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Llanmynech to Pontcysyllte Aquaduct – Day 16 of Romilly’s One Island Walk for Street Children

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Johnny and the Phantom Signal Man.

Man in red walking past abandoned rolling stockAbandoned rolling stock                                                                            

I had taken a wrong turning.      My mistake would take us out of our way but at least we were heading north.

Dick and Susie Carslake had given us a great breakfast. We had said goodbye to Rachel, Dick’s sister and her husband, who had so kindly put up Johnny and Jerry. and Dick had dropped us at Llanmynech.  We had set off up the main road, crossed the river and then turned left.

We walked down an overgrown track. Somewhere down that track I missed our path. So when I saw an a track heading west through a bare field I hoped it would rejoin the correct route.  On the map it passed a large quarry, which had been turned into a farm reservoir. We could see what we thought must be the reservoir behind a wooded embankment and took the path which skirted it. This disappeared into thick thistles and ended in a fenced off corner. There was no style, though there might have been once. We took off our packs and clambered over the rickety fence. There were nettles and brambles to beat out of the  way, and then because the easiest way had seemed to be to climb the lateral fence and then recross it  rather than cross the one that was directly in front of us we had to swing down into a ditch. On the other side there was no path but we could see the embankment of the reservoir on the other side of the fence and followed parallel to it coming to fence over grown with brambles hawthorns. On the far side the ground fell to a stream too wide to jump.  Johnny said, ‘I think I’ll go down to that house. There must be a road there.’    ‘OK, see you at the bridge’. I was referring to a small foot bridge over the railway line which we had both seen on the map. Jerry and I clambered over the fence bashing through brambles down to the stream where a  fallen hazel provided a flimsy bridge. We pushed up the other side through nettles and brambles and out onto a railway track. The rails were rusty. We shouted for Johnny but heard no reply.

‘Let’s press on to the foot bridge. Johnny knows we’ll be there.’ I said turning and walking  down the track.  Jerry turned to look back.

‘Look! There’s a signal man waving at us.’ I turned but could see nothing, but the road bridge to the west that presumably Johnny would cross, certainly no sign of Johnny or a signal man. We shouted again.

‘No, he’s gone. But he was definitely waving at us’, Jerry said.

‘Probably to tell us to get off the track.’  We looked back again. Nothing. No one.

‘He was definitely there. He was dressed like a signalman.  You know, waistcoat, dark trousers, greasy black cap….’

‘ Why would they need a signal man?  This track hasn’t been used for years, probably not since the quarry was turned into a reservoir.’

‘Do you think if we asked in the pub the locals would say, ‘Signal man? Signal man?….The signal man down at bridge?  The one with the greasy cap? Oooh Err….you been seein’ the phantom signal man?’

‘ Definitely they would. Look at the state of this track. If that was a signalman he’d have to be a phantom one’.  Even though we were in sunny daylight there was the melancholy of a place once active that has been abandoned. The silence was dense in the heat. I shouted down the track but heard and saw nothing.

corrugated metal tyre through which a tree is growingAbandoned goods yard  

We carried on down the railway track, passing rusting rolling stock and abandoned sheds. We came to a fork in the track where we bore left. The map indicated that it would take us to the road junction which was the start of the road would make a good short cut in a long day.  From the west it was joined by the road which Johnny would have to take from the house which he had said he was going to.  We came to a high barbed wire topped gate flanked by security cameras.  I could not imagine anyone being employed to watch them but we chose a spot which did not seem to be covered by them,  and shoving our sacks under the wire,  pulling ourselves through on our backs. A few more yards and we were at the road junction.  Since Johnny had had to go west and then east before joining the road and since we had taken the shortest route west without going east first and wasted no time it seemed logical to expect Johnny to appear on the road from the west.  We waited. Cars passed.  We looked at the map. Jerry didn’t want to take the road short cut that Johnny and I had identified. ‘It’s a bit soulless walking up the road.’  ‘Yes, but it adds a couple of klicks to follow the path.’

No sign of Johnny.  Jerry walked west down the road in the direction from which Johnny should appear. After a few minutes he returned to say that he had not seen Johnny. We heard a shout,  looked east and there was Johnny about three hundred yards down the road. How on earth had he got there when he should have come past us from the west?   We waited for him. He told us that at the house he had met an old man who told him that he was the signal man.

‘ He wasn’t wearing a waistcoat and a greasy cap was he?’, asked Jerry.

‘Well, yes he was’.  Jerry and I exchanged glances. It was strange that Johnny had appeared from the east.  It was if as we had traveled back in time and Johnny had reentered the present in a different place. That would explain the way that the path had suddenly disappeared in the thistles, and the appearance of the signal man, who from the way that Johnny and Jeremy had described him, had been dressed like the signal man in ‘The Railway Children’…..   Knowing Jerry he was probably wondering if Johnny could take us back with him and introduce us to Jenny Agutter, and knowing Johnny, who seems to know everyone, he probably could.

We agreed that as Jerry was our guest we would walk the path do the extra 3 kilometers. ‘You won’t regret it I guarantee’ said Jerry. We had to laugh knowing we would.  ‘It’s alright now. It’s still the morning, but we’ll pay for it later.’ I said. We set off along the path. It’s always nicer walking on a path than on tarmac. But it was hilly too, warm work and when we had the opportunity we stopped to fill our water bottles. From Nantmawr the path zig zagged up through woods for several hundred feet. It was steep. Near the top we saw this sign.

Orange ice cream sign painted on slate and nailed to fence on Offa's Dyke On we went and saw another. And then we came to a little house beside the path. It was painted the colour of vanilla ice cream, it’s doors and window smartie colours, but instead of luring us in and shoving us all into the deep freeze the young woman who lived there sold us some some cones, which we happily licked while admiring the view.  ‘It’s beautiful’.  ‘Aye but it’s rough up here in the winter’, she said.  Off we went and after a while came out of the woods to the summit of the hill which had fine views east into England. Jeremy said, ‘ See, I told you you wouldn’t regret it’

Map reading at spot height 285 near MoelyddMan sitting down amoung beech trees Offa's DykeNant-y-Gollen, Offa’s Dyke                                  © James Forshall

We followed the path and the dyke up through Nant-y-Gollen woods where we sat down to eat the delicious sandwiches which Susy Carslake had made us.  The woods led us out onto a plateau which was the site of the old Oswestry Race Course. The last race there was run in 1848. A group of young men with mountain bikes lay in the sun.  We plodded on.

Or rather I plodded, Jeremy who is tall strolled and Johnny was walking doggedly.  Pink sycmamore seeds and green leavesSycamore Pods         

We climbed some 700 feet to the shoulder of the hill to the north of Craignant and then down towards Chirk Mill with the Castle above it.

Chirk Castle, Offa's DykeChirk Castle        

Chirk CastleChirk Castle                                                            

Two men walking in front of British White CattleLeaving Chirk Castle                                         © James Forshall

We walked up through the castle grounds and then out through fields where Park White Cattle grazed. Not far to go, though the tendon connecting my middle toe with the muscle running down the outside of my shin felt stiff and sore. It moved with difficulty.  I tried different ways of walking with little improvement.  As the evening wore on my pace slowed. By the time we got to the Llangollen Canal I was several hundred yards behind the others.

Reflection of Ash tree in Llangollen CanalLlangollen Canal  

Never mind. A good nights rest always seem to mend. We walked along the canal tow path towards the aqueduct built by Thomas Telford.

Canal, walkers, walking into sunlight, high contrastLlangollen Canal       © James Forshall

Aqueduct shadow over fields, shadow of Pontcysyllte AqueductPontcysyllte Aquaduct

A tow path on one side and a metal gutter full of canal water, just wide and deep enough to carry a barge, are supported on brick arches high above the valley. On the canal side of the aqueduct there is no rail. From the cockpit of a barge it must be as if you are floating a boat through the air.

At the far end of the aqueduct there is a basin, a drydock and a pub, which is where we had supper. I really felt as if I could not walk much further.  In the pub we settled down to our drinks, cider for Johnny, beer for Jerry and me.  In the other room football was playing on the telly.  The girl behind the bar was very pretty. One middle aged regular was camped at the far end of the bar to keep her in constant view. As Jerry said afterwards, ‘If only he had been able to keep his jaw from dropping’, but he couldn’t and sat there in happy, open mouthed wonder.

‘Where’ve you walked from? Asked the man on the next table. ‘Up from Swansea’

‘Fairplay’, He said.  His companion looked at us curiously.  I decided to research my etymological theory about the Welsh word cwm, which sounds like the English word coombe, both of which mean valley.  ‘Do you think that they are really the same word? I mean it’s a bit of a coincidence isn’t it: two words in different languages sounding the same and meaning the same even if they don’t look the same’

‘I really couldn’t tell you, could I?  I went to the wrong school, see?’

‘No really, I’m sure you didn’t…I mean…’

‘I went to the wrong school, didn’t I?

‘Well, I don’t know, I’m sure it was a very good school.’

‘No, see? They beat it out of us. Every time I spoke Welsh they whacked me. They whacked me when I spoke Welsh, see?  So I can’t answer your question.’

After a little while they left. ‘Gosh he was cross, but his wife seemed nice.’ I said.

‘I don’t think that was his wife’ said Jerry, ‘ When you were getting drinks he was already saying to her how mad his wife would be if she knew where he was.’

After a curry and more beer we walked up through the town and out into the country.  It was dark. About 300 yards from the houses we found a flat bit of field, got into our sleeping bags and went to sleep.

Sincere thanks to all those who have donated so very generously. If you have not donated and would like to help Romilly to help street children you can do so at

https://www.givey.com/donations/new?charity_id=11250

Montgomery to Llanmynech – Day 15 of Romillys One Island Walk for street children

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I awoke early in the morning.  4.45? 5.00?  I remembered enjoying a lot of Nic’s wine the night before and going to bed wondering where my telephone was.  Where was it? Gingerly I rolled back my duvet and lowered my feet to the ground.  Ouch!  My right foot felt quite sore.  I rested it on my knee and twisted it to look at the sole. Not an appealing sight, the skin from the blister seemed to be muddled up with the plaster. I tugged gently. It looked as if pulling off the plaster would pull off the blister too. I didn’t want to expose the tender new skin under the blister. It would quickly form another one. My mind felt sluggish and I had the uncomfortable feeling that I had been a little emphatic in some of my remarks at dinner. I remembered Nic who I had barely seen in 30 years looking at me rather strangely. And wasn’t the default alarm on my phone set for 5.30  when it’s Carribean Funky Disco tone set to max would wake the whole house?rucksack contentsI emptied my rucksack pushing the contents apart. No telephone there. I lifted the duvet, rifled through the rucksack again, felt in my coat pockets, my trouser pockets. The bathroom. I had to cross the landing onto which Nic and Nicky’s door opened. I certainly did not want to wake them. The door to their room was wide open. The wooden floored landing stretched before me like a minefield. Gently I put down a foot. The floor was solid though in the middle one board groaned and wheezed. I froze: front foot on tiptoe, back and head arched backwards, arms raised in surrender. It was not that I was actually doing anything wrong but looking for your mobile at the risk of waking up your hosts is a bit unreasonable and, well,  move like a burglar, feel like a burglar.  Not a sound came from their room. I imagined my hosts lying there in polite silence. How could two middle aged people, youthfully slim though they are, make so little noise in their sleep? I couldn’t even hear them breathing. With one or two more squeaks and wheezes from the floor boards I made it to the bathroom. No sign of the telephone. In the kitchen? Very slowly I made my way downstairs.

Downstairs I entered  a room I hadn’t seen before, then another which wasn’t the kitchen either.  Then I found the kitchen. I went round it. Several mobile telephones were charging, but not mine.  Where could it be?  The only remaining place I had not checked was Nic’s car. Bound to be locked but perhaps I might see it through the window.  Still no sound from their bedroom. The bolt slid back quite easily. I opened the door quietly. Outside the sun was just coming up. I stood there for a moment taking it in. There was dew on the lawn and the dawn air fresh to my blurred senses. The cool of the paving stones felt delicious. Steps led down to where the car was parked, and there on the gleaming black leather was my telephone.  What did Sherlock Holmes say? Eliminate all other possibilities and what remains is the answer. Well, something like that. I tried the door handle. To my amazement it opened: not just Sherlock Holmes, but a magician too. I crept back to bed and fell asleep, the contents of my rucksack scattered across the floor.

Wooden Offa's Dyke Sign post converted to Bird table Offa’s Dyke Bird Table                                            

If I had woken them Nic and Nicky were far too polite to say. After another delicious breakfast we said good bye to Nicky, and Nic drove us to Montgomery where we had finished walking the night before.  It was another beautiful morning. Montgomery is a very pretty town. One wonders how it can possibly have escaped the planners and developers, but then they like to lay the blame for their work on German bombers. I thought sadly what a delightful place prewar Britain must have been, and how much we have destroyed.

We walked out into the country and headed north. Further uphill we could see two women. They stood admiring the view at the top and we said good morning to them. The younger one said, ‘I’m just exercising my mum’. Then Johnny said, ‘ Don’t I know you?. Weren’t you at ……….’s Party?’.  We stood and talked to her for a while. After we had moved off Johnny said, ‘Very odd she couldn’t remember me. I must have talked to her for at least half an hour at that party’.

The way was well marked which was lucky because we did not have a map.  Then at Forden, whose pub was closed we missed our turning.  We could see the hill where we were meeting Jeremy Love to our east.  I asked the way from a man mowing grass. We came to a pub and I asked the way again. I also had a lime cordial and a sandwich which took up too much time.  The directions from the publican were different but sounded easier.  We were to go through the home farm of an estate and then to a church and from the two pillared gate at the back of the church the the path would take us up the hill to another farm where we would turn left, and that would lead us to the beacon where we were to meet Jeremy.  In the end we called Jeremy and agreed to meet at a pub on the Severn a mile or two further on which would save a mile or two and a steep climb.  On the  way we came to a beautiful black and white timbered house.  ‘Hang on a moment.  That looks like ……….’s house,’ Johnny said, ‘Do you mind if I go in and say hello?’.
Two walkers picnic on Offa's Dyke by the River SevernLunch by the Severn, Offa’s Dyke  

We met Jeremy at the pub in Buttington and had a lime cordial. We crossed the Severn and found a place to picnic, then followed the river for a mile before crossing the main road and walking beside the Montgomery Canal.

Montgomery Canal, Offa's Dyke, Montgomery Canal, Offa’s Dyke

Between the river and the road a motor bike was parked. It’s middle aged rider and his postillienne were lying in the grass stripped to their underclothes, their black leathers hanging over the bike.

‘ They’re OK in the winter but in this weather….Ooph!….. swap your shorts for my leathers any day’.

‘Throw in the bike and you’ve got a deal’….actually I didn’t say that. I definitely thought it. We left the canal and then walked across the river plain, along a dyke, not Offa’s but a modern flood defense.  To the east we could see a hill, eaten away by mining, in huge steps like a Mayan temple but without the fine lines of masonry, a Mayan temple with some terrible skin disease.

Bird scarerBird scarer.    (You can also use hubcaps for this.)   

Although we had no OS map, Jeremy had torn a sketch map from an old guide book and in his hands this proved remarkably useful. The country side was not as pretty as the day before. I felt tired and the discomfort from the blister or my right leg seemed to have spread to my shin.  On we went.Offa's Dyke, River SevernOffa’s Dyke trail, River Severn

It was a relief for someone else to do the navigating.  Of course it is not all fun when the person doing the navigating is not skilled and gets lost, but ever since I have known him Jerry has been a brilliant map reader and we could have complete confidence in him. As day wore on though I missed the map reading. Keeping track of where you are takes your mind off fatigue and sore feet.

Oak Trees leaning at different angles on Offa's Dyke trailOffa’s Dyke Trail                                      ©   James Forshall

In Llanmynech we met Dick Carslake, who had kindly come to pick us up. We all went into the pub for a drink.  Dick then took us back to his house where Susy gave us a delicious supper.

Offa's Park sign and housesOffa’s Park

Thank you to all who have donated so generously to Romilly.  We are moving steadily towards our first target. I will write to thank you.

If you have not donated and would like to help Romilly help homeless children you can do so here:

https://www.givey.com/donations/new?charity_id=11250

Knighton to Montgomery – Day 14 of Romillys One Island Walk for street children

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Offa's Dyke just north of KnightonTeam Romilly approaching the first trig point top left.  

Nic and Nicky Allen had very kindly put us up for the night.  They gave us a very  good breakfast and we set off for the start, the railway station at Knighton which is where we had finished the night before.  Nic, our local guide led the way.  We walked along the east side of the railway and then the path climbed steeply through woods until we found our selves on downland.

Three men and trig pointTeam Romilly         ©James Forshall

Because we had cut across Wales from Swansea this was our first day on Offa’s Dyke.  The country is lovely, the walking hard.  In some ways it was like the South West Coast path but without the sea, sharp climbs of three or four hundred feet, followed by a short stretch of relatively flat ground and then a sharp descent followed by another equally sharp ascent. It felt as if were walking across enormous ripples in the landscape. John Greig who had only just retired and who claimed to have spent the last 40 years behind a desk found it tiring.

An Offa they couldn’t refuse.

Offa's Dyke, three men walking north a long the western fosseOffa’s Dyke, showing the deep fosse on the West side of the bank © James Forshall

I had run out of maps. Luckily Nic had one and we were all very content to be led by him. The dyke is very impressive, much more so than I had expected. On the west side there is a deep ditch which amplifies the size of the bank on the east side.  It is a formidable obstacle giving any one with a spear at the top of the bank a great advantage over any one approaching from the west. It must have taken huge resources to build, especially for a society, which I imagine, could do little more than save enough food for the coming winter. How had Offa motivated his builders? How long had it taken? What tools had they used?  How had it been paid for? Was it a fortification, or a road, or built simply to impress, a massive land sculpture, a signal to the gods?  Sometimes the fosse and the bank are worn down, or have been completely worn away, but often they are remarkably well defined.  Looking into the streamOffa’s Dyke © James Forshall

Nic and Johnny led for most of the way, Nic, the tallest of us, moving effortlessly. My blisters were no more than uncomfortable, though the plaster under my right toe felt as if were distorting my foot, still, nothing that I couldn’t manage.Offa's Dyke north of Knighton, view of hills framed by trunks of pine treesLooking West from Offa’s Dyke   © James Forshall

Offa's Dyke north of Knighton, three men walking, track, hillsOffa’s Dyke trail  © James Forshall

Three men reading map by gateTeam Romilly consulting John’s guide book.  © James Forshall

From time to time we met walkers going in the opposite direction: Pip, walking for the British Legion, who said he would donate to Romilly and did so, ( Thank you Pip); a Royal Marine, carrying more than 80lbs, who had already walked down from Scotland and was going to walk round Wales. He was on a 12 week leave. So far the only night he had spend under a roof had been when he visited his son.  We met a couple of rather severe women. Well, I say severe. I made a rather feeble joke at which the larger remarked, ‘Oh, we’re being silly are we?’  No more than I deserved, I’m sure. A couple of men broke their climb to talk: one with the demeanor of a soldier and extraordinarily well developed leg muscles, which John, after we had walked on, pronounced unnatural; his friend tubby, red faced and out of breath, John thought much more natural. Three men resting by fenceTeam Romilly takes a break: Left to right  John Greig, Johnny Forshall, Nic Allen © James Forshall

We stopped to picnic by a small church. I went inside. It’s roof was supported by beautiful hooped beams. Nic had told us about it. ‘I think you’ll like this one’.  I love churches. They seem, at least to me, to contain such a dense accumulation of history, of continuity and even now, have the power to sooth, to invite reflection, calm thought, and prayer. And why not pray? Who are we to say that God does not exist?   And if he does do we not owe it to our dead to pray for them and for our living too?  So I said a quick prayer for Romilly, before going outside and finishing my sandwiches.

Foxgloves, sheep, Offa's DykeLooking west from Offa’s Dyke      © James Forshall

After that there was another steep climb and another.  John was suffering. Unlike the rest of us, who had left our packs with Nicky, he was carrying his overnight things.  We came to a wooden bridge over a stream.  We looked down enjoying the sound of the water, hoping to see fish, the light reflected up at our faces.

Men look down at waterOffa’ Dyke  © James Forshall

Another climb and then  we saw the plain and knew that it was not much more than five miles to Montgomery.

Three men sitting by Offa's Dyke signOffa’s Dyke  © James Forshall

The most direct route was by road.  Nicky Allen and Dick Carslake met us at the pub at the top of the town. Nicky to pick us up and Dick to pick up John.  We had a pint and then went back to the Allen’s house for a delicious slow cooked leg of lamb and quite a lot to drink.

Thank you to everyone who has donated so generously. I will write. We are making good progress to towards our first target of £20,000.

If you have not donated and would like help Romilly help homeless children please donate here:

https://www.givey.com/donations/new?charity_id=11250

Erwood to Knighton 28 miles – Day 13 of Romillys One Island Walk for street children

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Welsh grey, white pony, dark cloud, dark moorland                                                                                                                                  © James Forshall

This was a great day, though I awoke feeling foggy.  Peter had been very hospitable as we waked England’s defeat and my last had been a huge, delicious glass of malt whisky. Johnny seemed very perky and alert. I ate a lot of breakfast, porridge, bacon and eggs though so I was well set up, and Caro found some plasters for my blisters.

Blisters

On the two long distance walks in the Pyrenees I had not really suffered from blisters at all. Perhaps this had made me overconfident.  I had started at Land’s End wearing an old pair of leather boots made by Scapa.  They were very comfortable, and had seen me all the way  from Bayonne on the Atlantic to Banyuls on the Med in 2001, but they were heavy and by had the time I reached Boscastle, the uppers were coming away from the sole. Since most of the walking was on footpaths I thought I would try a lighter trainer style shoe. Perhaps I did not take enough trouble choosing them; perhaps it was my socks, which although claiming to be wool were mostly artificial fibre.  On the Haute Route des Pyrenees I had worn the same pair of socks, hand knitted in the Shetland Islands, all the way. After two weeks the wool had been transformed into felt by the  constant action, but I suffered not  a single blister.  At the time I attributed this to the anti blister cream I use, but I had been using it on this walk too.  We had had miles of tarmac outside Swansea and through Neath and miles more the preceding day.  Whatever the cause, by the time we arrived at Erwood I had blisters on my toes, on one heal, and two large ones on the balls of my feet. None of the blisters had burst and the consensus was that I should not burst them. Caro put large plasters on the one’s on the balls of my feet.

Welsh ponies and walkers                                                                                                                  © James Forshall

It was a lovely walk. Peter had given us a route, which kept to the heights most of the way. It was dry and we were walking over gently rolling moorland along tracks with beautiful views and not another soul in sight. Looking back we could  just see the Beacons. It was encouraging to see how far we had come. It is true that I felt slightly nauseous but I was confident that I would sweat it all out pretty quickly,  which I did. The alcohol seemed to have killed off the diahorrea of the day before too, and once I had got going and warmed up the discomfort from the blisters was much diminished. On we walked past wild Welsh ponies, Johnny, Caro and Caro’s Australian terriers in the lead.  We saw a stone curlew, which got up with a cry, dipped, rose again, and fled. The sky was full of lark song. At the Doctor’s Pool  Caro left us. We continued on. Eventually the path led downhill to a saddle where another track crossed ours by some beach trees growing out of the an old stone walled bank in the corner of a field. Here we sat down to eat the delicious sandwiches which Caro had prepared.

We had not been there long, enjoying the food, the shade and the rest when two riders came into view.  They stopped and we chatted. They were on a three day trek. We both looked at their ponies enviously. One of the girls, saying what fun it was added, ‘but it gives you a bloody sore a…’                                                                                                          ‘Swap your a… for my feet any day’, I thought as they galloped uphill.                                  ‘What a great way to do this’, Johnny said gloomily. Somehow the sight of those gleaming, well muscled ponies, springing over the green turf took the shine off walking. Nothing for it but to get started. We had a long way to go.

An hour later we stopped to ask directions at a small house screened from the empty moorland by willows and silver birch.  A young woman was hanging washing.  The man was friendly and helpful. What on earth did he do there? It did not strike me at once but later I thought that there was something of Anthony Perkins in his face.  Did this explain its tired lines, a life time of people being reminded of the Bates Motel?  How unfair.  His directions were good.  ‘At the Mawn pool don’t follow the track which is obvious. The path is you want is not clear but goes down the edge of the pool.’ This proved useful and I’m grateful to him.

The country before had been open but this was even emptier, miles and miles of shallow hills and pasture empty except for sheep stretched before us. Johnny was impressed. ‘This could be south America’

It was hot and we sat down by the edge of the track to rest.  In the distance we could hear an angry buzz and see a cloud of dust, racing towards us.  Seconds later a rider, with samurai mask and armoured  in plastic rose out of the dip and sped past in a cloud of dust and the racket of hammering pistons, six more followed, their ridged tires chewing into the earth, engines chucking out carbon dioxide:  ‘Man beats up planet’….no, ‘Man beats up planet for fun.’ In the distance we could sheep scatter.  The sound receded, till no more than the sound of a blue bottle against a window. The skylarks returned to their song.

DSCF9045 preparing sheep for shearing © James Forshall                                                                                                                                   ©  James Forshall

Not long after we came across a farmer and his worker cleaning up sheep for shearing. He farmed 2000 sheep. ‘It must be a good life’ I said, very much the city boy. ‘Aye but it’s rough up here in winter. In the summer they feed their selves. In winter we got to feed them, see?’  ‘Even so…’  ‘Aye, it’s a good life, but we’re not sharp enough for anything else’, he said, looking at me slyly and we both laughed.  I stood and watched as he and his assistant, pushed the sheep through the pen, cleaning them up and drenching them, eagerly policed by their collie.

Sheep farmer, Radnor, Wales                                                                                                                         © James Forshall

Sure enough, at the Mawn pool the path we wanted disappeared and I took a bearing. Due north, corresponding to that of the path on the map. We headed down hill and picked up a narrow path which crossed a field of thistles. By now we were in the valley which leads up to New Radnor. We could hear the road which we would have to take. There was little choice. Peter had advised us against going into the Radnor Forest which in any case was much higher.  We walked down a track to ford a stream.  The water was perfectly clear.  Two steel gutters, spanning the banks provided a bridge for cars to a work shop.

Man cooling feet in stream                                                                                                                          © James Forshall

On the other side there was a mobile home which had been extended and some how grown into the hill side. Johnny took off his boots to cool his feet. A black labrador puppy looked longingly through a gate. I went to the mobile home to ask for water.  A woman came out. She brightened when she learned that we had lived not far from Haslemere. ‘I had a paper round there….Do you know Frenchham ponds?’ Robert who was a camera enthusiast came out with his own film camera to look at mine.                                                                             ‘Do you know how much this one is worth,’ he asked proudly.                                             ‘£120?’                                                                                                                                                     ‘£5.  Just £5. Probably not even that now’, he said with relish. He kindly gave me a wrist strap for my camera which he had made, which was very useful. They showed us the pine tree which had blown down within a few feet of flattening their mobile home.  They told us Knighton was another fifteen miles. Fifteen miles! That was a blow.  We had worked out that it could not be more than ten.  ‘Definitely fifteen’, said Robert, ‘I’ve measured it in my car.’  We thanked them. They had been kind and pleased to see us.

DSCF9055 Patrick © James ForshallPatrick                                                                                                        © James Forshall

Not long after this we came to a sign. I’m very grateful to that sign, ‘Knighton  9 miles’. Nine miles. Robert’s car was way out. I said to Johnny, ‘Nine miles! We’d eat that before breakfast’.  Bouyed up we walked to new Radnor, where a voice from the scaffolding above the pub door said, ‘We’re open at 5.00’, and a woman sitting in a car kindly offered us water.   After a small hamlet Johnny said, ‘If that is ……..then we’ve only 7 miles to go’.  We walked on for an hour and came to a sign announcing………… Then followed a long period when all the signs said that it was 7 miles to Knighton.  Perhaps Robert’s car had been right after all. It certainly felt like it. By the end of our day, our rucksacks containing no more than ibuprofen, bivvi bags, sleeping bags, water proofs weighed heavily. How could so little way so much?

We made Knighton on time, Johnny racing on for a pint. I went straight to the station where I met John Greig, who had come down to walk with us.

I was pleased. Road work apart it had been a lovely walk.  We had caught up the miles and the time we had lost due to engine trouble. We were back on schedule.

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Tairbull to Erwood – Day 12 of Romilly’s One Island Walk for street children

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Market researches, girls with clipboardsMarket Researchers in Brecon                                                                       © James Forshall

We walked down the main road for the few remaining miles to Brecon.  Johnny wanted to buy some new boots and I needed some maps for the next leg of the journey.

Orchids We were heading  for Nighton, which is two days walk from Brecon.   A straight line drawn on the map would take us within a few miles of Erwood, where there is a bridge over the Wye.    There were few footpaths across the farmland and those did not go in our direction but across it. We would have to take lanes for much of the days walk.  Although it would not be difficult to navigate, tarmac is an unforgiving surface on which to walk.

Looking south to Pen Y Fan framed by treesLooking south to Pen y Fan                                                                             © James Forshall

We stopped at a farm house to fill my water bottle. You could see the Brecon Beacons clearly.  ‘Yes it’s a lovely view’, said the farmer’s wife, who was cutting up cabbage, ‘ but it’s rough up here in winter.’

I walked out of the farm to find that Caro, a friend of Johnny, and who lives nearby, had arrived with ginger beer, pork pies and chunks of delicious ginger cake.  Thank you Caro.

DSCF8998 Ivy clad telephone box copyright James ForshallTelephone Box

At Erwood we stopped for a drink in the pub. As I walked in an old habitué of the place, said, ‘Well hello, looks like Crocodile Dundee’, and sniggered. What I should have said was, ‘Looks like Crocodile Dundee…. It is Crocodile Dundee’….  but of course I didn’t.  I was tired.

We walked through Erwood over the bridge and up the hill on the other side leaving the road and heading north through fields hedged with hawthorn further uphill.  We saw a curlew and heard it’s cry as it tried to distract us from it’s nest.  Peter, Caro’s husband came to pick us up. He took us back to their beautiful house on the banks of the Wye where Caro was preparing a delicious supper.

It was the night of England’s match against Uruguay. We watched the first half before eating and then watched the recorded second half, and the Nibbler of Uruguay destroy England’s hopes.  Well better to be beaten by a superstar and than a mediocrity, and England’s spoilt, overpaid players did seem to be trying a little harder than usual. The surprise of the game was Rooney scoring a goal.  We all agreed that it had been a good game and as I stumbled off to bed I thought what a jolly evening it had been, how delicious the food and how kind and hospitable our hosts, and although I cleaned my teeth I certainly don’t remember my head touching the pillow.

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Aberdulais to Tair Bull – Day 11 Romilly’s One Island Walk for Street Children

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man sleeping in sleeping bag, foxgloves We started walking around 6.30.  Our target was the campsite at Brecon.  It was going to be a long day. We walked past woods and wind turbines.  The track was clear enough.  After about an hour and half we came over the side of a hill an saw Duffryn below us.

Oxeye Daisies at Duffryn

We walked down between two rows of cottages which Johnny told me had originally been bought by the coal board, who when short of money sold them to the tenants.  When the pit closed those that had bought found their savings locked up in houses that no one wanted to buy.  Beyond this a road led off to the main village.  A man with a stick was walking towards us and I went to ask him where the pub was.  I was thinking of breakfast and wanted to keep my cold deep fried sausages in reserve.

The man told us that Duffryn was the birth place of St Patrick and that was a stone dedicated to him down the road, how he’d been a slave and then become a Christian and went to Ireland.  ‘People say he was Welsh, but there were no Welsh then. We were all Romano British. The term Welsh didn’t exist in St Patrick’s Day.’   The man’s name was George Evans. He was over 80 years old and as sharp as a tack.  He pointed us on to the pub. ‘Tell Glynn George sent you and to treat you right.’

We found Glynn outside the Duffryn Arms,  stripped to the waist, painting the wall in front of the pub.  He took us in and fetched us cheese rolls and a cup of tea.  We chatted away. He asked where we were walking to, where we had stayed.  ‘How much do I owe you’  ‘Oh, let’s see…..make it a fiver’.   We had also had a couple of bags of crisps.  ‘That seems very reasonable’.  He asked why we were walking and when we told him he gave us back the fiver.  ‘Here put this towards your charity’.   I found this very touching.  Thank you Glynn.

A little to the North of of Duffryn we picked up the Sarn Helen, the Roman road going up to wards Brecon.  It is very impressive though sadly damaged by green laners and tractors.

Sarn Helen, Roman Road

Sarn Helen – The Roman Road                                                                         © James Forshall

We walked past hill farms and through plantations of fir trees. We met no one except for a party of DoE girls resting and later some elderly rambler types ending their walk and getting into their comfortable cars. Here there was a stream. We were at the base of the Beacons.  Not so far to go now.

Johnny had sped along the day before but was finding it more difficult today. It was long and he was wearing a pair of his son’s shoes, which were not providing him with much protection from the broken stones of the Roman Road. Though obviously suffering he never complained.Man bathing feet in stream

We were two hills to the west of the Storey Arms.  We climbed almost due east and then turned north and made our way along sheep tracks, past shaggy ponies to the top of the hill. We turned north west and then due north to a saddle and then just north of East walking towards the top of the cliffs above the road which heads north from the Storey Arms.  We could now see Corn Dhu and Pen y Fan to the East.  We had been walking for over twelve hours.

Looking North East towards BreconLooking north East towards Brecon

Man Reading Map

Man descending hill side

We climbed down towards the road which leads north from the Storey Arms to Brecon.  It was about as steep as a grass bank can be. Once on the road we headed down hill for the Tair Bull pub as quickly as we could.  We were hungry and wanted to get there before the kitchen closed.  Once at the pub we ordered chicken curry and beer. We had walked 28.5 miles and were about 5 miles short of being back on schedule.

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All photographs © James Forshall

‘It doesn’t change the number of miles you’re walking’ – Day 10 Romilly’s One Island Walk for street children

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water, lillies. old canal

Disused canal Neath

Early on Tuesday morning Catherine drove me to the station to catch the first train to Barnstable. We kissed goodbye. We would not see each other for another six weeks.

In Illfracombe the sun was shining and there was a good breeze: a beautiful day for a sail. No sign of the tri – marin, but it was well before the departure time. Catherine had made me promise to buy a life preserver in case there were not enough to go round on the boat. The two chandlers had closed, I was told, but eventually I found a man selling fishing rods who was opening his shop. ‘ Look no further’, he said. We went inside and after rummaging around he produced a life jacket.  It opened automatically once you were in the water.  ‘But can you blow it up like a rubber ring if it doesn’t open automatically?’

The man thought so. We looked for the tube and found it.  ‘ It’s got a whistle too, see? Here’s the automatic inflation device.  This is for hooking you up to a hellicopter’.  Well that bit looked very solid. But there were also some other instructions which I found rather worrying. You had to make sure that various parts of the automatic inflation device were aligned before entering the water, and that no part of the life belt had already been punctured, which I could not imagine doing without blowing it up and putting it through a bucket of water to see if bubbles came out of it. ‘ Does it have an instruction manual?’  It did, a long one too, which might have been written by a relation of the author of the Ikea manuals…..and it cost £79.  I gulped. ‘Well how much is your life worth’, asked the shop keeper.  ‘Not much’ I thought…..but a promise is a promise.

I tried to stuff it into my rucksack but there was no room. I rigged it up across the top, where it lay like a small dead seal.

Back in the harbour there was still no sign of the tri – marin. Time for a call. ‘ How are you?’, asked the skipper, which by now I knew was sailing talk for ‘ Are you sitting down?’  And sure enough although the engine had been replaced, the new one despite working perfectly the night before was not working this morning.  That was a blow, but rather the kind that doesn’t hurt at first. ‘No, we’re scuppered, absolutely scuppered’, said the skipper. Nothing to be done.  My mind started to search through the Jack Aubrey novels for similar situations, of which there were a few but somehow the solutions did not apply here. Lucky old Jack. No matter what his other tribulations, faulty outboards weren’t one of them.

And now I’d have to do something about the life jacket. I hurried back to the shop.

‘Look I’m awfully sorry. The boat is not working and the trip has been cancelled can you take this back.’  The shopkeeper looked a bit mournful but said that he would. It was so nice of him that I was moved to part exchange it for one of his air rifles.  ‘Can you kill a rat with one of those?’ I asked, thinking of the scavengers below Catherine’s bird table.  ‘Oh Yes. No problem but honestly it’ll  be simpler if we just give you the money back.’ He really was very kind.

So there I was. I could walk round to Swansea where my brother was waiting for me, except that he would not be there when I got there, and there were many people I had agreed to meet along the route further north too. The harbour master told me there were no other boats. ‘ Nasty bit of water. No call for it. No one does it’.

Nothing for it but the train. In the taxi to Taunton the phone went for the taxi driver.

‘No Dear’, he said, ‘I put the dog in the cupboard and the food on the table…..Yes, Dear.’

Motorway junction seen from below, pylon and pillars
Leaving Neath                                                                                                           

At Taunton the humiliation of taking a train began to bite.  I would still be walking the same distance though.  I had checked before with the secretary of the Land’s End to John O’Groats Association, who had liked the idea of cutting out a bit by sailing across the Bristol Channel. ‘Nice one’, he had said, but I couldn’t see him agreeing to me taking a train for part of the journey. It really hurt.  I tried to comfort myself with the thought that it would not make any difference to the amount of miles that I said that I would do.

Man standing in front of red wall

Johnny was at the railway station.  He had had a severe haircut while waiting.  It was 4.00 p.m.  We set off at a cracking pace, Johnny in the lead,  hoping to make up for some of day which I had lost due to engine trouble.

Heading towards Neath we met Carl pushing a bike. He was very friendly. ‘ This excercise has given me an energy rush…..If I didn’t have a daughter to look after. I’d come with you.’  And I think that he would have done so, cheerfully pushing his bike all the way.

Tyremaster tyre in canal surrounded by lilly leavesTyremaster TB                                                                                            © James Forshall

We soon picked up the old canal, either the Glan y Wern or the Tennant, which takes a northerly direction out of Neath. It was covered with a yellow lily with a cupped yellow flower, called the Bullhead lily.

Yellow Flag Iris

Yellow Flag Iris by the canal

men by bridge parapet with no parking writing

swans nesting on canal

Man on bench, Carlos Fish Bar

We ate at Carlo’s Fish Bar; cod and chips. Delicious. I bought a couple of deep fried sausages to stash away for breakfast.  We carried on through suburbs until a mile or two out of Aberdulais we struck north west up the hill hoping to join the Roman road.  We walked up through fields and woods.  The light was beginning to fail and we needed a torch to see the detail on the map.  On a flat bit of close cropped grass about 300 m above the valley we laid out our bedding.  Midgies gathered around us. We covered ourselves in Smidge, pulled our bivvy bags over our heads and slept.

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All photographs © James Forshall

Engine Trouble – Day 9 Romilly’s One Island Walk for Street Children

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My plan was to sail from Illfracombe to Swansea.  A friend of a friend of a friend had kindly said that they would take me in their tri marin.  I was delighted.  It would be an adventure, and not cheating because I would probably be seasick all the way and wishing I had walked instead.  We were to sail 36 hours after my arrival in Ilfracombe.  I had planned a rest day.  All good.

On the rest day I received a call from the skipper. ‘The engine won’t start. We’re repairing it but there’ll be a days delay.’

‘ Do we really need an engine though. What about the sails?  What about using a rowing boat to pull it out like in Master and Commander?’

‘ No, sorry, can’t be done. It’s got no steerage below 5 knots. We need the engine to get out of the harbour.’

Well, I could certainly do with another rest day.  I’d just have to make up the time when I got to Swansea.  An extra 5 miles a day for four days should sort it out.

Instow to Illfracombe – Day 8 Romilly’s One Island Walk for street children

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I’d arranged to meet Bill Bennett, Tessa Rubbra, and Tim and Lizzie at the south end of the new bridge in Bideford at 8.30 so I had six miles to do before 8.30, which meant starting at Instow at 6.30, which meant leaving the house at 6.00, which meant getting up at 5.00 ish.  We had allowed half an hour to get to Instow, which should have been enough especially as we were taking the most direct route but somehow it wasn’t and we arrived at Instow at 7.00. I was really paying for my late breakfast of the day before. Nobody’s fault but mine

It was another beautiful morning. I hammered down the Tarka Trail.  Because it is a railway line the curves are long and the straights are longer. This makes one feel as if one is moving very slowly, which relative to the trains for which is was designed, one is. Most people use it as a bicycle path. electricity poles, old fence poles floodingI went as fast I could.  In the end I did the six miles in 1 hour 5o minutes, which meant that if we had been able to start from Instow on time I would have been ten minutes early. My knees ached but I was pleased with myself, especially as Billy was the only person at the r.v. before me.

We continued along the Tarka Line. More tarmacadam. The weather was hot too. Team Romilly © James ForshallTeam Romilly: Tessa Rubbra, Tim Drake, Bill Bennett and Lizzie Drake.

Our first target was Croyde. Luckily there was a footpath across the hill, which we took and which gave us lovely  views across the estuary.DSCF8680

DSCF8681Just after this field I lost the footpath. I could see the path we were supposed to join, traversing gently down and across the hillside below us, and access to it from a gate in the field  to the right of the one over which I was looking. The thing was to get into the field with the gate below us to the right.  I walked to the right. Now all we had to do was cross the fence and bash our way through the scrub into the field below, with the gate, which I could no longer see, but which must be there, because my compass said it was. All clambered gallantly clambered over the fence.  Now for the scrub. This turned out to be made up of mature hawthorn, immature hawthorn, gorse and brambles at all stages of development. My trousers were torn and Tim and Lizzie only had shorts. The hawthorn got thicker and thicker. I wondered if we would be able to wriggle through it on our tummies. The scrub got darker and darker as the hawthorn became taller. On the lower edge of this hawthorn cave immature hawthorn blocked out the light and the way. I saw a lighter patch and headed for it. We waded through huge ferns. ‘It’s like the jungle’, said Tessa happily. “Its like Bear Grylls’, she said. ‘No it’s not’, said Billy, ‘He gets the television crew to do everything while he hangs out in a hotel’.  And then after a very severe bit with a steep drop disguised by a huge pile of rotten wood and brambles the trusty compass confirmed my faith and there, bingo!, was the path. I don’t know where the gate and the field, which I had seen from above,  had got to, but no one was complaining and none of us really cared where the path would take us.

It took us to Croyde and lunch with Catherine, Flora and Ben Rubbra, who were our valiant back up team and who had brought us Flora’s delicious sandwiches.

Toad Warning © James ForshallToad warning.

Team Romilly Woolacombe Beach © James ForshallTeam Romilly on Woolacombe Beach.

DSCF8705Team Romilly. Lizzie being good humoured about getting sea in her boots.

We met Catherine and Flora again at Mortehoe.

admiring the beach © James ForshallOur admirable back up team admiring the view from Mortehoe.

DSCF8733 © James ForshallGreenbank, sea view, foxglovesfootpath closed sign, man climbing fenceVisiting the danger tree.

Man and woman on footpath sign keep to the pathWe arrived at Illfracombe at about 8.30. My original section, Barnstaple to Illfracombe had been 18 miles, to which I had added another 6 miles in the morning: 24 miles at least. Not bad and I had made up for my late start of the previous day. In Illfracombe the sun was setting and people were getting ready to watch footie. Tomorrow was a scheduled rest day….and Fathers’ Day.

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Clovelly to Instow – Day 7 of Romilly’s One Island Walk for Street Children

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Rules are made to be broken aren’t they? At least this is what I thought to myself as I lingered over Jasper’s delicious breakfast: porridge, followed by bacon and eggs. Very good indeed. So entirely understandable.  But don’t you find that? You lay down the law, in this case about B and B’s not serving breakfast early enough and then life sets things up to make you look like a real hypocrite….at least that’s what I find.

It was very pleasant in Jasper’s kitchen and I would have liked to have stayed longer but I knew that I would pay for any delay….and I did.  But not at first. Jasper and Henry dropped me off where he had picked me up the night before and I made my way down to the Hobby Drive.

On the way I passed one of those traffic mirrors so perfect for selfies

Man's face in mirror in hedge

Rock with plaque to RAF CrewmenAnd then this very sad memorial to the crew of a Wellington which crashed on anti submarine patrol. The youngest of these boys was 21 when he died, the same age as Beatrice now. Even the captain was only 31, the same age as Rose.  I imagine it was foggy or dark and that they thought they were over water and at higher altitude. How terribly sad.

The Hobby Ride was built by Jasper’s ancestors.  It follows the contours about 1/6 th of the way down the cliffs and from time to time you have wonderful views of the sea.DSCF8612Looking down on Clovelly from the Hobby Ride.

DSCF8614Looking north along the coast from the Hobby Ride

DSCF8621After a while the drive or ride is left behind and you continue on the coast path, which is delightful here. You can glimpse the sea, but you are in the shade of the trees. Although I love the sea I find it strong and alien, the light is so bright, from distance it looks flat and hard and the line of the horizon is sharp. I’m drawn to it but I find it soothing to enter the cool green of the woods.  So I loved this part of the walk, glimpsing the intense blue from the cool, gentle green.

From Green Cliff I walked across country to Bideford. I hesitated at the crossroad at Abbotsham.  Behind me a voice said,

‘Don’t you drop that there Kevin. This in’t a public dump.’

I turned round to see a huge red haired man whose torso was covered in tattoes. In front of him was a white convertible full of small children one of which, a girl, was holding a small black spaniel and another of which must have been Kevin. I don’t usually ask the way for various reasons, which I will give later, but this time I did. ‘What is the shortest  way into Biddeford from here?’

‘Thart depends. Which way you want?  The way the crow flies or the way the duck flies?’

The children were looking up at me with interest and one or two of the vikings fellow crew men, who had appeared from nowhere, were looking at me with expectant grins.  It sounded to me as if this was a prime case for my rule of not asking directions. On the whole, though I thought that taking the duck option would be asking for trouble.  ‘The way the crow flies’ I said quickly. With some relief I saw that it was the right answer for though the crew men laughed, ‘Heh, Heh’, they did so in a disappointed way.

‘Well the way the crow flies is to take that next right there and then go straight and straight and straight and straight not turning left or right and then you’ll get to Bideford.’ And so it was, but I did wonder as I plodded on, what way the duck went.  Actually, I felt like a bit of a duck. Not exactly waddling but something like it. Hobbling. So a duck with a hobbled waddle.

At Bideford I had instructions to call Johnny. He was pleased to hear from me. ‘It sounds as if you’ve only got another three miles’, he said. I was heading up the Tarka Trail to Barnstable which was my target for the day.  I had a cup of tea in the hotel where a group of Londoners was settling in for a week end of football, and spread out my map.  I had been on a fold. Funny but that looked like quite a lot more than 3 miles. As I joined the foot path there was a sign. ‘Barnstable 9 miles.’  9 miles!  I’d better get a move on.  I was paying for that late start with Jasper.  In the end I called Johnny and we agreed to meet at Instow, about 3 miles on.  I would have to make up the six miles tomorrow.

Daisies, sea, estuary, boats, Instow,Tarka TrailLooking north from the Tarka Trail towards Instow

I liked Instow and I liked walking along the Tarka Trail.  It used to be a railway line. I felt that it would have been better to have been one now.  The line is paved with tarmac and for some reason there is nothing, but nothing, harder to walk on than tarmac. It is very tiring. Flat but tiring, and hammers the joints.

At Instow I waited for Johnny down by the front. On the other side of the wall there was a beach and just beside the sea wall a young family. At first I thought that they must be Eastern European with their strange their accents. I was curious and couldn’t resist asking where they were from.

‘Biremingham..I expect you can tell from the accent’. So that was it. I asked them where they lived. They’d moved to Devon. I was amazed. They had moved near to Winkleigh, in the middle of nowhere from Birmingham. ‘Aye, and where we live is even more in the middle of nowhere than Winkleigh, but at least some people have heard of Winkleigh.’  They had three children under 7. They had both found jobs. He was a factory hand setting up as a decorator and she was a carer. We had a nice chat. I wish I had taken their name so that I could have given their telephone number for the decorating.  They were obviously hard working, but what could have persuaded them to leave Birmingham for a part of the country with such feeble employment prospects and so much unemployment?  I wish I’d asked. I wished them luck.DSCF8659Young man with young family from Birmingham settled in Devon: enterprising, hardworking decorator.

Johnny picked me up and took me back to his house for a delicious supper with Rose, and Tim and Lizzie Drake who were joining me for the next day. But somehow I had to make up those six miles.

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