Puffins are go!

Just a quick note to let you all know that we’ve (finally!) finished writing about our cycle trip around Pembrokeshire over on the crazyguyonabike website (with cycling photos and puffin photos at SmugMug).

Go puffin, go!

 

Meandering on Madeira

Sometimes things work out in a funny way.  I’d been a bit grumbly about the fact that all of my work trips this year had been to such exotic locations like Sheffield (known for its steel mills), Coventry (known for being heavily bombed in WW2) and Guildford (home of wealthy City types who can afford to live somewhere more genteel than London).  To a certain extent, it doesn’t really matter where a conference is held, as you tend to end up spending most of your day in a windowless room, and most of your night in (a) the nearest pub, and (b) a more-often-than-not dingy hotel room.  Still there is certainly no arguing that on the rare occasions you may get to venture outside of the conference venue, being in Lisbon or Budapest makes the whole experience a whole lot more pleasant.  Anyway, to cut a lengthening story short, whilst in Coventry I managed to organise a new collaborative project and get myself invited to a workshop in Madeira.  Bingo!  All accommodation and food provided, I just have to get myself there!

Right, straight to Google Maps to figure out where the hell Madeira is.  I thought my geography was reasonably good, but even I was surprised to discover just how far out the middle of nowhere Madeira is.  The next thing I discovered was that it has one of the coolest (and previously one of the most dangerous) landing strips in the world (it apparently used to be half that width and length).  The next thing I discovered was that it is known for its dramatic mountain scenery.  Double bingo!

I started thinking that maybe I could stay on a bit after the workshop and Oanh could join me for some mountainous escapades.  Alas, it was not to be, as Oanh had generously offered to hold fort in her office while the entire rest of her team went on holiday.  In the end I just stayed for the weekend after my workshop, netting me one full day for a serious hike – I already had my eye on the route from Pico Arieiro (third highest peak in Madeira) to Pico Ruivo (highest peak in Madeira).  There were some absence of public transport issues to deal with, but I figured that could all be sorted out in due course.

Getting anywhere is always a bit of an ordeal, and this trip was no exception: bus to train station (20 minutes), train to airport (2 hours), wait around (1 hour – online check-in rocks), flight to Funchal (3 hours 45 minutes), wait around for next bus (1 hour 30 minutes), bus to Funchal (40 minutes), walk to hotel (10 minutes), finally arriving at 10.30pm, ready for an 8.30am start the following morning.

The workshop, which I won’t bore you with the details of here, was fantastic.  Only about two dozen people so lots of opportunity to talk to everyone and some really interesting and fun people.  Plus I had the opportunity to further solidify the groundwork for the new collaboration.  Yay!  Work goes right for a change…

Anyway, on to the fun stuff: a handful of us discovered that we were all staying on for the weekend post-workshop, and so, after relocating to our respective cheap, central hotels, reconvened to spend the remainder of Friday afternoon exploring.  The island was certainly dramatic.  From the port (a haven for cruise ships), the town climbed steeply up the hillside at an almost 45 degree angle.  The hills were cut with deep ravines, and so roads either zig-zagged crazily back and forward up the mountainside, or alternatively burrowed straight through the hills and emerged onto slender bridges spanning dizzying gaps across the valleys.

After a preliminary wander around the docks area, where we observed the local approach to fishing, we moved on to the relatively sedate attractions of the botanic gardens.

The guy in the jeans stood there, cigarette on his lower lip, nonchalantly reeling in fish after fish. In between, his crony would unhook the fish, then re-bait the line and cast before handing the rod back to Mr Smooth. What an operation.

Bird of Paradise in Jardim Botânico da Madeira.

The climate here is mild year round, and apparently suitable for growing just about anything, so the gardens were rather impressive.

In an attempt to liven things up a bit, we started trying to determine which of the interesting looking fruits might be edible.  These rather attractively purple bananas turned out to be not only ripe, but deliciously sweet, and rather oddly crunchy, with seeds the size of peppercorns.  (To be honest, I took this photo just in case it was needed for identification purposes while we were all in emergency having our stomachs pumped.  We all seemed to survive OK though.)

Tasty wild bananas!

More obviously edible food at the amazing daily markets (six different varieties of passionfruit!)

The following morning (Saturday) turned in to a bit of an organisational disaster as only arrangements between half a dozen people can.  How such feats would have been managed in the days before mobile phones, I have no idea.  Actually, such feats probably would (sensibly) not have been attempted in the days before mobile phones, and I suspect we’re not necessarily the better for it.  It turned out that the path we had been planning to hike had been closed as a result of a landslide (occupational hazard in these vertiginous parts apparently) and our Plan B was sadly lacking.

Anyway, it ended up being just me and a German guy driving up the mountain in his rental car at 9am.  Pico Arieiro is one of those interesting mountains that local authorities have, for some reason, seen fit to build a road right to the summit of (actually, the carpark stops about five metres short of the summit).  It was a bit hellish, with massive tourist buses everywhere and much octogenarian camera snapping (a bit reminiscent of our hike up Mt Snowdon in Wales actually.  Just replace the tourist buses with a train.)  I had to laugh out loud when I realised that there was even one of those ubiquitous South American Indian pan-pipe bands (you know the ones I mean: coming soon to an elevator near you) playing easy listening covers of Simon & Garfunkel songs (cos’ they weren’t easy listening enough).  This guy actually posits the interesting hypothesis that “it’s actually the same 4 guys that by some kind of ancient Incan teleportation system are actually able to be, simultaneously, everywhere at the same time.”

A large group prepares to set off from Pico Arieiro.

Precipitous drops.

After dithering about the lookout for a bit, we decided to set off on the 12km return hike to Pico Ruivo, if only to escape the crowds.  Now, you might think that hiking from 1818 metres to 1862 metres sounds like a bit of a doddle (only a 44 metre gain in height, after all!)  However, the nature of the terrain meant that in between us and our goal stood not one but two valleys, with a third mountain in between just for good measure.  Murder on the knees.

That said, the hike was absolutely spectacularly stunning – some of the most superlative defying scenery I’ve seen anywhere.  At some points, you could look of both the left and right sides of the path (almost simultaneously if you crossed your eyes) and look down drops of 600+ metres on either side!  Adding to the atmosphere was the constantly changing face of the clouds, which sat at around 1500 metres, occasionally rising up to temporarily envelop us, but more often stretching off into the distance as a white blanket hiding the rest of the world from us, save for a few other isolated peaks and plateaus that stretched high enough to pierce them.  At one point I even got to witness a cloud waterfall, as some type of crazy pressure differential (perhaps?) between adjacent valleys caused clouds to pour through a low pass and cascade down the rockface.

Anyway, beyond that, I think I’ll just let the pictures speak for themselves – see here for lots more! (and here for some more of Funchal)

This peak looked for all the world like a massive skyscraper.

Proof I was there.

Stunted tree near the summit of Pico Ruivo.

Cloud waterfall: the clouds were flowing from the more distant valley to the closer one (where the cloud layer was lower). The path actually descended into that gap and then up the other side!

 

Pembrokeshire Cycle and PUFFINS!

In October 2008, I booked one night’s accommodation on Skomer Island, where Atlantic puffins return each year to their cliffside burrows to breed, before returning back to the deep sea in late July.  I spent 3 hours the first morning that bookings to the general public opened, phoning and phoning until I got through. When I did get through, we only had two choices: one early in the season and one late. I chose late – mid July 2009.

I have never, ever been so committed to booking anything. Even tickets to the Tom Waits concert we saw in Dublin last year only took me one hour of hitting the ‘refresh’ button on TicketMaster’s website.

The set off point for the island, Martin’s Haven, is about 3 miles from the nearest village, which itself is miles from a town of any consequence.  We dithered about how we would get there and didn’t find much in the way of public transport options.  After considering renting a car and hiking, we eventually decided to cycle around Pembrokeshire – the south-western-most county in Wales.

Nic found a few cycle routes that would cover the area: specifically, Sustran’s National Cycle Network routes  47 and 4.  I booked us train tickets to Carmarthen, using National Express East Coast’s website, which handily allows us to book a place for our bikes as well.  Wales has been Nic and Oanh’s 2009 Most Visited Country.  Have we mentioned that we love Wales?

We’re writing up the blow-by-blow account elsewhere, at the Crazy Guy on a Bike website.  We’ve been using the CGoaB website for lots of information about cycle-touring, so we’re giving back a bit by telling our own cycling stories there.

We cycled about 320kms over the 8 days, with many ups and many downs (approximately 3,244m of them, to be specific) and almost always into a headwind.  The weather, too, was not very pleasant.  I think of our total 9 day trip (including the one day on Skomer Island), we had 2 days of nice and dry weather; one of which, annoyingly, was our last day (involving mostly of train travel back to Southampton).  Even so, we had an excellent time.

Our route was planned around a few key stops: Pwyll Deri YHA Hostel, the town of St David’s and, of course, Skomer Island.  The rest we let happen as we cycled, which gave us great flexibility for rest days, lazy mornings hiding from the rain or longer stops to explore excellent Welsh castles.

Highlights of the trip were:

1. Pwyll Deri YHA – the hostel with the best view, ever.  Here we escaped from the rain after a drenched, cold miserable and grumpy (but short) cycle ride (see Lowlight #1 below).  We cooked up a delicious feast of rice and curry, and were even fed cake by one of our fellow hostellers.

Oanh photographs Nic photographing the view (after the rain has passed!).

2. Without a shadow of a doubt, the puffins on Skomer Island.

PUFFIN!!!

3. Serendipitously turning into the Druidston Hotel for a delicious lunch (when we discovered our bodies must have really needed fat as we have never eaten so much buttered bread in one sitting), and then spending the next 2 hours waiting out a downpour.

Coastline near the hotel at Druidston Haven, shortly before the rain hit.

4. The coastal scenery and gorgeous sunsets almost every night.

Sunset near Martin's Haven.

5.  The Welsh have really good castles.  Most have roughly the same history – built as strongholds for Norman and/or English overlords, generally named William, who wanted to subdue the Welsh ; were usually Royalist strongholds during the Civil Wars of the 17th Century and eventually slighted by Parliamentarians to become the picturesque ruins that Nic and I love.

Laugharne Castle

6. First Great Western’s carriage just for bikes.  Brilliant!  If only all the train providers would have such a thing.

(Ummm… nice as it was, we didn’t take a photo of this.)

7. The Welsh accent.

Lowlights of the trip included:

1. Me meandering slowly around a warm grocery store while Nic grew colder and colder as he had waited outside with the bikes, in the wind and rain.  Our cycle after was tense and grumpy for a bit, until Nic warmed up and I stopped feeling guilty for being so thoughtless.

2.The stupidest “cycle” path ever:

From Johnston to near Pembroke, there is an approximately 8 miles long traffic free bike path, which is great.  However, it ended, without warning, by turning sharply up a narrow gravel track, which shortly became stairs.  Even mountain bikes can’t tackle stairs.  We both grunted and grumbled as we struggled up with our bikes.  To add insult to injury, at the top of the path, toxic smelling black plumes of smoke (a factory burning off car tyres?) welcomed us to a dual-carriage motorway (with the bike lane on the opposite side of the road) which took us into the drab, charmless town centre of Pembroke Harbour.  I was so glad when Nic told me that Pembroke, our destination for the evening, was another five kilometres past Pembroke Harbour.

3. The hideous campsites at Tenby, which was expensive and had rubbish facilities, and Laugharne, which charged us the same amount as a car and four people, and directed us to a tent pitch  in between enormous caravans that seemed larger than our house.  All our other campsites were lovely.

But enough moaning!  Go read the whole story at Huffin’ & Puffins!

*****

All of our Skomer Island photos are here.

All of our Pembrokeshire Cycling photos are here.

 

Cycling the Kennet & Avon Canal path

One common feature that unifies most of the big cycling trips we have done so far is hills.  Obviously, given our location, we’re not talking about mountains.  Even in Wales, we never really surpassed more than about 300 metres above sea level.  Low altitude does not necessarily equate to flat however; you can squeeze a lot of upping and downing into 300 metres of altitude.  And, be it in the Isle of Wight, the Cotswolds or Pembrokeshire (still to be posted!), that’s pretty much what we’ve tended to do.  Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.  etc.

For a change, we decided to cycle along the Kennet & Avon Canal path, between Reading (just west of London) and Bristol (near the west coast of England).  Canals, much like railroads, were designed to be as flat as possible.  Sure, locks allowed boats to be raised and lowered up and down hills, but that required a lot of effort (to construct) and water pumping (to operate); therefore, the idea was to lay them out as flat as possible.  Should make the cycling a breeze, we thought.

So, the weekend before the Summer Bank Holiday long weekend (hoping to avoid the crowds and inevitable bad weather of the long weekend itself) we set off for Reading at a ridiculous hour of the morning.  Our train journey up was cramped nonetheless, and left us standing by our bikes in the (overloaded) bike carrying bit of the train, wondering why on earth people who were unable to locate a seat insisted on wandering from one end of the train to the other (necessitating much rearrangement of bikes on our part) rather than just staying put.  Oh well, eventually we emerged into a gloriously sunny day at Reading and the hardships of the journey were soon forgotten.

Cycling through the centre of town to the canal, we stopped for a coffee.  The barista asked me how far we had cycled as I ordered, and I had to rather shamefacedly admit that so far we had only cycled about 150 metres from the train station, but that we planned to cycle a whole lot further, hence our need for sustenance.

Reading city centre is a pleasant enough place (for a British high street full of chain stores) – I have meetings here occasionally and have developed a fondness for the Ethiopian restaurant where we eat lunch and the characterful pub where we go for a post-meeting drink.  Not really a place to linger when the countryside beckoned though, and we quickly located signs for the cycle path and set off.

We did encounter a little bit of grief trying to escape the city: I’ve probably ranted about this before, but Sustrans (the cycle path authority) do have a rather annoying habit of over-signing perfectly obvious parts of a route whilst not placing any signs (that we could spot) at critical intersections.  Their signs also seem to get reoriented fairly frequently (presumably by mischevious goblins).  Eventually, after detouring through an industrial estate, being dumped by the path on the wrong side of a highway, and negiotiating the most fiendishly designed traffic calming device I’ve ever seen (evidently designed to keep anything other than bicycles and pedestriants off the path, it was so narrow we had to remove our panniers and lift our bikes over it) we found ourselves by the canal.

Immediately, the stress of town lifted off our shoulders.  The still waters of the canal reflected overhanging trees and clear blue skies, the birds were singing, and the M4 was but a distant roar of traffic.  Apart from the occasional jogger, we had the path mostly to ourselves and revelled in the freedom of not having to worry about traffic, not having to huff and puff up hills, and not having to make any difficult navigational decisions.

The canal, near Newbury

However, by early afternoon, we had to admit to each other that, actually, we were finding this all a little bit boring.  You see, part of the excitement of cycling is struggling to the top of a massive hill, taking in the views from the top, and knowing that you have several minutes of glorious descent ahead of you.  By the end of the day, you are knackered, ready to replenish your energy with a massive meal before collapsing into unconscious sleep.  By contrast, we’d barely even felt the need to pause for a muesli bar today.  The views, whilst “lovely”, were a little unremittingly samey.  And really, it was all just a little bit too sedate.  [Seems like we can't ever be pleased, no? - Oanh]

Some respite was offered by the middle third of our journey.  The canal towpath has not yet been “improved” along this section, so the route diverts onto conutry roads for 30 miles or so.  All of a sudden we began climbing hills, winding down through sleepy villages and gazing across bucolic rural vistas.  This was more like it.  At one point we even had some navigational challenges, as our map and the signs disagreed.

Our destination for the evening was The Golden Swan, a pub that had a field for camping in the village of Wilcot, just outside Pewsey.  We spent a little bit of time in Pewsey looking for the Times, as I had become a little bit addicted to their cryptic crossword (now reformed, thank you) and wanted to check my previous week’s solutions.  Unfortunately, it seemed that everybody in Pewsey read the Times, and every single shop had sold out.  On our way out of Pewsey, we passed by, and spent  a little while exploring the grounds of, this incredibly cute church:

Cute little church, guarded by yew trees, at Pewsey

On arrival at The Golden Swan we dumped our bikes in the field and went looking for someone to sort out camping with.  A large group of people seated out the front of the pub chastised us (jokingly) for jumping the queue as I approached the door, and informed us that we’d have to wait in line for the pub to open, just like everybody else.  Fortunately, it was a brief wait, at which point everybody graciously allowed us to get the low down on camping (pitch your tent anywhere you like, toilets are out the back) before they put in their drinks orders.

We had an extremely pleasant evening dining at the pub: we both ate rabbit pie followed by plum and blackberry crumble (all freshly made from local ingredients).  The dining room was rather small, and we ended up chatting with most of the other people there, the ice being broken mostly by the staff’s fairly continual inability to associate the correct meals with the correct table (and eventually, the correct bill with the correct diners).  After dinner, we took a brief stroll down along the canal, passing one boating family moored up and dining quite cosily by candlelight on the bank, before turning in.

We packed up in record time the next morning, but any early departures ended up being delayed by further conversations with fellow campers, mostly about other pleasant locations for cycling, camping and canoeing in the south of England.  I’m sure there is a bit of selection bias going on, but I really do think you see the nicest side of English people on campsites out in the countryside.

The morning was brisk and clear, and our route took us through some stunning rural landscapes.  The fields had recently been harvested, and the massive bales of hay created an odd atmosphere, at once man-made and somehow prehistoric, a little like the stone tors on Dartmoor.

Picked Hill, in rural North Wiltshire.

Dragonfly, patiently taken by Oanh.

Etchilhampton Hill, with hay bales.

We were banking on passing through a village equipped with coffee shop (or at least tea room!) at some point, and so hadn’t bothered bringing our own coffee; however, it ended up being 30km of uncaffeinated riding before we located a cafe just outside of Devizes, at Caen Hill, where a sequence of approximatley 30 locks that carried boats up and down 72 metres of altitude over a distance of 3.2 kilometres.  It doesn’t sound like that much, but it was certainly an impressive sight: apparently it takes about 5-6 hours to take a boat over the whole distance (by comparison, on bikes it took us about 10 minutes!)

The cafe, while pleasant, was one of those that confuses me utterly: it had approximately 40 tables, of which four were occupied.  There were five staff working, yet they all seemed completely flustered and run off their feet.  At 10% capacity.  How on earth do they handle a full house?

Happily caffeinated, we continued on down Caen Hill and past a relatively nondescript stretch of canal that reinforced our preference for hills and valleys.  Things became a bit more interesting after Bradford-on-Avon, where the canal winds its way through steep, wooded valleys before emerging in Bath (we had previously walked this stretch).

Purple wildflowers - Meadow Crane's Bill.

Maxwell (& Daughters') Silver Hammer

Beyond Bath, we entered the realm of the Bristol & Bath Railway Path, an old disused railway line that has been converted into a state-of-the-art cycle facility.  And my, it certainly allowed us to fly.  We kept up an average speed of about 25km/h the entire distance.  Except for the hour in the middle, where we realised that we were on track to reach Bristol approximately 3 hours before our train left, and detoured to lie in the shade of a tree down by the river for a quick siesta.

Bristol was a bit of a navigational nightmare, as cities are wont to be.  Eventually we found our way down to the Quays, a large pedestrianised area with lots of (rather unexciting looking) eating options.  We settled on the cheap and cheerful option of (absolutely massive) falafel rolls (Falafel King, you rock!)  Actually, checking out their reviews, it seems like everybody agrees.  Fully sated, we navigated our way back to the station and settled in for the journey home.

Verdict: a thoroughly enjoyable weekend, but we’ll stick with the hills thanks all the same.

See the rest of our photos at our SmugMug gallery here!

 

Symonds Yat

Another active Summer outing with our friends, Rob and Simon (actually, looking back, I note that we never wrote a blog post about 2008’s active Summer outing, although the photos went up here).  Simon lives in the North and the rest of us live in the South, which presented the challenge of locating a mutually convenient venue.  The centre of England being rather short on wild mountainous terrain, we rapidly settled on the Brecon Beacons as a suitable target.  Adding to the convenience, Simon’s Mum lived just near the border at Symonds Yat, and we would be welcome to camp in her yard.  Actually, we were welcome to stay in her house, but just how much of an active outing would that be?

A succession of delays (the guy ahead of Oanh in the car rental office having had an accident, freak thunderstorms, sensibly slow driving down dark, narrow and windy country lanes, that sort of thing) led to us not arriving at Symonds Yat until well after 11pm, making it an easy decision to leave the tents packed and seek out beds in the rambling house.  Hardcore, we are.

The next morning, after a fantastic breakfast cooked by Simon’s Mum, we set off for the Beacons.  Although initially heading for the more remote western Black Mountain region, the fantastically clear weather induced us to change our minds and target the main ridge.  We had walked here earlier this year, but been clouded in at the top, hampering views.  I’d had a similar experience about 10 years ago, when I spent an entire day seeing nothing beyond about 10 feet around me.

The central region of the Brecon Beacons is shaped something like a hand laying flat (palm down) on a table.  The main ridge links a series of peaks (the knuckles) while a series of subsidiary ridges stretch off to the north (the fingers).  In between each of the fingers lie steep-sided valleys, carved out by glaciers many thousands of years ago.  Our plan was to climb up the index finger, cross two or three knuckles, and then descend along the middle or fourth fingers, as the mood took us, before making our way back to the car.

Clear blue skies, lush green grass, abundant sheep and good company made this a highly enjoyable walk.  I finally got to see the (stunning) views from the top of Pen y Fan (the highest peak) in good weather, as well as reaching Cribyn, the central peak, which I had never visited before.

Cribyn.

Us on the summit of Pen y Fan, in the sun!

Nic takes in the view from the summit of Fan y Big.

The low point of the walk (quite literally) was the yomp along the roads back to the car at the end of the day.  One positive aspect of this particular section however, was that we noticed a sign advertising camping on one of the farms.  Still with ample daylight, but sensing that our chances of locating a pub dinner were steadily diminishing, we decided to drive back here, pitch up and hit the nearest village.

Pentwyn Farm was a beautiful camp site: a gently sloping field rolling down to a stream, with views out over the surrounding farms and hills.  Also pleasingly casual, we were the only guests and the farmer was happy to recommend the pubs in several of the nearby villages.  We opted for the closest, The White Swan, in Llanfrynach, which we were informed was “a bit smart” but came well recommended.  Pulling in to the car park, we were a bit concerned that “a bit smart” might not appreciate our rather dishevelled and muddy state, but were relived to find ourselves greeted warmly and led to a table with nary a glance at our boots.

A quick survey of the menu made us realise that we were not in the domain of “cheap pub grub” (words like jus, coulis, boudin and confit abounded).  Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers, so we decided to ignore the price column and enjoy our meal.  Fortunately, the quality of the food met and exceeded our expectations (and the price tag) and we all enjoyed marvellous dinners and desserts, along with several (well deserved) pints of Brains (a Welsh brewer).

Oanh's dessert of raspberry mascarpone.

The following morning we made a relatively early start, and after juggling two sets of crockery and cutlery between four of us over breakfast, packed up the tents and continued westwards towards the Black Mountain.  The weather had closed in a little and clouds were skimming along the tops of, and occasionally obscuring, the peaks.  Nonetheless, it remained dry (for now).  Our plan was to walk a loop out from Glyntawe, heading first along another ridge to a mountain called Fan Brycheiniog, before striking off the path to meet up with a bridleway running through what our OS map described as “an area of shakeholes”, which would lead us back to Glyntawe.

The initial ascent was remarkably steep for the first few kilometres, but we trudged steadily upwards, pausing only to argue about whether a collection of stone piles labelled on the OS map as a “stone age settlement” was in fact a stone age settlement, or rather, just a pile of stones over-interpreted by eager archaeologists.  To be fair, the ruins had clearly seen better days.

The reach of our views extended rapidly as we ascended, and we began to draw even with the peaks that had previously towered over us.  The speed of the wind increased as well, and we were relieved to find a low circular wall on the summit within which we could shelter (accompanied by two men and a dog) to eat lunch.

Having taken in the view, Rob, Simon and I depart the summit cairn; rather offending Oanh, who had just arrived (we didn't mean to, honest!)

Llyn y Fan Fach (try saying that ten times quickly)

Continuing on, we saw the much more familiarly moody face of the Brecon Beacons, though the scenery remained spectacular.  As we descended from the ridge across pathless grassy slopes, the skies opened and a gentle rain began to fall.  The bridleway that we were aiming for was evidently little used and proved rather elusive, leading to much conferring over the map and compass and speculation about the identities of the various rocky protuberances that offered themselves as landmarks.

After several interesting river crossings, the path became much clearer and we were able to pay less attention to the map and more to our feet, on which the considerable ascents and descents were now beginning to take their toll.  We spent the last few kilometres convinced that the final descent back to our car lay just beyond the next hill, only to find yet more sodden, boggy, rocky terrain ahead of us.  While lacking the charm of our morning’s walking, our surroundings definitely possessed character: the sort of character that you migh associate with Mordor, in Tolkein’s Middle Earth.

At long last we made our final descent back into Glyntawe.  We staggered the last couple of hundred metres to the pub, peeled off our wet waterproofs and decided to settle in for dinner (a decision aided by the friendly hospitality of the landlord and open fire).  We were now back in the cheap and cheerful pub grub, but by no means went away unsatisfied (i.e., we were satisfied).

Saturday provided us with yet more doubtful weather, and we decided to explore Symonds Yat, guided by Simon, who grew up there.  Symonds Yat is divided into two villages by the River Wye, which curves a sinuous path along the English-Welsh border.  The wooded banks of the river slope steeply up to 150 metre hills, on top of one of which we were camped.  We descended from here to the river along a dripping forest path, expertly chosen by Simon to avoid the weekend crowds, stopping briefly to locate a geocache.  After pausing at a riverside teahouse for tea and cake, we crossed over a footbridge and I suggested a relaxed amble along the bank of the river, as opposed to charging straight up the side of the next hill.  People were persuaded, and we left the mist covered hills for another day, choosing instead the more relaxed challenge of deciding what type of sandwhich to order for lunch at The Saracen’s Head.

Our return journey back across the river was, rather excitingly, by hand ferry.  A large punt was attached to an overhead cable by rope and one of the barmen came out periodically to haul it and a load of passengers from one side of the river to the other.  A bit of a break from pulling pints I suppose.  The rain cleared away over the rest of the afternoon and we spent the evening drinking scrumpy around a campfire under the glow of millions of stars that don’t exist in the city.

See all the photos at our SmugMug gallery.