The Welsh in Patagonia

Patagonia is huge.  It’s hard to define exactly where the boundaries are.  As its fame has grown, more and more areas have proclaimed themselves to be Patagonian.  Broadly speaking, it’s most of the southern third of South America, starting a bit south of Buenos Aires.  It may or may not include Chile, depending on whom you choose to listen to.   When I think of Patagonia, I think of a rugged Andean landscape.  But wait, there’s more.  Nearer to Buenos Aires is the pampas, a green agricultural area. Farther south, along the East Coast and stretching inland are the steppes, Argentina’s version of the U.S. Southwest or the Australian Outback.

In 1865 a group of Welsh non-conformists, who didn’t like the English idea of having to give up their language and religion, decided it was time to go somewhere new.  They finagled a grant of land in the steppes of Patagonia from the Argentine government, landed at what is now Puerto Madryn, and headed inland to establish a farming community.  That’s what we went to visit.  It was over an hour bus ride through what felt to us like a trek through the Mojave Desert.  It must have felt like a big mistake to the Welsh.

But suddenly, you come upon a comparatively lush river valley that now has farms, trees and villages.  Most of the town we visited is shaded with large trees.  The area is dotted with Welsh chapels. The languages here are Welsh and Spanish, and most of the signs are at least bilingual, if not totally Welsh.

We were introduced to the area through some storytelling by an 80-something year old matriarch, and a performance by one of the local choirs. It makes you wonder if there are any Welsh people, regardless of where they live, that don’t have great singing voices.  They must ostracize them at birth.  Even our local tour guide, the historian on board (who is Welsh) and the matriarch broke into a hymn at one point and they were astounding.

But the main event was a stop at tearoom.  The tea was excellent, (served with genuine knitted cozies covering the pots), but everything that went with it was even better.  Cakes and crumbles, scones and cheese sandwiches, pies and other concoctions we never were able to identify didn’t stop coming.  Returning to the ship later, all I could manage for dinner was soup and salad.  So, for an unplanned stop in an unknown port, it turned into a very enjoyable day.