In a world of BAFTAs and World Cups, it feels decidedly strange to attend an event dedicated to celebrating creative prose. Being accustomed to cheering goals rather than particularly touching combinations of words, I didn’t know what my first visit to the Main Pavilion had in store for me so with that in mind, I clicked onto the Prose Medal Ceremony section of the official Eisteddfod website and read up on what I’d been told was an extremely prestigious event.
If by any chance – like me – you’re unaware of what it takes to win the Prose Medal, let me summarise; contestants submit a piece of creative prose of no more than 40,000 words, under a predetermined theme – that this year was conflict. After a comprehensive judging process one piece is deemed “worthy’ of the medal (yes, this is a competition where it’s possible for everyone to lose – as everyone did in 2012) and is presented with it by the Arch-druid during a ceremony that proved to be nothing like I’ve ever been to before.
After picking up my translation kit from a van near Pavilion entrance seven and silently pleading that I wouldn’t look overly conspicuous, I made my way into the tent and found a seat towards the back of the central stand. Only then did the Main Pavilion’s deception become clear; although the tent dominates the landscape of the Maes and appears as if it could easily house hundreds, once inside the space feels surprisingly intimate.
Having heard the Prose Medal Ceremony trumpeted by my colleagues and the mainstream media alike, I couldn’t help a thought cross my mind: I expected a bigger turnout. Although the central stand was full, the side-stands were practically empty and not befitting of an occasion that had evidently taken a great deal of effort to organise. In hindsight, it’s easy to see why the seats weren’t filled – who expects to sit inside a darkened tent when the rest of the Maes is basking in glorious sunshine?
Nevertheless, the show was always going to continue – regardless of the number of people who intended to see it happen. Following an opening of trumpets and a gowned group taking to the stage, the Pavilion broke into what I interpreted to be Welsh hym as everyone stood and sang while the keys of an organ reverberated around the portable arena. I stared into space – trying my best to look as respectful as possible – and tried to figure out what on earth was happening.
This was to be expected, I guess – if you’ve never been to a traditional Welsh Gorsedd ceremony before then it would be strange if you did know what was happening. What doesn’t take too much understanding, however, is the emotion that the Welsh so evidently feel towards these traditions. Being there dispassionately allowed me to survey the event and those taking part in it, and respect was written over every onlookers’ face as they prepared to enjoy the process they were about to witness.
Following an introduction by the Arch-druid and a run through of entered prose that was great but just missed the grade, the winner was announced to rapturous applause. Escorted to the stage from the audience, she was gowned and treated to an impressive display of traditional Welsh dance after a sheathing and re-sheathing of a sword while the audience was repeatedly encouraged to respond to the question, “is there peace?”.
From an outsider’s point of view, this was an incredibly hard process to get my head around but some things don’t need to be completely understood to be appreciated. The respect that those watching clearly shared and the tenacity with which the Welsh National Anthem boomed around the Main Pavilion as the ceremony drew to a close was enough for me to realise that this is an extremely important event to a large portion of the Welsh community.
In celebrating prose, you celebrate creativity, imagination, and the sheer power of words. It’s a universal message that perhaps loses it clarity somewhat through the generally perplexing ceremony, but it’s one that I completely endorse and I respect the Eisteddfod festival for helping perpetuate the philosophy in its unique and interesting manner.
Fundamentally, it was an experience that I’ll never forget and it’s highlighted to me the positivity in tradition. In the 21st century the term has come to be associated with stagnation, but today went some way to confirming the opposite – should communities continue to value the processes that have existed for years on end and continue to relish doing so, then that’s the greatest form of “stagnation” I can imagine.
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