Between the Union Jacks of south Wales and the totally Jack-free zone in areas around Caernarfon, where we went for the Urdd Eisteddfod.
My mood swung rapidly from elation to despair and back again.
Cbay Rday's republican event at Mischiefs in the Bay was a great success. One of the poets, Sion Owen, making his debut in our collection launched there, summed it all up by saying how unique the evening was and how much he'd loved it from start to finish.
Highlights of the speeches were Tim Richards' witty and informative history of Welsh republicanism and , as always, Republic's Suzanne Campbell, such an articulate and cogent speaker you wonder why she isn't on the media more often. She told us how the BBC simply lied about the republican demo in London, saying 100 were present when, in fact, there were at least 1,200 protesters there.
Musical highlights included Merthyr's own Jamie Bevan and his band , with a stirring first set and a second which included so many enjoyable singalongs. Barry Rogers and Lawrence Huxham made ears prick with their rousing anti-Jubilee songs. I still don't know the name of Lawrence's strange instrument like a flattened violin!
As to poetry, it's impossible to single out anyone . From beginning to end there were fine poems and performances by a number of writers in the collection and I'm grateful to those who turned up to read with such verve and passion.
Cor Cochion opened the whole evening in fine style, especially when they urged everyone to join hands for 'Yma O Hyd' : the sense of solidarity was tangible.
We felt a strength of unity and purpose despite our differences, a genuine feeling of us against a massive propaganda machine and commercial enterprise cashing in on Jubilee hysteria.
So, it was worse than any hangover the next day, to be hammered by the news that the Board at Cardiff City had decided to make our shirts red and crests dragons after all.
This despondency followed me to y gogledd. It hung over me like the ominous clouds topping Pen-y-fan.
'A done deal' my son texted me. My son, who I'd taken to see the City since he was five years old and who was as appalled as me at the callous way our proud history and traditions had been so effortlessly torn into shreds and thrown into the bin.
I only hope there are enough fans who care as much as we do. I only hope there are fans who won't be duped by a plan which makes no sense on any level, particularly the commercial one.
In the end, who will buy our red shirts? Who, in China or wherever, really cares about a Championship team when they have the likes of Liverpool and Man U?
What's more, so many of our own fans reject it and, like us, will never buy anything red. I wear red for Cymru in footie, end of!
In Merthyr, the Jubilee has hardly been celebrated. Despite shops down town resembling Ballymena on the Twelth, the only bunting was on a few pubs and isolated houses.
Yet, as soon as we reached Porthmadog, there was bunting everywhere. I had never seen so much.
It was red , white and green and in my delusional state, I thought for one ecstatic moment it represented the flag of the Welsh Republic!
Of course, it was bunting for the Urdd : houses, halls, posts and fences, together with Y Ddraig Goch and the flag of Owain Glyndwr.
Not a Union Jack in sight, not even in the shops of Caernarfon! My own country, yet a different world.
Cymraeg spoken everywhere as well. Somewhere I could live happily, where Welsh is used as an everyday language and accepted readily.
We spoke it in the B&B; we ordered food in Welsh ; we chatted in the pub not just the Eisteddfod maes. The girl on the tills of the supermarket used it without question.
On that bright and sunny Wednesday evening, with the castle of Norman conquest looming above us, we stood in the square and listened to bands and singers in Welsh on a stage there.
My mind soared like a red kite : a vision of all of Cymru one day like this.
Next day, the sun disappeared and there was rain and Glasto-type mud. Even cold noodles and the sight of Carwyn Jones smarming through a TV interview, could not destroy the joy at witnessing the creativity at the Eisteddfod, from drama to dance and singing to art.
From the B&B I watched the Menai Straits, one time full to brimming and , by morning, turned to mud- and sandflats exposed by the tide.
The selfsame stretch of seawater yet do different. My emotions, full and empty, have been like this.
This poem is about the visit of the Windsors to Merthyr : contrast is its essence. Another simple one in Welsh (I am trying).
'Poems for a Welsh Republic' is available from me for a fiver (plus p&p) -
YR YMWELIAD Y WINDSORS
Mae’r Windsors yn yr eglwys
Mae Jimi yn gwisgo fel brenhines
mae esgob yn dathlu gyda tafod hir
mae gwrthdystwyr yn siarad a’r thorriad y tir
mae’r Windsors yn teithio mewn tren aur
mae Jimi yn cerdded trwy’r strydoedd Merthyr
mae’r Windsors yn yr awyren hofran
mae heddlu yn cario Jimi dros y lon
mae nhw’n glanio ar y glaswellt
mae e’n tu ol y ffinau gyda’r eraill
mae’r Windsors yn y ceir mawr mawr
mae gwrthdystwyr yn codi faner a faner
cafodd nhw eu gyrru i Gastell Cyfarthfa
cafodd Jimi ei harestio mewn heddlu yna
mae’r Windsors yn teithio dros y cymoedd,
mae nhw’n codi eu law
mae Jimi yn y carchar,
mae’r heddlu cadw fe yn ddistaw.