On waking I made a clumsy exit from my small tent, trying to avoid the horse droppings. Above me were blue skies and skylarks singing, below me, far below me the lowlands were covered with a sea of white clouds, edging up the little valleys, with islands of green fields rising above the white in the far distance. To the east there were still hints of pink in the sky. The path followed the top of the escarpment as I walked southwest, rising up and down as the edge I was following intersected the valleys and ridges coming from the south. A few kilometres further on the way turned towards the south and followed one of the ridges, climbing up and down various summits. In the "U" shaped valleys below, carved out by glaciers long ago, neat fields were marked out by hedges and small trees. Higher up the slope the rough moorland began, covered with heather and whinberry bushes, difficult to walk through, the clumps and unseen irregularities beneath threatening a twisted ankle or damaged knee. Wetter parts were marked by white blobs of cotton sedge.
Morning view to the north from Lord Hereford's knob
Trees on the hillside
Looking down on the town of Crickhowell from the mountainside
After the summit of Pen Cerrig-calch, I could see the town of Crickhowell, nestled in the valley beneath the curve of the mountain. A steep descent and I was at the smaller hill of Table mountain, stuck on the side of the larger slope. Surrounding ditches and banks showed it was once a hill fort, a natural defensive position in more turbulent times.
Crickhowell had a bakery selling a good cup of coffee and a Cornish pasty (which they called traditional). This effectively cured to the beginnings of a headache, caused by more than 24 hours without caffeine. Picking up some plastic bottles of water I thought how much better some countries were at providing taps or similar for drinking water. In particular, in my travels through Hungary, most villages had taps or pumps painted bright blue to supply the passing hiker (left from the time when houses did not have their own piped water). Then on leaving the village there was indeed a public tap, dating from 1881 with a biblical quote, had I known I could have avoided the needless purchase of a plastic water bottle. Yesterday I had filled up from a spring, but these are pretty rare on the Cambrian Way, a consequence maybe of it taking a path along the top of ridges and the recent lack of rain.
Leaving Crickhowell, after a section of walking along the Brecon canal, there was a steep climb. From the bits of coal and the straight line of the track I assumed it was an old tramway, possibly used to bring limestone down to the lime kilns that sat beside the canal. On reaching the top of the climb, the Cambrian Way followed the base of a line of limestone cliffs, partly quarried, among hawthorn bushes. Seeing a man collecting the tips of stinging nettles I asked what he was planning for them. He said they were to make nettle tea, full of good things he assured me. In Britain we rarely use this plant but when I walked in Serbia, it seemed in common use as a vegetable.
Line of limestone cliffs above Crickhowell
After a walk beside a busy road, the path led over an extensive plateau. Somewhere in the middle I found the cave where the Chartists held meetings and hid their weapons. In the 19th century the Chartists were a movement who believed working men should be able to vote for members of parliament, something we now take for granted. The weapons were used in an attempted uprising in Newport. While such armed conflict failed, eventually all the men of Britain gained the vote and could stand as members of parliament (women had to wait a bit longer). They chose this spot as it was far away from anyone, and that was a good reason for me to camp here in a dip near the cave, watched over by a horse standing on the skyline.
No comments:
Post a Comment