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Ultima Thule

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'Concerning Thule, our historical information is still more uncertain, on account of its outside position; for Thule, of all the countries that are named, is set farthest north. 'Strabo, Geography, 1st century BC

The term 'Ultima Thule' was used in Classical and medieval geographical writing to describe mysterious places in the distant north beyond the known world of trade, empire and civilisation. Since the first use of the concept by the Greek explorer Pytheas debate has raged as to whether the phrase refers to Norway, Greenland, Iceland, Orkney, Shetland or, perhaps more likely, an amalgam of all dimly known northern climes. Having just spent several days in the unambiguously epic and often thrillingly peculiar landscapes of Iceland I can only back its candidature to be the very embodiment of Ultima Thule.


'It is no use trying to describe it, but it was quite up to my utmost expectations as to strangeness: it is just like nothing else in the world.' 
William Morris on his first visit to Iceland (1877)
As with Morris, my words can only pale in the face of a first sighting of Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights, and the other wonders of the trip, so here is a visual montage of 'the place where the sun goes to rest.' (Geminus of Rhodes, 1st century BC).




'Thule; an island in the Ocean between the northern and western zone, beyond Britain, near Orkney and Ireland; in this Thule, when the sun is in Cancer, it is said that there are perpetual days without nights.'
Servius, 4th century AD






'By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright.
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule –
From a wild weird clime, that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space – out of Time.'
Extract from Edgar Allan Poe's poem Dream-Land (1844)
















'(Auden) said that Iceland was like the sun that had set, (but) you could see the sunshine on the mountains: Iceland followed him like that - the colours of the setting sun on the mountains. He said that he was not always thinking about Iceland ... that he was never not thinking about Iceland.'
Simon Armitage and Glyn Maxwell, Moon Country (1996)








Field research

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One of the attractions of researching landscape history is the opportunity to combine a range of sources of evidence: direct investigation in the field, archival documents, maps, aerial photography and satellite imagery, and the testimony of people both in the past and the present through their remembered experiences, art, stories and perceptions. When studying a largely agricultural landscape a rich coming together of all of these elements can be found in the seemingly prosaic study of the names given to individual fields and enclosures by those who have worked the land. 

This is of particular current interest to me as I am working through the tithe maps for one of my PhD case study areas, the cluster of medieval manors on the edge of the Black Mountains over which Llanthony Priory had lordship from the early twelfth century until its dissolution in the mid-sixteenth century. The production of tithe maps for most parishes and townships across England and Wales was a result of the Tithe Commutation Act of 1836 which sought to rationale the archaic system by which communities had to provide their local church with a tenth, a tithe, of their agricultural produce and related resources through the replacement of this ancient practise with its roots in the Anglo-Saxon period with a cash payment. In order to implement this change the Herculean task of establishing who owned and farmed what land had to be carried out so that the new payments in cash could be calculated, and thus an accurately surveyed map and accompanying apportionment schedule recording land-use, who owned what and who occupied which farmsteads down to every last field, acre, perch and rood was produced for each parish over the following twenty years or so. These magical remnants of typically Victorian thoroughness and efficiency provide a latter day'Domesday Book' snapshot of the agricultural landscape in the mid nineteenth century. A rich historical record that acts as an invaluable bridge between what we know about the 'in living memory' changes in the landscape over the last hundred years or so and the more dimly lit centuries that preceded the upheavals of the later nineteenth century.


Section of the tithe map for the parish of Upper Cwmyoy (showing Llanthony Priory), produced in 1852 (courtesy of http://cynefin.archiveswales.org.uk)
As they proceeded around each parish the tithe commissioners undertaking this exercise not only allocated a number to each field they mapped but also enquired of and recorded any names by which they were locally known, in order to reduce any ambiguity or confusion when the maps and schedules were examined by the farmers and land-owners of the parish. To the twenty-first century observer it is these field names that particularly help to bring the landscape of the time alive; though with some caveats: firstly not all fields had a name recorded (either because there was no such name, it may have been forgotten by or not be known to the current occupier or perhaps simply not followed up as the deadline for completing the survey loomed); and so, for some parishes, this data-set can be frustratingly incomplete. A more mundane characteristic of many field names is that they are often, well, rather mundane; for the very good reason that farmers did not allocate names to fields for the benefit of excitable landscape researchers and local historians, they did so to aid everyday working, communication and planning. Hence the proliferation of 'Big meadow', 'Field above the barn', 'Four acre field', 'Little croft' and many other similarly descriptive but rather uninspiring monikers. However, amongst this functionality can be found hidden gems that enrich our understanding of land management, landscape change, the vernacular lexicon of place words and terms and sometimes provide clues to the lost history of a particular patch of land.


Section of the tithe apportionment for the parish of Upper Cwmyoy (courtesy of http://cynefin.archiveswales.org.uk)
In my own research area there are many fields with a name but no number and no shortage of 'Upper meadow's, 'Lower orchard's, 'Big wood pasture's and the like. However, I have also found many leads to help provide a clearer picture of how the landscape has developed, with the added twist/ frustration that, hard on the border between England and Wales, some names are 'standard' English, some use Herefordshire dialect words, some are 'Gwentian' Welsh (a largely lost variation of Welsh from the south-east border area of the country), some a hybrid whilst others have morphed into strange corruptions of their original meaning, often through mishearing or incorrect transcribing on the part of those recording the information struggling to understand the mumbled or heavily accented oral testimony of the local farm workers.


'The Mote' field, Trefeddw farm.
This exercise has enabled my inner landscape detective to follow multiple pathways. The strange sounding name 'Poorcas' (or variations of) proliferates, mostly attached to large enclosures on the higher valley sides, and led to much initial head-scratching. A possible derivation is from the Welsh words por meaning pasture and cae for field: a finely-grained venacular descriptor for this topographically specific enclosure type. Other names are helping in the task of tracing the landscape of earlier times. For instance, within a field called 'The Mote' (pictured above) lies what remains of a motte and bailey fortification rising out of the fertile red earth, a remnant of the westward advance of Anglo-Norman control in this borderland region during the eleventh century which may be the foci of the medieval manor of Redcastle, now lost as a place name in local memory. A mile or so up the Vale of Ewyas lies the hamlet of Cwmyoy and within the cool stone of its quiet church can be found an impressively intact medieval cross with a carving of Christ still standing out in clear relief (pictured above). Local lore has it that this artifact was dug up from a local field over a hundred years ago. A few minutes walk from the church lies 'Cross field' (pictured below), under the turf of which the cross was perhaps hurriedly buried before the iconoclasts of the Reformation could bring their hammers to it, its likely original location further uphill at the cross roads of 'Groes Llwyd' (holy cross).    

'Cross field' occupying the rising ground below the hillside with the church of Cwmyoy behind the trees to the left.
On a more utilitarian note, a number of mills are recorded for Llanthony Priory's medieval manors in the area. The built remains of a number of later mills may occupy the location of an earlier manifestation, however the tithe maps provide further possible sites at 'Cae hen felin' (old mill field), 'Cae pandy' (fulling mill field) and 'Old mill meadow' that, when visited, provide field evidence of probable use as a mill; activity in the landscape long forgotten by the time the first edition Ordnance Survey map for the area, which makes no reference to any of these sites, was produced. Field names can also be used to help to piece together the routes through which people and livestock moved through the landscape before the modern metalled road network developed. Names such as 'Cae Rewen' (from rhiw meaning steep road field), 'Field above the road', and 'Whiels' (from heol meaning road) hint at the previous importance of now backwater field paths and tracks. One such holloway track, now disused, leads up to the common grazing land of the higher slopes of Hatterall Hill from a large field called 'Bugley meadow' (pictured below), a pleasant but incongruous sounding name until it is realised that this is probably a corruption of the old Welsh word for shepherd, bugail. This meadow, which visitors to Llanthony's ruins drive right past and also holds the annual Llanthony and District Show, contains an earthwork platform that may have been the site of the Priory's sheepcote for holding its flocks when they were brought down from their upland summer grazing. As for 'Caden will', 'Pic', 'Ropine' and 'Sole figin', their meaning remains mysterious; conversations with local farmers may illuminate some, but others are no doubt lost to history. 

'Bugley meadow', Court Farm, Llanthony
A listing of some of the more interesting or distinctive field name elements in the Llanthony area can be found in the table at the end of this piece (with some meanings still to be uncovered: if anyone can shed any light on these then please let me know).

Original tithe maps and apportionments are generally held at county and national archives and many are now digitised, with all for Wales available on the Archives Wales website.  

A particularly useful resource in the study of field names generally is provided by, the now out of print, English Field Names: A Dictionary by John Field (who else!). The book not only collects the many regional words for different types of enclosure but also demonstrates the more esoteric and playful side of naming different plots of agricultural land: 'Babylon' - remote land beyond the river; 'Chemistry' - land on which artificial fertilisers were used; 'Cocked hat' - land shaped like a tricorne hat; 'Lazy lands' - a derogatory term for unproductive land; 'Thousand Acre' - ironic term for small field; 'Unthank Bottom' - land occupied by squatters; and hundreds more such inventive names conjured by our clever but largely illiterate forebears, who knew the land around them literally by name. 


Field name element
Bach
Meaning
Little
Language
Welsh
Bank/ banky/ bancSlopeEnglish/ Welsh
Berrion/ errion/ errewanPossibly from y berllan = orchardWelsh
BeachBeach treesEnglish
BeakLand reclaimed for ploughingEnglish
BrakeWaste covered in brushwoodEnglish
BrinkPossibly from bryn = hillWelsh
Bagley/ bugleyFrom Bugail = shepherdWelsh
BushyLand covered in bushesEnglish
Caden will??
CaeFieldWelsh
CaerWall (or cae'r = field of the)Welsh
Canol/ cenolMiddleWelsh
CarnCrooked or stony hillockWelsh
CellanPossibly from celyn = hollyWelsh
Chwarel QuarryWelsh
CoedWoodWelsh
CommonCommon landEnglish
CoverOvergrown field for gameEnglish
Croft/ croftySmall enclosure near houseEnglish
CrookedCrookedEnglish
CrossCrossEnglish
CrowCrowEnglish
CwmValleyWelsh
Cwrgy Cwr = edge or cwar = quarryWelsh
DarrenRocky cliffWelsh
DavidPossibly from dafad = sheepWelsh?
DelynFrom telyn = harpWelsh
DingleDeep wooded hollowEnglish
Dol/ dole/ dolu/ dolauMeadowWelsh
DrainingWell drainedEnglish
Duelt Possibly from ddu = black, dark + allt = woody cliffWelsh
Errion/ errewen/ errule/ erewinPossibly from y rhiw = steep path, hillside or slopeWelsh
FarthingFourth partEnglish
Fawr/ vawrGreatWelsh
ffynon/ ffennoSpring or wellWelsh
FinePossibly from ffynon = spring or wellWelsh?
Fierben???
FlatFlatEnglish
Garrivel Possibly from chwarel = quarryWelsh
Garw/ GwrwRoughWelsh
GlasNotably green or marshyWelsh
Glwydd Bank or ditchWelsh
Gorgy??
GrazingGrazingEnglish
GreenNotably green or marshyEnglish
GronePossibly from gronyn = grainWelsh
GrosPossibly from groes = crossWelsh
Gruffdupin??
GuntersLocal personal nameWelsh
Gwillen/ guillenPossibly from Gwillim personal nameWelsh
GwynWhiteWelsh
Holly/ HolleysHolly treeEnglish
HorseLand on which horses are keptEnglish
HorsleyPossibly land on which horses are keptEnglish?
Isha/ IsserLowerWelsh
KilnLime kilnEnglish
Leak?English
LluadduPossibly from lludw = ashWelsh
LlwydBrown or greyWelsh
LoneyPossibly from llwyn = groveWelsh?
Loom??
MaesMeadow, field or ploughed landWelsh
MarkelPossibly from mark = boundary?
MawrBig, great or largeWelsh
MellinFrom melin = millWelsh
NantStreamWelsh
NarrowNarrow strip of landEnglish
New ground Land newly cultivated or enclosedEnglish
Newydd NewWelsh
OakOak treeEnglish
Old woodPreviously wooded landEnglish
OrchardOrchardEnglish
OrlesLand on which alders growWelsh
OxOxenEnglish
PandyFulling millWelsh
ParkParklandEnglish
PasturePastureEnglish
PatchSmall piece of landEnglish
Peck??
PenEnd or top (W), or small enclosure (Eng)?
Penheadend or top headHybrid
Perkins??
Perrott/ PerrowLocal personal nameWelsh
PerthyHedge or bushWelsh
Pic??
PiecePiece of landEnglish
PikeyPointed piece of landEnglish
PinFir or pine, or pin, or penWelsh
Pistil/ pisty/ pestaeFrom pistyll = spout or cataractWelsh
Pleck/ plockSmall piece of landEnglish
PlotSmall piece of ground or allotmentEnglish
Pool/ poolePool or pondEnglish
Poorcas/ porkin/ pulcas/ puscas/ porking/ poorcatPossibly from Por = pasture or grass + cae = field, or poor field? Most tend to be large enclosures of pasture on higher slopeWelsh
PorthGateWelsh
Put??
PwillenPossibly from pwll = pit, pool or pondWelsh
QueerUnusual?English
RestreePossibly from rhes = line or rowWelsh
Rick/ rickhole/ ricketHay rickEnglish
RiderPossibly from rhyd = fordWelsh
Rocks hillRocky landEnglish
Ropin/ ropine??
RottenPoor qualityEnglish
SalpotPossibly from sallow = willow + pot = deep hole, land covered in holesEnglish
SerthSteepWelsh
Sheckwell?English
Sheep walkUpland sheep pastureEnglish
ShopShedEnglish
Skybor/ scyborFrom ysgabor = barnWelsh
SlangNarrow strip of landEnglish
Slip/ slipperSmall strip of landEnglish
SlottickPossibly from silotog = productive, abounding in seedlings?
Sole figin??
Soundr??
SquareSquareEnglish
TilleyPossibly from tillage = land enclosed for arable use; Or corruption of name of nearby farmstead of Tylau?
Tir/ tyrLandWelsh
Troustree? + possibly tri = three?
Tump/ tumpyHillockEnglish
TyHouseWelsh
TyleSlope, hillWelsh
TyningLand enclosed with a fenceEnglish
Ucha/ ushafUpperWelsh
WarPossibly from gwar = aboveWelsh
WarhealPossibly from gwar = above + heol = roadWelsh
WarrenRabbit warrenEnglish
WellLand by or with a well or springEnglish
WernElder trees or wateryWelsh
WhielsPossibly from heol = roadWelsh?
Whirrell From chwarel = quarryWelsh
WeirLand by a weirEnglish
WillPossibly from heol = roadWelsh?
Worlod/ wolod/ walod/ gwrlodMeadowWelsh
Yew TreeYew treeEnglish
Ynis/ ynysWater meadow, rising ground or islandWelsh




Llanthony Priory - landscape perception survey

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As part of my PhD research I am carrying out a survey into present day perceptions of the impact of Llanthony Priory on the surrounding historic landscape of the Vale of Ewyas/ Llanthony Valley in the Black Mountains. 

If you know the area and would be willing to partipate in the survey then you can complete it on line below.



Further information on my PhD research can be found here.


Tales of cartographic landscapes

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Having spent most of the last month in my study/ spare room garret, I am now emerging for fresh air having completed the drafts of two PhD chapters on the subject of my first case study landscape: the Black Mountains manors of Llanthony Priory, collectively given the archaic medieval name of Hothneyslade or Hondyslade (and multiple variations - probably originating from a corrupted combination of ‘Honddu’ or its pronunciation-based derivative ‘Hotheny’, the name of the river in the Vale of Ewyas, and eitherlled [Welsh for ‘wide’] or slade [Old English for ‘wide marsh’], perhaps incorporating ‘Ewyas’ or ‘Ewias’, the historic Welsh name of the district).

One output of this work is a series of Geographical Information System (GIS) drawn maps providing a snapshot of the landscape of the area at different points in time. The map above shows the general topographical context of the study area. Below can be seen land-use and landscape maps for c.1300 and c.1700 (speculative, based on variable documentary information, field observation, historical mapping and so on) and the mid-nineteenth century (in greater, individual field, detail, as transposed from contemporary tithe maps).

Without the context of an accompanying textual narrative, maps are arguably just pretty diagrams, but what a picture they provide (and I'm not ready to inflict 25,000 words on the wider world yet). A few themes can be sketched out here though. Although perceived as a wild upland area of the Black Mountains, this was not terrain dominated by dense impenetrable forest in the medieval period, it was long settled and managed; however, outside of relatively small clusters of closes around the farmsteads of the easily won and most fertile ground, this was an open rather than enclosed landscape: great flood meadowlands on the valley floor, common wood pastures with grassy glades and stands of trees climbing the hillsides to the open common summer grazing of the high ridges. 

It was the late fifteenth century through to the seventeenth century that saw the landscape transformed; plotted and pieced through what Christopher Taylor dubbed the ‘large-scale but silent enclosure by agreement’ of piecemeal consolidation, enlargement and expansion of farmsteads. A proto-capitalist agrarian culture inexorably sidelining the old ways of transhumance and finely-grained communal rights and responsibilities. And the agents of this change? Not a powerful lordship but an emboldened and emerging class of cash-rich yeoman tenant farmers, cladding their smoke-filled hall-houses and cruck-framed longhouses in white-washed stone and tile, reflecting their new-found wealth, stability and status (of course, this wouldn't last and their favourable copyhold tenure and peppercorn rents would eventually be better 'managed'; aspirational well-to-do families ossifying into the insular hill farming poor within a few generations). By the nineteenth century further inroads had been made into the common waste as a land-hungry population set up smallholdings above the mountain wall, though this country did not succumb to the regimentation of parliamentary enclosure: the valleys were already fully enclosed, whilst the moorland commons remained (and remain) open. Throughout all these periods, what is now largely a monochrome green fieldscape included a more diverse palette of reds and browns, signifying the mud and toil of arable cultivation in a more mixed farming economy. The clay-brown fields of the nineteenth century maps in particular highlight this forgotten feature of our hill country. 

Anyway enough words, have a look at the maps. 





 


Maps all drawn in ArcGIS (a new - to me - GIS package that I'm finding refreshingly intuative to use) using Ordnance Survey 1:10560 County Series 1st edition, Monmouthshire, 1887 and 1:25,000 Scale Colour Raster, 2016 base maps; Digimap under licence, http://digimap.edina.ac.uk/.
.

In search of monastic granges

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The sandstone of Tintern's abbey church: 'purple through mauve and buff to grey’ under a glowering November sky. 

Over the last couple of days I have been out and about in the exceptional Autumnal light, ranging across the Anglo-Welsh borderland of Monmouthshire, the lower Wye Valley and the Forest of Dean. A coming together place: Arthur Machen's 'wonderful and enchanting country' converging with 'the very rim of England, the wooded border country along the valley of the Wye' hailed in Roger Deakin's Wildwood.

Tintern Abbey, the second of my PhD case studies, managed a dozen or so monastic granges in the area, its agricultural hinterland. A grange (from the Latin granum meaning 'grain') was a medieval farm or small estate directly run by a Cistercian abbey with a workforce of lay brothers, or conversi. Such enterprises were the model farms of the age, drivers of innovation in sheep farming, arable production, long-distance trade. With the success of the grange system the 'white monks' of Cistercian houses were inexorably moving away from their high-minded and austere religious beginnings 'far from the concourse of men'.  

Trellech Grange in its rolling landscape setting above the Wye Valley.

Many of Tintern's farms are still imprinted on the landscape, 600 years later: Ashwell Grange, Harthill Grange, Lower Grange, New Grange, Rogerstone Grange, Upper Grange, and Woolaston Grange; some as small hamlets, others individual farms - their lands now shrunken but still echoing monastic estate activity. Here a blend of old and new: the earthworks, ruins and reconstructed buildings of chapels, mills and barns; ancient tracks, paths and boundary banks; coppiced woodlands, quarries and early iron workings; alongside farm equipment and concrete cattle sheds, Farrow and Ball renovations and bungalows, and the trappings of the modern horse and pony economy. 

The object now is to get to know the lay of the land of these granges, to determine which to subject to a more fine-grained analysis of their landscape history over the next few months.  


Looking down on Upper Grange (formerly Tintern's grange of Merthyrgeryn) from its higher fields, the pastoral scene in the foreground framed by a horizon incorporating Magor motorway service station, wind-turbines and the chimneys of Magor brewery.

The rich soils along the River Usk exploited by Pethlenny grange (now Estavarney farm).

The 'monks house' in Brockweir, part of Tintern's grange in the Gloucestershire hamlet across the River Wye from the abbey.

Penterry church, standing within the lands of the grange of Secular Firmary; its name an echo of an infirmary run by the abbey for the local population.

Cobbled track leading from the Wye ferry slipway opposite the abbey to its Gloucestershire granges.

Tintern Abbey enfolded by the wooded slopes of the Wye Valley. 

Tintern Abbey: A ghost of the shape it once had

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'A ghost of the shape it once had', a misquote from Ronald Johnson's long-form poem, The Book of the Green Man; reflections on travels around Britain in 1962, passing by Tintern on the way: ‘We have forgotten, now, the original inspiration of Tintern Abbey.’

‘We began today
to trace the course
of the Wye

into “Wild
Wales,” Chepstow to Plynimmon’ 

‘… up Wyndcliffe, wooded with huge oaks’


‘Then descended
afoot,

fields bounded with hedge,

each bud & thorn
pendant with
water,

to Tintern –

not one tufted column, no wall
a mass of moving foliage. Only – the Window.

Its seven delicate shafts
the frame for a more ephemeral world
than glass:

the passing clouds,
the passing, voluminous, green clouds –

in hilly
horizon.

Then, leaving the river, over the hill, to St. Briavels.’



The Book of the Green Man available from Uniform Books.

New Paths to Helicon Part 1

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New Paths to Helicon Part 1, sublime dread from Mogwai juxtaposed with footage from US atom bomb testing in Nevada (via zootelevizor/ YouTube)

And if you survive this, then try the My Bloody Valentine remix of Mogwai Fear Satan. Happy New Year!

PhD Research Paper #4: A diversity of words and images - topographers and antiquarians, artists and writers at Llanthony and the Vale of Ewyas

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From time to time I will post 'bite size' chunks of the material I am preparing for my PhD thesis: works in progress, but content which I feel may be of interest to a wider audience. All will be very much draft versions, not necessarily - probably not - reflecting the final wording that will eventually appear in the Thesis. In-text references are included but a full bibliography is not. This paper is based on a section of the case study on Llanthony Priory in the Black Mountains, Monmouthshire. 


‘Llanthony Abbey’ by David Cox, 1838 (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).

Written references to Llanthony and the Vale of Ewyas in the post-medieval and early modern period are sparse; even topographical writers of the time did not usually specifically refer to the wider landscape (Lancaster 2008, 11). John Leland made very brief mention in his 1540 Itinerary(in a paragraph on Llanthony Secunda): ‘Nant Honddye (Llanthonddye – Llan nant Hondy) a priori of blake charms … this priori was fair, and stoode betwixt ii great hills’ (Chandler 1993, 176; Roberts 1846, 233). Michael Drayton’s epic topographical poem of 1612, Polyolbion, included a verse on the valley which begins: ‘Mongst Hatterills loftie hills, that with the clouds are crowne’d, the valley Ewias lies, immers’d so deep and round …’ (Drayton 2001).

It was as new tastes for the ‘sublime’ and ‘picturesque’ in landscapes and places of history, particularly in wild and remote setting, began to take hold in the later eighteenth century that the priory became a subject of particular interest. Uvedale Price, author of the influential treatise Essays on the Picturesque, as Compared With the Sublime and the Beautiful of 1794 owned Foxley, one of the priory’s Herefordshire estates, where he created a landscaped park in line with his views on the picturesque (Pavard 2016, 80). William Gilpin (2005, 52) visited Llanthony during his influential tour of the Wye and South Wales in 1770 and observed:

‘Dugdale describes it, in his Monasticon, as a scene richly adorned with wood. But Dugdale lived a century ago: which is a term that will produce or destroy the finest scenery. It has had the latter effect here, for the woods about Llanthony Priory are now totally destroyed; and the ruin is wholly naked and desolate.’

A somewhat bleak scene which pre-dated poet-squire Walter Savage Landor’s major tree-planting programme during his brief but colourful period of lordship of Llanthony (discussed in detail in a future post). In the wake of Gilpin and the Romantics that followed, Llanthony, like other medieval monasteries in dramatic locations, received a steady stream of visitors who were inspired to record their reactions to the place. Indeed there is a vast and diverse corpus of images and words centred on the priory ruins and the surrounding landscape. 

Henry Penruddocke Wyndham, a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, toured Wales in the 1770s and produced the first published account of a tour which included Llanthony (Buck 2016, 6).Architects and antiquarians such as Joseph Parker and Richard Colt Hoare were also regular visitors, studying and recording the ruins in a more analytical and scholarly way (Gibbs 2016b). Colt Hoare, who later witnessed the windows of the western frontage collapsing, visited with Archdeacon Coxe whose poor impression of the state of the roads as he journeyed through the valley has already been quoted. To him the priory ruins derived ‘a particular beauty from their situation in the Vale of Ewias, which unites dreariness and fertility, and is well adapted to monastic solitude’, though he bemoaned their ‘hastening to decay’ (Coxe 1801, 212). Other early nineteenth century visitors were wont to provide more dramatic and exaggerated descriptions of the topography they encountered. Commentating on the Honddu John Beaumont (1803, 314-5) exclaims ‘at an immense depth beneath (the road) the torrent is seen raging’, whilst the hamlet of Cwmyoy was ‘fearfully hanging on a cliff, and beneath a menacing hill.’

‘Llanthony Abbey, Cwmyoy, Monmouthshire’ by JMW Turner, 1794 (Source: Tate Museum, www.tate.org.uk).

The late eighteenth and nineteenth century saw a proliferation of paintings and engravings of the priory and its environs. Whilst the wider landscape setting is often somewhat impressionistic, with the hillsides particularly exaggerated, such images not only confirm Llanthony as a key subject within the proliferation of landscape art but also provide some interesting topographical detail. One of the most famous images is by JMW Turner, a prolific chronicler of the historic monuments of the day. His view of the priory (which may have helped to proliferate the use of ‘Abbey’ rather than priory as an appellation) shows the surrounding hills higher and more precipitous than in reality, with a similarly romanticised river scene in the foreground and the priory flooded with ‘heavenly light’ (Sinclair 2001, 142). Commenting on the showing of the painting as part of the Tate Museum Ruin Lust exhibition (March 2014), Iain Sinclair described it as ‘fraudulent’ in its interpretation of the hills and the ‘cataracts’ of the river; an image made for the tourist, the equivalent of modern ‘ruin porn’ (Radio 4 Front Row, 03/03/14). Interestingly, also clearly represented is the still now extant curvilinear enclosure on Loxidge Tump above the ruins, which may originate as a medieval sheep corral operated by the priory as discussed in the previous chapter.

‘Llanthony Abbey’ by Virtue, date unknown (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).

Although it is rare for such images to focus on anything but the priory ruins themselves, it is interesting to study the landscape backdrop. Often quite generic but sometimes able to illustrate something of the landscape of the time. In Virtue’s painting the enclosed pasture, mountain wall and the nant farmstead of Troed-rhiw-mon can clearly be seen on the opposite side of the valley. A more open, neatly hedged fieldscape is observed in Edward Hayes’ picture of 1800, whilst the priory is often very much part of an agricultural scene with sheep and cattle grazing around the ruins.

‘Llanthony Abbey’ by Edward Dayes, 1800 (Source: National Library of Wales, https://www.llgc.org.uk/discover/digital-gallery/pictures/framed-works-of-art/).

The very act of touristic visits to historic sites such as Llanthony was already beginning to become a subject of comment and friction as the century progressed.  The Reverend Francis Kilvert, curate of Clyro just to the north of Hay-on-Wye in Radnorshire in the 1860s chronicled Victorian country life in the south Herefordshire border district through his diaries. He provided a memorable account of a visit to the priory in which, although praising the peaceful situation of the ruins themselves, he also makes clear his distaste for a certain type of Victorian tourist: ‘What was our horror on entering the (priory) enclosure to see two tourists with staves and shoulder belts all complete, postured among the ruins in an attitude of admiration, one of them of course, discoursing learnedly to his gaping companion and pointing out objects of interest with his stick. If there is one thing more hateful than another it is being told what to admire and having objects pointed out to one with a stick. Of all noxious animals too, the most noxious is the tourist. And of all tourists the most vulgar, ill-bred, offensive and loathsome is the British tourist’ (Barber 2003, 107). Kilvert also makes reference to William Wordsworth and either his sister Dorothy or daughter Dora visiting Llanthony, in walks from Llyswen in Brecknockshire via the Gospel Pass. Wordsworth was a regular visitor to Herefordshire though no account of a visit to Llanthony has been found (Barber 2003, 101). This sense of exclusivity is also taken up by ‘The Insect Hunter’ (1838): ‘Llanthony is one of those speaking monuments of the olden time … Luckily this beautiful spot has no road approaching it sufficiently macadamised to admit the passage of the luxurious vehicle of the opulent ruin hunter... it is not therefore and never can be the range of the tourist.’

Arthur Bradley was a prolific writer on Wales and the Marches and his description of an exploration of the Vale of Ewyas provides a good example of the more sober and rational view of the landscape observable in the Edwardian era. He mocks the over-egged dramatic descriptions of earlier visitors: perhaps they had never been out of the city and suffered from ‘nervous delusions’. For instance, an 1813 account (writer not recorded) that exclaimed ‘infinitely grand, awful, and horrific, are the convulsions in the Vale of Ewyas’ (Bradley 1911, 89). Bradley (1911, 95) also had sharp words for Father Ignatius’ foundation of ‘New Llanthony’ at Capel-y-ffin, which he felt could not hope to approach the majesty of the original priory: ‘nor do recent erections in the inner-most sanctuaries of nature appeal to me, however, faithfully they may attempt to adhere to the models of ancient times.’ Commenting on the confusion that the new foundation had caused in the public mind by appropriating the name of the priory he noted: ‘one of the most beautiful of monastic ruins, having due regard to its unique situation, in the whole island has been quite obscured in the public mind’ (Bradley 1911, 96).

Ignatius was followed as resident of the new monastery at Capel-y-ffin by an equally controversial figure in Eric Gill, who set up an artistic and religious community there in the 1920s: an ‘experiment in communal living’ (Sinclair 2001, 211). Gill, sculptor, typeface designer, printmaker and unorthodox Catholic was taken by‘the awesome power of the valley that has attracted people on spiritual pilgrimage for almost a millennium.’ A suitably remote place to set up a Christian community of craftsmen on the borders of mainstream society (Mason 1975, 54; Miles 1992, 15, 164). Influenced by the Utopian medieval aesthetic of William Morris and John Ruskin, Gill fostered a ‘half peasant-like, half monk-like atmosphere’ (Miles 1992, 47). Unlike other artistic visitors, Gill’s work whilst in the valley did not really reflect the landscape that surrounded him, though he returned regularly afterwards and members of his family remained until the 1970s. The landscape proved a more profound influence on one of the other members of the community, painter-poet David Jones. The border landscape of the Vale fuelled his ‘imagined construct’ of Wales’ past and his experimental painting style, reflecting the dominant rhythms in the local landscape through the use of subdued textures and colour (Miles 1992, 15, 143).

‘Hill Pastures, Capel-y-ffin’ by David Jones, 1926 (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).

One of the first fictional works to be sparked by Llanthony and its landscape returns to the theme of the supernatural. M.R. James (1994, 5), premier exponent of the English ghost story, used Herefordshire as the ‘imagined scene’ for one of his most famous, A View From a Hill(1925). The key dramatic setting for the story is the fictional ‘Fulnaker Priory’ with Llanthony as its probable real-life inspiration (Pardoe and Pardoe 2004). A local writer much influenced by James’ style was L.T.C. Rolt. He used Llanthony and the valley as a thinly-disguised setting for two of the stories in his supernatural collection, Sleep No More (1948), and in his memoir described how being enveloped by mist as he climbed over the ridge from Longtown to Llanthony became an inspiration for his stories (Rolt 2009, 9). ICwm Garon the main character follows a mountain path from a Norman castle (based on the route from Longtown to Llanthony) to reach an inn at ‘Llangaron Abbey’ (the fictionalised Llanthony) where his supernatural adventure plays out in ‘Cwm Garon’ (the Vale of Ewyas). A wayfarer similarly seeks out shelter at the ‘Priory Hotel at Llanvethney’ (Llanthony again) in The House of Vengeance (Rolt 2013, 31-49, 121-9). In her introduction to a recent collection of his stories, Susan Hill remarks on how the Black Mountains combine ‘tranquillity, beauty and spirituality’ with ‘dread, menace, depression and foreboding’ (Rolt 2013, x). Alfred Watkins was another local man who wandered extensively in the environs of Llanthony. The central ‘ley lines’ theory of his book, The Old Straight Track (1925), was and is eccentric and has been thoroughly discredited as having any scholarly credence, particularly in the context of its later ‘New Age’ trappings. His research does though makes reference to many local sites and it seems that some of his ideas and epiphanies came to him whilst exploring the area: ‘there is a favoured spotLlanthonyin the heart of the Black Mountains where primitive tracks and notches can well be studied’ (Watkins 2005b, 52).



Seeking ‘concentrated solitude’ the artist Eric Ravilious spent several weeks staying at a farmhouse near Capel-y-ffin in the winter of 1938 and was visited by John Piper (Powers 2002, 42). Both produced a number of landscape paintings, with Piper creating naturalistic images of the priory but also moving into the surrounding countryside to focus on the agricultural buildings of the estate. The work of Piper and Ravilious reflects a move towards more impressionistic and less literal interpretations of landscape as the twentieth century progressed, other examples of which can be seen below. Edgar Holloway was another visitor to Capel-y-ffin in the middle years of the twentieth century and his work ‘Mountain Path, Llanthony Valley’ depicts a working figure on the parish road with the mountain wall and nant farms clearly visible.
‘Llanthony’, 1941 (top) and ‘Ty Isaf’, 1939-40 (bottom) by John Piper (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).





‘Llanthony Abbey’ by John Craxton, 1942 (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).

'Llanthony Abbey’ by Gwilim Pritchard, 2005 (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox).

‘Mountain Path, Llanthony Valley’ by Edgar Holloway, 1943 (Source: Llanthony Valley and District History Group Dropbox at https://www.dropbox.com/home/Llanthony%20LHP).

Raymond Williams, one of the foremost men of letters of post-war Britain was a native of Pandy, across the Honddu from the priory lands of the old Redcastle manor. In his later years he produced a great work of fiction based on a scholarly framework, weaving historical events and landscape into a long-form narrative chronicling 25,000 years of the district’s history: The People of the Black Mountains (1990a, 1990b), a mixing of real events and people with invented narratives. Produced by a local writer steeped in the culture of the area but also a highly-regarded academic, the two books provide a more informed feeling for the landscape than many purely academic or descriptive accounts, and give voice to the unheard people of history: lowly novice canons, tenant farmers, women generally. The work’s value is both as an example of literary descriptions of Llanthony, but also as commentary on the contemporary landscape of the priory estates. The following extract describes the scene after the devastation caused during the Glyndŵr rebellion:

‘The priory of Llanthony stood empty and neglected, its store room broken open. The monks no longer felt safe among their Welsh tenants, and had withdrawn to Hereford. Below a mountain stream, their retting mill had fallen into disrepair. The dried shocks of flax, pulled each day by the abbey’s labourers, stood abandoned … Sheep grazed above the empty abbey, and across the river over the slopes towards the Coed y Dial’ (Williams 1990b, 300).

The later twentieth and early twenty-first century has seen further layers of writing embedded in the landscapes surrounding Llanthony. Bruce Chatwin’s On the Black Hill (1982) fictionalises the landscape of the eastern fringe of the Black Mountains and was partly inspired whilst the writer spent time in the Vale of Ewyas. Chatwin was staying with the painter Ozzy Jones at his house in Nant Bwch above Capel-y-ffin, occupied by another artist and writer Reg Gammon during the 1940s and 1950s.  More recently Resistance, Owen Sheers (2007, 276) World War Two tale of a German invasion of Britain is largely set in the Olchon and Llanthony valleys, ‘a graveyard of failures, littered with the remnants of men foolish enough to think its geography sufficient to extract themselves from the world.’ The psychogeographical writer Iain Sinclair offered a more esoteric fiction on the subject of Llanthony in Landor’s Tower, a novel in which the narrator/ main character has been commissioned to write a book about ‘Walter Savage Landor and his gloriously misconceived utopian experiment in the Ewyas Valley’ (Sinclair 2001, 8). The novel spends dense pages in the footsteps of the ghosts of Landor, Ignatius and Gill around the priory, Siarpal and on the Hatterall ridge. To the narrator, the landscape setting of the priory was: ‘nothing more than a device to slow the pulse of the visitors, preparing them for the move into the surrounding countryside. The priory, this geological freak, had no centre; it was all view, the further you walked away from it, the more it made sense’ (Sinclair 2001, 312). Sinclair, who has also written on the ‘Beat Poets’ of 1950s America is a link in a chain with another enigmatic outsider who spent time around Llanthony. Allan Ginsberg composed his epic stream of consciousness poem, Wales Visitation, here in 1967, a record of an ‘LSD-fuelled hill walk’ (Ginsberg 1979; Sinclair 2001, 86). These are but the latest additions to a canon of artistic responses to the genius loci of Llanthony and the Vale of Ewyas that seems to be endlessly flowering.



Allan Ginsberg in the Vale of Ewyas, 1967 (Source: https://poetopography.wordpress.com). 


This Machine Kills Fascists

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Fuck Trump




All You Fascists - Woody Guthrie (a real American hero)

I’m gonna tell you fascists
You may be surprised
The people in this world
Are getting organized
You’re bound to lose

You fascists bound to lose

Race hatred cannot stop us
This one thing we know
Your poll tax and Jim Crow
And greed has got to go
You’re bound to lose
You fascists bound to lose.

All of you fascists bound to lose:
I said, all of you fascists bound to lose:
Yes sir, all of you fascists bound to lose:
You’re bound to lose! You fascists:
Bound to lose!

People of every color
Marching side to side
Marching ‘cross these fields
Where a million fascists dies
You’re bound to lose
You fascists bound to lose!

I’m going into this battle
And take my union gun
We’ll end this world of slavery
Before this battle’s won
You’re bound to lose
You fascists bound to lose!

Deep topography practice – landscape walks as PhD fieldwork

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Composite map of the landscape walk routes in the Llanthony Priory case study (Source: map drawn in ArcGIS using ArcGIS World Imagery basemap).

A note here on the experiential landscape walks that I am undertaking across the three case study areas on which my PhD research is focussed, a core element in an interdisciplinary approach: blending the solid of landscape history with the drift of landscape perception. 

One key purpose is to bridge the traditional fieldwork focus on macro-level reconnaissance across relatively large areas on the one hand and smaller-scale targeting of specific sites and features through survey, field walking, test pitting and so on on the other. The walks aim to fulfil a complementary and linking middle ground that also provides additional evidence and value. More fundamentally, actually walking and moving through the landscape on foot, experiencing and investigating on the ground, helps to provide a more nuanced, fleshed-out and three-dimensional feeling to supplement important but formulaic desk-based study focused on academic reading and ‘birds eye’ views from aerial photographs, satellite imagery and maps and so forth. This is deep topography in practice: a deepening understanding of landscape history allied to a deeper perceptual viewpoint. Getting to know a landscape, its biography through walking.



The old roadway to Llanthony Priory from Longtown and its Herefordshire estates, now disused; investigated on the Llanthony to Longtown landscape walk.

I have appropriated 'deep topography' here from Nick Papadimitriou's description of his 'conscious walking' through the fringes and suburbs of North London, most expansively articulated in his book Scarp: In Search of London's Outer Limits (2013). This terminology could also be used to describe the work of outlier geographers, largely operating outside of the academic arena, such as Patrick Keiller (The View from the Train: Cities and Other Landscapes, 2013), Tim Robinson (Stones of Aran: Pilgrimage, 1990) and Will Self (Psychogeography, 2007). All exponents of a more nuanced counterpart to the now perhaps over-cooked concept of 'psycho-geography', less shackled to its conceptual and urban prescriptions. Self has described deep topography as ‘minutely detailed, multi-level examinations of select locales that impact upon the writer’s own microscopic inner-eye’, combining ecology, history, poetry and sociology; or in Nick Papadimitrou’s own terms ‘an acknowledgement of the magnitude of response to landscape.’ A mention here of another related concept, phenomenology, which this research also aims to integrate. A phenomenological approach views the environment as more than just a passive backdrop or external object of the spectator’s gaze; providing a challenge to more traditional ideas of landscape as simply a way of seeing the world or a repository of empirical material data. Ideas taken forward most notably in relation to landscape by archaeologist Christopher Tilley (A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths and Monuments, 1994) and anthropologist and cultural geographer Tim Ingold (Imagining Landscapes, Past, Present and Future, with Monica Janowski, 2012).

Although psycho-geographical texts and practice have attracted academic interest in recent years, this has tended to be within the confines of cultural geography and literary studies and focused on the urban experience, whilst the extensive archaeological practice of phenomenology has largely been limited to the study of prehistoric landscapes. As Papadimitriou’s ventures into deep topography throughout the Middlesex-Hertfordshire boundary lands and W.G. Sebald’s long existential walk along the East Anglian coast (The Rings of Saturn, 1995) demonstrate, any landscape can in principle be opened up to what Iain Sinclair has described as: ‘psycho-geography lite. It was a long way from the Situationists but it suited the English sentiment about walking, deep-topography, historical scavenging.’ This is the context for my tramps through the countryside of the southern Welsh Marches, looking for the liminal topographical ghosts of monasticism.


An old wall in the woods above the Angidy Brook, possibly a boundary of the 'lost' Tintern abbey grange of Secular Firmary; investigated on the Porthcasseg landscape walk.

A series of walks is being undertaken in each case study area focussed on particular themes, features and objectives identified through initial desk-based analysis, but with scope to venture ‘off-piste’ when in the field (composite maps of the walks taken so far in the Llanthony and Tintern case studies are provided here). Through a mix of observation, photography and note-taking places that can be easily overlooked, neglected or invisible to the casual eye are investigated and recorded. The footpaths, lanes and off-the-beaten-track routes followed form a sort of outdoor laboratory for the crystallizing of thoughts, ideas and connections, found evidence of the medieval and historic landscape and a wider appreciation of the geography of, and feeling for, the landscape as it is passed through. A mental map taken back to enrich work at lap-top and desk. 


Composite map of the landscape walk routes in the Tintern Abbey case study (Source: map drawn in ArcGIS using ArcGIS World Imagery basemap).

The output from the walks is a set of commentaries and photographs of the landscapes encountered both from a physical and perceptual perspective, with an accompanying map of the route. As well as informing the main narrative these notes, which will be presented in a standard format as an online resource alongside the main Thesis (see example screenshot extract below), are intended as a more in-depth supplement to the main text. The discussion section of the Thesis will also critically evaluate what worked well and less well in integrating this approach with more conventional landscape archaeology and history research tools. 


Extract from Cwmyoy South landscape walk notes.
Finally, back to Nick Papadimitriou. In an interview on the subject of his deep topography practice at the London Short Film Festival, he outlined six tips for deep topography walking. The approach adopted for my research does not necessarily stick to all of these principles and aims to demonstrate a more expansive fusion of such metaphysical exploration with other approaches, but they provide a useful starting point and stimulus: 
  • Go walking. Stay away from bright lights. 
  • Explore second hand bookshops. Buy books on topography – on areas, regions, counties. Study them. Then walk around and see whether you can make sense of the present landscape in relation to the past. This way you’ll get more tension and depth in your engagement with the landscape. 
  • Go out on your own without any maps and without a digital camera. Digital cameras are the death of the imagination. 
  • Go in any direction that suits you. Go in unfamiliar directions. Go in familiar directions and try and see things in a new way. 
  • Develop a sense of contours. They tell you a lot about the tensions and releases of the landscape and the way the ancillary aspects if the landscape (such as sewage and drainage systems) are organised. It will build up your sense of place. 
  • Develop a poetry out of the commonplace. The two aren’t opposites. The inexplicable and the obvious reside alongside each other. 
Nick expands on his approach in John Roger's documentary The London Perambulator: Afoot in London's Edgelands (2009): 







Hatterall - Hill towards the sun

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The Hatterall ridge looking north from its southern-most point at Trewyn 'hill fort'.

The Hatterall, or versions of it, is a long-standing name used in times past for the eastern uplands of the Black Mountains, now used more particularly for the heights between the Vale of Ewyas and the valleys of the Monnow and Olchon; a ridge that carries both the England-Wales border and the Offa's Dyke National Trail. The Welsh names of hills and mountains typically have fairly prosaic meanings (though rendered more exotic to English ears) - 'big hill', 'top of the hill', 'great mountain' and such-like. In contrast, Hatterall has an interesting and varied etymology as it has evolved from its (probable) lyrical origins to its puzzling Anglo-Welsh hybrid present. As the examples below demonstrate, there have been many variations in documents, books and maps as use by non-literate cultures, misunderstandings, mishearings and Anglicisation have morphed and moulded the words through the centuries.   


A borderland: Offa's Dyke path above Llanthony, looking south.

At y Heu (probable original name, though undocumented - 'hill towards the sun' in Welsh)

 Hatiram (1137)

  Hatyre (12th century)

    Hateroll (1325)

      Haterhill (1566)

        Hatherall (1574)

           Hattrell (1612)

             Hatyrel, Hatterras (1905)

               Hateral, Hatterrall (20th century)

                  Hatterall Hill or The Hatterall (modern name - 'hill towards the sun hill'!)


The Black Darren land-slip in the Olchon Valley.


Above the Cwm-iau valley.

The steep eastern slopes of Hatterall above Oldcastle.

Stone wall alongside the Beer Path from Llanthony up to the Hatterall ridge.

A distant Llanthony Priory from the high boundary of Walter Savage Landor's park on the slopes of Hatterall.

Tintern Abbey - landscape perception survey

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As part of my PhD research I am carrying out a survey into present day perceptions of the impact of Tintern Abbey on the surrounding historic landscape of the Wye Valley. 

If you know the area and would be willing to participate in the survey then you can complete it here.


Further information on my PhD research can be found here.


Chuck Berry - Promised Land: rock and roll topography

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Chuck Berry at his topographical best, using tight wit and pathos to describe an epic journey by bus, train and aeroplane from Virginia to California in 'Promised Land':

I left my home in Norfolk Virginia
California on my mind
I Straddled that Greyhound,
and rolled in into Raleigh and all across Carolina

Stopped in Charlotte and bypassed Rock Hill
And we never was a minute late
We was ninety miles out of Atlanta by sundown
Rollin' out of Georgia state

We had motor trouble it turned into a struggle,
Half way 'cross Alabam'
And that 'hound broke down and left us all stranded
In downtown Birmingham

Right away, I bought me a through train ticket
Ridin' cross Mississippi clean
And I was on that midnight flier out of Birmingham
Smoking into New Orleans

Somebody help me get out of Louisiana
Just help me get to Houston town
There are people there who care a little 'bout me
And they won't let the poor boy down

Sure as you're born, they bought me a silk suit
Put luggage in my hands,
And I woke up high over Albuquerque
On a jet to the promised land

Workin' on a T-bone steak a la carte
Flying over to the Golden State
Oh when The pilot told me in thirteen minutes
We'd be headin' in the terminal gate

Swing low chariot, come down easy
Taxi to the terminal zone
Cut your engines, cool your wings
And let me make it to the telephone

Los Angeles give me Norfolk Virginia
Tidewater four ten O nine
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin'
And the poor boy's on the line

Take the long road and walk it

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Mapped above is the route of a week long walk I will be undertaking in June, linking up the estate landscapes and medieval route-ways of the three case studies of my PhD research: Llanthony Priory, Llantarnam Abbey and Tintern Abbey in the southern Welsh Marches.

The aim is to contribute to the 'walking as deep topography and PhD fieldwork practice' that I outlined in a recent blog post, adding a linking and overarching narrative to the more localised walks I am undertaking within the three case study areas individually.

Ben Myers - The Gallows Pole: Once upon a time in the West Riding

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The arresting cover of Ben Myers' sixth novel is a statement of intent for the work inside: historical fiction with danger and harshness and radicalism foregrounded; a bit punk rock, a bit psychedelic, not too knowingly retro. Frankly, I'd have bought it for the cover artwork alone. Thankfully, this is an author with form and the story itself does not disappoint; it cracks along at pace, based on a little-known episode in history tailor-made for the strain of gritty rural-noir which Myers, Paul Kingsnorth, Cynan Jones, Ross Raisin and others have rendered in recent years. The unearthed source material merits such a telling. It's the 1760s and the wild West Riding of Yorkshire is on the cusp of transformation, careless of the coming pandemonium to be wrought by industrialised manufacturing. Amidst the self-reliant weaving communities of the Calder Valley - for William Atkins (The Moor) 'a ditch made dim by its narrowness', a place of fugitives - emerge the Cragg Vale Coiners. Led by the brutally charismatic 'King' David Hartley, their outlaw business is the clipping of coins to produce counterfeit money; local currency for local people, recycled coin outwith the control of not only the crown, government and taxation but also the new capitalists ready to harness and exploit the power of land and labour. Thus, a dangerous business and (literally) a capital offence.    

The book's stylistic and narrative similarities with Kingsnorth's The Wake are striking. Both have central characters - David Hartley and Buccmaster - who are deluded, self-mythologising and ruthless yet also cast with a certain 'Man With no Name' dark allure. Like mythical cowboys of the northern past, these doomed men raging against the dying of the light are also possessed of pagan visions of stagmen and the old gods. Both authors utilise blunt vernacular speech to give voice to their protagonists, albeit in Kingsnorth's case a 'shadow tongue' version of Old English is utilised for the whole narration.


In the opening chapters, we see how up and over from the surrounding valleys men come to King David's call, 'like crows to the first pickings of carrion after the snow melt'; a repetitive roll-call of locally entrenched surnames: Dewhurst, Clayton, Sutcliffe, Bolton, Hepworth, Eastwood, Bentley, Hoyle, Pickles, Sykes, Greenwood, Feather and Proctor. These everyday monikers later counter-pointed by the tally of Yorkshire nobility called from across the ridings to address the threat to their wealth and power presented by the coiners activity. We dig repetition, as Mark E Smith would have it, and so does Ben Myers. It's a technique used deliberately and effectively throughout, toughening the narrative: 'the moors are ours and the woods are ours he said. And the marshes are ours and the sky is ours and the fire is ours and the forge is ours. The might is ours and the means are ours and the moulds are ours and the metal is ours and the coins are ours and the crags are ours and this grand life in the dark wet world is ours.'

Hartley's lair is high amongst 'the hill's hanging silence', to use Ted Hughes' description of this haunted terrain of his youth, where bosky slope gives way to moorland waste. A hint of Cormac McCarthy pervades the depicted harsh beauty of this landscape. When Hartley's nemesis, excise-man William Deighton - a walker of the moors and valleys in pursuit of those who would evade the (real) king's tax - returns to Halifax in the gloaming, the town's lights flicker 'as if the sky had fallen in defeat, and draped itself across the rise and fall of the bloodless, smothering land.' To my mind what elevates Myers prose above much similar place-bound company is the clear rootedness of the writing in the Calderdale-based author's embodied knowledge - based on walking and observing - of the landscape in which the actors operate, buttressed by an authentic portrayal of the life-rhythms of those working the land. This is an author unafraid to leaven the drama of the story with the small detail of rural life: for instance, a couple of pages describing a scything team working their field at pace 'as they raced against the season and the coming of the harvest moon.'

A certain poetic mysticism is also scattered amidst the thrifty speech of Hartley and the Coiners, somewhat at odds with their rough ways: 'rope or rain or a day threshing grain ... I take each as it comes'; 'the moor is the moor and the wind always blows.' Thugs ain't what they used to be, perhaps. Silver-tongued maybe, but there are frequent brutish scenes of rising and implied violence, recalling prime-Scorsese or, closer to home, Shane Meadow's Derbyshire-set Dead Man's Shoes in their cinematic menace and liberal deployment of the harshest word in the English language, not quaint. The shocking end of loud-mouth drunk Abraham Ingham thrust head-first into an open fire, 'left smoldering, a spent match in human form' as his killers return to their tap-room pints, is particularly wince-inducing. As is the defilement of the traitor James Broadbent in York gaol. A gruesome end seems to be a possibility for just about everyone involved.

This violence, combined with the radical social commentary of the story and pervasive sense of movement through the landscape, bestow filmic qualities which the author acknowledges as he describes an eclectic playlist put together whilst writing the book. It's not hard to hear this music soundtracking a film adaptation of the book, which might look a little like a mash-up between Ben Wheatley's A Field in England, Ken Loach's Black Jack and Stanley Kubrick's Barry Lydon.

As the place-names in the narrative came thick and fast - reminiscent of a seventeenth-century survey of manorial bounds - I pulled out my battered Ordnance Survey map of the South Pennines, weathered by time, held together by yellowing sellotape. Family connections bond me to the country immediately north of Calderdale, Keighley and the Worth Valley over Cock Hill and Nab Hill, and I have previously posted about this landscape, my younger self's introduction to hill walking, now embedded in memory. The names on the map speak of place as, above all, morphology and topography. Northern - mostly Anglo-Saxon or Norse - descriptors of the lie of the land. Clough, slack, holme, delf, edge, nook, wham, carr, hey, hole, head, nab, bank, dyke, shaw, royd, shelf, stones. A lexicon used by Myers to rivet the narrative to its locale; to particularise the valleys and streams and rocky places and moors and woods in which the story unfolds. Many of these toponyms have been appropriated as local surnames, fixing a symbiosis between people and place; the bearers literally a product of their landscape. And there, above the river Ryburn feeding into the main Calder Valley, a crow's fly over Crow Hill from the Hartley homestead in Cragg Vale, spreads Gallows Pole Hill. Presumably, part-inspiration for the book's title (alongside the traditional song, The Maid Freed From the Gallis Pole)?


One minor place-naming misstep is the use of Calderdale and West Yorkshire, modern-day administrative units which would not be used as descriptors of the local area by eighteenth-century folk. Not sure either about the use of the archaic 'Yorvikshire' in Hartley's vernacular, but artistic license at play here so fair enough. Of course, it is the storyteller's prerogative to extrapolate the partial facts that are fed down through history but this reader also wonders whether King David really was as locally revered and acclaimed as suggested. How many really were thankful to Hartley for clothing and feeding them, and giving them hope? Did thousands really line the old streets of York to view his procession to the gallows?

Not in dispute are the economic changes which circle around and loom over the actions of the Coiners (the 'progress' of proto-capitalism, industrial development, a hardening of the rule of law and land ownership), prefiguring the enormous rupture in the way of life of the independent dwellers of these previously left-alone valleys that the Industrial Revolution would bring. Earlier in the eighteenth-century Daniel Defoe had commented approvingly on the lack of dependence on and subservience to the gentry amongst the self-sufficient and egalitarian populations of the farmsteads and hamlets of these hilly districts of the West Riding. As the century draws to a close the characters here are lamenting not only that 'the machines and mills are coming' but also 'they do not give a fuck about us hill-dwellers'; 'the land is being sold off. They say there are mills the size of cathedrals in Lancashire.' The self-made prosperity of the cottage industry of small-holdings and hand-looms is coming to an end. A few decades later Halifax and the Calder Valley would be central to a more famous popular uprising, the revolt of the Luddites; a conflict which Robert Reid in Land of Lost Content described as threatening 'the stability of the nation from within as it had never been threatened since.'


In the end, and in the face of this maelstrom, we leave Hartley dreaming of his moor and woods, and the Stagman: 'still he waches now and so too will be there when im drug up to that gallis pole that awaytes us Heel be thur I no it Waytin a me.' In reality, as the epilogue hammers home, 'the stone cathedrals of mass production' were to win out and King David would be forgotten. Mills and new rows of terraced houses, and turnpike roads, canals and railways, would remorselessly fill the valleys, transforming not only the population's economic and social lives but also the very landscape. The Coiners and their descendents would ultimately bend to the will of the new puritans of capital, commerce and mass-production.

PhD landscape walk - walking the ghost topography of Cwmbran new town

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This is a description of one of a series of landscape walks through my PhD case study areas. Here the walk navigates a route around the post-war planned new town of Cwmbran in south-east Wales, developed over the former lands of Magna Porta, the 'home' manor of Llantarnam Abbey during the medieval period.

The walk commences at the church of St. Michael’s in Llantarnam village at the southern limits of the new town, taking in the cul-de-sac lane opposite running parallel with a silted-up ditch draining into a culvert under the main road. This ditch forms part of a system of leats which fed the now demolished corn mill in the village and likely date to the monastic period.

From here a long straight stretch of Llantarnam Road is followed, leading directly from the old lane to the abbey into the centre of Cwmbran. This road follows the line of the route between the abbey and its granges and manorial lands to the north and also forms the start of the pilgrimage way from Llantarnam to the shrine at Penrhys further to the west in the Rhondda valley. Now a main route into the town, this old road is utterly suburban, lined by ribbon development, a mix of some larger Victorian and Edwardian houses, unremarkable housing stock from this period and the mid-twentieth century, and modern day additions.



The mill leat opposite the church (Source: author).


Llantarnam Road looking north-west (Source: author).

Part-way along the road the memory of the abbey's Scybor Court grange (latterly Court Farm) rises. The school built on the site of the demolished farm during the development of the new town in the 1960s has now itself been replaced by a housing estate, ‘St. Michael’s Gate’ (this name a reference to the local church but perhaps a missed opportunity to remember the medieval grange). Further along the road, the grange is memorialised in the 1950s council housing of the ‘Court Farm Estate’, including Court Farm Close and Court Farm Road (is this association with social housing the rationale for the new estate utilising a different name?). Further progress along the road brings more nomenclature linking the area to the abbey: Llantarnam Dental Practice, Llantarnam Primary School, Court Road Industrial Estate etc.

The land farmed by the medieval grange here is uniformly flat, forming the broad flood-plain of the Afon Lwyd a few hundred metres to the east. The old flood meadows of the grange that have not been concreted over form one of the recreational areas created as part of the planned new town, now the site of a large boating and fishing lake and a golf course.



Court Farm Close, part of the 1950s estate built on the agricultural land of the monastic grange of Scybor Court (Source: author).

Passing the green space of Oakfield Park, sited on an area of woodland at a junction of old roads and populated by remnant oak and ash. Further greenery is observed at a roundabout marking the junction of the old road with one of the new access routes through the town. This is the marshy place bordering the lands of Scybor Court grange to the south and the abbey’s Gelli-las grange to the north: the industrial zone along the riverside here interspersed with more open green space and mature trees.
New town roundabout looking north with entrance to Court Road Industrial Estate to right (Source: author).

Across the roundabout a remnant field, crossed by the embankment of a disused railway line, also contains a hollow which may have been the line of the stream bounding the territory of the two granges.


Remnant field at boundary of Scybor Court and Gelli-las granges (Source: author).


Grange Road (Source: author).

The old track up to Gelli-las (still called Grange Road) is passed, now a residential street and service road for a supermarket and industrial units. Approaching the centre of Old Cwmbran, the small industrial settlement that preceded the new town and the housing stock becomes a mix of mid-nineteenth century cottages and late century worker’s terraces; the area now somewhat down at heal.

As the post-war trunk road into the centre of the town is bridged the old road curves westwards and climbs up the small hillock on which the medieval chapel of St. Dial’s, a stopping place on the pilgrimage route to Penrhys, stood. As the hill is climbed the character of the route changes, St. Dial’s Lane, bounded by an old wall and then hedge-lined, is now lined by fields: a rural snapshot amidst the urban new town. From a field containing a ruined barn, the site of Llanderfel pilgrimage chapel and the surrounding grange can be seen high on the side of Mynydd Maen looming in the distance to the west. This low river terrace hillock provides a prominent viewpoint and landmark in the landscape, probably explaining the location of the chapel here.


Section of old wall on lane up to St. Dial’s (Source: author).


The rural character of St. Dial’s Lane (Source: author).


Looking west towards the uplands of Mynydd Maen towards the site of Llanderfel chapel on the distant hillside (Source: author). 

The steepness of the northern slope of St. Dial’s descending to the adjacent town centre has preserved it from development. The jumble of post-war buildings forming central Cwmbran, complete with distressed concrete multi-story car park and landmark tower block, now overlie the grange farm of Gelli-las.


Central Cwmbran on the site of the Gelli-las grange (Source: author). 

A further stretch of ‘country lane’ hollows below tree-lined banks. Desire paths through an overgrown field are explored, bushes and trees now reclaiming the site of the long-demolished St. Dial’s House and most probably the medieval chapel. The approximate site of the old settlement along the lane is now unremarkably taken by a small Victorian terrace and a bungalow. As the lane strikes north alongside allotments, the open space to the south is the scene of a rising housing development, part of the Cwmbran neighbourhood which takes its name from the medieval chapel.


The site of St. Dial's House - and probably the medieval chapel - looking southwards (Source: author).

Descending from St. Dial’s, the lane runs alongside one of the modern roads through the new town to a roundabout. From here the line of the pilgrimage route continues westwards towards Llanderfel as a series of walking and cycle paths. This route will be picked up again later in the walk but now a diversion westwards through the remaining woodlands of the Freshwater suburb is followed. Here, remnant trees and dingles are intermixed with the housing of the new town, pathways running through the green spaces and linking residential areas with roads, schools and other infrastructure. The retention of significant woodland within the new town fabric is the result of a mix between idealism - the creation of the liveable, spacious neighbourhoods such as Fairwater and Greenmeadow with plenty of green areas – and pragmatism, with tree cover largely confined to the more difficult and marginal terrain alongside the courses of streams and steeper-sided gulleys.

  
St. Dial’s Lane beside the modern road through the western suburbs of Cwmbran (Source: author).


The route of the pilgrimage way picked up again via the footpath on the other side of the roundabout (Source: author).


Remnant woodland inter-mixed with new town housing in the Freshwater area of Cwmbran (Source: author).

In this elevated western part of the new town, open and green prospects are juxtaposed in places with some rather tired-looking housing stock. A public footpath followed through the block of woodland below Cwmbran High School comes to a dead-end at the school gates and meandering, sometimes litter-strewn, desire paths eventually lead to the old lane - Graig Road - still zig-zagging its nineteenth century course up through Fairwater, a hidden away but still extant artery for cyclists and dog-walkers masked by suburban closes. This route would have provided a more direct route up to the open common of Mynydd Maen from the abbey, by-passing the hilltop pilgrims diversion of St. Dial’s.


Housing in the Greenmeadow area of Cwmbran (Source: author).

Here rural tranquillity is found again as the lane crosses a stone bridge in a dingle carrying a fast-flowing stream down from the hillsides around Llanderfel. The arboreal spell somewhat broken by the litter collecting around the information board at the start of the holloway that runs uphill towards Landerfel. As the board attests, this part of the pilgrimage route is now well publicised. However, less well-known or promoted is the fact that the line of the route east from here to St. Dial’s can also be traced on the ground, preserved as a series of walkways through 1970s housing and crossed by new roads – a linear piece of history stubbornly retaining its place in the modern-day topography.


The old lane through Fairwater disappears into the trees on the curve of this residential close (Source: author).


Bridge carrying the lane, hidden away behind the suburban closes (Source: author).

This route eastwards and downhill, back towards the centre of town, is now followed. A footpath, sometimes following sections of well-worn holloway flanked by the mature remnants of out-grown beech hedges, at others the memory of the old track is only preserved by a line of trees or a depression alongside the tarmac path.


The line of the pilgrim route from St. Dial’s to Llanderfel, now a hollow line behind garden fences (Source: author).


A further section of the track, preserved as a line of trees (Source: author).


A more well-defined section of the track, lined by beech (Source: author).

Crossing a busy through road, a further piece of rural history within the contemporary townscape is observed: Greenmeadow ‘community farm’, its farmhouse partly dating to the seventeenth century, home to post-medieval tenants of the Magna Porta manor and perhaps their monastic period predecessors. A public footpath traverses the perimeter of the farm leading into steep woods shielding the noise and grime of the large central industrial zone of Forge Hammer, previously the site of railway yards and a nut and bolt works. Emerging from the woods, an oasis of grass in the form of a large oval pasture (preserving the shape of a prominent enclosure alongside Church Wood as recorded on the 1887 Ordnance Survey map) is walked through.


Greenmeadow community farm (Source: author).

Hard by the industrial estates, the valley of the Cwm Bran Brook holds a nature reserve along a series of silted-up and wildlife diverse industrial ponds and weirs. Yet another quiet semi-natural place in close proximity to the busy urban apex.

Industrial pond returned to nature, Forge Hammer (Source: author).

Leaving the stream, the walk strikes north along the towpath of the Pontypool to Newport canal towards the northern-most part of the abbey’s Magna Porta lands at Pontnewydd, the gently rising section here lined by a series of deep locks. The canal dissects the manor from north to south, the precursor to later further linear communications routes in the form of railways and roads.


The Pontypool to Newport canal looking southwards (Source: author).

From the canal the route runs through the centre of the industrial village of Pontnewydd, later part of the northern suburbs of Cwmbran and named for a crossing over the Afon Lwyd dating from at least the seventeenth century, now marked by a nineteenth century bridge. Looping southwards having crossed the river, the site of the Gelli-las grange farmstead is now approached. Along the riverside some of the grange’s water meadows are preserved as sports fields. Surrounded by roads, a multiplex cinema, a multi-story car park and a supermarket, can be found, somewhat incongruously, the Llantarnam Grange Arts Centre, housed in the nineteenth century upgrade of the old farmhouse of Gelli-las (which took the name of Llantarnam Grange) and standing in the remains of the ornamental gardens surrounding the house. Although it is hard to get a sense of a medieval agricultural estate in this setting and on the long walk back down Llantarnam Road, it is at least reassuring to know that this particular grange farm has an on-going and distinct afterlife having so nearly been demolished in the 1960s.


Sports fields occupying some of the water meadows of Gelli-las grange between the Afon Lwyd and the railway line (Source: author).


Llantarnam Grange Arts Centre (Source: author).

Pathways through long winter days until bright Phoebus shines down again

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A quick ramble here through an assemblage of mid-winter cultural highlights. If record shops are a species indicator of a civilised polis (which they surely are), then it was good to have affirmation that the force remains strong in Bristol with the opening of a new Rough Trade store. A first wander around the racks yielded Bright Pheobus, songs by Lal and Mike Waterson, newly re-released on vinyl. Its 'lost folk-rock classic' story is unfurled in sleeve notes by Pete Paphides largely replicated in a Radio 4 documentary. Featuring Richard Thompson, Ashley Hutchings and a seemingly endless cast of early 70s electric folk, Bright Pheobus has joined the ever-replenished cast of misunderstood or under-marketed records of the time which have resurfaced, championed anew. A highlight for me is the track, Child Among the Weeds, featuring Lal Waterson and Bob Davenport's extraordinary, unrestrained vocals.



The post-war folk music revival is not covered by Steve Roud's magisterial (i.e. dauntingly massive) Folk Song In England, but I will try and persevere with this sweeping history of, well folk song in England. A chapter on sea shanties is included, a sound brought to vivid life by a communal sing-along with Halifax's finest renderers of whaling song, Kimber's Men, upstairs at The Greenbank, Easton in November. Other reading matter on 'the book pile' comes in the form of the multitude of pagan arcania found within the pages of Folk Horror Revival: Field Studies and the no-less fascinating A Natural History of the Hedgerow by John Wright. The 'folk horror' label perhaps encompasses Ben Myers The Gallows Pole, which I enthusiastically reviewed earlier in the year and remains a favourite recent fiction read.


Elsewhere on BBC radio, The Drover's Path fitted the bill as a suitably wintry Christmas Eve ghost story, Nick Luscombe presented Radio 3's Late Junction's favourite albums of 2017 and there was a gripping dramatisation of Neil Gaiman's refreshingly non-standard fantasy Anansi Boys, starring Jacob Anderson, Grey Worm from Game of Thrones; a Season Six box set of which was my Christmas guilty pleasure. Robert Macfarlane's #TheDarkIsRising Twitter-athon led to another gem from the BBC radio archive, a 1997 adaptation of Susan Cooper's midwinter classic chronicling a duel between the Dark and the Light across snowy Sussex downland. The ubiquitous (in a good way) Mr Macfarlane also brought forth his importantly beautiful collaborative work with artist Jackie Morris, The Lost Words; if ever there was an example of a Christmas present bought for your child that would give as much pleasure to the giver as the receiver, then this was it.




Fly bird fly on your raven wings
Take to the sky and sing for the love of wheeling and turning

These words, images and songs spun around my head as a post-Christmas walk around YGrib, Waun Fach and Pen Trumau in the post-snow, but still frozen, western Black Mountains literally blew the cobwebs away; awaiting the days when bright Phoebus will shine down again. 




Pagan sampler interlude

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New substantive post on the way soon, an archaeology of walking; in the meantime here's a musical interlude, some post-Easter pagan and animist sounds.

Trembling Bells - Christ's Entry Into Govan



Goat - Let It Burn



Mandy Morton and Spriguns (Spriguns of Tolgus) - Witchfinder



Erland Cooper - Solun Goose

On Arcadia

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Hotfoot from viewing new documentary film Arcadia, some initial thoughts on what seems quite a zeitgeist-y piece of work for those in the landscape/ place bubble.

Directed by Paul Wright, the film is constructed from digitised footage in the BFI National Archive inter-cut with fictional excerpts from cinema and television.* An 'old-weird-Britain mash-up' of imagery swirling around the last hundred years that hangs on the directors wish to explore 'how we connect with the land around us and with each other'. Adrian Utley of Portishead and Goldfrapp's Will Gregory provide the soundtrack, pulsing audio-cue's amongst the visual montage, recalling British Sea Power's work for From the Sea to the Land Beyond. Here and there the spectral folk voice of Anne Briggs melts and distorts into the mix.

The narrative, such as it is, rests on a journey through the seasons; but this is a loose story, and all the better for it. A lack of intruding commentary also gives the footage space to tell a story, gifting the watcher's imagination permission to roam. Paul Wright has explained how atmospheres, ideas and themes for each 'season' underscored the search through the deep and rich archive sources, though the aim was often to seek out material 'that you wouldn't expect to be in a film about the British countryside.' This cut-up approach reflects the director's desire to create sensory experiences through image and sound rather than a straight-forward linear narrative progression. As such, comparisons have been made with Godfrey Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi and Powaqqatsi films scored by Philip Glass. Common ground can also be found with the Robinson films of Patrick Keiller. Political or politicised questions of society's relationship with the land and nature, of identity, of class are surfaced but this is no polemic, it is left to the viewer to piece together their own interpretation. A point to return to.



Arcadia has been positioned as a 'folk horror' artifact, part of a fecund wyrd Britain arcania that has come out of the long shadows to be part of the contemporary landscape vibe. Although the film has deliberately avoided using some of the more obvious and over-exposed reference points such as The Wicker Man, the folk horror genre is certainly represented through haunting imagery of bodies rising from the grave in Requiem for a Village and the like. Also present are snatches of the frankly strange folk rituals on display in a highly-recommended previous BFI crate-digging exercise, Here's a Health to the Barley Mow  

As for my own feelings on viewing the film, an initial reaction was that it was following a rather hackneyed trope of contrasting modern dystopian imagery with a seemingly idyllic past, but as the temporal contrasts progressed and mingled a more nuanced and muddied picture emerged. All to the good. This is what history shows us. Processes and patterns of change - in life, society, the landscape - are complex, contradictory and unexpected, hard to pin down, especially when you are in the moment. Humanity may well be experiencing a long fall, unable now to stop a self-inflicted wrecking ball from wiping out civilisations and eco-systems. This may be already happening; we know we can do better. But we can't really know what the future holds: what great and terrible prospects and unforeseen technologies and events will come to pass. 

Many of the visions of sunlit unchanging rurality that front-load the film are pure mid-twentieth century propaganda. Much of it would surely have looked archaic (though perhaps reassuring) to contemporary viewers. Yes, those children playing cricket on the village green look innocently happy, but kids were still dying of TB and suffering from rickets; the coming welfare state desperately needed. The countryside looks ravishing and immutable, but it always does in sun-bleached black and white. Captured on these early reels was a receding world. The farm labourers were already a dying breed and, in truth, their forebears had suffered untold ructions and dislocations over centuries past. Things had been so stable and orderly in the Victorian English village that many could not wait to defect to the foul, teeming rising cities of wages and freedom or endure harsh journeys to the unknown potential of the colonies (or had no other choice).   


The juxtapose of old and new temps another thought: that folk rituals, hippy happenings, raves, music festivals and other raged communions with nature all share a common wealth through the ages; psychic (or psychedelic) portals out of normality. Echoes of a Merrie England always on the margins, dangerous and under threat. The past may be gone but it can punch through time, revived or repurposed into something new but familiar, even of we don't realise it. That's how history rolls. Same old wyrd magic, same old shite.  

Many a paradox here, but then the English vision of arcadia was always conflicted. As Adam Nicholson has chronicled, Renaissance England 'dreamed of a lost world, an ideal and unapproachable realm of bliss and beauty'; a seeking of 'the perfect interfolding of the human and the natural' as perceived in Classical pastorals. Nicholson characterises this movement as at once a search for the simpler Golden Age of ancient Sicily and Greek Arcadia - a longing underpinning many subsequent counter-cultures - whilst also being inherently conservative and elitist, raging against the forces of modernity: 'a dream of nature' though one exclusive to a rich squirarchy, heavily mediated and manipulated. A forgotten idealism which flowered but was then crushed by a brutal civil war. 

The visceral sonic and visual representations crackling through this film aptly show how the search for Arcadia has always been mixed-up, conflicted and probably doomed. 

An afterword on the recent Twitter squall on the Paul Kingsnorth's essay written to accompany the release of Arcadia. The piece, criticised for pandering to re-emerging 'blood and soil' nationalism, seems to have disappeared from the web, but a couple of Twitter responses to it and the author's 'open letter' reply posted on his website can be seen below. My own initial take was that, having previously admired Paul's non-conformism (and writing), these are dangerous Brexit-cult times in which to express sentiments that could be interpreted as mystical English exceptionalism. This may be a bit alarmist (Hell, Gareth Southgate may even come riding over the hill to show us a new more-inclusive path to Eden!). Anyway, have a read of both sides of the story and see what you think ...











 * The archive films which are utilised are listed on the Arcadia website.  


The topographical legacy of the medieval monastery: evolving perceptions and realities of monastic landscapes in the southern Welsh Marches

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This post is an abridged version of the discussion chapter framed around the core research questions of my recently submitted PhD thesis, examining a hypothesis that the medieval monastery, over centuries of managing and moulding its precinct and estates, has left a topographical legacy that remains a core though often unrevealed component of the historic landscape, of experienced and remembered sense of place. The aim here to provide a coherent and holistic narrative of carefully selected case study landscapes associated with three monastic houses in the border geography of the southern Welsh Marches.



Firstly, the Augustinian priory of Llanthony in the Black Mountains: the case study focused on the core home estate of Cwmyoy and adjacent sub-manors. A lordship taking the medieval name of Hothneyslade. Secondly, Tintern Abbey on the west bank of the lower River Wye, in Wales but also on ‘the very rim of England’; the case study area made up of the abbey estates on both the Welsh western side of the Wye and the English east: an encircling of home granges and manorial farms around the abbey precinct, referred to here as the ‘Wye Valley estates’. Finally, the Cistercian house of Llantarnam, in the lower Eastern Valley of western Monmouthshire between historic Caerleon and the new town of Cwmbrân. This case study concentrates on the home manor of Magna Porta, a diverse landscape adorned by several granges.


The project has sought to apply, in synthesis, methodology from both landscape archaeology and cultural geography, an underplayed modus operandi within historic landscape study. Walking as fieldwork practice has been a key methodological anchor: the routes of landscape walks across the case study geographies highlighted on the slide. For brevity, however, I will save reflection on how this fieldwork contributed to the research objectives, on how successfully practice from different disciplines blended, for another post.


Suffice to say that provisional thoughts or leads on boundaries, grange farms, field systems and an array of other landscape features were ground-truthed during the walks. It was such rooting around that confirmed or cemented, inter alia, the likely location and bounds of the Llantarnam granges of Dorallt and Llanderfel, Tintern’s Secular Firmary, various grange out-farms and the perimeter and nucleus of Llanthony’s Redcastle manor. The footways followed also embody linear archaeology in themselves: the course and physical remnants of several monastic routeways have been discovered, including the Old Roadway (Llanthony) and the Long Way (Tintern). 

Foundational to this project has been the identification, cataloguing and mapping of reconstructed topographical baselines for the medieval landscapes of the case studies. Once established, these ‘monastic landscapes’ enabled the tracking of later estate evolution, beyond the functional to dig into ‘embedded, deeper meanings’, to shape, in David Austin’s words, a ‘biography of place’ encompassing the perception and remembrance of the monastic legacy.


Comprehensive gazetteers of topographical features compiled for the project signify contemporary historic terrains inhabited by patterns and clusters of material relics from the centuries of monastic estate management. These archaeological clues, together with other evidence assemblages, have enabled the mapping of the landscape features in and around the monastic precinct and the wider medieval hinterland pivotal to the accompanying narratives. This analysis consolidates, extends, and in some cases challenges, existing data-sets, notably David Williams’ inventory of Welsh Cistercian estates. Most of all, it deepens previously preliminary and unconnected portraits of estate extents, economic and agricultural history and site-based testimony into a richer topographical reconstruction. Some of the key characteristics and themes will now be briefly drawn out.


At an estate boundary scale, charters and other medieval sources have offered a draft outline of the case study lands, the detail of a fuller facsimile drawn from post-medieval manorial archives, map regression and field observation. The Strata Florida project has shown how the perimeters of gifted lands were often not new lines in the landscape but trailed existing dykes, tracks and other markers, fossilising the extents of pre-monastic territorial units. Such is the case high on Mynydd Maen where the bounds of Llantarnam’s Magna Porta manor were meared by the Llanderfel Rhiw track and marker stones in an inherited landscape.

In common with the great swathes of monastic territory accumulated across northern England, Wales and the March more widely, these estates demonstrate a balance of underexploited country and long-established agricultural units. Here the early monastic communities – the Cistercians of Llantarnam and Tintern in particular – were certainly busy transforming the landscape through clearance, drainage, new livestock practices and higher-intensity cultivation. Any apparent taming of ‘blank canvas’ wilderness, however, was largely allegoric, the reality more nuanced. Even in these relatively underpeopled terrains there was little wholly unsettled or unmanaged land. Economic activity also had to adapt to local circumstances. As Janet Burton and Julie Kerr have pointed out, the Cistercians were ‘not so much pioneers as entrepreneurs whose successful reorganisation of fragmented estates into granges reshaped the landscape’, delivering a more efficient economy.


This can be seen in the development of Tintern’s Wye Valley estates. Backwater Porthcasseg manor transformed into the epicentre of the abbey’s farming operations, the new granges of Ruding and Secular Firmary and their secondary farms carved out of abundant wooded margins. South, west and across the Wye, the established but perhaps moribund arable farms of Rogerstone, Trelleck and Modesgate expanded and worked harder by teams of lay brothers. As with the large tracts of Yorkshire in the hands of the Cistercians, the countryside was substantially worked and moulded during the monastic centuries of corporate continuity and privilege, creating a structure that is largely still retained. Within the margins of the estate boundaries, the medieval landscape maps present a broad template mirrored in the historic environment today: a general land-use segmentation into sectors of woodland, farmed land and open common; the location of the larger farmsteads and routeways; relict landscape features of grange and manorial infrastructure such as fishponds, mills, sheepcotes and fish weirs; and networks of chapels and churches.
Clearing of woodland, the exploitation of previously marginal country and changes in agricultural techniques may have taken place with or without monastic stewardship and the role of local farming communities as key agents of landscape change should not be overlooked. The scale and intensity of transition, however, speak of the planning, resources and sustained resolve displayed by monasteries and their workforce, particularly in the pioneering stage of dynamic estate management and grange-led re-orientation. The dominant players in galvanising this landscape modification were the flourishing granges of Llantarnam and Tintern, the large valley farms of Hothneyslade.

At the grange and individual farm spatial level, the core demesne estates and specialist farmsteads surrounding the monastery and general land-use character have been defined and mapped. More tentative has been the tracing of medieval field boundaries associated with these steadings. Here, contemporary documentary evidence has been slight. Moreover, the field systems remaining in the historic landscape often display regular forms that suggest post-medieval re-setting of farmed land. There are some exceptions. Llantarnam’s highland bercary of Rhyswg, carved out of an elevated wooded ridge, is sub-divided by small rectilinear enclosures bounded by earth-banked out-grown beech hedges suggesting their origin as assarts, the conversi workforce laying out a designed grid to enable efficient stock rearing and self-sufficiency. Field-names, particularly those of older documents and maps, sometimes also hint at ancient farming practice, the case study gazetteers cataloguing an array of examples that speak of arable and common tillage, livestock and other land-use.


Perhaps most revealing, however, are the occasional impressions of now vanished enclosures highlighted by LiDAR beneath the post-medieval palimpsest, such as those at Penterry and Porthcasseg on the plateau above Tintern. Such glimpses, though, offer-up only partial or indicative infilling amidst the more confidently drawn grange and estate boundaries and general land-use patterns.

The evidence drawn from the case studies points to a somewhat unenclosed farmed environment across many of the hill-country granges and tenanted farming communities: picture the rolling grasslands interspersed with wood cover of the archetypal Alpine valley. Crops and livestock kept around the farmsteads certainly penned in, demarcated and protected by the fence and wall of the infield, the wider outfield space encompassing (sometimes large) tracts of rotational or transient enclosures. A more open prospect across the extensive outlying ground: the wood-pasture hillsides and long flood meadowlands along the valley floor. This patina only later transformed into the patchwork of individual fields so characteristic of these landscapes today and in living memory.

Of the grange courts themselves, their building ranges and yards would seem, in most cases, to have been overlain by succeeding post-medieval farmsteads and the infrastructure of modern farming (or in the case of Llantarnam’s closest granges, the built environment of Cwmbrân). This is a familiar monastic story: for instance, few surviving buildings have been found at the numerous granges of the well-studied Fountains Abbey. As direct management of large monastic estates declined in the later Middle Ages, many granges and monastic farms reorganised to meet the more modest needs and differing farming priorities of their lay tenants. The grand stone buildings of these ‘miniature monasteries’ often fell into disuse or were replaced with smaller structures more suited to local agricultural needs. Such ‘downsizing’ and subsequent post-medieval rebuilding in stone explains the paucity of surviving grange architecture. Numerous of the successor farmsteads in the case study areas have, though, been shown to include some remnant late-medieval or early post-medieval fabric, most strikingly Llwyn-celyn, south of Llanthony, where it is hoped that ongoing architectural restoration will reveal more of its monastic history.


Some parallels and contrasts between the case study medieval landscapes will now be examined. All three monasteries emerged from their foundation stage with a consolidated and considerable block of home estates surrounding the precinct – enhanced by exchange and purchase – which remained largely stable throughout the monastic epoch and beyond. This pattern, repeated for many similarly-sized houses, further dispels the myth that the primary goal of the new monastic communities of the twelfth century was to settle in wild and untamed places isolated from the surrounding countryside. The houses and their religious and lay communities became deeply embedded in the surrounding landscape, economy and society. Tintern’s extensive landed holdings and network of grange farms elevated the abbey to become an important regional landowner; also the case, though at a more parochial level, for Llantarnam and Llanthony.

The influence of expansive monastic land management across south-east Wales on medieval life was, though, often interrupted or checked by wider events and the degree of hostility, either from the local populace or neighbouring landowners. Perceived or real political loyalties in times of dispute and conflict such as the Glyndŵr revolt often had implications for the stability and financial health of the monastery. Llanthony and Tintern, founded and patronised by Anglo-Norman nobility were, moreover, heavily subject to the fortunes of their benefactors; high-status dependents of the fiefdoms commanded from the castles at Longtown and Chepstow.

Llantarnam was somewhat out of step with this prevailing Marcher hegemony. Its very foundation by the great Welsh house of Strata Florida and the native lords of Caerleon was as a bulwark against Norman incursion. The monastery precinct, abbot’s park and demesne estates interlocked with a wider native lordly countryside: the abbey conjoined with the adjacent lordship centre and deer park of Caerleon. 

To classify these shrewdly planned and plotted landscapes as uniformly ‘monastic’ would be something of a caricature. Though exemplars of expansion and agrarian intensification, the home granges of Llantarnam and Tintern were not isolated within an uncultivated vacuum. The abbeys were also lords of manorial tenants peopling the wider expanses gifted to them. Evidence is, though, lacking as to the extent to which the existing peasantry were incorporated into the lay grange workforce or displaced by the new farming system as seen at some of the holdings of Fountains Abbey. Whilst the Cistercian grange model was underscoring landscape management at Llantarnam and Tintern, moreover, this is less evident for Augustinian Llanthony. The canon’s stewardship of the Hothneyslade manors was often notional as the fortunes of the priory ebbed and flowed and it finally became a much-reduced cell of the more flourishing Gloucester house, exercising looser lordly control over its independently-minded tenantry. Nevertheless, here can still be seen a degree of agricultural planning and innovation that betokens a monastic influence, a working of this previously marginal topography more efficiently to support the priory and maximise income. The fertile alluvial soils of the lower and eastern side of the Vale of Ewyas exploited by the bigger arable valley farms, pastoral farming and woodland management intensified elsewhere.


One clear thread running through the three case studies is the existence of a network of roads and trackways connecting the monastery, its geographically spread manors, granges and farmsteads and the wider world. Trade, high-status visitors, pilgrims and local traffic, the multiple catalysts for a named and marked, maintained and managed system of transit and safe passage. Spotlighting and recreating these routeways foregrounds considerations of movement and the multiple meanings of these shared ways: to connect but also to mark and codify the landscape and people’s interaction within it. Travelling through, for instance, the Abbey Gate before the descent down to the Wye ferry to Tintern representing not just a waymark but also a passing from the open forest of Tidenham Chase into prescribed monastic land. As such routes spread out from the monastery, they also took on a geo-political role: linking economically and strategically important places, acting as both ‘instruments of elite control’ and safe space in sometimes bleak and hostile country.


Examples of constructed trackways such as the cobbled way above the Passage ferry to Tintern and the stonework on the Fish Path down to Llanthony, banked or hollowed depending on the terrain, highlight their role as multi-purpose critical infrastructure. It is not hard to imagine that the effort, resources and planning that went into building the monastery and developing its agricultural holdings would also be channelled into these important routeways, bonding the house with its estates and the outside world to ensure safe and efficient passage. As with Andrew Fleming’s findings on studying the Monks Trod and other Strata Florida tracks, the evidence suggests an, often underestimated, level of sophistication and investment in medieval road construction and maintenance. A transition of routes from general directions of travel into defined, maintained and named roads and footways can be heralded as a key monastic topographical legacy.

Moving now beyond the monastic era, the case study landscapes experienced a remarkable level of post-Dissolution continuity in the estate configuration developed by the monasteries. Local gentry – the Arnolds (Llanthony), Herberts (Tintern) and Morgans (Llantarnam) – had cultivated prominent roles in the lay administration of the late-monastic estates and, no doubt, long-term ambitions to take control when circumstances allowed. They were swift to secure the abbey and priory sites and their extensive landed possessions after the suppression. Manors and grange farms remained as integral working units within these high-status domains, to be inherited or purchased from this first generation of secular landowners. It was the inexorable splintering of great landed estates from the late-nineteenth century onwards that saw this durability breached: the lost monasteries only experiencing the final ‘dissolution of their landscapes’ in the post-war decades as country estates were rapidly broken up, a full 400 years after their religious communities were expelled.

It was not only the monastic estate unit that remained imprinted on the landscape. As already alluded to, the land-use model moulded during the monastic centuries has endured: a template for, rather than a mere staging post towards the modern landscape, though evolved further and embellished in the post-medieval era. Successor communities took on extant social and physical landscapes and, although they applied their own agency in adapting this inherited terrain were often much-influenced by what went before. Post-medieval farmers around Llanthony and Tintern may have rationalised their practices to reflect a more individualised and market-driven agriculture but they did so on the back of the ‘heavy-lifting’ of their medieval predecessors in establishing the core farm units. Even the seemingly overriding modern townscape of Cwmbrân retains important trace elements of the medieval Magna Porta manor and its grange farms.


Within this settled framework, though, a new fieldscape emerged, open sheep-walks, wood-pasture and flood-meadows progressively enclosed in straight lines and the old infield-oufield reconfigured to reflect changing farming practice and tenancy arrangements (as the tithe maps surveying Llanthony’s Cwmyoy manor record). Manifest here was a decisive shift away from communal rights and activity towards an emergent ‘private, hedged landscape’. The power of the monastic corporations had been replaced by prominent secular landowners and newly cash-rich farmers of the ‘middling sort’, such as the powerful cartel of upwardly mobile provincial families who monopolised the Cwmyoy manor court. It was the piecemeal enclosure by agreement enacted by these enterprising and relentless proto-capitalists that fenced, hedged and walled these landscapes. Its gestation traced to independently-minded farmed-out granges and tenancies of the last decades of monastic ownership but flowering mainly from the late-sixteenth through to the early-eighteenth century. Later waves of similarly grass-rooted endeavour saw further intake from open common and waste as a rising and land-hungry populace set-up new steadings, though more top-down and expansive Parliamentary Inclosure was never enacted across these particular upland commons.

Though the building ranges of the medieval granges – designed for monastic communities and practices now past – either fell into disrepair, were demolished or replaced, their names survived. Even where the physical presence had vanished, such place-names endured as what Alexandra Walsham has termed prompting ‘mnemonics’, a lexicon symbolising continuity, antiquity and high status. Llanderfel, its pilgrims long gone and its chapel high on a shelf of Mynydd Maen above Llantarnam falling into ruin, lingered as a place of local significance. Llanderfel Rhiw, wending above the chapel and grange, remained part of the boundary circuit cited in manor surveys, along with ‘the brother’s gate’ indicating the north-western extent of the old abbey lands of Magna Porta. Such boundary markers incorporating ‘material traces of the past’ helped to shape parochial identity and knowledge; anchoring nodes underpinning custom and tradition.

All three former monasteries had in common an ongoing afterlife and renewal, transformations which retained strong echoes of medieval life, architecture and landscape. This post-suppression history has now lasted longer than the era of monastic corporations. Although all were integrated into post-medieval secular estates, the trajectories of the abandoned cloisters and their surrounding monastic fabric varied.


The disused hulk of Llantarnam Abbey soon saw rebirth as a new gentry mansion, trading on its monastic past but also the author of the destruction of much of the old medieval fabric. The ‘abbey’ name was retained, such an address conferring a status and history particularly important for gentry keen to stress or promote their pedigree. A new house with ancient antecedents in place, William Morgan proceeded to further bolster his position in society by developing the precinct and former abbot’s park into a contemporary Elizabethan garden and parkland landscape, retaining features such as the Magna Porta gate. Such monastic remnants incorporated into the grounds of a great house or estate later folded into the ideal of a picturesque landscape.

By contrast, the claustral buildings at Llanthony and Tintern remained largely intact as coveted property but never became the permanent seats of their owners (and were long utilised for more rustic utility and partially ravaged for building materials). Curiously, given its later veneration, the dramatic wreck of the abbey at Tintern did not become the centrepiece of a gentry landscape, falling instead into backwater anonymity until Georgian resurrection.


Llanthony did witness a late attempt at transformation into a country house estate by Walter Savage Landor. The old priory was to be the heart of ambitious plans to create a ‘new Llanthony’; not just a house but an ‘ideal community’ and a landscape by design, an echo of its monastic past. Ultimately unfulfilled, Landor’s vision nevertheless exemplified renewed enthusiasm for historic places during the Romantic era.

The priory was revered by the discerning aesthete and enjoyer of country pursuits, but it was Tintern that was to latterly become simultaneously ‘both fashionable and commercialised’, remaining one of the more visited heritage sites in the country. Both survived and thrived as worthy relics of the monastic and medieval past into the modern age of heritage tourism. At Llantarnam, with little surviving fabric on which to construct a medieval narrative, the successor house and grounds passed through the acme and decline of the Victorian country estate era, slipping into prosaic institutional use. Even though the old abbey is long gone, though, its memory has framed successor topography and utility, from the continuation of the Catholic spirit by the Morgan family to renewed religious purpose as a post-war nunnery.

As the lordly inheritors of monastic estates valued and proclaimed their continuity with the past, so too did their tenants. The post-medieval copyholders of Cwmyoy controlling the manor court were busy forging new homes, lives and agricultural incomes from the old demesne manor of Llanthony. Their manor court books still though proudly foregrounded a history of ‘the Abby of Lanthony which gives name to the Lordship’, quoting the original land grants to the priory from which the manor sprung. This incantation confirmed not only the ancient bounds of the estate but also its pedigree as the Augustinian’s home ground, historic links to the priory still symbolically important to the forward-looking court members. One of their number also took the trouble to adorn the entrance of his new farmhouse at Ty-hwnt-y-bwlch with an archway appropriated from its ruins; a gesture at once both respectful and profane.

At a more mundane workaday level, field-names such as Ynys-y-prior (‘the prior’s water meadow’), part of the bounds of Cwmyoy recited in 1612, and roads retaining monastic monikers, such as the Monks Path and Stony Way out of Tintern, also reinforced this memory. Aside from such folk-naming and snippets gleaned from manorial and legal documents, folklore myths and stories articulated a sense of history and place, as seen in the tales of phantom monks and hidden tunnels recounted in all three case studies.  


The physical and perceptual landscape ‘of signposts to the destroyed monastic era’, often integral to local consciousness but unscrutinised and taken for granted or lying dormant, became the rich seam from which would spring the antiquarianism, Romantic art and literature, tourism and heritage engagement of the future. Tintern, of course, was something of a national figurehead in the revival of interest in historical places and this is reflected in the way the abbey’s immediate surrounds became heavily adorned with layers of touristic infrastructure: neat lawns, visitor centre, car park, public house and other commercial elements.

Llanthony has often been perceived to be a more rewarding and authentic experience of past times and landscape, something of a hidden gem. These words from Victorian antiquarian, Edward Freeman, still seem prescient for anyone affronted by heritage industry paraphernalia and coach parties today:
‘Tintern is nothing to Llanthony…almost too perfect, too neat, too trim…Llanthony is an utter ruin … One can wander in and out unrestrained.’
The spiritual antiquity expressed by the priory also seems to have been a magnet for free-spirited and idealistic mavericks – Landor, Father Ignatius, Eric Gill – inspired by ‘the Ewyas Valley and its mythological overload’ as expressed by psychogeographer Iain Sinclair, for whom traversing the valley was to be in the presence of the walkers of the past. These searchers were looking to take on the mantle of the Llanthony canons, inspired by a foundation myth of creating a new utopian community amidst the harsh ‘wilderness’.


As one respondent to an on-line survey carried out for this project had it, the Llanthony valley ‘does seem to be unique in its fascination for creative visitors and inhabitants.’ By contrast, since the early visitations of Gilpin, Wordsworth and Turner, Tintern has arguably lacked a cutting-edge artistic narrative. Where Llanthony inspired the impressionistic, challenging imagery of the likes of Edward Burra, David Jones and John Piper and the esoteric writings of Iain Sinclair and Allen Ginsberg, artistic responses to Tintern have tended to the more mainstream and conservative, often mired in Romantic-era sensibilities.

Now to address the problems and opportunities for managing these landscapes in the future. Landscape can evoke the past, but it can also hide and lead to forgetting. Although conspicuous relict markers such as chapels and farmsteads can be conduits for remembering the past, often the evidence of the impact of monastic houses on the landscape lies more covertly around us, unsuspected.


This hidden-ness is particularly striking when surveying the half-remembrance of Llantarnam Abbey in the contemporary landscape adorning its sequestered location. With no historic ruins as a draw, there has been no significant heritage conservation or promotion. Much of the adjacent – and limited – infrastructure of public paths, stiles and signage is often in poor condition, overgrown and blighted by fly-tipping; the precinct landscape remorselessly encroached upon by incremental urban development.

Often unseen though in plain sight, even at the more visited and promoted heritage hubs of Llanthony and Tintern, is the monastic inheritance of estate and farm extents and boundaries, land-use patterns, field systems and communications networks drawn together in this study. Such meta topographies litter the landscape but are paradoxically often difficult to read: it can literally be hard to see ‘the wood for the trees.’ Much is made of the sylvan situation of Llanthony and Tintern, but these greenwoods are so often packaged as part of the unchanging, ‘unspoilt natural beauty’ of the monastic setting, removing the heritage ruin from its connected and evolving landscape context. Groves such as the Abbot’s Wood or Coed Cwmyoy were not simply a pleasant or untamed place for devotional contemplation. Their real medieval value and utility as coppice, grazing or repurposed agricultural land - is underplayed or uncharted. And, in recent decades, the woods have been returning in more ragged form after a long span of denudation: the old commons of the Wye Valley around Tintern ‘concealing everywhere within its woodland the signs of the old agricultural landscape.’

Many footpaths through the woods and meadows enable the visitor to explore this gilded countryside, to obtain breath-taking vistas of the monastic ruins in their seemingly timeless frame. These very by-ways are themselves an unheralded living relic of the monkish centuries, their significance habitually unfathomed even as the walker adds to the footfall of the years. These well-trodden arteries once hummed with great waves of traffic keeping the monastic economy on the move before – like those of the Romans before them – declining into a long ‘Dark Age’ of neglected forgetting, as the realms of the monastery reverted to out-of-the-way backwaters once more; no longer pivots of travel and commerce. 


In some cases, as with the overgrown, stream-hollowed Old Roadway down from the Hatterall ridge to Llanthony and the serpentine Long Way snaking southwards from Tintern above the Wye, these routes have fallen out of the remembered landscape. Or, as with Grange Road, once the approach to Llantarnam’s Gelli-las grange, now a prosaic urban supermarket access road, morphed into faint memories.

Individual features within this landscape patchwork are often even more forgotten, neglected or remote. A determined landscape researcher may be able to clamber and struggle through brambles and down muddy inclines to find the overgrown remains of Tintern’s Stoweir fish-house or the old walls of the lost Secular Firmary grange, but the casual passer-by is unlikely to realise that they are even there. 


It may seem curious that in places such as Llanthony and Tintern, designated and much frequented for their historic value and scenic beauty, this wider monastic landscape inheritance can be so seemingly overlooked. It is certainly the case that they have been well represented as landmarks in touristic guides to regional identities such as the Brecon Beacons, Wye Valley, Welsh Border Country and so forth. The monastic ruins are frequently the centre-point or a thematic feature of walks, driving tours and cycle routes. Accounts of their architecture, archaeology and history often, though, seem abstracted or detached from any sense of passing through a landscape that was also deeply infused with monastic influence. A narrative of the enwrapping historic environment beyond the precinct walls – the web of monastic granges and agricultural estates, of forged or co-opted trackways – is generally absent.

That much of the cultural landscape advanced here so often passes under the radar is not just a question of the public missing out on opportunities to experience heritage monuments in a richer context. As the case study gazetteers which accompany this analysis demonstrate, many of these landscape features are absent from historic environment records, or only appear in an unconnected and ad-hoc manner. This paucity of formal evidence puts unrecorded everyday elements of the landscape at risk of potential despoliation and damage.


For instance, the development squeeze around Llantarnam has seen much of the historic fabric of the abbey precinct and its home granges built upon without archaeological assessment, whilst other under-recorded features nearby are also under threat or lack conservation plans. More positively, interest in the pilgrim trail from the abbey to Penrhys in recent years has seen a coalition of residents, archaeologists and historians walking and examining the conjectured route, largely under the umbrella of the HLC-funded Ancient Cwmbrân & The Cistercians project. As a result, a linear piece of history stubbornly retaining its place in the modern-day topography of Cwmbrân has been foregrounded and chronicled. Such community engagement and media exposure has also been a central motif of the Strata Florida Project, where a Trust has recently been established to manage the abbey ruins and the surrounding post-medieval farm as a long-term research and heritage enterprise.

The walking trail (and circuits for cycling or other forms of transport) is a self-evident way that the monastic biography of these landscapes can be brought to life and experienced. Obvious perhaps, but surprisingly little implemented. Where walks have been promoted they tend to remain very much site-focused rather than engaging with the story of the wider landscape. Echoes of the monastic landscape appear incidentally and unheralded. This is even the case with initiatives such as the Cistercian Way (a long-distance itinerary linking all the monasteries of that order across Wales) and St. Thomas Way (recreating a medieval pilgrimage from Swansea to Hereford) which, to this observer, seem not to take full advantage of or promote the monastic trackways and geographies that they pass along and through between heritage ‘sites’.

The routes followed in the landscape walks designed for this thesis could provide a blue-print for more immersive guided experiences, anchored to the memory of monastic ways, landscapes and locations, and I have been involved in organising such themed walks for the Llanthony Valley and District History Group. At Llanthony there are additional opportunities to integrate the monastic landscape narrative into the Landmark Trust’s restoration of the late-medieval farmstead at Llwyn-celyn (where a threshing barn is becoming a HLF-funded visitor and education centre, a new gateway for visitors to the valley).

Innovative techniques increasingly used in heritage management can, moreover, be harnessed to complement and enhance walking-based experiences. Democratisation of access to GPS, high-resolution mapping and so forth through mobile technology and social media can enable a much more immersive and participatory engagement with the archaeology of landscape. Guided walks, online promotion and mobile apps that integrate time-depth representations and rememberings could do much to raise awareness of the wider monastic legacy in the landscape. 

To sum up, many elements of the monastic landscape identified here adorn today’s historic environment: embedded topographical memory often unseen or unheralded, hidden in plain sight. The formulation, consolidation or pivotal evolution of estate unit boundaries, land-use patterns, exploited marginal terrain, farmsteads, field systems, field- and place-names and many individual features layering present-day landscape character can be traced to the transformations engineered by these monastic agents of change. Perhaps most strikingly, networks of communication routes remain grooved into the landscape, their continued navigation a symbol of monastic durability. Once unearthed, such evidence unlocks ‘landscape history’ so often stranded, in Graham Fairclough’s words, in ‘anachronistic “periods”’, folding the historic dimension more clearly into the contemporary landscape.

A manifesto has been sketched out here for highlighting and encountering often under-appreciated elements of the landscape and medieval life anew, their meaning rediscovered and repurposed. There is considerable scope and potential to complement and enrich the public’s experience of medieval monastic ‘heritage sites’, contextualising the remains of the abbey or priory in their holistic monastic (and successor) landscape setting, moving beyond a reductive presentation framing such sites with a backdrop of generic ‘natural beauty’. 

A more productive reckoning with landscape through an ‘intertwining of past, present and future’ is advocated, moving the frame of reference away from elite site history to an engagement, immersive or more ephemeral, with the everyday elements that populate an enriched topophilia and sense of place. ‘We are surrounded by the greatest of free shows. Places. Most of them made by man, remade by man’, proclaimed Jonathan Meades in his topographical compendium, Museum Without Walls. This study has illuminated a rich but often ill-lit or concealed component of this treasury, landscapes shaped on the ground and in the mind by the medieval monastery.

The path to the monastery: monastic communication networks in the southern Welsh Marches

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The Version of Record of this Author's Manuscript has been published and is available in Landscape History 2019 (40.1, pp 59-70) http://www.tandfonline.com DOI: 10.1080/01433768.2019.1600944 

Introduction
This paper presents evidence, often still observable in the field, ofa coherent and managed network of roads and tracks within the orbit of medieval monasteries and their estates; a component of a wider PhD research project assessing the impact of the medieval monastery on the historic landscape. A hypothesis that the topographical legacy of the monastery has remained a central element (though often hidden or unseen) of the genius loci of a study area in the southern Welsh Marches has been explored, examining how this has influenced the development, experience and remembrance of these landscapes up to the present day. 

Fig. 1: Distribution of monastic houses in the southern Welsh Marches study area (Source: map drawn by the author in ArcGIS® using Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 Scale Colour Raster, 2016 and 1:5000 Historic Counties data layers, downloaded from Digimap® under licence, http://digimap.edina.ac.uk/, and Historic Counties Trust http://county-borders.co.uk/).

The area under examination here encompasses Herefordshire south of the River Wye, the Forest of Dean district of Gloucestershire and most of the historic county of Monmouthshire. This region, spanning the Anglo-Welsh border, contains a mixture of pays, of both upland and lowland, and champion and bocagelandscape character and was also heavily colonized by several religious orders during the Middle Ages, as can be seen in the distribution map at Fig. 1. Within this regional geography, the Cistercian abbeys of Llantarnam and Tintern and Augustinian Llanthony Priory provide the case study landscapes for the project.

Three routeways in particular – one from each house – are described. Each has been walked by the author as part of a wider traversing of the case study terrains, deploying, in synthesis, field methods from both landscape archaeology and cultural geography - still an underutilised modus operandi in the context of historic landscape study. Such exploration on foot is partly inspired by Andrew Fleming’s (2009, 2010) walking and horse-back journeying on the Monks’ Trod long-distance road linking Strata Florida Abbey with its granges across the uplands of mid-Wales.

The problem with medieval roads
The popular view of medieval roads is that they were much like medieval life: nasty, brutish and short. Such route-ways were poorly maintained, difficult to progress along and largely restricted to relatively parochial journeying. This narrative suggests long centuries of struggling through the muddy, rutted remains of the Roman road system, waterways the preferred option for long-distance travel or bulk transport (Oram 2016, p. 303). Medieval ways, in this view, were generally not carefully planned or engineered; rather, they were more spontaneous developments, as popular routes from A to B ‘made and maintained themselves’ through use (Wright 1985, p.42). As Paul Hindle (2002, p. 6) has pointed out, ‘essentially the road was not a physical entity, a thin strip of land with definite boundaries; rather it was a right of way, an ‘easement’, with both legal and customary status’. Though constant use would often lead to a physical track developing, in many places its actual course, unconstrained by fence, hedge or wall, may not have been stable over time (Morriss 2005, p. 13). Outside of the shrinking open commons, in country where the landscape was being plotted and pieced into an increasingly enclosed tapestry of field, arable strip and coppice, many of these roadways would become narrow and sunken, surviving into modern times as the holloway ‘ghosts’ of medieval travel and transport (Muir 2004, p. 170); ‘landmarks that speak of habit rather than of suddenness … the result of repeated human actions’ (Macfarlane et al 2012, p. 3).  

Tracing the origin and line of the roads and trackways of the Middle Ages is often a difficult task. Whilst documentary evidence for medieval ways is fragmentary and incidental, the physical trace can be more substantial. Old tracks are, however, an elusive artefact, now often hard to recognise on the ground: sometimes manifest archaeologically as little-altered holloways, narrow terraces or other earthwork remains, otherwise more ‘transient drift ways’ linking farm and field only visible from aerial photography or satellite imagery, or even obliterated or much altered by subsequent generations of wayfarers and later changes in transport infrastructure, agricultural practice, enclosure and encroaching vegetation (Colyer 1984, p. 12; Hindle 2002, p6; Taylor 1979, pp.117, 119). As it is often difficult to date old trackways based on field evidence alone, documentary confirmation of medieval use (often sparse), name evidence or dated associated archaeology is needed to provide certainty, constraining the study of this important component of the medieval landscape. As a consequence, relatively little has been written about ‘where the roads were’ or identifying examples of integrated networks (Hindle 2002, p. 5). To some extent, the literature that has appeared on this subject has tended to buttress the ‘nasty and brutish’ interpretation.

Christopher Taylor’s (1979, p. 150) view, conveying almost Pythonesque medievalism, seems still to predominate: ‘any movement along medieval roads was uncomfortable at best and unbelievably difficult at worst’; but were things always this bad? An assumption of unmade and arduous ways as the medieval norm may partly be due to the aforementioned lack of study and fieldwork, limited documentary evidence and the overlay of modern roads in more recent times (Morriss 2005, p. 114). Yet communities and organisations such as the monastic orders had a motivation to maintain roads out of economic self-interest and to bolster their symbolic function as boundary features, keeping tracks in reasonable order and clear of obstruction for their day-to-day use, as will now be explored (Morriss 2005, pp. 37-8; Oram 2016, p. 306).

Following monastic routes
This paper presents examples from monastic estates to suggest that medieval abbeys and priories, powerful corporations of their time, were forging and improving communication networks across their landed possessions in a sustained and systematic way. Monastic houses would have required a network of paths and lanes for the regular movement of stock, produce, people and goods to and from geographically spread estates, farms andsatellites, provincial markets, neighbouring monastic and secular nodes and so forth. They were also a focus for the regular movement of monks, ecclesiastical officials and high-status dignitaries, traders and other visitors and travellers who would need to follow such routes. Pilgrims, the poor seeking charity and other more workaday movement would have added to the ebb and flow. All the while, monasteries were engaged in expansive agricultural and industrial production to meet the needs of the conventual community, as well as trading surplus produce with the wider world (notably the export of wool). A serviceable communications network to facilitate both parochial and longer distance business and trade was essential. Social, economic, ecclesiastical and political activities were therefore a key driver in the development and usage of route-ways by monasteries throughout the countryside (Rackham 1986, p. 270). As Richard Muir (2001, p. 58) has pointed out in relation to Cistercian establishments in the north of England:
‘The members of the great Cistercian houses, and particularly the lay brethren who served them, needed to be on the move. Their granges spanned areas very much larger than most farms, whilst their far-flung estates involved them in considerable travel.’

The monastery was at the heart of a web of highways and byways. ‘Way-leave’, the right of passage, was an essential aspect of the monastic economy (Williams 2001, p. 249). For instance, many of Tintern Abbey’s charters guaranteed explicit rights of ‘a free road’, access and passage ‘free from toll’ or any other hindrance throughout the donor’s lands (Heath 1806, unpaginated; PRO 1908, p. 105). This not only made a geographically dispersed network of granges and manors feasible, but also enabled the abbey, its estates and the wider world to be physically linked by a system of travel-ways radiating out from the convent. Communication was also a factor in the strategic acquisition and consolidation of monastic estates, with holdings strung along routes to markets, coastal ports and quays (Bezant 2013, p. 137; Hindle 1998, p. 44). For example, Tintern’s Modesgate grange became a staging post on the way to and from the abbey’s Gloucestershire lands. Reached from the Abbey Passage ferry across the Wye, Modesgate was a nodal point for land routes fanning out to the abbey’s granges and further east into England. From the slipway, a well-preserved rise of pitched stone and banked path testifies to both the heavy traffic using this route and the sophistication of its construction (Fig. 2). This track then splits, the left-hand branch a broad, cobbled pathway to Brockweir grange known as the Monks’ Path; the right-hand way, Abbey Road, climbing to Modesgate via the Abbey Gate through an early-medieval earthwork associated with Offa’s Dyke (Baggs & Jurica 1996, p. 151; Morgan & Smith 1972a, p. 58; 1972b, p. 106; Thomas 1839, p. 41).1


Fig. 2: Stone-pitched track climbing from the Abbey Passage ferry at Tintern (Source: author).

Much of the monastic-era road network would have continued in use after the Dissolution, whether by the local populace or for longer-distance travel, for instance as part of drovers’ ways. Shorn of the monastic rationale for movement, however, other old tracks fell out of favour or,whilst still used for parochial traffic, declined in use and repair (Fleming 2009, pp. 83-5). There is some evidence of a significant deterioration in the general state of the road system by the end of the sixteenth century, perhaps partly explained by the fall of the monasteries which had been responsible for much of the road maintenance that had taken place; also, no doubt, due to a rapid general growth in trade and economic prosperity putting additional pressure on the network (Hindle 2002, p. 17; Morriss 2005, p. 40). During a parliamentary enquiry prior to the counties’ Turnpike Act in the mid-eighteenth century, Colonel Valentine Morris, owner of Piercefield Park south of Tintern, replied to the questions ‘what roads are there in Monmouthshire?’ with ‘None’, and ‘How then do you travel?’ with ‘In ditches’ (Taylor 1861, p. 32). The nineteenth century saw a shift, accelerated during road modernisation in the mid-twentieth century, in which previously important routes, their usage often stretching back to the Middle Ages, became marginal and eventually fell out of regular use and repair. Such ‘roads’ have in some cases been revived as walking paths or bridleways or have quietly sunk back into the landscape.

Traversing the hills to Llanthony Priory
So, to the first case study example. From historic and modern cartography, a thick spread of trackways can be traced radiating out from Llanthony Priory, deep in the Vale of Ewyas in the Black Mountains, and connecting it with its manorial hinterland of Hothneyslade and the wider communication network. The landscape inherited by the priory would have included pre-existing – often prehistoric – tracks up to and along the mountain watersheds, either from transhumance practice or long-standing trade routes, often remaining in medieval use: the path traversing the western heights of the valley was still known as the ‘great ridge road’ in the late-sixteenth century (Colyer 1984, p. 10).2 As the priory’s manorial estate evolved throughout Hothneyslade, lower-level lanes developed binding farmsteads, churches and hamlets more permanently.

In the nineteenth century, the Reverend Roberts (1846, p. 218) noted that medieval sources regularly mentioned the high route over the Hatterall ridge as ‘the ordinary way to Llanthony.’ Before alternative low-level valley routes to the south were instigated, this was the main way for most visitors and traffic from the lordship stronghold at Longtown and the priory’s many estates in Herefordshire and England more widely. The track now most used to reach the priory ruins from the ridgeway (part of the Offa’s Dyke Long Distance Trail) is commonly called ‘the Beer Path’. Received wisdom, as oft repeated in guide books and other literary references, is that this name derives from the Welsh Rhiw Arw, originally cwrw meaning ‘ale’, a memory of the use of the path by the canons of Llanthony to transport ale (Hurley 2010, p. 91; Sinclair 2001, p. 313; Watkins 2005, p. 51). This, though, is a cautionary tale of the risk of misinterpreting names in the landscape. Rhiw Cwrw (‘ale pass’) is, in fact, an ancient naming of the saddle over which the way from Longtown, bastion of the de Lacy Marcher Lords and benefactors of the priory, climbs from the other side of the Hatterall ridge. Rhiw Cwrw was first recorded in the eighth century, in the Book of Llandaff, and so the name pre-dates the priory by at least several centuries (Coplestone-Crow 1989, p. 56; Wedell 2008, unpaginated). The Beer Path descending to the priory seems latterly to have taken on an Anglicised version of this old name, so giving rise to the story of monks carrying ale along this trail (Hando 1944, p. 91). That its line reaches the priory enclosure via a nondescript field path crossing its northern boundary rather than arriving at the gatehouse to the south is also problematic if it is to be considered monastic. A more likely origin is as a rhiw or drift road used by farmers to move stock up and down from the common upland grazing.

Fig. 3: Route of the Old Roadway to Llanthony Priory annotated by the author on a vertical aerial photograph (Source: © Crown copywrite, Royal Commission on the Ancient and Historic Monuments of Wales, 1975, DI2007_1170 75.039-014).

Fieldwork for this project has identified a now-disused track (prominent in the aerial photograph at Fig. 3) charting a gentler course down slope of and parallel with the Beer Path as the likely main medieval approach to the priory from the Hatterall ridgeways. Its lower portion, Old Roadway on the tithe map, is now in part a deeply-incised and overgrown sunken way: one of ‘the deep holloways that seam the landscape’ in Robert Macfarlane’s (Macfarlane et al 2012, p. 4) words, arcing into the approach lane to the priory, elsewhere a broad drove-way now cut by watered gulleys.3 As it climbs the hillside, the track crosses a stream at which the remains of a rudimentary stone bridge, medieval in form, can be observed (Andrew Fleming pers. comment). It then rises to run with and cross the post-medieval ‘parish road’ travelling along the eastern flank of the valley before ascending the upper heights of the hillside to switchback and meet the way to Longtown at a crossroads with the ridgeway on the Rhiw Cwrw col. 

Here the track also runs close to the ruined farmstead of Footway before climbing more steeply to the ridge, the name a memory of the passing routeway, literally the ‘foot of the way’ or perhaps derived from ffordd meaning ‘road’. A 1679 manorial court entry records that‘we find that the way leading from Lanthony to Footway … find it only a bridleway’: an indication of the diminished status and poor state of this previously important monastic circuit, perhaps now only used as a farmer’s rhiw to the high pasture.4 The centre of gravity had by then long shifted from movement between the priory and the old Longtown seat of the de Lacys to Llanvihangel Crucorney to the south, home of the Arnold family, secular lords of Llanthony’s local estates after the priory’s demise.
William of Wycombe’s5 12th century Mirror of the Life of prior Robert de Béthune provides a visceral recounting of the prior’s journey by night over the Hatterall ridge from Longtown, via this track:
‘When he arrived at the foot of the mountain they call Hattarell night had already shut in the day … He ascends slowly, sounding the road with his staff … And now at last he attains the summit of the mountain, where the upright shaft of a cross offers a place of rest … Rising from his resting place, he attempts the descent of the mountain, which he finds to be even more severe than the ascent … The benighted guest knocks at the door of the porter’s lodge, is recognised, and admitted’ (Roberts 1846, pp. 214-5).

Further fieldwork has identified the earth-banks and stonework of an engineered terrace-way descending to Llanthony from Bal-bach on the opposite side of the valley down the steep gully of Cwm-bwchel. This track, lined with significant segments of the relict stone slabs and revetment walling of its construction, connected with both the ‘Great ridge road’ along the western elevation of the valley and a route, Rhiw Pyscod (‘fish track’), over the Black Mountains to Llangorse Lake in Brecknockshire on which the canons had fishing rights; the track used to deliver live fish wrapped in wet rushes to the priory fishponds (Procter 2012, p. 103; Roberts 1846, p. 233).

Some old ‘ways’ to Tintern Abbey
Now turning southwards down the lower Wye Valley to Tintern Abbey, at the apex of a web of land and water communication (Fig. 4). Several land routes radiated out south-westwards from the Great Gatehouse to the abbey’s Monmouthshire estates, connecting with other recorded medieval ways. What is now a minor lane runs from the gate before dividing into the Long Way path via Ruding grange and the Stony Way over the high Porthcasseg plateau: these were alternative routes to the key demesne grange at Rogerstone, the lordship hub of Chepstow and the abbey’s Severn-shore holdings.

Fig. 4: Medieval routeways around Tintern Abbey and its Wye Valley estates (Source: map drawn by the author in ArcGIS® using Ordnance Survey 1:10560 County Series 1st edition, Monmouthshire, 1887 and Gloucestershire, 1889 data layer, downloaded from Digimap® under licence, http://digimap.edina.ac.uk/).

‘The way leading from the abbey … which is called Stony Way’, first recorded in 1451,was a major cobbled lane, its surface still substantially in place in parts, climbing a narrow valley southward towards Porthcasseg and presumed by Welsh Cistercian historian David Williams (1976, p. 134) to be a ‘monastic enterprise’ (Bond 2010, p. 294; Bradney 1993, p. 256) (Fig. 5). Before cutting through a limestone cleft, the way commences as a track divided from a parallel stream by a stone revetment, morphing into a deep-banked holloway running on to the metalled lane passing Porthcasseg Farm and down to the medieval vill of St. Arvans. On a visit to Tintern in 1795, the poets Robert Southey and Samuel Taylor Coleridge experienced a floundering night-time return from a long day out, down the steep and rocky Stony Way (Matheson undated, unpaginated). A decade later Charles Heath (1806, unpaginated) walked the way, described as the ‘foot road from Tintern to Chepstow’, now reduced to a narrow and rough byway through encroaching woods.

Fig. 5: The Stony Way, climbing away from Tintern Abbey (Source: author).

A level and more circuitous passage to St. Arvans was followed by the Long Way,recorded in the mid-fifteenth century, which tracked a course along a narrow shelf between the Wye and looming limestone cliffsavoiding the steep climb up and over the shoulder of Gaer Hill and a sharp descent to the abbey.6 This was a better prospect for heavier loads or during inclement weather. Footways charted on a 1763 estate map form a shadowy trace of the way.7 Its previously unrecorded course, following Public Rights of Way and disused embanked terrace-ways through the woods of the Wye Valley, has been retraced on the ground during this project. The early-nineteenth century turnpike road through the valley which became the modern A466 was cut through the precipitous Black Cliff and Wyndcliff, parallel with, and in places overlying, the old monastic track. Prior to the coming of this ‘new terrace’ road, the narrow and meandering Long Way had seemingly long ceased to be used as a through way to Tintern.

From St. Arvans southwards past Rogerstone grange, these two tracks joined to become the Lodeway running south-west to link with highways to Tintern’s estates in the Caldicot Levels (Williams 1999, p. 27). There are some hints of road maintenance: in 1440 Porthcasseg tenants were admonished and fined for not repairing stretches of the Lodeway between St. Arvans, Rogerstone and Itton which may have been paved (Williams 1990, p. 27; 1999, p. 27). Lodeway intrigues as a toponym with various possible origins. Lode is a place-name element denoting several Severn ferry crossings and may indicate the way taken to a landing-point on the navigable estuary. Other possible derivations are from the Old English lad denoting a watercourse or drainage channel, perhaps signifying the route to the abbey’s reclaimed and ditched holdings on the Levels, or lodes, a south-west English term for veins or strata of minerals (Gelling & Cole 2003, p. 82; Mills 1995, p. 214; Raistrick 1972, p. 21). W.H. Thomas (1839, p. 14) mentions local ‘lodes’ of limestone in the nineteenth century and the naming could be for the transport of lime or iron ore, for which there is some evidence of medieval mining on the abbey’s estates.


Walking with pilgrims from Llantarnam Abbey
Finally, a walk with pilgrims from Llantarnam Abbey on the north-west frontier of the Anglo-Norman Marcher lands in south-east Wales: a track given the modern appellation of ‘Pilgrims’ Way’ was part of an important medieval pilgrimage route to the shrine of the Virgin Mary and healing well at the abbey’s Penrhys grange, 30 miles west above the Rhondda. Penrhys was popular in the fourteenth and fifteenth century, becoming one of the most revered wells in Wales and attracting pilgrims from ‘over sea and land’ (Hurlock 2013, pp. 122-3; Ward 1914, p. 357).

The journey from Llantarnam was an arduous one across high country via St Derfel's chapel, high on the shoulder of Mynydd Maen, to reach the shrine atop a ridge known as Craig Rhiw Mynach (‘rock of the monks’ road’). Madeleine Gray (1997, pp. 10-11, 26) has retraced its likely line – in part probably prefigured by well-established old ways contouring the hillsides to avoid the more difficult terrain of the valley floor or exposed ridge-tops – based on contemporary descriptions, local tradition, the position of wayside chapels and paths and roads in the modern historic landscape. Llantarnam was a gathering point, providing a guesthouse, advice and provisions for those setting out for Penrhys (Gray 1997, p. 11). From the gatehouse, the route passed along the old abbey approach from Llanfihangel Llantarnam village, its meandering line then traceable on the ground through the modern Cwmbrân townscape and up to Llanderfel.

Fig. 6: Quartz conglomerate blocks lining Hollow Lane up to Llanderfel, part of the pilgrims’ way from Llantarnam Abbey (Source: author).

Passing the long-gone Scybor Cwrt grange along what is now the modern Llantarnam Road, pilgrims climbed a low rise to the purported wayside chapel at St. Dial’s along a still-extant lane (Gray 1997, p. 25). A disused holloway with signs of cobbling below its surface, declining to a series of footpaths and relict features through 1970s housing, now carries the walker along the manor and parish boundary (Logan 2009, pp. 6-7). A further section of deeply sunken way, Hollow Lane, then ascends the steepening slopes of Mynydd Maen before sharply dog-legging south to follow another depressed lane to the old grange of Llanderfel and the ruins of St. Derfel’s chapel. The pilgrims’ way ascends a further deep hollow above the chapel site, known as the Slippery Way, and then follows a hillside shelf to progress to the Ebbw valley and onward trails to Penrhys and the abbey’s more far-flung estates and granges (Dovey and Waters 1956, p. 76; Gray 1997, p. 21).Hollow Lane is lined with large quartz conglomerate boulders won from a band of outcropping geology, known locally as ‘pudding stones’, which, it has been suggested, may have been waymarkers for pilgrims (Burchell 2011, pp. 4, 33; Middleton 2011, p. 3) (Fig. 6). It is notable that such stones have been used for walling and revetments alongside many other local tracks, as boundary stones, in buildings and field walls, perhaps cause for scepticism that they were specifically used to demarcate the pilgrim route.

Although the post-suppression owner of Llantarnam and its estates, William Morgan, a recusant Catholic, encouraged the continuation of pilgrimage to the shrine after the Dissolution, the volume of wayfarers soon sharply declined (Hurlock 2013, pp. 123, 127). With improving low-level valley roads, mountain circuits such as the Pilgrims’ Way over Mynydd Maen transitioned into byways for stock movement and other local flows. The physical footprint of the pilgrims’ route from the abbey towards the mountain was further diminished by the urban development of Cwmbrân new town, though it can still be tracked through the townscape by the keen-eyed; for instance, in a disused hollow section unconsciously retained in a corridor of open space between housing estates.

Discussion and conclusion
In Francis Pryor’s (2010, p. 280) words, ‘far from representing a retreat from the cares of daily life, the monasteries of the Middle Ages were important catalysts of change and regional development.’ It’s not hard to imagine that the effort, resources and planning that went into building the monastery and developing expansive agricultural holdings and trading networks would also be channeled into the important routeways bonding the house with these estates and the outside world to ensure safe and efficient ease of passage. The engineered ways discussed here and many other examples in the case study areas, banked or hollowed depending on the terrain and with much evidence of cobbled and stone surfaces, testify to this truism. As with Andrew Fleming’s (2009, 2010) findings on studying the Monks Trod and other Strata Florida routes, the evidence suggests an often-underestimated level of sophistication and investment in medieval road construction and maintenance. The monastery, at least in its more stable periods, providing institutional continuity, revenue, know-how and labour. Sustained and heavy use of these roads and paths during the longue duréeof the monastic community and economy, even where pre-existing ways were co-opted, would have seen significant construction, improvement, wear and repair across the network.     

Spotlighting and recreating these trackways resets conventional patterns of ‘fixed’ landscape features linked simply by lines on a map, foregrounding considerations of movement and methods of communication (Reynolds 2009, pp. 420-423). Recognition of the multiple meanings of these shared ways also dawns: to connect but also to mark and codify the landscape and people’s interaction within it: ‘the integration of key topographical points – such as boundaries, river crossings and crossroads – helped structure and give spiritual context to the ordinary aspects of everyday life’ as people moved about the landscape (Whyte 2009, p. 29). Travelling through, for instance, the Abbey Gate on the way to the Wye ferry to Tintern representing not just a waymark en route to the abbey but also a passing from the open forest of Tidenham Chase into prescribed monastic land. In the hills west of Llantarnam, the difficulty of the terrain on the pilgrim way to the Penrhys shrine was leavened by wayside chapels such as St. Derfels, but also an important component of the spiritual journey itself (Gray 2011, p. 245). As such ways spread out from the monastery, they also took on a geo-political role: linking economically and strategically important places, acting as both ‘instruments of elite control’ for the ecclesiastical and political class and safe space in sometimes bleak and hostile landscapes(Altenberg 2001, p. 109; Fleming 2009, p. 83).

The monastic trods and trackways introduced here help to challenge received wisdom that pre-modern roads were uniformly primitive, difficult and very much non-permanent. Trade, high-status visitors, pilgrims and local traffic became the multiple catalysts for a named and marked, maintained and managed system of transit and safe passage. A transition from general directions of travel into defined, maintained and named roads and footways can be heralded as a key topographical legacy of the monastic era (Colyer 1984, p. 61; Moorhouse 1989, p. 59). Though many of these trackways enter the documentary record in the post-medieval period, the network – like the roads of the Roman times – was by then declining into a new ‘Dark Age’ of neglect and forgetting, as after the Dissolution former monastic estates reverted to out-of-the-way backwaters once more; still lining the landscape but no longer hubs of travel and commerce, their busy, strategic, symbolic past falling out of memory. As the poet Edward Thomas (2004, p. 96) would have it, ‘roads go on, while we forget.’

Notes
1     1. Gloucestershire Archives,Tidenham (Wollaston and Lancaut) Inclosure Map and Apportionment, 1815, Q/R1/144.
2    2. Harley Archive, Brampton Bryan,Herefordshire, Cwmyoy Manor Court Baron, 1567-1754, 17/28/5.
    3. National Library of Wales (NLW), Cwmyoy (Lower Divisions) Tithe Map and Apportionment Schedule: Map 2 of the Parish of Cwmyoy in the County of Monmouth, 1852.
4    4. NLW, Cwmyoy Manor Court Book, 1665-1775, National Library of Wales, 1184.
5    5. William of Wycombe was chaplain to Prior Robert in 1127, rising to become the fourth prior of Llanthony himself from 1137-47.
6    6. NLW, Porthcasseg Manor Court Book, 1262-1714 (incomplete), Badminton Papers Vol III Monmouthshire, p34-59, 1657.
7    7. NLW, A Plan of the Estates of His Grace the Duke of Beaufort in the Manor of Portcassegg, 1763, Badminton Vol. 2 143/1/1.

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Brief thoughts on a PhD journey completed

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Well its done. I've been awarded a Doctorate of Philosophy in Archaeology.

My research has ranged over landscape archaeology, landscape history, monasticism, cultural geography, psychogeography, landscape in art and literature, folklore and further afield. I've probably meandered a bit too widely. 'Deep topography' is what I call it (nicked from Papadimitriou), but that doesn't yet have much currency in academia.

Three full years of landscape contemplation in the field, on walks, at my desk. Sometimes a slog but mostly stimulating and rewarding roaming, a privilege. Followed by a strange few months when its hard to get your bearings, to know when to sit back and think 'phew, I've done it': thesis submitted, but now I need to get a job as PhD funding stops at this point; viva successful with corrections to do, but bloody hell that was a hard experience and now I've got to work on those corrections (in my spare time); corrections submitted and now another wait; examiners approve corrections, subject to formal approval; official award notification - I think this is it: the last hoop, job done. Except the graduation to come with the daft cap and gown number, but that's the 'fun' bit.   

Anyway, the thesis is available through the University of Exeter's ORE open access portal 
and the data-set appendices along with links to related articles and other stuff can also be found here. The core strands of the thesis now need to be synthesized into a long-form journal article and the data-sets lodged with the relevant Historic Environment Records.

I hope that all of this is of some use to others researching or with an interest in the historic landscape, sense of place and our complex reactions to it.  

Now my attention turns to scaling the heights of postdoc funding for a future project on paths in the landscape, to future writing projects and to my day job looking after the public footpaths of Bristol town. I might even get round to writing some more long-winded Landscapism blog posts. 

Gardens where we feel secure

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Glass half-full, the Covid-19 restrictions on movement coinciding with the first burst of spring present an opportunity to inhabit the topography of your own garden more profoundly than in normal times, if you are lucky enough to have outdoor space. This is always the favoured season to tidy up, prepare, potter and observe my own modest though ample plot. The fact that the family cats now have a wider right to roam than us human residents means that the garden's function as the micro-landscape of daily life is amplified as never before, its role as play area and nature haven in an urban setting intensified by the prohibition of regular wandering beyond its borders; not quite perhaps Samuel Taylor Coleridge's elegiac incarceration (This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison) but a welcome and welcoming open prison of greenery. As Coleridge had it, 
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to love and beauty!


We have been temporarily exiled from national parks, hills and mountains, landmark landscapes and the wider countryside, National Trust gardens are closed and even time spent in local parks and open spaces is heavily prescribed. But, whilst few of us have gardens on the scale of a Kelmscott, Sissinghurst or Great Dixster to wander whilst the day wanes, our own modest plots can provide much solace (my impression, also, is that people around here are engaging anew with the green spaces within walking distance of their homes, as the option of jumping in the car to drive out to more celebrated landscapes - or indeed to engage in more consumerist pastimes - is off limits).


I've been to a minor place
and I can say I like its face,
If I am gone and with no trace
I will be in a minor place

Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - A Minor Place



Bounded ranging around this relatively small space, this minor place, allows close and regular looking with an intensity not normally available as busy lives carry us away to work and obligations and pleasure elsewhere. Rudyard Kipling was correct: 'the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.' In a previous post (The last field in England), I mused on the reward that can be gained from deep concentration on a small area of topography:
'There is something both inviting and slightly daunting in the thought of studying the micro-landscape of a single field. A small matter for a master such as Richard Jefferies who can devote a whole chapter to dwelling on the minutiae of the topography, flora and fauna of the 'homefield' in Wild Life in a Southern County, but more of a challenge to most of us, lacking the innate knowledge of the Victorian country-dwelling naturalist. Nevertheless, it is an approach that retains its appeal, witness Tim Dee's recent Four Fields, an expansive study of the geography, history, literature and ecology of varying, and admittedly atypical, areas of fields in the Fenland of Cambridgeshire, Zambia, Ukraine and Montana, USA; or The Plot by Madeleine Bunting, 'a biography of an English acre, rooting a story of family history in a very particular place' (not to be confused with Andrew Michael Hurley's novel Starve Acre, also Yorkshire-sited though a tale of obsession with a more unhallowed patch of ground). Such an approach can also be applied to a garden: a place to work, rest and observe, to tend and derive wonder.



In this garden, just beyond the confined technology and 'civilisation' of the house, everyday encounters with wildness can and do take place. The pond now teems with tiny tadpoles released from the frogspawn which appeared at the end of February (a little earlier than normal?) as it has for six or seven years now; dragon-flies to come as the water iris and marsh marigold grow. Blackbirds, blue tits, robins, great tits, goldfinches, wrens, sparrows, swifts, crows and magpies coexist in the air, on surrounding eaves and roofs, in trees and bushes; and compete with a squirrel for feeding station rations. A pair of plump pigeons nest on a meagre-looking pile of twigs in the boughs of a large pittosporum outside the landing window. Bugs, spiders and woodlice abound among the rocky and woody, damp and shady places. Ants excavate their underground citadels. Most indelibly fixed in my mind, three years ago I watched - from a social distance of two metres - a badger emerge from the wild, dark undergrowth behind the pond, lumber across the grass and cover under the silver birch and cherry tree and mosey on down the steps and across the road to an area thick with laurels edging the plot on which once stood a grand house, 'The Lawns', after which our street is named. The day before this encounter a dead hedgehog had been found on the lawn, a wound to its side: had it fallen prey to the badger, our garden a hunting haunt for 'that most ancient Briton of English beasts'? All the while a healthily-pelted fox roams at night: 'nature's own prince of the dance'. All this life in one small plot of ground in suburban Bristol.


In a recent article offering advice on growing your own in a time of enforced enclosure, with or without a garden to hand, author Richard King* affirms that 'people have always found solace in gardening and growing.' The coming weeks of protracted isolation at home are, of course, the perfect time of year to sow and nurture vegetables, herbs, fruit and flowers, without necessarily going full-on Cottage Economy. Time is the most important element in cultivating plants and vegetables, and time is something many of us have in abundance at the moment. Gardening is also compatible with another joy of home-steading, just sitting and watching or reading or day-dreaming.


 

As to those times when feelings of confinement and claustrophobia inevitably get the upper hand, a curve in a garden path, however minor the footway, can hint at physical getaway. With a squint of the eye and suspension of known reality, a new world or experience could always be just around the corner. Foot crunching on gravel, stone or stepping upon dew-wet grass can provoke muscle memory of wider open spaces, places and landscapes visited in times past or thoughts of future adventures; a trigger for mental escape beyond the house and garden walls. 


Such thoughts are also sparked by a small enclosure in the garden hosting pebbles and stone, water and sun-bleached pieces of wood picked up over many years on walks and trips and holidays. Tactile reminders transplanted from the uplands, coasts and rivers of Britain, from Iceland, Patagonia, the Alps and elsewhere. An inert hoard of place memories. (some may see this as a bad habit, such materials should not be pillaged from their natural settings; what once seemed innocent beach-combing is now rather more freighted with significance as environmentally unsound, but as bad habits go picking up the odd piece of rock or wood is, I think, still just about acceptable). Here, also, I can fancy to be amidst Derek Jarman's singular Prospect Cottage shingle-shore and driftwood garden at Dungerness, currently the subject of a fund-raising campaign to save it for the nation; that special place providing sanctuary and therapy during Jarman's own battle with a virus of his time.
   

As springtime progresses into summer, one piece of music that I return to is From Gardens Where We Feel Secure, a beguiling piece of classical ambient English pastoral by Virginia Astley. An album containing music which, in Rob Young's words, has a 'timeless, hovering sensation'.*

In fact, the track-listing and sleeve notes alone, reproduced below, deftly prefigure the sounds and ambiance that the record harvests; bringing to mind the elegiac yet beatific Just Another Diamond Day by Vashti Bunyan or John Martyn's Small Hours, the perfect accompaniment to a dreamy spring or summer's day gloaming time in the garden before night falls.


From Gardens Where We Feel Secure

Morning
With My Eyes Wide Open In Dreaming
A Summer Long Since Past
From Gardens Where We Feel Secure
Hiding in the Ha-Ha

Afternoon
Out On The Lawn I Lie In Bed
Too Bright For Peacocks
Summer Of Their Dreams
When The Fields Were On Fire
Its Too Hot To Sleep


Richard Mabey's Nature Cure remains a seminal rumination on our physical and mental relationship with the natural world and his words towards the end of the book seem to strike a chord with our current (albeit temporary) need to seek solace in our immediate surroundings rather than grander and 'wilder' landscapes:

'I began to wonder ... if wilderness was really what I wanted ...what I missed was some common ground between the wilderness and the thoroughly domesticated, some accessible country - real and metaphysical ... I realised that what touched me most was not wilderness as a special, defined place, but the quality of wildness.' 

Hopefully we can all find a little wildness in our own gardens and home surroundings, enough to sustain us through this most strange of springs. Stay safe everyone.  


* If you are looking for some appropriate and stimulating reading whilst sitting in your garden or outdoor space (or anywhere in fact), then Richard King's The Lark Ascending and Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain's Visionary Music by Rob Young will take you away to a good place, and have you searching out new sounds.

Walking back through time: a landscape history of pathways

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For a while now I have been contemplating researching a comprehensive landscape history of paths, or at least the pathways of Britain. Paths, such an intrinsic topographical element, both a symbolic and practical medium for accessing and moving through much of the landscape, really should have their own history told. Somewhat surprisingly, no-one seems to have done this yet in a holistic way (though there is, of course, a vast array of books, pamphlets and web pages devoted to walking and related experiences, to describing routes through the landscape, and to recording often locally specific paths, tracks and byways). What lies below our feet - the actual path - often seems to be curiously incidental to these narratives, perhaps taken for granted (even, dare I say it, by academic specialists, psycho-geographers and new nature writers).

These musings have been honed into a research proposal so that I can hawk this around for funding (so far unsuccessfully!) or undertake the project independently. I'm beginning to think that the latter pathway is more likely and has many advantages, less constraints, and allows a wider ranging, should I be able to find the time to carry it out (and walk the miles). Anyway, here is what I have in mind. If anyone has any comments or suggestions then please do get in touch. It is written as an academic research proposal so please bear that in mind if you slightly loose the will to live before reaching the end.

Footpaths are not simply conduits for moving through the landscape: from prehistory to the present day, they have played a fundamental role in shaping both the land and the people who have walked them. Each pathway has a topography and social history of its own which tells the story of its original purpose and subsequent use. And yet, paths and their infrastructure – and the meanings which have become associated with them – have seldom featured in the historiography of the British landscape. This research will fill that gap.

Defining a path as a route used for non-vehicular passage away from the main arteries of commerce and travel, this project will examine a variety of different types of British pathway. These include routes used for everyday local movement and connection alongside long-distance routes such as pilgrim ways, drovers’ roads, and recreational trails. Pathways with special functions, for instance industrial tracks, will be studied together with both formal and informal circuits of protest and celebration. In terms of geographical and chronological scale, investigation will concentrate on a British context from the early medieval to the present day, drawing on comparisons and evidence from further afield and prehistory where necessary. While recognising that every path is the unique product of its own history, this research will explore a number of themes relevant to all. Temporal and spatial consideration will be given to the permanence or ephemerality of paths, and their stability or instability as landscape features. 

The research will also address such issues as the extent to which pathway origins can be traced, and how their courses, material fabric, names, and purposes might have changed over time. It will examine pathways as networks of movement and connection, and how patterns of footpaths have formed in different regions and landscape settings, and at different times. It will look to explain why pathways take different physical forms. It will examine how people have understood paths whether as public spaces or common rights of way, or as symbols of social memory and community custom, markers of boundaries, and channels for dissent. 

Complementing these historical perspectives, the project will also address the part paths play in the contemporary landscape: how are they now managed, to what extent are they at risk or under-appreciated as a public good, and what role might they play in a more sustainable society?

The history, physical form, and utility of routeways has been addressed to some extent in scholarly discourse (Allen and Evans, 2016; Hindle, 1991; Morriss, 2005; Taylor, 1979). The substantial corpus of research accumulated for other elements of the historic landscape, such as fortifications, religious and ritual sites, settlements and field systems, is, however, lacking for the pathways that connect these spaces. What has been published has tended to focus less on paths and walking, more on roads and highways as networks for elite movement, trade, and communication: for instance, the outputs of the recently concluded Travel and Communication in Anglo-Saxon England project (Brookes et al, 2019). Moreover, though W.G. Hoskins’ ‘mud on your boots’ ethos has permeated the empirical landscape archaeology and history tradition in Britain, the paths used to explore and record the historic environment (and walking as a fieldwork technique, beyond the structured practice of ‘field walking’ to identify artefact scatters) are generally overlooked, for instance, in the fieldwork guides of Brown, 1987 and Muir, 2000.

Prehistorians, anthropologists and cultural geographers have been more interested in paths and walking than those examining trackways and footpaths in the historic period (Bell, 2020; Leary, 2014; Wylie, 2005). Mobility through the landscape has appeared as a key theme, though phenomenological approaches based on inhabiting the landscape, and considerations of flows of people and objects have left surprisingly little space for examining the materiality of paths and tracks (Gibson et al, 2019; Ingold, 2011; Sen and Johung, 2016; Tilley and Cameron-Daum, 2017).

A slew of popular yet highly literate narratives around path-making and -taking (Macfarlane, 2012; Solnit, 2002), together with psycho-geographical tracts constructed around novel walking practice, often in urban, contested or prohibited settings (Papadimitriou, 2003; Sinclair, 2002), provide further contemporary context. Wider public and policy interest in landscape responses to environmental and climate change such as future farming practices, rewilding, and flood control are also of relevance here, not least because walking footpaths remains one of Britain’s most popular outdoor pursuits, valued for cementing a sense of place as well as its health and well-being benefits (de Moor, 2013; Ramblers, 2010).

This research will draw judiciously from the various methodological and theoretical approaches taken in these previous studies of pathways, extending them further and applying them in new contexts.

Six case studies will anchor the research, chosen to represent a diversity of topography, geography, and history: a deep survey of specific localised footpath networks at the scale of the historic parish or group of parishes (as long-established territorial units). Close study of medieval tracks associated with monasteries in south-east Wales has already tested the feasibility of this approach (Procter, 2019). A matrix of criteria will be used to identify the case study parishes, taking account of the existing path network, and richness of historic mapping and primary sources. Representation from across England, Scotland and Wales and a range of landscape settings, such as heavily wooded, upland, low-lying, industrial and urban will also be ensured. Case study selection will precede the main research study. The Cotswold scarp of Gloucestershire has been provisionally identified as the location for an example of ‘ancient’ countryside and a parish characterised by planned enclosure will be selected in the Feldon area of south Warwickshire. In addition, a study of Offa’s Dyke Long Distance Trail will focus on contemporary trail-making and recreational utility.

Building on my own doctoral research practice, an interdisciplinary methodology will integrate topographical, archaeological, cartographic, etymological and historical evidence. Applied experience and knowledge of working as a Public Rights of Way Officer and leading volunteer parties maintaining National Park footpaths will supplement academic research skills. The archaeology and physical characteristics of the paths in each case study area will be examined in the field to establish geographical patterns and networks, their fabric and form, function and evolution, and classify related landscape features, such as boundaries, stiles, and bridges. Public rights of way, permissive routes, and unofficial and disused tracks will be extensively walked, photographed and recorded, harnessing the assistance of local history and walking groups. Key exemplars will be subjected to more intensive investigation through measured survey. This field evidence will be combined with an analysis of references to case study footpaths in existing data sets (HERs, archaeological reports, etc.), and primary and secondary sources held within local and national archives (including estate, enclosure and tithe maps, legal cases relating to rights of way, highway commissioners reports, and manor court records and surveys). Corroboration will also be provided from aerial photography, satellite imagery, LiDAR, and other geo-spatial resources. These data will be combined, analysed and where appropriate modelled in GIS; and the research outcomes illuminated by a set of GIS-based maps of the case study path networks, written and photographic commentaries of selected walks, and detailed plans of example path types. 

Archival sources, such as early medieval charters and later medieval court rolls, references to perambulations and ‘Beating the Bounds’ of parish boundaries, will be interrogated alongside local legend and folk tales, early modern chorographies, and literary and artistic representations to chronicle how the case study pathways have been experienced and perceived through time. An indication of contemporary attitudes to the footpath network will be highlighted through small-scale qualitative on-line, social media, and in-person survey of users and other stakeholders within the case study areas, complemented by analysis of quantitative data-sets available from bodies such as National Parks, The Ramblers and National Trust.

The primary output from the project will be a monograph or book. Detailed, place-specific spatial and temporal descriptions of the origins, and material and cultural evolution of the case study pathways will inform an overarching landscape history of British footpaths. There are currently no titles that cover this territory. Additionally, two articles on elements of the project (for example, the walking fieldwork practice and a case study) will be submitted to peer-reviewed journals such as Landscapes, Landscape Research, and others across related fields including archaeology, cultural geography, history, and literary studies. The emerging research will also be disseminated through conference papers (particularly targeted at conferences with an inter-disciplinary landscape focus).

Wider public engagement will be threefold. First, a dedicated blog and social media profile, highlighting interactive maps of the case study path networks, walk commentaries and suggested routes, and enabling interaction with local interest groups within the case study areas. Secondly, such groups as well as cultural festivals and events with a landscape, walking, nature, or travel writing component will be approached as platforms for talks (where possible combined with themed guided walks). Finally, several short-form articles will be submitted to relevant magazines, websites, and blogs with both niche and wider audiences outside of academia, ranging from ‘new nature writing’ and psycho-geography to walking and outdoor titles.

Bibliography

Allen, V and Evans, R (eds.) (2016) Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads (Manchester: Manchester University Press).

Bell, M (2020) Making One's Way in the World: The Footprints and Trackways of Prehistoric People (Oxford: Oxbow).

Brookes, S, Rye, E and Oksanen, E (2019) Bridges of Medieval England to c.1250, Archaeological Data Service database <https://archaeologydataservice.ac.uk/archives/view/medbridges_lt_2019/>, accessed 12/02/20.

Brown, A (1987) Fieldwork for Archaeologists and Local Historians (London: Batsford).

De Moor, D (2013) Walking Works, Walking for Health review report (The Ramblers).

Edwards, J and Hindle, P (1991) ‘The Transportation System of Medieval England and Wales’, Journal of Historical Geography, 17(2), 123-134.

Gibson, C, Cleary, L and Frieman, C (eds.) (2019) Making Journeys: Archaeologies of Mobility (Oxford: Oxbow). 

Ingold, T (2011) Being Alive: Essays on Movement, Knowledge, and Description (Abingdon: Routledge).

Leary, J (ed.) (2014) Archaeological Perspectives to Movement and Mobility (Farnham: Ashgate).

Macfarlane, R (2012) The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot (London: Hamish Hamilton).

Morriss, R (2005) Roads: Archaeology and Architecture (Stroud: Tempus).

Muir, R (2000) The New Reading the Landscape (Exeter: University of Exeter Press).

Papadimitriou, N (2013) Scarp: In Search of London’s Outer Limits (London: Sceptre).

Procter, E (2019) ‘The Path to the Monastery: Monastic Communication Networks in the Southern Welsh Marches’, Landscape History, 40(1), 59-70.

Ramblers, The (2010) Walking Facts and Figures 2: Participation in Walking<https://www.ramblers.org.uk/advice/facts-and-stats-about-walking/participation-in-walking.aspx>, accessed 14/02/20.

Sen, A and Johung, J (eds.) (2016) Landscapes of Mobility. Culture, Politics, and Placemaking (Abingdon: Routledge).

Sinclair, I (2002) London Orbital (London: Granta).

Solnit, R (2002) Wanderlust: A History of Walking (London: Granta).

Taylor, C (1979) Roads and Tracks of Britain (London: Dent).

Tilley, C and Cameron-Daum, K (2017) An Anthropology of Landscape: The Extraordinary in the Ordinary (London: UCL Press).

Wylie, J (2005) 'A Single Days Walking: Narrating Self and Landscape on the South West Coast Path', Transaction of the Institute of British Geographers, 30, 234-47

Alternative political cartography: a more rational union

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Most of this piece was written in 2017 (probably after another soul-destroying election result) but left in draft and I just came across it again. Depressingly, it still resonates; only more so. Some musings from a politically angry but ever hopeful soul.

Is it just me or is it not blindingly obvious that a more rational, modern and fit-for-purpose political geography might mean the 'united kingdom' of these islands has a chance to survive and prosper? You wouldn't know it from the woeful lack of progressive political discourse in Parliament and the media, either hell-bent on a 
reckless charge towards a damaging Hard Brexit and the then seemingly inevitable break-up of Britain (oh the irony!) or unable to voice an alternative narrative. A sleep-walk into changes which do little to address the grievances, disillusionment and inequality that abound within society.

What if we had a more grown-up polity, reflecting the geo-political realities of the country along a more federalised model (you know, like those moderately successful countries Canada, Germany and Australia)? Maybe something like the arrangement mapped above? 

Without a seemingly permanent Tory hegemony, which really doesn't reflect our complex society, maybe we could even have a fighting chance of responding better to the pandemics, environmental changes and other challenges of the future? Some notes to flesh out this Utopian dreaming are presented at the end of this piece.

Well its an interesting exercise for those who want to imagine what a better country might look like; a future not dragged down by a backward-looking Little Englander memory of what never was, policy-making in the hands of Populist leaders in thrall to disaster capitalists, neo-fascists and libertarian Svengali figures, only interested in short-term headline grabbing. People will disagree, maybe because they feel the time has come for Scotland to break free, Ireland to unite or Wales to rise up - and who came blame them really; others who cannot see beyond the Mother of all Parliaments, 'first past the post gives us strong government', England is Britain mythology. But - to me - such a devolved federal structure, or something like it, is the only positive way forward for these islands.

Sadly, such ideas seem like so much pissing in the wind in the current stifling political climate, dominated by reactive and inadequate responses to the Covid-19 pandemic, the pettiness and division of Brexit, pressures for Scottish independence and so forth; all the time the climate emergency gathering pace. Let's hope the next generation are able to participate in more positive debates to discuss options for and the practicalities of democratic rebirth rather than the divisive and dispiriting cant that we are currently having to put up with. We want our country back? Too bloody right. 

And a name for this brave new vision: Federal Republic of Britain? Albion Unchained? Well I suppose we would have to have a referendum on that ...  

Notes 
    This model essentially builds on the devolved system already in place across Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales but, crucially, extends this to England. The idea is not to somehow extinguish England but to recognise that there is and always has been a strong regional element to its identity (which is a good thing!), it is by far the largest of the 'nations' within these islands and needs governance closer to the people but that does not dominate the other constituents of the union, and also a model that heads off the potential for 'anti-Celtic' English nationalism.

    The English regions actually suggest themselves fairly easily: most have a deep historical resonance and unity, often stretching back to England's beginnings in the 'Anglo-Saxon' centuries, and provide fairly equal populations and diversity of cities/ towns/ country etc. The most obvious break from this is London. Large enough, confident enough, great enough to be a true city region - subsuming it in a 'South-east' region would do neither it or the surrounding shires any favours. This arrangement allows the Great Wen to punch its weight as a world city whilst remaining rooted in its British hinterland, its central government-Westminster village shackles and vices removed. And why Derby to take over the mantel for the National Parliament? Well it has to be out of London, the big cities wouldn't need it (they will be the heart of their own regions) and its somewhere central that needs a bit of a pick-me-up. 

    There would be some debates to be had around the margins when drawing the boundaries of and naming these regions. I've put Northamptonshire in the East Midlands but it could be the included in Mercia or even the Home Counties. Hampshire is Home Counties but could be Wessex if history was the only consideration. Cumbria is usually lumped in with the north-west but seems to more naturally ally with the north-east. The North-west is a pretty uninspiring moniker but what's the alternative: Cheshire and Lancashire; Greater Mersey-Manchester? And so on.  

    The 'Isles' get equal billing with Scotland as a nod to the feeling that they don't quite feel represented in such a geographically large domain (Scotland and the Isles looks huge in comparison to the English regions but its population is on a par with Yorkshire). Should/ would Northern Ireland sit well in this new arrangement or is it time for the island of Ireland to go its own way? This is still a raw and contentious issue. Some might even call for Ireland to be welcomed into a true British Isles model, but there is way too much baggage for that to seem anything but naive (and would, no doubt, seem deeply unappealing to the vast majority of Irish people). 

    Some details:
    • The nine English regional assemblies, Scottish Parliament and the Northern Irish and Welsh National Assemblies would have devolved responsibility for day-to-day public services and regional policy, with local tax-raising powers to fund them (including an adjusted redistributive element to ensure richer areas support those with lower tax income), i.e. 'Devomax'.
    • Federal elections for all of the devolved bodies through proportional representation (with public funding for parties, groups and individuals who meet set criteria for participation). I make no secret of my dislike of the Conservative Party (not to mention UKIP/ Brexit Party) but in a grown-up system they deserve to have a voice - or even dominance - in areas where they have support: it would be up to the other representatives to work with them or win the argument.
    • A small National Parliament and part elected Second Chamber for policy and legislative scrutiny to replace the Westminster Parliament and House of Lords (with no hereditary members). Representatives of the elected members of the devolved bodies would make up the Parliament, with a leader or managing team elected by this group via cross-party secret ballot (the broken model of 'winner takes all' first-past-the-post adversarial politics and all-powerful Prime Minister would be consigned to history). The role of the Parliament would be restricted to foreign policy, planning for a sustainable future, strategic national infrastructure concerns, allocating budgets to the devolved bodies (based on a redistributive formulae) and promoting best practice across regions. 
    • The National Parliament would not be a full-time body but would meet regularly rotating its location, perhaps annually, between Cardiff, Edinburgh and Derby. Its reduced central civil service would be based in one location, probably Derby due to its geographic centrality. 
    • Scotland and Wales (and for that matter any English region) could secede from the union where a super majority (60:40) of the voting population of that entity backed independence. The process for getting to this stage would need to be carefully constructed (as we are being Utopian here, political parties would not be able to campaign during the voting process and a road map spelling out how independence would be achieved and what it would look like would be produced by an independent commission, with no reference to 'cake', 'sun-kissed uplands', 'unicorns' or Braveheart). Arrangements for Northern Ireland to secede would be as per the Good Friday Agreement.
    • Members of the European Parliament (yes, in this brave new world we have rejoined the EU!) would be elected through proportional representation (as now) but represent the same geographical region as the devolved bodies and work in partnership with their peers in the devolved body. 
    • Oh, and the monarch would be replaced as head of state with a directly elected president (though what, if any, leadership role this figure-head would have in the National Parliament would need to be thought through). The royal retinue would be pensioned off and live out a peacefully extinction. Royal properties would be handed over to the National Trust. This is probably the least important element of the whole package. 
    • A written constitution to enshrine the principles of these democratic processes in law.