The station is on the river level, down in the green depths of the Valley. But you cannot go many yards on level ground, as the hills on either side of the river are steep, with nothing but the narrowest footpath in places, between their precipitous sides and the fast-rushing water. In many cases the cottage-gardens on the hill-side have to be kept up with walls of stone—as one sees the vineyards built up on steep hill-sides in vine-growing districts—otherwise the rains and swollen brooks would wash the earth down, in the winter, into the river below.
The horses start the ascent as soon as they leave the station, and pass through the small village, which shows a curious medley in the way of architecture. In the wall of an old cow-house there is a Gothic window, built probably with stones taken from the ruined Abbey; all the windows of one cottage bear an ecclesiastical stamp. Before the beautiful ruin was carefully guarded as it is now, people must have gone and helped themselves as they pleased to carved stonework and any fragment that they could make use of; and thus you may find an exquisite bit of carved stone in a most ordinary three-roomed dwelling. Some of the cottages and barns may have been part of the Abbey property; at any rate one comes on architectural surprises in the most unexpected places.
But even though in this district man’s handiwork has achieved wondrous things, it is the work of Nature that claims the attention.
The Abbey seems a huge pile when you stand under its roofless walls; but once you start to ascend the hills, everything takes on new proportions. No longer are you shut in by two high green hill-walls, the higher you go the smaller become the hills that are nearest to you, as they reveal far greater giants behind them. The blue Welsh mountains rise up, still further beyond again.
Below, the river winds and loses itself, seeming to come to an abrupt end against a barrier of dark green slopes; but it evidently finds a way out, for it is seen further on in the far distance, a silver, gleaming band, still winding, and still guarded by mountains that now are tinged with the purply-blue tone that Nature uses for her distant effects.
The lanes through which we pass are miracles of loveliness, with their ferns and flowers and birds and butterflies. But I think one’s overwhelming thought is of the grandeur of the distances. One is always looking away to the far-off, to the farms and small homesteads dotted at rare intervals on far heights and among the forests; to the peaks beyond peaks; to the light playing on miles of birch and oak; to the shadowy coombes where hills drop down into other valleys.
I have always noticed, when I am bringing anyone for the first time from the station to my house, that, though I point out the roadside springs and waterfalls, the glory of the hedges, the rose-coloured honeysuckle that grows over one cottage, smothering roof, chimneys and all, the visitors do not expend so much admiration on any of this, it is always the inexplicable mystery of the hills that holds them. Every five minutes takes one higher, and reveals a further panorama. Beautiful as are the lesser things, lovely as is the old ruined Abbey, the human and the near seem to slip away from you as you look across the deep chasm where the river lies below, to the vastness on the other side. There is a power, a force born of great heights and great spaces, that cannot be explained, but is surely felt by all who have not mortgaged their soul to mammon. There was a depth of mystic meaning in the words of the shepherd poet, even in the world’s young days, when he wrote: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”
It takes you about an hour to drive up to the cottage, and by this time the lane has grown so narrow—and so bumpy!—that you marvel the horses have ever got you there at all. But when you have reached the little white gate you stand and look in silence. A new touch is added to the landscape. You are now high enough to look over the tops of some of the intervening hills, and there away beyond, between a dip in the hills, you see a gleaming band of silver, the waters of the Channel.
Some people consider no scenery perfect unless there is a railway in the foreground to take them back to town as soon as possible. Some artists always want a touch of scarlet to complete any picture. Myself, I always think a glimpse of water is needed to make a beautiful view absolutely satisfying. At my cottage I am doubly blessed! I can see the river in the Valley below, and beyond there is the Channel, towards which that river is ever hurrying.
During the drive up, the small white dog with brown ears, sits on the box seat, dividing his time between shrieking Billingsgate insults to every local dog (I blush for his manners. And he looks so refined too!) and licking old Bob’s face. Not that he has any particular affection for our driver, but he gets quite hysterical when he sees the countryside and scents the rabbits; and old Bob is the handiest recipient for his overwhelming gratitude. A few dogs trail after us through the village, telling him—and one another—what they will do when they get hold of him; but they fall back when it comes to the hill; and our own treasure looks triumphantly ahead for new dogs to revile; deluding himself with the idea that he has slain all behind him, and left their corpses in the road! Occasionally he ceases to be a bullying war-dog, and becomes almost human; then he suddenly looks round at us, wags his tail all he knows how, and gives a little whimper that plainly says, “Isn’t it good to be here again!” And we all agree.