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Trefan Morys is the name of my
house in Wales, and I'll tell you frankly, to me much the most interesting thing about it
is the fact that it is in Wales. I am emotionally in thrall to Welshness, and for me
Trefan Morys is a summation, a metaphor, a paradigm, a microcosm, an exemplar, a multum in
parvo, a demonstration, a solidification, an essence, a regular epitome of all that I love
about my country. Whatever becomes of Wales, however its character is whittled away down
the generations, I hope my small house will always stand in tribute to what has been best
in it.
Do you know where Wales is? Most people in the world have no idea. It is a peninsula
standing at the heart of the British Isles, on the western flank of England facing
Ireland. It is some 200 miles long from north to south and never more than seventy miles
wide, and it is known in its own language as Cymru, signifying a comradeship or comity.
Wales is part of the United Kingdom, all too often thought by foreigners to be synonymous
with England itself, but its people form one of those ancient minority nations, from the
powerful Catalans to the infinitesimal Karims, who have miraculously contrived to maintain
their identities, to one degree or another, through the infinite convolutions of European
history. They are all subject to the political domination of some greater State, but they
remain determinedly themselves, and generally hope to stay that way within the framework
of a uniting Europe.
Such quixotic survivals suit me. I want no pomp or circumstance, and would much rather be
a poet than a President (unless, like Abraham Lincoln, I could be both at the same time).
Small may not always be Beautiful, as a mantra of the 1970s used to claim, but for my
tastes it is usually more interesting than Large, and little nations are more appealing
than great powers. In 1981 the titular Prince of Wales, who has almost nothing to do with
the country, and possesses no house in Wales, was married amidst worldwide sycophancy to
the future Princess Diana, at Westminster Abbey in London. It was to be a vast display of
traditional ostentation, with horses, trumpets, coped ecclesiastics, armed guards, royal
standards and all the paraphernalia of consequence, the whole to be transmitted by
television throughout the world. I thought it exceedingly vulgar (besides being
romantically unconvincing), and with a small band of like-minded patriots decided to
celebrate instead an anniversary of our own that fell on the same day. Exactly 900 years
before, the Welsh princes Trahaearn ap Caradog and Rhys ap Tewdwr had fought a battle on a
mountain called Mynydd Carn, and that's what we chose to commemorate -- an obscure
substitute perhaps for a televised royal wedding at Westminster, but at least an occasion
of our own. We stumbled up that very mountain in a persistent drizzle, and while the
entire universe gaped at the splendors in the abbey far away, we huddled there in our
raincoats congratulating ourselves upon celebrating a private passion rather than a public
exhibition.
Excerpted from A WRITER'S HOUSE IN WALES © Copyright 2001 by Jan Morris. Reprinted with permission from National Geographic Directions. All rights reserved.
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