Beacons Way, day 2: Llanthony to Crickhowell

It’s before seven o’clock in the morning, but it has the look of a dark day to come.  I glance out of my bedroom window overlooking the ruins of Llanthony Priory.  I can’t see the top of the Hatterrall Ridge I’d descended yesterday afternoon, or the top of the hill I’ll be climbing this morning.  Out of the low clouds spots of rain are already falling.  The wetness won’t be so much of a problem as the lack of visibility, because today’s is mainly a high-level walk, and on a good day it offers fine views.

I cross Afon Honddu, climb through fields and a wood, and I’m soon on the hillside, following a track that keeps to the north side of Cwm Bwchel.  It’s a well-engineered, contoured and maintained path, easy to follow and climb, and makes a strong contrast to the yesterday’s difficult descent.  To the left is a steep wooded slope to the valley bottom, and the hill to the right is just as steep.  Before long I reach the cloud line.  The view back across the Vale of Ewyas disappears, and I can only see a few hundred yards ahead.  It’s not cold, and with the uphill effort the sweat is already collecting: I can tell this will be a day of constant clothing adjustment.  The rain falls lightly, but without a break.

The woods peter out and now I’m on open, heathery moorland, though the cloud hides most of the land ahead.  Out of the mist a low cairn of stones looms ahead.  It marks the modest summit of Bâl Bach (‘little peak’), and here the path turns sharp left.  I’m now moving south, in a straight line along a broad track down the ridge dividing the Vale of Ewyas from the next valley, Grwyne Fawr. The wind behind me is stronger up here, and the rain’s still falling.  The zip on my waterproof chooses this moment to refuse to close: this could be a problem later when facing the wind.  But for the time being I’m happy, walking faster, and downhill.

It’s an uncanny experience, striding like this across the peat in the wind and rain, shrouded in cloud and unable to see far on any side.  Just a few sheep, the rough moorland and me, isolated from the rest of the world.  Far from being downcast, I have a feeling of elation and privilege, being able to take my share of this lonely, precious upland.  Such places are rare, and to be able to explore them alone for long periods is a gift.  As I walk, I think of the lines in Gerard Manley Hopkins’s poem ‘Inversnaid’:

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

The path down is punctuated by monuments: Carn Wen, a modern stubby round tower of stones reused from the Bronze Age cairn it sits on, and Dialgarreg (the ‘Vengeance Stone’), a stone supposed to commemorate the Welsh ambush of the Norman Richard de Clare in 1136.  Here the moor ends and a fine stone wall guides the path down towards Tŷ Mawr, an early seventeenth century house with an enormous stone barn, its end built into the hillside.  Near the bridge over the Grwyne Fawr I shelter from the rain and have a bite to eat in the porch of Tabernacle Baptist Chapel, still in use.

Over the river there’s another climb, past Tyn-y-llwyn, a large sixteenth century house with a topiary bird sitting in front of it.  From the house a grassy path leads uphill to the highlight of the day, St Issui’s Church, Patricio (or Patrishow).  Its fame rests on its fine, ornate and complete rood screen and loft, carved around 1500.  This survived the Reformation, thanks to the remoteness of the church and possibly to the protective actions of local people.  Other survivals include an eleventh century font, and several wall paintings, including a tall figure of Death holding a very businesslike spade.

Next comes more moorland – a long, lonely climb into the clouds on Crug Fawr.  On the way up I talk to the only other Beacons Way walker I meet, a young man who’s completing the Way for the second time, excessive heat having defeated him last year.  After twenty minutes the trig point at the summit comes briefly into view in the distance, only to disappear again into the swirling cloud.  By now I’ve taken to chatting with the sheep, and with myself.  There’s no one to listen to either conversation.  As the path descends, hugging the flank of the hill, visibility starts to improve – the table top of Crug Hywel and the long mass of Pen Cerrig-calch appear ahead – and the rain abates.  I stop for a very late lunch in a pastoral glade by the footbridge over the Grwyne Fach, just as the guidebook recommends: ‘a delightful spot and an ideal place to rest before the final stage of the day’s walk.’  The wind has strengthened, troubling the leaves of the exceptionally tall trees that enclose the glade.

Straight after the footbridge the ‘final stage’ starts with an extremely steep climb through a wood – so steep that I nearly topple over twice.  Then some fieldwalking up to a lane.  The earlier path had wandered a long way north to avoid the village of Llanbedr, where Ca spent a happy time teaching in the now-closed primary school, and now the lane takes me back south.  From it a path turns off to the right at Green Cottage – where I’m startled to find Wallace and Gromit staring at me from a side window – and starts up the southern flank of Pen Cerrig-calch.

The wind’s stronger again, and bracken fronds crash around me like waves in a choppy sea.  I push my way through them to within sight of Crug Hywel, which seems to sail through the ocean like a liner.  Past the hillfort rampart, steps lead up to the west end of the plateau.  By the time I get there I can hardly keep my feet.  I take a look at the views up and down the Usk valley and then beat a quick retreat, back the way I came, before I’m blown over.  As I leave, I meet a pair of young walkers who are about to make the same ascent.  They’re encased in full storm gear, with their hoods up.  I wonder whether they know something I don’t.

I follow the recommended, roundabout route down to my destination, Crickhowell.  The path follows the contour west along the southern flank of Pen Cerrig-calch before turning south into the long and lovely wood of Cwm Cwmbeth.  This deposits me at the west end of the town, and after a march along the busy main road I reach the centre.  After checking the times of buses back to Abergavenny, I make for Book-ish and revive myself in the basement café.  As I sit there, I hear a great crash of thunder, followed by a torrent of rain.  Running over the road to the bus stop I find myself wetter than I’ve been all day.