Back on the Wandering Path

Julia has found this blog post to be more creatively challenging to begin writing than most, and her being the word master and Colby the editor we decided for a somewhat different style for this post. This two week chunk has not had a central theme or activity but rather was three general parts: five nights camping on the Welsh coastline, four nights at an intentional community in Wales called Brithdir Mawr, and five nights at a Quaker community in central England. Although we experienced lots of wonderful and impactful moments in these two weeks, they haven’t been epic sagas eager to be put in writing. So below you will find a window into the psyche of Julia as she shares some of the trials and triumphs of our time in Wales and beyond.

Back on the Ocean

You will find me wherever there are blackberries. Here I am, soaking up the bright morning sunlight as I reach to pluck berries from the tangle of bushes that border the Wales Coastal Path. This morning marks the third day since we left Redfield; to my disheartenment it took us the better part of two tiresome days in transit to get to our campground here in St Davids, Wales. But now we have arrived and the day is radiantly beautiful. Absorbing the scene around me, I can see why Redfielders recommended that we come to the Pembrokeshire Coast. Far below, waves swell and splash onto dramatic rocky cliffs. The winding coastline forms an endless series of coves and bays. Overhead soar flocks of crow-like birds called choughs, spinning and turning in the wind. With the radiant sunshine overhead and millions and millions of blackberries at my fingertips, I am filled with a sweet reminder of life’s benevolence.

After I eat my fill of blackberries, I am eager to begin walking. The Wales Coastal Path passes just a stone’s throw from the door of our tent and squiggles for dozens of miles right along the coastal cliffs. We decide to split up for the morning; I’ll hike the curvy 9 mile route up to Whitesands Beach, while Colby will come a few hours later via the shortcut through town. We’ll meet at the beach and hike back together along the coastal path. I pack a day bag and set off down the coast, the sunny morning infusing my footsteps with energy. The water is blue and bright, and I relish the taste of sweat on my lips in the warm day. Settling into the rhythm of walking fills me with a feeling of peace, a welcome relief from the bleakness that has shaken me the past few days since we left Redfield.

After all the friendships and comforts of life at Redfield, it was really hard to get back into the challenges and uprooted feeling of being on the road. As we transitioned to our time in Wales, I had been hit with the realization that I had absolutely no appetite left for any of the challenges that travel presents. Everything seemed too much to handle: waiting around in uninspiring transit stations, spending long hours on buses and trains feeling motion sick, navigating an endless series of unfamiliar grocery stores, figuring out where to stay, what bus to catch, fighting with the wind and rain to set up the tent, trying to sleep over the loud flapping of the rain fly, crouching by the camp stove to cook in the wind, trying to keep our piles of gear from getting damp and stinky and disorganized, and on top of that trying to figure out which engaging activities to do to make all the effort of getting there actually worth it. I tried to remind myself of the valuable insights of Zen wisdom: Desire leads to suffering... Peace comes from accepting things as they are… Be present in any situation… But to no avail, as I continued to feel incapable of doing anything but crying. I was sick of every task being difficult, sick of the stress of making decisions that in hindsight always seemed to be the wrong ones. Moreover, I was tired of how boring everything felt. And how expensive. And how hard. A feeling of gloom settled in. What was all this effort for?

I began to question my faith in the value of our travels. I couldn’t shake the feeling that for all the cool things we have seen, we haven’t been deeply moved at our core by profound experiences. Intellectually I know this is not at all true, but in the low moments it felt to me like not enough has come of traveling to outweigh all the pains that go along with it. I desperately and painfully wanted traveling to be more inspiring, fun, easy, pleasant, beautiful, exciting, and joyful. Not all this work and discomfort and stress. Not all these damp hours in the tent trying to buy bus tickets on our phones and dreading going outside to cook dinner in a largely deserted grassy field. Where were all the stimulating cultural exchanges? The dazzling discoveries? The sensory delights?

Although the memorable moments of travel fill our blog posts, the bulk of our traveling life is actually far more mundane with many hours devoted to planning, details, and basic daily chores. Always at the back of my head nags the question: Do the 10% amazing moments justify the 90% mundane? They must, I tried to tell myself, and that’s life, whether or not you are traveling. In fact, we have far more free time traveling than we probably would otherwise. I think I just have to adjust my expectations of what makes life “worth the pain” – that is, to find a way for joyful moments to sustain my spirit through less inspiring times, and to simply learn to see the special moments hidden among the mundane.

As I looked inward during these rough few days I realized that I felt entitled to being provided for, and was frustrated that life wasn’t delivering things to me on a golden platter. I also grew ashamed and frustrated with myself for my self-absorption in the constant feelings of “poor me, everything is so hard.” Can’t you wake up and appreciate the mountain of blessings you have, ones that only a small fraction of the people in the world are lucky enough to enjoy?

I am healthy, I am free, I am in a peaceful and beautiful place, I have plenty of good food to eat, a comfortable place to sleep, the luxury to travel, and a wonderful partner to share these experiences with. This should be more than enough grounds for joy. Instead, I’m always desperately trying to maximize what I get out of every moment. This wears me down with constant regrets about all the ways we might in hindsight have done things better and gotten “more” from an experience. This tendency also creates stress when it comes time to make decisions about the future. I dread the feeling of having made the wrong decision, and agonize endlessly about which option will be the most ideal for maximizing future enjoyment and minimizing any downsides. Somehow the decisions never seem to turn out perfectly right!

Although I continue to struggle with all these things, I’ve been trying to nurture within myself an ability to appreciate whatever an experience has to offer, to embrace rather than resent the challenges and mundanity of life, and to not get so bent out of shape when I perceive situations to be less than ideal. Seeing the good in things is all a mindset, one that I am trying to open myself up to.

And despite my doubts, we nevertheless experienced in St David’s plenty of the moments that made it all “worth it.” My favorite was sitting with Colby on our hike back from Whitesands Bay and peering down at a family of about eight seals resting on the pebbly ground of a tidal cove. When one of them would decide to move around, it was no small feat. Inch by inch they would translocate hundreds of pounds of blubber across the pebbles, propelled by sheer determination rather than any help from arms or legs. In the water, by contrast, they were purely graceful. We watched seals come and go from the cove, their blimp-like bodies gliding and bobbing in the in the clear shallows. We gazed at each other with mutual curiosity, the seals’ eyes revealing their pure, clear intelligence. A mother seal nursing a little white pup held us in her eye contact, keenly aware of our presence. Every once in awhile the seals in the cove would issue a series of haunting bellows and barks and hollers, making us wonder what knowledge and emotions these amazing creatures carry.

Besides the natural world, we also enjoyed exploring the town of St David’s. It was a bit on the touristy side but still had plenty of history to offer. Although we often glaze over at “just another cathedral,” the elaborate St Davids Cathedral really did wow us. While some of the other churches we saw in Europe were almost gaggingly glitzy, the St Davids Cathedral had more of a down-to-earth majesty. With its rough stone walls, elegant natural woodwork, and ceilings painted with geometrical designs and natural beings (including dragons), it felt more rooted in the character of the natural landscape and culture that built it. The cathedral has been iconic ever since it was built in the 1200s – at one point, two pilgrimages to St Davids were considered equal to one Roman pilgrimage. We liked the church so much, we even came back for the evensong service and listened to the choral voices echo timelessly up to the ceiling. The music was beautiful, but our slight discomfort with the top-down structure of the Catholic service reinforced our appreciation for more simple, personal, and direct forms of worship.

Next door to the cathedral, the ruins of the bishop’s palace were just as fascinating, especially with a tour guide who brought the stories of the place to life with her 30 years of experience. When it was constructed in the 1300s, there was no separation of church and state, and in addition to being a religious figure the bishop was also the local head of government and military leader. The palace was built to reflect this power and impress everyone with its lavish riches. The decorative stone archways were covered with opulent purple and white checkerboard stonework. Although we often think of medieval buildings as being stony and cold, our tour guide described how these palaces were actually decked out with garishly colorful walls and elaborate tapestries. We also learned about the carved stone figurines lining the top of the walls. The carvings on the exterior walls are of wild animals, while the carvings on the interior walls depict human faces and domesticated animals. This reflects the mindset of turning away from the wild savagery of nature and seeking comfort in the protection of civilization. We were curious: who are the human faces depicted in these sculptures? Rather than depicting particular saints or notable people, as far as any research has found they are simply faces dreamed up by the stonemasons who spent their winters carving them. Our tour guide mused: perhaps they are the family or friends of the stonemasons, ordinary 14th century people frozen in time, looking out endlessly at the Welsh countryside as the walls slowly crumble around them.

Another window into the past came from a story our tour guide told. A few years ago, a little piece of silver fell onto the ground, and a curious visitor picked it up and brought it to her. It turned out to be a gambling piece from the 1300s which had fallen into the mortar (perhaps when the stonemasons were entertaining themselves on break) and had slowly became dislodged as the mortar wore away over the centuries. What little accidental mementos of our time might reveal themselves to people 700 years in the future? The lives of long ago people can often feel like a far off dream, but with our tour guide illustrating daily life within these stone ruins, we could imagine the place being alive.

Brithdir Mawr

I lean on the windowsill of our third-floor room and gaze out at the Welsh countryside, delighting in the mild autumn breeze on my face and the soothing smell of wood smoke in the pure air. This windowsill becomes one of my favorite spots during our five day stay with the Brithdir Mawr community. From up here we can look out at the magical Welsh landscape, a patchwork quilt of lush green forests and fields nourished by the frequent mists that roll in from the sea.

To continue our UK theme of exploring communities, we decided to spend a few nights here at Brithdir Mawr, an intentional community of about 20 people centered on living an ecologically sound lifestyle. Although they host WWOOFers, they hadn’t made it onto our short list back in July when we were arranging our stays. When we were looking for a dry place to stay in Wales, we were excited to stumble upon them on Airbnb instead! Although we didn’t get to interact with the community to the same depth that WWOOFing allows, we were still happy to get a glimpse of life here. Each community we visit plants another seed in our mind of what living in community might look and feel like.

It was fun to absorb the comings and goings of Brithdir Mawr: chatting with a long term member as he milked the goats, watching a woman butcher a duck in the scullery (a little side kitchen), and observing the making of rose hip wine in the kitchen. We heeded the call of nature in their compost loo, learned about the workings of their off-grid electrical system, and in general talked with members about their desire to experiment with a more beneficial way for humans to live on the planet. Based on reading Brithdir Mawr’s WWOOF host profile, we had gotten some vibes that it might be a bit more puritanical in its environmental ethos. However, we were pleasantly proven wrong. They strive to live according to their ideals, and at the same time emanate an energy of warmth, laughter, love, and positivity. Brithdir Mawr did have a slightly more “alternative” or “hippy” taste than Redfield. It also had the feeling of being more in a state of flux, as their recent high turnover meant that only two of the 18 or so current members have lived there for more than a couple years. Although we weren’t sure if Brithdir Mawr would be the right fit for ourselves, it was nevertheless a welcoming, inspiring, and lovely community.

Spending time at Brithdir Mawr made me realize what a gift it would be to live in a place so full of serenity and natural beauty that you are perfectly content to be right where you are. No nagging feeling of needing to go seek out better places in which to enjoy your free time. Something deep inside me felt like it could fully relax here. It was wonderfully dark at night, and wonderfully quiet. No traffic noise, only the occasional bellowing of cows. As I did yoga underneath the skylight, listened our dorm mate quietly strumming his guitar in the background, and sat down with plenty of time to read, I felt that life was good. Of course, I realize that life won’t always be this pleasantly undemanding, nor would I want it to be, but for now I just let myself enjoy what we have.

With such a beautiful and peaceful environment right outside our doorstep, we didn’t feel much need to venture out on faraway adventures. Instead, we enjoyed short meanders around the nearby fields, forests, and country lanes. For some reason almost all the roads in Wales are closely bordered on either side by about eight foot tall stone walls completely overgrown in greenery. This forms magical green tunnels that are fun to walk through, although they are loaded with endless distractions for Julia (hint: the culprits grow on thorny brambles). The roads, however, don’t waste an inch of space on shoulders and are decidedly thrilling when you’re on a bus with a driver trying to make up for lost time.

Anyway, on our walks we enjoyed connecting with the local animals in their green pastures: we patted the docile horses, Colby gave a whistling serenade to a herd of cows who gathered to listen with utmost attention, and we delighted at the long dangling tails of the Welsh sheep (we are used to the look of clipped nubbins). Finally, as we walked through the ancient, mossy Ty Canol oak woodland we gave a nod to the gnomes we knew must be hiding somewhere in its rocky crevices. We hadn’t seen gnome habitat this good since the mossy volcanic rock hummocks of Iceland.

One local outing of special note was our visit to Mini Stonehenge. Okay, it wasn’t really Stonehenge but we definitely preferred it to fighting the tourists. This monument, called Pentre Ifan, was erected about 5,500 years ago as part of a burial chamber. The slab of stone on top, somehow balanced on the pointy tips of the vertical stones, weighs an incredible 16 tons. How did they do it? Why? We thought back to the St Davids Cathedral. Although the medieval cathedral and the Neolithic stone structure are on the surface very different, the same impulse underlies them both: humans constructing awe-inspiring monuments in the face of death and all the big questions death forces us to consider. Perhaps these monuments are an attempt to connect with a greater spirit by reflecting in them a little bit of the awe-inspiring, impossible grandeur of the universe.

Another cool note was that the “bluestones”, the smaller stones of the real Stonehenge, were actually quarried right here in these hills and then somehow transported 150 miles to their current site in England using the technology and manpower of 3500 BC. Up the lane from Brithdir Mawr is a family run microbrewery called “Bluestone” as a nod to this history. I walked up there one afternoon to check it out, and the daughter showed me around the small operation on their family farm. As our last night at Brithdir Mawr fell, we sat outside under the marquee sipping our Bluestone beer while our rice and beans simmered on the camp stove, thinking about all the history in the hills around us.

Carn Ingli mountain is another part of this history. The mountain rises up behind Brithdir Mawr, its gentle slopes cloaked in myths and legends as well as the ruined walls of an Iron Age fort. When our final morning at Brithdir Mawr dawned clear, I took the rare lack of misty shroud as a signal I should go climb it. As I stood at the top enjoying the view out to the blue ocean and surveying the artistic rhythm of green polygons covering the countryside, I thought back on our time in Wales. First, we had enjoyed learning about Wales’ unique history, culture, and especially its language, which is very much alive and well. Road signs are in Welsh first, English second. The language is baffling. Case in point: a funky little hole-in-the-wall bakery we found in the town of Fishguard had the name Ffwrn, five letters undiluted by those useless things called vowels. The cafe’s name was a mouthful, but our mouthfuls of traditional Welsh lamb cawl soup and pork pastry were delicious (both made from animals the cafe owner said he personally knew. Okay, almost… they were from a local farm). Second, we also enjoyed learning about the history of Wales, with the historic lime kilns that we saw in almost every little bay recalling its industrial history. Finally, we connected with the unique energy of Wales: mystical, ancient, and rooted in nature.

Of course it wasn’t all this way, as there were also plenty of less scenic things such as holiday parks colonizing the coastline, endless nasty grids of identical trailers on monoculture grass. There is also the trend of rich people buying up fancy vacation homes around the area. One local man we talked with described how this whole region of coastline is turning into a holiday destination for tourists. We continue to marvel: how can so many places be so touristy? It seems like it is a trend all around the world, places losing their original character as hotels and gift shops and every kind of money making opportunity pops up. Of course, we are tourists ourselves and not blameless. But during our travels we have really enjoyed how much time we’ve been able to spend away from all the areas “done up” for tourists. At our WWOOF farms in particular we have appreciated getting far, far off the beaten path and just experiencing the normal daily life of an area.

Finding Friends

The simple room is full of peace. Everyone sits in a circle of chairs, mostly with our eyes closed, breathing quietly. A vase of garden flowers sits on the coffee table, and outside the chilly autumn wind begins to scatter leaves from the trees. The big rolling hills of England’s Peak District cradle us in their folds. We are at Bamford Quaker Community, participating in their meeting for worship which takes place every morning and evening. Our individual experiences of this half hour period might take the flavor of contemplation, meditation, worship, reflection, or something else entirely, but what we share is the intention of opening ourselves to connection with the spirit. As we sit in silence, sometimes I think I can feel this connection, but at other times I get a bit frustrated at all the very un-profound thoughts colonizing my head: “what shall we make for lunch?” or “how is our trip budget doing?” or “shoot, I forgot to turn off my wake up alarm and now it has disturbed Colby’s sleep!” A lot of times I wish I could have a less petty mental dialogue and instead experience Quaker worship on a deeper level.

Nevertheless, the two of us really enjoyed how centering and spiritually nourishing the daily rhythm of meeting for worship was. It gave us a time to emotionally digest experiences, get in touch with ourselves and the other people around us, and simply slow down and be more present in life. It was helpful to have set times (8:00 am and 8:30 pm) and also motivating to have a community to share this experience with. Although we won’t always have worship so easily accessible, our experience at Bamford reminded us that we should really make a time and space for such silent reflection in our own daily lives.

In addition to meeting for worship, another joy of our time at Bamford was getting to know the residents and other visitors. Quakers are by and large really Friendly people! We connected on a personal level with our hosts during many enlightening  conversations, often over tea in the kitchen. Staying here was definitely a little splurge we treated ourselves to, but the warm and welcoming space helped renew our spirits. We relished spreading out in the lounge with its high ceiling and big windows, browsing the towering bookshelves, meandering around the gardens in their wild beauty, picking herbs and salad greens, and cooking our meals in the beautiful community kitchen (finally not a one pot camp stove!). But most of all, it was the hospitality of the Bamford community that filled us with warm fuzzies.

Staying at Bamford also allowed us to sample yet another intentional community. Although Bamford began in the 1980’s as a housing cooperative and community similar to Redfield or Brithdir Mawr (although obviously with religion as a uniting factor), it has a different focus today. With the population gradually declining over time, about seven years ago they decided to reinvent themselves as a retreat and workshop center with about a dozen people living in community to help run these functions. With an older average age and a different focus, Bamford had a quieter energy than the other communities we’ve visited, but one just as warm, positive, and vital. Also unlike the other communities, most Bamford members have their own kitchens, so they don’t regularly eat communal meals except during special events. Despite this, there were often at least a couple people coming or going from the main kitchen area, which again felt like a central hub for community social life. Bamford also has the twice-daily meeting for worship where the community comes together. After seeing how important shared meals were to the closeness and unity of Redfield and Brithdir Mawr, however, we realized that if we lived in a community we would definitely like to have more frequent shared meals.

Soon the morning came to say farewell to the Bamford community and head towards our next adventure. As we said goodbye to our hosts who had shown such care for us, we were glad to have more warm connections to look forward to. Later that day, we would be meeting up with Colby’s parents and grandma who were coming to join us for some adventures in western Scotland!