Offa's Dyke (S) Summary

Offa's Dyke - South
By Mark Walford Epilogue Prev

There's no doubt about it — time really does fly. It's already a month since the walk and I have barely unpacked. The physical reminders are fading: a couple of toenails have turned a Gothic black, and every so often the dodgy knee delivers a small twinge that conjures, with surprising accuracy, the memory of a particular gradient lurking behind a particular stile somewhere in Monmouthshire. These will pass. What remains are the photographs, the memories, and this set of scribblings to look back on in the years ahead.
I missed the discomfort and exertion of it almost immediately — specifically, the moment I put a business suit back on and became a Project Manager again. I have a new screensaver on my laptop: a view down the sublime valley of Radnor, taken as we descended from Bradnor Hill on the final afternoon. I have spent many moments staring at it as phones ring and keyboards rattle all around me, in the particular wistful way of a man who knows exactly where he would rather be.
As a route I cannot recommend Offa's Dyke enough. It has everything: scenery of the mouth-watering variety, well-maintained paths, friendly hospitality at every stop, gaunt ruins at regular intervals, and of course all those hills. There is, it has to be said, a great deal of upping and downing involved. It is hard work — but the climbing is inseparable from the reward. Without the effort, the views would be simply views. With it, they become something earned, and that changes how they feel.
It is not, for all that, a particularly punishing trail. Nothing like as demanding as the Kintyre Way, for instance, and most averagely fit people will find it entirely manageable. If you need further encouragement, take it from the octogenarian Australian we met on Hergest Ridge, walking the complete path with a defibrillator in a companion's pack and a heart condition he was declining to let have the final word. Grab a pack, pull on some boots, and walk it.
I will be back for Part Two — swearing at the pointless climbing of pointless hills, forcing my soft city feet back into outdoor shoes, accumulating the inevitable blisters and knotted leg muscles that will remind me, as they always do, that I really ought to be fitter, and from which I will draw the usual conclusion of doing nothing about it. I will be lagging behind my fellow walkers for most of the time, as is both traditional and appropriate.
But when the day is done and the beer is ordered and we rest our tired bodies in whatever pub has been good enough to receive us — the miles walked are the same for all of us. And more importantly, they are happily shared.
That, in the end, is the point of all of it.

Mark.

Prev