I was at a St David’s Day lunch today with about 30 Welsh people, one Scot and an Englishman.
Nothing so unusual about that, I hear you say. It is St David’s Day, after all, Kath.
But I’m not currently at home in Wales.
I left there on Sunday, crossed the border, wound my way through a spa town, past ancient stones and into a forest of ponies before boarding a boat in the black of night, the wind whipping my hair and scarf about me like Medusa’s familiars, to cross the inky waters.
Yes, I’m on the Isle of Wight.
We used to live here once upon a time.
I left to go to university but Mum and Dad and my brother stayed on until I’d finally settled in one place long enough for them to follow me up to Wales.
Mum and Dad were given life membership of the Isle of Wight Welsh Society as a parting gift and used to make an annual pilgrimage for the lunch.
Now that Dad’s no longer with us, if I’m able to take the time off, I make the trip with her.
Which is why once a year my Scottish mother and I (and Squizzey, who loves a good road trip) leave Wales and journey to an island off the south coast of England to celebrate the patron saint of the Land of My Father.
Happy St David’s Day! Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!