This past weekend I joined the University of Manchester’s International Society on a day trip to the Isle of Anglesey in Northern Wales. Cutting right to the chase – this trip affected me. We saw nothing surprising, we did nothing extraordinary, yet the feelings I experienced at certain points on our excursion across the island were nothing short of religious.
To best relay the essence of these experiences, I’m going to attempt to – in utmost detail – repeat and relive one of the first stops we made during our tour of the island. Our group was only given one hour to explore, but the profound beauty of our surroundings was so intense that I refuse to leave them unremarked upon. Below is a description of the walk I took and the things I felt, and, although views and emotions were borderline indescribable, I’ve done the best I can to do them the justice they deserve.
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I step down off the bus and, immediately, am nearly swept away by the currents of a strong northeastern wind. The gusts find their life miles out to sea where, once they’ve amassed the mighty strength of Zephyr’s fury, they begin their mad dash towards the shore – towards me – and only grow in ferocity along the way. Dipping down and skimming the black waters of the Irish Sea, the winds absorb the chilliness of the ocean’s depths and surge onward, sweeping over the precipice by which I stand and thrust the cold first into and then through me, dagger-like, as they come screaming by. I’m cut down to my core within seconds, and by the Almighty God I swear I’ve never been this alive. My senses explode like a live wire has just been embedded along the length of my spine.
I bury my hands deep into my pockets – subterranean caverns and my hands are the molten cores – hunch my shoulders – Atlas bracing himself to receive eternity – and launch myself across the parking lot to the very edge of the wind-scoured cliffs.
The sea. My god, the beautiful sea. I’ve never understood the poetry that some say the ocean holds, but now I know I simply wasn’t seeing the right kind. The oceans I’ve known were vast plains of deep blue that were drenched in stark, Atlantic sunlight. They were calm and rhythmic, methodically beating upon a sandy, pebbled shoreline and measuring out the pulse of the moon. This ocean is different. A landscape with the violent poetry of a half-healed bruise lies before me. The sky is layered with clouds, and where the sun breaks through it illuminates small patches of a familiar aquamarine; but the rest of the sea, covered in shadows, broods and glowers like the a neglected child of Poseidon. Even at this height I can feel the danger. This ocean harbors swift, murderous currents the way a human body harbors a deadly virus. The deceptively flat waters are driven before the unforgiving winds and explode with a roar of magnificent, chaotic thunder against the base of the cliffs we stand upon. It is here at the base that this ocean shows its true colors; the spray of the waves becomes the tentacles of the sea itself, straining ever upward and trying to persuade us humans to feed a hunger that cannot be sated. Already this ocean hides hundreds of broken ships beneath its surface, and every ship once had a crew. I understand the poetry of this ocean because I have no choice – power in all its forms demands to be heard.
With an hour to dispose of, I seek out a footpath leading up and away through the nearby hills. I follow it because such paths as these are never allowed to go unexplored. Trekking upward the sea lies on my left, the hills and plains of Anglesey to my right, and the sparse gravel crunches pleasantly underfoot. The midday sun, already embarked upon its descent due to the high latitude, offers no warmth, but it does provide an odd, ephemeral light that falls softly upon the landscape. I climb further into the hills and reflect upon the well-worn path I’ve found: it’s being used primarily by tourists now, but this is an old land. A ruin of some sort greets me at the top. It’s too small to have been a lighthouse… perhaps long ago it was a lookout point? I crouch inside the crumbling perimeter, dig out my lunch, and drift into the past. The small shelter reconstructs itself, the landscape remains unchanged, and I become a Roman soldier posted to the furthest reaches of the Holy Empire. My duty is to keep watch over the sea and to send warning to the local troops should I catch sight of any invading Celts en route from nearby Ireland. It’s a very important job.
My vigil ends as our tour group’s allotted hour comes to a close. I must get back to both the bus and the 21st century. Scrambling back down through the hills, I take a different path towards the rendezvous point that curves inland and out of sight of the sea. I pass by a small field of sheep outlined by a low rock wall, and suddenly I am shepherd tending his flock. Wales has a long memory, and in this year of 1278 I spare a few minutes to fume over the recent invasion of King Edward the first. The English may have a high opinion of themselves, but the dragon of Wales never sleeps for long! Sharing my indignation, one of the/my sheep looks up and patriotically bleats his assent. Now there’s only one rise left to go, and then I’ll be back on the road with the tour bus less than one hundred yards away.
I pause once more to revel in the pure ocean air before I have to rejoin the group.
I freeze. I’m startled.
The silence is complete. There isn’t a single vibration in the air, and either the universe hasn’t yet begun or it’s already over.
My breath dies away in my lungs and I stand mid-stride in utter amazement. Never, ever, have I been in a silence this pure that wasn’t artificially constructed. I’ve been alone before, but even the most remote places I’ve been were filled with the sounds of birds or the movements of the wind. But there are no trees here. No twigs or branches for the wind to shake, the grass is too short to be ruffled by the breeze – in fact, there is no breeze at all. The rolling hills have formed a bowl in which I stand completely motionless, utterly shielded from the wind of the sea. There are no birds here – they only come to this coast in the spring, and where I stand it is the depth of autumn. The waves, bellowing and murderous, are too far away and too far down to make their presence known. Not a sound is to be heard, and it is the most wholesome, most untainted silence I’ve ever heard. You could soundproof a room and plug your ears with the thickest cotton, but I swear to you that you will never find a silence quite so holy as the silence gifted by Nature.
After an extended pause, I breathe again and laugh because I can feel every drop of blood surging through my veins, filling them with the thrill of Life; today is a good day, and right here is a good place to be.
A Wanderer In Training 