Mid Wales, you have delighted us long enough

Towards the end of a holiday, with my to-see list mostly crossed-off, it's easy to lose a bit of momentum. The plan on our last full day of holiday was to park at Aberporth and walk up the coast path to Tresaith to see the waterfall that tumbles onto the beach there, but the weather was rainy and someone had left his raincoat at home - that is, 130 miles away - so we spent most of our visit in the pub instead. 

a scarlet tiger moth

I was a bit disappointed but Cwtch is easily bought. 

On our way to mid Wales, we'd driven up through the Bannau Brycheiniog national park, partly to avoid the M4, but mostly because we wanted to say Bannau Brycheiniog to each other as much as possible. (What a beautiful, mouth-filling word its new but very old name is.) We chose to return by driving around the top of it ... 

You're not leaving without me! 

... pausing not far into our journey to visit All Saints Church at Cellan, a small village just outside of Lampeter, which, I'd read somewhere, contains 'the only significant Arts and Crafts work in the country of Ceredigion'.  

There followed a familiar pattern of events. Having finally found somewhere to park, we couldn't find the church. Having found the church, we found there was a padlocked chain around the gate. Having found you could in fact lift the chain and open the gate, we found the main door was locked. Having walked around the church, we found the main door was the only door. 

In the porch a poster saying 'Come and see our beautiful church' taunted us, prompting the Northerner to quote Mr Bennett: 'Mid Wales, you have delighted us long enough.'

We pressed on homewards. I couldn't help feeling that something about this part of Wales had eluded me. Maybe it was down to the language barrier, which would be up to me to fix. Maybe we hadn't had enough time.

By the time we reached Crickhowell, we were famished, so stopped for something to eat at the Bear Inn. 

These obsolete petrol pumps reminded of some in Laugharne and Aust. 

Back home, my haul from the week was interesting but modest. I still don't seem to have broken the habit of picking up cone shells and limpets for my mother, proving old habits die harder than parents. Also, I think I need to start wearing my reading glasses when I go hunting, as I kept mistaking bits of broken mussel shell for blue and white pottery. I'm also going to need to find out what it is that's embedded in that piece of slate from Aberporth. 

Into the Black Mountains Part I : Llanfrechfa, Abergavenny, Crickhowell and Llanthony Priory

As soon as they saw us at the edge of the churchyard, the whole flock came charging across two fields and shouted at us for five minutes before deciding that we probably weren't about to feed them and wandering off again. 

The Church  of All Saints in Llanfrechfa was the first stop on a jaunt into the Black Mountains, culminating in an art event at the Grade  listed farmstead, Llwyn Celyn near Llanvihangel Crucorney.  

For now, though, we were fending off hungry sheep and pushing ineffectually at the (locked) church door. 

Not that it mattered, as this is where my companion, Dru, spent several childhood years, and just taking in the view from the high churchyard while she gave me the historical and geographical information I needed was a fine start to our journey. 

A quick stop in Abergavenny for a mug of tea and a toastie in the market cafe and we continued on our way to Crickhowell, which I'd only ever driven through before.  I could have spent a small fortune I don't have - mainly on the Kay Leverton's stunning scraperboard prints - in The Tower Gallery, but instead confined my extravagance to a pack of poetry cards and this photo of Crickhowell's Mari Lwyd, a rather more macabre feature of wassailing custom than anything Somerset has to offer.  

I love the way there seems to be a hill at the end of every street in Crickhowell.   

Just as we were debating whether the People's Republic of Crickhowell was the preferred holiday destination for the inhabitants of the People's Republic of Stokes Croft, the owner popped out for a little chat. Turns out Tim Rossiter is an artist originally from Bristol.  (Dru's photo.)

Another thing I like about Crickhowell is the children's play area right next to the Castle ruins ... 

... and the way visitors ignore the path the authorities provide for climbing the Castle motte and make one of their own. 

A quick consultation of the map and we were off again, this time to Llanthony Priory, with me relieved that it was Dru driving the Moggy up long, single-track lanes rather than me.  

Dru had visited Llanthony Priory many times before, and told me how once she had stayed in a room in one of the original towers with no plumbing and a chamber pot.  

I was struck by how it is spring in the valley and still winter on the hills.  All the same, it was pretty nippy, so we went into the abbey crypt - now a bar - for a drink.

Then over the road and into the terraced church I'd nearly missed, being so bedazzled by the ruins and the trees and the hills. 

Originally the infirmary of the priory, St David's was converted into a church in the early 18th century. I think it's one of the plainest I've seen. 

After that we headed on up the valley to Capel-y-ffin. More about that anon.