Last week, I packed my sandwiches, pulled on my boots and headed into a field somewhere just inside Wales. I was to spend a day mooching around Tintern Abbey.
First, I wanted to see it from up on high so I found a path that would lead to what is known as Devil's Pulpit, an overlooking point from where the devil is alleged to have preached to the monks in the valley below displaying a particularly devil may care attitude, even for Lucifer himself. To get to the viewpoint, I had a journey through several landscapes: a forest heathland, rolling grass fields and ancient woodland. And the best thing was that I didn't see another living soul (save a few birds) for close to an hour on the walk. It was bliss.
I passed through gates, followed the signposts and tramped my route with the sun getting ever stronger in the midday sky. My surroundings were so peaceful and so quiet I even felt slightly unnerved at one point. It's not often that you get to feel such solitude. The unnerving moment passed and I continued on, happy in my temporary, open-air hermitage.
The walk was very much worth the effort. By the time I wondered if I'd taken a wrong path or had missed a sign, the latest copse of trees led me up a slight incline to open up to gap in the undergrowth that looked out over a cliff edge and down into the valley below. I was blessed to share the same view that once belonged to the devil. An actual "wow" escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered in panic to take in all the sights of the winding river, the green hills and the ancient ruins, all framed by nature.
I don't think I've ever before eaten my sandwiches with a better view.
But I couldn't stay there all day. I had other ground to cover.
I retraced my steps across the various terrains. I was soon back down in the valley, ready to explore a little closer. There were slightly more people here that the none I had encountered on my walk, but I was still enjoying the relative isolation.
Sure, I looked around the outside of the abbey. It's very grand and architecturally beautiful. But did I pay to go in and read a lot of signs? No, I did not. I don't think the medieval monks would've wanted me to do that. I read up about the former inhabitants of the site. These Cistercian monks took pledges of austerity and silence. I liked their chutzpah.
They endeared themselves to me further when I discovered their planning requirements: "None of our houses is to be built in cities, in castles or villages; but in places remote from the conversation of men." Amen to that I say. We are often better off without the conversation of men. And when the scenery is as breathtakingly, naturally magnificent as the Wye Valley, what else is left to say?
