Old Land of My Fathers

Yesterday I watched (on IPlayer) the Six Nations rugby match between Wales and England.  What a match! But before it started, as you probably know, the national anthems were sung.  And as the stadium resounded to the sound of Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (Land of My Fathers) there were tears in my eyes.  Surprising, you may feel, since I'm not Welsh and was not disappointed that England won the match.

This burst of Celtic emotion is easily explained.  Since Evan and James James wrote Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau in the 1850's, it has been adopted by Bretons and the Cornish.  The Cornish version is Bro Goth agan Tasow and I'm rather pleased to say that I can sing along to the chorus with just an occasional glance at the words.

Kernow! Kernow, y keryn Kernow!

An mor hedre vo

yn fos dhis a-dro

'th on onan hag oll rag Kernow!

(Cornwall! Cornwall, we love Cornwall!

As long as the sea may be

as a wall around you

we are one and all for Cornwall!)

Crackington Haven

So how did it feel, returning to the 'Old Land of My Fathers'?

Well, the weather was decidedly un-Cornish! They get a decent fall of snow down there about every 5 years and we chose the day. As we drove between Launceston and Otterham Station on Monday morning it snowed heavily, and there was still the occasional flurry as we walked the Coast Path in the afternoon.

The following couple of days were much brighter, though, as we revisited the coast between Boscastle and Bude.  Idiot that I am, I left my camera at home again, but these photos, taken on my smartphone, hopefully sum up the beauty of the place.

Boscastle

near Crackington Haven

The Bude Canal

The view from our rented 'home'

Back to the big question.  How did it feel?  Well, the coastal scenery is lovely, but I now realize that it's the people I miss the most.  I've been told that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.  Rubbish!  Cornish humour is all sarcasm — listen to Jethro if you're in doubt — and it's wonderful.  A Cornish person may look you in the eye and insult you, but they don't mean a word of it.  Their grin betrays it.  We got it from the bus driver who took us to Boscastle, it abounded in the pub at Wainhouse Corner... and I gave as good as I got!  Not once did I feel like an emmet (the name the Cornish give to visitors).  Yet as we walked through Bude, then up the canal path to Marhamchurch, it no longer felt like home. The Forest of Dean is my home now, and it's nice to be back.  

But I'll always be Cornish!