It’s time to scream Yr Wyddfa from the highest peak…
Resistance to Snowdon being called by its Welsh name could spell trouble, says
Picture the scene – a tourist stood at the base of Yr Wyddfa checking Google Maps, turning to their hiking partner and saying: “This isn’t Snowdon, Dave. We’ve come to the wrong mountain.”
Snowdonia National Park authorities have been asked to only refer to Snowdon as Yr Wyddfa, and Snowdonia as Eryri, and it feels like the beginning of another fierce language row.
I do subscribe to the view that you shouldn’t change a name for the sake of it. But this isn’t changing a name.
It’s banishing a needless title that has seemingly caught on to appease people unable to pronounce Yr Wyddfa. (For reference, “Yr” as in “Err on the side of caution”, and then “Wyddfa” as in “Oi!”, but in a Cockney accent, “dd” as in a soft “th” at the beginning of “the”, and “fa” as in “VAR”, the acronym for football’s maligned Video Assistant Referee. So ‘Err Oi-th-var’. Simple as that.)
Snowdon comes from Saxon “snow dune” meaning “snow hill”, while Yr Wyddfa’s meaning is “grave”, owing to the legend that the giant Rhita Gawr was buried on the mountain.
Snowdonia, too, is a helpful double-down, with Snowdon being the capital of Snowdonia National Park.
But the Welsh name for the mountain range – Eryri – is thought to have either originated from the Latin “oriri”, which means “to rise”, but also is believed to have been linked to the Welsh name for “eagle”, “eryr”. (For those at the back, Eryri is “Ery” as in the “Erro in Errol” and “Ri” as in “Re” in “Reboot. So Erro-ree”.)
But the Anglicising of Welsh places and landscapes is becoming endemic in my home country, and it’s driving a dagger through the heart of the language.
Natives have long been priced out of idyllic Welsh villages by mainly English people snapping up second homes.
Local councils have bitten back at new owners looking to rename their holiday homes “The Cottage” by attempting to block their requests, or charging them to get rid of the Welsh house name.
But in reality, the Welshness of Wales is being diluted by the relentlessly blasé use of the language by those who should know better.
Misspelled signs, ill-thought-out names and literal translations are a daily reminder for Welsh speakers that it is not taken seriously.
New-build developments and retail parks are some of the worst offenders. Latitude at The Quays, Longwood Grange, Mermaid Quay – all faceless, placeness names of no relevance to where they are situated near my hometown of Penarth.
Some will try to appease the Welsh language with a bilingual condescending pat on the head, like Parc Plymouth or Cae St Fagans. But arguably, when the decision is made to go all-welsh, that is where the worst crimes of all come from.
I still shudder at the thought of one new-build estate in Barry, which is littered with a haul of howlers. These street names really are something to behold: Cenin Pedr (Daffodil), Afal Sur (Sour Apple), Coed Criafol (Rowan’s Trees), Esgid Mair (Mary’s Shoe), Carn-yr-ebol (The Foal’s Pile)… the road-naming equivalent of yelling “DOS LARGE BEERS, POR FAVOR!” at the Spanish waiter thinking: “That’ll do, I gave it a good go.”
Not to get too snowflakey about it, but names do matter. Especially when it comes to language, and the use of a language that so many hold dear to their hearts. And it’s not exclusive to Wales.
Take Mount Everest. The highest mountain in the world isn’t known by its Tibetan name Chomolungma, meaning goddess mother of the world. Instead, it has been stripped of its national identity to please the masses, named after Colonel Sir George Everest who was born in – checks notes – Powys.
Other peaks in Wales have escaped a Sir George-inspired rebrand. Cader Idris is still charmingly Cader Idris – Idris’s Chair, Idris being a giant. Pen-y-fan, South Wales’s tallest peak, simply translates as Top-of-the-hill.
It could be argued that even if this motion is passed, people will still call it Snowdon.
But passed the motion should be. The mountain is Welsh, the mountain range is ours, and Yr Wyddfa should be screamed from the rooftops.
Anglicising our landscapes is driving a dagger through the heart of the language