Insights from walking around England and Wales: #14 Curiosity is captivating

The byways of curiosity can be fascinating. Even when they lead to dead ends.

A fellow walker and I were sitting on a bench overlooking a cove near the Welsh town of Fishguard. He asked, out of the blue. “So when was the last time the British mainland was invaded?”

“The Normans, in 1066,” I ventured.

“Nope. Right down in that cove, the French landed in February 1797.” ?I was intrigued. He explained that Napoleon had ordered a small-scale invasion of Britain, with the expectation that poor Englishmen would support the liberators against their masters. A force of 1,400 French and Irish troops came ashore. However, the soldiers stumbled upon a large cache of wine which local farmers had salvaged from a recently wrecked Portuguese ship. They gave this their full attention and were soon slumbering. ?The invading force surrendered after two days, and no lives were lost.

This nugget of history was fascinating. But it was an unsolved, romantic mystery which piqued my interest for the remainder of the journey. ??

Another bench, this time on the Gower peninsula in Wales. One clear morning, taking a break after an early three miles, I was surprised to see a smooth, grey rock lying on the wooden slats next to me, with a poignant, lovelorn message scripted in white. I was so moved by its haunting allure that I googled it, thinking it was a known poem, but there was no trace:?

Sveta, An enigma arrived on my doorstep,

Sinuous and wrapped in black,

A mysterious woman with olive skin

A voice like Anna Karenina, and a story far and wide

An elusive paper chase

But come in; please come inside

Unfurl your paintings, and step out of the canvas

To talk your evening art.

And then – you were gone, moved on

And the feather of a question floated down

Were you just a phantom on a moon beam?

Between two lonely hearts? Or the

Rarest of rare golden keys,

Swinging on a ribbon, to unlock an aching heart?

And was it you or I, who released that wicked thought?

And was it you or I, who bade the story start?

I scanned the scene, half-expecting to see the artist standing forlornly by, or – even better – a woman dressed in black. But no, there was just an ice-cream van with a gaggle of excited children and happy parents.

I walked on but could not rid my mind of those aching words. So I did something I had never done before: I returned to that same spot three days later, wondering what had happened. The stone had vanished. Who knows, perhaps Sveta was found. I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone if they had seen a stone. I hurried away, feeling foolish.

To this day, years later, I still wonder about who inspired those lines.

A longer version of this post can be found here.

From Grief to Love: Walking Around England and Wales