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Where Duolingo falls down. How I learned to speak Welsh with my mother by Dan Fox,

read by Matt Addis.

My maternal grandmother died 20 years ago.

The funeral was held in a small Methodist chapel in the lush Conway Valley of North Wales.

Her entire life, she had almost reached a hundred, was spent in these hills.

The drizzle that morning had slicked the trees and turned the slate of the chapel black.

Our family, gathered under umbrellas, entered in order of seniority.

Mum, now the family elder with dad on her arm,

then my six aunts and uncles with their spouses,

and finally the cousins, led by my brother Mark and me.

The room was austere. white walls, sturdy wooden furniture, a plain cross on the wall.

Our families squeezed into box pews in the centre of the chapel.

A couple of older men among the crowd reminded me of my grandfather who had died decades earlier, similar

thatches of black hair, dark weathered complexions, history book faces. The funeral was conducted

in Welsh. It was my grandmother's first language, mums too. I didn't understand a word. I followed the

congregation when they stood to sing and sat to pray, but my grief remained isolated in English and

the music of sniffly noses and creaky pews. Near the end of the service came a hymn. I recognized the melody.

Cum Rondha, so rousing and anthemic that Welsh rugby fans belted out from the terraces before big matches.

At the end of each verse the lines repeat, step higher, and split into harmonies.

...