Or maybe I am a Westophile because the lure of Devon and Cornwall beckons me constantly too.

I am having to write this without the support of internet access which is a pain in the proverbial.
Last week, there was a great article in the newspaper about Sarah Palin and her propensity for making up words. I cannot even remember the word that she had managed to conjure up but needless to say, it wasn’t a real word.
When questioned on this error, she reminded the audience that she was in good company as previous presidents had also invented words (!) but more significantly, the great William Shakespeare had made words up so she was only doing the same.

The commonalities between William Shakesepeare and Sarah Palin: Discuss.
The answer to such an essay might be minimal other than they both probably married someone far too close in blood relationship.

But I think I have found a place for Sarah and her emerging linguistic skills.
She should come to Wales.

I’m convinced that they make the language up as they go along, which would suit the Hockey Mom from Alaska. Yesterday, for instance, I was travelling down a road between Barry and Cardiff that was called something like “Fford y Millenyai”
Okay, it wasn’t that exactly but it looked like Millennium Road, which considering we were heading for the Millennium buildings seemed apt. However, I had the sneaking suspicion that the Welsh equivalent for “millennium” might have been fashioned about twelve years ago, in time for the aforementioned buildings and the turning of the century – or indeed, millennium.

So, I thought that Ms. Palin would be very much at home here. It looks as though it is probably as wet here as it is in Alaska too.
And there are many words in Welsh that have more than a passing resemblance to English, i.e. they are English! So she could spend copious hours of enjoyment inventing translations.

But of course, I jest. Or I “cellwair”!

I want to write today in praise of two things: Wales and Words, not that the two things automatically go together.

The Welsh for “word” is “gair”.
Gairs are so important and getting them right is vital to convey true meaning and enable the listener or the reader to really understand precisely what is being said. Yesterday, I had the joy of looking at a range of articles in the newspaper where words were so important; in the context of their original usage and the way they were used by the writers for interpretation. I shall not go into details of every piece just now for that is following in the next blog but it just struck me as to how important words, and the right words, are.

Take Simon Jenkin’s piece on Nick Clegg who chose to use the apparently abhorrent “illegal” word when talking about the invasion of Iraq. The headline ran “Clegg told the truth on Iraq” implying that he had used exactly the right words but Downing Street begged to differ.
Nick Clegg said it was “the most disastrous decision of all”. Jenkins responded to say that “Downing Street hurriedly explained that what he actually meant was that the invasion was a triumph of British arms and as lawful as the driven snow”. Wordspeak. Excellent.

I sometimes wish the exact words and phraseology would come to me so that I do not end up stumbling and thrashing around for the right thing to say or write just at a time when I need it most.
I am very envious of people who know the precise thing to say in discussion or on paper. It is an immense skill and they should be encouraged and praised for their ability.

In another article, there was mention of the wording that is going to be used in the referendum on electoral reform. The lack of certain words such as “proportional representation” is a telling sign. I hope these words do not come back and taunt Mr. Clegg for an eternity.
In another article, words are going to be used to taunt another leader; one Mr Razzinger, aka La Papa, who on arriving in this country will see buses passing by bearing a message of hope to many Catholic women who believe that females can be ordained too. More on this later.
Words: How can we live without them?

My sat nav went all politically correct on me yesterday. No sooner had we ventured across the Severn Bridge that it decided I was on my way to Castell Newydd and Caerdydd rather than South Glamorgan’s famous cities in English. I ventured further along towards Abertawe, passing through all manner of places that were less familiar with their Welsh names. Not that this is a bad thing. Barry sound so more exotic when you call it “Barri” (where is Sarah Palin when you need her?) and Aberdelgleddau sounds far more interesting than Milford Haven.

Which brings me conveniently back to the my second point of writing.
Wales. Cymru.
It’s a wonderful place to be!

For some apparent reason unbeknown to me, unable to explain, I had booked a motel room just outside Port Talbot. We could have driven all the way to Pembrokeshire but as I was not sure what time we were leaving the Metropolis, I booked us into a 9/10ths stopper! That way, in the morning, there is but a short meander to our final destination.

Port Talbot has long been a family joke: as is Barry. On Friday, I managed to go to both.
The joke about Port Talbot is that it is always raining. The solid, confident hills arch over the town, framing it in natural darkness. On the other side there are the grey depths of the Bristol Channel. The linear town huddles between the two with the M4 sandwiched along its streets; a very odd place indeed.
At one end of the town is the length of the steel works that bellows out its perpetual boom of smoke. At the other, well, there is Aberavon that eventually roams across the estuary into Abertawe, better known as Swansea.

It’s a strange place.
It’s not the sort of place that you would come to on your holidays. There is something marginally depressing about it. It is a working town with a constant cloud and there doesn’t appear to be anything that would make you stay here.

I’m not being disingenuous. This sort of comment comes from a long list of Port Talbot born people, or certainly people from around this area such as Richard Burton, Anthony Hopkins, John Humphreys and indeed the very port Talbot born Rob Bryden. It is reiterated by friends of mine who have come from this place too. However, there is more than a glimmer in this gloom and it is too frequently ignored.

In the twilight of what was Friday evening, my family and I drove down to Aberavon. I was expecting a shallow, pebbled beach that was marred with industrial fluids from the factory to the east.
But I was wrong. What I found instead was a massive three mile beach (though locals may suggest it is actually longer than this), full of dark gold sand and a splendid view over the Mumbles. With a setting sun, it really did look quite spectacular and to prove the point, I have taken a photo to show that the camera cannot lie with an undoctored image of the place.

I decided that I would return in the morning for a decent walk which I did; alone apart from a couple of workers who were raking the sand in a tractor. Very Zen!

But it is something else that is really the main glimmer of hope. Having a beach to walk on, no matter what its state, has to be a good thing but as I walked along the shore yesterday, I held my head up and saw the omnipresent flame of the Steelworks, spluttering away whilst the town-folk stayed in bed.
And one thought came to mind.
In its way, this town survived Thatcher.
Isn’t that worth celebrating?

Obviously, the steelworks is not as big as it once was. The woman from Grantham saw to that but it kept on going. It survived where others vanished. Its flame still burns. A large container ship pulled into harbour as I walked, awaiting what I do not know. The coal is long since burned but there is still action at this site.

I did my O-Level geography in 1982. One of the themes studied was industrial Britain and I can remember the discussions we had about Port Talbot and the significance of its natural shallow waters and the surrounding mining industry.

I wonder what they study now.

My geography teacher was marginally impressed that he had met someone who had actually been to Port Talbot! I’m sure there were more around. My home town was inundated with teachers from the Valleys. I recall the diagrams that we had to draw with all the technical configurations of smelting house, burners, blast furnaces etc. Some are long since silenced but there is still action there.
For me it is interesting that I studied this so near to the demise of the mining industry in Wales and the effect that such a loss of finance did for places like Barry.

Barry, poor dear Barry! A natural bay with a delightful beach and a natural headland either side, Barry should be a winner but it isn’t.
Butlin’s went years ago and has been replaced with a crop of Barratt homes that look totally out of place. The Pleasure Island Park looked as though it stopped working in 1984 too but lo and behold there were some rides springing to life on Friday afternoon.
As I wandered through, I wanted to howl.
It was so depressing.
Rides that looked once gave such pleasure to people who deserved some fun for all the pitiful hard lives that they led, sat there motionless, decrepit and doomed.
Even with the sounds of Gavin and Stacey singing around the place, it still felt like a place that had lost its soul in the middle of the 80s.
Damn the woman and her politics. She really ought to be driven out to such communities to see what she has done. Or maybe Cameron could come along and see for her.

I return once more to Port Talbot. It didn’t really survive. Swathes of the town were dramatically affected by the reduction in output from the Steelworks but it kept going.
As we travelled down to Aberavon (the beach part of Port Talbot) you drove through a fairly large council estate. It could have been in the middle of any industrial town in the Midlands. It actually reminded me of parts of Dundee. It was clearly an inescapable victim of lack of investment and loss of jobs. Yet the South Wales Socialist Club towered impressively over neighbouring buildings and was well and truly open for business. The restaurant at the far end of the town was buzzing. The community had remained intact just about.

This isn’t a part of Wales that people want to see. As the Middle Classes drive through in their hoards with the bicycles and boogie boards attached to their roof racks, they like to close their eyes to the reality of the industrial past but there is a glimmer in Port Talbot that is fighting to survive.
And there is a very big part of me that hopes they do so.