The Welsh village where speaking English isn’t welcome

On a Saturday morning, no life stirs. The village café is closed and the ancient church of St. Beuno’s is locked and deserted. Beside the stone porch stands a dusty glass case that advertises church services and parish gatherings. Not a single event is scheduled. This is the peaceful village of Botwnnog (pronounced Bot-oon-awg) in the Llyn peninsula, north Wales, whose council recently rejected a plan to build eighteen houses for rent.

Few Welsh words have found their way into English, even though the two inhabit the same island

The language chosen by the council made headline news. “The Welsh village where English speakers aren’t welcome,” said the Daily Telegraph, referring to the council’s claim that the new homes posed a “danger to the Welsh language and the fabric of the community.” The council’s statement even speculated about language tests for newcomers. “It would be great if the availability of proposed houses could be limited to Welsh speakers only.” Bit of a mistake. A village council has no power to treat its community like a members-only club and to require probationers to sit an exam before receiving a residency permit.

In their defense, the village councilors were speaking hypothetically and their stance reflected anxieties shared by the county authority, Gwynedd council. Last month, the county implemented a notorious “Article Four” directive which limits the ability of freeholders to convert their properties into “a second home or a short-term vacation let.” The aim is to reduce the demand for vacation homes by choking off supply. The council decided to act after seeing evidence that in popular resorts more than 54 percent of homes are holiday lets. An impact assessment suggested that “the median average price for a house in Abersoch is $630,000… This means that 96 percent of local people have been priced out of the market.” Hence its desire to engineer a housing slump and to make homes more affordable to locals on modest incomes.

The ploy may be working. A shopkeeper in Pwllheli told me that every property-owner he knows is selling up. “Including you?” I asked. “No, I’m staying put,” he said, “I love it here. I moved in twenty-eight years ago. If I didn’t like it, I’d leave.” He was from Liverpool. A cleaning lady told me that the council’s attempt to rig the market was pointless: the weather does the job far better. “It rains all the time. If it’s not raining in the morning, it’ll start by lunchtime. And the second homeowners from London and Essex don’t expect that. Their houses are left unoccupied. They’re cold. The heating’s off. The damp gets in. And they can’t afford the maintenance bills.” In her experience, few buyers last more than two or three years before they surrender to the monsoons and sell up.

Gwynedd’s consultation process weighed up the pros and cons of Article Four — and the language was pretty blunt. “Preventing people from England from accessing affordable accommodation is racist,” said the report. “It is a form of ethnic cleansing… It may create divided communities where people who are not indigenous Welsh feel uncomfortable and separated from the community.”

And they considered the social fallout of a property crash. Many people may be pushed “into a cycle of deprivation which they cannot get out of.” If homeowners can’t help their kids on to the property ladder, “the young will leave Wales. And with them goes the future of the Welsh language.” Then again, the policy may harm the Welsh language by attracting settlers from overseas. “Many people with different beliefs, languages and cultures will move to the area for cheaper housing — not Welsh-speakers and not Christians.” Despite these warnings, the council passed the directive. “Any detrimental impact can be justified,” they said. Clearly, they underestimated the risk of saddling north Wales with a reputation for xenophobia.

Perhaps new residents could do their bit by learning Welsh voluntarily, as a courtesy to their hosts. Plenty of help is available. Shop windows in Pwllheli carry advertisements for a “fast-track Welsh” program that costs $65 and lasts thirty-three weeks. As I wrote down the details, I got chatting to an English woman who had completed the course and taken part in coffee-and-cake sessions with Welsh-speaking volunteers. But she hadn’t achieved fluency. In fact, she’d given up completely, even though she held a degree in Russian literature. Welsh is not a language that welcomes the casual student with open arms. It’s remarkable how few Welsh words have found their way into English, even though we inhabit the same island.

Everyone in Britain can say “thank you” in Spanish and “hello” in Italian and “goodbye” in French or German. Hardly any of us could guess at the Welsh equivalents. One of the alienating complexities of Welsh is the pronunciation which varies from speaker to speaker. The town of Tywyn, for example, can start with a “tee,” a “two,” or a “tuh.” The second syllable of Llandeilo rhymes with “dial” or with “deal” according to taste. Fierce arguments erupt over the correct usage. Even robots join in. As my train trundled through Snowdonia, the automatic voice-over announced Penrhyndeudraeth in a form that was not matched by the ticket collector’s. Criccieth got three syllables from the auto-announcer, but the locals give it two. Every-one’s wrong and everyone’s right. This uncertainty discourages beginners who fear ridicule every time they open their mouths.

That’s why I felt a pang of anxiety as I boarded the bus from Pwllheli and asked for a ticket to “Botnog.” I was sure I’d mispronounced it and I expected to be met with a withering glare from the driver. But she gave me a friendly grin and said “Bot-oon-awg” indulgently. Later, after parking the bus, she chatted to me about Article Four, which she regards as a godsend. “Before they brought that in,” she said, “estate agents wouldn’t even take your calls, let alone show you a property. They wanted cash buyers from Cheshire. But now the long-term residents can get a foot on the ladder.” She’d lived in north Wales for more than a decade but her accent wasn’t Welsh or English. “Where are you from?” I asked. “Los Angeles, California.”

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.