GOGLEDD

Just call me...Mister Hawk.

So, the weekend before last was Grad, and all the grand adventures that were contained therein. Next weekend will be the Doctor's return to our sceptered isle's shores, along with Tommy from Bristol town. This weekend, however, is what can only be described as the most successful family holiday ever. Absolutely splendid...

Now, the last time I went to Wales, it was South Pembrokeshire to Tyddewi, or St. David's. I was meant to go again recently for an audition for a Choral Scholarship at the Cathedral, but I accepted the job at Truro a week before anyway, so that one got knocked on the head. In fact, had we had gone to St. David's we were scheduled to go up and see the rellies, but because I took the Truro job blah blah...

Anyway. Mother decided that it was time to go to Wales, and more specifically, Porthmadog. No, don't pronounce it as a 'g' at the end. Cue my useless protestation. I mean, seriously, I've never met anyone who's there before, I don't know them, I don't know the kids, I don't know if they'll like me, let alone whether I'll like them...

You know what, I had some bloody stupid worries before, but this one takes the biscuit. I've had probably the best weekend of my whole life. Seriously. Aside from the nigh-on five hour journey there, through the windy mountain roads to get there (where surprisingly the only radio station available is BBC Radio 2...?), it was absolutely bloody brilliant! It feels like I actually have a big family, and more importantly, a family who wants to know me. They're all mad (Anty Lou is certifiably insane for starters (but like that's a bad thing)), but they are ours, as much as they're like us, we're like them (more on that at the end). I spent the entire journey back thanking my dearest mother for taking me, and asking her if she was sure we couldn't stay for longer. If we hadn't have run out of clean clothes we wouldn't have come back, and I'm not even joking. Pub be damned, I'd have stayed there for ages.

Anyway. I've managed to be dragged away from Port (and indeed Penryhndeudreath, where I was staying with my COUSIN Lisa), but have managed to import a smattering of the accent. Just a little. Not to mention the speed! You see, I've been at University for three years in Norfolk, (and indeed, surrounded by southeners) and haven't come home with an accent...ever. However, two days in Wales, and I sound like a right Gog! I actually relaxed for a bout the first time ever, basically. THERE WE GO. For saying I met a bunch of people I've never even seen before, and their children (oh, the children...), in a strange place, I actually relaxed, that I could stop being so bloody uptight for a while! Hah! Although mother dear did make an interesting point about cadencing, and me being one of those musician types, that the melodious nature of the Welsh accent and inflections appeals to my nature as a musician (and more properly as a singer, I suppose). I can't stand southern accents, really. I don't care if you have one, in the nicest fashion, but it's not for me.

As ever, I have taken few pictures. It's quite a ball ache trying to get my phone and its associated software to work, especially when I'm very busy having a wonderful time. I can't actually stress how much I enjoyed myself, alright?! There's sufficient record of me being there though, and there is another place that I have promised to return to. I am in some danger of being spread far too thinly, what with my swanky scholarship and promising to be back in Norwich and now Port and Penryhn and I've got to come back home at some point and auditioning for the next place... But a promise made is a promise kept. This is a promise I can make that only relies on myself rather than anything else. Now, here's a little real-time development, for those of you who do not believe that I do these things without drafting, I've just looked up trains from TRU to PTM and PRH (look them up). The quickest is 9 hours, and the rest are about 12. I'll probably try PRH though, as there's only one change, and that's at BHM, so that won't be much of a problem. But seriously, NINE HOURS. Jesus Harry Bicycling Christ. Looks like I need to get in training for that one then!

Anyway, time to wrap this up. I'm still recovering from the last weeked, in fact the one before that was never recovered from properly either, and this one coming will be just as busy, so I'm very tired. Before I go though, allow me to explain to you uninitiates about the title. Welsh is a funny language. It's not like English at all, in fact I rather think it's a surprise that they even share the same alphabet. It is a modern type of celtic language, distantly related to the original language spoken by the inhabitants of the British isles before the dominance of the English language with its Saxon and Roman influences. It is very odd. There are many vowels which English speakers do not recognise and the most stereotypically 'Welsh' sounds, the ll (comparable to the hebraisch "ch" sound) and the dd (compare to the old english letter that looks like a d, the 'eth' (look it up)). I mean...You there! Englishman! Pronounce 'Dolgellau'! W stands for U as much as U stands for I.

As a parting conversation took place, the term 'gog' was introduced. It's a contraction of 'Gogledd', which means 'North' in thw Welsh language, as both a geographical term and a self-recognition of denizens of North Wales and the speakers of the North Welsh dialect and accent. I was told "We are gogs." by one of my cousins. Not "The people round here are gogs." Not "Us lot who live here are gogs." But "We are gogs." Not just those of us who live there, but them who returned to the Midlands on Monday. I am not a Welshman. This much is true. But to have been accepted and welcomed by not only my blood relatives, but their significant others and children as one of them makes me proud and happy and glad and all other sorts of wonderful emotion. I have a family there who want me, and may they also know that I want them as well. I find it massively amusing that I, a northern-sounding speaker of English (even though I come from the midlands yes whatever) have also picked up a northern Welsh accent and inflection.

Anyway, there's an old Chapel going in Penryhndeudreath, and only for 60 Grand. It's there now, so it's bloody tempting, buy a chapel, do it up, install an east end gallery and get a fine Organ on it (III/P, English classical style with chair case but full compass swell with a balanced pedal, great chorus sat on fine open and stopt diapasons with seperate mutations available alongside tierce-mixture and a mounted cornet BUT with a German-inspired separate chorus pedal but voiced together in an Old English style), and stay there. That's nice. I think I might retire in this fashion. It'll give me long enough to have a massively successful career, of course (har har keep trying Peb and you'll be king of the world at this rate) and complete all my studies and earn oodles of monies...so, yes! Not a bad master plan as things go I think.

Splendid.