Walking the Hills of Wales, UK

 

It’s the same walk but every day it’s different. Yesterday the mountains were shrouded in mist and I walked in steady drizzle; today the sun is shining and the bright yellow of the beech leaves contrasts sharply with the blue of the autumn sky. It’s still damp underfoot, however, and I slip and slide as I climb the muddy mountain path.

Table Mountain. We call it a mountain but my French friends, used to higher and more imposing Alpine scenery, allow themselves a quiet laugh when I confess that our mountain stands at just 1,479ft; indeed, the highest mountain in South Wales, Pen-y-Fan, struggles to top 2,906ft. But the low altitude is deceptive. Wales’ grandiose and sometimes bleak upland landscapes certainly feel higher and more remote than they are. As I make my way across the farmland, the ground rises steadily and the old market town of Crickhowell and the lush Usk valley can be seen clearly behind me. The noise of the traffic falls away and soon I can hear no more than the occasional call of a buzzard and the sound of the wind in the trees. I am quite alone.

When we first moved to Crickhowell I was terrified of walking the hills alone, convinced that mad axemen lay around every corner and that danger lurked behind every hedgerow. But I soon realised that my need for fresh air and open landscapes far exceeded that of my husband and that if I wanted to walk every day, then occasionally I would have to set out on my own. I started with the easy footpaths which had direct access to roads and from which houses were visible and, eventually, after a few weeks of walking these and returning home unscathed, I decided I was ready for the hills.

18 years on, it’s hard to remember this fear. Being alone in the hills has become essential to my well-being and for me part of the joy of walking is experiencing the comforting, ever-changing natural landscapes around my home. I climb to the top of the last field, cross the stile and follow the rocky path under a canopy of trees, where the final few leaves of autumn cling to the stark bare branches. Yesterday’s rain has made a stream of the footpath and I’m forced to edge along the muddy bank, making my way slowly from one dry patch of land to the next. Then suddenly the footpath ends and the view opens out to the last steep rise of the mountain, the flat top of the Iron-Age hill fort which is known to locals as Table Mountain, yet marked on the map by the Welsh name which it shares with the town – Crug Hywel or Hywel’s Rock.

From here, walkers can choose a gentler ascent, skirting the base of the hill, but I prefer the shorter, steeper climb through the burnished-copper bracken, scrambling up the very last stretch of footpath across rocks and boulders, to pull myself up onto the flat summit where all is silent and grandiose. I stand still and take in the view of the mountains: directly ahead the impressive ridge of Pen Carreg Calch, a vast expanse of peat and heather grazed by semi-wild Welsh ponies and hundreds of sheep; to the north-west, the jagged outline of the Beacons; to the south-east, the distinctive cone of the Sugar Loaf which towers above Abergavenny. The sun is starting to dip now, the sharp light creating long winter shadows across the fields, and despite the effort of the climb I’m aware of the falling temperature.

I am alone, apart from the sheep and the occasional raven or buzzard. I breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel rooted, content and at home – after years of travel and residence abroad I have found a base in this beautiful part of my homeland and I feel deeply grateful to be here. And although there’s not another human being in sight, I find that I am not afraid. I have lost my fear of walking alone in the hills.

About the Author

Helen Isaacs works as a tour guide leading groups through Wales, France and Italy. She is also a professional translator who specialises in travel literature from her base in the market town of Crickhowell, in the Brecon Beacons National Park in Wales, UK.

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