Cymdeithas Madog Chair Competition
- Details
- Written by: Kevin Rottet
- Category: Cymdeithas Madog Chair Competition
- Hits: 1843
Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Y Mynydd Glas, 1996 gan Y Derwydd Medrus (Kevin Rottet)
Dyddiadur Chwarelwr
Darganfuwyd, dydd Iau diwethaf, mewn nenlloft ym Mhoultney, Vermont, ychydig o dudalennau a oedd yn rhan o ddyddiadur chwarelwr Cymraeg o'r ganrif ddiwethaf. Dydy perchennog y ty lle yr oedd y tudalennau ddim wedi gallu dod o hyd i weddill y llyfr. Dyma'r rhan sydd yn ddarllenadwy:
Mis Awst y chweched, 1872: Glaniodd fy llong yn y Byd Newydd y bore 'ma ar ôl taith galed ar y môr stormus a pheryglus. Nid oeddwn i'n gallu rhwystro fy hunan rhag meddwl mai arwydd o'r nefoedd oedd y cymylau duon hynny, a'r tonnau ewynnog a oedd yn siglo ein llong. Er hynny, o'r diwedd, rhoddon ni ein traed ar y tir, a gweld America am y tro cyntaf.
Yr wythnos ddiwethaf cafodd fy enw ei ddileu o restr y cleifion, er bod tipyn o beswch arnaf o hyd. Ysgrifennaf fwy pan byddaf yn teimlo'n well.
Awst yr wythfed: Ar ôl y daith hir mewn cerbyd, cyrhaeddais i neithiwr bentref bach o'r enw Poultney, lle mae fy mrawd Siôn yn byw ers dau fis a hanner. Basai'n anodd iawn disgrifio'r llawenydd a brofon ni wrth ni wrth ail-weld ein gilydd. Des i o hyd iddo ar ôl iddo orffen diwrnod hir o waith yn y chwarel. Nid anghofiaf byth yr ennyd y gwelodd ef fi yn dod tuag ato, â'r mynegiant ar ei wyneb budr a blinedig yn troi yn llawen.
Byddaf i'n cysgu heno, fel neithiwr, mewn ystafell gyda deg chwarelwr arall; ond cysgaf i'n dda oherwydd bydd y llawr yn llonydd, heb ymchwydd y môr.
Awst y degfed: Yr wyf wedi clywed bod amryw o leoedd yma yn America lle mae pobl yn mwyngloddio'r llechen, ond yr wyf yn credu bod Poultney yn un o'r harddaf. Wrth edrych ar y mynyddoedd sydd yn sefyll yn fawreddog o gwmpas y pentref, mae fy meddyliau'n troi at Ogledd Cymru sydd mor bell i ffwrdd, ac at wyrddni cymoedd fy ieuenctid.
Dechreuais i weithio yn y chwarel bore ddoe, gwaith yr wyf yn ei nabod eisoes yn iawn. Nad yw llawer yn wahanol i fy nghwaith yng Nghymru. Er hynny, mae un peth sydd yn bwysig iawn, sef y byddwn ni'n cael ein talu yn deg yma. O leiaf, dyma'r hyn y maent yn ddweud wrthon ni. Arhosaf i ychydig o wythnosau cyn anfon am fy ngwraig a fy mhlant, er mwyn bod yn sicr y bydd y bywyd yma fel maent yn ddweud.
Awst yr unfed ar ddeg: Mae'r gweithwyr i gyd yn Gymry yn y chwarel yma. Cefais fy synnu wrth gerdded i lawr y stryd y dydd o'r blaen. Chywais i ddim ond y Gymraeg. Mae ychydig o'r dynion wedi anfon neges at eu gwragedd yn dweud iddynt ddod i America, felly mae cymuned Cymraeg ei hiaith yn tyfu ac yn ffynnu, ac mae swn melys yr heniaith yn disgyn ar fy nghlust o bron pob ty yn y pentref.
Mae'r cyflenwad o lechen yn ymddangos yn ddiddiwedd yn yr ardal. Welais i erioed gymaint yng Nghymru, ac mae'r pant yn mynd yn dyfnach ac yn dyfnach bob dydd. Mae hefyd amryw o liwiau gwahanol, ar hyn o bryd llechen goch, sydd yn brydferth iawn ar doeon y tai yn y cymoedd.
Awst y trydydd ar ddeg: Gwisgais fy nillad gwychaf y bore 'ma a mynd i'r capel gyda fy mrawd. Mae gynnon ni bregethwr Cymraeg yn awr a gyrhaeddodd America ar y llong cyn fy un fi. Dyn dymunol iawn ydyw efe, tanllyd ei ysbryd a bywiog ei lygaid. Siaradodd heddiw am ei weledigaeth o dynged y Cymry yn y cymoedd hyn, ac yr oeddwn i'n meddwl, wrth wrando ar ei eiriau brwdfrydig ac angerddol, mor hyfryd a mor heddychol y fasai fy mywyd yma petai fy nheulu gynnyf.
Y Derwydd Medrus
A Quarryman's Diary
Discovered, last Thursday night, in an attic in Poultney, Vermont, a few pages that were part of a Welsh quarryman's diary from the last century. The owner of the house where the pages were hasn't been able to find the rest of the book. Here is the section that is readable:
August the sixth, 1872: My ship landed in the New World this morning after a hard journey on the stormy, dangerous sea. I wasn't able to restrain myself from thinking that those black clouds and the foamy waves that shook our ship were a sign from heaven. Despite this, at last, we put our feet on the ground, and saw America for the first time.
Last week my name was removed from the sick list, although I still have a bit of a cough. I'll write more when I feel better.
August the eight: After a long journey in a carriage, I arrived at a little village called Poultney last night, where my brother Siôn has lived for two and a half months. It would be very difficult to describe the joy we felt when we saw each other again. I found him after he finished a long day of work in the quarry. I'll never forget the moment that he saw me coming towards him, the expression on his dirty, tired face turning to joy.
I'll be sleeping tonight, as last night, in a room with ten other quarrymen; but I'll sleep well because the floor is still, without the sea's swells.
August the tenth: I have heard that there are a variety of places here in America where people mine slate, but I believe that Poultney is one of the most beautiful. Looking at the mountains that stand majestically about the town, my thoughts turn to North Wales so far away, and to the green valleys of my youth.
I started working in the quarry this morning, work that I already know well. It isn't a lot different from my work in Wales. Despite this, one thing is very important, we would be paid fairly here. At least, that's what they tell me. I'll wait a few weeks before sending for my wife and children, in order to make sure that life here will be as they say.
August the eleventh: All the workers in this pit are Welsh. I was suprised walking down the street the other day. I heard only Welsh. A few of the men have sent messages to their wives telling them to come to America, so a Welsh language community is growing and flourishing, and the sweet sound of the old language falls on my ears from almost every house in the village.
The supply of slate in the area appears endless. I never saw so much in Wales, and the cut is getting deeper and deeper each day. Also, there is a variety of different colours, at the moment red slate, that is very beautiful on the house roofs in the valley.
August the sixteenth: I put on my best clothes this morning and went to chapel with my brother. We have a Welsh preacher now who arrived on the ship before mine. He's a very pleasant man, fiery spirited and lively eyed. He spoke today of his vision of the fate of the Welsh in these valleys, and I thought, while listening to his enthusiastic, passionate words, how lovely and how peaceful my world would be if I had my family.
Kevin Rottet
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley
- Details
- Written by: Wayne Harbert
- Category: Cymdeithas Madog Chair Competition
- Hits: 1834
Y gerdd fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Iowa, 1997 gan Culhwch (Wayne Harbert)
O Bell
Rwy'n gweld o bell - ond yn glirach serch y pellter -
â llygad craff y cof, yr hen fro bêr,
lle chwaraewn yn llon ymhlith y mochod coed,
hogyn dan binwydd, yn ddeuddeng mlwydd oed,
a lle, gyda'r nos, eisteddwn efo Nain
a syllwn ar ei hwyneb crychog, gwenog, cain
- ei rychau fel map, a mwy na henaint yddyn -,
yn ei chegin glyd hi, wrth fwyta bara 'menyn.
Ymwelwn â'r lle yn bur anaml wedyn,
a bob tro byddwn innau, ond nid hithau, yn hyn,
a byddai'r dref yn fyw, a byddai'r coed yn llai,
ond digyfnewid oedd y gegin lle eisteddai.
Mil naw wyth wyth bu farw Nain, heb hir ddioddef,
wedi i'r coed gilio o flaen blerdwf y dref.
A'r hogyn? Bellach gallaf ei weld yn well
na chynt, ond O! mae o mor bell!
Culhwch
From Afar
I see from afar - but clearer despite the distance -,
with the observant eyes of memory, the sweet, old valley,
where I'd happily play among the pine cones,
a boy under pines, 12 years old.
And where, at night, I'd sit with Grandma,
and gaze at her elegant, smiling, wrinkled face,
its furrows like a map, more than old age in them,
in her cosy kitchen, while eating bread and butter.
I'd visit the place fairly infrequently after that,
and each time I would be, but not her, older,
and the town would be bigger, and the woods smaller,
but the kitchen where she'd sit would be unchangeable.
1988, Grandma died, without suffering long,
after the woods retreated before the urban sprawl of the town.
And the boy? Now I can see him better
Than before, but oh, he is so far!
Wayne Harbert
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley
- Details
- Written by: Kevin Rottet
- Category: Cymdeithas Madog Chair Competition
- Hits: 1853
Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Y Bont Aur, 1998 gan Y Saer Maestrolgar (Kevin Rottet)
Y Bont
Ffrindiau mawr oedd John Iwan a fi. Mae llu o atgofion gyda fi o'r oriau a dreulion ni gyda'n gilydd: prynhawnau wedi eu treulio yn Coney Island; ein taith wersyllu yng Ngogledd Maine; y nosweithiau ger lle-tân yn nhy fy mam, yn gwrando ar storïau John am ei ieuenctid yng Nghymru. Ond yr atgof yr wyf yn hoffach o'i ystyried yw dyddiau'r haf pan aem ni i bysgota mewn nant fechan, dawel yn agos i fy mhentref i.
Ein hoff hamdden oedd pysgota. Yr oedden ni'n mynd â'n gwiail a bwcedo bryfed genwair ac eistedd ar bont droed wedi ei gwneud o bren. Yr oedden ni'n eistedd yno am oriau, ein traed yn hongian tair troedfedd uwchben y dwr, ein llinynnau yn plymio dyfnderoedd y nant i ddenu rhyw bysgodyn at ein bachau. Nid oedd llawer o sgwrs rhyngom ni pan oedden ni'n eistedd ar ben y bont, rhag ofn dychryn y psygod, ond rhwng John a fi nid oedd rhaid siarad bob amser. Ond y funud y teimlai un ohonom ni ei linyn yn cael ei siglo gan rhyw bysgoden oedd wedi cael ei ddal, byddai'r awyrgylch yn newid yn gyflym gyda'r cyffro. Rhyw fath o gystadleuaeth oedd rhyngom ni i weld pa un ohonom ni a allai gael y pysgodyn mwyaf.
Bu farw John tair blynedd yn ôl. Yr oedden ni yng Ngogledd talaith New York er mwyn cael gwneud tipyn o daith mewn rhafft ar afon gref sy'n boblogaidd gyda phobl ddewr yn chwilio am anturiaeth. Mae'n galed i mi feddwl yn awr am y daith honno a'm ffolineb ieuanc. Ar ddechrau'r daith yr oedd yr afon yn eithaf tawel, ond wrth i ni hwylio, daeth gwynt a glaw i siglo'n cwch. John oedd y callaf o'r ddau ohonom ni, ond er iddo brotestio, anogais i ni barhau tipyn yn bellach ar yr afon er gwaethaf y storm. Cryfheuodd y tonnau a dymchwelodd y gwyntoedd ein rhafft. Y peth nesaf yr wyf yn ei gofio yw deffro yn saff ar y lan, a John wedi boddi.
Nid oes rhaid canolbwyntio ar fy myrbwylltra yn awr, oddieithr i ddweud bod teimlad fy mod yn euog o ladd fy nghyfaill wedi aros yn gryf ar fy meddwl. A allai'r rhai marw faddau i'r rhai byw eu hurthrwydd?
Gwneuthum sawl peth i geisio anghofio yr a oedd wedi digwydd. Teithiais dros y wlad a threulio wythnosau yng Nghaliffornia ymlith ifainc y traethau. Ymgofrestrais mewn cyrsiau, a graddio gydag anrhydeddau. Cwrddais â merch o'r enw Sally, a sythriais mewn cariad â hi. Prynon ni dy hardd yn New York. Ond nid oedd dim yn llwyddo i wneud i mi ddianc rhag y syniad mai fi oedd yn gyfrifol am farwolaeth ffind fy machgendod.
Un dydd daeth syniad newydd i'm meddwl. Penderfynais fynd i Gymru i ymweld â theulu John a oedd wedi fy ngwahodd sawl gwaith i ddod dros y môr i gael gweld lle cafodd John ei fagu. Gyda thipyn o ansicrwydd y disgynnais o'r awyren, â'm calon yn curo yn galed. Pa fath o dderbyniad a gawn gan y teulu hwn? Yr oeddwn i heb gwrdd â nhw, ond ar ôl holl storïau John yr oedd gen i syniadau eithaf clir a chryf o beth i'w ddisgwyl oddi wrthynt.
Yr oedden nhw yr un mor garedig ag yr oeddwn i'n meddwl. Aethon ni yn ôl i'w ty a oedd yn blas mawr yng Nghogledd Cymru. Ar ôl cinio a sgwrs es i'r gwely mewn ystafell fawr a thwt.
Y prynhawn ar ôl i mi gyrraedd, penderfynais fynd am dro ar diroedd y teulu Iwan er mwyn gweld lle yr oedd fy ffrind wedi treulio ei ieuenctid cynnar. Rhodiais heibio i lawer o goed, i fyny ac i lawer sawl bryn yn meddwl am blentyn bach yn chwarae ar y llethrau hynny.
Cyrhaeddais afonig fechan â phont gerrig drosti. Yr oedd hen onnen enfawr yn sefyll ar y lan ar bwys y bont. Cerddais ar y llwybr caregog, ac aros yng nghanol y bont. Eisteddais arni â'm coesau yn hongian uwchben y dwr yn union fel pan oeddwn i'n fachgen yn pysgota gyda John. Edrychais ar y dwr oer yn rhuthro heibio o dan fy nhraed, yn fas ond yn swnllyd, â physgod bach yn nofio, yr haul yn taro'u cefnau ariannaidd. Ddygodd fy nghof fi yn ôl i'm bachgendod, a gadewais i'm cofion ailadrodd swn ein lleisiau ifainc yn chwerthin ar ôl i un ohonom ni ddal pysgodyn. A dechreuais fod yn sicr, wrth gofio pethau fy ieuenctid, fod John wedi maddau i mi.
Cerddais yn ôl i ffermdy, wedi fy modloni ac yn ysgafnach gan bod y baich yr oedd arnaf wedi diflannu.
"Beth dych chi'n feddwl am ein fferm ni?" gofynnod Mrs. Iwan i mi pan es i mewn i'r ty.
"O, mae'r goedwig yn ddel iawn," atebais, "a'r afon yn hyfryd gyda'i phont fach. Eisteddes yno am awr jest yn meddwl."
"Pont? Pa bont?" ebe hithau. "S'dim pont ar ein tir ni."
"Beth ydych chi'n olygu? Mi nes i eistedd ar ryw bont fechan ddel wedi'i gwneud allan o gerrig, sy'n mynd dros yr afonig."
"Wel, dw i erioed wedi gweld pont ar ein tir ni. Rhaid eich bod chi 'di mynd yn bellach nag o'ch chi'n meddwl."
"Rhaid i mi ddeud, dw i'n siwr adawais i mo'ch tir chi."
Ar ôl y sgwrs hwn, yr oeddwn i'n barod i fynd â Mrs. Iwan am dro i ddangos iddi'r bont lle yr oeddwn i wedi treulio awr mor hyfyryd. Wrth i ni gerdded, disgrifiais i'r onnen fawr oedd yn sefyll ar bwys y bont. Pan gyrhaeddon ni'r lle, welon ni'r onnen fawr yr oeddwn i wedi edrych arni yn fanwl. Ond nid oedd pont yn ei hymyl. Dim ond glaswellt oedd yn tyfu lle gwelais y bont yn gynharach.
Ai ryw fath o freuddwyd, ai arwydd o fyd yr ysbrydion oedd yr hyn a ddigwyddodd y prynhawn hwnnw, ni allaf ddweud. Ond dychwelais i'r Taleithiau yn sicrach nag erioed yr oedd popeth yn iawn rhwng fy hen ffrind â fi.
Y Saer Maestrolgar
The Bridge
John Iwan and I were great friends. I have many memories of the time we spent together: afternoons spent at Coney Island; our camping trip in nothern Maine; the evenings by the fireplace in my mother's house, listening to John's stories about his youth in Wales. But the memory that I'm most fond of considering is the summer days when we would fish in a quiet, little stream near my village.
Our favourite leisure activity was fishing. We would take our rods and a bucket of worms and sit on a footbridge made of wood. We would sit there for hours, our feet dangling three feet above the water, our lines plumbing the depths of the stream to attract some fish at our hooks. There wasn't a lot of talk between us when we were sitting on the bridge, for fear of scaring the fish., but between John and I there was no need to talk all the time. But the minute one of us would feel his line being shaken by some fish that had been caught, the atmosphere would quickly change with the excitement. There was a kind of competition between us to see which one of use could catch the biggest fish.
John died three years ago. We were in northern New York State in order to have a bit of trip on a raft on a strong river that's popular with brave people looking for adventure. It's hard for me to think now about that trip and my youthful folly. At the start of the trip, the river was rather quite, but as we sailed, wind and rain came to shake our boat. John was the wiser of the two of us, and although he protested, I urged us to continue a bit further on the river despite the storm. The waves became stronger and the wind destroyed our raft. The next think I remember is waking safe on the bank, and John had drowned.
There's no need to focus on my rashness now, except to say that there is a feeling that I'm guilty of killing my has stayed strongly on my mind. Can the dead forgive the living their stupidity?
I did several things to try to forget what had happened. I travelled across the country and spent weeks in California among the young beach people. I registered for courses, and graduated with honours. I met a girl by the name of Sally, and fell in love with her. We bought a beautiful house in New York. But nothing succeeded in making me escape the idea that I was responsibile for the death of my boyhood friend.
One day, a new idea came to my mind. I decided to go to Wales to visit John's family who had invited me several times to come over the sea to see where John was raised. I descended from the airplane with a bit of uncertainty, my heart beating hard. What kind of receiption would I have from this family? I hadn't met them, but from John's stories, I had quite clear and strong ideas what to expect from them.
They were as kind as I thought. We went back to their house, a large mansion in North Wales. After dinner and a chat, I went to bed in a large, tidy room.
The afternoon after arriving, I decided to go for a walk on the Iwan family lands in order to see where my friend had spent his early youth. I walked past many trees, up and down several hills, thinking about the little child playing on those slopes.
I reached a little stream with a stone bridge across it. There was large, old ash tree standing on the bank near the bridge. I walked on the stone path, and waited in the middle of the bridge. I sat on it with my legs dangling above the water just like when I was a boy fishing with John. I looked at the cold water rushing past below my feet, shallow but noisy, with little fish swimming, the sun striking their silvery backs. My memory took me back to my boyhood days, and I let my memories repeat the sound of our young voices laughing after one of us caught a fish. And I started to be sure, remembering things of my youth, that John had forgiven me.
I walked back to the farmhouse, contented and lighter because the burden that I had felt had disappearred.
"What do you think about our farm?", asked Mrs. Iwan to me when I went into the house.
"Oh, the forest is very pretty," I answered, "and the river's lovely with it's little bridge. I sat on it for an hour just thinking."
"Bridge? What bridge?", she said. "There's no bridge on our land."
"What do you mean? I sat on some pretty little bridge made of stone that goes over the stream."
"Well, I've never seen a bridge on our land. You must have gone further than you thought."
"I have to say, I'm sure that I didn't leave your land."
After this conversation, I was ready to take Mrs. Iwan for a walk to show her the bridge where I'd spend such a lovely hour. As we walked, I described the large ash tree that was standing near the bridge. When we reached the place, I saw the large ash tree that I had looked at closely. Ond there was no bridge near it. Only grass that was growing where I saw the bridge earlier.
Was it some kind of dream, a sign from the world of spirits that happened that afternoon? I can't say. But I returned to the States more sure than ever that everything was fine between my old friend and me.
Kevin Rottet
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley
- Details
- Written by: Paul C. Graves
- Category: Cymdeithas Madog Chair Competition
- Hits: 1828
Y ddarn fuddugol yn nghystadleuaeth Gadair Cymdeithas Madog, Cwrs Cymraeg Y Man Cyfarfod, Toronto, 1999 gan Gwiwer (Paul C. Graves)
Y Man Cyfarfod
Oes lle ble mae rhannau ein bywydau ni'n cwrdd â'i gilydd? Yn y byd modern mae popeth yn ddarniog, ac weithiau mae'n anodd gweld y patrwm. Oes lle ble mae'r gorffennol a'r dyfodol yn cwrdd, ble mae'r galon a'r ymennydd yn gweithio gyda'i gilydd, a ble mae'r ffydd a'r ffeithiau'n cysylltu? Oes, ond mae rhaid i ni gael map i ffeindio'r ffordd i'r lle. Ond, pa fath o fap sy'n ddefnyddiol i ni? Dilynwch y map sy'n byw mewn breuddwydion, y map sy'n cael ei wneud yn eich calon.
Deg mlynedd yn ôl, es i i Gymru am y tro cyntaf, i ddringo Bannau Brycheiniog gyda ffrindiau o Gaerdydd. Pan cyrhaeddon ni ben bryn, roedd yn bosib gweld calon Cymru o gwmpas. Roedd map gyda fi, a fe ddarllenais i'r map i weld enwau'r afonydd, y trefi, a'r bryniau. I fi, roedd y profiad yn od iawn - roedd enwau annealladwy ar y rhan fwya ohonyn nhw, enwau estron - enwau Cymraeg. "Beth ydy hyn," fe ofynnais i, "a be' ydy ystyr yr enwau?" Doedd dim ateb gan fy ffrindiau - doedd neb yno yn siarad Cymraeg. Ond, ar ôl munud, roedd yr ateb yn glir. Yr enwau oedd hanes y wlad, a fe ddwedon nhw stori am y wlad a'i phobl buodd yno yn y gorffennol. Fe sylweddolais i byddai'n amhosib i ddeall y wlad a'i hanes heb ddeall ystyr yr enwau, a bydd hynny yn amhosib i wneud heb yr iaith Gymraeg. Fe ddechreuais i ar siwnai newydd ar ben y bryn yn y Bannau Brycheiniog, siwrnai heb ddiwedd. Fe ddarganfyddais i fap i'r siwrnai yn yr iaith Gymraeg.
Mae nifer o ffyrdd i'r lle ble mae popeth yn cwrdd, ac mae ffordd gwahanol i bob un ohonon ni. Fe ffeindiais i ffordd yn yr iaith, ac trwy'r iaith, dw i'n cwrdd âphobl newydd o bedwar ban byd; dw i'n darllen llenyddiaeth unigryw yn ei thafod wreiddiol; dw i'n gwrando ar stori sy'n tyfu a byw o flwyddyn i flwyddyn.
Fe ddarganfyddais i le ble mae'r rhannau fy mywyd yn cwrdd, a mae'r allwedd yn yr iaith Gymraeg. Dyna'r man cyfarfod, ar ben y bryn, y lle fe welais i fyd newydd. Y Man Cyfarfod yw'r man yn y galon ble mae'r ysbryd yn byw.
Gwiwer
The Meeting Place
Is there a place where the parts of our lives meet together? In the modern world everything is fragmentary, and sometimes it's difficult to see the pattern. Is there a place where the past and the future meet, where the heart and the brain work together, and where faith and facts connect? Yes, but we must have a map to find the way to the place. But what kind of map is useful for us? Follow the map that lives in dreams, the map that is made in your heart.
Ten years ago, I went to Wales for the first time, to climb the Brecon Beacons with friends from Cardiff. When we reached the top of a hill, it was possible to see the heart of Wales around us. I had a map, and I read the map to see the names of rivers, towns and hills. To me, the experience was very odd - there were incomprehensible names on the majority of them, foreign names - Welsh names. "What's this," I asked, "and what is the meaning of the names?" My friends had no answer - no one spoke Welsh. But, after a minute, the answer was clear. The names were the story of the land, and they told a tale about the country and it's people who had been there in the past. I realised that it would be impossible to understand the country and it's history without understanding the meaning of the names, and that will be impossible to do without the Welsh language. I started on a new journey on top of the hill in the Brecon Beacons, a journey without end. I discovered a map to the journey in the Welsh language.
There are a number of ways to the place where everything meets, and there is a different way for each one of us. I found a way in the language, and through the language, I meet new people from the four corners of the world; I read unique literature in its original language; I listen to a story that grows and lives from year to year.
I discovered a place where the parts of my life meet, and the key is in the Welsh language. That's the meeting place, on top of the hill, the place where I saw a new world. The Meeting Place is the place in the heart where the spirit lives.
Paul C. Graves
Cyfieithiad gan / Translation by John Otley