Everything I Have Always Forgotten (26 page)

We continued along the little disused railway (missing out an annoying loop just upriver from the town) and kept walking until we reached some more government forestation of small pines. On our left rose Moel Hebog at 782 metres and a little further orth was Moel yr Ogof, where there is a cave near the summit in which Owain Glyn Dwr is said to have hidden from the English troops – he had a reputation for disappearing magically whenever necessary and certainly was a survivor. It is known that he lived into his late fifties, no mean feat in those days for a guerrilla fighter, but we could not muster the strength or the enthusiasm to go and visit his cave. By then evening was coming on and we were sufficiently exhausted to call it a day, though with our late start (thanks to oversleeping after Father's curry), we had only covered a dozen miles. Or perhaps our short legs were getting shorter.

So we pitched our little tent near the edge of a forestry project, but far from any habitation, on some poor highland grazing where the sheep were running wild, their owners' marks dyed in their wool until next year's sheering. We cooked up our nondescript fuel of food and collapsed with exhaustion.

XXVI

MERLIN AND OTHER WIZARDS

N
ow, to our right (looking east), the Snowdonia range looked quite different. We were looking at it from the west side, compared with the view from the south, which was so familiar from home. From this side it is far less craggy, less ‘awesome' as eighteenth-century travellers would put it, in fact quite comfortably rounded, its great slopes mostly covered in short grass. The far more dramatic view, the view to which I was so accustomed was of a vast cirque of cliffs, a far more ominous and unwelcoming sight – though also, by far and away, the most exciting. Now we were in a much quieter, more domesticated landscape of great rolling hills rising to unspectacular round summits of 600 metres (1,800 feet).

We awoke early and after some hot chocolate, white bread (all that was available at the time) and jam, we struck camp and started out again. We had a brief argument as to which way was the best to go west from here. Due west was the great round lump of the Mynydds, Mynydd Crib Goch and Mynydd Tal-y-Mignedd, rising to just over 600 metres and 6½ miles long north to south, with hardly a rock to be seen. They really didn't count as ‘mountains' to us and anyway, the ups and downs of our last two days' walk carrying packs, had been quite hard enough. The only question was whether to go around them to the south or to the north. I forgot who proposed which, but in the end, we decided it looked more interesting to the north, with its lakes and sparse population.

First we had to walk north past the Mynydds and then we could cut west through a pass. On this third day, time started to melt à la Salvador Dali or as it does on a long ocean crossing. We trudged much of the time with our heads down. The elation of setting out was wearing thin. Our feet hurt, as did our legs, despite being in good training. No doubt we were starting to stink, for the weather kept hot and we sweated profusely. Clothes-washing was not on our agenda. Most of the time I washed my own clothes by hand at home, but it probably took some adult or sibling prodding to do so. They were not around so we ignored our smells. We were probably not even aware of them.

All along our way, there had been markings on the Ordnance Survey maps we carried for ‘Burial Mound', ‘Stone Circle', ‘Camp' or ‘Settlement'. None of them had been excavated at the time, so we knew there was nothing to see, except perhaps one or two standing stones, the rest flat on the ground, or for burial mounds and settlements, there would just be a few lumps, covered in grass. Really not ‘worth the detour' as the
Guide Michelin
would put it.

I do remember visiting one small archaeological dig in the mountains. I believe I was about ten at the time, but the experience marked me enough to write (at thirteen) my first published work: an article about the myth and the supporting archaeology. It was led by an old family friend called Wilfred Hemp. He generously showed me around, explaining techniques and theories as if I were an adult colleague. The site was the very top of a small, steep hill, a huge rock covered in trees and grass that jutted up in the middle of a deep valley. Legend had it that a British king called Vortigern decided to build a small fortress on the top of this rock, so as to control all traffic through the valley. Each day, his men laid foundations, but by morning they were gone. After several frustrating days like this, he consulted a local sage and was told that there was a curse on the hill and that the only solution was to go to the city of Caernarfon, find an orphan boy and sacrifice the child on the site, spreading his blood liberally on the ground. That, he was assured, would cure the curse.

The king went to Caernarfon himself to find an orphan. He had no trouble doing so amongst the many street urchins running around. He grabbed a likely candidate and brought him back to the building site. Once there, he called the sage to perform the rite and he duly arrived, sharpened knife in hand. All of a sudden, the little boy seemed to change. In a voice of authority, he asked the king why he was being sacrificed. When the king explained the situation, the little boy scoffed at him, saying that his information was false. “The problem,” said the little boy, “is that there are two dragons under your building site which are eating your foundations every night. Killing me will not help you one whit. What you need to do is to dig up the dragons, slay them and then you may build your castle in peace.” He sounded so convincing that the king had his men dig up the dragons, slew them with his own sword and turned to thank the little boy and to allow him to go back to Caernarfon.

But the urchin was no longer a child, he was the young Wizard Merlin or MyrddinWyllt or also Myrddin Emrys, and he turned to the king saying: “No thank you. This is indeed a fine site and I shall be building my own fort here…” and with a magic wave, the king and his cohorts scattered. Merlin built his own fortress.

From the viewpoint of the builder, the top of a great rock hill should have provided a perfectly sound foundation for a building. What the king did not know, was that many hundreds, perhaps thousands of years before, during the bronze age, some tribe or family group built a large communal hut on top of the hill. The walls were of stone with perhaps mud in between the stones. A rough wooden frame of branches covered with reeds provided a roof with a hole in the middle to let out the smoke. They appeared to have lived there for some time, given the quantity of stone and bronze implements found and the smoke-blackened (but not burned) thatch, but then it was abandoned, probably because of disease or attacks from other tribes. The roof fell in, rotted and the walls (now lined with rotted thatch as well as the mud ‘mortar') formed a waterproof cistern or pond. Gradually the pond silted up and ‘miraculously' there was a small soft bog right on top of a rocky hill.

The princely builder had no reason to suspect such soft ground, but each time his men laid foundations, they sank into the marshy earth. Thus, the archaeological dig found four layers of foundations laid one upon the other. By then, the foundations had sunk to the bottom of the bog and were stable, which was when the young Merlin was brought on the scene, coincidentally when building could indeed continue successfully. Thus the dig justified the legend, if you accept dragons and wizards as a little poetic licence.

So, unless the sites were excavated, and there are so many of them in Britain it would be an impossible task, there is nothing much to look at. Indeed, in the middle of the city of Chester, you may visit the remains of some Roman baths some two thousand years old. You go into a small fish and chips joint with orange formica tables and moulded plastic chairs, you ask politely for ‘The Baths' and a waitress will cheerfully point out a door in the side of the kitchen. As you go through the door, someone may call out: “Watch your head, mate!” The steep steps lead down to a small part of the once opulent Roman baths below the city. So Life goes on.

We continued up the disused slate railway track for a while, then started to work our way west, to the left, on a small path which led up through the Beddgelert woods. We passed to the west of Llyn-y-Gader, a large, cold, very deep lake where we stopped to rest and perhaps wash our faces (but certainly not behind our ears). Then we continued on through the pass between the Mynydd hills, leaving Mynydd Mawr on the right. Now we were on a single-track road, but there was no traffic and we made good progress reaching Nantlle in the afternoon, before the shops closed so we could buy more cans of baked beans and sausages.

It was hot and the sun was bright. We were coming into calmer, flatter, more domesticated countryside. We cut across country for a while, missing Tal-y-sarn to the north and following footpaths as best we could. Nowadays, there are many more designated footpaths, but then landlords were still holding out with their enclosures, complaining that hikers left gates open so their sheep could escape, besides dropping litter and trampling crops – all bad habits that I had been strictly trained to avoid. The hours melded together and the days became confused as well. From our camp just north of Beddgelert we walked until we saw the sea again, a new sea this time, Caernarfon Bay, with the Irish Sea beyond, but the same salt water that sparkles in the distance on a sunny day. We were looking out across flat farmland and could see the solid square tower of St Beuno's Church in Clynnog Fawr in the distance, not far from the scintillating sea. Tomorrow, we would start to trace the steps of the saints in earnest.

To our left, rose another of these round ‘lumps' of hills that we disdained for their lack of crags to climb – Bwlch Mawr. Alan made some remark about ‘Big Boobs', but if indeed that was what they were, they'd have been silicone ones to be that steep. We were still too young for such anatomical knowledge.

We found a small woodland and by skirting it, decided on a suitable place to pitch our tent, out of sight of anyone. We could have gone to ask a farmer for permission to camp, but I knew that he might refuse and anyway, we preferred to do our own thing. It seemed more private to camp where we wished: out of sight, out of the minds of others. If they didn't see us, they wouldn't be worrying about us setting fires or dropping litter. So, out of sight, out of mind, it was. The next day, there would be some flattened grass where our tent had been pitched and by the end of the day, the grass would be upright once more. Back to that government minister who told me the purpose of public schools was to teach us how to get away with misdeeds without being caught. We were already working on it.

In the morning, we walked down towards the village, a sleepy little place with little over a hundred inhabitants. On the way, we admired the view of the ocean beyond, sandy coves and fiercely jagged points. The Church of Clynnog (where Saint Beuno was buried) is surprisingly large for such a small village, but then the village was not always so small.

In those days, church doors were left open (even if their silver and vestments were locked away). I remember the cool calm inside the church. I remember the great plain round Romanesque arches that flanked the nave – or could they have been Norman arches, I wonder, with points at the top? Now I am no longer sure. It was all a long time ago and even then, I must have only recently learned to distinguish between the different styles of architecture. I remember the unembellished simplicity of an early church. I have not been back there since. The monastery was founded by St Beuno in the seventh century and subsequently sacked by both Vikings and Normans, so the present church dates from the fifteenth and early sixteenth century. Remains have been found of the original monastery of the seventh century. Inside the church is a large chest with lid, made from a single piece of ash wood, for the collection of alms from pilgrims – the padlock on it dates from about 1600. The chest itself a few hundred years older. I insisted that as pilgrims, from now on, we had to give alms, but Alan said he'd rather spend it on chocolate. I put in a twelve-sided thruppeny piece and I think Alan came up with a tiny farthing (1/4 of a penny) with a perky little wren on the back.

In the tiny village, with its dry stone walls of huge round boulders, there was a small store-cum-post office. Outside stood a bright red public telephone cabin. Was there a hint of homesickness in that memory? I had no one to call. Father had no phone in the old mountain house and I knew not where Mother was. As for Alan, he laughed at my suggestion that he call his Dad in London ‘reverse charges'. I seem to remember him saying something about his father “Having better things to do than be bothered by his pip-squeak son”. We bought some more baked beans and white bread and perhaps a few eggs. There were slim pickings in those remote village stores that now no longer exist at all.

It was very hot and we were getting more grumpy with each other. Saint Beuno had failed to imbue us with his grace. Alan suggested we spend the day swimming at a beach and then walk ‘all night', following a small road. So we walked on a while past pebble beaches and found a cove with a sandy beach instead. That looked more accommodating to us and we dropped our packs and our clothes.

Pickled in salt and still groggy from an afternoon nap, we had a meal and set off along the rocky coast, into the lowering sun. We passed south of another big round hill, Yr Eifl, which has an Iron Age fort on it, that has even been compared to Machu Picchu, but we were not inclined to make any detours for history – we had a task at hand, a goal to reach, a pilgrimage to accomplish. I have since been to Machu Picchu and was disappointed by the ruins – they were no more dramatic than the ruins of workers' cottages by abandoned Welsh mines.

Not a single vehicle passed us on the road as we walked and walked. At least it was cooler now and we were further relieved when the sun actually set. What we had not bargained for was the lack of moon. It must have risen much later than the night I had salvaged the
‘
Flying Dutchman
'
. It was pitch black, though we could divine the road by the huge looming shadows of the dry stone walls on either side. From time to time we would come to a crossroads and have to consult our map by the failing light of our small flashlight. Trying to see the road signs was even harder and once or twice, Alan hoisted me on his shoulders so that I could feel the raised letters of the cast-iron road signs. As I dictated the double ‘L's and ‘Y's and double ‘D's, Alan cursed the Welsh language until he dropped me from his shoulders, exhausted. By then, he'd had enough of names like: Tyddyn Uchaf, Garnfadryn, Llaniestyn and Meyllteyrn.