Did you know that 21 April is World Curlew Day! Isn’t there a day for everything? Why then does y gylfinir deserve a special ‘day’?
As is frequently the case the standard Welsh term for curlew – y Gylfinir – describes Britain’s largest wading bird perfectly: gylfin = bill, hir = long! It’s difficult to wrongly identify this big brown mottled bird due to its long slender downward curved bill. However its close relative, the whimbrel – coegylfinir – also has a long bill but is much smaller and only visits Wales on passage during the Spring and Autumn. You may have seen y gylfinir searching for worms by poking its long, flexible and sensitive bill into expanses of mud flats on the coast.
Y gylfinir is one of approximately 13 Welsh terms which have been used in different parts of Wales for curlew. This may indicate that it is a bird which is close to our hearts in Wales. A clue as to why this may be so comes from a collection of names which refer not to its bill but to its call: chwibanogl y mynydd, chwibanwr, whibonog and whibanwr. These are all variations on the theme of ‘whistling’! It’s difficult to describe the call – you have to hear it for yourself – and it’s even more difficult to put one’s finger on the effect it has on us. Poets and writers down the centuries have tried to accomplish this, including one of Wales’ most renowned poets, R Williams Parry in his poem Y Gylfinir. Here’s Charlotte Church singing a musical version
The other Welsh names for curlew are versions of gylfinir: gylfiniog, glafinir, glofeinir and it’s possible that two of the others are derived from the English ‘curlew’: giarliw and cwrlig. One homely term is Pegi Pig Hir which translates as long billed Peggy. Two names cause a bit of a quandry: cŵn Ebrill – April’s dogs and aderyn glaw – rainbird. This is T Gwynn Jones’ (1871 – 1949) explanation for the first of these as a result of his work collecting Welsh folklore:
“Cŵn Ebrill – April’s Dogs – is the name in some areas for curlew, particularly when the call is heard at nightime during early spring. The call isn’t unpleasant but I know of some who are horrified when they hear it, although they deny any knowledge of the Hounds of Hades, which at one time chased the souls of the dead through the sky.”
Whatever they are called, the sad fact is that curlews are becoming ever scarcer by the year. This is so much so, there is a danger there won’t be enough of a breeding population left for them to successfully nest and rear chicks on the wetlands and moors of Wales after 2033! This is why they need a special day dedicated to them, so that people become aware of them and their plight. There is considerable evidence that the first curlew eggs hatch around 21st April.
People who are new to Welsh in addition to fluent speakers have an opportunity to learn more and maybe see some curlew on Hiraethog on 20 May. Please contact judith@menterauiaith.cymru to book a place. Unfortunately there are no copies left of llyfr adar Iolo Willams although you may be able to get a copy from a second-hand bookshop! The place to get hold of standard Welsh terms for many species is y Bywiadur ar wefan Llên Natur. For more information about curlews go to Gylfinir Cymru website or prosiect Cri’r Gylfinir in the area around Ysbyty Ifan and Hiraethog.
Y Gylfinir
Your call is heard at mid-day
A wistful flute over the moor
Like a she[herd’s whistle far away
Your call is heard at midnight clear
Then hear we, as you swell your keen
The far-off barking of your unseen hounds
R. Williams Parry
A recent Talwrn y Beirdd poem
Mi deimlaf heddiw feini’r gwynt
Yn hyrddio’u neges am a ddaw
Pan sleifia’r gaeaf ar ei hynt
A’m gadael innau gyda’r glaw;
A gwelaf grinder deiliach brown
Yn siglo’ nghangau’r awel ffri,
Ond rhof y byd i gyd pe cown
I fynd â’r hydref gyda mi.
Ond eto, mae ’na rywbeth iach
Ar fore oer o eira glân
O estyn am ryw flanced fach
A swatio’n sownd o flaen y tân,
A chri Cŵn Ebrill trwy yr ias
Yn hebrwng ataf wanwyn glas.
Ioan Gwilym
Curlew
From afar on the breeze your song wafts.
Swelling into a rippling melody,
it flows over my wounds,
and plucks,
carries me to float in another realm,
before your notes cascade,
in a long melancholic diminuendo,
to leave echoes shimmering gently,
a haze hanging above the moor.
What is your word-less song curlew,
which caresses my soul?
A celebration;
the remote boggy tracts are yours,
with whispers of your eventual farewell,
and the wind-swept wastelands you’ll leave,
full of mute spirits,
and a hollowness inside me.
Siân Shakespear