Roger Butler experiences an end-ofseason Offa
THE OLD STONE BARN on the edge of Evenjobb had been built like a fortress, and it felt as if a few archers were watching me through a series of dark slits. Centuries ago, arrows might well have been fired around here when border skirmishes took place up by Offa’s Dyke. The deep sunken lane rose swiftly to the line of the old earthworks where damp woodland carried the distinctive whiffs I always associate with the first flushes of autumn. Summer was starting to wave goodbye.
A gap in the trees allowed views west across the broad fields of Walton Basin. This dates back to the end of the last ice age when a huge lake developed after melting ice gouged deep valleys
through the hills of Radnor Forest. Its banks burst, and torrents poured east via a gap below the flanks of Herrock Hill. The area is rich in history and archaeologists have found evidence of a Neolithic culture that once thrived in the centre of the flat and fertile basin.
Fading harebells swayed by the trail and at the next hill I looked over the valley to a wave of gentle spurs where old barns and timbered cottages appeared to have sprouted, mushroomlike, from the crest of each grassy bulge. Ahead, real fungus now caught my eye: bright, white and as big as a football: an elusive giant puffball! It was only my third ever sighting and on previous occasions they’ve made tasty contributions to delicious fry-ups with bacon and tomatoes. Sadly, slugs had carved their way into this one.
The path climbed past a bulbous rowan and onto a plateau of bracken. Grassy rides effortlessly floated over Litton Hill and up to an unexpected clump of spruce trees near the summit Llan-fawr. A full 360° degree panorama suddenly appeared, supported by dazzling blue skies and a foreground dotted with quirky purplesplattered sheep (rain had laundered the coloured markings on their wool).
Ripples of cloud drifted high above the church at Pilleth and long shadows fell over the forests between Leominster and Leintwardine. A small lake just below the top dazzled like a sapphire and, to the west, Black Mixen stood like a distant continent. A steep path dropped past Courthouse Wood and, from the farm at Dyffryn, I crossed the next ridge and followed a lane to the start of an old sunken track.
It was the deepest and darkest holloway I’d ever seen; an entire detached house could be hidden under the dense, arching trees. Strange noises and eerie cracks accompanied me down the dell, and I half expected the children’s book character Stig to jump from his dump. A minute later, a fox leapt across the path instead, its bright orange fur matching the cover of an OS Explorer map. I crossed a ford, skirted the church and wandered back into Evenjobb.