Day Fifteen. (2001)
Monmouth. But what hell to get here. Left Vowchurch in pain already. We are unused to sleeping out of doors and sleeping on the ground has left us with every muscle aching. By the time we reach the town of Dore Abbey Danaide was in desperate need of a rest. Here we make a striking and beautiful discovery. The abbey is an amazing building, all that remains of a once vast and proud monastery that dominated the golden valley. As we walk through it a great melancholy sweeps over me. I mourn for the lost monks and ghosts of beauty left behind. The abbey was once a pulsing vital place filled with people of strong belief and a certainty of the shape of the universe. Now it is a shell filled with meaningless material tokens and a small congregation struggling to maintain remembered greatness. It, the abbey, is called one of the 100 most important churches in Britain yet never before have I seen its name. We left there to continue down the valley. An alternate reason for its golden name sprang to mind as we passed many large and wealthy estates but our trip was by no means an easy once. Danaide had gotten no rest out of our brief stop and her condition deteriorated rapidly as we cycled. By the time we were halfway to Monmouth she was more than ready to quite and very vocal about her state of mind. Unfortunately the nearest campground was in Monmouth. We trekked on and before long my muscles too began to feel the strain. Additionally I was having a terrible allergic reaction to the welsh countryside. The dead still air of the abbey irritated my nose while the constantly rushing air left my eyes burning and itching. Even medication did not fully alleviate my problems. Every hill became an agony and the joy of every descent was stolen by the ever present wind that seemed to rob us of our speed. In the days before we learned the meaning of long slow hills, of rain and struggle. Today we learned the meaning of small steep hills that never ended a repeating chorus of “notice us, notice us, notice us” and we learnt the agony of muscles overused and nearing their limits. By the time we drifted into town it was decided that tomorrow would most definitely be a day of rest.
Day Sixteen.
A day of rest and a day of pure tourism. We walked about town, a bit frustrated to discovery that before 2 pm none of the monuments were open. But we finally entered the church of St. Mary’s and what a delight. A church of antiquity, that remembered and reveled in its past yet shared its use with the present. Everywhere was intricate ironwork that capture the living essence of flowers and growing things. The stained glass brightly proclaimed the stories of the church and the men of faith that Monmouth had given to the world. How strange it was to amble from that monument, that prayer in art to the heavens to a deification of another sort. The Nelson museum proclaimed the divine elevation of the state and the apotheosis of Horatio Nelson. “England expects every man to do his duty.” How the memory of Nelson is preserved, decorated, gilded until he and his devotion to the empire are memorialized in a vomiting of platitudes to his greatness. It was almost a relief to leave. From there to the castle and regimental museum. Here was a more dignified memorial of wars. Yes they are to be remembered but for what they are, not a glorified image. Here they demonstrated what the common people think of political intrigues that tear their land apart almost proudly proclaiming that in the Civil War people at Monmouth were always ready to serve whichever side had most recently conquered it so long as they were left mostly alone. From there we bought food and ambled down the banks of the Monnow River and talked at length on the nature of art and the ability of people to appreciate it. And we read and talked of the nature of religion and the meaning of the Gnostic gospels. Such discussions they were that I hesitate to write them down for knowledge that I will run short of space. And I must admit that discussions is a gentle title for what amounted to me rambling on and Danaide politely listening and asking questions when it was obvious that I wanted her too. Tonight we look forward once more to our tent and I must admit that I tired of our portable accommodation. Cramped, hot, stale, bug infested and altogether disheartening are words that describe our wedding bed.
Monmouth. But what hell to get here. Left Vowchurch in pain already. We are unused to sleeping out of doors and sleeping on the ground has left us with every muscle aching. By the time we reach the town of Dore Abbey Danaide was in desperate need of a rest. Here we make a striking and beautiful discovery. The abbey is an amazing building, all that remains of a once vast and proud monastery that dominated the golden valley. As we walk through it a great melancholy sweeps over me. I mourn for the lost monks and ghosts of beauty left behind. The abbey was once a pulsing vital place filled with people of strong belief and a certainty of the shape of the universe. Now it is a shell filled with meaningless material tokens and a small congregation struggling to maintain remembered greatness. It, the abbey, is called one of the 100 most important churches in Britain yet never before have I seen its name. We left there to continue down the valley. An alternate reason for its golden name sprang to mind as we passed many large and wealthy estates but our trip was by no means an easy once. Danaide had gotten no rest out of our brief stop and her condition deteriorated rapidly as we cycled. By the time we were halfway to Monmouth she was more than ready to quite and very vocal about her state of mind. Unfortunately the nearest campground was in Monmouth. We trekked on and before long my muscles too began to feel the strain. Additionally I was having a terrible allergic reaction to the welsh countryside. The dead still air of the abbey irritated my nose while the constantly rushing air left my eyes burning and itching. Even medication did not fully alleviate my problems. Every hill became an agony and the joy of every descent was stolen by the ever present wind that seemed to rob us of our speed. In the days before we learned the meaning of long slow hills, of rain and struggle. Today we learned the meaning of small steep hills that never ended a repeating chorus of “notice us, notice us, notice us” and we learnt the agony of muscles overused and nearing their limits. By the time we drifted into town it was decided that tomorrow would most definitely be a day of rest.
Day Sixteen.
A day of rest and a day of pure tourism. We walked about town, a bit frustrated to discovery that before 2 pm none of the monuments were open. But we finally entered the church of St. Mary’s and what a delight. A church of antiquity, that remembered and reveled in its past yet shared its use with the present. Everywhere was intricate ironwork that capture the living essence of flowers and growing things. The stained glass brightly proclaimed the stories of the church and the men of faith that Monmouth had given to the world. How strange it was to amble from that monument, that prayer in art to the heavens to a deification of another sort. The Nelson museum proclaimed the divine elevation of the state and the apotheosis of Horatio Nelson. “England expects every man to do his duty.” How the memory of Nelson is preserved, decorated, gilded until he and his devotion to the empire are memorialized in a vomiting of platitudes to his greatness. It was almost a relief to leave. From there to the castle and regimental museum. Here was a more dignified memorial of wars. Yes they are to be remembered but for what they are, not a glorified image. Here they demonstrated what the common people think of political intrigues that tear their land apart almost proudly proclaiming that in the Civil War people at Monmouth were always ready to serve whichever side had most recently conquered it so long as they were left mostly alone. From there we bought food and ambled down the banks of the Monnow River and talked at length on the nature of art and the ability of people to appreciate it. And we read and talked of the nature of religion and the meaning of the Gnostic gospels. Such discussions they were that I hesitate to write them down for knowledge that I will run short of space. And I must admit that discussions is a gentle title for what amounted to me rambling on and Danaide politely listening and asking questions when it was obvious that I wanted her too. Tonight we look forward once more to our tent and I must admit that I tired of our portable accommodation. Cramped, hot, stale, bug infested and altogether disheartening are words that describe our wedding bed.