Day twenty-three: Hay-on-Wye to Gladestry

More beautiful sultry, black hills today. Breathtaking views. More skylarks making us sleepy. Endless fields to walk through, stiles to climb over, gates to open and close, nettles to sting our legs, wheat to get stuck in our socks.





The best thing though was St Mary's church.

Apparently Charles 2nd (I won't attempt to guess what year he reigned) once took refuge here and was provided well needed refreshments.

St mary's continues on with this tradition by offering drinks and snacks to travelers and advertises this in a rather humble way.


Inside we excitedly helped ourselves to hot chocolate and Jammy Dodgers. We put a small donation in the church box and wrote a big thank you in the visitors book. What a brilliant idea. More churches should consider this worthy charity.


I also sat in the church for a few quiet minutes, to take in the history, silence and sacredness of the building and almost, well.....felt quite spiritual. It was fleeting however. But I really have developed a love of churches.

"Friend where for art thou come?"


Ten miles later my feet we were feeling the strain and we decided to cut the day short in a tiny village called Gladestry, because it had a pub with accommodation available.

We watched some Wimbledon and I think this was when Andy Murray lost , once again putting England out of winning anything.

But I had a brilliant veggie chillie over a jacket potato.

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Day twenty two: Pandy to Hay-on-wye

The Old Pandy made us both a wonderful packed lunch today!

And we strode off across the Brecon Beacons National park and up into the Black mountains.


It was initially a tough climb out of Pandy then miles of walking across the ridge tops with panoramic views of England and Wales stretched out in all directions. As far as the eye could see there were no large towns or cities just hamlets, villages and church steeples nestled amongst undulating fields and copses. Amazing that on such a densely populated island there is so much seemingly unpopulated countryside. That you can still feel isolated on an island approximately the same size as Utah but contains 63 million more people. We can walk for miles and not see a soul, walk down roads and not see a car.



The Black Mountains seemed to be perfectly named. Shadows fell over their masses creating a darkness, blurring the line between mountain and stormy sky. They were ominous and heavy in their darkness, yet soft and hazy, with dreamy wild horses galloping across the ridges.






We walked on across the endless dreamy ridge top for hours, hypnotized by the Skylark's song that seemed to lull us to sleep. A flagstone path over the bogs, stretched for miles into the distance as we put one foot in front of the other. I found my eyes closing and wondered if it was actually possible to fall asleep while walking?


Our day ended at Hay on wye, supposedly the literary capital of Britain and home to numerous second hand book shops and another castle.

Mick and I were both happy here as the bed and breakfast was "continental" style, with a self serve kitchen and copious tea bags for Mick and Landlord beer (a Mick favourite) at the beautiful pub close by. And for me, WiFi.

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Day twenty-one: Monmouth to Pandy

We packed up and said goodbye knowing that I would be seeing Jill, Steve and Edie again very soon.

Steve drove us back in to Monmouth and we headed north through farmers fields, over stiles and through more farmers fields, down country lanes over more stiles and farmers fields. This went on for miles and we didn't see a soul.

We had stupidly forgot to pack a lunch and we were therefore depending on passing by a perfect pub to provide us with refreshments.

When we eventually met up with two hikers coming the other way we asked them about these expected pubs. They had come from Pandy, our destination and were much further along the route than us. They were carry very small day packs and told us that we would not be finding anything open until we got to Pandy.

We decided to ignore this couple. They had obviously by-passed the pubs without noticing. They obviously had delicious lunches contained within their minuscule day packs and we didn't like at all, the way they seemed to relish the fact that we would not be finding any refreshments for the rest of our long journey.

The sounds of the British countryside:





So we continued to fantasize about large cups of tea, cheese and pickle baguettes and packets of crisps.

The first hopeful village that we approached with a PH (public house marked on OS map) had a building on the corner that looked distinctly pub-like but was lacking any signs and looked worryingly like a house. Sure enough as we stood on the corner staring in worried disbelief at this building, the only car of the day came by and confirmed our fears. This village pub had closed. But the lady farmer informed us that there was another, the Hogs head about a mile, no half a mile, just down the road to the right, it looked like a barn, but it was a pub, about 500 m down the road, they might serve a cup of tea, they do functions for weddings etc, etc. A trifle confusing but we consulted the map and the Offa's Dyke path went close to where we assumed she was directing us, so, we set off in pursuit of the Hogs Head.

FYI - You know that you shouldn't get too excited about the promises of a pub and the possibilities that would provide but in reality you can think of nothing else until it is reached.

I also know from experience not to take directions and distances from well meaning locals too seriously as they are invariably wrong but again you desperately want them to be right.

After miles down this road the Hogs Head was of course closed.

We sat by the pub and chewed gloomily on a few dried apricots and dates.

Our next false hope was a shack that looked like it should sell tea but was instead full of souvenirs for the White Castle located next door. Funny thing is, I hadn't even noticed the castle, just the shack. The woman manning this shack said she never sold many souvenirs and that everyone (well the few people who passed by this lonely place) was hoping for tea.

Then why doesn't she dump the souvenirs and sell tea and snacks? I went on about this for the next hour or so.

Just another castle:



Another favorite conversation of ours was the utter stupidity of the guide book Mick had purchased for this trail. In our minds (and therefore all other walkers of this trail) it should have contained useful information on where to purchase tea along the way, accommodation and pubs. The description of the walk should have directed us via major features like castles and churches. Instead the book preferred to guide by flowers and birds....turn right at the dandelion and left at the next buttercup where you may see a rabbit or you may even "see a Heron rising from the river" He confused us by mentioning trickling streams as babbling rivers and waffled on about the history of incredibly boring things. Who bloody cares? What about a cup of tea?

We passed through another village who's fantastic 13th century pub was also closed on Mondays ( and let me just add, unmentioned in the guide).


But all was well in the end, as sixteen miles later (probably my longest day thus far) we ended up at the most fantastic pub called the The Old Pandy. We arrived just as the doors were opening and it had a fantastic bunk house specifically catering to outdoor enthusiasts such as ourselves, great beers, yummy food and a knowledgable publican on the Offa's Dyke trail, called Alan.







The moral of this blog is.... Make sure you take along a packed lunch otherwise your blog could become incredibly boring and fixated on tea and snacks.

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At Jilleys

It was so cosy at jill's that I couldn't bear to leave and it felt right to stay another day. My body needed a day of proper rest and it was not hard to persuade Mick of this.

The true meaning of home comforts is really apparent when they have been missing for even a short period of time. It felt so wonderful to laze around on the couch, put my feet up, put a load of clothes in the washing machine, make my latte in the morning, watch TV or use the Internet at my leisure and above all, be with my family.

I also wanted to stay for the annual village fête. Bill Bryson in his little video clip on my Facebook page mentions these wonderful events of British village culture and I had been trying to explain them to Curt before I left. Now I had the opportunity to experience one and take some pictures

Jill and Steve live in Herefordshire on the border of south wales, close to Ross-on-Wye, in a little village called Weston under Penyard. Their centuries old stone cottage sits on Ponts Hill surrounded by a beautiful English garden.


Edie is my gorgeous niece, almost two and extremely special in many ways.



The village fête was everything and more than expected. The village vicar was in attendance, proudly reading out the grand prize raffle winners over the loud speaker. There we races for the children, stalls with tombolas, tin can targets, lucky dips, hoopla, skittles, guess the bear's birthday, cake and bakes etc, etc All this while the brass band merrily played on in the back ground providing a wonderful atmosphere. So glad to know these wonderfully simple and quintessentially English events have survived this modern age of computers and video games. There you go Curt, that is a typical English fête.









'In England, we relax by guessing the weight of a pig, throwing a ring over a jar of chutney, and thinking it's wonderful if it's not raining'
By Miles Kington

By 3:00pm the fête was clearing out because of the World Cup. We cleared out too and watched England loose disappointingly to Germany 4:1. That is the end of the world cup for both USA and England. Crap.

We spent the rest of the evening drinking those wickedly strong Belgian beers again, looking at pictures and ended up with Jill and I having a cry and reminiscing about Dad.





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Day twenty: chepstow to Monmouth

Our first day on the Offa's Dyke trail.

We had a schedule today and I was very excited. We were meeting my sister Jill at lunch time to receive my next dose of medications and more importantly my first opportunity to see my sister, brother-in-law and little niece.

A nice touch along the way:







Climbing out of Chepstow was beautiful as we hugged the cliffs overlooking the River Wye and started to walk along the actual dyke. Time for a little history lesson.....

This dyke was constructed by King Offa, the powerful Anglo-Saxon King of Mercia, in the eighth century and follows the border of Wales and England. Back then it was an earthen mound about 30 feet high with a deep ditch and was intended to keep the Welsh out of his kingdom. The national trail follows this dyke from the Severn estuary to Prestatyn in North Wales. It is still visible now but only in sections and even then it is not obvious as it is nowhere near that high anymore and usually hidden beneath dense vegetation and trees. The path is about 170 miles in length and passes through the border villages, constantly weaving in and out of Wales and England. A landscape dominated by castles and rife with stories of battles, heros, myths and dragons.

Wales has survived against all odds. Despite a constant struggle through hundreds of years of attempted invasions, Wales (Cymru in Welsh) has maintained it's identity and the Welsh their Celtic language. However Wales did eventually become under the sway of the English crown and in 1282, the death of Llywelyn the Last led to the conquest of the Principality of Wales by Edward the 1 of England. Since then the heir apparent to the English monarch has borne the title "Prince of Wales". Wales became part of the Kingdom of Britain in 1707 and the the United Kingdom in 1801.

We continued to walk through the woods with occasional tantalising views of the River Wye far below, until we got to the rocks of the Devil's Pulpit and got a fantastic view of Tintern Abbey on the banks of the Wye. So named because the devil is supposed to have preached to the monks in an attempt to divert them from their calling.





We walked on down to the Abbey and was so excited to meet with my sister I forgot to take a picture of this amazing place. But I did get one of Jill and Edie.






After a tearful reunion we shared a picnic in the car park of Tintern Abbey whilst I told stories of my exploits so far and tried to put in to words how fantastic I was feeling.

As my sister lives in Ross-on-Wye and not too far away, it was suggested that we come back and stay with them but I was nervous about becoming too cosy there and decided it was probably better to keep moving on. We also have a reunion planned shortly and knew I would see Jill again soon.

We walked on towards Monmouth, getting a little lost and frustrated along the way.






But found another pub across this bridge and refuelled on a pint of beer and
twigletts.






Before walking the long, hot and sticky path along the banks of the Wye in to Monmouth.












Tired and hot after having walked 15 miles we arrived in Monmouth and couldn't find anywhere to stay. The campsite was north and out of town a few miles so this was not an option. The only beds left available in town were in a Mexican restaurant. Not wanting burritos for pillows and now unable to resist the idea of cosy at Jills, we gave them a ring. Within 15 minutes we were in their car, within 30 minutes we were eating veggie burgers and drinking wickedly strong Belgian beer.

I cannot for the life of me think why I nearly passed up this opportunity to stay with my sister.

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Day nineteen: Minehead to Chepstow

After walking for eighteen straight days, I decided it was time for a day off. Being at the end of the coastal path anyway, it was necessary to find transport to my next National Trail. I have decided that my next trail will be Offa's Dyke which will take me north along the border of England and Wales.

Took a steam train this morning. It followed the coast for a while passing campsites full of static caravans (English equivalent of a mobile home and popular to rent out for holidays) and speedo clad holiday makers, waving madly at the train as we chugged by. Something about a steam train that just makes people want to wave at it. Probably because it travels at such a perfect pace and makes wonderfully pleasing chugs and whistles.



The tranquility and antiquity of the steam train contrasted sharply with our next bus ride. The bus was full of families and their luggage, returning from Butlins holiday camp. Butlins is an institution over here and I am embarrassed to admit that even our family holidayed there once. Not sure if it has changed over the years but back then it was full of rides for the children, knobbly knees competitions and gurning contests for those without teeth, endless evening entertainment with ball room dancing, magicians and Tom jones wanna be singers. Disneyland the British way I suppose.

I felt kind if emotional as I left the south west coastal path behind and headed towards Chepstow and the start of my next challenge.

Lessons so far from Mick. That old lady flabby arms are called bingo wings; exclamation marks should not be used because most things are not worthy of such an emphasis; that it is not British to get excited and I should show restraint upon finding out the B&B has veggie sausages; that I shouldn't worry about my genetic predisposition to Alzheimer's and current difficulties with word finding because it is just as effective to replace nouns with "biggelly,bogelly, thingy monkey"; however when describing how you are feeling, "feeling good" is not acceptable and should be replaced with the Queen's English, "feeling fine thank you very much".

I have also learnt that Mick gets very grouchy without regular intervals of tea so we have to make sure these are scheduled in to our day.

So, after a grande latte for me and a cup of tea for Mick in Chepstow we headed out in search of Mrs Potts farm.

Mrs Potts was offering a field to camp in, evening meals and breakfast. This sounded delightful and gave us visions of a wonderfully plump farmer's wife with pots for hands, clanking away as she cooked us up wonderful culinary delights. This kept us focused and happy initially but our packs were heavy, it was hot, humid and Mick had an old map which did not match in anyway what we were experiencing. The locals were not helpful as they were unaware of any camping in the area and when we eventually arrived at the farm Mrs Potts was nowhere to be found. Instead of those wonderful culinary delights we had dreamt up, we suffered wild mushroom cuppa soups and stale rolls. Mick decided he would send Mrs Potts some brillo pads anyway as a thank you for using her field.

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Day 16 to 18: Morthoe to Minehead

Major bummer. I screwed up again and tried to post some more blogs but I must have been kicked off the Internet at just the wrong time. Therefore they are all lost in space, somewhere between blog press and Internet. That makes me very sad. But I will try and recreate them and condense as I am getting very behind.

It took Mick and I three more days to reach Minehead and the end of the Southwest Coastal path. Day 16 we walked from Morthoe to Coombe Martin across moorland, along the coast of Exmoor national park and up Great Hangman, the highest point along the coastal path. Dramatic high cliffs with wooded valleys, contrasting the low vegetation of heather and moorland grasses. Scenery worthy of romantic novels such as Lorna Doone.

















Now, Mick initially took issue at the (in his words) "wiggly monkey" nature of the coastal path. After purchasing an OS map, he began to plot short cuts, cutting off the headlands and potentially miles from the route. However after I suggested that this was the whole point of the path, he quickly succumbed to the inevitable wigglyness and the sublime nature of the path.

Walking with Mick is a different experience again. He brings familiarity and therefore a sense of security. I have to admit that although I enjoy the excitement of the unknown, I was happy to take a back seat, enjoy Micks company and his marvelously quirky sense of humor.

Unlike Mike (it seems as though you have to be named Michael to walk with me) he doesn't keep me entertained with constant chatter but when he does say something it is invariably hilarious. His brain works in mysterious ways, constantly making the most obscure associations, voicing them with impeccable timing and perverse use of words and often breaking out in a perfect song to match the occasion. He really does make me laugh.

Day 17 we walked from Coombe Martin to Lynton across more cliffs, moorland, wild grazing ponies and ended up at a brilliant bed and breakfast. Brilliant because all the rest of them were full and brilliant because they provided a pot if tea with a plate full of half covered chocolate digestives and Ginger nuts.





Day 18 we walked to Porlock Weir. After more cliffs and such we entered the ancient woodlands of Culbone. We seemed to walk for miles, sheltered by it's ancient oaks, and cooled by the dampness and gentle water falls that trickled down into the sea.

These woods led us to the most beautiful church I have ever seen. In fact my words cannot adequately describe the beauty of this church, said to be the smallest intact parish in the country. The pews seat only 33 worshipers and services are still regularly held by candle light. You have to sit in it, touch it, feel it's coolness, smell it and hear it's silence to fully appreciate and experience this little church.






As with most churches, a centuries old, sacred yew tree, grows in the church yard, signifying that it was once a place of pagan worship. Tilted graves lie under the tree, names obscured by time and creeping mosses but left forever to sit amongst the buttercups, daisies and unkempt grasses of Culbone church. Timeless, spiritual and beautiful.





Once in Porlock, after having walked 14 miles or so we decided to take a bus to Minehead. It was only 5 miles but apparently a little boring and anyway the bus was waiting there at the bus stop. We then waited patiently for the missing driver. Obligingly, the missing driver, followed by a bunch of middle aged tipsy women piled out if the pub opposite and loudly boarded our bus. We then experienced a very interesting drive down the skinny lane to Minehead. We squeezed past cars attempting to travel in the other direction as the driver and the bunch of tipsy women, affectionately swore and banged on the windows at the terrified "bloody tourists" stuck between the bus and hedgerows.

We are now in Minehead, a seaside town, home to Butlins (a bizarre part of British culture that I will expand upon later) and a major metropolis to us. It also has a curry house.

I think I have walked about 200 miles now but I will confirm that at a later date when I have added it all up.

Off for a curry now, to celebrate and to stuff my face with popodums, veggie masala, aloo gobi (spellings?) naan breads, big beers........

Oh, and just to let you know that I am extremely happy :)





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Location:Kerry St,Montgomery,United Kingdom