The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill But Came Down a Mountain

For some odd reason, lost in the mists of time,

there's an extraordinary shortage of last names in Wales.

Almost everyone seems to be a Williams, a Jones or an Evans.

To avoid widespread confusion,

Welsh people often add an occupation to a name.

For example, there was Williams the Petroleum...

and Williams the Death.

There was Jones the Bottle and Jones the Prize Cabbage,

which described his hobby and his personality.

Evans the Bacon... and Evans the End of the World.

The Lord God tells us. lt's all in His book.

But one man's name was a puzzle.

And it wasn't until l was ten years old that l asked my grandfather...

about the man with the longest and most enigmatic name of all.

The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down A Mountain?

Now there's a long name for you, and a long story.

You are not going to fidget, are you?

For this is a story... an epic story.

Yes, epic.

lt must have been 1917, on a Sunday,

when two retired army officers arrived in Ffynnon Garw.

The younger man, Anson, was just startin' to enjoy life,

having recently left hospital after service in France.

However, his superior, George Garrad,

had been retired to the Ordnance Survey...

in the hope that this would help the morale of his troops,

who'd been driven to drink by his irksome personality.

Many men had gone to the Great War,

and the rest of the village was in chapel.

All except Morgan the Goat, of course.

Oh, uh, excuse me. Well, does anyone here speak English?

Oh, English, are you?

Huh? Huh. That would explain everything.

- Well, it's Sunday. They're all in chapel. - We're just wondering if, um--

Charming. We'll press on, l think.

Well, do you want to come in or don't you?

As l said, the rest of the village was in chapel,

includin' mothers with babies.

Since the young men went to war, there seemed to be a lot of ginger-haired babies.

But in those hard times, no one seemed to mind...

except Reverend Jones, of course.

Are all of the wicked men just in Germany?

Wouldn't that be nice if all the wicked men...

were on the battlefields of France?

Oh, Reverend Jones was in fine form that day.

Nearly every Sunday he preached against the war...

and Morgan the Goat, in that order,

though he never mentioned Morgan the Goat by name, of course.

They are also among us here...

in this very village.

What's yours?

Well, um, that's very kind.

l'll, uh, have a pint of bitter, thank you.

Morgan?

Well, pleasant enough sort of place, isn't it?

l suppose so, considering it's Wales.

A valued guest. A regular.

Very particular. Refined even.

This is turning out to be quite a busy spot.

Now then. Oh.

Oh, l hate the summer.

Ah, morning, Sergeant.

Morning. My name is Garrad. George Garrad.

Uh, we're staying here at the inn.

l guessed that from your luggage. English, are you?

Looking for more coal, l suppose.

No. Cartographer, actually.

Yes, sort of surveyors, if you like.

We make maps. We're here to measure the mountains.

Very useful, l'm sure.

l'll have you know it's an important part of the war effort.

One must know one's terrain.

You've come to the right place with your measurings.

There's some terrain. That's a mountain. First mountain in Wales.

- What's it called? - Ffynnon Garw.

Goodness gracious, these Welsh names.

Would you mind saying that again?

''Fuh-non Gar-rue,'' man. lt's simple. Listen.

l'll write it down for you now...

so you can get it right on your map doings.

Thank you. Thank you very much. Of course, it will only appear if it's over a thousand feet.

Don't be twp, man. That's well over a thousand.

Now then.

Oh, eh... Excuse me.

- l think-- - You ready for another?

You can keep the change, Mr. Morgan!

Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. Thank you very much.

Ooh, that Morgan!

Look, sorry. Could l please have a pint of bitter?

No need to get all English about it.

Hey, the English are in the pub, and they say they come to measure the mountain.

All this way just to measure our mountain.

Measuring it?

Well, who needs to know the height of a mountain, l ask.

- Another drink, gentlemen? - Ah-ha! No. No.

- No, thank you. Most hospitable. - Yes, no, no, thanks.

- Anything else l can be getting you? - No.

All right then. l'll be taking the dog for a walk. See you in the morning.

Oh, there is one thing.

l know it's hard to find staff in this time of war, but we will require an assistant.

Someone quite strong, preferably.

l think you will find that His Majesty's Ordnance Survey...

will provide equitable remuneration.

They'll pay, but not very much.

Oh.

Well, those that aren't in France are down the mines.

- Of course, there's Johnny Shellshocked. - Sorry. Who?

Johnny Jones, back from the war. Gone a little doodle-alley-tap.

- He lives with his sister, poor thing. But strong. - Oh, l see.

As long as you don't expect him to talk... or think.

We will require his services just as a porter.

Oh, well. Johnny should be able to manage that.

- Perhaps we could meet him. - Oh, absolutely. First thing in the morning.

He seems to have rather an impatient dog, wouldn't you say?

Yeah.

- Why not? - Because he's not ready.

All he has to do is hold a pole straight.

Don't be twp. No one gets paid for just holdin' a pole.

Unless you're Betty from Cardiff.

- Don't start that again. - Megan said she saw her,

all tarted up again in the pub on Saturday.

She's been advisin' me on the refurbishment of my establishment.

Refurbishin' your establishment!

l've never heard it called that before.

Mornin', Johnny.

l got some English stayin' at the pub. Makin' maps, daft buggers.

They need help, of course.

Someone to carry what they can't or won't.

There's money.

So should l tell them you're interested?

Well, uh, come along to the pub later, all right?

Ah! Good mornin', Reverend Jones.

l see God's in His heaven and all's well with the world.

- Have you no shame? - No!

l can't think where l've left it.

When does a hill become a mountain?

l think it must be a comparative term. l mean,

you take the Himalayas of lndia.

There they have mountains of 10,000 feet which are referred to, l believe, as foothills.

But take our mountain. That isn't a foothill!

Well, again, placed in the Alps, it wouldn't even be considered a hillock.

- But it isn't in the Alps! lt's here! Here in Wales! - Oh, quite.

So who... who decides on British maps?

Mr. Davies, now this in confidence.

- They're saying... - What, the English?

Yes! They're saying that it must be over 1,000 feet.

Really! l'd imagined 5,000 was the standard.

But how high is Ffynnon Garw?

ls it over a thousand? Over two thousand?

A thousand? l'd always imagined it was a few hundred.

Oh, dear. Oh, and l thought you were an educated man.

Oh, dear. Oh, dear.

The first mountain in Wales.

Yes, it is something we have boasted about since time immemorial.

We didn't have the biggest mountains of the North...

nor the beautiful mountains of mid-Wales,

but we could claim that we lived in the shadow of the first mountain...

inside the Welsh border.

These mountains have defeated every invader.

This is where the Britons fled...

when they were invaded by the Romans, the Angles,

the Saxons, the Vikings, the Normans.

Oh, yes, they all invaded this island of Britain,

but they've never taken the mountains from us.

They've never taken ancient Britain.

My God. Those last stretches are steeper than they look.

- Yeah. - l hardly think that your pedometer reading...

will be much use.

Uh, well, not much, but, uh, nevertheless--

So, can you see either of our checkpoints from here?

Uh,

n-no.

But l can see those two men again.

SngSng

Rather ominous. Reminds me of surveying Abyssinia in '88.

Come on, boys.

Any more bets? This may be your last chance.

2,300.

2,300.

For Williams the Petroleum. Good man, good man.

Right, Anson.

Oh, uh, well,

same as you, l imagine.

Mmm, yes. More or less.

Good.

The very men we need. Mr. Garrad, sir.

Settle our bet. How high is our mountain?

l'm sorry. l can't say yet.

We've only just done the first recce.

You must have some idea.

Well, nothing accurate as yet, l'm afraid.

- Good night. - Night.

Uh, look.

l may be wrong, but after 25 years of doing this sort of thing, l doubt it.

l would say about 930 feet.

Gentlemen.

- 930? - 930?

Come in.

- Mr. Anson! - Oh, Mr. Morgan.

Yes. Perhaps you can help.