St David's Day

I'm time travelling again and maybe later you'll see why, all the strands will come together.

I'm watching a funeral early in 1975 - I think. Around the grave all the men of my family are standing, dressed in black. My father is there, my uncle Roy, my cousins Mike and Ken, a family friend, Tom. They are laying to rest the matriarch of the family and my father is crying quietly.
That's how I imagine it. The fact is that I can't remember exactly when my nanna died. I know I was carrying the future of that same family and I know that all of us women had to stay at my uncle's house in Aberdare avenue, women did not go to the graveside at a traditional Welsh funeral. In truth, I can't even remember if my cousin Ken came over from Holland for the funeral, but Mike would certainly have been there. My father would have cried, this was his mother and he was a man who was able, on occasions, to cry. I see that as a strength in a man.

It was almost thirty years before I found out why women don't go to the Welsh funeral. It did always seem strange, because Welsh society was so matriarchal. Had to be I suppose, often based around the colliery.
A Welsh colleague told me that women dealt with the spiritual side of mourning, preparing the deceased for the next life. The graveside bit was too this wordly. I liked this explanation so I accepted it.

My nanna was very Welsh, there was a Welsh dictionary on her desk although I don't ever remember hearing her speak it. She was also a midwife at a time when women were hardly allowed to be in the workforce. Midwifery was a sacred profession, more so in the days when she was practising, there were things that midwives had to do that were not talked about.
My father maintained that it was only because she had the secret and sacred knowledge that she was able, in the days before incubators, to keep his sister alive, born at a birthweight of about two pounds. Myself, I thought she used some old welsh mysticism to give birth to him on St David's day. My father was of course called David.

On the St. David's day after he died, it snowed, just a little, in the wind as I cycled to work. It made me cry and I had to stop because I thought he had caused that for me.

I looked up St David, he's a more low-key Saint than the others. Everyone knows that St George killed a dragon, St Andrew was a fisherman and St Patrick threw all the snakes out of Ireland. What did St David do? Seems he was just a Celtic monk who helped spread Christianity in Wales and eventually became Archbishop. He was also known as Dewi. But here's the really interesting thing about Dewi. Now this is something that either everyone in Britain except me knows or no-one does.
There is a not terribly interesting story about Dewi preaching. Someone in the crowd cries out,
'We won't be able to see him!' and so the ground miraculously rose up until everyone could see him. Where did this happen? Llanddewi Brefi. Yes, the fictitious - I thought - village in 'Little Britain' where Daffyd Thomas is 'the only gay in the village'.

Today, on my dad's birthday, Austen has suggested that we eat curry and drink whisky to remember him. This I have organised, Superstore have clearly been reading my blog and have responded to my pleas about more and better Indian food by bringing out a range of sauces. I have tested the Korma one and it is excellent. Not as good as Patak's, but in my opinion, as good as (gasp) Sainsbury's. Their Thai hot yellow curry sauce has also been tested and given the thumbs up.
So, today I will wear my daffodil and raise a glass to my dad, he would have been 80 today, and to Dewi, St David and know that across the Atlantic, the miles and the hours a glass or two will be raised to clink mine.
Happy Birthday dad.