NUMINOUS LANDSCAPE

Exploring the borderlands

Into the Black Mountains - January, February, March

31st July 2022

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Situated approximately 20 miles to the north of Newport, the Black Mountains is a part of the world which is very special to me. I used to come here when I previously lived in Wales (2005 - 2008), and by train, bus, and foot I have resumed my explorations. In this, and forthcoming editions, I would like to take you on a visit there, to give you a sense of the place(s), and hint at future art works that may emerge. Before I begin them it feels important to cultivate a relationship with the area, get to know it, and allow myself to be known by it. 

I have decided to pepper this with some poems by R.S Thomas. I bought a book of his verse at the end of one of these walks. 

Glancing through the Wikipedia page on Thomas, I found this  

'Theodore Dalrymple wrote, Thomas "was raising a deep and unanswered question: What is life for? Is it simply to consume more and more, and divert ourselves with ever more elaborate entertainments and gadgetry? What will this do to our souls?"'

It is in this vital, fascinating, yet easily forgotten question of what life is for, that I found connection between Thomas' poetry, and my wanderings. Roaming the land, witnessing, wondering, being present to this beauty and mystery, is a significant part of what my life is for. Something that feels close to the essential nature of who, or what I am. 

The View From The Window

Like a painting it is set before one,
But less brittle, ageless; these colours
Are renewed daily with variations
Of light and distance that no painter
Achieves or suggests.  Then there is movement,
Change, as slowly the cloud bruises
Are healed by sunlight, or snow caps
A black mood; but gold at evening
To cheer the heart.  All through history
The great brush has not rested,
Nor the paint dried; yet what eye,
Looking coolly, or, as we now,
Through the tears' lenses, ever saw
This work and it was not finished?

R.S Thomas

The Black Mountains themselves are situated in the left half of this satellite image (tap it to open in Google Maps), with the outlying Skirrid just to the right of Llanvihangel Crucorney. To date my walks have mostly been from Abergavenny, up onto the slopes of Sugar Loaf (just to the North), and then into the beyond. I've included such a large area in this view because the borderland is an important aspect of the area. Offa's Dyke runs from Pandy, up onto a spectacular ridge, which is where you can see the 'Wales/England' on the map above. The March walk more or less followed that dotted line to Hay On Wye.

January

Arriving at Abergavenny around 7:30am, there is some walking to do before reaching the hills. Through the town, and out the other side, climbing steeply into an area of ancient woodland. Arriving here always feels magical, and sometimes I see these guardians making their gentle way around the hill. 

Sequentially the next image is the one at the top of this newsletter. This is the view looking east upon reaching the top (approximately 370 metres) of this ridge, that moves north and forms the slopes of the Sugar Loaf. The distant hill is Skirrid. As you can see, it was a tremendously clear day, and as the early morning mists cleared, the visibility was incredible in the chill winter air.

The furthest point of this walk was Bryn Arw, which offers views to the west, through the valley at the north of Sugar Loaf, towards Crickhowell. 

 February 

A circumambulation of The Skirrid. I have been to the top, but usually my preference is for the view upwards, rather than from the summit of any peak. Known as The Holy Mountain, this place certainly feels powerful to me. In the above image you can see a range of hills in the distance. If you look at the nearest part of it on the right hand side, that is where the next walk begins. 

Dusk falls as I reach Little Skirrid, near the train station at Abergavenny. To the left is Blorenge.  

March

The Moor

It was like a church to me.
I entered it on soft foot,
Breath held like a cap in the hand.
It was quiet.
What God was there made himself felt,
Not listened to, in clean colours
That brought a moistening of the eye,
In movement of the wind over grass.

There were no prayers said. But stillness
Of the heart’s passions — that was praise
Enough; and the mind’s cession
Of its kingdom. I walked on,
Simple and poor, while the air crumbled
And broke on me generously as bread.

R.S Thomas

You can listen to Thomas reciting this poem here

From Abergavenny I took the bus a few miles north to Pandy. Starting out with no particular route for the day I soon came across a sign which pointed towards Hay On Wye, 14 miles distant. I sent a picture of it to a friend with whom I had visited the town last year. His reply asked if that's where I was heading. I figured I might as well do it. It was a perfect day for walking along the ridge, which climbs steeply to 400 metres at the beginning, then continues very gradually to 700 near the northerly end. 

The view above is looking south, I think that peak in the distance might be Sugar Loaf. 

This (rather creased, well used) map will give you a sense of the route, and importantly of the Wales / England border. Beginning just off the bottom of the map at the center, the walk stays on the long hill furthest to the right. You will see the line which is a mixture of the Offa's Dyke path, and the border, which goes right along the top of the hill. My destination of Hay On Wye is in the top left.

Northwards up the valley, Llanthony, and Capel Y Fin are down there somewhere.

As the walk neared its end the path descends, and this view is looking south, to the northern edge of the Black Mountains. By the time I reached Hay On Wye I had just enough time and energy to buy a book (mandatory), phone Traveline Cymru (strongly advised), and inhale an ale (vital) at The Blue Boar, before the last bus to Hereford.

The River

And the cobbled water

Of the stream with the trout’s indelible

Shadows that winter

Has not erased – I walk it

Again under a clean

Sky with the fish, speckled like thrushes,

Silently singing among the weed’s

Branches.

              I bring the heart

Not the mind to the interpretation

Of their music, letting the stream

Comb me, feeling it fresh

In my veins, revisiting the sources

That are as near now

As on the morning I set out from them.

R.S Thomas

Thank you for reading