Walking the Wye with Lucy

Last Thursday was a perfect summer's day, made still better by the arrival of Lucy, who was nearing the end of her Grand Tour (which you can follow on her own blog).  At my suggestion, we headed for Tintern, in the beautiful Wye Valley, and for a spacious free car park that even some of the locals don't know about.

Tintern is something of a tourist hot spot, and rightly so.  It reminds me of one of those little French towns that cling to the banks of the Dordogne River, and even has its own vineyard.  After photographing the ruins of Tintern Abbey, we walked up the Welsh side of the river, explored the old railway station, then crossed over to England for lunch at the Brockweir Inn.  

The inn is rather unpretentious on the outside; inside it's great.  You get a good flavour of their jovial hospitality from their website:

At one time most of the village worked on the river, and there was a fine range of cider houses and brothels. Then the Moravians arrived to build a church on the site of the old cockpit, and to temper the terribly badly behaved people of Brockweir.Since that day the people of Brockwier have been pillars of righteousness.

This all changed in November 2011, when Nicky and Wiliam arrived at The Brockwier Inn, and have been corrupting locals and visitors alike with their ever changing selection of local real ales and ciders and superb wine list.

To the ales, ciders and fine wines one must add their diet-busting sandwiches.  I'd sampled one on a previous visit and had no hesitation, this time, in ordering a Crayfish Tail Cocktail on a wholemeal bap, washed down with a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc.  Lucy went for something equally calorific with Brie cheese.  And so, eating, drinking and nattering, we whiled away the best part of an hour in the cool shade of the Inn's garden... until someone decided to light a fire.  What, with temperatures soaring into the mid-twenties?  Time to leave! 

That's the Devil's Pulpit in the foreground and the ruins of Tintern Abbey
in the middle distance.  It doesn't seem right, though that so beautiful a
spot should be given to the devil.  If I'd had a bit more energy I might have
climbed up there and claimed it as Angie's Pulpit!  Next time, maybe.

We ambled back down the English side of the Wye.  Had the day been cooler, our legs stronger and our wills not tempered by good food, we might have climbed up to Offa's Dyke and the Devil's Pulpit. Instead, we retrieved Lucy's car and drove to a convenient car park - free, of course. From there, a leisurely walk across fields brought us to the Devil's Pulpit.  Here, it is reputed that the devil used to preach to the Cistercian monks in Tintern Abbey, doubtless attempting to lure them to Brockweir. By all accounts he was unsuccessful and it fell to Henry VIII and his merry men to evict the monks in 1536.

As we admired the stunning view and took photos of each other, we were joined by three fellow walkers. "Would you like us to take photos of you both?" they enquired. This is one that they took.

Roots

On our way home from the Lake District we took a long detour to visit the cemetery in Nottinghamshire where my mum is buried.  I realize that she is not really there; it's just a stone memorial over long-dead remains, but its a place I've been drawn to many times over the years.  A focal point to remember, to sense the loss and often to cry.

Mum's grave.  I can't recall ever seeing flowers here,
but the green chippings have kept their colour well
over the past 57 years.

On April 19th 1957 we set off from Cornwall in our new car; mum at the wheel, dad in the front passenger seat with me between his knees and my new-born brother in his carrycot on the back seat.  No seat belts or safety worries in those days!

Perhaps it was too soon after the birth for mum to be driving a long distance in an unfamiliar car.  Perhaps it was her habit of driving with just two thumbs wrapped over the base of the steering wheel.  I shall never know. But 65 miles into the journey mum lost control of the car, which swerved, hit a bank, rolled over and came to rest on its wheels.  Mum was thrown out. The rest of us, remarkably, emerged unscathed.

The last time I saw my mum, she was being wheeled out of Okehampton hospital on a trolley, festooned with tubes and gauges.  Her skull was broken.  She died a little later that day.

44 years have past since I stood at that grave, on the way home from a honeymoon in North Wales.  I'm told that mum was a very strong-willed lady.  Incurring the family's displeasure, she had broken off an engagement to marry my dad, so I've always felt that she would have approved of my choice. My spouse's upbringing was very different to mine, and some definitely judged that I had married 'beneath myself', but I've obviously inherited my mum's determination to plough my own furrow and not live to others' agendas.