St David's Day.

 St David's Day.

The first day of March was usually synonymous with the very first suggestions of springtime, the faint perfume of those first burgeoning daisies, the tantalising glimpses of tulips, those restless rabbits who keep nibbling away at your household carrots and the English countryside finally sheds its wintertime hibernation, its eerie earnestness and infuriating inhibitions. How alliterative can the seasons be?

Today though is, as you may well know, is St David's Day, a celebration of everything and everybody Welsh. Still, the land of our fathers has been silenced once again, the sweet melodies of Welsh male and female voice choirs now reduced to nothing more than a pained whisper. The continuing coronavirus crisis will hurt the good people of Wales on today of all todays since they can't sing in harmony and the thoracic throats will have to be quietened down since today is not the day for belting out old sea shanties, projecting old hymns from medieval times and good, old fashioned sing songs around the pub piano if indeed they still exist. 

In theory we should be holding up Wales as the land of song, the land of verse and poetry, a country rich in history and tradition as much as the rest of the United Kingdom is in its own way. And yet here we are in the middle of the most devastating global pandemic and all is glumness in Cardiff, gloom in Swansea and inconsolable in Glamorgan. It may be the case that St David's Day will still go ahead in Wales but it may seem like one lingering, anti-climax where all the people just sit there looking both stunned and bewildered by the completely destructive toll that Covid 19 has taken on all of us. 

Deep in the whistling and rustling valleys, the magical mountains, the once very prosperous mining villages and the rich, arable farmland of the Welsh agricultural communities, there is now grief, a real sense of mourning as if perhaps the end of the world had arrived before anybody had asked it. At the best of times Wales was renowned for its stunningly talented rugby union teams, famed for being the best at singing and more recently for having a Welsh football team to be immensely proud of after their Euro 2016 exploits but now it's all come to a grinding halt because a virus has effectively stopped everything. 

True, the Welsh did thrash the English on Saturday with a comfortable victory at the Millennium Stadium and once again you were reminded once again that every so often, when you put an oval rugby ball in the lily-white hands of a red shirted Welshman he does like to put on a spectacular exhibition. When the Welsh decide to play rugby properly it's rather like asking an Italian opera singer to oil his vocal chords and belt out a memorable aria. When a Welshman is in the right mood and the moon is in the right position you can bet your bottom dollar that a thumping victory has been kept up his sleeves. 

St David's Day would perhaps have been far livelier and deliriously happier than perhaps it may seem today. The pub doors would have been flung open at the crack of dawn, the sheep and lamb dressed up and decorated with its brightest and most vivid colours of red and white and old Max Boyce jokes  would have been dug up from the dusty cupboards of history. You almost find yourself wondering what ever happened to Max Boyce and maybe somebody should encourage him to tread the boards again although at the moment that may not be physically possible, advisable or legal. 

You remember the Welsh dragon breathing fire and dogged tenacity at the old Arms Park when Bennett, Edwards, JPR Williams and Mervyn Davies were sweeping the opposition aside like a kitchen broom picking up all the dust and dirt from the floor without so much as batting an eye-lid. The Welsh have always been passionate about life, sport, song and eating leaks with their evening meal but today will be tinged with sadness and annoying exasperation because today normal life has been suspended for the time being at least. 

 Years ago on a family holiday we stepped onto an enchanting steam train that wound its way artistically around the valleys and hills, the misty moors and the brooding mountains. The train journey was rather like a voyage of discovery, a revelation, rather like watching the most perfectly stitched embroidery gradually emerging from the cotton wool clouds hanging delicately over the landscape. 

Then we disembarked from the train and were promptly treated to a magnificent evening of old time jazz music from the finest jazz band you could ever have wished to have heard. Admittedly, it wasn't a paddle steamer on the banks of the Deep South in America. But we merrily gorged ourselves hungrily on burgers at the astonishing barbecue on the station's platform. It was an excellent evening although you did get a temporary bout of food poisoning the following day. 

But of course Wales take enormous pride in its singing tradition when a whole nation grabs hold of the nearest available microphone, bellowing out beautifully the hymns, the folk tunes, the collective sound that will echo through the Brecon Beacons, down into the lush, green fields of  rural Wales, through Llanelli, the welcoming red carpet treatment extended by those postage stamp market towns and villages that mind their own business and then invite you warmly in for an invigorating pint of best bitter.

So today is St David's Day, the day that should have been reserved for lyrical ditties, tales of gothic mystery from the lands of Harlech and classical Welsh sound tracks from many, many moons ago. Somewhere out there Max Boyce may be gathering his thoughts and the good people will be oiling those tonsils for an evening of wine, song, alcoholic refreshment and the charm offensive. Let's make a noise for St. David's Day.