HHH chapter 4: A harp without a Harper; water without a well

I left at 8.30am after chatting to Jamie at the Llangollen hostel where I had slept long and soundly. I crossed the bridge over the roaring river. The bridge has currently been expanded, but dates back to the Middle Ages. Llangollen has always been a key crossing of the River Dee.

I found my first harp on this trip… harpists have proven elusive so far. This huge sculpture near the Eisteddfod pavilion celebrates the city’s musical culture.

I joined groups of young people walking up the hill towards the school and slipped under the bridge to join the Llangollen canal, which I followed to Chirk. Walking on the flat, with no decisions about the route and the sun shining through the trees, full of birds singing, made progress easy. I’m sure slow and steady does NOT win any races, but it does get me to my destination…eventually.

walking on air

My route took me to the famous Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, built over 200 years ago, to carry the canal rising over the River Dee. About 170 feet high!

On the towpath side there is a handrail (the canal path is called a towpath because horses originally towed boats…before any kind of motor), but on the boat side the edge is only a few centimeters high. I loved watching the birds fly below me and seeing the river rushing far below.

Another Welsh first!

Many of the narrow canal boats are beautifully painted. They used to work on ships that brought lime or slate from the mountains of Wales to distant towns.

The Cake Boat also had a small window…and sold cakes and drinks. I enjoyed my first serving of Bara Brith on this trip. It is a tea bread, full of fruits and seasoned with cinnamon and nutmeg. Delicious served traditionally, spread with salted butter. A wonderful late breakfast.

Memories, stories, meanings.

I began to reflect a lot on memory along the channel. I visited this area many times with my family when I was young, on visits to the Eisteddfod or for picnics by the river. Happy times. Later, after my first hip replacement, I staggered across the aqueduct on crutches, on a short, joyful trip with my husband. Memories make a lot of who we are. When we can’t remember, as my friend’s mother can no longer remember, we seem to slip away as individuals. We call this dementia or cognitive impairment: people cannot remember themselves and even forget their loved ones. A harsh destiny.

Is there light at the end of every tunnel?

I entered this tunnel by holding onto the handrail, although I soon couldn’t see it in the darkness. I didn’t use my headlamp or phone flashlight, in honor of the engineers and brave workers who built the tunnel, using hand tools and candles or flashlights. It must have been difficult.

This sculpture uses the spikes to create an image, and shows the mines and lime kilns that were also part of the industrialization that took over much of the countryside.

The construction of canals and, later, railways, was a source of controversy at that time. Many felt that the industrial age had damaged and desecrated their lands.

Later there was another longer tunnel, a quarter of a mile long. It was cold and spooky, full of ghosts, so I used my flashlight. Coming towards me, four young men were leaving the school with their torches to explore their local heritage.

Is History everywhere?

There are layers and layers of history to this walk, in the wells, the man-made structures, even the patterns of the fields and forest plantations. When I read about America’s great trails, they always seem deserted to me, much wilder than here. People talk about bears, rattlesnakes, and remote campsites, not “history.” However, First Nations people lived and worked in those same places, and history permeates the towns along the way, the direction of the trail, and who can use it now. I was fascinated by Joe Whittle’s writings on this topic. If we lose our collective memories, also known as our stories, we will be as impoverished as those who suffer from dementia as individuals.

https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2026/apr/14/americas-hiking-culture-is-built-on-ego?CMP=share_btn_url

A small aqueduct and big brother of the railway

Emerging from the tunnel with relief, I soon came across an older aqueduct, smaller but still impressive, flanked by the later railway viaduct, elegant in its 19th century glory. It even had niches for statues!

I was just 21 meters above the lovely Ceriog Valley and it still looked stunning. It had started to rain lightly a while ago and now it was intense. Cheerful, unexpectedly American voices greeted me from a passing boat. I waved and headed into town to dry off and meet my husband who is coming today.

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