THE JONES COUNTRY

Greymouth Evening Star, 14 November 1936, Page 3

THE JONES COUNTRY

A VISIT TO WALES. t The mighty race of Jones originated in that spectacular western portion of Britain called Wales, writes Sydney A. Chirk in the “Christian Science Monitor.” This is still, in a very literal sense, the land of Jones as I have discovered’ by extensive touring through it from Snowdonia to Swansea and from Tintern Abbey at the eastern border to Harlech by the sea I have come to use the name Jones as a test of the simon-pure character of any community in Wales. If the great majority of the shop signs indicate that a Jones is proprietor, if the local doctor and lawyer and minister are Joneses, if there are at least a dozen ’ or fifteen Joneses mentioned on the local war memorial, I always feel that the town or village is authentic. If I were dropped from the stratosphere into such a community I would instantly recognise it as Welsh. The concentrated Joneses of northern and central Wales in particular constitutes one of the oddest phenomena I have met in my travels. In many and many a village this name is almost the only one encountered. In others Williams, Roberts, and Evans offer a mild competition, while any other name than these four seems almost to indicate a “foreigner.” I ntwo typical villages I amused myself by making an accurate tabulation of the names on the war memorial, omitting the scattered “foreigners.” The results were as follow:— Jones Williams Roberts Evans Bala ..13 8 6 6 Llanberis 17 8 7 2 There are many beautiful gateway towns by which one may enter 'the romantic country of the Joneses. I have tried three, Tintern, Llandudno, ahd Wrexham. Tintern Abbey left a fadeless mark upon my memory. I think it is the most beautiful ruin in England. Or was it possibly the singing gardener of Tintern that appealed to me so strongly? He was cutting the grass just outside the lady chapel and stopped from time to time to dump a load of the fragrant verdure on some tiny pink pigs that were tumbling and' squealing on the sward. Llandudno is a great blaring beach resort in which the name of Jones is all but extinct. The one really attractive thing which I remember about it is the Welcome to Wales done in a flower design on flawless turf. It was, of course, in Welsh, Croesaw Y Cymru, and was my first initiation into the strange language which the Joneses still speak in daily life.

THE EISTEDDFOD TOWN. A gateway town of special interest to the average American is Wrexham. Its churchyard contains the tomb of Elihu Yale with a famous epitaph whose quaint frankness stands out in refreshing contrast to perfunctory and meaningless eulogies. Its first lines follow: Born in America, in Europe bred, In Africa travell’d, and in Asia wed, Where long he lived and thrived; in London dead. Much good, some ill he did; so hope all’s evdfa

And that his soul thro’ mercy’s gone to Heaven. Wrexham is the seat of the annual Eisteddfod, which is the national bardic festival of Wales, a thing that seems more in harmony with the spirit of ancient Athens or medieval Nuremberg than with that of a modern industrial nation. Hundreds of earnest bards enter the contest with original odes which must be of 500 lines and based' on an announced subject. Artistic and musical competitions are also featured, especially those of the glorious Welsh choirs, but the “chairing of the bard” who has won the major contest is the high spot of the festival. David Lloyd-George has very often been the keynoter of tho Eisteddfod, and I once had the pleasure of listening to him by radio as I motored past the ruggpd mass of Snowdon. His eloquence was enhanced by the rich mysteries of his native Welsh tongue. I could not understand a single word, but I was with him all the way, enthralled, concerned, convulsed with merriment, as the reaction of his audience gave the cue. At Llangollen one enters the pure Jones country continuing through Dolgelly and Bettws-y-Coed to Aberystwith. Every American calls the place before the last-mentioned Betsy Coed, and the pronunciation is not far wrong. Betsy is my personal favourite of all the Jones villages, although my usual-stopping place, is run by a mere Roberts and my garage by a mere Evans. The seven wonders of Wales lire often listed in verse:

Pistyll-Rhaiader and Wrexham steeple; Saowdon’s mountain, without its people; Overton’s yew trees, St. Winifred Wells; Llangollen bridge and Gresford bells. But to me the eighth Wonder is the greatest of all, that four s surnames (we allow for reasonable hyperbole) suffice for a nation of 2,000,000 souls, that one surname number its loyal bearers by the tens of/thousands.