I was at the end of a three day, six “tops” haul, and with one to go. After a short walk from the village of Crazies to the top of Bowsey Hill in the Unitary Authority of Wokingham I had driven north on the old A4 Bath Road, turned left onto Burchetts Green Road, and then left again onto the smaller Honey Lane that formed the end of the Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, last encountered an hour earlier at Bowsey Hill. It occurred to me that had I put in a bit more effort into research before the day’s outing, I may have managed both “tops” on a single stroll on the Bridleway Circuit, but it was too late now.
Honey Lane wound its way through thick woodland, skirting the northern flank of the Mitchel’s Wood plantation, before it took a sharp right and headed off north. I decided to continue west on a small track that abruptly ended at the ridiculously quaint Dew Drop Inn. I drove in and parked up. Being a Monday, the inn was shut, but that didn’t matter. I was looking at a pub that from its outward appearance hadn’t changed since it had either evolved, or been built, sometime in the 17th Century. I can’t remember if an Inn features in Humphry Clinker, but if it did, in my mind’s eye this is exactly how it would have looked. I think it’s fair to say that it’s only in the British Isles you’d find anything remotely like the Dew Drop Inn, hidden far from civilisation, in a nook in some woods, and serving (I certainly hope) warm beer and the fried and dried bits of pig’s skins (other less disgusting bar snacks are now available).
The Dew Drop Inn – Dogs and horses’ welcome
I realised that getting to the top of Ashley Hill was not going to be too much of a struggle, or that great map navigational skills would be required. So long as I generally headed in an upward direction the top would reveal itself eventually. I followed a path heading southwest, flanking the woods on my left. Looking down to my right, the edge of an estate that partially hid an enormous country house. Whoever lived in the house was hugely privileged. After all, they lived with the Dew Drop Inn at their back door. *
A footpath led upwards, so I took it. After about 50 metres another path headed right and along the level. Just after I took this option, I could hear the thwap, thwap of a chopper zoning in across the treetops. They may have been tipped off that an oik in a Ford Fiesta had parked up in the Dew Drop and were on a seek and desist mission.
Either the rotors had stopped rotating, or my camera phone is on spec.
After the helicopter had passed over, I proceeded along the muddy path, with grand old trees towering above and clinging onto the last of their foliage.
The viewpoint from a fern’s perspective
Around a bend ahead two large mud caked dogs lunged into view, scarpering at high speed in my general direction. The troubled look on my face must have alerted their owners, who followed up closely noting my obvious distress, which wasn’t so much the immediate threat of death but more an aversion to wet and excitable dogs pawing at my fairly clean trousers. A couple of shouts and the dogs were under control. We stopped and talked for a minute. I commented that one of the dogs was a certain type, based solely on what looked like a similar dog owned by my brother. The mother and daughter, after a moment of merriment (which may have come with thinly veiled scoffing) dismissed my basic error and then, in some detail, explained the type of dogs they were in fact in charge of. It went entirely over my head, but they were nice people, and neither of the dogs attempted to bite me – always a bonus.
Further on I bore to the left and shortly afterwards another track headed directly up the hill. Up I went and reached a point that Peak Bagger suggested was the top. By the mere fact that the path continued up a further 50 metres or so I determined that they were a tad wide of the mark.
Peak Baggers point, but not quite the top
The top of the path opened onto a small plateau area, beyond which a high fence enclosed a large building of no determinate age, but which could have been called Foresters Lodge. I was at the top of Ashley Hill.
The unofficial, but my official, top of the county
I slipped quickly back down to the Dew Drop Inn on a straight path. Reviews of Mitchel’s Woods (for that was where I had trod) were rightly positive, though someone who probably hadn’t been in nature before merely observed “No toilets”.
I drove back along Honey Lane and then cross country, avoiding the M4 and M25 as far as I could, until I passed through Windsor and then onto Albert Road, bisecting the Long Walk. I briefly looked to the south and towards Royal Lodge, but there was no celebrity royal in sight, although the Uber Pizza Express delivery scooter heading from the direction of Woking piqued my curiosity. Ending up at Runnymede, last encountered about three years before on a day with the grandkids at Legoland, nothing seemed to have changed much, although I noticed an attractive cafe in one of the gate houses which I guessed post-dated the Magna Carta.
The argument goes that what happened here (obviously not in the cafe) in 1215 changed history and the relationship between royalty and the people. I’m not so convinced. It certainly changed the relationship between the landed Norman elite and their grip on the land itself, the ongoing legacy of which I had observed earlier in the day at Bowsey and Ashley Hills.
At the cafe the royal tea was orf, so I stuck with an Americano which came with one of those ubiquitous, clear cellophane wrapped Italian biscuits that, along with plastic drinks bottles, are competing to be declared the most universal and unnecessary environmental pollutants currently trending. Mind you, they are tasty.
PS.
Three days later, on the 30th October, a resident of Royal Lodge, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area, and just a mile or so from where the Magna Carta was signed in 1215, had, under Royal proclamation, and as recorded in the House of Commons library and titled the Removal of Titles and Honours, been revealed to be nothing more than a commoner after all. As Adam Ant once warned, “Don’t you ever, don’t you ever, lower yourself, forgetting all your standards”.
*I later looked up the history of the Dew Drop Inn. Apparently, Dick Turpin may have visited a couple of times with his horse, Black Bess. So, when I read further articles, and particularly the piece below, I was bemused and confused:
“Opened in 1939 by Frank Painia, what started as a barbershop quickly grew into a well-known hotel and music venue, complete with a restaurant and bar. Listed in the Green Book, the guide for Black travelers in segregated America, the Dew Drop Inn is now considered a historic landmark.”
Needless to say, it took a bit of disentangling before I finally worked out that I was reading two completely different articles about two entirely different places, but at least now I knew.
I entered the back room in the bar of the Prince of Wales pub in Marlow where I was met by a man with a tea towel over his shoulders. “Good morning,” he said. I replied in similar vein, looked around and asked where I should sit. “At your table, sir,” whilst pointing towards the only table that had been equipped with china and cutlery. I felt like a complete clot.
The evening before (Sunday) I had checked in after a drive from Bristol during which I had climbed up to Liddington Hillfort (the highest point in Swindon), then locating the Water Tower on Park Lane – needless to say, the highest point in Reading. I was breaking the journey home, and on Saturday I had gone online to find a stopping point somewhere in the Thames Valley that wasn’t going to blow a massive hole in my budget. I hadn’t been hopeful. So, when the Prince of Wales in the centre of Marlow popped up and invited me to stay overnight for a mere £72, I could only assume there must be a massive catch. But what could a poor elder do?
I had arrived early in the evening and on parking up couldn’t help noticing that the place was heaving. I checked in and was shown out the door and then round to a couple of terraced Victorian cottages adjacent to the pub. As we walked up the short set of stairs, I was expecting to find that the facilities had probably not changed much since it had been built, but lo it was not so. An excellent, fully equipped warm and cosy room which said, your welcome.
Given the seething mass of humanity in the bar I decided to go for a scroll into town whilst there was still some daylight. Just being a stone’s throw from the High Street I was at the High Street in just minutes. Clearly an affluent town, I booked a pint at the Chequers whilst studying the menu. Ah! “Anything else, sir?” “Yes,” I replied, “a large bowl of your finest peanuts please, my man.”
After a slow pint and more peanuts than a man can eat (at £5 a bucket I felt compelled), I wandered back down the High Street and to the junction with Station Road, on the corner of which Amorino Geleto’s was still doing a roaring trade in ice-cream (I guessed). I can’t think of another town in the country where a fine Italian ice-cream emporium would be open at 8pm on a freezing cold and wet Sunday night in October. Nevertheless, I was now regretting the peanut dinner.
It was still quite early, so I decided to venture into the bar before heading back next door. The pub had almost completely emptied out, apart from four middle aged men, all with their eyes glued to the TV watching a sport that involved a procession of high-performance racing cars following each other around an illuminated futuristic track somewhere in a desert. Apparently, it’s called Formula 1, but it had nothing whatsoever to do with Jim Clark, Fangio or even Jackie Stewart. Each of the men seemed to be sitting as far away from each other as was physically possible, yet every so often one would pipe up and wonder about some knowledgeable detail relating to the performance of one or other of the drivers turbo, pitot tube injector rods, or was Hasslebackers steering a bit out, or if Strollburgers right off was showing signs of wear? They seemed to be talking a different language.
Eventually the “event” was over. Someone, who could have been British, but was born in one of the “territories” seemed to have won, and with that three of the men supped up and buggered off. The man who remained was the owner and we chatted for a bit whilst he tidied up, and I did likewise with the cold beer. He seemed to have a northern accent but had lived in Marlow for ten years and absolutely loved it. I said I could see the appeal and explained why I was staying over. I was getting older and falling out of love with day long drives. He was sympathetic, although I’m not so sure he would have been quite so if I had mentioned my quest to get to two nearby County tops the next day. He went on to say that in the whole time he had been in Marlow he had never witnessed a crime and was of the opinion that indeed, crime was non-existent. Fortunately I was able to confirm to him that in the three hours I had been in town I had neither witnessed, nor been a victim of crime, although having had a quick look in an estate agents window and seeing the cost of renting a flat in town, I could have said that some crimes go largely unreported. I didn’t of course and instead went to bed.
After taking my seat in the breakfast area the man with the tea towel over his shoulder asked me what I wanted for my breakfast and pointed at a large table set out with all sorts of breakfast options, including cereals, tinned fruit and various wrapped bread things. I was overwhelmed. All this for me, and for only £72. Suddenly, and despite the lack of a proper meal the evening before, my appetite vanished. “Ehm, oh, err. Just beans on toast would be fine.”
“Are you sure that’s all? I can do you eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, tomatoes and more eggs if you want.”
“Oh, okay,” I surrendered, “can you add a fried egg please.”
“Just a fried egg?” He looked down at me expectedly. “I also have, and can make you, hash browns, chips, mushrooms and veggie sausages if you’re that way inclined?”
I declined his further offerings despite the knowledge that I was potentially missing out on the deal of the year. “Suit yourself mate,” he said as he turned towards the kitchen. “You’re paying for it.” Yup!
Waiting for my beans on toast with one fried egg I became aware of some movement behind me. “Are you the manager?” A man was standing at the bar and looking at me. “No,” I said, and explained that someone would be back soon. The man was youngish, looked fit as a fiddle, with a bronzed face that suggested a recent holiday somewhere south of Nice and wearing a hoodie, trackie bottom combo that looked like it had been purchased from the menswear department of Harrod’s (assuming there is one).
My man returned to the bar shortly afterwards. The new arrival made his presence known. “Hi! I’m working on the house next door. Any chance I can park my van in your car park for the day?”
“Suit yourself mate,” my guy replied, possibly as impressed as I was by the immaculately turned-out builder. It really was another world, and I was about to leave it for reality.
Before I set off, I took a short walk down to the Thames, passing the Two Brewers pub where Jerome K Jerome had written some of Three Men in a Boat. It felt very familiar and I wondered if I had been here before but couldn’t place when, or with whom. I gazed across the river towards the huge weir and then at two regal swans that circled around a small landing ramp. Their almost loving interactions were both quaint and meaningful.
After walking down some well-appointed walled alleys I reached the remarkable two-hundred-year-old suspension bridge and then back to the High Street for a coffee before departure.
Marlow Monday morning blue
Sitting at a table in the sun I watched as Marlow woke up. Chelsea Tractors competed for pavement space, immaculately turned-out dogs were out walking their minders whilst a retired Major-General, with an ancient, gnarled stick, accosted a balaclava wearing scallywag on a black bike and making it clear that he must reverse ferret and return from whence he came (nearby Slough to be precise). Meanwhile, a group of workmen were having a late breakfast in the high-end delicatessen opposite. Strangely, the Amorino Gelato was closed, but as I took it all in, I couldn’t argue with my landlord’s observations the night before. Marlow really was a fine place.
I drove out of Marlow across the suspension bridge, which required some advanced driving skills to avoid contact with the brutal metal width restrictors. Judging by the array of colours smeared on the vicious panels, many people before had failed the test. To get to Bowsey Hill I headed south on the A404 and then west on Henley Road before swinging left onto Culham Lane. On my right I glimpsed the entrance to a large estate, with enormous and immaculately pruned hedging. The stunning grounds looked more French chateaux than English baronial, and really, I should have stopped to have a closer look. Instead, I carried on and shortly afterwards pulled up outside the Horns Pub in a place called Crazies Hill. The well-appointed Georgian looking country pub was closed for refurbishment. Never mind, it was too early anyway. I made a mental note that if, at some point in the future, I might want to explore the area further it could serve as an overnight stopping point, until later, after a quick look on the website, it was clear that a one night stay would probably cost three to four times what I’d paid at the Prince of Wales.
Crazies Hill Community Hub
The destination was just a mile or so south on Hatch Gate Lane. A short walk on a pleasant, soft autumn morning. After a couple of hundred metres, I came to a junction. Opposite sat a large well-proportioned house. Probably worth a couple of million – at least. More staggering though was that it was a mere gatehouse.
Gatehouse to heaven
Carrying on, now on a slight gradient, to the left occasional glimpses through the trees revealed a substantial pile of something created out of historic great wealth.
A glimpse of just your average mansion in these parts
To my right another large old country house lay in open grounds. A gigantic back lawn stretched along the side of the road and led up to woodland, where, at its edge, a solitary, empty bench sat looking somewhat forlornly back down on the estate. A seat of power, in an area where old power had once come to settle, and where no doubt a different type of power still finds intoxicating today.
Beyond the lawn the lane began to wind upwards, with tall trees either side displaying their intoxicating autumn foliage.
Autumn colour scene
I reached what seemed to be the top of the hill. The road flattened out with a cluster of buildings huddling nearby. Looking to the southwest through heavy foliage I could see bits of Reading in the distance. For the people who lived here it would come with impressive views, albeit a significant part of it would be of Reading.
An attractive property in an exclusive part of the Thames Valley, with exclusive views of, err… Reading!
I wandered on for a bit, not entirely sure where the highest point of Bowsey Hill was until I reached the point in the road where it started to go down again. Just at that point, when I was about to turn and retrace my steps, three women, around my age, possibly slightly older, came into view, walking resolutely uphill and all equipped with modern lightweight walking aids. In seconds they had passed me by and were heading off down towards Crazies Hill. I decided to hang back for a moment just in case it might look to the casual observer that I had chosen to follow them.
Hanging back at the top
In the time it took me to hang back, a second tranche of maybe ten or so more resolutes came walking up from the same direction as before. Mainly older women, but with a couple of similarly aged men that formed the ranks of the 71st Berkshire Light Walking Pole Brigade who marched past in fine order, eyes forward and without breaking step, with only one solitary woman acknowledging my own solitary presence with a “hello”. I assumed they must have been under orders not to talk.
I thought it best to hang back a bit longer in case anyone observing thought that I had chosen to follow them. Am I alone when it comes to awkward situations like this, or am I naturally anti-social? Either way, and after a minute or so, it suddenly struck me that anyone observing now might think that I was behaving in an anti-social manner, I decided to head off back.
All clear on the road ahead – beech perfect
As I walked back down the road through the woods, I had only gone a hundred metres when lo and behold, coming back up the hill was the entire light pole brigade. As they passed the solitary woman (who was still in solitary mode) smiled and said hello again. The two men were now bringing up the rear. “Are you lost?” I managed to stutter. No, they said, they had just reached the limit of the walk and were heading back. It crossed my mind that maybe they had intended to reach the Horns Pub for lunch when someone had suddenly found out, halfway down the hill, that it was closed. Either way it all felt a bit Grand Old Duke of York’ish.
Which way did the army go?
The entire walk from Crazies Hill to the top of Boswey Hill had been along Hatch Gate Lane but at the top became Knowl Hill Bridleway Circuit, and whilst the road, and everything to my right was in the Wokingham Unitary Authority, everything to the left, including the massive pile behind the trees, was in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority area.
Back at the car, and the Horns Pub was no closer to re-opening. I worked out the way to my next objective, Ashley Hill, in the Windsor and Maidenhead Unitary Authority, and set off on what turned out to be quite a complex journey around a place called Wargrave (the derivation seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the obvious) and then north-east on the A4 Bath Road. About two miles on, at a left hand turning and emerging onto the main road in slightly dishevelled order, the rank and file of the old 71st Berks Light Pole, all poles still intact and no doubt heading, quick march, towards the Bird in Hand* at Knowl Hill, which I had passed moments earlier. Ah well, it’s all in a day.
* I have just had a quick look on the Bird in Hands website, and their doing rooms this coming Sunday for sixty quid! What’s occurring man?
The highest point in the Reading Unitary Authority area is just past the Water Tower Pub and a row of shops on Park Lane, to the west of Reading and near Tilehurst.
Shame about the ale…
You really can’t miss it.
I stopped the car just down the road from the tower, having visited Liddington Hillfort, the highest point in Swindon, and was on my way to Marlow to spend the night to break a long drive back home. There you are – that’s it. Although of course the tower is not the physical land top of the county, just a manifestation erected on the highest spot. Opened in 1932, with an art-deco feel that also hints, perhaps in my head, at a Mughal architectural style, it’s an impressive thing.
Anyway – that’s it. I’ve only ever been to Reading once before, and I think it was in 1972 when I caught a train from Paddington and then spent some hours on the platform jotting down train numbers in an Ian Allan trainspotter yearbook (look… we didn’t have mobile phones to keep us entertained). Here’s the evidence.
Still impressed by the quality of these photos, over fifty years on. A Wokingham local (I think) on the left, and a Brush Type 4 diesel electric in classic BR green pulling a Paddington train on the right. Many of these locos are still in service.
A mighty Western class 52 diesel hydraulic in standard BR (Monastral) blue on its way to Paddington. Magnificent but withdrawn from service just five years later ☹
An Hymek class 37 diesel hydraulic heading West (all withdrawn within the next three years) and watched enthusiastically by a group of youths looking the wrong way, and who are about to be heading to hospital.
The M4 and its relationship with the Iron Age (conclusion – there is none)
The highest point in the Unitary Authority of Swindon is Liddington Hillfort, resting low on chalk downland to the south of the town, and about a kilometre south of the M4 motorway.
I was returning from a weekend in Bristol, and the day before had managed to climb Pen y Fan, the stunning high point of Powys in Wales. Reaching Liddington Hillfort was, I hoped, going to be considerably less taxing.
Coming off the motorway at junction 15, I drove south on Marlborough Road and then turned left onto The Ridgeway. After a minute or so I was able to get a glimpse of the low ramparts of the hillfort on the ridge to the south. I had managed to recce the area earlier in the summer, when I had run out of time to mount a challenge. Fortunately, this meant I knew there were no stopping opportunities on this stretch of road and so continued on until it met the B4192. Just at the junction a small lay-by allows parking for a handful of vehicles, but as my luck would have it, it had already achieved its full complement.
No worries sport. I turned right and just a short distance up the hill, on the right, was a small patch of hard chalky ground large enough for me to park up. The earlier scouting exercise had come in handy. With low grey clouds, and the promise of drizzle filtering in from the west at any moment, I left the car and found the start of the walk just a stone’s throw away. Sadly, although stone throwing with intent had probably last been seen here nearly two-thousand years ago, the practice of rubbish throwing still flourishes.
Carpet bombing on the fly(tipping)
Through the gate and straight on the path that led up the slope, with a cluster of trees towards the top. I stopped for a moment to check that the car was still there. It was but of more interest was the view east and the M4 heading towards London.
Towards London – the M4 corridor
I passed by the small woods to the right and on, with a large field falling away to the south. Eventually a sign pointed north to a path around a large field leading to the hillfort, now visible on the nearby horizon.
The hillfort destination
The path led to the end of the field, then through a gate and left along the top of another field and eventually back up towards the ramparts where a wooden construction could be seen on the top of the inner mound.
At the ramparts
I flanked around along the top of the outer western mound before it descended into what would have been one of the main entrances. Here the ditch was at its deepest, but as chalk hillforts go, the parallel ramparts didn’t seem to amount to much. I passed in and then back along the inner rampart and up the small slope to the wooden construction, which was a mounting deck for a triangulation point (strange) and an underwhelming directional toposcope.
The raised Trig and beyond the confusingly disappointing toposcope, with Swindon beyond
With the low grey cloud formation still threatening rain at any moment, I wasn’t going to hang about, but looking west across the large enclosure site something didn’t quite add up. Most, indeed all, iron age hillfort sites I had previously been to sit firmly on the top of the hills they are located on, using the natural contours to create the series of broadly horizontal ramparts and ditches that complete the structure, and with a relatively flat central enclosure (the nearby Uffington Hillfort to the east of Swindon, and coincidentally the highest point in Oxfordshire, is a perfect example of this).* Here the land fell away in all directions, down what was effectively the side of the hill. Indeed, a later check on the BGS Geology Viewer showed a drop of at least ten metres from the top entrance down to the north-west corner. Now, I’m no archaeologist but I do know this, when you haven’t a clue it’s probably best not to speculate. It was a mystery, nonetheless.
Falling away?
I left. Just for a moment, as I passed east of the wooden plinth, a teasing watery sun threatened to break through.
Here comes the sun (before it went again)
Heading back the way I had come I looked over to the small woods, now to my left, and noticed a low structure. Of course! When I had researched the area a couple of months earlier, I had noted a reference to some sort of bunker. And there it was. I diverted from the main track and followed the edge of a recently tilled field.
The Starfish Decoy Control Bunker lurking at distance
The obvious question that popped into my head was, what was it? Fortunately, my phone had a signal, and a quick enquiry told me that it was one of many built around the country during WW2. Starfish (SF) Decoy bunkers were used to light fires away from urban and industrial areas to mislead Luftwaffe bombers, who, I guess the hope was, would drop their load in the wrong place. With this nugget of information, I approached with a degree of curiosity. When I was a kid growing up in the 1960s me and my pals spent many happy hours playing war, making fires, smoking and throwing bangers around in an old concrete bunker in a field near a river close to home. Who needed the internet? **
Naturally the bunker required further investigation.
An investigative approach
With the obvious exception of missing blast proof doors, externally the structure appeared to be in relatively good condition.
Looking in
I slipped through the entrance. Due to age, and a lack of understanding of local youth peer group culture, I was unable to translate the colourful graffiti. The concrete corridor led a few metres to the rear where two rooms led off to the left and right, with large rusting metal tanks sitting looking sorry for themselves. Whether they formed part of the original operational structure, or whether it was just something the landowner had dumped out of sight many moons ago I couldn’t say. Presumably because of the bunkers remote location, whilst a few beer and cider cans predictably littered the floor, I’d certainly been in a lot less salubrious WW2 bunkers and pill boxes.
Towards the light – Looking out
Back outside I thought it only correct to climb onto the grass covered roof. The view was only marginally better than at door level, but the outline of Liddington hillfort was on full display to the west.
Towards the hillfort. I felt confident I had discovered a new lay line.
From the roof I was able to look down into the woods, delightfully called Liddington Clump. I noticed that at various points within the small group of trees, discretely laid bunches of flowers had been deliberately lain. There is something similar near me, just set back from a road in woods at the edge of the local park. I’ve never looked too closely but have always assumed they were for much loved but departed pets. So, assuming the same here, when I later read that in fact the woods contained some natural burials – for humans, I wasn’t sure what to think. I’m pretty sure that on some sort of ethical, spiritual and/or humanist level I can see the attraction (maybe there’s a better way of putting that), but what would the consequences be if we all opted for a natural burial? A walk in the country near any urban setting would very quickly become a precarious totter through an ever-increasing open graveyard. Hmmm…. another moral quandary to occupy the mind.
Now, here’s the thing, and it needs to be told. I discovered the reference to the burial site in a quick search on the phone back at the car. I probably only glanced at the article for a few seconds, but it had registered. So, now, a couple of weeks on and wanting to find out a bit more, I have singularly failed to find any mention of a natural burial site at Liddington Clump. I have found a brief reference in a random comment on a post on Facebook that it is a memorial site for people and pets. The only explanation I can think of is, that there being an iron-age burial mound not far from the woods, and in some sort of mixed-up dystopian word jumble confusion, I’ve put too many one’s and one’s together and come up with fake news. It must be either that, or, and I am inclined to go with this theory, it was an involuntary AI search that led me up the woodland path. Either way, it had got me thinking about natural burials (which, for the benefit of doubt, are a thing); their implications, ethics and carbon footprint, and despite the latter being a justifiable reason, I think I’ll stick with the furnace.
In a similar vein, on-line information available on the Liddington decoy bunker, and indeed Starfish Decoy bunkers in general, is scant to say the least. I found a short article that gave a perfunctory description of their use, but no real explanation on how they were crewed and operated (I assume that gas or oil pipes radiated away from the bunker to where outlets would be lit for effect). A few weeks earlier, and completely coincidentally (a friend had sent me a fantastic short BBC documentary on YouTube about Swindon Town football club in the 1960s called 1963: Six Days to Saturday, which included some footage of the locomotive works, and…. oh, I’m straying badly here), I had read an article about bombing raids on Swindon. Surprisingly, given that the one thing everyone in the world knows Swindon for is its vast railway works (and XTC), it seems that the works survived relatively intact. Some surrounding houses were hit and sadly people did die, but apart from the odd unfortunate cow, the railway works were barely troubled by the Luftwaffe. There is no doubt about the fact that the decoy bunker at Liddington would have been placed there to keep the bombers away from Swindon, and very specifically the railway. To that end, it’s just possible that the tactic worked. Maybe one day some new information will emerge. Just as this was about to go to ‘print’ I came across a short YouTube video that followed a couple of modern day night raiders to the bunker, where they film the inside (see my descriptions above) and then leave, providing no more context than I have managed to offer up here. Quite why they filmed it at night is a complete mystery. It’s perfectly accessible at any time. But, and there’s a twist, just as they are about to leave, one of the participants drops off the roof, and (here’s the spooky bit) says they’re about to go into the graveyard!!!! What do they know that I thought I did, but now I don’t? The mystery continues.
Liddington Clump – The mystery continues
I left the bunker (“thank gawd” you shout) and returned to the gate at the end of the long path. Just past the gate the fly tipped mound had still not been cleared (bloody local councils are useless, aren’t they?), but miraculously my car was still in place.
Ten minutes later I was back on the M4 heading east and towards London. As I joined the motorway I glanced up to my right and could make out the ramparts of the hillfort. I must have driven past it over a hundred times and never noticed it. Half a mile further on and to my left, a familiar feature along the side of a chalk upland, where the side of the hill is distinguished by a crinkle cut pattern of indents that can only be explained by seeing them (just visible in the second photo to the left of the M4). Unlike the hillfort I had noticed these on many occasions before and now at last I understood their context within the M4 corridor. Never stop learning.
** In the interest of public safety, and to avoid the possibility of being sued, I strongly advise against allowing ten-year-old children access to matches, lighters, cigarettes and fireworks. It’s right that we have regulated these products to the extent that what I was able to get away with as a child is technically not possible today. When I look back I find it mind boggling that the so called straight up honest shopkeepers of old England would recklessly turn a blind eye to almost anything we wanted to get our grubby little mitts on (apparently, things are so much worse these days – or so you’d be led to believe if you spend too much time on social media – just saying).
My word. What a place! Sometimes you just get very lucky and remain eternally grateful for a while after (well, make up your mind – is it eternal, or just for a while?).
Pen y Fan is the highest point in the Unitary Authority of Powys. It’s the twelfth highest county top in the UK and the highest point in southern Britain after the magnificent Cadair Idris, eighty odd miles to the north.
Friday night with my daughter and her partner J in Bristol, checking weather apps whilst scoffing down an excellent take-away curry, and losing yet again at Catan. “So, are we looking to climb Pen Y Fan tomorrow?” J asks. “Yeah,” my daughter responded, “we’ve been talking about it for years.” That was true, not least because I had been nagging away about it for, literally, years (nine to be precise). Nonetheless, with conflicting forecasts, the certainty that there was going to be a brisk cold wind directly from the north, and in the knowledge that they had both done it several times before, I was prepared to be pragmatic. “I’m entirely flexible,” I added. “Maybe we just see how it is in the morning and if it’s not looking that good, we do something else?”
“We’re doing Pen y Fan dad. Get over it.” That was me told. I slept badly that night.
*
But, before we get there, I need to rewind and explain why climbing Pen y Fan had become something of an obsession for me.
Friday the 11th of March 2016, I was about to leave a hotel room in Weston-Super-Mare after a couple of days seeing my daughter and walking the local coastline whilst using up untaken annual leave. I had a plan for the day. Pop over the Severn road bridge, head down the M4 and climb to the top of Pen y Fan before driving back to London.
My phone rings. It’s my son and he sounds frazzled. My daughter in law’s waters had broken the night before, and far too many weeks before the baby was due. There had been no space in the local hospitals premature baby unit, so options as far afield as Liverpool and other points hundreds of miles away had been talked of before, finally, she was being offered a fifty-mile ambulance drive to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. It had been a hideously stressful night and just listening to the events had me shaking in my boots. “What can I do?” I asked. My son was reassuring. Everything was being done and there was nothing I could do but get on with my day.
After we ended the conversation, I wasn’t so sure, but rationalised that there really was nothing I could do. I drove up the M5 to Bristol and with the London option still weighing heavily on my mind, I shook it off and went west and then over the big bridge. I can’t explain why the need to climb Pen y Fan was so strong and why it had to be then. For one thing, the idea of climbing county tops had never entered my head and wasn’t going to for another eight years. Maybe I had seen a programme on TV about it, or just that visiting Bristol on a regular basis after my daughter had moved there had seeded my thinking. Either way, climbing a mountain, instead of going straight home and fretting around the house, felt like a suitable distraction.
I drove up from Merthyr Tydfil and the valleys on the A470 and then into open countryside. The skies were cold winter blue, the land sparkling green. I had no idea what to expect, or pretty much where I was going, but sensing I was getting close I pulled up in a lay-by next to Beacons Reservoir, jumped out of the car and without any thought of whether or not I was in a good spot, or whether there was a more user friendly route to the top, I crossed the road, saw a footpath sign pointing over a wall towards open country, and was over without hesitation.
By the time I reached the first snow pockets I began to have doubts.
The lay of the land – March 2016
*
Back in the present, despite early morning rain the sun was making an effort to show off, and we bit the bullet. I drove (there is no significance in this other than if I read it again years from now, it will remind me that on the way back they both fell asleep) and instead of going all the way to Cardiff we headed off to Abergavenny before taking the majestic Head of the Valleys road west (my second experience of it in just over a month).
We arrived at the main National Trust car park and visitors centre at around 11:30, having passed the lay-by I had stopped at nine and a half years earlier. We were lucky to get a space and already streams of people were heading up and down the main trail which starts just to the south of the car park. Instead, we headed off on a flattish track (the Taff Trail) that took us north with the road and the impressive looking Fan Fawr mountain to the left, and a forestry plantation to the right. After a short while we were approaching the top of the pass where the A470 would start to descend towards Brecon, and past the Storey Arms Outdoor Activity Centre. This was the point where from now on the only way was up.
Looking west towards Fan Fawr. I was already panting Fawr air(no more puns.. Ed)
Due to the steep opening ascent, each faltering step started giving increasingly panoramic views of the surrounding landscape, particularly down the top of the Taff valley. The path underfoot was well trod and well-maintained, using slabs of the local stone, which, with the evidence of the alluvial waters in which they had formed millions of years ago indented on their surface, gave context to the surroundings.
After about fifteen minutes of this early lung breaker, we seemed to have reached a flatter section.
The kids, marching towards the top, or maybe not
For the first time it was possible to see to the top and a snaking path that headed directly (or possibly indirectly if you get my drift) to what I was assured was Pen y Fan. The only fly in the ointment, having made the initial effort to gain respectable elevation, was that the path was beginning to head back down. Don’t worry, I was assured, it only goes down a bit. Yeah, right!
Sometime later, and having lost considerable elevation, we crossed over a mountain stream.
Crossing the mighty Blaen Taf Farw
To the south it was possible to watch a stream of people gaining altitude on the main path from the car park. It seemed to me that they had only just about left the car park, confirming we had managed to lose most of the elevation we had gained in the first heavy lift. As I stood in the middle of the stream mulling over the meaning of life, my daughter and J seemed to be taunting me from the bank, taking photos as if I were some sort of endangered species (these have been deleted).
The paparazzi
Humph! Slogging on and straight up. Unremitting but at least the top was in view, seemingly quite close. There was a map consultation which I used as an excuse to slow down the ascent, and the truth was out. We were in fact looking at Corn Du, the slightly shorter twin peak to the east of Pen y Fan. Until now I had been putting one shaky leg beyond the other, head down and hoping it would all be over soon. Gazing now at Corn Du, a mere pretender, the little enthusiasm left in me started to ebb away. Even though it appeared to be in touching distance the stone path remained resolutely up. Don’t worry, I was reassured, Pen y Fan was just a short walk further on. It was time to trust in others, so on we (I) trudged.
Another 500 metres went by, and with almost no warning we were standing at a point where Pen y Fan came into view and the land to the north of the path dropped away dramatically.
The first sight of Pen y Fan, with Corn Du in the foreground.
With this unexpected view, and the sheer drop down to a small corrie (the Welsh is Cwm) tucked under the mountain, a sense of validation began to return. That said, it took an age to complete the last 200 metres to the top of Corn Du. In my experience most mountains tend to ease off as you approach the top. Not here. Just short of the top of Corn Du we stopped and took the time to recuperate, take in the views and eat sandwiches. A rainbow had been developing far away towards Brecon. It was one of those days. Bright, very breezy but with scudding clouds menacing away directly from the Arctic. Time for some photos.
With the motivator on Corn Du with Llyn Cwm Llwch below
In the time it had taken to take this photo and grab another bite of cheese and pickle, the rainbow had suddenly shifted from what appeared to be the far distance to directly below, and almost magically issuing out and up from the corrie. Frantic scrabbling for phones followed by all around to grab the moment. A rainbow’s a rainbow – right? Ah! Not so….
This is not AI generated and no filters have been applied. Just physics
We carried on east along the high ridge, with plunging views to the north and a huge U-shaped valley disappearing to the south-east. J pointed out an abandoned reservoir further down the valley. Upper Neuadd Reservoir, empty for some years since faults had been found in the Victorian dam. J explained that they had climbed up from there a year or two before. It looked like a miniature wonderland but still showed as water bearing on the OS map. The views had me flipping out. Until we had reached the top of Corn Du, I hadn’t fully appreciated the landscape. It was a glacially shaped masterpiece, even more extraordinary in that it lies on a similar latitude to Luton.
Glacial delights and the remains of the Upper Neuadd Reservoir (left of centre)
Getting across the ridge and covering the 300 metres or so to the top of Pen y Fan was relatively civilised. A bit down and then a bit up. At the final up, as the increasingly violent northerly hurled itself across the rounded top, my game was up and finding a large stone slab, lay myself down on alluvial remains.
This sitting position is unique in nature.
Once I had regained some composure, I crawled to the top for the obligatory victory photo (along with several dozen others doing the same).
Time’s up – now clear off.
The views in all directions were outstanding. Powys is the biggest council area in Wales, and from what I could tell you could see most of it, along with most of the rest of Wales. More glaciated U-shaped valleys lined up to the east facing north.
My compadres complimenting the unique landscape
Pointing towards Brecon and the whole of Wales, and 1500ft of elevation under the belt
After soaking up the moment we started back along the ridge towards Corn Du. An almost constant stream of people was moving in the opposite direction, and quite a few of them seemingly dressed for a different season. There is a Welsh joke and unprintable poem, that claims every Welsh person has been to the top of Pen y Fan. Obviously not true, but from the numbers making the journey it seemed to be a national ambition.
Instead of going back to the top of Corn Du we took the lower track to the south just below the summit. It was at this point, and just before we were about to emerge back onto another ridge, that the sun disappeared, the sky turned grey, and a furious hailstorm crashed in at too many miles an hour from the north. One look at the direction of assault was enough to tear lumps of skin off your face, and more than one other walker was reduced to tears. We hunkered down with our backs to the wind with just a few tufts of grass to give protection. It helped, and within a minute it was over. I stood and started to carry on walking. A mistake. As I emerged onto the ridge proper, a second and even more violent wave of ice bullets blasted into me. Having moments earlier sacrificed the relative security of the grass tufts there was no escape other than drift down the slope to the south. It made no difference and all I could do now was surrender to the moment. I stood with my back to the onslaught with hood up and completely accepting the conditions. I suppose knowing that it would be over in a minute or two helped, but in that moment, I don’t think I had ever felt so alive.
Counting hailstones
It went as quickly as it had arrived, and we took to the descent, observing the wreckage of humanity that had taken the full force and gathering their senses as they continued up. With a warm sun back in control it was a shame to be exiting the mountain, but you have to come down sooner or later. Halfway down a middle-aged man with some writing on his clothing trudged past us on the way up.
“I think that was Pen y Fan man,” J commented. Interesting, I thought, who was Pen y Fan man, I asked.
“Pen y Fan Dan. He climbs the mountain every day for charity.” *
As we approached the bottom of the path a beautiful waterfall plunged down to our right and begged to be photographed.
The view of the waterfall as it should have been
The view of the waterfall as it actually was. Boy oh boy! A picture can paint a thousand words, and in that moment I had none.
It was a last chance to look south and back down the valley. Nearly ten years before I had climbed over a wall and began a yomp straight up the side of the steep slope leading up to the ridge south of Corn Du. I had no structured plan other than getting to the top and then heading north. Despite the early cold it had warmed up, and I was having to de-layer. Whether I was sweating due to the weather, or my advanced state of anxiety, I had no idea, but one thing was for sure; I was beginning to wonder what on earth I was trying to prove. Patches of snow began to appear. I was about two thirds of the way to the top, breathing heavily but still intent on reaching the ridge when a ping went off on my phone.
“They’re in St Mary’s hospital now.”
I looked around. It was a beautiful spot, but the text was all I needed to bring me back to my senses.
The point of reality and return – Corn Du in the distance. March 2016
I believe in the meditative power of walking, but also in the adage that there’s always another day. Pen y Fan was going to have to wait.
I scurried back down to the car and three and a half hours later was parking up outside the hospital on South Wharf Road, Paddington. It was my first encounter with pay by phone parking, which, in torrential rain, I spent twenty minutes painfully navigating through to the eventual point of payment (it’s funny how this little detail has stuck).
My daughter in law was in the best of hands, my son was looking exhausted and of course there really was nothing for me to do, but I knew I had made the right decision. Two weeks later my gorgeous granddaughter was born (it wasn’t easy either but that’s another story), and any thoughts of an immediate return to Powys were banished for some years. But hey, there really was to be another day, and what a day it had been.
* Pen y Fan Dan doesn’t just climb the mountain every day, he’s often doing it three times a day, for charity. I’d say that’s impressive, so here’s a link to his fundraiser.
In answer to the question to myself at the start – Eternal, or memorable, just for a while? I won’t forget Pen y Fan, the views, the storm blast, the encouragement of my daughter and J, it’s significance to me as a grandparent and it’s shear glacial glory. I guess that makes it eternal.
Just in the nick of time, a last-minute arrangement to visit my daughter in Bristol for the weekend (before the clocks went back), and a last gasp chance to tick off a few more “tops”. Just as well because I was almost out of material.
The objective was Surrey Hill, the highest point in the Unitary Authority of Bracknell Forest. Two months earlier I had made an initial attempt. Parking up in Bagshot town centre I had walked up to St Anne’s Church on Church Road, at which point I decided to abandon ship. Not because of inclement weather, or because I was facing a massive ascent, but because, for whatever reason (how to put this?) I was experiencing a discomfiture that I can only ascribe as mild form of irritable bowel syndrome. Something that gets me from time to time, usually a mile or two into a walk, and guaranteed to stop play.
With no such excuse this time and having previously seen what little there was to see in Bagshot (I’m sure I must have missed the best bits), I parked just up from St Anne’s Church. The weather was cool but mainly sunny. I started north down Vicarage Road, which soon led to the start of the Swinley forest walk, where a sign warned of the catastrophic legal consequences of picking (stealing) fungi – a consequence perhaps of rampant foraging to supply the kitchens of nearby fashionable restaurants (presumably not including Woking’s Pizza Express). The track extended straight ahead, with dense woodland of birch and fir to the left and heathland to the right.
Vicarage Road – The start of the walk
After some minutes I wondered if the rest of the walk would be like this. Potentially a tad dreary and tedious. Fortunately, just as I was thinking this, the plantation to the left ended, with heathland ahead and more mature forestry creeping up low hillocks. It was still a question of keeping on keeping on the straight, but with the wider views and the late autumn colours my enthusiasm was renewed.
Keeping to a straight-ahead policy
Heading on up a slight gradient I eventually came to a junction. Wide tracks led off to the left and signage indicated mountain bike trails through the forest. I had planned on continuing along the straight path but now with an option on the table I chose to go south-west and up another straight path with more of a gradient and dense forestry drifting away to both sides.
Towards the end of the track the land rose sharply. As I prepared myself for the heave ho, a man on a mountain bike lumbered past. I said hello but understandably his response was muted as he panted away and concentrated on the task ahead. A minute later he was near the top – whilst old muggins was tiptoeing reluctantly up and trying to regulate my breathing.
Where the going got (a bit) tough.
On reaching the higher ridge I went right. Straight tracks led away in three directions and with extensive views to places miles beyond. This sudden increase in height had been unexpected, but worth the effort.
Looking east towards Sunningdale
Straight on, with heathland beyond a line of trees on the left and evidence of the recent rain on the ground. Autumn was throwing up seasonal colours, and all was good, until, without warning, the land fell away and down into a deep gulley.
The top of the ridge and towards the switchbacks
Down, down, down and then up, up and up, and then another short stretch before a second switch back and with fungi fringing the edge of the track.
I wasn’t tempted by the Fly agaric – I’d been warned. Doesn’t compliment Beef Wellington
After the two rollercoaster like descents, the track plateaued out as I neared the top. Another straight track through the forest disappeared east towards the horizon, and beyond this dells and hollows contoured the woods to the right, with a hint of a reservoir behind fencing to the left, a sure sign that I was nearing the highest point.
Another straight track going east towards Sunningdale, or maybe Ascot.
Stopping to look around I concluded that the highest point on what I assumed to be Surrey Hill lay around a hundred metres into the forest just to the north-east. There was no obvious path leading in its direction, though a barely discernible overgrown track gave some indication of a possible route through. I set off into the dense bracken and followed the track which I guessed had at one time been used by foresters to clear excess growth. This was all well and good, but as part of their worthy intentions they had covered the route with cut branches which at the time would have been firm and robust underfoot, but which now snapped and crumbled with every rotten and uncertain step I took. With dense vegetation on either side there was no escape from the terror of a twisted ankle, or worse, at each leg extension.
Autumn’s bounty exploiting the rotting track – goes down badly with fish
A tree, just the same as any other, but with less undergrowth surrounding it appeared, and I settled on the idea that this was the top. Hard to be 100% sure, but it was as good as any other spot.
Surrey Hill – the top – probably
I made my way back along the hazardous route, and with a sense of relief, emerged back onto firmer ground. Instead of returning the way I came I set off east, and downhill in the approximate direction of Ascot. I was able to look back and up through the trees to the top of the hill; the only spot where its height above the surrounding landscape was more obvious.
Surrey Hill. Looking back up to the summit
Ten minutes later and I was on the main track back to St Anne’s Church and twenty minutes later at the car, just as the first few drops of rain hinted at a lot more to come. I had thoroughly enjoyed the walk in the Swinley Forest. If it was on my doorstep I’d be wandering (or maybe cycling) through it as often as possible and would be expecting interesting sights as the seasons change (the odd adder, or eagle perhaps).
There was only one thing to do now. I had an ETA with a take-away curry and a game of Catan in Bristol to honour.
After five fascinating exploratory days in South, and south-west Wales, it was time to head home. I’d spent the last night in Cardigan, after climbing Foel Cwmcerwyn, the highest point in Pembrokeshire. Having checked into my accommodation I took a stroll along Cardigans attractive historic high street, then over the river Teifi and to the fine-looking Castle Inn.
So many old boozers have had their internal organs ripped from them, often resembling sanitised airport style cafes, that when you walk into one that looks like it hasn’t changed in a century, and hasn’t been illuminated up to the gunnels, it is barely believable. I ordered a pint and found a table and chair where, in an underlit snug, I could look out of an old window and across the waters.
It had been daylight when I had entered, but in the few minutes it had taken to purchase my beer and sit down the day had turned to night, and as if on cue the heavens had opened and rain was lashing down on the tidal swell. The movement of the dark water, where river and sea merged whilst gale fuelled rain pounded the surface, was mesmerising and I just sat and watched as behind me two young women caught up with their respective lives over pints of stout. In that moment all was right with the world.
I would have liked to have spent an hour or two mouching around Cardigan the following morning, but I had over 300 miles to drive and hadn’t taken the precaution of breaking the journey back. I was also planning to take a slight diversion from the main route and see if I could locate Tair Onnen, the highest point in the Vale of Glamorgan.
It’s highly likely that I took an entirely unnecessary long route along the lanes south and east of Cardigan, but I was in no rush, and it was almost traffic free quality countryside. I reached Carmarthen and continued down the A48 and then the M4. The blast furnace (now dormant) and steel works at Port Talbot dominated the view to the right for several miles. I once had a conversation with a friend about industrial buildings and brutalist urban landscapes. I think I was trying to suggest that there was almost always a strange beauty in nearly all things. She was having none of it and quoted some geezer who had famously (apparently) said something along the lines that if you see an ugly building, to save your soul, never look at it again. There is no doubt that Port Talbot, in any traditional sense, is as ugly an industrial stain on the landscape as you’ll find, but, like the tidal dance of the Afon Teifi, I have been mesmerised by it on the few occasions I have passed by. Today was no exception. If there had been a stopping opportunity, I would have spent some time trying to absorb it all, but there wasn’t and so I carried on south and then east to Bridgend, then leaving the M4 and rejoined the A48 towards Cowbridge. *
Past Cowbridge the land gently undulated, with large fields (mainly stuffed with maize), to left and right. At a point where the road began to rise and swung slowly to the left, then to the right, I was visualising my location and knew I needed to be pulling over soon. Moments later a lay-by appeared on the left and I duly stopped. Looking across the road, I could see the field, recently ploughed, that held the county top (a distinctive farm building sitting proud on the skyline).
7 metres below the high point, just to the left of the farm building pictured on the ridge
I already had a predetermined plan of attack, based on earlier close inspection of the site on Google maps. I would walk east along the footpath at the side of the road until I reached the end of the field, hope to find a footpath to the top, take a snap of the trig point and then head back the way I had come. I had factored in a 15-minute walk.
I got out of the car with the intention of getting my walking boots from the boot (English doesn’t make any sense sometimes), but before getting to that point I took a longer look around. As I surveyed the landscape and surroundings, bit by bit my confidence began to stutter. The most obvious issue was that the field appeared to be much larger than it had seemed on Google maps (which of course it blooming was). The road stretched away into the distance, as did the field. Based on the visual evidence it felt like any attempt would take at least 30 minutes.
I had also been under an assumption, based on what I had seen on Google maps, that there would be a pavement along the side of the road which would enable safe and swift movement. The reality on the ground was a sad disappointment. There was no pavement on either side of the road, and whilst there was a verge, it was lumpy, uneven and soaking wet. Essentially, given the flow of traffic, it was looking like an unexpectedly high-risk venture.
Stranded at the bus stop
Along with the distance and roadside dynamics, whilst it was a reasonably large stopping area, it doubled up as a bus stop, and I wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of leaving the car for too long.
Without any pavement, this, and the bus stop opposite, were hideously dangerous to access for any pedestrians.
There was one last and obvious disincentive. The weather. Even if I had been prepared to risk life and limb clinging to the edge of the highway, in the half hope of finding a path further down the road than I had originally anticipated and taking a risk that the car would survive unattended, the chances of making it without a serious soaking looked almost nil. I still had 200 miles to go, and I intended to do it dry.
Foresters Lodge bus stop. Two buses an hour!! Who for?
After reading the bus timetable (there appeared to be a reasonable service) I took another look around. I wondered how on earth anyone could access this and the stop on the other side of the road, without running the risk of serious harm. A thick hedgerow backed onto the stop and ran in either direction for twenty to thirty metres, and with nothing other than a rough strip of lumpy grass between it and the 60 mile an hour A48. It didn’t look like a location that would necessarily generate a lot of potential passengers, but if I was a parent and had a child who relied on the bus to get to and from school I would be freaking out every time they set off. I guessed that the only safe way to get to the stop would be by car (the irony).
As I returned to the car, a single decker bus shot by. It made no attempt to stop. To be fair I hadn’t hailed it, and the driver might have put two and two together vis a vis the stationary car, but how could he or she have known for sure? I drove off and was soon on the outskirts of Cardiff. A ring road took me north and onto the M4, where the traffic ground to a halt. I should have been able to get back the River Severn and across the bridge in just over thirty minutes, but it was well past Newport before the traffic began to ease. An hour and forty-five minutes to do the 33 miles. A couple of years ago the Welsh government managed to annoy a whole lot of Welsh people, and even more English people with no skin in the game, by reducing the speed limits in many urban, town and village settings to 20 miles an hour. Anyone would have thought the French had invaded. I’m not sure if the person who owns that expensive electric vehicle company chipped in but it’s exactly the sort of thing he would have.
I had just spent five days in Wales, avoiding where possible the M4, and by and large driving on rural A and B roads. I passed through many settlements of varying size and discovered that these pesky 20 mile an hour limits caused, well, they caused almost no inconvenience at all. There was one small town deep in the country where I did think that the speed limit extended an unreasonable distance but overall, I genuinely couldn’t work out what the fuss was about. Having lived in London when the 20 mile an hour limit was widely introduced, I am possibly more relaxed about it, but what a lot of hot air over almost nothing. So, having taken an hour and forty-five minutes to go just over thirty miles on Wales’s premier motorway, with no obvious sign of roadworks or accident, the irony that I had averaged just 20 miles an hour throughout was not lost.
I have strayed too far. What was the subject again? Ah, reaching the highest point in the Vale of Glamorgan. ** Well, I didn’t make it to the top of the county, but I could see it from the road, and that’s probably the best I could have done under the circumstances. Taking a look on Google maps I have since realised that there was another bus stop about 300 metres to the east at the end of the field. A sign on the opposite side of the road points to a footpath. Whether or not the path went to the trig point or just flanked the field I have not been able to determine, but what Google does show is that just over the brow of the hill, and facing south towards the Bristol Channel there is a large area of land covered in solar panels. A solar farm, I guess. I think I would have liked to have seen that. Oh well, another time (you’re kidding!). ***
PS. Just over a month on, and before I had finally finished off this account, I was flicking through the December 2025 edition of TRAIL – a climbing and hiking magazine that my daughters partner gets monthly. Towards the middle there’s a two-page feature called “High and Low’s – 10 of the most curious County Tops”. Apart from being flattened by the fact that the whole county tops thing seems to have gone stratospheric, more astonishingly I had done four of the ten referenced, including, and this really knocked me for six, the Hill with No Name – The Top of The Vale of Glamorgan, along with an image taken from an OS map. For copyright reasons I won’t quote the short article, but the author noted that annoyingly, there’s no public access.
* I prefer a quote I have found by Matt Haig which reads – “If you think something is ugly, look harder.”
** I have since discovered that apart from the Vale of Glamorgan, there is no such place as Glamorgan. That has come as quite a shock. The old county of Glamorgan, or, Glamorganshire, covered most of south Wales. When I was a kid, I remember watching, in black and white, and probably on the news, one of the most amazing moments in the history of sport. Never mind Leicester winning the Premier League in 2016 or Gordon Banks save against Pele, when Gary Sobers, the then captain of Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club, hit six sixes off Glamorganshire’s bowler Malcolm Nash in one over at Glamorgan’s ground in nearby Swansea, no-one in the history of cricket had ever seen anything like it before. And it was on TV! On the BBC! On terrestrial TV! And it was free! And it’s still on YouTube! Gawd bless yer Aunty.
*** Just in case you feel a bit let down by this account and need to know more about how to reach Tair Onnen – the main man – Richard Gower has provided this helpful guide (should have read it first – doh!), though according to TRAIL, it’s inaccessible!!!
Day four of five in the far south-west of Wales. I had been staying for three nights in St David’s, an international attraction for walkers, pilgrims and casual visitors to its ancient Cathedral. Givin its popularity I had reluctantly paid a small fortune for the privilege of a bed in the cheapest room left in town – a Premier Inn. The weather had been just about as bad as it could have been for the time of year, with the almost relentless rain gusting in at speed from the Atlantic being some sort of revenge for the relentlessly hot, dry summer. On opening the blackout curtains and peering out through the three-inch-thick double glazing, the sky was blue, and early sunshine bathed a distant hill beyond the rugby posts on the nearby recreation ground.
Carn Llidi Tor from the Premier Inn St David’s – weather conditions indeterminate
The previous evening, after being unsuccessful in getting a seat at either of the two snug olde-wordle looking pubs, I retreated to an alternative in a back street to have a quick pint before returning to the hotel. As I sat nursing a freezing cold drink that called itself a “bitter” a middle-aged American couple entered the empty saloon bar, where they stood for a minute or so. The woman who had served me was yacking away with punters in the public bar. It struck me that it might not have been the sort of place the couple were expecting, but if you’ve come 3000 miles on a pilgrimage, needs must. “We’re trying to book in,” the man said to the woman, after she eventually emerged from the public bar to cater to them.
After checking in and receiving the keys the couple went upstairs, at which point the woman who had served them slipped back into the public bar and proceeded to mock the man’s use of English. ‘” We’re trying to book in”, he says. “We’re trying to book in!” What does he mean, we’re trying to book in?”’ There was some laughter from the locals. I proceeded to carry on reading my old paperback. Ten minutes later the man came back into the bar. The woman went over to him. His wife, he explained, had noticed black mould around the shower. Was this normal and could be cleaned off? At this, instead of expressing empathy to her “guest” who, given he was from the States, may never have seen classic British bathroom black mould, the woman started a long, possibly rehearsed, load of nonsense about the rooms being cleaned down thoroughly every day and that no matter what they did it was impossible to remove. In an almost absurd escalation in the excuse stakes she then went on to explain that they could renew the putty every week, but the mould would be back the next day. That she had used the word “putty” nearly had me snorting into my beer, but apart from that it was an appalling example of how to overwhelm your victim (sorry – guest) through bluster, misinformation and subtle sarcasm. Distracted by this interaction I had stopped reading my book – ironically The Quiet American. The poor man had no effective retaliation in his armoury. Somewhat humiliated, and in the knowledge that he was going to have to go back and explain all this to his disappointed partner, he merely mumbled that “he guessed that was all that could be done then” and retreated sadly towards the stairs, head down. The quiet American alright!
I may have stayed for a second pint, but I didn’t. As soon as the man had disappeared upstairs, I could hear the woman in the other bar repeating almost word for word to the other customers what she had told him. There was some more laughter. I supped up and left. *
The reason I mention this is that the next day, and halfway up Foel Cwmcerwyn (the highest point in Pembrokeshire) I kept thinking about it, every so often shaking my head and wondering about the state of things, and indeed what she might have said to the other punters about me after I had left. ‘”A pint of bitter, please. Please, what does he mean by please?”’ Too late to worry about it now.
I had left St David’s and headed out of town on the north Pembrokeshire coast road. Past the Blue Lagoon at Abereiddy, the charming little post-industrial village of Porthgain and the pretty village of Trefin. The day before I had given up on any walking ambitions and had stopped the car in Trefin seeking refuge in the Ship Inn for an hour until an almost apocryphal downpour had stopped as quickly as it had started, after which I was at last able to go back the way I had come and finally check out some of the hidden gems.
Above Porthgain
Porthgain – the harbour. The two people on the bench are, like me, trying to work out how the car is going to exit. On the horizon the Fishguard the Rosslare ferry battles against the elements
The Blue Lagoon.I wasn’t tempted
Beyond the Blue Lagoon at Abereiddy
Despite almost persistent rain and gale force winds over the previous two days (these photos deceive), I had managed to squeeze in some short walks along parts of the coastal path. Bracing, soaking but also delightful, with huge Atlantic waves smashing into the igneous and sandstone ramparts defending the rolling hinterland, it was a place that screamed “come back.”
With one night left in Wales, the evening before I had booked a room in Cardigan, situated to the north. Foel Cwmcerwyn was, with a bit of a diversion, on route and in the heart of the Preseli hills of Stonehenge fame (arguably). I reached Fishguard midmorning. The weather forecast was ambiguous, but for the moment it was warm, windy and bright and I decided to stop and find somewhere to eat. I can’t tell you about the initial attempt to park in a pay by phone car park because it’s too painful to recount, but if you want to get close to how I felt I can recommend reading my related accounts of similar experiences with the same service provider in West Sussex and Oxfordshire. Needless to say, it was hideous in extremis. After a brief interaction with a local man who recognising my unstable condition and gave me some profound words of advice, I gave up. Minutes later I discovered an entirely free car park just a few metres further down the bay.
Fishguard – Gateway to the Republic, and the EU, from the free car park
Tempting as it was to stay a while and look out into the bay for the chance of spotting the odd seal pop its head above the surface, I had to crack on. I left Fishguard on the A4313 heading inland and east through picturesque country. I reached the village of Rosebush at around 2pm and found a small car park just past the old railway station (more later).
To reach the top of Foel Cwmcerwyn I had to work my way up to the north-east. I had a rough idea of my route but after an abortive meander north along the line of the dismantled quarry railway I backtracked to the car park and climbed back into the car. Heavy downpours were visibly operating in the area, and one was threatening now. I knew there was a chance I’d get caught out at some point, but who needed a drowning at the get go? The shower somehow missed Rosebush. Once I was reasonably satisfied that I was in the clear for a bit, I walked up to some cottages and then onto a signed footpath that led steeply up past some farm buildings and then through a large field. **
By the time I had climbed to the top of the field, I was, to put it mildly, knackered. It wasn’t a good start, but I figured I’d got the tough bit out of the way, and now on a more significant track with impressive views opening up in every direction, my motivation returned.
On track, after the initial lung buster. Looking down on Rosebush
I’ve already mentioned that the weather forecast was ambiguous, by which I mean that it predicted a lot of rain at any moment and very strong winds. I had come fairly well prepared, but now in hot sunshine, and walking resolutely up the well-trod track, I was beginning to wonder if I had overdone it. Looking south a vast battleship grey cloud shedding its load was engulfing a large industrial structure (presumably Milford Haven) dozens of miles away. Already the views were impressive, but so too were the weather systems steaming in from the Atlantic.
The track maintained a steady course heading north-east and on a reasonably tolerable gradient. Soon forestry plantations appeared on the left, and sweeping views opened up down the lush valley to the right.
Towards the forest
Towards the rest of South Wales and storm alley.
Up until this point I had been the only person on the path, but now, coming down in my direction, a couple appeared on mountain bikes. They stopped and we spoke for a bit. Like me they were from the South-East, although a decade or two younger. The man was on a bike fitted with a battery, although I wasn’t so sure the woman was. We talked a bit about cycling (me admitting I was running out of enthusiasm), and by the time we had said our farewells, I was pretty much sold on the idea of battery power. We’ll see.
I carried on across boggy ground before more trees appeared to the left, and the gradient started to increase again. Beyond the trees the wind suddenly hit me like a brick. I made it to a wooden gate which would take me onto the open hillside. Here the path steepened significantly (the cyclists had warned me although I’d been sceptical). Now tip toeing up, the wind battered me from behind, bizarrely hindering rather than assisting progress. It took about ten minutes to wearily trapeze the final couple of hundred metres to the trig point at the top. I knew it was going to be there, and with each step I relished the prospect of being able to hunker down behind it to give some respite from the gale.
So, on arrival, and finding a group of four other intrepids completely surrounding the concrete structure, my little heart sank. All I could do was loiter around for a bit in the hope they would move on, although that didn’t seem likely given their insatiable need for selfies and group photos (I didn’t begrudge them doing it, given it was an achievement worth recording, but I was a good three decades older and feeling like I’d been sandblasted). Thankfully, after some minutes, they departed in the direction of Rosebush, and I was at last able to grab hold of the trig point and stabilise my condition. The views in all directions were magnificent. Here, at the top of Foel Cwmcerwyn I could see the whole of Pembrokeshire and beyond to Cardigan Bay. To the far west the Rosslare ferry was slipping out of the safety of Fishguard harbour and smashing itself directly into the wild wind and waves of the Irish Sea. Now able to stand reasonably steady I took a few photos that probably don’t do the view justice.
A wild westerly and the resolute Trig
Rainbow over Cardigan Bay
So far, I had been lucky. Rain clouds were dotted around in every direction. It was time to head back. Launching down the path was like trying to walk into a wind tunnel. Without gravity I’d never have made it down to the gate. Beyond the gate the trees once again gave cover, and I was proceeding at a reasonable pace. Now more relaxed I was able to get a better appreciation of the views down the valley and beyond towards south Wales proper.
Towards south-westPembrokeshire
I stopped for a bit to take in the dramatic view. A farmer on a quad bike was heading up the slopes and corralling a long line of white dots from one field to another. The commotion had spooked three horses that were now galloping away under sun and shadow.
Cantering on the range
By the time I reached the end of the plantations to my right, I was becoming increasingly concerned by a large looming mass of dark cloud scudding towards my position, and with my name on it. I had nearly caught up with the gang of four who had earlier been hovering back at the trig point. A footpath led west along the edge of the forest. There were two options. Take the path under some tree cover or continue down across the large and exposed field above Pant Mawr farm. I chose the path with the trees. The others chose the field.
Large drops of rain began to fall. Sadly, the isolated tree cover was less than useless so I was forced into a light jog until, on the slopes above the old quarry, I found a large well leafed tree that offered more protection from what was by now an epic deluge. Fortuitously I had packed a small umbrella, which was deployed to surprisingly good effect.
Unaccountably well prepared
The lashing quickly passed, and I headed on down the lumpy and sodden ground to the route of the old quarry access road and railway line.
Slate heaps after the rain
By the time I reached the community run pub at the old station (Tafarn Sinc) I’d walked exactly four miles. Along with the wind and rain it had felt a lot longer but had been worth every step. I’d found a part of Wales off the beaten track, but with a great walk leading to impressive views of the south-west and Pembrokeshire .
I took my coffee out to the open terrace. A small garden area led to where the tracks had once been, and beyond the remains (or possible recreation) of a platform. Three plastic dummies, dressed in period working-class clothing had been assembled, presumably to remind us how it must have been for passengers back in the day. The intense and distant stare on the face of the woman suggested it had been thoroughly miserable, yet despite the passage of time, relative prosperity and different clothes, that look is still familiar on most station platforms today.
A distant echo
As I drove away from Rosebush and towards Cardigan, with the wind still whipping around the nearby trees, the news on the radio announced the end of a political storm that had been brewing away for days across the Atlantic. Peter Mandelson had been sacked.
* I ought to own up here. Whilst I really was appalled by the bar woman’s behaviour towards her American guests, a few weeks earlier I had met up with a very old friend in a small town in the Peloponnese. I was staying in the town, and he was passing through in his camper van. As we sat outside a taverna waiting for food and observing a mink casually saunter up the road on the prowl for anything that moved, I mentioned the sequence of wildlife sounds that had been routinely waking me up in my room every morning. Starting with a crescendo of sparrow chirping around six, followed minutes after that by the sound of a mouse running backwards and forwards in the ceiling space above my bed (it might have been a rat, but I wasn’t prepared to countenance that possibility), and then finally the cicada’s early morning conversations.
The mention of the mouse took my friend back fifty years to a distant moment in time when he had worked at the Waldorf Hotel in London in the mid-1970s. He explained that for a time he had been the night manager and that the worst part of that role was the almost nightly complaints from new American guests about the sound of mice in their room. My friend is one of the funniest people I have ever known, so it was no great surprise that over the next ten minutes he rolled out a long list of all the excuses that the night manager was expected to respond with under these circumstances, and that by the end I was on the floor in hysterics. Without going into specifics, the essential aim was to express immediate and incomprehensible dismay (“A mouse sir! Surely you’re mistaken.”), that the possibility of a mouse in the Waldorf was an impossibility in modern 1970s Britain, that perhaps sirs wife had oversensitive hearing, or that they may have been confused by another source of the noise, or even whether it might have been possible that the guests had brought the mouse into the hotel in their hand baggage. Only in the last resort would a room change be agreed. Of course, it was the 1970s, and not just the Waldorf, but almost every structure in the whole of London was riddled with mice.
** Not visible at ground level, but when I looked at the area around Rosebush on Google earth, I noticed what appeared to be huge letters spelling the word CAWS in the tree plantation just to the east of the cottages. Surely my eyes were deceived. Well, a bit of research and sure enough, around twenty years ago the local farm, which produces its own cheese, planted a large number of conifers that do indeed spell CAWS, which apparently is the Welsh for “cheese”. Smile! Here’s a free ad for them.
I’d started the day in Chepstow and by the late morning had undertaken a short one mile walk to the top of Newport Unitary Authority (or County depending on your cup of tea). By the end of the day, I hoped to be in St David’s in the very south-west of Wales, an area of the mainland completely new to me.
South Wales is festooned with Unitary Authorities (also known as Principal Authorities in Wales – yeah, I know, I’m learning this stuff as I’m going alone). Twelve at least. From what I can tell most of these fall within the footprint of the old county of Glamorgan. Given my stay was just a handful of days I had to be realistic about what I could achieve. I plumped on one more on my way to Pembrokeshire.
Leaving Wentwood forest to the north-east of Newport I headed up to Usk, an attractive small Georgian town with its very own well designed but slightly incongruous, Victorian prison. Past Usk and in need of a refreshment, I stopped at the Chainbridge Inn on the banks of the River Usk, adjacent to its namesake bridge (built in 1906 and not a chain bridge!).
The chain bridge, in black and white. In colour it’s an oddly attractive pastel green.
Rehydrated I carried on to Abergavenny then onto the A465 and the revelation that is the Head of the Valley’s Road. I knew this road headed west but had no idea what to expect. As far as I knew the only major road in south Wales was the M4, which I’d vowed to avoid if I could. The first thing I noticed as I drove away from Abergavenny was the enormity of the rain that suddenly appeared from nowhere and within seconds turned the dual carriageway into a fast-flowing riverbed. The flash flood was so extreme that for the first time in my driving career every other driver slowed down to around 30 miles an hour and took extreme care (I know, I was shocked at having no-one diss).
After ten minutes or so the rains passed, and now in bright sunshine it was possible to get a better sense of the road, and to be fair, it was staggering. Obviously recently improved, the dual carriageway made its way upwards with hills and country to the north, and valley by valley, the old coalmining towns of fame to the south. Blaenavon, Abertillery, Ebbw Vale, Tredegar and then Merthyr Tydfil, just to name a few. This was an impressive and at times spectacular piece of infrastructure, which, it seems, had only been completed in May 2025. It was hard to imagine that not so long ago it would have been a two-way high road with an endless stream of open topped lorries lugging wood and various carbon-based minerals east to west and then south, beset by roadworks, traffic jams and all happening in black and white. If, and when, I come this way again, the A465 is the road for me. And, for context, if I’m to carry on cresting counties, I’m going to have to come back this way as several of the “tops” are on the slopes just to the north of the road.
Before we get to where we’re going with this account, there is something I need to say about Welsh road signs. And before I say it, I wish to make it clear that it’s my problem, no one else’s (coward!). * So far, it had been so good. What I mean by this is that by and large I had coped with the road signs, primarily because I was familiar with most of the names of the towns en-route. Welsh road signs (in case you’ve not been) are in Welsh and then English. The problem for any non-Welsh speaker is that it’s got to be one of the most impenetrable languages on the planet. I’ve been to quite a few European countries and despite not knowing the languages usually manage to get around fairly easily. Even in Greece, where a lot of the road signs appear in the demotic Greek alphabet, I can usually get a grasp of the look and sound to help me on my way. Sadly, and to my shame, I can’t say the same about Welsh.
Past Merthyr Tydfil I was instantly out of my depth (having yet to get my phone to successfully pair with the in-car audio system) as the road signs came and went without me having the time to fully digest their meaning (the Welsh appears first). To reach Mynydd Y Betwys, the “top” of Swansea and my chosen second “top” of the day, I first had to get to a place called Glynneath, about ten miles west of Merthyr. For the life of me I couldn’t get this to stick in my brain – and it’s an easy one! I had pulled off the A465 twice to check my location before eventually reaching the Glynneath junction. It wasn’t the name that helped me identify the junction but the fact that I had looked at the map so many times I was interpreting the topography and landscape rather than the signage.
Past Glynneath I was now on the A4109 heading up a steep hill and with the radiator grill of a huge articulated lorry looming close in the rear-view mirror. My little old Ford had no gear equal to the challenge and all I could do was metaphorically close my eyes, grip the steering wheel, and hope. Towards the top of this long drag I was eventually able to get clear of the maniac but for a minute or two I had felt like Dennis Weaver in the exemplary thriller Duel.
By now, the road signs had become irrelevant. I was driving by wire and instinct. I knew I needed to get to a place that started with a Y, followed by at least twelve other letters that could have been in any order, and I would never have been able to pronounce it. At one point the road forked in two and taking the left fork, I immediately decided to stop to get my bearings. I got out the phone and looked for the town which started with a Y and decided I had taken the wrong fork. As I put down the phone and set off, I checked the rear mirror (as you do) and there, parked up, twenty-five metres back, on the other side of the road, was the lorry. Don’t panic, it was just a film for forks sake! I made a swift exit onto the A4221. If I could just make it to Y……….. surely I’d be safe. **
The town beginning with Y was a place called Yynnwddsypondywynnagogo. No, of course it wasn’t. It was actually called Ystradglylias, a large town that I had never heard of before. And it wasn’t the only one. There were loads of them. Given that (unaccountably) 2% of my DNA is south Wales I’m ashamed of my ignorance of these places.
Anyway, past Ystradglylias I headed on down the A4067 (the main Swansea road), turned right into Pontardawe and then further inland on the A474. Lost again I pulled over and punched in the destination on my phone. I knew I was close but with my complete inability to absorb any of the information being presented on the road signs I might as well have been shooting at ducks in the night. Ok, so all I had to do, according to Google maps, was to keep heading north on the A474 and take the first left and then uphill for a mile or so and then… well, I’d check again then.
I took the first left onto a small road that headed down into a small valley. So far so good. I reached a municipal recycling centre on the right. The road continued west, but a sign, helpfully in English (No Entry), unhelpfully claimed that further progress was, if not illegal, then certainly not possible. Despite the wondrous progress made on the A465 I had been driving for over two and a half hours. The thought of turning around and trying to navigate another route now was a tad demoralising. Well, whatever was going to happened next, I could only try, and so long as the nutter in the lorry wasn’t coming the opposite way it would probably be okay.
Just past the prohibitive sign the road narrowed rapidly and then started tracking steeply up and around super tight bends. It reminded me of the sort of roads that in the 1970s, those of a sportier spirit drove small low bodied cars up as fast as they could just to find out how quickly it could be done and as a bonus appear on Saturday afternoon TV. But I wasn’t in a sporty mood and made every effort to reach the top in a record slow time, aware that at any moment I might be confronted by a large slab of concrete.
Coming towards the top a tiny wedge of land opened to my right – just large enough for me to pull over to check the view and how close I was to the edge.
How Green was my Valley? Hmm… wrong film colour! The Upper Glyndach River valley
The road soon reached a plateau. Turning right I was now heading west on a straight road crossing moorland that offered up impressive views in every direction, and numerous sheep that hadn’t yet worked out sensible kerbside etiquette. The road descended again, this time into the Lower Glyndach River valley before ascending steeply again up to another plateau.
I pulled over again to appreciate the view, which now included an impressive set of wind turbines stretching away to the north.
Wind mining and the noble sheep
After the short stop the road curved round to the south-west. Wind turbines were popping up all around. An impressive sight, and no doubt an impressive site. A left turn (my mental map was now switched on and working), and the road continued around the contour until on the left a sliver of a stopping place that I had noted on Google earth presented itself. I wondered about the legitimacy of parking at this spot. Whilst there was no signage to indicate it was a passing point, and the road was reasonably wide; it remained a very exposed spot. I rationalised that the “top” wasn’t too far to the east and given that there wasn’t another vehicle in sight I locked up and set off up the slight incline across the boggy moor. If it hadn’t been such a dry summer the ground underfoot would have been a boot sucking minefield, but as it was it was sufficiently tolerable to make good progress. Sheep and turbines abounded at the top, which was no more than 100 metres from the road.
The approximate top – Mynydd Y Betwys
I knew to carry on for another hundred metres or so to reach the little treasure on the top.
Even when I found it, it wasn’t entirely obvious, but slowly the low ditch and ramparts of Penlle’r Castell emerged. I had assumed it was an Iron Age structure but turns out it was more likely to have been a medieval stronghold of some sort. What exactly they would have been strongholding against wasn’t entirely clear (Knights tilting at windmills perhaps), but the views in all directions were remarkable.
Penlle’r Castell looking north
Penlle’r Castell looking east and as it would have appeared in the 13th century
I skipped across the sphagnum, moorland grass and sheep offerings and back to the car. The wind was hammering in from the west, and the turbines were doing their job. I may have said it before but word from across the pond is that wind turbines are already old technology. Apparently, they are a waste of money, that there is no climate change problem to worry about and they are a blight on golfing landscapes (I’m sure someone once said the same thing about golf courses). Seems that there’s a new technology in town and it ticks all the boxes. Spelt OIL. It’s great to know they have our backs. ***
Big Wheels Keep on Turning, grouse moors keep on burning.
There were no plunging views from the top of Mynydd Y Betwys but you could see for tens of miles in every direction. A gem of a low peak where the energy of the movement of the earth and the seas is trying to turn the tables. It may be too late, but at least someone’s trying.
Can you tell what the forecast was?
I still had 70 odd miles to go in the day, and so it was a relief to find the car still there beyond the roadside ditch. And not a lorry in sight!
*It’s probably just as well that hardly anyone reads these accounts as I am sure if anyone did I would be in hot water over this observation.
** I didn’t see the lorry again and rationalised that the driver had stopped for the very same reason I had. English and lost.
***US oil companies generously donated $445million to Trump’s last election campaign! Who could possibly tell?
The last heatwave of the summer had come and gone. I seemed to have missed most of the August one, driving between home, hospitals, care homes and petrol stations but the personal hiatus had calmed down. Before winter set in I decided to head off somewhere new and seek out some more county tops if the opportunity arose. Hmm… but where?
Sunday the 7th of September and I’m to the south of London, heading west on the M25. The day before I had booked a room for the night in Chepstow, just over the big river and just inside Wales. I had plumped for three nights in the extreme south-west of Wales, but the idea of taking that journey on in one day felt a bit too ambitious.
I had only been on the motorway for ten minutes before the almost inevitable slow down. It was still early on a Sunday morning but the M25 has a knack of buggering up your day at any time it wants to. As the stream of traffic plodded along under the scarp slope of the North Downs, at around twenty miles an hour, ahead I could make out the figure of one of our new breed of “patriots” standing on a footbridge, with a balaclava over his head and waving a St George’s flag at the passing motorists. It was a warm day. The window was down, my right arm shooting the breeze and with Cerys on the radio playing sweet Sunday morning melodies. And this “proud” boy had just gone and crushed my karma. In that moment, and just seconds before I passed under the bridge, my right arm made an entirely involuntary movement of the Churchillian variety. I doubt he saw it, waving as he was to someone who had honked, I assumed in support. Sigh…
Four hours later, and what felt like an over exposure to footbridges sporting St George’s flags (I should say, for balance, that the Women’s Rugby World Cup was on and England were the favourites), I drove over the River Severn at close to low tide, entered the Principality and fifteen minutes later was checking in at the Beaufort Hotel in Chepstow, a town I had passed several times before, but had never peeked.
With the sun beginning to sink I took a walk down to the River Wye. The Chepstow side (Wales) was flat and nestled in a large curve in the river. On the opposite side of the river (England) an impressive limestone cliff reared up. A hole in the cliff was explained away on a noticeboard as being used for different purposes over the centuries, including storing dynamite. Nothing explained away the huge Union Jake chalked onto the surface of the rock just to the right of the hole, but refreshingly it had nothing to do with recent “disturbances”. The tide was still going out, the dirty brown river thundering along and generating a mass of swirling eddies. Not too far downriver the Wye meets the Severn. It crossed my mind that if an opportunity arose in the future, I’d want to see the Severn bore. Looking around, the Castle took me by surprise and as castles go, it was the business. The rest of the town was an interesting mix of Georgian, Victorian and the occasional 1950s concrete misfire. Back in the Beaufort and a quick pint before bed Motorcycle Emptiness by the Manic Street Preachers issued from the speakers at a satisfactorily loud level. I was being welcomed to Wales, and I wasn’t complaining.
Monday morning and a coffee outside the Ugly Mug Cafe whilst planning my routes for the day. Until the construction of the first Severn Road bridge in 1966, the high street in Chepstow was the main road between England and South Wales. The road through the town is a bog standard small town road, but half way up it narrows to one lane as it passes through the medieval town gate, set into the defensive wall. Trying to imagine what it must have been like here before the construction of the bridge and M4 was enough to make the brain hurt. The ultimate destination was to be St David’s in Pembrokeshire. Still a long way to go but I had all day, the sun was still smiling, and so far, I hadn’t seen a St George’s flag. I wove out of town on the B4293 and then the B4235. (I had an uncle, no longer with us, who had the remarkable ability of being able to describe almost any journey to any destination – particularly if it ended in Scotland – by naming each and every A/B and M road on the route, and the exact locations where one became another. If you’d driven to his house from Cape Wrath, it would be time to go home by the time he’d explained to you in detail the way you had come in the first place – Scotch Corner often featured).
I was heading west to Wentwood Forest and the location of the highest point in the Unitary Authority – also referred to as a County Borough – of Newport (which would explain why its football team is called Newport County AFC). Wentwood Forest lies at the authorities’ north-eastern limit and on the boundary with Monmouthshire. The drive up from Chepstow was pleasant and almost traffic free. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to end up but as I drove in the general direction of the forest, I met the Usk Road, and a sign pointing back east to the Cadeira Beeches car park. Parking up I checked the phone and was satisfied that it would do. An information board explained that the forest was unique and one of the oldest ancient woodlands in Wales.
Setting off on a wide track to the west of the car park, all I needed to do was keep on going. The track rose gently. A car approached from the opposite direction, which suggested I could have driven closer to the top, but I needed the stretch.
After about a kilometre the track bore to the right. A few metres on a sign pointed into the woods and to Wentworth’s Ancestors? These were two low Bronze Age burial mounds lying in a small clearing in the woods.
The view from one Ancient (me) to another
I climbed to the top of the larger mound. It took three seconds. A moment to ponder what it all meant, but no answers came. Back on the track and what was indeed a road quickly deteriorated into a muddy puddled quagmire that would have certainly swallowed up my little Ford. I’d made a sensible decision.
The track met an unnamed road which I crossed and then into a large carpark with just one vehicle, looking slightly vulnerable. A wide track led on west, but I chose to take a smaller path just to the south, on the basis that it, rather than the track, appeared to continue heading gently upwards.
On the drive up there had been a point near where I had joined the Usk Road where a dramatic view had opened to the north towards the Brecon Beacons and most obviously Sugar Loaf, the distinctive peak that was responsible for all this endeavour in the first place (requires reading the introductory premise). Whilst the walk in the woods was nice, given that I was near the top of the hill, it was a slight disappointment to realise that there wasn’t going to be a similar view at some point. I guess that every tree is sacred, but still!
Another 100 metres on and a communication tower to the left, a good sign at any location that the top is nearby. The path was wooded on both sides and after another 200 metres I sensed that I must have been near, or at the top. I knew that a trig point was somewhere in the neighbourhood, but it wasn’t obvious. Scanning the surrounding thickets I eventually picked out what looked like something of a track leading into the woods just off the main path.
Left turn to the top
It wasn’t immediately obvious but having discovered the indistinct path I took the bait and then, stooping below the brambles, took careful steps through the undergrowth. Every so often flattened vegetation indicated others had recently passed through. Other Crest hunters, it seemed, had been here too.
Within a minute or two I emerged into something of a clearing and there it was. The concrete trig point, painted white and with a red dragon to boot.
The trig in the woods
Any hope of a view here was dashed. The thickets and low trees continued into the distance.
A restricted view
That said it was a serene spot, and the painted trig point an interesting feature. I have an old friend who spent much of his youth growing up in Newport. I sent a photo of the trig, asking him if he could guess where I was.
There was nothing more to do but return the way I had come. I was slightly relieved to emerge onto the path unseen by anyone else. It might have looked a bit odd. The big car park had gained another three or four vehicles in the time I had been to the top, and dog walkers were heading off in various directions.
Just past the Ancient’s I noticed a break in the tree line and the entrance into what turned out to be a much bigger clearing than anything so far. Sun was occasionally breaking through the clouds. Walking down into the clearing a view of Newport, the Bristol Channel, and far beyond the north Somerset coast, shimmered between isolated tall pines. I stopped for a while to take it all in.
Glimpsing the county
I set off back to the car park, scanning between the trees for just one inch of a view to the north, but it never came.
Back in the car and taking off my boot, a ping announced an incoming text. It just said “Wales?”
I texted back. “If I said no? Well… yes. One-point smart arse.”
Perhaps unsurprisingly, a month on and he’s not replied.
The walk was just two miles, but this was a nice spot, and deeper into Autumn the trees will radiate here. Just a few miles to the west lies Blackwood, the home of the Manic’s. Sorry, any tenuous excuse!
El Colmado 57 