Capel-Y-Ffin

Here are some images taken yesterday from Capel-Y-Ffin in the Black Mountains. The name of the Welsh hamlet translates as 'the chapel at the end' and is situated in the scoop of a hidden valley just waving distance from Offa's Dyke and the border. Capel-Y-Ffin lies eight slow miles south of Hay On Wye, up and down a slim, single track road that takes you through some truly awe-some upland moorscapes dotted with miniature ponies, lonely hikers and streaming ribbons of light that race across the emerald massif. William and Dorothy Wordsworth loved this stretch of the gospel path, often referring to it as one of their favourite walks. Today there's some workmen sleeping in their van in the shadow of the prominent Hay Bluff. The neighbouring spur of land pushed into the sky is called Lord Hereford's Knob. A handglider hangs in its invisible cradle.

Sheepdogs chase your car wheels as you enter the hamlet and park up on a verge. One small farmhouse, post box, phone box, the aforementioned chapel and handful of other residencies make up Capel-Y-Ffin's entirety. In 1924 the artist Eric Gill moved his family into the disused monastery tucked up a trail towards the end of the hamlet and founded his notorious religious community there. Examples of Gill's stonework can be seen on the tombstones that cluster around the wonky owlish chapel. The poet/artist David Jones was also a member of Gill's community and recorded his time there in a number of transcendent paintings. In 1938 Eric Ravilious also stayed for a few weeks at the farmhouse, painting both 'Wet Afternoon' and 'Waterwheel' whilst he was here. Furthermore, Bruce Chatwin frequented Capel-Y-Ffin as a boy, admitting that the place had become an emotional centre in his life, his time there shaping his novel 'On The Black Hill'. It's easy to see why so many people have been drawn to and into this rural idyll. There's an incredible hushed atmosphere to the place that holds your expectations like the air in a upturned cup. When a trio of motorcyclists speed through the middle of the pervading calm, they leave in their wake only the river Honddu to intrude upon the silence, quietly reciting the chapel's east window text...

"I shall lift up mine eyes to the hills whence cometh my salvation."

"Rather than simply soundtracking somewhere"

We were lucky enough to be interviewed by Bernie Brooks for Ship In The Woods, makes for an in-depth read on what we're trying to do with Way Through, along with some insights into 'Clapper Is Still' too! Enjoy...

Uncut review of the electric canter

He Who Would Train a Hawk

Here's a very charming film adaptation of T. H. White's poetic book 'The Goshawk' (1951) made for the BBC in 1969 and boasting a perfectly pitched score by Carey Blyton (who is kindly hosting the video). The narrative itself is very different from J. A. Baker's infamous classic 'Peregrine' (1967) in that it deals not with the observation of birds in the wild but with White's own somewhat eccentric, 'on the job' introduction to falconry. White is best known for his sequence of Arthurian novels collectively titled 'The Once And Future King' and so it's fitting that he approaches the tale of training his first bird of prey with a deserved dose of magic and lore alongside noting its harsh realities. As the story develops, White becomes obsessive in the act of taming his beloved hawk, delirious in fact, and whilst 'Gos' is somewhat immovable, T. H. becomes gradually more like the bird itself; fervently focused, immutable and ever harder to decipher. It's a fascinating account, as humorous as it is heartbreaking and bypasses Baker's verbose distance and mystery for a closer study, by bringing the bird to the hand. 'The Goshawk' is an intimate look at how man and bird can interact, understand each other even, without losing any respect for a wildness that never truly breaks.

You can watch David Cobham's "bloody marvelous" documentary here!
New York Review Books recently republished White's book, more on that there!

Native Surrealism

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Gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...

Pitchfork review