Category: Reader’s Travel Tales

Traavel Articles submitted by various contributers

Walking In Kyrgyzstan (Part 2 Of 2)


WALKING IN KYRGYZSTAN (Part 2 of 2)

In last month’s edition of What’s On, Nicola introduced us to an amazing walking adventure in this mysterious and far away country. It is now Day 3 and Nicola, who was feeling the effects of lack of oxygen, had been offered one of the pack horses to carry her over the pass. The story continues ………

Once through the pass we were on a vast upland plateau that was surrounded on virtually all 4 sides by snow-capped mountains. From my vantage point on horseback, I was able to look up, around and glimpse them through the swirling clouds. The rest of the group had to concentrate on where they placed each foot as the ground was boggy, peaty, wet clay in places as well as full of tripping hazards and small lochens. If only it hadn’t been raining…. And so, to our last, fairly miserable, boggy campsite alongside a high mountain lake at 3,800m.

On our last day’s trekking we decamped in the drizzle and walked only a couple of hours until we hit a road where our trusty, so uncomfortable, minibus was waiting for us. Kyrgyzstan has significant deposits of metals including gold and rare earth metals and this was a private road, open to the public 2 days a week, leading to a very productive gold mine initially funded by the Canadians 30 – 40 years ago. Whether the Silk Road continued along this road towards the mine or crossed it towards China we were not able to establish.

And so to our final guest house run by a Russian woman former climber in Kyrgyzstan who shared with us some incredible photographs of her past adventures.

Kyrgyz Eagle Hunters

On our way back to Bishkek, we were treated to a fantastic display by the last Kyrgyz family of eagle hunters and afterwards they provided a feast for us in their own home. And then we finally had a longed-for swim in Issyk Kul Lake which we had travelled virtually the length of on our first day and had had glimpses of in the distance as we hiked. Issyk Kul covers approximately 3% of Kyrgyzstan and is the second largest lake at altitude – the largest being Lake Titicaca. It is said that over 100 waters drain into the lake. Despite the outside temperature being around 35 degrees, the lake was surprisingly cold!

Issyk Kul Lake

 We feel so privileged to have visited a country that few people have heard of, to have walked along part of the Silk Road in the footsteps of so many others over the centuries, to experience such breathtaking scenery. And of course, there is a small element of smugness to have shown some younger people that life does not stop when a certain age is reached but that adventures are still out there to be had.

Nicola Strelley Issyk Kul Lake

 

Walking In Kyrgyzstan (Part 1 Of 2)


WALKING IN KYRGYZSTAN (Part 1 of 2)

Three of us, all no longer of working age, recently joined a group of 12 in total to trek in the Tian Shan mountains in Kyrgyzstan. Of the 12 in the group, we were the oldest (and slowest), most of the others being young people in their late 20s. By the end of the trip they were in fact in awe of us and insisted their parents would never have been able to undertake the trek!

Kyrgyzstan, officially the Kyrgyz Republic is a small landlocked country in central Asia. It is bordered by Kazakhstan to the north, Uzbekistan to the west, Tajikistan to the south and China to the east. Kyrgyzstan was formerly part of the Soviet Union and declared independence from the USSR in 1991. It is farther from the sea than any other individual country and is an endorheic basin in which all its rivers flow into closed drainage systems which do not reach the sea.

The country is approximately the size of Great Britain without Northern Ireland, 91% of which is over 1,000m high. Peak Jengish Chokusu, at 7,439 metres is the highest point and is considered by geologists to be the northernmost peak over 7,000m. Although geographically isolated by its high mountainous terrain, Kyrgyzstan has been at the crossroads of several great civilisations as part of the Silk Road.

 

Tourism is slowly developing in the country with skiing and trekking in the mountains being the main attractions. It was obvious that the government is developing substantial infrastructure in readiness for the country to further open up with major road building taking place.

We underwent a long drive from Bishkek, the capital, to Karakol in the east which is the stepping stone for both hiking in the summer and skiing in the winter. Hence we feel able to comment first hand as to the state of the roads as our minibus was not only lacking in leg room but also shared with us every bump and pothole in the road!

The first 2 days were walking through, around and among incredible enormous fluted red sandstone rock formations (Molasse) set in large meadows where the Kyrgyz people still take their large flocks of fat-bottomed sheep, cattle and horses up to the summer pastures, staying in yurts.

We stayed our first night trekking in a small settlement of yurts alongside a river where we were fortunate to be able to have a banya, (a traditional Russian steam bathhouse), and then spent the following 4 nights under canvas. There was an expectation that we put up and packed up our own tents and it was interesting to see that this was a skill not commonly known among the whole group! All of the campsites were alongside the river or a lake and despite the ever-decreasing temperature as we climbed, there were a couple in the group who continued to enjoy cold water plunges until the water temperature apparently dropped to 4 degrees! (For those interested, ablutions were in the freezing meltwater river or lakes and the use of long-drops.) As well as the 12 of us, we had a guide, 2 assistant guides and 2 horsemen who were responsible for our 8 pack horses which carried our bags, the tents, enough food for us all for the trek and our rubbish! Packing the horses in the morning was a tremendous skill.

After the first 2 days, we left the molasse rocks behind us as we joined the Silk Road and climbed steadily along the Gulcha River through a very wide glacial valley with great meadows fringed by strange, pointed conifers with round bases and black kites soaring overhead, glimpses of snow-capped mountains ahead. The valley got steadily less wide as we climbed but there were still large herds of livestock and their attendants on horseback with the obligatory shepherd dog.

A highlight was stopping at a yurt alongside a river crossing one lunchtime where we were treated to an enormous freshly made fluffy naan bread and a tub of fresh buttermilk which we passed around tearing off a chunk of bread and dipping it into the buttermilk. Delicious! It made a nice change from potato and cabbage stew or plov – a local version of paella.

Our second to last campsite was in a buttercup festooned meadow alongside a lake accessed by crossing the river on horseback. Unfortunately, the weather on the last day was typically Welsh requiring full waterproofs and was made more miserable as we were walking up over the pass on a very shaley path. Sadly, that meant that the incredible views were not for us. I was fortunate enough to look sufficiently exhausted, very much feeling the lack of oxygen, and was offered one of the pack horses to carry me over the pass! I was not about to refuse (what I considered) a gift horse in the mouth.

 

Cardiff And The Bute Family

 


CARDIFF AND THE BUTE FAMILY

 

Anyone living in the Cardiff area will have heard the word Bute. It is associated with many areas such as Bute Docks, Bute Street, Bute Park and many more. But how many of us know where the Bute family came from and how they came to own so much land in South Wales?

In October I joined a party from the Contemporary Arts Society of Wales to travel to Scotland to visit the ancestral home of the Bute family, which is called Mount Stuart, on the Isle of Bute.

The story begins in the 18th century with John Stuart, the 3rd Earl of Bute (1713-1792), who was not only a powerful statesman but also a passionate patron of the arts. In 1761, he became the Prime Minister of Great Britain and guided the young King George III. While his political career took him to the heights of power, his heart always belonged to Scotland and the beautiful Isle of Bute.

John Stuart’s son was also called John Stuart and he was the 4th Earl of Bute and the 1st Marquess of Bute. He married Charlotte Windsor (1746-1800) from whom he inherited vast tracts of land across South Wales including Cardiff Castle, Caerphilly Castle, and Castell Coch. Much of this land contained minerals including, of course, coal.

It was his grandson, John Crichton-Stuart, who would become the 2nd Marquess of Bute, that truly left an indelible mark on the family’s history and their connection to Cardiff. Born in 1793, he inherited the Marquessate at a young age and was determined to honour his family’s Scottish heritage while embracing new opportunities. He saw the opportunity to lease his land and received income from the extraction of coal and other minerals.

In the early 19th century, the Industrial Revolution was sweeping across Britain, transforming cities and landscapes. One of these cities was Cardiff, which was transitioning from a small port town into a bustling industrial hub due to its coal exports. The Marquess saw the potential in Cardiff and decided to invest in the city, turning it into a thriving metropolis.

The Bute family poured their resources into the development of Cardiff, including the construction of the Cardiff Docks, which became one of the world’s largest coal-exporting ports. They also financed the construction of numerous buildings, parks, and cultural institutions, leaving an enduring legacy in the city.

But the Bute family’s most famous contribution to Cardiff is undoubtedly Cardiff Castle. The Marquess and his architect, William Burges, undertook a massive restoration and renovation project that transformed the castle into a neo-gothic masterpiece. The interiors of the castle were adorned with

intricate designs, stained glass, and opulent furnishings, creating a stunning testament to the family’s commitment to art and culture.

As time went on, the Bute family continued to shape Cardiff’s growth and prosperity. They played a pivotal role in the development of the railways, enabling even greater access to the city’s coal exports. They also supported the establishment of schools, hospitals, and charitable institutions, ensuring that Cardiff became a city known not only for its industry but also for its vibrant culture and community.

The Bute family’s connection to Mount Stuart on the Isle of Bute remained strong throughout the generations. The stunning Mount Stuart House, with its beautiful gardens and rich history, became a symbol of their enduring love for Scotland. On our visit on a sunny day in early October, the gardens looked magnificent while the house itself was a veritable palace. The style is called Gothic Revival and the scale of it is simply vast. The ornate ceilings are as high as the roof of a cathedral, the marble was carved in Italy and the craftsmen brought their work to Bute. The stained glass is superb, and the intricate wooden panels were carved in the Bute workshops in Cardiff before being shipped to Scotland. If you are ever in Scotland, it is well worth the effort of taking the short ferry ride across to the Isle of Bute to visit this exceptional Mount Stuart.

Here in Cardiff, we can explore the legacy of the Bute family by wandering through Cardiff Castle’s opulent rooms, strolling along the picturesque Bute Park, and learning about the city’s industrial heritage. Meanwhile, on the Isle of Bute, Mount Stuart House stands as a testament to the family’s deep-rooted connection to their Scottish roots.

In September 1947, the Fifth Marquess of Bute handed over the keys of Cardiff Castle to Lord Mayor, Alderman George Ferguson. In what was described as “a gesture of truly royal nature” the Castle, along with its parkland, was presented as a gift to the people of the city. As reports at the time reflected, it was “no longer Cardiff Castle but Cardiff’s Castle”. Did you know that if you live or work in Cardiff then you are entitled to your very own Key to the Castle with free admission to this world-class heritage attraction for 3 years? To obtain your own key you simply have to visit the Castle ticket office with proof that you live or work in the City.

The Bute family’s story is one of ambition, vision, and dedication to both their Scottish heritage and the city of Cardiff. Their contributions continue to shape the cultural and architectural landscape of these two remarkable places, ensuring that their legacy lives on for generations to come.

Alun Davies

CELEBRATING BRIDGES

CELEBRATING BRIDGES

6 July saw an international celebration following the conclusion of three years of restoration work on the Union Chain Bridge linking England and Scotland across the river Tweed and the unveiling of an International Historic Civil Engineering Landmark by the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE). There is also an important Welsh connection as all the ironwork was made in Wales, at the Pontypridd chainworks of Brown Lenox. Now 203 years old the extensive restoration work saw some of the ironwork replaced in a complex project costing £10.5m. The bridge is now the oldest vehicle-carrying suspension bridge and with a 449ft (137m) span and was the longest suspension bridge in the world when it opened in 1820. It was designed by Captain Samuel Brown who introduced iron chain cables into the Royal Navy.

The structure is Grade I listed in England and a Grade A listed structure in Scotland and was singled out for honour by the ASCE, supported by the Institution of Civil Engineers and the Japanese Society of Civil Engineers (JSCE), along with many members of the local community from both sides of the Tweed. In terms of this accolade, it now joins the Eiffel Tower, Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Brooklyn Bridge. Amongst the supporters were the Friends of the Union Chain Bridge who had campaigned for many years to support the preservation of the Union Chain Bridge and to conserve, protect and enhance its immediate environment for public benefit. See https://www.unionbridgefriends.com/ and http://union chainbridge.org/

Closer to home the website; Crossing the Severn Estuary severnbridges.org/ has been taken forward by the South Wales Institute of Engineers Educational Trust (SWIEET 2007) to continue the work by the Severn Bridges Trust (SBT). SBT trustees are all Chartered Civil Engineers who have enjoyed an involvement in the design, construction and maintenance of one or both of the Severn bridges. The Trust have sought to provide a permanent record of the many professions and disciplines involved in the First Severn Bridge and the Second Severn Crossing [now called ‘The Prince
of Wales Bridge’] together with approaches, the Severn Tunnel and former ferry crossings of the Estuary.


In 2016, the year marking the 50th Anniversary of the opening of the Severn Bridge and the 20th Anniversary of the completion of the Second Severn Crossing, the website was launched to provide a permanent public display expanded with engineering detail for those who are interested and to provide information on the background to both bridges as well as information on earlier crossings of the Estuary. It celebrates the broad spectrum of engineering disciplines and other professions involved, and the environmental and construction achievements of these two crossings. The website has been added to since then but is now complete.

Like the story of the Union Chain Bridge Crossing the Severn Estuary presents an inspirational example of the work of engineers and what they can achieve and contribute to society.

Stephen K. Jones

WALKING TO SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA

WALKING THE PORTUGUESE CAMINO FROM PORTO TO SANTIAGO DE COMPOSTELA

 

The wind was blowing harshly in from the cold Atlantic Sea on my left as we walked north along the deserted beach leaving the historic city of Porto behind us. We were on the first day of the Portuguese Camino in late May and our destination was Santiago de Compostela which was 325km, or eleven walking days away. We were two couples, all experienced walkers, and happily our friends spoke fluent Spanish which was a great advantage.

The word Camino comes from the Spanish name for a path, but it has in recent years been used to describe the many pilgrim routes that converge on the city of Santiago de Compostela. Pilgrims of many nationalities walk to this elegant city where the remains of St James the apostle are said to be buried within the imposing cathedral.

 

Pilgrimages generally involve travel and perhaps hardship too. They usually have a shrine or some other place of religious significance as the destination. It is important that the pilgrim has to make some physical effort to get there for that gives the individual a sense of achievement which would not be the case if one arrived on an air-conditioned coach. It has been known that Buddhist monks in Tibet will walk to a shrine using prostration every three steps of the way. Another example of religious hardship would be when a Muslim fasts between dawn and dusk during Ramadan. In the third century, the Desert Fathers

believed that selling their worldly goods and living in poverty in the desert brought them closer to God.

Happily, modern-day Camino walkers have little hardship beyond the need to walk a long way each day. The various routes leading to Santiago, which is in Galicia in northwest Spain, come in from all directions. The English route is the shortest and starts in Coruna, the port where English pilgrims would arrive by boat, and runs for just 116km and takes 4 or 5 days, while the longest route is The Paris and Tours Way and Camino Frances, which stretches from Paris to Santiago. The full distance is 1,717 km and takes roughly 75 days to complete.

Santiago de Compostela has become a place of worship because of a medieval legend which relates that the remains of the apostle James, were brought from the Holy Land in a stone boat to Galicia for burial, where they were lost. Eight hundred years later the light of a bright star guided a shepherd, who was watching his flock at night, to the burial site in Santiago de Compostela. The shepherd quickly reported his discovery to the bishop who declared that the remains were those of the apostle James and immediately notified King Alfonso II. To honour St. James, the cathedral was built on the spot where his remains were said to have been found.

For this pilgrimage, we used a company in Ireland called Magic Hill to book our accommodation and part of the package was that our luggage would be forwarded each day to the next location. This allowed us to carry very light rucksacks during the walk. Breakfast was the only meal included and we made the most of that, even packing a piece of fruit and a bun from the breakfast buffet to eat at lunchtime. In the evening we would scout around for a restaurant serving good local food, often seafood, for our supper. The food and wines of Portugal and Spain were superb on this route.

The daily routine would be a relatively early start with breakfast at 7 and away on foot by 8. By mid-morning we would hope to find a café or a suitable place for coffee and a rest. Then we would continue until about 1 pm when we would look for a shaded spot, ideally with seating, to eat our meagre lunch. Although it was late April and early May the days were warming up and very dry. In fact, we had no rain at all during the 17 days we were in Iberia.

Our first 5 days were spent hugging the beaches and shoreline of Portugal but when we reached the river Minho, which marks the border between Portugal and Spain, we were forced to take a short boat ride across the mouth of the estuary to continue our route through Spain.

We were struck by the friendly greetings that the Camino pilgrims exchange as they pass “Buen Camino”, but it’s not just the pilgrims, even the locals on the streets or in the fields would also call out with a friendly greeting as we passed. At first, the numbers of pilgrims were not great but the closer we were to Santiago the more people we met on the trail, to the point that there would always be walkers in sight either in front or behind us.

To earn a Certificate of completion of the Camino we had to have our special Camino passports stamped at least twice a day. Many places offered this service but perhaps the most appropriate were the churches and chapels we passed. These gave us not only a stamp but the chance to sit in a cool place and to remember why we were there, perhaps to say a prayer and to think of family and friends.

On average, we were walking between 25 and 30km each day. These were long days, but we soon became used to it, and it was the short stops and interesting sights that made the distance speed by. One particular pleasure was not knowing what our accommodation would be like. It was pleasing that all of our hotels and B&B accommodation were first class and we realised we were fortunate not to be sharing the dormitory-style rooms where many pilgrims were staying.

The four of us were pretty fit before we started and did not have any significant pain or injuries, but we did come across pilgrims with awful blisters and others with typical walking injuries such as pulled muscles, sunburn and sprains. Having said that we did use a lot of paracetamol and ibuprofen to ease our aches and pains along the way.

Our tour company sensibly gave us a rest day after 3 days of walking. This not only allowed us to rest and refresh but it also gave us the opportunity to look around the local area. This was of course very much appreciated.

We arrived in Santiago after a particularly long and hot day on the route and found ourselves in a very busy university city with the streets and squares full of people which was such a contrast to the previous two weeks. It was late in the day, so we decided to visit the very grand cathedral the next morning. We were very pleased to have completed our pilgrimage and were happy to settle into our comfortable hotel.

 

Santiago is the capital of Galicia and the Cathedral, consecrated in 1211, has elaborately carved stone facades which open onto grand plazas within the medieval walls of the old town. The squares lead into attractive narrow streets that were bustling with pilgrims and students. On this last day we set off to the Pilgrim Bureau where, in return for showing our pilgrim passports and the stamps we had collected, we were presented with lavish certificates. Then we made our way to the great cathedral for the special eucharist service for pilgrims where the queue was long. A highlight of the service is the swinging of a giant thurible, or incense burner, which six strong men swing high until it reaches the ceiling of the nave. The cathedral was packed to the rafters with pilgrims of every country, the taking of the communion wafer, the singing and the spectacle of the soaring, belching thurible all made for a fitting end to our long Camino walk.

Alun Davies

 

Pilgrimage On The Holy Mount Athos

A DAY OF PILGRIMAGE ON THE HOLY MOUNT ATHOS IN GREECE

I woke to the sound of a wooden semantron being beaten with a mallet, it was three in the morning and I was in a small dormitory in a Greek Orthodox monastery on Mount Athos. This was the call to prayer and as a pilgrim, I quickly dressed in warm clothes, as it was chilly before dawn, and made my way silently to the large church where the service of Orthros was soon to begin. As I left my room and entered the great cloister all was dark and silent, only moonlight guided my path. Historically this main service is held in the quietest time of the night as the monks then feel closer to God.

At the door of the church hung a great thick curtain, more like a rug or carpet. I moved it aside and it was just as dark on the other side. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I could make out a faint glow and this guided me onwards. I knew that as a non-Orthodox Christian I was not allowed into the inner nave but could hear and join the service from the narthex to the rear. I took my place in one of the rows of stacidia or chairs and lowered the seat so I could sit before the service began. The light turned out to be coming from a small lamp fuelled with olive oil and soon a monk began with a general blessing and then a reading of one or more of the psalms. As he read so dark shapes appeared from left and right and moved slowly and silently in different directions. This was rather ghostly, but I later learnt that these were monks in their black flowing cassocks joining the service, and as they arrive they venerate or kiss, the icons and holy relics which are all around the church.

As the liturgy progressed so the numbers of monks and pilgrims grew, many candles were lit in massive candelabra and the volume of chanting and singing rose. It was very pleasant and restful, so much so that some of the older monks were dozing away and failed to stand at the appropriate times. This service is the last of the four-night offices or services, which also include vespers, compline, and midnight office. It begins at three and continues until dawn at about seven o’clock. This four-hour service is generally extended on Saint’s days and Sundays.

On leaving the church at the end of the service the monks and many pilgrims move to the refectory or trapeza where the main meal of the day is being served. This will be a substantial vegetarian meal. The table will be laid with mounds of fresh bread, salad, fruit and bottles of olive oil and vinegar. The platters of hot food soon arrive. There is water on the table as well as wine, though wine is not served on a fasting day. Feast days, on the other hand, see fish, octopus and even snails served as a treat. For those pilgrims who fail to get up for the service and wander down for breakfast, it is always a bit of a shock for them to find snails and wine on the table where they had ideas of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee.

After breakfast, the monks move off to their allotted tasks. Some may sit down to paint Icons, others will take to the fields as they aim to cultivate all their produce, while a few return to the kitchen to prepare the next meal. There may be fifty monks with an equal number of pilgrims. There are many mouths to feed.

Everyone comes together again for Vespers at about five in the afternoon. Unlike the Anglican church, there is some flexibility over the arrival time for services, but it is expected that one arrives before the censor comes around with his incense. Vespers is a relatively short service and as it ends everyone troops into the trapeza for the evening meal. This is eaten in strict silence as the duty monk reads from the book of the saints. When he shuts the book the meal ends, a bell is rung, and a prayer is said as thanks for the meal. As we leave the cooks are there to be acknowledged and the bell is ringing to call us to Compline the last service of the day. This too is a short service and when it is over everyone returns to their cells or dormitories, and movement in the cloisters is discouraged. As the sun sets the great wooden doors of the monastery are closed in a tradition that goes back a thousand years which was then to keep out any marauding Saracens. Exactly at sunset, which could be six or seven o’clock, the clocks are set to midnight as the monastery runs on Byzantine time. For the pilgrims whose watches are on European time, this can be confusing. It means that getting up at three in the morning is actually eight or nine o’clock monastery time which is why the “breakfast” served at twelve midday is a lunch meal rather than a breakfast! As I retire to write my diary, I dig out my bottle of ouzo and pour myself a generous helping, add the tap water, which is surprisingly cold, and settle down for the night..

Alun Davies

 

An Unexpected Night With The Ayatollah Khomeini

AN UNEXPECTED NIGHT WITH THE AYATOLLAH KHOMEINI

I woke up on a bunk bed in a concrete shack in Chelgerd, a small town in south-west Iran. We were a group of British ski mountaineers who were training in the Zagros mountains for a ski ascent of Damavand the highest mountain in Iran with a summit at 5610 metres, quite a lot higher than Mont Blanc at 4810 metres.

We were down south to get fit and acclimatised for the attempt on Damavand the following week. The Zagros mountains extend over one thousand miles and are an effective border between Iraq and Iran – or historically between the Ottoman and Persian empires. Alas, the mighty Persia was rather run down in 2002 as the country was still suffering economically after the Islamic Revolution of 1979. So, the ski resort we found ourselves in was very run down with horrendous roads, broken down ski lifts of 1950s vintage, and poor communications.

None of this was in my mind as I stumbled out of bed to find breakfast. This was not difficult as we were now following local customs and breakfast was laid out on a large white sheet on the floor at the end of the bunk beds in the small common area we shared. We tucked into a modest meal of naan bread, soft cheese, jam and tea. Soon we were outside with our rucksacks and clipping into our mountain skis. We were going to climb up to a high hut at Chal Mishan, 3850 metres, to spend the night and off we went. The hut was deserted so we had some porters who were engaged to carry our food and cooking equipment up the mountain. They were on foot in the deep snow which made progress very difficult for them.

After a couple of hours of steep ascent on ski, using skins under our skis for traction, I found that the wet snow was sticking to the base of my skis which stopped them gliding along. So, I did the standard thing which was to continually bash the ski with my stick to dislodge the snow. Unfortunately, my stick suddenly broke and was useless, which is not ideal on a high mountain. By this time, it was snowing hard and with a strong wind. The group pulled up together for a chat about the conditions and we felt that it would be dangerous to go on, so we agreed to take our skins off our skis and ski back to the base camp. We were all relieved to be skiing down now, but after just a couple of turns I was hit hard by a wall of snow that appeared over my left shoulder – it was a serious avalanche. I was rolled over and over again and again. It was like being in a washing machine with me, my skis and sticks rolling head over heels beneath the snow. I thought I might die. I tried to keep breathing but the snow was in my mouth and up my nose. I was using my arms in a fruitless attempt to swim to the surface but in truth, I did not know which way was up. When the avalanche hit, the wind was howling, and the snow was blowing.

After what seemed an eternity the moving mass of snow came to a stop I was buried below the surface.

I was breathless, exhausted, but thrilled to be alive. I felt I was lying on my back and was pleasantly surprised to see light above me through the snow, so I knew which way was up. At this point, my right arm was trapped under me and was very painful. But I could breathe as the snow was fresh and loose. I lay for some minutes getting my breath back and waiting for the others, with their electronic trackers, to find me and dig me out. Surprisingly no one came and I wondered if we had all been buried. I was beginning to get cold, so I decided to self-rescue and using my left arm dug up to the surface which was only a few feet above me. Moving more snow I sat up and looked up at the sun and blue sky. In a few minutes, I had been swept down hundreds of metres from a snowy ridge to a sunny spot below. I stood up and could see no one. My skis had been torn off but I had my rucksack so I could survive the night. My worry was a second avalanche so I decided to move on foot as fast as I could in the deep fresh snow. As I started, I saw one ski tip glinting in the sun so climbed back up to retrieve it. Then I set off downhill and caught sight of two of our Iranian porters and together we carried on down. One of the party arrived on skis and told me that some others had been hit by the avalanche, but no one else had been swept down the mountain and buried.

We soon came to the tree line and a track in the forest which we followed. We knew that we could not get down to our valley base at this slow walking speed but were unsure what to do. Luckily, we came across a small stone building in good condition which looked as though it belonged to the local water company as there was a dam nearby. The door was locked, but the padlock was no match for hungry men with ice axes and soon we were inside. There were two or three small rooms, all clean and tidy so the porters set up a stove and prepared a meal. I took some serious painkillers, washed down with sweet mint tea, and stretched out my sleeping bag on a good quality carpet below a large framed picture of Ayatollah Khomeini.

AD

It Is Better To Travel Than To Arrive

 

IT IS BETTER TO TRAVEL THAN TO ARRIVE

Over a pleasant lunch, some Cardiff friends asked what plans for adventure I had this year? They knew I had arranged four pilgrim walks last year and they may have been winding me up on the back of a glass of wine or more. Truthfully, I had no real plan in mind, but I replied that I would see how far I could go in a day on my bus pass.

We all know that people of a certain age are eligible for a bus pass issued by Transport for Wales. The pass is correctly called the Welsh Concessionary Travel Card and is available to people in Wales over 60 years of age for use on business, socialising or leisure travel. While it is primarily used for bus travel on all Welsh buses it can also be used for some train journeys in Wales.

As the weeks went by, I made a plan to travel to Aberystwyth and, as it is so far, I would stay the night and return the next day. When I told my friends how the plan was developing one of them said he had never been to Aberystwyth and that he would like to join me. Well, I soon get bored with my own company, so I readily accepted David’s suggestion.

A great website for planning travel in Wales is Traveline Cymru and I began to look at bus timetables but noticed that some trains also offered free travel with a travel card. In particular, the Heart of Wales line could be used between October and the end of March. So rather than going up and back the same way by bus, we decided to travel north using the Heart of Wales railway and then we would return by bus.

The Heart of Wales line runs between Swansea and Shrewsbury, though purists would say between Llanelli and Craven Arms. The line was originally built for freight but is now mainly used by passengers. The route is scenic and delightful passing through the most rural parts of mid-Wales and most notably through the old nineteenth-century spa towns Llandrindod Wells, Llangammarch Wells, and Llanwrtyd Wells. The train consists of one or two carriages, and it moves at a gentle pace stopping at twenty-nine stations on the route. Some days there is a refreshment trolley service, but the best advice is to take a good picnic as the journey takes just about 4 hours from Swansea to Shrewsbury. The train runs four times a day in both directions. It is a single-track railway with passing loops in four places. I am pleased to report that the single carriage we took did have a lavatory! To continue from Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth there is a third train with takes another two hours.

At Shrewsbury we had a wait of 2 hours for our connection, so we had ample time to explore.

Shrewsbury Castle and Military Museum is a short walk from the station, and we soon made our way there. The Castle is built with red sandstone, and it stands on a hill in the neck of the meander of the River Severn on which the town originally developed. Of relevance to Welsh visitors is the fact that the castle was briefly held by Llewellyn the Great, Prince of Wales, in 1215.

Scuttling back to the station to get our connection we were soon aboard and arrived in Aberystwyth at 5.30 pm. We had left Cardiff at 8.06 am so it had taken over 9 hours to travel 74 miles as the crow flies. This is not a journey for the impatient.

Aberystwyth would fit the Dylan Thomas description of a “lovely, ugly town”. It is not an ancient town, but it is the capital of Mid Wales. It has an elegant esplanade that is regularly battered by Atlantic storms. The Cambrian Railways line from Machynlleth reached Aberystwyth in 1864, closely followed by rail links to Carmarthen, which resulted in the construction of the town’s impressive station. The Cambrian line opened on Good Friday 1869, the same day that the new 292 meters Royal Pier opened. Although it was originally 50 meters longer than Penarth pier much of it was washed away by storms over the years and it is now much shorter. In Victorian times the new train line caused a boom in tourists and the town was even called the Biarritz of Wales.

We spent the night in a seafront hotel, of which there are many, and enjoyed a good supper in the nearby Baravin restaurant which is linked to the celebrated Harbourmaster in Aberaeron. In the morning we chose to visit the National Library of Wales where there was an excellent exhibition of contemporary Welsh art. This magnificent building was opened in 1915 but construction continued until 1937. The main purpose of the National Library of Wales is to collect and preserve materials related to Wales and Welsh life and those which can be utilised by the people of Wales for study and research. The building and grounds are both well worth a visit.

There is also a funicular cliff railway at the north end of the promenade. This was opened in 1896 and rises 237 meters from sea level to the top of the cliffs. It is the second-longest in the UK and it is a fun thing to do, but we did not have time to visit it.

After sightseeing, we bought a picnic for the rather long bus journey home. Conveniently the bus station is adjacent to the train station, and we caught the 1305 pm X47 bus which left on time for Llandrindod Wells arriving at 1445 pm, a relatively short journey of an hour and 40 minutes. The scenery on this route, especially from Aberystwyth to Llangurig is spectacular as it winds up and down the Cambrian mountains. To the north, you can see the lower slopes of Plynlimon which are the source of both the rivers Wye and Usk. While on the south side of the road there are massive wind farms as far as the eye can see. It may be worth adding that the buses carried very few passengers so we were not depriving anyone of a seat.

At Llangurig our bus met another service and we got off for a leg stretch, and the smokers quickly lit up! Then on towards Llandrindod and now on the more familiar A470. We arrived at the rather bleak bus station on time but our connection, the T4, was about 20 minutes late. The journey to Cardiff takes a surprisingly long 3 hours so we were happy to arrive at Greyfriars’s road at 6.20 pm after roughly 5 hours on the road.

We had enjoyed two full days away thanks to Transport for Wales. We had enjoyed seeing the wonderful mid-Wales scenery; you miss so much when driving a car. And we had appreciated a fleeting visit to the iconic town of Aberystwyth. We could have gone both ways on the bus at no cost, but by choosing to use the free Heart of Wales line we had to buy single tickets to Swansea and from Shrewsbury to Aberystwyth but with Railcards these only came to about £20.

So – to the retired people of Wenvoe and for that matter anyone over 60 – pick up your Concessionary Travel Card and board a bus – the hidden gems of Wales await you.

 

 

A Day On A Mule

A DAY ON A MULE

In 1969 I was lucky enough to be sent to Cyprus that sunny isle in the East Mediterranean, and fabled home of Aphrodite, goddess of love. I was a young army officer in the Royal Regiment of Wales and our battalion was to train there for some weeks, brushing up our military skills in that hot, arid environment. It was hard work but there was fun to be had as well. At weekends we had time to ourselves and I was able to hire a large old motorbike to tour the island. I was about 21 years old and had recently passed my test, so the open roads of Cyprus were a great place to gain more experience. This oily, noisy machine had clearly been involved in an accident at some stage as the wheels were out of alignment, but that did not matter much as it still went like a rocket.

In my school days I had taken up rock climbing and so I suggested that I might take a group of soldiers on a two-week climbing course at the end of our training exercise. I knew that in Northern Cyprus, and just above the town of Kyrenia, there was a mountain called Pentadaktylos, or Kyrenia mountain. The Greek name means five fingers – and there is a legend that the Byzantine hero Digenis Akritas’s hand gripped the mountain to get out of the sea when he came to free Cyprus from its Saracen invaders, and this is his handprint.

He also threw a large rock across Cyprus to destroy the Saracen ships. That rock landed in Paphos at the site of the birthplace of Aphrodite, thus known to this day as Petra Tou Romiou or “Rock of the Greek”. There was one problem with climbing in Cyprus, which was simply that the granite became so warmed by the strong sun that by midday it was too hot to touch. So we would begin climbing soon after dawn and come back down to our shaded campsite around midday.

During the days of our military exercise, we had been visited by a senior officer who had flown out from the UK to see how the Regiment was getting on with its training. He was a genial man and knowing I was staying behind he gave me the name and address of his niece who was on holiday in Kyrenia at the time, with a suggestion that I should look her up and give her his best wishes. I did not need much encouragement to do so and as soon as the main part of the Regiment flew home I went up by Land Rover to check out Kyrenia, visit the area where we were to camp, and of course to look up the English girl, Jenny, who was also in her early twenties.

Jenny and her older sister were staying for the summer in their parent’s apartment in an old narrow street behind the harbour in Kyrenia. It had been tastefully modernised but retained traditional features and the charm of a small Greek house. The girls were very welcoming, and I was soon pouring the drinks and escorting them around the bars and nightclubs. This was before the Turkish invasion of 1974 and Kyrenia was a hedonist’s playground with the nightlife centred on the harbourside Kyrenia Club which was run by a British couple.

By now our climbing camp had been established, tents erected, and kitchen built. I had a handful of experienced climbers as instructors and thirty soldiers were split into small groups to climb. I remember the limestone rock as being firm with good handholds and offering a variety of routes of different grades of difficulty. We were having a great time.

After lunch with the soldiers, washed down with the inevitable cold beer, I would drive the short distance to Kyrenia where the girls would just be getting up. In the afternoon we would take a small boat from the harbour and go to one of the many small coves nearby where the crystal-clear waters were ideal for swimming and snorkelling. Later, as the sun set, we would drink brandy sours or local wine on the side of the ancient harbour below the immense fort which was built in the 16th century by the Venetians to protect the town. Drinks would be followed by supper, usually delicious locally caught fish, and from the supper table, we would move to a nearby disco where we could dance the night away. Then as we tired, and very late, I would somehow drive back up the mountain to get a few hours sleep until dawn when the climbing began. This was a classic example of burning the candle at both ends.

At the weekends we suspended climbing and took the soldiers to the beach for swimming and recreation, which to a soldier means drinking beer. So, I was free too and on one particular weekend, I organised a visit to a Crusader Castle called Buffavento which was about ten miles into the mountains above Kyrenia. I had been introduced to a local Greek who hired mules and, on this occasion, I engaged him to come with us, a party of four as the girls were bringing another male friend.

The deal was that Stavros would not only be our muleteer, but he would also bring a picnic lunch for us. So, on a Saturday morning, we met him in the shade of Bellapais abbey with his mules tethered to some stout bougainvillaea. None of us had really ridden by mule before but this was no time for riding lessons, so we mounted our charges and set off at a steady pace. The mules followed Stavros and we trailed behind. Whether we had stirrups I do not remember but the big leather saddles were comfortable and there was a suitable large knob to hang onto. If any mule was going too slowly Stavros would whittle a short stick to a point and give it to the rider which the rider was meant to dig into the neck of the unfortunate animal. Being young and British this seemed very unsporting and I do not think any of us used their “encourager”.

It took a couple of hours moving through scrub and olive trees to reach a pleasant green plateau below the most impressive castle walls and here we dismounted and shook our scratched and aching limbs.

The origins of Buffavento castle are lost in the mists of time but one theory is that it was built in 965 AD after the expulsion of the Arabs. It was certainly occupied and enlarged during the 11th century and it is known that Richard the Lionheart captured it in 1191. It was one of a string of castles which included St Hilarion to the west and Kantara to the east. It has been suggested that the role of Buffavento was to pass messages between the other two. Buffavento is a word of Italian origin meaning “defier of the winds”.

Leaving Stavros to water the mules and prepare lunch we set off to explore. There are 600 steps to reach the castle which remains in remarkably good condition, given its age. It is difficult to make out what all the rooms were for but there are several cisterns to collect rainwater, without which no castle can defend itself for long. The rooms were generally small in scale as the whole castle is nestled among crags with little space to accommodate larger chambers.

Intrigued as we were exploring the ruins a bellow from Stavros suggested that lunch was ready, so we dropped down to the mules rather more quickly than we had ascended. At once we could smell the smoke of a charcoal barbecue above which were half a dozen kebabs of lamb, the fat nicely singed. Nearby was a large bowl of green salad and some local flatbreads. What we had not noticed was a large round cask of red wine protected from sun, and collisions with rocks, by a stout raffia jacket. The lamb which we stuffed into the bread was warm and scrumptious and the red local wine, possibly the Mavro grape, was simply delicious. After finishing the kebabs, and too much of the wine, we lay down together in the grassy shade to aid our digestion and promptly fell asleep. It was probably the neigh of a mule that brought me back to life and I noticed that our muleteer had cleared away the remnants of our lunch and so we were ready for the long slow descent to Bellapais.

Bellapais Abbey was first built by the Augustinian order and the first occupants known to have settled there were the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, who had fled after its fall to Saladin in 1187. The Canons had been the custodians of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre In Jerusalem.

We thanked Stavros for a marvellous adventure, and an unexpectedly good lunch, and paid him for his services before boarding our jeep and driving the few miles back to Kyrenia. Whether we went dancing that night I do not recall, nor whether I had to be up at dawn for more climbing; but I do remember that the combination of rock climbing, culture and good company made for a most memorable few weeks in the salad days of my youth.

Alun Davies

 

 

Waking Up in a Greek Monastery

o

WORKING IN THE GARDEN OF THE MOTHER OF GOD

I am fast asleep when a strange noise wakes me, checking my watch it is 3 am and very dark. I am in a Greek monastery overlooking the Aegean Sea, which laps at the walls one hundred feet beneath my room. This is the call to prayer, and it is being sounded on a semantron which is a piece of wood about four feet long which is being carried about by a monk who hits it with a mallet to make the rhythmical noise. I am in the monastery of Saint Gregory, one of twenty monasteries on Mount Athos, known to the Greeks as the Garden of the Mother of God. They believe that the Virgin Mary came ashore from a boat to avoid a storm and she blessed the land. Since then, no other woman or female animal has been allowed there.

The Holy Monastery of Saint Gregory

The monks begin to gather in the main church of the monastery for the main service of their day called Orthos. But I am here with a twenty strong group to work on clearing the footpaths, so we do not get up yet, we are allowed to lie in. At 6 am I rise and go for a shave in the visitors’ quarters. The water is sometimes hot and sometimes cold. It seems to me that washing in cold water must be a kind of penance. After dressing I make my way down to the church, which is of the Orthodox religion, as other pilgrims join me. As I am non-orthodox, I am not allowed into the main body of the church but must take a stall at the back. These individual stalls are comfortable with a seat that one can sit on, or it can be raised when one stands. Cleverly it has a half-up position which allows one to half sit while appearing to stand!

As more monks and pilgrims arrive, they move from icon-to-icon venerating (kissing) the frescos and paintings of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, the apostles, and saints. The service is in Greek and although the liturgy is based on the same eucharist that we find in the Anglican church it is, frankly, difficult to follow. The singing and chanting are however very pleasant and soothing. Soon we hear the clinking sound of the censor being swung and the smell of raspberry flavoured incense meets us before the monk who, in splendid robes, appears swinging the metal censor which is emitting clouds of smoke. Everyone receives a swing of the device, though monks receive a double swing.

After the service a great bell chimes for the opening of the refectory and we all file in after the monks for the first meal of the day. This is where it gets confusing. The monks live on Byzantine time and have been up for five hours and so the meal is their main repast of the day and includes three courses, all vegetarian, with wine produced at the monastery. The meal is eaten in strict silence as a monk reads from the book of the Saints. A bell sounds to mark the end of the meal and we all file out after the monks. In this monastery, there were 99 monks and about 30 pilgrims of many nationalities.

The historic paths which link the monasteries were laid over one thousand years ago. They allowed monks on foot and mules or donkeys to move on paved routes from place to place. But now roads have been bulldozed in and most people travel by vehicle, so the paths are less used and are quickly overgrown. We gather our tools, loppers, shears, sickle and saw and are soon climbing up the steep path to start work on clearing the route. The monks have decided which routes need our attention and we are quickly hard at work. Working in teams of four we hack and saw until the leader calls us to stop for lunch which, every day, is feta cheese, olives, hard brown bread, and fruit. We carry on after a short break by which time the sun is high and the mountain is very hot.

We aim to return to the monastery by 4 pm as we must shower, wash our clothes and be in the evening service, Vespers, by 5 pm. It is a bit of a rush to get there, and it is bad manners to arrive after the censor has passed. As the service ends, we file back into the trapeza or dining hall where another meal awaits us. When we leave the six chef monks are lined up and are all bowing from the waist as we pass, and we in turn show our appreciation of their efforts.

At this point, the monks and pilgrims walk straight back into the katholikon (church) for the night service, compline, but as workers we are not obliged to attend that, so we make for our rooms. It is said that as a pilgrim you are either praying, working, eating, or sleeping. Surprisingly even remote corners of Greece have far better mobile networks than here in the UK, so some people call home before retiring. By 9 pm we are all in bed after a good day’s work.

I am fast asleep when a strange noise wakes me, checking my watch it is 3 am and very dark. I am in a Greek monastery overlooking the Aegean Sea, which laps at the walls one hundred feet beneath my room. This is the call to prayer, and it is being sounded on a semantron which is a piece of wood about four feet long which is being carried about by a monk who hits it with a mallet to make the rhythmical noise. I am in the monastery of Saint Gregory, one of twenty monasteries on Mount Athos, known to the Greeks as the Garden of the Mother of God. They believe that the Virgin Mary came ashore from a boat to avoid a storm and she blessed the land. Since then, no other woman or female animal has been allowed there.

The monks begin to gather in the main church of the monastery for the main service of their day called Orthos. But I am here with a twenty strong group to work on clearing the footpaths, so we do not get up yet, we are allowed to lie in. At 6 am I rise and go for a shave in the visitors’ quarters. The water is sometimes hot and sometimes cold. It seems to me that washing in cold water must be a kind of penance. After dressing I make my way down to the church, which is of the Orthodox religion, as other pilgrims join me. As I am non-orthodox, I am not allowed into the main body of the church but must take a stall at the back. These individual stalls are comfortable with a seat that one can sit on, or it can be raised when one stands. Cleverly it has a half-up position which allows one to half sit while appearing to stand!

As more monks and pilgrims arrive, they move from icon-to-icon venerating (kissing) the frescos and paintings of the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, the apostles, and saints. The service is in Greek and although the liturgy is based on the same eucharist that we find in the Anglican church it is, frankly, difficult to follow. The singing and chanting are however very pleasant and soothing. Soon we hear the clinking sound of the censor being swung and the smell of raspberry flavoured incense meets us before the monk who, in splendid robes, appears swinging the metal censor which is emitting clouds of smoke. Everyone receives a swing of the device, though monks receive a double swing.

After the service a great bell chimes for the opening of the refectory and we all file in after the monks for the first meal of the day. This is where it gets confusing. The monks live on Byzantine time and have been up for five hours and so the meal is their main repast of the day and includes three courses, all vegetarian, with wine produced at the monastery. The meal is eaten in strict silence as a monk reads from the book of the Saints. A bell sounds to mark the end of the meal and we all file out after the monks. In this monastery, there were 99 monks and about 30 pilgrims of many nationalities.

The historic paths which link the monasteries were laid over one thousand years ago. They allowed

monks on foot and mules or donkeys to move on paved routes from place to place. But now roads have been bulldozed in and most people travel by vehicle, so the paths are less used and are quickly overgrown. We gather our tools, loppers, shears, sickle and saw and are soon climbing up the steep path to start work on clearing the route. The monks have decided which routes need our attention and we are quickly hard at work. Working in teams of four we hack and saw until the leader calls us to stop for lunch which, every day, is feta cheese, olives, hard brown bread, and fruit. We carry on after a short break by which time the sun is high and the mountain is very hot.

We aim to return to the monastery by 4 pm as we must shower, wash our clothes and be in the evening service, Vespers, by 5 pm. It is a bit of a rush to get there, and it is bad manners to arrive after the censor has passed. As the service ends, we file back into the trapeza or dining hall where another meal awaits us. When we leave the six chef monks are lined up and are all bowing from the waist as we pass, and we in turn show our appreciation of their efforts.

At this point, the monks and pilgrims walk straight back into the katholikon (church) for the night service, compline, but as workers we are not obliged to attend that, so we make for our rooms. It is said that as a pilgrim you are either praying, working, eating, or sleeping. Surprisingly even remote corners of Greece have far better mobile networks than here in the UK, so some people call home before retiring. By 9 pm we are all in bed after a good day’s work.

 

 

1 2 3 … 5