Back in the Day

          Fifty years have passed since I first became friends with Jim and Paul. We were among a batch of graduates bound for Sudan to do Voluntary Service Overseas. We celebrated our anniversary this week in modest style, camping overnight at Llanthony Abbey in Brecon National Park, then hiking the next day along a section of Offa’s Dyke. It was a chance to re-affirm our friendships, make up for time spent apart and reflect on the changes we have witnessed, experienced and contributed to. Time cannot be recaptured, but its passage leaves a story: how it will end, we can only speculate, but even an optimist would struggle to believe that everything will come up roses, given the continuing degradation of our environment. I say this because we lamented – among other things – how much the bird population has diminished since our youth. At the same time, we affected not to care about there being no phone signal in the valley. Just like the good-old days, hey? (On the ridge-top we checked our phones for supposedly crucial communications.)

          I spent several days in the area, before and after the reunion, relishing the rurality of The Marches – the historically fought-over territory between England and Wales. I drove on minor, winding roads, crossing the border so frequently that I evolved a guessing-game, using place-names as clues: Llanvinhangel – Wales; Longtown – England; Grosmont – France. France? Yes, let’s not forget that the Normans were here. One of them, Hubert de Lacey, left his mark in the form of a trio of castles, now in varying stages of ruin but still evocative of 12^th century violence, land-grabbing, extortion and serfdom. Yet, despite their barbaric heritage, some of them are beautiful in their ruination and their quiet, rural settings – especially on a day in May when the sun is shining and what’s left of our wildlife is gently foraging all around.

          Back in the Dark Ages, people huddled together for protection from marauders: even serfdom might have seemed attractive in this respect. But another way – and a voluntary one – was to join a religious order as a monk or, if the strict regime of worship didn’t appeal, a lay brother at one of the many abbeys that dominated the countryside. I used to think that Henry VIII acted beyond the pale when he abolished them but, on reflection, he did future generations a service in breaking up the religio-corporate monopolies and opening up the possibilities for other social structures – such as free-market capitalism – though absolute monarchy was, undoubtedly, his immediate goal.

          More recent history is evident in the way that local pubs have adapted to socio-economic change. The Swan Inn sits on a crossroads and serves an isolated hamlet. It comprises the front room of Jane’s house – maximum seating capacity ten persons – and is a rural drinking den from the fifties. This is a lifestyle business that, without Jane, would not be viable. Its days are numbered, surely. The Angel Inn, by comparison, lies on a popular tourist route and has long since accommodated the leisure market – as is evident in a poster pinned to the wall that advertises a concert in the barn, held in 1969 and headlined by Fleetwood Mac and Jethro Tull. (Curiously, it was a fund-raiser in aid the Police Dependents Trust and the RSPCA.) Then there is The Half Moon at Llanthony, a basic, cheerless establishment in a remote situation. It appears to be the last stand for its proprietors, a rough-mannered, middle-aged couple of displaced Londoners. A chalkboard sign outside says, “Bikers Welcome!”

          Some things change for the better, some for the worse - it's a matter of opinion - but I am happy to report that there are constants: while all around us is in flux, Jim, Paul and I still share the same politics, ethics and human values that prompted us to volunteer fifty years ago.