The landscape changed as we motored west. Slowly, the gently rolling hills and shallow glens of the Cotswold’s gave way to stony mountains and deep river valleys. We didn't need a sign to tell us that we were entering a different country, but, Y Ddriag Goch (The Welsh Dragon) welcomed us at the border nonetheless.



I was surprised how much different Wales felt than Southern England. The whole scene was rougher, wilder, more forbidding. While still relatively quaint (and certainly no less beautiful) it seemed welsh rivers were just a little swifter, its forests a bit darker, and its people a touch less domesticated than their counterparts in lower England.



We didn’t have much of a plan for Wales. People who have visited the place are always eager to point out how beautiful it is, but, when pressed about specific locations or favorite activities, they aren’t always so helpful. Our guide books seemed to really like Brecon Beacons National Park, so, we decided to start there.

We pulled into a little market town called Crickhowell, just outside the park, about an hour before sunset. Dark clouds were rolling in from the north so we ducked into a B&B called Porthmawr House, praying for a vacancy. Ten minutes later we were watching a storm roll down the face of Crug Hywel from the window of our little room, grateful to be inside.

The rain was over quickly, so we stepped outside hoping to spend the last few minutes of daylight taking in what we could of our new environs. We moved pretty quickly through town, making our way past High Street and onto the football green. On the edge of the green stands the ancient ruins of Crickhowell Castle.


Crickhowell Castle.

A ruin as old as Crickhowell Castle would be a state park or a national monument in the US. Yet, there it stood, next to a playground, scarcely a sidenote to a bloody football field. Sites like this litter the Welsh countryside, standing silent testimony to a long and tumultuous past.

We left Crickhowell Castle, momentarily losing ourselves among the little roads and alleys off High Street, finally emerging near St. Edmunds Church.



St. Edmunds Church was built in the 12th century, and it looks like it. We wandered the yard for a while, snapping photos of gravestones of people with my last name. In truth, our decision to stop in Crickhowell wasn't as random as I make it sound. One of my oldest family lines hails from Powys County, and Crickhowell in particular. These are the graves of my ancestors.

High Street at dusk.

We left St Edmunds for The Bear Hotel at the top of high street. There we enjoyed lamb chops baked in apricot marmalade as the sun set over the black hills.