Reflections on a Simple Past | 04. The Land of Song

In the shadow of a great giant, people, place, community, culture and identity, rooted in song, the songs rooted in the land.

In this series, I look back at some of the people, places and things which have so richly influenced and inspired my love of all things simple.

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Sometimes, the strongest memories of the past are born in the most unlikeliest of places. A small Welsh market town seems hardly worthy of mention in a world brimming with travel possibilities, of exotic locations, and endless adventures. Yet here, as a young and impressionable 9-year-old, I first sensed the deep and unequivocal importance of cultural identity.

August 1993.

Growing up, we travelled in our own simple way, up and down the country to family, to friends, and to holiday destinations that the rest of the world seemed to have passed by. How lucky I was. We never really lived close to family, so even to visit grandparents was a car or train journey of several hours. I never minded, for what excitement and adventure could be found in merely looking out of the window. Simple pleasures indeed. Even now, I still sense that excitement and sense of adventure as the train shudders to life and pulls lethargically out of the station. What possibilities await?

I have only been abroad once, to France, in the year 2000, and by which time I was 16 years old, my enthusiasm for family holidays waning. Some might say I’d missed out, but to me, I’d been privileged enough to experience and enjoy some of the most beautiful parts of England, Scotland, and Wales, journeys and adventures of which I will never tire, even now. I remember being bitterly disappointed to emerge from the southern portal of the Channel Tunnel, to find that the fields, the trees, and the hedgerows looked alarmingly familiar. Was this really another country?

Devil’s Bridge Waterfalls near Aberystwyth, August 1993.

In contrast, our first holiday to North Wales in August 1993 felt like my inaugural visit to a foreign land. Suddenly, everything seemed different, the language, the accent, the clothes, the buildings, and above all, the culture. As far as I was concerned, a few hours drive from home, and I was in another country, abroad to all intents and purposes, save for crossing the sea. Nestled in the shadow of the great Cader Idris, Dolgellau was a place forgotten in time. Myth and legend exuded from every crack and crevice, the great giant never far away, for in Men of Harlech:

“Tongues of fire on Idris flaring"

August 1993.

But why did this rugged, damp, overgrown, and slightly disheveled landscape leave such an impression?

Even now, over 30 years on, I find it hard to put my finger on it. Here was a landscape and a community which seemed so sure of its cultural identity, so sure of what mattered, and why. I was an outsider, looking in, yet warmly greeted and embraced. Everyone was welcome because what really mattered was community, and at the heart of this community, was a sense of identity I have seldom found since. The people then, there, rooted in that place, seemed to have all we crave so yearningly now.

One of my abiding memories is going to an evening of Welsh folk-song in the Neuadd Idris, or Old Market Hall, now home to Tŷ Siamas, the National Centre for Folk Music in Wales. Like the folk-songs of Cornwall which I’ve written about previously, so many of these were passed down through the generations, a rich and vital part of the people’s heritage and cultural identity. One of the songs which has stayed with me is Migldi Magldi (hear it sung here by Elinor Bennett). The song tells the story of the blacksmith in his forge:

Ffeind a braf yw swn y fegin
migldi magldi hei no no
Gwrando chwedl, cân ac englyn
migldi magldi hei no no
Pan fo'r cwmni yn ei afiaith
migldi magldi hei no no
Ceir hanesion llawer noswaith
migldi magldi hei no no

Fine and lovely is the sounds of the bellows
miguldee maguldee hey no no
Listening to tale, song and verse
miguldee maguldee hey no no
When the company is in full swing
miguldee maguldee hey no no
There are stories many evenings
miguldee maguldee hey no no

The identity found in the songs is as strong as the identity found in the people themselves, rooted in the everyday culture of the community.

David looking out over the Barmouth Estuary, August 1993.

All these years on, I’m sure much has changed. Places evolve, people move, and landscapes harden, but I hope that amidst this, a sense of community, culture, and deep-seated identity remain. Perhaps those songs of 30 years ago are merely echoes in a foreboding landscape, yet unspoken in their souls, the melody lingers. People and places may come and go, but no one can remove the song from the land, or the land from the song.

Cymru: gwlad y gân!

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