From finding Rainforests of Wales to back in England via The Mill, at Leighton
How quickly a place becomes familiar, the dogs know the way, the gate, the left the right. We walked our last walk to the S copper mines. I have not attempted to get my mind around Wales place pronunciations. Meeting Paula on the way to her shower, I gave her my note of thanks for her instructions yesterday, my contact details in case she came east, and my best wishes to her for finding a home.
It was a guardian article in the end which took me to Maentwrog somewhere in the region of Guy Shrubsole’s hydro station.
Stopping by a useful layby by a marked footpath, we made a loop around, where on an ancient track, I met the man himself, the person in charge of all local footpaths over the last 20 years (now retired). Over the road is the rainforest he said, but here is as good. I followed his path but half heartedly, as it was mainly of tall planted larch. We headed off to find Guy Shrubsole wood, turned up a track, up a steep gradient which ended in a gate. Shit. A somewhat scarey half kilometer reverse down hair pin bends. That was enough. No place to park, we pressed on, pulled into a car park by Trawsfynydd Nuclear Power Station (brutalist massive event appearing out of landscape) and buggar – the perfect place to park and walk with a notice describing rainforest. Perhaps another time!
Long drive, stopped twice, once for a kip and once for a Galaxy chocolate. Out of glorioius oak wood and into naked sheep bare landscape. Ah the sheep, not a tree in sight.
The Mill at Leighton
It took us a while to find such a good place. I liked the sound of Shrewsbury, but with dogs, I needed a place for them to stretch out, a river. So opted for the River Seven and a name, the Mermaid. Rocked up, to find tables of people eating outside a well appointed Georgian mansion, dogs lounging politely on dog beds with their dog bags beside,and walls – estate walls – with notices, PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO PUBLIC ACCESS TO THE RIVER. This was no place for us, we were far too wild. At Uffington up the road, the pub was a potential, gave me free wifi where I found access for Pubs to stay the night. BIngo, a Mill.
Is it freehold, I asked, the woman behind the bar who had been so detailed and caring in her instructions for our dog walk. Yes, she said. So who is the owner? I followed up. Well, you asked, she said as she cleaned my table, checking behind to make sure no one waiting, and I prepared for the story. ‘It was closed for years, then the village came together, and 5 families in effect bought it. Three years, and going strong. They’ve employed a manager who’d worked here in the past, who’d worked at Buckingham palace – he’s in the kitchen tonight, as it happens. You can read some of the story up there – or take a photo and read it later.
Outside, are 4 motor homes, 3 of which are enthusiastic dog owners ‘The only reason we got a motor home’, one said, all agreed. I met the blind hound, the diabetic collie, the talkative x, the handsome y – yes one travelled with 7 dogs.
(I’ve just told her, I’ve written your story. She’s delighted. Not every one thanks you for your welcome, my dad he worked in the navy and I worked in retail, so I know the importance of customer service’)
Ironbridge
Attracted by the old industrial. What a story. Built on a relatively narrow gorge, the River Severn though the heart, functional buildings, homes and industry built on the banks of each side. Picked up a town trial: passed old lime kilns, up to the Church on the hill, built 1840’s, neo gothic, the jewel: It was supported and financed by Abraham Darby IV, who was the first in his family to convert from Quakerism to the Church of England in 1848. “Many of the managers of the Coalbrookdale Company, including members of the Darby family, were part of the Religious Society of Friends, a non-conformist denomination of Christianity commonly known as Quakers. Their religion encouraged philanthropy and they took measures to improve the living conditions of their workers, such as building schools and houses.”
A woman outside sweeping, gave me some history, taking me inside, and holding my arm as she described the chancel, built later, to commemorate the son who died. ‘I live in the house of the Church architect and can roll out of bed and be in church in 5 minutes.
Down through the woodland still carpeted in wild garlic, dogs delighted. Reaching the bottom the town had transformed into a bustling holiday day about town. Packed with holiday makers, bikers, walkers, motorbikers. From a Heritage man on the bridge I learned that this town was empty and destitute in 1970’s. Government money bought up most of the industrial buildings and museuems were created. I asked about the old Coalbroke industrial space I’d seen abandoned from the church yard. Oh that, he said, just two days ago sold for building 200 homes. Until 6 years ago it was the last bastian for Aga cookers. Now all manufacture and repair is in China.
Caroline and Pepita
A week ago, Caroline and Pepita had organised a service to commemorate Wanda’s life, on her birthday (she’d died in December, after a long dementia period). I could not make the journey from Wales so came today instead. Wanda and I span the age range of children from the Kellett sons, she the oldest, and daughter of Gerald at 92 and I , daughter of Ross, at 67. Photo below of the cousins and second cousins: Kate, Pepita, Caroline, Tori, Jessica.
It was good to catch up with them both. Arriving an hour late (mistake in Birmiingham junction), we sat a while before walking the dogs, Caroline’s 2 and Pepita’s one (on lead, as loves to chase muntjac). Pepita good at reading dog language I notice.
Strange how little we know of these people who formed our own lives. I had no idea that Wanda had an unhappy childhood, or that Peter was born in China and escaped when he was 14 to England. They had both met in Istanbul, where Caroline and Pepita had ventured a month back: they had dug up Peters ashes (preserved in plastic urn) mixed them with Wanda’s, took them to the famous Galata bridge, from where they threw them into the waters of the Bosporus.
Rocked up in Holton mid evening, went straight to field, dogs delighted to be back in known territory, scampered into the wood, and over the land. Brow it seems, is closer to me, almost affectionate, and didn’t escape all the next day. Is there a change?
The land has a green hue, the grass and particularly the physellia blossoming out. Soil is dry. The wood is full out, hazel, oak, wonderfully green and cool. I must prepare for the 10 year celebration.
Kalikellett 