My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Nineteen

Tuesday, 4 April, 1989
Holford (the Quantocks) to Wells to Bristol to Holford
Day Nineteen

This morning, after I’d mailed some cards at the post box in the wall of the shop across the road, I made good on my intentions to explore more of the immediate area.

Passed several cottages with picturesque names till I got to the church. Went through the lychgate and up to the church itself. Not stunningly memorable,† and I came out and tried the path that ran alongside the churchyard. It gave out into a broad, flat field of no particular interest. So I returned and, once more out of the precincts of the church, continued south till I came to a footpath giving the distance to Alfoxton. This is where I would have stayed if they hadn’t been full.

Before mounting that path I passed a thatched cottage I liked very much. But it was clumsily obscured by a road works machine. Can’t imagine why they use those monstrous great contraptions on little roads like this.

The drive to Alfoxton turned out to be private, so I took the footpath to the left, past what seemed to be an outbuilding for the community dog pound, donated by the Alfoxton family. This led through more deciduous wood, though to my left I could see a valley, dotted with all sizes of sheep, some of which came up to the fence bounding the wood to investigate my passage. There were quite a few little settlements in this dale, some of which were unfortunately composed of trailers. Cheap, convenient-- and ugly.

The wind was still pretty stiff today and I admit that after I got above the trees I rather wondered if I’d not taken all this a bit lightly, going out as I had with only my cameras and my car keys. Well, too late to think of that now.

More sheep grazing in the moor growth by the roadside and in among a clump of solemn, ceremonial-looking pines on the side of the eminence I was mounting. Turns out the ceremonial aspect was intentional. The pines were planted in the '40s in honor of the men and women of the surrounding villages who’d fought and/or died in the Second World War.

I came to what looked like the top but saw that no, the path led to the southwest to a higher stand. I pushed on, wind and all, to that. The weather was determined not to reward me with the view I suppose would’ve been mine had it been clear. But I still could see the saltwater channel to the north.

However, the way the clouds were moving in didn’t look too reassuring. Another drenching like those of Iona I could forego. I made good time back down into the trees, where the wind was not so punishing. Soon I came upon a party ahead of me, two women and a number of children and dogs, all apparently foraging casually for kindling wood. This spread-out and leisurely group occupied the path, which I myself was taking none too hastily, and kept ahead of me till not far above the dog pound, where I passed them.

Took a different way back to the B&B cottage, once I was back to the paved roads. I was happy to see the construction machine was gone from in front of the cottage I’d admired, so I was able to get a shot of it. And I was able to examine the flowers, still mostly nameless to me, that grow along the roadside. There was a stream running alongside and many little paths over and beside it which I had no time now to explore. Maybe someday.

Shortly after noon I took out the car and drove east along the A39 to Wells.

I’m glad I stopped to admire the cathedral's west front on Sunday, as the sun, if it was out at all today, was only making the most coy and fleeting of appearances. Still, I was able to study the cathedral’s interior sculpture sufficiently. Those stiff leaf nave capitals are simply amazing. They’re so wonderful you could eat them. I made sure to look for the story capitals and was lucky enough to come upon a cathedral guide who was describing them for the benefit of whomever cared to listen. They’re in the south transept, west side, as it happens.

And I had the chance to watch the indoor clock, with its jousting knights, strike the hour of 4:00.

Which reminds me, I was there that late because before heading to the cathedral I stopped at a tea shop in the High Street and lunched on a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and treated myself to a cream tea. And made an indulgent pig of myself and made sure I eked out the scones to justify eating every bit of the clotted cream and every bit of the strawberry preserve and felt no remorse about it, either.

Anyway, at the cathedral. I was able to see the fantastic chapterhouse stairs, and not in entirely bad light. The ensemble looks smaller than it does in the photographs but also not as gloomy. It’s all in golden stone and beautifully patina’d and worn by all those clerics-- and tourists. I had to admit that today we would’ve put in an extra storage closet to take up the excess space left after we’d supplied the canons with a regulation-width stair. And I immediately decided to hell with modern spatial efficiency. It’s delightful as it is, from dozens of different angles.

The chapterhouse, off the stair to the right, is the classic circular kind with a column in the middle and the canons’ seats all round the walls, with their prebends named over them. Though I suppose the existing brass plates are recent replacements. They say they give concerts in there, though not just now as the ceiling is being restored.

The stair goes on up to a corridor leading to the canons’ refectory, still in use these days. In the passage they’ve set up an exhibition of the archaeological history of Wells, including photographs of the bones of bishops they dug up after they’d been buried below the cathedral floor for centuries. This had mostly been done in the last century, by those literal-minded Victorians who couldn’t leave anything to stay put.

Made my pilgrimage to the cathedral shop just before it closed at 5:15. As well as the usual postcards and information booklets I purchased a little devotional book on the Psalms. Something like that might do me good.

Having purchased still more Somerset postcards and a shocking pink highlighter (to mark my actual, as opposed to my proposed, route in my road atlas) at the W. H. Smith’s, I took off northwest along the A371 towards Cheddar.

It was too late in the day to sample any real Cheddar cheese but I could still enjoy the Cheddar Gorge, outside of the town. Leaving aside more spectacular formations that occur in other countries, the Gorge is in itself a spectacular natural feature. You’re tootling along in this nice, innocuous rolling English countryside and then, wham! high rock walls on either side, stretching up to heaven, their fissured sides doing an offbeat undulating dance with the road that goes through between. Not the best weather for seeing the place but at least there weren’t any more tourists around at this time of day. Only locals who can now take it for granted and were probably wondering why they had to get stuck behind the only rubbernecking tourist (me) who was around.

If they do take it for granted they shouldn’t. Somerset is an amazing county.

Crossed the A368 at Barrington and noted the turnoff for Blagdon. That’s where we [our Oxford group of year-abroad students] went to enjoy a cream tea after visiting Bath in March. Picked up the A38 at that crossroads and continued on to Bristol, for the sole purpose of again seeing the Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s a perfectly wonderful thing, up there over the Avon Gorge.

When I got there I left the car and walked back to the river Avon where I could attempt some pictures, despite the fog.

Then I took the car and tried to get closer, but had a deal of a time finding my way onto the Hotwell Road (that runs by the river) in the first place. I finally did but could find nowhere to stop for quite awhile. Got way north of it, turned around, and finally located a coach stop on the way back. Walked up along the side of the road till the bridge was in sight, now all lit up outlined with white lights in the foggy dusk. The photos are purely experimental, as I doubt my hand-holding was steady enough. And I was trying for some streaky headlight effects at very low shutter speeds.

Maybe I’ll have time to come back tomorrow, and it’ll be nicer.

Meant to catch the M5 at Portishead but instead got on the road to meet it at this side of Weston-super-Mare. One of my wrong turns that came out all right, for a change.

By the time I got the A39 at Bridgwater it was snowing. Not a bad thing in itself but impossible to see the curves without the brights.

As a reward for a long day and not having any stupid accidents on the way, after reaching Holford I took myself to the pub and treated me to a glass of cider. Took it and Uncle Walter to a table in the dining area and drank and read, between listening casually to the conversation filtering over from the bar proper.

One of the men in the group started to sing and another shushed him. Whereupon the singer said, "Dammit, this is a local pub and there’s nobody but us locals here and we can sing if we want to!"

Cannily, Mrs. Ayshford, who was on duty, kept silent about my presence, and several of the jolly company took up some song. Alas, modern culture intervened-- some idiot in the snooker room geared up the juke box-- and Real Music retreated from the field. It was really too bad.

Packed and planned my route for tomorrow before retiring. Tried not to read too late.
____________________________
†Neither my memory nor my trip journal tells me whether I entered the church itself. If it was unlocked and I didn't bother, I am a retrospective idiot. Photos available online show that the Church of St. Mary the Virgin at Holford has some wonderful carving in wood and stone, a delightful little organ, and some lovely work in embroidery and stained glass. Did I think if it didn't sport flying buttresses, it wasn't worth seeing?

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Eighteen

Monday, 3 April, 1989
Holford to Minehead to Selworthy to Holford
Day Eighteen

The skies were clouded up again this morning-- yesterday was a special reprieve.

The important thing today was to do the laundry. Mrs. Ayshford directed me to the nearest launderette, seven or eight miles up the road in Williton.

Facility turned out to be on a side street with no parking. No parking anywhere around there. I dumped the car with the hazard lights flashing in a double-yellow-line zone near a driveway outlet across from a store, so I could run in and ask if they knew where I could park the silly thing. Before I got two steps away an old lady of the hard, trousered variety came up and told me I just couldn't leave the car there, that was a no-parking zone.

I told her I knew that but I just needed to know where I could put it.

Well, she didn't care about that, I couldn't leave it there. (It wasn't her driveway, incidentally.)

I'm not sure why but all at once I totally lost it. All the frustration came welling up and I exploded in tears and told her I didn't give a damn and I'd move it in a minute, thank you please, go away and leave me alone.

The clerk in the store suggested a place on the street a couple blocks away and I drove over there. In the end this was all in vain, since the detergent dispenser in the launderette wouldn't accept the coins. This, after I'd walked up to the bank for change (shop wouldn't give me change; no change machine in the laundry).

So I said to hell with this place and drove on to Minehead.

Asked at a Shell station where the launderette was. Ended up driving past both of the ones they recommended and having to ask directions again at an ironmonger's. They were very nice and told me which one was the cheapest, to boot. Left the car where it was and took my backpack full of dirty clothes back down the street with me.

Well. This laundry was definitely cheaper, at 80p a wash, than Williton's. But it had no soap, either. Nothing for it but to shoulder my pack, dirty socks playing peekaboo below the flap, and go down the high street and find a shop to sell me some. Located a discount store and bought the smallest size Persil they had. They didn't give me a sack to put it in, which is typical around here.

So I just brazenly carried it back exposed. It's not like anyone knows me here, after all.

And the machines worked all right, so the clothes were washed and thank God for that.

As long as I was this far west, I decided to continue over to Selworthy, which is a National Trust town. Some people might think it was terminally quaint, but I rather liked it. If Real Life means plastic signs and McDonald's wrappers in the streets, I'm for necrophilia.

I left the car at the carpark up the hill below the church and walked back down, and in and among the houses on Selworthy Green. White walls (cob?), good recent thatch jobs, spring flowers everywhere. Very peaceful. Down along the road there were some bits that looked to be very ancient, like an old stone barn that had been incorporated into a dwelling, but these structures were behind walls and very private.

I especially liked the wooden signs at the crossings of the footpaths, telling how far it was-- by foot-- to the next village. I followed one such path a little way. After a short time I came abreast of a house on whose broad front lawn a small flock of sheep, including several new lambs, were grazing. If these sheep had been told anything about being timid, they weren't heeding it. The ewes especially came up to the fence and bleated and bleated, telling me explicitly that there was going to be no fooling around with their lambs if they could help it. Yes, ma'am!

At the top of the little paved road, where it turns to go past the church and the carpark, was a gate leading to a dirt track and a hiking trail. This led up to Selworthy Beacon. It wasn't far, only a mile or so, so I unhesitatingly passed the gate and headed uphill.

The path goes through a wood and along a little stream for most of its way. But then you come out onto moorland, all clothed with an unfamiliar yellow flowering shrub that looked none too pleasant to wade into.

The path, or more so, the road, continues up to the north until you get to the windy cairn-marked top, the Beacon. On clear days, they say, you can see all the way into Wales. Today with its foggy overcast one could only view Bridgwater Bay, with the great oceangoing ships blending their gray with that of the water.

I couldn't help but think how good it would be to have someone with me now to admire the view, obscured as it was. But would anyone else ever be so impulsively passionate about indiscriminate hill-climbing? I almost wished I could have someone magically transported to the top for me, so I wouldn't feel guilty about making them do the walk, in case they didn't like the view. I tried to picture Nigel* there with me, but it wouldn't fit. Nigel*-and-Emily* would have been a painful redundancy. But Nigel* without Emily* in such a circumstance would be abnormal and anomalous.

There's a National Trust shop down in the village. I bought some Somerset postcards and a jar of elderberry wine jelly. There was also a place that served cream teas but it, alas, was closed Mondays.

I continued in my quest to partake in this most civilised of ceremonies when I returned to Holford. But there, too, the shop across from the cottage only kept their tea shop counter open till 5:00, and it was just past that now.

Braving the rather brisk wind in my tweed blazer, I walked up the road into the depths of the village, as far as the lychgate of the church. Very pretty and worth more exploration when the wind and I can meet on more equal terms.

Took the evening off, spending most of it in the downstairs parlour (marginally warmer than the room). Watched the 6:00 o'clock news but most wrote postcards and journal and read Walter Scott.

I asked Mrs. Ayshford about the heat. She said, well, she supposed they're country people and just don't mind the cold. So, she said, having a heater in the guest room just never occurred to them. It seemed unlikely to do so now and I decided, at £8 a night, what do you expect? I can perfectly well survive by wearing my longies under my flannel nightgown and keeping as much of me as possible under the two duvets . . .

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Seventeen

Sunday, 2 April, 1989
Holford to Taunton to Glastonbury to Wells to Holford again
Day Seventeen

Had breakfast at 8:30, down in the sitting room. The family’s black and white border collie named Roly came in and begged with his big brown eyes, but had no better luck than his predecessors. When Mrs. Ayshford discovered it she hauled him away. Which was too bad, as I liked the company.

Taunton was my first stop today. Took an unclassified one and a half lane road from the A39 south to Crowcombe. Very pleasant, tree-lined, with little traffic. It was actually turning out sunny and there was a place to pull off and shoot pictures, looking towards Bridgwater Bay.

After Crowcombe it was the A358 into Taunton. Devil of a time finding a place to park, till it occurred to me I could put the car on the street, it being Sunday.

First visit, to the church of St. Mary Magdalene near the center of town. But I'd diddled around too much if I'd expected to attend services there. Church was at 10:15 or so and I got there at nearly 12:00.

I guess there was some advantage to having the building to myself to explore and take pictures of. It's a very nice 15th Century Perp church. The ceiling, recently repainted black with all sorts of green and white shields and gilded angels, is stunning. Lots of fine sculpture in the double aisles. Rather odd terrarium-looking altar, though. Unique is the word.

Also very nice pierced decoration on the tower.

Wandered around town trying to find a phonecard box. Located one near the river and called down to Kent to a B&B there that looked interesting. So I have a place for Thursday night. And I called Phyllis Johnson* in London and asked please could I stay there Wednesday after coming to hear [Hector Berlioz'] Romeo & Juliet that night. Oh, yes.

So, very good-- except that I couldn’t get my card out of the phone. Called the British TeleCom toll-free repair number. All the man could suggest is leaving the card there and having them send me a new one. But I needed it back now! Luckily, it popped back out even as we spoke.

The blue and white bridge over the River Tone looked so pretty in the sunlight that I walked down a ways, past the castle, to see it better. Watched the ducks on the water and the clouds in the sky. The castle was converted to a high class hotel ages ago [not entirely true, I now find; part of it is the Somerset County Museum], but you can walk along the river in the castle gardens. There were some large bushes growing there, with bright yellow flowers growing all over them like cheerful pompoms. I've never seen a shrub like it before. I wonder what it is? I like it.

Tramped around trying to find something to drink. Settled for a bottle of ersatz raspberry fizz water at 20p at a formica-topped cafe. Definitely an Experience.

I passed through one street down by the church and noticed how packed it was with artsy-craftsy supply shops. All those pipe cleaners and beady glue-on eyes, and for what? And it hit me what a reprehensible waste all that is. How can people have such trash in their homes, and pay good money for it, too, and spend good time and money making such things? I realize most people don’t feel such moral repulsion against it, but it is hard to wonder why something that seems so painfully obvious to you shouldn’t be apparent to everyone else.

Walked north of the river only as fair as the railroad station. After that, I took off for Glastonbury like a good little architectural tourist.

Up the A361, not too many miles from Taunton, I saw something that looked an awful lot like Glastonbury Tor but on closer inspection was not. It was a ruined chapel dedicated to St. Michael on top of a mound called the Burrow Mump, near Othery. And of course I had to double back, park the car, and climb up.

Other people had the same idea. Families and couples out in the sunshine. Great view of the Somerset Levels and all the little towns below.

That done, I came down and drove the rest of the way to Glastonbury. And wondered how I could’ve been mistaken about the Tor, once I’d seen the real thing in the distance.

Found a carpark (free on Sundays) not far from the town center and walked to the Abbey. Could get a little weird there, since not only was Glastonbury a great Benedictine center, but because of the Arthurian connection, various New Agers and other fringies find it an attractive pilgrimage spot as well. Several shops on the High Street for me to stay out of, though for the most part it seemed pretty laughable.

Judging from the size and compass of the ruins, Glastonbury Abbey when complete must’ve been a jaw-dropper. Just incredibly huge. Very Norman in feel, even in its Gothic parts. Lots of dogtooth ornament. And some original floor tiles left, in situ. You look at them by lifting up wooden covers. They’re all below existing ground level, which is higher than that of four hundred years ago.

Funny thing, though. Durham Cathedral is older than Glastonbury; the building is, at least. But Durham doesn't seem so incredibly remote and ancient as Glastonbury does. Maybe it's because here it's all ruins, so the place is arrested in the past. Up in Durham, the cathedral is used and lived in, as it were, and it's part of the everyday life of the Christian church-- regardless of its current bishop! So Durham belongs to Today, old as it is. There I got a sense of fruitful rootedness and living tradition. But here-- whatever's living is living several centuries back, and it pulls you into a world that is a long time ago and culturally, at least, very far away.

Which would explain the airhead-looking types sitting around soaking up vibes from the stones (what the sensible Benedictines would’ve said, I can’t think). There was one man, Western but with hair, beard, and robes like an Indian guru, sitting meditating in what was once the chancel. I considered taking his picture but decided it’d be a poor idea. If I showed such a thing, my audience might think I approved, which would be bad, or know I was holding the man up to ridicule, which would be worse. As much as I may deplore his creed I have no right to compromise his dignity.

I do have to wonder how much of this New Age business would be going on here if the Abbey were still an intact, functioning church. I mean, how much of this myth and legend stuff is us modern people putting our ideas on the Past, which isn't still around to defend itself?

Wandered around the grassy grounds contemplating the trees and flowering shrubs, including what is supposed to be a scion of the original Glastonbury Thorn. I used to love that story of Joseph of Arimathea planting his staff in the soil here-- did I ever actually believe it, or just want to, like the story of Santa Claus?

Visited the abbot’s kitchen, the only building really left intact. It was used as a Quaker meeting house for awhile. I was disappointed to see how some idiot had defaced the exhibits with vulgar writings and drawings. Real grown up, turkey.

Drove round to the Tor, but wasn’t so good at following the signs. But that was all right, since the road where I ended up got me closer to the stile to one of the footpaths than the official parking lot would’ve. Left the car at the side of the street and headed up the hill.

It is a big hill. The best way to climb it is to go round the curve, though I trusted my shoes enough to risk taking sideways steps diagonally up the grass. Wasn’t wet by now, fortunately. The clear, dry weather was holding beautifully.

The ruined chapel here, too, was dedicated to St. Michael. He seems to get the ones mounted up on pinnacles, doesn’t he? Like the one at Burrow Mump, this place was also thoroughly betouristed, with couples lying or wrestling around on the grass and children running in and out of the remaining tower. You just have to accept it and appreciate it for how it is, even if you’d prefer it quiet and to yourself.

The pagans, literally, had been at the place, scribbling their graffiti over a plaque, claiming the hill as their personal free-love site for some dark celebration . . . I don’t see St. Michael being too thrilled with that-- let alone, God.

From the top you can see all over that part of Somerset-- down to Glastonbury, the black and white cows grazing in the fields, and northeast all the way to Wells, its cathedral readily apparent. The sun was dropping lower, its light becoming more golden, backlighting the grasses of the hillside.

I came down a different way, meaning I continued my original counterclockwise progress all round the tor till I came down again to the stile I’d originally crossed. There were sheep even on this touristed mound, and little lambs ramming and butting one another, or running away behind their mothers if anyone got too close.

Back to the vehicle, then down to the town again, and caught the A39 up to Wells.

When I’d parked the care there in Sadler Street, opposite the gate, it was just on 6:00 o’clock and the cathedral was closing. I went in anyway, just for a minute.

And you know, there’s a wonderful effect that you get looking squarely down the nave: The line of the foliated capitals of the shafts of the clerestory lead your eye swiftly down the righthand side, swooping down the downward curve of the upper, inverted strainer arch, up its upward counterpart to the left, then flying back towards you along the lefthand row of clerestory capitals. Incredibly dynamic. You feel you can see the forces go. It all works a lot better than I’d thought.

And of course the carving in the capitals, above and below, is worth seeing for itself. So marvellously crisp (I hope it’s not all 19th Century restorations).

Having plenty of time in this part of England, I didn’t push things here today. But one thing was important, that I felt called to do. I passed up to the front of the nave, just before the Communion rail, and asked God that if-- no, when I come to forgive Lukas* for his behaviour at Iona (for he must be forgiven, else I’ll suppress this and it will only add to my general sickness of soul), I will truly forgive him, honestly and completely, and not keep pulling his offense out again, to his hurt or to my own. The thing must be made right between us, it must.

There was a young clergyman locking up, so I just verified that the Chapter House would be open tomorrow, and allowed myself to be shepherded out with some other stragglers.

I did not leave the cathedral grounds then, not a bit of it. The sun was striking full on the west facade and also illumining the north flank. And you know me-- I like anything with the sun on it. I think I killed a whole roll of film just on the Wells exterior. They’ve been cleaning the masonry and it all looked golden and lovely. I had good fun shooting the high-up statuary with the telephoto. They’re what that facade is all about. The doors themselves are ridiculously insignificant.

I was still there to see the funny clock on the north side mark 6:45. Then I got an ice cream (loosely-speaking) from a vending lorry and wandered out and back in to see the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace.

It was closed, but the moat and walls with the swans and ducks gliding by below could all be seen in the most welcome and fortuitous light. The mallards are wonderful, the way the color of their shimmering neck feathers changes from royal blue to grass green to velvet black and back to teal again, depending on the angle of refraction.

You can go in the gateway of the palace and look into the inner court, but no farther except for one or two days a week, when there are tours. The Bishop still lives there. I tried to imagine one of the Coverdale* guys rising to this estate. Somehow I can’t picture any of them feeling comfortable in such splendour.

It was proper time to head back to Holford by now, being well past 7:30. Trouble was, my petrol gauge was riding on empty and here it was Sunday evening. I’d seen an Amoco station selling 4-star at £1.76 a gallon (miracle!) on the road above Bridgwater last night, but now I had no idea exactly where it was or if it was even open. Just what I needed, to run out of petrol. I didn’t help myself by getting onto the wrong road out of Wells and wasting fuel going all the way to Wookey Hole before I realized my error. Back and got onto the A3139 as planned, west towards Highbridge. Coasted as much as I could. I don’t know how much reserve this car has when the needle’s on empty, but I wasn’t taking chances.

Came out onto the A38 and after a bit came to a British Petroleum garage that was open. Damn, £1.87/gallon-- but read the old one about beggars and choosers as said. How nice then to pull away from there with a full tank and spot the Amoco a few miles closer to Bridgwater-- and open.

Proper good sunset this evening, but it was quite dark as I again drove the curving road towards Holford. All sorts of fun with the brights, trying to see how long I could keep them on before having to dim them for an oncoming driver. It’s near impossible to negotiate that road on the low lamps, especially if you’re trying to go as fast as local expectations would have it.

Decided since, except for the ice cream and that raspberry fizz, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I’d pop over to the pub and have a meal and a glass of Somerset cider. The barbecued chicken was the least expensive, and came with a jacket potato, mushrooms, and peas, for about £3.45. Glass of medium-sweet (but hard) cider for 52p. Brought Walter Scott [Heart of Mid-Lothian] along to keep me company, though the cover of that Everyman Edition doesn’t take kindly to being propped up on tables.

There were several other people in the Plough, including a group of people in their 20s. The guys were making some rather rude suggestions to the girls, which struck the young ladies as more funny and provocative than repulsive . . . It made me think about cultural differences-- not national, but class-related. But maybe it has more to do with religion. I couldn’t imagine any of the guys in the young adult class at my home church or in Coverdale* making personal comments about a female friend’s private anatomy to her face. I couldn't imagine them making such comments at all! Here and now over supper, I decided that as long as these people didn’t attempt to draw me in, I was going to ignore it and not let it make me nervous.

Returned next door to my room at around 10:00 and vegetated with the book until turning in.

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Sixteen

Saturday, 1 April, 1989
Aberbran to Brecon to Holford, Somerset
Day Sixteen

Yesterday evening Mrs. Jones told me they’ve had 400 ewes in lamb the past week, plus another 150 owned by their son David (David Jones-- now that’s a charming name) [particularly for an old Monkees fan]. As I looked out my window onto the farm court when I got up around 8:30, I could see from the people crisscrossing it that they were hard at it.

I finished dressing and breakfast by 9:30, and then took Mrs. Jones up on her offer to see a bit of the livestock.

She took me first into the sheep shed, where they’d put the ewes that’d recently given birth. "This one here was born just an hour ago." It was a wet little black thing, still being licked dry by its mother, the remains of the umbilicus dangling from its little belly. The ewe trims that off herself. I asked, and so far they’ve had no trouble with mothers rejecting their young.

Sheep, meaning sheep dung, smell different than cattle. It’s kind of a sweetsy smell. It might be a bit much if you didn’t get used to it.

Next we went to the cattle shed, where the Charolais cattle, all blond with knobby heads, were feeding. The Joneses had taken them in for fattening. They also have a few Herefords but the Charolais is the coming breed and the former are becoming more rare. I told her about the Hereford Association and its icon in Kansas City.

That shed also housed some ewes who were on the verge of giving birth. But none were ready immediately.

Paid my lodging and departed sometime after 10:00. Headed up the road to Brecon. I stopped first at the Post Office in its suburb of Llanfaes (yes, Brecon has an official suburb or two) to ask where I could find a card phone. The man told me where there was one in Brecon proper, but warned me it might be a little difficult to drive to it because of the parade.

And so it was. Streets closed and bobbies routing traffic round and round the narrow streets. I finally found a place where I could leave the car, and went back and asked a policeman. All in order, found the phone where he said and called down to Somerset about lodging for the next four nights. Place I wanted was full but the man suggested another not too far away, in a town called Holford, that was going for £8 a night. Called there and made my reservation.

That done, I headed back to the main square to watch the parade. It was really just a marching of the local militia, attended by the City Fathers in their regalia. But the band played and then the 43rd, I think, Brecon Infantry marched by (with their mascot goat) and everyone cheered. I must admit that thoughts of IRA and Welsh Nationalist terrorists crossed my mind, but nothing untoward happened. The ranks marched off down the street and the crowds dispersed.

I headed for the National Westminster (solely by means of guesswork) to cash some traveller’s cheques. It wasn’t till I got there and found it closed that I remembered it’s Saturday. So I used the cash machine out front. £20 out.

Just as I finished, the town officials, the band, and the regiment marched around again, to the cheers and appreciation of the re-formed crowd.

Took my time going back to the car. Bought some postcards in a souvenir shop but didn’t see anything else I couldn’t live without.

The husband of the couple staying at the B&B had climbed the Beacons yesterday and told me last night how to approach them by car. So I took the A470 southwards and soon found the turnoff for the Mountain Center.

They wanted 50p for the parking lot. Oh. Didn’t have it. When I went in to get change, the info officer told me that actually, to do the Beacons I needed the Mountain Rescue Post, farther down the A470. Though he wasn’t sure they would be worth climbing today, as visibility seemed rather low. I assured him it looked better outside than it did through his window, and asked if he thought I should wear my heavy coat or my nylon mac with extra sweaters beneath. He recommended the latter.

So. Found the right carpark, off the road opposite the roadhouse called the Story Arms. Put everything I figured I’d need in my backpack and headed across the highway. Beside the gate was one of the omnipresent British TeleCom phone boxes, though whether it was working is a tossup.

Over the stile and up the hill. Except for a planted coniferous forest on my right, there were no trees in view. The trail, such as it was, was rather muddy, and I was not thrilled to see how quickly I was getting tired. Even more fun when I got part way up the first bit of hill and decided, well, maybe I should go back and get my flashlight and my Swiss Army knife . . . .

So I retrieved them and began trudging up again. Got going at about 1:30. There were some other parties within sight, some of them were Army men. A few of them were stowing their gear into vans in the carpark when I went back.

There were two types of trails marked on my Ordnance Survey map-- one in black dashes, that cut more or less perpendicular to the contours, and one in red dots, that swung round an easier, more gradual way. Going by my seeming lack of stamina today, I decided to take the easier route, though it was the longer way around.

Going from by prior experience of hiking trails, there wasn’t much of one up this hillside. It was more of a system of ruts and gullies, some with water and some without, only distinguishable as a path by the innumerable bootmarks. Some pretty ill-placed bootmarks in some places, too. I’m getting practiced enough to know to go for the rocks and tussocks-- I’ve never heard yet that mud is very good for suede.

I read something somewhere that said not to absolutely trust even the Ordnance Survey maps. I could see now why they said that. There were a number of stone walls on that hill that weren’t even marked and it would’ve been very helpful to know how far I’d come.

Pretty soon I saw no others besides myself. It was very gray weather anyway and I got to thinking how hill climbing is so often a matter of faith. Earlier, at best, it’d looked like it did the day I drove up to Conques, as if I just might break out into sunlight if I went high enough.

After a time I came to a fence with a stile. Before I reached it two Army guys crossed it, coming back. Their hair was sopping wet and I wondered if it was raining on the top. If so, I hoped it’d stop by the time I got there.

On further, and I came to a stream (Nant in this neck of the woods). This was not how it was marked on my map-- unless-- oh, oh, yes-- I had taken the steeper trail after all. Yes, I had. Well, always one to make things difficult . . . Picked my way across as best I could, thankfully avoiding stepping into the water itself, then followed the ruts on up the hill.

My hopes of a clear day after all seemed to be waning. The wind picked up and drifts of fog blew down in visible trails off the top of the mountain. It was possible that meant all would soon be clear above, but I doubted it. The valley below became so fogged in I could not see where I’d been. All around me it was incredibly quiet, except for the songs of birds. Above me a lark, barely discernible through the mist, sang out her song of exultation as if the gloominess of the day hadn’t the least effect on her.

The fog grew thicker. But I wasn’t really worried, since the track, such as it was, was disgustingly plain. There was no missing that scar, as if some large vehicle with a variable wheelbase had ripped up the side of the hill, the gullies ornamented with boot tread marks. It was essential to keep an eye on it, though, because you never could tell when the solid place on which you trod would peter out into a water-filled hole.

Tried singing "Jesus, Lover of My Soul" (Tune: Aberystwyth) but I’ve never learned all the verses. Frustrating. "Once to Every Man and Nation" (Ton-y-Botel) comes easier:

"Toiling up new Calvaries ever,
With the cross that turns not back."

Came to a cross path, added my stone to the cairn that marked the junction and, having checked the map, took the fork to the right up to the summit of Bwlch Duwynt. Part way along there, two other silhouettes came looming out of the fog ahead of me, coming up a path that converged on mine. I immediately remembered Carcassonne and hung back till the two, both men in bright orange macs, had passed by.

I was able to relax a little, though, when I passed through the fog to that summit and practically stumbled over a family sitting there in the damp eating their lunch. And more people were coming down from the top of Pen y Fan, the highest of the Beacons.

It’s about another kilometer to that, according to the map. At this point you’re walking along a ridge with a pretty good drop on your right hand, or eastward, side. And that’s where all the storm was coming from. And by now it was getting to be a real storm, with strong winds and rains. But I was already this close to the top that it seemed silly to turn back, even if I couldn’t see five feet ahead of me. I could see the cairns marking the path on the lefthand side, and feel the path as it sloped gradually upwards. As long as that was so I knew I couldn’t get wrong and I was still on the way to the 886 [meter; 2,907 foot] summit.

Pretty soon, after passing others coming back, I caught sight of the two men I’d seen before, standing by a monstrous cairn. The trail no longer went upwards and I said, "Is this it?"

Yes, I was told. And they headed down.

I stood there a moment or two despite the sleet, allowing myself time to actually be there at the top-- and despite there being no view whatsoever. The cameras were useless.

So I put them in my pack and turned to go. The two men were standing by the side of the trail, pulling on their waterproof trousers. They hailed me, and, seeing that they were two whitehaired men in their 70s, I decided they were ok. Besides, there were tons of others around, fog or no.

They were both Welsh, local; one was Vernon and the other Roy. They’ve climbed these hills in all weathers and always put on their foul weather gear when their regular trousers get wet. They decided I needed more protection and pulled out a spare mac and insisted I put it on.

So it fell out that we went down together, talking as we went. As we approached the path back to the summit of Bwlch Duwynt, one of them said, "All right, which way do we go now?"

I, having to be a showoff, took no time to consider or check the map-- and promptly chose the wrong way (couldn’t see the right way, actually). At which I got a short lecture about wondering around in the fog by myself. The silly thing is, if I’d been by myself, I wouldn’t’ve been so glib and thoughtless about it.

As we went, I bore with their chiding me for wearing cotton jeans-- they said I should have worn my wool flannels, at least. Learned all sorts of things, such as that Vernon’s daughter and grandson live in Connecticut, and he’s a science major and a certified genius but was turned down by Cal Tech. Did I think that was because he’s from Great Britain? I really couldn’t say. And Vernon’s been to Connecticut, but doesn’t like it-- "It’s a jungle." I thought he was speaking of the urban jungles of New Haven or Hartford but he clarified, "There’s too many trees. You can’t see anything. No point in walking there at all."

Well, you can’t accuse Brecon of that fault. But I tried to explain that there can be real excitement in breaking out above a timberline. He does approve of Martha’s Vineyard, though. Only place he’d be willing to stay.

They told me that fifteen-twenty years ago when they first started hiking the Beacons, this monstrous rutted track under our feet was just a little sheep trace. "Now they call it the M4," said one.

"The mountain’s popularity is killing it," said the other.

Vernon complained about how the US National Parks all charge admission. I felt it would be useless to point out that yes, but that money goes to pay for trail upkeep. You’d never have an eroded disgrace like this in Rocky Mountain National.

We talked about me and what I’m doing in England a little bit. It was obvious they thought I was some kind of undergraduate, until I told them otherwise. Even so, one of them asked, "What does your mother think about her daughter being out doing this sort of thing on her own?"

I tried gently to convince them that Mom’s had a lot of years to get used to it.

So comes the question, "How old are you?"

At which point I sweetly request to keep my own counsel and the other man reminds his friend that it’s not polite to ask ladies their ages. Damn right.

The fog lifted successively the lower we went. I got the cameras out again but they still weren’t much good-- misted up inside.

We took a shorter way down than the way I'd come up, and came out at the opposite side of the pine forest.They shared their coffee and tea biscuits with me back down at the carpark. I have long since decided that it’s rude to refuse such hospitality by insisting on touching nothing but tea, so I drank the coffee and thank you for it.

They yelled at me a little for being up there with no compass or matches and I suppose they were right. Somehow I can’t get all that worked up about a great bald-headed hill, but I could see from my map that if I’d gotten off on that other path it would’ve been a damn long way before I’d’ve found a road. (Still doesn’t scare me much, though-- I’d’ve noticed pretty quickly that the contours didn’t match those of my intended path on the map.)

Vernon gave me a lift back to my car and showed me the route to the M4 at Cardiff and then back to England. I bade him thanks and farewell, then sat there awhile resting and eating a meat pie I’d bought in Brecon and had intended to have at the summit. It was 4:30.

That done, I put my muddy shoe to the gas pedal and took off south down the A470, the interval wipers going most of the time. Though sometimes it really rained in earnest. Could’ve missed the entrance for the M4 because some jerk Welsh Nationalist had spraypainted over the sign, but I kept my eyes open and made it onto the eastbound anyway.

It felt very fine to go 70 mph (80!) again. (The Welsh gentlemen had said I looked like someone who’d do that on the motorway-- "She’s got that glint in her eye." Oh really?) This despite the rain . . .

Came across the Severn Bridge above Bristol at around 6:30. I knew I was back in England proper when the toll booth man greeted me with, "‘Ello, ducks!" Righty-oh, mate!

Joined the M5 at Almondsbury. Skirted Bristol which was a little too bad, as I really want to see the Clifton Suspension Bridge again.

The lady at the B&B had given me directions and they were decent ones-- hop off the M5 above Bridgwater and look for the A39 to Minehead. It was starting to get dark pretty quickly, with the rain and all, but I was now in Somerset and that was a happiness in itself.

Back to twisting, rolling, well-wooded English lanes here. Amused by a deer-crossing sign shot full of holes somewhere near Nether Stowey. Bad hunting, gentlemen? Cannington is a pretty town, as I noticed when I went through. And where have I heard of Nether Stowey before?

Holford’s about three miles west of there. The B&B, the Forge Cottage, is right smack at the edge of town, next to the 16th Century Plough Inn and across from the very 20th Century Texaco (raised petrol prices and all).

Mrs. Ayshford wasn’t in, being on duty as a cook at the pub. Mr. Ayshford let me in and showed me to my room. I’m not sure why, but that bothered me. Maybe it was his London accent. At any rate, I told myself not to be so sexist.

I requested an iron and ironing board and did up the shirts and skirts that’ve been crammed in clean but wrinkled since Iona. That over, I put on my radio headphones and vegetated, listening to BBC comedy shows.

I do believe I’m becoming acculturated. I can understand M25 jokes: "The M25 is the only motorway in Britain where the hedgehogs go faster than the cars. They thumb their noses at the drivers as they cross during rush hour." Then there was a program about "Britain’s only Communist football team," called Lenin and the Rovers. I just sat there listening, too tired to do anything but fall over in suppressed laughter.

Was treated to a cheap thrill during a trip to the loo around midnight. Mine host apparently had the same idea and came out of his room wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. Very cheap, and not too thrilling under the beer belly. He saw me and popped back into his room like the proverbial rabbit. All very well, but I hope the Mrs. doesn’t work late every evening.

The room is adequate in size and has a sink. What it doesn’t have is a heater, of any kind. Nothing for it but to appropriate the duvet from the other bed as well . . .