Hywel Dda and Ty Ddewi

In that proverbial and oft-cited other news, Thursday's day trip was...interesting. We started the day at the Hywel Dda Garden and Interpretive Center. I thought, in my silly American way, that an Interpretive Center would be something like a living history farm, with fuzzy animals to play with and people dressed up as medieval welshmen. Instead, it was a small building and garden on the site where Hywel the Good, King of Deheubarth in the tenth century, gathered his advisors and wrote the code that was the basis for the Welsh law until the union with England in 1536. The brochure describes it as "The only Garden in Europe dedicated to the Law".

Alright, so this should be interesting to someone who, like me, is interested in Medieval legal codes. Still. Dim fuzzy animals. Big problem. Furthermore, while the garden was lovely, someone had clearly put a little too much thought into the design. Allow me to quote from the hand-out:

It is divided into six small gardens separated by stone walls and hedges. Each garden has a distinct planting scheme and its own tree to represent one aspect of the Law-- Society and Status, Crime and Tort, Women, Contract, the King and Court, and Property. Extracts from the laws have been cut into slate plaques illustrated with champleve enamel and mounted on the walls.

It goes on to describe the symbolism of the tilework--meant to illustrate the arrival of various representatives and advisors--and the building, which is modeled on manuscript descriptions of the building where the conference was held. The garden itself is lovely, and was clearly designed to be a place for the community as well as a memorial to a historic event. I still found it strange-- and docents never tell me the sorts of things I want to know. I don't care about the enamel, I care about the history.

Furthermore: hidden dangers of a language with no easy way to say no: Adam (everyone's favorite Warrior of Devon) is allergic to wheat, and only narrowly escaped having a biscuit forced down his throat by one of the nice little ladies at the interpretive center. "I suppose I could have taken one and put it in my pocket," he said. "Come home with a pocket full of crumbs, [Hester would say,] 'what happened to you?' 'I forgot how to say no! Problem mawr gyda fi." He was also the only one having significant problems holding his tea mug without burning himself, thus providing substantial entertainment.

I know that you are all on the edge of your seats waiting to see what Europe's only garden devoted to law looks like, so here are some pictures. First, the shrubbery in the women's garden:


The enameled sundial in the Contract garden:


Herbs growing in the Property garden (they weren't kidding when devoting it to laws):


(Transition here in the style of Herb Caen for my San Francisco Readers)

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Dinas Ty Ddewi is only a dinas because of the Cathedral-- thus making it the smallest city in Britain, set in a beautiful county in which hilly farmlands drops dramatically into white beaches and blue sea. The Cathedral is lovely, built deep in a valley for protection from what Fr. Mike would call "marauding blonde people". James/Seamus/Iago (depending on language) and I made our way through the Cathedral being loudly Catholic, paying respects at the supposed tomb of Geraldus Cambriensis ("Ah, The Great Badger Himself,"* said J/S/I, so you have to take your respect as it comes). However, once we had done that, had seen the ruins of the Bishop's Palace (insert choice Irish words from James here in re Henry VIII), searched the gift shop for the tackiest items, and bought Ice Cream ("beth ydy mint chocolate chip yn cymraeg?"), there wasn't much to do but wander around the back streets and formulate plans for pretending to be Basque tourists** who spoke no English if accused of trespassing.

That said, we have pictures yma. Presenting Ty Ddewi:




We also saw Fishguard Harbour, site of the last invasion of Britain. The story, as told to me by Jo, goes that the French attempted to attack Britain through Wales. The attack was completely unexpected, and the men were all out in the fields. The women of the town, however, saw the ships coming and decided that they might as well put up a fight. They took whatever tools and utensils they could down to the harbour to meet the French, who mistook the traditional black Welsh bonnets for the hats of a massed army and promptly surrendered.

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The Italian students have left, marking the end of an era for us: we will no longer have to wait in lengthly lines at the refectory, have trouble falling asleep because of their late-night karaoke parties, or have their English teachers to hang out with at the pubs-- in other words, our social circle is shrinking dramatically, and the campus is going to be very empty without them. Last night, a group of students were in our courtyard trying to hold a farewell/"graduation" ceremony, but with only one cap. Much laughing, hugging, and kissing one another in congratulations which many of them, I hope, deserved—they had just taken oral exams for proficiency certificates. A few of the boys joined our group at the Cwmanne Tavern for live music on Thursday night. They were sweet and polite. Also there was the slightly awkward young man who has been working the counter at the University Book Store. Turns out he's Sean's brother, Patrick (Nickname: "Patch"). Small town.

On the subject of small towns, some of you may be interested in seeing just what has been going on on our front lawn. The answer is here:


I feel like Lady Brideshead when the Agricultural Show takes over her manor (although because we live here, we haven't had to pay the entrance fee.) Patrick, please note that that red trolley is selling Dutch Pancakes. I thought of you.

As you can see, it has taken over the courtyard as well:


And it wouldn't really be a Welsh Fair without live music and dancing.



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In the "News to Me" Department, one of the elderly locals at the club has informed me that I'm "the quiet one".

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Alright, then. I'm going out to pick up an Organic "Welsh Burger" (read: lamb) for dinner before it starts raining on the fair again. Forecast shows more blogging over the weekend: what else is there to do? (Aside from studying Welsh, reading for my BA, and figuring out what to do with my life, of course.)

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* Don't ask.
** See above.