Photographers seeking to make that one shot -- that calendar picture -- will do well to head for Symonds Yat in England’s south midlands. Escaping London, they’ll be out of film, as we were, at Winchester, Salisbury and Bath -- pronounced “Bawth” of course.

We were headed for beautiful new Severn Bridge and were on its bike path before we realized we were out of film. We pedaled in a low cadence as motorists whizzed toward Wales on an entirely separate level.

Then we turned north toward Symonds Yat and a village called St. Briavels. “Yat” means “gate,” and this gate is a place where the Wye River winds itself through a narrow gorge, swinging around in gorgeous loops. Thus it has etched its way down, leaving crags 400 feet above where canoeists paddle along undisturbed.

It was not photography that took the eight of us there. The village was our destination. We had to push our loaded bikes up some of those seemingly endless hills. We had reservations for two nights lodging in a real castle -- an 800-year-old stone structure with moat, drawbridge, courtyard, prison room and dungeon. It has been converted into one of Britain’s many youth hostels.

Youth hostels are especially for young people~ ~and their leaders~. Priority goes to hikers, bike riders or others who travel “under their own steam.” Guests help with the chores, abide by reasonable rules and sleep in bunk beds in dormitories. Hostels in 50 countries are for youth of limited means who seek “a greater knowledge, love and care of the countryside.”

We pushed our loaded bikes through monstrous wooden door~s into the courtyard. Knights and their armored horses once found protection within those walls. The tall stone structure was like a picture-book castle but smaller than many. It had been a border castle and had seen many a battle. Its stone walls had narrow vertical slots for sighting and shooting arr~~~ows at enemies.

The houseparents, Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary, greeted us, registered us and filed our passbooks with the others. After following signs to our dorms, “Court Room” and “Dining Room,” the seven Christian College girls and I put our sheet sacks over our mattresses and pillows, spread out the hostel’s blankets and placed our saddlebags on the foot of the bed, as directed. Then we toured the castle.

In the common room, fellows and girls were sharing travel experiences, looking at wall maps and writing letters. “This fireplace was built at least 700 years ago,” a young fellow said. “See that wheel?” We stared at a large wheel mounted on the wall, near the ceiling. “Chains from the wheel to a shaft turned the spit in the fireplace,” he said. “A roasting pig or other meat would slowly turn over the fire.”

“What turned the wheel?” I asked.

“There are only two of these wheels remaining in their original places,” he said, “The other one is in Germany. A little dog was placed on hot coals from the fire in that wheel’s band, and the wheel turned as he ran to keep from burning his feet” It was true!

St. Briavels was also a favorite spot for hunting parties, and many kings have stayed there. On a later trip, our son Walt slept in the prison where the very early plaster had been scratched by ~prisoners through the centuries. Temporary excavations were open, exposing underground structures that were made before this castle, dating to 1100, was built. On another day, I’ll tell of a very unusual thing that happened when the modern plumbing went on the blink during a late~r visit there.~ Stay tuned.