Day Thirteen (2001)
Woke up in Knighton to a hot breakfast at the Red Lion Inn. My opinion of Wales had not really change, despite the transformation daylight and rest wrought but Arthur would have cause to hope from the hospitality of our host in Knighton. Today we experienced the magic that remains in the foothills of Wales. From Knighton we climbed a great hill that followed the track of Offa’s Dyke. The view was indescribable, though I will try. To the west the hill fell away in long green slopes dotted with sheep and wild forests only to rise again on the far side of a valley in steadily increasing hills. To the east a great bank of hedges broken by untended wood and house that teetered on the edge of ruin. Over the whole scene loomed great ominous clouds billowing out of the west swept from the sea past the hills of Wales by a chill wind. When the wind and rain hit us we had past the crest of the hill and were speeding down the other side. We hit the rain like a solid wall and when we finally reached the end of our run we sought shelter under and oak then in the nearby town of Presteigne. We lunched under a small tree by a river that had been tamed and channeled until it looked like nothing more than a sewer. We pressed on from there, past the town of Titley and on to Kington. Our travel was over much flatter ground but the exhausting climb of the morning had left us unable to go further. We pitched our tent beneath a great tree of unknown species and had time enough to eat and make comfortable our camp before the rain came once more. The rain here has a sporadic quality that both baffles and delights. Delights because it is cooling and casts a magical veil over wood and farm, baffling because it seems to rain only until one is prepared from rain then ceases to be. Our plans for the rest of the journey are ever changing. I had chosen a path because of convenience and the possibility of exposure to many antiquities but not through any heartfelt attachment. I was misunderstood and the path was taken as gospel. But we have rectified that and have chosen a, hopefully, better path.
Day Fourteen
Two weeks. Exhaustion, exhilaration, delight, anger and frustration. What a mixed bag today has been. Off from Knighton, sorry Kington, and towards a small town called Bredwardine. The trip began, as all on bike have seemed to do, with a large hill, not as large as other days have been but both Heather and I started of exhausted and sore (I don’t think Heather has noticed yet but she is already better even in an exhausted state). Then downhill to a marvelous town called Eardisley. Every building in the town was tilted northwards as though pointing the way out of the Wye valley. Yes, the Wye Valley, we have reached it at last. The church at Eardisley, the Church of Mary Magdalene was a magical place. The tombs and gravestones were weathered with eons of decay and inside was the most spectacular baptismal font adorned with the eternal conflict between good and evil. After a brief lunch we trekked on and soon crossed the Wye River, after pausing to watch a bevy of bravura youth, egged on by the watching eyes of a comely lass, leaping off a bridge into the murky water of the Wye. Then we confidently biked towards the town of Bredwardine and a campsite and the ancient site of Arthur’s Stone. Undaunted by the 25% grade we gamely trudge upwards even when told that no campground existed. After an hour of climbing gamefulness changed to frustration ad disappointment. We climbed what seemed forever only to find that we could not find Arthur’s stone. In despair we marched on until, after we had given up all hope we ran into…Arthur’s stone. Danaide was however still disappointed to learn that it was a Neolithic burial chamber with no connection to the king of legend. From there we plummeted down the other side of our hill to find ourselves in the Golden Valley. It was a nice ride and easy to see where the name might have come from. The hay and the wheat in the sun truly did transform the valley floor to gold. From the heights we had seen the black mountains from afar and it seemed we could touch the clouds. Here in the valley, cut off from such sights it is much easier to journey. There are it seems trade offs for everything.
Woke up in Knighton to a hot breakfast at the Red Lion Inn. My opinion of Wales had not really change, despite the transformation daylight and rest wrought but Arthur would have cause to hope from the hospitality of our host in Knighton. Today we experienced the magic that remains in the foothills of Wales. From Knighton we climbed a great hill that followed the track of Offa’s Dyke. The view was indescribable, though I will try. To the west the hill fell away in long green slopes dotted with sheep and wild forests only to rise again on the far side of a valley in steadily increasing hills. To the east a great bank of hedges broken by untended wood and house that teetered on the edge of ruin. Over the whole scene loomed great ominous clouds billowing out of the west swept from the sea past the hills of Wales by a chill wind. When the wind and rain hit us we had past the crest of the hill and were speeding down the other side. We hit the rain like a solid wall and when we finally reached the end of our run we sought shelter under and oak then in the nearby town of Presteigne. We lunched under a small tree by a river that had been tamed and channeled until it looked like nothing more than a sewer. We pressed on from there, past the town of Titley and on to Kington. Our travel was over much flatter ground but the exhausting climb of the morning had left us unable to go further. We pitched our tent beneath a great tree of unknown species and had time enough to eat and make comfortable our camp before the rain came once more. The rain here has a sporadic quality that both baffles and delights. Delights because it is cooling and casts a magical veil over wood and farm, baffling because it seems to rain only until one is prepared from rain then ceases to be. Our plans for the rest of the journey are ever changing. I had chosen a path because of convenience and the possibility of exposure to many antiquities but not through any heartfelt attachment. I was misunderstood and the path was taken as gospel. But we have rectified that and have chosen a, hopefully, better path.
Day Fourteen
Two weeks. Exhaustion, exhilaration, delight, anger and frustration. What a mixed bag today has been. Off from Knighton, sorry Kington, and towards a small town called Bredwardine. The trip began, as all on bike have seemed to do, with a large hill, not as large as other days have been but both Heather and I started of exhausted and sore (I don’t think Heather has noticed yet but she is already better even in an exhausted state). Then downhill to a marvelous town called Eardisley. Every building in the town was tilted northwards as though pointing the way out of the Wye valley. Yes, the Wye Valley, we have reached it at last. The church at Eardisley, the Church of Mary Magdalene was a magical place. The tombs and gravestones were weathered with eons of decay and inside was the most spectacular baptismal font adorned with the eternal conflict between good and evil. After a brief lunch we trekked on and soon crossed the Wye River, after pausing to watch a bevy of bravura youth, egged on by the watching eyes of a comely lass, leaping off a bridge into the murky water of the Wye. Then we confidently biked towards the town of Bredwardine and a campsite and the ancient site of Arthur’s Stone. Undaunted by the 25% grade we gamely trudge upwards even when told that no campground existed. After an hour of climbing gamefulness changed to frustration ad disappointment. We climbed what seemed forever only to find that we could not find Arthur’s stone. In despair we marched on until, after we had given up all hope we ran into…Arthur’s stone. Danaide was however still disappointed to learn that it was a Neolithic burial chamber with no connection to the king of legend. From there we plummeted down the other side of our hill to find ourselves in the Golden Valley. It was a nice ride and easy to see where the name might have come from. The hay and the wheat in the sun truly did transform the valley floor to gold. From the heights we had seen the black mountains from afar and it seemed we could touch the clouds. Here in the valley, cut off from such sights it is much easier to journey. There are it seems trade offs for everything.