“Trip to Bountiful” – part 3

Remembering…

innerwoven

13238898_10208106960346130_397416527787693528_n.jpg Rae and I on the train to Wales

Here, in the lavish, lazy valleys of South Wales one can smell the old, taste the green. To the mystic’s palette it is chateau briand for the soul. The harmonious voices of stocky, Welsh coalminers blend with the buoyant tongue of an ancient language to stoke the most experienced fires.

Too bad they drive like shit. Well, one can’t have everything.

Our brief foray in the UK takes a turn from the sleek, overly preened mien of London to the clumpy, sodden town of Newport, Gwent, South Wales. It is a place as equally devoid of panache as it is pretention. The people are as unremarkable as they are genuine. Note to self: read that line again later.

River Usk.jpg The muddy banks of the Usk

The River Usk upon which this town is built looks like one long bowel movement running through the center of town…

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