Friday 19 June 2015

What's in a name?

                                         


The inevitable jokes about the Adams family were thankfully out of the way by the time we entered the tiny 14C church at Barton St David, near Glastonbury in Somerset. We had travelled from Heathrow via Sussex and the Cotswolds in the past couple of days, and I had somehow managed to avoid telling them about the surprise that awaited them in the Chancel of this unremarkable little place.
They were aware of their family link to the second President of the US, Henry Adams, but were oblivious to the fact that this little village is immensely proud of the fact that his roots went deep into the Somerset loam. The plaque on the wall, unveiled in the 1920's, is a lasting testament to that link. Now it would be a part of this family's heritage too, a story they will pass on to their kids.
















Out in the tumble down graveyard another story. Not so uplifting. The WW1 grave of an 18yr old of the parish, a Private Bailey, who died a week before the end of the war. The fact that he is buried on home turf would suggest that his wounds meant that he spent his final days with his family, but one dreads to think what mixed feelings that family had to hear the Armistice bells ring out over his grave.


Our overnight port of call was Glastonbury, which was just gearing itself up for the Festival. We took advantage of the bluebird sky evening to walk to the top of its iconic Tor, and enjoyed views as far as the eye could see. William Blake had this scene in mind when writing "Jerusalem", with the visit to Glastonbury of the child Jesus amongst the many legends attached to this unique corner of the country.
"And did those feet in ancient times...?"
Glastonbury ("Avalon"?) is also associated with King Arthur of course, with his grave in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey. Interesting that the discovery of his bones there co-incided with the aftermath of a disastrous fire, and the equally disastrous financial crisis it caused. Surely claiming to find the grave of the most famous knight of them all couldn't be a tawdry attempt to con some money out of some poor pilgrims?
A sampling of the ales and a pretty impressive fish pie at the Who'd A Thought It Inn (http://www.whodathoughtit.co.uk/) gave us some time to reflect on what had been a busy day. This place manages to embody Glastonbury's stout refusal to conform, right down to the mannequin of the ballet dancer in the phone box.

Staying firmly left field for the next leg of the trip - in search of Dylan Thomas, the legendary hard drinking, free thinking poet born just over a hundred years ago in Swansea. Tragically, he is to poetry what James Dean is to cinema, for Thomas failed to reach the age of forty. His beautiful poem on his thirtieth birthday ("Poem in October") is now the focus for a walk around the village of Laugharne. We stayed in his favourite boozer - Brown's - which dominates the main street down to the fishing boat bobbing sea. http://www.browns-hotel.co.uk/
Bit more upmarket since Dylan's days, but it's highly recommended. Staff are unfailingly helpful, food good, and (thankfully, or Dylan's ghost might be making some noises) the beer very good. Try a Welsh whisky - Penderyn - although perhaps don't follow in the footsteps of the great man and go for any records. Rooms here are well appointed - although the exposed beam in my bathroom was the clear winner in our own personal battle.

The following day took us along the Welsh coast, from south west to north west. Our destination was Portmeirion, near Portmadog. It was here that another left field thinker, the architect Clough Williams-Ellis built his own Italian village on a hill side in Wales. His inspiration was the Mediterranean town of Portofino, but a walk around this place leads many to wonder if that was his sole "influence"...
The hotel here is superb - http://www.portmeirion-village.com/stay/hotel-portmeirion/ - and it is served by two good restaurants on site.



And just down the road, there is Snowdonia. Biased I may be, but it is a truly stunning National Park, with views ranging from lush river valleys to the harsh beauty of the sheep farming uplands. My group wanted an insight into some of Wales' cultural highlights, so I drew on a contrast between the two Thomases. The pin up boy of the south, Dylan, versus the austere priest poet, R.S. Thomas. No doubt (excuse pun...) who they preferred, but perhaps R.S., with his ability to capture this unique landscape of granite and slate, will live longer in the memory.
Our drive to the end of the Lleyn Peninsula (and here I WILL have to admit to home town bias...) ended with a visit to R.S.'s parish church, perched as it is above the beach.


Next stop - Ty Newydd Inn next door.  (http://www.gwesty-tynewydd.co.uk/).  A thirst after righteousness? Sorry...
A great watering hole - look out for Cwrw Llyn - and excellent food. Tapas platter was delicious, and great value. Having seen the rooms they've just opened here, all with REAL sea views, I have no doubt the Single Step Tours will be back!
A bit of politics - because the Welsh enjoy nothing better than a fiery speech - we also visited the grave of David Lloyd George. The local boy made good, he was the man who led the country through the second half of the Great War, and dealt with the Irish troubles afterwards. He was also mired in financial and private scandal. No wonder he opted to be buried in such a quiet spot.
Still, his record speaks for itself. He has some claim to be one of our most important political figures of the last century.

If, in the words of the song, Liverpool's got a cathedral to spare, Wales could claim to have a couple of dozen castles. But they'd probably hang on to Caernarfon. There are mixed feelings amongst Welsh Nationalists towards it, in truth, because it was built by Edward I as a massive slap across the face to the troublesome Princes of Gwynedd. As he then tried to negotiate with them, he announced that there would henceforth be a Prince of Wales in the royal household. When the Welsh delegates complained that Edward would just impose his own man on them, Edward replied by saying that his appointee would not be able to speak a word of English.
And he was as good as his word, because his baby son couldn't even say "Dada" yet...
Big ceremony here in 1969, when Charles was crowned - yes, you've guessed it - Prince of Wales. He was just old enough to say "Thank you mama..."

To break the journey back to Heathrow, we stayed for two nights at Stratford Upon Avon, visiting the usual sights associated with Shakespeare, and taking in an epic, and occasionally disturbing, staging of Othello. The lead role was played by Hugh Quarshie, an actor I seem to recall seeing in Romeo and Juliet sometime in the last century. I knew he'd make a name for himself...




Trip was with Peter at Single Step Tours, and it lasted 10 days. Pick up/drop off at Heathrow.
For your own bespoke tour, contact peter@singlesteptours.com