Llangollen

A recent visit to Llangollen in bright clear sunshine, chasing family stories. I parked in the town centre and tried to recreate foot journeys my mother and the family would have taken forty, fifty years ago. From the railway station I crossed the bridge and left the crowds behind, walking along the A5 and up Birch Hill to the old family house Pen y Bedw. It looks the same as ever, the dark paint still gently peeling, the glass still rippled and hand-blown. A solid, late Georgian house, heavy sash windows and a large front door. It looks to be better cared for than when we were last there a few years ago. The family sold it when Arthur died in 1995 but it is strange the hold, the pull, that old houses have on me. I tried to find a road or footpath to the cemetery on Fron Bache, but I was deflected by a stream and so I walked up from the A5. The road to Plas Newydd was busy but once away from it there was nobody about. I waved at an old woman potting some tomatoes and was goggled at by some young people - it was probably the shears - but apart from that I saw nobody. The cemetery is one of the most peaceful, beautiful places I know, reminding me of Shelley 'it might make one in love with death to be buried in so sweet a place'. I tidied the grave - which was full of dandelions and primulas and tiny yellow and white flowers - and had my lunch watching the clouds on the Velvet Mountains, the patterns of light and shade drifting across the hillsides. Buzzards high above me, crows in abundance, tiny figures climbing Castell Dinas Bran in the sunshine. A soft, gentle day, rare solitude, the richness of everyday history.