The Silent Contentment
It’s almost worth getting stuck in the rush hour madness that envelops you at the instant the westbound crossing of the second Severn Bridge comes to an end because it might just make you appreciate what’s to follow even more. As the sign that welcomes you to the Principality in two languages tells you that you’re now on Welsh soil, the traffic that flowed around you so freely before suddenly solidifies into a mass of heaving metallic shapes, crawling as one slowly towards Newport, with Cardiff and Swansea merely distant dreams for the weary commuters who just want to get home in time for tea. You see a sign that says Gwasanaethau and for a moment you wonder whether there’s a short cut, but then you remember that it means a service station is just ahead. You could grab a coffee, but you’ll only be prolonging the torpor. Half an hour later you’ll be back among the mechanised scrum again, very possibly with a protesting bladder. You might have been a few miles further on if you’d just kept going.
But eventually and joyfully that hideous stony brown megalith, the Celtic Manor Resort looms high over you above the right hand side of the motorway and announces that you’re on the cusp of freedom as you approach the eastern extremity of Newport. A freedom that beckons you northward as you negotiate the enormous roundabout that awaits you at the end of the slip road and carries you onto the A449 in the direction on Monmouth. The sense of release is as immediate as was the dismay upon arriving amid the inevitable web of chaos that greeted you as you arrived in Wales a while earlier. As the road rises, the views open to the west and you can't help but feel a sneaking satisfaction at the thought of the cavalcade of vehicles inching painfully in the direction of Cardiff in the valley below. You’ve escaped and the big country is just beyond the horizon. It’s waiting and you’ll be there before long.
A little later you’ll arrive in the pleasing market town of Abergavenny. An unexplained tradition means you’ll stop at the local Aldi just before the town centre for provisions, whether you need them or not. You have some hard walking in the mountains ahead of you. Better stock up on Haribo at least. You can’t do a ten mile ridge walk without a bag of Haribo in your pack – there’s probably a byelaw about that somewhere. There’s a good chippy in Abergavenny too. Better stop there too while you’re at it. There’s still the best part of an hour to go.
Now the mountains have begun to close in and tower over you as you head north towards Brecon. The fast roads are behind you and you’ll need most of Brenda’s six gears as the route winds, climbs and descends through the glorious landscape. You want to stare beyond the windscreen into the raw beauty that surrounds you but you’re driving. There’ll be time to fall in love with the place all over again later.
You’re almost there now. You’ve passed Crickhowell and the unpronounceable Blwch. They’re not overly free with the vowels around here. Before the town of Brecon arrives at your front bumper you leave the road with a left turn, along a series of ever narrowing lanes, up and up into the hills until the very last half mile of bracken flanked public road that’s not quite as wide as your campervan. It’s a good job you didn’t buy a brand new motorhome because you’d be stuck by now, waiting for a friendly farmer to scrape you out backwards with a row tope. You’d probably also be weeping while the value of your shiny new investment plummets as quickly as the remaining road ahead of you rises.
Finally you’re at the farm where the summer swallows swoop and dance their welcomes across the space as you pass through the yard and higher still along the rocky track, before arriving at the field beside which your spartan yet welcoming lodgings await you. You’ve arrived at a place as beautiful and unspoilt as you remembered it. The silent contentment. With a glass of malt whisky you’ll sit in your camping chair in this field, surrounded by the long grass full of the gentle hum of insects at work. You gaze northward, towards the Black Mountains that fill the border here between England and Wales as the colours intensify and then the shadows begin to lengthen and cover the land in darkness. All around you is nature’s unconditional perfection. You’ve arrived and the adventure awaits.
The Silent Contentment
It’s almost worth getting stuck in the rush hour madness that envelops you at the instant the westbound crossing of the second Severn Bridge comes to an end because it might just make you appreciate what’s to follow even more. As the sign that welcomes you to the Principality in two languages tells you that you’re now on Welsh soil, the traffic that flowed around you so freely before suddenly solidifies into a mass of heaving metallic shapes, crawling as one slowly towards Newport, with Cardiff and Swansea merely distant dreams for the weary commuters who just want to get home in time for tea. You see a sign that says Gwasanaethau and for a moment you wonder whether there’s a short cut, but then you remember that it means a service station is just ahead. You could grab a coffee, but you’ll only be prolonging the torpor. Half an hour later you’ll be back among the mechanised scrum again, very possibly with a protesting bladder. You might have been a few miles further on if you’d just kept going.
But eventually and joyfully that hideous stony brown megalith, the Celtic Manor Resort looms high over you above the right hand side of the motorway and announces that you’re on the cusp of freedom as you approach the eastern extremity of Newport. A freedom that beckons you northward as you negotiate the enormous roundabout that awaits you at the end of the slip road and carries you onto the A449 in the direction on Monmouth. The sense of release is as immediate as was the dismay upon arriving amid the inevitable web of chaos that greeted you as you arrived in Wales a while earlier. As the road rises, the views open to the west and you can't help but feel a sneaking satisfaction at the thought of the cavalcade of vehicles inching painfully in the direction of Cardiff in the valley below. You’ve escaped and the big country is just beyond the horizon. It’s waiting and you’ll be there before long.
A little later you’ll arrive in the pleasing market town of Abergavenny. An unexplained tradition means you’ll stop at the local Aldi just before the town centre for provisions, whether you need them or not. You have some hard walking in the mountains ahead of you. Better stock up on Haribo at least. You can’t do a ten mile ridge walk without a bag of Haribo in your pack – there’s probably a byelaw about that somewhere. There’s a good chippy in Abergavenny too. Better stop there too while you’re at it. There’s still the best part of an hour to go.
Now the mountains have begun to close in and tower over you as you head north towards Brecon. The fast roads are behind you and you’ll need most of Brenda’s six gears as the route winds, climbs and descends through the glorious landscape. You want to stare beyond the windscreen into the raw beauty that surrounds you but you’re driving. There’ll be time to fall in love with the place all over again later.
You’re almost there now. You’ve passed Crickhowell and the unpronounceable Blwch. They’re not overly free with the vowels around here. Before the town of Brecon arrives at your front bumper you leave the road with a left turn, along a series of ever narrowing lanes, up and up into the hills until the very last half mile of bracken flanked public road that’s not quite as wide as your campervan. It’s a good job you didn’t buy a brand new motorhome because you’d be stuck by now, waiting for a friendly farmer to scrape you out backwards with a row tope. You’d probably also be weeping while the value of your shiny new investment plummets as quickly as the remaining road ahead of you rises.
Finally you’re at the farm where the summer swallows swoop and dance their welcomes across the space as you pass through the yard and higher still along the rocky track, before arriving at the field beside which your spartan yet welcoming lodgings await you. You’ve arrived at a place as beautiful and unspoilt as you remembered it. The silent contentment. With a glass of malt whisky you’ll sit in your camping chair in this field, surrounded by the long grass full of the gentle hum of insects at work. You gaze northward, towards the Black Mountains that fill the border here between England and Wales as the colours intensify and then the shadows begin to lengthen and cover the land in darkness. All around you is nature’s unconditional perfection. You’ve arrived and the adventure awaits.