A Diversion into the Black Mountains

Perhaps the different kinds of memory were different regions of the mind.
At his books and maps in the library, … there was a common history
which reconstituted memory, a cast of mind which could be translated anywhere,
in a community of evidence and rational inquiry. Yet he had only to move on the mountains
for a different mind to assert itself: stubbornly native and local,
yet reaching beyond to a wider common flow,
where touch and breath replaced record and analysis:
not history as narrative but stories as lives.

— Raymond Williams, People of the Black Mountains, vol. 1: The Beginning (1989)

On the basis of 35 miles in three days, I don’t suppose I was too far off the mark. I wasn’t setting any records, but I hadn’t meant to, either. What was important just now was rhythm – as in finding one. The mighty Severn Estuary and the bustle of Newport were well and gratefully behind me. The rumpled, sleep-tossed blanket of Middle Wales had welcomed me into its folds for the next 200 miles or so. I should have been elated at this point. I wasn’t.

But I’d been expecting as much. That’s why I hiked uphill to Crickhowell [Crug Hywel] once I reached Llangattock [Llangatwg] last night. I’d been here before – several times, in fact – and the mild thrill of recognition was a welcome if imperfect antidote to the crestfall I began experiencing after three brilliant days of walking. It’s always the same: for three days, sometimes four, there’s just enough emotional fuel to launch an ambitious enterprise into new, unfamiliar terrain. Then, the booster rockets deplete and drop away, and forward momentum sags momentarily until the stage-two engines ignite and restore a proper trajectory. But that miniscule delay before momentum is restored is the opportunity The Great Dread Demon has been waiting for to infiltrate pangs of doubt into best-laid plans. That’s when his gremlin henchmen pop up by the trailside like toadstools to confuse directions, misplace way-markers and generally play havoc with otherwise pristine itineraries. For a moment – but only just – the fear of getting inextricably lost overwhelms every fond anticipation. And then, with the reappearance of something, anything the least bit familiar, the pangs pass, anxieties unclench and confidence is restored. ...

[download entire sample chapter (.pdf; 9.1 mb)]

© 2009 Marc K. Stengel

All rights reserved