| The Wye Valley Way |
By Mark Walford
Day One
Route:Chepstow to Whitebrook
Distance: 12m (19.3km)
Elevation: 23ft (7m) to 384ft (117m)
Climbing (ascent and descent): 2,415ft (736m) and 2,411ft (735m)
Next
|
See Route on ......
A late start from Chepstow ...
Rain had been forecast and the skies were grey and heavy with it when we arrived at
Chepstow Castle,
the official starting point of the
Wye Valley Walk.
The really serious rain was not due until later in the morning, so we gave it every opportunity to catch us up — ensuring we would be thoroughly wet from the outset — by setting off considerably later than planned. It was to be a day of errors and omissions, both major and minor, and our first was to feed four English pounds into the parking meter only to be informed immediately afterwards by a passing local that parking was free all day on Sundays. A small irritation. We consoled ourselves that at least the car was safely placed and easily findable. A burger van had opened for business nearby, and I made a mental note of it for the return — not for the burgers, but on the question of cold water.
Our final task before finding the start was to collect a couple of Wye Valley Walk passports from the
Tourist Information centre.
These contained spaces for stamps collected at nominated stations along the route. Some were TICs like this one, but the majority were public houses, which gave us an excellent reason for stopping at such places. Perhaps that was the intent behind the passports anyway.
Under the crumbling walls of the
|
|
Both of us fresh and ready for the start
|
castle we found the large rock marking the official beginning of this hundred-and-thirty-six mile adventure and began taking the photographs that such occasions demand. Colin was framing me against the stone when a local lady approached with a pair of small dogs. She was, we concluded very quickly, hard of hearing — and, like many people in that situation, she communicated at a volume calibrated for the assumption that everyone else was too.
"SHALL I TAKE A PICTURE OF THE TWO OF YOU TOGETHER?" she announced, which bounced off the castle walls at some effect.
We agreed gratefully. Colin handed over his camera.
"I'M NOT VERY GOOD AT THIS — I USUALLY CUT PEOPLES HEADS OFF," she reported. Then: "OH THAT'S THE THING I NEED TO PRESS IS IT?"
She took a genuinely lovely photograph of the two of us. We thanked her warmly.
"NOT AT ALL," she replied, at full broadcast volume. "YOU TWO HAVE A LOVELY DAY!!"
We lingered for a while, admiring the frowning battlements of the castle that loomed above us, and shot some video, and shuffled our feet, and stared with some trepidation at the gloomy rain-clouds overhead. There was nothing for it: it was time to be off.
However, we lingered for a while, admiring Chepstow Castle from beneath — it looms over the starting rock with the particular authority of a building that has been doing exactly this since 1067, when William Fitz Osbern, a compatriot of the Conqueror, raised the first stone-built Norman castle in Britain on this commanding position above the Wye. It survived sieges during the Civil War in the 1640s before finding a second career as a state prison. The large tower directly overhead is Marten's Tower, named for Henry Marten — one of the regicides who signed the death warrant of Charles I. When Charles II restored the monarchy in 1660, Marten was lucky to avoid the fate of his fellow signatories, escaping execution only to spend, ironically, the remaining twelve years of his life imprisoned in the tower that now bears his name. I suppose there are worse ways to be commemorated.
The town itself, before the industrial expansion of Newport and Cardiff drew trade away along the Severn estuary, was an important port. The old town walls visible on the hill above us are its evidence, along with the knowledge that small flat-bottomed boats called trows once worked these waters — carrying iron and wire from Tintern and Redbrook, timber and oak bark, paper from Whitebrook, and wine inbound from Bristol and beyond. The Industrial Revolution transferred all of this elsewhere and left Chepstow to preserve itself largely intact, which, on balance, seems like a reasonable outcome.
We encountered the booming lady one final time as we made our way through town looking for the high street — she provided detailed directions at full volume, startling passers-by — and then parted from her for the last time with waves and smiles.
"GOODBYE MY LOVELIES — ENJOY YOUR WALK!"
Colin had, it then emerged, forgotten to pack a waterproof coat. We found an outlet on the
high street
almost immediately, which was the easy part. His chosen coat had no price label, which required two confused shop assistants, a monitor, a keyboard, and twenty minutes of increasingly improvised investigation to resolve. I lost interest in the proceedings and wandered to a nearby Greggs for packed lunches. The coat was eventually sold at a price reached by mutual agreement through the time-honoured method of haggling, and we made our way back to the castle to begin in earnest. It was, by now, raining persistently.
Pretty viewpoints, pretty damp ...
We had mapped the day's profile as part of our planning and knew there would be over two thousand feet of climbing. This began immediately — the path rising to a road, the road rising through the suburbs of
Chepstow,
the whole enterprise heading firmly upward from the first step. This is worth saying clearly about the Wye Valley Walk: it is not a stroll along a riverbank. For geographical reasons and the realities of land ownership, the path is often drawn away from the river and forced onto the wooded hillsides above the gorge. Some of those hillsides are steep and some of those climbs are long, and while the profile promised as much descent as ascent, it never quite felt that way in practice. What this approach offers in return is a route of genuine variety — dense forest, open pasture, cider orchards, meadows, and moorland — and views of the Wye Valley in its full depth rather than just its river floor. If you walk this route, be prepared for real hiking.
We left the road and Chepstow behind via
school
grounds,
picking up a forest path where the tree canopy absorbed most of the rain and we were at least able to lower our hoods and look about us. The path entered
Piercefield Park,
private land but open to walkers, where a series of viewpoints
had been laid out in the 1750s by Valentine Morris, the park's then owner, whose West Indian estates provided the wealth for such enterprises. The walks and viewpoints became a celebrated attraction on what was known as the Wye Tour — visitors arriving by boat and carriage from across Britain to see the spectacular gorge, in a way that made this corner of Monmouthshire one of the birthplaces of organised tourism. The viewpoints were originally designed to be walked south to north, rearranged by a later owner in 1790, and added to in the early nineteenth century by Nathaniel Wells — the son of a plantation owner and an enslaved woman, who inherited his father's estates and became the first Black High Sheriff in Britain.
We met a retired couple on the trail, and a younger couple with a dog who appeared to be attempting the same stretch, and for some time we overtook each other at intervals as we stopped along the way. At the Alcove seat, a viewpoint looking back toward Chepstow, we paused. The castle was visible behind us, the town below it, and beyond both the white spans of the
Second Severn Crossing.
The Wye moved silently below — dun brown, the banks slick with mud, still tidal at this point. It would remain so until we reached
Brockweir,
and there was something odd and satisfying about that: the river we were following was still subject to the pull of the ocean, and with each mile north we walked it would become younger — swifter, clearer, less interested in tides — until eventually we would trace it back to a hillside in Wales where it was nothing but cold water pushing out of the ground.
The bypass cutting across the middle distance was, we agreed, a missed opportunity — a grey concrete flyover inserted into one of the finer river views in the country with no apparent consideration of whether anything might be done to soften it. Perhaps if it were designed today someone would at least try.
The path climbed and the footing became demanding — rocks and tree roots, everything slick with wet. Colin recognised this section: he had worked here as a conservation volunteer some years before, clearing the undergrowth and levelling the track where the terrain allowed. He pointed out the sections he and his colleagues had worked on. It looked, as I told him, like genuinely hard work.
He diverted left into a feature called the Grotto — a structure set into the hillside that resembled, as much as anything, a Neanderthal bus shelter, built for the Georgian visitors to shelter in and originally decorated with sea shells, long since departed. A little further on we reached the Giants Cave, a tunnel chiselled through living rock with a view down to the river far below — worth the pause, though the tunnel itself offered a strong smell of urine as its principal attraction. Valentine Morris, apparently, used to have guns fired from here so his guests could count the echoes bouncing between the cliff faces. Seven times, on a good day. A different era's entertainment.
After the cave the path narrowed and steepened, the drop to the unseen river increasingly vertical to our right. A trip in that direction would have produced an unpleasant sequence of tree trunks before a distant splash, and we moved with appropriate care. Not the ideal terrain for children or dogs in wet weather.
We broke from the trees at the
Lower Wyndcliff car park
where the rain reasserted itself without the shelter of the canopy and we pulled our waterproofs back on with the grumbling of people who had briefly entertained hope. Beyond the car park lay an old quarry and a choice of the 365 Steps — installed for those energetic Georgians who climbed them for views — or a track. The views from the steps would have been magnificent on a clear day. On this day they would have been cloud. We took the track, which was barely less strenuous.
At the top, the Eagles Nest viewpoint — said to be a favourite of the Duke of Beaufort, which is the kind of recommendation that carries weight if you are the Duke of Beaufort. On this particular morning it offered a blank white void with the ghost of a single tree in the foreground. The guidebook's enthusiasm for the panorama was noted and filed against a future visit. If you are curious
here is a link
to what the view can offer on a fine day.
Abbeys, shindigs, cricket, and beer off-piste ...
We descended through Minepit Wood — where ironstone was mined (possibly by the monks of Tintern Abbey) using the *scowles* system; following ore seams close to the surface in the same way as the Forest of Dean, creating deep fissures or trenches in the ground — and then out through soggy pastures down the hillside to the first outlying cottages of
Tintern.
We had both been here several times and rate it highly.
The abbey
ruins appear suddenly when you approach from the road — the great Gothic skeleton of the building leaping into view with a slightly theatrical effect that demands attention. Founded in 1131 by the Cistercians on land granted by Walter de Clare of Chepstow, it grew wealthy enough by the thirteenth century to build the magnificent structure of which these ruins are the bones, and the bones are considerable. The river here is no longer tidal and no longer brown — it runs wide and green and quick, the Severn's influence gone. There are good restaurants, several shops, and a pub serving a mixed grill of legendary proportions. I could go on. Go and visit.
Colin and I sat on a low stone wall between the abbey and the river and ate our packed lunches while tourists of several nationalities wandered past.
A French man crossed the car park wearing trousers so spectacularly baggy and vividly red that we stared openly. He carried them with the confidence of a man who is making a deliberate statement, which is probably fair — he was French and almost certainly better informed about these things than two Englishmen in shapeless walking gear.
The local wasp population descended on us almost immediately. At this time of year, with their larval food source exhausted, they are in perpetual emergency search for sugar and cannot be blamed for the persistence this produces, even if it tests the patience. After some arm-waving and cursing I compromised by depositing a small puddle of Lucozade Sport into a hollow in the brickwork, which partially redirected their attention, and we ate in relative peace.
We moved on through Tintern, along the wide flat track beside the river — welcome after the morning's gradients — and then a stretch of the
main street
past the pub with the mixed grill, which we regarded with some longing and kept walking.
We walked through the grounds of
St. Michael’s Church
to reach the riverbank once more and then, for a rare space of time, we followed its course, close enough to jump in if we were so inclined. The appearance of canoeists reminded us of just how popular this past-time is on the lower reaches of the Wye. Symonds Yat East in particular seems to be a Mecca for canoe clubs. We watched a family of four glide by, paddles flailing in an un-coordinated manner, and speculated on the perils of such an outdoor pursuit. Colin knows better than I how risky an adventure it can be, as he and his son had capsized on a canoeing trip a few years before which had cost him a phone, a camera, and a significant loss of dignity. We wondered how far up along the course of the river this activity would be evident or whether it was concentrated down here in Herefordshire, where the river is wide and relatively smooth.
A grassy meadow produced an unexpected sound: amplified country and western music, incongruous in the Welsh countryside, emanating from a wooden community building with a veranda looking over the river. Heads bobbed in unison inside. It appeared to be some kind of shindig. Colin performed a brief Irish jig for the camera, which is committed to video and may surface at inopportune moments in future.
The next meadow offered something better still. On the far bank, a village cricket match was in progress — batsmen coming and going at a rate suggesting that wickets were falling with some regularity and nobody was especially distressed about it. The umpires, inexplicably, were both wearing kilts. As I filmed, a new batsman took crease, the bowler ran in, and he was bowled first ball. The crowd cheered with the particular warmth of people who are rooting for the entertainment rather than the result, and the outgoing batsman tucked his bat under his arm and made cheerfully for the beer tent, where most of his teammates already appeared to be. The kilted umpires conferred – perhaps confirming that they had indeed run out of batsmen and could also retire themselves to the beer tent.
Brockweir bridge
crossed next — a large iron construction carrying us over the river and into
Brockweir village.
Once the busiest port on the Wye, where cargoes were transferred between ocean-going ships and the trows, it is quieter now, its old quay restored and its function historical. Across the bridge, the Offa's Dyke National Trail joins from the east — territory Colin and I know well from the walk four years before.
The village pub was open and not listed as a passport stamp location, but our efforts seemed to deserve a pint of ale regardless. We sat outside in the temporary absence of rain and rested our feet for twenty minutes.
We then set off in the wrong direction for quite a long time.
The logic had seemed sound: follow the road uphill out of the village. At the top we established that the logic was not sound. We walked back down to the pub and spent some time with the guidebook, which appeared to be describing a route we couldn't reconcile with what we were standing in front of. Eventually we realised we should never have crossed the bridge at all, and Brockweir had been an entirely unnecessary detour.
Never mind. The ale was good.
Wrong turns and things we never saw ...
We crossed the bridge back and found the Wye Valley Way waymark — a leaping salmon, which would have made an excellent pub name and apparently nobody has acted on this — and began climbing again, leaving the river and its flat meadows for the forested hillsides. It was raining heavily again.
A short energetic ascent levelled into an avenue of old pines and then forest tracks, eventually reaching the Whitestone Forestry Commission Picnic Site,
where the waymarks began behaving peculiarly and sent us in circles. The guidebook instructions and the ground in front of us declined to correspond. We resorted to asking two women with dogs, who were on their way back to their cars. They knew where Whitebrook was by road but not by path, and while we discussed this one of the dogs wound itself around my leg so thoroughly that the lead wrapped me like a ribbon on a maypole. They offered us a lift to Whitebrook, which we politely declined — it would have been cheating — and pointed us toward a steep upward track between the trees that they were half-sure led in the right direction.
We unwound the dog and climbed.
At the top, a wider trail and, passing by, a man on a large horse.
"Is this the way to Whitebrook?" we asked.
"Whitebrook?" he said. "Yes."
He rode on. His horse's tail swished. We followed the direction of the tail until a T-junction with no road signs, at which point the man and his horse had vanished entirely. Left, right, or straight ahead on a smaller path — no information available, no way of knowing. We had come this far without maps or GPS on the confident assumption that a well-marked long-distance trail in Herefordshire could not really defeat two experienced walkers. This is the kind of assumption that so-called experienced walkers make, and it is always wrong.
After a quite a long time we came to a little lane that darted off to our right, with a sign that told us it led to Cleddon. We recognised that name - it was back on-route. Irritated at the time and distance this diversion had cost us we turned down the lane and walked past several very pleasant properties and into the tiny hamlet of
Cleddon
where it began to lash down with rain again. The guide book enthused greatly about the section of the walk we had just missed, talking about three fine viewpoints (an irony since we had seen almost nothing but trees all day) and a small but picturesque waterfall.
From here at least the Wye Valley walk was easy to pick up once more and we set off along an old railway track, its wide expanse bedecked with ferns and wild flowers. As the day waned the weather did its best to improve and after the soaking in Cleddon the rain ceased altogether, with a wan sunlight pouring through ragged breaks in the clouds. At the end of this broad track we were, finally, offered the chance of a fine view as a clearing opened to our right and we saw that a bench was perched on a high vantage point looking down along the Wye Valley. The day had become still and the wine-yellow sunlight filtered down onto the steeply wooded hillside of the valley below us. Colours were diffuse and dreamlike, painted in soft watercolours, and the gentle hills of the valley rolled away to the south, each one becoming more hazy and indistinct - seen through the fog of moisture which still hung in the air. Somewhere down in the floor of this green gorge the river Wye glided along, but it was lost to us from this height. Only the gorge itself, carved by the river over its age-long existence, provided any hint of its location. It was simply stunning and we spent a while taking it all in, regretting slightly the other viewpoints we had missed.
It was time to get moving again and we left the green track behind us, descending down
steep metalled lanes
through the village of Pen-y-Fan, assured by a passing farmer that Whitebrook was now very close indeed. That was something I was glad to hear. It had been a long day of many gradients and my knee was beginning to seize up, a hazard I have had to live with for several years. I didn’t think it had much more mileage in it and I was weary and a little footsore, looking forward to sitting in a warm car a with a cold beer waiting for me at Brock cottage.
We reached the gated entrance to a large whitewashed property where a sign-post directed us to the right and down a sharp and twisted little cutting between tall undergrowth. The rocks on this track were still slippery and wet and every so often a flight of crude wooden steps had been cut into the track. I have never liked these kinds of step and I have complained about them before in other journals. None of them seemed designed for a normal human leg-length and with a gammy knee I was proceeding down the track at a snail’s pace, right leg stiff and inflexible, like Herr Flick. At last we reached the bottom which dumped us out onto a small metalled lane and the beginning of our final folly.
Dumb Decisions ...
There was a finger post at the bottom of the twisty track that indicated the direction of the Wye Valley Walk. I set off in that direction, convinced that this was also where Whitebrook, and our car, waited. Colin said nothing but followed along and so we rounded a corner to pass in front of
Tump Farm,
with its strong smell of cow manure and the threatening rumblings of a bull which sounded both very close and very large. There was a regular wooden thumping noise which sounded as if the beast was trying to kick itself free of whatever container it had been placed in. We were glad to put the place behind us. Just beyond the farm was a field that sloped viciously away to our right, up to lofty, unseen pastures. It was a monster of a slope, covered in rugged grass.
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Colin craning his neck, “I wouldn't want to climb that the way I'm feeling”
Prophetic words.
For quite a long time we marched along and only when it became obvious that we were heading back out into unpopulated greenbelt did we stop and consider our position. It was obvious that Whitebrook did not lie in this direction. Colin managed to get a signal for his mobile phone and opened up a map utility. He nodded as if confirming his suspicions and gave me the bad news. We should have turned left at the finger post at the bottom of the
track instead of right and now we had a whole lot of backtracking to complete before the walk was done. He had thought as much when we set off along the road but I had seemed so confident that he deferred to my better judgement. If he had punched me in the throat at this moment I wouldn't have blamed him.
Late in the day, facing a long backtrack along the road and the prospect of reaching the car in darkness without a head torch — another omission — Colin spotted a finger post pointing up a narrow overgrown path to the left. *Whitebrook 1¼*, it said. I was doubtful. The road at least offered certainty. Colin had already started up the path, so I followed.
The track climbed steadily into a long grassy field that continued uphill without mercy. My knee, which had been making observations for some time, upgraded to formal complaint. When the field finally levelled, we were high above the road and had, it emerged, climbed the monster slope that Colin had noted with relief was not part of our route, back when we were still on the flat and the end had seemed close.
The field ended at a scrubby meadow that fell sharply away before us. At the bottom: a thick hedgerow, a barbed wire fence, and the sound of a brook in the undergrowth. Beyond the hedge, just visible, the lane to Whitebrook. Unreachable.
Colin began hacking along the hedge looking for a gap or a gate. I turned and began climbing back up the steep grassy slope, asking my knees to do things they had formally declined to do. Two thirds of the way up I stopped, lay down on the grass, and — for the first and only time in my walking life — felt genuinely nauseous with exertion. Colin passed me going upward, his face expressing what considerable restraint prevented him from saying.
"What larks we're having," he might have offered. He didn't.
At the top we separated — I went to find the track back down to the road, Colin went further along the field to look for another way. This is another thing you should not do on a walk, and we were accumulating a considerable list by this point in the evening.
I retraced my steps and could not find the open gate. I walked a wide circle and returned to the same locked five-bar gate with an electric fence attached to it. I did this three times. I was lost on top of being lost, alone on a darkening hilltop, apparently unable to locate an open gate in a field that contained only two exits.
I took stock. Two buildings were visible: Tump Farm below in the valley, with its ambient smell of manure and the distant threatening percussion of its moody bull kicking something solid — not an inviting prospect in gathering dark — and a white cottage up another slope to my left. I chose the cottage, climbed the final slope on legs that had nothing left, reached the stone boundary wall, and hauled myself over it, pulling a pectoral muscle in the process. I crawled onto the gravel of the cottage's front drive.
The cottage was empty. The owners were out. I hurried across the drive — boots announcing every step in the still air — turned right down a lane, and followed it downward. Very soon a familiar gated entrance appeared: the large whitewashed property with the signpost pointing right, down the twisted little track with the wooden steps.
I was going down it again.
It was dark in the cutting now, the thicket closing off the sky. My phone rang halfway down. Colin — his own adventure concluded successfully, a different hidden path found, already at Whitebrook. I told him where I was. By the time I limped onto the
road
he came around the corner in the car.
"Awright?" he said, as though he had simply collected me from a bus stop.
"Awright mate," I replied, in much the same register.
A late return to Chepstow ...
We drove back to Chepstow and the car I had parked that morning when the day was young and the possibilities were unlimited. It was full dark. The burger van was still open. I asked for cold water. They had cold lemonade, which was what they had left. It tasted like the finest lemonade ever.
I sat on the tailgate and removed my boots and socks. My feet had the pale, slightly luminous quality of dead cod. Two young women in the adjacent car found this amusing, which I registered from a considerable distance of fatigue and filed without further attention. I put on my deck shoes with the dignity I had available, which was not extensive.
We worked it out later. The diversions and unplanned excursions had added approximately six miles to what had already been a strenuous twelve-mile route, turning it into an eighteen-mile day. We had demonstrated comprehensively how ill-equipped we had been — no maps, no GPS in regular use, no head torches, no waterproof coat until the haggling was done — and we accepted this with good grace. It had been a lesson learned. Thoroughly and expensively, but learned.
Brock Cottage at nine-thirty, three hours later than scheduled. Pizza, one beer, a shower, and a sleep of the specific quality that a genuinely hard day produces.
Day one: done.
For a full profile of the route (PDF format) click here
See Route on ......
Next
Prev
Next
