I have learnt a great deal while visiting Cardiff over this past weekend and enjoying the company of my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys.
For a start, I can now sing the chorus of Young Morgan’s favourite song, George Ezra’s Shotgun: “I’ll be riding shotgun / underneath a hot sun / feeling like a someone...” At this point in the song, I am inclined to add
a “woo-hoo” or two, causing my grandson to cast an old-fashioned and slightly censorious look in my direction because, as he has told me on countless occasions, there are no woo-hoos in the song. Or at least, not as sung by Mr Ezra. I have plenty
of practice in trying to get it right, given that we sing along to George on every car journey we take. I can still hear Morgan piping up from the back seat: “I could get used to this!” - his voice rising sweetly high on the word “used”.
I sing along silently to the words I don’t know, as I pretend to understand what on earth Gorgeous George is on about.
I have also learnt that Irish potato
cake is far, far more delicious than its name suggests, having been introduced to the delicacy at an impromptu lunch for twelve produced (most impressively) by the Darling Daughter in Law for two of the friends she made at ante-natal classes when she was expecting
Sam, over twelve years ago, and their families. I love to see the three boys together, all not quite teenagers but not too far off it either. How did they all grow up so fast?
This morning I learnt that the prospect of World Domination is frighteningly intoxicating when we play the Transformers Version of the game of Risk and ten year old James turns into something of a megalomaniac. Just for the duration of the game, you
understand. He returned to his sweet self once we left the board game and turned our attention to what we should have for lunch.
On Friday, at beautiful
St Fagan’s, the Museum of Wales (and one of my favourite places), I learnt the story of the giant King Bendigeidfran, told through a series of brightly coloured appliquéd panels based on drawings by children at a local primary school. It was,
indeed, a Gory Story, though our knowledgeable guide assured me that he had given us a greatly sanitised version, fitting for the ears of our young’uns. Not to mention those of a Sensitive Soul like me.
I have always rather wished I could be an “Always There” grandmother, living just around the corner from my grandchildren, so that I could share in their everyday life, so that they could call in to see me after
school, perhaps, and drink hot chocolate on cold winter afternoons while bewailing the unfairness of life in presenting them with too much homework, or their least favourite school dinner. It has always been a geographical impossibility, of course, all of
my Tremendous Ten grandchildren living some distance away - though I know I am luckier than many grandparents whose grandchildren live overseas.
Wales is a long
way from Worthing and these days it is more and more difficult to enjoy the company of my (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys. But then, maybe - just maybe - the fact that I can’t see these precious people every day means that the events of those occasions
when we do get together - like this weekend - will linger long in my memory, as bright and clear as if they happened only yesterday.
So I still remember
our holiday at Center Parks, more than two years ago - my early morning conversations with Morgan, our den building day. I remember, as clearly as anything, swimming with my grandson in the moonlight in the warm water of the outdoor pool, looking up at the
stars and the fairy lights twinkling from the surrounding trees. I remember visits to Cardiff Castle, to Techniquest, to the Museum, to Cardiff Bay.
weekend we captured more extra special memories. I have carefully packed them away, preserved for ever, never to be forgotten.