After we found the Kings Head, we drove the few minutes to a town called Abertillery. Most of my Welsh family grew up there, including my cousin Gill who was driving us around. Abertillery is a tiny town and one of the few streets is called Princess street.
This is where Gill and her brother, Arthur, and my late cousin Joyce lived as children and where Walter, Gill and Arthur’s stepdad still lived at the time. Sadly, Walter has since passed away, but I remember him as a warm, generous, quiet man. He was strong and stubborn and lived in his own house until he died, in spite of Gill’s urging him to move to somewhere that would do his housework and cook his meals for him.
You may have noticed in the picture, that Arthur – second from the left – is a larger than life kind of guy. He spent his career working for Adidas as their liaison with the Welsh National Rugby team. He could have taken a promotion, moved to London, and made scads more money. Adidas certainly offered this to him. But Arthur loved (and still loves) rugby so much that he chose to stay in what was his dream job. Rugby is an important sport in Wales. Every town has at least one team and Abertillery is no different. My mother, amongst all her
junk precious articles, has a book on Rugby in Abertillery. That is one thing that I know I will keep once she has passed.
Arthur was an amazing host. This is when he is truly in his element – showing off the country that he loves and making sure the people around him are having a great time. He took us for a lovely lunch in Cardiff, drove us to Penarth (lovely town right on the water just north of Cardiff), and then we hung out with his friends who announced, that even though my daughter and I were born in Canada, we were still Taffies. The word Taffy refers to the people of south Wales and derives from the River Taff. I have since learned that it is a derogatory word. I apologize for using it but my story would fall flat if I said that we had been called T*****s. I am quite sure that there was no insult meant when they used the term. In fact, I could see the Welsh pride on their faces when they all agreed what we were and we took it in the spirit that it was meant.
A story that Arthur told me had to do with a branch of our family with the last name Walbyoff. Many of them shortened the name to Walby. According to Arthur, the Walbyoff branch of the family is descended from a Polish prince by the name of Prince Ralph. I have googled Prince Ralph of Poland and couldn’t find any reference to him at all. I suspect this is one of Arthur’s wonderful tall tales. It doesn’t really matter – it’s stories like these that that make Arthur the larger than life guy that he is.
Just a note on my cousin Joyce. She was the first of my family living in Wales that I met face to face. Joyce came to British Columbia to meet family. She stayed with me in Victoria for about a week, and my mother came over to visit with her too. One of my favourite memories of Joyce was going shopping with her to find some culottes to wear. I took her to the Bay. She found a lovely pair of culottes, white with big tan polkadots. She wore those everyday with such joy and panache. Sadly, when she was packing her things to return to Wales, she left the culottes out. When I asked her why, she said matter-of-factly, that she couldn’t be seen in them back in Wales. Her neighbours would talk and her friends wouldn’t be seen with her. This was back in 1988.
I am very proud of my Welsh heritage. My aunt, who was born in Wales, didn’t speak English until she was 13 and then she completely gave up Welsh as she was teased so badly by the other children. I used to ask her to teach me some Welsh, but she never would. She passed away when I was 17. An opportunity and a beloved aunt lost.