A Little Welsh Weather

Proud summiteer: Pen y Fan

I climbed a mountain. And not just any old mountain, but the tallest in South Wales. Or, to put it as one brochure so eloquently did, the tallest in Wales (except for Snowdonia); or the tallest in Britain (except for Snowdonia and Cumbria). I also climbed the second-tallest in South Wales, because it is in the way of the tallest one, and the path goes over it. I know you need their names and stats:

Pen y Fan - 886 m

Corn Du - 873 m

Approaching Pen y Fan...notice the lovely sunny weather

When I set out on this enterprise, the sun was shining and the Welsh hills looked green and inviting. By the time I’d completed the ascent, a wild hailstorm was blistering across the mountain tops, driven by a blustery wind. Then the sun would appear again and peace would reign; only to have the hail come driving on back. It was nothing if not interesting.

Uh-oh...

Nevertheless, I had a splendid time. It was a great walk with stupendous views at the top. Who knew that South Wales was so beautiful? The hills drop away dramatically, and little lakes glisten here and there in the folds. It was charming, though unfortunately not the day for lingering.

The summit

A three hour hike.

In the Brecon Beacons.

Yes, there was a little bit of snow still about.

The locals seem very redoubtable - the trails were thronged with other hikers, most with small children and/or dogs in tow. But there is a memorial up there to one small hiker who never made it back...

Tommy Jones was a five-year-old miner’s son. In August 1900, he visited the area with his father to see his grandfather, who lived on a farm below the peaks. They walked from the old railway station in Brecon and stopped for a rest at a local army camp, where they were met by his grandfather and also his 13-year-old cousin, Willie. The two older men were enjoying the company of the soldiers so decided to stay at the camp for a while. They sent the two boys on ahead to tell Tommy’s grandmother of their impending arrival. It was getting quite late and, as it started to get dark, Tommy was scared and decided to return to his father. Willie continued to the farm to tell his grandmother as arranged. Tragically, however, Tommy never made it back to the camp. 

A huge search ensued. The army became involved and so did the daily newspapers - one actually offering a reward for information. Sadly, weeks went by without any sight of him and then as local woman dreamed of the boy and led her husband straight up onto a ridge, where she’d never been before, and where they discovered the small boy’s body. He had died of exhaustion and exposure. An obelisk now stands close to the spot where his body was found.

Tommy's Memorial is 300 metres down this ridge.

886m. But whose counting?

The story comes courtesy of my small guide book, “Brecon Beacons - great short walks for all the family” by Tom Hutton. Tom does mention that

The hills, mountains and moorlands of britain, though of modest height compared with those in many other countries, need to be treated with respect. friendly and inviting in good wether, then can quickly be transformed into wet, misty, windswept and potentially dangerous areas of wilderness in and weather. Even on an outwardly fine and settled summer day, conditions can rapidly deteriorate...

Tom is quite right.

St David

St David with his trademark dove upon his shoulder.

I probably do not need to tell you that Saint David is the Patron Saint of Wales. But what else do you know about him? Huh? Huh? Just as I thought - very little. Luckily for you, I drove to the Western-most tip of Wales to find out a bit more. The Western-most tip is called St David’s Head, and nearby, in a secluded little valley, is the UK’s smallest city, St David’s City. It gets to be a city (despite looking exactly like a small village) because it has a cathedral, and is the Throne of the Archbishop of Wales. It is important - if you are Welsh, in particular - to note that the Church in Wales is “independent from Canterbury”. It achieved this in 1920 - it’s called being “disestablished” and there is a whole lot of Church politics behind it, with possibly the most interesting outcome being the schoolyard aphorism about the longest word in the dictionary: “antidisestablishmentarianism”.

The Cathedral of St David's City.

But I digress. Back to St David. He was a monk and abbott who lived in the sixth century. His life was said to be prophesied, and he was born to a lady named Non, in a spot (the exact whereabouts of which is lost in time) where a sacred spring sprang up. David, like all good saints, performed many miracles (including bringing dead children to life) and generally when he performed a really good one, a sacred spring sprang. No wonder he was popular. Although he is also said to have been six feet tall (which makes him almost twice as tall as most people in the sixth century), strong, handsome and charismatic. He is famous for having taken a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and he founded monasteries all over Southern Wales and England. He is known as a very popular saint in his day.

Wonderful painted ceiling in the Cathedral.

He lived most of his life at what is now St David’s City, but was previously called Mynyw, and later Tyddewi. At least it has now acquired some more vowels. David drank only water and lived on bread and herbs (especially watercress). Much of the story of David is a mixture of Celtic pagan symbols and Christian overlays: he lived at a time when Christianity was only just beginning to colonise the Celtic lands, and the pagan symbols either died hard or were deliberately incorporated into Christian rituals to aid evangelism.

The nave.

After a life performing miracles, mediating in Church disputes, and running his monastery with a firm hand, David died, having achieved a legendary lifespan of 147 years. Nobody is sure when exactly he was born, but everyone is very definite that he died on Tuesday, 1st March 589. Or maybe 601. 1st March, anyway. Definitely. So that is St David’s Day, still celebrated in Wales: ‘Dydd Gwyl Dewi’. David later became the patron saint of Wales and St David’s Day is marked by religious services, celebration dinners (of watercress, perhaps?) and eisteddfods. David’s symbol is (slightly unfortunately) the leek. Thus the Welsh national colours were green and white, and the Welsh Guard wear a leek as a cap badge. In recent times the leek has somewhat given way to the daffodil, as some people (who shall remain nameless, but we’re looking at you, David Lloyd George) seem to prefer it.

Narrow old medieval doorway.

But back to Saint David and his City: on the site of his original monastery now stands a large Cathedral - the largest in Wales. This went though the usual pillaging and destruction following the dissolution of the monasteries and the Civil War, but today stands again. It is a rather lovely Cathedral, with beautiful decorated wooden ceilings, and the distinctive feature that the choir screen is actually a pretty solid wall, thoroughly blocking off the church into discrete sections. It also has the distinction of holding the tomb of Edward I, the grandfather of Henry VIII, which might be why it escaped greater destruction during the Reformation. 

The precursor to the current church was of course Norman, and there is thus a great square bell-tower. In 1123 David was recognised as a bona fide saint by the then Pope, and the result was that St David’s Church became a very popular site for pilgrimages, despite its situation at the Western-most tip of the mainland kingdom: it is said that two pilgrimages to St David’s equalled one to Rome - such a bargain! The church was visited by William the Conqueror (1081), Henry II (1171 and 1172), Edward I and Eleanor (1284) and Richard II (1394). 

Saint David was buried in his own monastery, now somewhere under the present church. Over the centuries there has been a certain amount of dispute over his ‘relics‘ (Edward I, for instance, is said to have made off with David’s head and a leg bone). There was a brief flurry of excitement when some bones were found encased in a wall during a Victorian renovation by Sir Gilbert Scott (the architect of St Pancras Station , my ex-home); but they were later carbon-dated and found to be not old enough to be David’s bones. 

The Bishop's Palace, St David's City.

Carvings and gargoyles: Bishop's Palace.

The magnificent wheel-window.

David’s fame and that of his monastery reached a high point in the Middle Ages. At that time the bishop in residence was one Bishop Henry de Gower (1328 - 47), known as the 'Building Bishop'. He constructed an enormous Bishop’s Palace next door to the church/monastery - its remains can be toured today. It is roughly three times as big as the church (even if you count the brand new refectory and toilet block) - a great rambling Palace it must have been. Architecturally, it features rows of arched decorations along high-walk parapets, stone carvings of the faces of men and animals, a spectacular wheel-window, and some very well-preserved  undercrofts, including stone spiral stairs from the buttery to the dining hall for the easy delivery of the wine to the Bishop’s banquets.

What Saint David would have made of it all, we can only imagine, as he munches on his watercress.

Locator: The small blue dot on the Westernmost tip of Wales.

Map from: http://www.visionofbritain.org.uk/text/chap_page.jsp?t_id=Cambrensis_Tour&c_id=16

Hay-on-Wye

Addyman's Bookshop, Hay-on-Wye

Welcome to an unanswerable argument proving that the Kindle and its spawn can never adequately replace The Book. Welcome to Hay-on-Wye, the epicentre of Book-dom. As you may know, this small village on the border of England and Wales (it depends which side of the River Wye you are on, but I think most of the village is in Wales - but see below re independence) has hosted a Literary Festival for decades. This year it celebrates 25 years of the Festival and 50 years of bookshops. Its Festival is not only one of the oldest, but one the largest and the most renowned in the world (it kicks off in June).

Book town

"Books Bought"

Hay was a quiet run down little market town in 1962, when Richard Booth opened his first bookshop. Ten years and 40 bookshops later, the town had become a Mecca for book lovers the whole world over. On 1st April 1977 (All Fools’ Day) Richard declared Hay an Independent Kingdom and the town has been in the public eye ever since. It is ‘twinned’ with Timbuktu -- an eccentric and effective PR stunt if ever I heard of one.

More "Books Bought"

Comfy Bookshop

Obviously I enjoyed myself. Apart from bookshops - every few yards - the town is replete with shops selling knick-knacks, antiques and pastries. But I strode boldly by those and headed into the first bookshop I came to. It was Addyman’s Annexe - what a place. Addyman’s has been described by the Antiquarian Book review as “The jewel in the crown of this famous book town”. A reading journalist once said: “put me in Addyman’s and I lose all reason...” I didn’t buy much. Not really. But such finds! And so cheap!

Outside Addyman's

John Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’
Christopher Isherwood’s ‘Mr Norris Changes Trains’
Virginia Woolf’s ‘The Waves’
An illustrated book about Jean Cocteau
Nancy Mitford’s ‘Madame De Pompadour’ in large illustrated hard-cover - her beloved ‘Pomp’ as she called it - for only £6.50!


Then off down the road and into more bookshops - found Voltaire’s ‘Candide’, which I had been looking for, since I’ve decided that my hero in my own novel is a Panglossian character.

Inside Addyman's

Correct priorities

And then I found the original Addyman’s - they have been redecorating, using baroque shelving created from the interior of a 19th century Transylvanian church. As one does. There’s an upstairs, with room after tiny room connecting; and beaten-up old armchairs to sit in; and a book passage downstairs. And a sign out in the street warning that any cars parking in front will be crushed and turned into bookends.

And in there I found D H Lawrence’s ‘Etruscan Palaces’ and Hemingway’s ‘Cakes and Ale’. And upstairs - a beautiful little hard-cover volume of G B Shaw’s ‘Man and Superman’, with his signature in gold embossed on the front cover. Kindle, eat your heart out.

'Man and Superman' George Bernard Shaw

Nancy Mitford's 'Pomp'

My only regret was that the Number One bookshop in town, the epicentre so to speak, was closed (it closes only on Christmas Day and Easter Sunday. I was there on Easter Sunday). This was Richard Booth’s shop, now a multilevel bookshop cafe. I pressed my nose against the glass and drooled over the atmospheric interior, all wood and stacks of books and little cafe tables. Let me in! Let me in! Ah well - it is always good to have a reason to go back.

Richard Booth's bookshop

Booth's...peering longingly through the window

Booth's bookshop cafe menu: perfect.

Tintern Abbey

Tintern Abbey

A monolithic pile of stone, 900 years old, ruined, desecrated and abandoned: not a likely place to inspire words like ‘airy’, ‘serene’, ‘heart-filling’, ‘moving’. But that’s Tintern Abbey - it’s been impressing visitors for centuries.

The South Transept

For an Abbey with no roof and only the bare skeleton of stonework windows, and grass where the stone aisles and floors would once have been, it is remarkably easy to imagine the ‘white monks’ of the Cistercian Order appearing for their prayers. Here they come filing in from their dormitory down the stairs in the North Transept, headed for the choir, a square area marked by four monolithic pillars. It might be 2 am. They prayed around the clock, almost, with up to eight services a day. There was however time to eat in the refectory in the monastery complex, time to reflect in the cloisters, time to supervise the lay brothers who worked the fields. There was no heating, no luxury, no decoration, no frivolity. Presumably there were compensations in such a life.

The ruin of the Abbey followed its break-up by Thomas Cromwell and Henry VIII. It was founded in 1131, and after 400 years of quiet contemplation, surrendered to the King in 1536. Anything of value was stripped away, including the lead on the roof. The lands were given to a local aristocrat. The monks were handed a small payment and dispersed thither and yon. The great stone arches were left to their own devices.

And (despite a sad period in the 1560s when local ironworks encroached on the Abbey, and the desperately poor people who worked them lived in hovels amongst the ruins) the stones of Tintern Abbey have transcended the vision of their original builders and morphed into something else. Like the Parthenon atop Athen’s Acropolis, we’ll never see these ruins as they were originally built, and we probably don’t want to; because that would entail losing what they’ve become. 

Today the wooded hills of the Wye Valley are framed by the great arches of Tintern. The nave, the crossing and the presbytery, which would have been separate spaces in the original church, are now one long, lofty, open-air space, floored with green turf - exquisitely beautiful and uplifting. The ancient stone walls, arches, doorways and windows frame nothing but the air; but in the process they define an architectural space of beautiful proportions which in some mysterious way speaks eloquently to just about everyone.

From afar, the abbey sits solidly in the green valley of Tintern, anchored and immoveable despite the storms of history which have battered it. From afar, it looks like the floating glass cathedral of ‘Oscar & Lucinda’, which seems impossible for a stone monolith, but isn’t. From afar, it produces a gasp when it first comes into view.

JW Turner (1794)

In Victorian times the abbey was festooned with picturesque ivy and foliage sprouted from the rough stones. Turner painted it that way. Today it has been touched by the severe hand of twentieth-century conservation - it might be possible to regret that, especially if you have a Romantic outlook (and are impressed by that temple in Angkor Wat which has been left entwined in tree roots and jungle vines). But of course we don’t want Tintern Abbey to fall down. One day it will, most probably - subside into the next stage of its life cycle. But for now it is robustly shored up with metal girders and someone mows the lawns in the nave and transepts.

Tintern Abbey has been made famous by Wordsworth’s poem wordily entitled: “Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting The Banks of The Wye During a Tour”, July 13, 1798. Since the title is so unwieldy, it has often been shortened to “Tintern Abbey”, so it’s a bit disconcerting to discover, upon seeking out the poem, that it says nothing at all about the Abbey. It does wax lyrical about the Wye Valley:

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee 

O Sylvan Wye! 

The stones of Tintern Abbey

Wordsworth was 28 years old when he composed this, and had already perfected his turgid style. The long poem was written while on a hiking tour with his sister Dorothy. He had been to Tintern (it was becoming a popular tourist attraction even then) and hiked about in the hills above the Wye five years earlier. Back then, Wordsworth had recently returned from France, where  the French had just begun using the guillotine. He'd had a torrid affair with a Frenchwoman named Annette, resulting in a daughter. He had abandoned them; England and France were at war; he was a tad upset. The Wye Valley soothed him, and five years later he penned his gratitude. But of Tintern Abbey - we don’t know what he thought. 

If you want to find the Abbey for yourself, seek the border of England and Wales. The Abbey stands on the Welsh side of the River Wye, in Monmouthshire - the other bank is Gloucestershire. I also recommend taking with you some Welsh music - the male voices and choirs for which the country is famous. Sit on the greensward and listen to the echoes of Welshmen past in the voices of Welshmen present, and contemplate the airy stones of Tintern. Perhaps you might even write a poem. 

The airy nave.

The Church from the Monastery ruins

...or perhaps the sound of some Gregorian Monks' chants...with views of Tintern...


Turner image from: http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/apictureofbritain/inspiration/region/wales/leaf_tate_06.shtml

Mini-Stonehenge: Pentre Ifan

5500 years old (ish) - impressive!

There’s nothing like finding something really old, standing in a field. I mean really, really old - try 3500 BC. It was a cold and windy day, and wet to boot, but the quick sprint along a muddy lane between the sheep fields of western Wales paid off. I found Pentre Ifan, a ground of impressive standing stones said to be the remnants of the entrance to an ancient burial chamber. The name means "Ivan's Village".

How did they do it?

Pentre Ifan is the best know megalithic monument in Wales, and certainly the highest. According to the interpretative sign, which is all I have to go on, the stones form the remains of the entrance to a chambered tomb for communal burial, which would have been used numerous times before being sealed up for good. The sign also admits that not much has been found in the way of ‘remains’, other than some flint tools and Neolithic pottery, but the sign seems to be sticking to its interpretation. 

The enormous capstone of the remaining ‘doorway’ is 17 feet long and probably weighs over 16 tons; and it is supported by just three standing stones. The site was excavated in 1936 and again in 1958, and a large area was found behind the stones which is assumed to have been used for these communal burials. They also found that the front entrance seemed to have been packed solid with carefully placed stones, which, as the sign coyly puts it, “must have caused difficulties each time there was a new burial.” Indeed.

The enormous capstone.

Forgive a trace of scepticism about these Neolithic musings...we can never know. And that is, really, part of the intriguing attraction of these weird and slightly spooky sites. The peoples who built them not only figured out how to lift a 16 ton capstone up onto the standing stones, but they also had a good reason to do it. The locals say that fairies live here. That could be as true as anything else about the stones. 

Chariots of the Gods?

How? And why?

Unimpressed local residents of the field.

Going to church in Wales

Small Welsh church in a field

The Welsh word for “church” is “Llan”. The letters ‘Ll’ are pronounced something like an L with a th in front of it. Got that?

On Easter Sunday morning I had planned to take myself into Brecon, 3 or 4 miles away, to attend the service at the 11th century Cathedral they have there. However, when I arrived at the charming Peterstone Court, a country house hotel, I espied a perfectly good church in the field right next door. So it was to the Church of St Peter and St Illtyd, Parish of Llanhamlach, that I made my way on Easter morning. We were a congregation of about 35 - rather a contrast to the 2000-odd in St Paul’s on Good Friday. Also, we didn’t have the luxury of a choir, but we did have a redoubtable matron who played the organ, read the Intercessions and assisted at the Eucharist. A multi-tasker. The church itself is a lovely little stone thing with the de rigeur square Norman bell tower (yes, bells rang) and a mouldering graveyard where daffodils are presently blooming amongst the headstones. 

Llanhamlach...

Locator...Brecon: about 1.5 hours drive from Cardiff

The little church in its churchyard

The Book of Common Prayer was in Welsh and English, but thankfully we had our service in English - not that I would have minded listening to a bit of musical Welsh. We got to sing hymns - three of them - from what seems to be the standard C of E hymnal: “Hymns Old & New”. I was interested to note that amongst the old favourites it included some modern compositions and even something “from the Swahili”. The congregation on Easter Morning at Llanhamlach opened proceedings - as is only proper - with “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”, except the Hymnal had updated the words to “Jesus Christ is Risen Today”, which I regarded as a bit unnecessary. The Hymnal has a preface in which such updating is defended, relying on the example of Wesley’s “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” which was apparently originally “Hark how all the welkin rings.” I remain unconvinced.

Peterstone Court - home for four days

We also had a fine old priest named Randolph with an trained orator’s stentorian voice and plenty of presence. I was quite impressed with the sermon - he made reference to today’s vocal atheists - he struggled a bit with answering their position in three minutes - but  he was very strong on translating the Passion story into a myth-like thing (which I suppose it is), which can be “contextualised” (his word) into everyday life and its struggles. I think he’s on to something there, and Alain de Botton would be impressed. Even Nietzsche might agree with him. He was very friendly to me when I shook his hand upon exit, and in this regard if no other the service exceeded the experience at St Paul’s. Well done, Fr. Randolph.

Signs of Spring.

Brecon Cathedral: 11th Century

In case you think I abandoned the Brecon Cathedral entirely, I can report that I toured it on Easter Saturday. It is not overly large, but a venerable building. In Welsh it is called Eglwys Gadeiriol Aberhonddu. It has been the site of Christian worship for more than 1000 years, having been a Celtic church before the Normans came an built - you guessed it - a square tower. Brecon now has ring of ten bells in its tower, which those of you who have been paying attention will remember is rather rare. Interestingly, in a small museum adjacent there is preserved a couple of bells set in the circular configuration of English churches, so you can get a good look at the mechanism.

Bell example...Brecon

Lovely arches in Brecon Cathedral

In a familiar story for English churches, the Benedictine Priory which ran the place for centuries was uprooted in the dissolution of the monasteries in 1537. The church chugged along as a parish church for ages, then was given the singular honour of being named a Cathedral in 1923 - becoming the Cathedral Church of the newly founded Diocese of Swansea and Brecon. 

The Cathedral has some interesting details, and a military chapel. But the most interesting of all (IMHO) is the font - the oldest object in the church, thought to be Celtic. It is a great stone thing carved with obscure markings. How wonderful that it has been preserved. 

The Celtic font in Brecon Cathedral

Map from: http://www.jlb2011.co.uk/walespic/archive/010721t.htm