Marty and I had some time to kill before the Cymru A’r Byd reception, so we settled into a nice restaurant tent, cafeteria style, and he went off to find some food. For a few minutes, I talked myself through Min y Mor as promised to Gareth, wondering if I would be able to memorize it well enough in the little time I had without messing with my other memorization. Ultimately I let it go, because it didn’t feel right to work on it too much then — I was a bit tired, a bit hungry, and I needed to do something else.

A lovely elderly couple asked (in Welsh, then in English) if the seats next to us were free, and we amiably bade them to sit down. I was by then experimenting with tethering my smartphone’s 3G connection to the tablet, and the results were mixed. We ended up in conversation — in English! — with Gerald and his wife about all manner of things; the Eisteddfod, Welsh heritage, where various groups of settlers had put down roots after going to the States. We talked about the Welsh language quite a bit and, in fact, they praised our diction. Not just mine — Marty’s, too! It was very pleasant, and we left there feeling thrilled with the friendly mojo of all the Welsh (and well-fed, too).

Indeed, I can’t remember an instance where a friendly smile was disregarded; we felt like we could start a conversation with any stranger in Ebbw Vale and thereabouts, and end up with wonderful new friends. In Wales, well… of course.

At the Cymru A’r Byd booth we found Alan Upshall, Bryan Jones and company, standing and talking, waiting for everyone to arrive. The reception, we found out, would be elsewhere — but the plan was to meet at the booth and then trek, all together, to that location. Marty and I smiled and met people and tried to memorize names, since most (including ourselves) were wearing handy-dandy name tags for reference (and probably wouldn’t be later that week).

In the end, our trek ended right back where Marty and I had begun: At the restaurant near the middle of the grounds, to one side of the tent where an area was closed off. Serendipity! I tried not to think too much about the walk we might have saved and the way my shoes were pinching, because we were surrounded by smiling faces and amicable company. Who cared if we had walked awhile? This was the last stop of the day, and it was going to be fantastic.

In fact, it was fantastic. We sat with Alan Upshall, the Baron Roberts of Llandudno and several others who happily joined in conversation. There was a bright, precise young woman playing the harp. Welsh cakes and tea were served at one end of the reception space. Marty and most of the others queue’d up to bring some back to the table, while I waited — no wheat or caffeine for me, I’m afraid, two days before competing! But Marty told me later that while he was in the queue, he had seized on the opportunity to use his hard-practiced Welsh phrase.

For Lord Roberts had walked up to him, clapped him on the shoulder, and began a perfectly normal conversation with him (in Welsh). Marty waited for him to finish the sentence, and then — delighted, I’m sure, to have the chance to give it a shot! — responded with: “Mae’n ddrwg gen i — dwy ddim yn deall.” I’m sorry — I don’t understand.

Lord Roberts responded, Ah! and launched into what must have been a sort of explanation… in Welsh!

This, we decided later, was the real flaw in our plan. We should have taught ourselves to say, “I’m sorry — I don’t speak Welsh.” Uh… right.

Live and learn.

After a moment, Marty explained (in English this time) that he actually didn’t understand Welsh. Oops, ha ha. Lord Roberts paused, perplexed: But just a moment ago, you were saying something in Welsh…? And Marty repeated the phrase. Lord Roberts has a big, friendly laugh and a brilliant sense of humor. They talked for little while after that — in English! — about what Marty did, why he was here (tagging along with me!), and so on. When Marty told me later, the story cracked me right up.

That afternoon there was much Welsh discussion, and many Welsh announcements. I kept my ears open and my brain focused to catch words I knew, which weren’t many. Cymru A’r Byd, Wales International, is an organization dedicated to connecting people of Welsh descent and friends of Wales throughout the world — so a few people spoke in English as well, and it was clear that other languages would also have been welcomed. Lord Roberts is its president, and although I’d heard about the organization fleetingly at other events in the States, this was my first opportunity to truly understand what they were up to. I daresay, it was lovely.

As we got ready to leave and many people were filtering out of the tent, I stopped to meet the harpist. I’d had this mad urge, ever since seeing a booth on the Maes filled with huge, beautiful harps for sale, to ask a harpist to play Dafydd y Gareg Wen with me — off the cuff, randomly, to see what might happen. This harpist’s name was Harriet if I’m remembering it right, and she grinned at me when I asked. “Sure, if you can sing it in this key!” she answered, setting fingertips to strings.

And I did.

There’s nothing like meeting another musician for the first time and making music together. It’s something Gareth had mentioned briefly when we rehearsed earlier that day, enchantedly, delightedly. Harriet’s grin and my own high-flying glee said that this was the same, regardless of how low the key was for me. Who the hell cares about the damn key? Ten or so reception-goers stayed to listen to us, and we laughed and talked and I thanked her for humoring me. Bryan Jones — I believe! — snapped the above picture for an article that sounded like it was headed for the Ninnau, or another Welsh publication. Then Marty and I talked to Alan for a few minutes, determined that we would see him the next day at the preliminary tests… and we headed out.

After all, I had Min y Mor to memorize.

The rest of that evening is a very tired blur. I was energized by my rehearsal with Gareth, but exhausted by all the walking we’d done on the Maes (in pinchy shoes, no less). It had been windy and damp, and walking on rocks is hard! Tuckered out, we decided to eat at the Vine Tree before I changed my mind and went to bed instead. And at the Vine Tree, waiting for our food, I recited Min y Mor.

Again and again and again, a tumble in my brain.

Gwelais long ar y glas li… Yn y gwyll yn ym golli… Draw yr hwyliodd drwy’r heli, a Rhywun hoff arni hi. Over and over and over, until the next table looked at me kind of funny out of the corners of their eyes. I didn’t have a word-by-word translation, but it’s love poetry — it’s beautiful. I turned it into rote mathematics for the purpose of memorization so that later it could truly be poetry. 2×1=1. 2×2=4. 2×3=6. 2×4=8…

The food was delicious, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.

I thought, I might be able to do this thing. And the part of me that was still afraid ceded some valuable territory to the part of me that had real respect for what I was attempting… and real hope for my likelihood of succeeding. Marty looked proud, I think.

We finished our food. The lamb at the Vine Tree was incomparably tasty. Enough to (finally) turn off my brain, because I would need the rest. Tomorrow was preliminaries.

We went home, and went to bed.

{ 0 comments }