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.