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Leaving Rivendell, the Clwydian Hills, switchback walking ....
It had rained hard overnight. Jo was awake before me and once I'd got up we made ourselves presentable and went down for breakfast. Bod was already seated at the grand, scarred wooden table. No fry-up today — we were each served a large ceramic boat full of local and exotic fruit. I enjoyed this hugely, though I had to keep a wary eye out for kiwi fruit, to which I am dangerously allergic. One nibble and I would begin acting like the victim of a mustard gas attack. I couldn't see myself getting far along the trail today with a bloated tongue and a pencil-width airway.
Once the fruit boats were emptied, I chose smoked mackerel. This was also bewitchingly delicious, though I would spend a good portion of the morning's walking quietly burping reminders of it. Our hosts played a tape while we ate — guitar music of great fluency and skill, performed by none other than the husband who had just served us breakfast. It must be something, to be that accomplished at what you love doing.
Breakfast over, I took the time to thank our hostess effusively and plant a kiss on her cheek. They had been fabulous hosts and I think she appreciated the gesture. We were each given a simple packed lunch — I hadn't pre-booked, but did receive a couple of bananas to go with mine, which would be useful energy reserves later. We would certainly need them. Today's walking was supposed to be both hard and long, taking us over wild moorland and along a range of rounded hills of tough Silurian shale, with a series of climbs throughout.
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From the top of Moel y Plas, looking forward to the peaks we had yet to do that day |
We said fond farewells. I briefly felt like Frodo the hobbit, being compelled to leave the peace and protection of Rivendell. We took a quick stroll to the local shop to supplement our food supplies for the miles ahead. We all agreed that Hand House had been the best accommodation of the week, with the kindest hosts. "I'm surprised she didn't tuck us up in bed last night," said Bod.
We shouldered our packs and shuffled and adjusted and could see that the hills we were heading toward were shrouded in rain cloud, though it wasn't raining yet. I mentioned that our destination for the day was a place called Bodfari.
"Bodfari?" said Jo, with a trace of amusement. He never seemed to know where we would be walking each day and appeared perfectly content with this. I don't recall ever seeing him so much as glance at a map.
"Yeah — Bod-very-Fari," I said, thinking of the distance ahead.
"It's like Daktari," offered Bod, "but without the cross-eyed lion."
"...though we might be, by the time we finish it," I added. Seventeen miles over muck and moorland.
Bod mentioned the Clwydian Hills — or Mountains. We couldn't decide which they were.
"Walked up a mountain and came down a hill," said Bod.
"Came down a cripple," I amended, packing the camera away.
We agreed they were hills and didn't qualify as mountains, and set off. We had to walk past Hand House on the way out of Llandegla and I suddenly remembered I was short a cap. I was forced to go back, found the younger man from the previous day, who let me into the conservatory and went upstairs to search. During his absence I found the cap on a chair in the conservatory.
Bod and Jo had waited by the church. We started off, moving quickly over damp fields and crossing a small bridge over the River Alyn. The first uphill section of the day arrived at Chweleiriog — immediately testing, steep enough that Jo and I powered past a small wood and left Bod lagging behind. He told me later that he had felt so dead-legged and weary during that first climb that he had nearly given up straight away. We walked three miles over fertile farmland under a cloudy sky, then hit a lane travelling northward just above a small farm called Tyddyn-tlodion. After half a mile we swung west and open moorland appeared.
It became breezy and I stopped to pull on a fleece at the base of Moel y Gelli — the first of the Clwydian Hills we passed. I filmed Bod and Jo as they walked on and climbed a stile in the distance, then followed, walking past Nurse Fawr Wood and a large transmitter station. The wind was buffeting me and the landscape was beginning to look desolate. A small concrete hut sat at the base of the transmitter. I wondered what it would be like to spend the night there alone on this remote hill, and concluded that it would be character-forming in the worst possible way.
Moel y Plas was very steep — a hard climb that left me blowing like a worked horse. Once I had recovered some composure I filmed the dramatic views: other hills, valleys, sun-blazoned clouds and the chilly-looking waters of Llyn Gweryd Lake below.
Bod called and pointed out the route ahead — a row of hills falling back from each other into purple haze and distant, piled cloud banks. I climbed over the stile and followed into tough little heather and bilberry bushes. The wind was still cuffing me about the ears as I took a track between the shrubs, brought steeply down to a cwm to the west. Sheep were running about far below on a plateau of grass, their voices carrying up with surprising force. For now, the track was level and skirting around rather than over the hills of Moel Llanfair and Moel Gyw. Bod stated that he was happy with this type of walking. He led, I followed, Jo came behind. We occasionally looked back and ahead for the Four Walkers and chatted about what time they might have set out. I had begun to feel the stirrings of an unspoken, unacknowledged competition.
Foel Fenli, high point at Jubilee Tower, misspent youths ....
Our path joined a wide track and we crossed a col between two small summits. I was annoyed to find chocolate wrappers on the ground and picked them up, cursing the thoughtlessness of it. It felt wrong to leave them in such a place. The track led over a small climb and then down the other side with unexpected abruptness. We had a laugh and a good-natured moan about this.
"I'm going to write them a stiff letter," announced Bod as we clumped down the little hillock. "On second thoughts — I'll write them an abusive one."
We reached the A494 Ruthin to Mold road and followed it past a motel before leaving it to go steeply up a lane alongside Gyrn Hill. I paused to film and noticed we had been walking for about two and a half hours. Bod and Jo had pulled ahead and were waiting at the top of a fairly steep bank. Walking toward them I became aware that there were a number of cows in my path — and more disturbingly, bulls. My companions seemed to be waiting with the specific patience of people who want to see what will happen next. I got past the bulls unmolested and joined them at Moel-eithinen Farm.
After consulting the maps, we had worried about a monster climb from the col ahead, so it was a relief as we approached to think there might be an easier route up Foel Fenli. This feeling lasted a very short time. We were abruptly hit with a bastard of a climb — track through hillside thick with ferns, very steep, very taxing, my legs burning fiercely as the angle became more acute. The pain of such elevation is acute but, as I try to remember each time, it is also brief, and the result at the top was a magnificent view. We had still paid heavily for it.
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The chilly waters of Llyn Gweryd lake below us |
Jo and I waited for a dripping Bod to join us and then walked the ridge of Foel Fenli. We hadn't gone far when we all agreed we needed a break. It was about twenty past twelve. A short rest — liquids and carbohydrates — while we took in the view ahead, which was impressive to the point of being mildly daunting. Hills and ridges stretched in the direction we had to go. In the distance was a man-made construction called Jubilee Tower — tiny, very far away — and beyond it, on the clearest part of the horizon, what we were fairly sure was Prestatyn. The end of the road. Even the stick-like figures of wind turbines on Liverpool Bay were just visible.
I was persistently buzzed by a wasp as I filmed and commented on the view, probably attracted by the chocolate I had just finished. Bod consulted the map and told us we had walked only about six miles so far today. This was a surprise — it felt considerably more. I suggested this might be the accumulative effect of the previous day's exertions making themselves known.
Jo used the binoculars and then we started again, descending Foel Fenli to join a gravelled path that swept around a mound toward Jubilee Tower. One and three-quarter miles to the highest point on the Clwydian range — Jubilee Tower at 1,818 feet on the summit of Moel Famau, the Mother Mountain. The stone path was long and undulated wildly, becoming very steep as the tower drew rapidly closer. Fifteen minutes of hard walking in sudden sunshine, culminating in a teeth-gritting haul that ripped my breath away. I reached the base and was seized by a stubborn determination not to stop until I had reached the top. I climbed the uneven steps and achieved my goal. Jo had been visited by no such desire and sat at the base, joined shortly by Bod.
*Well, sonny, that's what you get for nicking cars*, I thought, uncharitably.
I gazed north from the wall. An information board told me Liverpool was twenty miles away and Snowdon thirty-five miles to the west. I rejoined Bod and Jo, who were draped delicately on a low wall, and after the briefest rest we walked on — steeply down through long grass, so that Jubilee Tower was quickly lost from view. It had surprised me how fast we had covered the distance to it, after seeing it from Foel Fenli ridge where it had appeared so tiny. Before long the tower was as far behind as it had once been ahead, and it was only reflections like this that reminded me of the miles our feet consumed each day.
Lunch on Moel Dywyll, the missing coat, Bod-very-fari, an over-warm welcome ....
We were soon climbing again, up to the crown of Moel Dywyll, on top of which squatted a large and untidy cairn. The view was wild on all sides and the contour lines on my map map were crowded and crenelated. We were deep in the Clwydian range. The path dropped and reared and dipped through heather. We passed Moel Arthur on our way toward Moel Llys-y-coed, the scenery becoming increasingly feral. A jogging man overtook us and we watched him in silence. We were openly derisive between ourselves when he stopped ahead, but he had soon continued and rapidly climbed into the distance as we scrambled down a very steep bank. Some people, we conceded, are not entirely reasonable.
It was on the top of Moel Llys-y-coed that we stopped for lunch. It was very windy up here and I was quickly chilly. Spotting rain clouds gathering, I decided to put my Berghaus coat on while I ate. A leisurely search of my rucksack produced nothing. Puzzled, I began a more thorough excavation — food pack out, clothing massaged aside. Still nothing. A horrid sinking feeling began to fill me with a tide of dismay. I hauled everything out of the rucksack, lips moving wordlessly, and then did that thing you do when something should be there but isn't — I peered into the corners of the rucksack, as if my coat could have defied its own dimensions and be lurking in a tucked-away fold.
No Berghaus.
I crouched for a moment, casting my mind back. And then I could see it clearly — a cheap and shoddy room, cigarette butts piled against the base of a skylight, an airing cupboard with dull copper pipes. Chirk. I had hung my coat in the airing cupboard to dry overnight. I had no recollection of taking it out in the morning. In fact, I knew now with certainty that I hadn't.
I kept this to myself while chewing listlessly on my food, but realising I would be found out the moment it rained — which was going to be soon — I owned up. Not a great deal was said. Bod's expression, however, spoke volumes. He also, without ceremony, let me wear his cagoule, since the wind was cold and the clouds were assembling with purposeful expressions. I was instantly warm, if somewhat buried in the thing.
"Are you sure that jacket's big enough?" enquired Bod, sardonically.
"A bit tight around the shoulders," I said, "but I'll manage."
I watched the rain sweep closer as I finished eating and we were just starting out when it arrived. Waterproofs on. An immediate steep descent down the north flank of Moel Llys-y-coed followed, the grass now wet and treacherous, a dry-stone wall for company
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A view from Foel Fenli |
Moel Arthur dispatched, we descended more grassy slopes to find building work at the bottom — diggers, hard hats, loose gravel, blokes with gimlet eyes. This threw us briefly and it took a couple of minutes to work out which way to proceed. We picked through the heaps of gravel, circumnavigated the whole operation and found the track we needed behind some workmen's huts. Past a dark forest plantation, then another climb — up to the summit of Penycloddiau, a hill-fort at 440 metres. We had reached the top when heavy rain arrived. It moved on after ten minutes, leaving us with tentative sunshine and fern-filled track as we strode along the ridge. A signpost eventually confirmed: *Bodfari*. Without, helpfully, any indication of how far. We descended a lane, crossed a stile and dropped through a landscape of small, irregular fields with hedged boundaries on the steep western slopes of the Clwydian Hills near Aifft. A bridge over a lively stream at Ty Newydd Farm, then a moorland path — which, contrary to my assumption that it would continue downward, turned back upward and presented us with a wonderful view of what I took to be the Ty'n-y-celyn valley to our left.
As I walked, I reflected on the walking done today and yesterday. Both had been very difficult on the feet and very pleasing on the eye, with some absolutely fabulous scenery. Today had been almost as hard as the Knighton to Brompton stretch. Bod reckoned they were equally testing. I still thought the killer gradients of that first day had the edge, but the argument had something to recommend it on both sides.
Recovery: The Downing Arms, Bodfari ....
Whatever the verdict, today had been long and I was tired. It was with feeble gratitude that I noticed the track finally allowing us to go downhill again, through another field. We had discussed stopping at Grove Hall Farm to phone our accommodation and request a lift, but we walked past it and onto a road, which led us to the busy A541 and the steps of the The Downing Arms pub.
It was twenty past six. The pub was closed.
This was as an arrow through the heart, dashing our thin hopes of an immediate refreshing drink. I left Bod and Jo sitting morosely on a bench outside the firmly locked doors and walked somewhere quieter, away from the hurtling traffic. I phoned our digs for the night — Glan Clwyd — and spoke to our hostess, who did not seem overly pleased that we wanted a lift, despite having promised this service when I booked months earlier. Her husband appeared in due course, which was almost a pity — because a blonde woman inside the Downing Arms had spotted Bod and Jo looking crestfallen outside her doors and had opened up early for us. We promised to return for a meal later and were then taken to Glan Clwyd.
The husband was very tanned, having returned from Portugal that afternoon. He had a glowing complexion and was wearing a freshly pressed shirt. Next to him, we must have looked like a trio of bat-cave scavengers down on their luck.
At the house, he led us into a fabulously warm kitchen where the wife served us hot drinks and buttered scones, invited us to drape our wet gear over the dining chairs and put our deformed boots in front of the Aga, which was emitting a pervasive blanket of warmth. The kitchen was enormous, as was the house in general. It became evident quite quickly that these were people with considerable wealth to hand. They also had a friendly dog called Montgomery, who we saw briefly while food was circulating and not at all after that.
Bod and I shared a room. It was like being led into a recently extinguished oven — stifling, situated as it was directly above the Aga. The corridor outside was hung with very posh preparatory school photographs, over which we spent some time giggling in an appropriately immature manner. I then had a lovely soak in a hot bath. The evening outside was peaceful and all evidence of the earlier rain had gone.
Our meal at the Downing Arms had been arranged for eight o'clock, a mile and a half away, and the husband gave us a lift, assuring us we would make our own way back afterwards. The blonde landlady was in attendance and greeted us in a brash but friendly manner. The Four Walkers arrived shortly after us, and the usual round of *where the hell have you been, we finished hours ago* was exchanged comprehensively by both parties.
Bod asked one of them what time they had finished.
"Twelve o'clock," he said, with a small smirk.
He later revised this to three o'clock, but we never got a straight answer. It had become a game.
I took the mobile number of one of them — we would all meet the following evening to share end-of-walk drinks.
I had steak and it was a lovely meal after a hard day. The walk back to the farm was less lovely, but it was a clear night and the three of us sauntered along companionably enough. There was a bright light fairly low in the night sky and we fell into deliberation about whether we were looking at Venus or Jupiter. It seemed too late in the evening for Venus but too low in the sky for Jupiter. Our footfalls went on alongside the idle chit-chat and we walked down black lanes for long enough that I began to fear we were lost.
"Are you beginning to have doubts?" asked Bod.
"Yes. Five more minutes and I think we should turn back."
As I said this, the farmhouse came into sight. We went inside with gratitude and retired quickly.
Within five minutes of opening The Economist, Bod had fallen asleep. Thick snores began rattling across the room. I listened with clenched teeth for a while and then could tolerate it no more. Quietly getting out of bed, I resisted the urge to smack him over the head with The Economist and instead went exploring down the corridor. I quickly found an unoccupied room. Suppressing a yelp of joy, I made myself at home in the large bed I found there. The room was blissfully cool — a world away from the engine room I had just vacated.
I slept with infinite comfort.
Daily Tweets
Twitter from @BabbleRouser (Jo)
Waited on by two angels at Hand House, Llandeglo. Highly recommended. Excellent service.
Sep 9th via mobile web
See Route on ......
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