Dinner Conversation

Today's blip is dedicated to Welsh exiles everywhere.

Cynthia and I enjoy conversation and food equally, and they are both enhanced when combined. Tonight at dinner, we were talking about future travel possibilities. We both like car trips on back roads, exploring out-of-the way small towns, and talked about the plethora of opportunities in Oregon and our home state, Washington.

One thing leads to another. I was reminded of the mathematics teacher I had when I was in grammar school in Wales. He came from a hamlet called Upper Cwmtwrch, the kind of place you miss if you blink while driving through it -- slowly. And yes, there was a Lower Cwmtwrch.

When my first wife (the mother of my children), would talk about traveling to exotic places I would always offer to take her to Upper Cwmtwrch. I did eventually -- on one of the few return trips we made to Wales from the US.

Many years later, I discovered the Anglo-Welsh poetry of Harri Webb, and was delighted to find a poem about a Welsh exile living in India who decides to return to his homeland by train when he retires. My blip is the last few lines of the poem.

Cynthia was kind enough to type the whole poem for you to enjoy.

A FAR-FLUNG TALE

Evans the Empire had spend years in the East, prospecting.
Gold, oil, uranium, you name it, he'd prospected it.
His life had been spent in the far places, off the map.
Often he'd dreamt of home, the little old Welsh village
Lost in the hills, but when the time came, after many years,
For him to take his leave, he was not quite sure
He wanted to get back there in all that much of a hurry.

There were perhaps reasons for that, but these
Belong to another saga. Suffice for now to say
He decided to make the journey not by jumbo jet,
Pampered by pneumatic air hostesses, but the old way
That lay between him and his homeland, gathering perhaps
Fresh adventures on the way, new tales to tell
When at last he thumped on the brass knocker and shouted,
Mam, where's my tea?

He packed his gear and jumped onto his camel.
After many days he reached the railhead, a shack crouching
Near the ruins of a city sacked by Genghis Khan
And haunted by demons. He knew the station-master,
Old Abdul, wise in the immemorial wisdom
Of his ancient race. After the customary salutations
Which took some time, he came eventually to the point.

Abdul, he said, I'm going home at last.
But I want to go by train, see, so I need a ticket
From here to-Cwmtwrch. Old Abdul looked at him.
Trully Allah had deprived this one of his reason
To utter such a strange request. A hyena howled,
Vultures hovered, the pitiless sun beat down,
Boundless and bare, the lone and level sands
Stretched away. At last old Abdul spoke,
Sahib, bwana, effendi, I am a busy man
With many responsibilities. Please make up your mind.

Upper Cwmtwrch or Lower Cwmtwrch?

(Harri Webb, Poems and Points, Gomer Press, 1983)