I
traveled in damp weather the next day along the scenic windings of the river Severn. Melawend and I rode passed old roadside houses. The air had the musty smell of wet stone.
We
were headed for Chester. My AA guidebook had
described it as "The best-preserved walled city in England, and one of the richest
architectural and archaeological treasures...With its medieval, galleried streets and
Tudor houses of plaster and age-blackened wood, no town conjures up more vividly the
atmosphere of old England."
God help the
tourist in me, that is what I want to see!
I
wheeled Melawend up to the city hall. I talked
with the mayor's receptionist and a short while later, I was met by Councilor Dolores
Whitton, an attractive, trim, middle-aged woman who was the Right Worshipful Mayor of
Chester. She welcomed the exchange, wished me
well and gave me a leather bookmark of Chester (that I use to this day).
I could stay
in Chester only long enough to get some photographs of The Rows, the famous 14th century
half-timbered Tudor buildings with balustrade 2nd-level walkways, shops, galleries and
arcades. I was on Eastgate Street, taking
photographs from an open second level walkway. It
was odd see the glow of red florescent lights in one of the shop windows – past and
present brought together in commerce. But I
also realized I was just sightseeing, not doing justice to the city at all.
It
was too late on this Friday afternoon to go on to Liverpool and pick up my mail at
American Express. Near the village of Neston,
on the south side of the River Dee, I discovered Ashfield Hall Farm and was welcomed by
the family of Dennis and Pam Smith. I can now
say that Dennis looked a bit like Britain’s current Prime Minister, Tony Blair. (This part was written
in 1998.) In the way of the Francis family
and the Alponts, I was seated at the dining table and fed sumptuously. I wondered if the American Express office
would be closed tomorrow, which meant that I would have to forego getting any mail, or
whether I should take in a bit of north Wales before going to Liverpool on Monday. The Smith's invitation to come back after traveling
in Wales solved my dilemma.
The
next morning I rode in sunshine along the north shore road past the sandy beaches of
Colwyn Bay and the village of Penmaen Mawr where the gray Snowdonia Mountains and the
green shores met the waters of the Irish Sea. I
reached the island of Anglesey when I crossed over the Menai Bridge, a massive suspension
bridge that was the longest bridge in the world at 579 feet when Thomas Telford completed
it in 1826. At 100 feet above the Menai
Strait, I felt airborne – the bridge had been built this high to allow passage of
tall-masted ships.
I
made my way to what was deceptively another island – Holy Island. At Holyhead, Wales' busiest port, there were people
milling about a long line of vehicles waiting to aboard a ferry for Ireland, a country I
would regrettably have to leave unexplored for now. I
had Irish blood too. Though I had never met my
great grandmother, Mary Amelia Kinnee (Grandma Darby's mother), I learned she was from
southern Ireland.
(So, by some
remnant of heredity, perhaps I'd also had some of "the luck of the Irish" with
me on this journey…)
Melawend and I
continued to South Stack and to a rocky islet where I climbed down 364 steps (one for each
day of the year) to see the whitewashed landmark that was South Stack Lighthouse.
I
climbed back up the main island, zipped up my jacket and walked along the edge of high
windswept cliffs. I watched as many different
birds darted amid the crags. Later, I met
Peter Bell, an ornithologist with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. He was stationed for the summer at an observatory
at the South Stack Reserve. He told me that
the steep headlands were important breeding grounds for many species of birds including
puffins, guillemots and razorbills.
As
I set up camp on the grounds of Tan-Y-Cytiau Country Guest House at South Stack, I thought
it wonderful that there were many organizations around the world that were looking out for
the animals and birds with whom we shared the planet.
It was a cool night and it was all I could do to keep my tent anchored to
the ground as a strong wind made the tent flap madly, like a large tethered bird.
Under
gray skies the next morning, I cowered in traffic beside the massive walls of Caernarfon
Castle as Melawend and I rode around its outer bailey.
In 1969, Prince Charles had been invested here with the title of Prince of
Wales, just as Edward II had been the first so invested over 700 years earlier. I just wanted to get away from there alive.
Still
under clouds, I entered the beautiful Snowdownia Mountains – barren, green and rocky
with deep melancholy valleys quilted with stone fences and steep grades where cyclists
pumped and puffed. I saw a two-step humped
mountain that was the small twin a mountain that I had seen from a train in Canada's Yoho
National Park in British Columbia. Melawend
and I descended upon the pretty village of Betws-y-coed.
I
discovered another bridge made of iron, a long graceful single arch span over the River
Conwy. I thought it bizarre that below the
date of its construction, 1815, it bore in large painted letters that ran its entire span,
a parity with a battle. It read: "This arch was constructed in the same year
the battle of Waterloo was fought." It
was called – what else? – Waterloo Bridge. And
I ate a peanut butter sandwich in the parking lot of the Waterloo Hotel. Melawend and I went on the A470 and at Lianwst and
ascended on the A48, passing green hilly pastures of cattle and many sheep, fields that
were gold with stacked bales of hay and were lined with stone fences. Trees that were close to the road and made for
leafy tunnels. We rode past a vehicle wrecking
yard.
The last stop
before arriving back at the Smith's farm was at the desolate ruins of Denbigh Castle, on
an open hill looking down its north slope upon a town with multi-hued slate roofs. Henry Morgan Stanley ("Dr. Livingstone,
I presume?") had lived in a cottage that was near the stone gate. The view of the Clwyd Valley was soothing but the
bombed-out look of the 13th century castle haunted me. There were huge holes in the standing remains
of walls near the arched entry and for some reason, I thought of Beirut. This English stronghold, built to enforce
subjection of the recently defeated Welsh, had passed through many hands, had suffered
under The War of the Roses and was finally demolished shortly after the Restoration in
1660 (restoration of the monarchy in England with the return of Charles II).
Back
at Ashfield Hall farm, I found Pam picking rhubarb. She
declined my offer of help so I went into the barn to clean out the loo. The Smiths let me set up camp in a dusty office
that was adjacent to some old stalls. In the
office there were steel-frame windows, posters of tractors, trees and mountain climbers. There were dirty carpets, an old TV, a rusty kettle
and syringes for cattle. I washed up and
joined Dennis, Pam, son Shawn and Jonathan, a rock climbing friend, for dinner –
roast pork, potatoes, carrots, peas and a piece each of apple and black currant pies. We then munched on chocolate biscuits in the living
room and looked at aerial photographs that had been taken by a freelancer. He then went knocking on the doors of places he had
photographed, offering his images for sale.
(My wife and I
would do this many years later along the shores of Lake Erie and the Niagara River, with
some success).
I
helped the Smiths soak pieces of burlap in a smelly sticky sanitizer so they could be
spread over wire mesh on the concrete floor of the cavernous barn. The barn had heavily buttressed walls and
incorporated some of the original Ashfield Hall. The
barn would be literally filled with barley – about 400 tons – which they planned
to harvest the next day. An independent
operator was to bring a combine. They would
have fans blowing through the mesh so it would sift up through the grain and dry it. We put the wet burlap on a fence to dry.
It
was early evening when we finished and Dennis pointed out a low modern building nearby
that was lit by orange lights. It looked out
of place amid farms. I had thought it was a
warehouse. There was a sign outside that read
Marconi. It had been originally intended for
the manufacture of computer chips.
"That's
a nuclear facility," Dennis said. "Margaret
Thatcher visited it once. You don't dare take
a photograph over there – you’ll be arrested."
It
was well lit and was apparently patrolled constantly by armed guards. Behind the property, on the far shore of the river
Dee, there were the beautiful green hills of Wales and more orange lights along the shore. I slept a little uneasily that night with images of
James Bond running through my imagination.
At
6:30 he next morning, Dennis was off to another farm where they had 120 head of dairy
cattle. I was fed Wheatabix, back bacon,
sausage, eggs, toast and tea.
"Do
stop in again, Tom, the next time you're in England,” Dennis said before he left. "And let us know when your book comes
out."
Melawend
and I rode split-lane up long lines to a tunnel under the Mersey River. The man at the ticket booth eyed Melawend
critically.
"You
will be lucky to make it to Scotland with that."
“I'm
going around the world."
"Ha!"
he said. He shook his head.
This
was the Mersey Tunnel and it joined Birkenhead, Merseyside to Liverpool. At 2.13 miles (3:43 km) long, it was the longest
road tunnel within the UK. I rode through the
dark dirty tube into dreary rain-soaked Liverpool.
At the
American Express office, I got mail – a letter from Keiko, a penfriend in Tokyo who
said she was looking forward to my visit. Japan, right. Will we make it there?
I had wanted to find where the Cavern had stood, the lowly nightclub
where four Liverpudlians who called themselves The Beatles were "discovered"
back in the early 1960's. I did not bother to
look for it because I had seen a documentary on the “Fab Four” which showed that
all that was left of the Cavern was a vacant lot. That
was the last I had heard.
(Actually, the
Cavern had been closed in 1973. It was torn
down in 1982. The original bricks were
saved, treated and used in the rebuilding of the Cavern.
In December 1999, Sir Paul McCartney gave his 281st performance
at the Cavern – his first since 1963.)
What I had begun to regret was getting rid of all
the Beatles posters and records a few years after they invaded America and the novelty had
worn off.
Liverpool
was also the home of Cunard Lines though their flagship, the stately Queen Elizabeth II, was berthed in Southampton at
Ocean Dock, which had also been the dock from which the Titanic began its fateful maiden voyage.
(Both of those
magnificent vessels would come to my greater awareness far ahead on this journey.)
It
would have been interesting to explore Liverpool but the city looked dirty, gray and ugly
in this depressing weather and I just wanted to move on.
It
rained all day as Melawend and I rode north. At
4:00 p.m., I couldn't take it any more. I was
in the Yorkshire Dales, a photographer’s dream location, but it was shrouded in cloud
and mist. You do not need sun to make good
photographs; bleak days evoke moods, resulting in some excellent photographic
opportunities. But I was just too tired and
wet to continue try or to continue traveling. Even
the rain-soaked sheep standing in their muddy fields looked depressed.
I
stopped in Settle, literally where the sign for the village sat next to the road, beside a
sheep farm. Runley Bridge Farm was owned by
the Wilson's. It must have been a lovely old
place in sunshine but today it was all soggy dark grays, browns and greens. The Wilson’s were a middle-age couple who were
at first leery of my sodden appearance at their door, but they let me in. They told me of their prize herd, including the ram
that was worth £3,500, and of the amateur photographic efforts of their daughter who was
Secretary of the National Sheep Association.
They
said I could camp in the field across the road. I
settled on the mucky ground beside a stone fence (the hilly Yorkshires were stitched with
stone fences). I listened to the rain on the
walls of the tent and caught up with my notes. I
had been on the road only three weeks and had already met so many wonderful people. And I had met some lovely girls – but all of
them had had husbands or boyfriends. I felt
incredibly lonely. To cheer myself up, I wired
myself to my walkman and listened to Barbra Streisand.
How I wished I had someone with whom to share all of this, even this rain.
It
rained through the next morning. I knew from coffee-table books that the Yorkshire Dales
and the Lake District had seductive scenic areas in sunshine but those were veiled to me. I saw only misty rolling hills, glistening stone
fences and beads of rain on my visor. I saw
the hunched-over misery of drenched backpackers and long-distance cyclists and I felt
lucky to be on Melawend. We pulled into one of
the many roadside parking lanes where I stood beside Melawend in my banana and marshmallow
suit and downed three peanut butter sandwiches. Since
I was a young boy, I had eaten peanut butter sandwiches in part because they were easy to
make and were convenient to my other activities. I
was grateful that the Earl of Sandwich had resented leaving the card table each night for
dinner and so invented the sandwich as a remedy.
We
rolled along the west shore of Lake Windemere and at a place called Waterhead Bay, I
photographed a pleasant scene – a flowery promenade, a woman with child in a hooded
raincoat standing on a gravel beach near gliding ducks and pleasure boats at anchor. Click. I was tempted to stay for a while. I was leaving England, for now, and I was a bit
leery of what lay ahead.
Chapter 12
Bagpipes and Highland
Rains
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