| Offa's Dyke - South | |
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By Mark Walford Outward bound Next 
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The Offa's Dyke is a long-distance footpath opened in 1971, running the length of the English and Welsh border for 177 miles from Chepstow in the south to Prestatyn in the north. It partly follows the line of an ancient earthwork constructed in the eighth century by King Offa of Mercia — a man who, by any measure, thought big — as a boundary and defensive barrier against Welsh incursions into his kingdom. Thirteen centuries on, substantial stretches of the original bank and ditch survive, and the path walks directly along them. It is one of the longest ancient monuments in Europe, and one of the finest long-distance routes in Britain.
We intended to tackle it in three parts:
**Part One** — Chepstow to Knighton: 80 miles, September 2009
**Part Two** — Knighton to Brompton: 15 miles, May 2010
**Part Three** — Brompton to Prestatyn: 82 miles, September 2010
Why this route? Partly because the border country between England and Wales happens to be among our favourite parts of the United Kingdom — a landscape that shifts constantly between two nations, sometimes within the same field, and carries the deep, unhurried quality of somewhere that has been argued over for a very long time and has quietly outlasted all the arguments. Partly because my brother Colin is fortunate enough to live within a stone's throw of the path's southern reaches, which meant we could all descend on his cottage at Bridstow for the first section. Which leads, naturally, to the third reason: it would save us a considerable amount of money.
Four of us got together to plan the trip — myself, Colin, our cousin Jo, and Bod, who is an honorary member of the Walford clan by virtue of a friendship long enough and deep enough to have rendered the distinction between family and friend largely academic.
Men in Black in Ross ....
After a final, harassing morning at work I escaped the office, called home to collect my belongings, and set off to pick up Jo. He emerged from his front door with a medium-sized rucksack slung across one shoulder. I had the tailgate of the car already open, ready to receive whatever mountain of gear a week's walking in the Welsh borders would logically require.
He threw the pack in and moved to get in the car.
I looked at the rucksack. I looked at the empty boot, where there was room for approximately three more rucksacks of similar dimensions.
"Where's the rest?" I asked.
"That's it," he said.
I had four bags, a laptop, all my walking gear, and a collection of camera and video cases that occupied most of the available space and still left me with the nagging feeling I had forgotten something essential. Jo had apparently packed his entire week into something the approximate volume of a Tesco shopping bag. One of us had got the logistics badly wrong, and I was beginning to suspect it might be me.
The day was fair and the traffic light, and we made the drive from Birmingham to Ross-on-Wye in under an hour, pulling up at Brock Cottage to find Colin waiting outside with the anticipatory grin of a man who has been looking forward to this for some time.
"Bod's already in Ross," he said. "Wants to know when we can go for a beer."
Bod had originally planned to share a B&B with another friend who had intended to join us for the walk. Unforeseen circumstances had since intervened, leaving him installed alone in Ross-on-Wye for the week — which, knowing Bod, he was probably handling with his characteristic equanimity, having identified the nearest decent pub within the first twenty minutes and settled in to wait.
I unpacked the camera and spent a slightly dubious few minutes filming Colin's feet in close-up — both of them pale, unblemished, and entirely innocent of what lay ahead — with the intention of doing a *before and after* comparison at the end of the week. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Mercifully for all concerned, I forgot to do the *after* footage.
We found Bod at the Man Of Ross where a round of beers was followed by a general airing of opinions about the walk ahead, the kind of optimistic pre-walk conversation that takes place in warm pubs before reality has been consulted. Groceries were acquired from a local supermarket, which involved the four of us navigating the aisles with a single shopping trolley in the self-conscious manner of men who are aware that this arrangement looks faintly ridiculous and have not yet worked out how to make it look otherwise.
Then the White Lion where a table by the river Wye had been secured for the evening meal.
The beer garden was occupied by a large and rowdy contingent of shaven-headed men in black suits — the kind of group that announces itself from some distance and gives you a moment to assess the situation before committing to a position. They were not aggressive, merely very loud and showing every sign of being in the early stages of a long night. A few overheard snatches of conversation confirmed what the accent had already suggested: they were Brummies. Further intelligence established that they were not merely from Birmingham but from my part of Birmingham. I had driven seventy miles to share a riverside dinner with my neighbours.
They departed eventually, crossing the bridge into town in a long, cheerful, and not entirely straight line, singing something that had started as a football song and evolved into something more impressionistic. The Wye resumed its quiet business. We finished our food.
An early night was agreed without much debate. We drove back to Brock Cottage and were in bed before the *and finally* item on the News at Ten — which, for four men on the eve of an eighty-mile walk, seemed about right.
Tomorrow, Chepstow.
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