Offa's Dyke, Part II: Angles and Angels

This Welsh/English borderland is idyllic.  Literally bathed in copious amounts of rain, tempered by a relatively mild climate, rich in the diversity of plants and trees, and ideal for all manner of agricultural purposes, not the least of which is sheep and cows.  From a perspective of terrain, it is most like the Appalachians to me, or even the Berkshires in New England.  I can easily see why the English settlers could so readily identify with New England - rolling, green, lots of stone and timber - just like "home".

Typical Welsh scenery - Disgwylfa Ridge

Into this landscape we started walking - Wednesday August 24th.  Crossing fields of sheep (well fertilized, I might add, some of which we carried on our boots), hay, hedged verges, hardwood and coniferous forests, narrow lanes passing into small villages seems to define our walk.  But the big hills: Herrock, Rushock, Hergest Ridge, Disgwylfa presented their own challenges, steep up and down, largely bald on top with large, windy open spaces covered in bracken (fern fens easily 5' high) with great views. And then came Hay Bluff and Hatterrall ("Hattie") Ridge.

Hay-on-Wye is a small town known for its many bookshops - mostly antiquarian - started with an 11th century castle atop a short bluff with excellent visual angles up and down the Wye River.  Following a long day of hiking across these high hills, Hay was a welcome sight, a town of narrow twisted lanes surrounding the castle, and within the oldest structure in town, a "freehouse" (pub) called Three Tuns, we enjoyed a world class pub fare and a detailed introduction to how these old wattle and daub structures were built (note: people were much shorter than me!). Knowing we were at the low part of the valley, Hattie was calling just as the day slipped to nightfall.

We departed the B&B at our usual time - around 9:15 following a full English breakfast - and wandered back through town to find the trailhead south, and in so doing found ourselves in a public parking lot trying to locate where the trail started up.  We were not alone in the endeavor, for another hiker was also seeking the trailhead, and so, with a bit of guidance from a local who "thought" it lead in a certain direction we three headed for Hattie.

Enter Tracey Brittle.

Now it is customary to exchange the usual information about your trip, especially if headed in the same direction.  As we were walking across the field, such information was exchanged, but there occurs that awkward moment when a subtle agreement is silently made about walking together, at least for a short spell.  That moment was somewhere in this first field crossing, when you would like to say "please join us for a spell" but your polite gene instead says "please don't let me/us hold you up, with such a long climb ahead", stated under the near certain presumption that they must be faster, that they want their peace and quiet, and really are here to get away from it all, including me/us. Indeed, such was offered, vigorously, but Tracey and us, but we just kept walking, instead saying "no, its fine, we/I would love the company", at least for the next mile or so, as you are certain this cannot last, as the perfunctory questions are asked and answered - the who/what/where/why and when questions.

Tracey and Becky spurring each other on the way up.

But then the hill started to get a bit steep.  What we all discovered upon cresting the first shoulder of the climb, was that Becky and Tracey, in their near constant chatter, did not become immediately aware that they were actually making good progress, that they were both not fast, and that they both liked to "pause to take in the view" frequently and at the same time when none necessarily existed.  In that 2008 foot ascent from Hay-on-Wye to the crest of Hattie Ridge, they bonded pretty solidly  They were trail angels to each other, for they both dreaded the prospect of the long and steep climb ahead, but delighted in getting to the top together.  They broke the demons in their heads that always poke your mind trying to hold you back.

Cresting Hattie ridge - Becky and Tracey down there somewhere

And for me?  I too was delighted, for I could walk my walk, as I tend to be a bounder moving quickly, eager to get to the top where the views are, and navigating the twists and turns of the way forward.  When I knew the pathway was clear (for there were no trees), I said I would meet you at the top.  I found a perfect resting spot on a rock ledge overlooking the saddle we just summited, and took great delight to finally see them both, walking together, taking their time, and chattering away, for I could hear them easily across this great open expanse. 

Taking a break near the crest of Hattie ridge

The Hatterrsall ridge is simply amazing.  While overcast, it was not raining. I have never been on such a long continuous ridge, devoid of any trees, with sweeping views 360 degrees at all times.  And it was boggy on top, which seems to defy logic - the ground cover is expansive areas of grasses, heather and bracken, all of which thrive on moist soils that peat would provide.  So the crest was one long bog, with many areas having large stepping stones to walk upon.  There were sheep, but also small herds of wild ponies. I was moving excitedly across this space, leading and awaiting Tracey and Becky, as I could see them from a great distance ahead.  It was pure magic up there.

Long views over fields of heather

But alas, good things come to an end.  The ridge is so long that we could not complete it in a day, and so a trail crossing down each side of the ridge lead to Longtown where Becky and I were headed on the east side, and  the Priory where Tracey was headed on the west.  You know it is coming.  You think about it.  It comes.  You hug, thank each other for the great day, and wish good luck on the way ahead.  And then you head down, down, down, losing this valuable ground you worked so hard to gain, knowing (or dreading perhaps) that come morning, you would have to climb up to the ridge again.  

The morning of Thursday, August 25th was deeply overcast and damp, and Hattie's ridge, clearly visible in the evening sky last night, was shrouded in thick cloud cover, invisible. Into this cloud deck we started walking, slowly skirting the side of the ridge.  When I knew Becky's pathway was clear to the saddle, I told her I would meet her at the top, and proceeded to bound up, causing the sheep to skitter into the thick bracken, and disappear, white on white.  As soon as I crested, I noted a familiar figure taking a picture - Tracey coincidently arrived but a few moments before me, and so we cancelled our previous farewell, rehearsed the usual "are you sure you and Becky . . ." with animated protestations to the contrary, and sat awaiting Becky, commenting that the dense fog in this high place enables one to experience complete silence. As we sat quietly to test this theory, Tracey thought she heard footsteps, and so Becky arrived but 20 minutes behind us into this white fog, equally surprised and delighted to have her hiking angel back.  And so we began day two, hiking up to Hattie, only to hike down again!

Horses in heather and fog

Hattie was different this day - no view at all.  I stayed close by so we could be sure to navigate the correct trail in this fog.  It would probably not make most hikers happy but for us, it was a way to experience Hattie in quite a different mood.  The wild ponies seemed to appear out of the mist, as if in a Sherlock Holmes story - eerie, quiet, calm, moving quietly amidst the heather, muted in color yet glistening with dew.  Gradually we descended this long mountain, back into the valley of fields, vales and wood plots.  And it turns out, we were all headed to the same very small town - Llangattock Lingoed.  Following a long enjoyable dinner with an English ex-pat couple of walkers from Cyprus at the Hunters Moon Inn and freehouse, we again said our goodbyes, for Laura joined us from London, late and in from the rain to complete our trip.

Two Hikers Cowed

Friday, August 26th greeted us from our amazing picture window in the Old Rectory B&B with bright sunshine and a clear blue sky.  We departed, as was our custom, around 9:15 and visited the small, very old Norman era St. Cadoc's church across the way.  And once again, Tracey appeared, though perhaps the mutual trail angel characteristics that both Becky and Tracey exhibited are best displayed in just such a church, with mutual delight at having company yet a third, though known-to-be final day, for Tracey was hiking farther to Monmouth.  And so we enjoyed a beautifully clear day of relatively easy, pastoral walking, and the company of both Laura and Tracey, until the Old Hendre Farm where we were staying.  So with the practice of two previous evenings, we did finally part company, full of sincere warm feelings, and most especially between Becky and Tracey, for having shared this rich experience together.

Who knew it could be so fun!  And goofy . . .

In all of my travels, I have experienced similar situations, and have told Becky about them, but it is hard to comprehend the level of personal enrichment these sorts of interactions enable.  It does support the notion that people really do need people, and that you never know when that need will manifest itself and be answered in an unexpected way. 

Thank you Tracey, for enriching our lives and our wanderings, for though it was one stop on our longer journey, it is one we will remember and cherish.  Until we meet again . . 

Offa's Dyke, Part 1: Tracing History

What a massive earthwork undertaking this was, and who really knows of it?  The Romans had their Hadrian's Wall, the Chinese the Great Wall, both less of an earthwork project and more of a masonry rampart.  The Mercia Kingdom had their dyke - Offa's Dyke.  We are following that undertaking with one of our own, hiking 87 miles from Knighton to Chepstow, Wales, the southern half of the 177 mile length of this trail.

The dyke, clearly discernable between Knighton and Kington

The Anglo-Saxon's, of northern Germanic and Danish descent, gradually filled the vacuum left by the Romans departing England in 406 AD with seven "kingdoms".  Following a civil war in 757AD, Offa became the ruler of the Mercian kingdom, somewhat brutally, of what we now know to be central England. Though desiring the rich territory of  Wales, west of England and representing the "native" English who migrated away from the Anglo-Saxon invaders at the time, two forays into Wales to expand his territory failed due to the fierce independence of the Welsh.   So if you can't fight 'em, build a barrier, as much a protection of Mercia from the Welsh as protecting the Welsh from further forays into Wales by the Mercians (and they did not have to "pay" for it!).  Offa undertook this massive rampart for 59 miles of the 64 mile border between Powrys (in Wales) and Mercia, north to south.

The "logo" for the trail: Offa's image from the penny coin

Though not merely a ruthless ruler, Offa did have larger global ambitions for trade, and existing records indicate a correspondence and visit with Charlemagne, thought to be the first record of a meeting between two European leaders, as well as a visit by the Pope in 786AD.  He also established the English penny to facilitate trade, which bore his likeness and the phrase "Rex Anglorum" - King of England, which is the basis for the Offa's Dyke logo, seen on many signposts.  He died in 796AD, and thereafter his accomplishments were superseded by more famous Kings, including it is supposed, King Arthur (or is that merely legend?)

One theory on how it was constructed (Hill and Worthington) suggests that  a total of 5000 men were needed, divided among village leaders each being responsible for the peasant labor to build a section of the dyke that is roughly 4' long of a deep and wide ditch per man, from which the spoils would build an equally high dike, up to 8 meters high, atop which a palisade wall was placed.  With a lot of rock as well as clay soils, personally evidenced along the walk, a variety of materials and techniques were likely used, the bulk of which was pure manpower. 

More dyke walk - defining a boundary between fields and nations

Today, this dyke has, except along certain stretches, mostly disappeared, but has defined, more or less, the boundary between Wales and England, and over the southern half, created a "crossover" area called the Welsh Marches, where the boundary seems arbitrary, and the people identify both as Welsh and English - peaceably now at least!

Remains of the dyke in the uplands - well worn and diminished

What has been so interesting about walking this dyke is the sense of some man no different than me in every earthly respect, actually building this.  It is as if I am walking in their shoes, imagining the alignment across this varied landscape, the organization of the workforce, the sheer logistics to getting this accomplished, especially in the very high and barren Black Mountains area, themselves a significant barrier.  Even to see a farm fence and thick hedgerow, and in places enormously large oak trees that themselves could be almost as old as the wall, seems to validate the historical significance of this barrier.

And the prevailing question is, even as you walk it, did it really matter any more than simply as a political boundary - a "line in the sand"?  A monument to a royal ego? A "make work" defensive infrastructure project with limited value in actually accomplishing its goals, whom the locals routinely circumvented to trade among each other within the synonymous agricultural lifestyle on each side of the wall? 

Questions that sound as eerily applicable today as 1200 years ago. . .

Change in Time - Change in Values

During the course of our England visit, I had on my list to visit Chatsworth House, the large, impressive estate of the Duke(s) of Devonshire, the gardens of which were originally designed by the preeminent landscape architect Capability Brown in 1758-66 under the fourth Duke of Devonshire, and later maintained and expanded by Joseph Paxton, the object of my particular study and the point of this visit.  Joseph Paxton was the architect of the 1851 Crystal Palace for the World Exposition, but was really a landscape planner and manager - a "gardener's boy" according to Queen Victoria - for the sixth Duke of Devonshire as his patron.  I wanted to see these gardens, his greenhouses, and to get the sense of the place and all that inspired the Crystal Palace.

Chatsworth House on the Derwent River

It is magnificent, to say the least, well maintained, very popular, active gardens.  The house is a demonstration of the various Duke's commitment to art and other worldly pursuits over the centuries, sumptuous in its abundant decor, ceiling murals depicting scenes that could be construed as deference to the King - in a word, over-the-top.  It is said that much of the rich work done in these rooms was to impress the King upon a visit therefrom, such visit had never come until Queen Victoria visited Paxton's lily house.  All that effort and expense just to please your Highness.  What would the peasants think if they could even have seen.  But such a treasure the site and estate is for its promotion and preservation of some priceless art and grounds.

Only one tiny part of the gardens - and Paxton's greenhouses

The private Chapel at Chatsworth

Just the day before, staying in the town of Bakewell, Becky and I hiked the several miles on a wet and muddy track to Haddon Hall, not realizing ahead of time that it existed, and  that we could take the time to visit it and get a bit of walking in before our longer journey.  We arrived at this 11th -14th century Tudor/Elizabethan estate, muddy and a bit wet, thinking we would not gain admission (even though wet and muddy seems a common trait in these parts of  the English Peaks District).  But we did get in, and were completely humbled and taken in by the simplicity of the place, the hallowed sense of the place, indeed, it was as if the ancestors merely left and made no special attempt to shut the door! It was as if transported back in time, especially the tiny, austere, and very simple chapel.  The great hall with its stone floor and walk-in fireplace where events were held might have hosted one yesterday.  And the rooms, while certainly opulent for their time, did not seem overly so.  And even as a visited site, the Rutland family still lives there, accommodates visitors simply with no guided path or audio guides, able to almost sense the living in this place.  And there were not that many visitors.  It was a remarkable step back in time, and so completely unlike Chatsworth House, both as a visiting experience, and in its very creation, that made the rain and mud quite worth it.

The Inner Court at Haddon Hall

Haddon Hall from the excellent English gardens

A detail of the "fresco" at Haddon Hall private Chapel - note the skeletal figure

Hiking back to Bakewell over the hills and vales of the Derbyshire countryside gave me an opportunity to reflect on these two distinct places, and what life must have been like - was it really any different?

Landfort - A Step Back In Time

Last Monday, in an unusually clear Dutch morning, I left our B&B in the tiny town of Megchelen and drove the 4 or so kilometers to Landfort, specifically to catch the spirit of the place in the morning sunrise.  And what spirits I did catch!

In a previous post last summer during my bicycle trip in upstate New York, I passed a touring couple from the Netherlands, who revealed their knowledge, interest and excitement of Landfort on this serendipitous moment over twenty or so miles, and their residence being but a few kilometers away in Ulft.  This summer, we arranged a visit to Joost and Rieneke van der Plicht, the Luyken biographer Aggie Daniels, and the much younger cousin of my father whom we never knew about, Bertie Luyken Wennick.  Joost and Bertie were able to arrange a personal tour of this legendary house, now in private ownership, but as a protected estate - similar to the National Trust for Historic Preservation.  This was a once in a lifetime opportunity for Laura, Becky and me to see this place, last visited by me as a 12 year old in 1968 with my father when it was a ramschackle mess (and unable to gain entrance), and then again in 2003 with Laura, but only from the distance. Now was the time to see this place my father and aunt spoke so glowingly about.

The central part of the house was (apparently) built over an even older structure destroyed by fire, in 1434 as a small "kasteel," with four onion domes in each corner added in 1671, and a double moat system fed from the Issel River adjacent the property, separating Germany from this region in Holland - Gelderland.

The house had 32 owners  over 391 years before being acquired by my great-great-great-grandfather Dr. Johan Albert Luyken in 1823.  In 1825, he added the two wings and completely remodeled the castle to be more of a grand estate home, and hired a very famous landscape designer, Jan David Zocher, to design the grounds. The Luyken family had ownership, through both world wars, though it was heavily damaged in World War II, until 1970, when, facing extensive cost to restore and no means to do so, it was sold the Stichting Geldersch Landschap, the preservation society.  Restoration was delayed for some time, while the house continued to decline, partly from squatters, and finally undertaken from 1998 through 2003, and most of the grounds outside the moat system is now a public park.

This visit culminated a long held wish last Sunday to truly see this magnificent place, top to bottom. Invited by the current owner, Mr. Peter Rutten, we toured the main living spaces, the basement, and the attic. Though there are many original elements in the house - the ornate heat stoves, the fireplaces, the cistern pump, even the "orangerie" (a heated winter solarium for growing fruit, one of only two in all of the Netherlands) - there are also many modern conveniences installed, and so but for the organization of the spaces and the volumes, it is not our house anymore, nor should it be. I could look past this. We enjoyed drinks on the terrace.  We talked of the place, the history, and even politics.  I would argue that even that last point had been repeated over the previous centuries, perhaps in this very spot.

The Issel River

I only wish my father could have known about this visit, and even participated, for it was he that had sparked my imagination of the place, recalling his stories of his summers spent in youthful mischief with his twin cousins of the same age.  I will never forget watching him from the safety of the moat bridge, knocking on the front door of this spooky mansion, peering in as best he could, quite certain that a hermit of a relative did not want to answer (in fact, no one was home, for Bertie and her brother Albert were living there at the time, but in only half the house).

The Iron Bridge over the moat

Walking through the woods around Landfort the following morning, the quiet magic of the place revealed itself to me.  The light dappled through the dense towering canopy of trees, some of which could easily have been hide-n-seek spots for Dad.  The meadows twinkling with dew in the low sun, rippled with bands of wildflowers, certainly picked to please Tante Bars (my Dad's favorite aunt) with a favor in return.  The location of the bridge embankment across the Issel, marked by rubble and a few towering trees marking the lane on the German side, bombed during World War II and never rebuilt, but no doubt crossed by Dad in his play.  The iron bridge across the moat, certainly a place of medieval games, the foreground defending the "castle" behind. The grotto-like basement or the timbered attic - some timbers as old as the 1600's - easy places to play. Or that iconic pigeon tower, appearing out of the thick waterside growth, brightly reflected in the dark moat.  It was all there, I could see it, hear it, imagine it.  I too, was playing.

The pigeon tower - reconstucted to the original Moorish design

But at the final stop, a small island between the moats, over a small gated bridge, was the family cemetery, with all the resident ancestral Luykens at rest.  Slipping past the gate, I paid my respects, wondering what they were like as people, channeling the spirits of this place, marveling at the quiet of this resting spot, carpeted in moss, protected by dark towering woods - in a word, peaceful.

Dr. Johann Carl Albert Luyken (born Wesel 1785 -  died Landfort 1867)
The anchor likely referring to his world travels as a medicinal botanist