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Art & Culture

various essays on, well, art and culture

Bookbinding & Conservation

lessons learned from this profession

Humor

ok, I'm not the guy from SNL,
but I still have a sense of humor

'Jim Downey' Stories

mostly true stories from my
adolescence

Personal Essays

more "it's all about me"

Politics

I’m at -7.13/-7.33 on The Political Compass.  Where
are you?

Society

observations on the human condition

Travel

Europe 1994

Wales 1998
      London
      Saturday
      Sunday
      Monday
      Tuesday
      Wednesday
      Thursday
      Final Friday

Wales 2003
Wales 2006
CCGA Vignettes

Tuesday:  Into the Crypts, then South


Well, it really wasn't crypts.  But before breakfast Alix and I did take our Mini-mags and went out to explore the subterranean parts of the old castle.  There were two separate areas; the first we went into was a perfect barrel-vaulted room, perhaps 15 feet wide and 40 long.  At one end was a small corridor, then up the stairwell.  At the other end there was a small shaft that led to a grated window up above.  The floor was mostly mud, though there were some paving stones that had been recently put down.  Frankly, it was in pretty good shape, and I was surprised that the hotel hadn't converted it into a wine cellar or some such.

The other area was where the dungeon was.  It was down some rough stairs, then into a longish passageway.  At the turn, there was a barred room, with the level of the floor some distance below the level of the passageway.  When the moat of the castle was full, there was water in the room up to the passageway.  This was the 'drowning pit,' where a prisoner was tossed into the room, and the gate locked.  There was no place to get out of the water, and as the History of Ruthin Castle says:  "They then had two choices on the way they met their death, either drown themselves and thus have a quick death or struggle to keep their heads above water until their strength ran out and they slipped below the surface."  Yeesh.  A little ways further down the passage was another area, the 'whipping pit,' where prisoners were shackled to a wall and then beaten.  The rusty old shackles are still there.

We left the clammy air of the dungeon, and found another passageway out to the light.  Over breakfast we regaled the other members of the group about the 'crypts,' and offered to take them down to show them what we found.  Everyone thought it was a grand idea.  Especially Eddie, though unfortunately he had to go ready the coach, make sure all our baggage got packed, and wouldn't be able to go hunt ghosts with us.

After taking "the ladies" down into the dungeons and whatnot, we climbed on the coach, and left Ruthin Castle behind.  It was time to head south.  We first stopped in Welshpool for a brief break.  Nice enough little town, and Alix and I hiked up to the old church which overlooks the town.  The curchyard backs up to the extensive lands of Powys Castle, now a nature reserve.  We had driven through it when we were in Wales previously, on our way back to London.  It was just at closing time, with the sun low in the sky.  As we drove slowly through the grounds, looking at the castle, we drove through a herd of European deer.  This time, we considered walking over to the castle, but didn't have time to do so.  On the way back down it started to rain (and of course this was one of the few instances when we left hats and umbrellas on the bus), so we popped into a little pastry shop, and got some things to go, then dodging raindrops and using the pastry bags as protection, we went back to the bus.  Further south, running back and forth along Offa's Dyke, to Knighton.

Offa's Dyke is one of those things that is almost too grand to really think about.  The best-guess of historians is that Offa, a Mercian king of the 8th century (I think), decided to keep the wild Welsh out of his kingdom.  So he constructed this dyke.  There are still large parts of it left, though it is hard to imagine how it functioned to keep people out.  On one side is a trough, the dirt from which was used to build a sort of levee on the other side.  Neither the trough nor the levee are that impressive, even accounting for centuries of earth settling and weathering.  There isn't any evidence that there was ever any sort of wall or any such structure which would have stopped people from crossing the thing.  What is impressive is that it runs for almost 200 miles, right along what is recognized as the Welsh border even to this day.  Weird.  Why build such a thing?

Alix, Martha, and I had lunch in a little tea shop right on the small town square.  Shortly thereafter, we went south again, this time making a detour and quick stop in a very small town named Norton.  This was the ancestral home of one of the members of our party, and she wanted to see it.  Eddie parked us right across from the town cemetery, and a couple of us got out to stretch our legs.  Since it was drizzling lightly, Eddie and I found ourselves watching the others go through the cemetery, looking for names, as we stood under a small shelter at the entrance to the cemetery.  Eddie puffed on his cigarette, looked around a moment, and then said "Well, I think this is a Lych-gate."

I looked up at the thatch-covered roof above us, and asked:  "A what?"

"Lych-gate.  Back before medicine was any good, people could fall into a coma and be mistaken for dead.  So, to avoid burying someone who wasn't really dead, they’d put the corpse up there" he pointed to the shelf above us, under the roof "for a couple of days before burial.  Just in case they really were dead, it had to be in the cemetery, but just in case they were alive, it had to be someplace where the person could wake up and get out."

"So, they put it at the threshold of the cemetery."  I nodded.

"Sure beats waking up in a grave, eh?"  Eddie chuckled, tossed his cigarette butt, and we went back to the bus.

Further south, and a prolonged break at the small town of Hay-on-Wye.  There are two castle ruins there, a very early Motte & Bailey which is only earthworks at this point, and a moderately-large late medieval structure that is now crammed with books in all the useable parts.  Yes, books.  This little town has become something of a used-book depository for Britain.  There are literally dozens and dozens of used book stores.  Just about every storefront is a bookstore.  There are garages that are bookstores.  There are even open-front, tin-roofed carports that are bookstores.  And the guy who owns the castle has one courtyard of the grounds with rank after rank of metal storage shelves crammed with books . . . each rank has a price noted on it, and you're on your honor to deposit the appropriate amount in a small box at the gate.  One place we walked by advertised proudly in their window that they had 'No Books Inside,' so of course we had to go in and see what they did have . . .

There was also a nice river walk there, quiet and shady along the Wye.  This broad, strong river (by Welsh standards, anyway) was in the middle of a wide valley, most of the hillside around us deep green, some with hints of heather.  The sky was intensely blue, only a few puffy storm clouds in it, just enough to really give some character and definition.  After our hike along the river and through the town, we stopped at a small cafe and sipped drinks, just enjoying the view.

Then back on the coach and southwest, through the Brecon Beacons.  These are tall, flat-topped mountains that used to be used for signaling.  A huge bonfire would be built on the top which could be seen for scores of miles.  Even moreso than northern Wales, the mountains here were open and empty, trees only along fence rows and along the small streams and rivers.  There were very few settlements, very few people.

Finally, we passed into the Rhondda valley, famous for the production of coal late last century, and made our way to Pontypridd (just north of Cardiff), where we would stay for the next three nights.
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all work © James T. Downey, 1993-2006
photos © Martha K. John, 1994-2006
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