Meeting my Welsh family for the first time was both exciting and somewhat daunting. All my life these people had been mere images in our family album, characters in stories I heard from my grandfather’s lips. Suddenly here I was being ushered into their homes.
I’m sure they were as nervous as I was, meeting this stranger from the antipodes, but once they’d welcomed me into the parlour and said, “I’ll put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea”, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was an icebreaker, that cup of tea.
An everyday commonality that bridged the strangeness of sitting opposite someone I knew all about, but had never met.
I visited six homes in the ensuing days, in those beautiful lush green valleys in South Wales, but one stands out in my memory, the home of my grandmother’s youngest sister, Florrie. She was in her eighties by then and she greeted me with tears. She’d never imagined she would get to meet me and found the moment overwhelming. I’d heard many stories about her and was often told I was like her, but for me she was the lady who sent a Christmas parcel to me every year all through my childhood.
Without fail it would arrive a week or two before Christmas. Once there was a Welsh doll in traditional dress with a high top black hat and red cloak that seemed so special to a little girl. And always there were chocolate English shillings wrapped in gold paper that sometimes suffered as they navigated the December heat and the Australian postal service. It always came with a card attached, “With much love from Auntie Florrie”.
I’m sure they were as nervous as I was, meeting this stranger from the antipodes, but once they’d welcomed me into the parlour and said, “I’ll put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea”, I breathed a sigh of relief.
It was an icebreaker, that cup of tea.
An everyday commonality that bridged the strangeness of sitting opposite someone I knew all about, but had never met.
I visited six homes in the ensuing days, in those beautiful lush green valleys in South Wales, but one stands out in my memory, the home of my grandmother’s youngest sister, Florrie. She was in her eighties by then and she greeted me with tears. She’d never imagined she would get to meet me and found the moment overwhelming. I’d heard many stories about her and was often told I was like her, but for me she was the lady who sent a Christmas parcel to me every year all through my childhood.
Without fail it would arrive a week or two before Christmas. Once there was a Welsh doll in traditional dress with a high top black hat and red cloak that seemed so special to a little girl. And always there were chocolate English shillings wrapped in gold paper that sometimes suffered as they navigated the December heat and the Australian postal service. It always came with a card attached, “With much love from Auntie Florrie”.
My Welsh grandmother's tea service which she brought with her from Wales
A gift from my daughter and her family - she knows well my love of all things blue.
Handmade by my favourite potter, a gift of art
Not wanting to waste a moment of this precious time with her I followed her into the kitchen as she put the black cast iron kettle on the coal-fuelled stove that dwarfed her tiny kitchen. I smiled as she carved thick slices of Bara brith, the traditional current bread my grandmother always made whenever we came to visit. I relished the time we had together as we sat and chatted over sweet tea in her very best china. I found in her a kindred spirit. We parted with hugs and kisses and that was the last time I got to enjoy a cup of tea with her. I returned the year she turned 92 but she died just three weeks before I arrived.
There’s an indescribably quality about a cup of tea. It has a power to comfort, calm, relax and cheer that makes me think it’s less about the tea and more about the experience. Somehow it provides a safe place to share my heart, to connect me to you, to say, “I care”. It opens the door to listening and being heard. In some strange way it touches us emotionally.
We comfort one another over tea after a funeral, network over tea at conferences and build relationships over tea after church. There’s morning tea, afternoon tea, tea parties and High Tea. It weaves its way seamlessly through our lives and maybe it's become so commonplace that we’ve forgotten its power.
There’s an indescribably quality about a cup of tea. It has a power to comfort, calm, relax and cheer that makes me think it’s less about the tea and more about the experience. Somehow it provides a safe place to share my heart, to connect me to you, to say, “I care”. It opens the door to listening and being heard. In some strange way it touches us emotionally.
We comfort one another over tea after a funeral, network over tea at conferences and build relationships over tea after church. There’s morning tea, afternoon tea, tea parties and High Tea. It weaves its way seamlessly through our lives and maybe it's become so commonplace that we’ve forgotten its power.
Two of my mother's tea cups, well used and much loved
My mother grew up a mid-Victorian family where tea was not only a vital part of everyday living, but an extremely elegant affair, especially if they had company. Out would come the best china, highly polished silver teapot and starched and ironed linen. The table would be set beautifully with fresh flowers and linen napkins. My grandmother would pour tea through a silver tea strainer and add milk from a matching milk jug. Sugar came in small cubes and was removed from the sugar bowl with small silver tongs, embossed with elegant designs.
It’s no surprise then that my mother followed her family traditions and whenever folk came for afternoon tea she set a table that would have made her mother proud. She made tea time an elegant and memorable affair.
As she got older and folk didn’t call much, she would ring her next-door neighbour and say, “June, come and have a cup of tea”. June tells me she couldn’t decline my mother’s ‘royal decree’ so the two of them would while away an hour sharing stories over the best china and warm milky tea.
At some stage my mother acquired two small wooden tea trays, painted in a shade of clotted cream, to which she added embroidered linen doilies. These took the place of the more formal table and fitted neatly into someone’s lap, with just enough room for a cup, saucer and plate. Right to the end of her life she was a lady who relished well-served tea.
June was at the nursing home with me the afternoon my mother died. When the end came, the nurse offered to make us a cup of tea. I was too upset to make a decision but June said, “Oh yes, a last cuppa with Edna”. Somehow it seemed right, this parting memory of a lady who had made teatime a living memory for us all.
It’s no surprise then that my mother followed her family traditions and whenever folk came for afternoon tea she set a table that would have made her mother proud. She made tea time an elegant and memorable affair.
As she got older and folk didn’t call much, she would ring her next-door neighbour and say, “June, come and have a cup of tea”. June tells me she couldn’t decline my mother’s ‘royal decree’ so the two of them would while away an hour sharing stories over the best china and warm milky tea.
At some stage my mother acquired two small wooden tea trays, painted in a shade of clotted cream, to which she added embroidered linen doilies. These took the place of the more formal table and fitted neatly into someone’s lap, with just enough room for a cup, saucer and plate. Right to the end of her life she was a lady who relished well-served tea.
June was at the nursing home with me the afternoon my mother died. When the end came, the nurse offered to make us a cup of tea. I was too upset to make a decision but June said, “Oh yes, a last cuppa with Edna”. Somehow it seemed right, this parting memory of a lady who had made teatime a living memory for us all.
A gift from my son and his family. One of the beautiful things about teacups is the memories they evoke.
My dear friend knew my love of whimsey and beautiful artwork and she wrapped it up in a teacup
My Welsh Toby mug, I was given as a child
When tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things. Muriel Barbery
Its such a small thing, isn’t it, to make someone a cup of tea. But when the cups sit empty, the hearts have been shared, the tears wept, the dreams dreamt or the conflict resolved, maybe this simple offering is the greatest ministry of all, and the memories can last forever.
It reminds me that hospitality doesn't have to be elaborate, expensive or time consuming but can be as simple as inviting someone for a warming cup of tea and giving them the gift of your time and yourself ... and therein lies its power.
Its such a small thing, isn’t it, to make someone a cup of tea. But when the cups sit empty, the hearts have been shared, the tears wept, the dreams dreamt or the conflict resolved, maybe this simple offering is the greatest ministry of all, and the memories can last forever.
It reminds me that hospitality doesn't have to be elaborate, expensive or time consuming but can be as simple as inviting someone for a warming cup of tea and giving them the gift of your time and yourself ... and therein lies its power.
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