The Land of my Fathers....

Or one of my my Great-grandfathers at least, (one Price Edwards Griffiths - three surnames and not a christian name to be heard). We made a trip to Abergavenny in South Wales to catch up with one of Iris' nephews who she hadn't seen for 50 years but who had got back in touch with her via the glories of Facebook.

On the way to Wales we travelled down through the Marches and spent a little time in Shropshire and Herefordshire. I had never visited these counties before and was surprised how pleasant and charming the countryside was in these parts.

We stayed the first night at an excellent campsite near Wrexham where a 9-hole golf course was available. We hired some clubs and played 12 holes (7, 8 and 9 twice). We both managed respectable scores, although a certain person, (who shall remain anonymous), had a very large number of suspicious "practice shots" discounted from her the score.

The following day we visited Ludlow, a town that I had always wanted to visit because of its connections with A.E. Housman and Robert Graves. Housman, (like me), has roots in Lancaster and he is buried in Ludlow churchyard. A cherry tree marks his grave.

Graves wrote "Goodbye to All That", which for me is the definitive account of a soldier's First World War experiences. Graves was an officer in the Welch Fusiliers based at Ludlow. Graves also wrote "I Claudius" and the associated series that was one of my favourites. Housman is best known for "A Shropshire Lad".

The town of Ludlow itself was a typical English market town, with some lovely medieval buildings and the usual, bottleneck streets. We took the park and ride option to get into the town and were very glad we did. Some of the buildings in the narrow streets bore plenty of evidence of scrapes with heavy vehicles. The bus ride in and out was close to terrifying at times, as the bus drivers didn't seem to care, (or slow down), about the extremely narrow lanes, pedestrians, cyclists or other traffic, one whit.

The oldest pub in Ludlow, circa 1395, according to the date painted on the facade.

We enjoyed lunch in the town square right opposite the castle. Housman is buried in the churchyard of the church in the background.

An old cannon situated on the castle side of the square had a quotation from "In Flanders Fields" for some reason. I think Graves may have had some connection with John McCrae but I'm not sure.

 

Ludlow Castle

After visiting Ludlow, we stayed for the night a few miles south, still in Herefordshire, near the Welsh border. A pleasing feature of the meadows in Hereford, is that the farmers past, have left significant numbers of oak and ash trees in the meadows, to provide shade and shelter for the animals. (I say farmers past, because many of the trees were 2-300 years old and fully grown). Good on the farmers present though, for not hewing them down.

The following morning it was off to Abergavenny for the annual food  festival. We stayed at a site about 2 miles out of town and then walked back. The weather was lovely, (as it has been throughout our trip to Europe), so we enjoyed the walk along the narrow country lanes, that took us past an old church with an unusual feature - a sundial on the tower.

 

 

The church and a close-up of the sundial. The sun appeared to be running about 90 minutes late, (according to my watch anyway).

 

The food festival had the town bursting at the seams with vendors of all descriptions. One was a purveyor of a "Taste of Borneo", who didn't seem to be selling much though. Must have been a little daring for the Welsh Marches. Another foreign delicacy on offer was French onions sold by genuine Frenchmen on bikes, wearing berets and complete with strings of onions. They claimed to be the last genuine French onion sellers who still visit the UK. I was reminded of the days of yore, when they used to visit my Grandmother selling onions. She always made them welcome and forced them to have a cup of tea and a snack, (something English like a dripping sandwich), before they were allowed to leave.

 

These guys really know their onions. Apparently, they are all individually named, (the Frenchies, not the onions).

 

After our food extravaganza we returned to the camp and got ready for dinner. This was at a local pub where Iris met her nephew Peter, for the first time in almost 50 years.

 

While the two of them conversed in Scouse, (a strange dialect, which is unintelligible to humans), I enjoyed the local beer which is considered to boost one's intelligence.

 

 

The brains are in the glass! Despite the brewer's claim, that drinking this product transferred the brains from the glass to the drinker, I found that the more that I drank, the less effective my brain appeared to become. How strange!

 

We enjoyed our dinner together and promises were exchanged to avoid another 50-year interval between reunions. The following day though, it was back to England, the North and civilisation. The trip that took us 3 days through the by-roads was a mere 6 hours on the motorways. That's progress for you.