AN EXCHANGE TEACHER IN WALES, 1953-54: From the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold, at The Intrepid Tourist

Wales. Welcome to Mold.

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales (1953-54), to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.
In TIT post 10/7/2013 Aunt Carolyn described her arrival in Wales, in the small town of Mold where she would be teaching in the grammar school for a year. The piece below describes her living situation during her year of teaching there.

On the second Saturday morning after my arrival in Wales, I went to Mold to find a place to live. I wanted to be part of the community where I would be teaching.  On the street I met Mr. Ledbetter, head of the English Department. He said, “Oh, I know just the place for you. Miss Wotton often takes people in.” Just then, Miss Wotton came along and stopped to chat. Yes, she would take me. Her elderly father would be glad of the company. Miss Wotton and her father lived in the south half of a brick duplex, or as they say, “semi-detached.” The house, as others, did not have a number and had been given a name when it was built. Our house name was “Y Llwyn.”

Miss Wooten’s  father, whom I learned to call Gran, was a tall erect man, very active for his 90 years. He even mowed the lawn. Later, I found that every evening about eight o’clock, he would take his hat and cane and walk along to his favorite pub, have a glass of Guinness, a game of darts, perhaps, and be home within the hour.

I found renting a room included a “sitting room” and high tea soon after I returned from school. It usually consisted of something hot, perhaps a lamb chop, plus sandwiches, dessert, and hot tea–all for $35 a month. I loved it there except for one thing. There was no heat in the bedroom or bathroom. As winter came on, I was very uncomfortable in the bedroom, and as for the bathroom, imagine that without heat! I knew electricity was expensive, and I was not paying much. I asked Miss Wooten–I soon learned to call her Muriel–why there was no heat in the fireplace in the bedroom. She said that the fireplace had not been used since before the War, and she was afraid a fire would light the soot and other material in the chimney. They burned coal in the fireplace downstairs, in my sitting room, and in the kitchen. Her brother, John, who lived in Liverpool, arranged for an electric fire (heater) as they were very scarce at the time. I could use that for a half-hour before bedtime and a half-hour in the morning for an extra pound a month, about $2.80.

Muriel is a sociable person and I owe much to her in getting acquainted with people in town. The Welsh are still very clannish and do not appear to be friendly to strangers, but once one is accepted, there are no more friendly and helpful people than the Welsh. By the end of the year I had drunk gallons of tea at the homes of friends and of my pupils.

Landscape near Mold

Through Muriel I met many more people than I would have met otherwise. Her friends Griff and Chrissy Williams lived near a small village called Gwnymyedd about two miles up the hill from Mold on a farm called “Tros-y-Wern.” Their home is a very old stone building, rectangular in shape with a chimney at each end, which is characteristic of many old farmhouses. The ceiling beams were refinished and glowed with polish. The windows are 18 inches deep, saying something of the thickness of the walls and age of the building. The kitchen has a large fireplace and is large enough for a dining room too. In the scullery is a stove, but both the kitchen fireplace and scullery stove are used for cooking. The floor is tiled, making it easy to clean, for the farm workers ate in the kitchen. There is a fireplace in every room in the house, including the sitting room, the parlor, and the upstairs. Chrissy and Griff became my friends too.

I learned the size of the average farm in Wales is 80 acres, much of it usually too hilly or rough to be arable, so sheep raising is a major part of farming. The Williams had lived at Tros-y-Wern for many years so I was surprised when Muriel told me they did not own the land. It was part of an estate of some lord and could not be sold. Shortly after I left Wales, I learned the lord had died, and Griff bought the land. He divided it into plots and built bungalows. They sold the lovely Tros-y-Wern and moved into one of the new bungalows.

All text and photos, copyright Caroline Arnold.  www.theintrepidtourist.blogspot.com 

SPRINGTIME IN WALES, from the Memoir of Aunt Carolyn

Clwydian Range from Cileaire, Wales

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  The piece below, from her book, describes a typical weekend driving excursion from Mold, the town where she taught in Wales. 

The national flower of Wales

Spring comes early to our valley. Children come in with arms full of daffodils, which grow wild in the woods. The daffodil is the national flower of Wales.
On Saturdays I often rented a car with Muriel and a few friends and would spend the day driving through the beautiful mountains and valleys of North Wales. We would picnic at some scenic spot.
From Mold the road rises gently to the Twlch (the top) which overlooks the lovely Vale of Clwyd. This is a land of green valleys and stonewalls ringing tiny farms. Most areas of the countryside are good only for grazing and pastures for sheep and cattle. The Clwydian Hills are the highest point between Mold and the Snowdonia Range.
We pass through the small village of Ruthin (pronounced Rithin), which boasts a castle, now transformed into a tourist hotel.
Farther on is the town of Denbigh, also with the ruins of a castle. Charles I was born here. Another interesting site here is the cottage where Stanley, the explorer who found Livingstone in Africa, once lived.

Swallow Falls near Betws-y-coed

Crossing the Conway River, we often turn south to Betws-y-coed. Remember the “w” is an “oo” and “y” as in “it”. “Coed” is all one syllable. Now you can say it! Betws-y-coed is the most famous beauty spot in the Snowdonia region, the area surrounding Mount Snowdon, a national park. The falls here tumble beneath a leafy overhang of many trees and are bordered by lacy bracken, a large wild species of fern.
We continue on to Capel Curig and then to Llanberis Pass. Here the dark hills are barren on either side. We can hear the sound of bleating sheep and the rush of streams falling from the hills. Stone walls follow the line of the road. It is a sad and lonely place, especially in the rain. At the top of the pass two small inns stand near each other. We are grateful for a cup of tea and the sandwiches we have brought along. When we leave, the sun comes out and a great valley sweeps down before us, and the brown hills are outlined against the sky.
Llanberis lies at the foot of Mount Snowdon. At 3,500 feet, it is the second highest peak in Great Britain. One side is very rugged and steep. It is said that Hillary of Mount Everest fame practiced on this side. Many climbers use the other more gentle slope. A small cog railway steams to the top during tourist season. The view is fantastic when the weather is bright, but the top of Mount Snowdon is often hidden by clouds, even in fine weather below.

Conway, above the estuary

Not far from Llanberis is the town of Caernarvon and its famous castle, the most impressive and largest of the Welsh castles. The quickest way home from Caernarvon is back across the Menai Straits bridge and along the coast road bordering the Irish Sea, passing Bangor, Conway and Llandudno and on to Colwyn Bay and the town of Rhyl. There we must turn inland for home.
Mold is only ten or fifteen miles from the coast. We can always tell when there is a storm at sea when the gulls come sweeping in from the coast.

CYMRU AM BYTH - Welcome to Wales, from the Memoir of Carolyn T. Arnold

Wales, Looking toward Glyn Dror, near Mold

Perhaps the original intrepid tourist was Carolyn Arnold, my husband’s aunt.  A single school teacher in Des Moines, she began traveling abroad when she was in her forties, beginning with a bicycling trip through Ireland in 1950.  She went on from there to spend a year as a Fulbright Exchange Teacher in Wales, to more trips to Europe and beyond, and eventually became a tour leader, taking all her nieces and nephews (including my husband Art) on her travels.  When she retired from teaching, she wrote of her experiences in a memoir called Up and Down and Around the World with Carrie.  Today, as I read of her travels, I marvel at her spirit of adventure at a time when women did not have the independence they do today.  The piece below, from her book, describes her arrival in Wales in the summer of 1953.

The fourth of July 1953 was one of the most eventful days of my life.  I received a telegram announcing that I had been offered a Fulbright exchange scholarship to teach in Wales for a year.  I was ecstatic!

I sailed in August on the Queen Mary for London.  Then, after a week of traveling in England and Scotland with other exchange teachers, I set off for Wales.  I took the train from Chester.  We had not gone far when the train stopped with a jerk.  We sat there for 20 minutes.  Then, with more heaving, we slowly began to move again.  Later, I learned about that hill.  The trains seldom made it without stopping to get up more steam.  It is no wonder the English think of Wales as the “hinterlands.”
The country of Wales is slightly larger than the state of New Jersey.  Two-thirds is covered by the grassy slopes and rich valleys of the Cambrian mountains.  Protected by the barrier-like mountains, the Celts remained isolated in Wales, thus retaining their own language and culture.

The Welsh language is the oldest living language in Europe.  The remoteness of the country enabled the Welsh to retain their own language, even though it was officially banned by the English in 1530.  A national awakening since the late 1800's has put new life and demand for the Welsh language.  Today, most grammar schools require the study of Welsh.  In “my” school, one course was offered to non-Welsh speaking students, another for those who speak some Welsh at home, and a third for those who are proficient in the language.

St. Mary's Church, Mold

To an outsider, Welsh is entirely unpronounceable.  During my year’s stay, I was unable to make any progress in learning to speak the language except for names of places.  I learned that a “w” had an “oo” sound as in “moon”. A “y” sounds like a short “i”; a double “dd” is pronounced as “th”, and a single “d” sounds like our “d”; an “f” becomes a “v” sound, and “a” is usually short as in “ah”.  The double “ll”, so frequent in the language, is unpronounceable, correctly at least, by an English speaking person.  I was told to place my tongue behind my front teeth and breathe out.  Try that without blowing a bubble!  Someone said to imagine air leaking from a tire with a lisping sound, and you have it! “Llan” simply means “church”.
In addition, Welsh names are long, but each usually has a meaning.  I lived near Bryn Coch Lane, meaning Red Hill Lane.  The longest name of a town has 53 letters: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwrndrobwllantysiliogogoch!  The full name is seldom used except to confuse strangers. (The postal name is Llanfair P.G.)  The name means, I am told, “The church of St. Mary in a Wood of white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and near St. Tysillus’s cave close to a red cave.”  Many towns are called St. Mary’s so from time to time, other identifying phrases were added.

Entering Mold

My arrival in Mold, Wales, was inauspicious.  My friends at home laughed at the simple little name, but I was glad it was one I could pronounce.  The Welsh name for Mold is “Yr Wyddgrug”, but the simple one is commonly used.