It is hard to get drunk on
a pub-crawl in St Davids, because there are only three pubs.
One of them, however, has an
interesting hand-dryer in its toilets. It roars like a jet engine and flays the
skin as it dries.
I enjoy hand-dryers – innocent
enjoyments for simple minds, I suppose. I'm not talking about those where you slip your hands down into a glorified letter box. No, the ones I love are those that blast down on the hands. These cause the skin to
pucker and move; it’s like watching low dunes ripple in wind and beats much of
what is on TV. Sometimes I linger longer than I should until my hands are super dry and I feel like I've just experienced a Turner
Art Prize Installation.
But the one in St Davids was a different
beast, with enough power to flay the skin from your hands as you watched. The
skin rippled in sheets, puckered and rose into the air – or at least seemed to.
I withdrew hurriedly and without shame, hands still damp but otherwise intact. But moving on from the trivial to the sublime. The landscape speaks for itself. So does the cathedral if you let it sink in.
Most people know it was founded by St David in the C6th - the Dark Ages were hand dryers were in short supply. He was born in a storm from the womb of St Non, whose well is just a mile away on the coast. It looks unhygienic but has restorative properties, so they say. The Cathedral was constructed much later as were the legends which accrued about him. My two favourites tell of him preaching, the ground beneath him rising so that those at the back could both see and hear him — a white dove landing on his shoulder as a sign of God's presences. The second legend tells o of how on his death the monastery was filled with singing Angels accompanying his spirit to heaven.
There is something magical running on sand or diving into the sea - even on a cold say.
Part of the coastal path that encircles much of Wales
Wild horses. They are periodically rounded up and driven
to other areas of the coast where they keep grass and gorse
Posing pony. Watch out Kim Kardashian.
A small herd . . . and is that Kim?
St Davids Cathedral
Stained glass commemorating the murder of
St Thomas Becket.
The wooden roof and a man lost in his own thoughts. Medieval earth tremors and the naturally
swampy ground made a stone roof impracticable. Several pillars are already at a slight angle, and the weight of a stone roof would have caused the walls to buckle. Hence the beautiful roof of Irish oak, painted above one of the altars.
The painted roof
Relics and bones of St David and St Justinian (reputedly)
Edmund Tudor's tomb chest. Despite being the grandfather of Henry VIII he was moved from his grave in Carmarthen Abbey during the dissolution of the Monasteries and ended up here. Much more salubrious, I think.
And finally a minor treasure. How to make a well known prayer even more magical.
I read of a man beating a seagull
after it stole one of his chips. He grabbed the bird by its legs and bashed its
brains out on a brick wall. In the great scale of things, pretty small beer.
Far more evil things go on in this world, but whether it’s seagulls or
holocaust an assertion is made – an act of faith as much as anything else:
There cannot possibly be a God to allow such things.
Without doubt, the holocaust and
similar events far transcending the fate of a seagull have turned many into
atheists. They pose the question:how
could God allow such a things to happen? And by doing so suggest that the
presence of evil negates the existence of God. They highlight the apparent
contradiction of God being both all-powerful and all good ie if God allows evil,
he can’t be all good and, on the other hand, if he’s unable to prevent evil,
then he can’t be all-powerful.
The traditional answer is that we
were created with freedom of will and with it the responsibility of moral
choice. We can choose to do good or bad things. Like bashing in the head of a
But, one could argue, there is
nothing to stop God extending a feathered hand and protecting that seagull. The
man lamenting the loss of a chip was given the choice to do a bad and foolish
thing, but the seagull didn’t suffer from it.
The question then arises, what
would happen if there were no evil in the world? And, on a social and political
level, the further question. Who gets to define what is evil? — a pertinent
point when drugs, microchipping and the possible spread of the Chinese concept
of ‘social value.’ We all ready accept ‘credit scores,’ why not ‘conformity
scores.’ Of course, if we were robots
the concept of good and evil would cease to exist. We would do as we were
programmed to do, truly ‘following orders.’ And in an alternative universe, God
could have created us so. But creatures stripped of meaningful choice cease to
be moral beings.
So, back to this world and the
feathered hand of God protecting innocent seagulls. (Well, not so innocent. It
stole a chip.) Where would it stop, this interventionist God? Are we to be protected from every
consequence of a bad or foolish decision? From the consequences of every
natural disaster or virus—God, clad in Lycra and cape, zooming from crisis to
crisis? And if we lived in a world without crisis or challenge or meaningful
moral choice, what exactly would we
A few nights ago, I had the devil’s
own job getting asleep. It happens now and again, usually in the small hours of
the morning between two and four, so perhaps I should qualify that by saying
‘getting back to sleep’. No problem
getting there. Returning is the problem. And I’m desperate to return, if only
for the dreams.
Last night I dreamt of the
Tennessee Cheese Wars. My wife, usually less trusting, asked me whether there
ever was such a thing. No, I said. I’m fairly sure that there hasn’t. Then
again, who knows in the future? Was it prophecy?This world is getting crazier by the minute,
and I might well head a flotilla of Tennesseans, furiously paddling canoes burdened
with Edam and Camembert pursued by lactose starved, tomahawk waving Indians.
But those nights I can’t return to
my dreams . . . I just lie there an hour or more, switching from one side to
another, checking the clock, and uttering that age-old prayer: ‘Why me Lord?’
I want to go asleep, and the process
is akin to a slow moving football match. . . the goal is in sight but I’m
shadowed by a tenacious defender. However I weave and twist and turn, it’s
always there, soft and black and blocking my route.
The worst bit of all is being on the verge, and in my experience there
are two kinds of verge: the ‘cliff edge’ verge when you feel you’re so near the
edge… you just have to roll off…and then some invisible but bloody-minded
membrane bounces you back, and you open your eyes—shut them again quickly to
find the cliff edge has vanished.
The other verge is what I term the
‘hammock.’ As the name suggests, you’re lying there comfortably warm when the
bottom slips away taking you with it. That’s my favourite, the one I normally
go to sleep by—but rarely at 2.39 in the morning.
On this particular night, seeking
verge after verge, I finally got up 4.49 in the morning. It was fairly pleasant
at first—a warm fire, hot tea and a third rate Stephen King book ‘Bag of Bones’. By ten in the morning I
was a wreck and went for a bath.
That was weird in itself. I never
have baths—well at least rarely—but there I was, lying in hot water and
wondering what I was doing there. On the floor, I noticed a supermarket
magazine – the Waitrose Weekend.
Well, it had to be better than sitting in hot water staring at tiles. On
balance, it was. I read Mariella Frostrup’s take on the menopause, Fi Glover’s
opinion – I’ve forgotten on what, and learn’t many interesting recipes: sausage
rings soaked in cider, stuffed with chopped apple and pine nuts, the best way
to cook salsify, a recipe for Larb noodles with passion fruit chilli dressing,
another for Hoisin Tofu and rice burritos. I was on the verge – the cliff edge
one—but the water was cold and I got up.
I’ve kept the magazine for the next
time I’m awake at 3.25.