BY JOHN BETJEMAN T HOUGH the Welsh seem always to be
in holiday trains, they do not appear to me to bathe very much in their sea. In the hot weather this time last week I went to a firm, sandy beach within fifteen miles of Cardiff and had it to myself. A public footpath from the road led down to the shore through a tunnel of wind-slashed ash and sycamore, with a stream tumbling in the combe below. I ran over flat rocks in which huge ammonites were embedded and looked back at the striated cliffs of this Glamorganshire coast which are as weird as those of Dorset. The choppy Bristol Channel was warm to swim in and the rock pools were like hot baths. Next day 1 drove to the lost church of Patriccio (Patrishow) in the Black Mountains—high-banked lanes full of foxgloves and honeysuckle, a deep wooded dell and the church on the further slope' looking over miles of blue elmy valley and with grassy mountains around. Inside there were wall paintings, painted tablets and across the chancel arch one of the richest medixval wooden screens there is. It is all the silvery grey of weathered wood, and two Welsh dragons at either end spurt decoration from their mouths. The stone nave altars survive as does that in the chancel, and there is yet another in a little cell at the west end. The cell has an iron grill in it through which one sees the church. The only sounds were the different notes of bleating sheep, birds and wind in leaves. In the evening light I saw Llanthony Abbey in its lonely valley and went on to Capel-y-ffin, where the strange monastery of Father Ignatius, now a guest house. stands alone beside its ruined church. At the top of the mountains beyond on the lonely road to Hay, a storm broke out and 1 saw patches of sunlight and flashes of fork lightning over miles of mountain to the Brecon Beacons and Mynydd Epynt. Why go abroad? Wales is abroad and wonderful enough.
ATLANTIC HAVEN
My friend Oswell Blakeston, the author, has just returned from St. Helena, that island where the Orient Line calls reluctantly once a month. The scenery is of unsurpassed beauty and variety, a mixture of tropics, Devon and Bourne- mouth. The climate is equable. The houses in Jamestown, the capital, are built of volcanic stone and colour-washed. The pavements are cobbled. Crumbling country houses hang on the sides of hills. There is an undulating nine-hole golf course near Longwood with good greens and fairways. caddies and a club house where you can have tea. The best player is an islander who plays in his bare feet. The people are very poor and their chief diet is bread, margarine and cocoa. 'En pension' terms in the best hotel are £4 a week. The islanders are friendly, welcoming and good, and speak English. The churches are 'high.' 1 have said, 'Why go abroad?' But if I had the guts to uproot myself, I think I would go and live in St. Helena tomorrow.
GRAVESTONE ECONOMICS
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