I’m currently out on an art road trip. It only occurred to me, whilst driving to West Wales this morning, that I’ve done this quite a lot over the years, in the name of art. Mostly I do it with my occasional non-collaborative partner, Gordon Dalton (see Northern Valhalla and Everyone Knows this is Nowhere, for example), but this time I’m flying solo.
I don’t think it’s a secret that I’ve been commissioned by Somerset House to make a new work for a show all to do with Magic and its many forms and interpretations, next February. It’s an exciting prospect as I love the way their big, themed, shows always move between disciplines – art, architecture, fashion, archaeology etc. – to arrive at a pretty expansive and intriguing interpretation of whatever the show is about.
I was contacted by them after a RnD project I did last year, aiming to look at one of the stories of The Mabinogi through the Amgueddfa Cymru archaeological collections and experimental folk music. There’s a blog one or two back from here that details all of that. So, off the back of that they asked if there was anything I was interested to develop out of that work, for this show.
Of course there was.
Day 1
So here I sit on a campsite near Arberth/Narberth, with martins swooping just above the grass, at the end of the first day of a 5-day road trip to visit as many sites from the Mabinogi as possible. One of the main things that fascinates about these old folkloric tales is that – unlike most folklore – a lot of the sites in these stories exist in the landscape. There is plenty of ambiguity, of course, but there’s some absolutely nailed-on definites and many very-educated guesses. I had the pleasure of visiting some of these sites through that RnD project last year and was pleasantly surprised how much they informed my understanding of the story (naïve, yes.) To be able to contextualise those scenes, that had previously only existed in my head, into a real landscape really brought them to life and helped them make sense in a way they previously hadn’t been able to.
So, my schedule for the week starts in the West and meanders North, taking in about 20 sites and locations in total.
First stop this morning was Castell Narberth/Narberth Castle (one of two potential sites of Gorsedd Arberth from the stories). In true road trip style, I arrived only to discover that the site is completely gated off due to the dangerously crumbling state of the ruins.
In many ways, this didn’t really phase me. These trips are never about things going the way they’re listed on the itinerary. I’m reminded of the time me and Gordon flew 6000 miles to L.A., then drove about 800 miles to Twin Falls in Idaho, to track down the spot from which Evel Knievel failed to jump Snake River Canyon in 1974. After nearly 7000 miles travelling, we went to tourist information to find out how we access the site only to be told there was no way we could as it was on private land. Celebrating our failure in a bar that night, several Jager-bombs too many into an animated conversation with locals, certain other possibilities for accessing the site were introduced to us…
As it was, a closed Castell Narberth just led me to wander round the outside to see what I could see. One of the things I could see was a very low and clamberable fence along one part of the perimeter of the castle grounds. Judging by the number of empty bottles, cans and vapes I came across, I’d say this fence gets clambered pretty-regularly, whether anyone is prepared to admit it or not.
During my wander, I also found myself going down a footpath into a wooded valley, where I stopped to take some pictures. The quiet of the woods led me to notice quite a loud buzz-cum-hum, like a swarm of something were nearby. I looked up to find dozens of waspy/hornety things just hovering in the air. I don’t actually know what they were, but they were hornety and a bit see-through, and very good at staying completely still in mid-air. It was quite beautiful to spend a moment with them before carrying on my way.
Then, it was off to the Preseli Hills and a walk between Foeldrygarn – an ancient hillfort with three large cairns on top, piled there by Bronze Age inhabitants 3000-4000 years ago – and Carn Menyn, made of the same bluestone as the inner ring of Stonehenge.
Curious sheep kept me company throughout and, at the top of Foeldrygarn, reaching for my camera, I realised I’d lost the lens cap somewhere en route to the top – a route already too far to retrace my footsteps with any realistic hope of finding it.
Resigned to its loss, after some time sitting and looking across the vast landscape from the same spot as those Bronze Age inhabitants 3-4000 years ago, I carried on to Carn Menyn – a pretty straightforward trudge through about a mile of long-grassed and, at times, boggy uplands.
Carn Menyn was similarly dramatic and, again, provided a nice place to rest and drink some of the water I just remembered I’d sensibly brought.
On my walk back towards my car from Carn Menyn, as I was lost in enjoying just how much I was enjoying myself, I stumbled and turned my ankle. I’ve had a dodgy ankle for years – it’s floppy-self has been turned so many times my main running partner has nicknamed me ‘Bankles’ – short for baby ankles. Sometimes this lays me up for days, other times not much at all. It always hurts just as much, but is a lottery as to which it will be (I’ll never forget sitting on the roadside on a site visit to Cambridge, trying desperately not to vomit from the pain after a stumble on a lightly-sloping kerb). I managed the mile walk back to the car, so tomorrow morning will really let me know where we are. The main reason this concerns me – apart from being on the road all week – is that I’m supposed to be finishing this week by doing the Yorkshire 3 Peaks with a group of friends from Nottingham – a marathon-length walk through the North Yorkshire Dales taking in three mountains, over 12 hours. Not ideal.
However, what WAS ideal, was that as I neared the gate to the field, just minutes from my car, a kindly dog walker called after me, “Excuse me, did you lose a lens cap?”
Yes. Yes I did.
This gentleman had found it halfway up Foeldrygarn and picked it up. Seeing me with my camera over my shoulder, he’d joined the dots. Maybe this trip isn’t fated after all…
Then it was off to Pont Cych – a small stone bridge over Afon Cych – before heading to this lovely campsite, where I’m sharing my evening with donkeys, goats, rabbits, alpacas and, of course, the martins.
