Elizabeth Jane Corbett

writing her way home

Tag: stiwdio maelor (Page 2 of 2)

Blog five – a matter of false information

Those who know me and can be bothered counting, may have noticed this is my fifth visit to the UK in the last ten years. You may also have observed that now and again (cough) I like to talk about the place. I mention the walks I’ve been on in Wales, the beachside amusement arccades, pubs which allow dogs (very civilised) the way people eat mushy peas with their fish and chips (maybe not so civilised) and how the Brits have a tendency to strip down to their Y fronts whenever the sun peeks out from behind a cloud (need I comment?). What you may not realise, is that I may have been guilty of giving you false information.

The misinformation, has its origins three years ago when, one Sunday, during my month long Welsh language Summer School, I decided to walk from Borth to Aberystwyth. It was a warm, blue sky, day, with only a whisper of cloud. I meandered along the Ceredigion Coastal Park, taking in the heather covered hillsides and spectacular sea views. Just short of Aberystwyth, I stopped for a drink at the cafe attached to the local caravan park. Having spent a number of summer holidays in Aussie Caravan parks, I enjoyed seeing how the Brits (largely from the Midlands judging by their accents) did the summer holiday thing. No, sun smart campaign, judging from the lobster-coloured backs of the children paddling on the beach. No trees for shade, or sun shelters and some of the caravans had two doors. Oh, my! How quaint! Semi-detached caravans!

Roll forward three years, and you will find me a little further along the coast with a group of Welsh speaking friends looking out over a different caravan park. The day wasn’t quite as sunny and, if I’m honest, it was a tad more windy (like blowing a force ten gale). As I sat shivering on the walls of Harlech Castle, I fell to making random summer holiday observations:

‘We don’t have castles in Australia so … this is not a normal summer holiday activity for me (nor the chattering teeth). Do many people stay in tents? Those semi-detached caravans you have are quaint.’

Silence. Four sets of eyes turned on me. ‘Semi-detached caravans?

‘Yes. I’ve seen them, near Aberystwyth.’

‘Really? I’ve never seen one.’ One by one, they all agreed.

Now at this point, I probably should have backed down. Four born and bred, British people, one who has an onsite caravan in a Welsh caravan park were telling me there was no such thing as a semi-detached caravan. What other evidence did I need? But here’s the thing about me. As well as telling tales of Brits sunbathing in their Y fronts, I may also have mentioned the semi-detached caravans a few times. Okay, so more than a few – and I was pretty damn sure they existed. I mean, why else would a caravan have two doors?

Our holiday finished without further reference to the great two door caravan fib. But back in Corris, I could not let the matter rest. I knew the Corris Caravan park wasn’t far away. I set off, camera in hand, to gather evidence. Imagine my delight when I came upon this scene.

I immediately sent a Facebook message to my friends.

‘Tystiolaeth!’ (Evidence)

‘Efallai’ (maybe)? The friend with the onsite caravan wrote. ‘Neu jyst carafan dau ddrws’ (or just a two door caravan).

No need to tell you what I thought of that idea. Who would be potty enough to make a caravan with two doors. Another friend messaged that she would best visiting the seaside town of Aberdyfi later in the week. She would do some research. I decided to join her This was too important a matter to leave to prejudiced minds.

We set off after dark, two middle aged women sneaking round a sleepy caravan park. Fortunately, we were in west Wales, where the crime rate is quite low, or we may have been arrested. Especially when we started circling two door caravans and peering through windows.

‘This one only has one storage box,’ my friend said.

I had to admit she was right.

‘And one number plate.’

Right again.

‘And look this one only has a name.’

I looked at the caravan in question. Number two, Seaspray, and there was only one storage box. I had to admit the evidence was stacking up against me. But what to do? How to tell my Aussie friends that a glorious West Wales holiday in a semi-detached caravan was no longer a possibility? And what about all my other stories. Maybe those men weren’t wearing Y fronts after all?

I’m not sure where all this doubt would have lead too, if not for the quiet persistence of my friend with the onsite caravan. Quite apart from our nighttime escapades, he’d been conducting his own quiet research. It’s called the World Wide Web, in case your interested. Far more sensible than creeping around caravan parks at night. Here’s the picture he sent me.

There may not be semi-detached caravans in modern Britain but once upon a time they did exist. In fact, if enough people make enquiries about semi-detached caravan holidays in West Wales we might be able to bring them back again. Meanwhile, I’m conducting another branch of research. Can someone please tell me why some British caravans have two doors?

 

Blog three – a Welsh speaking holiday

Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while will know I have a small (cough) interest in the Welsh language. You may also remember that last year I went on a Say Something in Welsh Bootcamp and blogged about the experience. You may not realise, however, that a few of us from the Bootcamp kept in touch and that when I announced my imminent return to Wales, plans were put in motion for a second Welsh language holiday. Not an 'official' one this time. A holiday between five friends with the expressed intention of speaking Welsh. A Welsh speaking holiday! For no reason! Why not? People go on golf holidays and fishing holidays, hiking trips and literary tours. We would spend our holiday practicing the language of heaven.

Excited messages were exchanged on Facebook, phone calls made, a holiday house booked and money paid. As the date approached, we realised this thing was actually going to happen. We were going to take off our trainer wheels and speak Welsh for a whole week unassisted. Now, I must admit, along with the mounting excitement, I approached the week with a degree of trepidation. Bootcamp was so good. We laughed so much, learned so much. Could this holiday ever match that first experience?

From the outset, we knew the rules would have to be different. We would not have a fluent Welsh speaker to provide unknown vocabulary. We decided therefore that sentences like: Beth ydy gair am (what is the word for) 'sheets' would be acceptable. As would looking in a dictionary occasionally. But that we would not resort to English beyond those parameters. We would aim to use shops and cafes where we could be served in Welsh. In instances where we found ourselves caught in a non-Welsh speaking situation (of which there were few) we would keep conversation to the absolute minimum.

So how did we go? What were the highlights? What were the challenges?

Challenges

Of course, the primary challenge (and pleasure) was to speak Welsh. We were all super keen to do this. But the fact that we expressed how keen we were a number of times during the lead up to the holiday suggested we were a little afraid we wouldn't be able to do it. In the end, this was a non-issue. We do not have a relationship in English. We never have done. It would have felt unnatural to speak English.

For me, the week held another unexpected for challenge. This became apparent when on arrival my friends started unpacking massive, multiple packets of crisps. I don't normally eat crisps – far too many carbs and with way to much fat for this middle-aged-trying-not-to-put-on-weight Australian. My challenge was trying to resist the multiple packets of crisps while all around me other were munching. In Welsh! I made it almost to the end of the week before caving. Although, I do confess my self control didn't last beyond the first night as far as the chocolate was concerned.

Highlights

One of our number, expressed his intention to jog in the mornings. I suggested that this was something I should probably participate in too. The second morning, we set out along the Llwybr Mawddach (Mawddach path). Once he had warmed up, my friend picked up his pace. As he ran into the distance, the rain started to fall. I followed behind, my spectacles a foggy blur of steam and rain. As I reached my designated turning point, I jogged back along the now puddled path. Passing me on my homeward leg, my friend was clearly amused by the image of a bedraggled Aussie plodding along in the teeming rain. He called out Croeso i Gymru, Liz (Welcome to Wales). See, as well as the massive crisp eating tendencies, it would seem that Wales is a little wetter than Melbourne. Honesty compels me to admit that the wind is a bit parky too. For this reason, later in the week, when standing shivering on the turret at Castell Harlech with my collar pulled up and my coat zipped tight against the wind, I found myself saying:

Dw i ddim meddwl fi mod i'n Gymraes o gwbl. Merched o Awstralia ydw i (I don't think I'm a Welsh woman at all. I am a girl from Australia).

Of course, this comment was funny in Welsh. In fact, I find most things are funnier in Welsh. This could, of course be an element common to all language learners (we certainly laugh a lot at our St Augustine's, ESL dinners). The laughter coming from a three fold source:

  1. That you've followed the conversation well enough to make a joke
  2. That you've managed to express this humorous insight in real time
  3. That the people have understood you well enough to laugh in response

Another holiday highlight, was visiting the Aplaca farm of our friends Karen and Crispin. First, for an informal Sunday lunch and a walk around the farm, which was stunning. The second, as part of a group of local language learners. I confess, I felt a twinge of anxiety about attending a Welsh language afternoon with people who have attended regular Welsh classes, in Wales. Apart from my wonderful month at Cwrs Haf in Aberystwyth, the five of us on our Welsh language holiday had all learned Welsh outside of Wales, and primarily (although in my case not entirely) through the Say Something in Welsh course. We had a wonderful afternoon chatting with learners at all stages in their language learning journey. In fact, if you are reading this from Melbourne, where we use SSiW as our official class materials, I can safely say the system works. I don't think we shamed ourselves at all.

Our special visitor for the afternoon was the Welsh author Bethan Gwanas.

'Ydy'r fenyw 'na Bethan Gwanas?' Someone asked in hushed tones.

'Yes!' Eyes popping. 'It's Bethan Gwanas.'

'Be' y Bethan Gwanas?'

'Yes, it's the Bethan Gwanas.'

A final highlight, was spending the afternoon on a Pwllheli beach with Aran and Catrin Jones. Aran is the founder of Say Something in Welsh and he and his wife Catrin are the voices of the North Wales course. It was great to pick Aran's brains about what's coming next in the SSiW world and to joining him in waxwing lyrical about our hopes and fears for the Welsh language. I think, we may have also solved a most of the worlds problems while sitting in the sun on the Lleyn Peninsula that afternoon and afterwards as we ate pysgod a sglodion (fish and chips) while sitting on a Criccieth seaside wall.

It's amazing what can be achieved on a Welsh speaking holiday. 🙂

Hwyl am y tro!

 

Blog one – o Gymru (from Wales)

It’s Saturday afternoon and I am sitting in Adam and Andy’s cafe drinking coffee. A flat white, nonetheless. How to make a Melbourne girl feel at home. It’s been a frenetic week but, six days in, I’m feeling relaxed and happy. Rather than give you a blow by blow of my first week, I’ll pick out some highlights.

 

The flight

What can I say? There is nothing good about a long haul flight. I had prevaricated about paying for exit row seats and decided against the extra cost. At least, I thought I had… I looked forward to a cramped, miserable, leg-aching, twenty three hours without sleep. Imagine my surprise to find I had been assigned an exit row seat. The good flight fairy, perhaps? Or early onset Alzheimer’s? I must have paid for it. Whatever the case, the flight seemed shorter somehow.

Cymru

It was a pleasant twenty one degrees when I arrived at Heathrow airport – a little cloudy, a little grey, a perfectly ordinary must-wear-a-cardigan UK summers day. Did I tell you, the UK smells different to Australia. An absence of Eucalypts perhaps? Different cleaning products? From the airport, to the bus, to the open air, for some reason, it produces an overwhelming sense of welcome.

The rain started as my Arriva train crossed the border into Wales. What can I say? Wales is so moist and mossy and mountainous. It has been raining on and off since I arrived. It doesn’t seem to deter people from going out. They simply trudge through the rain in gor-tex jackets and sturdy boots.

Boots? Ah… boots…

Now, in case you were lucky enough to miss out, the question of my footwear has been a subject of much discussion in the lead up my departure. In Melbourne, I wear a cute pair of black ankle boots patterned in red. I had every intention of bringing them to Wales. Alas, a Welsh friend took one look at them and said they wouldn’t do. Hiking boots were the recommended footwear. But, although I found a pair of hiking boots with the obligatory touch of red, I couldn’t face the notion of wearing them for five months. Vanity, perhaps? Or simply because I’m an Aussie. Down under you only wear hiking boots if you are a serious hiker. And I’m not. So, what to wear? Could I wear Wellies (rubber boots) for five whole months? Surely there was an in between option. I raised the topic at work (as you do), discussed it in Welsh with my friend on Skype (as most wouldn’t). Sought earnest advice at multiple family gatherings. In the end, Andrew weighed in (possibly a little weary of the topic) and suggested I purchase a pair of Blundstone boots (with red stitching and elastic). I’m not sure how my Tasmanian made work boots will face up to the vagaries of the Welsh weather. But, if this sign on an office door is anything to go by, they were a safer choice than Wellies. The sign says:

No dirty Wellngtons in the office, please!!!!

I don’t expect to find: No dirty Blundtones stuck on an office door.

Maelor

I spent an intense day and a half learning everything about Stiwdio Maelor. While here, I will be greeting artists, taking applications for 2016, and acting as a general housekeeper for the stiwdio. I have learned about boilers and cookers (there is a switch on the wall for cookers In the UK) and British showers (started with a cord from the ceiling) and the intricacies of Gwynedd Council’s recycling programme. After, Veronica and Mary left for New York. I spent a couple of days in their Dolgellau house before heading down to Maelor. While in Dolgellau, I went for a jog along the Llwybr (pathway) Mawddach while listening to Brigyn on my iPod. I ran past hay meadows and through stiles, with my feet dancing around puddles, and the pebble grey river racing on ahead of me. As I finished my jog, I raised my hands in the air (hope no one was watching) and thought: dw i’n y nefoedd – I am in heaven.

Cymraeg (Welsh language)

One of the disheartening things for all lovers of the hen iaith (ancient language) is that you can’t be assured of speaking Welsh in Wales. Even in the heartlands, where Welsh speakers are ninety percent of the population, many newcomers expect Welsh speakers to use English. So where does that leave me? I have only five months – five short months – in which to take my Welsh language ability to the next level. I can’t sit around waiting for welsh speaking opportunities. I have to make them happen. This will involve taking a deep breath and going into shops, banks, pubs and railway stations and starting every conversation in Welsh. Sometimes, I will get a reply in kind. At other times, an English language reply, that indicates comprehension. In this instance, I’ve been advised to keep speaking Welsh. Many people understand the language but do not have the confidence to speak. It is therefore possible to have a simple bilingual exchange (on the level of buying milk or a postage stamp). In the worst case scenario, I will get an apology: sorry, I don’t speak Welsh. In which case, I will simply accept their apology and never shop there again (unless they happen to be the pub next door or make a damn good flat white). 🙂

Tomorrow, I am heading to the Eisteddfod Genedlaethol (National Eisteddfod). This is Cymru Cymraeg’s (Welsh speaking Wales’) premier cultural event. If you are a Welsh speaker and in Wales during the first week in August you will be asked: wyt ti’n mind i’r eisteddfod (are you going to the eisteddfod)? It is the Welsh speaking place to be. I will be going to a concert in Monday night. The Say Something in Welsh birthday party on Thursday night. I have also signed up to volunteer in Maes D (the learners’ tent) throughout the week. I look forward to meeting old friends (online and otherwise) and speaking Welsh at every opportunity.

Some pre-travel conversations

With five days until I leave for Wales I find myself having some interesting conversations:

 

‘What will the weather be like in Wales, Liz?’

‘Summer when I arrive.’

‘And after that?’

‘Autumn.’

‘Followed by winter?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘So, it’ll be cold and grey and it will rain a lot?’

*

What will you eat in Wales, Liz?’

‘Er…what do you mean?’

‘Are there any special foods?’

‘Welsh cakes, which are delicious, but due to allergies I can’t eat them. They have faggots in the south but I’m not supposed to eat those either because of the onion. Bara Brith is nice too, but ditto the allergy situation.’

‘So … you’ll just head down to the local supermarket and eat the same as you always do?’

*

‘So, Liz, you’re not going to Wales for the weather … and you’re not going for the food. So, tell me, why are you going?

Good question. I have a great husband, a lovely white dog, four beautiful children and their partners, a to-die for-house in a heaps cool neighbourhood, a hot red bike, and a grandson in Brisbane, yet, for some reason, for the next five months, I am choosing to live without them.

Here are my reasons:

‘There are two worlds in Wales. The ‘muggle’ world on the surface that includes ordinary, everyday things like trees and mountains, the valley towns built around an industry that no longer exists, the do-or-die rugby culture, the proud industrial heritage depicted in the movies like Pride, the quirky humour that made TV shows like Gavin and Stacey. I love visiting that world. It is dear to me and precious. Yet I also seek another world – you could call it the Hogwarts of modern Britain. You don’t need a birthday letter to enter this hidden world. You simply need a language. A language which gives you access to one of the oldest living cultures in Europe. A culture of bards and musicians and poets. A culture proud and strong and ancient that has endured in the face of strident opposition. A culture that happens to be my heritage.’

*

‘So, you’re going to Wales for words?’

‘Yes. And to write.’

‘And that’s it? Language and writing?’

‘Well, yes… but it’s not simply words, is it? Language is the key to everything.’

 

Language, culture and worldview – an interview with Earl Livings

Born in Australia to an Australian father and Belgian mother, Earl Livings once scorned those who felt a need to explore their ancestral origins. Not anymore. He now calls Wales his spiritual home. Having just spent two months at Stiwdio Maelor, in Corris, North Wales, this is perhaps not surprising. But in truth, he stumbled upon the homeward path years ago.


I first met Earl as one of the tutors at Box Hill TAFE where I was enrolled in a Novel Writing subject. Earl taught poetry and a unit on myths and symbolism. When he turned up at the Melbourne Welsh classes it seemed the two disparate aspects of my life had collided. Another writer! With an interest in Welsh language and culture! Who lives in Melbourne! When Earl announced he was going to the UK for a research trip and would be staying in Dolgellau. I said:

You should meet my friend Veronica.

When Veronica set up Stiwdio Maelor, a residential studio for artists and writers, Earl and I jostled for a chance to be one of her writers in residence, Earl applying for a two month residency, me applying for a six month volunteer role. Our applications were both successful. Earl’s residency came before mine. I have therefore followed his writer in residence blogs with interest, plying him with a host of pressing and intelligent, questions like:

What’s the internet speed like? Does Maelor have a washing machine?

Now Earl is back in Australia, I thought it time to raise the standard of my enquiries. I asked him to flesh out what he means by the term ‘spiritual home.’

Here’s what he had to say on the topic:

“Although my father was born in Australia, of an English father and a Welsh mother, whenever people met him his demeanour and speech would lead them to believe he was English. I too was born in Australia, yet some people when they meet me think I come from Europe. This may be because my mother was Belgian and I inherited her darker skin, eye and hair colouring and her attitudes … However, when I was young I saw myself as Australian and couldn’t understand the need of some people to re-visit their homelands, grow their country’s flowers, and cultivate its culture. I was an Australian and I felt it our duty to embrace the land, its flora and fauna and its growing culture.

“Yet, alongside this national bent was a sense of otherness from this country. When I found out I was part Welsh, I felt a kinship I hadn’t felt before … Still, the national bent remained and it was years before I started to explore my British heritage … My exploration into my British roots (as opposed to my father’s English roots) began with a developing interest in the megalithic culture of Britain, in The Matter of Britain—the stories of Arthur, Merlin and the druids—and in Celtic poetry and poetics: W B Yeats, Dylan Thomas, Robert Graves (specifically, his The White Goddess). The more I read Celtic literature and myths, the more I felt at home in this tradition. When I first travelled to Britain and spent time in Cornwall, Wales and Ireland, I sensed an affinity with the landscape, more so than during trips to the Australian bush and outback. Subsequent visits have only confirmed this connection, as has my learning of the Welsh language, an activity and practice that always feels right for me, that always centres me.”

One of Earl’s more recent literary inspirations has been found in the work of Alan Garner. He uses the term ‘mythic realism’ to describe Garner’s weaving together of the everyday and the mythic. I asked him to explain his use of this term.

“The phrase ‘mythic realism’ in some ways was a throwaway phrase when I was thinking of Garner’s work in relation to my own and in comparison to someone like JRR Tolkien and his secondary world of Middle-Earth. Tolkien and others have been described by the phrase ‘mythopoeic’, but I felt this phrase was more relevant for those stories that are either constructions of a myth, as The Lord of the Rings can be construed, or use myths and mythic beings in a literal sense, as much of modern fantasy does. I wanted something to describe Garner’s approach of using myth as a foundation for a story that somehow enacts the myth and also presupposes the literal existence of the myth and/or its underlying metaphysics. Garner creates liminal fantasies, where the world of myth and the so-called ‘real world’ overlap…

Garner posits these mythical worlds as real and as impinging on our world. In some ways he says these worlds influence and support our world, and that the opposite also happens. His first two books, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen and The Moon of Gomrath, use folklore based on Arthurian-type legends of Alderley Edge, but in his next books, Elidor, The Owl Service and Red Shift, he uses Celtic myths directly or indirectly. For example, The Owl Service uses the story of Blodeuwedd in The Mabinogion, with the three main characters being influenced by the reality of the myth, almost inexorably, and acting it out at the same time. The myth is apart from the real world, yet is in a process of being continual re-enacted in the real world …

In the situation of my return visits to Britain, my journeys through Celtic landscapes in Wales and Scotland have given me my own experiences of mythic realism, in that certain sites, such as megalithic tombs and stone structures and places associated with legend and myth, give off (at least to me) a palpable sense of their sacredness … Some of these places I intend to use in my writing, either as settings or as the basis of feelings and insights characters will experience.”

Earl is an academic. Can you tell? His blog posts lifted my considerations above such pressing matters as internet speed (though this does still concern me). He has urged me to see my time in Corris as a time apart. Although, ‘officially’ a volunteer studio manger. I will be writing during my residency. Earl suggested my priorities should be:

  • My manuscript
  • The studio
  • Speaking Welsh

One of Stwidio Maelor’s owners and founders was present at this discussion. She said you may like to make you writing a priority but I think the studio will keep you pretty busy. After we had all gone our seperate ways I considered my list of priorities.

For me, speaking Welsh will come first.

I could have taken leave without pay to finish my novel in Melbourne. But, as wonderful as Skype is, opportunities to speak Welsh would have been limited. Part of my novel is written from the point of view of a nineteenth century Welsh storyteller (yes, I too am drawn by Welsh mythology). My ability to enter his consciousness, indeed, my right to do so, is grounded in my ability to speak his language.

But what of Earl? What were his aims for his time at Maelor? And does he think they were realised?

“Like many writers, both emerging and established, I have had the odd weekend (or longer) writing retreat and have enjoyed the benefits of focussing on one’s work for an extended time. A residency is just a longer writing retreat, with basically the same intention: get away from the commitments and routines of normal life and devote time and mental energy to researching a project, working at one’s craft, and/or writing and editing the text or texts of a project… My goal for the residency was to write the next draft of my dark ages novel…. What I didn’t count on was the effects of the mental space the residency gave me. Given this opportunity to sit back and think about the novel, I discovered problems in structure and story I hadn’t realised before. I thus had to spend time doing a structural edit (which isn’t finished yet) before throwing myself back into the content editing…

Even with the disappointment of not finishing the redraft, I was happy with the residency. By the end of my time in the UK I managed to edit and re-write around half of the manuscript, which itself had grown and will probably end up being about 150,000 words. I also checked out settings for the novel and learnt a little more Welsh, which I’ve been pursuing not only for myself but also for use in the novel.”

It sounds like Earl’s residency was worthwhile on a number of levels. As it is now less a month until I leave for Wales, you can look forward to hearing in nauseating detail about how volunteering, speaking Welsh and my own writing goals play out.

***

Earl Livings has published poetry and fiction in Australia and also Britain, Canada, the USA, and Germany. He also has read his work in many venues around Melbourne and in the USA, England, Ireland, and Wales. Earl has a PhD in Creative Writing and taught professional writing and editing for 17 years. His writing focuses on nature, mythology and the sacred and he is currently working on a Dark Ages novel and his next poetry collection. Earl lives in Box Hill with his wife and the seasonal owls, bats and lorikeets that love the trees around his home.

 

 

Language – some thoughts on accent, context and comprehension

This week I have been thinking about accent, context and comprehension. Why? Because on Tuesday, in the lead up to Dysgwr y Flwyddyn we did a mock interview at our Melbourne Welsh class. The beginners class prepared questions to ask our special Welsh visitor and the more advanced learners prepared questions to ask me. Happily, my mouth opened and a few appropriate sounds came out. Although, one question, in an unfamiliar North Wales accent, went straight through to the keeper. I tried answering on the basis of what I thought had been said. The result: some comically blank looks and a lesson learned: It's best to ask for clarification.

Wednesday night, an impromptu dinner with friends coincided with my scheduled Skype chat. The necessary explanations lead to a request to say something in Welsh. One of our Nicaraguan friends, herself an English language learner said, 'when you were speaking Welsh you looked like I feel when I am trying to find the English words.' This has been one of the unexpected side effects of learning Welsh. A strange affinity with others who are trying to break through language barriers.

During my Skype chat, my friend, Aran, said my first few weeks in Wales will be make or break in terms of my Welsh language development. He challenged me to arrive, guns blazing (my words not his) and make it plain that I want to speak Welsh from the outset. He also suggested I make contact with some local, Welsh speaking communities before I arrive. I have since written emails to Merched y Wawr and the Corris parish church. I may also have a small Welsh speaking job lined up.

Wednesday, the son of my Lebanese Australian hairdresser showed me a YouTube clip about the Australian accent. A timely reminder that accents and dialects make a huge difference to comprehension. I'm pleased to report, that I understood everything Simon Taylor said in this YouTube clip. I may not be so fortunate during my Dysgwr y Flwyddyn interview Saturday night.

I will wake Saturday morning to a self imposed cocoon of Cymraeg right here in the Melbourne suburb of Coburg. I have friends lined up to chat on Skype throughout the day. In between, I will listen to Radio Cymru. Write a long overdue letter to my Welsh cousin in Cwmafan and do multiple SSiW lessons. By 10.45 pm (interview time), I will be in the right frame of mind. Or simply punch drunk and exhausted. Either way, I intend to enjoy the experience.

Unfortunately, the blogger YouTube feature is malfunctioning at the moment . So, I am unable to embed the Aussie accent clip. But it's worth a watch, if you've ever had cause to reflect on accents, context and comprehension, just click on this link.

 

Wales 2015, here I come.

I left England at the age of five. Spent my childhood reading Enid Blyton, Arthur Ransome, Malcom Saville and a host of other English children’s authors, watching The Goodlife, Two Ronnies, Dad’s Army and Are you Being Served? and inexplicably pining for a land I could barely recall. I would go back, I decided, once I came of age. I would visit this place my parents called home. But somehow it never happened. I got married, we had children, became saddled with a mortgage. The years rolled past until, one day, my young adult son got himself a UK passport. He said, ‘look mum, I’m more British than you are.’

That’s it, I decided. Time to make the journey.

I booked my frequent flyer tickets months in advance. Endured a round-about flight with interminable stopovers enroute. After thirty plus hours of travel, the pilot announced we had begun our descent into Heathrow. As I peered down on the little brown semi-detached houses with their baize, card table lawns my eyes filled with tears. They wouldn’t stop. Hiccuping sobs wracked my chest. As the plane touched down and we came to a juddering halt, I thought:

If I die now, it doesn’t matter I’m home.

In July last year, Andrew and I visited the UK together for the first time. After the long haul flight we boarded our National Express coach for Wales. Andrew dozed intermittently as we headed out onto the M4. I sat bolt upright on the seat beside him. As we approached the Severn Bridge, I jabbed him in the ribs.

‘Andrew. Wake up. We’re about to cross the border into Wales.’

Jet lagged and facing a further five hours in the coach, I don’t think the border crossing had registered as significant. But seeing my flushed face and quivering upright form, Andrew assumed an attitude of polite interest. As we passed through Chepstow and headed deeper into Wales, I began to point out landmarks. When he could finally get a word in, Andrew asked: ‘Liz, how many times have you been to Wales in the last eight years?’

‘Only four.’

‘Isn’t it time you came for a longer stint?’

It wasn’t in fact the first time Andrew had made this suggestion. He’d dangled the possibility before me a number of times. After a fleeting moment of consideration, I’d alway dismissed the possibility out of hand. We’re married right? Till death do us part. Good Christian girls don’t do that kind of thing. And frankly the idea of striking out on my own terrified me.

However, this time fate intervened in the form of my friend Veronica Calarco.

I first met Veronica, a fellow Aussie, on Cwrs Haf, a month long summer language school in Aberystwyth. We kept in touch, sharing news and making witticisms in our muddled up learners Welsh. On a trip home to Australia, Veronica and her partner, Mary, came to visit us in Melbourne. When planning our holiday, I learned that they had recently bought a house in Corris, Wales, which Veronica was planning to set up as an artist and writers residence. On visiting North Wales, Andrew and I were given a guided tour of the newly established Stiwdio Maelor. Veronica said: ‘I’m hoping to get a live in volunteer to manage the property.’

Bing! A light came on in my head. I could do that, I thought. I could live in this house, in this tiny edge-of-Snowdonia village, in this country that I love, with its brave history and melodious language. I would have a roof over my head, friends nearby, and my writing to keep me occupied. I could pick up casual job in a pub or a cafe. Before we left Corris, I asked Veronica to send me the volunteer application form. Andrew and I discussed the idea, on and off, throughout our holiday. Slowly over the weeks it took on solid form. So solid, that when I got back to Melbourne, I applied for leave without pay from the library. It was granted. I told the family, booked my airline tickets, wrote a profile for the Stwdio Maelor visiting artists page. All that remained was for me to make the announcement. Which I am doing now:

Hear this, hear this…

On July 26th 2015, Elizabeth Jane Corbett is going to live in Wales for six months. She plans to speak Welsh, enjoy the glory of a northern hemisphere autumn and try to understand why this tiny island on the far side of the world has called her name for so long.

 

Cymru connections – an interview with David Lloyd

What draws a person back to Wales? This is a question I often ask myself as I sit with my Welsh class, on Tuesday evenings, or when I talk with other far flung language learners on the Saysomethinginwelsh forum. What are we doing here, though many of us were born far from Wales? What is it about the western-most corner of the British mainland that calls to us? How has this connection shaped us? In what ways do we express that sense of dual identity?

This week, I put these questions to the American born writer David Lloyd. David and his wife, artist Kim Waale, are soon to do a residency at Stwidio Maelor, which is owned by my friend Veronica Calarco, and as I hope to spend time at the stiwdio next year, I have a growing interest in all things Maelor.

Writer, poet, literary critic, academic, David Lloyd is the director of Creative Writing at Le Moyne College. His poetry has been widely published in the U.S. and in Welsh publications such as Poetry Wales, Planet, New Welsh Review, Lampeter Review and through the Welsh presses Parthia and Gwasg Carreg Gwlach. His recent novel, Over the Line, was published by Syracuse University Press.

Born in America to Welsh speaking parents, David studied at Aberystwyth University in the early 1970’s, and returned to the university on a Watson Fellowship, later in the same decade. In 2001 he spent five months at Bangor University, on a Fullbright Fellowship. As an American citizen and a person with an obvious connection to Wales, I asked David about the influence of his Welsh heritage:

“Welshness is deeply embedded in my identity. It’s in the way I interact with the world and how I understand who I am. My interest in being a writer derived in part from hearing my father’s sermons each Sunday, which were beautifully constructed and delivered with passion. Perhaps my sister Margaret, also a poet, was similarly influenced. At some point in the 1950s my father stopped giving weekly sermons in Welsh and English, to only giving them in English – a result of the declining number of Welsh speakers. But throughout his life he was regularly called on to give Welsh-language talks or sermons. My brother Richard is a musician and composer, and his musical sense must derive to a great extent from the Welsh music we heard and sang during our childhood. I know I absorbed the rhythms of the Welsh language and of English as spoken by a north Walian (my father, from Corris) and a south Walian (my mother, from Pontrhydyfen).”

As the child of Welsh speaking parents it may surprise you to learn that David was not raised speaking the language, a situation he ascribes to a general feeling during the 1950’s that children of immigrants should Americanize.

“Even with this change in the primary language of our home, we all could speak some Welsh. Prayers before Sunday dinner were in Welsh; certain family routines were announced only in Welsh: bore da, mae’n bwyd yn barod, nos da, cysgwch yn dda. My brother closest in age to me were always cariad to our mother. On family vacations we sang Welsh-language hymns and folksongs in the car to pass the time. I remember an elderly parishioner, Mae Ellis, who insisted we exchange a bit of Welsh every Sunday, even if only Sut wyt ti? Di iawn, diolch yn fawr. Then she wiped any smudge off my face with a damp handkerchief pulled from her sleeve.”

David’s father died young, in his fifties but, in her later years, his mother came to regret not having raised her children as Welsh speakers. An omission David and his sister Margaret sought to rectify in the year 2000, returning to Aberystwyth for Cwrs Haf, an annual, month long intensive language school, which is, incidentally, the same course (different year) on which I met Veronica. David had this to say about the Summer School experience.

“It was fantastic, really – at the end we could carry on conversations in Welsh quite well – and on returning to the States for the first time I could speak with some fluency with my mother. She lived until 97 – the last native Welsh speaker in central New York.”

As a British born Australian of Welsh descent, I am always intrigued by other people’s experience of dual identity. I asked David what it means to be both Welsh and American.

“The immigrant experience – including the experience of children of immigrants – necessarily involves a degree of loss: of family, of community, of culture, of language. But it does bring compensations. I consider myself lucky to have two cultural streams flowing into my life. I love listening to live blues at the Dinosaur bar in Syracuse as much as I love hearing poets read at the Imperial Hotel in Merthyr Tyfil. (Mike Jenkins runs a reading series there.) I love camping in the Adirondack national park not far from where I live in New York State, but one of the great pleasures of my life is taking long walks in Wales with my family, searching out burial chambers, standing stones, and stone circles. I’m fascinated by American popular culture, but can’t read enough about Llywelyn ap Gruffydd or Owain Glyn Dŵr. The modern poets who mean the most to me are American William Carlos Williams, Irishman Seamus Heaney, and Welshman R. S. Thomas. A description of my second book of poetry, The Gospel According to Frank (New American Press), might best display this cultural mash-up: the poems merge the public persona of Frank Sinatra with heroic figures drawn from Wales (The Mabinogi), Ireland (the Tain Bo Cuainge), and the Old and New Testaments.

“My most recent Welsh-related writing project is a series of stories set in the Welsh immigrant community in which I grew up, during the 1960s. The book, titled The Moving of the Water, is almost finished, and I’ve been publishing the stories. You can find two in on-line journals: “Home” in the Spring 2014 issue of the Welsh journal Lampeter Review and “The Key” in the 2013 issue of the US journal Stone Canoe.

In November of this year, David will be staying at Stwdio Maelor, in Corris, which happens to be his father’s home village. I asked what he hoped to achieve during his residency.

“My aim is to explore the part of Wales that my father knew well as a child – and then see what ways that experience feeds into my creative work. I’m back to writing poetry after having just published a novel, Over the Line, so I’m planning on drafting new poems at Stiwdio Maelor.”

No doubt, David will meet up with old friends and commune with those no longer present. Let’s also hope he also finds opportunities to speak the hen iaith too.

Photo: David Lloyd (center) with Welsh poets Nigel Jenkins (far left), Menna Elfyn (seated), Iwan Llwyd (far right).

***

Stiwdio Maelor in Corris has been set up to provide studios for local artists and to provide a retreat for artists from the UK and other parts of the world to take time out of their normal lives and visit a stunning area in North Wales. There are five studios available for rent to local artists and astudio/bedroom space available for visiting artists. The fees have been kept as low as possible so that all artists can take advantage of this project.

 

Page 2 of 2

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén