Castell Gwyn a Chastell Coch

The Severn tunnel still being closed, I made a couple more trips to South Wales last week, for the purpose of dropping The Northerner off at work and bringing him home not via Gloucester. Since it's always more fun staying and visiting than sitting in the queue for the Brynglas tunnels four times a day, I decided to visit a couple more castles.

The first was Castell Gwyn - the White Castle - up near Abergavenny, a massive edifice built during the 13th century on the site of an earlier, wooden structure, for the purpose of controlling the border between England and Wales. Like Chepstow Castle, it's a very intimidating building. 

Originally called Llantilio Castle, it got its current name in mediaeval times, possibly from the white rendering used on its stonework. It's still visible in patches today. 

 

the well

I'd been planning to do a short walk in the area around the castle, but I had a recurrence of the extensor tendonitis that bothered me last summer, and it was painful to walk even around the castle's curtain wall, so I headed back to Cardiff and Roath Park, where I limped around the lake on easier terrain. 

Meanwhile a pair of coots with their cootlings huffed and puffed disapprovingly at Cwtch the Collie as we passed. 

A fallen willow

The memorial to Captain Scott, who set sail on his voyage to the Antarctic from Cardiff in 1910

I worked out it must have been 42 years since I was last at Roath Park. I used to have a rowing boat down in Devon when I was a kid, so taking a turn around the lake back then was easy. 

Roath Brook

Since I'd been to Castell Gwyn, the next day I decided I should revisit Castell Coch - the Red Castle - just a few miles north of Cardiff. I'd been there rather more recently than Roath Lake: I think about 35 years ago.

Before you start getting ideas about the Red Wedding and 'Game of Thrones'-style mediaevalism, Castell Coch is something else altogether, namely, a 19th century dream of a castle, built from the ruins of one from the 13th century. It was commissioned by the same person who donated the land for Roath Park, namely, the Third Marquess of Bute, John Crichton-Stuart, and brought to reality by architect, William Burges.

Back in 1989, we hadn't been able to afford the entrance fee. This time I couldn't go in because I had Cwtch with me, but never mind, my foot was feeling better, having been iced several times in the hours since our visit to White Castle, and we went for a walk through Fforest Fawr instead.

It was a fairly steep climb up through trees, but the track was easy and the margins either side of it widened and filled with flowers. 

I especially liked this firework display of buddleia and agrimony.

This sculpture heralds a spot known locally as The Three Bears Cave, which is a bit weird as we all know they lived in a cottage. It's one of many remnants of iron mines in the area.

By now the forest was spotlit by the sun. We walked as far as the upper car park and then back along the side of the ridge.

An enormous oak

Everywhere there was evidence of iron mining.

The fluorescent purple undercarriage of a dor beetle

This year seems to be a great one for artist's conk 

There was still some time to pass before the return journey home, so after our walk at Castell Coch, Cwtch and I headed for Llandaff Cathedral, because I love it there and hadn't been since 2020. There was a school service on inside, so we didn't go in, but instead headed for the churchyard. 

; 

Bishop's Steps

The ruined bell tower seen from the churchyard

Common Blue butterfly 

After a perambulation of the Cathedral, we made our way to the overgrown part of the churchyard, which is always a bit spooky. There are lots of yews here, apparently planted in the 1860s, though some of them look a lot older than that. 

A reminder that it's best to leave Chicken-of-the-Woods uneaten if growing on a poisonous tree, such as a yew.

Fallen headstone of Mabel Honey, died on 26th October 1898, aged 4 years and 8 months 

Emma Owens, died 1900, aged three

Ooh, and here's some proper kissing gates ... none of your galvanised steel here. 

Then it was time to pick up the Northerner and head home, with a fistful of magpie feathers and a farewell to Wales for the time being. 

Poems in a Garden and the Graveyard Shift

One of the most enjoyable things about poetting in the summer months are the beautiful places you get to read in, such as the Polygon communal garden. This was thanks to Lizzie, the proprietor of Heron Books, who arranged an invitation for me and fellow Bristol poets, Bob Walton and Jo Eades, to share our poems there during the Clifton and Hotwells Open Gardens weekend.

The garden was reclaimed by residents from longtime neglect, overrun by brambles and bindweed, but although it now looks rather gracious, there's a wild patch and a mini-meadow. And poetry!   

The audience looks a bit sparse in this photo, but there were actually more than thirty people spread out through the garden. (We were glad of Bob's mic.)

The last poetry walk the IsamBards held before lockdown was one around Arnos Vale in March 2020. We've often mentioned it as a favourite between ourselves, but it's taken us more than four years to organise a rerun - or rather, re-amble. 

The forecast was dodgy all week, but improved the closer we got to the appointed hour, and by the time we'd parked in the street next to the top gate and wandered down to the East Lodge  through sumptuous summer overgrowth, it was fine, if a little breezy. 

One of the especially enjoyable things about poetry walks in Arnos Vale is that the poems are interspersed with information from one of the guides, in this instance Alix, an English teacher at nearby St Mary Redcliffe School. 

Our first stop was the memorial to the stillborn, who, in previous decades, had been buried without ceremony or respect and often even the knowledge of their parents. I read my pantoum 'Small Lives', which is dedicated to my late godmother, Betty, and her son, Richard, who was stillborn in Bristol in the mid-1950s and who might well be buried here at Arnos Vale. Aways an emotional one for me to get through, especially in conjunction with poems by my fellow IsamBards that remember similar losses.

Pameli reading at the Matthews' tomb

mackerel skies

After the performing was done, there was cappucino and cake in the cafe, followed by a wander back up the path to the car. 

Forsooth, shut up now poets, it's time to go, says Cwtch.

My final poetry outing for June (so far) consists of three poems from my forthcoming collection, 'Love the Albatross', newly posted on the website iamb ~ poetry seen and heard, in written form and recorded. Thanks very much to Mark Owen for including them. You can read/hear them here.