Travels in Wales in July 2008

“Croeso i Gymru.”

"Welcome to Wales."

I cannot pretend that I am not excited. Wales is the first leg of what I hope will be a long journey through the United Kingdom. I chose Wales for a simple reason: I had heard of the Mountain Railway to Mount Snowdon and wanted to experience the Welsh cog railway as I had loved the cog railway to the top of Mt. Washington in New Hampshire in 2006. Besides, we had to start our travels somewhere.

I am a guest of my daughter, Mary, her generous husband, Steve, and my adored grandson, Sammy. I retired from thirty-six years of teaching grade 12 English Language Arts at Horton High School in Greenwich, Nova Scotia. My career had been rewarding, but it was over. My final month was emotional and humbling: I received gifts, accolades, appreciation and kindnesses. I knew it would be difficult to leave my school, my students and my colleagues, so when Steve and Mary invited me to come live with them in Caversfield, near Bicester in Oxfordshire, I could not resist. I closed up my apartment, made arrangements for the utilities, the mail, my old car, and left for the UK, my intention being to stay here as much as I can over the next three years.

Steve works for the American Embassy and will eventually be transferred elsewhere. I visited them in December 2007 for Christmas and I had a wonderful time. On that visit we had been to see Warwick Castle, I had followed the Fox and the Hounds on Boxing Day at Stowe Gardens, and we had visited the little village of Charwelton, to where I had hitch-hiked in 1965 to visit my step-grandmother (Auntie Jeannie) at her daughter’s home. I had loved Fawsley Park then, and when we went there again at Christmas, I loved it still.

There are limitations to my ability to travel here. For one thing, I cannot drive the family cars with their diplomatic plates. I depend on the support of my son-in-law, as my divorce and the sharing of my pension leaves me with few resources. Still, there is public transportation, there are day trips to be made, and right now, Steve has a two-week vacation.

So, here I am in Chepstow, Wales, looking for Tintern Abbey. My old friend and colleague, Judith Wells had told me not to miss it, and practical considerations had made coming to South Wales the logical first step.

My heart jumps as the Abbey suddenly appears to the right. We find parking and I start shooting photos with my new Canon PowerShot S5is. I know of Tintern, of course, from my studies of William Wordsworth, and his poem, “Tintern Abbey”.

I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things.

These Cistercian ruins, along the banks of the River Wye, amaze me, and, as witnessed by an earlier visitor, William Coxe in 1801, “the church called forth an instantaneous burst of admiration, and filled me with delight.” I learn that the Abbey was established by the Norman lord of Chepstow, Walter fitz Richard, and that the initial community was established in 1131. The Abbey remained a centre of monastic life for 400 years and only ended in 1536 with the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII. The monks were evicted, everything of value was taken away, eventually the lead was stripped from the roofs, and the shell soon fell into chronic decay.

Several things impress me: looking upwards one gasps at the height, especially when one stands directly beneath the windows of the transepts. The arcade and crossing pillars are massive, suggesting the sheer weight of the building. And, looking at one’s feet, the lush green grass everywhere, inside and out. The reconstruction is proceeding, but not even the cross-works of scaffolding detract from the impressive effect. Everywhere, there are reminders of the intricacy of the original stone carvings such as was the tracery in the great east window.

Not many are here this day, and I feel serenity wandering through the Abbey grounds. Even my beloved little Sammy is happy in this magical place! My mind carries me back to Wordsworth:

Nor, perchance --

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence -- wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together . . .

Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
We depart Tintern and drive to our hotel in Llanelli. There is still time to drive to Kidwelly Castle (Castell Cydweli) on the banks of the River Gwendraeth. These substantial masonry defences were erected between the late thirteenth and early fifteenth centuries. I want to see these ruins because I have been told that Kidwelly was used as a location for one of my favourite films, Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail, appearing in the very first scene after the titles. (After our first view of King Arthur and Patsy, a very misty establishing shot shows Kidwelly as their destination.) There is none of the serenity of Tintern, but instead, as is likely in most defensive Norman battlements, I get a real sense of how harsh and dismal life must have been in those ancient times of war. There are few visitors, and we have the castle to ourselves, so I am pleased we chose to make this visit. We climb one of the towers, but the steep stairs, the wind and the sense of decay make me uneasy, and I am eager to be back on the grass below. We explore the Great Gatehouse, but I crack my skull on a low rock doorway! We take a stroll along the river, past the priory church on the other side and into town.

The second day is set aside so that I can visit Laugharne to see the Dylan Thomas Writing Hut and the Boathouse, set on a cliff overlooking the Tâf Estuary. Steve tries to drive his big Toyota as close as he can, but it really is a walking path. Sam and I go on ahead as he and Mary extricate the car. This is where Thomas lived from 1949 until 1953 with his wife Caitlin and their children. It is here that he wrote the radio play, Under Milk Wood, the fictional town of Llareggub Hill based on Laugharne and maybe other villages in Carmarthenshire. I used to play the opening scene for my students as an example of the genius of Dylan Thomas’ brilliant poetic prose. Somehow, I had missed the clever reversal of Dylan’s name for the town, Llareggub, and had used a varied version (Llaregyb) for my students!

To begin at the beginning: It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine tonight in the snouting, velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And all the people of the lulled and dumbfound town are sleeping now. . . .
Listen. It is night moving in the streets, the processional salt slow musical wind in Coronation Street and Cockle Row, it is the grass growing on Llareggub Hill, dew fall, star fall, the sleep of birds in Milk Wood.
Listen. It is night in the chill, squat chapel, hymning, in bonnet and brooch and bombazine black, butterfly choker and bootlace bow, coughing like nannygoats, sucking mintoes, fortywinking hallelujah; night in the four-ale, quiet as a domino; in Ocky Milkman's loft like a mouse with gloves; in Dai Bread's bakery flying like black flour. It is tonight in Donkey Street, trotting silent, with seaweed on its hooves, along the cockled cobbles, past curtained fernpot, text and trinket, harmonium, holy dresser, watercolours done by hand, china dog and rosy tin teacaddy. It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.
Look. It is night, dumbly, royally winding through the Coronation cherry trees; going through the graveyard of Bethesda with winds gloved and folded, and dew doffed; tumbling by the Sailors Arms.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.

My “pilgrimage” ends, and we look for something for six-year-old Samuel to do: we see a sign for the Pemberton’s Chocolate Farm. We follow the signs for miles westward along small roads. We find it at Llanboidy and it is a strange place. There are displays, a small museum, a real, but tiny chocolate factory making Pemberton Quality Chocolates. Sammy is a chocolatier and makes some truffles. Great fun for the child. Of course, I can’t deal with the smell of chocolate, so I wander into the display of “Pobl Bach”-- Llanboidy “Little People” in the Hobo Gallery, a collection of wonderful carved life-like dolls once sold by the family from Covent Garden.

Our next stop is the National Botanic Garden of Wales at Llanarthne. It is a beautiful place, the centrepiece the Great Glasshouse, a spectacular dome, which is the largest single-span glasshouse in the world.

The glasshouse impresses me, not just because of its size, but because of the various ecosystems created inside, of California, Australia, the Canary Islands, Chile, South Africa and the Mediterranean Basin. Outside, I love the flower beds and the double-walled garden with its roses, lilies, and other colourful flora. Sam and I are particularly interested in the unusual sculpture, the Scaladaqua Tonda, or “curving water step,” designed by William Pye. We stand directly between the two columns to find the echo spot, and listen to the lively sounds of the water pouring from each bronze spout to the level below.

But it is time to leave South Wales and head north. We trust “Lola” our friendly GPS guide to get us there, but when she takes us onto more frighteningly narrow roads barely wider than the Toyota SUV--through Pencader, Llanfihangel ar arth and Capel Dewi, I assume the job as navigator and get us over to the west coast highway past Cardigan Bay. The colours of the water are startling, not quite turquoise, but a pale greenish blue. We follow the Ceredigion Heritage Coast. The view from Aberath is spectacular, the town of Aberystwyth attractive. We are moving into mountains, and I notice the wind turbines on the horizon, thinking to myself that despite its “quaintness”, Wales is a forward thinking country. We enter Snowdonia National Park from the Dovey Valley and I am impressed by the height of the forest trees; then we drive through the Llechwedd Slate Caverns. (I am curious: are the mountains of slate natural or man-made?) Lola is again on track, and she takes us up the Vale of Conwy to our hotel in Llandudno/Conwy.

Today we will tackle Mt. Snowdon, at 3,560 feet (1035 m), the highest in the UK. We came for the narrow gauge Snowdon Mountain Cog Railway and find it in Llanberis. Majestic Mount Snowdon (Moel y Wyddfa) is said to be the burial place of the giant ogre Rhita, vanquished by King Arthur.

Three elderly British ladies on vacation join us in our cramped bench seating. (They must be making this climb because it is on their itinerary, rather than for the experience; they don’t appear to pay much attention, and ask me to close the window because of the slight rain.) But I pay attention and enjoy the two-mile-per-hour ride. There are sheep everywhere, and stone walls and ruins of old houses and sheds. It amazes me how the Welsh used stones everywhere. How long did it take to build a stone fence up the side of a steep mountain and over?

The fog and drizzle envelope us and I am disappointed when the view ends. We must stop at Clogwyn Station at 2,556 feet—1000 feet from the summit. We can see nothing! Still, the ride is worth the time and cost and we are not sorry we have come here.

We next board the Llanberis Lake Railway (Llyn Padarn Rheilffordd), an enjoyable (but overrated) train ride alongside Llyn Padarn Lake with views of Llanberis and Mount Snowdon—if the fog clears! We find what is probably a typical Welsh tearoom and enjoy a meal served with a Welsh beer.

It is late in the day, but for Sam’s benefit we make one last stop, in Conwy, where we discover the Conwy Butterfly Jungle. It’s a smallish greenhouse filled with vegetation and butterflies and birds. I photograph a few of the colourful insects while Sam sits patiently with his hands cupped, desperate for one to land in them. One eventually settles on his back and that satisfies him so that we can finally leave.

Meals are always a challenge and never certain. We decide we want something fancy and crave Italian. (I know, I know: we come to Wales and eat Italian food; but we had already enjoyed various Welsh dishes.) We locate an Italian place recommended at the hotel, but Mary feels it is “seedy.” We drive to Rhos on Sea and find, upstairs, La Dolce Vita, a classy and expensive restaurant. The maitre de is hesitant at first to seat us—we are dressed very casually—and we have no reservation—but Sam smiles sweetly and we are seated. It is, of course, the poorest table in this posh place, but the waiters seem happier when I ask for a recommendation for wine to accompany my Fettuccine Salsiccia. The food is superb, the setting a delight. (A food reviewer of La Dolce Vita said it was “a joy to be there” and we concur. Costly, for us, at £65, but worth the expense.)

We drive along The Parade and its countless Victorian hotels, beach and Promenade and appreciate why Llandudno is such a seaside attraction.

In the morning we drive to Conwy Castle, but it won’t open for an hour, so we pass on the opportunity. (We had hoped to see, among other things, the smallest house in Britain, at just over 10 feet high.)

Wales has been a joy in so many ways—the scenery, the sights, the history, the language, the people. My father reported on our birth certificates that his family was Irish and Welsh, and I know that the Evans and Manuel families from which we descend, from the Exploits Valley in Newfoundland, originated in Wales. From which part I do not know, but perhaps I passed through their original homelands.

We decide it is time to go back to England. We are searching for Barbary macaques, Wedgwood, and the Legend of Robin Hood.