These blank pages are wonderful. Where shall we go?
I have lived all my life in one place, but due to Government decisions, I have lived in three counties:
Monmouthshire, Gwent and now Torfaen. Who knows, in the future, where I will end up, just by standing still.
Living on the border of Wales and England, I never really understood who I was. Was I English or Welsh? My grammar school teachers kept correcting my speech, because what came out of my mouth definitely was not English, but I didn't speak Welsh either. What was I?
As a writer, I still find I have problems with my phrases and words, and the way they come out.
"Upset, he was."
"Make two of him, she would."
"She wasn't sorry, a bit."
Welsh phraseology, I'm told. Harking back to grandmothers and greatgrandmothers being forced to speak English without any training. Their collier husbands weren't allowed to speak Welsh down the pit in case they were secretly plotting against the English owners. School children weren't allowed to speak Welsh in school, because English was the 'proper' language. Signs were hung around the neck of children caught speaking Welsh.
But now I know who I am,
and I'm proud to be
an English speaking Welsh woman.
My Dad had worked down the pit, before
I was born, but I had never seen one. Only
the coal, pictures of those huge wheels and
all the stories he would tell. I had seen
plenty of tips, though. Shale, slag and ash
was dumped in great pyramids all over the
Welsh Valleys. I grew up believing they were everywhere, not just where I lived. A bit like Italian cafes, but that's another story.
Now the tips or slag heaps have mainly been removed and vistas and horizons are visible that were blocked for fifty or a hundred years. Tips were not only created on the mountains, glowering above rows of cottages, but were also created on any available piece of land amongst the houses. Maesderwen, near Pontypool had a lovely tip, right next to the bus stop. Its gone now, Naturalists have recently found an interesting array of animal and plant species growing on these old dumps, so a few (some in Blaenavon), are being preserved and studied.
Off-roaders and motorbikes driving around the mountainsides, often illegally, churn up the delicate top coating of grass and mud, creating ruts and grooves in the hillsides, revealing the black ash beneath. These scars would take many years to heal if left untouched, but they are continually being driven over and worsened by the natural wind and rain.
Monmouthshire, Gwent and now Torfaen. Who knows, in the future, where I will end up, just by standing still.
Living on the border of Wales and England, I never really understood who I was. Was I English or Welsh? My grammar school teachers kept correcting my speech, because what came out of my mouth definitely was not English, but I didn't speak Welsh either. What was I?
 |
| Photographer appreciated the back of my head more than my face ! |
As a writer, I still find I have problems with my phrases and words, and the way they come out.
"Upset, he was."
"Make two of him, she would."
"She wasn't sorry, a bit."
Welsh phraseology, I'm told. Harking back to grandmothers and greatgrandmothers being forced to speak English without any training. Their collier husbands weren't allowed to speak Welsh down the pit in case they were secretly plotting against the English owners. School children weren't allowed to speak Welsh in school, because English was the 'proper' language. Signs were hung around the neck of children caught speaking Welsh.
But now I know who I am,
and I'm proud to be
an English speaking Welsh woman.
My Dad had worked down the pit, before
I was born, but I had never seen one. Only
the coal, pictures of those huge wheels and
all the stories he would tell. I had seen
plenty of tips, though. Shale, slag and ash
was dumped in great pyramids all over the
Welsh Valleys. I grew up believing they were everywhere, not just where I lived. A bit like Italian cafes, but that's another story.
 |
| Mum, Dad & me |
Off-roaders and motorbikes driving around the mountainsides, often illegally, churn up the delicate top coating of grass and mud, creating ruts and grooves in the hillsides, revealing the black ash beneath. These scars would take many years to heal if left untouched, but they are continually being driven over and worsened by the natural wind and rain.
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