Cresting the County – Powys (Unitary Authority)

Pen y Fan

886 Metres

2970 feet

25th October 2025

A Second Chance

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 a pay by phone parking experience, during 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. Days 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. 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.

https://www.justgiving.com/team/penyfan365

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.

Cresting the County – Bracknell Forest (Unitary Authority)

Surrey Hill

130 Metres

425 feet

24th October 2025

Straight tracks and Switchbacks

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.

Cresting the County – Vale of Glamorgan (Bro Morgannwg) – Unitary Authority

Tair Onnen

137 metres

449 feet

12th September 2025

Bus Stop Quandy

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!!!

https://www.richardgower.com/blog/taironen

Cresting the County – Pembrokeshire (Sir Benfro)

Foel Cwmcerwyn

Metres 536

Feet 1759

11th September 2025

Rosebush Village Limits

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-west Pembrokeshire

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.

https://pantmawrcheeses.co.uk/

Cresting the County – Swansea Unitary Authority (Abertawe)

Mynydd Y Betwys – Penlle’r Castell

Metres 373

Feet 1224

8th September 2025

On the Road to Mynydd Y Betwys

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?

Cresting the County – Newport (Casnewydd) County Borough Unitary Authority

Wentwood Forest

Metres 309

Feet 1013

8th September 2025

The Hidden Trig

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!

Cresting the County – Brighton and Hove (Unitary Authority)

Bullock Hill

197 Metres

646 feet

23rd August 2025

Move on Up

It was a Saturday, and I had woken up with no particular objective in mind. That said I’d spent nearly a month running around like a headless chicken on caring duties and was truly exhausted. Once upon a time, on a day like this (warm and a soft sun) I often found myself on an empty Saturday slipping onto a train or tube and spending a couple of hours watching football in one part of London or another. Those days are long gone, not least because you can’t just turn up at a ground and expect to get in, but more significantly because I no longer live in London. No footie, no worries. Take a walk instead and hope to avoid all results until Match of the Day.

This one had been on my mind for a while. The old county of Sussex is now (at the time of writing *) split east and west, and at its heart is the Unitary Authority of Brighton and Hove. I had done East and West Sussex in 2024, but Brighton and Hove had eluded me. Today was the day to get on the boots, a train, and then up the chalk.

I missed the first direct train. It was at the platform as I crossed the footbridge but knowing that there was no time to buy tickets and board, I was resigned to wait for the next. That was fine. There was no rush. I wandered down the nearby street, full of second-hand shops, small galleries and one stop dog manicuring facilities. It was busy, and the usual coffee outlets were bursting. Walking back towards the station on the other side of the road, music was seeping, quite loudly, from an unfamiliar shopfront. A vinyl record store that sold coffee. Hmmm… well why not?

With my coffee secured and sitting outside watching the world go by, all was well. And then it got ten times better. Those unmistakable opening brass blasts of Move on Up by Curtis Mayfield get me every time, and it was no different now. If I hadn’t already been motivated, I certainly was now. Sometimes, depending on whether something has inspired me on the day, I embed a music video from YouTube at the end of these accounts, and I’m just telling you now – it’s going to be there. The extended version of course.

The Brighton train pulled into Eastbourne, which is a terminus and where all trains stop for fifteen minutes or so to allow the driver to swap ends before onward progress. It’s a tad frustrating to be honest and is entirely the fault of Mr Beeching, who, along with his committee, decided to remove a mile long section of track to the north of the town. This had provided direct services along the coast, but now it has gone it means that everyone travelling east to west (and back), is sucked into Eastbourne for the mandatory pitstop, thus rendering speedy transit to Brighton or London an impossibility. Well, no worries. I wasn’t in a rush.

The train failed to leave the station at the designated time, but it was only when the guard walked down the carriage apologising to the passengers and explaining that someone had locked themselves in the toilet, that the atmosphere on the train changed. Almost immediately some of my fellow travellers were very loudly offering up a menu of opinions they had in mind if the situation wasn’t dealt with quickly. This included a man near me volunteering to kick the f’ing door down. I’m not sure the guard handled the situation very well to be honest. He chuckled at the offer of assisted violence but also hinted that the person was a teenager trying to avoid paying the fare. By now there were people, male and female, on their feet and baying for blood. A chant went up “get him out, get him out, get him out.” I felt like I was at a footie match in the 1980’s. I sat schtum. It’s felt a bit like the leash has been slipped in recent months, with some unpleasant sentiments and reactions bubbling to the surface of society that would have previously been unacceptable. The situation finally resolved itself when the toilet door opened and moments later three (yup, three) fifteen-year-old lads in trackies appeared on the platform looking cocky and unfazed. There was a muted round of applause for the guard. I looked at the three boys, heads turning this way and that like a group of nervous meerkats. They’d chanced it, had had a moment of fun and annoyed a few people. No one was hurt. Thank God they had been white.

The train left a few minutes late of course. I alighted at Falmer station. Falmer sits just to the northeast of Brighton. It’s the site of the University of Sussex and the relatively new Brighton and Hove Albion football stadium. Earlier I had had a moment of panic when it dawned on me that there might have been a Premier League game at the ground that afternoon. That would have been a drag, but there wasn’t, so I was the only person to get off the train. I was heading to Bullock Hill, the highest point in Brighton and Hove and a mile or so to the south of Falmer.

Walking out of the station I made my way up a series of concrete steps that led towards student residential buildings. It was summer and there was no one in sight. It felt strange wandering through an empty campus, next to an empty football stadium. I’ve supported Tottenham Hotspur since 1967, when they won the FA cup. As a teenager I was brought up in Croydon and so spent a lot of time going to watch Crystal Palace (ironically the current FA Cup holders). Along with Arsenal (see Spurs above), Brighton is the theoretical enemy. When Palace play Brighton, it’s called the M23 derby. As far as I can recall there’s never been any violence, and I hope it stays that way.

Past the university buildings and at a higher level now, I passed along the side of the stadium. On a game free early Saturday afternoon, a soulless place to be. The road led on to the east. I turned and took another look at the ground, nestling into the chalk.

The offside rule explained.

Before we start to go up, here’s a tenuous Brighton joke to break the tedium (I’m afraid it’ a longish read).

A year or two ago I was with family in the garden of a pub in Nottingham, expecting to watch Nottingham Forest on the outdoor TV. Due to a colossal misunderstanding the match (which was taking place a quarter of a mile from where we were sitting) wasn’t televised, so the entertainment had gone missing in action. Except, at just around 3pm, and as we sat disappointed by the development, a middle-aged man wandered over to our bench, sat down and proceeded to tell a joke. Over the next two hours, and without interruption, he told joke after joke, only pausing occasionally to accept the offer of another pint. None were offensive, rude or controversial, but most were funny. This was one of them:

“You’ve heard of the footballer, Danny Welbeck?” Yup, we all answer.

“Played for United, now at Brighton.” Yes, we all answer.

“You’ll have heard of his dad then?” No, we all answer.

“What? Everyone knows Danny’s dad.” Well, we don’t, we reply.

“Yeah, he was in the army. Everyone knew him.” We are all ears.

“A Bomb disposal expert.” Wow! We didn’t know that.

“Yeah, everyone in the army knew him. Great guy.” Hmmm… (where’s this one going?)

“Danny’s Welbeck’s dad,” he paused.  “Yeah, we all knew Stan.”

Boom boom. How we laughed – eventually!

Walking east and away from the Amex Stadium and the university complex I crossed over Falmer Road then started the ascent on a well-maintained cycle/path path. The route was set back from road and tracked it up the chalk slope. Steep at times but then easing off views began to open out to the east and towards Lewis.

Waves of chalk heading towards Lewes

After a mile or so a slight bend in the road and some land set aside for wild planting offered an opportunity to inspect some colourful flora. Looking towards the southwest the view towards  Shoreham was unexpectedly spectacular.

Spot the butterfly

This was a whole new part of the world for me, and I was impressed. Five minutes on and I was at the top of the ridge, with tracks heading directly east and towards my objective. Following the track that flanked the edge of the Woodingdean housing estate (a desolate dormitory in winter I imagined) I soon arrived at a point which presented options. The main one was a signposted path that had all the hallmarks of being official. Tempted, but not convinced, I decided to follow the unmarked track that headed straight into a field and with a telecommunication tower just to the right.

Bullock Hill rising just to the left of the aerial.

Passing the small collection of buildings and rising metal structures I was able to get a sense of where the highest point was located. This required a slightly tricky clomp over bone hard uneven ground until, after a couple of minutes, I could see a trig point in the middle of a recently harvested field.

The other thing I saw was four people gathered around the trig point. I was slightly surprised by this because it was clearly off the beaten track (which officially was running about 200 hundred metres to the north). Slightly self-consciously I cracked on across the cracked land and stubble. As I approached it became clear that the small group were in the middle of something which appeared to involve a camera and badly applied makeup. Despite the absurdity of it all I felt like a brazen intruder. At about ten paces one or two of the group became aware of my presence, which they acknowledged. “Hi,” one of the young men said (it was three young men and a woman). “Can we help?” he added. Feeling like a complete nerk, and not really knowing what to say, I managed to splutter out something about having come a long way and wanting to get to the trig point. “Ok, no problem,” he replied, “we’re nearly finished.”

By now I had noticed that the woman and one of the men were wearing white sheets with randomly applied muddy smears, and the other two men between them carried expensive looking camera and recording equipment. I guessed that they were probably students making the obligatory short zombie movie that they hoped would soon propel them to Hollywood. I stood and looked away towards the communication towers. Self-consciousness doesn’t get close.

Looking away from the action

Within a minute or two they had finished and I wandered towards them. “So, what’s the importance of this place then?” one of them asked.

“Oh, not much,” I replied. “It’s just the highest point in Brighton.” All four faces turned towards me, jaws beginning to drop.

“No way man.” “For real?” “Who knew?” The woman yawned. They looked around and behold, it was true. Moments earlier they had just been sitting in a field on a mound surrounded by loads of other fields on similar sized mounds. Now it was obvious to them that they were on the summit of a mighty hill, staring down imperiously over everything in sight, including the i360 in Brighton.

Conversation flowed. Did I know what the large crater was just a few paces to the east of the trig point. Well, I sort of did but wasn’t 100% sure. “It could be a sink or swallow hole, possibly post-glacial,” I ventured. “Actually, I reckon it’s more likely to be a dew pond. Dug out by a farmer a couple of hundred years ago, perhaps.”

Bullock Hill Trig. Today’s lecture will be from Prof Bull S. Hitter

The crater – subject of various bs theories.

Incredibly, within a minute, I had gone from an awkward stranger to a veteran sage of the mountain. Their collective astonishment at my imparted (and I should add – free) wisdom and knowledge was almost overwhelming, and for almost the first time in my life I had justified my choice of doing a Geography degree in the 1970s. It was time to go before they asked me a question I couldn’t answer, though to be fair I seem to have slipped into bullshit mode effortlessly.

We parted company and I wandered over to the crater for a closer inspection. Yup, artillery – Second World War. Time to move on down.

I followed the edge of the field to an open gate and at a point that met up with a bridleway heading east. I looked at my ancient Ordinance Survey map (Landranger 198). Immediately to the south, at a distance, I was able to make out the black and white form of the Beacon Hill windmill at Rottingdean. Which was exactly where I wanted to be. A path in the field adjacent to the bridleway headed straight towards it. After a quick rest I got on it and strode forth.

Tilting towards a windmill

It all looked pretty straightforward. Follow the path and head on down. At the end of the first field a walker friendly gate gave access into a much bigger field which rolled away on all sides. The only slight concern was a sign to the side of the gate proclaiming private property. That’s as maybe, I thought, before setting off on what felt like a path. After about five minutes I came to another of what appeared to be a recently installed gate. It sat at the end of a few low hawthorn trees and quite literally on its own.

The Riddle of the Gate

Another sign re-stated the private ownership of the land. Was this some sort of fantasy video game in which you had to correctly answer a riddle or question before progressing (Mordon’s Quest on the Spectrum from 1985 came to mind – I never did understand what the saltpetre was for). Obviously, I decided to go around the gate, but had this been the right decision? Well, I didn’t blow up, so I guessed it was and carried on down towards two more of these standalone installation gates, one of which I decided to go through just to make sure it was in working order. Carrying on I headed towards another fence and gate around 400 metres to the south. The land here was shaped into a wide folded dry valley with the crop recently harvested. It was a barren sight, made more dramatic by the endless hot and dry weather. It felt lifeless, except at that moment a green woodpecker flew past, settled on a nearby tree and then let out its distinctive high-pitched call.

Classic chalk dry valley, with the emphasis on “dry”

As I reached the end of the field and the escape gate (here at least there was the more traditional fence either side) a middle-aged woman accompanying a girl on a horse approached in the other direction. I gave way and they came through into the field. I said hello and asked the woman if she knew what the lonely gates in the fields was all about. She didn’t know, but then told me it was private land, and “they” could…… She hesitated, as if realising that what she was about to say next might sound absurd. “Hmm… Shoot me?” I joked. She didn’t look very amused but at least it broke the ice. “No, no,” was all she could muster. I smiled and passed on, thinking that what she probably meant to say was “they could prosecute me for trespass.” Yup, that really would have been absurd, but in England (not Scotland) there are many landowners who will go out of their way to keep the hoi polloi off their domains, either through neglect of the infrastructure, or in some cases, the deliberate blocking of legitimate rights of way. That didn’t explain why here, very new and quite obviously expensive walker friendly gates had been installed right next to signage which aimed to make it clear that walkers weren’t welcome. I did have a look on-line later, and whilst I couldn’t find anything to explain the existence of the gates, quite a vicious outbreak of words had recently appeared on a Woodingdean Facebook site about the allegedly deliberate ploughing of footpaths in the area. I didn’t look too hard because it was quite a brutal read, and perhaps reflective of our species newfound ability to miscommunicate with every touch of the keypad. Oh well, I guess I’ll never know the reason, and that’s probably for the best.

Past the gate I joined a more significant track that led towards a large farm complex. On either side areas of land had been set aside for horses and with people were milling around, mucking out and generally minding their own business. I wondered if they were looking at me through one eye and thinking “trespasser”. Too much paranoia I think (Ossie had only recently died after all). Through the farm and, with a slight sigh of relief, at last I was back on public land.

Continuing south and back on the Falmer Road, I started into Rottingdean. On the left cricket was being played on a pitch that made the slope at Lords look like a salt flat. A sign at the side of the road explained the history of the Rottingdean Cricket club and a little-known fact that the highest score ever run off a single delivery was made on a nearby older ground. For the record it was 67; after the ball had ended up rolling down the high street and before the introduction of boundaries. When the ball eventually arrived back at the wicketkeeper, he missed the stumps and the ball then set off down another street. There’s a metaphor here for something or other.

Howzat?

The buildings entering the town were, to say the least, eclectic, and in the main very well to do. Soon afterwards I was at the busy sea front heading west along the wide Undercliff path and under the chalk cliffs and towards Brighton. The last time I had been here had been some years back, on a cycle ride from Brighton to Eastbourne. Not a particularly long ride but trying to hoik the bike over the Seven Sisters had nearly finished me off. That was something that wasn’t going to happen again. ** Up until this point there had been a fine haze that had kept the temperature at a reasonable level, but that was now lifting, and the sun was occasionally breaking through, illuminating seaweed on the rocks below and bringing life back into the chalk cliffs.

Undercliff path looking back to the east

As added interest a low flying seaplane (type unknown) glided silently past, going west to east.

Flying with the birds

I was beginning to flag a bit and regretted not having stopped for a tea or coffee at Rottingdean. Keeping to the Undercliff path I trudged past the Marina, which seemed to go on far too long. Beyond the Marina I stopped for a few minutes to watch and listen to a rock band entertaining a large crowd gathered at a mini festival. The tune they were blasting out almost sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it, and it wasn’t quite my cup of tea; speaking of which I was now in desperate need.

Rock the Marina

Madeira Drive looked longer than I remembered it, but it had to be tackled.

I’m not entirely sure if it could be classed as music, but at the halfway point between the Marina and the Pier a brain numbing sound was blasting out from the Concorde 2 music venue. Two or three years earlier, with a friend, I had had the privilege of seeing Steel Pulse there. Whatever the genre was that was crucifying the eardrums of the punters there now, it certainly wasn’t anything like Handsworth Revolution. As I say, I was now desperate for a large tea, and I certainly wasn’t going to get that at the Concorde 2.

Now desperate, and against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to a tea option at one of the tacky seafront fish and chip/kebab/candy floss and ice cream outlets near the Sea World aquarium. Despite emphasising that I just needed a very small drop of milk, the man who served me couldn’t resist pouring a quarter of a pint of the stuff into the cup. I was tempted to protest but didn’t have the energy to follow up any potential conflict with added venom, so grabbed the miserable warm concoction and went and sat on an uncomfortable bench.

At least here there was more entertainment to be had. A small group of mods were posing on their classic scooters on the other side of the road. It was quite hard to establish which one of them was the “Face”. In part this was because all the men were bald and their facial structures, a bit like mine, had slowly collapsed over the fifty odd years since they had first arrived here on the back of watching Quadrophenia. Despite their average age of an estimated 65 plus, most were dressed in state-of-the-art 1960’s mod clothing. Revving up (well that’s not quite the right description – the sound more that of defective lawn mowers hitting hidden twigs), they began to assemble on the opposite pavement with an indication that they were about to ride off in unison. They were waiting for something. And then he was there and being saluted by a collective throttle tonk. The Face! At full speed and his ride decked in at least thirty rear view mirrors, a man drove by at maximum speed…. on his mobility scooter. From my side of the road, a young man and woman dressed in immaculately retro “Rocker” gear jogged across to their motorcycle. They were acknowledged by the mods, and a few friendly words were exchanged. I couldn’t help chuckling. Was it nostalgia, cosplay or a genuine commitment to the cause? Either way it had kept my mind off the task of digesting the disgusting warm milk that I’d paid £3 for.

At least here there was more entertainment to be had. A small group of mods were posing on their classic scooters on the other side of the road. It was quite hard to establish which one of them was the “Face”. In part this was because all the men were bald and their facial structures, a bit like mine, had slowly collapsed over the fifty odd years since they had first arrived here on the back of watching Quadrophenia. Despite their average age of an estimated 65 plus, most were dressed in state-of-the-art 1960’s mod clothing. Revving up (well that’s not quite the right description – the sound more that of defective lawn mowers hitting hidden twigs), they began to assemble on the opposite pavement with an indication that they were about to ride off in unison. They were waiting for something. And then he was there and being saluted by a collective throttle tonk. The Face! At full speed and his ride decked in at least thirty rear view mirrors, a man drove by at maximum speed…. on his mobility scooter. From my side of the road, a young man and woman dressed in immaculately retro “Rocker” gear jogged across to their motorcycle. They were acknowledged by the mods, and a few friendly words were exchanged. I couldn’t help chuckling. Was it nostalgia, cosplay or a genuine commitment to the cause? Either way it had kept my mind off the task of digesting the disgusting warm milk that I’d paid £3 for.

Not in the least bit refreshed but suitably entertained, I continue past the Pavilion and then up the steep backstreets off the Queens Road. A familiar noise began creeping up behind me. I turned around and there they were again. The mods on their sewing machines. As they passed me by, and now closer, I was able to re-assess the average age. It was at least 75 and they were clinging onto the handles for grim death, which of course was waiting just around the corner. Three or four of the riders, who came with their partners on the back, almost had to get off and walk their bikes around the turning into Foundry Street.

By the time I reached Brighton station my ankles were crying out in revolt. I recognised the sensation. The last time I’d experienced similar hadn’t been during the climb of Ben Nevis a year earlier, but instead it had been at this exact spot in May 2024, after walking from Falmer station to Ditchling Beacon (the highest point in East Sussex) and then back into Brighton. History was repeating itself. Eleven miles in total, and whilst to date I have avoided ranking any of these expeditions, I have to say that this one had been a top five contender.

I reached the station just before my ankles reached their limits. It was time to move on up and move on out. Great day.

Meanwhile, in a funky bar somewhere in the Lane’s, four media studies students were huddled around and earnestly reviewing the title for their arthouse short movie. “What about The Zombie’s on Bullock Mountain?”

“Hmm… not catchy enough. How about Zombie Sinkhole Apocolypse?”

“That’s it. Your round Stan.”

The following day Brighton and Hove Albion played Everton away and lost 2 – 1. Danny missed a sitter, and then a penalty. Shucks!

* At the beginning of 2025 a consultation began on whether to reshape local government in Sussex. For what it was worth I put in my thru’ pence worth. We’ll find out soon what the final decision will be, but it looks like it could end up as five unitary authorities with shared services. That may or may not be a good idea, and it may or may not save money, or it may or may not cost everyone more. It may or may not lead to greater local democracy and representation, although I’m not convinced. Either way it will render my efforts to get to county tops somewhat meaningless. Creating two more here in Sussex would be no big deal (by topping Brighton and Hove I’d completed the Sussex set). Another two excursions close to home – okay. The problem is that these changes are likely to be taking place in many locations across the country and the implications of that are – well, to say the least – daunting!

** https://elcolmado57.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=96&action=edit

Hey! Why not?

Cresting the County – Wiltshire

Milk Hill

Metres 294

Feet 965

30th July 2025

Two Walks and a Migraine

It was Wednesday. I’d spent two nights in Bristol with my daughter at short notice and was now due to head home. However, something was in the air. Something that suggested I was about to have an unpredictable, intense and taxing experience over the coming weeks (accidents will happen). For the moment at least my brother was on the case. To break the journey back and buy myself a bit of me time before the storm broke, I decided to book a night in a room in Marlborough.

We were in the kitchen (my daughter and I), chatting away and about to go for a therapeutic walk when, for no reason I could fathom (it’s often that way), I spotted the first nondescript but telling sign of an oncoming migraine. Well, that instantaneously knocked the edge off the day! “Ready for our walk Dad?”

As the insidious black and white geometric pattern started to flesh itself out, I closed my eyes. My daughter had enough on her plate and here I was slipping into instant fug. Ten minutes later, against my better judgement and experience, I decided to throw the migraine into the metaphorical bin and put my boots on. “Let’s go.”

Without overdoing it we managed an interesting three mile walk through the Coombe Brook nature reserve and along the Bristol and Bath Railway Path, a fascinating combination of dells, glens, playing fields, open heath and industrial heritage. It will have to be done again when I’m not having to half close my eyes to keep out the light.

This new strategy seemed to have worked, for the moment at least, and I was feeling good enough to set off to Marlborough. We said our goodbyes and soon I was driving east towards Chippenham. Past Chippenham, which just seven weeks on I can’t remember a thing about, I carried on through Calne and continued directly east on the A4. I was heading for Milk Hill, the highest point in Wiltshire. I had done some basic research and noted that somewhere near to the site was a white horse carved into the chalk. And so, as I passed out of the small town of Cherhill and noticing what appeared to be something that looked like a white horse on the north-west facing slope of a range of hills, I assumed I was getting close. I stopped in a layby just past the town and got out to survey the scene.

The first thing I should say is that as white horses carved into chalk go, it was a bit of a disappointment. It looked more like a cross between a stunted giraffe and a starving hyena. It certainly lacked the surrealist brilliance of the truly ancient Uffington white horse I’d seen the previous September, or the starkly beautiful and anatomically accurate Bratton White Horse near Westbury (visited in 2023 but not in the county tops list).

The Cherhill white creature and, at the time, an unidentified interstellar communication device.  

Scanning to the right, along the ridge and unavoidable to the eye, a massive stone pointy thing thrust upwards. A commemorative structure of some sort, no doubt, but not necessarily what I had expected, unless it marked the top of Milk Hill. *

I figured that all I had to do was drive on a bit and eventually I would come to a turning to the right that would get me closer to the top (I had previously done a journey planner on Google where a small road ran a good way up towards the top of Milk Hill). I drove on but nothing materialised. I reached a roundabout at a place called Beckhampton. Things weren’t making any sense. I pulled over again and tried to re-orientate. I had another go at entering a route on the phone, and I was told to carry on east and then turn right onto a small road at West Kennett.

There always seems to be a complication when I’m trying to find these spots. I’ve concluded that the complication is me, and my increasing lack of engagement with new tech. I think this is in part because I don’t want to know everything. Knowing everything means there are no surprises. So, when five minutes on and a bit further down the road I noticed a familiar conical shaped hill just to the left of the A4 I was genuinely surprised and delighted. It had been many decades since I had last gazed at Silbury Hill, and there was time for another quick stop.

Silbury Hill in its original un-grassed state – as re-imagined

After a few minutes of contemplation (Why? Well, because when you see Silbury Hill you do have to wonder) I carried on to West Kennett and located Gunsite Road on the right which, according to Google, was going to take me to within touching distance of Milk Hill (check it out, the blue line takes you to within 300 metres). **

The narrow road headed south and slowly up. A large farm building emerged to my left, and then, just around a corner, a heavy metal gate blocking further progress. This hadn’t been in the script. I stopped and inspected the obstacle. Locked, along with a second metal gate just to the right where another road led away to the west! This was an unexpected blow, but it was obvious that I wasn’t going to be getting near the top on four wheels. Conscious of my delicate condition (I have occasionally had more than one migraine in a day), I turned the car around and headed back towards the A4. Just before reaching the end of Gunsite Road, I noticed a car parked up on a small patch of dry ground just off the road. I pulled in behind and spent a few moments considering my position. My body was weak, that was for sure, but I’d come a long way and doubted that I’d be back this way anytime soon. It was mid-afternoon. A bright sunny day, and not too hot. Sod it.

With my walking boots on I headed back to the locked gate and then onwards along a concrete road that continued south and gradually up. I had by now lost any concept of where the top of Milk Hill was, or even if I was on the right track. It was just a question of keeping on walking, and so long as I was going up, I stood something of a chance. Looking back, I noticed a small number of people dotted around an unusual hump in the landscape on an adjacent rise.

An old barrow. See **** for extra extraordinary information.

I had seen a sign earlier to West Kennett Long Barrow. Judging by the small gathering of people clambering over the mound I figured I was now looking at it and wondered if I had ever been to it. I’d certainly been to Silbury hill many decades before, but nothing came back to me to suggest I had been to the barrow. It was too far away now to divert me just so I could tick a box. I carried on along the concrete road, slightly out of breath, until it levelled off for a while and I reached an isolated barn structure where the road bore to the left. By now the landscape was opening out and I could see what appeared to be the higher ridge stretching east to west a mile or so further to the south. I had more than once toyed with the idea of calling it a day and retreating, but now the objective seemed to be tantalisingly close. I chose to go on.

The first sight of the higher ridge

I expected at some point to find a path that would take me on a direct course but nothing materialised and at the next collection of farm buildings a sign proclaimed the land to be private property, whilst another claimed that CCTV was in operation to prevent rural crime. Whilst sympathetic to the farmers’ need to protect assets and knowing that rural crime is a blight, I hadn’t come this far (still with the threat of a migraine in the back of my mind) to be deterred by these notifications. Rightly or wrongly, I carried on, conscious that my progress/trespass might be being monitored. The road veered back southeast and continued up past huge fields to either side. Stopping to catch my breath I took a 360 look around. Far to the west, at least three miles away, and rising dominantly above the ridge, it was impossible to miss the enormous obelisk I had seen back at Cherhill. Well, that at least told me I had been entirely misguided in my assumption that it might have marked the top of Milk Hill. Despite all the gadgets I had become seriously disoriented and regretted not having an Ordinance Survey map to provide a degree of certainty.

I ploughed on up. Towards what I hoped was near the top, the road intersected with another that led up a steep slope from a valley below. Using this road I soon reached a gate and an information board that hinted that at last I might be close to the top. A path headed directly south across a grassed field and towards some trees, with another cultivated field to the left. Precisely what was being cultivated was unclear to me, but I had little doubt I was looking at Milk Hill, with the highest point a hundred or so metres beyond the barbed wire.

Here’s looking at the top – Milk Hill

Maybe somewhere a path led to the top, but from what I could see it seemed unlikely. I had done as much as I could, and frankly, by now I was more impressed with the magnificent and commanding views of the Vale of Pewsey opening to the south. I still had some reserves in me so carried on along the edge of the field until, with no white horse to be seen, I decided to stop. The reason for stopping was simple. Scattered randomly across the grass were a number of limestone boulders that made perfect seats. They looked entirely comfortable in these surroundings, but as I sat and took in the views, I was left wondering. Wasn’t this chalkland? ***

Unaccountable erratic’s

The landscape looked familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. I’d seen a view not dissimilar to this before and it slowly began to occur to me that about twenty years before, along with my son, we had been on these hills, having camped for a couple of days at nearby Pewsey.

I’d pushed my luck getting to this point and decided to abandon the idea of seeking out the white horse. I started back the way I had come. Back on the concrete track and looking west the outline of a huge ditch snaked along the top of the ridge and towards the horizon. Hoping to get a dramatic picture of what was clearly a man-made structure dappled in light and shade, I waited a while for the right combination of sun and shadow. As neither presented themselves and I was getting bored, I took a shot anyway, just at the moment a red kite swung into view. Despite this interesting moment, it remained a disappointing photo.

A disappointing photo of the Wansdyke and a rhyming red kite.

Down I went, now with three or four red kites circling the adjacent fields, and then passing the group of buildings with the CCTV. Happily, there was no one there with a pitchfork to challenge me. A movement to my left and a hare dashed out of some crops, stopped for a moment and then darted at immense speed into more crops. Hare coursing remains a significant rural activity. Those who do it would call it a “sport”. Because it’s illegal it’s not a sport, thankfully. How anyone might get a kick out of setting dogs on one of these stunning creatures is beyond me, but then again, I’m just a townie, so what do I know about the country ways, but it might have explained the CCTV.

As I approached the second solitary barn there was an odd but slightly disturbing thumping noise coming from its general direction. So far, apart from one large harvester in a distant field, I hadn’t seen anyone and whatever was going on inside the structure didn’t sound like it was being generated by a human. Being in Wiltshire, a county steeped in ancient mysticism and crop circles, I moved towards the structure, which was nothing more than a corrugated roof, some metal supports and a few bundles of hay. The knocking noises continued. Suddenly there it was, the source. A deer, quite large but type unsure and clearly startled, skipping around at the back, and trying to escape…. from me!

The poor thing was in a terrible panic. I stood still trying not to make the situation worse. Its problem was that it was trying to get under a corrugated panel and into the field beyond by throwing itself at the light, but its small downy horns kept hitting the metal sheeting and knocking it back. On the third or fourth attempt it eventually managed to hunch low enough and with a final, slightly sickening thud, it scraped under and vanished. For no logical reason I felt slightly guilty for the animal’s discomfort but rationalised that they were hardy creatures and probably found themselves in similar pickles daily.

Silbury Hill and West Kennett Long Barrow from Gunsite Road

I carried on down the road where, to my surprise, a car suddenly appeared coming up what must have been a subsidiary road. This was the moment I thought I would be challenged. But it wasn’t. The car carried on down Gunsite Road. **** Moments later two further vehicles were behind me. I moved over. This was all getting a bit too Southern Comfort for me, but whoever they were (farm workers knocking off for the day I guessed), they passed on by before pulling up a couple of hundred metres ahead at the locked gate, which they opened with ease and disappeared.

I reached the gate a couple of minutes later. It had been locked again, and I noticed that the bridleway sign, which had been upright earlier, was now on its side and lying in a ditch. Sometimes there’s no point in trying to rationalise things. The good news was that I hadn’t experienced another migraine, and the car was still where I had left it. I remembered to stop the walker App. Six miles!!! What had I been thinking? I collapsed into the driver’s seat. I had one night in Marlborough before what I knew were going to be exhausting and challenging weeks ahead. Despite the sudden onset of knackerdom I knew I had made the right call. I’d breathed in the heady Wiltshire air and seen its ups and grassy Downs, I was ready.

* The enormous monument was erected by the 3rd Marquess of Landsdowne (who he?), in honour of one of his ancestors. The Petty-FitzMaurice’s have been around a very long time, and one of them was even Prime Minister around the time the French were despatching with their own aristos. From what I can tell the 9th Marquess still sits, unelected but inherited, in the House of Lords.  

** As at the end of 2025, if you look on Google Street view you can see that the gate is unlocked and just inside the field several cars are parked up. Daytripper’s/hare coursers? Nearby a sign states, “private property”. One way or the other the landowner has since decided to secure the premises and this may be legitimate, but by locking the gate she/he has also blocked a signed byway (thus preventing onward horse travel).

*** It took a while and a lot of searching but I’ve since concluded that the erratic’s at the top of the chalk weren’t limestone but in fact sarsen stones. How they came to be there is unclear (see infinite theories on Stonehenge). The logical answer is by glaciation, but maybe human action too.

**** Well blow me down!!! I decided to see why Gunsite Road was called what it was called and came across this little article (which suggests it once led to a firing range). Just up the hill from the locked gate, going towards the long barrow, was the setting for the moment in Saving Private Ryan when the army officer and priest visit Mrs Ryan at her home on the plains of Utah to tell her three of her sons had died in action. A very moving scene.

https://www.sarsen.org/2019/08/gunsite-road-archaeology.html

Cresting the County – Thurrock (Unitary Authority)

Langdon Hill

Metres 116

Feet 381

2nd July 2025

There, or there abouts!

It was the last chapter of my East Anglian odyssey. Three days before (a Sunday) I had landed on a campsite in north Essex in a heatwave, found my way to the top of Suffolk the following sweltering day, and then the peaked Norfolk on Tuesday in perfect bright and breezy summer weather.

Today was Wednesday and after a long and tedious drive from Blakeney in Norfolk and having reached the twin peaks of Southend-on-Sea in warm drizzle, I was now heading west on the London Road, back into Essex and on towards the Unitary Authority of Thurrock. I don’t know why this large south-west chunk of Essex, now a Unitary Authority, is called Thurrock, but I have, on numerous occasions, called in for sustenance at Thurrock Services, on the M25 just north of the bridge. I’m just throwing that in to beef up the narrative, because the highest point in Thurrock is nowhere near the M25. 

To cut to the quick I left the A13 at Stanford-le-Hope and headed north on a country road (the B1007 to be precise). The road went up (which was a good sign) and at a junction with Old Church Hill a small car park presented itself on the left. I hadn’t researched this spot carefully enough. The precise location of the highest point had been ambiguous, but I sensed the car park was close and so pulled in.

Gravel Hill Wood car park

I stepped out of the car and looked around. My understanding of the precise location of the high spot was that it was on the other side of the road. The fact that there was a large sign proclaiming a welcome to Thurrock, suggested that it probably was. I locked the car and walked across the road, just far enough to put me past the Thurrock sign (the road itself happened to be in Essex, so no scope for confusion there then). There was an outbreak of signage at this point, warning of this that and the other but there was no evidence of a walker friendly path that might get me round to the back of the cluster of buildings laying between me and where I understood the high point to be. Looking back across the road my car sat alone, seemingly forlorn. It was early July, and from my knowledge of annual crime trends (crime peaks in July) my vehicle was probably more at risk than at any other time of the year. The thought of losing it, or its contents, at this precise moment overcame my desire to eke out a small peak victory and so I crossed back. The metal height restriction barrier at the entrance sported some graffiti that suggested it had been a sound decision.

Whoever Youth 21 were, I was evidently on their patch

I still wasn’t sure whether I had got close to the objective, and because the road continued uphill I drove on to where it reached an obvious crest, (passing the very quirky St Mary’s and All Saints church in the process). At the top I stopped in the car park of the Miller and Carter steakhouse, again leaving the car to have a quick gander. There were no sweeping views of Tilbury or Canvey Island. A large wooden structure confirmed this was the Langdon Hill County Park, but whether I was in Essex or Thurrock I was unable to say. I had done as much as I could. I may not have reached the exact highest point in Thurrock, but one way or another I was now, at least for a moment, at a slightly higher spot just above it, and I still had possession of my car.

The top of Langdon Hill, albeit it wasn’t Thurrock.

Cresting the County – Southend-on-Sea Unitary Authority

Heath Mount AND London Road

61 Metres

200 feet

2nd July 2025

Twin Peaks

The forecast was for persistent rain (the first significant precipitation in weeks) starting at 9am. So, when, half awake and in that contented slumber state, the first few heavy drops landed just inches above my head on whatever the modern version of canvas is these days, it was time to leap into action. It was 7am.

When I say leap, what I actually did was roll about for a few minutes in an effort to attach whatever bit of clothing was to hand to my body. Having eventually achieved a degree of decency I unzipped the tent flap and rolled out into the early misty morning day. Isolated large drops of rain landed all around, but it wasn’t yet the predicted downpour.

I rattled around for a bit, setting up the small gas burner, placing a tea bag in a mug whilst simultaneously pulling metal pegs from the rock-hard earth, and decanting various bits and bobs from inside my little mobile home and throwing them into the car boot. It’s surprising what you can achieve when suitably motivated.

Twenty minutes later, suitably lubricated and with all evidence of human occupation removed from the two-metre square patch of grass that had been my bed for the previous two nights, I set off towards the “facilities” for a quick wash and brush up. As I set off, coming in the opposite direction was the friendly woman who ran the site, and I had last seen when checking in. At 7.50 in the morning, and with no other evidence of life, naturally my immediate thought was “what have I done?”

“Good morning,” she said as we neared. “Good morning,” I replied, “ehm… have I not paid you?”

“No, no…. I mean yes you have, but I saw you taking down your tent and just wanted to thank you for staying with us.”

This doesn’t happen in real life. I was genuinely surprised, thanked her back and then got on with my day. Naturally the site received a 5-star rating some days later.

I was going home but had factored in two more “tops” on my journey back. The first was going to be Southend-on-Sea Unitary Authority, and then, closer to London, Thurrock Unitary Authority. It was going to be a long journey down through Norfolk, Suffolk and then Essex, but it was still early, and I was set on the idea of pulling over at the first greasy spoon (AKA diner) on whatever A roads I was going to be on, and getting stuck into a big breakfast and a large pot of tea.

I had a fairly good idea of the roads I was going to take and figured that something along the lines of the breakfast opportunity outlined above would materialise somewhere in the vicinity of the nearby town of Holt. As I approached Holt, the rain, which had stopped seconds after I had left the tent, began to show itself again, but before I knew it, I was beyond Holt with not a cafe in sight. Never mind, it would just be a matter of time before I came across a Happy Eater type roadside.

Time passed, as did countless fields, coppices and the occasional farm. I reached Norwich, which eased me onto a ring road not much shorter than the M25. Time continued to pass, as did countless fields, coppices and the occasional farm. I was now heading towards Ipswich, and so far, not a sniff of a mid-morning breakfast stop.

Under leaden skies that continued to threaten but not produce, I ploughed on south on the A140 and then, just west of Ipswich, on the A12 and towards London. It was late morning, and still not a hint of a roadside cafe or diner other than the occasional petrol station with their generic coffee brands and fast fat grab fests.

There’s always a moment in time when, despite the lofty principles, you have to admit defeat, and that came halfway between Colchester and Chelmsford. Apart from tap water and a small bag of mints, the longed-for breakfast had proved to be a dismal disappointment. With the adventure in Southend still ahead, I had to take an executive decision and pulled in at the BP petrol station just short of Witham. A sign just before the turning had indicated “services”, but (and at risk of legal action by the company in question), the ubiquitous global refreshments retailer outlet on offer suggested otherwise. Given I now had no option I shelled out some hard-won bucks for the soapy sludge they called coffee, and several more for a lump of stodgy dough that was shaped like a croissant. Out of the window, the long-awaited rain at last appeared. What an abject experience.

With “breakfast” now swishing around inside of me, I continued on to Chelmsford and then took the A130 directly south towards Southend. There had been one benefit from stopping at the “services”. I’d taken the opportunity to double check on my objective at Heath Mount. On previous checks I had not been entirely clear on the exact spot. I did another one of my random searches. The result on this occasion: “The highest point in Southend-on-Sea is London Road.”

London Road! What? I searched the London Road suggestion, and it was at least a mile away from Heath Mount. I went back to the source and read on. “Alternatively, and at an equal height, is Heath Mount.”

I had made an important discovery. An authority with twin peaks, although at just 61 metres perhaps twin flats was a more appropriate expectation. Either way I had found this out in just the nick of time. If I hadn’t discovered this till later, I doubt if I would have the enthusiasm, or indeed the life force enough to have returned. Looking at the two locations I decided to chalk off Heath Mount first, and by now had a pretty good idea where to go.

With the rain easing I pulled up on Belfairs Park Drive, a small cul-de-sac just off Woodside, another small road on an interwar estate just south of the A127, but nowhere near the centre of Southend, or indeed the sea.

On Belfairs and Woodside – the inspiration I am sure for many a suburban novel

At the end of the drive there was an entrance to some woods with occasional dog walkers entering and exiting. I walked into the appropriately named Belfair Woods and after a couple of hundred metres rationalised that I must have passed over the highest point, so returned to the car. There was no helpful sign to indicate it was Heath Mount, but I was satisfied that the first part of the mission had been accomplished.

Entrance to the Woods

The heady heights at 200 feet

Back at the car I checked my bearings and then set off, winding my way through unfamiliar streets until I reached the London Road (A13) where I turned right, eventually turning left into Tattershall Gardens and pulling over. There was another peak to conquer. I looked south and directly towards a grey smudge at the end of the straight road. Just a hint of the Thames through the drizzle. If it had been a brighter day, I might have been able to see the eastern tip of Canvey Island, but it wasn’t, so I didn’t (any excuse to slip in a Dr Feelgood reference). *

I walked back up to London Road. On the corner two children’s scooters lay abandoned on the greasy grass verge. Crime had reached a new low in these parts.

Within metres I was standing at the edge of Southend’s boundary with Essex and the town of Hadleigh. Other than a sign it would have been impossible to have distinguished between the two towns.

No ambiguity here

The back gardens of Tattershall Gardens backed onto a large field that largely sat in Essex. Looking south across the field the land appeared to be slightly higher at this point, sadly obscuring the estuary.

The rise of Hadleigh and towards the Thames

But it was Essex and the joint highest point in Southend was approximately somewhere on the pavement I was standing on and looking at a fenced off lump of wood that told a tall tale of some old tree or other being on this spot. There used to be a sign on the side of a modern building in Tavistock Square in London that stated, “Charles Dickens once lived in a house near this spot”. Someone with a sense of humour and objectivity had scrawled next to it “So what!” It was a well-made point and always used to make me smile. It’s gone now. I’m tempted to go back there one day and write on the same wall – “In memory of – So What”.

Maybe instead of a lump of wood commemorating a long-gone tree, a plaque on a large stone pointing out that this was the “joint” highest point in Southend might draw more interest. Just a thought.

So what?

I’d been to Southend-on-Sea several times over my life, mainly with the kids, but also on my bike. I had reached the end of the world’s longest pier (at least twice), and lost money in the arcades, so, on this bleak but humid day I had no desire to head down to the front. I still had one other objective for the day. The excitement of reaching the highest point in Thurrock Unitary Authority was rising and I needed to get going.

*I was going to insert the theme tune to Twin Peaks but having listened to it again for the first time in more than thirty years it’s far too mournful and depressing so here’s some Feelgood instead. Canvey Islands finest assaulting a defenceless French ville in 1976