Owain Glyndwr

I’ve read the books, of course. The epic poems And the scholarly histories. Know the revisionist theories And the intellectual debates. I can quote the poets, examine the imagery, Discuss the weighting of evidence and the available sources. So who to believe? All these pages lead me to no conclusions, so Think instead of two journeys: Drover’s road, Tregaron to Llanwrtyd Wells. There are mountain pools by the roadside, I can only drive slowly, first gear on the gradients, Slow progress only is possible. A poem is set here, of course, Helmets and dragons, a hero Ready like the cavalry to save us. I recite the phrases to myself: ‘In a mountain pool I drowned my faith and my kingdom’ He is made to say. Failure overturned by certainty of the future. But I feel neither melancholy nor hope. To travel through this scene on a bright summer day Leads only to simple happiness. No connection to the past. ‘You have come to call me To the battle I had thought was ended’ But I can’t suspend my cynicism. Know that dredging all the lakes in Wales Would answer many things, but not this. And I do not know if I will remember this feeling Back in the city, back on the coast where such Speculation feels irrelevant. But now I am at least in the right setting. We stop in Abergwesyn, birthplace of my great-grandfather. Who went south, leaving this valley for one more crowded, With fewer crops, more people and pitheads. I scan the gravestones for ancestors, But my surname is chiselled too many times for conclusions. Evidence everywhere, but what is relevant? My past is in this village, but as untraceable As anything else. Another time I went to Machynlleth, saw the parliament building, Wanted to feel something. He marched into here. Place of victory. The highpoint. And this is the very structure. But my mother as always was scornful. Said it couldn’t possibly be six hundred years old. ‘The roof isn’t of the correct type, the stone working is wrong.’ Trained as an archaeologist, she thinks six hundred ago Is earlier this morning, and that anything post-Roman is current affairs. ‘I don’t believe the stories, anyway,’ she said. ‘Poets are paid to say what is not true. I want excavations, artefacts dug from the ground, Cleaned and polished, catalogued and identified, Examined and photographed, curated into a museum, Correctly labelled and displayed. Then we’d know where we are.’ Some think six hundred years has been a long time to wait. On the other hand, my sister the geologist has a million years as her smallest unit, and knows anything much less than that is far too soon to expect change.