Category Archives: Welsh Writing Wednesdays

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: CHRIS LLOYD ON WALES AS A STATE OF MIND

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Wales has an extraordinary breadth of landscapes and moods. From cities to hamlets, from rural idylls to the legacy of the mines. A beautiful country pockmarked by elements of its past that has learnt to make a virtue out of the ravages it’s experienced. It’s a landscape and a history that invite legend and myth to flourish, a haven for stories and storytellers.

So, if that’s the case, why do I set all my books outside Wales?

In many ways, Wales is a state of mind. A way of viewing the world – both our own and others – that is born of being a small nation. How I view the world, the places I’ve lived, the countries I’ve visited, is determined not just by where I happen to be, but where I happen to be from.

When I was twenty, I went to Spain for six months as part of my degree. I ended up going back there after graduating and staying for twenty-four years, twenty of them in Catalonia. My connection with Catalonia – initially the small city of Girona and then the big guns of Barcelona – was immediate. I felt an affinity with its history of being the smaller partner to a more powerful neighbour, a culture that had been denied and pushed and pulled about at various times, a language that had been banned and belittled, and a culture that continued to thrive despite everything it had faced. And I viewed it all through the prism of my own background.

And that is why, despite the richness of Wales as a setting, there was never any question in my mind that I should write about Catalonia. The problem was that I waited until I was living back in Wales before having the idea to write a book set there, a monument to my planning skills. Except it wasn’t a problem. Just as when I’d first gone to live in Catalonia, I found myself looking at Wales through new eyes and finally understanding how I felt about being Welsh, so writing about Girona from a distance actually helped me pin down my thoughts and feelings about my former adopted home. Oddly, I’ve found that to write about somewhere I love, I need a distance from it, which is probably one of my barriers to writing stories set in Wales – I live here.

The first in my Catalan trilogy, City of Good Death, featuring Elisenda Domènech, a police officer in the newly-created Catalan police force, draws enormously from Catalan culture and the history and legends of Girona. A killer is using the Virgin of Good Death, a small statue dating from the Middle Ages, when it served to give convicted prisoners a final blessing before they were led out of the city to their execution, to announce the impending death of someone they feel is deserving of execution. Unfortunately, there are those in the city who agree and who applaud the killer’s every move. Until the victims become less deserving.

It was a similar passion that led to my new series, featuring Eddie Giral, a French police detective in Paris under the Nazi Occupation. I’d been fascinated for years by the notions of resistance and collaboration, and the blurred lines between them, but I wanted to write the story from a Parisian’s point of view, not the guns and guts heroism of the movies, but the day-to-day survival of ordinary people trying to get by. As near to the real history as possible. And I think that that is an essentially Welsh vision of life – an interest in society and community, an affinity with the underdog and the need to preserve a sense of self.

 

Follow Chris on Twitter: https://twitter.com/chrislloydbcn

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: INTRODUCING CRIME WRITER CHRIS LLOYD

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With writing, there’s always a spark that ignites the flame. In my case, it was a small grey plaque almost hidden inside the entrance to a school.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name’s Chris Lloyd and I write crime fiction. I’m from Wales, but I studied Spanish and French at university and fell head over heels in love with the Catalan city of Girona when I spent my study year there. So much so that after I graduated, I hopped straight on the first bus back to Catalonia and there I stayed for nearly a quarter of a century.

I taught English in Girona for a few years before moving to Bilbao, in the Basque Country, where I opened the Oxford University Press office. After that, I moved back to Catalonia – specifically to Barcelona – where I lived for the next sixteen years, apart from a three-year stint in Madrid. I also spent a semester in Grenoble, where I researched the French Resistance movement – you’ll discover the reason for that in a moment.

My job in educational publishing meant that I was paid to travel all around Spain giving workshops and book presentations, which was great fun until it stopped being great fun. That’s when I took voluntary redundancy three days before my fortieth birthday and set up as a Catalan and Spanish translator. I also wrote travel books for Rough Guides at the same time, until my wife and I decided it was time to move to Wales, which is where we live now, in the town where I grew up. All good stories should come full circle.

Which brings me back to the spark.

It was a small grey plaque in a nondescript building and it stopped me in my tracks. It was in the Pletzel, a district of Paris that was home to much of the city’s Jewish population in 1940, and it listed the children from the school who had been sent to Auschwitz and never returned.

I was already researching for a novel set in the city under the Occupation – my fascination with the era and the oddly blurred notions of resistance and collaboration had been ignited when I was in Grenoble – but it was that moment when I felt the small hand of history tug at my sleeve and I knew that I had to tell the story of the city under the Nazis as truthfully as possible.

But I had to tell it my way, through crime fiction. About a Paris police detective, Eddie Giral, a veteran of the last war, who struggles to do his job and retain a moral compass under the new rules imposed on the city and the people. On the day the Nazis enter the city, four Polish refugees are found gassed in a railway truck, and only Eddie among the police feels the need to find out the truth of what happened to them. This will lead him into conflict with his fellow police, an American journalist, the Polish Resistance and, most dangerously of all, the Occupiers. It will also lead him to question decisions he made in the past and decide what he must do to atone in the present.

The first book in the series, The Unwanted Dead, recently won the HWA Gold Crown Award and was shortlisted for the CWA Historical Dagger. The second book, Paris Requiem, comes out in 2022, and I’m currently writing the third in the series, set at Christmas 1940, although with little seasonal cheer or goodwill.

On which note, please allow me to wish you all the very best of cheer for Christmas and the year ahead. And lots of good books to enjoy.

 

 

Read more about Chris at https://chrislloydauthor.com/

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: GAIL WILLIAMS ON WELSH LANDSCAPE AS INSPIRATION

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Inspiration comes from what we see. We have to see to want, and an author needs to really see to write.

Wales is often noted for the sheer beauty of its landscape, but just to call it beautiful is a disservice to the land. Wales is diverse and changeable, tough and uncompromising, warm and welcoming. We have high, harsh mountains, flat golden beaches, and everything in between. I am very grateful to live somewhere where I can go 20 minutes in one direction and be on the beach, or 20 minutes in the other direction and be in the mountains.

This has, of course, spilled into my writing. “The Chair” was deliberately set on Cadre Idris. I picked the mountain as somewhere that’s rural enough to believably not have phone signal, and therefore be somewhere to run to in order to avoid modern technology. But it also had to be a place where the land itself can become the enemy.

I’ve used other parts of Wales in my writing too, for example Swansea as it’s got a strong connection to the stained-glass industry, and the university engineering departments are often involved in land speed records.

When I moved to Wales, one of the places I got to know was Merthyr Tydfil and I always felt it would be a great place to kill someone – I mean somewhere to set a crime book, of course. Only I didn’t have a story to put there.

Recently, I’ve been working on a new book, this time a police procedural. If this book succeeds, there is the potential for it to become a series and that means that I needed to set it in a place that would give me sufficient scope for a range of characters and crimes.

I needed somewhere with a police presence sufficient to include a CID team – which is usually a large(ish) town or city. I needed somewhere where they could get autopsies – which for police autopsies is apparently Cardiff only at the moment, though a recent announcement is set to change that. I and wanted somewhere where I had a good mix of physical landscapes, so I could do gritty urban realism, but I also wanted wide open spaces, areas that would support some of the wilder, and more wider ranging ideas that I have in mind.

Which all brought me back to Merthyr Tydfil – the perfect place for crime.

Merthyr sits at the top left-hand of The Valleys and has a relatively new, purpose-built large police sttion. It’s at the crossroad of the north-south A470, and the east-west A485, the Heads of the Valleys Road. It’s an urban heart with easy links to Cardiff. It’s an historic area that links to the natural beauty of the Brecon Beacons.

Of courses there are also the coal fields and scars to the west, at the remains of Tower Colliery, and to the east is the road to Abergavenny and the towns down the valleys. Actually, those towns are sort of off limits as they are in the Gwent Police area, not South Wales Police as Merthyr is. Though even that provides an opportunity, there’s a lot of interesting possibilities for different police forces working together.

It also helps that Merthyr is known more widely than many Welsh towns. And that it’s within driving distance for me to go do some research if as and when I need to.

So, while Merthyr Tydfil took its time, it finally told me that what story it wanted me to write. All I have to do now, is sell it.

 

See more from GB Williams at gailbwilliams.co.uk

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: INTRODUCING CRIME WRITER GAIL WILLIAMS

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I am a writer. That thought has been with me for as long as I can remember. I am a writer.

It’s not complicated, but it’s not something I was confident to say until fairly recently. So, hello, I am GB Williams, a crime writer. I have always known that writing is what I was supposed to do, though not what I’ve always done, still it’s what I’m here to talk about, I’m here to introduce you to my writing.

The Chair is a thriller-romance set on Cader Idris, in beautiful southern Snowdonia. The heart of the story starts with a hacker taking what he shouldn’t in London, and when cyber threats turn to physical threats, he has to run as far from the internet as possible. Remembering his parents’ complaints of no signal in north Wales is what brings him to Cadre Idris. Poor driving and the resulting crash is what keeps him there and draws local vet, Branwen Jones and the local hermit, Cobb, into his world of trouble.

Having grown up in the southeast and lived more than half my life in Wales, I know both sides of this story well enough to feel I can do justice to both worlds.

There are a lot of contrasts between London and Wales. Pace of life. Freshness of the air. The wide-open spaces, or lack thereof. But there are strong similarities too. We are all humans trying to survive after all.

That drive is what takes us all though life, and we discover different things alone the way, sometimes to find what we don’t know we’re looking for, we have to change trajectory.  That’s something I did, moved from a high-pressure office job, to writing and editing, and I love it, never been happier.

Changing trajectory is what I do with the characters in The Chair.

Cobb comes to Pen-Y-Cwm after tragedy changes his life. All he wants to be is alone to avoid heartache – only meeting Branwen threatens to drag him out of such splendid isolation. Branwen is looking to leave Pen-Y-Cwm because she can’t take the isolation and heartache of being there, a pain Cobb’s presence exacerbates. Jay is looking to make a quick buck in London, but to save his life he has to run, ending up in Pen-Y-Cwm. Baron works for money, inflicting pain isn’t what he enjoys, it’s just something he’s paid to do. He goes to Pen-Y-Cwm, because that is where he’s sent. He’d happily leave Branwen and Cobb alone, but they are between him and the mark.

This disparate group of people come together for a life-threatening climax, that you’ll just have to read to find out who survives, and decide for yourself if you think they should.

 

 

The Chair

Cobb retreated to Cadre Idris for a solitary life of peace and quite. It’s a bubble that bursts when he and Branwen Jones, the local vet, find an RTA victim during a blizzard and must shelter him in Cobb’s home.

When London’s underbelly reaches Wales, they discover that modern inconveniences persist, and this isn’t the uncivilization they know nor the one they expected. Their presence throws close-knit community life into stark relief.

Forced to help hide an injured hacker from people who will kill to stop the spread of stolen information, Cobb’s not sure he’s ready to rejoin the world when that means putting another woman in the firing line. Branwen’s not sure she can face the revelation of her darkest secret.

When they face the final showdown, they will all find that a Welsh mountain is no place to hide.

 

Author’s website: https://gailbwilliams.co.uk/

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: JESSIE CAHALIN AND THE NO SIGN BAR

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Nobody followed me to the No Sign Bar, Swansea – a regular haunt of Dylan Thomas.  Seated next to the window, I searched inside my handbag for Collected Stories by Dylan Thomas. I found The Followers, a ghost story, hidden inside the anthology.

A ping from my phone confirmed a signal, but I ignored the emails. I sat in the bar Thomas renamed the Wine Vaults.  I read the opening lines of the story, but there was no sign of the beer I had just ordered.  Without anything to quench my thirst, there was nothing I could do apart from read on.  Between words, I felt compelled to search for two pairs of eyes outside of the window, but there was no sign of anyone.

Outside the window, ‘the rain spat and drizzled past the street lamps’. No one wore ‘squeaking galoshes, with mackintosh collars up and bowlers and trilbies’. Alas, the ‘rattle of bony trams’ was silenced long ago. Only the swish of car tyres, hum of engines and slamming of car doors filled the silence on the streets.  Gazing at the decaying red window frames, I did not see ‘a young man with his arm around a girl’. Instead, I glimpsed a young couple hand in hand dashing across the road while there was a break in the traffic.  Outside, there was a mass of coloured jackets and everyone wore jeans, leggings or trousers.  No one looked inside the tatty building. They didn’t seem to care that Dylan Thomas once frequented this watering hole.

Reading the short story, I pursued the followers, as they scurried through the alley.  Inside, No Sign Bar, I could smell the old musty wine cellar.  No one was responsible for the spontaneous spark of colour in the open fire. The pitted floorboards had been battered by tired and drunken feet for centuries. Words echoed around cavernous room. Perhaps, these were the words that inspired Dylan Thomas’s story The Followers: his only ghost story.  And I heard the rise and fall of the Welsh accent that probably escaped into the pages of Thomas’s mind, as he imagined the story.   I read the final sentence, ‘And we went our separate ways.’ I departed.

Near to Paradise Alley, I heard a voice echo.  ‘Spare some change, madam?’ The homeless soul was clutching a fleece blanket.  His watery, bloodshot eyes regarded me as he rolled himself a cigarette.  I spared him fifty pence, but this wouldn’t even buy him a beer. He caught the meagre offering with a grateful nod that punched my conscience.

‘Have you seen Leslie?’ mumbled the man. He looked at my handbag as I retrieved more change.I nodded.  ‘Only bread and jam in my handbag,’ I declared.

I ran to the car park. The rain drizzled until diluted my memory of the bar. I heard the distance tapping of footsteps and turned around. Thankfully, there was no sign of anyone following me. Checking Twitter, I did note I had two more followers.

 

No Sign Bar and The Followers

No Sign Bar is believed to be Swansea’s oldest pub and dates to 1690.  The wine cellars date back to the 15th century.  The name ‘No Sign’ originates from legislation of licencing when public bars had to have a recognisable sign.  This building was not public house and did not require a sign, hence was later given the name ‘No Sign’ to announce its presence!

Dylan Thomas frequented No Sign Bar, as a young man. No Sign Bar is featured as the Wine Vaults in Dylan Thomas’s story, The Followers.   Salubrious Passage, next to the bar, is referred to as Paradise Alley in the short story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: INTRODUCING AUTHOR AND BLOGGER JESSIE CAHALIN

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The tranquil, ancient setting of the Wye Valley always soothes me and encourages me to let my mind wander and have always felt at home there. I was in Tintern five years ago when I realised the need to connect with my dream to write. Indeed, William Wordsworth adored this spot, and his ballad, Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, captures the beauty of the setting we can still enjoy over two hundred years later.

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

Tintern breathed life into the fictional setting of Delfryn in my work in progress, Loving You. Delfryn is a Welsh word for pretty view and the perfect place for my characters, Pearl and Jim, to seek sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the town. Writing about Delfryn has also been a wonderful destination, particularly during lockdown.

Jim is a car mechanic who wants to be an artist and adores to visit his sister’s farm in Delfryn. Pearl is a seamstress who wants to sing. The landscape inspires Jim to paint and is also the romantic setting for him and Pearl. Alas, life in the country will not allow Pearl to fulfil her dream to become a singer.

Pearl and Jim fall in love but both want to follow their dreams. The novel is set in the seventies because I wanted to travel back in time to the decade I was born. Exploring the seventies was not as familiar as I thought it would be and the restrictive nature of society shocked me. During my research, I reflected on how my parents had very different opportunities to me and used this to add colour to my characters. Like Jim, my late father excelled at art but was from a working class, northern family and was expected to earn a living in a trade.

Despite their experiences, my parents always encouraged me to grab opportunities, pursue my dreams and celebrate creativity. I am also so grateful I can pinpoint the time and place where I chose to change the ‘what ifs’ into a destination. Ironically, I recently discovered that my ancestors hailed from Monmouthshire in the Middle Ages, so it feels as if I have gone full circle.

I will publish Loving You, a family saga, one day and discover whether Pearl and Jim will follow their dreams and their hearts. And the beauty of writing is you can provide the characters with opportunities, but they will still decide which paths they wish to take.

 

Contacts: 

Website:     http://jessiecahalin.com/

Facebook   https://www.facebook.com/people/Jessie-Cahalin/;  https://www.facebook.com/JessieCahalinAuthor/

Twitter        @BooksInHandbag

 

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: ALIENORA BROWN ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE WELSH LANGUAGE

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I arrived in Aberystwyth train station, on October 3rd 1976, and, bathed in a sunset of extraordinary richness and colour, was driven up the Penglais Hill – by coach and surrounded by other students – to the Penbryn Halls of Residence.

Is it possible to fall in love with a place at first sight? Yes, it is – and I did! That first glimpse, stark hills rearing in the distance, struck a sweet blow to my heart – and, the very next day, seeing parts of the promenade painted with blazing autumn gold, as grey silken sea undulated nearby, ignited a passion for West Wales which has never left me.

But it was the language which shivered and undulated in watery mystery; which gave me the delights of the double ‘ll’, the mutations from the ‘M’ of ‘Machnylleth’ to ‘Fachynlleth’ when preceded by ‘Croeso y…’ and the other sibilant mysteries of this proud tongue.

I had already decided to read joint English and Philosophy – and, told that I needed a third subject for that crucial first year at university, opted for Welsh with excitement and anticipatory joy.

Welsh lessons took place in the Old College/Yr Hen Goleg – and so the learning of this new language was accompanied by the stunning glimpses of the sea, often wild and raging, throwing its waves high up against the venerable old building’s sides and windows, rattling fragile sashes and leaving salty trails on glass.

Our teacher, Professor Edward (Tedi) Milward, was lovely – a gentle and knowledgeable soul who was a passionate advocate of this endangered language, and whose family I befriended during that first year in Wales.

From the very first lesson, I adored the sound of Welsh: its musicality; its sing-song quality; the subtle differences in pronunciation; the meanings of place names when broken down into their component parts.

At around the same time, I joined a university choir – and we learned a beautiful Welsh carol ‘Tua Bethlem Dref’ in readiness for what turned out to be a most moving and inspirational Christmas service in a local church.

Unfortunately, my passionate love of the language was not matched by any genuine learning ability – and, suspecting I would not gain that all-important pass in the subject, I made the difficult decision to give it up at the end of the first term, taking Classical Studies instead.

The odd thing is this: naturally musical, I learned the sounds – the inner song, if you like – of Welsh with ease, and, to this day, can read and pronounce it without any problem. But the ability to understand the rules, learn the words, tenses and so forth eluded me (as it had done, at school, for both French and Latin).

But, being given the key (or should that be the lyre?) for the plangent tones behind the language was a privilege and a life-long delight. Much of my enjoyment of the sublime landscape and magic of that area was filtered through the lilt and cadence of the language itself.

By a strange coincidence – and bringing things full circle – I got the part of the Lady of the Lake in a local Glastonbury production, back in 2018. Told that the character needed to enter the stage singing a solo, I opted for ‘Tua Bethlem Dref’ – and can recall vividly walking up the centre of the Town Hall, the words of that long-ago Welsh song ringing and echoing from my throat: a love song for a time, a place and an ancient language.

 

 

 

WELSH WRITING WEDNESDAYS: INTRODUCING INDEPENDENT AUTHOR ALIENORA BROWNING

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Writing is, for me, like breathing: I feel oxygen-starved without it, and it has the same natural rhythms, dips and soaring highs. It is also my dominant ‘voice’ since I tend to be a listener, rather than a talker, in many situations.

I do not remember learning to write per se, but I do recall a wonderful ‘Aha!’ moment, when I was five or six, when I suddenly made the connection between the five letters which made up my nickname, its sound and the fact that it was part of me!

I wrote a play when I was eleven – and have it still, neatly written in a little blue exercise book. This was during the summer of 1969, just after my class watched the Moon Landing – and as I waited to start grammar school, having passed the 11+.

I can see that younger self, sitting in the hammock in the back garden, pen in hand, sun shining down on my hunched back, scribbling away – and feel the wave of creative excitement which lifted me up and suspended me, briefly, above the everyday world.

My now-nearly-fifty-year journal-writing habit started by accident (in the sense that I had never thought of such a way of expressing myself until then) in early January 1972.

Two days before my fourteenth birthday, a group of us from my school went to Glasbury, in Wales, for a fortnight of physical activity: climbing, canoeing, camping, gorge-walking and so forth. As part of the course, we were each given a pale green notebook – and asked to keep a diary account of our experiences.

I fell in love with this means of expression immediately – and, while most of the girls loathed having to do it every day, I relished the exercise and very much felt as if I had found my voice, as a girl and as a writer; in fact, so enamoured of it did I become that I ended up filling two green books!

I now have over a hundred volumes of the journal, currently stashed away in a safe space – and use it almost every day (though there are, inevitably, gaps over the years and decades), even writing in it whilst in labour and on the day my son was born!

The novel-writing came upon me towards the end of my time at Aberystwyth University – and early drafts of books won me an honourable mention, a third prize and a first prize in local South West Arts Writers in Progress awards.

Motherhood, marriage and full time teaching very much put the novel-writing side of things on the back burner – and it was only when I took early retirement in 2011 that I was able to complete previous books and write more.

I now have seven books published via Amazon and KDP (all available as both e-books and paperbacks) – and ideas for an eighth are bubbling excitedly away in my creative cauldron.

The truth is very simple: I absolutely love writing – and that intimate, joyous connection between mind, hand, pen and paper never fails to delight and inspire me.