Roger Butler gets high above the River Wye
SOMETIMES I WISH the mountain weather forecast would make its mind up. One day you’re told it will be cold and unseasonal, the next morning you’re warned that sunburn is likely. I slapped on the first cream of the year and was simply pleased that the sky was still bright blue. The River Wye was a much darker hue but as the path climbed the silky water disappeared behind dense woodland.
A narrow lane dropped down to an old coach road that squeezed through the gap between the steep hump of Dôl-y-fan and the eastern slopes of Trembyd. Bold headlands stretched north to hazy houses on the edge of Rhyader and, further beyond, the lonely skyline of Pumlumon. Nearby
hillsides were mottled shades of dusty brown but the ghost-like moors of the Elenydd looked like they had only just emerged from a giant bath of bleach.
I waved at a man and his dog and they both veered towards me: “You can go for miles up here. Follow the ridge all the way to the road. It’s a brilliant walk – you won’t see a soul!” We looked at the map and pointed at ancient cairns and bundles of contours. My finger wandered over Drum Ddu and Nant Cymrun, and he pointed west to wild Y Gamriw and south to the great plateau of Mynydd Epynt.
The summit shelter on Y Gamriw is a substantial piece of upland architecture and its narrow sturdy entrance means this mini-fort could be easily defended if ever under siege from a marauding Duke of
Edinburgh’s expedition. I was almost tempted to bed down for the night since this would have been the closest you can get to glamping on top of a mountain. A simple roof might help, but then you wouldn’t get the full starry sky experience.
The great cairn on lonely Drygarn Fawr was now prominent on the western horizon and I was just able to catch a glimpse of one of the reservoirs in the Elan Valley. Grassy slopes to the side of narrow Cwm Pistyll made for a swift southwards descent and at one point I considered a quick roly-poly down to the dense tussocks at Rhos Saith-maen. Each clump was as big as a ragged sheep, and progress was also hindered by patches of damp ground.
I’d have been disappointed if I was expecting some sort of afternoon dessert at Little Pudding – an isolated road-end cottage – but, with half a dozen smaller summits still to go, heavy spoonfuls of mousse or meringue might not have been a good idea. These next tops came in quick succession, with a high point on Craig Chwefri, and cooling shadows now crept up the forested valleys on either side of the ridge.
The outskirts of Llandrindod Wells gleamed like a Greek village and the last rays of the sun transformed the windows of a distant truck into burning gold. The last mile along the road seemed to last forever but as I swung down the steep bank at Estyn Pitch the silent silky river reassuringly came back into view. Why do we go on such long walks? Wye not!