StoryWeaving

11th June
It is strange to think that for several days now I have been walking in England, but the Wye valley has long been borderlands and often what is now England was once Wales and sometimes vice versa. As Ben said at Applewood, the fertile edges, where the magic happens. Once I arrived in Hay though I had definitively reentered Wales for the rest of the journey. Hay, although it feels Welsh, also feels English too, and manages to be the both.
Waking up there, having breakfast in a Welsh B&B, then perambulating the town for its market day, I realise that my long held romantic view of the ancient market town has dissolved.
Maybe it became romantic when first being taken there while still a child, and a book worm, after all, Hay is the town of books , with more than 20 independent book shops mostly selling second hand and or rare out of print volumes including children’s books, according to the leaflet I pick up, or maybe its because I came here with a long lost lover, sat in the streets outside the lovely vegetarian cafe on a sleepy Sunday and watched the world go by, or maybe its because when I last walked a storywalk this was the furthest west I walked and like Tolkien I came from the Midlands to it, escaping the people filled industry to drink in its clean air and tranquility, remnant of how life the island over would have felt before the industrial revolution. Whatever the roots if that romantic longing, certainly the air felt alive around it as I walked in and out of the town in 2010.
Today though, it has all gone. I can still appreciate the windy narrow medieval streets and look longingly into a few book shops, though i can’t spend time browsing today, let alone carry a book, I can still enjoy the excellent deli, and peruse the fresh local produce brought in on the market stalls, but the magic has gone. It could be the characters that serve in the shops and stalls, the almost Dickensian caricatures, the larger than life figures, some with noses pushed with arrogance high into their air, the impatient give me your money and move on attitudes, or the full of self importance puffed up egoic conversations that issue loudly through the thronging market days streets, but I feel as if I am walking through the characters of Canterbury tales. Its as if by the act if becoming famed throughout the land for books the inhabitants have begun to resemble characters from within the books pages, caricatures of themselves. I search in vain for an authentically present person and fail. My overtures of friendly enquiry, smiles and interest are not taken up;they do not care that I am here, they just want my money and get out.
I feel sad that the renowned book festival that takes over the town at the end of May has obviously had such an effect on the townsfolk. My desire to become a famous author dissipates in an instant. If this is the effect of having famous writers, the BBC, and prestigious journals here, then it is cannot be a good thing. I renew my resolve to give away all of my books and trust I will be shown a way to pay off my book debt.
My desire to come here and speak at the festival one day has gone. My desire to engage with the rich and famous literary world vanishes. I am cured of my ego’s penchant for fame. An hour or two walking the streets of a town this infused with that energy makes me want to run. These are not my people, not my tribe. These are about as far away as you can get from the type of world I wish to inhabit.
I resolve to give away all of my books and trust a way will come to pay off my book debts. Of this world I want nothing. From the bridge as i leave i gaze back at Y Gelli , the grove, in Welsh, and can see that it once must have been exactly that before invaders came and turned it into a parody of itself. An ancestral part of my psyche writhes in hatred for the Normans who came and held our people in thrall and imprinted their values upon the society that then grew up. I am surprised to find it there, hidden, yet it should really come as no surprise, is not that what we see in Palestine?
Deep down in our psyches, I begin to suspect, lie all the unprocessed feelings around times when our people’s way of life was destroyed or at least changed by an incoming people. For me it is grief for the land, for the vibrant aliveness that places untouched by this invasion still have. I can hear it singing in the hills around Y Gelli yet in the town values that are not founded in love for the land can be viscerally felt and I feel for those there that still follow the old ways.
I carry with me Hereford strawberries brought to market by one of the few friendly faces I have met and a salad in a granary gap made for me by the other friendly face, in the little local Londis store I remember buying my lunch from last time I was here. I have rejected freshly made pastries on the market for the woman I spoke was not open and friendly.
Down by the vegetarian cafe where the market has sprawled to sweet music streams from the CD stall and for a moment I stop, caught on the wings of a song.
Then I leave town. Over the bridge I see the entrance to the hayfield commu city garden and feel happy it is full of veg and thriving. I think of Phoebe my host last time I was here whose dream it was who stepped away between my visits, and am struck by a sense of pathos that it isn’t always the visionary that stays to reap the rewards of their dreams. I wander closer but the people there take no notice of me. I soy their new domed polytunnel and am happy the garden thrives though the place where I told stories no longer is my welcomer.
I take the Wye valley walk through fields noticing my anger and frustration that the town where once I received such a welcome by bards and poets has now shown me its other face. I shed a few of those tears when I reach the footbridge after a few minutes of stern private keep out signs and the way on is not immediately clear. I realise that a part of the story that often has me in its grip is that of angry landowners chasing me off their land with guns and dogs and as this has never actually happened to me I wonder if this too is an ancestral memory that has left its traces on my psyche.
Eventually I get out of the limiting belief system long enough to go back over the footbridge and read the little way markers a little more closely. Now I can see, a diversion has been made, I turn and follow the obviously private track till it gives at the river and a path begins that faithfully follows the course of tgexwater. It is the best bit if the river walk yet. It is flat, dry, grassy and looks directly onto the water. I need not be afraid of thge farm I am walking through having dogs or cows; they grow potatoes. I am aware though that their crop is a mono crop planted in regimented rows with not a weed in sight on the dried up furrows. I feel sorry for the potatoes to be growing in such an environment and feel thankful that a mile back the hayfield garden is lush in its diversity and the size and strength of its veggie plants cannot be compared. They are vibrant in their closeness to other species and not an amazing inch of dry ground is visible between the different plants. How could we ever have thought that expedience produced more and better food than the native Indian system of planting closely all higgedly piggedly so as to deter pests and prevent soil erosion.
I follow the river to the main road, aware that I am still cross at landowners, who I realise more often than not if they have been there any length of time, will be ancestors of the Normans. I am cross because they occupy prime land meaning others, even those simply walking on by, cannot enjoy it too.
I think as I trundle along the verge of a fast main road of how in a fair and just society that got the best out if everyone the needs of the young, old, poor and disenfranchised would be met first and then and only then would the wealthy be able to make their homes. It wouldn’t take long for things to stabalise into balance then. It is at that moment that it becomes clear to me that we have poor and disenfranchised exactly because we are the subjugated race, the ones who lost their land to the invaders. No wonder there is such mistrust between the two.
Soon I am in Llowes. I head straight for the church. I am drawn to them like a magnet. Once I stopped associating “god” with a jealous elder in the sky and started to allow my reverence for the land to feed my spirit churches lost their patriarchal edge and nowadays I see them as sanctuaries of peace and holders of ancient wisdom. This one is on the site of a very ancient pagan place of worship. It is dedicated to St Meilig and his ancient cross now standing inside the church was once a standing stone in the commons above.
From Llowes I take the high road, coming away from the wye valley path and choosing my back lanes westwards towards Trericket mills my home to be for the night. It is quite possibly the best walk yet. The land takes me through community n land covered in ferns and untouched oak trees. The land our folk memories wax lyrical about exists still here. I see no one and three cars are all that pass me all the way to Boughrood where I feel tearful at the tale of the locals having their spire rebuilt just a few years before when we arc and tear had left with only a stump.
I light a candle for my father. Mum has texted to remind me he died three years today.
Then I walk on, the gushing Wye at my side and cross the one lane suspension bridge to Trericket mills. My father would have appreciated this walk and I feel sad that doctors fed him with drugs from pharmaceutical companies lists rather than listened to his story and let him free to rest, recuperate, and to refine his direction after a lifetime if slavery to a system that in the end was to kill him, victim of kidney failure, side effect of the drugs he’d been pumped with.
I strengthen my resolve to found a place of respite sanctuary for all those tired souls who could live their purpose fully if only they could rest from their fruitless labours long enough to rekindle their passion.
A place like Trericket mills. I walk into the garden to be greeted by Nicky, gardening. I am taken into the mill and my jaw drops. This is the most exquisitely reclaimed piece of history that I have ever seen . as I sit here now over a breakfast of homemade bread, home made jam, eggs from very free range poultry that live in a castle folly in the garden, homemade vegetarian sausage , perfcetlyvfried potatoes, grilles cherry tomatoes and fresh fruit salad whilst BobDylan gently serenades me I look around at the room I sit in. The workings of the old mill are all here still but so are the wooden tables are n which guests perfectly prepared food is laid, polished quarry tile floors and old wooden counter from a mans outfitters, memorabilia from a bygone age on the walls, including the old rules from the mill, who would fine workers for breaking tools or…wearing the sacking as clothing… I feel like I have been given a gift.
I am sad Nicky n Alistair want to sell up. They’ve been here 26 years so I can understand its time for a a change but it is heartbreaking to think that this place might not continue.
I live for the night in the little bunk room with its tiny ensuite and look out on my bit of the garden with its view of the gushing stream that once powered the mill.
Nicky tells me the tales of their free range ducks are including the one who imprinted on them and lived in the mill till it finally decided to move into the castle folly that had been built for the ducks by Nicky n Alistair from stone they’d quarried on the land to restore the mill that had stood derelict until some craftworkers took it in as workshops until Nicky n Alistair came and turned it would not the best eco accommodation I have ever visited.
Everything here is founded on good principles of sustainability and care for the environment. The food is superb, the best I have tasted, expertly prepared and served with those extra loving touches that make a place not just excellent but first class.
The music is eclectic, quietly background and yet loud enough to let the poets’ words sink in, the conversations are interesting and welcoming and I doubt this recipe for success could be bettered.
Dinner is served at a table in the window, with a clean jar of freshly picked buttercups and cowslips and a rose candle. The tea in the pot is fresh peppermint leaves and the simple supper I select is fresh wild garlic mashed potatoes spring greens and a Clive’s pie, perfect walkers fare. I could have chosen a three course home made meal but the supper is plenty for me.
I recommend you come here soon,whilst it is still here to be enjoyed. Or come and buy it and keep it going. Trericket mill is the jewel in the warriors way, the wye valkey way, the place that makes you realise there is nothing to stop life being all that we dream of. Nothing but our own lpself imposed limitations, and when we stop to thin k about those, and how our not following our purpose deprives all of humanity of our gifts , then we can begin to see that our believing self limiting stories is an act of supreme selfishness.
Trericket Mills is the anecdote for the puffed up egos that have taken over Y Gelli. Humility, good taste and love for doing the right thing, even in the face of disapproval, like the farmer who wouldn’t stay because the food is vegetarian, reign supreme here. It is a tonic for bruised souls, an inspiration for the spirit, and an example to be followed.
Now, I am going out to visit the very free range ducks and chickens including the broody duck about to lay 12 ducklings.

12 June
My final experience at Trericket Mill is a visit to the ducks. They are out on their lawn, which is also an exclusive camping pitch for some lucky holidaymakers, by the brook edge, with the chickens. The ducks though, are on a mission, waddling on mass. When I have finished admiring their castle folly home I discover they were headed for the brook and are now busily eating, stretching their beaks and ducks under the water to seek out tasty morsels under brook smoothed rock s. It is wonderful to watch how they behave in a clearly natural habitat.
One of my longings is to keep ducks and I have always thought they should have their own stretch of stream. Nicky has explained that if they don’t ha ve this they make a real mess of any other habitat.
I set off on the days journeyhappy and tranquil. That soon changes. Erwood, the nearby village proves not to be a pleasant experience. The gallery which is on the wye valley walk is pretentious and a parody of what was once the work of a visionary, who changed the small settlements Beeching destroyed train station into craft workshop for himself and a collective of local artists.
Now so called works of art, many that smack of some one having nothing better to do, rather than being divinely inspired as real art is, sit on plinths or on other precariously balanced exhibit stands in the disused railway carriages along with signs saying children must be kept under control and that damages must be paid for. Prices are around the £1500 mark. Nicky n Alistair have told me the owners come from Hay. London via Hay I suspect. The gallery, surrounded by CCTV cameras is hardly contributing to the local economy. Tourists sit drinking tea and eating homemade cakes that look nothing special. Inside I feel outrage. This place could be feeding into the local economy. It could be selling farmers produce, it could be a community centre where local young people could be encouraged to develop their creativity. It could be so many things that capture the imagination but an exclusive art galkery with long thin chains dangling between each doorway, catching on my small pack as I walk through is not doing the trick for me.
I leave ,saddened , that outsiders can come into a place with such a blatant disregard for the community they have joined, and to put what was a community asset to such poor use. Old photos on Powys county council info boards show what a lifeline this station once was to Erwood.
People would trade by means of it tells an elderly lady interviewed after it closed in the 1960s.
Further back along the disused line the wye valley walk has been put onto the road as landowners have revoked a permissive path along it. Alistair has told me the once clear line past which off comers did not usually pass, the soft grey buildings with slate roofs of the Welsh farmers showing the traditional way,has begun to blurr with more and more people moving into the west; a clear sign, to me, that things are amiss in England. Would that the incomers would leave the values they are escaping behind with them instead of bringing them with them. We don’t escapoe values we are no longer in agreement with as long as we have not done the inner work to er.adicate them from our psyches. We will carry them with us and impose them on others, however unconsciously that may be done.
I suspect many move to the country side with romantic notions not founded on the reality at all bringing with them most of the ingredients to produce a copy of what they left behind and in doing so begin to destroy tge idyll they moved to enjoy. I have seen it over and over in my life. I have moved to out of the way places for I like the quiet life and in each place after several years watched the paradise change as the wealthy, attracted by the bohemian ways that create such an inspiring creative and authentic feel to a place, buy up all they can and change the character of the thing they so wanted to be a part of through reluctance to let go of, or perhaps simple ignorance of, the values they have brought with them, the very things they seek to escape, the very things absent in a bohemians vision.
I begin to wonder if perhaps having an inordinate amount of money is either a protection against inner pain to deep to want to delve into or with such a strong association with love and security that to let go of it and the values it escrews is impossibly difficult. Either way the spread of all that doesn’t work in our society, all that damages true community, is inevitable so long as wealth is allowed to buy its way into each project that began with such vision.
Leaving Erwood is a reminder of one of my high horses. I rant to myself all the through my painful escape. Some short sighted, no dou bt money fuelled decision has created the main A road through to Buikth Wells over a mile of the original back lane. The wye valley walk directs its walkersup high, half a mile of steep incline, to cross an area of moorland to avoid the very fast road. I try this. Not far into the moor is a large bog.
I walk back down, disgruntled. I will walk the main road and woe betide any driver that incurs my wrath. Interestingly it is this burst of anger that gives me some new insight into the work I am gradually sorting in my mind about my next book. I have been puzzling for several days now about what the 13 treasures of Britain that Merlin carried to Bardsey island represent. I have four of them now:
The staff – which represents asking for support when we need it

The horn of plenty – which appeared when my visioning for what is coming next in my life included plenty for me and for others,one that fed the other

The fire brand – which represents recognising the energy of anger as a force for good when it is aimed at injustice

The whetstone – which sharpens and hones any blade, any purpose to have clarity of vision

I can see that inner qualities develop piece by piece, beginning with our own wellbeing, our own ability to ensure our livelihood, by doing something that is in service to the greater good, our energy focussed on what needs to be made right, and our purpose sharply defined. Without these elements what we do is misguided, doomed to failure , detrimental to the whole. I can see how i am going to be able to weave these elements into my next book.
I find as I walk on the grassy verge besides the monstrous road of go faster metal boxes on wheels containing disconnected humans that beneath the knee high meadow plants is a pathway. I walk deliberatately, one step at a time, making my path as I go, sometimes finding a little remnant of the stony walkway beneath. Nettles sting me but I barely feel them in the anger at the traffic that zooms past with no regard for what it drives past sending out slip streams and noise that disturbs and disrupts all it encounters.
Finally I leave the verge of glorious meadow flowers and join the next back lane. Within feet is a gurgling brook and the wild countryside is returned to me. I walk all day on the back lane to Builth. I see no one but sheep and buzzi ng insects. The views take my breath away. I think of the film they made of Lord of the rings in New Zealand, I think of the film Avatar that had some young people commuting suicide over lost paradise, and I sigh for all those who think the green and pleasant land if our fire bearers is gone, buried beneath tarmac and concrete. It is not. It is here, pushed west by alien values over centuries. Here is virgin untouched pure pristine wild British land. The oaks that I have followed all the way along this warriors way are mighty and full, unharmed and glorious. There are ash, beech,Birch, rowan,hawthorn ,yew and elder, all left to become the huge creatures they are born to be.
This landscape, this perfect beingness, this nature are the backdrop to my being able to define my next steps in the world. It takes this degree of aloneness this magnificence as mighty valleys carved by the Wye and its children amid the massive rocks and boulders the ice age left behind, the hills mountainsmoorlands that tower over the tiny farmsteads and ribbon like road far below me to be able to see clearly.
Hay has cured me of my egos desire for recognition, for fame. I have seen its wounds upon the faces of the inflicted there. The pure air of the mountains has given me my vision back.
The place of refuge I want to create shall be this thing for me and because of that it shall be that for others too. The book of this journey to that place shall have 13 chapters, shall be 13 small volumes of different colours each describing the journey to the heart. It will be sold or given at the centre I will found.
My first book I shall give away, or for donation, till they are all with people who would treasure them not languishing under tables waiting to be sold at retail price. If you would like one make me an offer, cover the postage and one shall be yours, The Tales of Our Times. They willbegone from me by the end of the year,in the spirit of abundance, so that I am free to create the next.
As I complete my walk into Builth I can see that part of the responsibility of having a place of refuge along a pilgrims route shall be ensuring the pathways either side of it remain open and safe for walkers.
I write this from my cosy caravan in the garden if my lovely host Steph who I met on Facebook when I put out a call for support. It is great to meet her and her friendly family and dog and goose.
It is great to hear her tales too. The blackbird she had to rescue from the dog when it fell from the tree because all the blackbirds from all the nearby trees called and called for her till she saw and realised what needed To be done. She has saved a young bird before and perhaps birds remember these things.
Over a delicioois Dahl and then chocolate cake I meet friends and neighbours and the atmosphere is friendly and relaxed. Steph tells me about the artwork shed like to take up when the children are grown. she did it when she was going, painting a dragon on a friends wall. It is something I ha ve always wanted to do on my wall and am inspired by her tale. Perhaps she can help me when the time comes. I have been collecting pieces of coloured pottery for several years now ready to create this creature.
I hear of the nearby inspirational arts centre, and I learn a new Welsh word so for now I will leave you with:
‘a dewi sant’
Have a good day!

 

15th June
If there is one thing to say about yesterday it has to be said that I could feel my heart. From Mellowcroft and its organically created structure so beautifully described by Kim over breakfast to arrival in the exquisite town of waterfalls; Rhayader and the subsequent walk over the mountain pass to Llangurig it becomes truly a day made in heaven
Kim explains how each thing created at Mellowcroft came about as a result of identifying how one thing could improve the use of resources another created as its so called waste product so, for example, putting a wood fired range in the tree house welcome centre where visitors can come to eat and relax, a place that started out as a meditation platform and now incorporates three beech trees in a undercover shelter meant wasted heat so that a place for visitors to wash was then created utilising that heat to warm the water. I begin to see that when we create organically according the laws of nature we benefit from everything, and waste nothing, but at the same time this makes it a challenge to work with planners because everything must be thought out ahead of time.
Eddie drops me in Rhayader. My bridge has come out whilst eating lunch and I need to visit a dentist. I wish him well with his planning meeting. In the car we have talked of the challenges of discussions with people placed in positions of authority who simply do not have the life experiences to be able to think creatively. We live now, I believe, in a society that has valued theory above practice for far too long. We talk too of the power of story to inspire and engage and of how magical it would be if the planning officer could be inspired to transform her way of interpreting the laws she has to follow. Eddie sees nothing wrong with planning laws, he has read them thoroughly. The difficulty lies in how anything can be interpreted only through the eyes of experience and how our perception widens with this.the more limited our life experience the more limited our thinking and understanding of the world.
I find that the fifth treasure is surely the tale of Eddie and finding what it is that ignites the true warrior energy within each of us. It arises naturally when in our integrity we stand up for what we feel strongly enough for, to defend what is good.
As for the sixth treasure it has to be the feeling I get when I spend time in Rhayader. It is clearly a place that opens my heart. It is a feminine place for sure, not cauldron like crone energy like totnes but chalice like maiden energy, soft gentle friendly open welcoming, and allowing of vulnerability. Here every person I smile at and say hello to either responds in kind or has already greeted me first.
I make an appointment at the dentists and have an hour and a half to explore. I am delighted. There is a growing feeling that all that I had in the end felt absent from Hay, was here in this town of waterfalls. An old man approaches me
You look lost
No, just exploring, I smile
And he gives me directions for a mini river walk I can do.

I find tears come when I reach the waterfall. It is all so beautiful it is almost painful. Although the Victorians blew up the waterfall (!!) to make stone to build the bridge the remains are still breathtaking nestling into the lime green of summer foliage. I walk for my dad, with my dad, become my dad. I learn that part of the process of coming to terms with losing a well loved parent is taking on those qualities you most admired for yourself. This journey is giving me the opportunity to integrate this as I walk the river and gaze over bridges and into the water from its banks just as he always did when he was near a river. He loved visiting churches too and going down back lanes. I am sad that he can’t be here to enjoy this too but also recognising just how much my father’s daughter I am.
The walk takes me to the site of the old castle built by and destroyed by warring princes. As I perambulate its perimeter I perceive its circular nature and know that before ever this was a fortification it was a place of sanctuary for older peoples, overlooking the waterfall it must have been a magical home.
Yet again my journey has involved a circling round in amidst the direction of my quest. The integration if my masculine and feminine components being walked into balance. I cry tears of come home by the river.
Then I go off to find the bridge. I cross it and come to a much smaller settlement whose name means place between two rivers. The river Elan was flooded in Victorian times to provide reservoirs for drinking water for Birmingham. Here I find the church, with its circular yard and yew trees, of course, and read the name of this place of worship is St Bride. Brigid, the goddess of imbolc, the beginning of spring, the feminine in the form of the maiden. No wonder the place feels so gentle and I am able to feel my vulnerability and softness here, or perhaps, no wonder this place is dedicated to the form of the feminine that it exudes, early fragile delicate first blossoming after the winter has passed…after Merlin the god of Capricorn, the embodiment of Saturn, wise elder if the winter days, comes the maiden of spring, Nimue, to claim back the light and the promise of summer. The power is handed over for another year, another cycle of 13 moons.
The dentist fixes my bridge. He is the best dentist I have met since leaving Brazil in 2005. The benefits of the town at the waterfall, as its name means, are increasing by the moment. Here I can embody the maiden aspect of my self , a part of me that doesn’t flower in Totnes. There is even an excellent mini version of our excellent Green life health food shop; Wild Swan.
A perfect ten mile lane through the mountains where i see just one car n two cyclists all day tops of a magical morning. The gorgeous wye side walk far surpassing the wye valley walk for being close to the water, a fishermans paradise.
I find a deserted farm and then a small house for sale beside it and wonder if here, just three miles south of Llangurig,I have found my respite centre. Land for rent is just down the lane from it.
I arrive in Llangurig at 5pm. The idyllic car free road has got me to my destination far quicker than I usually reckon on completing a ten mile stretch.
I check it into the Bluebell inn and eat a delicious very reasonably priced supper. Devon prices I am remembering are super inflated to cater for all the Londoners that find their way west. Here in Wales prices reflect the normal everyday person without hugely inflated salaries.
I am up early this morning for my longest walk of the journey so far…up into Plimlimon where the sources of three rivers are. I won’t make it to the trickle of the Wye’s birthplace, the distance to there and then to accommodation is too great for me at my pace but I will be just a few miles east of it in the Hafren forest where my eco farm bnb is.
Wish me luck!