Robin's Nest

Nothing beats a Beetle on an icy mountain road

When you write a feature piece for a newspaper you need a hook to hang it on. After all you cannot do a piece on a school trip abroad and present it as an essay “What I did in my holidays”.

I was lucky with my feature on the Rhyl Grammar School trip to a small Austrian ski resort, starting on Boxing Day 1970 and due to end on New Year’s Day 1971, because I ended up with two hooks which I was able to tie together.

The second hook literally fell into my lap on the day we were due to fly home – difficult weather conditions left us stranded at Munich airport, and for 24 hours family and friends in North Wales had no idea when we would manage to get home (no mobile phones in those days).

The first hook had been presented to me on the flight out when one of the boys on the trip had warned us all that he was a Jonah, likely to jinx those around him.

He certainly lived up to his warning and his jinx proved right from day one to the very end of the trip, with the airport disaster being the cherry on top of Jonah’s cake of mishaps.

A coach was laid on from Munich to the Austrian ski resort of Durcholzen, in the Austrian Tyrol, where we were quickly settled in to the family-run guesthouse. In fact I think we took all the beds in the place.

A trip to the ski hire shop and everyone was fitted with the best skis and boots, plus sticks, for the first lesson the next day.

Back at the guesthouse we settled in the dining room for our first taste of Austrian cuisine. This was the first opportunity for Jonah (he got enough stick as a schoolboy for his mishaps so I won’t land any more on him) to show off his powers.

All the other tables received their food and then a delay in the kitchen meant his table were left waiting.

I determined to change tables for breakfast.

That evening most of the party were tired after the long haul and we adults were left in peace for the evening allowing us to enjoy a stein or three of Austrian beer.

The next day was out to the nursery slopes to learn the basics of ski-ing before even being allowed out on the easiest run.

This was one area where Jonah did NOT display his ability of bringing down problems on those around him. He was among the eight or nine selected to go on to the easy slope that afternoon.

Although I did not take to ski-ing like a duck to water I did manage to stay upright as I headed down the small slope. Then, of course, I had to trudge sideways to get back to the starting point.

I found a style more suited to me late that afternoon when the male teacher, myself, and the boys in the group decided to have a go in the sauna.

This was a little bit away from the resort and involved a bit of cross-country ski-ing to get there.

Rather than going down slopes and trudging back up this involved going at right angles to the slope and part-walking on the skis with the sticks aiding propulsion with the odd drop to ski down with a sideways step up the other side.

It was the first time I had ever used a sauna and it was steamy but quite refreshing. Especially when we went out to roll in the snow (we had swimming trunks on but that was all) before returning for another go at the steamy sauna.

Steamy inside the sauna with snow outside.

This was when Jonah’s curse struck again, but it only affected him this time.

We had left the sauna by the back door from our section. Jonah was last out and unfortunately for him NOT last back in.

He was somewhat slow in picking up his towel and the wedge holding the sauna door open got knocked away.

It was unfortunate for Jonah that the door could only be opened from the inside.

We had not noticed his absence because we had been pouring water on the hot stones to get the steam building up.

Poor Jonah had to make his way round to the front of the building and walk past the crowded refreshment area while wearing just a pair of trunks and carrying a towel.

He then had to explain to the attendant what had happened and persuade him to let him through to rejoin our group.

It took him quite a while to live that down.

Meanwhile we dressed and had a refreshing drink before heading back on skis to the guesthouse. A blind eye was turned to the boys having a glass of light beer. After all it was legal over there.

A hearty meal was very welcome on our return to the guesthouse. I was seated at a table with one of the female teachers and four of the girls and we were first to be served that evening.

That evening more of the group stayed downstairs for a while and we all joined in with the singing when some of the locals turned up at the bar for the evening.

The next day was another one of ski-ing, eating and drinking (although the youngsters were now restricted to soft drinks including a refreshing local drink called schpesie – cola and orange juice).

On the third day a couple of the teachers and a couple of the girls wanted to go to Salzburg – just over an hour’s drive away.

The guesthouse had a VW Beetle available for hire and I was asked if I would be willing to drive. A chance to see Salzburg was enticing and I agreed like a shot.

From where we were we had to cut through a part of Germany before re-entering Austria. The Beetle was easy to handle and I was quite happy driving even though I had to get used to being on the “wrong” side of the road.

The problem came when we were driving round the side of a mountain. The road was wide enough for two reasonable sized cars to pass without wing mirrors catching.

Obviously the car was a right hand drive which meant I was on the side opposite the drop down to the valley floor.

On that side there was a gravel strip about four feet wide with poles two feet in from the edge. Just like in country lanes where there is a strip of grass running down the centre this road had a strip of ice banked up in the middle of the road.

Some of this got under my wheels and the car started to drift towards the drop.

The teacher sitting in the front was looking to her right and then looked at me with a somewhat nervous look in her eye.

The point is I could do nothing until the front nearside wheel got a grip on the gravel and allow me to steer out of the slide.

At least that’s what I was hoping.

As I am here now it clearly worked.

Just as well our Jonah wasn’t in the car with use.

The drive back was uneventful as we were close to the mountain not the drop.

The following day I was called on to drive one of our party to the doctor in nearby Kufstein.

This was a real Jonah incident.

He and another boy had been using the ski lift which was the T-bar style in which they each leaned against the T-bar and would be dragged up the short slope.

Jonah slipped which knocked the other boy off the bar as well and as they fell Jonah’s ski stick caught his partner’s leg.

It was decided it would be better to drive to the doctor’s in Kufstein for treatment and we set off with the boy and a teacher with him.

The gash looked worse than it was but it still required a few stitches and he was confined to his bed to rest the leg for the remainder of the visit.

Not that he was lonely because throughout the day a couple of the pupils at a time would go up to keep him company.

Until we got to Munich airport this was the last major disaster of the visit.

On New Year’s Eve, after returning our hired ski equipment we settled in for a night in the guesthouse entertainment area to see the New Year in.

Never mind the fireworks we are used to seeing over here, we were able to watch a line of skiers bearing flaming torches ski in a zigzag path down the mountain.

A brilliant memory.

Next day we set off for Munich airport and the bad weather which had grounded our aircraft.

After six hours of waiting at the airport the lead teacher persuaded the airline rep to get us put up at an airport hotel.

In the morning Munich was still weatherbound and we were bussed to Nuremberg where we were finally able to board a plane and fly home.

The lead teacher had kept someone in Rhyl up to date with our situation and when the coach got us back to Rhyl Grammar School late on 2 January there were parents there to meet the youngsters.

The story in the Journal opened with the airport delay story before morphing into more of a feature which spread across two pages with pictures.

It was the first proper feature, excluding advertising pieces, since I had written about the Little Theatre pantomime for the Gazette.

I had the beginnings of a style with this piece which was to develop over the next few years.

Writing news stories is one thing but this style of writing has something special about it.

Television

by Roald Dahl (1916-1990)

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set-
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare, and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight, or kick, or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink -
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK, HE ONLY SEES!
'All right,' you'll cry. 'All right,' you'll say,
'But if we take this set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, What can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs Tiggywinkle and -
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How The Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr Rat and Mr Mole -
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start - oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Promises Like Piecrust

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Promise me no promises,
So will I not promise you:
Keep we both our liberties,
Never false, and never true:
Let us hold the die uncast,
Free to come as free to go:
For I cannot know your past,
And of mine what can you know?

You so warm, may once have been
Warmer towards another one:
I, so cold, may once have seen
Sunlight, once have felt the sun:
Who shall show us if it was
Thus indeed in time of old?
Fades the image from the glass,
And the fortune is not told.

If you promised, you might grieve
For lost liberty again:
If I promised, I believe
I should fret to break the chain.
Let us be the friends we were,
Nothing more but nothing less:
Many thrive on frugal fare
Who would perish of excess.

Better to be a big fish than a tiddler

I wonder at times if being a big fish in a small pond is better than being a small fish in a big pond.

In one you feel important and have a sense that the little fish are looking up to you thinking: “One day I’ll be the big fish and all the little fish will adore me.”

When you swim into the big pond you suddenly realise you have become the tiddler.

It happened like that when I moved from primary school to Rhyl Grammar School.

In a way it also happened when I moved from running the Holywell office to joining the editorial department at the Rhyl Journal.

My time spent at the NCTJ course in Cardiff in 1969 put me back with others as a big fish. I had worked as a journalist longer than many of my companions, furthermore I had been involved in more journalistic experiences than all, bar one or two.

When I returned to Cardiff in late 1970 my companions from the year before, those that remained as journalists, and myself could not only impress the pre-entry wannabe journalists but also those on their first year of block release.

The group of four from one newspaper the previous year had lost one of their number and a couple of weeks before the 1970 course started I had a call from asking if I would like to join them in a flat share.

The quarter share of the flat plus any food costs was less than the B&B from the previous year and our pay department had agreed a set figure for expenses so it left me with a small but welcome bonus.

On our first day of the new session it was like being back at school after the summer holidays. We greeted old friends and enquired about those who were absent.

The routine of lessons was soon re-established. Clearly there was plenty of journalistic law we had to get our heads around, along with newspaper practice covering the way to gather and present news stories, and of course shorthand was considered very important.

A few of us, however, felt that a lesson which was basically just a rehash of English lessons from school was inappropriate. If we had written stories in the way the lecturer was describing we would have had our editors and the sub-editors fall on us like a ton of bricks.

Five or six of us went to see the head of department and after about half an hour of talks it was agreed we would be spared the tedium of these lessons.

For the rest of the course we had an hour to ourselves while the rest of the group studied comprehension and verbs and adjectives.

My three flatmates and myself decided to use these three periods a week to get ourselves some exercise – just not too much.

We settled for badminton and booked a court for the periods when our course mates would have their heads down studying English.

By the end of the course we could have probably taken on anyone else in the college and beaten them soundly.

One of our “free periods” came before the lunch break and the session after the lunch break was a general study period.

This gave us three hours during which we had a good two-hour session of badminton when we could occasionally get two courts and play singles as well as doubles.

After this we would trot over to the pub opposite for a ham roll and a pint.

The course seemed to fly by and soon we were all heading back to our newspapers, better equipped for taking on a wider range of reporting.

It seems odd but I felt I was being assigned to a far better range of stories and feature work when I got back to Rhyl.

With my courses behind me and just my NCTJ exam ahead (some time early in 1971) I began to see I had a sporting chance of moving on to another pond where I could grow even more.

Talking of sporting chances I managed to wangle my way on to a skiing trip to Austria straight after Christmas.

Having left school early I had missed out on any school trips to foreign places, although I did have our theatre trip to Germany courtesy of the Little Theatre.

The skiing trip was being organised by Rhyl Grammar School for fifth formers and I was pally with a couple of the teachers who were organising it.

Not long after I returned from my course I was at the school and one of my teacher friends caught me just as I was leaving.

She asked if I would be interested in joining a school trip to Austria to write about it for the Journal.

It turned out she had an ulterior motive – apparently two teachers had dropped out and the party required a set number of adults based on the number of children on the trip.

As of 1 January that year I had officially become an adult when the UK legislation dropped the voting age to 18.

They had managed to persuade one other teacher to take up a space but everyone else had already sorted out their Christmas/New Year holidays.

I agreed straightaway as I had no commitments for that period and had some holiday due.

Because I was to be classed as a responsible adult I was entitled to a discount on the price which was a further attraction.

My editor Brian Barratt was happy to allow me the holiday period and because it was to generate a feature for the paper he did not mark the complete trip off my holiday allowance.

I have always accepted the NUJ criteria that “reporters shall not normally take photographs” but a feature on a skiing trip would be a bit grey without some images to go with it.

Glyn Roberts, our photographer, agreed to loan me a spare 35mm SLR camera which he mainly kept for emergencies. Even then it was better than my old Zenit B.

I was also provided with four rolls of black and white film.

The trip began on Boxing Day 1970 when I joined the teachers and about 18 school pupils (four or five boys amid a phalanx of teenage girls) for the coach trip down to Luton and a flight to Munich.

From there a coach ferried us over the Austrian border to the village of Dorcholzen where the fun was to begin.

The trip deserves to be more than a tail end to Cardiff story.

Next time: schlusses and saunas and a jinx called Fred.

Kissing frogs is a job for a princess

A princess who wants to find her prince will have to kiss a lot of frogs during the search.

A young reporter seeking a page one byline will have to type up a lot of funeral and wedding reports on the way.

The late 60s was still a time when weekly newspapers were considered a “paper of record”. That meant publishing things like marriages and funerals with as much detail as possible.

By the time I worked on the Flintshire Leader, and then the Rhyl Journal, wedding photos and reports could build up and often not get into the newspaper until long after the honeymoon was over.

Newspapers provided forms for the happy couple to fill in the details including their names; parents’ names; addresses; names of bridesmaids, best man and ushers; description of the bride’s dress, and those of the bridesmaids; and even extra space if they wanted to add on other information: jobs or shared hobbies such as am dram.

Some poor junior reporter (in those days me) would have to type this into a readable format.

There was worse to tackle, however, the dreaded funeral reports.

The funeral report forms were left with funeral directors and after the basic details (name, age, address, occupation and date and place of death and burial) they would include the full list of mourners and the names of the people who gave floral tributes.

On an important funeral there could be 100 mourners and well over 100 floral tributes. Each and every one would have to be listed.

I was told by an older reporter that in his young days he had to go to the church where a funeral was held and note down the names on the cards for floral tributes and even have to copy down the names from cards the mourners had filled in and left in the pews.

At least those days are long gone.

I referred to newspapers being “papers of report” and this did not lend itself to striking page layouts or gripping storylines.

In fact it was not long before the Rhyl Journal was taken over by NWN that they stopped putting only advertisements on the front page.

In many local newspapers in the 1950s, even well into the 60s, a report from a monthly council meeting might fill the whole of an inside broadsheet page. There would be sub heads (really crossheads) to break up the slabs of type but a lot of it was verbatim.

Gradually this style of recording rather than reporting was replaced by genuine journalism. This meant the reporter would pick out the best stories from a meeting and use the relevant points of interest rather than using everything that was said.

A strong story from a council could make an inside page lead or even a front page piece. In fact, if there was contention at the meeting it could even make a splash.

If I went to a meeting with a senior reporter I would often be assigned some of the lesser stories which might make inside anchors (bottom of the page) or even hampers (top of the page above the page lead.

In that year in between my Cardiff courses I did not have much in the way of exciting stories to put in my scrapbook but I was certainly prolific with the sort of stories that made up the bulk of a newspaper.

A story about a shop selling seashells made a good feature with a picture but it was really bordering on an advertising puff piece. The only news angle was that it was the first time someone had started selling foreign seashells at a seaside town.

Other than that there were lots of minor court cases; WI reports; stories about Scout troops or Girl Guides going off to camp.

In a way it came as a relief to head off to Cardiff again in autumn 1970 for the second part of my block release course.

At least there I wasn’t still on the bottom rung of the ladder.

Next time: how I became a badminton fan and learned how to ski.

Caught having a crafty fag behind the bike sheds

Time to take another trip back in time and find out how young Robin Ace Reporter coped as the 60s came to an end.

The first of my block release training courses in Cardiff came to an end and it was time to head home, not just for the weekend but for the next 10 months.

It was good to be back at work and not to feel like a schoolboy any more. Mind you we had been given “homework”.

Our English teacher had set us the task of researching and writing a feature piece on any subject we fancied.

Themed work like this reminded me of a punishment I was given at school after being caught smoking on school premises.

I was actually caught out by the biology teacher who, instead of marching me off to the headmaster’s office, decided I should benefit from my misdemeanor and told me to write a 1,000 word piece on the links between smoking and lung cancer.

In a way he did me a favour in that he had set me the task of researching what in my journalistic future would be considered a form of investigative reporting.

At the time, however, I was still a contrary, bloody-minded teenager and I scoured the school library and the town library for everything that disproved any connection between the two.

Nowadays it is easy to find the information you need online. It is also easy to find the information that suits your agenda online.

It was not so easy in the 60s when your best friend was a card file index and you had to hope you would find what you wanted.

Nowadays there is so much information that you drown in the stuff.

The pros and cons of smoking were still in their early stages at this time and the teacher in question did allow me access to papers he had collected when they were published.

I can’t remember the full details of that school essay but basically I centred it on research that had looked at cases of lung cancer in industrial or heavily urbanised areas as opposed to rural areas.

In part this research indicated that it was possible for a non-smoker to live for 50 years in an industrial or urbanised area and die of lung cancer.

It also indicated that a smoker could live for 80 years in a rural area and not show any signs of lung cancer.

It satisfied me at the time to present my findings, which went against what the teacher had hoped for, and highlight that this came from his own research papers.

The point is that I could just as easily have done a Boris Johnson and written an essay putting the totally opposite viewpoint.

Getting back to my journalistic “homework” – I chose to do a feature on the rise of the Hells Angels and their effect on motorbike groups in Britain in the 1960s.

At the time, late 1969 into 1970, the Hells Angels were known about but had not yet made the break into Europe although many British motorcycle gangs were beginning to adopt a pseudo Angels’ look.

Research material on the Angels was readily obtainable as they had been operating for over 20 years by then (the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club was formed after the Second World War, initially by bikers who had served in USAAF fighter squadrons, and traditionally St Patrick’s Day 1948 is considered the founding date).

I was more interested in finding out whether the Angels had an influence on the British bikers and in this I was in a perfect position in Rhyl during the summer of 1970.

The seaside town had more resident motorbike riders than fashion-conscious scooter fans (known in the 60s as Mods).

These young bikers were often the siblings of the 1950s Teddy Boys and were heavily into rock ‘n’ roll and the cowboy music of “outlaws” such as Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson.

On evenings and at weekends my old mate Roger Steele and I would go down to some of the favoured haunts of these guys and over a few drinks it was easy to turn the conversation to the bike fraternity; the seaside battles between Mods and Rockers earlier in the 60s; and the rise of Hells Angels in America and their influence on British biker gangs.

By the end of that first summer of the 70s I probably had enough research to fill a book.

That’s when I had to start the real work of condensing it into a feature length piece.

After all the work I put into it the reaction from the English teacher was very satisfying.

“Robin has produced a racy yet readable article on a subject which encapsulates the 60s for many people.”

It certainly gave me a grounding for some of the feature work I did later in the 70s when I moved down south. In another way it was useful on advertising features and others on the Rhyl Journal.

Old TV drama recalls the passions of youth

Regarding my regrets – I did not have a sudden realisation that I regretted not learning Welsh. I was not even hit by a revelation that I am proud to be Welsh.

Similar to many of my compatriots who are far from home (I have, of course been much farther than Hampshire) I am surrounded by objects which remind me of my heritage – they range from a full-size Red Dragon flag down to a “Cymru” sheep fridge magnet.

What brought it back home was a sense of utter boredom in the choice of TV during lockdown.

I mean to say, you can only read so many books, or listen to so much music, or radio programmes.

Recently, however, my wife and I discovered all the 1970s’ drama series uploaded to YouTube and it was among these (well hidden) we found a six-episode gem from 1975 based on one of my favourite books How Green Was My Valley, by Richard Llewellyn.

I remember getting it from the library when I was about 14 and certainly understood about the passion, sorrow, joy, musical pleasure and relationships embodied in this tale of the Morgan family living in a South Wales mining village in the latter part of the 19th century.

I remember in particular feeling an affinity with the socialist brother and his trade union work even though at this time I was still working on my political beliefs.

More especially I was struck by the matriarchal power combined with care of Beth Morgan, the mother, and more so the character of Bronwen, Huw’s sister-in-law and object of his juvenile infatuation.

The TV series is not a scene for scene reproduction of the book. Although the blurb for the TV series refers to Huw’s brothers we only see and hear of three. Ifor, Ianto and Owen are obviously major characters on TV but in the book many of the incidents attributed to them were actually the realm of Gwilym or Davey.

Again the book offers two more members of the Morgan family, Huw and the boys have three sisters, not just Angharad.

This does not lessen the impact of the TV programme. After all it is easy enough to write 100 characters into a novel but not as easy to pay 100 actors to appear in a TV drama.

What the TV series did was to take the heart and soul of the story from the book and bring it to life on the screen.

With Siân Phillips as Beth and Nerys Hughes as Bronwen the two best characters in the book were well portrayed.

More than this, however, the series reminded me of the sense I got from reading the book of the fire and passion that lies within the Welsh people.

The fire and passion that makes them stand up to those who try to “keep them in their place”.

The fire and passion that makes them pour out their souls in song.

The fire and passion that makes them pour out their hearts in love.

Now I have to go through my books to find my old copy of How Green Was My Valley and read it again.

Well you didn’t think I only read it once after borrowing it from the library did you?

Gwalia Deserta XV

The poem on which the folk song The Bells of Rhymney was based
by Idris Davies (1905-1953)

O what can you give me?
Say the sad bells of Rhymney.

Is there hope for the future?
Cry the brown bells of Merthyr.

Who made the mineowner?
Say the black bells of Rhondda.

And who robbed the miner?
Cry the grim bells of Blaina.

They will plunder willy-nilly,
Say the bells of Caerphilly.

They have fangs, they have teeth
Shout the loud bells of Neath.

To the south, things are sullen,
Say the pink bells of Brecon.

Even God is uneasy,
Say the moist bells of Swansea.

Put the vandals in court,
Cry the bells of Newport.

All would be well if - if - if -
Say the green bells of Cardiff.

Why so worried, sisters, why
Sing the silver bells of Wye.

Idris Davies, who had been a miner at Mardy Colliery, Rhymney, South Wales, from the age of 14, wrote this during a four-year period on the dole in his early 20s.

He was encouraged by Dylan Thomas and T S Eliot and in 1938 Eliot published a collection of Davies’ work, in a collection titled Gwalia Deserta (Wasteland if Wales).

My real regret – I don’t speak Welsh

I have one great regret in life (having lived for nearly 71 years) – I did not concentrate on learning Welsh 60 years ago.

Personally I blame my teacher at Rhyl Grammar School. She was too pretty. I blame my Latin teacher for my failure to master Latin for the same reason.

Beauty in the eye of the beholder also explains my failure in French – ah what a beauty that French teacher was.

When you gaze on beauty you are oblivious to other joys.

As it happens I have never needed to be fluent in French. I have never been to France and am never likely to go.

Latin is not a problem but for different reasons. On gaining an interest in genealogy I discovered many records written in Latin. I managed to get hold of a Latin dictionary and have muddled my way through ever since.

Welsh is different.

Even at 11 I should have known I would regret not applying myself to the Welsh language.

There are many reasons:

♡ it would have been useful in my teens for chatting up some of those beautiful young ladies from Ysgol Glan Clwyd;

♡ it would have been useful for insulting non-Welsh speakers without them knowing they were being insulted;

♡ it would definitely have been useful for reading my great grandfather’s notes on his family history and his stories of family life in mid-Wales in the first part of the 19th century.

The real reason I regret not applying myself to the language of the land of my fathers is that it is a language of song, a language of love and a language of great antiquity.

I have tried to compensate for my lack of foresight over the decades by making efforts to learn Welsh.

At least now I can say odd useful phrases in Welsh. Such as wishing my darling wife goodnight in the language of my ancestors and greeting her in the morning.

I can also manage, with a Welsh dictionary and grammar book, to stumble through my great grandfather’s notebooks and one day I hope to read his penillion pieces, his sermons and other writings.

What it does show is how easy it is to lose a language.

My great grandfather, the Rev David Pierce, was born in Machynlleth the son of a shoemaker and began work as a weaver yet later he was listed in the census as a pauper.

He came back from poverty, went to college and became a schoolteacher and then a minister in the Welsh Calvinistic Methodist Church.

His was a Welsh-speaking household but he had learned to speak English (for a time he was a teacher in Wolverhampton) and his son, my grandfather was bilingual.

Maybe it was because my grandmother was English and Welsh was not the usual language at home that my father only had a smattering of Welsh.

My mother, maiden name Lloyd, was part of a Liverpool Welsh family but it was her great grandfather, I think, who moved from Bagillt to Liverpool.

Although my father and I “lost” the language it did not mean we did not love the language – especially in song.

I have a large collection of Welsh choir music, including some recordings of a 1000 Welsh male voice choir from the Royal Albert Hall.

Most of them belonged to my father and some I had bought as presents for him.

To hear a Welsh male voice choir sing Myfanwy will still bring tears to my eyes.

What brought all this to my mind? The story of the Morgan family.

I’ll explain that next time.

Ave Maria Plena Gratia

by Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.