Walking Alone

 

Imagine you were a child with undiagnosed asthma and older brothers who always raced ahead when you were out walking. Supposing too that you were so completely urban in your upbringing that you always experienced a feeling of spatial illiteracy when asked to read a rural landscape…

This poem, on the other hand, is a meditation on a grown up recognition of the freedom of solitude. By Liz Lefroy.

.

Walking Alone

 

This wind: it blows wild,

makes my hair shadows dance

on the pelleted grass.

 

I walk between plant pads

which ask nothing, not a name,

nor even a remark on their likeness

 

or difference from that time

which was another season

or in another place.

 

My pace, my breath

and its increase are my own:

the summit offers herself

 

as a permanence which

does not have to be climbed.

Behind me, and high

 

a kestrel hangs, though

I do not turn round to look,

and no one cries, Too late, too late!

 

And some footage of one of Liz’s readings can be found here.

Posted in Home | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke

I don’t normally publish notices at Psychogeographic Review but, since this event has been organised by this blog’s favourite poet, Liz Lefroy, and because it promises to be such a fantastic evening of wordsmithing, here goes…

On Thursday 11th October 2012 at 7.30pm Carol Ann Duffy and Gillian Clarke will read from their work at Glyndŵr University in Wrexham. The readings will take place in the William Aston Hall, Glyndŵr University, Wrexham.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carol Ann Duffy was appointed Britain’s Poet Laureate in 2009.  She has won many prizes, including the Whitbread Poetry Award, the Forward Poetry Prize, the TS Eliot Prize and the Costa Poetry Award.  Her collections include Mean Time, The World’s Wife, Rapture and The Bees and she is editor of Jubilee Lines, 60 Poets for 60 Years:  a specially commissioned anthology marking the Queen’s 2012 Diamond Jubilee.

 

Gillian Clarke has been the National Poet of Wales since 2008.  In 2010 she was awarded the Queen’s Gold Medal for Poetry. Her Collected Poems was published in 1997 and collections published since have included Five Fields andA Recipe for Water.  Ice is due out in October 2012.  At the Source, A Writer’s Year, gives a lyrical insight into Gillian’s life as a writer set in the rich landscape of Ceredigion.

 

Tickets: £10 (£8 concessions) available from Glyndŵr Box Office or www.glyndwr.ticketsolve.com or phone 01978 293293

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Not On Safari in Harlesden – Website of the Month, August 2012

I first heard from Rose Rouse when she asked me if I knew of any women involved in psychogeography.  The fact that there are, indeed, so few prominent female psychogeographers is a subject ripe for investigation, but that’s for another time and possibly in another forum. Serendipity, however, was at work and speaking to Rose led me to her wondrous website Not on Safari in Harlesden.

Not on Safari in Harlesden is, as the name suggests, about Harlesden, an area within the Borough of Brent in north-west London.  Harlesden is a vibrant, multi-cultural area that is not without its problems but, through Rose Rouse’s eyes, one comes to see that an air of optimism, creativity and tolerance seems to pervade the place.

Rose set up her website to record her explorations of Harlesden and, through the words of the people she walks and speaks with, uses the site to allow Harlesden to speak to the world.  I asked Rose why she felt Harlesden made such a good subject for her project.

“To me, Harlesden was a great subject because I felt that I lived here but I didn’t really know it.  And at some level, I felt afraid of it.  That it was so diverse – incomers have arrived from mostly Jamaica and Ireland in the 50s, then Pakistan and India in the 60s, after that Afghanistan, Brazil, Portugal, Columbia, Somalia and more.  I wasn’t sure a white middle-aged, middle-class woman would be welcomed.  That was my personal challenge.  I wanted to feel that Harlesden was my community.”

“Harlesden has a wayward character”, Rose explains.  “It’s unrestrainable, loud, and ballsy.  I loved the way when I arrived everyone double-parked as the norm. There’s a Wild West feeling here and an exuberance. So far it has resisted gentrification…”

Rose Rouse has been a journalist for over 20 years.  Not one to avoid controversy, she recalls being pelted with bread rolls by Frankie Goes to Hollywood in the green room of The Tube after she gave their album a poor review.  More recently she has done work for The Observer, GQ and (say it quietly) the Daily Mail.  Books Rose has published so far include Missing (2008) and Last Letters to Loved Ones (2009).

Rose doesn’t profess to be a psychogeographer, though much of her methodology is familiar to those of us who find that tag useful; she walks, she observes, she soaks up impressions, she gives as much credence to the landscapes of the imagination as she does to those of the official guidebook.  Most of all she speaks to people, and allows them to speak through her writing.

Maybe it’s a thing with male writers, or maybe it’s just me, but when I compare my own blog with Not on Safari I feel quite socially inept!  Like many male writers, I have a tendency to concentrate on ideas and things rather than people, hence my writing doesn’t have the life and vibrancy that leaps out at you when you read Rose’s website.  She describes her philosophy behind Not on Safari in Harlesden.

“I say it’s a mixture of urban anthropology, memoir and happenings.  I bring my life to Harlesden as well as Harlesden bringing its life to me.  Sometimes, I treat Harlesden as a stage. I sat underneath a sign saying Talk To Me in an attempt to embrace strangers.  And I embraced quite a few. I made a short film with eight friends dressed in red where we danced the walkways of our railway station Willesden Junction, and we seemed to have an infectious effect on the other passers-by.  That was like a nomadic journey to see if we could conceive of the industrial bleakness as beautiful.”

“And I like to think that the people I walk with – say different things to a static interview because we are walking in this landscape.  They are moving interviews.”

Rose has managed to persuade quite a varied collection of people to walk with her, as you can read about on her website.  Does she find they need much persuading to take part?

“Louis Theroux, a neighbour, politely declined for a while, but I persisted.  Tenacity has always been one of my ‘qualities’ and I need it for this.  And eventually, he gracefully surrendered.  Alexei Sayle took a little while.  Don Letts and I had a lot of banter for a year before we finally walked together.  I’m still waiting for Tamsin Greig to relent, she lives nearby but I always take the formal route via agents.  I used to interview people in the world of rock n’ roll so am used to the rough n’ tumble of it.”

I asked about the Talk To Me happening.  This was where she sat under the Jubilee Clock in the middle of Harlesden with a sign saying ‘Talk To Me’ and waited to see if anyone would.  I find it quite one of the most moving posts on her blog.  Was she tempted to bottle out of doing it at any point?

“Yes, I had the idea then I didn’t act for a long time. Then one of my friends fortuitously mentioned that she thought I was muddling along. That galvanised me into action. My son – who was initially very embarrassed – came along and took photographs. I appreciated that he was nearby.”

Finally, I ask Rose what other projects she is working on at the moment.

“I’m doing another short film called Dance Harlesden but this time with an original soundtrack. We’re having a workshop in September to co-create the music with a talented musician friend.  I’ve also suggested a documentary to Radio 4 on Harlesden, and am involved with a film-maker who is doing a documentary for TV.

I’ve had some initial interest from a publishing company re making this project into a book, so have been working on a proposal this summer.  Time Out are running a piece in the magazine about my five secret Harlesden places.”

Oh yeah, one more thing.  Why is the website called Not on Safari in Harlesden?

“Because I saw this message posted on the White Pride World Wide Forum, and it was titled Mine and GF’s (girlfriend’s) Safari In Harlesden: “So I think if any of you need to convince brainwashed whites about the very real dangers of multicultural society up close and personal, then take them to Harlesden.”

I was ‘disgusted of Harlesden’ and this is my riposte…”

 

Images courtesy of Rose Rouse

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Psychogeography: Taking Back the City

 

The sudden change of ambiance in a street within the space of a few meters; the evident division of a city into zones of distinct psychic atmospheres; the path of least resistance which is automatically followed in aimless strolls (and which has no relation to the physical contour of the ground); the appealing or repelling character of certain places – all this seems to be neglected.

Guy Debord: Introduction to a Critique of Urban Geography (1955)

 

When I was a child I began to construct a map of the small town in which I lived.  It wasn’t a physical map, but one that I began to trace in my mind.  And it was an experiential map: as I grew and became more familiar with my neighbourhood, as I expanded my horizons, so the map grew.

As a small child my map consisted of the houses nearby where the children with whom I played lived and the waste ground across the road where we acted out our games.  Just around the corner was the sweet shop and chippie which both featured prominently on my map and, once I was allowed to walk to school with my mates and without my mum, around the age of five or six I seem to recall, my map expanded hugely to include the recreation ground, the park and other, less familiar streets.

As I grew older my personal map steadily expanded and I even began to grasp some notion of how my sleepy market town fitted into the wider world.  But I never actually saw a real printed map of my town, at least not until I started secondary school.

I don’t think my experience is unique; all children map out their surroundings, pushing at the boundaries and conducting explorations.  It’s a process engaged in at an individual level, but also a collective one; as children on our council estate we had our own names for many of the topographical features around us, names which were not familiar to most of the adults around us.  We had our own folklore and mythology concerning certain locations; dire warnings about certain houses, lanes or woods.

In fact, researchers from the National Library of Australia have shown that there is a form of folklore which belongs exclusively to children.  Child’s lore is different to folklore in that it is passed from one child to another, whereas folklore is transmitted by adults to children.

I have a lifelong love of maps.  I find them useful for what they can do; a street map can help me find my way around somewhere unfamiliar and, as a regular hill-walker, I rely heavily on OS maps.  But I also love maps as works of art, gorgeous colourful maps with exotic names and suggestions of strange landscapes.  Judith Schalansky’s Atlas of Remote Islands: Fifty Islands I Have Not Visited and Never Will, for instance, is a masterpiece of lovingly created, hand-drawn maps.

Maps have never been so readily available, not just the traditional Ordnance Survey and A to Z variety, but maps on your computer, on your phone and in your car.  Maps are everywhere.  But what is a map?  What does it tell us and who drew it?  Do we have to accept the officially sanctioned version or, taking the lesson that childhood offers us, do we make a conscious decision to construct our own living maps?

The Situationist International was a disparate group of French intellectuals and dissidents who, in the 1950s, created a loosely-drawn school of thought that we now refer to as psychogeography.  For me, psychogeography is an invaluable and radically different tool that we can engage to help us understand the social and geographical environment in which we live.

The city is a human-created environment as, indeed, are suburban and rural zones.  The way in which we experience and react to these environments, however, is not neutral but it is conditioned and controlled by the prevailing drivers of our society.  The legacy of Guy Debord and other pioneers of psychogeography is to suggest to us that there are ways in which we can expose and subvert this environmental manipulation and, in doing so, begin to exert some control over the way that we experience our streets.

Our experience of the city is increasingly characterised by prescription: zones for retail, business and housing are assigned at the planning stage and the routes that we walk, cycle or drive through the city are labelled and any deviation is discouraged.  Even our mental image of the city is manipulated and boxed into a kind of restrictive functionality.   Harry Beck’s iconic London Tube map, for instance, though a beautiful visual creation in itself, sacrifices the human and the whimsical in favour of the functional.  For many of us this map is London, but it is a London where any form of wandering, exploring or even simply hanging around is discouraged in order to push us towards taking the quickest route from A to B.

Psychogeography’s most powerful tool for experiencing the city in an altogether different way is the dérive, or drift.  A dérive involves the participants wandering through the city with no particular purpose or destination.  But it is not an aimless walk; on a dérive our minds remains consciously engaged.  And as we walk we remain open to the resonances that certain streets or buildings produce within our emotions and we note not just what we see, but the sounds and smells we encounter and the texture of the ground beneath our feet.

…the Situationists developed an armoury of confusing weapons intended constantly to provoke critical notice of the totality of lived experience and reverse the stultifying passivity of the spectacle. ‘Life can never be too disorientating,’ wrote Debord and Wolman, in support of which they described a friend’s experience wandering ‘through the Harz region of Germany while blindly following the directions of a map of London

Sadie Plant: The Most Radical Gesture: The Situationist International in a Postmodern Age (1992)

This is not so much a case of wandering without a map but, to return to our original theme, it is wandering in order to construct our own map.  And, rather like the tale of the emperor’s new clothes, once we make a conscious effort to see through and beyond that which we are told we should see, we begin to develop a cognition that is, to a limited degree at least, free of societal orthodoxy.  We develop a way of experiencing the city that is not defined by consumerism or the commodification of our relationships.  To use the language of psychogeography, this is our détournment; the turning around of our consciousness.

But, in case this is all beginning to sound a little too earnest, remember that Debord characterised psychogeography as ‘playful reconstructive behaviour’ and that the whole process is about asserting the freedom to enjoy exploring our streets.

                                     

                                         Image courtesy of Red & Black, Detroit

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

St. Giles Churchyard

 

Pictures taken in St Giles churchyard, Wrexham and a poem written at the grave of Elihu Yale, founder of Yale University.

 

 

 

At the grave of Elihu Yale.

 

Born in America, in Europe bred.

 

Summer rain, warm

Fragrance of mown grass.

Droplets cling

To hand and lens.

Weathered stones upon this hill,

Sightless eyes gazing out,

The bustling town below.

Within this place, peace.

Eternal sleep.  Raindrops

On ancient slabs and

Glowering yew trees.

 

In Africa travelled, and

In Asia wed.

 

A New World, fortune reaped and

A league of ivy sown.

Returning at last to

An old world to die.

Soot black leaves, the

Shade of everlasting slumber.

 

Where long he lived and

Thrived in London

Dead.

 

Here he reclines

With Elsie Booth and

Emmanuel Purdey.

Pillars of the community,

Supporting now a

Verdant swathe.

 

Entrance to Mr. Lewis’s vault.

 

No need for first names in

Life following death.

 

Smell sweet and

Blossom in the silent dust.

 

A haven from the

Morning rush.

Manmade heaven in

Masonic stone.

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Website of the Month – July 2012 – London Fictions

London Fictions is a website curated by BBC journalist, Andrew Whitehead.  Andrew is an adopted Londoner and is passionate about London fiction.  He aims, with this site, to share his excitement about his subject with others.

London Fictions features many of the London novels you would expect to find here, but part of the mission of the site is to remind people about some of the great ‘lost’ London writers.  Accordingly, he has featured pieces on books by Walter Besant, Arthur Morrison Sajjad Zaheer and many others who are in danger of being forgotten by the ordinary reader.

As Walter Benjamin suggests in The Arcades Project, it is often in the discarded remnants of a culture that we find its treasures:

poets find the refuse of society on their street and derive their heroic subject from this very refuse. This means that a common type is, as it were, superimposed upon their illustrious type. … Ragpicker or poet — the refuse concerns both

 

 

 

 

But Whitehead wants those who visit his site to do more than just read; he urges readers to walk the London streets depicted in the novels he features, to experience that delightful feeling of disorientation that sometimes comes about when one brings together the real world and the one of the imagination.

And for those of you who enjoy this blog, don’t forget to check out Bobby Seal’s article on Dorothy Richardson’s The Tunnel.

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

X: The Man With the X-ray Eyes

I found out recently that Ray Milland, the Hollywood actor, for three years attended the same primary school as my youngest daughter. He is best known for Dial M for Murder, The Lost Weekend and The Premature Burial.  And this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Man With the X-ray Eyes

 

A three-year exile, far from home.

Lodged in auntie’s pub,

each day to school beside the churchyard,

hurrying past the broken teeth

of generational stones.

Yawning pits and the promise

of a premature burial.

 

Three years to learn how

to lose one weekend.

That was the one.

Poyser Street to West 42nd and 7th

in one easy draught.

Drinking up time; heaven knows

it slips down so easily.

 

Entombed in red and grey,

Ruabon brick and Bethesda slate.

Look and see right through.

The walls seem so thin, just

vapour and light.

Though chalk dust and ink stains

cling for all time.

 

Looking through,

looking forward and looking back;

these x-ray eyes

see nothing, understand less

and remember all.

And if thine eye offend thee.

 

 

 

 

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Swimming Against the Stream

 

You dreamed of this island and

I wanted to buy you the book

Remember? You said it was too much.

 

The river sweeps past Hilbre’s rocks

carrying the silt of Berwyn Hills out

into the Celtic sea.

 

 

Hilbre from Red Rocks, Hoylake

 

 

Kick. Kick and pull

past mudflat and marsh.

 

Past Shotton, her blast furnaces once

an altar to Baal. Cold now.  Bulldozed rubble.

War grave of an age of iron.

Wanna buy some of the good stuff?

He worked on the night shift, kept the gear in his locker.

 

The way ahead is clear and my arms stretch and pull.

The river runs straight and true as far as Deva,

and her echoes of the Twentieth Legion.

Within her walls, cower ghosts of Welshmen

hung before dawn and left for all to see,

though the dead know no shame.

 

Past meadows, hedges and riverside pubs.

A bridge that links and divides.

Two nations, border country, and in my mind

I’m so close to the edge.

But fly-strewn water fills my mouth,

and drowns all possible words.

 

Llangollen sisters take the air.

The wisteria is so beautiful this year.

Words hang unspoken while

its beauty moves them to tears.

 

And on this bank you walked and laughed.

Dinas Bran glowers down, as, from the next bed,

the addict demands my shoes.

 

The stream presses and pulls, squeezes

the air from my lungs. I follow the river,

a golden thread weaving through

Tegid’s cold depths to her source, where

I am sucked into the ground

and spat out into the clouds.

 

The background to Swimming Against the Stream is that I wanted to write about the River Dee in Wales, as that is a part of the world I know well. But, in following the river from where it enters the sea back to its source, I saw the opportunity to make it a temporal journey as well as a physical one. Moving back through time as well as back to the source of the river; mixing personal memory with historic facts and topographic observations. Later this summer I will be following the 127-mile Dee Way from Hilbre to the source of the Dee.  On foot!

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ghost Milk: Calling Time on the Grand Project by Iain Sinclair – Book of the Month – June 2012

Over the years I guess I must have read all of Iain Sinclair’s published works, or at least the ones made available through commercial publishers.  So it was with surprise that I read the gripes expressed by some reviewers of Ghost Milk: Calling Time on the Grand Project when it was published last year. Many of them complained about Sinclair’s meandering style, his flitting from subject to subject, the appearance of characters and references to friends without any prior explanation.  But don’t they know?  This is how Iain Sinclair writes.

 

 

All of Sinclair’s stylistic idiosyncrasies are on display in Ghost Milk; regular readers like me would be disappointed if they weren’t.  But there is, I have to concede, something different about this book.  There is an anger, a sense of battle lines being drawn, a call to arms in support of the human against the machine.  Maybe Sinclair, now approaching his seventieth year, feels himself coming towards the end of his creative life.  There is certainly an urgency about his writing, a need to take on more, to confront and to challenge.

 

 

And the big beast that Sinclair feels it is his obligation to confront is something he calls the grand project.  Specifically in 2012 it is the London Olympics but, in essence, it is all such projects: from the Millennium Dome to Athens, Beijing to the M62 linear city.  The grand project is conjured up out of money, power, vanity and spin and in its wake lie people and their communities, crushed and dispersed.

The beast has chosen East London, Sinclair’s home territory, as its next prey, sweeping away football pitches and allotments and churning up toxic industrial effluent and Japanese knot-weed.  And at the centre of the beast’s lair, like some marketing campaign symbol for the circles of hell, sit the Olympic rings.

For although Ghost Milk is, in some ways, a more political book than his previous ones, Sinclair still uses the power of myth to take the reader to new levels of understanding about his chosen subject.  Thus, as he travels through London and beyond we can discern echoes of King Lud, Arthur and the two towers.  The routes he chooses to walk seem significant too.  East to west across London and along the M62 corridor linking Hull and Liverpool, as if to follow the routes of WW2 German bombers and to exorcise their scarring of our collective consciousness.

Ghost Milk moves easily from the local to the global in Sinclair’s accustomed digressive style.  The book opens with his recollections of his time as a jobbing labourer in Stratford and ends with a visit to the post-Olympic wastelands of Athens and the university library in Texas where his archive is housed.   In between he takes in Kingston upon Thames, Manchester, Morecambe and Shepperton.  Many of the usual suspects are here too: Chris Petit, Renchi Bicknell, Steve Dilworth and, no longer with us in the flesh but ever-present in the way Sinclair writes about the modern city, his friend, J G Ballard.

And after all these years, all those words and, it has to be said, some degree of success, Iain Sinclair is still at heart an itinerant bookseller.  He picks up that which is cast off, he recovers, he sorts and he recycles.  But now it is not just books that pass through the Sinclair mill, it is words, ideas, places and people.

 

Image courtesy of Hamish Hamilton

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Beating the Bounds: A Dérive Around the 1857 Boundaries of Brew Town

Dewdrop had called it a circumnavigation, but the reverence with which he handles the map this morning as he shows me our route suggests it’s something more akin to a pilgrimage for him.  When he rang me last week he told me the plan was to walk the 1857 boundaries of the old Borough of Wrexham in North Wales.  Dewdrop’s home town. 

 

On the modern map it looks like a drunken circle, meandering vaguely clockwise from the north west of the borough and across to the east, turning south, then west, before returning to our starting point in the north west.  A walk of just over nine miles.  I remind Dewdrop of the mystical significance of circles; circles can unite and hold a number of elements together.  But they can also form a knot, tying in accumulated memory and anchoring it to its rightful place in this world.  Dewdrop sniffs dismissively.

He hands me the map and fiddles with his coat, desperately checking each of its pockets for something.  Anything.  I try to ignore him and, with my finger on the map, trace a clear western boundary formed by the line of the old Great Western Railway and, on the southern edge, another boundary formed by the River Clywedog.  Dewdrop’s handwritten notes on the map promise old pubs and the husks of former breweries and mills; relics of bygone Brew Town, as Dewdrop calls Wrexham. 

It’s a journey that regularly criss-crosses the serrated boundary between the Borough’s two medieval townships, Wrexham Abbot and Wrexham Regis.  Which made me wonder if would there be any evidence of this municipal duality on the ground; a definable character to each township that is discernible in the local topography.  And what of the zones of transition between the two?

We start our journey at the recreation ground in Garden Road.  Dewdrop had been there waiting for me, leaning against the tubular steel frame of the swings, like some grotesque child, clothes too big for his body, the skin of his head too big for his skull.  As we head down Garden Road we pass the Salvation Army Citadel, a stronghold of sobriety in a town awash with beer.

We cross into Cunliffe Street and skirt along Spring Road.  In the eighteenth century this was the site of Brew Town’s pleasure grounds and numerous springs provided fresh, clear water: the basis of good beer.  We move on to Price’s Lane, a busy cut-through between two main roads but once just a track leading to Walnut Farm.  The farm is long-gone, but the old farm-house remains, latterly it was the Walnut Tree pub now closed.  At the other end of the lane we reach the site of another farmstead, Croes Eneurys Farm, its fields sweeping up to a hilltop where the farmhouse once guarded the road to Chester.

  

Dewdrop points out the allotments across the field and remarks on how it strikes him that so much of this land along the boundary of the old borough is, or once was, municipally owned.  Across Chester Road we come to The Four Dogs, a 1970s pub named after the symbol of the old Acton estate, one-time owners of much of the land along the northern fringe of Brew Town.  All that remains of the house is a monumental stone gateway next to the pub.  On top of the gateway sit four dogs, two on each side, facing away from each other: Egyptian dog gods.  The Jeffreys family, owners of the Acton estate, are long gone.  Their most notorious member, Judge Jeffreys, the hanging judge, surely the least lamented.  His family’s bad fortune and subsequent penury perhaps the price they all had to pay for his sins.

Along Box Lane we come to Acton Park primary school, its original building once a diamond-polishing works, leased from the Acton estate just after the Great War by a Belgian entrepreneur. Mineral wealth from Africa; a scheme to get rich quick, but in reality nothing more than vampire economics.  Another failed endeavour; the luck of the Jeffreys.  When the estate finally went bust it passed into municipal hands and, between the two wars, much of Acton was transformed by the Borough Council into another kind of estate; Brew Town’s first council housing.  Semi-detached houses, pleasantly laid out in closes and crescents, each house with its own generous portion of garden.

We reach the Queens Park Estate, hastily renamed Caia Park after the race riots of 2003.  Built in the days of old Labour, this huge council estate is a Brew Town dream that died under New Labour.  There is very real deprivation here – the estate is supported by the Welsh government through its Communities First programme in recognition of this.  And yet, just across the Holt Road is open, rolling countryside and several prosperous farms.

As we walk through the estate, Dewdrop tells me that the disgraced US president, Richard Nixon, was able to trace his roots back to the area.  Nixon was apparently descended on his mother’s side from the Puleston family who lived at a country house called Hafod y Wern on land that now forms part of the Caia estate.

 

Abenbury Road takes us through to King’s Mills – once part of Wrexham Regis and the site of Brew Town’s corn milling industry, utilising water power from the River Clywedog.  It’s now an industrial museum, flanked by two pubs.  Dewdrop mentions he used to drink in one of them, the Red Lion.  He’s off the drink now and I’ve heard he’s painting again, though I’ve not seen any of his work for years.

Wrexham Regis represents the lands formerly belonging to the Crown, mainly in the northern part of the town.  The lands of Wrexham Abbot, on the other hand, belonged to the Church for hundreds of years.  But when Valle Crucis Abbey was dissolved in 1537, the the lands passed to the Crown.  King’s Mills is still something of a front-line between the two zones of influence, Church and Crown,

Skirting past the old mill, we clamber under the bridge and out onto the water meadows of the western edge of the Erddig estate. 

 

 

Erddig, the eighteenth century house and over a thousand acres of parkland, was donated to the National Trust by the Yorke family in the 1970s.  Philip Yorke, the last surviving member of the family, couldn’t afford the upkeep of the house and wanted it preserved for the nation.  Dewdrop, slightly more relaxed after his beer, reminds me that the National Trust, those guardians of our heritage, recently tried to sell off a significant chunk of the parkland for executive homes.  The Trust membership he concludes, fortunately, voted against the proposal and it was dropped.  For now.

We follow the river to Felin Puleston, the site of another mill, and pass under the main road and out of the Erddig estate.  Our walk now skirts the GWR railway track, a straight mile or so to the General Station; apparently the Victorians obliterated a long section of Wat’s Dyke to creatre this stretch of line.

 

We trudge on past the hospital, the station and through a building supplies company’s yard until we reach our starting point once more; completing the circle, closing it off.  Symbolically we have united Abbot and Regis and salved the town’s ancient wounds.

Map courtesy of GeographersA-Z Map Company Limited

Pictures by Anthony ‘Dewdrop’ Evans

Posted in Home | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments