Wales

 

   After our five day walk to the source of the Thames River 185 miles west of London, we planned to be driven around Wales on a small bus for four days. We were almost in Wales when we finished our walk but our bus was leaving London next morning and there was no way we could get back to London in time to catch it.

   Teresa had called the tour company and asked if we could catch up with the tour on Day Two of the tour in Wales itself. Yes we could. But it would involve catching four trains to the coastal town of Aberystwyth. As our tour bus was leaving London, we were catching a train from Kemble to Swindon. It was a 14 minute ride and we only had 8 minutes to meet our next train. We were told that would not be a problem. I got a little nervous as our train sat in the Kemble station while the seconds ticked by. When we got to Swindon we looked for the platform for the next train. There always seemed to be lots of employees to tell us where to go.

   Train 2 went to Newport in Wales, a forty-one minute ride. This time we had 15 minutes to find our platform. Train 3 soon left Wales and returned to England on its two hour trip north to Shrewsbury where we'd have a leisurely 34 minutes to catch our final train to the coast. I started to relax. When the snack trolley came through our car I bought myself a treat. Teresa declined. She had never been worried. She lets me do the worrying. We were both happy that day we did not have to walk ten miles. We could just sit back and enjoy the sunshine falling on the bulbous hills of Wales.

  Train 4 reached the coast and ran along the shore a few miles before reaching our final stop. Ireland was just 90 miles across the sea straight west. We arrived at the station around 3:30. Our feeling of lightness continued. Maybe it was the soft sea air. Maybe it was the woman carrying a big basket of leafy greens. I don't know. We only had a half mile walk to our seafront hotel with our wheeled suitcases bumping along behind. Teresa checked out a couple of charity shops along our route. Wales seems to have as many charity shops as England, which is a lot.

   The next morning we met our fellow tourists who had traveled on the bus from London yesterday. I was happy to hear there would only be seven of us in our 16 passenger bus-- an older couple from Arizona, a younger woman from Chicago whose husband didn't like to travel and had been left at home to watch their little boy, and a young English woman and her Turkish boyfriend. 

   Our South African driver Jack picked us up at nine. We would be heading up the coast to the well preserved Harlech Castle built by the Normans in the late 14th century as part of the campaign to subdue the Welsh. Jack regaled us with the history of the place as we approached the castle. After walking up the 173 steps to the top of the castle tower we visited the attached cafe and gift shop. I had lost my scarf on the last day of our walk along the Thames and was able to buy a made-in-Wales replacement in the shadow of the castle.

   We continued north to Snowdonia National Park passing through various scenic towns which are surrounded by the park. Jack stopped occasionally for bathroom breaks and the purchase of souvenirs. We drove to a high overlook and Jack said, "If it wasn't cloudy, you could see Mount Snowden, the highest peak in Wales.” It was beautiful enough as it was.

   We returned to Aberystwyth for the night and next morning Jack put our luggage in the back of the bus and we headed south into Dylan Thomas country, Jack pointed out pubs Thomas had gotten drunk in while playing his poetry for us on the bus speakers. Dylan Thomas is beloved in Wales even though he drank himself to death at the age of 39. Jack told us Bob Zimmerman (from Minnesota, everyone) was inspired by Thomas’s poetry to change his last name to Dylan. Time for an hour of Bob Dylan music.

  We veered to the southeast to Newport House, a manor house on a former landed estate with its own castle. The last owner had been unable to pay the taxes and had abandoned the place in the 1970s. Squatters moved in and stripped out and sold anything of value in the house. The government eventually took the place over and restored it. The originally paintings had been placed in storage so they were rehung. The rooms were furnished with cast off furniture from the Downton Abbey series. I felt like an aristocrat when I sat on the sofa.

   Newton House is listed as the most haunted house in Wales. Among others, there's Walter the Butler who can be recognized by a whiff of his cigar smoke, Lady Elinor who was strangled by a rejected lover, and Sid the Squatter who was sent to prison for stealing copper piping out of the house.

   We continued on to the resort town of Tenby on the south coast, past more of Dylan Thomas's watering holes and finally passing his cemetery. Tenby is a charming town perched on cliffs over the sea. Tenby has one of the longest medieval town walls in the country. The wall is now filled with shops and restaurants. Walls were made thick in the old days. Jack our driver pointed out Calder Island off the coast where the monks supported their abbey by making chocolate, which we stocked up on in the local candy shop.

   The next day we drove out to the end of the Dewisland peninsula to visit Saint Davids Cathedral. The place is famous for being the location of the tomb of Edmund Tudor, grandfather of Henry VIII. I need a reason for visiting another cathedral these days. I had  trouble finding the tomb so I asked a cleaning woman. "Oops," she said. "I moved the sign." As she returned the sign, I noticed a thin, elderly Anglican priest who was reading aloud the ornate script on the tomb. We started chatting and Father Simon told me he had just retired from his church near London and had settled in the country near Saint Davids.

   Father Simon eventually asked where I was from. I’m resigned to people overseas not knowing where Minnesota is. But Father Simon's eyes lit up, he grabbed my arm and said, "I've been there!" It turned out that the only part of Minnesota, or of the US he had ever been in was the stretch of Highway 11 between Warroad and Baudette. His story was that back in the 80s he had visited a priest friend based in Rainy River, Ontario. The friend had picked Simon up in Winnipeg late at night and told him the shortest way to his home was via the south side of Lake of the Woods. So they rolled into the Warroad border crossing at 3:00 am. The sleepy officer checked Simon's passport and waved him through. "No, no," Simon said, "you have to stamp my passport so I can prove I’ve been in the US. I doubt I’ll ever be back.” Ronald Reagan looked down benignly from the wall as the officer rummaged around for the stamp and updated the date wheel from the 50s to the 80s. I told Simon we lived just 35 miles away from where he had been. "Small world," he said.

Why I travel- Fr Simon, me, and Edmund Tudor (back row)