The West Highland Way – unabridged (3)

Day 6: Nasty, brutish, but short

It was difficult to know how to feel about Friday. On the one hand I only had to walk 9 miles. Easy right? But it was up something called the Devil’s Staircase, which did not sound like fun.

And it was absolutely hosing it down. Was it worth setting out? The consensus at breakfast seemed to be to wait until the rain abated; again there was talk about buses to Kinlochleven. But at around 10 it was merely drizzling, and I thought, what the hell, let’s go for it.

Even on the bleakest of days Glencoe looked majestic. This is Skyfall country. Kingshouse, the hotel in the middle of nowhere that is one of Scotland’s oldest licensed inns, had recently undergone a controversial redevelopment. I wouldn’t say it was entirely in the character of the original 18th century building. Heaven only knows what Dorothy Wordsworth – yes, her again – would have said if she was reviewing it now. The Hotel Inspector of the English Romantics wasn’t exactly keen:

Never did I see such a miserable, such wretched place, – long rooms with ranges of beds, no other furniture except benches, or perhaps one or two crazy chairs, the floors far dirtier than an ordinary house could be if it were never washed.

At Kingshouse you turn right over the River Etive and follow the old military road that runs parallel with the A82. By this time it had started to rain quite heavily again. I had fallen in with a group of Eastern European students walking single file. I was drenched, but there was no turning back now. It started to feel like some existential Bergman-esque March of the Damned – you couldn’t stop, and if you slipped you would just be forgotten and trampled underfoot, another grim statistic on the West Highland Way’s toll of doom.

Then we got to the Devil’s Staircase itself. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to get a piggyback on a cherub into the clouds, but this was HARD GOING. A zigzag rocky path rising 250 metres to the highest point on the whole of the Way, it just seemed never ending! I have no idea how long it took to reach the summit, probably no more than 45 minutes, but I needed to stop and gasp for air every twenty paces or so. When I got over the top I had a word or two with the Devil’s Staircase and it was not pretty.

How foolish of me to think that the Devil had been exorcised.

Not far into the descent it became clear that the heavy rains had turned the streams of the surrouding peaks into fast flowing rivers. The stones laid to cross them were now underwater, and while most could be leapt over, one seemed utterly impassable. If anyone had lost their footing, they would have been carried away by the torrent. I am not joking. One very brave Australian edged his way across, putting his foot down without really knowing if he would keep his balance. He made it and was able to use his walking poles to help everyone else across. But we were just one group. This was a scene that must have been replayed many times that day, that week and probably any time during very wet spells.

If you are wondering, why are there no pictures of this, then once again, it was the furthest thing from my mind. Plus, it was still hammering it down.

The descent to Kinlochleven is a long one, but there were no more dramas and the day’s walking was done by 3pm. Joy of joys, the village was home to an Ice Climbing Centre with a shop selling outdoor gear, so I could at last get something else to wear on my feet other than my sodden walking boots.

Loch Leven

Day 7: Kinlochleven to Fort William

The final day dawned, and I fuelled up on salmon and scrambled eggs at the Macdonald Hotel. It was much needed for a steep climb up out of the village which got the blood pumping, but you are rewarded at the top with some stunning views down Loch Leven towards the Pap of Glencoe.

It was a warm and sunny day, and once again I counted my blessings. The Lairigmor is a classic mountain pass offering comfortable walking with gentle undulations and the odd stream to skip. The utter stillness of the landscape is what really struck me that morning, especially as my phone started to buzz with WhatsApp notifications as cricket matches got going hundreds of miles away in what seemed like a parallel universe.

The ruined cottage of Tigh-na-Sleubhaich on the Lairigmor

There was little to disturb the calm for most of the day, as I wound my way through forestry plantations and along wide mountain roads, getting my first, tantalising glimpse of Ben Nevis. That is one of the magical aspects of the WHW – it is constantly raising its own bar. Just when you think you’ve managed your expectations, along comes the biggest peak in the UK.

As I approached Fort William, it briefly occured to me to stop off at the Glen Nevis campsite and do the final walk into town in the morning. But it was a belter of a day, my legs were still working and rain was forecast for tomorrow. It’s about a two to three mile walk once you’ve descended from the mountain road, and there are actually two endings – one at the Highland emporium at the edge of town:

And the more recent one, just a little bit further on, at the end of the high street, which conveniently takes you past all the hostelries of which you will soon have your pick:

So I had done it – not quite all 96 miles, but as much of the Way as it was possible to do given the conditions. There had been far more jeopardy than I had expected. The fact that a section of railway line south of Crianlarich had been washed away suggests that this was no ordinary summer weather. But if you were to do just one long distance walk in your lifetime, then I would have no hesitation in recommending the West Highland Way.

 

The West Highland Way – unabridged (2)

Day 4: Beinglas to Tyndrum

If Tuesday was truncated, Wednesday was definitely wobbly. It was a dry morning but I really had no idea what awaited me on the trail that day. There were definitely bridges down between here and Crianlarich, and some people had been advised to take taxis to avoid this part of the route. But I decided to give it a go, if anything out of curiosity to see the extent of the damage.

The first few miles were fairly uneventful, as the path followed the course of the River Falloch, which was in ominous full flow. How were we going to cross that?

Eventually I reached a bridge that just wasn’t there. This must be the one they were talking about.

Oh dear

A group of French girls caught up with me while I surveyed the scene, looking for any way to cross. Not far downstream from the bridge there was a shallowish stretch that with care could be crossed. Walking poles assumed a new function to guide others safely across. We breathed a collective sigh of relief and dried our feet.

But then, about ten minutes later, I realised, that wasn’t the bridge. This was the bridge. (I don’t have a photo, because at times of trauma my instinct for reportage leaves me).

I mean, there was at least a bridge in place. The problem was it had a foreboding and significantly worded notice attached to a barrier warning of the perils of setting foot on it. While myself and a Spanish guy I had first met the previous night at Beinglas considered our options, three of the French girls had already set off into the foaming Falloch, despite my protestations. By the time Spanish guy had decided that it was worth risking the strength of the bridge, the girls were beyond the point of no return. I could see the headline now:

French students swept to their deaths while safety-conscious Englishman stood helplessly on

Spanish guy scaled the barbed wire fence (actually more of a wire mesh) in front of the bridge and tentatively planted his feet down. I fully expected one of those scenes from Lord of the Rings or Pirates of the Caribbean in which the plucky but tragic co-star runs for his life to the opposite bank as the bridge immediately splinters and disappears beneath his feet, and I would have another death on my conscience.

But happily, that did not happen. The bridge may have been damaged but it could take the weight of one person at a time, so we crossed what had seemed five minutes earlier to be an impassable gulf. Thankfully no harm came to the fearless French girls either. Surely that was enough drama for the day?

Kind of, but just before the bridge Health and Safety forgot, the shower bag pressed into service as a makeshift day pack gave up the ghost. So now I was carrying it, along with walking poles, up whatever Glen Falloch had in store that day.

Tyndrum, that way

The walking was quite gentle that morning, but I was feeling pretty sorry for myself. I had to buy a proper small rucksack, or I wasn’t going to be able to finish this. But where? The closest Mountain Warehouse was in Glasgow.

I tried in Crianlarich, about a 20 minute spur off the Way, but alas, no joy. Tyndrum was my last hope, but if I encountered poor conditions, what sort of state would I be in by then? Thankfully, as it proved, all the bridges were intact and the weather good.

To have actually made it to Tyndrum at all, after all the uncertainty of the morning, felt like quite an achievement. Gold apparently flows through the river in the village, but I found treasure of my own in the Pine Trees campsite shop: a range of rucksacks to choose from.

Day 5: Tyndrum to Glencoe

Tyndrum is not the bucolic Highland outpost you imagine it to be. It is very much a service point on the noisy A82, but there is more here than I had expected, with plenty of choice among the cafes, pubs and shops on either side of the road. Make sure you replenish your supplies here, because as Brodies Mini Market says, the next shop is in Kinlochleven!

I was walking 19 miles that day so made an early start. The section to Bridge of Orchy is spectacular, and easy on the feet. An initial rise out of Tyndrum relaxes into a flattish path between the A82 and the railway line on your left and the peaks of Beinn Odhar and Beinn Dorain on your right. The latter is your companion for most of the 7 miles to Bridge of Orchy, where the hotel provides an ideal refreshment stop.

The view from Ba Bridge towards Rannoch Moor

The stretch from here to Inveroran takes in some truly stunning peaks and views, particularly of Loch Tulla. I remember the sun making an appearance just as I began the ascent onto Rannoch Moor via the old drove road path. I counted myself fortunate; not only to be traversing this notoriously unforgiving wilderness on a warm and dry afternoon, but also to be doing it while not on the run from a rival clan or government troops. Robert Louis Stevenson described it in Kidnapped as ‘a wearier looking desert a man never saw’, and on most other days that would still be true.

Still, it is a bit of a slog, and the midges were out in force, but there is a wonderful moment when you crest a long steady climb and get your first glimpse of  Buachaille Etive Mor and the famous plain at the eastern edge of Glencoe.

A long day, but thankfully a fairly uneventful one, and significantly quicker than the kind of times I was clocking in during my Offa’s Dyke days. Perhaps I was actually getting the hang of this?

Loch Tulla

 

 

 

 

 

The West Highland Way – unabridged (1)

Looks idyllic doesn’t it?

And it is – the West Highland Way is a fairly mindblowing introduction to the Highlands, taking you from a Glasgow suburb up Loch Lomond to Glencoe and beyond. At 96 miles long, it can easily be completed in a week, which adds to its appeal. But if the weather hits hard, as it did during the summer of 2019, the WHW can bare its teeth. When I walked it in early August it sometimes felt more like a disaster movie, albeit a brilliant one with – hopefully – a warm bed and cold beer at the end of every day.

At the start in Milngavie

Most long distance walks have a handful of highlights, but can often be linked by some humdrum stretches. Why am I thinking of Welshpool to Llanymynech on the Offa’s Dyke Path?

There is not much filler in the West Highland Way. The first day isn’t bad, from the Glasgow suburb of Milngavie (‘Mullguy’) to Drymen (‘Drimmin’), with some pleasant lochside and railway path walking. There’s a distillery on the way too. You might also catch a former Conservative prime minister doing his rounds delivering hay.

But from the moment you first glimpse Loch Lomond from the road out of Drymen, the Highlands open up in all their glory.

I was camping this year, and had decided to see how far I could get without the services of a baggage transfer company, in preparation for what I hope will be some long distance trek sometime in the future. Despite what I thought was a ruthless approach to packing – no spare shoes or razor, a “wear and bin” policy to clothing – my pack was still weighing in at about 19kg. Which is insane. The tent is about 4kg by itself.

It was about half way through the second day, picking my way through the hordes of holidaymakers, that I realised it was going to be unsustainable. With that weight on my back I couldn’t even get through a gate on the way down Conic Hill. I’d heard about the rigours of Day 3, and some mention of scrambling, and as much as I wanted to test myself I also wanted to enjoy the walk.

Conic Hill

The bustling village of Balmaha provided a welcome rest. The Way hugs the shores of the Loch from there to Cashel, weaving in and out of secluded little bays. I had expected the Loch itself to be full of activity, but even at the height of the holiday season it was remarkably quiet and peaceful. It was a lovely sunny and warm afternoon, but the heavy rain of the previous few days had started to take its toll. Not far out of Balmaha I met a German walker (whose name I’ve now forgotten) who had heard that her campsite was waterlogged and had been closed. The first sign of trouble ahead. She came to the Cashel campsite with me and though a wild camper by nature was happy to pay for her pitch.

Loch Lomond from Conic Hill

By the way, this is when the midges first enter the fray. At first you scoff at the people wearing midge nets. You won’t be for long. As I was on the phone to AMS that night, booking my baggage transfer for the rest of the week, it emerged that there were real problems on the Way further up the loch. The following day looked hard enough already – and as I was only at Cashel I was several miles behind the usual start of the stage from Rowardennan. I scribbled down something about landslides and ferries.

The day dawned bright and warm again, and walking to Rowardennan was a joy. There are some exquisite bays at Millarochy and Sallochy, and some refreshing woodland stretches with glimpses of Ben Lomond through the tall oaks. From Rowardennan you have two choices: a lowland, slower route along the shoreline or higher, faster forest track path. I plumped for the higher route purely because of time constraints, but if you have the time I would stay low, because the higher route is pretty dull. By the time the routes rejoined in the Craigrostan Woods the heavens had opened quite dramatically.

Inversnaid greeted me with both an astonishing waterfall, which I wasn’t expecting, and a closure notice, which I kind of was.

The Inversnaid hotel provided a welcome spot to dry out for a bit before taking the ferry. I’ve seen some reviews saying it isn’t accommodating to walkers, which is frankly hard to fathom. The Wordsworths and Coleridge had some harsh words for some of the places they pitched up at during their tour of 1803, but does that make everyone a critic? It has a drying room and a walkers lounge, and allowed us to pad through in socks etc to get food and drink from the hotel bar. I think Dorothy would have been happy.

So the weather really had taken its toll. It was a shame that I wasn’t going to be able to take on the most challenging section of the whole WHW, but given its reputation it was reassuring to know that the path officers took safety so seriously.

As I waited to board the 4 o’clock ferry, who should I bump into than German walker whose name still escapes me from yesterday! She had left early from Cashel as she said she would, and during the ferry crossing all the talk was of how we were to get to our next stop, and avoid the roads!

The ferry deposited us at Tarbet, where is situated another large hotel. Hordes of walkers indulged a bit too freely at the bar while considering their options. I needed to get to the Beinglas campsite a few miles up the road, as did quite a few others, but even that wasn’t as simple as it sounds. There was a bus in a couple of hours, but we’d been advised that tickets needed to be booked online, and even if you did it wouldn’t necessarily stop if it was already busy, as on a day like this it was likely to be.

So eight of us clubbed together and booked a couple of taxis. A couple of German guys suggested another plan: they wanted to go to Crianlarich, then walk for a further five or six miles to some unspecified camping spot. They were, admittedly, on their third or fourth pint by this time. I briefly considered it, but bridges were definitely down between here and Crianlarich, my bags were at Beinglas, and it would throw out all the plans with AMS I had made for the rest of the week. Plus I was wet through. I left them to it. I’ve always wondered whether they made it.

We sped by the Drovers Inn and the usual entrance to Beinglas campsite, which looked a bit like this on the other side of the bridge:

So I was dropped off at the end of a single track road, with Beinglas campsite a mile or so down it. Just to top the day off, the midges were out in force and the rain returned as I pitched my tent in sodden ground. But the beer and the food was good at the Beinglas bar. What a day.

Mind the Gap: Walking Hadrian’s Wall (2)

One of the more curious aspects of walking the course of Hadrian’s Wall is that often your guide book will say something like: “Go up the steps and pass the invisible site of Milecastle 55.” At either end of this walk you have to suspend your disbelief in odd ways. How can you pass something that isn’t there?!

But then again some of us can pass things that are most definitely there …

It is not really until you approach Newtown on day 2 and start walking in the deep and unquestionably Dyke-like ditch of the Vallum that the Wall proper starts to become something tangible before your eyes and under your feet. First you have the small section of (mainly reconstructed) high wall at Hare Hill, then the hugely impressive Banks Turret 52a.

Banks Turret 52a

And suddenly, the turrets, milecastles, forts, magnificent views and weathered, evocative stones come thick and fast. Soon you reach the great fort of Birdoswald, superbly presented for young and old by English Heritage, and a famous stretch of high Wall with several stones engraved with Roman graffiti. Then the bridge abutments at the Irthing, which show how much the river has changed course over 2,000 years, Milecastle 48 at Poltross Burn and Walltown Crags. As I passed through Gilsland and the county border between Cumbria and Northumberland, there was change in the air.

The landscape got starker, the farmhouses more isolated, and it somehow felt right that the weather was closing in. It wasn’t difficult to imagine Auden’s soldier up here on patrol:

Walltown Crags

“Over the heather the wet wind blows,

I’ve lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,

I’m a Wall soldier, I don’t know why.”

The rain was lashing down by the time I left the path at Caw Gap, crossed the Military Road and made my way to the excellent campsite at Melkridge Tilery.

You get big weather here, to match the vistas. Retracing my steps the following morning, by complete contrast, it was glorious – exactly the kind of bright, clear, warm day you want for this, the most dramatic stretch of the whole route. It was early, and I felt like I had the crags to myself, at least for a while. There is some scrambling to be done up some sharp inclines, but you are rewarded with the most spectacular sights – such as Milecastle 39 and Crag Lough peeking out from beneath the ridge of the Whin Sill. This is the spot you will recognise from all the guide books.

Milecastle 39

Which brings me to my faux pas, so big it gave birth to this blog. How I managed to miss the most iconic, most photographed, most blinking obvious spot of the whole path – Sycamore Gap.

I now realise where I went wrong. I wasn’t really looking out for the tree at that point, as I thought it was a bit further on, even though my guide book clearly says: “A steep flight of stone steps descends to Sycamore Gap.” I remember those steps, too, because they took a fair deal of concentration to get down. Perhaps that was the issue – I’m not that great with heights, and I was only looking at my next foothold, rather than what was at the bottom of the slope. Once there, I still don’t understand how I missed it. You would have thought the hordes of selfie stickers might have been a clue. But I did start to wonder, about half an hour later, now where is this tree? It was all a bit Python.

Once I got to Housesteads I knew something had gone amiss. Should I turn back, and lose about two hours of the day? There is a small, silent but competitive element to these walks and I wasn’t looking forward to passing all those parties I had seen on earlier days, and being asked, “why are you going the wrong way?” Plus there was a rush hour of sorts to be avoided, and a camp pitch to be claimed.

So I decided to plough on. At least there is a reason to return – but that was never going to be difficult, with Vindolanda and the Pennine Way yet to be explored. Plus, I really want to go back and tell off those parents who were allowing their kids to walk on the Wall. Once bitten, Twice Brewed.

Days 5 & 6

Once you descend from the Whin Sill after Sewingshields Crags, the country flattens out, and, I have to admit, you feel a certain sadness, because you know the best of the Wall is now behind you. There is a pleasant start to Day 5, as I trundled from Greencarts campsite through sunlit pasture, then past Great Chesters fort (not yet open) down to Chollerford, but the rest of the day was, I have to admit, a bit of a slog. There is a welcome pub at Portgate, expertly positioned at around the lunchtime mark, but in the afternoon you are simply following the course of the Military Road on field edges. Heddon-on-the-Wall is a welcome overnight stop, with at least two pubs, a shop and the last major section of Wall. Perched high above the Tyne valley, it also affords some spectacular views of Newcastle.

Journey’s end – for some!

The final day started with another very pleasant descent through wooded tracks and along the Wylam waggonway, where the early railway pioneer William Hedley ran the original steam locomotive “Puffing Billy”. There was definitely a spring in my step as I reached the banks of the Tyne, following it through suburbs, along towpaths, green spaces and Newcastle Business Park, before reaching the Quayside’s welcoming pubs, bars and restaurants. This must feel like journey’s end to many walkers, and for the other Colchester party this is where they called time.

There was, however, still five miles to Wallsend. After a self-indulgent beer I sallied forth for the final slog, which once past the hubbub of the Sage and Baltic settles down into a series of industrial units and urban cycle paths. I fell into conversation with one local who explained that as a young man he took on running challenges and seemed surprised that it had taken me all of six days to complete 84 miles.

But as I limped into Segedunum Museum, which makes for an impressive final destination and quite a contrast to Bowness-on-Solway, I was still happy to have ‘walked the wall’.

Segedunum Museum & viewing tower

 

 

 

Mind the Gap: walking Hadrian’s Wall (1)

You can see why the Hadrian’s Wall Path National Trail is so popular.

Opened only in 2003, it was voted 18th in ITV’s Top 100 British Walks earlier this year. At 84 miles long it can easily be walked in a week, sometimes less. I completed it in six days but others were doing it in four. It follows a genuinely awe-inspiring historic monument. The terrain is also by and large fairly flat. That’s not to say it’s easy – the central section includes a fair deal of ups and downs. But there is nothing so challenging as the Switchbacks of the Offa’s Dyke Path.

Whichever way you walk you will find this to be a perfectly balanced trail. Your middle two days are the highlights – where the Roman wall is seen in its best preserved state and amidst the most spectacular landscapes. I walked from the west, with the prevailing weather at my back and the sun – of which thankfully there was plenty – behind me in the afternoons. I enjoyed the feeling of creeping closer to civilisation in the form of the grand metropolis of Newcastle. And once you leave Carlisle amenities really are in short supply. So stock up well if you are fending for yourself and staying on the trail.

There is plenty to keep you interested on the first day. Having seen them play the previous night in Preston, this almost felt like walking into one of the songs of the band British Sea Power, with the sea and the land merging into one under moody skies across the panoramic vistas of the Solway Firth.

Only a mile or so into the walk, at Port Carlisle, you will come upon the kind of sign you might see at Lands End or John o’ Groats. I must admit to being slightly amazed to see the town where I live, Colchester, represented. A nod to its Roman connections perhaps? There was a more prosaic answer. The group of walkers that had just passed through were quite coincidentally and remarkably also from Colchester, and the friendly chap who made the sign changes it for each walker if he is there – a fine photo opportunity, especially for eastbounders on their final stretch.

You see almost nothing in the way of the Wall at this stage. Except of course, you do. It is all around you, in buildings like Drumburgh Castle, Hesket House and St Michael’s church in Burgh-by-Sands. I spent a fascinating half hour or so at St Michael’s. This is no ordinary rural church. It is located on the site of a Roman fort thought to be on the line of the Wall. It was where the ‘Hammer of the Scots’, Edward I, lay in state after he died of dysentery around a mile away preparing to face Robert the Bruce in 1307.

The church steward Linda told me that in the period after Edward’s death, this was a lawless area once more with regular raids from the ‘Border Reivers’. The locals built the church’s heavily fortified tower in the 14th century from Wall stones, in a bid to protect themselves and their livestock. Arrow slits and gun sights are not the kind of features you normally see in church towers, and it was easy to imagine the foreboding that must have gripped the villagers during these times. One wonders if they perhaps wished for the kind of protection the Roman wall would once have offered in its original form.

From here you wind your way to Carlisle on the banks of the River Eden – it was a warm, peaceful late afternoon, about as different a day as you could imagine from December 2015 when Carlisle was devastated by flooding from this same river. Although this was a walk inspired by the ancient past, this would be the first and not the last time that I was to be reminded that this is a landscape which recent history has touched in dramatic and sometimes devastating ways.

 

Z is for … Zebra crossings, the need for

An A-Z of anything, even if pot-holed and incomplete, still needs a Zee, so here it is.

There is quite a bit of road work on the ODP, some of it mundane, other times hard work and uphill. There is a stile in Llandegla which if your descent is unglamorous you could very easily fall into the road. But one location really stuck out to me for the sheer danger it could pose to walkers.

The road bridge over the Severn at Buttington – presumably the one that gives it its name –  is a deathtrap. Not the bridge itself but the unsympathetic way it treats those on foot.

There is no walkway on either side, so you have to cross so that you are at least facing the traffic. But to do that, and as you can see from the picture above, you have a blindspot. You can’t see the oncoming traffic from around the bend, so you just have to pick a gap and then race to the edge of the bend asap so that you are visible to drivers as soon as possible.

This is a very busy road indeed and I am amazed that there hasn’t been an accident here involving pedestrians.

So after all those sheep, cows and horses, this is where it ends, with a request for a zebra crossing!

X is for … X4, X15

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

I had envisaged completing the Southern section of the ODP in a single five-day stretch in June 2016. But on the 3rd day, I awoke in Pandy to weather warnings and thunderstorms forecast. It was already tipping it down, and I was facing a challenging day atop the Black Mountains, with no shelter from the elements.

Let’s face it, I had struggled on the first two days on relatively flat ground. I was carrying so much on my back – the naivety of the debut distance walker – that my shoulders were burning. I confess that I whimped out. Dear reader, I decided to spend the day in Hay-on-Wye, the ‘town of books’, potter around and reassess. I was already booked into a BnB so it would be a shame to waste it.

I knew I could get there easily because there was a bus from Pandy to Hereford, and from there another to Hay. It was all going so well. I got the X4 service at 11.46, arrived in Hereford at 12:25. Then I had an hour to kill before taking the 13.40 (Thursdays only) for Hay-on-Wye, Clock. I know all these times and niche details because a kind lady took pity and gave me her thick Herefordshire Bus Timetable. Little did I know how useful it would be.

So it was that I found myself on another X service, this time the X15, trundling on a stopping service to Hay. Now it had been a long, sometimes stressful couple of days, and I started to feel drowsy amongst the hubbub of the locals and the muggy air. The next thing I knew, the Town of Books had been and gone and the bus was hurtling towards less celebrated outposts. I knew there were no other buses to Hay from the other direction, so how actually was I going to get back there, or anywhere for that matter?

Once the initial panic had subsided, I explained my situation to the bus driver once his route had wound to its end somewhere in Powys, or Herefordshire. He was moving onto Llandrindod Wells for his next turnaround, and from there I was told I could get a bus back to Hereford. From my timetable I discovered this was the 461 S (schooldays only) service, which took an hour and three quarters, even when driven insanely quickly through almost flooded roads and all kinds of weather.

By the time I was back in Hereford it was too late to get to Hay. I could find a room for the night somewhere and proceed to Hay in the morning, but with Hereford on the main line, I discovered there was still time to pick up a train back to London. It was not what I’d planned but as George Michael said, guilty feet have got no rhythm. I resolved to finish what I’d started.

The timetable came in handy a couple of months later when I duly returned, getting off the bus in Pandy in glorious sunshine to scale Hatterall Hill, stop over in Llanthony and proceed to Hay – by my feet. It all worked out in the end.

 

S is for … Stiles

Someone, somewhere, must have counted the number of stiles, gates, kissing gates, and other means of passage on the ODP. And there is certainly a dramatic contrast in quality and, er, style. Some are not even there at all. Up on old Bradnor Hill, just as the Dyke emerges once again after several days, I am sure there is just an arrow pointing over some wire, and that is your passage to Rushock Hill.

The ODP is mercifully light on stiles these days – modern gates being by far the most frequent way of passing from field to field. It probably wasn’t always this way, a credit to the work of the trail officers. Most of the stiles that do remain are your typical one or two bar affairs, which those of a certain age find increasingly unedifying ways to haul themselves over.  But there is one, almost unique, three-bar number near Montgomery that fair took my breath away. Had I been walking for so long that such a simple thing could arouse such excitement?

Here it is, in all its triple-tiered glory. Just look at that beauty. You simply glide over it.

 

L is for … Livestock

Despite growing up in a predominantly rural part of the country, I have never been a country boy. So close proximity to farm animals still comes as something of a shock. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but as with presumably any National Trail you inevitably end up walking through plenty of fields of cows.

The problem was my first real experience of this on the ODP was by far the worst. I can’t say I hadn’t been warned. Siriol Griffiths, who walked the entire circumference of Wales in 2016, mentions this field near Pandy where the bullocks get a little randy, and as I crossed in early evening it shook me up a little. Whether I was the point of interest or not, the herd kept wandering, occasionally trotting (do cows trot? Horses trot, sheep gambol, what do cows do?) into my personal space, then breaking off, then coming back. I was certainly relieved to close the gate on that field.

Was it always like this?

I’m glad to say no, it’s not. Most herds barely register your presence, as long as you give them a wide berth. The only real issue is if they happen to be blocking the gate or stile. On the Welshpool to Llanymynech stretch by the Severn, its cow pasture as far as the eye can see at times.

K is for … King Offa

Of course, there is not much more that is known about King Offa than the Dyke itself – but the scraps of history and legend that surround him hardly dispel the impression of a seriously mean-spirited and pathological dude – a kind of Donald Trump of the Dark Ages.

But then again, you probably had to be in those days.

Cheer up Offa, you will inflict endless pain on future generations of walkers

Here was a guy who – ALLEGEDLY – beheaded his daughter’s betrothed, King Ethelbert of East Anglia, on the eve of the wedding, just because Offa’s wife was jealous of her daughter – then had the temerity to erect a shrine on the site of  burial. Or was that just fake Anglo-Saxon news?

The whole Dyke thing, well, it’s basically a Wall isn’t it? That no doubt he got the Welsh to pay for in taxes if not provide the labour to build it.  In his Encyclopedia of Anglo-Saxon England Simon Keynes writes that “Offa was driven by a lust for power, not a vision of English unity; and what he left was a reputation, not a legacy.”

However, the comparisons end when you discover that Offa had coins minted that bear Islamic inscriptions.

At least Donald’s reign can only be for 8 years tops – and I doubt people will be walking his wall for pleasure a thousand years from now.