Day 25. Dorset Steam Fair August 31 2001

I imagine that, if there is a hell, it strongly resembles the Dorset Steam Fair. Great monstrous engines painted in garish colours billow foul smelling black smoke that hugs the ground.

Enormous steam organs all in competition with one another to create a a cacophony of deafening noise playing . Mud and hay and flint trampled underfoot while overhead threatening storm clouds rolls.

We wandered, until exhausted, past booth after booth at the massive outdoor fleamarket that accompanied the fair, never finding anything to buy but astonished by the array of goods for sale.

  The midway was great, a place where we could glory in the basest delights of a carnival. A strange mixture of flashing lights, pulsating music and blatantly erotic images made the fairgrounds pure mischievous fun to walk along, commenting on a twenty foot tall paintings of women slipping off their clothes or munching fistfuls of popcorn and cotton candy.

It truly is at night that humanity is at its best. All that is ugly is hidden by the dark and a million lights in a hundred colours transform an ordinary paddock into a fairyland of glimmers and flickers where everything has wings.
This evening we sent messages home in a massive missive to friends and family only to discover that the computers, because we were sending it to so many people, have interpreted our messages as junk mail and filed them away in everyones trash.

Tomorrow is Andrew and Angela’s wedding and Heather is regretting missing her brother’s big day. In fact I think we are both missing the people we left behind tonight. We are tired after the lights and the music and ready for bed.

Who would have known steam tractors had such a following?

Next Entry: Day 26. The Sea
Previous Entry: Gravity Works. Letter Home

Gravity Works. First Letter Home

Hello everyone

Wow! What a week or so it has been. The Brave Traveller (in case you have forgotten, that means Heather) and the Fearful Voyager (Brendan) have had an amazing time biking across the wild reaches of Eastern Wales and Western England. Where to begin the strange tales of all that we have seen and done? I suppose I should start at the very beginning, it is the very best place to start. (Apologies to Julie Andrews)

We left the comforting shores of Parkgate Farmhouse one sunny morning, after being stuffed to the gills with a good solid English breakfast. We set out strongly and confidently; ready to face anything England could throw at us. We biked down the short hill to Picklescott, the nearest town, turned right and stopped. Ahead of us was the Long Mynd, a great big hill that no amount of confidence could carry us over easily. So we got off our bikes and pushed, and pushed, and pushed. The Long Mynd is not called “Long” because it sounded cool. Panting and sweating we pushed our bikes to the summit, looked back across at the amazing view, hopped on our bikes and rode them down like mad people, thrilling to be moving without exertion. Only to hit the bottom of the other side and…push. Yes there was another hill, there is always another hill. In our time here we have begun to truly understand the mechanics of hill and to understand what gravity really and truly feels like.

When we hit the bottom of the second hill we had hit the town of Clun and that was were we stayed. We found the youth hostel, a quaint converted mill that we had almost exclusively to ourselves. The Hoof and Mouth disease, while terrible for the economy of Britain, was a boon to us that night. We went to bed proud of achieving our goal and once more confident that we could face the morning. Morning dawned, sort of, through a thick veil of misty rain. We bundled up in raincoats so hot that we were soon soaked with sweat anyway, got our bikes out of the closet where they had been stored and biked up to Clun Castle. It was a beautiful ruin, rising majestically along the Welsh frontiers, but it was a little hard to enjoy half drenched and looking up at the hills surrounding us knowing that we had to bike over them. We took a deep breath, got on our bikes, rode to the edge of town, got off and pushed, and pushed, and…

Two more hills, and one tenth the distance we had intended, we stopped again, this time in the town of Knighton. Here we prepared to bike on King Offa’s Dyke. Here we discovered that what the British mean by “Bikable” is “Yes you can take your bike on it, you’re bloody crazy, but you can.”


We did not bike on Offa’s Dyke. Instead we found out that the hostel, every bed and breakfast and all the campgrounds in Knighton had been closed down because of lack of tourists, that night hoof and mouth did not serve us well. Too tired to do anything else we caved in and got a hotel room for the night. Despite the pain of being parted with more money than we wanted both of us greatly enjoyed watching British television to the wee hours of the morning. We also washed out our bike shirts and swore we would never let them get so stinky again (ha ha ha ha ha).

From Knighton we went to Kington, a fairly easy ride, from Kington to Vowchurch, the worst day yet. The Fearful Voyager, feeling a little less fearful and remembering that he was supposed to be a historian ventured to suggest that since there was a landmark called Arthur’s Stone near a campground we should head that way. So off we confidently biked (We hadn’t yet learned that confidence is a really bad way to begin) and travelled down the Wye river Valley. We got to the place where our campground was supposed to be, only to find a hill. “Well” we confidently (see, bad plan already) said to ourselves “its only a hill.” So up we went and up and up and…well you get the idea. Once we reached halfway point, after being chased by the dogs, we thought to ask and we found to our delight (that is sarcasm by the way) that not only was there no campground, there never had been a campground nor were there any plans for one in the future. “Well” said the Fearful Voyager, feeling fear returning but still having a little confidence “There is still Arthur’s stone.” So, the Brave Traveller in agreement, they went up and up and up, three or fours miles up a 25% grade they went up, only to find themselves no where near Arthur’s anything and no place to stay for the night. They biked around for another hour in desultory fashion, before giving up completely, biking off for the night and running smack into…Arthur’s stone. All I can say about this national monument is; only go in a car.
The Fearful Traveller now keeps his suggestions to himself. However we did complete that day by biking to the best campground we have seen and the farthest days travel we have yet put in.

We travelled to Monmouth after Vowchurch, along the way accidentally discovering Dore Abbey, a beautiful, though decaying, abbey that once dominated the entire Golden valley. Once in Monmouth we decided that here was a good time for a day off and we explored the small riverside town that was once the home of Geoffrey, the medieval monk who first wrote down the legends of King Arthur. Monmouth was very interesting. We toured first their church, which was very well maintained and full of brilliant examples of ironwork and carving. Then we explored the Nelson Museum. For those who don’t know Lord Admiral Nelson once saved England from the French and has never been forgotten. In fact this museum was more religious shrine than anything else and went a little overboard with their carvings of “the apotheosis of Nelson.”

Finally we visited the regimental museum were a slightly more realistic impression of war was presented. Both BT and FV were impressed with the description of the people of Monmouth during the Civil War “They supported both side so long as they were left alone.”

From Monmouth we went up (Yes, up once more) to the small town of St Briavels, where we spent our second night in a hostel. This time the hostel was a converted castle. The old rooms had been left intact and the Fearful Voyager got the experience of spending the night (fearfully) in the Hanging Room, where prisoners were executed (no ghosts, only snores). It was amazing to see what castles were like before the plaster left the walls and they became merely stone ruins. The Brave Traveller was very put out with having to share a room with ten or so snoring teenage girls and the Fearful Voyager missed his Brave Traveller so they resolved to avoid hostels in the future, besides they cost about ten times a campground.

After St. Briavels we bike down (WOHOO DOWN!!) into the Wye Valley beside the forest of Dean. Here we ran into, no not literally, Tintern Abbey. What an unbelievable place. To stand on a green lawn surrounded by a forest of stone columns and look at open blue sky. To look up columns larger round than two people can stretch their arms and see them holding up… nothing. That is something of what we saw at Tintern. The Brave Traveller found the experience almost spiritual while the Fearful Voyager, noting that the founders of the massively ornate place had broken away from the mainstream church in search of simplicity, saw a monument to hypocrisy in stone. Either way a good place to stop. We ended that day by coasting into the town of Portskewett (say it aloud, it sounds as funny as it spells) and we rested looking out to the massive bridges we had to cross.

The next day we headed into Bristol, crossing the mouth of the Severn on an enormous bridge that thankfully had its own lane for cyclists. The ride into Bristol was long and arduous, up the Avon Valley, and we discovered that the youth here simply love to cover cliff faces in grafitti. Then, after stopping for some good English food in the form of Kentucky Fried Chicken, we proceeded to get absolutely and totally lost.
Bristol was an ugly horrible city that squatted on the countryside like a cancerous blemish and we could not wait to get out it. We biked up the fetid New Cut of the Avon River and, absolutely against our will we found ourselves in the garishly overdone downtown core. With some direction from the tourist agency we found our way, through a slum of a neighbourhood, to our campground. We set up our tent, cleaned ourselves off and discovered…Bristol wasn’t that bad. In fact it was quite a nice city. It is amazing what knowing where you are staying can do to a bad attitude. In fact we discovered that our campground was right along the “Floating Harbour” that made up the center of Bristol and we ate our lunch on the beautiful quayside. In a short walk from our site was the industrial museum, with many displays on the quay side, an old revolving bridge, the trendy student section of town, the beautiful water sculptures erected for the millennium celebrations, free email (with terrible keyboards) in fact everything that would make any budget traveller visit amazing, thus producing our only regret for the trip, that we didn’t stay in Bristol longer.

From the unholiday centre of Bristol where we were delighted, we travelled to the holiday center of Bath where we were not. Bath is a city well aware of its reputation as a holiday town for the rich and it was the only place we found that there was a charge for maps to the campgrounds and B&B’s. Bath is a town dedicated to money and its tourist attractions are things such as the museum of Costume, displaying the extravagances of upper classes for five hundred years (men will be interested to note that the entire display of male costumes for the time was a single wall). The Brave Traveller loved this part, the Fearful Voyage would rather die than return. Bath would not have been so bad if the facades were maintained but there was an air of “let it be” so that despite its Corinthian columns and intricate carvings the wealthy face of Bath looked like nothing more than an industrial city.
However the Fearful Voyager did find some joy in the Bath complex itself. Here was the place the tourist industry shined. Reconstructions of Roman temples and actually facades lined the walls. Here the historian could actually reach out and touch history, walking where Roman legions and Roman prostitu…I mean Roman matrons, had walked thousands of years past. Everything from a beautifully carved Gorgons head that had once graced the temple to Minerva, to gravestones and more than 12 000 coins from all the eras the baths were in operation. The BT and FV even “took the waters” and drank from the ancient spring (disgusting with a bouquet of sulphur and a fine earthy texture).

From our day in the main tourists venues of Bath we next travelled to the seedy underbelly, the canals that had once served the industrial trade. If you ever decide to bike England bike the canals. Here Bath was redeemed and we spent the day on beautifully even surfaces, passing ornately decorate longboats and the most amazing backyards in the world. (O.K. I haven’t seen every backyard in the world).

After the Canals we biked to the ancient castle of Farleigh Hungerford, where we listened with disgust and fascination to the tales of the Hungerford family, who had burned each other to death, locked their wives in isolation for many years and done all the things a healthy noble family does.
But by this time we were ready for a nice warm bed and we pedalled with great enthusiasm to Colin and Hayley Orman’s house at Rolls Mills where we were warmly received and given the bed we longed for, only to find that we didn’t quite feel at home in a warm comfy bed any more. I kept tensing up all night, thinking the hard ground beneath me was collapsing.

Colin and Hayley took us out for dinner, travelling in 45 minutes what would take us two days to bike, and we discovered to our shock that cars now terrify both of us. I was dizzy and spent the whole ride clutching at the panic bars (or was it merely Colins driving?) It has only been a week away from cars, what shape will we be in a year from now? We have also had the first opportunity to see our wedding photos, and we would recommend Gordon Hunter for any such occasions even if he was not our father. We also have the opportunity to watch the wedding video of events at Parkgate and the Brave Traveller is doing so even as I write. I am too fearful to watch; I know how I look on video!

We are enjoying our trip immensely but we find we miss everyone far more than expected. We hope to see you soon (meet us in Italy) and look forward to sharing more of our adventures with you all. We hope to write before we leave Rolls Mills Farmhouse so until next time…

With lots of love
Brendan (The Fearful Voyager) and Heather (The Brave Traveller)

Next Entry: Day 25. Dorset Steam Fair
Previous Entry: Day 24. Sturminster Newton

Day 24. Sturminster Newton. August 30 2001

Today was almost all pure riding. We got up early, early for us at any rate, and headed towards the town of Sturminster Newton. The going was hard, but no harder that any other day. We stopped at Maiden Bradley for a full meal that gave us enough energy for the ride and at another town, I have forgotten where, to pick up some groceries.

The only other stop was at the town of More where the road continued through in a U shape so that we were headed back the way we had come before we realized we were supposed to turn off.

Once we got here we phoned Colin and Hayley Orman and they invited us to stay at their place. Trouble was we couldn’t find it. Finally, after Heather falling off her bike and hurting her calf and me dropping her bike and hurting my calf we arrived.

Rolls Mills Farmhouse, a thatched cottage that has been much added on to in its two hundred year history, with the city just building up to it now. Scarcely had we pulled in when Colin whisked us away on a whirlwind tour of his house and gadgets, leaping from one project to another with the glee of an imp.

After a brief cleaning up they took us on a whirlwind tour to take his children back to their mother. Over some beautiful roads and past some enormous Iron Age forts we went to a nearby town, so nearby that it would take us a day, maybe two, by bike.

Riding in a car, actually a jeep, was a highly disconcerting experience. Fast, far faster that I feel I can handle anymore and dizzying as things rush by you pell mell. I will be absolutely ruined for society when we finally return. We passed some gypsies as we drove and their slow way of life seems more attractive to me at this stage.

We checked over our email today and I find that I am missing family and friends more than I thought I would.
I am composing a long letter to send back. I hope they find it entertaining. We also took this stop as an opportunity to to phone home. Got through to my dad on the second try.
Tomorrow promises to be busy. I only hope we rest on this rest stop.



Next Entry: Gravity Works. Letter Home
Previous Entry: Day 23. Frome

Day 23. Frome. August 29 2001

Where is Frome, you ask? It is on our path and it has a campground, beyond that you don't need to know.

It has been a very slow day today, with only one stop for sightseeing.

We woke to a veil of mist rising from the mill stream behind our campsite. It was surreal. Like waking from dream into dream. The buildings, only a few tens of feet away, were shadowy ghosts floating on the morning clouds. So unreal was it that I drifted between sleep and consciousness without being aware of the threshold. When finally I woke for good the sun had burned off the fog, leaving only a layer of very real water to coat the inside of our tent. The pages on which I write have become larger and as soft as tissue with a surfeit of water. I will have to take care.

When finally we were able to leave we biked, not far at all, to the castle of Farleigh Hungerford, a picturesque ruin with a history, though not one as strange as the brochure would have you believe.

 

The castle was not a true military fortification but one that had been fortified because it was the fashion of the times. The ruins were impressive but the history here was in the inhabitants. One place that was starkley disturbing was the crypts, where some 4 men 2 women and two babies had been interred. At their deaths they had been encased in form fitting featureless metal casks then entombed. The tombs having long ago disappeared the casks were all that remain, silent faceless containers of death that lay most eerily.

The other sites of interest were the towers, were a wife of the Hungerford family had been locked away in isolation for four years and the gatehouse which from outside was marvelously preserved and looked ready to receive noble visitors. Unfortunately we had missed by only a few days a great medieval tournament.

From Hungerford we biked to Frome, a short but very torturous journey. All together we have covered less than a tenth of what I was hoping to cover in the last two days. Nor have I been able to shower. The last place had only cold water and in Bath I was too tired. I will admit that this great traveler is looking very forward to a bath and rest.

Next Entry: Day 24. Sturminster Newton
Previous Entry: Day 22. The Seedy Underbelly of Bath

Day 22. The Seedy Underbelly of Bath. August 28th 2010

We spent most of today cycling through the byways of Bath, far outside the tourist zone. If only the public face was as beautiful!

We began in less than lucky fashion and continued in that vein for the rest of the day. We woke from our sleep to the sounds of a familial dispute several tents down. Then, after we began, we were stopped by a ring on Heather's bike breaking down. Fortunately the accident occurred just opposite a bike shop. Actually that’s more than a little suspicious...

Tired already, having hardly gone anywhere, we decided to lunch beside the locks of Bath. Enthralled by the raising and lowering of the boats we decided to take a chance and follow the canals as far as we could. Possibly the best choice we could have made, thought it didn’t take us far, mileage wise. The canals were great. It was such a calm and simple way to travel that it hardly felt like traveling at all. The houses that backed onto the canal, though as plain as the rest of Bath from the front, had taken great pains to beautify their backyards and we passed waterfalls, elaborate stonework and great arches over splendid gardens. There were swans and ducks filling the water and canal boats of vivid colours lining the quays. Even as we left the city the beauty did not stop, instead becoming more tranquil and pastoral. It was wonderful not to have to fight traffic and instead drift along at a leisurely pace that almost matched the boats. But it was not to last.

Eventually we came to a place were the path ended and our poor luck picked up once more. We were told, by a map and a friendly biker, to make our way up a steep hill where we would find a footpath that eventually led back to the canal. The guide, and the map, proved to be wrong. We spent an hour following a path that slowly dwindled to nothing, with no sign of the Canal or another path anywhere. We were forced to double back, where we found that there was small tunnel beneath the canal to a well-defined path on the other side. We biked the last portion of the trail in exhaustion. The canal, while still pretty, had lost its charms and we turned off it at Bradford upon Avon and headed wearily towards our campsite, a small colony of artists between towns. We stopped only to watch the spectacle of a burning barn.

I hope our luck will be better tomorrow.

Next Entry: Day 23. Frome
Previous Entry: Day 21. Bath

Day 21. Bath Once More August 27 2001

You become very aware as you walk the streets of Bath that this is a city for the rich. Everything here screams it, from the massively overdone colonnades and the unhealthy dwelling on the days of Jane Austin and grand galas. The poor and middle class who inhabit the city are merely there to fill in the blank spaces.

We began our tour with a stop at the Museum of Costume, a museum that shows fashions through the ages. Women’s costume I should mention. Men are mentioned at one corridor where a brief glance takes in more than three hundred years of upper class clothing. And that is the way that it should be.

From the costume museum we meandered through the city’s famous landmarks, hearing and reading the name "Beau" Nash thrown about as though anything not approved by the long dead gentleman was too déclassé for words. We toured the assembly rooms where debutants came out and money was thrown about like confetti.

We saw the famous circus and the royal crescent and were less, as I said yesterday, than impressed.

It wasn’t that I object to lavish architecture or to the spending of money, if you’ve got it flaunt it, but what struck me about these places, with the exception of the assembly rooms, was how plain and industrial it all looked. Every column, every apartment seemed stamped from the same mould. Should I ever become rich, god willing, I would like something a little less factory issue. The one outstanding building was the Abbey, a beautiful place with a flavour all it's own.

From our wanderings, and after a brief respite at a fast food restaurant to remind us of home, we traveled to the bath, itself. Here Bath really shines.

At times we truly stepped back to a time when the bath was a mystic centre of power. When we stared into the outflow of water under its arch, in the blast of heat and the red minerals, it is like you are looking into the mouth of hell.

The awe of the Romans and the pagan Celts is palpable.

It becomes shocking to see the decadent use the 18th and 19th centuries put the waters too. All that was holy died as the rich bathed their ills.

We did, as all must, sample waters from the sumptuous fountains in the Pump Room and then retired to our tent, bellies rumbling discontentedly.

Next Entry: The Seedy Underbelly of Bath
Previous Entry: Day 20. Bath

Day 20. Bath August 26 2001

Less than impressed would describe my reaction to this renowned place of leisure. Bath, as a city, seems to be very aware of its international reputation and pricing things accordingly and giving little in return.

We began our day in Bristol, wakened by the loud voiced announcer of a regatta taking place. For the first few waking moments I could have sworn we were about to be crushed by a cruise liner gone astray.

Oxford, hard to port! Hard to Port!! PORT, PORT!!!!

We ventured out to watch the races for a while, delighted by this free amusement provided by Bristol. Then we set off for the Bristol and Bath railway path. This too was delightful, though it had its moments. The path traveled through some very seedy areas that made us very uncomfortable and it had motorcycle barriers that made it almost impossible to to get our own bikes through.
We stopped to purchase food and I had a chance to try my hand at writing. Then we proceeded on only to be confronted be a dark dank tunnel fit for the imagination of H.P. Lovecraft.
We hurried through to emerge in enchantment. The lush green foliage was all we could hope for in southern England and the occasional church spire or crenellations of a great estate made our ride something from a fairy tale. Then we would pass the canals with their long boats plying the waterways and suddenly we were in Britain’s romantic period, fancying ourselves one of the rich, making our Grand Tour of Europe.
Our dream was cut short by our descent into Bath. The path became less maintained until it was mere dirt along the canal. The canal, actually the River Avon, became more and more industrial, a strange scene with tour boats from Bath moving through the tangled pipes as though showing off great antiquities.
Biking to the heart of downtown, a gray place with swarms of people and plain buildings, we asked for information at the train station. They charged for maps that advertised local businesses. Such is their confidence that the tourists will pour in and, unfortunately, they are right, we will.
The nearest tenting pitch was on the outskirts of town, back the way we had come. We traveled through what must have been the industrial centre, even the fast-food restaurant was ugly, to find a campsite that charged more than any other we had seen so far, had less amenities and placed us in a tent city surrounded by hundreds of other campers.
I can only hope my assessment of Bath is biased and will be overturned, as was my view of Bristol. But we arrived here fresh and unhurried, the sun was shinning and still I was unimpressed! Tomorrow should be a day of rest, then we shall see.


Next Entry: Day 21. Bath
Previous Entry: Day 19. Bristol

Day 19. Bristol August 25 2001

I had expected today to be a day of pure biking, there was nothing I wanted to see between Chepstow and Bath. Instead it turned into a day of half and half. We left Chepstow late, almost at noon, and crossed the Severn River Bridge.

We didn't feel we could make it all the way to Bath in a single day so we traveled up the Avon River Gorge to a marked camping site. We couldn't find the site and asking directions only got us even more lost. We biked up the New Cut Avon, a disgusting mud slurry, thought some very underprivileged neighborhoods. Somehow we found ourselves in downtown Bristol and angry with the horrible posted directions. The tourist information office pointed us in the right direction and we finally found a secluded, though expensive, campsite.

We walked along the river front and to our surprise, once our frustration had passed, Bristol was revealed as a stunning city. We ate just outside our camp, sitting along the river Avon and watching the boats. Then we walked along the quayside towards downtown. All along the quay were boats of every shape and description, from a boat that was a refuge for old hippies to sculling boats and canal boats. We passed in front of the industrial museum; gawking like the tourists we were at the great electric and steam cranes. We walked along the cobblestones in front of the youth hostel and straight into modern Bristol.

Bristol had attacked the millennial celebration with a vengeance and their bronze fountains and great mirrored sphere were strangely beautiful surrounded by gothic churches and 18th century docks.


From the millennia center we walked up to the cathedral were all of Bristol’s youth hung out in the evening.
The cathedral was unfortunately closed but we got our walks worth by walking along the front of the council building then down to the waterfront once more. Along the way we passed three bachelor parties, a bachelorette and quite a few notices announcing pending nuptials. It seemed that in 2001 all of Bristol was in love and it was nice to be surrounded by it.

The people at the campsite next to us were very friendly and chatted with us until it was dark. Heathers charm is still in full force. It seems everyone we encounter and speak to for a few moments feels compelled to share their entire life stories.

All in all I am more than pleasantly surprised by the city of Bristol. I had expected it to be a harsh and industrial stop on our journey, a place to rest out heads and bodies and nothing more. Instead we find a place that we would like to spend more time. But I am looking forward to the resort town of Bath, despite the holiday, and if Bristol is good then how great will Bath be?

Next Entry: Day 20. Bath
Previous Entry: Day 18. Chepstow

Day 18. Chepstow August 24 2001

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.

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 Heather 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 they walked the ruins. It was a humbling experience.

Heather 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 find 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!

Next Entry: Day 19. Bristol
Previous Entry: Day 17

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.



Next Entry: Day 18. Chepstow
Previous Entry: Day 16

Day 16 August 22 2001

A day of rest and of pure tourism. We walked about town, a bit frustrated to discover 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 captured 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.
It was strange to amble from that monument, that prayer in art, to a deification of another sort. The Nelson museum proclaimed the divine elevation of the state and the apotheosis of Horatio Nelson. Here the memory of Admiral Nelson is preserved, decorated, gilded until he and his devotion to the empire are memorialized in a vomiting of platitudes. 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. I especially enjoyed the pride with which the people of Monmouth declared that during the British Civil War they 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 Heather 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.

Next Entry: Day 17
Previous Entry: Day 15