Photographs by Ron Fritze
Digital post production by Joe Dempsey

 
Wales is divided and distinguished by noble rivers,
which derive their source from two ranges of mountains,
the Ellennith, in South Wales, which the English call Moruge,
as being the heads of moors, or bogs; and Eryri, in North Wales.
— Gerald of Wales (1194)

By Ron Fritze from Athens, Alabama
Posted February 20, 2009

Back in November I had the delightful experience of attending my god-daughter Victoria’s wedding over in Great Britain. Apart from the joy of getting to share in Victoria’s wonderful event, this trip marked the first time for me to set foot in Wales.

I have studied the myths of Prince Madoc settling a Welsh colony in North America during the Middle Ages and the reports of Welsh Indian tribes on the American frontier. It would be nice to see the land where these supposed Welsh Indians came from. So this trip would be a new experience for me, although it does not qualify me as an expert on things Welsh. For one thing, I only visited a small section of southern Wales. Still it was fun and unique.

I arrived in London at about 7 am on 12 November. Experienced travelers know that means that I arrived without much sleep. Fortunately I was staying at the President Hotel, just off of Russell Square and conveniently located to the Russell Square tube stop. I knocked around central London, visiting old haunts and bookstores, and went to bed at 7 pm to get a good long sleep.

The next day I walked over to Reaktion Books, about twenty minutes away, to check on page proofs for the book I have coming out. Then I made my way to Paddington Station to ride the train to Exeter with a friend, Jeremy Black. I stayed with Jeremy and his wife that night. The next day, 14 November, I boarded the train at Exeter with the wilds of Wales as my destination.

Sticker Shock on the Train to Cardiff

Travel on British Rail is not what is used to be. Everyone complains of the high cost of the trains. It was certainly sticker shock for me, not having traveled on British trains all that much recently. Comfort is a bit of an issue as well. My train was extremely crowded, so I ended up standing in part of the café car until I got to Bristol, and even that got crowded. I had thought I could travel on one train to Cardiff but I had read the schedule wrong, so I got off at Bristol and changed trains to get to Cardiff.

Arriving at Cardiff definitely put me in Wales. Like stations in England, the Cardiff train station has a big board of lights that lists trains and platforms. Unlike the English boards, the Cardiff board is bilingual. At one moment, it flashes the times and platforms of trains in English and then switches to Welsh. It can be a bit disorienting as Welsh is a Celtic language and as such is much more foreign than German, French, or Spanish signage would be to an English speaking person. But then the Welsh are Welsh, they are not English, so if you want to get in trouble, call a bunch of Welsh people English. The same applies to Scots.

While at Cardiff, I had a sandwich and coffee, which were quite good. After a little while my train came. My next stop was a little town called Neath. It is the closest train stop to Craig-y-Nos Castle where the wedding was taking place. I was to meet Peter, Victoria’s father, at Neath. A couple of English guys, the photographers Tom and Toby, were arriving from London and Peter was driving us up to the castle.

I was a little apprehensive about Neath as I feared it might be one of those little country train stations with a covered shelter and not much else. In fact, Neath is a substantial town. Getting off the train, I was on the wrong side of the track and would have to climb the stairs of the pedestrian crosswalk. Fortunately a couple of friendly British Rail workers invited me to walk with them across the ground-level crossing. These guys have keys for the gates that prevent the general public from crossing that way. Otherwise there might be a safety problem. Their offer of walking with them was a big help as humping my luggage up and down steps was getting old.

Bilingual and Very Friendly

Once out of the station, I wanted to buy some stamps. Fortunately there was a post office right next to the station. Inside was a line of people under an address system, which told customers whenever a counter came open. And like the signage in the Cardiff and Neath rail stations, it was also bilingual. For the first time in my life, I heard Welsh spoken. My turn came and a nice woman sold me the stamps that I needed.

Leaving the post office, I was getting the stamps into my bag when a young guy came up. He was bringing some stamps that I had forgotten to pick up from the counter. He spoke English with a pleasant accent. Like the rail workers, he was yet another friendly Welsh person. I was beginning to think that this Wales place was okay.

Beautifully Isolated, Fiercely Free
And Linguistically Resurgent.

What about Wales? A mountainous land, it is situated on the western coast of the island of Great Britain. The Welsh are the descendants of the ancient Britons. For several centuries they were part of the Roman Empire but when it fell, the Britons were left to fend for themselves. The timing was bad as Britain had become a target of invading tribes of Saxons, Angles, and Jutes. These Germanic tribes began to conquer the part of Great Britain now known as England. But they did not manage to conquer the Welsh in their mountains. The people held fiercely to their freedom and have maintained their language against the competition of English to this very day. In fact, Welsh is resurgent as the bilingual signage attests.

My experiences with Welsh people are not unique. The cleric and historian Gerald of Wales or Giraldus Cambensis (1146-1223) wrote about his native Wales and produced A Journey to Wales in 1191 and A Description of Wales in 1194. Gerald wrote of Welsh hospitality:

No one of this nation ever begs, for the houses of all are common to all; and they consider liberality and hospitality amongst the first virtues. So much does hospitality here rejoice in communication, that it is neither offered nor requested by travellers, who, on entering any house, only deliver up their arms. When water is offered to them, if they suffer their feet to be washed, they are received as guests; for the offer of water to wash the feet is with this nation an hospitable invitation. But if they refuse the proffered service, they only wish for morning refreshment, not lodging.

Now I can’t say that anyone offered to wash my feet, but I did find Welsh people ready to go an extra step to be helpful and friendly to a stranger.

The Beer Was Not So Good,
But the Mastiff Stood Tall.

Interested in sampling the local Welsh beer and having well over an hour to kill, I looked for a pub. The first pub I saw looked a bit rough. I was looking for quaint, so I passed it by and soon came upon the Full Moon, which looked quite pubbish — the timbers and stucco look we so often associate with sixteenth and seventeenth century Britain and with pub architecture.

Alas the interior was a little spare, but I got my Welsh beer. Like the interior of the pub, the brew was a bit disappointing. The people were nice and so was the pub’s mascot, a very friendly Mastiff. I snapped several pictures in the dog’s direction, but he was on the move, blurring the images. As I was getting my camera out, the Mastiff noticed and headed straight at me. He had that sort of big dog smile on his face and it was clear he thought I was getting him a treat. The Mastiff actually would stand up at the bar, which might be the origin of jokes about a man and a dog standing at the bar of a Welsh pub and having a conversation.

It may just be me, but later, when I tasted a second Welsh beer at the Castle bar, it was also a disappointment — not all that flavorful, unlike a nice pint of English Abbot or Fuller’s.

Finding Bliss in the Rarebit

The Welsh are known to be lovers of cheese, hence the cheese-on-toast meal known as Welsh Rarebit. In 1612, John Taylor the Water Poet wrote that:

The way to make a Welch-man thirst for blisse
And say his prayers dayly on his knees:
Is to perswade him, that most certain tis,
The Moone is made of nothing but greene Cheese
And hee’l desire of God no greater boone,
But place in heaven to feed upon the Moone.

The view that Welsh love cheese is not some short-lived stereotype confined to the seventeenth century. Francis Grose in his Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue of 1785 told the story that:

The Welsh are said to be so remarkably fond of cheese, that in cases of difficulty their midwives apply a piece of toasted cheese to the janua vitae, to attract and entice the young Taffy, who on smelling it makes the most vigorous efforts to come forth.

That quote also contains the word “Taffy,” a pejorative term coined by the English for a Welsh person. It associates the Welsh with thieving. Of course, the Welsh have their resentments toward the English. A Welsh proverb states:

Sais Sais y gach yn ei bais,
Y Cymro glan y gach allan.

That translates as, “The Saxon [English] shites in his breech, the cleanly Briton in the hedge.”

Alas, the Caerphilly Cheesemakers
Have Moved across the Severn Estuary.

As for the love of cheese, I can fully understand the Welsh fondness for it. My favorite cheese is Caerphilly, a Welsh cheese. Like many cheeses, the name refers to the place where it originated as a distinctive type — and the place known as Caerphilly is in southern Wales. Sadly, the production of Caerphilly has declined in Wales, moving across the Severn estuary into England. I have read, however, that the making of artisanal Caerphilly has started to make a comeback in Wales.

For another great Welsh cheese, check out Harlech, is a soft white cheddar with horseradish mixed into it. If you don’t like horseradish, it would not be a good idea to go there.

My beer drained, I returned to the train station and met Tom and Toby — easy to identify, two guys traveling together with photographic equipment. A while later Peter arrived to drive us to Craig-y-Nos Castle, where Victoria’s wedding was to take place.

A Jewel of the Beacons

Craig-y-Nos Castle is located in the region known as the Brecon Beacons, a range of mountains in the south of Wales. The Beacons are the southernmost peaks of the Cambrian Mountains, which run the length of Wales, north to south. It is a lovely area that reminded me of the Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas or the southern hills of the Appalachian Mountains around the area of Fort Payne in Alabama.

Wales is a rainy country. My arrival saw cloudy skies with a light rain, rather misty. The prevailing winds, blowing from the west across the Atlantic Ocean, pass over the warm waters of the Gulf Stream, keeping the climate from being arctic. But these conditions also produce a lot of clouds and a drizzling rain. Sunburn is not a great danger in Wales because there are few days when sunbathing would be even tolerable. On my first day it was so misty that I couldn’t get a good visual read of the landscape around the castle.

Craig-y-Nos Castle is not a medieval castle. Rather it is a Victorian medievalism imitating a feudal castle. But that is okay as it is a better to stay in a house pretending to be a castle than a castle refitted to be a house. The latter just does not work all that well for a modern person.

The castle started out life as the home of an opera diva named Adelina Patti and her husband. It is set on the top of a ridge looking down on a river in a valley with hills all around. Ms. Patti had it built with many nice rooms, including a opera hall with a moving floor that could also incline. That is where god-daughter Victoria and her husband Brett were married.

For a while, Craig-y-Nos was a sanitarium for tuberculosis patients, but that was a long time ago. Now it is a very nice hotel in the Brecon Beacons. If you are looking for a good place to stay in Wales, I would highly recommend Craig-y-Nos.

The morning of third day at Craig-y-Nos, the weather cleared up a bit, inspiring a walk down into the valley with its river, which I was told was the Tawye, a lovely little stream. During my walk I met some people walking a Black Lab, which made me think of my dog Otto and how he would love to roam the Valley of the Tawye.

Not long after my return from Wales, poor Otto suffered a ligament tear in his left rear leg. We had to get it fixed by a very expensive puppy knee replacement surgery. With dogs, the recovery is slower than with humans, but Otto is doing well and taking short walks. Meanwhile, I am using Otto’s convalescence to get Joe Dog trained like Otto. Joe likes the walks, but he is not so enthusiastic about obedience training.

Pardon the digression. Later that day Peter and I drove back to Thornbury, where he and Lorna live. The wedding was well worth the trip, although going without sleep for one night and sleeping in five different beds in six nights was a little rough. I am the sort of traveler who likes to spend a little time in each place I visit rather than moving around a lot. Still, the hectic pace was a small price to pay to be at Victoria’s wedding. Getting to finally see some of Wales was an extra treat.

One, Two, Three, Four....
Let's Sing a Sweet Song Together.

The Welsh are a musical people. I have read that the Welsh are the first people for which there is a historical record of singing in parts. Gerald of Wales described the singing of the medieval Welsh in this way:

In their musical concerts they do not sing in unison like the inhabitants of other countries, but in many different parts; so that in a company of singers, which one very frequently meets with in Wales, you will hear as many different parts and voices as there are performers, who all at length unite, with organic melody, in one consonance and the soft sweetness of B flat.

With one Welshman you get this, with two you get that, and with three you get something else, but with four Welshmen you get a choir. So goes the joke — and it is true. Those familiar with the film Zulu will recall the climactic scene in which the warriors of the Zulu impis start their war song for the coming big charge against the British guns. Not to be outdone, the Welsh fusiliers answered back by singing Men of Harlech, a national anthem for the people of Wales. Although the lyrics mention spear-wielding foemen, an appropriate song for someone getting ready to fight to the death against a band of charging Zulus, the foemen of the song are actually invading Saxons.

When I was a student in London, my friends and I liked to go to a pub called the Calthorpe Arms off Greys Inn Road near the Welsh Culture Society of London. On Sunday night when choir practice ended, the Welsh would retire to the Calthorpe Arms for beer and more singing. We liked to be there to hear them.

The Commonplace Jones Becomes
The Uncommon Detective in Parry's Novels.

While I am on a Welsh theme, I would like to recommend the novels of Owen Parry, the nom de plume for Ralph Peters. He has written a series of mystery-thrillers set during the time of the American Civil War and featuring a protagonist named Abel Jones. Jones is a surname shared by about forty percent of the Welsh population — so common, in fact, that Victoria’s mother, Lorna, was a Jones when we first met as students at Cambridge. Lorna married another student at Clare Hall, Peter Minshall. And now Victoria has married Brett Jones. I can only imagine that genealogists working on the Jones surname must face some exceptional problems.

Abel Jones appears in six novels. As you might guess, Jones comes from Wales. A sergeant in the army of the British East India Company, Jones helped to suppress the Sepoy Mutiny in India, an experience so dreadfully bloody that it moved Jones to seek escape from the horrors of war by leaving the army.

Jones made his way to the United States, settling in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. There, along with many other Welsh immigrants, he worked in the local coal mining industry, following traditions established back home in the mines of Wales. When the Civil War breaks out, he joins the Union army and, possessing military experience, is made an officer.

At the first battle of Bull Run, an artillery caisson injures one of Jones’ legs, leaving him with a limp and a desk job in the quartermaster corps. At that point the first mystery begins and the tone of the series is established. In the course of six mysteries Jones solves a murder, foils a Fenian plot, investigates a massacre of slaves at the time of the Battle of Shiloh, travels to England to help prevent the sale of ironclads to the Confederacy, experiences the horror of Fredericksburg, and unravels a spooky mystery in New Orleans.

The Owen Parry novels featuring Abel Jones are:

Faded Coat of Blue,, 1999
Shadows of Glory,, 2000
Call Each River Jordan, 2001
Honor’s Kingdom, 2002
Bold Sons of Erin, 2003
Rebels of Babylon, 2005

Parry has not written another Abel Jones novel since Rebels of Babylon. I have no idea what happened. It might be that Peters/Parry has run out of steam on the Abel Jones story. Rebels of Babylon was a huge disappointment, especially since the next-to-last novel, Bold Sons of Erin, was the best in a very good series.

These novels are especially masterful in the ways they portray the ethnic diversity of American society, particularly in the North. Nineteenth-century America was a true melting pot of peoples, all struggling to become Americans and find their place in the young democracy. The Abel Jones novels also tell a lot about why people fought in the Civil War. Many real historical figures make appearances in the well-researched narratives, including Abraham Lincoln, George McClellan, and Charles Francis Adams. Parry does a particularly amusing job of poking fun at Henry Adams, the son of Charles Francis. I have used Faded Coat of Blue as a supplemental reading in a U.S. History survey. The students liked it — at least, the literate ones did. And, of course, the novels abound with lots of nice Welsh touches.

Let me conclude with the words of Daniel Defoe
on the mountains of south Wales,

Though this country be so mountainous, provisions
are exceedingly plentiful, and also very good all over the country; nor are those mountains useless, even to the city of London,
as I have noted of other countries; from hence they send yearly, great herds of black cattle to England, and which are known
to fill our fairs and markets, even that of Smithfield it self.

Click on the black panther to read Ron Fritze's previous essay, "Mysteries Set in History 2."