Distances in Wales are really far apart, aren’t they?

This week I spent a few days travelling in Wales and the Borders. Not the first time I’ve been to the area, and it was a last minute decision, founded on my husband’s need to go to Monmouth for some bus-related reason (to do with his job, though I wouldn’t put it past him to do this just for interest). As I had some time off he threw out that carrot that if I were willing to accompany him and witness this – to my mind decidedly dull – undertaking, we could drive up to Portmeirion via Hay-on-Wye and back via Gloucestershire. A picturesque prospect that played to several of my life’s passions.

The deal was sealed when on phoning to book the advertised off-peak mid-week special offer on hotel accommodation in Portmeirion we were told that sadly the rooms on offer were all taken – all they had spare was the Peacock Suite, which as a late booking they could let us have for just £30 above the standard offer price.

‘Go for it’ I said, not knowing what the Peacock Suite had to offer. Then I looked at the website: luxurious suite overlooking the sea with a sumptuous four poster bed….yes, I thought, I could live with that – as indeed I could – and did!

The downside of the trip was that hubby had to drive a very long way – provoking the remark from him which I had to use as the title for this piece: ‘Distances in Wales are really far apart, aren’t they?’ Umm, yes, grammatically correct sentence but, er – I know what you mean dear….

The payoffs:
En route to Monmouth we passed through the Wye Valley and Tintern Abbey. Yes, we could have gone a different way but suffice to say I was planning the route and navigating. And Tintern is one of the places I keep coming back to. Like Wordsworth, Turner, Cobbett and many others down the centuries I see the magnificence of this ruin as so many things.

There is the historical and geographical perspective: the abbey was built in a remote location to reflect the Cistercian belief in shunning the corruption of society, ironically corruption in which the Catholic church of the time, of which the monastery was a part, played a huge role. Maybe slightly because of this inherent corruption, but mainly because of Henry VIII’s greed, narcissism and insistence on having his own way, the abbey was sacked as part of the dissolution of the monasteries. And rather than gradually falling into disrepair like many buildings, it was deliberately reduced to the ruin it is today to feed the whims of the king.

Then there is the poetic side: Turner’s lovely rendition of the abbey; Wordsworth’s best poem was written about, and in, this place and sitting by the Wye now, reading the poem, I still see ‘theses steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion.’

Onward to Portmeirion which deserves - and will probably receive – a blog all to itself. Suffice to say that as we turned into the track leading out of Minfford into Portmeirion itself I commented: ‘Prepare to leave the real world behind’ – as anyone who has eve been there will vouch, that is how it feels. The place is a beautiful retreat, and as Jools Holland said after visiting it, the main question in his mind about the TV series ‘The Prisoner’, filmed there, is now why anyone would to leave such a place. The hotel and suite were everything we expected and more, service faultless. It left me realising that I have missed my true vocation in life – I was born to be part of the nobility, surrounded by beautiful architecture, décor and furniture, waited on hand and foot and able to do exactly as I want. Oh well, back to reality….

Our final stop off was at the tiny town of Newent in Gloucestershire, birthplace and resting place of Joe Meek, record producer and entrepreneur of the 1960’s. I navigated us to Newent in the mistaken and deluded belief that once we got there my husband knew where the grave was located. Ha! Some hope! After wandering aimlessly round a churchyard bearing stones dated no later than 1850, he decided we might be in the wrong place – Joe died in 1967.

So we searched the town – even a tiny town is big when you are looking for a gravestone! Finally hubby’s male pride gave way to the necessity of asking for directions. ‘You need to ask in the Tourist Information Centre’ we were told – we had followed signs for that already and not found where they were pointing to. After asking three people we actually found the tourist information centre masquerading as council offices, which were shut for lunch. We peered into the window and spied a worker who was probably incredibly well-informed as to the whereabouts of every grave in the town, busily ignoring us in favour of his packed lunch. Hubby tinkered half-heartedly with the touchscreen information computer in the window but this yielded nothing further than there were over 300 sites of interest locally – we hadn’t the time to go through them all only to find that inexplicably Joe Meek’s grave wasn’t considered of interest.

Hubby then tried local shops – only to find that the only person employed on the high street who was actually a local was so deaf that she tried to show him the way to Joan someone’s grave… Finally we accosted a poor woman at her front door who – with the rider that she wasn’t a local (does anyone born in Newent still actually live there?) volunteered the most helpful information so far – that there is a cemetery the other side of the town. Following her directions we reached it only for hubby to go through the aimless wandering ritual again. On seeking advice from the cemetery lodge we finally reached our goal. I hope Joe, wherever he may be, was looking down on us with a mixture of appreciation for our devotion and amusement at our folly.