A Weekend in South Wales

I hadn't intended to go to South Wales last weekend. I thought we might go to the Dales but on Thursday night my son rang me to say he'd just bought a kayak on eBay and would I go and collect it for him.

"OK. Great. Where is it?"

"Cwmbran. Is that far from Sheffield, Dad?"

"God, I wish you were doing geography A-Level!"

So I rang Christine....

"You know this weekend?" and so it went on.

We got down to the Usk valley late on Friday night with the campervan and parked up at The Chain Bridge Inn which seems to be run by folk who are a totally barking.

"Oh we're all a bit mad down here", they said.

The next morning dawned gray and cold. Don't you just hate it when the weather forecast is right? So not so much seizing the day as gently tickling it, we started with a cup of tea in bed followed by a large cooked breakfast and looked at the maps.

"Crickhowell must have a tea shop" , I said.

"And gear shops!", said Christine

So we drove to Crickhowell where SatNav girl, in one of her premenstrual outbursts, led us up a hill into a housing estate on the edge of town. I switched her off and we went 'old skool' to get to the car park. Then we set off to look for a coffee shop. So it was 1.30 before we set off up the road to Table Mountain.

"I think it's that way", said Christine, pointing up at the flat topped hill behind the car park. "I remember from the map that it had a bit of a lip on it"

"What, you mean it's sarcastic and answers back? The Basil Fawlty of mountains."

Our route took us back up the road that SatNav girl had led us on the way in, which was slightly scary. Did she actually know better than me after all?

Table Mountain












We'd just started to settle into the walk when we arrived at a field of young bullocks. I sent Christine out in front because she used to go out with a cowboy (err, herdsman). Impressively, she got the one with the most menacing look to back off and that left the rest of the group with an expression of uncertainty and wonder at this fearless woman and they just watched us as we walked between them.

It was cold on Table Mountain and the views were intermittent as the cloud, at around 650m, came and went. We had no definite objective but this seemed a bit early to stop, given there were sandwiches and pork pies to be eaten, so we headed up into the 'death zone' for Pen Cerrig-calch at 701.

Summit of Pen Cerrig-calch














After consuming the said sarnies in the imperfect shelter offered by a pile of rocks just below the summit, we walked to the trig point, took some photos in the mist and turned round. As we came back down to Table Mountain, the clouds cleared and we got some better views across Crickhowell to Mynydd Llangatwg, a region of limestone honeycombed with some of the UK's longest cave systems, and across to the south-east to a fine looking mountain called Sugar Loaf.

Sugar Loaf











Back in Crickhowell, we went the pub for a shandy and Christine got out the two 1:25,000 maps she'd bought earlier in the day, only to find she got two the same. Doh! Let's face it -it hadn't been an easy day.

Back at the Chain Bridge Inn, there was a choice of various endangered species on the menu, which included ostrich, bison, kangaroo, crocodile and zebra. I went for bison as I'd seen some in a field on the way to Betws-y-Coed last year, so I thought there was half a chance that it hadn't come from Bristol Zoo. Christine had Sea Bass, her first two choices having run out (or run off).

Stats: About 5miles and 2000' of ascent

Sunday

On Sunday, after picking up the kayak, we went down Big Pit at Blaenavon.

Big Pit













This was a working coal mine until it closed in 1980, re-opening 3 years later as a visitor centre. The main levels and shaft are 300' deep and the winding gear and cages as well as around 2000' of walking and stooping passage are maintained in good working order for guided trips. It is a proper coalmine and although I suspect the risk of explosive gasses is minimal, you have to leave anything with a battery in up top, including cameras, mobile phones and even car key fobs. You're provided with a hard hat and miners electric lamp as well as an emergency rebreather, developed for use in U-Boats apparently.

Pit head winding gear



















The descent takes a couple of minutes - it's slower than the GG winch - and the guided tour lasts about 45 minutes, in which you learn how there used to be kids as young as 6, doing 12 hour shifts without a light, opening doors, that horses were used to drag trucks underground until 1972 and the place used to be plagued by rats as a result of the horse poo, feed and miners butties. There is plenty of industrial archaeology in the form of trucks (they have a special name I can't remember now), conveyor belts and a massive chain saw known as the 'window maker'! Imagine getting that job on your first day. "Now then boy-o, you're single. 'av a go on that thing but mind your fingers, look you". 

They still use canaries to test for bad air. They have two, called Maggie and Arthur.



















There's a lot of interesting exhibits above ground also. It's well worth a visit if you're down that way and it's free to go down.

From there we drove down the road to the old ironworks dating from the 18'th century. Of the 6 original furnaces, only one is any real state of preservation and the most striking feature of the place is probably the Balance Tower, which was used to lift trucks full of ore to the top of the furnaces.

Blast Furnaces

The Balance Tower

Mike's Handrailing Masterclass or Peebles to Moffat - the rematch

Regular and attentive readers may recall that last Easter weekend four of us were snowed off in an attempt at backpacking between Peebles and Moffat in the Scottish Southern Uplands.

Well this was to be the rematch. Women, men and dog versus nature.  The team this time comprised three of the previous four: Mike (Northern Pies) Knipe, Alan Sloman and myself plus Shirley (Peewiglet) Worral, Martin (Phreerunner) Banfield, John Jocys, Andrew Walker, Mike Pope and Christine King, seven of the nine having completed the TGO Challenge with a combined number of  (I think it came to) 45 successful crossings.  With such a scorecard, you would think we should have greater success this time round. We were also to be accompanied by Piglet, Shirl's dog.  Or maybe we were accompanied by Shirl, Piglet's provider - I'm never sure with dogs, how the relationship works.

Martin, Mike P and Mike K in The Bridge

As has now become tradition (can you have a tradition after only one previous occasion?) we met up in The Bridge in Peebles with David Albon and Hmp3 Weightman.  The latter handed over a substantial quantity of pie like materials to our eponymous leader, which were never seen again.  Shame on you, you naughty pieman (I feel a limerick coming on here).

"We're going to start with the low route this time and follow the river up Glen Sax.  After that, we'll be following fences and walls for the next two days", explained Mike.  "It's called handrailing".

And so we did.  Everyone was well behaved and vacated the Bridge after only one drink and David walked some way up the glen with us to bless us on our journey before dancing his way back to Moffat.  Don't ask.

The team (L-R): Martin, John, The Pieman, Andrew, Mike P, Christine, me and Alan with Piglet and Shirl at front












We strolled up the glen crossing and re-crossing the stream (for the practice, I assume). 

Glen Sax
















As we approached the upper reaches there was some suggestion of sending a Ranger to scout out a camping spot on the saddle at Glenrath Heights but I ignored this crazy talk and suggested the vaguely flattish area about 10m above where we were stopped.  To reinforce this proposal, I got my tent out.  It turned out this was a good decision. Further up would have been less comodious and colder, 'cos it was quite nippy that night on account of clear skies.

Saturday night's wild camp















Day 2: Upper Glen Sax to Megget Stone

Sunday dawned at it's usual time for a largely cloudless 26'th September but it was still too early and we were walking by 8 (ish).  We continued upstream to our first fence.  Martin and Shirl went for a little detour up Dun Rig (it's tickable, I think) and one or two others went off for walks through the heather clutching little trowels. 

Looking for a hand rail or a towel rail or maybe a hand towel. 














We handrailed along the ridge line, in a generally south-easterly direction, high-stepping over heather, and I started to wonder where the footpath had gone.  I'd just assumed at Easter that it had been covered by the snow.  By the time we reached Moffat, at the end of the following day, I finally accepted there wasn't going to be one.

Christine demonstrates eXtreme Handrailing

We dropped down somewhere for lunch and held our ground when some off-road bikers came past.  I believe the front one had expected Mike to open the gate for him but soon got the hint when the Pieman outstared him.  Then after lunch we climbed up some more, without the security of a fence for a while, before Martin disappeared for some considerable time to tick off some more roundy lumps.  It was hard to tell who had more energy, Piglet or Martin.  Piglet was doing most of the walk three times over, running up and down the line, checking we were all there, whilst Martin did the route the rest of us were walking whilst throwing in a few extra klicks and tops for good measure.  Duracell bunnies would have been hard pressed to better either if them.   

Shirl picks heather from Piglet's fluffy belly.  In deference to social conventions borne out of 30,0000 years of human evolution, the rest of us (sadly) didn't get similar treatment.

We followed some more fences and the heather mercifully gave way to short grass and easier walking, with Broad Law appearing in the far, far distance.  "Oh look, it's not far now", I said to Christine encouragingly but I could tell she didn't believe me.

Broad Law in the distance (and a fence in the foreground!)










The ascent to the summit of Broad Law was a bit of a grunty one, coming towards the end of the day, and the descent was interminable.  Well actually of course it wasn't because it did eventually end and we found ourselves at (or at least somewhere close to) The Megget Stone.  John, whose knee was well dodgy, had taken a different route and was already camped by the time we got there.

Unlike the previous night, the wild camp at the Megget Stone was level and benefited from some tins of beer and a bottle of wine, which Mike had cached the previous afternoon,  accompanied by Saucisson sec, assorted cheeses and other nibbles from Shirl and digestifs in the form of whisky based beverages from Alan and Mike P.  How absolutely splendid it all was.  The world seemed a good place and I remember looking out of the tent door around 10:30 to see Jupiter shining brightly in the eastern night sky.

Megget Stone wild camp - the team enjoying an aperatif and crudites











Day 3: Megget Stone to Moffat

I looked out of the tent door and was faced with clag.  The other tents were still there but someone had stolen the tops of the hills from about 30m up.  We packed up and were away by 8:30.  The day started with a stream crossing and a 300m climb, following the fence up the shoulder onto Molls Cleuch Dodd.  (No, I've no idea how you are supposed to pronounce that middle word.)  This may have been a convenient hand-rail but quite honestly, a Stannah stair lift would have been more useful.

At the top there was a showdown with men and compasses and we all 'aimed off' for different points on the same fence.  Successfully regrouped, we trudged through the clag to Rotten Bottom, where we stopped for some lunch, which was made less rotten by blagging some cheese and salami off Christine, who had taken on board my previous comments in July about needing more protein on these walks, whilst I had completely forgotten. Well duh!

After lunch, we set off into some horrific splodging territory and seemingly endless miles of clag and barren moorland and to break the monotony, Andrew started up a game of I-Spy and we felt like a proper rambling group.  F for fence was relatively easy to guess but W for wire proved troublesome, which was odd since we had been following it for miles.

I spy Fences and Wire

Shirl demonstrates splodging

The last big ascent of the trip was Hart Fell, which left the group a bit spread out for a while before regrouping on the summit.

Summit of Hart Fell

From the top of Hart Fell, we dropped down towards Moffat, the cloud lifted and we got to see some fine views.  We stopped at Greygill Head for a snack before the final steep descent by the side of a wood. 

Greygill Head

Descent from Greygill Head














And this was where things went bad and Alan, in crossing a particularly nasty and unnecessary barbed wire fence, lost his footing and cut his hand open, really quite badly.  The full and gory detail can be found on PeeWiglet's plog.  Suffice to say there was a lot of blood and Andrew and Shirl did some first class first aid stuff while Martin jogged back to Moffat to bring a car up to the end of the track.

Alan in an unreasonably chirpy mood


















It was an unfortunate end to what had been a fabulous trip.  What I brought away from this incident is that I should go on a first aid course, so that I know a bit more than how to open a band-aid.

For other accounts of this adventure, see

http://phreerunner.blogspot.com/
http://northernpies.blogspot.com/
http://peewiglet.wordpress.com/

Doubtless Alan will one day be able to type again as well as hold a glass of beer and scratch his nuts, so check here as well http://alansloman.blogspot.com/

Total distance about 34 miles and around 7,200 ft of upness (by my reckoning).

Macclesfield Forest and Shutlingsloe

I used to have a client near Alderly Edge and for 12 years regularly drove over the Cat and Fiddle from Sheffield.  I must have done the journey more than 100 times and looked over at Shutlingsloe, on each occasion thinking I should make the detour sometime to climb it. It also features in a children's story, The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, which has an edge of the seat climax involving a giant chicken with the body of a woman chasing the main characters over the summit. I hope that hasn't spoilt it for anyone.  I've also read (somewhere) that Shutlingsloe is sometimes referred to as the Matterhorn of Cheshire.  Well that seems a little hyberbolic but it is nevertheless a fine shaped hill from any aspect.

This walk was taken from a book of Derbyshire walks I've had for about 10 years.  I'm not sure if I've ever actually done any from it - I bought it mainly for the photographs (and it was cheap!)  It starts at the car park by Trentabank reservoir, on the edge of Macclesfield Forest, and bimbles its way west along forest tracks before turning south to pass through fields, generally following the Gritstone Trail and arriving after a short, steep pull, at the Hanging Gate pub, which sits balanced, precariously, high on the edge of the Cheshire plain.

The Hanging Gate
















Since we were experiencing a heavy rain shower, there was little hesitation in going inside (it would have been foolhardy and irresponsible not to do so).  The snug, with its welcoming open fire, is one of the snuggest snugs I have ever seen, with space for about 6 intimately close friends. They do good chips!

Our route continued through the gate opposite the Hanging Gate and gave us the first views of Shutlingsloe, which were quite magnificent.

Shutlingsloe from the west

Shutlingsloe again - well it was just a nice view although nothing like the Matterhorn












The clouds lifted and we continued along a path in a manner, which if not aimless was somewhat erratic.  Navigating over farmland has never been a strong point.

We spurned the Crag Inn at Wildboarclough and headed up the road towards Shutlingsloe Farm and the final push to the summit. Well it was more of a puff and a grunt actually.  A push would have been most welcome. How those kids ran up there I don't know, though I guess being chased by a half crazed, chicken legged woman would focus the mind somewhat.

The views from the top are very fine.  On a clear day, you can see mountains in North Wales - or at least that's what the book says.  All we could see was a vague hint of elevation beyond the incredible flatness of the Cheshire plain.  Oh and the radio telescope at Jodrell Bank, which, spookily, seemed to have been tracking us throughout the walk.

On the summit of Shutlingsloe

An eye onto the heavens - the big dish of the radio telescope at Jodrell Bank

Looking towards Macclesfield forest and the path back to the car

It was blowy up on top, so we didn't hang about for long and it started to rain again just as we neared the forest boundary.  In fact it carried on being showery and from the top of the Cat and Fiddle we followed a rainbow all the way back to Sheffield.

We chased this rainbow across Derbyshire but never did find the pot of gold.  It's an allegory on life.

Distance: 7 miles, 1600 ft ascent.