Day 17 August 23 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.

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 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 Heather 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.



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