The weather forecast looked good. I caught a gap between two weather fronts bringing belts of rain sweeping from the west across Wales (most weather in Wales comes from the west). And so it proved, although there were a few showers, much of the day was dry, although a cold wind made my windproof, rainproof jacket, gloves and hat which covered my ears, essential on the high ground.
Leaving Abergavenny Train Station my first task was to find a toilet, a sign I was joining the cohort of middle aged men. Then after passing through the pretty centre, ready with Christmas lights, I left Abergavenny through the streets and a park onto a quiet single track road. Although there was no pavement, people were out walking their dogs. They thinned out as I walked further from town until eventually it was just cars, pick ups, tractors and me enjoying periods of sunshine as the road wound between green fields and trees shedding yellow leaves.
Leaving the tarmac I crossed a field, a railway line (waiting for a hooting train to pass heading southward) then more fields as I started climbing into the Black Mountains. A cyclist passed, my route crossed a tangle of rough cycle trails, before deviating to join Offa's Dyke path. After my climb it was a little sad that Offa's Dyke path initially lost height on a leaf clogged road before climbing again. I remembered how cross I was several years ago when I was walking in the other direction on Offa's Dyke that I had an unnecessary climb after a long day, although my performance today suggested I was fitter than in those early days of my long distance walking career despite being several years older.
The path then turned upward passing an ancient hill fort before gaining the high ground on top of Hatterrall ridge. I was impressed by the ridge when I first hiked it, with its long views over England as well as the sheer length of high moorland. Today the grasses were either bleached or an attractive autumnal red, the heather, which formed most of the cover, still had some green shoots but much of it was turning a reddish brown. Efforts had been made to improve the path, appropriate as Offa's Dyke is a National Path. Gravel was laid in parts but in the wettest areas, rectangular slabs of rock had been placed to form a dry and secure trail. In places the water had covered some of these paving slabs and there were "dams" made of sheep's wool and netting. Not a practice I had seen before, I assume it was designed to minimise erosion by flowing water. Horses, maybe wild, gathered near the trail, a common sight on walks throughout the Brecon Beacons.
One of the three trig points I passed on the ridge, English fields spread out to the right.
The paved path among the autumn red grasses, flooded by water.
As the day wore on, after each summit on the ridge I was expecting to see the town of Hay on Wye in the distance, instead there was a slight rise to yet another summit. Eventually the meandering River Wye could be seen in the far distance. Offa's Dyke path shied off to the right but I walked on to the final trig point (Hay Bluff) from which the lower lands were spread out beneath me, and the steep scarp slope of the northern end of the South Wales Coal basin stretched out to the west. I ate a cereal bar admiring the view. It tasted of nothing which made me worried that I had caught Covid 19, but the smell of manure a little later reassured me I had not. Instead the manufacturers of the bar had succeed in making something entirely bland despite the raisins they included.
Dropping down off the Black Mountains the sky was becoming increasingly dark. Hiking from November to January in Britain has the added thrill of darkness falling early, so that frequently the day's walk ends in darkness, adding the possibility of hidden dangers. A decision needed to be made as to when to start using my head torch. While this gives a small circle of clear vision, it makes seeing distant objects more difficult. Without a bright light my eyes would adjust, developing some night vision and maybe able to distinguish things in the middle distance at the risk of tripping on some unseen rock. However, as the owls starting hooting, and the trail entered dark woods, I dug out my head torch and focused on not falling over.
After the trees there was a steep slope, with mud made slick by recent rain. If I tried to stand still my feet would start sliding beneath me. The trekking pole I had brought helped to provide some stability, maybe I should have brought a pair as the inevitable happened and I collapsed; my bottom, arm and hands becoming smeared with mud. Across the final fields the darkness was so complete that I was reliant on my GPS, a sort of magic compass pointing the way until each kissing gate appeared out of the darkness before me. Horses' eyes caught my torchlight making the middle distance a ghostly scene of suspended eyes.
Reaching Hay on Wye and the Old Black Lion, my home for the night, I removed my very muddy boots and donned my face mask before entering. I have now enjoyed a meal at a Covid separated table, taking a beer from a tray as instructed by the waitress. The food was attractively laid out on the plates with little green sprouts of something, the portions modest enough that I managed three courses.
Tomorrow promises heavy rain.
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