Welsh Journals

Gwyl Dewi: 'Vherr—iss— Vales'? MAIR ELLI ONCE UPON A TIME, there was to me but one country, but one mountain, but one river. There was always the scent of the gorse and heather, the soft, familiar feel of the turf beneath my feet. The springy marshes ofLlwchwr when the tide was out, with the tang of salt whet- ting the appetite and the cockle women of Penclawdd prodding the favoured nooks for cockles and mussels for the sacks on their donkeys' backs. There was only one country; but one people; and often enough, but one tongue. When, with the stream of life, I too, took to London city, I was shocked to find that that other world of folk knew little or nothing of Wales. It was but a dot on the map; nothing more. My Chum and I worked in London's East End where both wore that bunch of hidden heather and trod that treasured turf in our daily walks and routine work connected with a parson's life. We planned a holiday abroad: over to carry out the William Tell story on the spot at Altorf and Lake Lucerne. Photographs. Stories. Schiller, the poet. Then a course of lectures for the young folk in the winter. We set off on a bright, moonlight night from Newhaven for Dieppe, landing at dawn; catching a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower as we ap- proached Paris in the early morning. A quick run around Paris and a long stay at the Louvre, silently watching the slow touches of an artist to her copy of the Mona Lisa. Basle next morning in a terrific thunderstorm. We sheltered in the station eating the roll and coffee. In a few moments, tramcars went by, laden with broken twigs and branches. How Byron would have revelled in that short, sharp storm! Onwards to Lucerne with its wondrous kaleidoscope of snow peaks and pure air and on to Brunnen by steamer. Over the great Axen- strasse by foot, the road hewn out of the mountain-side and on to the end of the Lake to Altorf, past a rock bearing the name SCHILLER so that all might see it.