| Offa's Dyke - North | |
|
|
|
|
A quick crossing, a short canal, an awful lot of Balsam ....
When my phone alarm sounded at half past seven, Bod was already awake. We were both edging around the room trying to avoid embarrassing male bodily contact in the confines of our cell when Jo burst in and further strangled the available space.
"Have you heard about Wayne Rooney ?” was his morning greeting.
The news was full of Mr. Rooney's sampling of the South African flesh pots during the World Cup. At least he managed to score somewhere, then.
We went down to eat and I quickly succumbed to the temptation of the traditional English breakfast, despite my former protestations about salt content and dehydration. It was a surrender that was to last the whole week. Well, I thought — I've already paid for it. I'll be buggered if I settle for muesli each morning.
As we ate, we listened to the man at the table next to us. I had thought his type was largely a parody, but here he was in the flesh: the Railway Enthusiast. In fact, he was the rarer member of that breed, the Steam Railway Man. He talked animatedly throughout breakfast about his love of steam trains, routes and the restoration of the 440 class Mallet to his table companion. I stole a glance at the recipient of this devoted outpouring. Her eyes were more glazed than her honeyed toast.
After breakfast we made haste and prepared to leave, which involved a certain amount of scurrying up and down stairs and startling chamber maids at their work before we located the manager and paid our way. Bod and I waited for Jo, who was delayed by we know not what — possibly his bladder — and then we were off. It was twenty to ten and a fine morning for walking. It had poured down overnight, but there was not a spot in the air now.
Today's route, according to my book, would take us mainly along the banks of the River Severn, with the Breidden hills frowning down from the east. Before that, there would be a section on a restored canal towpath.
First, we had to retrace our steps back to the path at Buttington Bridge, which meant retracing our way along the canal and the busy roads we had navigated the previous afternoon. We rejoined the route and began walking across flood embankments
 |
|
On one of the early flood embankments with Breidden Hill behind |
We hit the A438 and crossed it with appropriate alacrity. It was busy with lorries and I had no intention of becoming a road statistic labelled *man, with rucksack embedded inside intestines*. On the other side, we walked along its edge for about two hundred and fifty yards under the rush of traffic and then reached the Montgomery Canal. From this point we had also joined part of the Severn Way route, which was a pleasing bonus. I was looking forward to a good stretch of peaceful, uncomplicated canal walking.
It was not to be. We joined the canal and it was peaceful and pretty. It was also no longer part of our route after a miserly one and a quarter miles. We were separated from the snarling of the A483 by a high hedge of hawthorn or blackthorn. We passed a contraption that briefly baffled me.
"What's that?" I asked Bod.
He gave me the look of a man who has been asked this question by someone who ought to know better. It was an accurate look.
"It's a lifting bridge."
I examined it more carefully and could then make out the system of pulleys for myself. It had been restored and was handsome and bold in its statement of Victorian achievement. We walked on.
"It's nice country," said Bod, but at Pool Quay Lock we were suddenly diverted away from the canal.
"Aw — I like locks," he added, in a wounded tone.
A lane took us down to a sudden and severe U-turn back onto the A483 and its rowdy chorus of vehicles. After the serenity of the canal it was like being slapped by a previously flirtatious woman. Mercifully our ears were only subjected to this for about two hundred yards before we crossed the road and took off across a field alongside the River Severn near Maginnis Bridge.
As we ambled along this track, I noticed that Himalayan Balsam was out in a profusion of flowers, mirroring the course of the river perfectly and looking lush and lovely. I have a conflict of interests with this plant. As a conservation volunteer, I had recently spent time clearing it from a woodland fringe in the Wye Valley and know all too well its invasive and alien prowess in our landscape. The trouble is that bees absolutely love it and, God knows, they need all the help they can get at the moment. It dominated the riverbank flora completely as we traipsed along, which is, I'm afraid, a little too much of a success story for a non-indigenous species. Jo walked alongside and told me how it came to be introduced — the details have escaped my memory banks, but I believe it arrived via a single person as a garden plant at the beginning of the last century and spread from there. Having the capacity to eject its own seed pods up to twenty feet from the parent plant helps considerably, as does being many times more pollen-rich than most native species. The bees have defected, and our native plants don't stand much of a chance.
Criggion Quarry, The Four Walkers, a mad bitch ....
We negotiated a series of flood embankments and crossed the dismantled former main line of the Cambrian Railway from Oswestry to Newtown. Continuing views of the Breidden Hills to the east and Long Mountain to the south, which we had climbed the previous day. On one embankment we passed an orange rectangular panel standing out on the grass like a set of goalposts. We fell into discussion about what it might be. Bod suggested a landing marker for paragliders and, given the open space around us, this seemed a reasonable call.
A huge and disfigured hill began to draw near — Breidden Hill, with Criggion quarry carved into it, an active operation that began to dominate the view to our right. We also began passing substantial numbers of sheep and cows, the latter frequently sprawled across our path and entirely resistant to the idea of moving, though they watched us warily as we stepped around them. The whole area was liberally doused with bovine output and for a brief period, walking Offa's Dyke became rather like negotiating an organic minefield.
Up ahead, we spotted a line of four walkers moving at their own pace, which happened to be slower than ours. We gradually caught and then passed them. Walkers coming the other direction offered little in the way of cheery greetings. We treated each other with first-rate indifference, which seemed to suit everyone.
Criggion Quarry was a vast cut-away section in the flank of Breidden Hill, dim sounds of excavation carrying to us alongside the sight of an enormous Tonka Toy-style truck, made tiny by distance as it inched to and fro up the quarry face. We could track its slow progress for the entire time we walked alongside the Severn. It was at this point that I noticed, despite the easy terrain, that I was feeling very heavy-legged and feeble. I mentioned this and Jo said he felt the same. We concluded that we were probably both mildly dehydrated — neither of us had drunk much water during the morning, or on the walk the day before. I made a mental note to keep sipping from my camel, whether I felt consciously thirsty or not.
 |
|
Bod, Jo and Breidden Hill |
We finally drew ahead of the four walkers — men appearing to be in their forties and fifties, London-ish accents, who respectfully let us go over a stile first near a house called Red House. There was little conversation among the three of us at this point either. We had found a rhythm and were fairly powering along in a strung-out line, throwing the occasional comment over a shoulder and interchanging our positions on point. It became very windy as we swung away from the shelter of Breidden Hill. We arrived at a stout iron sluice gate at which all three of us simultaneously decided we needed a comfort break. Nature provided in the form of a large hollowed-out oak tree. I then forged ahead, following the old track of the Cambrian railway line, and had time to stop on the gusty stone platform of Derwas bridge to film Bod and Jo approaching. Jo had fallen some distance behind and I had enjoyed a good rest by the time he arrived.
We took a breather together and realised, discussing where to stop for lunch, that it was only half past twelve and we had nearly finished the day's walking. Four Crosses was not far ahead.
"At this rate, we'll be having lunch in our room," Bod mused.
We carried on across a series of fields in a north-westerly direction, which followed the flood defence system that is reckoned to run along the line of Offa's Dyke, possibly using it as its foundation. The embankment turned west but we continued north-west on a hedged path by the Nea Farmhouse, then hurried along the edge of a field and joined a further embankment before reaching the B4393 near Rhos Farm. After crossing this road we carried on across grassland toward Gornel Farm. The route took us through the farmyard itself, where we were met by several exuberantly lively puppies and a very excitable tethered parent.
I bent down to fuss the fat-bellied, clumsy-footed youngsters, who displayed utter joy at our arrival. The mother — we assumed — was a different matter entirely and I was very glad she was tied to a post. She was not pleased about us handling her babies and gave voice to a surprising range of blood-curdling noises.
"Good job she's tied up — she'd have your face off," Bod advised, and I couldn't disagree, so we moved on quickly to stop causing her further distress.
The difficult landlord, a bit more walking ....
A path from the farm led us to a lorry depot. It was a strange feeling to be walking through as ramblers — rucksacks, boots, water camels — past a group of lads at work in their oily overalls, all eyes tracking our progress across the courtyard.
"Alright, lads," I muttered, self-consciously. They replied agreeably enough.
We reached Four Crosses and stopped to locate our accommodation. My book indicated we had to cross the B4393 and carry on across a track of wasteland, past a school, and onto the A483. A short way up this and the Golden Lion appeared in Llandysilio — our next stop for the night.
 |
|
Himalayan Balsam at Maginnis Bridge |
We wasted no time getting inside. The bar was empty of customers but the landlord was present and greeted us pleasantly enough, before immediately launching into a list of things he was afraid we couldn't do. This began more or less as soon as he established that we were paying customers — which wasn't even certain at first, as he had us down for the previous night rather than the one coming. He resolved this, confirmed there was availability in a triple room, served us our beers, and then commenced. "I'm afraid you can't book in until four o'clock. That's our policy."
This wasn't a disaster. We had finished so early that we had already discussed walking on into Llanymynech, which my book suggested as the more natural end point for today. This simply settled it.
"We'll eat our lunch and then walk on," I told him.
"I'm afraid you can't eat your packed lunches on the premises."
Bod and I looked at each other. "We'll eat outside," Bod told him.
"I'm afraid you can't eat in front of the premises. You know — that's just the way it is."
He wasn't hostile about any of this. He delivered each restriction with a reasonable and slightly apologetic air, as if these were simply the laws of nature. I was beginning to find him rather wonderfully officious.
"Okay, we'll walk up the road and find a spot," said Bod.
"Oh, you mustn't walk on the A483. It's dangerous."
I sipped my ale and reflected that this was becoming mildly wearing. We explained that the Offa's Dyke route didn't take us along the A483. I filled in the relevant paperwork for our beds and we were done.
Get him off officialdom and the man was genuinely friendly. A little eccentric and awkward with people, I could see, but warm at the core. Guitars were placed everywhere throughout the building — some beautiful ones. He told me as I wrote that his music shop next door was his main business and, I suspected, his first love. There would be live music tonight, people arriving with their own instruments for a session. I found myself looking forward to this. I have always enjoyed live music in most forms. We went back into the bar to find the landlord's wife had materialised and was energetically arranging for our excess gear to be taken upstairs. She had a lovely nature and appeared to hold the four o'clock check-in policy in no great regard. In no time, our luggage was upstairs and we were officially in.
We walked on. The canal section ended abruptly at a concrete barricade at Carreghofa Locks, where a rusting barge was moored. I clambered aboard for a quick mooch around its edges, ignoring Bod's sincere encouragement that I fall into the canal. I also spotted a pair of Mute Swans accompanied by five well-grown cygnets, almost as large as their parents — a very successful brood by any measure.
A fresh canal section opened after climbing a bank and crossing a road. We reached a gate into the car park of the Dolphin Inn, which we decided would serve as the day's finishing point. Unfortunately the pub was shut, but our homing instincts located another one nearby with little difficulty and in short order we were ensconced comfortably, pints in hand, chatting to the bar staff. After a while we ordered a taxi back to the Golden Lion and, on the journey, organised a luggage collection and drop-off with the driver for the following morning.
Recovery: The Dolphin Inn, Llanymynech ....
We came back into the pub via the back door and removed our boots in the hall. A cat regarded us sleepily from its basket and I gave it a quick fuss. It was a little startling at first touch. It was a very lumpy cat — stroking its back was rather like running my hand over a furry cobbled street. Puss seemed to appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
Our room was reached via three flights of stairs. As the other two settled in, I did some filming of the accommodation and the area in general. Returning to the room, I found Jo sprawled on his bed and Bod in the shower.
"I see you've given me the bed next to Bod's snoring," Jo remarked.
"In this room," I said, looking around at the dimensions, "I don't think that's going to matter."
The TV went on. We all kicked back and rested. At half past six it began to rain steadily and continued to do so for the rest of the evening and, as far as I could tell, all night. We had escaped it by several hours.
At half past seven we went downstairs into the lounge area of the bar to sample both the beer and the music. People began arriving with instruments — guitars,
 |
|
Having just settled in our room at The Golden Lion |
It was an enjoyable period. The tunes had a Celtic liveliness that made foot-tapping irresistible. The landlord was very encouraging to everyone brave enough to go solo, particularly those whose efforts were still noticeably developing.
"Well done — that was really good," he told the flute-playing woman who had produced a succession of discordant notes that even my untrained ears had winced at. I stepped outside at one point to do some filming. The rain was heavier now and cars hissed along the road in the darkness. Bod, Jo and I were called through to the bar for our meal. It was lovely, and a great feeling of contentment stole over me — not surprisingly. I was full of good food with a beer in hand, miles of fine walking ahead, no work to face tomorrow or the day after, good company and people making music for no other reason than the pleasure of it. The food and drink did their stealthy work on all three of us regardless, and we began yawning hugely as we sat. It was twenty to eleven when we thanked everyone and said goodnight.
Bod attempted to read in bed. I doubt he had ploughed through more than two pages before he fell asleep and began producing his own soft, rasping music. Jo and I talked for a while about football grounds we had visited and famous people we had met. Rain spattered fitfully against the windows as we put the light out and settled down to sleep at half past midnight.
Daily Tweets
Twitter from @BabbleRouser (Jo)
Resolved to try @Corriepaw's 'Sinful Saturday' regime; healthy eating Sun-Fri, gluttony at week's end!
Sep 6th via mobile web
Twitter from @Corriepaw (Colin)
Done for the day. A short walk today, over fields and along canals. Curiously, we are all heavy legged and weary. Weather held out for us.
Sep 6th via txt
Twitter from @Corriepaw (Colin)
All 3 of us are sharing a room. It's a good size, which is more than can be said of the bathroom. Drying myself after a shower involved acts of contortion which could be considered lewd. The Proprietor of this place is hard work. He is a musician and is, therefore, strange.
Sep 6th via txt
See Route on ......
|
|
|
|
|
Prev
Next
No comments:
Post a Comment