Programme
Story List
Links
Members
Writers' Blog
Meetings are held on the first and third Tuesdays of the month at Dancox House Club Room, St Clements Gardens, St Johns, Worcester from 7.30 pm to 9.30pm.
If you want to know more about Worcester Writers' Circle, please telephone Sue Round, Secretary 01905 619062.
Probably the oldest writers' circle in the country, we have grown from half a dozen enthusiasts in the dark days of the Second World War, to a thriving and productive group of people who share their experiences, successes and pitfalls at each meeting. We have a wide range of writers, some published professionals, some occasionally appearing in magazines, and many newcomers eager to see their name in print.
At a normal meeting, we read from our work, sometimes on a theme set for the evening and we offer advice and reactions. A cup of tea and a chat of course, and discussions about markets, successes and rejections. Sometimes we have a speaker from amongst our ranks, or a guestjoining us for the evening. Our interests are wide - stories, Westerns, nostalgia, poetry, biography, roofing and cats have all featured at our meetings. If you can get to Worcester, (that's the one in Worcestershire, England) give us a try.
Land of My Fathers
by Tony Robinson
Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house
And stole a leg of beef.
It is quite possible, I suppose in these times of political correctness, that if a stand-up comic quoted this nursery rhyme in the course of a performance, he or she would be accused of race discrimination and deprived of an Equity card or its equivalent. And yet, until quite recently, a cliche version of Wales and the Welsh appeared quite regularly in the patter of comedians as the cue for an easy laugh. Larger than life characters were written into radio, television or film scripts; the men had to be named Dai or Taffy, or given a trade-related name such as Jones the Bread, and they professed undying affection for the ladies in their life; "Marry me, Blodwyn," they'd plead, or more simply, "Oh Myfanwy."
The dialogue in these scripts had of course to be totally predictable and banal, and liberally sprinkled with "Dai bach," "Look you," and "Honest to goodness, yes." On other occasions the token Welshman was part of a polyglot crew such as Dad's Army, with a signature line that was all his own. To quote from a radio programme of yesteryear, "Good morning how are you - as if I cared!"
But now it's confession time, for despite the fact that I have antecedents from the Welsh Marches many generations back, my knowledge of Wales, the Welsh language and the Welsh people was very limited until my late teens, and gleaned mostly from the novels of A J Cronin, Alexander Cordell and Richard Llewellyn. I knew of course that the Welsh were a musical nation (can you imagine an Aston Villa crowd singing with such passion, and with such instinctive harmony, as did their Rugby supporters at Cardiff Arms Park?) I knew too that they used to mine coal, make steel and produce professional boxers. Finally, I knew that in some parts of the principality they spoke a language in which many of the words - and place names such as Ynysbwll) seemed to manage quite happily without vowels; and there my knowledge came to an end.
Times change. At eighteen I was called up, and joined the army with a large group of Welsh miners, with some of whom I stayed ( and played Rugby in a Welsh league) for most of my two years of national service. The good Lord must have intended me to learn about things Celtic, for despite requesting a posting to Hong Kong, Egypt or Germany I was sent in succession to Newport (South Wales), Pembroke Dock (West Wales) and Tywyn (Mid-Wales.) During this time I learned that there were different
dialects in Welsh; I remember encountering two soldiers who were arguing furiously in their native tongue, when one of them turned to me and said,
"He can't even speak the bloody language!"
And so life goes on. We now have a Welsh son-in-law, and our four grandchildren live eleven hundred feet up a Welsh mountain on a Welsh sheep farm. They learn Welsh at school, even though their Welsh uncle (who is chairman of the school governors, and the next farmer up the valley) has suggested that the time devoted to studying Welsh would be better spent on additional computer work. Be that as it may, each time we visit them we feel a frisson of excitement as we pass the sign saying Croes y Cymru (Welcome to Wales); then we know that we have only to cross the Wan Pont (Weak Bridge), pass over the Cefn (ridge), slide our way through a farmyard of fine Welsh mud and we shall be at Lower Caerfaelog in rural Powys. Not only Land of My Fathers, as the Welsh would sing it, but Land of Our Grandchildren - and we love it.
Copyright © 2004 Tony Robinson