North Wales pilgrimage

While the world around us was enjoying a second Bank Holiday lie-in, we rose early and were out of the house by nine to collect Owain for the long drive up the A470 to North Wales, on empty roads in persistent light rain. We ate a picnic lunch on high, astride Bwlch Oerdrws, surrounded by misty crags, before the long descent to Dolgellau, and the last leg of our journey northwards towards Trawsfynydd and our destination nearby, the old slate mining village of Llan Ffestiniog. We reached Trawsfynydd an hour before we were to take possession of our holiday cottage, and at Clare's suggestion went into the village to enquire about the location of the family home of Ellis Humphrey Evans - 'Hedd Wyn', one of Wales' eminent twentieth century poets, who was killed in the same month, serving in the same regiment (the Royal Welch Fusiliers) as my Great Uncle Will, during the second battle of Paschendaele.

The story of how a young farm hand with just six years of primary schooling behind him could rise to become an Eisteddfod prize winning Welsh language poet six times between the ages of twenty and thirty worth examining. No doubt regular attendance at Sunday School and Chapel in the village had something to do with it. Hedd Wyn is remembered because he sent his last prize winning poem to the adjudicators of the national Eisteddfod from the Western Front, not long before he was killed. The announcement of his victory in the closing ceremony of the Eisteddfod, would have normally been completed with his enthronement on a ceremonial chair specially carved for the winner of the year. On this occasion the chair stood empty, draped in black - 'y Gadair du', the black chair of Hedd Wyn. Outside Trawsfynydd Baptist Chapel stands a commemorative statue of him. 

Just up the street there is a plaque over the house where he was born. The place most associated with him is 'Yr Ysgwrn', the family hill farm where he grew up, a few miles from the village. Clare made enquiries at a shop to obtain directions. We then drove there to find its location with the aim of arranging a visit later during our stay. We found it easily, and as we still had time in hand we couldn't resist the temptation to park outside the farm entrance, and walk up the quarter mile track to the house. As we stood gazing at the view, a tractor crossed the fields to meet us. We were greeted by Hedd Wyn's nephew, farmer Gerallt Williams, now in his eighties, still hale and hearty, still working. 'Yr Ysgwrn' is currently closed for renovation, after purchase by the Snowdonia National Park Authority to preserve for future generations of pilgrims. Gerallt now lives in a new bungalow nearby, and receives about 4000 visitors a year from Wales and the world. Official closure didn't prevent him from welcoming us graciously, however. He ushered us into the farmhouse parlour where all six of the Eisteddfod poetry prize winning chairs are kept.

What followed was a delightful inspirational hour of conversation in a mix of Welsh and English,spiced with humour, insight, stories and philosophy. The radical Welsh non-conformist ethos kept Hedd Wyn creative, harbouring profound misgivings about the englishman's war far off war, as his parents and ten siblings struggled against rural poverty to stay on the land. He remained on the farm, away from active service until he was finally compelled to enlist and dispatched to Flanders. Virtually all of his generation of young men from Trawsfynydd were lost, over forty of them. I learned that the ornate, symbol laden 'gadair du' had been carved by a Belgian refugee. Owing to a wartime shortage of suitable timber, it was fashioned from ancient beams salvaged from the ruined site of Valle Crucis Abbey, a mediaeval site near Llangollen, about forty miles to the east. 'Historic' in Welsh culture has a different meaning and value to that assigned to it by today's loose tongued media men with little new to say.

Our unique spontaneous visit to 'Yr Ysgwrn' while it still looks much the same as it did a century ago made a profound impression on me. Instead of feeling ashamed as I generally do about the poverty of my grasp on the Welsh language, I found that in a small way I was able to reach into what I could recall and make use of it. Currently, learning Spanish for my stay in the Costa Azahar takes my attention, but at the same time, my desire to reconnect with my much neglected roots in Welsh culture is re-awakening in a surprising way.