Gelyniaeth hynafol: All ein cariad ni at dirwedd Cymru ein huno? Sara Huws sy’n chwilota mewn hen gyfrolau llawn iaith ffwrbwt a chyfnewidiau oeraidd rhwng ymwelwyr a thrigolion Cymru. Yma, mae’n datguddio faint o hanes sydd rhyngom – a sut mae’r tirwedd yn ein clymu at ein gilydd.
Dwi ym Mhen y Gwryd, wrth droed yr Wyddfa, a fedrai’m gweld llawer pellach na’n nhrwyn. Mae mwrllwch y gaeaf yn glynu at y pafin wrth i mi lusgo’n araf tuag at y gwesty – lloches i ddringwyr ers i rywun roi cnoc ar ddrws ffermdy John Roberts ym 1810, a gofyn am damaid i fwyta. Fe allai glywed hofrennydd uwch fy mhen, sy’n ymddangos o’r niwl am ennyd cyn diflannu tuag at Nant Gwryd oddi tana’i. Prin y galla i weld er mwyn croesi’r ffordd, heb sôn am edmygu’r mynyddoedd. Mae’r Wyddfa yma’n rhywle, ond does dim ots: dw i ddim yma i’w gweld hi. Dwi yma i weld llyfr.
Mae llyfr ymwelwyr Pen Y Gwryd yn ddiogel y tu ôl i’r bar y dyddiau yma: cyfrol ledr solet, wedi’i mireinio yn nwylo cenedlaethau o ddringwyr. Yn ei thalennau mae hanes mynydda yng Nghymru. Mae’r mynyddoedd wedi bod yma ers rhyw hanner biliwn o flynyddoedd – ond aiff y llyfr yma ni ‘nôl ddigon pell, cyn bodolaeth y Parc Cenedlaethol, y sgrym boreuol yn Pennie Parse, hŷn na’r priffyrdd a’r môr o siacedi Rab i lawr yn Llanbêr.
Aiff y llyfr yma â ni yn ôl i amser pan oedd ‘yr awyr agored’ yn fan ble y byddai’r rhan fwyaf yn mentro oherwydd bod angen – a’r ‘diwylliant awyr agored’ yn cynnwys llai o ziplines a mwy o ddefaid. Mae’r llofnodion enwog i gyd yma, yn nodi cysylltiadau’r gwesty â byd y mynyddwr ac anturiau’r gorffennol. Ar y tudalennau cynharaf, fodd bynnag, dwi’n darganfod rhywbeth mwy diddorol, wedi’i sgriffinio’n blith-draphlith. Yma, mae’r ymgais gyntaf i gofnodi llwybrau diogel trwy Eryri – wel, ymysg y cynhara i’w gofnodi gan ymwelwyr, efallai.
Gelyniaeth naturiol?
Mae’n wanwyn a dwi ‘nôl yng nghynefin llwydaidd Caerdydd, ‘lle dwi’n gweithio efo llyfrau prin. Yn fy nwylo y tro hwn mae darn prin o hanes Cymru – The Welsh Interpreter – a ysgrifennwyd ym 1831 “for tourists who wish to make themselves understood by the peasantry during their rambles through Wales”. Braidd yn ffwrbwt ydi’r brawddegau ynddo, os nad yn hollol anghwrtais: “Eilliwch fi”; “Y mae arna fi eisiau fy mwtiasau, ydyn nhw’n lan?”. Mae “diolch yn fawr” yn ymddangos yn y pen draw – ar dudalen saith-deg-dau.
Anesmwyth yw’r berthynas rhwng ymwelwyr a phobl leol yn ôl llawer o’r llyfrau teithio cynnar hyn. Ysgrifennodd Lynn Dewing, teithiwr o Norfolk, am ei siom wrth ymweld ag Eryri ym 1819 – gan i grwp swnllyd o fwygloddwyr dorri ar draws ei fwynhad o’r wawr o gopa’r Wyddfa. Gallai darllenydd sinigaidd weld hyn oll yn dystiolaeth bod ein perthynas gydag ymwelwyr wastad wedi bod yn un annymunol. Ond efallai o daro golwg mwy eangfrydig dros y ffynonellau, fe welwn ni dystiolaeth o afael y tirwedd arnom ni i gyd, o ddiddordeb mewn diwylliant ac iaith Cymru, a’r awch i ddod i adnabod ei thirwedd.
Lingua Franca
Mae’n Hydref a dwi ‘nôl ym Mhen y Gwryd. Mi wela i’r cyfan y tro hwn – y Wyddfa a’i chriw yn eu holl ogoniant. Dwi’n dwrist yn fy ngardd gefn fy hun a dwi’n aniddig. Dw i wedi clywed rhyw ddwsin o Bennie Parses yn barod a mae gen i dwitch yn fy llygad. Dw i ar fin cwrdd â grwp o gerddwyr sy’n debyg i mi – aelodau o gymuned Every Body Outdoors, sy’n ymgyrchu dros well dillad a chyfleon i bobol maint plus yn yr aywr agored.
Mae na amryw o resymau pam ‘nad ydw i’n teimlo bod y byd ‘awyr agored’ i mi – y cysyniad ei fod yn faes chwarae i ymwelwyr, yn sicr; ond yn bennaf, y ffaith nad oeddwn i, tan i ni ddechrau ymgyrchu, yn medru dod o hyd i gyfarpar fyddai’n fy nghadw’n saff ac yn sych wrth fentro. Dros y dyddiau nesaf byddwn ni’n tramwyo Eryri mewn cenllysg, heulwen a gwyntoedd cryfion. Mi fyddwn ni’n ymlwybro mewn tywyllwch dudew i syllu ar y sêr. Ar ddiwrnod ola’r cwrs, fe fyddwn ni’n esgyn, gyda’n gilydd i gopa’r Wyddfa – fel grwp o gerddwyr maint plus. Mi fydda i’n wylo’n dawel wrth i mi gyrraedd y brig a gweld Cymru’n glir oddi tanom ni. Bydd rhyw siort o iaith gyffredin yn datblygu rhyngof fi a fy nghyd-gerddwyr. Trwy fynd tu hwnt i dalennau’r llyfrau fe fydda i’n dysgu ffordd newydd o ddeall y tirwedd hwn: wrth symud drwyddo.
Mae Sara Huws yn golofnydd ac ymchwilydd sy’n caru casgliadau hanesyddol, chwaraeon a’r awyr agored. Mae hi’n gyd-sylfaenydd Every Body Outdoors, sy’n ymgyrchu dros well cyfarpar a chyfleoedd i bobl maint plus yn yr awyr agored, a mae’n gweithio gyda llyfrau prin ym Mhrifysgol Caerdydd.
A rivalry as old as the hills: Could a love of landscape soothe historic tensions?
- Cymraeg: Click here to read this article in Welsh
Sara Huws consults history books – such as The Welsh Interpreter – full of caustic language and uneasy encounters between visitors to Wales and those who call it home. Here, she uncovers how far we’ve travelled since tourism to these majestic mountains began.
I’m at Pen-y-Gwryd, a pass in the southern foothills of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon), and I can’t see a thing. The winter cloud hangs so close that I feel I’m ducking under it as I plod the wet tarmac towards the hotel – a refuge for climbers since 1810, when someone knocked on the door of John Roberts’ farmhouse and asked for something to eat. A rescue helicopter throbs overhead, appearing briefly before heading towards Nant Gwryd below me. I can barely see to cross the road, let alone admire the peaks above. I know Yr Wyddfa’s near, but it doesn’t matter: I’m not here to see her. I’m here about a book.
The Pen-y-Gwryd visitor book is under safekeeping behind the bar nowadays: a hefty leather tome, worn smooth and shiny by the calloused hands of generations of mountaineers. In its pages we can trace the history of mountaineering in Wales. Not as old as the hills, of course (those have a head start of about 542 million years), but certainly older than the national park. Older than the main roads and bus routes, the morning jostle at Pen-y-Pass (or, as many visitors have come to pronounce it, ‘Pennie Parse’), the sea of Rab jackets and colourful cafés in Llanbêr below.
This book takes us back to a time when ‘the outdoors’ was a place most of us ventured out of necessity – and the ‘outdoor industry’ was one that more likely involved raising livestock in sheeting rain. The grand anecdotes and famous signatures are all here, noting the hotel’s storied links to great expeditions past. On the earliest pages I find something more intriguing: outlines scratched in ink, abrupt branches and tangled yarns. These squiggles are the earliest known routes through these mountains – or, at least, the earliest to be written down by visitors.
The title page of The Welsh Interpreter. Credit: Cardiff University Libraries and Archives
Natural animosity?
It’s spring and I’m back in the south, in the muggy post-industrial basin of our capital, Cardiff, where I work with rare books. This time I have in my hands a rare piece of Welsh history – The Welsh Interpreter – written in 1831 “for tourists who wish to make themselves understood by the peasantry during their rambles through Wales”. The phrasing? Let’s be generous and call it a little caustic: “Eilliwch fi” (“Shave me”); “Y mae arna fi eisiau fy mwtiasau, ydyn nhw’n lan?” (“I want my boots. Are they clean?”). The Welsh phrase for thank you (“Diolch yn fawr”) appears eventually, on page 72.
Travellers’ accounts also suggest an uneasy relationship between locals and visitors – between people who, out of necessity and fascination, all experience the grip of the Welsh landscape. Lynn Dewing, a traveller from Norfolk, wrote of his great annoyance in 1819: that after a long and arduous trip through the Welsh countryside, his sunrise hike on Yr Wyddfa was spoiled by a gaggle of noisy miners. A cynical reader might label this a textbook example of the natural animosity between the Welsh and the English. A more open-minded one, however, might find within these pages part of a story of shared fascination; a desire to be understood; and evidence of an enduring interest in Wales’s landscape, culture and language.
The ‘essentials’ covered in The Welsh Interpreter. Credit: Cardiff University Libraries and Archives
A common language
It’s autumn and I’m back at Pen-y-Gwryd. I can see it all this time. Yr Wyddfa â’i chriw – the mountain and her posse in the massif’s full grandeur. I am a tourist in my own back yard, and I am uneasy. I have already heard about a dozen “Pennie Parses”, and my eye keeps twitching. I am meeting a group of like-minded hikers – members of the Every Body Outdoors community, which fights for better kit and representation for plus-size people in the outdoors.
There are many reasons why I’ve felt like the outdoors are not ‘for me’: not only the notion that it is a playground for visitors, but the fact that until recently I could not buy kit that would fit and keep me safe whilst exploring it. Over the next few days, we will wander these peaks in bright slaking sunlight, sleet, horizontal hail. We will navigate in the dead of night to gaze at the stars. On the final day, we will climb Yr Wyddfa together as a group of plus-size hikers. I will be moved to tears at the summit. I will start to find a common language with my new co-travellers. Moving beyond the pages of my beloved books, I will learn to read the landscape in a way I never have before: by moving through it.
Sara Huws is a Welsh-speaking writer and researcher with a passion for historic collections, sport and the outdoors. A co-founder of Every Body Outdoors, which fights for better kit and representation for plus-size people in the outdoors, she works with rare books at Cardiff University.
