(By Jenny Lemm)

The year is 1985 and I’ve just moved to a tiny village in the Welsh mountains with my husband (whom we will not bother to mention again) and my fifteen year old son, Paddy.  I was immensely excited.  For many years I had visited North Wales regularly as I was a keen rock climber, so to actually live here was going to be a dream come true.

As a short person, measuring just 5ft when drawn up to my full, impressive height, many of the most difficult climbs were beyond my capabilities, as I just did not have the reach  for some of the elusive hand holds and would eventually have to admit defeat and simply fall off.  I was, however, recognised as quite an accomplished climber, despite my height deficiency and am proud to say that I was ‘mentioned in dispatches’ in the 1969 edition of ‘Rocksport” magazine, a copy of which I still have in my possession.

At school I had always been an indifferent sportsman.  My hand/eye co-ordination was quite abominable, so tennis, netball and other girly pursuits  were never my forte, and I was always amongst the very last few pitiful and pathetic specimens waiting to be chosen when teams were being picked.

I despised and feared hockey, having had many nasty cracks to ankles and shin-bones, and as for field sports,……..well!  My chunky little legs were just not designed for speed.  Endurance perhaps, but definitely not speed. Also, as a matter of interest, all the most athletic girls of my generation seemed to have enormous calf muscles and thickly-haired legs.  Being a redhead I was devoid of almost all body hair, including eyebrows, as are most redheads, so I didn’t even look the part, and I sometimes longed for hairy legs.  So, when I tried rock-climbing and found to my astonishment that, not only could I do it, but I could do it well, it became something of an obsession.

However, I digress.  Here we are, freshly installed in our new home and as excited and giddy as kids on their first day at the seaside.  It was a Welsh speaking village and, though most of my own generation could speak English, many of the old people couldn’t, and the children learned English at school as a second language.  I resolved to learn the Welsh language immediately, but being of a rather lazy disposition I kept putting it off until ‘tomorrow’.  In other words: although I really WANTED to learn, I simply couldn’t be bothered.

Paddy made friends almost immediately, and one of his new acquaintances kindly pointed out to us the people he considered important in the village.  There was Gwyllym ap Thomas, who owned the local post office; John Davies, the plumber; Dafydd Grufydd, from the farm next to ours; Dafydd Kacki Key, the local councilor; Merthyn Prenderghast, the headmaster of the village school, and so on and on.

We dutifully memorised the names of these important village persons, and one morning Paddy, answering a knock at the door, announced “Mum, it’s Mr. Kacki Key”, immensely proud that he had remembered the name.

“Oh, come in Mr. Kacki Key.”  I smiled in welcome. “Please have a cup of tea.”  He looked at us a little uncertainly, but then accepted our invitation , welcomed us to the village, which was the purpose of his visit, and asked us to call him Dafydd.  A gentle, inoffensive and thoroughly likeable young man, he seemed far too mild mannered for the cut and thrust of village politics, but I have been since told that he could be quite ruthless in the council chamber.

We saw him on many occasions campaigning on matters of village importance, or raising funds for village organisations and I always helped where I could, for I found him a thoroughly likeable man.  Being a potter, I could make bespoke prizes for raffles and auctions and I was regularly called upon to contribute and always happy to oblige.

I had lived in the village for three years when I first went to cast my vote in the council elections.  I was nonplussed when I couldn’t find Dafydds name and instead had to cast my vote for the candidate standing for his party, a guy call Parry, of Plaid Cymru.  Walking home with the woman from the farm next door, who had become my close friend, I asked “Has Dafydd Kacki Key given up on the council?  His name wasn’t on the ballot paper.”

“Yes, it was.”  Answered Doreen, ” I voted for him.”

“Well, it wasn’t on mine!”  I declared.  “I had to vote for someone called Dafydd Parry.”

“Yes, that’s him.”  She replied with a grin.  “Kacki Key is his nickname, he doesn’t know we call him it.”

“Well he does now!”  I answered “that’s what I always call him!”

My heart sank when I saw the look of horror on Doreens face.  “What does it mean?”  I asked, not at all sure I really wanted to know the answer.

“Dog shit.”  She replied faintly.

I felt sick with shame and embarrassment.  For three years I had been calling him Mr. Dog shit and he had been too polite to ask why.

Needless to say I enrolled in Welsh language classes the following day, but after six months I still hadn’t been taught how to say dog shit so I gave up for, as it transpires learning the language would not have helped me.

I lived in that tiny village until 2013 and encountered Mr. Parry on an almost daily basis  Neither of us ever referred to my initial faux pas though I still cringe when I recall the look on his face when he came to my door to welcome me to the village.

I really must learn to speak Bahasa.