24-27 September 2005
The Silence Within
The sense of sound is always deep. It strikes a chord within and the soul responds. The sense of sight, on the other hand, is only for pleasure. It is too easily distracted and revels in the beauty that confronts the eye without much introspection in the process.
I arrived today at the National Park a little after noon. The weather was brilliant. I decided to walk from Nant Peris up a sloping valley to Elidir Fawr. The view of the valley towards Nant Peris will always be remembered but the most captivating experience was something else. This valley is inundated by numerous streams. They are often not easily seen and the first sign of their presence is a gurgling sound from beneath the feet and among the swaying reeds. Sometimes they are seen in glimpses. They disappear underground only to reappear few feet down the slope. With mountains all around and only the sound of the streams it is easy to lose oneself in time and space. One will even forget one’s quiet breathing to listen intently to the streams’ flows. Sitting down to meditate on the sound does not help. The grass and tall reeds muffle the sound. One has to listen standing up.
There is life and soul in the stream. It is not mere matter. Every particle and crystal clear drop is in conversation with everything else: the mountains, the grass, the wind, the pebbles and the sheep. But theirs is not a futile existence. It is not their intent to wait and linger. They move on. There is no idle moment. Their sole goal and pursuit is to reach the sea. All their energies are channelled towards attaining this only reason of their lives.
On Sheep
In general I have had the opinion that sheep are stupid. They make wool by a natural process. Otherwise they are good for nothing, spending entire lives munching on grass and little else. It takes a closer observation to understand them better. They do have some skill and even intelligence. (Intelligence is bestowed by nature to each and every creature in due proportion as befits each one’s needs. Such intelligence is duly employed when called for in situations. The exception is the human mind. It presumes more than it possesses. It creates luxuries and calls them necessities. It works beyond its destined limits and justifies its actions by distorted logic.)
The first incident involved a farmer and two sheep dogs trying to drive a single sheep from the mountain slopes back to the farm. The dogs were tired running up and down the slopes but could still not corner the sheep. It would run down the slope and then hide behind a rock. The dogs had to work hard to seek it out again. Then the sheep would run in a different direction foiling all attempts to be driven to its pen. All in all it was a difficult terrain for the dogs. After fifteen minutes of amusing chase no progress was made. The dogs were well-trained but still had much to learn. They knew every command of the farmer. These commands were either as Welsh words, exclamations or whistles. By these, they could be directed up or down the slopes, turn right or left.
The second remarkable phenomenon was to be found on the rocky slopes about the peak of Snowdon. No human would be able to step on these cliff faces. Even expert rock climbers would face a mighty challenge. Here, in the most unlikely and inhospitable places, are sheep. Their mountaineering skills are truly amazing. No ledge, however small, is a barrier. Near-verticals are a customary descent. Verticals are perhaps a challenge but these too are cautiously discharged. But why in the world would they want to get there in the first place? There is only one thing in the minds of sheep. Grass. If the grass is greener on the other side they’ll get there. Even mountains can’t stop them. The reality I suspect is that they are so involved in plucking grass, their eyes forever fixed to the ground, they don’t bother with the bigger landscape. Thus they end up in the most dangerous places unplanned. They will look up only if the grass suddenly ends in their paths.
A First Taste of Mountain Winds
My tent is a single pole tent. This makes it lightweight but stability is compromised. With my tent model it is important to pitch it such that the pole is aligned to the direction of the wind. I estimated this to be SE. Last night I had the first taste of high mountain winds which hits from all directions. When it hits perpendicular to the plane of the pole, say NE, the whole tent shakes. I was half in doubt if the tent would stand these winds but somehow it did. Today morning I noted that the wind had moved the pole by about two inches. So I made some reinforcements so that this wouldn’t happen tonight. On the whole, last night was a night of rain. Such nights are perfect because when the sun rises to a clear day all opportunities are ripe for a splendid walk on the mountains. Today was such a day.
The situation is that I am surrounded by mountains on all sides. Gaps between peaks are perfect for winds to rush through. All pressure that builds up on the other side of the ridge needs to be equalised. One can actually hear the wind coming at night. There is a rumbling from a distance. One is not sure if it is a herd of wild bisons on the move or demons in an exodus from hell. Perhaps it is some fury in the breath of God, for one is not without the other; matter and anti-matter are of the same elements. It takes about five to ten seconds. When the blast hits, the valley shakes – trees, tents, gates, poles, fences, grass and all.
The Walk to Nant Ffrancon
I am on the third day of this holiday. I am sitting in my tent at 10 am and waiting for the weather to turn better. My tent is taking the full brunt of the wind’s wrath. It doesn’t get one minute of rest. I’m already surprised it has not been ripped apart. The mountains to my right were clearly defined yesterday. Today the upper half has disappeared into mist. There’s not going to be much fun walking in this weather, not to mention the dangers involved walking into a mist on a windy day on mountainous terrain.
Except for me, the campsite is empty. The last couple departed few minutes ago. No one seems to be in a mood to walk today. No one but the most experienced of hikers. I am not one of them. As such the plan to climb Tryfan and view the sculpted terrain of Cwm Idwal has to be forgone. Yet a whole day cannot be idled away sitting in the tent. Hearing the wind and waiting with trepidation for the convulsions of the tent makes it much worse. So I shall walk if not climb; I shall tread the valleys if not surmount the peaks; and I shall continue these notes once these are done.
As it was said, so it was done. Thanks to the excellent arrangement of public buses that keep good time it was a breeze getting around in the midst of this relentless gale. The buses connect many places within the National Park. I started at Nant Peris. I was able to get to Capel Curig via Pen Y Pass. From here there is an easy track at about 300m without much change in altitude. Moreover the winds were far weaker than in the valley I had just left behind. By now the rain had picked up to a steady shower but I wasn’t complaining. This was the most suitable option for the day. The rugged rock faces are open and always in sight. No human can walk this stretch without feeling diminutive, without recognizing the monumental forces of nature. Tryfan itself was lost in mist and any glimpse of the paths going up was ominous.
Upon reaching Llyn Ogwen, a beautiful view revealed itself. Yet it was marred by winds so strong that it was at times impossible to walk. With heavy traffic on the A4086 just next to the path it was no doubt a danger that had little room for negligence. Despite such a dreadful weather a most memorable vista of the day made it all worthwhile. From the head of the lake looking towards the valley of Nant Ffrancon, the picture that presents itself is not a warm one. There is no sunshine, no clear skies or far-reaching perspectives. There is rain being blown from left and right. These sprays mingle and swirl. Slowly they drop down to the valley and dissipate their energy. The sheep in the valley, little dots on a windswept green, gather and huddle, unable to make sense of the rumblings beyond the peaks. It is a bleak picture not found in holiday postcards. It is a scene that is not photogenic. Neither does it attract the crowds. But it deserves pause and ponder. It is beauty without adornment. It is the raw energy of nature. It is nature’s dynamism represented in her quintessentially wild disposition. In her behaviour there is no civility and neither is such civility required. Everything in nature explains itself by its presence and activity. Nothing more needs to be said.
More Wind, Some Rain
Second night. Another night of heavy winds that lasted throughout and continued into the morning. This time one of the pegs got uprooted from the ground. One of the supports on the side of the tent collapsed. The tent stood but visibly shaken. I was informed later that winds up to 70 mph had hit the valley. The only way to dissipate this chaotic energy is for it to rain. But the clouds were undecided between keeping and giving. The result was that the third day wasn’t a day for walking.
Third night. Thankfully my last night. By now I am resolved not to camp at the base of a mountain ever again, at least not with this tent. On this night there were more winds with greater force. I made new observations just lying in the tent. Although I could hear the wind coming from a long way out, it sometimes took a different path at the final approach and completely missed the tent. Then it went into a swirl, turned around and hit the tent with a regained purpose that was bent on destruction. The day had been a wet one as mentioned elsewhere. I returned a little after sunset, wet on the outside but dry on the inside. Getting into a dry tent was in itself a challenge. After many good hours of deluge, the rain stopped and so did the wind. Suddenly this eerie calm descended on the valley. Not a leaf moved. The tent sheets were silent. I took this opportunity to cook my dinner and eat it. But this was only a pause of three hours. At midnight, things were starting to stir again. What remained of the night remained sleepless. There was no further rain and the fourth day started worse than the previous one. It was time to pack and leave. The damage had been done. The tent pole was irreversibly bent. The central seam had been ripped apart at a couple of places. The untamed fury of nature had left its mark.
It is not without reason that I have chosen to describe at length my adventures with the wind. In itself it is not rare or unique. Wales must certainly get winds far worse. Let us not even consider the peaks. Personally, I was in a village where help could be easily obtained. I was at a proper campsite. It was not a survival situation. So even if the tent had been blown away there was nothing to worry or fear. Sitting in the tent and hearing the wind howling the whole night, a night shrouded in cold darkness, is some experience. It is in times of such ill comfort and uncertainty that the mind starts to wander in realms of fear. It is at these times that the mind thinks of God. It is for this reason that the noble Queen Kunti prayed to Lord Krishna for great difficulties in life; so that by these she may constantly seek his blessings and be liberated forever from her painful existence.
This trip has been one of personal inquiry. What is my purpose within the works of nature? What are these wild winds that batter so ceaselessly? Perhaps they are a reflection of my own emotions, feelings and relationships. It is romantic to yearn after pastoral beauty and village life but even in this wind and rain the farmer has to go out with his dogs and round the sheep from the mountain slopes. It is no easy life to be a farmer. Against such a setting my life is comfortable indeed. The great difficulties of daily life fade into little nothings. Here I have tasted a little of what Captain Scott and his men must have endured in their expedition to the South Pole.
A Beautiful Moment
There was a beautiful moment today in the bus. I met an elderly couple from Yorkshire who were visiting Wales. They were too old to climb the mountain slopes or even cross farm stiles. Their journeys were different from mine. They enjoyed the views from the comfort of the bus. Their lives were necessarily regulated by the limits of their age. I asked them what their plans were for the rest of the holiday. Their reply was enlightening. They had no plans. They took each day as it came. This is an idea to which we are all familiar but we never give it much thought or put it into action. To hear it from them revealed it in the right perspective.
Bodnant Gardens
Betws-y-Coed is a village some miles east of Mt Snowdon. The mountains that surround it are more like hills. They are lower and fertile. They are covered with conifers. The harshness of the mountains beyond does not extend into this village which has a cosy atmosphere. It is therefore a tourist destination and the presence of many tourist coaches attest to this fact. The crowd is largely elderly. Other than the walks in the forests or woods I was unable to make out what attracts the tourists. My objective was really to take the train to Tal-y-Cafn and then walk to Bodnant Gardens, claimed to be one of the great gardens of Britain. Tal-y-Cafn is so small that I have to request the driver to stop the train. There is only one platform which is shorter than 100m. That the train stopped was in itself a surprise to the signalling officer at the station.
At Bodnant Gardens, the crowd was once more exclusively elderly and some families with children. I could find none of my own generation. Must gardens be an apathy to the youths of today? Must they lose their appeal to the mountains and the forests? Must they fail to interest the hardy, fit and adventurous? Must the restless blood of youth find satisfaction only in conquering achievements and none in leisure? Can not the admiration of nature coexist with the appreciation of gardening?
These gardens were the second to be acquired by the National Trust, the first being Hidcote Manor Garden. While at Hidcote and Sissinghurst, the exuberance of nature is allowed to flourish within a formal layout, Bodnant takes a rival approach. Here the garden is designed from and within the elements of nature. Here is gardening on a large and grand scale. At this time of the year, the famous laburnum arch was a pitiful sight. The rhododendrons were flowerless plants. The camellias showed not their pretty blossoms. The colours were missing. This was a good thing because it enabled me to appreciate better the overall design and layout.
The presence of the mountains is always with us. Where the sight of mountains is lost, the shades of forest canopy, the waterfall and the river flowing through “The Dell” reinforce the concept of making a garden in nature’s own brush strokes. Indeed, I found trees and water to be two principal features of the gardens. The Atlas Cedar and the Lebanese Cedar effectively frame the view towards the mountains through a series of ornamental terraces, ponds and the reflections therein. Every garden must have a tree. Even the Garden of Eden starts with the Tree of Life. To have herbaceous borders, box hedges, ornamental topiary and formal parterres are all well and good for human enjoyment. But a garden must be an extension of nature as well, where a tree grows, for its own sake and nothing more. Thus Bodnant allows those unable to take to the mountains beyond, to sample the same within its ordered chaotic representation of nature.
A Developed Nation
It is my intention to sketch why Britain is a developed nation. To this end I shall make use of some incidents I’ve witnessed in this trip to Wales.
- My first illustration is at the Farnborough Library, even before the trip began. I was looking for an Ordnance Survey map, Landranger 115, covering Snowdon and its environs. All maps had been borrowed. The librarian complied with my requests and checked the nearby libraries of Aldershot and Fleet. The search was in vain. Finally she found one item that had been relegated to the repair section. She went the extra mile to get it out of the repair section so that I could borrow it. I didn’t mind that the map was a little tattered. The librarian was willing to postpone the repair until I had returned it. Here we find an example of exceptional service. Libraries are meant to serve the public and bureaucracy has not lost sight of such a motto simply because the people who run it care.
- On the train from Crewe to Bangor one of my fellow passengers had misplaced his return ticket. He showed the guard the ticket for the onward journey and even volunteered to buy a fresh ticket. The guard let him go. Here we find two things – an honest apology from the passenger and cautious trust from the guard. This is rare in India. People often travel without tickets and trust as this is rarely established.
- I arrived at Tal-y-Cafn by train. From here I had a lovely walk of about thirty minutes to Bodnant Gardens. The prospect of walking back was not inviting simply because I wished to spend more time in the gardens. So I took the bus on the return. I showed the bus driver that I had a train ticket from Tal-y-Cafn to Llandudno Junction and explained the situation. He accepted it without further questions. The fact that both the train and the bus are operated by Arriva Wales must have helped my situation. In any case, willingness on part of the driver to be flexible must be praised.
- On the return journey, one of the trains was delayed by nearly ninety minutes. The delay was no fault of the train company. Someone had trespassed on a railway line. So I was stuck at Coventry at 8 pm with the prospect of a long wait. There were about ten of us waiting at Coventry. Virgin Trains came forward with an alternative. They hired a few taxis. These took us to Leamington Spa. Here I obtained a connecting train almost immediately. Virgin Trains has lived up to its public campaign “Return Of The Train”.
