Bread of Heaven

Cwm Rhondda

Guide me, O thou great redeemer,

Pilgrim through this barren land; 

I am weak, but thou art mighty,

Hold me with thy powerful hand;

Bread of heaven,

bread of heaven

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.

Bread of Heaven is a song from Wales. The words are by William Williams, also known as Williams Pantycelyn, an 18th century Welsh poet. The hymn took its current shape, however, around 1905, when the English version of the lyric was put to a tune entitled Cwm Rhondda (after the valley of the same name) by John Hughes, another great Welshman. The song quickly became deeply beloved of the Welsh and can be heard sung ceremonially at sporting events, especially rugby matches, as a kind of unofficial national anthem.

In Wales itself, it is generally known either as Bread of Heaven or as Cwm Rhondda.  Elsewhere it is usually referred to by the first line of the lyric, Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer.

Shortly after my mother died at the end of October, I was in Wales.  I had got up early in the morning in Bristol and driven to Abergavenny, from where, after a bap and a cappuccino from a fine Italian café, I set out to climb The Sugar Loaf, one of the most prominent and popular peaks in the Black Mountains and indeed the Brecon Beacons. The hill was originally known as Mynydd (mountain) Pen-y-fâl (top of the plateau) but the name has now disappeared in favour of the current denomination.

The Sugar Loaf is one of the three mountains around the market town of Abergavenny - the other two being Blorenge to the south and The Skirrid to the north-east. Reaching the height of 596 metres above sea level at the trig point it is not the highest mountain in South Wales but it cuts a fine outline against the sky showing off the profile which gives it its name. 

It consists mainly of old red sandstone from the Devonian period (about 416 to 360 million years ago) in common with the rest of the Black Mountains. The summit is covered with a thin layer of a quartz conglomerate, which is a hard rock and which protected the hill from being eroded away in the last ice age, when the Usk valley to the south, and the Grwyne Fawr valley to the north, were formed by glaciers.

Open now the crystal fountain

Whence the healing stream doth flow;

Let the fire and cloudy pillar

Lead me all my journey through:

Strong deliverer,

strong deliverer;

Be thou still my strength and shield;

Be thou still my strength and shield.

I left the town behind in Chapel Lane, and followed the track up and into Deri Fach wood, where the path climbs through a close-knit stand of oaks for nearly a kilometre.  The trees then thinned and the route continued through bracken and gorse, brown and scrubby at this time of year.

As I reached the top of the heathy ridge the summit came into view, still a way off and high above me.  I could see why it has been named The Sugar Loaf - not that we have loaves of sugar any more, but I know that refined sugar used to be sold in moulded conical masses.  In Middle English the word loaf was used for sugar, but this came from the Old English term (hlāf) for portions of bread….

Anyway, the summit beckoned, and, somehow drawn by a primitive desire to approach heaven to wish my mother well at those pearly gates, I strove painfully up the steep slope.

It was late November, and though I had felt warm when toiling up through the woods far below, at the summit there was a bitter wind, and the ground was glittering with ice spicules.  

Not how I imagine heaven, but it was exhilarating.  It was not a day of crystal clarity, but The Skirrid loomed in and out of the clouds, and from the peak there were misty views of the hills and valleys around.

I was early enough to be alone for a spell, and inspired by Wales, by the majesty of the landscape, and by love for my mother, I raised my voice to cry out…..

Songs of praises,

Songs of praises,

I will ever give to thee;

I will ever give to thee.

On the way down I was awed by the glory of the natural world.  Distant hills, and mossy trees, a splashing stream in the idyllic beech woods of St Mary's Vale.  

I felt restored.  There is a heaven, even if it is hard to catch hold of.  Even if it is elusively always there, before us, unseen....

Less than a week later, in St Peter's church in Berkhamsted, I was joined by family and friends, and together we sang….

Bread of heaven,

bread of heaven

Feed me till I want no more;

Feed me till I want no more.

And for a moment, fleetingly, I thought I believed that my redeemer liveth....  Or so, I wanted to feel, at least, my mother is in good hands....

In Memoriam

Anna Stella Gibbs (née McMullin)

February 21st 1923 - October 30th 2019

Bleaching the Mind in Powys

Brain Cleaner

I was in Orkney, as one is, and I thought I had met my match, in, Skull Splitter,

One of our strongest beers, named after Thorfinn Einarsson the 7th Viking Earl of Orkney

A rich fruity wine-like complexity on the palate includes fresh and dried fruits, warm exotic spice and light summer citrus fruits. Sophisticated, satiny smooth with a deceptively light character.

ABV.  8.5

HOPS.  East Kent Goldings

MALT.  Maris Otter: Crystal: Chocolate: malted Wheat. 

But, this is another occasion, and after a very long, wet, congested and disrupted drive from Bristol on a Friday evening, I reach The Tanners Arms at Defynnog, in mid-Wales, and..... I find myself with a bottle of Brecon Mind Bleach at 10% abv.

Which is sort of what I came for.  Something to wipe the smeared and claggy brain.  Something to wash away the fusions and cons of daily angst.

I've met big beers before - the great Trappist beers of Belgium for example - but this was something else.  A baseball bat of a brew; a leaded sap with no regard for nicety.

I will not delude.  I finished not the bottle.  I had not driven through a foul Friday evening with its upturned cars and unhurried ambulances to wake up like an inverted beetle, incapable of useful movement.  So I left the residue of my mind bleach to the 4x4 sheep rustlers at the bar and settled to slumber in my single room upstairs, dreaming of nothing at all.....

And as the sun rose over the spangled grasses around me I arose with a clear head, refreshed by local harpic, devoid of responsibility, and, after a very decent breakfast, I moved on.....

And to Talgarth I ventured, between the Brecon Beacons and the Black Hills, between the Wye and the Usk, a pretty, sleepy town, where little happened since yesterday and tomorrow is a frightening concept....

Do not misread me.  I shun not the company of fellows, but there are times, for better, for worse, when it is necessary to ingest a length of gauze and to filter the traces of worldly preoccupations that, like microbial infection, damage appreciation of life....

And so it is good to have moments of peace, and an open mind, and views across the face of the world that are not contaminated by the impurities of politics nor the pressures of the press....

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

I leave the town, and walk up through fields, speaking kindly to sheep and cows, crossing streams, respecting trees, up and up to the ruins of Dinas Castle, ancient in origin, but wasted now, looking north to the Wye and south to the Usk.  

I meet no one - I do see others about their walking - but in ten miles of perambulation I am greeted by no other human.

Way below are some that have been before and now sleep deep beside the chapel door,

And silently above are the few who dare to glide superbly in the azure.....

Though they hold not a feather to the magnificent Buzzards who mew their young into unwanted maturity as time creeps towards the darker months.....

I walk on.  My sermon on the undesirability of ticks mesmerising my flock.....

And I stumble on, the soft air a delight, the fresh grass a welcome change from rucked carpet.  It is good to roam, and good to be alone.....  for a time......

Though the carefully managed hedges and fields below do not really speak of nature.....

It is more the shapes of the hills that holds some sense of history.....

Though the ever changing shape shifting of the clouds reminds me of impermanence.....

Nothing will come of nothing.....

Back in Talgarth a young girl delights in her relationship with her dog,

But she completely ignores me.

So I turn my attention to the history of tractors.....

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

W H Davies

Time for another bottle of Mind Bleach......

Before the real world comes around.....

xxxx

Pen-y-Fan, The Brecon Beacons

Social Climbing....

The paths up to and down from Pen-y-Fan, at 886 metres the highest point of the Brecon Beacons, are busy. Snippets of conversation whip past with the cold wind.  Two young women pass me in opposition, chattering.... She didn't used to be a cow..... says one.

I thought I would start early and beat the crowds, but breakfast at The Tanners Arms, Defynnog, couldn't be hurried, and it is nine when I reach The Storey Arms Outdoor Education Centre on the A470, and the car park is already overflowing along the verges.  Spry individuals, dog walkers, hardy runners and groups of tough souls are gearing up and setting out.  

It's a fair day at 400 metres above sea level, but the heights are cloud covered and snowy.  I walk down to Pont ar Daf and then take the track across the stream and aim for the skies....

Rows and floes of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feather canyons everywhere

I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun

They rain and snow on everyone

So many things I would have done

But clouds got in my way

I walk with Joni Mitchell.  Somehow we have teamed up. I hold her 75-year-old hand and help her rise.  In 2015 she suffered a brain aneurysm, and she needs support. As we labour up her words spin through my foggy mind, her voice, now husky but still clear,  just audible.  Also with me on the track are three young deaf people, two girls and a boy, whose enjoyments of being out and about dance before us, putting selfie-obsession in context.  

At the cairn at Bwlch Duwynt the easterly wind whips over the ridge, and I become acutely aware of my carelessness in having left my gloves in the car....  Too late now!  The temperature must be around freezing, though the wind chill factor brings that down several degrees..... 

And in my anxiety Joni has slipped away....

The path is snow and slush and it is a choice between wading through icy water or risking the slippery edge above the steep slope.  Clouds shroud the tops and chill air numbs my fingers, and hurts my lungs....

The summit drifts blearily into sight, the socialising crowds appearing and disappearing in the mist. Jon Snow's talk of so many white people in one place takes on (yet) another meaning.... until I look a little closer.

There are all sorts here, and it is highly social; people of all ages, and from varied backgrounds and countries, unite in a sense of achievement, an enjoyment of being on top of the world, despite (or perhaps because of?) the lack of views.  

I am amazed at how many people have lifted themselves to this cold summit at this hour, and at the endless chains that are working their ways up (and at those who started earlier and are already on their way home, some even running....) I am struck by the sense of community that transcends any small-minded preoccupations that may have been left at home..... People talk to each other, help each other with their photos, discuss paths and exchange experiences.

She didn't used to be a cow, takes on a new value. I realise the women were not criticising their friend, but lamenting the fact she had changed, still loving her.....

In these depressing times of division and stalemate, flecked with aggression and bigotry, it's good to mingle with people who have a shared goal. There is a spirit of common humanity here which raises my hopes. Perhaps, if the worst comes to the worst, this is how it could be? A group of survivors looking after each other in cold blind vapours on an isolated peak. 

Might these clouds really have a silver lining?

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow

It's cloud illusions I recall

I really don't know clouds at all....

On the way down, my knees taking the strain, the weather appears to lift.  Greetings are exchanged.  Someone gives me a jelly baby, others simply smile.  I wonder at the optimism of some, those in shorts, others in light plimsolls.  It's cold up there, I say.  The wind....  They smile.  They're young, and full of hope.....

And that's it.  There are those who are going up, and those who are going down.  Some well equipped, some not.  It really doesn't matter.....  We live within illusions.

Joni is waiting for me at the top of Y Gyrn where the view back up to Corn Du and Pen-y-Fan is superb. She smiles, then fades.  I hear her sing....

I've looked at life from both sides now 

From win and lose and still somehow 

It's life's illusions I recall

I really don't know life at all

I've looked at life from both sides now 

From up and down and still somehow

It's life's illusions I recall

I really don't know life at all

From Both Sides Now

Joni Mitchell

© 1967 Gandalf Publishing Co.

*     *     *     *

Joni Mitchell in conversation with Gene Shay, "Folklore Program" March 12, 1967

I was reading a book, and I haven't finished it yet, called Henderson the Rain King. And there's a line in it that I especially got hung up on that was about when he was flying to Africa and searching for something, he said that in an age when people could look up and down at clouds, they shouldn't be afraid to die. And so I got this idea 'from both sides now.' There are a lot of sides to everything, and so the song is called "From Both Sides, Now."

Joni introduced the song this way at the White Swan in Leicester, England on September 16, 1967:

This is a song that talks about sides to things. In most cases there are both sides to things and in a lot of cases there are more than just both. His and a hers. His and theirs. But in this song there are only two sides to things… there’s reality and I guess what you might call fantasy. There’s enchantment and dis-enchantment, what we’re taught to believe things are and what they really are.

I realise I am not scared of death, though I don't really look forward to dying.  Pretty much everything else is in the clouds.  The attraction of the undiscovered country is obvious today on this leaderless plain, where the main religion is greed, but, despite that, there are still surprises to be had, and, as the lady says, there are two sides to most things..... Truth and illusion.....

*     *     *     *

Both Sides, Now was inspired by a passage from Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King: I dreamed down at the clouds, and thought that when I was a kid I had dreamed up at them, and having dreamed at the clouds from both sides as no other generation of men has done, one should be able to accept his death very easily.

http://jonimitchell.com/library/view.cfm?id=4378