Rhi Axtell – Writer

Image: my backpack before I set off on this journey.

I spend a lot of time on trains. It’s my primary mode of transport since I sold my car last year – trains or, if the distance is significantly shorter, my own two feet.

Today, I travel from Cardiff to Bangor to camp for the weekend while undertaking the final lessons on my Community Death Educator course. Apparently there will be a full moon party to celebrate the Harvest Moon on Saturday evening too. I am very excited.

As I write this, I have been on a train for an hour and a half. I have just passed through my childhood city of Hereford, and am shooting northward up the border of Wales and England. I am thinking about the history of this land – a border between two countries who still do not really see eye to eye. Hereford itself has sat on either side of the border in its time, although now sits (perhaps a little too proudly) on the English side. Not too far away from here is Offa’s Dyke – a barrier built by an English king centuries ago to keep the ‘pesky’ Welsh at bay.

When I moved to Cardiff, I went from one side of the border to the other. In doing so, I stopped describing myself as ‘English’, much preferring the description ‘British’ (although even that description seems to lose meaning the longer I spend in France). Something about being ‘English’ left a bad taste in my mouth. It almost felt like a dirty word.

To almost reinforce this point, a woman behind me is complaining about the ‘gobbledygook’ being shown on all the signs on the train (also known as the Welsh language). ‘Why can’t they just show it in English?’ She says loudly to the woman next to her. ‘I don’t understand it at all.’

Her complaints remind me of a story I heard once – a story of a gathering of Welsh elders in a fire-lit hall. Together, the elders schemed in the dark Welsh night to make a language so complicated, the English would never be able to understand it. Gleefully, they rubbed their hands together, adding extra letters and strange sounds to every word before looking down at their work and whispering… “Perffaith.”*

*that’s ‘perfect’ in Welsh.

Now, this is not at all a true story. And, as I read it back, it feels almost colonialist to assume that that the Welsh created their language (a poetic language with a rich history that many Welsh people are fiercely proud of) with the English even slightly on their mind*. But, the story does make me smile as I hear this woman complaining.

*the Welsh language actually predates any sort of ‘England’, but I’m sure there was still a sense of ‘those annoying people over there who keep trying to take our land’.

This weekend, I will be spending my time in a place where Welsh is more commonly spoken than English. I look forward to hearing the language spoken in its natural (and very beautiful) landscape. In its birthplace. In the place where it roots dig into the earth.

I’m not bothered about it being spoken on this train either. The train company operating the train is, after all, Welsh. (Some people are just never happy.)

I just hope my incredibly English accent doesn’t make people uncomfortable on this side of the border as I dance with them under the full moon.

See you next time.