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On this page are a variety of pieces by
Peggi Rodgers on her adventures in Wales that have appeared in our past newsletters. We thought the information in these might be of a more continuing interest. They may especially be of interest to new members who did not see the earlier newsletters. More will be added as she keeps us up to date on life in Wales. |
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 Getting There |
GETTING THERE
Well, as most of you know, back in September I relocated to Wales to attend the University of Wales Swansea in a dual honours programme of Welsh/Medieval History. To say this has been an adventure would be a major understatement. But what an adventure it's been! My journey began with a morning flight out of Redding in the midst of the first good-sized storm of the year. There was some debate as to whether we'd get off the ground at all, as there was a delay in San Francisco, but eventually the announcement came that we'd a window of opportunity and everyone had to get on the plane now.
Having done this once before, I knew pretty much what I had to do to get through security without problems. I had thought to remove things from my handbag such as pocketknives, fingernail files and the like. Unfortunately I forgot all about the pepper spray I have carried for years on my key ring. Security was not amused at my lack of foresight.
Pulling me aside, I was sent to the "special counter" where errant travelers go to be inspected and a rather gruff security guy ask, "Have you any sharp objects in your purse?" "No," I answered. So he started rifling through and pulls out the pepper spray, which of course is what they had spotted on the x-ray machine anyway. "What's this?" he inquired with a stern expression." Pepper spray," I replied, "Oh, I forgot all about that!" Clearly he didn't believe me. "This has to go," he continued. I thought he meant my whole key ring and said "No!" What can I say I was a wee bit stressed at the moment. "The spray has to go," he insisted, taking it off the key ring and tossing the key ring back into my purse (much to my relief). That's when the other security person came over. They carefully wrapped the pepper spray in plain binder paper and covered it with loads of scotch tape. "Where's your passport? We need your driver's license, the name of your first born, who holds your car loan and who you know in San exaggerating. But it felt like that!
I handed over the requested documents whereupon they wrote allover the wrapped pepper spray and into their little book. So somewhere in some archive in some Homeland Security of choice is my pepper spray and all my information.
Meanwhile, the plane was revving up on the runway waiting for me to board so we could leave now for San Francisco. How mortifying! But all went well and on takeoff the pilot notified us that it might be a "wee bit" bumpy as we climbed up over the thunderheads. Wee bit? We bumped and rolled and twisted and dropped and climbed and I, a person who does not suffer from any type of motion sickness, am here to tell you that I nearly tossed my cookies. Reading was not an option on this flight.
After that it was a rather rocky but manageable ride down the valley and we enjoyed the lovely view of the top of the fog as we circled over San Francisco for half an hour waiting for the fog to clear enough to land. Suddenly, the pilot plunged us into the midst of the fog and with a very low ceiling of visibility and a very short period to do it in, he made a perfect landing. Whew! Back on terra firma.
So with a long hike to the international terminal under my belt, I enjoyed a lengthy wait in the British Airways business traveler lounge whilst waiting for my flight which was due to depart at 4:50 PM.
We began boarding on time but wound up sitting there, still connected to the terminal. And sitting there. And sitting there. And sitting there!
I was on the top deck, which I enjoy as the views are better and it's very quiet when night falls and everyone tries to sleep. Unfortunately, it's also the main drag to the cockpit and contact with the captain and flight crew. So as we sat there, it seemed there was a constant stream of official -looking people in yellow vests with walkie-talkies running back and forth to speak with the captain. A bit disconcerting to say the least. Visions of mechanical every other horrible thing went flying through our minds.
Well, finally the pilot came on and said, "We do apologise for the inconvenience but there's a problem with one of the passengers and we are awaiting word from London. "Oh now that made me feel better. People continued to dash back and forth and all around, we continued to have no word, the man next to me continued to attempt to keep his wife across the aisle and myself from panicking and still we sat there.
At last the gate was pulled away and we began our taxi. It was just past 6:00 PM. As we did, the pilot explained that the problem was a passenger who required a motorized wheelchair that also supported an oxygen system for him. Apparently because of that he had to carry an extra battery with him. It was the extra battery that was the issue. The delay was because of the time difference - it was the middle of the night in London and no one could be reached to make a decision as to whether the passenger with his extra battery could be transported. Someone was finally reached, the decision was made that he would not be allowed to carry the extra battery and the passenger was removed with his luggage. Needless to say, it took a while for them to unpack the luggage of 400 people to find the bags belonging to that passenger. "On the up side," the pilot continued, "we have a whopping tailwind" (well, he didn't say it quite that way, he is British) and so the flight would only be 8 hours instead of over10. Now there was good news! And I have to tell you that an 8-hour flight was not bad at all and I even got to watch the sun rise somewhere over the ocean. That was pretty neat.
As it turned out, the man next to me was married to a North Walian woman and so we all had a wonderful flight discussing Wales, the Welsh language, British politics, life in Britain and why Gareth Jenkins (head coach of the Wales team) couldn't get his act together and do a decent coaching job.
When we arrived at Heathrow, wait to land, but we got lucky and went straight in. As we taxied, the pilot once again came on the speakers and said we might have to wait on the runway for a bit because there wasn't a parking place. Little did I know this would become the theme of my life in Wales.
But once again fate was on our side and another British Airways flight was ready for takeoff, thus abandoning a parking spot and we wound up going nearly straight in after only a brief wait. Now the race was on. And race it is. Because, when everyone has been stuck on a plane for 8 or 10 hours, they want nothing more than to get off it! So everyone takes off like bats out of hell and you get run over if you don't stride off at a goodly pace. A goodly pace being de ?defined as a near run. No one rides the people movers. You get on the people mover and walk, which allows you to actually walk faster without putting out the energy to do so - kind of fun really.
Into Immigration we went. For business travelers, British Airways has nice new scheme that they've worked out with the airport whereby they give us special cards that entitle us to go through a quick entry channel rather than having to wait with the other 400-and-some-odd passengers in a big long queue. This was lovely! Apparently the Immigration of Officer didn't think it terribly lovely, though, as she asked me a bunch of questions in a manner that clearly implied she didn't believe a thing I said or anything I'd written on either my form or my visa. But all was in order and there was naught for it but to stamp my passport and welcome me to Britain. And stamp it she did - with a vengeance! "Welcome to Britain," she said sourly and whomped my passport with the stamp. It hit so hard it made multiple impressions!
With that cheery greeting behind me, I went off to find my luggage. Unfortunately, some customs guy in the US felt it necessary to destroy one of my cases. So it arrived partially unzipped and completely ruined. Apparently, in spite of the special, customs-recommended locks that I used, that person decided to rip said lock and one zipper head off my suitcase instead of bothering to use his/her keys. Unfortunately, it was the suitcase that contained all my jewelry. Well, I reported it to British Airways and the clerk and I went through the case and all my jewelry was there. Except my diamond wedding ring. Needless to say, I'm ling a claim but that doesn't replace it, does it? Also needless to say, the US Customs service is getting a very nasty note from me.
But what the heck, I'm here, my luggage all made it so I figured I'd sort out the claims stuff later. Off to Alamo car rental to pick up my car and head out for Wales - a nation that cannot be reached by air from anyplace within England unless you don't mind taking the scenic route which brings you conveniently into Cardiff International Airport via Amsterdam. Apparently, the Alamo car rental desk at Heathrow is there for the express purpose of telling you they aren't there to rent cars. "Go outside that door" (pointing in an arbitrary fashion toward a nearby tunnel) "and wait for the shuttle. We have a spot on the platform, you'll see the sign." "Oh, and he's running a little late because of a wreck on his route."
Now here's where traveling alone becomes a problem. You can't leave your luggage lying about but it's too much to lug around with you. So you pretty much take up residence wherever you can find a spot and hope that you don't have to use the toilet and that transportation arrives before you starve to death or die of dehydration from not drinking water so you don't have to visit the bathroom.
But once again I got lucky and the shuttle arrived in very short order. That's not to say he was happy. He'd not had a great morning and wasn't thrilled at the prospect of hauling my luggage up into the shuttle. But he did it and by the time we got the mile to the actual rental location we were the best of friends as he'd spent the trip telling me how awful his job was, how badly the wreck had put him behind, how people were missing flights because of it and taking it out on him, how his kids were nightmares, and... and... and...
Sympathy goes a long way (as does a willing ear) and he was most happy to help me out of the shuttle and go out of his way to place my luggage where I could keep an eye on it whilst standing 20 minutes in queue. He even told me the best way to get out of the airport and onto the M4. Once the car thing was sorted - the hardest part being trying to decide whether I wanted the blue or the silver Astra whilst the poor rental guy stood there wishing I'd make up my mind so he could load my luggage and get on with things - and then I was on my way.
Driving in Britain was challenging, but only because I didn't know what I was doing. Nonetheless, I negotiated my first roundabout, wove my way through the streets and onto the M4. I admit I was very lucky - my timing was great and I had very little traffic to contend with. The signage was good and once on the M4 it's a straight shot to Wales and so you only need to drive and you'll get there. But it takes forever! Everyone said, "Oh, it's not a long drive - 2½, 3 hours." For them, maybe. Or maybe just to the Welsh border. But for me it was a good 3½ or 4 hours drive to Swansea and I was exhausted by the time I got there.
Before I tell you about that, though, I must say something about driving British freeways. I had asked my friend Dave about speed limits, right of ways and such before I'd left. So I had a bit of briefing, which included important points such as:
1. We respect faster drivers. So you will be expected to move out of the way if someone wants to go faster.
2. The speed limit is mostly 70 unless otherwise posted. But people go 80 or 100 so don't worry too much about it. If you want to go slower, get in the left lane.
I'm here to tell you that both those things are absolutely true. And the first thing you learn is to watch what's going on in front of you, what's coming up on you from behind and how fast it's going and the amount and location of any spatial availability on your left. Because when those people doing 100 (and there are loads of them) come flying up behind you, you are expected to move. And if you do not, they won't go around you. Instead they'll ride 2½ inches off your back bumper until you do. So you learn very quickly to move. Nonetheless, British drivers are very courteous people and no one got upset if I didn't move right off no explicit hand signals nor horns being honked they just patiently rode on my butt until I moved.
And with the exception of the posted lower speed limit areas, there are no posted speed limit signs. Anywhere. So I sailed along at 85 or so and it was actually a very nice drive, although I never thought I would ever reach the famous Severn Bridge that marks the Welsh border.
The rest stops along the M4 are a bit different than ours here in the States. They are basically shops. You go inside a wee shopping mall and there are toilets and groceries, and hot/cold food. There are coffee shops and places to sit and eat and I was very impressed with them. It gives you a chance to relax a bit.
Well, eventually I did reach the Severn Bridge (and it is a beautiful bridge, too) and I will end the first part of my story there as the day was far from over. The Severn Bridge, as I said, is a beautiful bridge spanning a very wide river and all around are lovely views. The bridge itself is a toll bridge with the toll being only for those going into Wales. Dave had told me the toll was £5 and all the signs said the toll was £5, which is really easy because it's a £5 note. So I had my £5 note all ready to go, rolled up to the tollbooth which had a little sign saying the toll was now £5.10. Oh no!
I don't drive with my glasses. I can't read without them. So there I am sitting with a line of traffic piling up behind me, tired, have no idea where my glasses are or roughly what a 10p coin looked like. Finally I said to the toll-taker, "This is my first day in the country. Which one is 10p?". She asked that I hand her the coins, took a 10p, handed me back the rest and sent me on my way.
With a whoop and a holler I rolled out of the tollbooth and into Wales. By God, I'd made it!
-Peggi Rodgers
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The following is an original composition by SCS member Peggi Rodgers, who is very interested in all things Welsh and is learning the language of the land. Part I is from the SCS March-April 2006 newsletter and Part II is from the May-June 2006 newsletter.
Myths & Legends Myrddin (Merlin) Part I You may know Myrddin by his English name, Merlin, but here we know him as Myrddin. He's a magician, you see, blessed with the gift of awen (inspiration). He came through our village nigh on 10 years ago now. Stayed for an entire week that time. Far too long for the comfort of Llanegwad, I can tell you.
We knew not what to expect as we filed into the meeting house, mid-afternoon. And by my word, the whole village was there. Even the ancient elder Rhys Jones. Why, he must have been 150 if he was a day! Everyone knew that he could barely get around; so it must, indeed, be a very important event if he was in attendance. The house was nearly full as my sister Catrin and I scrambled to find a spot on the dirt floor. "Marged yma!" called our mother as we rushed, in relief, to sit near her. Although the eldest at 11, I was far from strong enough to protect little Catrin should Myrddin Wyllt prove true his name and turn a crazed eye upon us! Oh my, but the room has become quiet! Wait! There he is! In the doorway! I nudged Catrin with my elbow and nodded my head in that direction. My Saints! He is HUGE! Why he fills the entire door, not an inch to spare between himself and the wood. His cloak and clothes are gray, the color of the mist on a day when the sun cannot break through. A wet, uncomfortable mist, the kind that makes you wonder what you will find lurking there, just out of sight. Mam had warned us not to wander far in those mists; there were creatures hidden that were best not seen by young girls. And his hair! Oh my! Black and long, it scraggles down his back as if twisted about the curviest of ancient tree trunks. Dirty and damp; ych-y-fi! I want to neither touch that hair nor the beard that covers his chin. I think mayhaps there are things living there. "He does look as if he's just come from the forests of Celidon," I whispered to my sister. Her giggle brought his gaze upon us and we cowered, trying to make ourselves as small as possible. I remembered, then, my parents' admonition, "Never look into the eyes of a dewin." "For you will be forever after in their control." they warned. Well, you can believe Catrin and I Llallogen soon become distracted, as seers often do, and turned his attention elsewhere. I confess that I peeked, though, from between my spread fingers. For you see, some in the village had said he had grown y ceinciau bach (small antlers) during his stay in Celidon. But I couldn't tell if that were true for he moved away too quickly; and if there were any, they were well hidden in that mountain of horrible hair. Myrrdin strode to the front of the hall, two, maybe three paces. Part II Myrrdin strode to the front of the hall, two, maybe three paces. Twasn't far even for me. And when he reached the front he turned to face the villagers. He looked, in turn, at each of us, his deep black eyes penetrating into our souls before passing to our neighbor. The whispers stilled and the house became quiet as death as we waited for his prophesy. He paused for a moment more and then spoke.
It was then that his voice lowered to barely above a whisper; the language no longer the ancient tongue of Celidon, but Cymraeg (Welsh)! And all who were present could understand his words now. And those words caused us to draw away from him, shivering in fear as he spoke. He told of a future of horors, his prophesy one of pain and suffering. It wasn't long before we wanted to hear no more! Yet he continued. Minute after minute until all time dissolved into the visions he conjured by his words. In spite of ourselves, we sat, enthralled. He talked of great hunger that would walk among us, many of our friends and neighbors would perish, he warned. Others of us would be set upon by enemies and tortured until death ended our long suffering. And then a battle. A battle the likes of which none had seen in all of history! One so great as to nearly destroy us all and tear the peace from our lives! Those that remained would abandon their native lands to favor others with their seed. Catrin and I leaned farther into our mother, as if she could somehow protect us from this terrible future. "Let this dialog end!" cried Elder Jones. He was the only one brave enough to stand and speak to Llallogen. But there was no stopping Myrrin now; he was as a man possessed and he continued, his voice ever growing in volume and urgency as his vision unfolded before him. "Godfearing villagers will be set upon and driven from their homes", he shouted. "The young among you will hold hatred for your elders. Adultery and violence will follow you into the Black Days!" He glared into the gathering. But his eyes held no recognition, for he was no longer here in the house with us but somewhere else. Somewhere no one but he could go. We were crying now, Catrin and I, and many of the other village children as well. Our faces were buried in our mam's breasts, afraid to look up at the man who stood before us. She wrapped her warm arms about us and rocked forward and back. As much to relieve her own distress as ours, I think. But he'd only just begun. "The Severn sea shall discharge itself through seven mouths, and the river Usk burn for seven months! Fishes shall die in the heat thereof, and from them serpents will be born."* Myrrdin had grown now, his head nearly reaching the peak of the tall roof. And the noise! Oh, it rumbled all about us - we could not shut it out!
He told us of the Boar of Cornwall, the City of Legions and the fate of an Irish preacher. He spoke of the dark death that would grasp this land in its stranglehold, taking all people and nations with it. On and on he went, his story unfolding to reveal predictions of dragons and owls, oxen and herons, and everywhere showers of blood over fields of suffering. We sat, our heads nearly bent to the ground, under the weight of a great sorrow as we saw our future through his vision. Then, without warning, his voice calmed. His eyes once again focused on us and his gaze, as before, fell upon each of us in turn he whispered, "All is not lost." We strained to hear, his words were that soft. "The race that is oppressed shall prevail in the end for it will resist the savagery of the invaders." Tears quietly made their way down my cheeks as I listened, captivated now to hear more of how the Red One would rise again and vanquish the White. But he spoke no more, only turned upon his heel and walked from the meeting house; all eyes upon him, all mouths filled with questions that would never be asked. For a time we sat, the house silent now with everyone held to their own thoughts. The scenes he had painted remained fresh in our minds as we struggled to comprehend what he had said, and the frightening twists and turns it would cause to our lives. Then, slowly, one by one the villagers began to rise and leave. Silently making our way through the door, a growing sense of urgency followed us into the night. We must now find a way to shake off the doom that has filled our hearts, and embrace the hope. For darkness had made its descent even as we sat listening; and much was yet left to attend before we could rest. Peggi Rogers |
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From the July-August 2006 SCS Newsletter
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EISTEDDFOD GENEDLAETHOL CYMRU I am deviating a bit from Myths and Legends this time round because beginning August 5 and carrying on through to the 12th is one of the largest Welsh language events in the world, Eisteddfod Genedlaethol Cymru - The National Eisteddfod of Wales. Held annually now, the Eisteddfod began around 1176 in Cardigan, and was primarily held by gentry and noblemen thereafter. Created by one of Wales' more colorful scholars, Iolo Morganwg, to call attention to the Celtic heritage of the Welsh people, the Gorsedd y Beirdd became officially involved with the folk festival. This association of 'poets, writers, musicians, artists and individuals who have made a distinguished contribution to the Welsh nation, language and culture'* first came together in 1792 in London. Indeed, my good friend Siôn Woods, whom you've all seen mentioned in my columns, is a Llenor (literary man) in the Gorsedd. In 1880, the National Eisteddfod Association came into being. They have been responsible for organizing the annual event from that point forward. The Eisteddfod is held in both North and South Wales, alternating locations each year. This year's Eisteddfod is being held in the South, in Abertawe (Swansea), and they are expecting 20,000 to 25,000 people per day to attend. This will give you some idea of the popularity of this festival. Several Welsh language performing arts competitions are held during the course of the celebration that include singing, dancing, acting and music. The festival also offers arts and crafts pavilions, special learners' centers, food and drink, and a wide variety of nearly everything else. Some of the highlights of the festival are the three ceremonies of the Gorsedd y Beirdd. Each year the Gorsedd is charged with honoring the best works of three poets and prose writers participating in that year's competition. These ceremonies are the Crowning Ceremony for best free verse poetry, the Prose Medal Ceremony for best prose, and the Chairing Ceremony for strict meter poetry. As a side note, the top award, the Chair, originated at the first Eisteddfod wherein a chair at the Lord's table was the reward to the best poet and musician. That tradition has carried through to today's Eisteddfod and the Chair is the most prized and highly respected award a participant may win. Each of the Gorsedd ceremonies are held on stage with members of the Gorsedd dressed in traditional robes. The ceremony is presided over by the head of the Bardd, whose title is Archdruid. (No, not a 'druid' of Stonehenge fame!) The Archdruid may be either male or female and is elected by members of the Gorsedd. The Archdruid is the person responsible for announcing the winners in each category. Although this event is a celebration of the Welsh culture and language, it is not necessary that one speak Welsh to attend and enjoy the festival. In fact, people come from around the world each year to join the Welsh in this annual celebration of their culture and heritage. If you'd like a bit more information on the Eisteddfod Genedlaethol Cymru, they have a wonderful bilingual website at www.eisteddfod.org.uk/index.php?lan g=EN (this URL points to the English language version of the site). - Peggi Rogers *quoted from the Eisteddfod website
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From the November-December 2006 SCS Newsletter
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EISTEDDFOD GENEDLAETHOL CYMRU Well, it's been awhile since I've submitted a column. In part due to my travels and in part due to You may recall that my last column was dedicated to the upcoming Eisteddfod in Swansea, Wales. As a quick refresher, I'll reiterate that it's one of the largest Welsh language events in the world and if you are learning Welsh or interested in Wales and Welsh, this is the place you want to be. And, I'm here to tell you I was not disappointed; the entire experience was one of the most incredible events of my life. Situated on the grounds of an old steelworks, the focal point, and certainly the most striking facility there, was the huge, very pink, Main Pavilion. Normally, this pavilion is a more subdued yellow-and-blue stripe. But this year, the organizers wanted to support the Walk the Walk breast cancer effort and succeeded quite well in bringing attention to that cause with this bright color and the publicity it drew. The Main Pavilion was located in the center of ‘The Maes' (the field on which the festival is However, unlike bleachers, these were proper seats as you'd find in a theatre and quite comfortable. The tiers were spaced such that even if a tall person were in front of you there were no visibility problems. The competitions were the highpoint of the week long celebration and as luck would have it, several of the competitors were staying at the same bed-and-breakfast as me. This made for great conversation over the breakfast table as they were from every corner of Wales, and all the guests eagerly followed their progress through the various levels of competition. I'm delighted to report that all but one of the people staying there won their respective competitions. They were all delighted, of course, but I think the one who was the most excited was a boy just getting ready to attend the university. His band had won the rock bands competition, and part of the prize was recording time in a studio. He and the other members of the band were trying to figure out how they'd have time to do the recording when they were all heading off to separate universities across Wales and England come September. For my part, I was fortunate enough to attend two days of the Eisteddfod with SiÔn and his family. We attended the Chairing Ceremony on our second visit, evening musical events throughout the week, and during the day visited the stalls of Radio Cymru (Radio Wales) and S4C (Welsh television) not to mention a myriad of other exhibits and vendors. Everywhere we went people spoke to us in Welsh and I was quite proud of being able to handle a few transactions and interactions using nothing but Welsh. No one seemed to mind my rather halting sentences and unusual pronunciation, and it was a real pleasure to be able to spend time listening to SiÔn and other Welsh speakers using their native language. Armed with a Learner's Badge, a tote bag and camera, I went from stall to stall finding freebies That brings up something I found very remarkable about the Welsh in general. Everyone was very down to earth. This was brought to the forefront when we attended one of the many offsite music venues that were part of the evening entertainments at Eisteddfod. At the very first concert we attended, I had an opportunity to meet all of the performers, chat with them, ask for autographs and the like. What was amazing about this is the fact that these people are quite famous in Wales and the UK. Yet they were very friendly, polite and approachable. The leader of one of the bands, Brigyn, spent a lot of time talking with me as they'd just returned from a visit to the wine country where my family lives. It was great fun to compare notes and get the perspective of someone from another country. Another performer by the name of Huw Chiswell spent quite some time speaking with me in Welsh, asking questions and patiently listening to my slow responses (with help from SiÔn). As much as I hate to admit it, I can't imagine any performer of equal caliber here in the U.S. doing the same. But I digress. By the end of the first day, my tote bag had proved its worth and was quite full of everything from a Welsh flag to T-shirts and books. We'd browsed through tons of shops, gathered hoards of freebies and literature for reading practice, and I'd been immersed all day in the language I've come to love. Could it get any better? You bet it could! Because although everything about this event was exciting, interesting and provided wonderful insight to the Welsh language and culture, nothing could have prepared me for the Chairing Ceremony that we attended later in the week. However, that's later in the week, and later in the week is next issue! Tan y tro nesaf. (Until next time.) -Peggi |
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From the January-February 2007 SCS Newsletter
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EISTEDDFOD GENEDLAETHOL CYMRU As I said in my last article, one of the things about Wales that made the largest impression on me was the Chairing Ceremony, one of the three ceremonies of the Gorsedd y Beirdd (organization of bards). This ancient ceremony dates back to around 1797, and to win the Chair is, indeed, a highly coveted honor amongst Welsh poets. T As the lights are lowered and the pavilion darkens, the crowd quiets until there's not a sound to be heard. With a sudden flash of brilliance, the stage is lit by large and small white lights mounted high in the top of the tent. The silence is deafening as the Gorsedd y Beirdd form a single line and file solemnly onto the stage to take their seats. With their brightly colored robes of white, blue and green denoting their position within the gorsedd, they create a colorful line of elegance behind the custom-made chair where the winner will be seated. When all is in order, the Archdruid enters. As the head of the gorsedd, his white robe with its trimming of gold Now poets and bards gather to speak. One by one, male and female, their voices are rich with the tones of the oldest language in Europe. In time, the lights are once again lowered and darkness prevails until a floodlight is brought to bear upon the audience. For you see, no one knows who will win the Chair and those competitors chosen for the final competition are scattered amongst the audience. Anxiously, the crowd waits for the light to stop, but the circling continues, a pause here, perhaps a momentary stop there, until finally the winner is found and a cheer arises! He stands up and makes his way to the central aisle of the pavilion where he is met by the Archdruid and wrapped in a flowing purple robe with golden edging. The stage is reached and the winning poet presented to the audience after positioning himself in front of the chair next to the Archdruid. Two young men step forward and the audience is suddenly silent once again. Called by the Corn Gwlad (trumpet), the young men play to call the people together and become a part of the ceremony. Then, the Archdruid begins to chant the Gorsedd Prayer Somehow it seemed odd when the lights came back up and the crowd dispersed back into the modern world. In a way, it was sad to leave the pavilion and rejoin the other people outside. But the magic of the Celtic ritual remained with me for a long time after I walked from the tent into the gathering dusk. _Peggi Rodgers |
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From the March-April 2007 SCS Newsletter
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My Trip Begins The day began peacefully enough as I dashed about throwing last minute things into my carry-on. I'd packed my suitcase the night before and gotten help from the guy across the street to lift it into the car for me. Was I really going to Wales? I couldn't believe it! Would I really be attending The Eisteddfod? Visiting Millennium Stadium, home of the Welsh rugby team? See places I'd only read about, castles I'd only seen on TV and meet my good friend, Siôn, in person, for the very first time? And more than anything else, I would be seeing the country whose culture, language and people I had so fallen in love with. It seemed completely unreal as I finished loading up my car and headed east for Redding airport. My flight didn't leave until 1:30 so I had loads of time to kill-only need an hour for check-in at Redding airport. A 15 minute drive got me there, found a good parking spot-mind you don't park under the trees for long term the attendant warned me, I've seen people unable to drive due to a build up of bird poop on the windshield. Duly noted. Luckily there was a gal at the United counter able to heft my suitcase out of the back of my car and we managed to get it checked in and set to go through to the British Airways flight when we hit San Francisco. "Any way we can know if that actually happens?" I inquired. "Well, no," she replied "But there's usually no problem." Oh good. For reasons unknown, I had expected my connecting flight to be something along the lines of a large Leer jet. Needless to say it was somewhat disappointing to see a turbo-prop only slightly larger than my car waiting to be boarded. Once inside, however, I realized that it was actually smaller than my car. But I had a window seat so could get a very good look at the engine with all its dents, dings and missing paint. Fully loaded, the door was sealed, the pilot started one engine and we sat there idling for a bit. But it wasn't until we began to taxi out to the runway that I started to panic. Didn't the pilot realize he only had one engine going? Surely he wouldn't try and take off with only one engine working, would he? My stomach tied itself into a knot as we drew closer to the runway and take off. Noticing my discomfort, the man next to me pointed out that turboprops had great safety records and yes, the other engine would start before take off. Right. Moments later we were headed straight up to 24,000 feet causing the flight attendant to climb uphill to fetch the drink cart and then try and control it as she headed back downhill toward the cockpit. No waiting for refreshments on this flight-wait too long you're back on land again. "Would you like something to drink?" she yelled over the cacophony that was the turboprop. "Yes, 6 or 7 please," my over-stressed brain screamed. "No thanks," I replied. Straight back down from 24,000 and off into a great wide circle tour over the bay. Are we taking the scenic route? Over the water? What are we doing over water? Does the pilot know where he's going? Shortly thereafter, I opened my eyes in time to see Terminal 4 loom into view. Whew! Made it! My first flight in 35 years. Well heck, that wasn't so bad. Feeling quite proud of myself I shuffled along the narrow center aisle with the crowd and disembarked at the foot of a large ramp with a 7 degree slope leading up to the airport. Somehow I had expected to walk down a flat ramp and into SFX. Well, nothing for it but to set out with the other 30 or so passengers, many of whom were apparently in much better shape than I as they dashed around switchback after switchback for the 4½-mile hike into the airport. I was beginning to wonder about the viability of bringing liquid gifts in carry-ons to Wales. Finally emerging into the airport it rapidly became apparent that the shuttle service I had read so much about didn't exist, leaving little choice but to hoof it the 400 or so miles to the International terminal; Terminal 1. The thought was so exciting-Terminal 1! The hub of my universe now; my portal to Europe. The helpful signs pointed me, in an arbitrary sort of way, in the direction of the International flights, conveniently located on the complete opposite side of the airport. My excitement soon turned to determination as I wove my way through the seemingly endless maze of security checkpoints, food shops, people movers, perplexing staircases and multiple ramps. As I trudged along, stopping now and again to ask a passing stranger if I was on the right course, I couldn't help but wonder if my suitcase was having more luck finding flight 284 than I was. Well, right about the time I found the check in for British Air and realized I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, Siôn sent me a text message from Wales. That was a lovely surprise and after a nice rest and brief chat I was re-energized and off again to get checked in and head out for the duty free shops. It wasn't more than a couple of hours later that we began to board and my trip began in earnest. I had no idea what to expect, other than many, many hours on a plane. I certainly didn't expect to be so nervous. I mean here I'd just got off a much smaller aircraft and all, what was so nerve wracking about this huge 747 taking off.' Well, I can tell you, having 10 hours to figure it out was more than enough! Along about hour seven I began to wonder if we'd gotten off course somehow and were actually flying around in circles. The man sitting across the aisle from me reassured me that we were on course and pointed out that this was a pretty good flight as there wasn't much turbulence. I couldn't imagine what a more turbulent flight would be as I thought it felt rather like we were driving on four flat tires, down a road resembling nothing less than a washboard with large, unavoidable potholes spaced here and there for variety. But we did eventually get there and in record time too! The pilot announced that we had had a tailwind and arrived in 10 hours instead of 11 and were now very early. But he didn't project we'd have to circle over Heathrow for more than 10 minutes, so everybody get to the toilet now or forever hold their...errr...peace. Well, 10 minutes turned into 12, 12 into 20 and after 30 minutes of roller coaster-like bouncing up and down in and out of clouds, most of us were more than ready to trade in that tailwind for a more timely arrival. Then, suddenly, this was it! We began our descent, the pilot announced we'd be landing at Heathrow in short order. You could feel the excitement as everyone gathered up their gear and strained to see out the window for our first glimpse of such a famous city! We were finally going to land in London! This was my personal dream come true. I had waited all my life for this moment. Oh my God-I am actually in the UK! -Peggi Rodgers |
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From the May-June 2007 SCS Newsletter
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Heathrow Airport Well, we've landed. Wonder if my luggage did? It wasn't too much of a challenge to get through the largest airport in the world just hang with the crowd and you're kind of swept along in the right direction without much effort. The tough part was getting through immigration. After 10 hours on a plane, no sleep and an 8-hour jet lag, I wasn't quite prepared for my first encounter with British immigration. "Welcome to Britain! Will be you visiting or staying?" She inquired pleasantly, holding the sheet I had carefully filled out on the plane and ignoring it completely. "Visiting I'm going to Wales!" I supplied helpfully. "Where are you staying?" "Erm ..Wales." I really wasn't sure what she wanted. "You're staying at Wales?" "Erm." "Why are you going to Wales?" Perhaps a change in direction would help. "Oh, I have friends there that I'm meeting." Now she was happy. "What's your friends' name?" "Siôn." "Siôn who?" I dutifully supplied the appropriate information, miraculously remembering his address and phone. I figured we were done and I could move on through now. I was just about to pick up my carryon when she stopped me with one final question: "Why do you want to visit him?" Well... erm "How do you know Siôn?" I wasn't prepared for this. What do I say? Gads! Did she want the whole story or just a short synopsis? Arbitrary thoughts began to zip through my confused brain. Why was I in immigration anyway? I'm not immigrating, I'm visiting. Shouldn't I be in customs? This wasn't anything like I'd ever seen in movies. "How did you meet Siôn?" she tried again. Well, that's an easy one! A half hour or so later I was really enjoying myself when, with blinding speed as I paused to take a breath, she stamped my passport, wished me a nice visit and yelled, "Next!" Somewhat perplexed, yet greatly relieved, I was off into the next leg of the adventure Baggage Pickup. Whew! At Heathrow you wander through a twisty sort of maze of halls and tunnels, people movers and miles and miles of indoor-outdoor carpeted walkways that end in the cavern known as baggage claim. As you enter this dauntingly large room with multiple exits and eight enormous turnstiles, a pleasant woman's voice on the loudspeaker informs you of something. Her soothing voice echoes through the room and bounces off the high ceilings. Couldn't understand a word, but it was nice to listen to. We all kind of looked at each other and looked at the big board hanging in the middle where our flight and corresponding turnstile should be, and wondered why our flight wasn't listed there. Did they lose the plane? It landed eons ago. Oh Lord, they've lost the plane. I just know it. And now my luggage will go missing and I'll have to wear the same pair of pants for all 17 days. A half hour later, greatly relieved, I was standing with the other 400 passengers who'd formed a tight circle around Turnstile Six and were making every effort to catch their individual pieces of luggage as they flew by. Now, let me say a word about claiming your luggage off the turnstiles at Heathrow Airport. These miracles of modern technology are oval-shaped metal conveyer belts built like wee volcanoes. The luggage comes spewing out either side of the dome like so much lava and descends onto the main surface of the turnstile where it travels at roughly the speed of light around in a circle until someone can catch it. Now the idea is you position yourself in such a way that you can see your luggage spit from the top of the lava dome and follow it's progress around the turnstile. When it gets within 10 meters or so from your location, you anchor yourself with one foot placed firmly on the floor, bend your other knee to allow the maximum extension of arms and body out and over the edge of the structure. With your arms opened wide you mutter a short prayer, and attempt to snare your suitcase as it comes within range. If you make a successful catch, you must then lift it up and over the 2-foot edge and flop it, bouncing and gasping for air on the floor behind you. Think Marlin fishing. This is only problematic if your suitcase weighs more than you do. But the joy of seeing the safe and relatively unscathed arrival of my luggage far outweighed the embarrassment of having to recruit a host of nice young college boys to rescue it from a life in continuous motion and, greatly relieved, I set off for the next leg of the trip. The Trains. Hwyl am nawr. (Goodbye for now.) ~Peggi Rodgers |
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A strange man, was Myrddin Wyllt, quiet with a wild look in his eye. Truth be told, he frightened most of us, and our parents spoke of him in whispers calling him Llallogen (the honored one). They talked of his prophesies, how he'd foreseen the coming of great winds and rain, starvation and famine, warriors and kings from distant places who would steal our land, destroy our villages and slaughter our men. He has been here since, but his visits have never been as terrifying as that first one.
my workload since returning. However, I've finally gotten caught up with work and have a chance to write a bit about my trip to Wales this past August. 
held) and is the site of the competitions as well as the award ceremonies. I was quite surprised at the interior as I had expected seating on a single floor. But they had tiers of seats, like bleachers inside-some quite high up in the tent.
promoting the Welsh language, samples of incredible Welsh cheese, Welsh ice cream and smooth Penderyn Whisky-excellent by the way. Signs everywhere were in Welsh, people spoke to each other in Welsh, and we ran into numerous friends of SiÔn's including his teaching colleagues, musicians, literary people and a very lovely woman who was an Oscar nominee.
he ceremony itself is held in the main pavilion at the Eisteddfod each year. Historically suggested to be based upon ancient druid ceremonies, some Christian influence has entered into things over the course of time. However, the robed gorsedd, dancing girls with flowers in their hair, pomp and ceremony certainly give the whole thing the air of stepping well back into the past.
bears evidence of his stature within the organization. His head is adorned with a golden crown, and he carries a golden staff.
and, assisted by another bard, he holds a giant sword with its golden hilt shimmering in the lights above the head of the winner. He then draws the sword halfway from its sheath and turning to the people gathered before him he asks of us, in Welsh, "Is there peace?" We, of course, reply, "Heddwch!" ("Peace!") For, if he had drawn the sword fully from the sheath, we would be at war. The question is repeated three times to us, and we respond three times in all. The Archdruid is now satisfied that all desire peace and returns the sword to its cover; the ceremony may now continue. Now seated, the poet is presented with the Horn of Plenty by a young woman in flowing robes, accompanied by two footmen with the red dragon emblazoned upon their cloaks. She asks him to drink the "wine of welcome." She then withdraws and another young woman steps forward to offer a bouquet of "flowers from the land and soil of Wales." He accepts these offerings and the floral dance begins to the music of a harp on the side of the stage. With flower halos on their heads, barefoot young girls from the local area dressed in green costumes dance a Welsh folk dance. At the end of the dance, the girls arrange themselves around the forefront of the stage where they sit for the remainder of the ceremony until, along with the Gorsedd and the newly chaired poet, everyone stands to sing Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (Land of My Fathers).