I was born in 1963 in the valleys of South Wales where I lived until I was 18 when I went off to London to University. My family and many good friends still live there and we visit  and holiday there regularly and phone several times a week!  These are my "credentials" - a physical blood link - but far more important is the Hwyl - the love and joy in my heart for Wales.

I come from an area near the Rhondda Valleys - not too far from Cardiff. Very few people speak Welsh and I grew up only learning the odd phrase. I was taught it at school for 3 years but then I had to make the choice between Biology or Welsh. For someone who wanted to be a Biochemist and who was never shown the relevance or historical importance of the Welsh language, there was no choice to make - Biology.

I love Biology and I don't think I would have chosen differently even if I could go back but there is now a part of me that wishes I could speak my native tongue. Maybe one day I'll have the time to learn. "Maybe one day" kind of sums up my feelings for Wales. I miss it dreadfully - and not just because my family are there - but it never seems the right time to go back. First it was jobs - it was easier for both Kerry and I to find jobs in London, then it was housing - we had a flat to pay for and house prices had fallen below our purchase price, then it was Church - I taught a youth group for nine years, then it was Iestyn - he has a lot of friends here and he had an excellent infant school.  Now I wonder if I'll ever get "Home".

Many people have the idea that Wales is a collection of quaint villages. Some parts of Wales are but not mine, not the Valleys of South Wales. We have tiny, clustered houses, crowded together in the valleys. From your bedroom window you can see five or six other people's bedroom windows in the street behind - if you're on a steep gradient, you can see the windows of the street behind that. All built up the side of the mountain like steps and towering over it all, the mountains. Huge things covered in heather and bracken, berries and sheep.

The downside is the dirtiness of it all, the nosiness, the crowding of the houses, the poverty in an area bereft of jobs, but the upside, which far outweighs the downs, is the friendliness, the community spirit - diminished from that which I enjoyed as a child but still stronger than any I've encountered elsewhere, and the overawing beauty. The mountains, the forests, even the rows of houses clinging to the rock face have their own beauty.

At Christmas, they light their houses with candles and fairy lights - something which seems common in America if the TV is anything to go by, but here in London it's rare. Once you have seen the mountains of the Rhondda afire with the fairy glow of hundreds of Welsh homes, Christmas is never the same again. I remember driving my Grandmother out late at night, touring the valleys,  just taking the view. We returned to her little flat and with warmth in her voice she proclaimed "Oh I enjoyed that!" Go and see it if you can while the community spirit behind it is still there for it won't be the same without that spirit. It really ought to be mentioned in the tourist brochures.

At The Edge Of The Rhondda

"Vrrwmm  vrrwmm," goes the car,

"yee haa," goes the little boy.

It's late and everything's packed

We're going to Wales!

Off on the Motorway - noisy place.

"Snore snore," goes the little dog

Safe in her box.

Everyone's tired - it's a long, long way.

Wales is beautiful - mountains and all,

Woods for walks, woods to explore.

Streams to damn, bridges to build.

Hills to climb and tree swings to ride.

Wimberry Mountain covered in ferns.

"Oh My Giddy Aunt," goes the little boy.

Juicy and purple, sweet wimberries,

Purple lips, purple fingertips.

Red Kite flies, hovering high.

Buzzards gliding, seagulls squawking.

Big black crows sit in the trees.

Sheep hide in the rocks.

The air is cool on the mountain.

Things down below look really small.

Life is gentle on the mountain.

Boy feels happy up there.

by I J Evans age 6 and 1/2