The Land of My Father
Who is my Dad? Who am I? Where are we from? Where are we going?
Teg yw edrych tuag adref (it is good to look homewards). - Welsh proverb
When I was six years old my parents would pick me up from school early on a Friday. That should have been good news to someone my age, but to me it meant a weekend in Wales. With an unhappily immobile Granny. With cold overly starched sheets trapped tightly to the bed rather than a cosy enveloping duvet. With a variety cereal pack awaiting me on Saturday morning, the Frosties and Coco Pops long gone and the Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies lingering like a Bounty in a Celebrations tub.
I would be bored. So. Very. Very. Bored. A weekend without my older siblings (away at school), but with people with grey hair. Or hair where I didn’t think it belonged (looking at you Aunt Maureen’s spiny top lip).
The Friday car journey would begin with Mum driving and Dad in the passenger seat because he had “a few quick calls to make.” This was code for ‘enjoy three hours of listening to my calls. And no, you can’t use my phone to play Snake.’
Dad would dig into his briefcase to pull out his documents, trusty sunflower-coloured post-it notes, and blue BIC biro. He’d load up his PalmPilot to retrieve someone’s phone number and the Nokia would be put into its little cradle - connecting it to the car speakers so we could all hear what was being said.
“Hi Mike, it’s John.” We were off.
We would cross into Wales about two hours later (after Mum’s anxious deliberations over whether we should use the new Severn bridge or the old).
Grey is the only word needed to describe that crossing, although I’ll give you a few more. Bleak. Scary. Imposing. First I’d worry that the bridge’s two H-shaped concrete pylons would collapse in on us. Then, once clear of them, I’d realise we were 45 minutes from Granny’s house and her go-to dish of stew and semolina mash. That I still confuse semolina with salmonella tells you everything you need to know about said-dish.
All of this was set to the backdrop of endless clouds, dense fog crawling up the bridge’s side, and air so damp that too many inhales would lead to mouldy lungs.
A moment of warmth would punch through.
“Alrite my luvs. £3.90 please.” The toll collector’s Welsh lilt would bring a smile to my Dad’s face. He was in the land of his fathers.
Despite never having had a Welsh accent, it’s a lilt he can still perform perfectly. In fact, his only sentences that now make sense are the ones with the lilt. It’s both a safety blanket and a spark to find those memories still clinging to his brain. Oh, before I forget, he has Alzheimer’s.
I’d always know when we were five minutes from Granny’s house. It would be dark outside, Dad would be trying to remember which of the 22 post-it notes flapping against the glove box related to which of the documents in his hand, and Mum would ask if we could put the radio on now.
Fridays in Wales were not my favourite. Saturdays though? Well, over time they came to be my great love. The foundation for my Welsh-not-English outlook. And my first, and now only, connection to my Dad.
“In Wales, they love with abandon. When a Welsh person loves you, you'll finally know your potential... They are different from the English, who are reserved even when you stand in front of them, naked, handing them your heart. The English give you their love in cups: here, you’ve been good, drink another glass. But the Welsh, they drown you in an ocean of love. You have their attention, their consideration. You have all of them. They aren’t even careful to keep any for themselves. It seems to me that only the Welsh know how to love, how to make someone feel loved.” - Kamand Kojouri
On Saturdays we would drive to Llanblethian - the next-door village which was home to Dad’s uncle, aunt and cousin.
Google Maps tells me it’s a five-minute drive but back then its endless winding roads made it feel like an expedition to Mordor. The closer we got, the more the roads narrowed like an hourglass until we reached the pinch point: a small pipe arch culvert that was a bridge into Llanblethian. Ash-coloured brick walls sat on either side, squishing us through, while trees drooped overhead and a mischievously loose branch scratched its way along the car like chalk on a board. Once through, the hourglass would open back up and we’d arrive at my aunt and uncle’s cottage.
For most, this is a mundane crossing over a small stream. For me it was akin to Mary unlocking the gate to the secret garden or Lucy clambering through the wardrobe to pass into Narnia. A wondrous entry point into a world of warmth and care.
Aunt Betty would greet me with a kiss, a hug, a Welsh cake, and then her take on what was going on with Manchester United and the Welsh rugby team (my two favourites), knowledge she would have newly acquired having fervently read the back pages all week. As the Welsh proverb goes, eilfan ywmodryb dda. A good aunt is a second mother.
In short, the sun shone on me, an at-the-time unfamiliar feeling as the youngest of four brothers. That’s typed with no malice - it’s just what happens in big families - and in fact I now happily see that it was that feeling which spawned my love for Wales.
Those Saturdays were my first experience of being part of a community. Not the concept of community bastardised by social media. But the idea of a shared sense of responsibility towards one another. A kinship and affinity - not exclusive to Wales but certainly a result of its history - that comes from being family, friends, and the younger sibling that got left behind. All delivered with an enveloping hug that connected you to the land and the fathers who came before.
“This land of my fathers is dear to me. Land of poets and singers, and people of stature. Her brave warriors, fine patriots, Shed their blood for freedom.” - The Welsh national anthem.
Wales’ history is one of myths, legends and loss. Not unlike my Dad’s current state of mind.
First, there’s the red dragon which is both a feature of early Welsh stories that saw the invading white dragon (England) defeated, and a symbol of the Welsh hero Cadwaladr, one of Wales’ last great kings before the country was conquered by the Anglo-Saxons.
Second, there's the name. ‘Wales’ comes from the Anglo-Saxon word for ‘foreigners’. The Welsh were outsiders in their own land, especially after the country was annexed to England in 1284 following King Edward I's defeat of Llywelyn the Last (the last native prince of an independent Wales, whose head ended up on a spike in London). A long period of England domination ensued in which the Welsh language and culture were suppressed.
Fast forward to 1847 - yes I’m overlooking lots, but my story, my rules - and we get the Treason of the Blue Books. After a period of rioting and unrest in Wales (brought about by social upheaval, poverty, and landowner oppression), the British government commissioned a report into the state of education in the country. In it, three non-Welsh speaking Anglican commissioners condemned the Welsh people as depraved and the Welsh language as antiquated. Some lowlights include:
“It is difficult... to describe in proper terms the state of the common people of Wales in the intercourse of the sexes. I believe the proportion of illegitimate children to the population in Anglesey, with only one exception, and that is also in Wales, exceeds that in any other county in the kingdom.”
And: “The Welsh language is a vast drawback to the Welsh and a manifold barrier to the moral progress and commercial prosperity of the people. It is not easy to over-estimate its evil effect.”
In short, it’s unlikely a civil service document has ever been talked about so much (you’re off the hook Sue Gray) or done so much to affect the identity and psyche of a nation. It led to a sense of alienation and resentment towards the English establishment while reinforcing existing prejudices against the Welsh. Exhibit A…
The entry for Wales in the 1888 edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. For Wales, see England, was seen as a reflection of the prevailing attitudes of the time. Wales was a subordinate and inferior part of the UK.
Side note: while attitudes towards Wales have changed, they’ve not changed by much…
Credit: @alexa99uk on Instagram.
If the Treason of the Blue Books was the nadir, then came the zenith. And the extraction.
At points during the late 19th century and early 20th, Wales was one of the world's leading coal producers (with its coal highly prized for its quality), and the world’s largest producer of iron and second-largest producer of steel. And while Wales’ valleys had their underground pockets emptied, little change was put back in. Money was spent on creating the infrastructure to get the wealth out of Wales with ports and railways servicing the world, not Wales.
As Eddie Butler, the voice of Welsh rugby, said: “England above all: for being our landlords. For having taken and for giving so little back. For there being not a trace of Wales - not the tip of a dragon’s tail - on the flag of their Union.”
When those heady days of industrial strength came to a close during the 1950s, 60s and 70s, it wasn’t just the communities built around the mines, metalworks and quarries that got left behind. It was the whole of Wales. Those that could, got out. Which brings us neatly to my Dad.
“We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.” - Joan Didion
Some facts you need to know:
1. My Dad was born in Wales in 1948 and raised there during the 1950s. His family were well-known (by Welsh standards) industrialists. Important. Big fish in a small pond.
2. In the 1960s Dad spent most of his teenage years in English boarding schools. Dropped off on a Sunday night for the start of term and fetched again about 10 to 12 weeks later.
3. The 1970s was a period of de-industrialisation in Wales. The country’s traditional, and big, enterprises collapsed. Coal, steel, iron. Dad, like most in his position and of his age, left Wales for England. He was 22.
4. Towards the end of the 70s Dad would return to Wales, with my Mum, to help his father sell wooden toys. It didn’t work out and he returned to England, probably with his tail between his legs. Boys and their toys.
5. From 1980 to 2019 Dad’s life in England grew and his connection to Wales shrunk. He would return for monthly(ish) weekend visits, but after his parents died either side of the millennium the visits became more sporadic and usually centred around taking me to a Welsh rugby match in Cardiff.
6. In 2019 Dad was diagnosed with ‘an Alzheimer’s type dementia’. Now in 2023 he wants to return to live in a Wales set, in his mind, in about 1967. Parents alive and influential. Wales alive and industrious, just about. Forget all the family and connections around him in England.
Dementia is an umbrella term to describe a range of symptoms that significantly impact one’s ability to remember, think or make decisions. It is not a specific disease. Alzheimer’s is.
Alzheimer’s accounts for 60-80% of dementia cases and is a brain disorder that takes a pickaxe to your memory and ability to function. It can be slow. It can be fast. It can be frightening. In Dad’s case it’s those final two.
People often use the bookcase analogy to describe Alzheimer’s, and it’s a good way to explain why my Dad now wants to live in Wales. Imagine that all of your memories get turned into books which you add to a bookcase from bottom to top. The bottom shelf holds your childhood and adolescence, while the top holds your most recent experiences. In between is everything else. When Alzheimer’s comes along it shakes that bookcase, with the less-secure top and middle shelves throwing out years-worth of memories.
Digrif gan bob aderyn ei lais ei hun (every bird relishes his own voice). - Welsh proverb
For the 32 years I’ve known him, Dad has regarded Wales as nice but dim. When he and I would drive back to England - having spent a match night ‘under the skies of Wales, fuelled by the pies and the fries of Wales, by ale and the why why whys of Wales’ - conversations about the country, and the people we’d just been with, were laced with judgement.
Dad was the driven older sibling who’d made it. Wales was the cute, but rudderless, youngest. (Replace the sibling dynamic with a father/son one and you have a glimpse of my relationship with him. More on that later.) He likes Wales but has never loved it, always British not Welsh. I’m Welsh, not British (and don’t even mention the E word). Born on St David’s Day, perhaps this was always going to be the case. Nominative determinism at its most tenuous.
Dad’s lifetime of behaviour and feeling towards Wales is why I constantly ask my Mum today: why does he want to go down to Wales when he’s spent most of his adult life trying to be above it?
I ask, perhaps bitter that he’s replaced his second family (my Mum, siblings and me) with his first (his parents). Perhaps resentful because he’s played his English part to aplomb. Perhaps because, for as long as I’ve known him, Wales has been mine and not his.
The simple answer is what the Welsh call hiraeth.
A blend of homesickness, yearning and nostalgia, hiraeth is a longing for a home that one can never return to and a time that no longer exists, or may never have existed. It’s a word deeply ingrained in Welsh culture - born from the periods of conquest outlined above, the decline of the Welsh language, and the magical and mysterious Welsh landscape. Its rolling hills and heather-covered moors stretching as far as the eye can see. Its cold air carrying the sweet scent of wildflowers and the tang of saltwater. Its clouds in the vast sky above dancing across the horizon like playful children.
Hiraeth holds a grip over Wales and its people. And now, shaken back to his 19-year-old self, Dad is the embodiment of the word. He wants to return to where his parents are, his mind invaded by beta-amyloid and his language soon to be taken from him.
I say that hiraeth is the simple answer as that’s kind of how Alzheimer’s works. You retreat to your childhood while the skills you’ve spent so long acquiring are stripped away. But while Wales is home to Dad’s memories, it was never his home. He was always aiming for bigger and better.
The more difficult answer is what the Welsh call cynefin (fortunately for this essay the Welsh have a word and proverb for everything). ‘Difficult’ because we’re entering the realms of speculation and amateur psychology, trying to understand why a 74-year old man is thinking like his 19-year-old self despite the 55 years of intervening experience.
Cynefin is a place or time where we feel we instinctively belong.
In 2018 Dad was asked whether he considered himself Welsh, English or British. He dodged the question, but said: “I go to the rugby and meet lovely Welsh people and I can say to the guy next to me, without having a clue who he is: “how much did you pay for that seat boyo?” And he will tell me and I love that about them. If you said the same thing in England they’d say: “I’m not telling you.” The whole place is familiar, perhaps that makes it more beautiful.”
In that same conversation he was asked what quality he wanted to impart on his four sons. “I’m afraid it probably begins with purpose rather than people. You need a sense of purpose.”
This combination of people and purpose has driven Dad all of his life. A lot was expected of him - indeed his father’s love was probably conditional on performance and status. He was part of a family that people talked about and of a society that judged you by what you looked like and how much you earned, not by how happy you were. All of this informed Dad’s values and self-worth. He expected to be important.
And still expects.
Importance is what Wales now offers him. Industrial strength. A respected family. An attentive audience. These concepts are central to Dad’s makeup, hence why Wales is where he feels he instinctively belongs. It’s not so much his home, more a place where he has purpose.
Adar o’r un lliw ehedant i’r un lle (birds of the same colour fly to the same place). - Welsh proverb
Dad and I have never clicked. Never been able to find our groove or mould to each other’s egos. It’s been a traditional father/son relationship. Top down. I’ve never seen my Dad cry or found even a tiny opening of vulnerability.
Not unlike how he engaged in Wales, when he dipped into my life it felt like it was when it suited him or when he had to (either because Mum told him to or I was in trouble). There was always a barrier between us. His desk or a restaurant table. His all-knowing air or my unreceptive prickliness. Guards were up.
Remember that game in the arcade where you positioned the claw to descend on a prize with its three feeble tentacles? Dad was the claw and I was the pink fluffy teddy bear at the bottom. Wide-eyed. Looking up. Waiting for him to wrap me in his arms.
When he caught me it was magic. Truly. The sun shone, ideas were shared, and we got close to a mentor/mentee-type relationship. But you know the claw game… How often have you won the prize? Too often Dad would miss his mark and I’d have to wait in hope for his next visit.
These experiences inform my response to Dad today.
He stares with blank eyes at a world he no longer recognises, absorbed in his own thoughts and rituals. Judging and criticising. Waiting for, and expecting, the world to come to him. And so my Mum does come to him - covertly following his thoughts, protecting him against panic, and undoing any chaos created by his behaviour. She bears his anger and ambivalence. Forgets his ego and arrogance. Lays the table for his breakfast before going to bed. Then gets up the next day to do it all again. I struggle to sit with him for five minutes. When I should come with kindness, I arrive with an unsympathetic manner that borders on arrogant ambivalence.
There are conversations I wish Dad and I had had. Open ones, honest ones, let’s-put-aside-our-egos ones. I imagine the silver bullet that would unlock our relationship today: “Ben, I know there’s something not quite right with me. I don’t know what it is and I know I can’t control it. Please can you help me?” Honesty replacing pride, friend replacing father. No desks or tables, airs or graces. Only a rebalancing of a relationship that would see me want to give Dad a big hug and tell him I’m here.
But that’s not Dad, and any hope I had of one final lucid conversation has gone, so how can I find a way to say goodbye to him? Or at least come and go with a lighter heart? Everything comes back to hen wlad fy nhadau. The land of my fathers.
These words are not about an abstract concept of Welsh patriotism. They’re about the very essence of who the Welsh are as a people. The sacrifices that were made to ensure we (the royal we) could speak our own language, and the actions taken to preserve a way of life.
Dad is a composition of his upbringing in Wales. A man who was expected to achieve, he tried to create his own story within a family whose books were well-read. He assumed an English role (powerful and in control) while I sought the comforts of Wales (smaller and warmer), and so we were always two characters at odds with each other’s outlook and ambition. But now, with his desire to return to Wales, we are in the same place for the first time ever. The land of our fathers.
Dad today is similar to the Wales of the 1970s, stripped of physical resources (his cognition, their coal) and struggling for belonging. He is a 19-year-old trying to make his way in the world and I’ve realised that I must come to him as such. Without the baggage of what has, or hasn’t, been said and done, and with the kinship that comes from being part of a country bound by its myths, legends and losses.
I have watched Alzheimer’s turn off Dad’s controls and in the coming years I will watch him die. When that happens I may not have perfectly perfect memories of him, but I will always have the land of my father. A sense of belonging that no disease can take away, and a connection with him that’s almost indescribable.
“It puts a wrap around the people,” said Dad when I asked him what kind of emotions Wales stirs.
Finally, perhaps I have the wrap I’ve always craved.