In Search of Welshness – or a Welshman’s Quest for Welshness

*Written in 1999

Huw Garmon and Sue Roderick, better known to some as Steffan and Cassie from Pobol y Cwm, two giants in the Welsh acting profession, and I’m sitting in the Green Room at the BBC in Cardiff rehearsing a scene with them. I’m only a non-speaking extra, but the director has given me a few lines; I’m sweating but my mouth is dry, my short term memory is shot to pieces, we’re on set in a few minutes – HELP! My quest for Welshness has landed me in this mess.

Until two years ago, I was just like the millions of other Anglo-Welsh people who make up the majority of the population of this fair land of ours, but I was lost in a cultural desert, neither truly Welsh or god forbid, English. Defining myself as merely British wasn’t good enough either, I wanted a definite cultural and national identity, I wanted to be Welsh. So my quest for Welshness began.

It’s a long journey and I don’t even know if it’s possible to get to the end of it, after all, R S Thomas has made a career out of the dichotomy of being a non-Welsh Language writer, yet having the heart of a true Welshman. Is it possible to be truly Welsh if you are not completely fluent in the language?

Things defined by the word Welsh surround us, but that word can carry a huge load of nuance and self-doubt for us poor Welsh people who are not masters of the ‘language of heaven’. It’s not easy to learn Welsh as an adult, even as an adult whose wife is a true Cymraes Cymraeg, and whose children were educated in Welsh Medium schools. I think that if I had to nominate one single motivating factor in my quest for Welshness it would be Pobol y Cwm.  I’ve watched the programme from my sofa for years, first with the English subtitles, then with the special page 889 subtitles for Welsh learners, and finally with no subtitles, pretending I can understand more than I can, but getting the gist of the thing anyway.

Two years ago I got serious about learning the language, I was born in Wales, of Welsh parents, I live in a typical Welsh village and my house is called Llwyncelyn (Holly Bush), so I thought it would be a relatively easy step to take. Now sitting in the Green Room with these great Actorion Cymraeg, I’m beginning to regret getting off the sofa.

It’s not just Pobol y Cwm of course. It’s cool to be Welsh now of course, but more than that it’s the cywilydd (shame), the feelings of failure, that half-baked feeling that comes when you realise you don’t know all the words of the National Anthem, (in English as well as Welsh). Or, even worse, the isolation that chills your soul when you realise your friends and family share a special secret that you’ll never be privy to.

We all come together on International days, when every channel, in both languages drives home the message, all Welshmen and Welshwomen are equal when it comes to the oval ball. But what happens after that? The two factions go their separate ways, back to the sheep, the committee rooms or the cosy little jobs in the media; back to the council estates, the factories or the double-glazing selling.

I’m not bothered about rugby or double-glazing, and I’m certainly not bothered about sheep, but I’m still Welsh. I’m as Welsh as Shirley Bassey or Bryn Terfel. I’m as Welsh as William Morgan or Ieuan Evans. I’m as Welsh as they come. Why then do I need to chase the buzz that comes from carrying out even the simplest conversation in Welsh? The Welsh Language Society and the Welsh Language Board have certainly done their job on me over the years. I now carry around an extra burden of guilt that can only be unloaded when I achieve that altered state of being truly Welsh speaking.

On the low seats in the Green Room, in the depths of the BBC in Cardiff, I’m nodding at the director as he gives me the lines. I’m a publican who’s come to buy beer from Steffan’s brewery, but the real story’s about Steffan’s preoccupation with some female or other. It doesn’t really matter what I say.

When I get on set the problems really begin, I scribbled the lines the director gave me on a copy of the script. During the rehearsals one of the production assistants speaks to me in Welsh and takes the script away. I just nod and smile, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. I manage to garble my way through the scene and run out of the studio and back to the car park despairing at my performance and relieved that I’m out of there. They cut all but one and a half of my lines anyway.

That incident in the BBC happened over a year ago, and I’m still desperately searching for Welshness. My language skills have improved, I even choose the Welsh language option at the cashpoint. The burden is a bit lighter, It’s a long journey this quest, and Steffan is still preoccupied with some female.

I’ve done a bit more television work since then, but nothing in Welsh, they must have sussed me out and blacklisted me, but don’t worry, Pobol y Cwm, I’ll be back and I’ll play the best non-speaking publican you’ve ever seen.