SWELLING HILLS! HEAVEN-HILLS! THEIR CURVE AND RISE and swoop.
As our boat plunged towards them through the heavy, flint-grey water, my heart felt as if it might burst. I was choked with longing.
Hiraeth! That’s what Rhys calls it, and I don’t think there’s any one English word that describes it—a longing for each thing: each smile and creaking stile, each green hidden place, each stone. Such tearing, fierce longing for home.
The Middle March: Its manors have one eye on heaven, one on the ground. As we plunged and climbed, I began to list all the dear places around Caldicot and Gortanore and Holt, and to recall their stories:
Clee and Neen Savage and Upper Millichop,
Greete and Hope Bagot, Hilluppencott,
Cleobury Mortimer and Middleton Scriven,
Quabbs and Glog Hill, Arscott, Duffryn,
Snitton, Aston Aer, Llanfair Waterdine,
And Catmole, Catmole
Where Wales and England twine…
At noon, we landed safely at Cardiff. God be praised!
Rhys soon found a Welsh farmer ready to loan us five horses, and he and his daughter will ride with us all the way to the Middle March so they can bring their horses back again.
Neither of them can speak one word of English, and I could see how happy Rhys was to have his mouth crammed with Welsh words again. His face was wreathed in smiles all afternoon.
Lord Stephen is alive and crowing, and we’ll leave at dawn! Cardiff and Chepstow, then north through the Forest of Dean. Ross…Hereford…If it’s God’s will, we’ll ride into Holt on the fourth afternoon.
The day after Jesus died for us; the day before He rose again.