A journal of new discoveries, old friendships and family ties.

I’ve come to Wales to find my mother. Or more precisely, the first chapter in her life. My heritage is firmly steeped in the U.K. If it hadn’t been for the aftermath of the Second World War, which left England in tatters, and my parents – like so many people –  looking for a better life in Canada, I may very well be driving on the left side of the road and saying ‘boot’ instead of ‘trunk’ and ‘lift’ instead of ‘elevator’.

At 94, despite the typical failings that come with age, my mother still had a clear memory of her childhood and she loved to share stories of growing up in her home town of Merthyr Tydfil, Wales. My mum shared her mother’s name, her father’s Irish temperament, and her birth country’s spirit. If you are not familiar with the Welsh spirit, check out their national flag.

The serenity of her later years belied her tumultuous beginnings. She was born Margaret Casey, on November 4, 1918 – 7 days before the armistice that officially ended the Great War, and at the height of the deadly Spanish flu epidemic that swept Europe. Her mother, only 27 years old, succumbed to the disease two days after Margaret was born.

After mum died in July 2013, I felt compelled to give her narratives another dimension. And so I’ve decided to visit the land of the red dragon and troll my mother’s early haunts. I’ve invited Shirley, my England-based gal pal, to join me, and in no time she has booked our B&B and mapped out our route.

I take a red-eye flight to London. Shirl picks me up from the airport and we drive through the misty morning hours towards Wales. Shirl insists this is ‘my’ trip, and she is happy to just tag along on my quest. Only a true friend would be so enthusiastic about roaming the chilly Welsh midlands in search of someone else’s vague family history.

We faithfully follow the GPS even though the directions become suspect. Turn left at the narrow lane, across the bridge and onward, wending along ever narrower roads and dodging fat, woolly sheep. After a couple of miscues, we find our guest house, Beili Helyg.

A flock of white geese greets us before the owners appear to provide the human introductions. Michael and Caroline run this small farm and bed and breakfast, and they are perfectly suited to the job, and to each other. When they learn why we’re visiting this part of the country, they are so excited I think they may come along with us on the journey.

The name of the farm – Beili Helyg – means ‘surrounded by willows’, but in truth, we are surrounded by sheep and hundreds of white bouncy lambs. Their bleating wakes us up each morning and fades with the twilight each evening. Discovery #1 – this is a beautiful country.

We settle into our room and then head to the local pub for dinner. Our main meal is delicious, but it’s the Crème Brulé with local Penderyn whiskey that has us in raptures. Discovery #2 – Wales produces whiskey!

The next day is ancestry day. After one of Caroline’s hearty farm breakfasts, and following Michael’s detailed directions, we drive back down the winding sheep-strewn road to Merthyr Tydfil. Merthyr (as the locals call it) is Welsh for ‘martyr’ and Tydfil is the name of a 5^th Century Welsh princess who came to a bad end. At one time, Merthyr was the capital of Wales, and the bustling hub of the world’s largest coal mining and steel works industry.

Merthyr sprawls across a wide bowl at the head of the Taff Valley. In its heyday, Merthyr was the heart of the Industrial Revolution and fire and smoke spewed from the ironworks for miles. Revolution became evolution and by the late 19^th century the demand for iron and steel dwindled to the point and Merthyr fell into obscurity. Today, Merthyr is a quiet, if not forgotten, town, trying to shake off its industrial era roots.

Our first stop is Ivor Street, a short avenue in Dowlais, a village of Merthyr Tydfil, perched above the town. After parking the car, we head out on foot, tracing the paths my mother must have once walked, and searching for the streets where my mum, her aunts and cousins lived nearly a century ago.

The once ubiquitous row houses are gone now, replaced with mid-20^th century medical centres and upscale homes. This is where my mum’s father, sister and brother lived.

My mum’s father, a coal tipper by trade, was overwhelmed at working long, hard days and raising three young children on his own. Even though his younger sister moved from Ireland to help care for the children, it was not deemed sufficient for Bessie, Margaret’s maternal grandmother.

Bessie was a formidable woman in girth and in spirit. She took matters into her own hands, and moved young Margaret into her own house. Bessie’s husband, Bartholomew McCarthy, was in the esteemed Welsh Guards, and the family enjoyed a popularity and prosperity that gave little Margaret quite a different lifestyle than her siblings. They lived in an affluent neighbourhood on Castle Street, in the centre of town, and the house was always busy with visiting friends and family.

I explain this piece of family history to Shirl as we walk down the hill towards Castle Street. Along the way we stop in at St. Illtyd’s Catholic Church. As a child, my mother had to attend morning mass here before the start of her school day.

The grounds of St. Illtyd’s are like a photograph that has faded over time. The once lush and manicured gardens show signs of neglect. I can picture my mum and her family strolling along the pathways after Sunday church service, admiring the rhododendron and taking in the scent of roses in bloom. But today the only visitors are me and Shirl and the rhodos are struggling.

Just outside the massive wooden doors of the church, we meet two friendly Sisters from the convent of Mother Teresa. They are surprised to see a couple of photo-snapping Canadian tourists and stop to chat with us before moving on. The meeting makes me feel suitably reverent.

Inside the church it’s cold and quiet. I take a seat in a pew, just as my mother used to. I close my eyes and imagine that little girl, divided between her fear of God and her silent wish for the service to be over so she could go and play.

We leave St. Illtyd’s and walk down the steep hill into the main part of town. I recount to Shirl (my captive audience) the story my mother told me of how the neighborhood children would all be given the duty of bringing the fresh dough from home to the town bakery on the way to school, and pick up the baked bread on the way home.

Downtown is bustling, but the streets are lined with as many shuttered shops as open ones. There’s construction going on, and I take this to be a good thing. Castle Street, where my mother lived, has been completely overhauled. A hotel now stands where her house used to be. So much for visiting old haunts. Discovery #3: Progress means letting go of the past.

Shirl suggests we take a ride on the Brecon Mountain Railway – one of Wales’ heritage steam locomotive railways. For over a century, it hauled coal and passengers from Merthyr to Brecon. 

These days the train takes tourists along an 11 kilometre section. It’s a slow and sooty ride that has us washing ash out of our hair for days after, but a fun step back in history all the same. 

We awake the next morning to rain. This becomes the theme of the day – perfect for a visit to the seaside town of Tenby and nearby Caldy Island. On the drive back along the coast to Beili Helyg, we pass signs to the town of Pembroke. The name sounds familiar and I wrack my brain thinking why I know it. Then it comes to me. Pembroke Dock is a footnote in my mother’s life story.

Like many single young women, Margaret was restless and looking for adventure in the early days of the Second World War. She  joined the WAAFs (Women’s Auxiliary Air Force) in 1941, two years after the war broke out. She’d applied to the Navy and the Air Force but it was the Air Force that answered her first. The tardiness of the Navy proved to be fortuitous. My dad, an RAF airman, met my mum while both were stationed in Oban, Scotland in 1944. 

Margaret, proud to be a WAAF

She served as a telephonist operating wireless communications between ground and aircrews. Always a take-charge person, Margaret was promoted to corporal and supervised her section at stations throughout the U.K.  She often operated the phone lines while under aerial attack. She once spent over twelve hours alone in a makeshift station, taking cover under the flimsy safety of a wooden desk and coming up only to connect the lines between ground control and the airborne pilots. In her old age, she blamed the stress of enduring these attacks for the reason she had ‘nervous hands’.

In November 1945, as the war drew to a close, mum was asked to report to Pembroke Dock, which was an RAF base throughout the war. There, her superior officer signed her official release from duty. She had woken up as a military officer, and went to bed that night as a civilian. As she left Pembroke Dock that day, discharge papers in hand, she felt the sadness of someone leaving their family, the comforts of routine and the thrill of adventure.

But Margaret was never one to languish in the past, and in the rubble of post-war England, while my father continued in the service, stationed in the Middle East, mum started to build a new life. After my father was released from service two years later, in 1947, they shaped another new life together, moving to Canada and starting a family.

My parents c. 1947, building a new life from the rubble of WW2.

My father, stationed in the Middle East during WW2, before my mother stole his heart.

On our last day in Wales we go underground, to the Big Pit in the town of Blaenavon – a coal mine dating back to the early 19^th Century.  Mum’s father and uncles worked in the coal mines and the steel works, so the mines were a big part of my family’s history. Her earliest memories were of lying in bed in the early pre-dawn hours, listening to the low voices of her uncles and the clanging of their empty lunch buckets as they walked home from their shifts.

We don hard hats and headlamps and are introduced to our ex-miner guide, a quiet man with a wry sense of humour. In the cold echo of the mine, he tells us about the days before unions and children’s rights, when boys, young women and men spent 12-16 hours a day down in the damp, dark mines. Even the cart horses lived down there, until the men won their right for a paid holiday, which meant even the horses got a 2 week vacation each year. It would have been an incredibly tough life, with little reward except to keep food on the table. Discovery #4: My ancestors were a tough lot.  I make a pledge to myself to be more appreciative of my cushy office job with its pension, paid vacation and insurance benefits.

After the Big Pit, in need of a 21^st century treat, we head to the Blaenafon cheese shop. The cheese have cheeky names like Dragon’s Breath, Taffy Apple and Pwll Mawr, aka Big Pit (a cheddar that matures down the 300 foot mineshaft). There’s even cheddar infused with the delightful Penderyn whiskey that has quickly become a post-dinner staple during our stay.

The sun sets on our day and we head back to Beili Helyg and a light home-cooked dinner. I collapse into bed, exhausted from the day’s physical pursuits. It doesn’t take long before the night time sounds lull me to sleep. I dream of dragons and sheep scraping coal from the sides of a deep pit. Too much cheese or Penderyn at dinner.

The sun shines the next morning, as we say our goodbyes to our lovely Welsh hosts and start out for England, where I’ll spend a few days hanging out with Shirl at her home in Sussex before flying home to Canada.

We pass across the border between Wales and England and I say a silent farewell to the red dragon, and all the Caseys and McCarthys that came before me.  The drive is a long one, and as the daylight dims into night, our conversation fades into pensive thought. Discovery #5 – Road trips and friendships go together like butter and toast. 

Day of departure. While my farewell to Wales felt permanent, saying goodbye to Shirl is ‘see you soon’.  Shirl throws a parting wave my way and as I make my way to the check in counter, she heads home, back to her reality. Nine hours later, I’m in Toronto, back to my reality.

The trip leaves me with lots of treasured memories and certainties. A long lasting friendship.  And a better understanding of my mother’s – and my – heritage. That’s the joy of travel – you learn, you share, you make new discoveries. You make new friends, and deepen your connections. And life is more interesting.