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Date: 13/08/25

Profais (Eto) Ein Prifwyl / In A Field Of Its Own

Pan ymadawodd yr Eisteddfod Genedlaetol ein tref ym Mis Awst 2011, mi oeddwn yn sicr mai dyna fuasai'r un olaf a welaf o'r tu mewn iddi. Wedi'r cwbl, bu fwlch o dros chwarter canrif ers y tro blaenorol iddi ymweld â ni, felly fuasai'n gyfnod tebyg cyn iddi ddychwelyd.

Ond, dratia fi, oni benderfynodd Bolitbiwro'r Ŵyl ddod yn ôl eto eleni ar ôl cwta pedair blynedd ar ddeg?

Roedd yn rhaid i mi fynd, wrth gwrs; fuasai'n beth od ar y naw petaswn i ddim. Y cwestiwn mawr oedd; ar ba ddyddiau, ac ar gyfer pa beth? Wyddwn i mai dim ond dwywaith allwn i fynd iddi oherwydd y cost, felly fuasai'n rhaid i mi ddewis yn ofalus.

Fel yn ôl yn 2011, roeddwn i'n sicr o fynd ar y Dydd Sadwrn i weld round derfynol Y Talwrn eto, ond pa ddydd arall? Chwiliais drwy'r arlwy ar gyfer pob dydd o'r wythnos fawr o ddiwylliant a ledwyd ger fy mron, a dod i'r casgliad mai Dydd Mercher fuasai'n orau. Ac felly y buasai.

Yn wahanol i'r tro diwethaf, wrth gwrs, mi fuasai'r Brifwyl yn ymweld â dinas yn hytrach na thref, ac yn lle bod ar dir fferm ar ochr orllewinol y ddinas mi fuasai'n cael ei chynnal ar...dir fferm ar yr ochr ddwyreinol ym mhentref bach Isycoed. Doedd dim posibiliad i mi gerdded yno y tro hwn, felly; y bws amdani. Ac - mewn newid arall a chymharu â 2011, fuasai'r bysiau o orsaf rheilffordd a gorsaf fysiau'r ddinas yn rhad ac am ddim, ac yn rhedeg pob rhyw ugain munud trwy'r dydd.

Felly, bore Dydd Sadwrn a'm gwelodd yn gadael y tŷ ychydig cyn hanner wedi naw i ddal y bws i lawr i'r ddinas (roeddwn i wedi bwriadu mynd ar y bws naw, ond mi oeddwn i'n araf yn llusgo fy hunan allan o'r gwely, a doedd dim rheswm i mi ruthro gan nad oedd y peth cyntaf ar fy rhestr o atyniadau yn digwydd tan canol dydd). Cam bach i Safle 5 yn yr orsaf fysiau, a dyma fi'n aros am y bws WF1 nesaf. Mi ddaeth hwnnw ymhen rhyw ddeng munud, a dyma fi a rhyw ddeg arall yn ymuno â'r sawl oedd arno'n barod, ac i ffwrdd â ni.

Rŵan, mae'n rhaid i mi esbonio rhwybeth yma; er i mi dreulio fy holl einioes - ar wahân i'r tair blynedd y bûm yn y Coleg - yn yr ardal hon, mae fy ymwybodaeth o ochr ddwyreiniol y lle yn bur annelwig; yn wir, am flynyddoedd mi gredais i mai 'Hullah Lane' oedd ble y bu Puff The Magic Dragon yn byw.

Felly, roedd y daith o Stryd Y Brenin i'r Maes yn dipyn o ódesi i mi. Am un peth, roeddwn i (am y rheswm rhoddais uchod) wedi camddeall yn union ble mae Isycoed. Roeddwm i wedi tybio mai rhywle tua'r gogledd o'r Ystad Ddiwydiannol oedd hi, pan saif mewn ffaith y tu draw iddi i'r dwyrain. Felly, mi gefais fy synnu wrth i'r daith fynd â ni trwy Bentre Maelor a heibio'r carchar a ffatri Kellogg's (dau le sydd yn peri i'r galon suddo am resymau gwahanol).

Ar ôl rhyw chwarter awr, dyna ni o'r diwedd yn cyrraedd cyrion y safle a disgyn o'r bws. Ond, doedd y daith i'r Maes ddim ar ben, gan fod yn rhaid i ni gerdded ymhell dros ganllath i'r brif fynedfa, dros dir sych, caled ac anwastad a oedd yn artaith i'r traed.

Ond, yn y diwedd, dyna ni wrth borth y wledd. Mi brynais fy nhocyn am y dydd (£23) gan ferch hardd y tu ôl i'r ddesg, y tocyn wedyn yn cael ei sganio gan ferch gyfeillgar arall wrth y giât, a thrwodd â fi i'r Maes ei hun. Mi gerddais yn araf tuag at y stondinau i gyd; y babell Wyddoniaeth a Thechnoleg ar un ochr, stondin y Gwasanaeth Tân gyferbyn â hi, a rhesi o stondinau eraill yn ymestyn tu hwnt i'r rheini.

Roedd hi'n nesáu at hanner wedi deg erbyn hyn, ac roeddwn i eisiau cael syniad o ble roedd popeth cyn i mi fentro i'r digwyddiad cyntaf ar fy rhestr fer (roedd mapiau ar gael, ond mi fethais â chael hyd i un). Doeddwn i ddim yn siwr am leoliad Maes D (sef yr ardal a gadwyd yn bennaf i weithgareddau ar gyfer dysgwyr, ond lle gynhelid un o'r pethau eraill roeddwn i eisiau mynd iddo yn hwyrach ymlaen), ond mi gefais hyd i hwnnw trwy giât ar ben draw'r brif faes.

Erbyn hyn, mi oedd hi'n bryd i mi anelu'n ôl at y Babell Lên ar gyfer nid un ond dau ddigwyddiad. Yr un cyntaf oedd cyflwyniad o gerddi a gomisiynwyd yn arbennig ar gyfer yr Ŵyl, sef 'Cerddi'r Ffin'. Euthum i mewn i'r Babell a chael hi'n anodd i weld am ryw hanner munud, cymaint oedd y gwahaniaeth rhwng yr heulwen ddisglair tu allan a'r tywyllwch cymharol y tu mewn i'r Babell (a phabell go iawn oedd hi y tro hwn, yn hytrach nac edrych fel cangen o B&Q). Plonciais fy mhen ôl yn y rhes flaen o seddi ac aros.

Ar ôl ychydig o funudau, ddaeth yr actor lleol Stifyn Parri i'r meicroffôn a chyflwyno'r chwe bardd oedd yn eistedd ger ein bron. Y bardd cyntaf oedd hen ųr o'r enw Gwynne Williams, a adroddodd gerdd hir yn sôn am ei ddydiau ysgol a beth ddigwyddodd iddo fo a'i gyd-ddisgyblion wrth newid o ysgol y pentref a'i naws Gymraeg i'r ysgol uwchradd oedd â theithi mwy Seisnigedig. Roedd yn gerdd dda o'r hyn a glywais ohoni, ond roedd answadd y sain yn bur sigledig a llais y bardd braidd yn gryglyd. Yna ddaeth y beirdd eraill yn eu tro, ac mae'n arwydd o gymaint yr ydw i allan o cysylltiad efo'r 'sîn' barddonol fod dim ond dau ohonyn nhw oedd yn gyfarwydd i mi, sef Grahame Davies (ac bydd rhagor o sôn am hwnnw yn nes ymlaen) a'r bardd a cherddor Geraint Løvgreen (a roes i ni gerdd am bêl-droed wrth gwrs, a'r ddinas yn fyd-enwog am hynny y dyddiau hyn). Roedd y beirdd benywaidd - a'r un gwrywaidd na soniais amdano uchod - yn ddiarth i mi. Er hynny, roedd y cyflwyniad yn bleserus o ddiddorol.

Er y buasai'r ail ddigwyddiad yr oeddwn am ei brofi yn yr un Babell am un o'r gloch, a hithau'n tynnu at chwarter i'r awr dyngedfennol honno, bwriedais i fynd allan am y tro a cheisio bwyta'r brechdan gaws ac winwns a brynais o Sainsbury's y diwrnod o'r blaen. Doedd gen i fawr o amser, achos roeddwn yn ymwybodol iawn fod y peth nesaf yn mynd i gael cynulleidfa llawer mwy.

Am ryw bum munud i un, felly, dyma fi'n mentro i mewn i'r Babell eto a gweld fod y lle bron wedi'i lenwi. Cefais hyd i sedd yn y rhes gefnaf oll nesaf at rhyw hen ddyn barfog, ac yna aros eto.

Roedd pethau'n wahanol i'r ffeinal diwethaf welais i, wrth gwrs. Am un peth, roedd y Meuryn yn wahanol; Talwrn 2011 oedd yr un olaf i Gerallt Lloyd Owen (a ymddeolodd ychydig wythnosau wedyn, ac a fu farw rhyw dair blynedd yn ddiweddarach). Felly Ceri Wyn Jones oedd yn meurynna am ei bedwaredd cyfres ar ddeg, a dyna fo ar y llwyfan yn eistedd ar law chwith y gynhyrchwraig Nia Lloyd Jones. Ddaeth y beirdd i'r llwyfan i ychydig o glapian, ac mi oedden ni'n barod. Gofynodd Ceri i ni wneud yn siwr bod ein ffonau wedi'u diffodd achos fod y peth yn cael ei recordio ar gyfer ei ddarlledu nos Sul. Ac i ffwrdd à ni!

I'r sawl nad ydynt yn gwybod, ac sy'n tybio mai rywbeth sidêt ydi cystadleuaeth farddonol, nid felly ydyw hi yn achos y Talwrn. O, yn sicr fod barddoniaeth ddwys a difrifol yn rhan bwysig o'r ornest, ond mae lle i wirioni hefyd. Cafwyd hynny yn bennaf yng nghystadleuaeth y Gân Ysgafn, pan gafodd Iwan Rhys o dîm Dros Yr Aber wydraid o ddwr dros ei ben gan un o aelodau eraill y tîm a slebsian i'w wyneb gan aelod arall. Ffwlbri noeth. Ond yr oedd safon y cynnyrch yn uchel iawn, fel y disgwylir gan ddau dîm mor brofiadol, a'r sgôr derfynol roes fuddugoliaeth i Dros Yr Aber dros Y Ffoaduriaid o saith-deg-saith i saith-deg-pump a hanner (y sgôriau uchaf dwi'n eu cofio yn yr un ornest erioed yn hanes y rhaglen).

Gan fy mod i wedi diffodd fy ffôn, doedd dim syniad gen i faint o'r gloch oedd hi pan ddeuthum o'r Babell Lên, ac mi oedd yn gryn sioc i mi i ddarganfod mai ryw pum-munud-ar-ugain i dri oedd hi. Cefais ryw syniad o faint o waith golygu fuasai gan y gynhyrchwraig i'w wneud i docio'r hyn roeddem ni newydd ei glywed i lawr i ffitio slot jyst llai nag awr ar gyfer y darllediad ar nos Sul.

Roedd un eitem ar ôl ar fy rhestr am y dydd - hanes holl Eisteddfodau Cenedlaethol a gynhaliwyd yn y fro hon dros y blynyddoedd. Roedd hwn i ddigwydd yn y babell ar Faes D, ond yn dechrau am hanner wedi dau. Oedais am funud i geisio penderfynu a ddylwn i fynd amdano ai peidio, ond yn y diwedd, penderfynais fynd a cherdded gyn gyflymed ag oedd yn posibl i'r maes hwnnw.

Roedd y ddarlith yn cael ei gynnal mewn pabell arall - un oedd ag un ochr ohoni'n agored i'r maes - ac roeddwn i wedi gobeithio fod y peth yn mynd i gadw at EST ('Eisteddfod Standard Time'); hynny yw, y gallwch chi gyrraedd chwarter awr yn hwyr ac eto cael eich bod chi pum munud yn gynnar (dyw ffisegwyr gorau'r byd ddim wedi dadansoddi'r paradocs hwn hyd heddiw). Ond pan gyrhaeddais i'r babell, gwelais fod y peth ar droed, ac mi oedd Y Parch. Aled Lewis Evans yn sôn am yr Eisteddfod a gynhaliwyd yma ym 1876. Euthum yn dawel i'r rhes gefn ac eistedd ar ben mainc. Yn anffodus, gan nad oedd neb yn eistedd ar ben draw honno, mi dipiodd, a bu bron i mi landio ar fy nhîn ar y llawr. Ond, wedi setlo, eisteddais yn dawel am weddill y ddarlith ddiddorol hon.

Ar y diwedd, euthum i gael gair neu ddau ag Aled, gan i mi ei adnabod ers blynyddoedd - fo a roes i mi fy nghyfle cyntaf i ddarlledu ar Sain Y Gororau yn ôl ym 1986 - a chawsom ni sgwrs fer a difyr, ein dau yn gresynu at gyflwr yr hyn a elwir o hyd yn 'radio lleol' bellach (h.y., dim yn lleol o gwbl, gan i'r holl orsafoedd 'annibynnol' bellach yn nwylo rhyw ddwy neu dair corfforaeth aml-wladol enfawr.

Wedi ffarwelio ag Aled, mi benderfynais i gymryd tro bach olaf o gwmpas y prif Faes cyn i mi anelu at adref, gan fy mod i wedi blino ac ei bod hi wedi mynd yn rhy gynnes i mi. Felly a wneuthum, a gadael yr Ŵyl, cerdded y canllath a mwy at y man gollwng a dal y bws yn ôl i ganol y ddinas, ac yna tuag adref.

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Dydd Mercher a wawriodd, a dyna fi ar y bws eto - un cynharach gan i mi eisiau gweld rhywbeth oedd i ddechrau am hanner awr wedi deg. Pan gyrhaeddais Stryt Y Brenin, gwelais fod llawer mwy o bobl wedi ymgynull ar gyfer y bws. Ymhen ychydig, mi ddaeth y bws dec-dwbl a dechreuodd pawb ei fordio. Sylwais fod prin yr un sedd yn wag ar y llawr is, felly i fyny'r grisiau â fi...i ddarganfod nad oedd fawr dim mwy o seddi ar gael fanno chwaith. Yn y diwedd, mi eisteddais nesaf at ddyn a oedd, yn ôl ei olwg, o oedran debyg i mi. Wrth reswm, aethom ati i sgwrsio, a dyma fi yn cael gwybod mai o Lundain oedd o - ond oedd wedi byw yn Ffrainc ers cryn gyfnod - ac mi oedd wedi dechrau dysgu'r Gymraeg ond wedi gorfod oedi oherwydd COVID cyn ail-gydio ynddi wedyn. Er bod ei sgwrs braidd yn betrusgar ar adegau - a does dim cywilydd arno am hynny - cawsom sgwrs hir a diddorol nes i ni gyrraedd y Maes unwaith yn rhagor, a finnau'n ei adael o efo awgrym - wel, mwy o orchymyn a bod yn onest - i fwynhau'r dydd.

Arteithio'r traed eto wrth gerdded i'r brif fynedfa, prynu fy nhocyn (£22 y tro hwn), ac i'r Maes â fi. Cerddais yn araf o gwmpas stondinau'r prif gae i dreulio'r amser cyn i mi anelu unwaith yn rhagor at Y Babell Lên. Y peth a oedd yn fy nisgwyl yno oedd rhwy fath o ail-brofi rhywbeth yr euthum iddo ym 2011, sef darlith gan Grahame Davies ar destun Brian Martyn Davies. Fel y darllenwch yma , roedd BMD yn ffigwr allweddol yn fy mywyd, ac felly mi deimlais dan ddyled i fynychu darlith arall arno, er nad oeddwn yn disgwyl i sylwedd y peth fod yn syfrdanol o newydd.

Doedd dim mwy nac ychydig o ddwsinau o bobl yn y Babell, a oedd yn siom i mi, ond yna ddaeth Grahame allan i draddodi. Er bod y deunydd creu yn gyfarwydd iawn, roedd y ddarlith yn un ddiddorol dros ben, a ddaeth ag atgofion niferus o'm hieuenctid yn ôl. Cefais wybod hefyd am dynged y bardd Elin ap Hywel a fu'n cyd-gyflwyno efo Grahame y tro blaenorol, a thrist oedd darganfod ei bod hi'n dioddef o salwch enbyd ers rhai blynyddoedd.

Wrth eistedd yno - tra'n gwrando'n astud ar y ddarlith, wrth gwrs - ddechreuais fyfyrio fel hyn; ym mha wlad arall ar wyneb y ddaear fuasai rhywbeth fel hyn yn digwydd? O, mi wn fod gwyliau diwylliannol rhif y gwlith yn cael eu cynnal ledled y byd pob blwyddyn; ond faint ohonynt sydd yn cael eu mynychu gan bobl 'gyffredin', pobl 'lawr gwlad'? Dywedodd y dyn y bûm yn ymgomio â fo ar y bws wrthyf ei fod yn mynd ymlaen at Ŵyl Caeredin wedi'r Eisteddfod, ond faint o bobl 'bob dydd' y ddinas honno fuasai'n mynd i'r un digwyddiad yno? Faint o ffermwyr, er enghraifft, fuasai'n blasu'r arlwy ohoni, sawl weithwraig siop fuasai'n mynd i'r un arddangosfa neu gyflwyniad drama? Prin iawn, tybiwn i. Gŵyl i'r werin Gymreig - a rheiny'n werin fwy diwylliedig na'r arfer - ydyw'n Heisteddfod ni, yn hytrach na llwyfan am wancyrs rhodresgar dosbarth canol o Loegr.

(A sylwer nad yw prif bapur dyddiol 'rhyddfrydol' Llundain wedi cyhoeddi'r un gair amdani eleni a chymharu â'r erwau o eiriau am Gaeredin).

Ar ddiwedd y ddarlith, cefais sgwrs fer efo pâr oedrannus a fu yn y rhes o seddi yn syth y tu cefn i mi, a chael bod y wraig wedi bod yn yr un ysgol â BMD ac yn yr un cyfnod â fo. Cysylltiadau...

Roedd hi rhyw chwarter wedi un-ar-ddeg wrth i mi fynd allan o oleuni llenyddiaeth i'r poethni allan ar y Maes, efo bron i ddwy awr yn sbâr cyn y digwyddiad nesaf. Felly, ddechreuais i gerdded yn araf deg o gwmpas y meysydd i gyd.

Fel y gellid disgwyl mewn GŴyl Genedlaethol flynyddol, roedd pob math o stondinau yn cynrychioli cwmnïau bychain, mudiadau gwirfoddol a llenyddol, llywodraethau a'r gwasanaethau argyfwng, a mwy. Crwydrais heibio iddyn nhw heb fawr o frwdfrydedd gan fod yr iselder ysbryd sydd wedi fy mhlagio ers tua dechrau Mis Mehefin yn golygu nad oedd gennyf fawr o ddiddordeb yn unrhywbeth. Yn y diwedd, cefais hyd i sedd wag ar fainc y tu allan i babell Maes D a dechrau bwyta'r brechdanau caws roeddwn i wedi'u paratoi cyn dod allan o'r tŷ (mi dreuliais i dair blynedd yn byw yng Ngheredigion, ac mae hynny wedi cael effaith barhaol arnaf). Yn sydyn, ddaeth chwyth o wynt o rywle, cydio ar fy mag brechdanau a dympio'r frechdan olaf ar y llawr, gan chwipio'r bag draw dros y maes i nghyfeiriad y Pafiliwn. Gan ufuddhau i'r rheol pump-eiliad, mi godais y frechdan o'r ddaear a'i bwyta. Rhai eiliadau wedyn, ddaeth llanc ataf a rhoi'r bag yn ôl i mi (fel petaswn i eisiau ei weld eto).

(Gyda llaw, yn yr un modd y newidiodd y Babell Lên o sied i babell go iawn, mae'r Pafiliwn wedi ei drawsnewid o fod yn bagoda i fod yn IKEA).

Roeddwn i wedi gorffen fy nghinio erbyn tua hanner wedi deuddeg, ac roedd yn bryd felly i mi fentro'n ôl i'r prif faes ar gyfer y peth olaf ar fy rhestr am y dydd, sef adroddiad ar ddatblygu Amgueddfa Wrecsam ac - fel rhan o honno - creu Amgueddfa Bêl-Droed Genedlaethol.

Cynhaliwyd y cyflwyniad yn y Lle Celf, sied fach arall a safodd ar bwys y Babell Lên. Euthum i mewn a gweld grwp o bobl yn eistedd mewn lle wrth ochr y prif le arddangos. Penderfynais (gan nad oedd y cloc wedi taro un eto) fynd o gwmpas y brif arddangosfa. Ymddangosodd fwyafrif y gwrthrychau i fod yn rhai 'syniadol', h.y., allwch chi ddim deffinio nac eu pwynt na'u pwrpas. Un ohonynt oedd casgliad o gratiau (o'r math a welir yn dal llysiau yn Sainsbury's) wedi'u gluo y tu mewn i'w gilydd i ffurfio cylch. Symboliaeth hwn nis gwyddys.

Euthum yn ôl i'r stafell ochr - lle bach, cyfyngedig - i ymuno â rhyw ugain o bobl eraill. Rhan gyntaf o'r cyflwyniad oedd ar bwnc yr amgueddfa bêl-droed, a'r ail un yn ymwneud â'r amgueddfa yn gyffredinol, bwriedir ei hail-agor rhywbryd tua'r Pasg nesaf. Roedd y peth yn ddiddorol, ond eto roedd acwstigs y lle yn broblem.

Erbyn diwedd y cyflwyniad, roedd hi wedi troi chwarter i ddau, ac roedd hi wedi troi'n uffernol o gynnes hefyd. Euthum i gael hyd i rywle i eistedd, a chefais hyd i fainc lle gefais gyfle i gael sgwrs bleserus efo hen wraig am rai munudau, cyn i mi benderfynu mai dyna fydd diwedd fy Eisteddfod.

Wrth gymryd un tro olaf o gwmpas y prif faes, roedd nifer o feddyliau yn mynd trwy fy mhen. Am un peth, doeddwn i ddim wedi gweld neb yr oeddwn yn eu hadnabod o ddyddiau coleg deugain mlynedd neu fwy yn ôl (er i mi wybod fod ambell un ohonynt yn y cyffiniau). Ar wahân i Aled Lewis Evans, yr unig un o'm cydnabod a welais i oedd merch bûm yn gweithio â hi blynyddoedd yn ôl.

Peth arall: roeddwn i'n sicr y tro hwn mai dyna fydd y Brifwyl olaf a welaf 'yn y cnawd', fel petai. Prin iawn fuasai'n dod yn ôl i'r fro hon am ryw ugain mlynedd, ac mi fyddaf yn y ddaear (neu, yn hytrach, arni) erbyn hynny.

Ac un peth olaf: ymlawenháf yn y ffaith fy mod yn ddwyiethog, ac felly'n rhywun all fanteisio ar aelodaeth gyflawn o ddau ddiwylliant, un ohonynt yn un byd-eang ond yn eithaf arwynebol, a'r llall yn llawer llai ei faint ond yn ddyfnach o lawer ei wreiddiau. Dyn cyfoethog ydw i, a bydded i'r golud hwnnw barhau - fel y dywedai Dafydd Iwan - hyd Ddydd Y Farn.

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When the National Eisteddfod left our town in August 2011, I was certain that that would be the last Eisteddfod I would ever see from the inside. After all, there had been a gap of over a quarter of a century since its previous visit, so a similar period would elapse before it would return again.

But, dammitall, if the festival's Politburo didn't decide to come here again after just fourteen years!

I had to go, of course; it would have been odd if I hadn't. The big question would be which days, and to see what, exactly? I knew that I would only be able to go twice due to cost constraints, so I would have to choose carefully.

As in 2011, I was certain to go on the Saturday to see the final of Y Talwrn, but which other day? I searched the menu for every day of the cultural feast laid out before me, and came to the conclusion that Wednesday would be best. And to it came to pass.

In contrast to last time, of course, the Festival would be visiting a city rather than a town, and instead of being on farm land on the western side of said city, it would be held on...farm land on the eastern side in the tiny village of Isycoed. No way for me to walk there, therefore, and so it was the bus or nothing. In another change from 2011, the buses from the railway and bus stations in the city centre would be free and would run at approximately twenty minute intervals all day.

So, Saturday morning saw me leaving the house just before half past nine to catch the bus down to the city (I had originally intended to catch the nine-o-clock bus, but I was slow dragging myself out of my pit, and there was no need to hurry because the first event on my list of attractions wasn't until noon). It was a short step to Stand 5 in the bus station, and there I was waiting for the next WF1. This turned up within about ten minutes, I and about ten other people joined those who were already on it, and away we went.

Now, I have to explain something at this point; although I have spent my whole life - apart from three years at college - in this area, my familiarity with the eastern side of town is still a bit fuzzy. Indeed, I thought for years that 'Hullah Lane' was where Puff The Magic Dragon lived.

So the journey from King Street to the Maes was something of an odyssey for me. For one thing I had (for the reasons given above) misunderstood where Isycoed actually was. I had supposed that it was somewhere to the north of the industrial estate, when in fact it actually stands to the east beyond it. I was therefore taken by surprise when our route took us through Pentre Maelor and past the prison and the Kellogg's factory (two places which cause the heart to sink for different reasons).

After some fifteen minutes, we finally arrived at the edge of the site and disembarked. But the journey still wasn't at its end, because it was then necessary to walk over a hundred yards across dry, hard and rutted ground which was torture on the feet.

But then at last we were at the gates of the feast. I bought my day ticket (£23) from a pretty girl behind the desk, had it scanned by another delighful young lady at the barrier, and through I went onto the Maes. I walked slowly towards all the stands; the Science and Technology Tent on one side, the Fire Service's stand directly opposite, and rows of other stands extending in little streets beyond them.

It was getting close to half-past-ten by this point, and I wanted to get an idea of where everything was before venturing to my first target (maps were available, but I failed to avail myself of one). I wasn't sure where Maes D was (this being the area reserved mostly for learners, but which was also used for other events), but I found it by going through the gate at the far end of the main field.

By this time, it was time for me to aim back towards the Literature Tent for the first of two events. First was a presentation of poems specially commissioned for the Eisteddfod, named 'Border Poems'. I went into the Tent and found it difficult to see for about half a minute, such was the contrast between the bright sunlight outside and the comparative darkness within the Tent (and it was a tent this time, not like a branch of B&Q like last time). I plonked my backside on the front row and waited.

After a few minutes, the local actor Stifyn Parri came to the microphone to introduce the six poets who were arrayed before us. The first to go was an elderly gentleman by the name of Gwynne Williams, who recited a long poem about his school days going from the very Welsh primary school he attended to a secondary school with a far more Anglicised ethos, and what happened to his fellow pupils who followed the same route. It was a good poem judging by what I could hear of it, because the sound quality was somewhat lacking and the poet's voice was hoarse. Then the other poets came up in their turm, and it's a measure of how out of touch I am with the poetry 'scene' that only two of the remaining five were known to me, namely Grahame Davies (and you will be hearing more about him shortly) and the poet and musician Geraint Løvgreen (who, of course, gave us some verses about football, given that the city is world-famous for that nowadays). The three female poets - and the one male bard whom I haven't name-checked - were unknown to me. Despite that, the presentation was pleasantly interesting.

Although the second item on my agenda was in the same venue at one o'clock, with it now being about a quarter to that fateful hour, I decided to go outside again for the moment and try to wolf down the cheese and red onion sandwich I had bought from Sainsbury's the day before. I didn't have much time, because I knew that the Talwrn would have a far larger audience.

At about five to one, therefore, I ventured back into the tent to find that the place was very nearly full. I found a seat on the very back row next to a bearded elderly gentleman, and waited once more.

Things were different from the last time I had attended such an event. For one thing, the adjudicator would be different. 2011's final was the last contest chaired by Gerallt Lloyd Owen, who retired from the job a few months later, and who died some three years after that. Ceri Wyn Jones, in his fourteenth season, would be in charge, and there he was on the stage sitting on the right hand of the producer Nia Lloyd Jones. The contestants came onto the stage to somewhat muted applause, and we were all but ready. Ceri Wyn asked us to make sure that our phones were all switched off because the event was going to be recorded for broadcast on Sunday evening. And away we went!

To those not in the know, and who assume that a poetry competition would be something sedate, the Talwrn might come as a surprise. Oh, for sure there is always poetry of profundity and technical excellence, but there is also plenty of room for humour. On this occasion, hilarity was to be found in the Light Song round, when Iwan Rhys of the Dros Yr Aber team had a glass of water poured over his head by one member of his team and a custard pie thrust in his face by another member. Daft beyond words. But the overall standard of the 'product' was extremely high - as one would expect from two very experienced teams - and the final score gave victory to Dros Yr Aber over Y Ffoaduriaid by a margin of seventy-seven points to seventy-five-and-a-half (the highest scores I can remember from any contest in the programme's history).

Because I had turmed my phone off, I had no idea what time it was when I came out of the Literature Tent, and it was quite a shock to discover that it was now about twenty-five to three, and I got some idea of how much editing the producer was going to have to do to fit what I had just heard into a slot just short of an hour long for the Sunday transmission.

There was one item left on the day's list - the history of all the National Eisteddfodau which had been held in this area over the years. This was to take place in the tent on Maes D, starting at half-past two. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether I should go or not, but in the end I decided to go, and walked as briskly as I could to that field.

The lecture was taking place in a tent which had one side open to the rest of that field, and I had hoped that it would keep to EST ('Eisteddfod Standard Time'), that is, one could arrive a quarter of an hour late and still be five minutes early (the world's best physicists have still not successfully analysed this paradox). But when I arrived, I saw that it had started, and the Rev. Aled Lewis Evans was talking about the Eisteddfod which had been held in 1876. I went to sit quietly on the end of a bench in the back row. Unfortunately, because no-one was sitting on the other end, it tipped up and I nearly ended up on my arse on the ground. Once settled, I sat intently listening for the remainder of the event.

Afterwards, I went to have a word or two with Aled, because I have known him for years - indeed, he it was who gave me my first broadcasting experience on Marcher Sound back in 1986 - and we had an amusing chat whilst bemoaning the state of what is termed 'local radio' nowadays, i.e., not local at all given that all the 'independent' stations are now in the cluthes of two or three large multi-national corporations.

Having bid farewell to Aled, I decided to take one last stroll around the main field before heading homewards, because I was tired and it had become too warm for me. I did so, and left the Festival, walked the hundred yards or so to the pick-up point, caught the bus back to the city centre, and then home.

********

Wednesday dawned, and there I was, back on the bus - an earlier one since I wanted to see something which was to start at half past ten. When I arrived in King Street, I saw that many more people had assembled for the bus this time. Shortly, the double-decker came and everyone started to board. I noticed that there was scarcely an empty seat in the lower saloon, so up the stairs I went...to find that there were hardly any spaces up there either. In the end, I sat next to a man who, from the look of him, was of a similar age to my own. Naturally, we fell into conversation, and I discovered that he was a Londoner - one who had lived in France for some considerable time - who had started learning Cymraeg but had had to stop during COVID before taking it up again. Although his conversation was hesitant at times - and no shame accrues to him for that - we had a long and entertaining chat until we arrived at the Maes once more, and I left him with the advice - more of an order, really - to enjoy the day.

Torturing my feet again in the walk to the main entrance, I bought my ticket (£22 this time), and out onto the Maes I went. I walked slowly around the stands on the main field to pass the time before aiming once more for the Literature Tent. What awaited me there was a sort of re-experience of something I had attended in 2011, namely, a lecture by Grahame Davies on the subject of Bryan Martin Davies. As you can read here, BMD was a key figure in my life, and so I felt under an obligation to attend, although I didn't expect the substance of the occasion to provide anything startlingly new.

There were no more than a few dozen people in the Tent, which was a disappointment to me, but then Grahame came out to deliver his lecture. Although the raw material was very familiar, it was a very interesting lecture which brought numerous recollections to me. I also found out about the fate of the poet Elin ap Hywel, who had co-presented the earlier lecture, and it was a cause of sadness that she had been suffering from a debilitating illness for some years.

Sitting there - whilst listening intently to the lecture, of course - I started to meditate thusly; in what other country on the face of the Earth would something like this be happening? Oh, I know that there are innumerable cultural festivals all over the world every year; but how many of them are attended by 'ordinary' people, 'grass-roots' people? The man I had been talking to on the bus had told me that after the Eisteddfod he was going on to Edinburgh, but how many common folk from there would go to a single event? How many farmers, for example, would have a taste of that menu, how many shop assistants would be going to a single exhibition or dramatic presentation? Very few, I would imagine. Our Eisteddfod is a festival for the Welsh gwerin - and they being more cultured than is the rule - rather than a stage for middle-class, pretentious wankers from England.

(And please note that the main 'liberal' daily paper in London has not published a single word about it this year, compared to the acreage of words fiven over to Edinburgh).

At the end of the lecture, I had a brief conversation with an elderly couple who had been sitting in the row behind me, and discovered that the wife had been in the same school as BMD and at the same time as him. Connections...

As one could expect in an annual national festival, there were all sorts of stands representing small businesses, literary and voluntary movements, governments and emergency services, and more. I wandered past them without much enthusiasm because the depression which has plagued me since about the beginning of June meant that I had little interest in anything at all. Finally, I found an empty bench outside the tent on Maes D and started eating the cheese sandwiches I had prepared before coming out of the house (I spent three years living in Ceredigion, and this has had a continuing effect on me). Suddenly, a gust of wind from somewhere grabbed hold of my sandwich bag, dumping the last sandwich on the ground and whipping the bag off across the field in the direction of the Pavilion. In obedience to the five-second rule, I scooped the butty off the ground and ate it. Some seconds later, a youth came up to me and handed the bag back to me (as if I had wanted to see it again).

(By the way, in the same way that the Literature Tent had changed from a shed to a proper tent, the Pavilion had transformed from a pagoda to being IKEA).

I had finished my lunch by half-past twelve, and so it was time to venture back to the main field for the last thing on my list for the day, namely a report on the development of Wrexham Museum and - as part of it - the creation of a National Museum of Football.

The presentation was being held in the Art Space, another small shed standing beside the Literatue Tent. I went in and saw a group of people sitting in a space off to one side of the main exhibition area. I decided (as the clock was yet to strike one) to go around the main display. The majority of the items seemed to be 'conceptual', i.e., one could define neither their point nor their purpose. One of them was a collection of nested crates (of the kind one would see displaying veg in Sainsbury's) glued together to form a circle. The symbolism of this was anybody's guess.

I went back to the side room - a rather cramped space - to join about twenty other people. The first part of the presentation was about the football museum and the second about the museum as a whole, which it is hoped will re-open sometime around next Easter. It was interesting, but the acoustics of the place were again a problem.

By the end of the event, it had turned a quarter to three, and it had turned extremely warm as well. I went to find somewhere to sit and found a bench where I had the opportunity to converse pleasantly with an old woman for some minutes, before deciding that that would be the end of my Eisteddfod.

Whilst taking my last circuit of the main field, a number of thoughts were going through my mind. For one thing, I had seen no-one I remembered from college days forty or more years ago (even though I knew for sure that some of them were in the vicinity). Apart from Aled Lewis Evans, the only person I had encountered whom I knew was a woman I used to work with years ago.

Another thing: I was certain that this would be the last National I would see 'in the flesh', as it were. It would scarcely come back to this area again for some twenty years, and I will be in the ground (or, rather, on the ground) by then.

And one final thing: I rejoice in the fact that I am bilingual, and so am someone who can take advantage of full membership of two cultures, one of them world-spanning if somewhat superficial, and the other much smaller in size but far deeper in its roots. I am a rich man, and may that wealth continue until - as Dafydd Iwan put it - Judgement Day.

File under: Dwyieithog / Bilingual, Me, Media & Culture