The Day After St David’s Day
“It was St. David’s Day yesterday — the National Holiday of Wales. There are many many activities associated with this day, but among them are giving and receiving daffodils, eating a lovely soup called cawl — a vegetable beef soup with lots of leeks and swedes (rutabaga) and a clear broth. Clean and homey and delicious. Also singing, of course, and dressing up in National Costume — and parties and lectures and Church Services.
Our schedule was enchanting, but rather than type out the sequence of events let me just include the invitation that came from the University:
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THE LORD HEYCOCK MEMORIAL LECTURE AND ST DAVID’S DAY CELEBRATIONS, 1 March 2007
You are warmly invited to attend the Lord Heycock Memorial Lecture, chapel service, investiture of Honorary Fellows and feast on St David’s Day.
The Lord Heycock Memorial Lecture will be presented by Professor Sir Barry Cunliffe (Professor of European Archaeology, University of Oxford) and entitled “Who are the Celts?” This lecture will take place at 4.30pm in the Cliff Tucker Theatre, with tea served in the foyer at 4:15pm.
Evensong will be held in the Chapel at 5.45pm, followed by the investiture of the Honorary Fellows in the Old Hall at 6:30pm. After this short ceremony, drinks and canapés will be served in the Old Hall and there will be an opportunity to view the newly restored and reframed originals, and the digitized copies, of Cockerell’s drawings of the St David’s Building. Dinner will be served in Lloyd Thomas Hall at 7:30pm and the dress code is Black Tie.
The Honorary Fellows to be invested this year are Professor Sir Barry Cunliffe and Idris Reynolds, the distinguished local poet. Idris Reynolds will provide the after dinner speech.
Tickets to the feast are priced at £20.00 to include the reception and wine with the meal (a menu is attached). If you would like to attend, please complete the enclosed form and send it to me by Friday 16 February 2007.
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(Of course the invitation is in Welsh and English but I’m only giving you the English. The menu in both languages is at the end of this letter.)
That is a pretty dry outline of what happened, because of course, the lecture was enthralling and the speeches at the Investiture of Honorary Fellows were witty and sincere and full of meaning for these two men who had accomplished so much. Before that, the little Church of Wales service was delightful with its simple pageantry and a very (very) old fashioned address delivered in a classic Oxford accent of many years ago by the President of the University who quoted people like St. Anslem and books like Tom Brown’s School Days (as opposed to the usual chaplain, B — — - who tends toward Thomas Merton, Martin Buber and Antoine Ste. Exuprey. Not to mention Buddha.)
I was immensely diverted and did extract some general principles of good conduct from his oratory but it was too much like a 1950 movie to engage the soul. Still, it was meaningful in its own little anachronistic way and the whole thing, with everyone in splendid robes and tuxedos and evening dress behaving properly, was very pleasing to the eye which, quite frankly, is more meaningful to me than anything anyone ever says in this Chapel.
[Note: This was before Matthew became Chaplain.]
We sang Gregorian Chant and the Welsh National Anthem which is so poignant — and the best thing of all was that everything, including the President’s address was in Welsh first and English second so I got some wonderful practice in. Especially as the President’s Welsh is so lovely and clear (because he is Welsh) as opposed to the English Vice Chancellor’s Welsh which isn’t really Welsh at all, but a string of sounds he memorises for the occasion. Even I can tell that he doesn’t know what he is saying. But he was very nice yesterday, chatting during the series of events, although his main topic of conversation with us was boiled duck’s feet.
[He is going to China next week and rather dreading the ceremonial dinners at which one must eat certain things or be considered insulting to one’s hosts. Last year it was cold slimy boiled duck’s feel apparently. He didn’t mind the fried chicken feet as they were crispy, like chips (french fries) but… and so on. Not a particularly riveting ending to a really delightful series of events but by that time it was 11:30 pm and we had all been at it since 4:15 so I am sure he ran out of topics, poor thing, to talk about and boiled duck’s feet seemed as good as any.]
I was really lucky to sit next to a rather dear man at dinner, named Keith Evans — no relation to Timothy, although he did sing to me during the event in a low lovely voice. I love the way Welsh people say they can’t sing really, then sing to you, then tell you they are going up to London to the Royal Opera House next week to be part of a 1000 voice Welsh choir. Of course when you mention Timothy, everyone will say they can’t sing because well, next to Timothy, they can’t. Not in the same way. Not with that sirenic power and grace.
But still, he had a lovely voice and as he spoke to me in Welsh the ENTIRE dinner, I was so grateful and pleased that I was willing to make allowances for his not being Timothy even if he had sung less well than he actually did.
It is so odd outside Wales, and so natural within it, that a person I just met that evening would sing for me, unasked, in a soft sweet natural low voice off and on throughout a formal dinner. There are lovely lovely people in this land, this Ceredigion. And I did an awful thing last night.
I once wrote a story about a woman whose sons had died that included this passage:
… But when you sit next to Charlotte at a dinner party, arranged by mutual friends, you will do two things that are not enlightening. You will: 1) respond to her appearance; and, 2) ask the wrong questions. The most grievous being “Do you have any children?” People think they have a right to ask that. They really do. Is this normal, this enquiry? Is someone’s acquaintance to be made and developed on the basis of the answers? “How long have you been married?” they ask. “What do you do?” “Do you have any children?”
Well, I rarely ask that of people unless they ask me first, because of that story, that feeling I had when I wrote it. But because it is the custom here to ask after one’s family — or at least I have always been asked that question here, I asked this man last night, “Oes plant ‘da chi?” (“Do you have children?”). He has those sort of faraway eyes that some Welshmen have — and some women too, although the women are stronger here — they don’t show so much in their faces — and he looked at me from a long long way off — clear green-blue eyes with very black lashes and said, in a very sweet and polite tone, in English, “No.”
He began to pour some water into my glass and then looked up again and said, “My only son died last year. He was twenty nine.”
I didn’t say anything for awhile. Not even “I’m sorry.” He said nothing either. I stopped eating then. I really didn’t eat any more after that — tried a little wine, a few vegetables. But here’s the Welsh thing. Here is what I mean:
He said, “Oes plant ‘da ti?” I began to say, “Keith…” and he repeated right over me “Oes plant ‘da ti?” I tried to say that it wasn’t necessary to talk about my kids and I used the word “chi” the formal word for “you.” He responded to me with, “ti” (meaning “please use the more familiar word “ti” to me.” This is an honour, by the way. He then repeated a third time, very quietly but insistently, “Oes plant ‘da ti?”
So I talked to him about the boys and he gave me the Welsh words for “graphic designer “which Beryl had already told me but I forgot, and other words since Christopher’s job involves an awful lot of words that I don’t know in Welsh although I was able to talk about both the boys and how truly lovely they are without any help.
I cannot tell you how hard that conversation was for me. Every word was forced out. He listened and asked a lot of questions and then I finally changed the subject and all he said (in Welsh) was, “It’s good to talk about sons.” And then I said “I’m so sorry, I am so sorry,” and his eyes got red for a moment and he said.” Trist,” which means “sad” in Welsh and we had another little silence and then joined the conversation of the others for awhile.
I did not describe this adequately — I will try when I include it in my recounting of St. David’s Day in my book. What struck me is a certain humility — a generosity of spirit, a sweetness that I cannot even praise because praising it is even an insult. It is part of an almost animal acceptance — a natural (and moving) embracing of sorrow in the Welsh character that I experience every day. The Butcher has it in his face, Alun has it in his face. And others. I keep trying to be balanced and not overly prejudiced in favour of Wales — to take off any rose coloured glasses that I might be wearing. But this is just my experience. I know there must be horrible vicious grisly people in Wales. But I have never met any. I know there must be bitter, angry, ungenerous people around. But all I ever experience is the loveliness.
And every day, new worlds open.”
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~ 2007: part of a letter home, when I was living in Wales.
The Menu in Welsh:
Gwledd Dydd Gwyl Ddewi 2007
Derbyniad
Pwnsh fodca Aberhonddu
*****
Selsig Morgannwg (ll) wedi’u gweini ar wely o ddail cymysg gyda salsa’r ddraig Gymreig
****
Cig oen wedi’i weini ar wely o gennin wedi’u trwytho â garlleg a rhosmari gyda saws cwrens coch a port
neu
Tarte tatin caws Cymreig a chennin (ll)
*****
Y cyfan wedi’i weini gyda
llysiau cawl rhost a thato’r tymor
*****
Profiteroles gyda chymysgedd o coulis mafon a siocled gwyn a saws chwisgi Cymreig
*****
Coffi neu De Glengettie
a Siocledi Pemberton
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The Menu in English:
St David’s Day Feast 2007
Reception
Brecon vodka punch
*****
Glamorgan sausages (v) served on a bed of mixed leaves with Welsh dragon salsa
*****
Lamb served on a bed of leeks infused with garlic and rosemary with a redcurrant and port sauce
or
Welsh cheese and leek tarte tatin (v)
*****
All served with
roasted cawl vegetables and seasonal potatoes
*****
Profiteroles with a duo of raspberry coulis and white chocolate and Welsh whiskey sauce
*****
Coffee or Glengettie Tea
and Pemberton Chocolates
