In the back, Jared entertained Evie and Kaylyn with some nonsense which they seemed delighted to respond to. Evie’s giggle was a familiar enough sound, but Kaylyn’s light laughter was a new and delightful experience to hear. Chloe sat beside Felicity, silently watching the landscape. Behind them, Ryan informed Colin and Antony about the geology of the area. “Waterfall Country, they call this. There’s a large number of spectacular falls all through here—on tributaries of the River Neath through valleys deeply incized by glaciers during the succession of ice ages. You see, what happened was that these tributaries cut down into their own beds as they adjusted to a base level lower than in pre-glacial times. The underlying geology…”
“Roman camp!” Colin cut into the narrative when he spotted a roadside marker. “That said ‘Roman Camp.’ Father—”
Antony held up his hand. “We need to get on, Colin. They’re expecting us at St Non’s.”
“Oh, but—”
“It’s right along St Illtyd’s Walk,” Ryan added.
Lydia, sitting beside the driver, gave Michael a nudge which Felicity only caught on the edge of her vision. “And St David was educated by St Illtyd,” Michael chimed in from the front. “We could just take a tea break there, Father.”
Antony threw up his hands and laughed. “Only if there’s chocolate cake for tea.”
There was. And the falls were, indeed, spectacular. They picnicked in a sun-filtered wood beside a white water river that made Felicity think of the rapid rivers in her native Idaho.
The water burbled beside them, insects buzzed nearby and birds sang overhead. “This is glorious.” Felicity sighed and leaned back against the rough bark of a tree trunk. “Can you believe that rain in Penrhys was only two days ago?”
“That was an absolute pig of a day, wasn’t it?” Jared agreed around bites of chocolate cake.
Felicity hoped her laughter didn’t scare the birds.
Antony, who had been beset by Colin, Ryan and Michael, agreed—not too reluctantly—that they could extend the stop long enough for those who wished to explore the Roman camp. “But only briefly,” he insisted.
Felicity chose to walk the shorter, but extremely bendy, way up St Illtyd’s path with Jared and the Goths to a cairn circle. “This trail was laid out by a German,” Jared informed them as a twist in the path made an almost 180 degree turn.
“Really?” Kaylyn asked.
“Yep.” Jared grinned. “Herr Pin.”
Felicity laughed with the others, then let them go on up the trail as she stood listening to the gentle sough of the breeze in the scattered conifers, and the occasional birdcall. How wonderful to be away from the sense of oppression that had dogged them for days. Here in the clear air she could almost tell herself she had imagined the whole thing. She had always had a very active— some would say overactive—imagination.
She turned toward the cairn circle. Then froze at the moaning sound. No. She shook her head and strode forward. It was merely the wind in the trees.
And it must, indeed, have been no more than that because in less than an hour the group reassembled just as Antony had directed, with no one lost or victim of an accident.
At the end of the valley Michael slipped the silver vehicle into the whizzing stream of traffic on the M4. “Right. We’re on our way to Rome,” Antony announced to the pilgrims.
His declaration was met with a chorus of surprised questions.
“Well, all right. Halfway to Rome, that is.” He smiled, then explained. “In medieval times, two pilgrimages to St David’s counted as a pilgrimage to Rome. It’s a sign of how holy St David’s was considered. And how difficult the journey was.”
Their time on the motorway was short-lived and they were soon driving through green, undulating farmland. The pleasant way trundled along a winding road through countryside that became increasingly flatter with many pullings-over and backings-up to allow passage for tractors and trailers stacked high with hay bales.
“All right, boys and girls,” Antony called for their attention. “Just a quick history lesson here.”
The chorus of groans was overdone enough to make it obvious they were teasing. “A very brief one. Promise. Just more of a footnote, really. But you’ll encounter Giraldus Cambrensis, Gerald of Wales, at St David’s and I want you to know this is the same route he took when he made his famous seven-week journey through Wales in 1188. Gerald accompanied Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, to raise Welsh troops for the Third Crusade. Gerald was a scholar, a churchman, a gossip, an indefatigable traveler, and a prolific writer with an obsessive desire to record his observations for posterity.
“Seventeen of his books survive, but his two on his beloved Wales are his most important: Itinerarium Cambriae and Descriptio Cambriae. Gerald recorded Welsh history and geography and his reflections on the always rocky relations between the Welsh and their English neighbors.
“In the past, that is of course,” the English Antony was quick to add.
It was Kaylyn, one of their English pilgrims, who spoke up, sounding very disappointed. “But, Father A, aren’t you going to act it out for us?”
Felicity smiled. She’d been thinking the same thing, but most remarkable was the fact that Kaylyn, who had seemed so detached, if not actively hostile, was now willing to admit she had actually enjoyed Antony’s lessons. Felicity remembered only a few months ago undergoing a similar metamorphosis in her own attitudes.
Antony’s warm grin showed he was appreciative of the transformation, too. “Thank you, Kaylyn. I’ll try not to disappoint you next time. But I did warn that this was just more of a footnote. You see, Gerald was a canon of St David’s and responsible for much of the rebuilding of the cathedral. He was a powerful man with many titles, but he most frequently styled himself Bishop-elect of St David’s. Becoming Bishop of St David’s was his most fervent desire, but it was denied him. Although his name was twice put forward for the position, King Henry II refused to appoint him. The last thing Henry wanted was an intelligent, powerful, well-organized, well-connected bishop who insisted on the independence of his see from Canterbury.”
Felicity was wondering if she should add Giraldus Cambrensis to her list alongside Julius and Aaron, St David and possibly Evan Roberts of supernaturally aided leaders, when Antony added, “Gerald retired, a disappointed man. Eight centuries later his vision was fulfilled. In 1920 the Church in Wales became independent.”
The way became increasingly rural as they turned northwestward beyond Haverfordwest across the steep, rocky, wind-swept peninsula. “In spite of Gerald’s fondness for St David’s, he didn’t care much for what he observed as he and Baldwin rode this way,” Antony continued. “‘Remote, rocky and riverless; its soil too barren to sustain trees and pastures; exposed to winds and inclement weather; caught between warring Flemings and hostile Welsh.’ That’s how he described it.”
Felicity was about to agree with Gerald’s evaluation when the road curved and a stunning blue sweep of bay spread before them. Steep cliffs ran down to a strip of black rocks, and beyond that perfect white sand stretched out to molten silver water. A fringe of white surf lapped the sand and seagulls swooped above. “The Atlantic!” Felicity cried. Beyond that was home. Except that this side of the Atlantic was home now, she reminded herself.
“St George’s Channel, I’m afraid,” Ryan corrected. “St Brides Bay, to be precise.”
“So New York isn’t the next stop?”
“Ireland, I’m afraid. Unless you dodge around a bit to the south.”
Felicity was still wishing for a good atlas when the road cut steeply downward, and around another turn she was presented with one of the most picturesque villages she had ever seen. The tiny hamlet stood at the head of a narrow bay, sheltered in a deep ravine. Color-washed shops and cottages lined the street in storybook fashion: pink, blue, pink, yellow, red, pink, blue… “What is this?” she asked, turning in her seat for another look to be sure she hadn’t imagined the fairy tale scene.
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“Solva,” Ryan replied. “Solva Harbour is a good example of a glaciated meltwater channel. The coast all along here is pockmarked with caves, and the rocks contain fossils from the Cambrian age.”
But it was Nancy who provided the most delightful bit of information: “Solva had the first butterfly farm in Wales. It’s closed now, but we did a school trip here once. These cliffs are a great place to see butterflies and dragonflies.”
A few minutes later they swept into the smallest cathedral city in Britain. Felicity was enchanted by the narrow, curving street lined with shops. At the corner, Michael pulled into a parking spot, but didn’t turn off the engine. “Here you are. Just a pause for a peak at the cathedral.”
Beyond the low stone wall in front of them, a smooth green churchyard dotted with crumbling gravestones swooped downhill to the cathedral below. How odd to meet a cathedral almost eye-level with its crenelated roofline. Beyond the massive square tower rising to the evening sky, smooth green hills stretched toward the bay.
“How extraordinary—to build a cathedral in a hollow,” Felicity said.
“Apparently to protect it from sea raiders,” Antony replied. “At least that’s the theory. If that’s the case, it didn’t work very well, though. Exposed as it is to the sea here, the cathedral was host to frequent Viking raids during the tenth and eleventh centuries.”
“Oh, that’s what you meant when you said Gerald rebuilt the cathedral. So is this Giraldus Cambrensis’s cathedral?”
“Somewhat. Although there was a great deal of rebuilding and restoring through the centuries. The greatest builder of St David’s, though, was Bishop Gower in the middle of the fourteenth century.” Antony pointed to an enormous picturesque ruin behind the cathedral. “Henry Gower’s Bishop’s Palace.”
“Good grief, it was bigger than the cathedral!”
“Gower was a passionate builder, to say the least.” Antony said no more as Michael put the van into gear and turned down the street, but she suspected there would be more to the story.
They were quickly out of the city, driving along a narrow track out onto the peninsula. Bracken and gorse covered the fields on both sides, and the lowering sun gave a special golden quality to the light. Cattle grazed in fields that stretched to the cliff edge with the shimmering ocean rolling on to the horizon. At the end of the lane a sturdy stone building sat stark against the sky. A few white clouds softened the sweep of blue, and out toward the cliff edge, seagulls swooped and called.
“Welcome to St Non’s—Seek beauty and you will find it,” the sign greeted them. And then they were taken in charge by Alma and Nora, the two Irish Sisters, in their modern dress. “Our crosses are our habits,” Alma, the shorter, more effusive one, explained in her melodic lilt. “I’ll just take those, my dear.” She had picked up Felicity’s bedroll and pack and headed up the wide stairway before Felicity could protest.
Along the hall, the sister opened the door onto a glorious sight. Felicity gasped and rushed to her window. “What an amazing view!”
“Tis, tisn’t it? The hotel at the beginning of our track was voted one of the grandest views in the world. We think ours is better.”
Below Felicity, intense green grass covered a terraced lawn running down to a path skirting the cliff edge. Beyond that, the blue waters of St Non’s Bay sparkled. On each side the rugged cliffs curved into water that foamed and splashed over the black rocks. Felicity stood mesmerized for several moments, then remembered herself. “Oh, it’s wonderful! Thank you.”
Reluctant to turn away, Felicity opened the side window. The curtain billowed as the roar of the waves and a cry of gulls blew in with the ocean breeze. Felicity leaned out and looked across the field to her right. “What’s that?” She indicated a crumbled stone wall inside a rail fence.
“To be sure, that’s St Non’s Chapel. Where the blessed David was born. The holy well is just along the path on your way.” Sister Alma pointed, although Felicity couldn’t make out the well.
“And that,” at Alma’s direction Felicity looked almost straight down on the roof of a small stone building sitting on the lawn of the retreat house, the pointed top of the tower marking the arched entrance, nearly on a level with Felicity’s window. “That’s our modern St Non’s chapel. We no longer use it for regular worship, though, because in a gale the wind will drive the rain right through the stone walls.”
Felicity found that hard to imagine, until she recalled the force of the wind-driven rain she experienced at Penrhys. “You’ll not have to worry, though,” the sister assured her. “It’s sure to be fair while you’re here.”
“Dinner in an hour, so you’ve plenty of time to settle in.” The ebullient nun was at the door when she turned back with a twinkle in her eye. “Do you like fish?”
“Yes, I love it.”
“Well, you’re not getting it.” Alma smiled. “It’s lasagna tonight.” She left Felicity with a merry chuckle.
The pilgrims would join the nuns for Compline in their chapel on the lower level of the retreat house later, but after dinner they were free to ramble. Felicity had no doubt as to the top of her agenda—time alone with Antony in this incredibly beautiful place. At last they were free of the responsibility of herding pilgrims over precipitous Welsh mountains. They were here to relax and commune with nature and with God. And Felicity wanted to commune with Antony.
Apparently his agenda matched hers. “Want to go for a stroll? Over to the old chapel or something?”
“Yes! That sounds great, Father. Let’s go to the well, too.”
Felicity managed to suppress her groan. Antony had spoken specifically to her, but Colin had answered. She wanted to tell him she was quite certain it wasn’t a Roman site, but instead she mustered a faint smile.
In the end it amounted to another pilgrimage as everyone but Chloe and Lydia chose to trail after them. The beauty of the evening and the freshness of the air soon revived Felicity’s spirit, however, as she followed Colin along the flagged path below the retreat house. A green hedge grew almost as high as Felicity’s head on the right, and to the left the tussocky grass was dotted with mounds of bright pink balls, waving on their slender stems. “Thrift,” Nancy informed her. “Or sea pink. It grows in the rocks all along here.”
Felicity bent forward to check the cushion of pink for scent, then pulled back as three bees flew up at her. Nancy took her arm to steady her. “I should have warned you. Bees love it. It’s heavy with pollen.”
A few more yards on and the path dropped down to a small pool of clear water under the dome of a white stone arch. Felicity knelt and dipped her hand in, letting the crystal drops fall from her fingers. “Put some on your eyes,” Nancy said. “It’s supposed to be very healing, especially for eyes.” Felicity obediently did so. It was certainly refreshing.
“This has been considered a holy well for 1,400 years,” Antony informed them. “It was a favorite with medieval pilgrims.” Apparently it was still popular, Felicity thought, because the bottom of the well was shiny with coins tossed there by votives.
She stepped across the path to let others have a turn at the waters, and paused at the grotto. An arched stone dome mimicking that of the well covering held a statue of Mary, her hands spread wide in welcome. The image made Felicity think of her own mother, to whom she had been so recently reconciled. She stooped to pick a small handful of the pink flowers and placed them at Mary’s feet. Her brief prayer, however, was interrupted by a series of sneezes. Nancy was right about that pollen.
When Antony joined her, they ambled on across the field toward the broken walls of St Non’s Chapel. “So this is where Non is supposed to have given birth to David?”
Antony smiled. “Close enough, I imagine. It was along this coast somewhere, above Whitesands Bay, and this building marks an ancient spot. So this could well be where Nonnita took refuge with the holy Sisters to give birth to her remarkable son during a violent storm.”
Felicity recalled Alama’s words
about the force of the driving rain on this cliff. She hoped Non’s walls had been waterproof.
Felicity was running her hand over the smooth, cool surface of the white, lopsided oval stone incized with a slim Celtic cross that Antony had identified as St Non’s Cross when Jared, Kaylyn and Evie joined them, and Antony turned to tell them of the birth of St David:
… Hour after hour, as black as night in the middle of the day, the sound of the howling wind and crashing sea pounded in Non’s ears with increasing ferocity as the intensity of her pains grew. The noise of the storm, the shaking of the conical thatched roof over her head, and the relentlessness of her gripping pains were so all-consuming that she was not aware of the ministrations of the nursing Sisters, but hung all the more tightly to the large, smooth stone beside her pallet, giving her something to push against in her labor.
The peak of the storm and the peak of her labor climaxed together…
At first Felicity thought the cry she heard was her imagination, identifying with Non in her birthing pangs. Then she realized it had come from the well.
“Father Antony!” Michael’s shout was clear enough.
They all turned to scramble for the path. Felicity’s long legs were the first over the rails and carried her across the field and up the path in seconds. Even before she was there, though, she could hear the harsh, strangled gasps of someone struggling desperately to breathe. She rounded the corner and saw Colin kneeling on the ground, his body bent double. In front of him a particularly large hummock of sea pinks bobbed in the breeze.
“It’s the pollen!” She shouted and darted forward. “Where’s Lydia? Jared,” she turned to the youth behind her and pointed to the retreat house. “Get Lydia, quick!”
It would be several minutes before Lydia arrived, and already Colin’s pale skin had a blue cast to it. Michael and Ryan knelt beside the struggling youth, looking helpless. “We need to get him away from this pollen. Can you two carry him?” Felicity didn’t really know anything about it, but it seemed logical.
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