We had to take the same route out of town as we did yesterday. That part was not a problem but I was somewhat skeptical knowing we would have to tackle small villages again today. The Terror of Tredegar not far from my mind:).
It was smooth sailing for miles and miles. Just when we thought 'this is going well' we took a wrong exit in a 5 exit roundabout. Needed #4, counted 4 but ended up on #3. Obviously we counted something as an exit which was not an exit. Now we are in another village like Tredegar with only two ways out - either following Bonnie's increasingly annoying voice or turn around on a dollhouse sized street with cars parked on both sides. We followed guess who, thinking the route will backtrack us. As I said yesterday, NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING! We ended up on a B category road. That meant a 15 mile single track winding lane adorned with hedgerows, which climbed a 16 degree grade to the mountain plateau and put us in the middle of a bleep, bleep, baaaa baaaa sheep grazing range.
The road continued off the plateau at a 25 degree downhill grade past stone farmhouses, bucolic pastures, minuscule hamlets, more baas and a few coos. Of course there was oncoming traffic, anything from a cyclist to a tractor twice the size of our car (not exaggerating) and just 2 miles from the end we got to follow this guy. Guess who was soooooo happy.
I am really worried now because I know Berriew, our destination, is a sleepy Welsh Hamlet. However, all is well - no swears and we are still married. What a team! When we finally got back on the A road our ETA, according to Bonnie, was only one minute later than the original ETA. RP thought I was joking and decided we took a shortcut by mistake. Yes, we still have our sense of humour. We were in dreamy Berriew by 12:30 with no further incidents. The village is less than 10 minutes off the main A road and there were even signs. Can you believe that?
Our accomodation is at the Lion Hotel. It has been around since the 17th century, starting out as a coach house. We have parked the car until we leave tomorrow. Downstairs there is a pub, a lounge and a dining room. The room was not yet ready so we followed friendly tips from our hostess and went off to explore my ancestral village on foot. You can do that here.
First stop, right in the hotel's backyard, is St. Beunos church and churchyard. There has been a church on this site since the 7th century. The current church was built about 1875 but some of the windows were retained from church originally on the site in the Evans' era.
Adjacent to the church is The Old School which Great Grandpa John and his siblings attended in the 1850s. He wrote about his experiences in his memoirs. It was a goose bump, tingling kind of experience to visit this building. I struck up a conversation with Jeff, the gardener, and he got me a key to go inside. Unfortunately my access was only to the main hall, now used for the church. I climbed over the gate barricade and walked up the worn wooden steps, as J.N. Evans might have done many times as a boy, to where the classrooms are behind locked doors.
I dont think the photo shows it but the stairs are truly worn.
Little black kitten joined me on the doorstep of the school house.
Meanwhile RP wandered through the village chatting with the friendly folk who live here. They were puzzled as to why an East Indian was in town searching ancestral roots so he took me back to meet some of his new friends. They figured it out. One thing that surprised us on this trip is that most people know where Victoria is, have been there or wish they could go.
The Evans Family lived on a farm called Penthryn. It was part of the vast Vaynor Estate in 19th century. There is still a farm called Penthryn about 3 miles from the village. We opted not to tackle another single track road as things will be different now and the roads are flipping scary. The family farmhouse burned in 1858 and that was the beginning of the exodus. What struck me first as we arrived today was how similar this land is to the Cowichan Valley where John and his 3 brothers settled as pioneers. They all were dairy farmers. Berriew even has a farm in the middle of town. Not only does the land resemble our old family farm in Duncan but the air smells of the same of fresh cut hay and the lingering aroma of cow manure - a first impression that blew me away.
I amused myself taking photos, chatting with the townspeople and going for a 2 mile hike along the Montgomery Canal. R.P. opted for kicking back on the comfy bed reading a British tabloid, right up his alley. In J.N. Evans' day this canal was the main transport route for the goods and people. The farm produce and sheep's wool were sent by canal barge to communities along the route, which goes into the midlands of England, our next destination.
It is about 4:30 pm and time to call the cows home. We were lounging in our comfy room when I remembered that Jeff, the churchyard gardener, had told me to look out for the farmer calling the cows home. As I said, there is a farm in the middle of town, right across the street from our hotel. I grabbed the camera thinking 'Darn I missed the cows' because they were no longer in the field. My timing was perfect. There they were walking down the main street right past our hotel, clop clopping into the barn stalls. I swear J.N.E. was smiling down at his great granddaughter snapping bovine photos. Our hotel is at the end of the white buildings.
India revisted - LOL!
To make it an even more of a perfect photo op the traffic was stopped for cows. Photo, is of the car first in line for the 'cowjam'. Now this kind of a vehicle would not have been around in great grandpa's Berriew days but you can be sure it was manufactured during his lifetime, probably in the 1930s around the time he wrote his memoirs. CLASSIC is the only way to describe.
It gets even better! We enjoyed our daily happy hour with the vino in our room and decided to carry on before dinner with a visit to the downstairs lounge. This 17th century coach house, with walls so thick you need to go outside for cell reception, has 3 common areas: the pub, the lounge and the dining room. All 3 were graced with our presence this evening. Berriew is party central. First stop the pub, where we met Mark, the barkeep. Mark has a masters in business marketing, helps out on the family farm and tends bar at the Lion Hotel.
So we are the only folk in the bar but strike up the best conversation with Mark, who lives on the farm adjacent to the original farm of J.N. Evans. He plays to a 5 on the local mountaintop course, which is wind incessant, usually has rain blowing sideways and all other directions, plus electric fencing to keep the sheep off the greens. Here we are posing in the ancient fireplace.
It is not long before the locals arrive. The star of the show is SPUD! He drives lorry for the Potter Recycle company, runs an ale tab at the bar, loves the Canadian show Ice Truckers and quickly became RP's hero. You see, Mark, the barkeep, is developing a business marketing the best sunglasses. RP is in his element - in a pub, single malt scotch in hand, the op to buy yet another pair of shades and Wheeler Dealer Spud. Mark wants 10quid for shades he sells in shops for 35 and Spud claims he only paid 4 pound 50 for Mark's shades. The barter is on but I made the dude pay 10 quid. OMG - we laughed and laughed. Of course, we needed a photo. Spud wanted the whole town in on the photo with his Canuck heroes and he was determined to get in in Elvis mode.
We move from the pub to the lounge for our second round, thinking we will have our meal in this part of the bar. We had already placed our order. Photos are a close-up of the new shades and a Welsh love spoon in the lounge.
Next thing we know we are called to the dining room where we are assigned s quite window alcove to enjoy yet another delicious, top-notch meal. We savour the taste, gaze at the ancient ceiling beams and sip our wine, wondering who sat in this spot over the centuries. Perhaps someone from the Evans' clan.
Both of us are near ready for bed and still marvelling at the fabulous time in Berriew where John Newell Evans was born on May 9, 1846. The sands of time flow on forever.
PS - the Terror of Tredegar is diminished and surpassed by the Blast in Berriew (pronounced bar - ee - ewe).
And even better there is better wi-fi than Cardiff but no 3G. This is Wales and anything goes.
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