June 15, 2008: Llangunllo to Felindre
Llangunllo from the north
Since Mrs. Simmons had suggested that we would do just as well in the packed lunch department if we did our own shopping in the supermarkets of Knighton, the three of us headed down the hill at 8:00 to check things out. Tosh was also searching, of course, for her newspaper fix– but there was disappointment at the newsagent’s – he had not received his usual supply of Observers. At the Costcutter that lady also denounced the sandwich selection and went off to a third location – while I stood on the pavement and Margie used the HSBC cash machine across the street. Tosh admitted that she had been in a complaining mode quite a bit lately – and promised not to do it anymore. Of course it was hard to quit cold turkey, but she did improve considerably on this score.
We returned to Fleece House at 8:30 and enjoyed a very nice breakfast, vodka marmalade and home-baked bread included. On the wall behind my head was a photomontage featuring that muse/model of the interwar years, Lee Miller – indeed one of these same photos had served as one of Dorothy’s kitchen magnets back home. Mrs. Simmons was charmed to discover someone who knew who Lee Miller was – and a five-minute biography broke out over the scrambled eggs. When we pulled our boots back on and tugged our packs out front in readiness for Mr. Lewis’ taxi, she insisted on giving us all a farewell hug. It was 9:35 when we left Knighton and 9:55 before we were ready to march out of Llangunllo. Mr. Lewis admitted that he was knackered after a late night of ferrying revellers from the barn dance.
I made a mistake at the outset of the day’s nine and a half mile walk. I knew we were to depart on tarmac, heading in a northerly direction, but I hadn’t realized that, in fact, two roads depart from the village in this direction and we were now on the wrong one. It was another lovely morning, with no hint of moisture, and we were enjoying the countryside – which included what appeared to be an ashram in Powys – and so it took me a while to realize that expected landmarks were not forthcoming. By the time we reached a road junction I had at last understood the problem – and seen how it could be quickly remedied. Sure enough, as we turned a corner an elderly farmer with a sheepdog on lead noted that we were certainly not on Glyndwr’s Way.
We turned left to begin a steep ascent at Pye Corner and the elusive GW had soon joined us as we walked along a siding of the Heart of Wales line. Eventually we passed beneath a railway arch and said goodbye to tarmac, using a track by Mayadd Fach farm at the start of another one of those lengthy uphill sections.
Looking south from the summit track north of Llangunllo
The track swerved to the right and we reached a gate (many of these today) before continuing uphill. Footing was easy and with every step views seemed to open up before us. We descended briefly to a farm road and then began another steep uphill pull on a new track, one that eventually entered a forestry plantation. Such enclaves are not always that pleasant to walk through, though this one was not overpowering, and hereabouts if it weren’t for such plantations there would be almost no trees on the horizon at all.
Skies were a bit greyer as we reached the top of the forestry and turned west to cross an ancient earthwork, Short Ditch, continuing forward on a well-graded path on the flanks of Pool Hill. We were entering one of those sections of the route that had always seemed to me to be the most worrisome for route-finders – a huge open tract of rolling moorland without many prominent landmarks. It would have been doubly difficult in mist but today you could see for miles, the route was well waymarked, and we were making rapid progress (for us). My anxieties (and Tosh’s constant fear that I would fall by the wayside and leave the rest of them lost forever) had resulted in the purchase of a special gift, my first GPS unit, a Garmin eTrex. I had played a little with it on the green of Paddington Rec. but, in fact, I never had to deploy this device in anger (or any other emotion) on this trip.
Tosh had been agitating for a lunch stop since we had left the forestry behind us and shortly after clearing Pool Hill we paused in our relentless northwesterly progress and sat down to sample our sandwiches. Tosh admitted that her version wasn’t as awful as she had anticipated. We had a nice rest and then slowly resumed our march, this time walking along the flanks of Stanky Hill. I was eager to locate a critical waymark on the northern side of this hill, for here we would leave our track behind, and head off in a more northerly direction on a less substantial surface – the kind of turnoff you would not want to miss under any circumstances.
In the event the spot was well marked and so we left the comfort of our track behind us and marched north in search of a promised waymark on the horizon, the summit of Black Hill on our left. We crested a ridgeline and dropped down to a bridge over a little stream, where we had another rest. I have to admit I was getting a bit leg-sore at this point and I was happy to have a spot to sit down (the bridge steps) – one from which it didn’t take too much effort to resume a standing position.
Above Felindre
A series of tracks continued uphill, and I often trailed the ladies, but I could see that we were soon to leave the empty wilderness behind us and, indeed, we crossed a spot where a lone car was parked at the edge of a transverse roadway at Cefn Pawl. Soon we were heading downhill in a field of bracken and turning right on a track that we could now use for the rest of the afternoon. On our left we could see the rooftops of Felindre but, as the toes began to protest over the steepness of the descent, no glimpse yet of our b&b. This mystery was cleared up for us when we went through a gate at the bottom and discovered that we had already penetrated the farmstead of Brandy House. It was 3:55 and the pony-tailed Mr. Richard Brock was on hand to welcome us to his establishment.
The guesthouse was a separate building and here we again had three rooms. In a downstairs lounge Mr. Brock served us coffee and discussed the evening menu. I had a shower, rubbed Deep Heat into my sore legs (my left knee would pop when I rose too suddenly) and, shivering, I climbed under the covers for a little nap. Tosh went out into the back garden to read her papers and we were followed around by the little cat, Marmeduke.
At dinner, which we enjoyed in the main house at 7:00, we also met Medina Brock as we were being served lasagna, new potatoes, salad and vanilla ice cream topped with some kind of Welsh liqueur. Margie had a glass of wine and Tosh and I had glasses of beer – which felt very refreshing after a day in the sun. Mr. Brock now told us that the guidebook, which promised an open post office and a closed pub in Felindre itself, was wrong on both counts – and so, at 8:00, we decided to walk down his access road and into the village (past Ginger’s millinery – in case you needed a hat for formal occasions in mid-Wales) and on to the Wharf Inn.
We were the first customers, though gradually more folk arrived, attracted by the promise of a quiz night. I would have enjoyed this too but the quizmaster was late in turning up and we were tired and so after half an hour on some green leathery sofas we retuned to Brandy House and turned in.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: