St David's: Faith, Wealth and Legend

St David's Cathedral

In the twelfth century Pope Calixtus II declared the shrine of St David, in West Wales, to be so important that two pilgrimages to venerate it were worth one to Rome, and three worth one to Jerusalem. Thus he cemented the popularity of St David's Cathedral – and its wealth too, for before long the bishop had his palatial palace next door.

That popularity continues to this day, though most of the crowds I witnessed in St David's last Sunday seemed more taken up with finding a parking place, shopping for souvenirs and getting something to eat. It was a Bank Holiday weekend and, predictably, the city (for St David's is indeed Britain's smallest city) was chock-a-block with cars and people.

Our host for this week's holiday, sensing that we preferred the quiet life, suggested parking at Caefai, half a mile from the madding crowds. Getting there on the narrow lane was a challenge as I dodged on-coming camper vans and drivers who hadn't mastered the art of reversing, but when we arrived the car park was almost empty. What a contrast!

Not far from the car park one begins to sense the simplicity with which the story of St David began in the sixth century. True, David was born a prince but there's a legend that his mum, Non, gave birth to him on a cliff top during a violent storm and, as a mark of the child's importance, a well sprung up on the spot. I'll let you decide on the truth of that one, but the well is still there for all to see, as are the ruins of a chapel, built to mark the sacred spot.

St Non's Well

St Non presides dutifully over the site of her well

Ruins of St Non's Chapel

Nearby, a modern chapel has been built, dedicated to St Non. It's rather a lovely place and includes some interesting fragments of a much earlier church.

David himself went on to found a monastic community. His monks had a tough life, being required to plough the land without the use of animals, drink only water and eat only bread with salt and herbs. Evenings were spent in prayer, reading and writing. No personal possessions were allowed: even to say "my book" was considered an offence – presumably based on his interpretation of this biblical text:

Now the multitude of those who believed were of one heart and one soul;

neither did anyone say that any of the things he possessed was his own,

but they had all things in common. (Acts 4.32)

Life must have been a barrel of laughs. In fairness, though, monastic life surely had its attractions, with God on your side, the assurance of food every day, a roof over your head and a measure of security.  Being associated with a miracle worker must also have added colour to the humdrum of daily life. David's best known miracle occurred in the village of Llanddewi Brefi, when the ground obligingly rose up, so that he could see over the crowd.

Quite what St David would have made of the things done in his name in later centuries, though, one can but imagine — bishops in palaces and a church amassing fabulous wealth to itself. All I can say is that the ruined palace is a great place to explore, and all the more so since I simply had to wave my Cadw card at the gate and be admitted free of charge.

I paid the suggested £3 to explore the cathedral, which was very much like any other cathedral in the land, but was unwilling to fork out another £2 for permission to photograph there. So here's someone else's photo of St David's recently restored shrine. It's devoid of the saint's bones, thanks to the reformation and all that, but remains an important focal point for Welsh heritage and national identity. And for that, I think the good saint would be justifiably proud. 

A cottage near Cardigan

www.visitpembrokeshire.com

Our West Wales adventure is soon to begin. A lovely looking holiday cottage was booked many weeks ago; now the cases are almost packed, OS maps downloaded onto my smartphone, and there's little else to do before setting off this Saturday for the 135 mile drive to Cardigan.

Many friends are surprised that we've never been there before, but having lived most of our lives within a mile or two of the Cornish coast, we've preferred hills, mountains and forests for our holidays.  Now all that has changed and the coast beckons once more.  Rye (in 2014) was wonderful and I feel sure that Penbroke will be too.

My good friend Margaret is fluent in Welsh, having lived near St Davids for most of her life. She is most keen that I learn a bit of the language and has given me a short list of 'useful' phrases. The problem with using them, though, is that my cheery "Bore da" (Good morning) risks eliciting a torrent of Welsh that means nothing to me.  Perhaps I should learn to say "Please look kindly on this ignorant Cornish woman." They will then smile at a poor fellow Celt and speak English, though if perchance they frown and say, in very poor Welsh, "Ca di ben nei di" (Shut your mouth, will you) I'll be one step ahead of them. That's also in my short list of phrases!

We will probably spend most days in and around Cardigan Bay, but I do plan to venture further afield too. High on the list of 'must see' places is the Vale of Rheidol Railway in Aberystwyth (40 miles away). In the opposite direction, my ukulele-playing friend Cherry has recommended Bosherton and, inspired by Lucy's recent blog post, I'd also like to visit Laugharne.  I think combining those two would make a nice, if rather long, day trip.

There's nothing about WiFi in the holiday cottage brochure, so I'm taking along my 3 Network dongle. If it works, stand by for a post or two from West Wales. If not, I'll be blogging again in mid-September.

The Sugar Loaf

Last Monday I climbed The Sugar Loaf, near Abergavenny. I'll relate that adventure in a moment but first, I found myself asking 'why Sugar Loaf?' Everyone's heard of bread loaves, and I've occasionally been known to loaf around, but never in my many years on this planet have I come across a sugar loaf. 

The reason, I've now discovered, is that I was born about 125 years too late. Wonderful Wikipedia informs me that: A sugarloaf was the usual form in which refined sugar was produced and sold until the late 19th century, when granulated and cube sugars were introduced. A tall cone with a rounded top was the end-product of the process.  

So there we are.  I grow a little wiser every day.

There are several hundred mountains and hills in the world called Sugar Loaf or Sugarloaf. There are even two in Wales and one near Folkestone, but the most famous is surely Rio de Janeiro's, that must have become a familiar sight to followers of the Olympic Games.  I'm not one of them but yes, I can certainly see its close resemblance to a sugar loaf. Good name!

Now here's a photo of The Sugar Loaf that I climbed on Monday. Do you see the resemblance?  I don't either! Which is doubtless why those sensible Welsh folk call it Y Fâl – The Peak.

As peaks go, this one promised to be a lot easier to climb than Pen y Fan. However, with temperatures expected once more to climb into the mid-20s, and learning the lessons from last time, I donned an old pair of his shorts. (Note to self: I must buy a pair of my own; bright pink ones, perhaps.)

Energetic walkers can start their ascent in Abergavenny, some 500 metres below the summit. A nice feature, though, of this peak is a spacious car park, a little over half way up. I parked there.  One hour later, I was sitting on the top, admiring the view and contemplating my frugal picnic lunch of Ryvitas, cottage cheese and a nectarine. Yes, I'm sticking closely to my Slimming World eating plan.

This is the view westwards, with Skirrid clearly visible in the middle distance. Next time I'm in these parts I'm resolved to climb that one – a hundred metres or so lower than The Sugar Loaf, but geologically very interesting.  The Skirrid Mountain Inn also beckons.

In the heat haze beyond Skirrid is the Forest of Dean. This I know, as on several occasions I've stood on high ground in the Forest and spotted Skirrid in the distance.

The west end of The Sugar Loaf is rocky and somewhat reminiscent of tors on Dartmoor. To the right of this photo, I think I made out Pen y Fan in the distance, but won't risk pointing it out here and displaying my ignorance of the Brecon Beacons. Instead, I shall keep returning to this area, only an hour's drive from my home and worth every drop of petrol in getting there.

Population Explosion

My garden pond is now about 3 years old. Originally, I'd intended to have a wildlife pond, which simply required me to throw in some oxygenating pond weed and water-loving plants like lilies, then wait to see what came along. With no further effort on my part, I soon had pond skaters, water boatmen, dragonfly nymphs, newts and a frog or two.  And in the spring, the frogs produced frog spawn... and the newts and nymphs ate it.  Thus a balance of nature was established, but not a very interesting one.

This Spring I decided to introduce a spot of variety and asked a friend whether I could have some of her goldfish. She readily agreed, so I went round for a spot of fishing in the murky depths of her garden pond, eventually returning triumphantly with 3 fish in a bucket. There was:

• Goldie — a fine-looking, very golden goldfish.
• Blondie — a pale white, and rather fat, specimen
• Rudolph — a black, white and golden fish with (yes, you guessed it) a red nose.

The three new residents quickly settled into their new home, feasting contentedly on bugs in the pond weed, and growing fat. Well, two of them grew fat, but one day I noticed that Blondie had grown thinner... and before long I discovered the reason.  Babies! Lots and lots of tiny black baby goldfish.

I imagine that the original fish, together with the newts and any surviving nymphs will have feasted on some of these babies, but lots have survived and grown. 

So now I have a new problem — what to do with (at least) 50 baby goldfish.  Some of them are already a couple of inches long and the pond is beginning to look crowded. My neighbour, inspired by my own pond-building exploits, is creating one of his own, and he will definitely get offered a fish or eight. But what to do with the rest? Goldfish soup doesn't appeal.

I do know that, eventually, the pond population will balance out as fish eat their own spawn, and the more fish there are, the more likely it is that all the spawn will be consumed.  But goldfish have an average lifespan of 10 years, so that's not going to happen any time soon.

I knew I had problems when they crucified me

March 2016. Chatting to a group of primary school kids about the Easter story, I held my arms in a classic crucifixion pose – outstretched on either side of my body and raised slightly above shoulder height.  OUCH! I felt a stabbing pain around my left shoulder.

A few weeks earlier S- and I volunteered to help our younger son install power to his garage. I chose to make myself useful by lifting 4 paving slabs to clear the way so that S- could dig a cable trench across the lawn. Now these slabs, dear reader, were not friendly little ones, like those I used on my new patio, nor were they the slightly larger, but still quite friendly, ones that form the rest of our garden paths.  No, these were sockin' great 600x600mm brutes, such as one sees on roadside pavements. And they were heavy. Indeed, I remember thinking that they were a bit too heavy for me, but I allowed enthusiasm to overrule my fears. And when the trench had been dug and the underground cable laid, I loyally completed my allotted task by lowering the blighters back into place.

It took a few days for the pain to really set in, but by the time I did my crucifixion act it had got quite bad... though only if I raised my left arm sideways above shoulder height or reached behind my back to slip my arm into a cardigan sleeve.  I told myself that the pain would eventually diminish, like any other ache and pain I endure from doing silly things like playing too enthusiastically with the children's Wii Fits. It didn't.

Which is how I came to find myself at a Physiotherapy Clinic today. After much questioning and exercising, Maria declared that I had probably torn a shoulder muscle – a common enough injury, she declared, especially in older people (!). She was kind enough not to add and in stupid ones too. I was sent home with this sheet, detailing some gentle muscle tone exercises that I have to do until my next physio appointment, in two weeks' time. So now, twice daily, I am to be found lying on my back in the middle of the lounge, left arm outstretched and rocking it back and forth, or in gentle circles.

The first instruction did make me smile, though: "Reach the whole arm up to the ceiling..." Tricky. Lying on the floor, my arms are nowhere near long enough to to reach the ceiling. Which just goes to prove what a sad pedant I am.

It will doubtless take some time to restore my former youthful fitness, but I'm pretty confident that I'll be fighting fit in time to be crucified again, next Easter.

Flying Start with Slimming World... then a wobble

Slimmer of the Week!

I've made a flying start with Slimming World. Launching out at a shameful 14st:0½lb, I was down by 5½lb after the first week, though losses of this magnitude are not unusual at the beginning of a diet.  Most of it was probably down to fluid loss.

The following week I lost a modest 1½lb, then excelled myself by losing 3lb in the week after that and won the Slimmer of the Week award – a carrier bag full of goodies. Everyone clapped me and I wiped away a tear or two, surprised at how emotional I felt.

Perhaps the thrill of winning went to my head, but at last week's weigh-in I had only lost a measly ½lb.  "Was I happy with this?" asked Debra, our consultant.  No, I was not! An interesting discussion ensued as Debra cast doubt on the culprit being Saturday's crab pate, the villain finally being identified as too much good wine.  So now I'm carefully measuring each drink to exactly 125ml.  I'm also resolved to remain positive; after all, 10½lb lost in 4 weeks ain't bad.

Seriously, discussion like that are one of the great advantages of losing weight with a group. When I don't do well on a particular week it's tempting to skip the social side and go home early, but I'm determined not to fall into that trap.  My next target is 12st:8½lb, which should take about another 6-7 weeks.  At that weight I'll have lost 10% of my body weight and get a Club Ten certificate.

One certificate I already have pinned to the office notice board is this one – a silver Body Magic award for exercising for more than 30 minutes, 3 times per week and keeping it up for 4 weeks.  In truth, this wasn't too difficult to achieve as I regularly walk for at least 4 hours every week, though I nearly came unstuck last week, with all that rain.

I'll call a halt there and not try for the gold award – 5 sessions of 30 minutes every week for 8 weeks, and including 2 muscle-strengthening activities. I'd surely need to enroll in a gym and nothing is going to persuade me to do that.  Not when I could be out walking in the beautiful Forest of Dean!