SUGAR LOAF

I've always loved the scene in Shakespeare's 'Henry V' when the King of England shares a tender moment with Fluellen after the bodies of many of their countrymen lay strewn across the battlefield of Agincourt. Now I should state for the record that I rarely think of myself as a King, or the friend of this story I'm about to tell as a leader of troops but I can attest that he is most certainly Welsh and that I am prone to over-inflated bouts of self-importance just like most monarchs, I assume.

So where to begin this more recent historical tale of mine? Ah yes, it was in the early days of July of summer 2022, which already seems like a lifetime ago now.

My dad had just died and so my well-intentioned Welsh friend decided it was as good a time as any to take a trip to Sugar Loaf Mountain, his regular haunt for Saturday morning hikes. The feeling inside of me was heavy and far preferred the idea of remaining entombed in my bedroom avoiding any kind of daylight like some sort of grief vampire. But there is a sort of dogged insistence with my Welsh friend that pricks at the very conscience of even the most bereaved and so we set off, with my middle brother included, in what I believed was an ill-conceived adventure. We were, I suppose, more insipid than intrepid explorers that day.

To further add to my feeling of apprehension, the heavens opened up its floodgates as a month's worth of rain was dumped unceremoniously onto the M4 as we were hurtling along the motorway. My brother and I desperately tried to talk our Welsh friend into either pulling over to a roadside pub or restaurant for a change of plan and a hearty breakfast or even turning back altogether so we could retreat to our beds. Even our Sugar Loaf guide seemed less than certain about his original plan at this point and I could see he was almost persuaded by our suggestion but again, with his dogged and determined Welsh grit, he persevered throwing a few jokes our way as a decoy to distract our gloomy 'Eyore' minds. Another thing about our 'Fluellen' is that he has a memory for every joke ever recorded through the annals of time. He won't remember what he had for breakfast the day before but he'll remember a joke he heard four decades earlier in a Cardiff pub near the Docks back when he was a young kid growing up around his father and his workmates.

I say growing up but this Welsh joker is really an eternal child.

By the time we actually reached the foothills of Sugar Loaf, the rain had eased and there was an almost mystical, diffuse mist about the place as if we were back in Arthurian times. We began our ascent up what is really more a hill than a mountain although it's not quite so inspiring to think of yourself climbing a hill so we, who have few heroic adventures to our name, call it a mountain. ^^

The banter was strong from the outset and halfway along the path to the peak we even bumped into a Patagonian with who I immediately discussed the subject of the author and journalist Bruce Chatwin. Turned out this chap wasn't too happy about Chatwin's representation of his native country in his most famous book, 'In Patagonia'. My brother and 'Fluellen' had absolutely no idea who Bruce Chatwin was and so tried to shoehorn some discussion about the footballer Maradonna into the proceedings but this guy seemed to have as much affection for Argentina's most famous footballer as he did for Chatwin so we left it at that.  

A slight scrabbling toward the top of the hill (mountain) and we had arrived at the peak where we could see far less than we'd hoped for. The rapidly changing weather had now turned Sugar Loaf into a kind of Middle Earth 'Weathertop' scene where I could almost imagine some Black Riders emerging out of the wet fog.  To reward us for our efforts at reaching the summit, our Welsh 'Falstaff' decided to bare his arse cheeks and insist we take a photo of what I would more accurately describe as meatloaf. I kept a considerable distance although I did, however, spy one opportunity for a sort of meta selfie in which I took a picture of my brother taking a picture of 'Fluellen's' buttocks. This creative epiphany said everything about the general farce of the day but also the comic contrast to the heavy loss we'd experienced in all our lives with the death of my father. I suddenly appreciated Shakespeare's oscillation between tragedy and comedy in his plays and how more accurately that reflects human life than just a one-tone portrait of suffering that you might find in some grim and relentless Channel 4 drama.

We made our descent from the mountain (hill) and as we did the clouds slowly dispersed and the sun shone across the silvery Severn Estuary and the Bannau Brycheiniog / Brecon Beacons; all our huffing and puffing had not been in vain for nothing.

And to add to the epic scene, I decided to play Bryn Terfel's 'Land Of My Fathers' on my iPhone speaker as we returned to base camp like knights that had returned from the Crusades.

Looking back, it wasn't just the clouds that had shifted but a change in our heavy hearts as some lightness had been returned to us, thanks to our Welsh Sugar Host.

After a couple of pints and a full English breakfast in Abergavenny, my brother and I were momentarily restored to our strongest selves and felt more confident that we could face the coming weeks and months ahead with greater courage and steel than before.

None of this would have been possible had it not been for our 'Fluellen', our Welsh jester with the heart of a saint.

And the arse of a clown!