Page 16
Lee Evans
On Easter of 1989 I flew to meet a friend from London to ‘holiday’ at a cottage in mid-Wales. The country was awash in wide swatches of daffodils while spring lambs played alongside babbling brooks on the many hillsides. It was a whirlwind of touring castles, visiting small villages, and taking long walks. I fell in love with Wales and felt blessed to be Welsh.
That was eighteen years ago and, since then, I’ve become more interested in my family’s genealogy. I’ve spent several years extensively researching the Evans and Jones side of my family and decided it was time to take a longer trip to my ancestors’ villages. In April, 2007, I boarded a plane to London with my genealogy documents and headed off for a three-week journey through Wales, searching for my family. I intended to rent a car and drive myself through the countryside visiting the towns and villages where my great-grandparents were from, at some point going to the National Library in Aberystwyth, the holy grail of Welsh genealogical research. The last week of my trip I planned to meet up with friends to go hiking in Snowdonia.
The beginning of my adventure had an auspicious start. I boarded a plane in Chicago that was full of quilters heading back home to the United Kingdom. These women were soon telling me how brave I was to travel alone and, by the time we landed in London, I had new Welsh friends who helped me find the right bus to Cardiff where I was picking up a car. I got off the bus with phone numbers and offers of places to stay along with advice about traveling in Wales.
It was once I picked up the car in Cardiff that the enormity of my predicament hit me. I was jet-lagged and sleep deprived, driving for the first time on the left side of the road while trying to read a map, and attempting to maneuver my way through the interminable roundabouts on my way to the Great Barn Guest House on roads that seemed to lack name signs. So I drove slowly, lurched along, wove my way through roundabouts in the wrong lanes, got lost, and held up traffic behind me. In short, I was An American Driver in Wales -- which is what the policeman concluded when he pulled me over for drunk driving. Luckily, the officer was friendly and kind and attested to the fact that I wasn’t drunk, sending me on my way with wishes for a good stay (and safer driving!) A minute later I found the sign to my guest house, perched above a ‘road closed’ sign, and I sped past, destined to be lost on small country roads for another three hours.
When lost, I depended on the kindness of strangers, or at least strange farmers. But in Wales, life is slower and more conversational, so I learned that you don’t just ask directions and not expect a lively conversation about the weather, how the Great Barn is doing now that the road is closed and three different ways to get to there. But get there I did and, after checking in, walked down the closed road to the village and the Red Lion Inn for dinner. The inn was small and friendly and I felt welcome. Dinner was chicken curry over ‘chips or rice.’ Indian cooking is to Wales as Chinese restaurants are to America -- it’s everywhere. Once back at the Barn, I entered my cozy, lemon-yellow room and fell asleep before dark to the sound of sheep, crows, horses, and roosters.
The next morning I decided to drive to St. Fagans National History Museum. This museum of Welsh life is set on 100 acres and buildings from all over Wales have been moved there and reconstructed. I was able to tour a 17th-century farmhouse, a bakery from 1900, an 1842 gorse mill, a pottery shop that still produces Welsh Ewenni pottery, a 19th-century post office, 17th-century cockpit, outdoor tannery, an Iron Age Celtic village, and a 13th-century church. Craftspeople demonstrated old farming techniques, and a group of school children in traditional costume sang to visitors in Welsh while geese and cows grazed around us. I wandered from place to place, imagining how my ancestors lived, spent time talking to the tour guides who were friendly and informative, and realized that after several hours I had seen only about a third of the structures. When I return, I will spend more time there for it’s a fascinating way to learn about the life-style of our ancestors.
My next stop was a B&B in Parc-y-rhos, a small village about 2 miles outside of Lampeter in Ceredigion, which would be my home base for a few days as I explored Aberaeron, my great-grandmother’s home town, which is located on the coast.
Silverweed, the B&B, was a small two-bedroom cottage built in 1870 with thick stone walls and slate roof. It overlooked the beautiful Teifi Valley. Hanna, the owner, welcomed me and served me tea in her beautiful garden as her cat hunted in the hedgerow nearby. The weather was sunny and about 70 degrees, “a little warm” according to Hanna. Overhead was a pair of birds spiraling on thermals above the pine forest. They were chestnut red with white patches under their wings with a whitish head and a wingspan of more than 5 feet and are known as the acrobats of the bird world, performing splendid aerial maneuvers as they steal food from other birds. Hanna explained that they were Red Kites, a rare and ancient species of hawk that was making a comeback. She speculated they had a nest nearby in the pine forest.
Hanna had a monthly date with friends to play Renaissance music on their recorders and I was invited to sit in and listen if I didn’t want to go to bed. As the cottage was tiny, I accepted her offer.
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