I’m a fast reader. You have to be when you read as many scripts as I do, so my eyes are used to scanning and fast-reading English. Now they stumble and stutter over unfamiliar combinations of vowels and consonants. Some of the words are so long, it took driving past three signs until I could read to the end ofGwasanaethau. Idiot English person me of course thoughtGwasanaethauservices was like Peterborough Services, a place.
Well, it isn’t.
Gwasanaethaujust means services. Duh!
Last night, when I planned my journey to Llancaradoc, the village where William Jones lives, Google Maps said3 hr 45min. It made the drive seem like a fun road trip through pretty rolling hills and the promise of meeting my real father at the end. Don’t ever believe Google Maps; it may not actually lie, but it’s definitely economical with the truth. No warning about unreadable road signs. And not a peep about the rain.
Llancaradoc, according to pictures on Google, is a small, pretty village nestled between green hills. After London, the narrow streets, small village shops and charming houses in pinks, blues and yellow seemed to promise a cosey welcome. So it was with high hopes that I planned my trip.
Most of my things were in storage in a friend’s garage, and I’d said my goodbyes to Emma and Mike last night.
At 5.30 this morning, I set out in my old Fiat 500 and made it out of the city well before the rush hour, although if you know London, you’ll know the rush hour is more like two and a half hours of slow, frustrating traffic. By nine, I crossed the Severn into Wales. I was almost lost for a bit when I took the wrong exit off the M4 because Newport is confusingly called Casnewydd. In the end, I stopped trying to navigate and let the app on my phone tell me where to go.
I watched the landscape roll by and worried about meeting my biological father. It’s surprising how much information you can find on the internet if you’re willing to pay. It cost me £45 + VAT to discover that:
Professor William Jones is currently retired and lives in a small village in the Brecon Beacons. Ten years ago, he’d been professor of Celtic and medieval history at Trinity University College, Carmarthen. His picture on the university’s archives – one with the entire academic staff at some line up – shows a good-looking serene middle-aged man. I wish I could say helooks like me, but it’s hard to tell from a small black-and-white photo.
How will he react to find me on his doorstep? As I watch the Welsh hills roll past my windows, I rehearse what I might say.
My name is Leonie Henderson, my mum is Annabel Henderson.
I only just found out about you.
I don’t want money or anything. But I realise that my mother kept us apart, and I wanted to get to know you.
Do you have a family? Do I have half siblings? Relatives?
As an only child, with parents who were also only children, I have no idea what it feels like to have siblings, uncles, aunts, even cousins. A family. Anything more than the small unit of Dad and me – and a mother who was emotionally and physically absent most of the time.
My screen wipers slap, slap like a metronome as my mind tries to imagine what this meeting might be like.
I hope he’s in when I arrive. Who’d go out on a morning like this? The rain is not heavy, but it makes visibility very poor. Everything around looks misty.
“You have arrived,” says the navigator on my phone.
Arrived where? There is nothing. Just a junction of three B-roads. Trust Google Maps to get it wrong when it’s most important.
There’s no village. I peer out of every window but all I can see are a few scattered farmhouses here and there over the hills. Where was the cute high street with bakery and yarn shop I’d seen on the internet?
I pick up my phone and try searching, but there’s a slew of notifications on my screen warning me about high-data usage.You are nearing the limit of your data allowance.Would you like to buy more data?And finally,Please upgrade data package to continue using data.
I check and double check. No internet access.
It never occurred to me that keeping my navigation on for two hours would gobble up my data allowance. Wonderful. I’m in the middle of God only knows where with no internet. How am I to buy more data? I try calling customer service but the call doesn’t seem to connect properly, and when I check my mobile signal, it’s down to one bar. Pretty landscape is one thing, but hills aren’t ideal for phone reception. Say what you like about busy, noisy trafficky London, but mobile reception is perfect and there’s always free Wi-Fi signal somewhere even if you have to park outside a Starbucks and freeload.
Why hadn’t I been paying attention during the long drive? If only I’d stopped for breakfast somewhere.
I look around. There’s a post with three signs. Three arrows pointing in different directions. Old-school navigation, it has to be. I drive closer and peer through the wet windscreen in between the sweep of wipers.
All three signs have graffiti all over them. The first says Croeso the rest of the words are obscured by spray paint. Making an educated guess, this isn’t the Welsh name of Llancaradoc since the name is already Welsh. The other two signs are impossible to read from here. Deep breath, I unclip my seat belt, open the door and climb out. Cardigan tight around me, arms folded over my front, I walk up to the signpost. Close up one sign is incomprehensible, the other does indeed sayLlancaradoctrowch i'r chwith. Someone has sprayed over the rest, but atleast they or someone else has written in fat marker:Turn right for Llancaradoc.
Hurrying back into my car, I crank up the heat and turn the car to the right and drive down a narrow road past a couple of farms. The road twists a bit and keeps getting narrower. Just as I’m getting worried and glancing around for the village, the road comes to a farm gate. A closed farm gate.
I might have braved the muddy track if there was anything or anyone to ask, but all I can see is endless grass. Had I missed a turning?
There’s no option but to reverse, the road, let’s call it by its real name, a farm track, is narrow and has no room for a three-point turn unless I want to risk landing in the muddy ditches either side of the road. Twisting to look over my shoulder, I reverse very slowly up and up and up, a long way. Scanning all the time for possible exits, a fork into another road, something.
Eventually my prayers are answered, though not in the way I expected. There is something. Not a road, not a sign, not a village. But a figure. A dark, hulking figure walking towards me.
