UK Travel - Part 17

Touring the Thames

The Architectural Jewels of London

by Guylaine Spencer

England’s Thames River is one of the most celebrated bodies of water in the world. The section that runs through London and its outskirts has inspired artists for centuries. On my last trip to London, I discovered the reasons for its reputation when I toured the river on two boat trips: one from Westminster Pier in London to Greenwich Pier, the other from the city of Richmond to Hampton Court.

One of the first things you notice on any Thames trip is how many of England’s political, economic and cultural icons are situated on its banks. Chief among them is The Palace of Westminster, the home of the British Parliament, with its famous Clock Tower and Big Ben bells. Although this site has been occupied by England’s rulers since King Canute built his residence here in 1016, most of the sprawling neo-Gothic structure you see today only dates back to about 1840-1870. This is because the bulk of the older palace was destroyed in 1834 by a fire. Westminster Hall is the oldest surviving remnant, dating back to 1097. The hall has seen its share of coronations, royal trials and funerals. It’s still used every year by the Queen for the State Opening of Parliament.

Further east along the river lie the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge. The bridge opened in 1894, but the Tower is much older. Ironically, this foreign-looking Norman fortress built of French stone is considered the most important castle in English history. In 1078, William the Conquerer ordered its construction to protect his new territory from invaders, and to overawe and terrify his new English subjects. William took advantage of the work of earlier conquerors and built his fortress into the side of a Roman wall. For five centuries, in addition to defensive purposes, the Tower served as a royal residence. After that, the building became primarily a prison and place of execution. The wheels of fate have turned again, and today the castle is one of the city’s top tourist attractions. In addition to showing off the Crown Jewels, its current promoters like to play up its lurid past; the Tower has seen its share of murdered innocents — Anne Boleyn, Lady Grey and the Little Princes, to name just a few. Even now, the building gives off a foreboding aura and looks as if, at any moment, blood may start to run down its lily-white walls.

Hampton Court Palace, on the other hand, twelve miles west of the London, impresses visitors with a very different sensation. Is it the red brick walls, the chimney pots, or the sixty acres of gardens that enclose it on three sides that makes it feel so warm and domestic? Perhaps this aura has something to do with the fact that it was originally built as a home for a private citizen, Archbishop Wolsey. Historians tell us that Wolsey’s new home was so grand that it inflamed the jealousy of the king. Word soon spread that Henry had plans to seize the property and throw the cardinal in prison. To escape this fate, Wolsey offered the property to the King as a gift instead.

The Queen’s House, at Greenwich, is another former royal residence. For readers with a taste for the romantic, this one comes with a tragic tale. King James I originally planned it for his wife, Queen Anne. Construction began in 1616 but before it could be completed, Anne died. Work on the building was abandoned for ten years, when another king, Charles I, took it up again and had it finished for his wife. Later, the building served as a naval school and it is now part of the National Maritime Museum. The American White House was based on this serene and classically inspired building.

Given the number of palaces that dot the Thames, it’s easy to picture the parade of royal barges and boats filled with liveried nobility floating down the river from one luxurious home to the next, entertained by musicians playing Handel’s Water Music. But this famous royal highway has always been shared with “tinkers, tailors, soldiers and sailors” as well. You can still see the architectural legacy that England’s commoners left behind, in the wharves, warehouses, mills and factories that line its banks.

The Romans were the first to make London an international port back in the first century A.D. During the sixteenth century the area became a major shipbuilding centre. In the eighteenth century the port was crowded with the world’s ships waiting to dock and unload. Throughout the nineteenth century and right up to the World War II, London’s port was the busiest on the planet. If you want to learn more about the role of the port in England’ s economic history or just hear some stories about the “romance of the sea,” disembark at Greenwich and make your way to the National Maritime Museum. While you’re there, stop in and pay a visit to that old tea clipper, the Cutty Sark, too, which lies just off Greenwich Pier.

While the heroes of England’s imperial and seafaring age were her mariners, the heroes of her industrial revolution were her factory workers. Their home was then Southwark, on the south bank of the Thames. Many of the factories and warehouses that laborers used to haunt have been converted into pricey condominiums, but the structures still retain a pragmatic, workaday look. Dickens, who at the age of twelve was held in debtor’s prison in this district, described the lives of workers in this area in some of his books.

The Thames has been called “a string of pearls,” a fitting description when you consider numerous cultural sites that line its banks. One of the most striking jewels is Somerset House, constructed for King George III and opened in 1776. The current building boasts dramatic entrances on both the Strand and the Embankment sides. The structure was designed to house not only the offices of the navy, the tax office and the royal barges, but the Royal Academy of Art, the Royal Society and the Society of Antiquaries. Today, the grand neo-classical building shelters The Courtauld Institute of Art, Gilbert Collection and the Hermitage Rooms.

Another cultural gem that travelers can spot from a boat ride on the Thames is Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, or rather a faithful reconstruction of the original Globe that once stood a few streets south of this location. The building which opened in 1997 is constructed of oak and water reed thatch and covered in white lime wash. Even if you don’t get a chance to see a play, you can still take a guided tour and visit a permanent exhibit about the history of theatre. Fans of the stage will also be happy to catch a glimpse of the twentieth-century National Theatre and Royal Festival Hall as they glide along the Thames.

London is a city of monuments, and the most famous one of all is simply called The Monument. That spire you see from the river was designed by the city’s most famous architect, Christopher Wren, to commemorate the Great Fire of 1666. After the disaster, Wren almost single-handedly rebuilt London’s churches, including his famous masterpiece: St. Paul’s Cathedral. Its impressive dome looms large on the city’s skyline and is the second biggest in the world.

Most of the beloved treasures along the Thames have stood the test of time. However, there are some recent additions of note. Three in particular that opened around the millennium come to mind.

There’s the Tate Modern Art Gallery, opened in May 2000, which is housed in a converted power plant. Nearby is the Millennium Bridge (opened in June 2000), a pedestrian pathway connecting St. Paul’s Cathedral with the Tate. The narrow structure rests upon tapering metal pier heads that resemble the upturned fins of sea monsters. Perhaps this explains why it’s so shaky and had to close down two days after it opened when it began to sway uncontrollably. After tests lasting two years, the bridge reopened. However, it still feels.well, wobbly!

Finally, there’s that striking new landmark, the London Eye. In what looks like the world’s biggest Ferris wheel (technically, it isn’t one), adventurers can ride the 140 meters to the top for a unique view of the Thames and London at large.

It remains to be seen whether recent additions to this history-drenched landscape will be standing beside their famous fellows a hundred years from now. We can only hope that the older treasures that have lined its banks for so long will remain as well, a century from now, to awe and inspire future visitors to the Thames.

If You Go:

Visit London: www.visitlondon.com
River Thames: www.riverthames.co.uk
Historic royal palaces: www.hrp.org.uk
Greenwich: www.greenwichwhs.org.uk
Somerset House: www.somersethouse.org.uk
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre: www.somersethouse.org.uk

London Tours Now Available:

Literary Pub Crawl and Tavern Tour in London
Haunted London Pub Walking Tour
Private Best of London Tour: Sights and Secrets
Jack the Ripper and Sherlock Holmes Tour of Haunted London
London Literary Walking Tour Of Bloomsbury

About the author:
Guylaine Spencer is a Canadian writer specializing in travel, history and the arts.
Contact: www.freelancesuccess.com/guylaine

Photo credits:
First London photo by Mavis CW on Unsplash
Cutty Sark, Greenwich by © User:Colin / Wikimedia Commons
All other photos are by Guylaine Spencer.

Honoring England’s Protestant Martyrs

Anne Askew and Her “Brothers”

by Kathy Simcox

Over the years I’ve developed a passion for the English Reformation. Although, until two years ago, I never knew England actually had a Reformation of its own. Being Lutheran, I knew all about Martin Luther and his 95 Theses of 1517 and a tiny clue as to who Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary I, and Elizabeth I all were. But I didn’t know the impact of Luther’s ideas on the wider world, England’s world in particular. During a recent trip to England, armed with an appropriate amount of knowledge, I toured from Devon and Cornwall, to London and Kent and came face-to-face with many of the English Reformation sites, including sites dedicated to many of the martyrs, both Catholic and Protestant, executed for their beliefs.

In the town of Salisbury, home of the famous Salisbury Cathedral, three Protestant martyrs were burned in 1156. One of them because he called the Pope an Antichrist. At Oxford University, the Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Cranmer, Bishop Hugh Latirmer and clergyman Nicolas Ridley were all accused of heresy in 155 and burned at the entrance gate of Balliol College. It is said the gate still bears the scorch marks.

The English Reformation can go down in history as one of the bloodiest events in England’s history. Hundreds of Christians lost their lives during this upheaval in the 16th century. Almost 300 Protestants were executed during the five-year reign of “Bloody” Mary I and throughout the English Reformation 350 Catholics suffered the same fate, many under Elizabeth I.

Between 1535 and 1681, over a hundred Catholics were executed at Tyburn Convent, located at the northeastern corner of Hyde Park in London. This was the site of The King’s Gallows for six centuries. Those accused of treason were hung, drawn and quartered here. John Houghton, a Carthusian Prior, was the first Catholic to be hanged at Tyburn. He was sent to the rope in 1535 because he refused to acknowledge the supremacy of Henry VIII over the Church of England. Another martyr, a Catholic priest named Ralph Sherwin, was accused of conspiring to murder Queen Elizabeth I and sentenced to hang in 1581.

In the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral, situated at the intersection of Little Britain and West Smithfield is Smithfield, a livestock market dating back 800 years, one of the oldest markets in London. The area was once known as the execution site for 50 Protestants who met their end by fire. I visited Smithfield the first Sunday of my London journey. It was eerily quiet that morning, barely a person about, so I was able to absorb the historical immensity of the place, a truly emotional experience.

Across the street from Smithfield Market, embedded in the wall of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, is a plaque dedicated to these martyrs. Three are named: John Rogers, who became a Protestant after meeting the author of the first English translation of the New Testament, William Tyndale, in Antwerp; John Philpot, Archdeacon of Winchester; and John Bradford, prebend of St. Paul’s church. These men met their fate in the mid 1500’s while Bloody Mary occupied the throne.

All of these martyrs, both Catholic and Protestant, deserve to have their stories told. But one young woman in particular has mysteriously captured my heart has mysteriously captured my heart: Anne Askew. For her tragic tale, we must first go back to the events that triggered the English Reformation.

Henry VIII (1509 – 1547) was a Catholic and remained so throughout his life. He loved the ceremonies, the structure and the traditions of the Catholic Church, and considered Martin Luther a heretic. For this he was called Fidei Defensor, or “Defender of the Faith” in England. However, as much as Henry hated Luther, he hated the Pope even more. This was the result of his desire to annul his marriage to Catherine of Aragon and the church’s harsh reaction toward it. As king, one of his responsibilities to his people was to secure the throne with a male heir. His marriage to Catherine had produced the future Queen Mary. This was a problem as women heirs to the throne were highly frowned upon. Out of frustration he sought the help of his cardinal and favorite, Thomas Wolsey. Wolsey was sent on a mission to Rome to appeal for Henry’s divorce. The Pope wouldn’t hear of it and so just as quickly as the “Great Cardinal” came into favor with Henry, he fell right back out again. Another, Thomas Cromwell, replaced him.

Cromwell had Protestant sympathies. Thanks to the advent of the printing press, Luther’s ideas were being spread throughout the western world. Parliament was already pushing for church reform and reform ideas were being talked about in many educational centers like Oxford. Between the years 1529 and 1536, Henry held seven parliaments, during which Henry was declared the Supreme Head of Church and State in England, granting him freedom to do whatever he pleased with his marriage to Catherine giving him freedom to marry Anne Boleyn, in hopes of producing a male heir. “The King’s Great Matter”, as Henry’s divorce issues were known, and all of the changes brought about by it, prepared England for her long and bloody journey toward Protestantism.

All of these activities wouldn’t go unnoticed by a 25-year-old poet and preacher from Lincolnshire. Anne Askew was born of a noble family in 1521 and forced into and unhappy marriage at the tender age of 15. Anne not only rebelled against her husband by refusing his surname, she rebelled against his Catholic beliefs as well. Her strong Protestant convictions caused her husband to throw her out of the home. She left him and their two children and traveled to London to preach against the doctrine of transubstantiation (the literal presence of Christ’s body and blood at the Eucharist) and to distribute Protestant literature. She had connections with ladies at Queen Catherine Parr’s Protestant court, but even threatened with torture she wouldn’t reveal any names as to do so would mean their downfall, including the queen’s herself.

These acts landed Anne in the Tower of London, charged with heresy. She was tortured on the Rack so badly that when it came time for her execution at Smithfield in 1546, she had to be carried to the scaffold on a chair since she was unable to walk. She could still write, however, and wrote many letters from prison, including a hymn that resonates with a maturity and depth of faith well beyond her 25 years. The first stanza reads:

“Like an armed knight appointed to the field, with this world I will fight and Faith shall be my shield.”

She also wrote a first-person account of her ordeal, published in John Bale’s Examinations and later in John Foxe’s Acts and Monuments of these Latter and Perilous Days, touching Matters of the Church (Foxe’s Book of Martyrs) in 1563.

I had read only a few things about Anne Askew and though I knew who she was and the reason she died, I didn’t really consider anything more about her other than her trial and execution at Smithfield. In fact, she was the main reason I penciled Smithfield into my itinerary in the first place. So imagine my surprise when, as I explored the inside the Bloody Tower at the Tower of London, I walked right into her cell. I had just visited the room where the Rack and other replicas of torture instruments were being displayed. As I climbed up the steps I noticed a tiny, yet intriguing room and ventured inside and glanced around. The room was about five feet by five feet and barely ten feet high with one arched window embedded in the wall. As I turned back toward the doorway, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat: a large plaque attached to the cold stone explaining the life and death of Anne Askew. I stood in her cell riveted to the spot for several minutes, overcome with emotion, trying to feel her presence. I tried to imagine how she would have felt knowing she was about to die for her beliefs and wondered how someone so young could have such strength of conviction.

I’ve always thought that a divine spirit guides us to places unknown when we least expect it to. I truly had no clue what I had stumbled upon that day but looking back on it now, there’s no doubt in my mind what led me to Anne’s special place in Tower history.

I walked back outside in a daze, not quite understanding what had happened or how everything I had experienced came to be. It wasn’t until later that I realized that that ever-present divine hand was guiding me to that room, and that I was guided there in order to tell Anne’s story to others.

Why was I so taken by her story? Perhaps it’s because I share her Protestant faith. Or perhaps my own cowardice reveres someone so young who was willing to sacrifice so much for her beliefs. Would I be so brave?

The stories of all the English martyrs are stories worth being told, for as the years dwindle, so too does history’s memory. The events that shaped the lives of the 16th century martyrs also shaped the world we live in today, and they are events, and lives, too important to forget.

Tower of London Tours Now Available:

Private Guided Tour: Tower of London
Tower of London Entrance Ticket Including Crown Jewels and Beefeater Tour
Royal London Walking Tour Including Early Access to the Tower of London and Changing of The Guard
London Super Saver: London City Sightseeing Including Tower of London plus Jack the Ripper and Ghost Walking Tour

Further Information:

For more about Anne Askew:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Askew

The Tower of London:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tower_of_London

Smithfield Market:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smithfield_London

About the author:
Kathy Simcox lives in Columbus, Ohio. Ms. Simcox is an office manager at the College of the Arts at Ohio State University. She has a BA in psychology from Ohio University and has recently graduated from Ohio State with a 2nd B.A. in Religious Studies. She is active in her church, singing in the music program. She enjoys traveling, writing, kayaking, hiking, biking, cross country skiing, swimming, Irish music, British comedies, and Guinness. She is also known to pick up an occasional book, preferably historical fiction. Some of her pictures can be viewed at: community.webshots.com/user/kayakgirl41 Contact: itravellen@shaw.ca

Image credits:
All photos by Kathy Simcox
Tower of London engraving: Nathaniel Buck, Samuel Buck / Public domain
Woodcut of Preparations to burn the body of William Tyndale: John Foxe / Public domain
Martyrdom of Anne Askew illustration: Unknown author / Public domain

Enigmatic Stones of Stonehenge and Avebury

Wiltshire, England

by Keith Kellett

Stonehenge

Since I live nearby, and have a pass which allows me free entry, I can get to Stonehenge any time. But, when I first arrived in the area, I made a very special visit. I went to the Stones to be lectured about them by none other than John Aubrey, the English antiquarian … or rather a re-enactor playing his part.

I’ve found out since that Aubrey has put around more misinformation about the Stones than probably anybody else has. Notably, he connected them inextricably with the Druids, which the experts doubt, although there are plenty of modern Druids at the Solstice celebrations, held on the longest and shortest days of the year. One story has it that King Charles II sent him to Wiltshire to investigate them not because of any expertise he may have had, but simply to get the drinking, gambling womanizer out of town for a while.

The triliths, horizontal stones, balanced on two upright ones, are unique to Stonehenge. Some of the stones in the older circle, called ‘bluestones’, were brought from as far away as Wales. Other, later circles were built from the rough sandstone called sarsen, the nearest deposit of which is about thirty miles away, on Lockeridge Down. To transport the huge stones that distance must have required an organized society, with an influential leadership. Or, as some people still believe, a hand from Merlin the Magician or some passing extra-terrestrials.

Stonehenge stands near a busy road junction. There’s a rather brutal visitor centre and car park and an ugly security fence surrounds the whole site. Hardly what a World Heritage site deserves. Another factor is that the nearby A303 road from London to Exeter becomes, for the first time since leaving the motorway, a single carriageway, leading to intolerable congestion at busy times.

A lot of people express disappointment, maybe expecting the site to be on a remote hilltop somewhere. But, some people say there is still a sort of mystery about the place, even though the actual stones themselves are fenced off. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that we only know approximately when it was built; how and by whom are informed theories, and why is anyone’s guess. It’s often said the known facts about Stonehenge can be typed on a single sheet of paper, and anything else is myth, theory and conjecture!

Although Stonehenge is more famous, there’s another, much bigger circle, or rather, complex of circles, thirty miles north, at Avebury, built about 500 years before Stonehenge. Work started here around 2900 BCE, while Stonehenge was not started till about 2400 BCE. But, some work was always going on, lasting, in both cases, more than a thousand years.

When John Aubrey came upon the circle at Avebury, he declared it far superior to Stonehenge, and said it was like ‘comparing a cathedral to a parish church’. While Aubrey did do some valuable work, he had an unfortunate habit of presenting his sometimes unsubstantiated theories about the stones as facts; a habit which confused people for generations. Modern scientists, though, make it clear that their theories are just that. ‘I think ‘may’, ‘possibly’ and ‘probably’ are the words we use most often of all’ I was once told.

Avebury

Much larger than Stonehenge, Avebury does not have any triliths or Welsh bluestones. Rather, it’s built entirely of sarsens. There’s a thriving village within the outer circle. The Salisbury to Swindon bus runs right through it, and is a convenient and cheap way of getting to it from either town.

Like Stonehenge, there’s an avenue; that is, two lines of standing stones marking the edges of the approach to the circle. The one at Stonehenge consists of just two shallow furrows, which an untrained person would not recognize unless it was pointed out. In the 1920s, marmalade magnate and keen amateur archaeologist Alexander Keiller found the circles in a ruinous state. He located all of the missing stones he could find, transported them back to Avebury, and re-located them in their original positions. And, if a stone could not be found, a concrete obelisk was erected where it should have stood.

One thing that could not be taken away, though, was the massive henge surrounding the complex. It is always a source of wonder that this was dug out using only primitive tools. A modern civil engineer estimated that such an undertaking would take one man three years today, using a mechanical digger.

Nowadays, the ditch is covered in grass, but the original idea was just to have a circle of bare earth. In most of Wiltshire, this is a brilliant white chalk soil. It must have been a dramatic sight!

So enthusiastic was Keiller that he actually bought the land on which Avebury stood, as well as Avebury Manor, part of which is now the Alexander Keiller Museum. Many artifacts he found on his digs are displayed here: arrowheads, coins, pottery and skeletons of animals, and even humans! Also on display are objects from almost all points on the time-line, for the village was here from the earliest times, and many people would have grazed their sheep and cattle in the fields containing the stones. They would, no doubt, have inadvertently dropped coins, knives and the like.

If you visit the sites, you will be immediately aware of a modern major difference between Avebury and Stonehenge. At Avebury, admission is free of charge, although you do have to pay to use the car park or enter the museum. But, you can wander around the stones as you will, even experiment with dowsing rods and the like, to see if there is any ‘power’ emanating from them. At Stonehenge, unless you make a special arrangement, you must admire them from a distance.

More Information:

John Aubrey (March 12, 1626–June 7, 1697) was an English antiquary and writer, best known as the author of the collection of short biographical pieces usually referred to as ‘Brief Lives’ and as the discoverer of the Aubrey holes in Stonehenge.”How these curiosities would be quite forgott, did not such idle fellowes as I am putt them down...”
– More about Alexander Keiller in Wikipedia
– Megalithic Portal: The Alexander Keiller Museum
– English Heritage: Stonehenge
– English Heritage: Avebury
– Details about public transport to these sites can be found at: http://www.wdbus.co.uk
– This is Wiltshire: Avebury
– About Britain: Things to do in Wiltshire

Stonehenge and Avebury Tours Now Available:

Stonehenge and Avebury Day Tour from London
Salisbury, Stonehenge, and Avebury in One Day from Salisbury
Stonehenge, Avebury, and West Kennet Long Barrow in One Day from Salisbury
Stonehenge, Salisbury Cathedral and Bath Including Pub Lunch
Stonehenge Special Access Evening Tour from London

About the author:
Having written as a hobby for many years while serving in the Royal Air Force, Keith Kellett saw no reason to discontinue his hobby when he retired. With time on his hands, he produced more work, and found, to his surprise, it ‘grew and grew’ and was good enough to finance his other hobbies; traveling, photography and computers. He is trying hard to prevent it from becoming a full-time job! He has published in many UK and overseas print magazines, and on the Web. He is presently trying to get his head around blogging, podcasting and video.
Contact: keith-kellett@tinyworld.co.uk

Photo credits:
First Avebury stone circle photo by Martin Krotil from Pixabay
All other photos are by Keith Kellett.

Wales: Climbing Mount Snowdon

Llanberis, Snowdonia

by W. Ruth Kozak

The view from the summit of Mount Snowdon, when the cold wet mist evaporates from the barren slopes, is a vista of yellow-brown hills and intensely green meadows. Far below the precipitously steep cliffs, a river flows through a valley where the stone houses of Llanberis village nestle beside twin lakes. This rugged region of North Wales served as a training ground for Sir Edmund Hillary’s mountaineering team before their ascent of Mount Everest in 1953. British climbers still train here for the Himalayas.

As the sun moves out of the clouds, the rocky summit is silhouetted against a clear blue sky, and the breath-taking panorama of green slopes, deep chasms and towering rock faces become visible. It is easy to see why the Welsh call this area of North Wales known as Snowdonia, Eryri, the land of the Eagle.

Being of Welsh heritage, to climb Snowdon had been my life-long dream, however when I arrived at the town of Llanberis (pronounce the double “Ll” as a guttural slur), my enthusiasm was dampened by the weather. A fine Welsh rain was falling. Ruddy-faced Welshmen wearing Wellingtons and tweed caps hurried into the shelter of the nearest pub. A thick shroud of ominous clouds hid Snowdon’s peak. I wondered if my journey had been in vain. These mountains can be treacherous for hikers and it isn’t advisable to venture up into the hills in inclement weather where the mist and rain can close in with an alarming speed.

The village of Llanberis is nestled among some of the highest mountains in Wales. The loftiest peak, Snowdon (1,085 metres) is the highest mountain all of England and Wales. These mountains were the stronghold of the fiery Welsh patriot Owen Glendower, who waged war against the English for ten years, from 1400 until he vanished without a trace. His legend lived on for centuries and took on the attributes of the ancient gods of Snowdonia.

The legends of Snowdon are of giants and demons who battled in the clouds hurling red-hot stones into the valleys. Snowdon, in Welsh Wyddfa means “burial place” and was said to be the home of the legendary giant Rhitta Gawr who was renowned for his coat made of the beards of his vanquished enemies. He is said to be buried at the foot of the mountain.

My journey to Snowdonia began with a nine hour coach trip from London to the town of Caernarfon, situated on the west coat of Wales by the southern end of the Menei Strait.

The dark towers of Caernarfon castle loom over the town. On these stone ramparts sentries once scanned the horizon for the rebel armies of Llywellyn ap Gruffydd. King Edward I built this massive fortress, along with eight others, between 1277 and 1295, in order to conduct his military campaign against the Welsh. Caernarfon, the largest and strongest of them all, with massive walls and twelve towers, is where the English Prince of Wales is invested with his title. Prince Charles was invested here in 1969.

The Welsh, who call their country Cymru, are fiercely nationalistic in North Wales, and Welsh is the spoken language. Here the fabled figures of Welsh myth and history lived: Merlin, the magician of King Arthur’s court; the rebel leader Owen Glendower; the martyred Prince Llewelyn the Last, and Owen Tudor whose grandson Henry defeated Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field. He became King Henry VII, the first Welsh king of England.

North Wales is majestic, a land of mountains and streams, massive medieval castles and stately country homes now converted to museum and hotels. It was the home of the poet Dafydd Ddu Eryi and the novelist T. Rowland Hughes, whose home “Angarfa” is now a museum in his memory.

The road to Llanberis, a short bus ride from Caernarfon, winds past meadows and stony slopes where sheep graze on the sparse grass and patches of lavender. It is like a scene from a fairy tale. The area is steeped in legend. Tales are told of the fairy folk, Tylwyth Teg, magical creatures who can put unsuspecting mortals under their spell.

At the outskirts of Llanberis, across the emerald fields, the single gray stone tower of Dolbardarn castle rises above a grove of oak trees. This old, ruined castle, situated between the twin lakes of Llyn Padarn and Llyn Peris in the Llanberis Pass, is one of Wales’ oldest castles, believed to have been built and occupied from about 233 B.C. It was once used as a prison for Owain Goch, who languished there for 23 years, locked up by his rebel brother Llewelyn the Great. Dolbardan was the last Welsh stronghold to be surrendered to Edward I after the death of Llewelyn in 1282.

Located at the foot of Snowdon, on the shores of the twin lakes, Llanberis is a traditional centre for climbers and walkers. Of the six routes to the summit of Snowdon, the path from Llanberis is regarded as the easiest, the longest (8 km) and the most popular. There is plenty of reasonably priced accommodation in the town of Llanberis, and many things to see in the immediate vicinity. Attractions include the Museum of the North, the Welsh National State Museum, craft workshops and the narrow-gauge Llanberis Lake Railway.

The local folk heroine was Marged Uch Ifan, known as “Queen of the Lakes”. She could make and play harps and outshone the local men at most tasks such as rowing, wrestling, hunting and fishing for torgoch, a fish unique to these lakes. A boat said to be hers, was found in the bottom of Llyn Padarn, and is in the Llanberis museum.

The Gilfach Ddu slate workshops, built in 1870, have a display of original equipment and puts on a demonstration of the art of slate-splitting. Once an ancient bard prophesied that the stones of Mt. Snowdon would be turned to bread. Years later, Snowdon became a major slate industry, ensuring employment for thousands of men and women in the area. Slate is used everywhere, from the roofs of the stone-built houses to the pavement on the narrow street.

The morning after my arrival, I set off with the intention of climbing at least part way up the mountain. It was early June, fine weather for walking, but Snowdon’s conical peak was still shrouded with a thick, furry cap of gray cloud. I was well prepared for the trek: comfortable walking shoes, a layer of warm clothing, a rucksack packed with waterproofs, first-aid kit, whistle and local map. Still, the weather looked unpredictable, and after careful thought, I opted to ride up on the little single-track locomotive run by the Snowdon Mountain Railway. The train goes right up to the summit, a long slow haul of 55 minutes.

The coal-fired steam engine pushes the coach in front, up the mountain. The views from the window are spectacular. The track meanders up the steep slopes, winding along the crests of the hills, past crumbling ruins of farm houses and stone walls. The rock-strewn fields are almost colourless, the grass bleached pale green. Tiny alpine lilies and heather cling tenaciously among the boulders. Grazing sheep have stripped the mountain slopes to the bone. Although Wales has only two million people, it has six million sheep.

By the time we reach the summit, the mist has evaporated and Snowdonia’s lofty mountain ranges unfold in a view of breathtaking beauty. The entire region is criss-crossed by dozens of well-trodden footpaths leading down into the lush valleys.

Sunshine lit up the entire countryside from Snowdon’s barren slopes to the distant verdant fields of the Druid’s isle, Anglesey, in the gray Irish Sea. I breathed in the fresh, cool mountain air, overwhelmed by he sensation of being atop this enchanted mountain. I felt as though I truly was under the spell of the magical Tylwyth Teg.

I walked down the mountain, an easy three hour descent along the Llanberis Pass trail. The path winds along the same twisting route as the rail line. The pace is gentle. Tourists and locals, seniors and children share the path, some with canine companions.

I looked back. Snowdon’s peak was again hidden by a swirl of white mist. But far below, where the tranquil village of Llanberis lies sheltered between the mountains, the twin lakes of Llyn Padar and Llyn Peris shimmer like pewter in the bright afternoon sun.

More Information:

Welcome to Llanberis: Guide to the Very Best of Llanberis
Llanberis Development Group website
Information about Dolbardarn Castle
Information for Caernarfon

TRAVEL ADVISORY: Those unaccustomed to hill walking should use caution and common sense. Wear sturdy shoes or boots, warm clothing, and take food, a first aid kit, a flashlight and a whistle. Good maps such as ordnance surveys and a compass are also essential if you are going on he less frequented trails. These maps are available anywhere in Snowdonia. Paths are well marked, but often the signs don’t indicate exactly where they lead or give the distance you must travel. If you want to make an overnight trek, you will most certainly be granted permission to leave some of your luggage at your guest house, especially if you reserve a room there for your last night’s stay. It is wise to let someone know the details of your route and allow yourself plenty of time to return before dark. The weather in Snowdonia is notorious for its changeability. Don’t hesitate to turn back if the weather gets worse or the route is too difficult for you. Organized treks are available in the area and usually include accommodations and some meals, guide service and local transportation.

THE SNOWDON MOUNTAIN RAILWAY: The trains run from mid March to November 1, weather permitting, with a minimum of 25 passengers. Journey to summit: 1 hour.

GETTING THERE: Buses from Caernarfon to Llnaberis run frequently throughout the day from the main square opposite the castle in Caernarfon.
There is also a train from Bangor. Trains and buses run from London.
Accommodations in guest houses are available in Caernarfon and Llanberis.

About the author:
W. Ruth Kozak owes her Welsh heritage to her father who was born and raised in Caerphilly, South Wales and worked as a miner until immigrating to Canada in 1931. She has visited Wales many times, and climbing Snowdon was a dream-come-true experience. Her website is www.RuthKozak.com

Photo credits:
All photos are by W. Ruth Kozak.

Slieve League Peninsula: Glencolmcille, Donegal, Northern Ireland

Hiking on the Edge of the World

by Paris Patheiger

As I stand high above the ocean I envision my fate if I were to stumble on a rock, slip on the narrow muddy path or get blown over the edge of the highest sea cliffs in Europe. The wind is fierce and unrelenting but after such a long chilly hike turning back is not an option. I take a deep breath and my first steps towards crossing One Man’s Pass.

The night before, I had arrived in the rugged and remote County Donegal in the north west corner of Ireland, after a long detoured route from Belfast. Typical, I had thought, my first day in Ireland would be a miserable, grey, soggy one. Then I caught my first glimpse of Glencolmcille’s serene beauty from the foggy bus window. The village was nestled in a valley with rolling green hills sprinkled by humble white stone houses. The picturesque quaintness of this seaside hamlet had an immediate calming effect on me, a stark contrast to the dreary and depressing industrial town I had just left. The rain here brought out the vibrancy of colours of the countryside.

I got off the bus on the far end of the single paved street village of Cashel, one of the three Irish speaking villages that make up the parish of Glencolmcille (glen-kaul-um-KEEL). Named after one of Ireland’s three patron saints who once resided here, Glencolmcille translates from Gaelic to the Valley of Saint Columba. The town is too small to even require a traffic light and it’s only amenities are small grocery store, a post office, a stippled church on the hill and three pubs to serve the population of roughly 725.

I followed the main street until it branched to the left, eventually leading me to the Dooey Hostel. When I arrived I was warmly received by Leo O’Donell and his wife, affectionately known as ‘Crazy Mary’. The elderly couple were quick to usher me inside their home which is literally built into the rugged hillside overlooking the bay. Upon entering the cottage I noticed the indoor garden along the foyer’s stone wall, ripe with vegetation which gave the sense that I just entered a twentieth century version of Bagg End of Tolkien lore. After getting out of my wet clothes I shared tea and biscuits with the other travellers as Mary and Leo suggested visiting the Folk Museum, thatched roof cottages complete with period interiors, and some of the many craved standing stones in the area.

I noticed the old photographs on the wall “Are these the cliffs I’ve heard about?” I asked. “They look incredible.”

“Aye, that’s the Slieve League. They’re not far from here, ye can see all the way down to Croagh Patrick on a clear day. There’s a good hike if yer for lookin’ one?” Leo responded.

I was definitely looking for a hike. I had read about the Slieve League Peninsula and it was these legendary cliffs that had initially drawn me to County Donegal. Leo and Mary were happy to tell me all I needed to know in order to do the hike, and checked the weather conditions for me. I decided to go first thing the next morning.

The night was still young and I was offered my first introduction to genuine Irish culture in the form of local community theatre at the church. It seemed as though the entire town had turned out for the traditional folk play. The modest church with children’s paintings and artwork plastered on the walls, was brimming to capacity. The hall was alive with the clamour of neighbours greeting each other and exchanging stories. I strained to eavesdrop on their conversation but found it nearly impossible to understand their thick accents, English intermingled with Gaelic. I was giddy with the privilege of attending an authentic community event. This was rural Ireland at it’s best. Before the play began everyone rose for the Soldier’s Song or Amhrán na bhFiann, the Irish national anthem, sung in unison by the crowd in Gaelic. The play was a tragic one with comedic elements as is any good Irish tale, accompanied by the occasional song and instruments. After the show we joined the town at one of the local pubs for a couple of hearty pints of Guiness, some live Celtic “trad” and wished each other Sláinte, good health.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of the waves softly rolling onto the sandy white beach of Glen Bay. I looked out the steamy window to see an unimpeded view of the bay. I brimmed with anticipation of the day’s hike. The morning was bright, warmed by the sun burning the dew off the luscious green countryside.

After a quick breakfast I caught a ride to the Slieve League Peninsula, passing peat bogs and farmland. At the coast, the elevation rises and the seaside falls away from the road snaking along the cliff edge. I held my breath as we rounded each corner, dangerously close to the ledge and climbing higher. The road itself was like nothing I had ever seen with hairpin turns and treacherous drops to the sea.

I was let off at the small parking lot next to the cliffs and where the trail begins. This point is called Awark-Mor which translates to “The Fine View” and a fine view it is, perhaps the best vantage point of the cliffs themselves from land. The trail head is located at the far left corner of an ever rising semi-circle of bluffs, sometimes known as the lair of whirlwinds. The craggy landscape is painted with mixture of warm earthy tones: white quartz with a reddish hue, draped in moist green moss.

I peer over the ledge, an incomprehensible dizzying height of nearly 2000 feet. The violence of the waves that beat against the stone walls is lost to the beauty of it all. Not until I catch sight of the tiny white seagulls in the distance below can I begin to understand the magnitude or size of the rock face. The gulls dance, swoop and rise again upon the gusts, playing a seemingly dangerous game of life and death against the wind and rock.

I start up the trail that runs parallel to the cliff edge and climb upwards until I reach a plateau, stopping to catch my breath and take it all in. I close my eyes and listen to the roar of the wind whistling in my ears. The sound is deafening, but a feeling of serenity floods over me. I have never experienced the power of nature so intensely. A massive dark cloud rolls off the Atlantic, menacing and brilliant. I can taste it’s moist breath at my lips as it envelopes me and I reach out, feeling as though I can almost grasp hold of it’s translucent entity. The wind’s strength is so strong against my body I think how in a split second and change of temperament, it could go from literally holding me up to throwing me down.

I continue on my way up until I finally reach the final hurdle before the summit, One Man’s Pass. I had read about this section of the hike and had been ensured it was safe, but I wasn’t sure if I had the nerve to make the crossing alone. This thirty meter length of trail sits atop a narrow ridge, roughly two feet wide. The steep angled slopes fall away on either side of the path, with a thousand foot tumble to a certain rocky deathbed on the right and to the left, two thousand feet to the crashing ocean below. I wonder if it is a wise decision to go on. What if I fell? No one would ever know. It had been some time since I last saw any other hikers. I debate for a short time whether I should turn back but I know that it’s not really an option. I didn’t come this far to turn back now. The wind is still fierce but I’ve already stalled long enough. It’s now or never. I take a deep breath and take my first cautious steps towards crossing the daunting pass.

The path narrows and is soggy with mud. I raise my arms in front of me for balance and hunch over, lowering my centre of gravity. I choose to break the path up into shorter legs where I can stop at the slightly wider points or brace myself against a boulder for a moment. I focus on the path and each step that I take. A sudden gust of wind causes me to quickly brace myself and I kneel until it passes. I try to ignore the fact that I am walking such a slender precipice and imagine that I am actually on solid ground. My confidence grows. Half way through I stop to observe my surroundings. I feel like I’m am at the edge of the world and remember this coast was once considered just that. I walk the remainder of the pass with a renewed sense of confidence and vitality and reach the other side exhilarated by the challenge. Looking back upon the perilous route and beyond, I know that the photos I had taken will never do justice to this dramatic, mystical place. I am filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment, a renewed sense of life.

As I continued back down from the cliffs, I stop to enjoy the scenery of the rugged misty coastline. I stand against the wind, then take off running down the hillside startling the flocks of roaming sheep along the way. I follow the coastline to Malinbeg and then the road back to Cashel, another hour and a half walk. The road signs are all in Gaelic but I have no trouble finding my way because as they say, “All roads lead to Glencomlcille.”

Safely back at the hostel, that night I drifted into a deep, restful sleep content with the knowledge I had made the right decision to come to this remote, unspoiled part of Ireland and that I’d had the strength to face the mountain pass alone.

SLIEVE LEAGUE DONEGAL

More Information:

Walking Donegal: Hillwalking on the Glencolmcille Peninsula in Southwest Donegal

DoChara: Insider Guide to Ireland

LOOKING FOR AN EDUCATIONAL HOLIDAY?
Glencolmcille is home to Oideas Gael, An Irish Language School that offers weekend and week long language programs, as well as, Cultural Activity Holidays such as hill walking, flute & whistle playing, Irish harp, marine painting, archaeology and dancing. They also offer group courses.
Oideas Gael: Adult Irish Language and Cultural Courses

Donegal Tours Now Available:

West Donegal and Highlands tour
3-Day Private Tour to Gweedore, County Donegal on the Wild Atlantic Way

About the author:
Paris Patheiger graduated from Simon Fraser University with a degree in Criminology and the intention to pursue a career in policing. However, everything changed when she decided to let her creative side loose. She has given up her past pursuits and now plans on returning to school to further her study in writing and photography.

Photo credits:
All photos are by Paris Patheiger.