Day Twenty

Monday 17 January – Monmouth to Abergavenny

Lots more lovely mud today! Oodles of mud, gallons of mud, tons of mud.

From my b&B (Myrtle Place, highly recommended – high standards and very friendly people) I quickly found my way to Offa's Dyke Path, which I intended to follow for the first part of the day. Offa was King of Mercia in the 8^th Century. His territory covered a large area, from roughly the Trent/Mersey line in the North to the Thames valley in the South, and from East Anglia to the Welsh border. Deals and alliances (including strategic marriages) delivered much of the rest of England into his control or influence. Actually, it didn’t stop there – he had strong links with Charlemagne and the Pope, and his adoption of the penny as the standard coin, with the same metal content as French coins, was a sort of dry run for international currency. It only took another 1,200 years for the idea to catch on!

Offa's Dyke is an earthwork roughly following the Welsh/English boundary from Prestatyn to near Chepstow. The raised earthwork is on the English side, with the ditch (from which the earth was dug) is on the Welsh side. It seems that originally it must have been about 30 feet wide, with a 25-foot drop from the rampart into the ditch – or climb out, if you were an invading Welshman. Quite why it was built, whether there was any specific threat, is not known, although much speculated about. It probably didn’t function for very long as a defensive feature, if at all. In some cases it can be seen clearly on the ground; in others, it has been levelled out of existence. I saw no physical evidence of the Dyke today.

From Watery Lane (true) the Path set off across fields, gradually gaining height and entering Whitehill Wood, an outrider to the much bigger King's Wood. Sometimes on forestry roads, sometimes on narrower tracks, I made my way uphill and down again through the trees, emerging on to a farm track. Ahead of me was a peaceful scene: a farmer leaning on his quad bike, surveying the country, smoke gently rising from his (for him) mid-morning fag. The peace was shattered by a small yappy dog, which was soon gathered up and installed on the bike. Fag-break over, the farmer steamed off across the fields, his much quieter sheepdog running behind, the yappy one carried in splendour on the farmer's lap.

The sun was out. The Beeb had changed their forecast from bright and sunny to grey and occasionally wet, but their first attempt proved to be more accurate. At Lower Hendre, the route lay briefly along a quiet road, between Hendre Farm (bed and breakfast available here on the left!) and Old Hendre Farm (b&b available here on the right!!). Offa's Dyke Path left the road again, heading down into the valley of the River Trothy. The valley was sometimes damp and sometimes wet, but always muddy. The path crossed the flood plain, went over the river at Abbey Bridge, then continued on the other side of the flood plain.

I reached a point where cattle were enthusiastically creating more mud as I watched. I teetered my way past them, mud tugging at my boots until it was so deep that it ceased being sticky and was just very wet. The cows had done me one favour: they had broken through the hedge, allowing me to escape into the next field for a bit of relief. More relief came in the form of another stretch of lane leading into Llantilio Crossdeny, where I was due to leave Offa's Dyke Path and find my own way into Abergavenny. I changed my route slightly, preferring a mile of very quiet road to half a dozen mud baths – sorry, fields. Then I had to bite the bullet and head downhill across fields. I crossed the River Trothy again.

I was now on the much racier Rive Gauche of the Trothy, although it was too early in the day for the Demi-monde. At New House I met another yappy dog. I only hope these noisy mutts keep their owners awake at night. A quick up and down took me from the valley of the Troth to that of the Llanymynack Brook which, funnily enough, was no less muddy.

A footpath shown on the map was neither evident on the ground or provided with stiles; I trampled a crop or two as I found my own route round the barbed wire. I emerged on to a narrow lane which was to take me most of the rest of the way into Abergavenny. But first some business. A couple leaving their driveway were treated to the sight of me, standing in the middle of a stream of water hurtling down the lane, washing my trousers and boots with a constantly-rinsed cloth. And a pretty darned good job I made of it, if I do say so myself. My lower extremities went from being utterly obnoxious to merely disreputable in five minutes. (Later I changed my boots for shoes and muddy trousers for clean ones on the train; the boots are easy but changing your trousers on a train without frightening the horses takes a cool nerve and considerable sleight of hand.)

The lane was altogether delightful. Tarmac it might be, but apart from the views it had two big attractions – no traffic and almost no mud.

As I approached Abergavenny, goff was being played (they either have good drainage or balls which float). A few, very few, drops of rain fell. The sun had disappeared an hour or so ago, and the sky was overcast, although not particularly threatening. Off to my left was Tredilion Park, a stately home in a Tudor style (I couldn't get close enough to see whether it was real or stockbroker's Tudor,; I suspect the latter).

Passing beneath the A465 and the railway, I was in Abergavenny. Abergavenny is almost surrounded by two mountains (Welsh mountains tend to be much lower than Scottish ones, which doesn’t stop them being impressive) and a further five hills. A sign on the Town Hall claims that the town is the “Gateway to Wales”, which is puzzling. It has a much better claim to be the gateway (from the South) to the Black Mountains and the Breacon Beacons. It was certainly well placed to guard important routes, as recognised by the Romans, the English and the Welsh. Walls were built, walls were attacked. Later Welsh flannel was produced here, also goats’ hair wigs.

A mile of quiet roads took me to the town centre. The shopping streets were quite busy as I sought out coffee and something before I toddled off to the station, which lurks discreetly up a residential road. On the way, I popped into the tourist information bureau, where a very nice lady invited me to look around despite the fact that it was past closing time. A light drizzle set in as I reached the station. That won't help the mud.

Day Nineteen

Sunday 16 January – Longhope to Monmouth

This was a tough day. It started out as sharply up and down, and carried on like that. I know, I know – I should pay more attention to the contours, and then I would be ready for the hills. In my defence, my route for the day was heavily coloured green on the map, green for woodland, and this does tend to mask the contours.

100 yards from my overnight stop, a path left the road and climbed steeply in a South-easterly direction. It levelled out, rose again and dipped towards a road which ran South into Mitcheldean. Mitcheldean thrived because of nearby iron ore deposits. Brewing made a major contribution to the town’s wealth in the 19th Century, as did the Rank Xerox photocopier factory in the 20th.When Xerox production waned, small businesses moved into the former factory, which still dominates the village.

The centre was quiet this early on a Sunday morning, only the Co-op drawing people from the surrounding housing estates. It also drew me. Armed with lunch, I walked along a back street and was soon climbing again. An enclosed path led to a field, where I turned West and then South again, passing a field studies centre which had, in its grounds, a selection of standing stones, from Easter Island to prehistoric headstone. Why? No idea.

I was now entering one of the still-forested bits of the Forest of Dean. The forest is a roughly triangular plateau bounded by the Wye to the west and north, the River Severn to the south, and Gloucester to the east. There is over 42 square miles of mixed woodland, one of the surviving ancient woodlands in England. A large area was reserved for royal hunting before 1066, and remained as the second largest Crown forest in England, after the New Forest. Although the name is often used loosely to refer to the whole of Gloucestershire between the Severn and Wye, the Forest of Dean proper has covered a much smaller area since mediaeval times. Which is why I had walked for a day and a bit from Gloucester before striking the forest proper.

I should mention that I was still following the Wysis Way, which turned out to be a mistake. Some of the paths it took were rubbish, and the policy on signs and way-marks is perverse. After a mile without any signs whatever, one would pop up at a junction with no indication as to which way to go. Often, given the generally South-easterly direction I needed to take, the route was fairly obvious. Sometimes it was nothing of the sort. As to the rubbish paths it sometimes took me down, this was made more infuriating by the existence of perfectly good forestry tracks which could easily have been strung together to make a route.

On the plus side, the forest was very lovely, taking me back a few months to the forest walking I had done in the Scottish Borders. It is much more interesting, because of the variety of trees, than my woodland walks up the Great Glen. And many of the walking surfaces were good or better.

“Hands Off Our Forest”, large signs proclaimed, in protest at the Government's aim to sell off much of the Forestry Commission's portfolio. Would it make a difference here? I don't know. There are many rights of way which could not lightly be set aside, but insensitive logging operations could make them difficult going. But hang on, what's this – here the track is churned up and soggy because of some rather insensitive rutting by logging operations! A chap walking his dog told me that the logging had taken place while snow was on the ground, then had come snow-melt flooding and lots of rain, with the resulting devastation to the track.

He also said that the local paths had been neglected in the last ten years as money had been channelled into cycling. I had just passed some very posh cycle tracks radiating from a junction which used to be the site of Drybrook Road Station (a recently erected sign marked the position). This was a clue – the cycle tracks often follow old railway or mineral-tramway routes.

The area was riddled with them, reflecting the fact that this now-tranquil scene was formerly a hive of industry. Traditionally the main sources of work in the area have been forestry – including charcoal production - iron working and coal mining, which lasted from about 8000 BC to 1965. Some of the earliest tramroads in the UK were built here to help transport tcoal to local ports. Unsurprisingly, an iron and steel industry grew to utilise the coal; the Bessemer process, for making better quality steel, was pioneered by Robert Mushet at Darkhill works. The remains are now preserved as an Industrial Archaeological Site of International Importance.

My words above might indicate antipathy towards cyclists, which I don't have, The cycle network is great, and has served me well in offering walking routes in the past.

The dog-walking man told me that he lived in a cottage just along the track. This was one of several in a clearing in the forest, of which there are many, sites in the past of mineral extraction and processing.

After Mitcheldean I didn't pass through another village or town until I walked into Monmouth at the end of my long day's journey. Mile after mile of forest tracks and paths led me near, but never into, Cinderford and Lydbrook and Christchurch. Near Lydbrook I got a bit lost. There were just too many tracks and too few signs, and for a while my map-reading let me down. No great harm done, I hit a road, realised where I was, and made a quick correction, costing me a quarter of an hour.

For a mile or two the route left the cover of trees and headed across fields, increasing the mud and wind factors. The rain, promised by the Beeb before ten, did not start until 1 o'clock, and lasted for a couple of hours, of which half was hard rain and half light drizzle.

Re-entering the forest, I got lost again. Actually I am being hard on myself. I followed the Wysis Way from the map (no signs, naturally) along a narrow path which quickly deteriorated. I doubted whether I had actually come the right way, but if not I was in good company: boot marks confirmed that others had passed this way. I had to walk across the face of a slithery slope, with the constant risk of slipping sideways. Since I broke my ankle slipping sideways, I get very twitchy about this. Give me a hill to climb or walk down and I'm your man, but traversing a muddy slope is no fun and could be dangerous.

Here there was little danger but much annoyance. Eventually I reached a wider track crossing my route. Despite my “smart” phone failing to give me a grid reference, and Google Maps telling me I was near Ross on Wye (very alarming if true, but actually not possible without teleporting skills I don't possess), I picked the right direction.

During this unwanted diversion, I had blundered into Monmouthshire, and therefore into Wales. I say “therefore”; for centuries (more than four centuries) the nationhood of Monmouthshire was ambiguous. When its Welshness became officially accepted, the acceptance was grudging. Legislation affecting Wales always added “and Monmouthshire” until the local government changes of he 1960s and 70s cemented the county into Wales. This was process was nudged along by Welsh nationalists, and after the question had seemed settled English nationalists started a resistance movement, with little obvious success.

The vagaries of the route had cost me time which I could ill afford. On such a dull day it would get dark at around 4.30, and effectively earlier if I were still hemmed in by trees. I got a wiggle on. Passing under some impressively jutting crags, I turned due South on a proper, wide forestry road which would taker me within striking distance of Monmouth. Leaving the forestry road, I crossed a couple of field to reach the outskirts of Kymin, where I joined Offa's Dyke Path, a National Trail, of course, and very well signposted, unlike... I was to use Offa's Dyke Path as the basis of my route the following day, but today I cut a corner in the dying light, reaching tarmac before complete darkness closed in.

A busy road down to the bridge over the Wye luckily had a footpath, so I sauntered the last few hundred yards. Monmouth after dark looked an attractive little town. I hurried through, walking down the main drag to reach an old, now pedestrianised, bridge over the River Monnow (which flows into the Wye half a mile away), and on to my night's stay in a b&b.

Day Eighteen

Saturday 15 January 2011 – Gloucester to Longhope

Today's theme was mostly mud. After the big freeze before and after Christmas, the temperature had risen to double figures, above average, so there was no frozen ground. There was, however, lots of water. The area had had heavy rainfall in the previous week, with more to come. But not today. Despite the lowering skies, and a total absence of blue, the clouds which threatened rain at any minute rolled across and rained elsewhere.

From Gloucester Station I made my way through the shopping centre to the docks entrance, turning off at the last minute to take bridges over, firstly, the dock outlet, and then the East Channel of the Severn. I was then on an island between the two channels. I followed the East Channel downstream. Despite being a few hundred yards from the centre of a bustling city, here it was quiet and peaceful. This artificial island is mostly fields, although a big electricity station loomed over to my right and power cables criss-crossed the sky. The tower of the cathedral had to jostle with pylons for attention.

At a point marked on the map as Lower Parting, the two channels of the river meet and flow powerfully away towards the sea. I was now walking upstream alongside the wider Western Channel, eventually crossing the river to reach the A40. Thankfully, I was able to leave the main road within a few hundred yards. I had to cross the road, but was helped by some traffic lights (not there for my benefit, rather to allow right-turning traffic to reach the farm shop opposite).

A farm track also served as a cycle route and footpath. I was intent on following the Wysis Way, a route designed to link the Wye at Monmouth with the Thames in Gloucestershire (Wysis, Wye to Isis – geddit?). The printed guide and the website only describe the route from West to East, ignoring nuisances who insist on walking in the other direction. But luckily for me the Way is marked on the OS map, and is also (rather sketchily) signed and way-marked.

Over Farm, to my left, has diversified by designating one of its barns as a party barn – birthday parties this way. No business today, though. The section of the sign for the name of the birthday girl or boy was empty.

At Lassington Wood, I started to climb the side of the Leadon Valley. This River Leadon has put on weight since Christmas. On the map it is thin, but on the ground it is very fat, sprawled widely over its flood plain, gorged on recent rainwater. Trees were standing with their feet and much more in the water. The path skirted the uninteresting houses of Highnam, before heading across fields to Lassington, a hamlet with a few houses, the tower remaining from a church, a “big house” and a farm. A blue plastic-clad building, perhaps formerly a barn, was being done up. Several men were lifting a new beam into place.

A mile further up the valley of the swollen Leadon, Rudford is a hamlet with a whole church and, curiously, a cottage right next to it. The curious aspect is that each of the two has its own bell-tower. A seat between the two buildings provided a convenient lunch spot. Then I walked for a while along what was obviously a former railway, now just a wide grassy area between embankments. Ex-railways were to be a feature of the next few days' walking.

Then field paths took me to the village of Tibberton, of which I saw next to nothing. The Wysis Way uses a short stretch of quiet road to find an alley between houses and the church, passing Tibberton Court, to get back into the country. For a little while, I couldn't be sure I was on the right footpath – there was a generous selection, but with ungenerous signing. Soon I recognised the configuration on the ground, reproduced on the OS map. This was just as well – this part of the route was along a string of field paths with few defining features, One hedge or ditch looks much like another.

At Byfords Farm I met a splendid Gloucester Old Spot sow, who completely ignored me as she worked her way along the fence in search of a good scratching-post. Another mile of field paths led to the oddly-named Glasshouse, and then to a climb into Newent Woods. On the first part of the climb I met a man banging fence posts into the ground. I asked him whether there was a danger that, in this soft ground, the posts would just keep sinking into the ground. He laughed. ”That's right. But this is the time to do it. A couple of weeks back the ground was too hard.” He held tightly to a small yappy dog as I carried on upwards.

At first the path was very muddy and slippery, then better drainage came into play, and I was walking on a carpet of pine needles and leaf-mulch, a very nice surface. The climb was not very steep, but this was the first real hill of the day, and the harbinger of more interesting country to come. Emerging from the woods, I passed the reassuring sight of a National Trust sign as I climbed again on to May Hill. They are rather proud of May Hill around here, and rightly so. On its top is a large clump of trees planted for one of Queen Victoria's jubilees, and all the usual claims are made for the number of counties you can see – between 7 and 12, apparently. Not today, you couldn't. The general gloom was intensified now that there were more hills, with valleys between them to trap the mist. I could just make out the Severn to the South East, but the Welsh mountains were well beyond available visibility.

My path fell steeply from the summit of May Hill, joining a minor road to reach the unlovely A40 again. My overnight stay was at a pub just couple of hundred yards along the road.