Day Seventeen. (2001)
My parents have left the British Isles and we said our goodbyes last night over the phone. It was difficult but I think the true crisis will come when, if, we leave England for Spain. Here the option of phoning someone to pull us out of any difficulty remains. There we will be officially on our own. Last night before bed Danaide and I had an intriguing discussion on the merits of erotic art. We agreed that although arousal is a legitimate response it is far more difficult for a man alone to enjoy it without suffering the judgment of those around. It is newly dawning on me that a beautifully done piece of erotic art can be a thousand times more stimulating than the most graphic piece of poorly turned pornography.
Today we reintroduced ourselves to biking in a leisurely fashion. We pedaled down the Wye valley towards Chepstow before turning aside to the hilltop town of St. Briavels. The Wye Valley was astonishingly beautiful with lush green trees overhanging the road and the dark forest of Dean climbing the hills at our sides. The beautiful mystery of the place was shattered by the roars of modern dragons as the R.A.F practiced its maneuvers overhead. We reached St. Briavels via a steep climb up the hillsides that formed the walls of the Wye Valley and found to our delight that the youth hostel occupied and ancient hunting lodge of King John. It is fascinating to live once more in the confines of a living breathing castle. Here the rooms are in working order and instead of the hard stone that show on every ruin we see the plastered and homely walls that would have faced the residents. Here history is brought more to life than in any museum because here each room has functions to fulfill instead of being merely a dead display. I am lodged in the “hanging room” where condemned men waited out their last hours. I can only hope the ghosts are dispelled by the snores of tired travelers. The only regret is that Danaide and I must occupy different rooms. Sleeping in separate beds was difficult enough different rooms may prove impossible. It is as thought there is an elastic bond between us that can be stretched, though its tension is felt, but not comfortably kept apart for long. How will we ever fare if one must travel alone? Here we have met fellow cyclists for the first time, though none with plans as ambitious as ours. Still they travel, so they claim, at least 4 times what we have been making, the questions is…do they see as much?

Day Eighteen.
Chepstow, or actually just outside it. For some reason today was very difficult, my legs seemed like leaden weights and it felt like some malicious entity has stuffed chunks of masonry into my panniers while I slept. Danaide too struggled but she had an excuse while I did not. We woke in St. Briavel Castle after hardly sleeping at all. It truly felt as thought I had slept in prison, fellow prisoners snores and all. It did not, I’m afraid, help my mood that the toilets only worked sporadically. When finally Danaide and I were able to move enough to push our bikes, she having slept as well as I, we plunged down once more into the Wye Vally. It had rained in the early hours of the morning and the valley floor was shrouded by a thick mist. Our first stop today was at the ruin of Tintern abbey, a Cistercian stronghold that had been abandoned after Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. The abbey was a ghostly skeleton on the valley floor, great arches gaping blankly at the sky grass growing wild in the halls of its monumental structure. It was like touring the remains of some ancient antediluvian beast that had been washed ashore and gnawed at by the birds for eons uncounted. When we sat in its tumbled stones I could almost hear the forgotten generations of the faithful as the walked the ruins. It was a humbling experience but strangely contradictory for the great abbey was really a psalm in stone to hypocrisy. For the Cistercians had broken away from the Benedictines in disgust at the latter’s decadence and there was nothing simple about the abbey at Tintern. Danaide was enchanted with the abbeys ruins and strove to capture its elusive essence with pencil and paper. Her frustration with her lack of ability is, to put it mildly, unfounded. From the abbey we had a harrowing ride to Chepstow, my muscles strangely falling apart. When finally we crested a hill and saw blue water before us I wanted to shout in exultation “The Sea, The Sea” but it is only the tidal mouth of the Severn River and unlike Xenophon and his ten thousand it does not spell escape for us but an upward climb we are scarce able to handle. We found our campsite with the gratitude only the truly exhausted can feel only to fins that it is the beginning of a holiday weekend and the Brits have swarmed out of their cities in droves. We were stuffed in today but the rest of the weekend will be a challenge. It is selfish I know, but I sometimes wish we were the only tourists. Imagine Tintern alone!