When you look at an established tree, do you ever wonder what its story is? What it has to say about someone’s ancestry, someone’s family? Last week when I went on my first canal walk through the Monmouthshire countryside to Crickhowell, I came across a grandiose blossom tree with its branches flexing themselves over the bluestone wall encircling a peach pink Georgian house of considerable size. Its branches were peppered with buds on the brink of full bloom and I made a mental note and decided to come back in a few days.

Then yesterday, after walking the five and a half kilometres along the canal, I turned the corner and was delighted when I saw the wondrous blossom, its boughs swollen with pompoms of honeysuckle pink blooms. I could not help but whip my camera out, and start shooting away. Underneath the heaving canopy, to the sides of the dome of petals; every angle I could find. Just as I was coming up from underneath my petaled shelter, I heard a bang of the sizeable property gate and swung around to find a slightly hunched elderly woman, dressed as if she were the Queen spending the summer at Balmoral, propping herself on her sturdy antique walking stick.

 

 

My first thought was that perhaps I had crossed a line of privacy, that transcended the limits of acceptable tourist behaviour and had now seemingly entered the territory of ‘voyeur’. I removed the earbuds from my ears and took in the words as well as the proud expression sweeping her face. Unsure of getting off on the right foot, I proclaimed at pace “Your tree is simply astonishingly beautiful.” Any other time and I would have been slightly embarrassed to lay on such thick lashings of praise, however, in this case, I felt it might do the trick. I was right.

Just like the tree she proudly stood before, her face bloomed at the chance to talk about her most coveted (no doubt) horticultural asset. “How old is it?” I asked, hoping that my genuine interest in her tree would assure her of our interaction.
I shouldn’t have doubted the situation. Before I had even finished the sentence, she began telling me that it was planted by her grandmother 80 years ago. In one fell swoop, I was ensconced in the nostalgia and the history of the house, it’s gardens.

I could imagine this venerable woman before me running around on the manicured lawns of this, her ancestral home as a young girl. Her life growing in synergy with the blossom through the decades.

I exclaimed to the lady that her family must have taken a great deal of care of the tree over generations.
“No, it’s not a special one, we just left it alone and let it grow.” Her tone denoted that in spite of its inherent beauty, that it was just the course of nature, and that no praise should lay at the feet of her family. I praised the woman nonetheless one last time for her horticultural gem and kept on my way up to Crickhowell for lunch.

After two minutes walking, I arrived at the banks of the River Usk, from which the valley gets its name. A single-laned bluestone bridge arched its way over the fast-flowing body of water. Triangular nooks built into the bridge’s walls make it a perfect place to stop and take in its beauty.

I spotted a man standing waist deep in the river’s dark and gushing waters and was spellbound by the consistent rhythm of the solo fisherman’s incessant casting then recasting his line. The fly merely kissing the water each time, in aid of enticing his catch to the surface.

Panning up from the wader-clad salmon summoner to hills transformed by the shadows of fast-moving cloud, it was hard not to see this vista as anything else but idyllic.

Another short walk hooked its way up to the centre of town, and I settled upon The Bear Hotel for lunch. Although it is undeniably Georgian from the outside, the building’s structure dates back to 1430.

I stepped through the entrance into a couple of seconds of darkness, my eyes still adjusting from the harsh light of the midday sun to the dark, muted and moody tones of the hotel’s interior. As you would expect the low ceiling was broken up by the interspersion of beams of the darkest wood spanning from the front of the hotel, to the back of the bar. What light came in from those tall Georgian windows barely licked the labels of the beer taps behind the bar.

 

 

Still, I made use of the hotel’s Georgian frontage and settled myself in a window seat clad in the darkest of oak panels. To say my little-sunbathed nook was cosy is quite the understatement. I honestly felt like I was sitting in living history. The soft furnishings were like tapestries; ones that would not have looked out of place in Hampton Court in the time of Henry VIII.

A window box spanned the width of the window, the spring annuals providing a little private buffer between the peaceful interior and the hustle and bustle of Crickhowell’s main street.

As I sat gobbling down my heartwarming tomato and mozzarella ravioli, I couldn’t help but think about the history and the stories that these walls could tell.

The Bear in its hay day was quite the vital stop as a coaching inn for those making the onerous trip from London to West Wales on the way to Ireland. Its cobbled courtyard is still accessible from the archway through to the stables where many weary travellers would have welcomed the sight of The Bear and its offering of shelter from the cold, food and drink. The hotel has bags of character, and it’s pleasing to see that it’s owners, through the ages, have not tampered with its charm that has worked for over 500 years.

I polished off my rather delectable pasta lunch and enjoyed that golden sunshine at my back. I could have stayed in this pub for hours more, perhaps even stayed for dinner, but I knew that I had the 6.5kms walk back to Gilwern to contend with, and thought it best to leave now whilst the sun still possessed some warmth.

I edged back down Crickhowell’s High Street. Past shop fronts that still possessed their original Georgian frontages; windows with their 12 pane casements, some bulging out into beautiful curves and hanging ever so slightly over the pavement. In between these little gems of architecture is the still wonderfully multipurpose Market Hall.

Built by the Duke of Beaufort in 1833-1834, it’s full-width portico with four pairs of columns spanning its width, makes for the perfect undercroft for market stalls. Stairs take you up to the courtroom where trials still came before a local magistrate right up until the second half of the twentieth century.

Now converted into the Courtroom Cafe, it’s a lovely space to enjoy the soaring height of its ceilings as well as its three large 18 pane windows that adorn the front of the town’s Georgian centrepiece.

I ebbed further along the High Street down past cosy homewares shops, cafes, delis and butchers, textbook Georgian architectural gems just one after the other. The road finally wound around to meet Bridge Street which took me back down the river’s edge. A couple of quite substantial Georgian houses located along the way, hint that the money has never really left this town and is still quite desirable for those with a bit of extra financial heft.

The Bridge End Inn signalled my arrival at the river once more; perhaps the most common pub name in the whole of South Wales. After positioning myself at the bridge’s centre once again, I was delighted to still find the solo fly fisherman, relentless in his pursuit of catching salmon. Determined to only call it a day once a certain quota had been met, no doubt. I made my way back along the bridge back through Llangattock and couldn’t help but capture that divine blossom tree just a few more times. The mid-afternoon light was different, I told myself in justification.