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Dana Huntley
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Dana Huntley
IT WAS THE WETTEST APRIL on record and the coldest in 23 years. The sky was slate gray and the rain poured as I headed west toward South Wales after an overnight flight. I danced between the M4 and the A4 through Marlborough and Chippenham. The Severn estuary was dark and choppy as I crossed the bridge into Wales.
Spreading out fan-like above Newport and Cardiff are the now-historic coal fields of Wales. They are known simply as “The Valleys.” This has long been a stomping ground of mine and among my favorite parts of Britain. A generation after the pit closures brought the local economy to a halt, this is still a poor area with high unemployment and a dearth of optimism. The valleys bear the scars of a working industrial landscape and the tightly packed communities of two-room-up-two-room-down row houses do not make for the kinds of picturesque scenes that are so beloved of heritage tourists.
The most famous and populous of the valleys lies right in the region’s heart. This is The Rhondda, a Y-shaped vale whose branches are Rhondda Fawr and Rhondda Fach. The market town at its base is Pontypridd.
I spent my first day in the valleys, Rhondda Fawr and Rhondda Fach. I was photographing chapels that have been converted to other uses. One church in particular had caught my attention in the British media, in Maerdy, where six or eight devout parishioners are struggling with the Church in Wales to keep their historic place of worship open. I took some pictures and visited with one of the men leading the effort while he was waiting for a bus outside the church.
It’s a familiar scene in the coal valleys of Wales. In the early 20th century the chapels were full—everyone went to chapel. Generations of decline have seen many close and the buildings transformed to residences or restaurants or such. Some of the same general causes that brought about the end to the way of life at Downton Abbey can be cited: The Great War took a generation of church leadership, while the trade unions promised pie now, instead of in the sky.
The second day, I drove down into the Vale of Glamorgan to the pretty little resort town of Porthcawl, where an active Pavilion Theatre and a seaside amusement park draw the crowds. I spent the afternoon at St. Fagans, the National History Museum. It’s one of the most acclaimed open air museums in Europe, and justly so. Like all six of Wales national museums, admission is free—making it hard to quibble with the £3.50 charge for the car park.
Next morning, I took the Top of the Valleys road east to Monmouth for lunch with regular British Heritage writer Siân Ellis, who lives in a nearby farming valley. The rain hit again for the afternoon drive over to Newbury. Yes, I had to go visit Downton Abbey. You can catch my reflections on Highclere Castle a few pages on.
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Dana Huntley
Newbury gets lost in the tourist shuffle between London and Bath, but it was once an important halfway point in the journey between the two—a day’s travel in each direction. The Kennett & Avon Canal runs right through town as well, harking to the years when Newbury was bustling as an inland port. Its historic, pedestrianized town center is well worth exploring.
Then, I made across Surrey for the countryside of southern Kent. This surely has to be among the prettiest landscapes in England, with lots of prosperous, tidy villages and a sea of oust houses that have been converted to dwellings. The hop gardens are now few and far between, but there’s no doubt why the county is proud of its traditional label as the Garden of England. I stayed in Maidstone and explored the neighborhood between Tenterdon and Ashford, following the trail of what was Britain’s most popular television series of all time, The Darling Buds of May. The account of that adventure we’ll reserve until next issue.
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Dana Huntley
From Kent, I came west along the Sussex Coast, weaving to and fro the A259. I headed to Battle first. With Siân’s story on the Normans in this issue, I went to pick up a few pictures at least, and revisit historic Battle Abbey and the battlefield where Norman cavalry did in the fighting squares of Saxon foot soldiers. And the rest is history.
Hastings itself, half a dozen miles south on the coast, looks tired. The fire that destroyed its lovely pier a few years ago is still in evidence and the place generally looks like it could use Chief Superintendent Foyle.
The coast road leads west to Eastborne and past Beachy Head to the Cuckmere Valley. I made for the village of Alfriston a few miles up the broad river valley lined with fertile farm land. On a Sunday night at the end of school holidays, I ended up the only guest for the night in the historic Star Inn, and took my steak and ale pie in the bar visiting with the young international staff.
What brought me to town, however, was the 15th-century, thatched Old Clergy House. This was the first property purchased by the fledgling National Trust in 1896. Since this year is the 200th anniversary of the birth of National Trust founder Octavia Hill, it seemed like an appropriate time to pay a visit in her honor.
I went on to Brighton the next day. Brighton Pier is still the classic of its genre, with its multitude of seafood offerings, arcades, bars and amusement rides. I had a tapas lunch in the higgledy-piggledy Lanes in back of the Royal Pavilion. A stay in Arundel and visits to Clandon Park and Guildford Cathedral at last led me back toward London.
My final port of call was a pub in Ascot. The weather remained still cold and wet. Since Ascot was a second-home to me in England for 20 years, I know the Royal Foresters well. It made a great base for a couple of days in the royal neighborhood, with Windsor Castle just a few miles across Windsor Great Park. All the attention to the events of the Diamond Jubilee and this summer’s Olympic equestrian competitions being held in the park prompted our profile of regal Windsor and its fascinating environs.
Some years ago I led a group on a “Best of English Gardens” trip across the southern counties—Stourhead, Sissinghurst, Great Dixter, Compton Acres, Exbury and the like. We had 10 days of solid rain. The only thing I could say was that no one ever visited Saudi Arabia to see its gardens. Still, I thought of that trip often as I bobbed-and-weaved to get good pictures during the rare breaks of April sunshine. At the end of the day, though, it just didn’t matter; Britain never disappoints.
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