TENET 10: THE UNKNOWN (Reprise)

Security and changelessness are fabricated
by the ego-dominated mind and do not exist in nature.
To accept insecurity and commit oneself to the unknown creates a relaxing faith in the universe.
DAY 16 THEY CALL THE ABBEY RUINED
Hay Bluff to Pandy Fifteen Miles

After breakfast, I put Tenet 10 The Unknown into my pocket like an amulet. The admonition to trust in the unknown was what I needed as I surveyed the sky and reviewed the cautions about Hatterall Ridge, eleven miles of exposed, windy moorland with precipitous edges both to the east and to the west. Along the ridge the numerous peat bogs can obscure the path. Additionally, a spider web of sheep trails, in poor visibility, can lead a hiker astray. On this day, dark clouds hung far down the slopes of Hay Bluff and the long ridge. Should I head for the heights or take the ODP Alternate Route down the Vale of Ewyas?

Still undecided, I got into the taxi that would deliver my luggage to Pandy. Tom, one of Hays two taxi drivers, stated without being asked that Id have to take the road down the vale and not venture onto Hatterall Ridge until the clouds lifted. So the decision was made.

At Gospel Pass, where the ice cream van would park shortly, Tom let me out, wished me well, and took off for Pandy. I shouldered my pack and strode down the track. I felt carefree again, content to be alone again, happy to be breathing in the cool, misty air again. This was the life. I felt like the walker in The Vagabond by Robert Louis Stevenson:



Let the blow fall soon or late,/Let what will be oer me;
Give the face of earth around/And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,/Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above/And the road below me.

The ODP Alternate Route followed the Gospell Pass road to Llanthony, seven and a half miles away, the days first goal. It was easy walking on the single lane road. From the Hatterall Ridge slopes, the morning gossip of sheep, muffled by clouds, was a familiar background musak. Sprays of water, too feathery to be termed waterfalls, fell from the ridges on both sides of the valley. Beside the road, the River Honddu ran in a series of tinkling cascades. And in thickets bordering the brook, unseen birds went about their chattery morning business.

A brook named Nant Bwch joined the River Honddu at Capel-y-ffin, a wide place in the road that has drawn artists and spiritual seekers for many centuries. One of those seekers built a monastery, now in ruins. Today a youth hostel and a pony trekking center attract visitors who wish to explore the solitude of the Black Mountains. An eighteenth century church, painted white, sitting modestly in its walled yard peopled with gravestones, and overhung by old yews, completes the scene. Inscribed in one of the church windows is the psalm verse, I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.

Continuing down the valley, I heard an excessively loud din of sheep voices up a farm driveway. Curiosity led me up the track and into the farmyard. In the barn, brawny men were shearing sheep. Distressed ewes, panicky lambs, a blaring rock radio station, and three sets of buzzing electric shears produced a terrific confabulation of noise. Seven men and three teenage girls talking, laughing, and singing along with the radio added to the decibel level.

The farm owner motioned me into the barn and, shouting into my ear, told me he hoped that his three shearing contractors and their helpers, hired for this one day, would be able to shear all of his seven hundred and fifty sheep. With luck, the sale of the wool would pay for the contractors plus a bottle of excellent champagne to celebrate the deed done.

As I watched, six ewes were separated from their lambs, all of them bleating pitiously. A helper pulled one of ewes out of the holding pen and passed her to a shearer. He flipped the ewe over, wedged her head between his legs, sheared her stomach, side, back, neck, other side, and rump, and then released her. The wool peeled off in one piece with no harm to the ewe. As the shearer reached for the next ewe, the girls grabbed the wool coat, threw it onto a table, rolled it up, and stuffed it into a long fiberglass sack. One roll after another, the sack filled up. Then the farmer took wooden spikes and, with another man pulling and grunting, closed and secured the bulging sack.

Evidently, the shearing did lead to comfort for the ewes because, as each ewe was released, she walked a few steps in a kind of daze and then leaped into the air. She called her lamb, was quickly reunited with it, and the two wandered off apparently at ease. Each ewe predictably did this two-step dance followed by the reunion scene. Watching sheep being sheep, I wrote in my journal this haiku:

Newly shorn, the naked ewe
Leaps into the sunshine
And calls her lamb.

Hypnotic though the shearing process was, I needed to put more miles behind me before lunch, so I thanked the farmer and pressed on. The day was brightening and warming. Visible ahead was the medieval Church of St. David. Beyond it were the ruins of Llanthony Priory. This priory, in addition to Hatterall Ridge, was the main sightseeing feature of this day. I stepped into the hallowed grounds of the priory as if entering a hushed and grand cathedral. The twenty or so other visitors were out of sight in the sandwich-and-tea concession, so I stood alone under the soaring arches of what is arguably the most beautiful of ecclesiastical ruins.