A circular walk around Dursley

The summer holidays came and went in a frenzy of job applications, interviews, and finally a new job. There were also family and friends visiting, WarmShowers guests to welcome, and an album about Bristol to get ready for release in September. My outdoors time became limited to evening walks in the city and occasional drives out near Bristol.

So, late in August, during a regular visit to the library, I couldn’t resist grabbing Beyond Bristol: 24 Country Walks by Robin Tetlow when I spotted it on display. I came home, settled with the book and selected a walk. The choice of Dursley was easy. It was just far enough that I wouldn’t go back the following week but still easy to reach.

The very next day, I packed a day bag for my partner and I. We hopped in the car and soon left Bristol behind. City streets transformed into motorway lanes before narrowing into country roads. We missed the car park mentioned in the guide but found a spot in an unremarkable residential street. The sun was shining and it was easy to pretend summer was finally here.

We set off and left Dursley and its shops unexplored. Narrow lanes took us between fields, past grand houses, and finally into the open countryside. We ascended steeply on Cam Peak, as if to escape everyday life we had to exert ourselves and reach higher ground. We stopped for a moment on top to regain our breath and admire the views. To the east lay the rolling hills of the Costwolds with valleys nestled in their crooks, rivers, and copses dotted about. To the west lay the Severn estuary and the mountains of Wales. I stared at them, longing to be back on Offa’s Dyke Path but knowing it would be a while before I could meet it again.

We went on, descending and ascending until we reached the flatter ridge of Cam Long Down. Wales was still visible to the west and I fancied a wild camp in one of the recess of the ridge, watching the sun set over the Brecon Beacons. But it was early in the day and I didn’t have any sleeping bag with me.

We followed the path down, up, and down again. A couple advanced towards us with loaded backpacks and walking sticks. They looked like they were hiking the Cotswolds Way.

‘Beautiful day for a walk,’ the couple greeted us with a clear American accent.
We agreed.
‘Are you on the Cotswolds Way,’ they enquired.
‘Not this time no. We’re doing a day walk around Dursley. Are you?’
They were. We carried on chatting about the English countryside, the USA, and the plans they had for the rest of their time in the UK. We shared names and photos before finally parting ways, them comforted in knowing their destination was in reach and without too much uphill, us knowing we were just at the beginning of our day with plenty more uphill to come.

Out for a walk

We traversed a muddy copse to be greeted by the sight of a bench with a viewpoint. But before we could settle on it and consider lunch, a group of walkers arrived.

‘Beautiful day for a walk,’ they greeted us with a clear British accent.
We agreed once more.
With only a light pack on their shoulders, we didn’t enquire if they were on the Cotswolds way but chatted about the beauty of the local area. One of the man turned out to be very local and enlightened us on the best pubs around for a drink, a meal, or both. We took note for the evening. As the conversation drew to a close, they had inched closer to the bench, leaving us with no choice but to go on.

Our disappointment wasn’t long lived though as we happened upon Uley Bury, an Iron Age hill fort, within minutes of having left the bench. We settled at one side of it, our view made of trees, hills, and fields. Everything was coloured green no matter where we looked. Happy with this find, we sat down and unpacked our food.

Our bodies refueled, we hiked down the hill and followed the river Ewelme for a while. The going was easy as we followed the lay of the land chatting about this and that, watching the birds play hide and seek with the trees. We took a turn left and entered the village of Uley. We found a small arts centre adorned by a coffee shop. Tempted by the idea of tea and cake we considered stopping but time was ticking on and we still had a good five miles ahead of us. Soon the map and book instructions stopped matching the land around us and it became clear that we were lost.

We knew we weren’t too lost as Uley was on our route. We only needed to find the old mill. So we walked out of the small back roads in search of a high street. On the way we met a lady gardening and enquired about the mill. Unfortunately she had only recently moved in and knew nothing about it.

Defeated, we reached the main road and stopped for a minute. I assessed the map more carefully. I could see the road, I could see the path we were supposed to be on, and I could see a telephone box not far from it.

‘Let’s walk on, there’s supposed to be…’ But before I could finish my sentence, an old woman came running towards us.
‘I hear you’re a bit lost. You’re looking for the old mill?’
I closed the book and smiled.
‘Yes. Do you know where it is?’
‘Absolutely. You just need to go on this road and follow it until you see a telephone box. There’ll be a junction after that. Turn left, follow the road and take the first left. Follow it for a few minutes and you’ll find the old mill.’
We both thanked her, happy to have confirmation that we weren’t about to go horribly off-piste and that the telephone box still stood erect.

A few minutes on the main road to Dursley from Uley we found the crossing, the first left, the old mill, and a few metres away, our path. We were going through fields once more, going up and around electric wires before entering Coopers Wood, the path muddy under our feet, and our views restricted to trees. The path veered to the edge of the forest, the trees thinning to our left and opening onto the landscape we had walked a few hours earlier. It felt good to see how far we’d come and to know what the land looked like on the other side of the valley.

As we went, both lost in our thoughts, we happened upon a rope swing and couldn’t resist taking turns. Behind us, a young farmer glared at us with envy in his eyes. I hoped he would soon be finished with his day’s work and be able to enjoy the swing.

Eventually we tore ourselves away from the rope, mindful of the grey clouds inching their way in our direction. The woods ended replaced by the outskirts of Dursley. We stepped along quiet roads until the path veered under the trees once more. As we disappeared under their canopy, the rain began to fall. Grudgingly we paused to change into our rain gear, there was less than a mile to go. Soon we were back on Dursley streets, our steps fast as if to pass between the rain drops. But before we could reach the car, the rain intensified and made us run to the shelter of the market place where we had began the walk. We looked at each other, both with the same question in our mind.

‘Do you want to wait it out?’
‘For a bit.’

I sat on the stairs and began perusing the pubs in the area, the list of the local man we had met earlier still fresh in my mind. Unfortunately all of them where in the opposite direction from Bristol. So we headed for a Dursley pub instead. There was no food available, but we had a drink and a rest in the warmth while we let the rain pass before heading home.

Bonus video

Dappled leaves on the Cotswolds Way

Advertisements

Wales Border Walk: Monmouth to Haye-On-Wye

‘You chose a great day for your hike,’ a man said as I walked under Monmouth old gatehouse.
‘It couldn’t be better,’ I agreed.
He smiled and waved me off. I turned my gaze upwards. The sun was bright and there was barely a cloud around. I paused for an instant, closing my eyes and feeling its warmth. Last time I had been on Offa’s Dyke Path, there had been no warmth to the air. Instead a cold tang had accompanied me from Chepstow to Monmouth, keeping me in constant motion not to lose body heat. I opened my eyes and stepped away from the bustling town centre.

Following the signs, I meandered my way out of Monmouth, easily finding the countryside. A few dog walkers passed me by, but soon I lost sight of any other human being as I entered King’s Wood. Bluebells adorned the floor, their bright blue a sharp contrast against the brown and green of the trees. The path was generous and well kept, making for an easy start to the day. Soon I reached the last of the trees and met grazing sheep. They raised their heads as they heard me approach, but dismissed me as of no importance.

The path led to a small road into the village of Hendre. B&Bs and campsites were available here and I made a note to come back with my partner. The silence of the village and the abundance of countryside would make a great escape from city life. Distracted by the farms, I missed a sign and found myself away from the path. Instead of turning back, I walked on, knowing I would be able to rejoin it a few metres away. The familiar acorn signs reappeared soon enough, leading me through a gate and into a field, and another one, and another one, and another one, and into a large meadow by the river Trothy. I stopped under a tree, watching the river flow. I knew I wasn’t far from a hamlet but for a moment it felt like there was no one around. It was only me, the river, and the sheep in the distance.

I eventually got up, meeting a group of hikers going in the opposite direction. Many hellos were exchanged. I let them disappear at a bend and walked out of the meadow, into a farm track and by the church of Llanfihangel Ystern Llewern. I spent a good five minutes trying to pronounce the name and failed, forever intrigued by the sonority of the Welsh language. I met up with fields and meadows again, rising and dropping all the time, the countryside sprawling uninterrupted all around. In the distance, I could make out the Black Mountains, Skirrid Fawr, the first of the peak I spotted. Those distant tops would become constant companions for the rest of the day, growing close with each step I took.

‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted an old woman in her garden.
‘Good afternoon,’ she replied with a tinge of Welsh accent. ‘Are you on Offa’s Dyke Path?’
‘Yes. I’m going to Haye-on-Wye, although not today,’ I hastened to add.
‘What route are you taking?’
So I told her about the eastern ridge of the Black Mountains, names of villages along its slopes confirmed by the guidebook. She told me about her younger days when she would walk to those villages to attend church services and the mischief she got up to with her friends. The conversation moved on to her life in this valley, to her farm and her son now the owner of it. We chatted about Bristol briefly, her memories of it different from mine and yet anchored in the same places. We exchanged one last smile and I was walking again, waved away by Gwyneth, a stranger no longer.

I followed a stream out of the village, into more fields, a stretch of road, a happy wedding, and onto a disused access road. Tall hedges grew on its side, blocking my view. I emerged on top, the ruins of White Castle around me. I dropped my bag and stick against one of its old wall and went to explore the remains. Over the years, I had stumbled upon and visited many castle ruins, but never as good as the Welsh ones. I made a mental note to come back to this area and follow the Three Castle Walk.

Part of me wanted to linger there until sundown and sleep under the shadow of the walls but I was still a good few miles away from my chosen end point of the day. So I went on, leaving the castle behind, turning my head often to watch it rise higher as I dipped into fields below. The rolling hills I had enjoyed were beginning to be felt in my legs, each incline harder than the one before. So when I reached Llangattock Lingoed church and its picnic table, I stopped. I dropped my bag on the bench and rested for a while. But curiosity got the better of me and I was soon up to explore the church. Once inside, I got sidetracked from the architecture by an alcove offering free tea. I poured water in the kettle, enough for a cup of tea and for my dehydrated evening meal. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I perused the books on a nearby shelf. There were the usual religious texts but alongside them were a few guidebooks for walks in the region, most of them so old even my parents hadn’t been born then. I was about to browse one when I heard the heavy door open. I walked out of the alcove and greeted an older woman with the keys of the church in her hand.

‘It’s a lovely church you have here,’ I commented eager to have a chat. But the lady was unresponsive and left me to my tea. Unfriendliness or respect for a devout moment I was not having, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. The kettle boiled, I walked out of the church and left its guardian to her evening duties. She walked away without a word.

Waiting for my tea to brew and dinner to rehydrate, I began to stretch, every muscle in my body glad for it. The routine finished, I sat on the bench, relaxed and happy for a long day in the hills of Wales. I slowly ate the warm meal, forcing my hand and mouth to take their time rather than devour the whole packet of food in too few mouthfuls.

My meal and tea over, I packed up and regretfully left the church. I love the quiet of an isolated churchyard for a night under the stars. But this one was in the middle of the village and visible by all. I rejoined Offa’s Dyke Path and followed it out of the village. I passed a field with grazing horses before settling into a neighbouring one filled with sheep. A brook gurgled at the bottom and I settled in for the evening. I rolled out my sleeping mat and sleeping bag, laid down and read for a while. The birds, water, and horses were the only sounds I could hear. The light grew faint and I put my book aside. I changed into my night clothes, tucked my shoes under my bag and pulled on the rain cover to protect them from morning dew, and slid into my sleeping bag. I was slightly too warm in all my layers but I didn’t care. The night would grow colder and then I would be at optimal temperature. I closed my eyes, gently drifting into sleep.

–*–

I woke with the sun and birds, smiling to myself. I had long learned that setting an alarm when wild camping is of no use. The natural world will take care of waking me up gently. Eyes open, I lingered in the sleeping bag watching the clouds drift by. The day was not going to be as bright as the previous one. But it didn’t matter. Rain was not forecasted and that was good enough for me.

I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and began packing my few belongings. I drank some water, too lazy to brew a cup of tea, and munched on a cereal bar as I went on my way. I crossed the stream over a narrow footbridge and found myself in a field full of horses. The land was green and undulating, a continuation of the previous day. I enjoyed the ups and downs, knowing they would soon end in favour of the eastern ridge of the Black Mountains. I tried not to think too much about it. I had walked in mountains before but never on my own. I knew what to expect, but couldn’t help a slight pinch to grow in my stomach. This time there would be no one to lead the way and know what to do in case of bad weather or an accident. I would be on my own.

I walked on, leaving Pandy as I reached it, its inhabitants still asleep in the warmth of their beds. The path led me up, the slope gentle at first before shooting upright, the acorn signs lost to my eyes. But I knew where I was going and I could guess at the trail easily enough. I passed an Iron Age hillfort, the shelter of its wall making me wish I had departed that much earlier on the previous day. It would have made a great sleeping spot. My mind lost in a whirl of memories never created and of times gone by, I forgot to look at the signs and lost my way. But all the trails led to the ridge. I picked one and climbed. Soon the path levelled and I met the first trig point of the day, rejoining Offa’s Dyke Path at the same time. I paused and marvelled at the valley below me, envious at the people leaving in the shadow of the mountain.

I left the trig point and followed the path, the only one big enough to exist outside of local knowledge. A man passed me by, his pace too fast for me match. I kept pausing to admire the view or compare the features of the map with the landscape before my eyes as a way to improve my navigation skills.

Heather and grass mingled on either side of the route, small birds darting low above ground, too fast for me to spot any of their features. Soon, I stumbled upon a wild horse, its unimpressed look at odds with the growing grin on my face. I yearn to touch it but knew better than to try. So I stood my ground and watched it breathe and eat before I moved on. There were still many miles to go.

The path kept its undulation, gently rising under my feet. It was easy to follow and I let my eyes drift to the landscape, unafraid of losing my way any longer. There was only one way to go. I noticed a change in temperature as a puff of air appeared in front of me and I was reminded to stay on my guard. I was not strolling in the valley. A check of the map and I was reassured. I still knew exactly where I was.

Moving dots appeared in the distance. It took me a moment to realise they were people. On the few miles I have walked of Offa’s Dyke Path, so many had been unshared that it was a shock to be able to count more than five dots ahead of me. Our paths crossed, we shared a nod, a smile, sometimes even a conversation. It was a good day for a ridge walk.

I stopped at another trig point for lunch, stretching as the water came to a boil and I waited for my dehydrated food to rehydrate. A runner stopped by, his words flowing out of his mouth without the consent of my ears. But he was soon gone and I had the peace of the ridge to myself again, the clouds enveloping me in a world outside of the valley below.

Lunch eaten and legs rested, I left the trig point behind. The path climbed through a rocky section, the landscape barren and dry for a while before vegetation grew again. More walkers appeared, and I knew I was getting close to the end of the ridge. I passed the highest point of the walk, only noticing it had gone when the path began to lead me downwards. Heather was replaced by wind burned grass and fresh sprouts. I stopped and turned around. I had just walked a mountain ridge by myself. I nodded in appreciation, a notch of confidence gained in my outdoor skills.

Soon I was at the side of a tarmac road, the sight of it odd after a few hours with no signs of human life other than passers-by. I went alongside it for a few minutes, cheering the cyclists going uphill, but I soon left it for a wide open field where a father was playing with his young daughter. Not a bad day out, I thought, happy that the dad had chosen the outdoors over an indoor play centre.

Alone once more, I followed a stream to a farm to a field, and was rewarded with a wide view of the Wye valley and Haye-On-Wye, my destination for the day. I checked the time. I had time for a beer before my bus. With a steady pace, I followed the acorn signs, narrowly avoiding being chased by a playful calf and angry cow, before reaching empty fields and a full car park. I had reached Haye-On-Wye. I strolled in the streets, gazing at the windows of bookshops, before I settled at a pub terrace. The clouds had cleared, letting the sun soak the city of books in the warmth of a beautiful spring day. I took a sip of a local ale, closed my eyes, and smiled.

Wales Border Walk: Chepstow to Monmouth

I can’t remember how it began. There were long-distance walks enjoyed and leaving me craving for more. There were people writing about walking the South West Coast Path in stages. There was Quintin Lake taking photos of the whole British coastline. And there was the move to Bristol right next to Wales. This somehow made me yearn to walk the Wales Coast Path. So when I realised I had a whole week-end off at the start of February, it felt natural to embark on the first walk around Wales.

I popped in Stanfords to get a book about it. There were publications about various stages of the walk and a chunky Cicerone guide. I picked the latter up before anyone else could snatch it and was about to pay when another book caught my eye. ‘Offa’s Dyke Path‘ I whispered, reading the title. Instinctively my hand went up and took the book off the shelve. I had heard of this walk, friends and vague acquaintances had followed it. I remembered it involved the Welsh border. So what if I walked the entire Wales Border? After all, this was only adding a 177 miles to my journey around Wales, and it would make a nice loop. Not thinking any further, I went to counter and paid for both items.

But now had a dilemma: which path would I follow first? I knew I was going to start in Chepstow. But would I veer north or west? I thought about tossing a coin or rolling a dice. Instead I checked the weather forecast. North was predicted to be marginally better. So that was it, Offa’s Dyke Path would be the start of my journey around Wales.

On Friday night, I packed my bag, and went to sleep eager for the hours to tick away. Six o’clock came, my alarm rang and I was out of the house to catch a bus. There was no traffic at this hour and the bus soon arrived in Chepstow. The sun had risen by then and I easily made my way out-of-town, half following the Wales Coast Path signs, half following Google Maps. I stopped on a bridge overlooking an A-road but didn’t linger to watch cars go by. Daylights hours were still scarce and I wanted to leave the urban environment. I spotted the familiar acorn of National Trails and followed it through kissing gates and fields.

The grass was cracking under foot, still trapped in a layer of frost. I thought of the camp I would have to make that night and shivered. I had my winter equipment with me, but I knew it would still be a cold night. But now was not the time to think about it, so I brushed the thought aside and walked on. The Severn estuary rolled away to the east with views of England on the other side. But I was more interested in what was going on to the west. I had reached Wintour’s Leap. Perched high in the landscape I overlooked the Wye gorge as the river made its final dash for the sea. A thin layer of mist hung low over the valley as if the landscape was not quite awake yet.

Buildings and tarmac disappeared as I made a turn into the woods. I remained below the dyke for a while and marvelled at the determination and manpower it must have taken to built it. And yet there are no contemporary accounts mentioning it. So its origin and purpose are still enigmatic today but it is generally agreed that Offa, King of Mercia from 757 to 796 ordered its construction. This earthwork formed the boundary between Mercia and the Kingdom of Powys. Even the full length of the dyke is debated. But what is certain is that it marked and still marks the landscape of the borderlands. More than a millennium later, it still passes within a few miles of the current England-Wales border.

I reached the Devil’s Pulpit overlooking Tintern’s Abbey. Legends has it that the Devil preached on the jetting stone to tempt the monks of the abbey. His efforts were wasted as Tintern Abbey became one of the most prosperous in Wales.

‘Admiring the view,’ I heard a man ask me.
‘Yes. It’s quite something,’ I replied. Two men had arrived from the opposite direction.
‘Are you going far,’ the older man enquired upon spotting my bag on the floor.
‘Monmouth. I’m walking Offa’s Dyke Path.’
‘Us too. We started down there,’ the younger man commented as he pointed to Tintern. ‘We’re going to Chepstow.’
I reassured them that the walk was going to be just as good and with a quite a bit of downhill for them. They couldn’t promise the same for me.
I waved them off as they continued on their way and strapped my bag to my back. There were still many miles to go.

I passed a few more groups of people, all wishing me well on my journey, and reached a crossroad. I could go straight ahead across to the Hudnalls or visit Brockweir and continue along the river Wye. I looked at the hills ahead and began walking towards them but soon I backtracked and descended to the river. I had never seen the river Wye but I had heard of it many times. I had read about people walking alongside it and people kayaking on its water. And I wanted to see it. The hills would have to wait.

I stopped for lunch in the village by the Wye. Its water was running fast and I didn’t fancy trying to paddle upstream. I thought about having a nap before walking on but the weather was too cold. I needed to move to keep warm. So I went on along the river, watching its murky water flow in the opposite direction.

I rejoined the main route at Bigsweir Bridge, climbing back to the top of the landscape, and into the woods. It wasn’t so cold under the canopy of trees so when I got hungry again, I stopped to brew a cup of tea. As I sat on a fallen tree, I realised I had not seen another human figure for a while, nor could I hear the sound of traffic or planes. There may have been human activity a few miles from me, but as far as I was concerned I was on my own in the forest. I smiled and enjoyed that cup of tea all the more.

I checked the maps and instructions and realised I wasn’t too far from Redbrook. I hadn’t expected to walk that far but the cold had powered me on with shorter breaks than usual. Maybe I could make it all the way to Monmouth? I brushed the idea aside. I wasn’t that far but there were a lot of ups and downs and I was beginning to feel the weight of the bag on my shoulder.

I packed my stove and walked on under the trees, occasionally crossing a muddy clearing. The brown and green of the ground were highlighted from the rain of the previous week, marking a sharp contrast against the bare canopy over my head. As I reached Highbury Wood, I found the whole of my body and brain drifting into the rhythm of my steps. The bag felt heavier than at the beginning of the walk and I couldn’t find a position that would relieve the pain. There were many spots that called me to stop and set up camp for the night, but it was cold and there were still another couple of hours of daylight. So I walked on, my thoughts obliterated by the pain.

Perched high in the woods, I was faced with a steep descent into Redbrook. Staying upright took all of my concentration, making me forget for a moment the load on my back. I arrived in the village and wondered what to do. There was a welcoming pub just around the corner from the path. A pub with accommodation. I looked at it longingly, a strange figure on the pavement by a park full of children. In the end, I walked away. I had not come to sleep in a bed in Wales. Monmouth was now just under four miles away. I knew that if I reached it I wouldn’t be able to carry on the following day. The guide was quite clear about the scarcity of transport between Monmouth and Haye-On-Wye (which was just a little too far for another day’s walk). This left me with two options: find a spot to spot between Redbrook and Monmouth or walk all the way to Monmouth and catch a bus home. Not wanting to bargain with buses, I checked timetables on my phone. As long as I kept walking there was a good chance I could catch the last bus to Abergavenny and from there hop on a train.

Invigorated by the idea of making it to Monmouth, I found a new spring in my steps. I left Redbrook via a narrow farm path surrounded by fields. I could see further than I had been able to most of the day. A few cars passed me by, people busy gathering chickens and horses waved at me, and a few dog walkers shared an amicable greeting with me. I was not part of their life but I was not an unusual sight either and in that moment I felt part of the general landscape.

The sun began to set, slowly draining the world from its colours. But the progress was slow and I could still see where I was going. I reached the Roundhouse on the Kymin Hill overlooking Monmouth. The buildings were impressive but I didn’t spare much time for them. Not far in the distance, a few miles below me, lay Monmouth illuminated like a starry night on the ground. And further still, I could just make out the contours of the Brecon Beacons. I gazed at them longingly. Ever since I had known I was going to move to Bristol, I have been lurking at the Brecon Beacons, desperately waiting for the weather to change so I would have time to explore them. The light was rapidly fading and I had a bus to catch. So I tore myself away from the sight and walked on. It was all downhill from there and I found myself almost giggling as I half walked, half slid on a muddy woodland path.

I reached a road, and found myself standing by Monmouth sign. I had made it. I had passed a pub a few metres ago and doubtless there would be more in town. And in that moment there was nothing more I wanted but to sit in one with a well-earn pint of ale. I checked my watch to see if I had time. I didn’t. In fact, I had to hurry to the bus station if I didn’t want to miss the bus. I drank some water, pretending this was an ale and walked on to the station. The bus pulled in as I arrived. I hopped in, the sole passenger at this time of day, and the driver took me straight to Abergavenny station where I caught a train home.

Pedalling Portugal – Photo report

In early March 2016, I found myself in a deserted coach station in Spain. At my feet lay my bike, wrapped in industrial size bin bags. Next to it, my four panniers rested in a line ready to be mounted on the racks. And I stood in front of them, the reality of my journey slowly sinking in. Eventually I hooked the panniers to their rightful place. I got on the bike and off I went. This is what I saw.
For 32 weeks, I will post a batch of photos every Monday morning.
Later words and sounds will come. But for now, I’m going to share what I experienced through the photos I took. If you miss a post, go to this page to find all the links.

The Alentejo region is peppered with walking trails. Each one of them enticed me to come back and explore the area on foot. But I didn’t just make a mental note of them. Whenever I took a day off, I would go exploring the local short trails.

#OutdoorBloggers week-end in Snowdonia

From the 14th to the 16th of October, a group of bloggers gathered at the Llyn Gwynant campsite for the second Outdoor Bloggers Week-End. I was one of them.

I buried my hands in my trouser pockets. It was cold away from the campfire. I could have stayed by the warmth and light of the flames but I wanted some time to myself, to gaze at the hill behind our tents and my new friends chatting and laughing around the fire. There was an odd familiarity to it.

A few hours earlier I had put up my tent, my hands finding the holes for the poles automatically and tidying each item to its place inside my nylon home without my brain having to think. It had been three months since I last used this tent but I had not forgotten the routine of it.

I was cold but I was smiling. It was October and this was Wales. I was meant to be cold and layered up. I closed my eyes for an instant and listened. There was no subtle traffic, not even in the distance. There was no TV or radio. There was only the crackling of the fires, people talking and laughing all around, and behind my eyelids, light flickering unevenly. I walked back to the campfire and sat by its warmth for a while longer.

I awoke to the sound of rain falling on my tent and grinned to myself as the memories of Portugal flooded back into the forefront of my mind. I opened the zip to assess how bad the rain was. It wasn’t a downpour. I peered at the field, my fellow bloggers hidden in their tents still or wrapped in waterproof on their way to the toilet block. It was early, so I remained cocooned in my sleeping bag and went about preparing breakfast. Gradually people began to emerge from their shelter, the rain keeping none of us hiding. We hovered around our tents, greeting each other and the newcomers we hadn’t met yet. And before long, Ross and Craig from Climb Snowdon  arrived at the campsite. They were accompanied by Tryfan and Nia from Mud and Routes who had kindly paid for the campsite. They were going to walk with us, chatting, snapping photos, and catching our breathe while Ross and Craig told us stories of legends and gin while leading us up Snowdon.

We geared up, climbed into cars, and drove to a parking lot at the start of the trail. Backpacks on we dutifully followed our guides on the gentle incline of the mountain. It was easy-going and words flowed between us all, people gliding through the group effortlessly. Ross stopped to tell us the story of the floating island where a young man had disappeared with the fairies long ago. We couldn’t quite see it yet but it was easy to imagine fairies living in the nooks and crannies of those hills, hidden between the rocks and long blades of grass.

We veered left at a crossroad, leaving the well trodden path for another route through old quarries and slates covered footpaths. Feet and walking poles clicked against the rock, giving rhythm to our steps. We kept ascending, the group gradually spreading between the fastest and the slowest before rejoining for breaks.

The views became wider and more spectacular. Lakes, peaks, and clouds filled our vision until our eyes met with the sea in the far off distance on one side and the endless undulation of hills on the other. I snapped photos, not quite believing I was here. I had seen documentaries on the BBC about Wales, about Snowdonia and it had looked exactly like what I was seeing. But from the comfort of my flat in London, it had never felt quite possible that those sceneries could exist in the UK. This was a land wilder than the one I know so well, were people are scarce and the weather dangerous. It was exhilarating to be here, to be climbing a mountain, and to be part of this landscape.

The path narrowed and we found ourselves scrambling to the ridge. My brain pictured the holds of a climbing wall, thinking three moves ahead, and always keeping my body balanced in a triangular shape. I was almost disappointed when I was able to make progress with my feet only. I had missed the intense focus, the narrowing of my world, and the hyper awareness of my body that climbing brings.

Up on the ridge, the weather got colder and I put on gloves as we stopped for another snack between the clouds. The wind picked up, chanting its monotone chorus into our ears, and making clouds dance around us. Sometimes all we could see were the bright colours of our waterproof gear against a world of mist. Details would catch my eyes, their shapes and textures as immersive as the wider landscape.

We walked on, other people going past us until we reached the crowded area of the café and summit. We queued for a photo at the top where I found the highest and busiest trig point I had ever seen. We relaxed and I felt again like this was not really a mountain. Having grown up in France my point of references are the Alps and the Pyrénées, their highest peaks four or three times higher than Snowdon. Finding a peak where oxygen was still plentiful and where snow didn’t linger all year round didn’t quite feel like a mountain peak. But I shook the idea from my head, remembering cycling the mountains of Spain and Portugal. I had never quite reached a height like Snowdon and yet the peaks had felt like mountains then, my legs and lungs burning as I wheeled my way up. I laughed at myself. Mountains were declared such by government bodies and geography measurements. They were not measured by exertion and personal feelings.

I crunched my teeth in a cold apple and followed the rest of the group on the path down the mountainside. We amble along large tracks, the rocks of the top and slates of the ascend long forgotten. Grass surrounded us in a show of autumn colours, Snowdon determined to put on its best coat to wave us back to the cars. Smiling, proud of ourselves, and eager to get back to the campsites for a taste of local gin, we clambered into the cars and drove back to our tents.

Chris from Snowdonia Distillery was waiting for us. Muddy boots and sweaty bodies, we all gathered into Camping With Style bell tent to listen to Chris passion for gin and Snowdonia. I had never thought much of this drink before. I’d had a few gin and tonics at friends’ houses but had never felt the need to buy one. But I had seen juniper and I had seen the gorse flowers that day. I had seen heather flowers in the past and I had walked up Snowdon, feeling the wind on my face, tasting the rain on my lips, and smelling the dampness of the air. So when Chris handed up small bottle of his Yellow Label production, it felt like drinking the essence of the mountains. The alcohol warmed my throat and hit my taste buds instantly before releasing an array of floral notes on my palate. If this was gin, then I liked gin.

Chris, Ross, Craig, and Nia eventually left us, their homes and families waiting for them. We spread out in the campsite attending to our grubby appearances and grumbling stomachs. A fire was built and brought us all back together. We sat on camping chairs or the ground, we devoured pizzas and camping stove cooked food, words shared slowly between us. We were tired and relaxed. Helen from Camping Tails emerged from her lotus tent with a treasure of booklets in her hands and began to sing, her voice sending us travelling back to the legends we had heard and a world were we didn’t need TVs and our phones. The moon shone behind the clouds and little by little we disappeared into our tents, a contented sleep waiting us all.

In the morning, rain was falling again, and the plan to run 5k was quickly abandoned. Instead we helped each other pack, we hugged goodbye with smiles on our faces and promises to see each other again. Soon there was only a handful of us left. We hopped in kayaks and went to explore the stream and lake. This was my third time in a kayak, the motion of the paddle and the boat growing familiar and known to my body. We glided on the stream, its flow calm and sheltered before venturing into the lake, its water at the mercy of the wind. My arms ached as my muscles tensed to battle the choppy waves to get back to shore. I stepped out of the boat and handed back the paddle almost reluctantly. There was nowhere to go and it was time to leave. A train was waiting to take me back home.

I stuffed my backpack with my gear, placed it into Jenni’s car, closed the passenger door, and we drove away. The mountains began to shrink as we neared the coast before flattening out completely, their presence a vivid memory into our body and mind.

I waved goodbye to Jenni, walked to the station with Daniela and Christian before parting ways with them as I hopped into my train. I found an empty seat, closed my eyes to let the memories and feelings of the week-end submerge me. And I made myself the promise to stay curious and keep exploring the countryside of my new home.

The Outdoor Bloggers Week-End was organised by the wonderful Jenni from The Thrifty Magpies Nest and Zoe from Splodz Blogz.

Our camping sponsors were Dave, Tryfan and Nia from Mud and Routes.
We were lead up Snowdon by Ross and Craig from Climb Snowdon.
We were enlightened about gin by Chris from Snowdonia Distillery.

And we received an awesome goodie bags with treats from Kitshack, Hi-Tec, Real Handful, Aquapac, and Nikwax.

Attending bloggers (let me know if I have forgotten anyone. I hope not…) were Jenni from The Thrifty Magpies Nest, Zoe from Splodz Blogz, Tryfan and Nia from Mud and Routes (our camping sponsors), Shell from Camping With Style, Ben from The Water Boy, Catherine from Muddy Mam, Katy from Katyish, Lucy from Paddle Pedal Pace, Cristian and Daniela from Go Straight Ahead, Chelsea from Loving Life In Wellies, and Cerys from Mascara and Mud.

Find out more about the Outdoor Bloggers network here.
More photos of the week-end, especially Snowdon can be found on my Flickr account.
Read about the first Outdoor Bloggers Week-End here.