Wales. Hen Wlad FYI Nhadau. The old land of my fathers is dear unto me !!

From out of the car window I see a grey wet, rain sodden sky without a break to the horizon. The fields are soaked and the sheep, bedraggled creatures standing forlorn on the hillside. The coat insulating them from the rain has taken on the dirty grey of the polluted air, washed out of the sky by this continuous downpour. 
The beauty of the countryside in summer is transformed by the early winter and as one drives further into the countryside, especially into areas that have been blighted by the dismemberment of the coal industry, 30 years ago, leaving neighbourhoods shorn of work and the ability to have any sense of self respect,or the chance to resurrect themselves to a meaningful place within society. 
Unemployment has produced a generation of people brought up on a Culture of a life on Benefit. Not short term assistance as imagined by the creators of the Welfare State but a lifetime crutch which simply emphasises the unholy misalliance between capital and labour. 

The slag heaps bare testimony to the productivity of these men of the valleys but our memories are distorted by the media campaign of Margaret Thatcher, vilifying these men and their communities, fearful of their collective passion. 
Of an industry which saw its place in the fabric of the nation even when plans were afoot to write out their contribution. 
No one had told them and their inward tribalism protected them from the knowledge and as the might of a Nations Police Force descended on their actions,  the game was up !!
So much of yesteryear is part of the Welsh landscape, both geographically and politically.
One sees it in the triumphal singing at the start of a rugby match, a nation where the male voice choir is a bedrock in some communities, a coming together at community level, a sense of their past and of their unique history signified by their language and poetry.
Under Milk Wood has to be the most socially delightful piece of literature ever written as it traces the workings of a small Welsh town and the activities of its inhabitants. Richard Burton's reading of the work is mesmerising, his deep voice rising and falling with a melodic cadence that binds one in a spell, hearing the goings on and the tittle tattle between the players of this most human drama.
A ray of sunshine has broken through the clouds and, as I listen to Vaughan Williams playing over the radio the sun has brought to the wet streets a respite to their grey countenance. Sunshine reflecting off the puddles swells the light and makes the heart swell with it. 

The distant, distinctive squawk of the seagulls reminds us of the port and of the days when Swansea was busy with trade. Now the town is a little sad waiting for a call to become thriving again whilst, in the meantime the City Council is tarting up the streets and allowing developers to regenerate the waterfront. It's one of the pleasures to sample the small bistros and smart restaurants which have sprung up in the development area. 
The yacht harbour is a ringing endorsement of new money and the natural bent of people living on the shore line have to get on the water. The sound of the halyards ringing on the aluminium masts, these expensive toys quietly waiting their masters pleasure at the weekend, a testimony to the fact that whilst some sections of society take a back seat, others surge ahead in their place.
Wales is, first and foremost a collective society.   Unlike the individualism that identifies the South of England, Wales is a collective, a body of interactive people who celebrate their individuality in many ways and flourish as they play their own specific role within the larger UK Plc.