Johnny Shellshocked: In France, we dug trenches ten miles long. We took earth from here and made hills there. We moved entire fields. You wouldn't believe what we did. It's possible. It's just hard work.
Narrator: For some odd reason, lost in the mists of time, there's an extraordinary shortage of last names in Wales. Almost everyone seems to be a Williams, a Jones, or an Evans. To avoid widespread confusion, Welsh people often add an occupation to a name. For example, there was Williams the Petroleum, and Williams the Death. There was Jones the Bottle, and Jones the Prize Cabbage... which described his hobby and his personality. Evans the Bacon, and Evans the End of the World. But one man's name was a puzzle, and it wasn't until I was 10 years old that I asked my grandfather about the man with the longest and most enigmatic name of all.
Grandfather: [to the narrator at age 10] The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill but Came Down a Mountain? Now there's a long name for you. And a long story. You are not going to fidget, are you? For this is a story... an epic story. Yes, epic.
Thomas Twp Too: This is my brother, Thomas Twp, and I am Thomas Twp Too.
Thomas Twp: We've no learning, and most people say we're twp. But we're not so twp as to not know that we're twp.
[Anson and Garrad have explained they must go and calculate the height]
Thomas Twp Too: And how d'you know later?
Reginald Anson: Well, w-we've made, um, we've made measurements with those two hills, and w-we already know the height of Newton Beacon and Whitchurch Hill...
Thomas Twp: But how were they measured?
Reginald Anson: The same way, by comparing them with other hills.
Thomas Twp Too: But who measured the first hill?
Rev. Robert Jones: [whispering] God. God, my boy. God.
[Betty is cutting flowers from the garden]
Reginald Anson: They're pretty.
Betty: Mmm, yes. Not as pretty as me... YOU'RE supposed to say that.
[the pub betting pool on the height]
Davies the School: 980 feet.
[General groans and moans from everyone]
Morgan the Goat: Objection substained
Morgan the Goat: ! I'm not taking any bets under a thousand feet... traitor!
[the resurvey could not be completed by nightfall]
Reginald Anson: Well, i-i-it will be measured again! I mean, uh, perhaps we'll even come back through here on our return, and...
Betty: You won't be back. This isn't a place that people like you come back to.
Reginald Anson: Well, I'll try, I'll, I'll really try...
Betty: I'll try! Is that the best you can do?
Betty: There's nothing very special about me. I'm the kind of girl you usually don't notice: I scuttle in with a tray of tea, bow my head, and scuttle out.
Reginald Anson: I'd notice.
Betty: No, you wouldn't. Not usually.
Reginald Anson: Pleasant enough sort of place, isn't it?
George Garrad: I suppose so, considering it's Wales.
Reginald Anson: Um, I'm not sure that I can rely on Mr. Garrad. But, um, the thing is, I-I will need an assistant. I, uh - you wouldn't, um?
Reginald Anson: Well, why not?
Betty: Well... I've never been to Abyssinia!
Reginald Anson: Heh.
Betty: Or Aden, or Sevastopol. And I can't speak with a posh accent for long.
Reginald Anson: Well, I-I-I-I think we can get over that.
Betty: I'm just a maidservant!
Reginald Anson: Well, I-I don't think the word just could apply to you about anything.
Betty: Was that a compliment?
Reginald Anson: Yes. Yes. Now, n-now I'm going to blush, so, um, would you help me... please?
Betty: Since you said please. And you're blushing!
Reginald Anson: Ohh.
Betty: Yes, I will.
Reginald Anson: Good. Then, um, prepare the engineer's transit.
Reginald Anson: I'll show you.
Rev. Robert Jones: Have you no shame?
Morgan the Goat: No... I can't think where I've left it!
Rev. Robert Jones: My text for today comes from Psalm 99, Verse 9: Exalt the Lord our God, and worship at his... holy... hill.
George Garrad: Can't be too careful in foreign climes.
Reginald Anson: It's only Wales.
George Garrad: It's still foreign!
Morgan the Goat: I don't want Ffynnon Garw to be on the map because we begged for it, because we, we-we pleaded. No. If Ffynnon Garw has to be a thousand feet, then I say let it be a thousand feet! Put 20 feet, that's all we need, a 20-foot tump and we have our mountain!
Jones the JP: I'm not sure how legal that is...
Rev. Robert Jones: Yes, or ethical...
Morgan the Goat: Legal? Ethical? Wh - how legal was it to say that a thousand feet is a mountain and 984 isn't, uh? Uh? Do we call a short man a boy, or a small dog a cat? No! This is a mountain, our mountain, and if it needs to be a thousand feet, then by God let's make it a thousand feet!
Grandfather: [narrating] The truth is that, while we Welsh like to believe that it was the mountains that beat the successive invaders, it was really the weather that comes with mountains. It was the rain that defeated every invader. Yes, simple rain.
Grandfather: All this fuss over what? Is it a hill, is it a mountain? Perhaps it wouldn't matter anywhere else, but this is Wales. The Egyptians built pyramids, the Greeks built temples, but we did none of that, because we had mountains. Yes, the Welsh were created by mountains: where the mountain starts, there starts Wales. If this isn't a mountain - well, if this isn't a mountain, then Anson might just as well redraw the border and put us all in England, God forbid.
Betty: All this for just a map?
Morgan the Goat: Just a map!
[putting his hands around her waist]
Morgan the Goat: Maps, my dear, are the undergarments of a country! They give shape...
[moves his hands up to her breasts]
Morgan the Goat: ... to continents.
[Betty raises her fist, and Morgan runs out of the room]
Reginald Anson: Look, sorry, could I PLEASE get a pint of bitter?
Morgan the Goat: No need to get all English about it.
Reginald Anson: We're cartographers. Mapmakers.
Sgt. Thomas: Ho! Very useful, I'm sure.
Grandfather: And so it was that Betty and Anson stayed the night on Ffynnon Gawr. Now you know what the Welsh say about people who stay on mountain peaks at night, don't you? They become poets, madmen, very very wise, or...
[band playing, procession, cheering]
Grandfather: And when they descended, it was to announce that Ffynnon Gawr was indeed a mountain, of one thousand and two feet, and that they were engaged to be married. Yes, it was an odd courtship, but one befitting a man who went up a hill but came down a mountain.
Narrator: And should you think this is just a shaggy dog story told by a senile man to his impressionable grandson, I'd ask you to come to South Wales, to the village where I was born, and as you drive north from Cardiff, look for the first big hill. Not just a hill, but a mountain, and the children of the people who built it. However, just before this film was made, the mountain was remeasured and found to be nine hundred and ninety-seven feet, thus the mound had settled back into a hill.
Rev. Robert Jones: [from the grave monument] A hill?