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.