Last week I met up with glosoli, Koanic, and Koanic’s dad in Wales for a bit of fellowship and relaxation. Many thanks to glosoli for putting us up and to Koanic’s dad for arranging the cabin and all of the messy details. Without their experience and advice I probably wouldn’t have had the balls to navigate the tricky waters of international travel.
In person, glosoli turns out to be a soft-spoken man with quick wits and a savage tongue. His speech ranges between direct observation, patient problem solving, and vicious comedy, all united by a brutality that belies his mild manner. We were privileged to baptize him in the Welsh Sea on a cold afternoon last Thursday.
Koanic is even more eccentric in real life than he is online, but with a grim determination that characterizes his every thought and action. Contrary to expectation, I’ve never met someone who’d so thoroughly killed his own ego. There are no bodily needs that concern him, no desire for fame or fortune, and no existential doubts that haunt him. There is only The Mission.
Koanic’s dad is strong evidence for Ophiuchus’s theory that melonheads are the true autistes, neanderthals BTFO. He is always either hyperfocusing or lecturing relentlessly on a spectrum between Christian preaching and Boomerposting. His early life mirrors Vox Day’s and his later life was caught up in politics and then business. I won’t dox them too bad but will brag a bit on their behalf: their family’s patriarchal grandfather was a co-founder of the Republican Party in one of the Southern states back when that wasn’t a thing.
Wales itself is a paradise. To put yourself in Wales, imagine the Shire with its gardens, winding roads, and cobbled stone cottages, but with puppies and ice cream, and it’s not even an exaggeration. (The internet isn’t good though, so overall it suuuucks :-P.) Every Welsh person spends 100% of their time walking the dog down to a local ice cream stand. These ice cream stands can be found be picking a random direction and walking in a straight line for up to thirty seconds.
The first thing I noticed was that the air itself had a quality very unlike the Soviet smog overcasting London. It smelled like the sea mixed with cut grass and just a hint of earth and sheep dung. The weather is windy, gray, and bleak in a way that strongly appeals to me. The countryside ranges from rocky bluffs and hills to rolling pastoral fields outlined by stonework hedgerows brimming with wild blackberries. One time we were hiking up a rocky hill and found a herd of ponies. Wales is so beautiful it nearly killed me—I can’t believe it hasn’t been improvamented yet.
The Welsh are stout, friendly, and shy. Imagine midwestern Americans or Canadians, except much moreso and without the pozz. There is a strong Christian tradition there that seems frozen in time, with important social services like maritime rescue entirely funded by local charity drives, to the tune of tens of millions of dollars. But their way of life is being bred out. Aside from a couple of waitresses, there was no one between the ages of five and fifty to be seen. Of the dozen people who attended the evening church service we visited, only one was under sixty years old.
The story goes that there were once jobs on oil rigs, fishing boats, and in auxiliary management positions and services, which then evaporated into the global economy to be replaced by…*crickets*. Their economy has no place and no jobs for young people, and so they are sent away to university instead and never seen again, in the best case. In the worst case, they return as retirees replete with corporate savings and progressive ideas about how to “fix” the place. Too white, too Christian, and definitely too heteronormative! It’s sad to see a community of stress tolerators dying out for simple lack of guile or apologetics to ward off rapacious abstractions like liberalism, 3rd-worldism, or globalism.
St. David’s cathedral was the highlight of the trip for me. I had just been musing on the way to St. David’s that churches became casual affairs when we ceased putting them directly on top of cemetaries. It’s as if churches today are unwilling to confront topics we’d describe as “grave”: death, sin, and the discomfiting questions about eternity. The people who built this cathedral circa 500 AD had no such qualms because they were familiar with harsh realities. According to a local they purposefully built it in a valley, shorter than the surrounding hills, to conceal it from marauders and invading armies. The fact that such a huge building can’t be seen from more than 100 yards away has a lot to do with its longevity and it will probably survive the iconoclastic Muslim invaders of thee current year because they won’t even notice it.
The exterior is peppered with gravestones so old most of the engravings are illegible, and it was sobering to be in the resting place of people dead for more than a thousand years. The interior is decked out with sepulchres the way a conference room is decked out with chairs. Many of the rooms have sepulchres as centerpieces, and there were loose stones on the floor with weathered inscriptions that indubitably contained yet more bodies. Most of the dead were famous Welsh lords, knights, and clergy but there were some oddballs like “an unknown priest” and even a couple of women made the cut. Death wasn’t the only focus though, every inch of the building was beautifully sculpted, carved, etched, and painted with themes from the old and new testaments and Welsh history, all brilliant with colored light pouring through stained-glass windows.
The process of flying between countries is a nightmare that never seems to end, but it was interesting to see how the differences between airports reflect the differences in national culture. Toronto was the most efficient but for all that they lack diversity, they still managed to put every single Muslim in the country on their security team. It’s full clown world to be X-rayed by a miserable dyke who couldn’t enjoy the view if she wanted to, and then felt up for weapons by a guy who was cheering in the streets and firing his AK into the air on 9/11. Reykjavik was austere and it felt like the airport terminal was assembled hastily out of a box from Ikea, but I saw more hard HB9s among their airline’s twenty-odd stewardesses than I’ve seen in my entire life stateside (including a 10-month stint working at a strip club in Minnesota). London was littered with trash, smelled like a toilet, festooned with multiculti propaganda, and ran with the efficiency of a communist public works project.
Now then, I believe there’s an elephant in the room that I ought to address in the next post.