Farmers' Debate Rain streamed down the windows of the little
café in the Merioneth town, and I sat listening to an animated discussion between two groups of farmers. The subject I had thought to be Government and agricul- tural committees turned out to be drama. My companion, a Welsh scholar, translated for me as the thrust and parry of debate went on. An old man with a flowing moustache did most of the talking. In five minutes he mentioned a score of poets and playwrights, bards of old times, the Black Chair of Birkenhead, and inevitably, as my corn- panion had warned, he came to religion and theology. Now my interpreter found it hard to keep me informed of all that passed. The old man knocked over his cup and hastily brushed the tea from his jacket. " The Word," he repeated. " The first thing was The Word." A little woman appeared at the café door and waited patiently for her husband to end his remarks. " The Word," said the old man, catching sight of her. The little woman spoke quickly, and the others laughed as the old man got up and struggled into his overcoat. Not once had anyone mentioned sheep, but they were all hill-farmers.
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