Hiraeth

Welsh ghost towns

I am from a long line of Welsh peoples, as far back as I can tell. I, however, was born and raised in England. Growing up, each holiday, every break, we travelled the several hours to visit family and friends in a land that was mine, and yet not. I consider myself Welsh at heart, despite having never lived there, and each time I drive across the border it fills me with a sense of longing. A homecoming, if you like. A conversation with a friend of mine - Welsh despite having not lived there for many years - reminded me that there is a term for that. Hiraeth. The homesickness, the desire for something that once was, or perhaps never was. A sense of yearning for a place, a time, a life that could have been. And each time I see those green mountains, the winding rivers, the strings of terraced homes adorning the roadside, they call to me. 

Photo by Joseph Reeder on Unsplash

Hiraeth is a word for which there is no direct translation to English. It is not a sadness, not truly, but a pull at the heartstrings nonetheless. And it is not just for those lost souls who are separate from their homeland, but also reflects changes within Wales itself. Some time ago, I wrote about ghost towns - those abandoned towns and villages that still draw visitors, despite their ruined state. They are a snapshot of time, often with belongings still remaining as residents hurried to leave. Often associated with a change in a town’s circumstances, there is another reason for them to exist - enforced evacuation. 

This is certainly the case in some of the ruined villages of Wales. Not abandoned through choice, nor slow decay, but through a rapid change of circumstance enforced by outsiders. Much like the loss of the Welsh language, a deliberate move to demolish the physical and social bonds of the strong extant communities. Whether it was the push to vacate land for military uses, or for the creation of new reservoirs, small Welsh communities found themselves powerless to resist, and forced to move, leaving abandoned homes to be demolished, reused, or flooded. It makes the idea of ghost towns feel very personal.

Lake Vyrnwy, Wales. Created by flooding the Vyrnwy Valley, including the village of Llanwddyn. Photo by James Armes on Unsplash

It is not all doom and gloom. Nant Gwrtheyrn, a site with evidence of Iron Age inhabitation, grew to a thriving quarry town in the 19th century, before declining over the following years. The final family moved out in 1959. Briefly occupied by a commune in the 1970s, Nant Gwrtheryn has since had an upsurge of investment and rebuilding, and is now a Welsh language centre, providing us with a way to connect to our roots in a village that was once nothing but ghosts and memories. 

Hiraeth is not just about place. It's a bone deep aching for a loss that one can't identify; a heart's longing for a sense of community; a soul's need to belong to a space, a place, a group. Perhaps a throwback to times when we all knew our neighbours, our village, our world. And nowhere does that hit deeper for me than in the heartlands of a home that never was: Wales.