UK Travel - Part 20

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.

Kirkstall Abbey, Leeds, England

Following a Monk’s Life

by Marc Latham

I am sitting in the tranquil green grounds of Kirkstall Abbey, with the medieval building to one side and swans gliding somewhere between the River Aire, the lowering sun to the other. It isn’t difficult to imagine why the Cistercian monks chose to build their new community here in the twelfth century.

The abbey was one of eight built by the Cistercians in Yorkshire after the monks expanded northwards from France. They had previously broken away from the Benedictine order because they did not consider them pious enough.

Aire Valley was a very different place at that time. The abbey community was situated in a wooded hamlet separate from any other civilisation. The forest provided wood for construction, while stone from a local quarry and water from the River Aire provided the other vital materials needed to build the church, cloister and community buildings. This was completed before the first abbot, Alexander, died in 1182.

Over the centuries the city of Leeds has expanded to the north-eastern edge of the abbey grounds, and the busy Abbey Road now passes to the north of the church. The main thoroughfare to Leeds actually passed through the nave after the monks were removed during the dissolution of the monasteries ordered by Henry VIII in the sixteenth century. However, the abbey and its beautiful grounds drew the attention of Romantic artists such as John Turner in the 1800s, and it was restored by the council during the next century. The road was outside the grounds when it opened to the public in 1895. The museum and car park are across the road from the abbey, on the site of the abbey complex’s original inner gate.

I approached on foot from Leeds, via Bridge Road on the eastern side of the Abbey. Entering the grounds just above a war memorial, there is a scenic walk that takes you along a mill race, or as it is known locally, a goit: a stream that is thought to have been diverted from the Aire by the monks to power their corn mill.

Along the walk I passed a wildflower meadow that features plants as colourful as their names, such as Birdsfoot Trefoil and Hay Rattle. Red Admiral and Painted Lady butterflies flutter between the flowers, and birds like the Grey Wagtail, which is noticeably yellow, also brighten the path. After dusk, Pipistrelle and Daubenton bats take over the sky.

After crossing the goit via a wooden bridge the abbey comes into view, with the tower’s size making the first impression, followed by the haunting historic splendour of the whole abbey, and the idyllic setting. Austerity meant the monks’ church did not have such a majestic tower, and theirs is thought to have been only a little higher than the nave roof; the present tower was added in the sixteenth century.

Tall trees line the approach. The tarmac path meanders up and down, left and right, before reaching the abbey. To my left, mute swans and goosander ducks above and below the weir on the River Aire seem to be enjoying the sun as much as the people feeding them.

After passing along the southern side of the abbey I turn to my right, past the visitor centre on my way to the nave. There are free guided tours from the visitor centre each Thursday, as well as information, refreshments and amenities both there and in the museum.

Entering the nave, where the monks used to pray, made me wonder what it must have been like for them, waking for the first service at 2am, and then diligently going about their studies through the dark morning. They did this right through the winter too, with each monk only allowed ten minutes a day in the warming room.

As I walked the 200 feet length of the nave past eight columned arches to the tower and presbytery, the shade provided by the high roofless walls seemed to noticeably lower the temperature. As if the sun was trying to enter and warm the room, rays of light filtered through a spider’s web on one of the gates to the cloister, illuminating the intricate weaving that had created it. Overhead, pigeons flew from nave to presbytery, and between transepts either side of the tower; the four points that give the church its cruciform shape.

Exiting the nave via the south transept I enter the cloister which features a stone walkway framing a verdant lawn. There was an orchard there in its heyday, and the inhabitants would work or relax on the grass. The monks also ritually bathed their feet each Saturday for Maundy in the cloister, and used the wall basins for general washing. It was nice to be bathed in warm sunshine again after only being out of it for half an hour, so I imagine the monks must have looked forward to spending time there in the spring and summer.

I stroll around with the lawn to my right, passing the chapter-house and parlour on my left, with the monks’ dormitory above them. Confessions took place in the chapter-house each Sunday, and there were also daily readings from the rule of St. Benedict there. The parlour was the only place that the monks were allowed to speak. The abbot’s lodgings and infirmary were behind the parlour and chapter-house, but due to safety precautions they are only accessible on guided tours at the moment.

Continuing to circle the cloister, I pass the warming house, before the refectory, the malt house and lay-brothers’ dormitory. The abbey was divided between the educated Latin-speaking monks and the lay-brothers, who did the labouring and domestic chores; it was apparently quite a rigid segregation, with even space on the cloister lawn divided very much in the monks’ favour.

After exiting via the nave, a short walk took me to the location of the guest house, although only the foundations remain. It is thought there was also a forge, stable, bakery and infirmary on the site.

Further west on the abbey road, there are panoramic views across picturesque green fields between Horsforth and Rawdon; and just past the airport there is the Chevin Forest Park, where the 925 feet high ridge was part of a Roman road linking the towns of Otley, Ilkley and Tadcaster.

On this occasion I returned to a wooden riverside seat to the south of the abbey, and as the inhabitants of the abbey did 800 years before, I watched the sun set over the Aire.

If You Go:

Entrance to the Abbey and Museum:
Entrance to the abbey is free, and there are free guided tours on Thursdays. Please ring 01132305492 to book.The Abbey Museum is open at the following times: Monday closed all day, Tuesday to Friday 10am – 5pm, Saturday 12noon – 5pm, Sunday 10am – 5pm. Admission charges apply: Adults £3, Concessions £2 (senior citizens and students), Children £1 (16 and under), Family ticket £5 (2 adults and up to 3 children).

Travel to Leeds and Kirkstall Abbey:Leeds-Bradford international airport has regular flights to many airports in the UK and Europe, and has just started providing long-haul flights.
Information at: www.lbia.co.uk
Being at the centre of the UK, and the transport system, means Leeds has regular buses and trains to the north and south.
For details of buses visit: www.nationalexpress.com
For details of trains visit: nationalrail.co.uk
The 757 bus links the airport with the centre of Leeds, and travels past Kirkstall Abbey. The 33 bus service also runs from the centre of Leeds to the abbey. Both buses have very scenic routes. A one-way bus ticket from Leeds centre to the abbey will cost between £1.50 and £2. Day-rider tickets for all day travel in the Leeds area are available for £2.70.
For the times of buses see: www.firstgroup.com

Accommodation:
Leeds offers a multitude of accommodation possibilities, from cheap and cheerful ‘bed and breakfasts’ to expensive five star hotels.
For more information visit: www.yorkshire.com

Further information on Kirkstall and the abbey at:
www.leeds.gov.uk
cistercians.shef.ac.uk
www.vrleeds.co.uk
www.kirkstall.org.uk

Tours from Leeds Now Available:

Private Group Yorkshire Dales Day Trip from Leeds
Private Group North York Moors and Whitby Day Trip from Leeds
Private Group Haworth, Bolton Abbey and Yorkshire Dales Day Trip from Leeds

About the author:
Marc Latham travelled to all the populated continents between 1987-1994. From 1995-2005 he studied for a BA in History and an MA and PhD in Communications Studies. He is now trying to build a career as a freelance writer from the www.greenygrey.co.uk website.
Contact: marc@greenygrey.co.uk

Photographs:
All photos by Marc Latham.

Haunted by Field Marshal Wilson

London: A Ghost in Belgravia?

by Kitty Doyle

On a rainy morning in June 1922, Field Marshal Sir Henry Wilson, dressed in full military regalia complete with a ceremonial sword, returned to his home at 36 Eaton Place, Belgravia after dedicating a war memorial. He was about to enter his house when two armed gunmen approached him from behind and shot him nine times. Sir Henry died on his doorstep.

Sir Henry Wilson had a long, distinguished military career, serving in South Africa, Ireland, Burma and the War Office in London. He had close ties with the French military before the outbreak of WWI and was knighted on July 1, 1919. He is buried in the crypt at St Paul’s Cathedral.

Now, some 86 years later, Sir Henry’s large home in Belgravia has been turned into flats, as were most of the big houses in the area.

On a recent stay in London I resided in the cozy basement flat, in what used to be the kitchens in Sir Henry’s former home. One can sometimes still hear the clatter of horses’ hooves when the Queen’s Guard trot by on early morning exercises, but mostly the sounds have given way to modern times: cars, taxis and the chatter of passing pedestrians looking for one of the many embassies or consulates in the area.

England is purported to be the most haunted place on earth. I have read and been told many stories of encounters with the supernatural, taken the London Ghost walking tour, even went alone into a building supposed to be haunted. I do believe in ghosts, having been visited by the one that haunted a family vacation home in Mexico, but he wasn’t very exciting. Just sort of smiled at me and vanished. No headless horsemen, or medieval courtiers, or tonsured monks.

One evening, after finishing a satisfying meal from the local Indian take away, I put on my flannel jammies and crawled into bed. Snug under the down duvet, I had almost relinquished consciousness and was in that twilight moment just before being enclosed in the arms of Morpheus when a strange clattering sound came from the direction of the kitchen. I roused and listened but soon drifted back to sleep. Then I was wakened again. This time it sounded distinctly like the ghostly rattling of chains or perhaps a ceremonial sword. I awoke in terror. Was it Sir Henry come back to haunt the place where he had died so violently? My mind reeled as I lay as still as possible and breathed shallowly cowering in the darkness. Eyes wide, I scanned the room, but I couldn’t see anything moving. I breathed a bit and waited. Then, the rattling started again.

I had encountered the supernatural before and knew it was silly just to lay here. So I got up to investigate. I moved as silently as possible as I peeled back the duvet. I’d never noticed before how much noise duck feathers make. I fumbled for my slippers but couldn’t find them so I tip- toed in my bare feet across the chilly floor to the doorway of the bedroom. The rattling started again.

The cold air licked my skin, turning it to gooseflesh. Do ghosts make you feel cold? I crept ahead, navigating the stygian blackness of the hall. Heart pounding, my bare feet inched along, hands outstretched before me in case of invisible energy fields.

At the doorway to the living area, I peeked around to look down the long narrow space that was the living room and kitchen. The only light came from the VCR and the digital clock on the oven. I made my way across the room almost falling as I tripped over something on the carpet. A shock of cold ran up my body as my toes came into contact with the frigid linoleum of the kitchen. A few stray beams of dim light peeked around the edges of the tapestry curtain that covered the glass door to the outside area. Were they ghostly emanations bending their way around the fabric? Ever so tentatively I reached forward and moved the curtain.

My ghost was revealed. Outside, on the graveled patio, in the eerie yellow light of the street lamp, water poured from a drain pipe making a rattling sound as it hit the pebbles. There was no ghostly apparition. It wasn’t Sir Henry clattering his sword as he came back to haunt the place as I’d thought. It was just my own overactive imagination.

As Ebenezer Scrooge said to Jacob Marley’s ghost, “There’s more of gravy than of grave in thee.” Serves me right for eating vindaloo at midnight!

More Information:

About Field Marshal Sir Henry Hughes Wilson:
www.1914-1918.net
Sir Henry Wilson, 1st Baronet in Wikipedia

London Ghost Tours:

London Ghost Walking Tour
Jack the Ripper Ghost Walking Tour in London
London Ghost and Infamous Murders Walking Tour

About the author:
Kitty Doyle was born and grew up in Chicago dreaming of knights and medieval castles. She is now lucky enough to have realized her dreams of world travel and splits her time between Europe and North America happily being an urban nomad.
Contact: kittys_stories@yahoo.co.uk

Photo credits:
Henry Hughes Wilson, British general, photo portrait standing in uniform: Unknown author / Public domain
All other photos are by Kitty Doyle.