Fifty-nine letters! You don’t believe me? Count ’em for yourself. &uot;Llanfairpwllgwyn-gyllgogerychwyndrobwllllandyssiliogogogoch.&uot;

Should you be wondering, it’s the name of a Welsh village in Anglesea. Should you be writing to someone there, the first 20 letters will probably get the letter to its destination.

Translated into English the name means, &uot;The church of St. Mary in a hollow of white hazel, near to rapid whirlpool, and to St. Tisilio church, near to a red cave.&uot;

It’s my understanding that the Welsh language is still taught in the schools in Wales. Thank heavens whatever Welsh ancestors I may have had left that country. Spelling was never my best subject and if I’d have had to spell words like that I’d have never made it through school.

My good friend, Eleanor Wong Telemaque, and I once visited the country. It’s been so many years ago that I can’t remember exactly where we went. I think it was Cardiff. There was a castle there with the cell in which William the Conqueror’s son was mewed up when he invaded that country. He died or was executed in Wales.

The grounds were beautiful, lush, green and brightened by peacocks marching across them. Part of Hadrian’s wall curved around them. A thick wall it was and spoke of a time when a wall could shut out danger.

Being an inexperienced traveler, I made many mistakes. One of them was taking too much with me. When we left the train at Wales, we were burdened by my heavy suitcase. As we were tugging it along, a very kind red-haired gentleman stepped forward to carry it for us.

More than grateful, we pulled out our money to pay him for his kindness.

&uot;Never,&uot; he protested. &uot;Have we reached a pass in our civilization that a man can’t do a small favor for a woman freely and without hope of reward?&uot;

Then, casting his eyes heavenward, added, &uot;Of course, if you were determined to give me a bit of a tip and to find it would ruin your day not to, I’m not saying I couldn’t be persuaded.&uot;

There was a twinkle in his eye. We persuaded him and the three of us went our ways with laughter and good feelings. I purchased a little hand tote bag, wide-mouthed and big enough to hold necessities. It was a lovely shade of green decorated on one side with a red dragon, a Welsh symbol.

Years later in an American airport, while carrying it, I was approached by a rather elderly lady. She was ever so friendly. Said the minute she spotted the bag she knew my nationality. Said both of her parents were born in Wales and &uot;Bless you, my dear, I knew at once you were one of us.&uot;

I didn’t have the heart to correct the mistake. After all my great-great-grandfather married a woman named Lucy Williams. I never knew either one of them, of course, but Williams is a Welsh name. I told my new friend that I had been in Wales and loved both the country and the people I met there.

I liked the bag, too. We stored my miserable suitcase in one of those storage lockers in the depot. It wasn’t until we were collecting it to leave Wales that we realized that we couldn’t make the key work to open the locker.

We struggled and struggled with it, mindful that any minute our train would be pulling in. Finally in desperation we sought help from the ticket master. He had it open in a minute but was not pleased with us.

&uot;I’m surprised at you ladies,&uot; he reproved. &uot;This is one of the finest lockers in our country and what’s more it was made in the United States so you should be totally familiar with it.&uot;

Thus admonished, we thanked him kindly, and studied the locker with as much interest as we could whomp up. It seemed the least we could do. Sure enough. That locker was made in Missouri. In 1912.

Everyone we met spoke English, but the Celtic language, I understand, is still spoken in some homes in Wales.

It puzzles me that everyone is so determined to keep to one language in this country. Of course, English should be our official language. Being able to speak more than one tongue, though, would enrich every person who was able to acquire that skill.

I keep hoping that one day the Adult Education will set up a class in French and hold that class in the morning or afternoon. So that Senior Citizens like me can broaden our horizons.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.