I bloody loves Wales

In England, a passionate sense of pride for your country is considered Nationalistic.

In Wales, National pride is called Patriotism. I love that.

I love that our Gog, Taff divide is much less aggressive than that of other countries.

I love it when you walk through Bala, or some other small town in North Wales an only hear Welsh being spoken.

I love it when you walk through Cardiff and you overhear a rare but heart-warming Welsh conversation. Fi cariad yr iaith.

I love it that you can walk through any town in the country, smile at a stranger, and they’ll smile back.

I love that when you climb through Snowdonia National Park and look out over the landscape, that you can feel an overwhelming sense of unity with an entire nation. But also feel like the only person in the whole country.

I love walking through the old coal mines inĀ Blaenau Ffestiniog and catching a glimpse of the hills in a lake, that are reflected so perfectly it looks like an optical illusion.

I love that you can walk along the coastal path between Aberystwyth and Borth, or the path along Penbrokshire, and you feel like you’re in completely different countries.

I love that when you hike through the Brecon Beacons, you have to catch your breath, because the scenery is so stunning.

I love that on a summers day down Porthcawl, it can get so hot and the beaches are so lush, you could be in the south of Europe.

I love that in other countries, rugby is considered a middle class sport, played by lads in boarding schools. But that in Wales, it’s played by the rugged sons of Coal Miners.

I love how fit our rugby team is. I love when you’re in the Millennium Stadium on match day, and you turn to the stranger next to you and belt the National Anthem with such passion, you could be singing at a mutual friends wedding. I love ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’

I love that even when we’re half cut, buzzing with excitement in those few minutes before kick off, that it still sounds like there’s a Male Voice Choir singing under the stadium roof.

I love our produce.
I love that we have the best wool in the world.
And the finest lamb.
I love how rare our gold is.
I love leek an potato soup.
And cowl.
I love our National spirit.
And our drinkable spirits.
I love our ale.
I love the Welsh Cake stand at the Llangollen Eisteddfod.

I love that almost everyone of a certain age remembers going to Glan Llyn in year 6.
I genuinely love the unpredictability of the Welsh weather.

I love that when the clouds are dark an full of something grim, that I can imagine Sir Kyffin Williams is up there with a palette of grey oils, filling in the sky like one of his paintings.

I love that John Elwyn’s work perfectly captures the community spirit of rural welsh villages.

I love the subtle but prominent use of whites, greens, and reds in his imagery. I love that when immigrants like Heinz Koppel and Josef Herman came to this country, they painted the mining towns of south Wales with as much passion and understanding as any native.

I love that during the turn of the century, just outside Aberystwyth, the Davies sisters were busy collecting and housing what is now known as one of the greatest collections of Post-Impressionist art.

I love that nestled in Gregynog there were Monets, Manets and Picasso’s lining the walls of their Welsh home.

I love how I’m transported to far away fields whenever I read an R.S Thomas poem.

I love the word Hiraeth.
I love how it exists to describe the desperate yearning the Welsh feel for their country in the pits of their stomach. That gut wrenching homesickness that comes from deep within.
I love how there is no English translation.

I love drinking Admirals in Aberystwyth, Beer in Bangor and Cocktails in Cardiff.

I love that your mam’s Sunday Dinner will always be the best hangover cure. That, and a walk through Roath Park with a Joe’s ice-cream Sunday.

I just love absolutely everything about the place.

I fancy Wales so much.

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