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.

Stockwood Open Space Nature Reserve

What images does Stockwood Open Space conjure up in your mind?

Trail Guide, Stockwood Open Space, Avon Wildlife Trust 1984

Unless you live in South Bristol, the images are probably a blur of green field, maybe some trees and a pond of some sort. That would be better than the picture I had of it a couple of months ago when I first arrived in Bristol. My new home was filled with the bare essentials and I was free to explore. So I set off on foot to find out what my local area contained. Google Maps didn’t look promising. There was a big green space but it was a golf course. The rest was a mix of dull greys. At least it’s what I could see without the satellite imagery. I didn’t have access to those in what was then an Internet free house.


Trail Guide, Stockwood Open Space, Avon Wildlife Trust 1984

I tucked my phone in my pocket and walked out of my front door, my sole focus being on walking away from the busy A4 connecting Bristol to Bath. I meandered in narrowing streets and soon found myself in Scotland Road. A sign declared it was flooded but I ignored it, ducking under the barrier. The last houses of the city disappeared behind me, leaving their space to trees, shrubs, and fields. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. There was the distant roar of the A4 but everything else was telling me I was in the British countryside I had come to know. Bewildered, I went on, eager to see where the road would lead and if the trees on my right would offer an opening for me to see what lay behind them because as far as Google was concerned the answer was ‘nothing’. But soon I reached the flooded area and unless I was up for a paddle, I couldn’t walk on. So I turned back. By this time the sun was already setting and I resolved to go back to the blank space on the map the following day.

I was standing at the edge of Stockwood Road, the blank space spread out before me. I had expected a disused industrial estate of sorts, or a wasteland forgotten by the people, but not what I saw. There were trees lining a tarmac path and nature as far as my eye could see. I stepped in and noticed a sign. I had entered the Stockwood Open Space Nature Reserve. I could hardly believe my luck.  I left the sign behind and set out to explore what would undoubtedly become my new nature patch.

I followed the path and was led back home with a smile on my face. I had seen the remains of ancient woodlands, green fields, ponds, and an orchard full of apple trees. I knew I had only glimpsed what was contained in this open space. There was more to discover but my new job was starting the following day, my house mate would arrive a couple of days later and soon Christmas would take over everything. So it wasn’t until a couple of weeks into January that I had the opportunity to go back to spend a morning wandering away from the tarmac. By this time, I had done a bit of research and had even joined the Friends of Stockwood Open Space.

I came into the area via the Hungerford Road Open Space. A fenced-ringed path covered in wet crushed leaves separates the two spaces. It opened at the cart pond meadow where I found a hidden stone lined pond. The bare trees laid their branches over the water, sheltering it from the golden rays of sunlight. I snapped a photo. A dog arrived, his head already bent down to drink. I didn’t move and watched him for a while as he took a few strides into the pond. Refreshed, he lifted his head and saw me, a startled expression in his eyes before he began to bark in sheer surprise at finding an unknown human being in what clearly was his pond. I moved away and back into the sun-drenched field.

I crossed over to the dipping pond meadow and followed a slippery path along the water’s edge. The light was muted and the smell of wet earth invaded my lungs. I felt like I had entered a secret garden only accessible when water levels were low. I crouched down, watching the shimmering reflections of bare branches on the calm surface of the pond. A few people walked in the distance on the tarmac path but they didn’t see me. As my legs began to ache, I left my spot and went over a bridge made of two heavy wooden planks leading me into a bush. A narrow corridor had been cleared in the hedgerow, opening into a wide playing field. The light almost blinded me as I stepped away from the dipping pond.

Dog walkers were throwing tennis balls far and wide to the sheer delights of dogs. I ignored the frenzy of activity and made straight for the meadow opposite. Grass blades were long, welcoming thistles and newly planted trees still encased in plastic tubes. I wondered what they were. They were still too low to cover the view but eventually they would join the older trees I could see up the hill. I climbed up, carefully avoiding the few patches of ice the sun hadn’t yet melted, and found myself in a small woodland. It reminded me of the woodlands near Hertford that had once been my home for a night. I sat by a fallen tree and closed my eyes, remembering the peace I had found in that secluded place just outside of London. A similar feeling was growing in me here. Sheltered by the trees, I could barely distinguish the traffic of the A4 any longer. Instead there was the gentle crackling of dry leaves dancing on the floor, and the clashing of bare wood against one another above my head.

Growing cold, I moved away from the embrace of the forest and descended onto the playing fields once more. The pungent smell of rotten apples announced its presence before I could see any of it. Back in December, the apples had seemed like Christmas baubles on the trees. There were now more of them on the ground and as the ice covering them had melted, they were releasing their sweet decaying fragrance in the air and for once I wasn’t tempted to bite into a fruit.

I walked away heading for Ilsyngrove wood. I climbed up through the trees, emerging into the Coots meadow. Facing me was a row of houses, the border of the open space clearly defined by their bricks. I envied the inhabitants for having this meadow right on their doorsteps and I hoped they knew how lucky they were. I turned around to descend into the wood once more but was stopped short. I was at the highest point of the Open Space and I could see for miles. There were hills and fields stretched out in shades of yellow and brown, blurring into the distance. I wondered where Bristol and Bath had gone for a moment. Having lived in London for so long, I wasn’t used at seeing unbuilt land from any vantage point in a city. And then, I remembered this was one of the reasons for the move. There were limits to Bristol, limits I could reach by foot or bicycle. The countryside was there for me to explore under my own steam. I didn’t need a train or a bus journey to reach it.

Walking through Ilsyngrove I barely noticed the ancient trees around me. My head was filled with the vision of the hills outside of Bristol and dreams of future wanderings on their footpaths and surrounding roads. Not looking where I walked, I eventually emerged onto the tarmac path and followed it home. Stockwood Open Space was no longer a dull colour on Google Maps. It was a green space with wide open areas interspersed with ponds, hedgerows, and woods. But more than that it was now mine. I had seen its colours under the sun, I had smelled its earth, I had touched its trees, I had heard its birds, I had tasted its air. The courtship had begun and I can’t wait to go back to it over and over again to witness it grow and die throughout the seasons.

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.

In the footsteps of John Constable

Still I should paint my own places best; painting is with me but another word for feeling, and I associate “my careless boyhood” with all that lies on the banks of the Stour; those scenes made me a painter, and I am grateful; that is, I had often thought of pictures of them before ever I touched a pencil…

Letter to Rev. John Fisher (23 October 1821), from John Constable’s Correspondence, part 6, pp. 76-78

John Constable (1776 – 1837) was en English romantic painter born in East Bergholt in Sussex. He spent his childhood on the banks of the Stour, sketching the landscape around him in his free time. Although he lived in London for most of his adult life, the landscape of his youth never left him and he spent many hours capturing them in his later work. And it is easy to see why.

Flatford Mill (‘Scene on a Navigable River’), 1816–7

Flatford Mill (‘Scene on a Navigable River’), 1816–7
Tate Britain

Last month, my partner and I took the train to Manningtree and began walking in Constable’s footsteps following this handy guide. The walk began straight out of the station, down into the car park, and into a rural lane surrounded by gold autumn leaves, illuminating the landscape with one last dash of colour before the onset of winter.

Our footsteps were silent on the carpet of damp leaves allowing us to listen to the breeze in the trees and occasional bird songs. In a few minutes we were walking along the river banks, reeds separating us from the water. Everything was flat and we could see for miles around. There were cows endlessly grazing in their pasture, a silent heron flying low over the water, and the distance churn of a train passing by. The path soon became shadowed by vegetation and slippery with mud momentarily turning our attention away from the water to our feet.

We emerged into a green field, proudly bearing a National Trust sign as we entered the AONB (Area of National Outstanding Beauty) of Dedham Vale. Passing 56 Gates, an Environment Agency Flood Defence Barrier that used to separate the fresh water of the river Stour from the main estuary, I couldn’t resist recording the clang of the metal as the wind slide into its cavity, making it sing with the stream below.

Leaving metal and concrete behind, we headed for Flatford Mill, a scene well-known by John Constable. The landscape is now managed so visitors can experience the same view that inspired the painter. But trees have come and gone and the water level of the river has risen since the 19th century. It is only a pale comparison we can see today. There was no horses when we arrived and the mill was silent, the hive of activity it supported long gone. In spite of those changes though, it was easy to see what had inspired John Constable to become a landscape painter. Everywhere we looked, palettes of green and brown were displayed before out eyes, waiting to be captured.

We left the tourists and school children behind to enter another field. We hugged the serpentine river, occasionally disappearing into tunnel of woods before reappearing into vast field. Everything was flat and green, the perfect illustration of typical English lowlands. The views there were the same as the one John Constable knew, the only trace of modern life marked by airplanes streaks in the sky.

Dedham from Langham, ?1813

Dedham from Langham, ?1813
Tate Britain

We made it into Dedham and visited its old church in search of a work of the artist but there was only a laminated copy of one of his painting resting on a table. The original was undergoing restoration. A little disappointed not to have been able to immerse ourselves in the vision of Constable, we walked around the village in search of a pub. Everything was quaint and old-fashioned. I felt like we were walking in a quintessential English village. This feeling wasn’t diminished as we found a pub and sampled the local ales while resting on a leather sofa by a chimney. On the table in front of us lay the Dedham Vale and Stour Valley News, a paper filled with stories of conservation, countryside life, and art.

Eventually we extirpated ourselves from the warmth of the pub. We had a train to catch in Manningtree. We rejoined the river Stour, crossing the same field we had walked into previously and retraced our steps back to Flatford, to 56 Gates, and finally to the golden paths.

#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.