Day 14 - Hay-on-Wye to Llanthony
Some of you probably feel it's all been too easy so far, too pleasant, sunny and picturesque. You were promised suffering and thus far it seems that I've enjoyed it all a bit too much. Here at last, my sadistic chums, is the schadenfreude you have been awaiting.
Today was gruelling to say the least. It began innocuously when I was dropped off in Hay-on-Wye and said goodbye to Mum, Sophie and Isabelle, who were driving back to Edinburgh. The town was the quietest I'd seen it since arriving now that it was Sunday morning and the festival was winding to a close. I was hoping to buy some lunch to take with me but annoyingly the bakery and almost every other shop was closed, and although the SPAR was still open, the soggy looking 2 day old sandwiches and bland processed pastries looked so unappetising I decided to just set off with nothing.
Rejoining Offa's Dyke path going South-East, I crossed some fields and began the long, gradual ascent towards Hatterall Ridge, the Northern extremity of the Black Mountains, which for several days now I had seen looming ominously in the distance, dark, bleak and foreboding. It was a fairly cold and misty morning but I was still able to see clearly enough. But that didn't last long.
Crossing through Cadwgan farm, I plodded through muddy fields of sheep, crossed the small road that climbs Gospel pass and rose higher into the mist. Sheep and then horses obstructed the path, and visibility began to reduce. The higher I rose, the bleaker the prospect, until soon I found myself plucking my way through a dense fog to the top of Hay Bluff, where I started along the ridge.
And now let me describe the next four hours of my life. I could hardly see a thing. The path was thankfully marked clearly or I would’ve been completely lost. What began as a light rain developed into a intense torrent. A fierce wind from the East howled over the barren hilltops, battering my face and hurling the rain at an awkward horizontal angle straight into my eyes and face. My supposedly waterproof clothing was completely soaked through and waterlogged. I was hungry having not eaten anything all day and freezing cold, the icy wind and rain chilling me through to my bones. And all I could see for the entire time was an endless bog, with an often-submerged path leading onwards into the unknown. Have a look at these two pictures.
Can you spot the difference? No? That's strange because 2 hours elapsed between taking these two pictures! And in all that time the only noteworthy change in scenery was this one singular lonely patch of bog cotton.
Although thoroughly gruelling, it was at least atmospheric, reminding me of the Dead Marshes from The Lord of the Rings, but whilst those were eerily silent, these were filled by the cacophanous sound of the wind and rain savagely beating my face.
Occasionally other groups of hikers passed by going the other way, and each of them asked the same thing - "How long til Hay?" I felt secretly amused but also genuinely sorry for but the last group who already looked sodden and embittered, and had no idea that they still had 5 miles of this to go.
On the trudgery continued. At one point I passed some cairns, and later came across a triangulation point, apparently making the highest point of this eternal bog.
At last I came to a signpost, peculiarly reminiscent of a small tombstone, marking a path down to Llanthony, and here I left Offa's Dyke path for the final time At this point I’d also like to add that whilst following Offa’s Dyke Path the entire day, I had not at any point seen even the slightest hint of Offa’s Dyke.
This path descended steeply down the ridge, through an old quarry with the remains of some ruined huts and a solitary patch of trees. And finally as I continued downhill out of the clouds, the ghostly apparitions of trees and cottages suddenly appeared through the fog, my first glimpse of the mysterious Vale of Ewyas.
As the mist cleared I spotted the looming figure of the enormous ruined Llanthony Priory. The path led right past it, so I detoured to explore the priory. It must've been an immense sight to behold at one point - even in ruins it remains impressive. I stood in the centre and looked around, imagining the walls and ceiling restoring themselves around me and transporting me back to a time when monks roamed its vast halls.
Here I met two bikers from Swansea, up for a day's ride, who often come to this valley for the apparently great views from the pass (I had to take their word for it as all I’d seen all day was bog!).
One curious thing about the priory is the hotel and pub that occupy the corner of it, in a small lived in section of an otherwise ruined building.
It looked inviting but I was staying along the road at the Half Moon Inn, and was so throughly soaked to the skin that nothing but a warm room and dry clothes were going to satisfy me. On the way I met a lady who had just retired and was 3 weeks into walking from Land's End to John o Groats which put my mere 500 mile effort to shame! She called herself the wandering gran.
A few minutes later the welcome sight of the Half Moon Inn came into view and as I approached bikers sped past, tooting their horns at me.
I met the owners, a couple from Maidstone in Kent, checked in and spent a while in my room drying off and recovering from the ordeal I’d just put myself through.
My friend Rory was joining me that evening for the next stretch over the Brecon Beacons, but he was still a few hours away and the inn wasn't open yet so I donned dry clothes and walked back to the Priory Inn where I enjoyed the unusual experience of drinking a pint of beer in a ruined abbey. Whilst there I overheard a bizarre story told by a guy sat opposite to a group of his friends about his sister, a journalist who got so sick of her neighbour’s dog barking incessantly all day whilst she was trying to write an important article to a short deadline that she crushed a valium into a pork pie and posted it through their letterbox. Apparently it worked a treat and the dog slept all day but the group left before I could hear any more.
Back at the Half Moon, Rory joined me and we tucked into a decent enough meal and chatted to the wandering gran, who’d also come in to eat, and a Danish biker who was en route to the Isle of Man to watch the Manx TT. It wasn't a late night however as we were both shattered!