Day Twenty Four

Monday 21 February - Resolven to Cwmgors

Despite being near several industrial sites, Resolven has remained a relatively small village. One of the old factories now accommodates the busy Rheola Market on Saturdays. Peter Hain is the local MP, and apparently also lives in the area. There was no point in making a call: I had seen him the previous evening on the telly, addressing his party’s Welsh Spring Conference in Llandudno.

The village centre is unremarkable. I bought some lunch at a convenience store, then head Northwest across the Neath Valley. A footbridge took me across the not-specially-busy main road, then I crossed the River Neath and the Neath Valley, which has been restored and provides, I read, a four-mile walkable towpath from here to Glynneath. But I was heading at a right-angle to the canal, uphill.

Some steps by a pub led me up through trees on to a path which contoured for a while then climbed diagonally, joining and leaving some forestry roads. The path became increasingly rutted, and it wasn’t hard to see why. The damage had been done by motorbikes, their tyre-tracks clearly visible in the mud. These bikes had broken up the surface and then churned the mud until in places the ruts were deep enough to have axle-marks on their sides. I had passed the very occasional sign urging motor vehicles to keep off these upland tracks, but nothing is actually done to block them off.

At the crest of the hill, a trig point is marked on the map, hidden from sight in the trees. My path crossed the route of a Roman road, then plunged downhill. As forks and junctions confused the situation, I lost my intended route, but a GPS fix and some map-reading saw me into Crynant with a little bit of trespassing but no incident.

Crynant has followed the usual pattern: it was a tiny village known best to monks, who maintained a cell here for overnight stops on their travels. Then came coal and collieries, including the world’s deepest anthracite mine. One former mine has been maintained as a museum, the rest being largely swept away. It was now raining quite hard. This was to last for twenty minutes or so; I kept my head down and saw little of Crynant.

A residential road became a country lane which headed diagonally up the next hill. A hairpin turn to took me on to a stony track on the opposite diagonal which made it nearly to the top of the hill, by which time I was into another forestry plantation. Active forestry operations were going on; I could see large trucks on a higher roadway. At a fork, a sign forbade entry because of the tree felling. It was not clear which way was closed, so I decided it was the other way, and pressed on in the direction I wanted to take.

A track-laying vehicle trundled slowly towards me. I stepped respectfully aside and waited. About ten yards away, the vehicle stopped, and the driver signaled for me to pass. This happened again later. As long as you keep away from active felling and don’t get in the way of the vehicles, there is not a problem. If there were any danger, it would be obvious. So I exchanged waves with the workmen and pressed on.

Then St Illtyd dropped in on Ystalyfera, almost literally. His Way headed steeply downhill; the path itself was perfectly safe, but I wouldn’t have wanted to stray from it. Further down the hill, an alternative path headed in my desired direction, so I left St I. He and I would link up again later.

A new cycle bridge took me over the river into the centre of Ystalyfera, which consists of a few shops, a chippy, and two pubs called the Old Swan and – yes, you’ve guessed – the New Swan, about 50 yards apart.

Ystalyfera has travelled the familiar path from village to sprawling industrial area to economic disaster zone, now mitigated by its handy position for commuters working in Cardiff, Neath and Swansea.

A little pavement-pounding took me to a side road which headed uphill for a mile and a half to a village called Pen-Rhiw Fawr where, as in so many places, a vigorous poster campaign is being fought to save the local school. Just beyond the village, I reached the top of the hill, leaving the road on a track.

This was suddenly a different order of walking. Instead of a sharply-crested hill between narrow valleys, which is what I had become used to in the last four days, I was on grassy moorland on what I’m sure is an ancient track, dressed with crumbling tarmac to start with, becoming gravelly and then just earthy-muddy. Even under the grey pall of cloud it was glorious. I was put in mind of the track I had taken fairly recently across Rannoch Moor, so a big compliment is intended to today’s walk.

Short grass became tufty as I penetrated the moorland, passing some old workings and an abandoned house. I could see farming land further down the hill, but up here it was untended. The usual problem – a sudden multiplicity of tracks – led me slightly off course, but this was soon rectified. I joined an unfenced road which headed downhill towards the main road near Cwmgors, where I need to catch a bus to Pontardawe.

I missed the damned thing by about five minutes. I couldn’t have walked any faster, and running was out of the question. So it was an hour’s wait for the next bus, and risk missing my train, or adopt Plan B. Out went the thumb, and a few minutes later a nice chap in a white van stopped. He took me to Pontardawe, and dropped me right at the stop where I could get a bus to Neath, which I did within another ten minutes. There was just time for an early supper in the Neath Wetherspoons before I caught the train back to London.

Day Twenty Three

Sunday 20 February - Aberdare to Resolven

Ty-Andrew is a b&b in Aberdare which usually caters for people working in the area, rather than for tourists. Lucky workpeople! A warm welcome, immaculate room, good breakfast – highly recommended.

The centre of Aberdare, a ring of shopping streets which has inevitably become a one-way system, was considerably quieter on Sunday morning than it had been on Saturday night. And from the very centre a path follows an old railway alongside the Dare River to the Dare Valley Country Park, a lovely start to a day’s walk.

Near the visitor centre I spotted a waymark for the Coed Morgannweg Way, which I hoped would take me more than half way to Resolven. As this is a much-walked park, tracks abounded, and I was soon struggling to find the one I wanted. A GPS fix confirmed that I was a bit higher up the hill than I needed to be – always annoying. I crossed a couple of open fields and picked up the right route.

This area is mostly forestry plantation, clear areas alternating with densely-wooded stretches. Low cloud and fog meant that visibility was not more than 100 yards, sometimes less. Ironically, the wooded areas provided the best visibility, the trees holding off the fog which was blowing in the wind. For a few miles I should, intermittently, have had splendid views to my right, across the Dare Valley. Viewpoints were signposted, and barriers prevented me from falling down the scarp slope while I was dreamily admiring these views. There were, of course, no views, just fog.

The Way joined a cycle track, both being accommodated on a high-quality forestry road. I passed several cyclists, each of whom exchanged a cheery greeting. Later, the Way left this and plunged into the trees on a downhill course to the South. I could have stuck to the wider track, but it was being raked by a chilly wind, and I wanted shelter for lunch, so I followed the CM Way.

A good path became an indifferent path became a muddy, rutted path. Cyclists who were spurning the “official” track for this alternative were advised a couple of times to dismount because of obstructions ahead. A sharp step down where the path had collapsed, rocks dumped to arrest the erosion, and axle-deep puddles – these, I think, were the sort of obstruction the sign-erectors had in mind.

Having climbed to about 2,000 feet, the path started a long downhill stretch into the Neath Valley. There were large areas where trees had been felled. I wanted to cut a corner, away from the CM Way. To save an unnecessary loop into Resolven, but the tree-clearance had obliterated the alternative path, so I stuck to the CM Way, until it joined St Illtyd’s Way.

St Illtyd’s Way is a long-distance route starting at Margam, near Port Talbot, looping inland round Swansea, finishing on the sands at Pembrey, near Llanelli. There is astonishingly little information about it on the Web, but it is marked on the OS map, and for a while it was going my way. St Illtyd, by the way, is said to have “flourished”(good word) at the end of the 5th and beginning of the 6th century, and was “held in high veneration in Wales”. He established the famous monastery and learning centre at Llantwit Major, sometimes referred to as the “oldest university in the world”.

I then passed a wind farm with, I think, about 16 windmills, all turning as fast as they ever do in the freshening Southeast wind. The noise, not objectionable, was like a posse of heavy aircraft in the distance, with an overlay of dentist’s drill.

An obvious short-cut presented itself, a farm track contouring round a hill above the Neath Valley, which proved to be the treat of the day. The wind had now blown away the fog, and here was even some occasional sunshine to illuminate the grassy slopes. I left the track and crossed fields to fall in alongside a stream, emerging on to a quiet road, just opposite the moderately-spectacular Melin Court Waterfall. A path across fields and through a small wood took me to Resolven, where my b&b perched above the town.

Day Twenty Two

Saturday 19 February - Ebbw Vale to Aberdare

Because of yesterday’s alarums and excursions, Ebbw Vale was in darkness while I walked by it, and today I was leaving by climbing straight out of the valley, so no potted description here. The most punishing climb of the day was the first one. A footpath sign pointed into a field, but there was no sign of a path. No matter; I scuffed up and along a bit, before finding a decent path heading straight uphill through trees.

The path petered out again at the top of the hill, but the day was much brighter than yesterday, so I could see some features to navigate by, with a forestry plantation as the most obvious. I found a wide track through the forest and down into the town of Tredegar.

The history of Tredegar in key words: rural backwater; iron, steel and coal; huge growth; vile working conditions; cholera; better working conditions; prosperity; decline. A glib summary, perhaps, but pretty accurate. Nye Bevan and Neil Kinnock were born here. The centre of the town is rather sombre, with an impressive clocktower dominating the scene.

The main shopping street is a sad sight: there are more shops closed than open. If the open ones could be hutched up against each other, they would make a respectable shopping centre, with a preponderance of butchers.

I climbed the next hill in company with houses, terraced lower down and semis as I got higher. Passing a vast pile of old cars and vans, I was on top of Rhymney Hill (not mountain again – was my generalisation justified?). It was now a pleasant day, with occasional sunshine.

To my right (North) I could see the corridor of the A465, generally known as the Heads of the Valleys Road. As long as all the tin sheds which litter the area around the road are mostly occupied, the economy must be in better shape than Tredegar town centre indicated.

“If I should die before I'm old,

Before I'm old and grey,

Bury my heart on Rhymney Hill

That I loved in childhood's day.”

These words come from a poem by Idris Davies. Davies, born in 1905 in Rhymney, originally wrote in Welsh, but later exclusively in English. He chronicled the highs and lows of the first half of the 20^th Century in these Valleys, including the General Strike and the Great Depression. He died in 1953. His poem, Bells of Rhymney, has been performed as a song by artistes from John Denver to Bob Dylan, while another has been adapted and sung by the Bard of South Wales, Max Boyce.

Rhymney’s story of growth and decline follows the usual South Wales pattern, nuanced by the fact that iron declined before the end of the 19^th Century, leaving the town almost entirely dependent on coal. I found my way down into the town, streets of houses running in straight lines along the valley sides.

When I reached the River Rhymney, I turned up the valley for a short distance to find a bridge. Beyond this, a road into an industrial estate led to what was supposed to be a path over the next hill. Again there was a footpath sign, with not much evidence of a footpath. There was a farm track, which I followed not quite in the direction I needed. Then my next helper arrived in the shape of the farmer, guiding his tractor down a very muddy and rutted track.

He stopped and gave me minute instructions on which route to take, with every regard for my enjoyment and no regard to the rights of way. I think this is the key to the area: these hills, which are sometimes “original” and sometimes reclaimed spoil tip, are walked more or less at will, so the footpaths are not beaten tracks. I thanked the farmer, and tried – pretty successfully – to remember his words.

After crossing a road, I was expecting to wander freely into Merthyr Tydfil, as the fields were marked as Access Land (”right to roam”) on the OS map, but it didn’t quite work out like that. Firstly I skirted a gigantic hole which I suppose was an opencast mine and is now a landfill site. The evidence of this is all around – every dip in the ground is littered with rubbish which has blown from the site, and scruffy bits of plastic hang from the fences. A small taskforce from the company doing the dumping could clear most of it up in a determined effort. But maybe they do, and it just keeps blowing back again.

Leaving this dispiriting scene, I could see the outskirts of Merthyr Tydfil, and aimed directly for them. But someone had dug a new, very big hole, right in my way. Trucks were trundling, lights were flashing, sirens were sounding, and clearly my presence was unwelcome. So I turned off and headed for Dowlais.

Dowlais is really part of Merthyr these days, with its own centre connected to the larger town’s by housing estates. Large Victorian buildings are either being restored, demolished or left to rot. In the last camp was a fine old theatre just on the outskirts of Merthyr, which seemed to be crumbling before my eyes.

Industrial history of Merthyr Tydfil – see other towns, above. There were slight variations: iron smelting was attempted in the early 17^th Century, but then ceased, leaving the valley to sheep until the late 18^th Century, when iron took off in earnest. Cannon were produced in large quantities for the Royal Navy; Nelson came to inspect. In the mid 19^th Century, Merthyr was the biggest town in Wales, the population boosted by immigrants from England, Ireland and further afield. Some prospered, many were worked to death for little money. As the extraction industries were declining, new job opportunities came and went. Hoover made washing machines, another factory made aircraft control gear, and Sir Clive Sinclair made the ill-starred Sinclair C5. Viagra was accidentally pioneered by researchers who were trying to treat angina.

The top end of Merthyr’s High Street is like Tredegar’s, a collection of eyesores, but things perked up considerably as I walked further down. A lively street market contributed to the effect of relative prosperity on this Saturday afternoon. And a nice café, where I enjoyed coffee and something, raised the spirits no end.

I followed a cycle track alongside the River Taff, branching off on to a footpath which crossed two main roads on a brace of new footbridges, the effect of being cosseted somewhat spoilt by the 6-inch deep puddle between them. I headed uphill on a track which had clearly served old workings in the past: signs warned me not to stray from the path. Then for the first time I joined the Coed Morgannwg Way.

This is 36 miles long and links several ancient Celtic tracks through Margam, Cymmer and Rheola forests. It was to prove to be fairly well signed in some places, but not reliably so. It took me a while to realise that the chosen logo, a footprint, was also a direction indicator: follow the way the foot is pointing, and you are on course. It didn’t always work out, but it was often helpful.

As I climbed not steeply but relentlessly, on a forestry road running parallel with power lines, I passed a board advertising the remains (just the floor, apparently) of the Blaencanaid Ironworks. This provided a connection with my latest walk, from Kent to Cornwall, since the ironworks were started in the 16^th Century by Sussex men, forbidden to cut trees in the Weald for the necessary charcoal.

The way down was on an equally well defined track, but much muddier, and rutted by vehicle wheels. Luckily it had not rained for a couple of days, and the mud had been hardened by wind and sunshine. The map showed the Coed Morgannwg Way departing from the track, but I couldn’t find a path. Choosing a likely-looking gap between the trees, I plunged precipitously but perfectly safely downhill. Arriving at another good track, I took a GPS fix, but I still wasn’t entirely sure of which direction to take.

Right on cue, along came my next direction-fairy (no offence), a cheery dog-walker who set me right and walked with me until his dog led him off on to a side path. This track was an old railway, and I walked past the platform from one of the former stations as I entered Abernant, a suburb of Aberdare.

I walked downhill into the centre of the town and soon found a warm welcome at my b&b.

Later, I emerged to find some supper, heading by instinct for the local Wetherspoons. This is evidently the epicentre of Aberdare’s Saturday nightlife. Taxi-loads of scantily-clad girls were arriving every minute – the boys seemed to walk. The place was crammed; so many people, so few clothes, and it was not a warm night. Regardless of the crush, my steak was delivered with Wetherspoons’ customary efficiency, and was delicious. Soon after finishing it, I retreated to the b&b, felling rather old.

Day Twenty One

Friday 18 February - Abergavenny to Ebbw Vale

The sensible thing would have been to head Northwest from Abergavenny, on to the green hills of the Brecon Beacons. But I had other ideas. I wanted to have a looks at The Valleys, that mythical region of South Wales associated with coal, iron and steel, and later with economic disaster. What was left? What legacy was visible in the landscape? I meant to find out, as far as possible on a linear excursion. So I flirted with the Brecon Beacons National Park while heading for an industrial (or post-industrial) landscape.

From the station at Abergavenny, I headed for Castle Meadows, the flood plain of the River Usk. Almost immediately I had to turn back, as a vital footbridge over a stream wasn’t there anymore; a brief diversion through the town took me back to the water meadows, a dog-walker’s paradise, even on this very grey day. Crossing the river on an old bridge, I took a lane and a track up my first mountain, The Blorenge.

I use the term “mountain”. The Welsh seem to classify mountains by shape rather than height: if it rears up steeply out of the lower ground, it’s a mountain. A farmer will talk about his sheep on the mountain, while in the Pennines or Scotland it would be a hill or a fell. It’s just a matter of terminology, and when in Rome…

The Blorenge is a bit over 1,800 feet high. It’s in the National Park and in also Blaenavon Industrial Landscape World Heritage Site. The mountain comes in layers of sandstone, mudstone and limestone, tilted towards the basin of the South Wales coalfield. A glaciated hollow on the eastern side of the mountain, The Punchbowl, is now a nature reserve owned by the Woodland Trust, which I support. Red Grouse breed on the mountain’s slopes.

Also the lower slopes is the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal, contouring well above the level of the River Usk. A dank tunnel led me under the canal and on to the mountain proper, which was almost totally invisible. The fog, or low cloud, completely obscured the tops, and I soon found that the paths I intended to follow were ill-defined. But I knew the general direction I needed, So I set out through the wet grass. Below, I could hear but not see the road which runs beneath the mountain; above – nothing. I needed to climb diagonally, walk a quarter of the way round the mountain at about halfway up, then descend diagonally.

My judgement served me reasonably well – I reached the road and got a GPS fix. Below the road, I took a wrong turn. I soon realised it, and was about to whip out the phone for a GPS reading when I noticed a woman repairing a front wall, so I opted for the pathetic approach. She was very helpful, showing me on the map how to get back on course. This went well while I was on tarmac, but as soon as I was back in fields, the paths disappeared. Then I met Simon Cooley.

I didn’t know he was Simon Cooley, sculptor with an international reputation and some impressive samples in his back garden; I discovered this afterwards by Googling him. Immediately, he was a very friendly chap who described the best route, accompanied me part of the way to make sure, and mentioned that he was a sculptor who also kept some sheep which were peacefully grazing amongst the sculptures. His directions were spot-on, and soon I was walking around the lower reaches of Gilwern Hill (hill, note, not mountain).

When I reached a quiet road, my masterplan involved following it for a short while, then heading across high moorland on footpaths. Two factors changed my mind. The footpaths round here were difficult to follow, and the fog had closed in even further; navigation by sight was out of the question. So I stuck to the road. This would add a little bit to the day’s journey, which had started late anyway because I had come down from London by train.

I decided to phone the b&b I had booked to tell them that I might be a bit later than arranged. It was a good job I did. When I gaily said “I’m coming to stay with you tonight”, there was a long silence. “Oh, I think there might be a cross-booking,” the man said. He put the phone down. Pause. “The thing is, we had a ceiling come down in that room, so there’s nothing we can do.” I said that nobody had been in touch; he assured me that it only happened the day before. He gave me an alternative number, and that was it. No apology.

When I phoned the other number, a nice lady was very apologetic that their rooms were not ready yet after refurbishment. When I told her who had referred me to her, I really could hear her suck her teeth, as she told me I had had a lucky escape. She suggested somewhere else, which my phone couldn’t find. I had kept walking towards Ebbw Vale while all this was going on. I Googled “hotels Ebbw Vale” which found me a Comfort Inn. A quick call – rooms galore, just turn up.

Ebbw Vale is a long place, straggling down the valley, and the hotel was another 3 miles away. But I just trotted down the main road, ignoring the centre of the town, intent on reaching a coffee, a good meal, and a comfy bed, in that order. I got all three.

When I told the receptionist something of my ordeal, she had the same reaction as the previous lady – better to be turned away from the b&b than actually stay there. I hesitate to mention the name of this b&b here; I didn’t actually visit it, so its reputation might be entirely unjustified! But it felt like an escape to me.