4 October 2004

Driving through wild and wonderful Wales

The drive from England to Wales ought to go quickly but this is a land that time and people have mostly ignored. The highway system is slow, but the beauty of the high lush green hillsides and farmland make up for the length of the journey.

As we crossed the huge bridge just north of Bristol, we caught our first glimpse of Wales. The first indication was the signs. Everything is written in two languages here. Local people are expected to speak Welsh first, and English second. Language is important in this tiny Celtic nation. Pride in their language is just one of the most visible signs of how the people of Wales have defended their way of life throughout history.

Our first stop was in Cardiff, although only long enough for a cup of tea. The city is grand, made up of large black stone buildings and cultural centers such as the National Museum & Gallery Cardiff/Amgueddfa Ac Oriel Genedlaethol Caerdydd (http://www.nmgw.ac.uk). We could have spent a week here, but the mountains were calling, so we drove on toward Cwmbran, and then Pontypool, and on past Merthyr Tudful to the glorious mountain range of the Brecon National Park. The landscape was filled with glorious sights and strange names that I soon gave up even trying to pronounce.

A single winding road took us to the top of several different barren mountains. From time to time we just had to stop to take in the breathtaking views. The door of the car would barely open against the force of the brisk wind. Sheep often grazed next to the road or wandered across the road right in front of us. But each time I tried to stop to take a photo -- off they ran.

Eventually we found ourselves in Llandeilo as darkness began to settle over the valleys. We decided to settle in here for the night. This quaint little town has a couple of pubs, and a real downtown with charity shops and restaurants. As luck would have it, though, there was a wedding in town the next day and "no room at the inn." A clerk at one of the inns where we stopped agreed to find us a room at a nearby bed-and-breakfast.

Anna and Ray, the owners of this ancient cottage out in the country, were eager to show us their home. In a lovely large room behind their own place we were introduced to two welcoming beds, a bathroom and a kettle to make tea. Cat, who can spot a friendly animal a mile off, was quick to bring along a kitten that had followed us to our room.

The next morning the drizzle brought a chill to the air, but with a proper British breakfast of porridge (oatmeal), fried eggs, toast, sausages, bacon, plus grilled tomatoes and mushrooms no one seemed to notice. Cat's favorite part is always the baked beans. While we ate, Anna and Ray told us stories of how they had traveled to Ireland after the European Union had formed and forgotten their driver's licenses. No problem in those days ... "just go ahead on in" said the Irish immigration officer.

Ray complained that the "bloody Brits" had beaten his beloved Welsh rugby team last night ... again. "Ah, well," he muttered, "when those Brits wake up today they will still be English." That seemed punishment enough in his mind. They sent us on our way with directions to a nearby castle ruin. I would have been happy just to stay all day, listening to stories and studying all of the beautiful antiques they had scattered around their perfect little home. But there was a castle out there in the mist waiting to be explored.

As we drove, I found myself thinking of my ancestors who had come from this land to America back in the 1700s. They must have felt hopeful and glad to escape the poverty of this harsh place, but heartbroken to leave its beauty.

In the faces of the people here, with their chiseled high cheekbones and their tanned-looking skin, I could see glimpses of my grandfather Davis. Wales is a tiny place tucked away in a nearly forgotten corner of Britain. But it would take many lifetimes to appreciate the depths of this place, and I am eager to get to our next destination.