Meeting the locals

Pentrebach is a farming village in mid-Wales, twelve winding miles away from Brecon. On a clear day the Brecon Beacons can be seen from the surrounding hills, but usually they are shrouded in cloud. For most of the year it’s a sleepy little place … until the Saturday of the August Bank Holiday weekend when the annual sports day takes place.

The year I attended the sports day it was so hot that even I, used to Australian summers, scampered off to find a hat and sun block before wandering round the stalls. I tried my hand, unsuccessfully, at darts, guessing the weight of the tup, spinning the bottle, and throwing a bean bag along a ladder; bought home-made blackberry wine and chocolate brownies; sat on the sidelines and cheered my friend’s daughter in the sack race; entered the three legged race with her mother; and was even cajoled into making a fool of myself in the wibbly-wobbly race (which is as embarrassing as it sounds).

That night at the pub there was a jovial atmosphere. The locals, most of whom I had met on the sports field, were beaming, partly from the sun but mostly with satisfaction. After months of planning, the sports day had gone off without any major hitches. The weather had been perfect, they’d had a record turnout and now it was over and the village could relax.

My grandfather was Welsh, and I went to university in Cardiff, so I have always felt an affinity for Wales. I’d heard that people in Welsh speaking communities disliked the English and would sometimes speak Welsh when they were around to exclude them, but there was none of that here, and before long I was drawn into the circle of conversation.

Then it began – a low rumble like the beginnings of a thunderclap. It was a moment before I realised it was the opening bars to a hymn. The rumble grew louder as one by one the older men started singing. The power of the deep voices in such a confined space made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Looking at their faces through the fug, it was obvious that the singers were enjoying it as much as the people listening. They sang song after song, some in Welsh, some in English.

Then Gethin said, “What about a song for our young Australian friend.”

As one they began to sing Waltzing Matilda. I blinked away a tear and beamed at the friendly, bear-like Welshmen around me. I felt I had come home.