Postscript on a 'not particularly strenuous' walk that is 'ideal for first-time backpackers'.

I am sitting here less than a week after completing my walk, its demands still apparent to my body and the rose tinted spectacles yet to make an appearance, and I am reflecting on a challenging eleven days. Early on in that time I was reading the foreword to my guidebook and noted the following comment about the Offa's Dyke trail: 'One of Britain's classic trails, this ancient route is long but not particularly strenuous, making it an ideal challenge for first-time backpackers'. I think it must be the foreword for a different book. 

I would not suggest I am the world's most experienced trail walker but I do have some experience and I can say from my point of view Offa's Dyke is hard. I accept us walkers can all too easily compare a trail with the Holy Trinity of walking - a route that is flat, smooth and soft underfoot - thereby making any route a tough one. But this is tough by any standard. 

In part this is because there is a lot of climbing and descending throughout the day and every day. The daily overall climb may not amount to that of an average UK mountain but the repeated ascent and descent is wearing and the daily distances are long given the terrain. Of all the walkers I met not one said anything other than how tough they were finding the route yet they were all seasoned walkers, most of whom were walking from bed and breakfast to bed and breakfast while having the bulk of their equipment couriered from place to place by one of the package transport companies that are springing up more and more on longer trails. 

It is even more of a challenge if, like me, you are wild camping any part of the route: you have to carry all your food and water - especially water - to cover up to two days. The lack of services along the route precludes 'topping up' as you walk and the lack of water sources meant using a water filter proved unviable. In hindsight, to do this route 'self supported' I should have made two changes: carry less weight and take more time. I may have successfully completed the route but it was at times punishing.

I can not help but compare this long walk with those I made across Spain. Even my 800 miles south-north route completed two years ago seemed an easier walk than this 180 miles along Offa's Dyke. The reasons the Spain trip seemed easier are the same as those that make Offa's Dyke hard: the daily distances may be similar but the terrain is largely far less challenging; and throughout each day you invariably find a village or two on the route where you can obtain food and drink or simply take a break in comfort.

Those long Spanish walks are not just physically less challenging, their remoteness and length helps create a headspace that leads to a detachment from the pressures and pace of the real world. Offa's Dyke was different, despite its remoteness and length, its demands held your focus each day: in Spain a detachment comes about because you begin to walk without thinking whereas in Wales you remain anchored in the world as you are always thinking about walking.

My time walking the Welsh border may not have been easy and neither had it given me - other than at moments - that sense of mental tranquility that I have experienced in Spain. But testing the limits of my physical capacity has given me a sense of achievement and a sense of where my boundaries lie. It has also provided some useful thoughts for my planned walk of the South West Coastal Path, over three times the length of Offa's Dyke and like Offa's Dyke a highly undulating route. My recent experience means at the moment I am now looking forward to that walk with a little trepidation but with luck, by the time I start, I will be looking back at this one through those rose tinted spectacles.

Day 11 - Monmouth to Sedbury Cliffs - 18 miles

Last night I wandered into Monmouth high street across its red stone thirteenth century bridge. It seems a place with history, a history it seems to celebrate. I wish I could have dug deeper into what this small town has to offer but it was late and I was too tired so after dinner I walked gingerly back to my hotel on sensitive feet making me unsure how today would work out.

My feet still felt a little sore as I stepped out into a cold and misty morning, a night of sleep not having worked its usual magic. I walked up the high street with its numerous coffee shops whose warm, cozy surroundings would have drawn me in under different circumstances, and headed out of town. This morning was a stark contrast to the peace and serenity of yesterday's departure from under the open skies of the Black Mountains, surrounded as I now was by rushing people, noisy traffic and the confines of a town's streets.

It was a hard climb up through woodland and narrow lanes: slow, plodding and at times seemingly never ending. Around every corner the path seemed to continue steeply upwards through the trees, every promising flattening of the path nothing more than a prelude to the next climb. It was hot and it was sweaty. And despite legs strengthened by ten days of walking it was tiring. 

That first climb ended at the Kymin, a small eighteenth century roundhouse nestled on the edge of woodland with views down to Monmouth, today lost to the mist and only hinted at by a fading information board. By midday I had completed the second and was on the third climb of the day, all similarly steep and all through woodland. I was following the route of the Wye Valley, not along the valley floor but it seems the hills that parallel it: up a hill, along the top and down the other side only to climb the next, and all mostly through forest. The Wye Valley is a beautiful setting but I saw little of it other than the occasional glimpse of the river at ground level. Otherwise I was surrounded by trees, no views of the Wye river or scenic panoramas from the hilltops. And by now I was feeling the strain of the day physically and mentally: walking in woods gave little sense of headway - no change of scenery or distant landmark indicates your progress - and the day was feeling slow and endless.

By the time of the fourth big climb - and the last - it was clear the day was going to be a longer one than I had hoped when I set out this morning. Even the long stretch of relative flat that followed, supposedly along a length of Offa's Dyke but which was lost among trees and not obvious to see, required me to dig into mental reserves to maintain anything like a reasonable pace from my tired and sore feet. I passed viewpoints and landmarks amid those trees but they became nothing more than markers on my route indicating how near or how far I was from finishing rather than points of scenic interest to enjoy. 

Despite that seemingly never ending woodland that seemed to suck up the hours but not the miles I did eventually break into more open ground for the last part of the day. It made a difference to my mood seeing the next objective I was walking towards - the end of a field, a house in the distance - but I was still tired and slow as I traipsed along lanes, across fields and then through Chepstow high above the Wye. The last quarter of a mile took me across fields, a final stretch of Offa's Dyke and a last short but unwelcome steep uphill push to the heights overlooking the banks of the Severn Estuary - Sudbury Cliffs - and the marker stone indicating the finish of my walk. It had taken me nearly ten hours to cover today's eighteen miles so I could stand here at the end of the Offa's Dyke path that I had set out on eleven days ago.

River Wye

It was a two mile walk back to Chepstow centre and the station, a walk I thankfully did not have to consider as Mark kindly collected me from a pub fifteen minutes walk away. Today was difficult, even after all my previous days of walking. Whether it was because it was last day or the cumulative effect of all the previous miles I do not know but I found it particularly demanding and I was profoundly grateful for being collected thereby bringing the day, and the walk, to an earlier close than would otherwise have been the case.

End of the Line

Day 10 - Hay Bluff Ridge to Monmouth - 23 miles

I set off at 6.30am, largely because I had awoken early and needed activity to warm me in the cold of morning. The horizon was a band of orange that slowly washed out as the sky lightened. It was the same landscape as I had been walking yesterday but a night's sleep proves a fine tonic and there was more of a spring in my step this morning and I had an energy that I had lacked last night. High up a kestrel was hovering, like me hungry for breakfast, while to the left the sun rose slowly above distant hills and I began to feel its warmth. My long morning shadow extended across the heather to my right where, far below, deep in the valley that the morning had yet to penetrate, lay a crisscross of hedges and fields which even from here I could see were thinly veiled in a silvery tissue of dew. The slanting morning light brightened the ridge top while casting a thin veneer of shadow across my immediate surroundings that accentuated every detail: every clump of heather, every rock and stone stood out. I walked alone in this vivid, sharp and exaggerated landscape and it made me feel alive.

It was over two hours before I left the ridge and joined the world below. It was a similar scene to many of the previous days: stretches of wet-grass fields, alive with crane flies as most pasture seems to have been, linked by high-hedged lanes and marked by the occasional hamlet - the word village seems too generous a description for the handful of silent houses that I passed through. And always the hills. Not overly steep or high but regular and tiring: by now my early morning energy had diminished somewhat. 

Leaving the ridge

Today the dyke did not seem to make an appearance but I climbed to the remains of an old castle, grey skeletal remains standing out against the blue, and in the late afternoon walked a flat grassy stretch on the plain of a small river, always behind trees and never seen. But the stand out memory for today was the kindness of strangers. By mid afternoon I was watching my water consumption, not having had a chance to top up since my night on the ridge. It was playing on my mind and reflected in my mood and my pace. A couple pulled up into a beautiful and isolated house as I passed and David and Kath not only filled my bottles but invited me in for tea and biscuits, a particularly kind gesture I thought given they had just returned from a funeral. I left in a much more positive frame of mind and better informed on the world's aluminium recycling industry. Two miles on, the wellspring of generosity rose again when I passed an isolated church, open to walkers and with tea and coffee making facilities available to use. I have seen a couple of other churches earlier in the walk that have advertised the same service but I have always passed them early in the morning and had no immediate need to make use of them. This time though I stopped, despite my earlier visit to David and Kath, topped up my water once again and enjoyed another cup of tea sitting outside in the sunny churchyard.

I am now in Monmouth after a long eleven hours on the go. The last two miles were slow and sole punishing over a forested hill that lay between me and the day's end. Its stony track seemed to go on forever, a track that was sore on the feet both on the way up and on the way down, but the thought of a comfortable bed and my first shower in three days kept me focused. I had booked a hotel for this, my last night, as tomorrow should be my final day of walking and I want to make sure I am properly fed and rested before what may prove to be a long 18 miles.

Monmouth

Day 9 - Disgwylfa Hill to Hay Bluff Ridge - 17.5 miles

After a disturbed night because of low temperatures - clear skies have their drawbacks - I left my tent into the cold silence of an early morning, a thin strip of orange across the hills to the east and above, a cloudless blue-grey dawn sky dotted with stars. It was perfectly serene. If it had not been for the temperature and my need to be mobile and generate some body warmth I would have happily sat there enjoying the peace of the morning before the world below awoke.

It was before 7am when I set out and although it was light the sun was not properly risen, not yet warming me nor the world around. I followed the wide lane of dewy grass that cut through the bracken and fern on the hilltop, saw frost on not too distant fields below me and after leaving the hill and walking three hours of high-hedged lanes, tractor muddied tracks and the wet, grassy fields of the flood plain I was in Hay-on-Wye.

Towards Hay on Wye

Today's leg involves a long ridge walk on the Black Mountain's Hay Bluff ridge and you climb up to it soon after Hay-on-Wye. My original aim today had been to walk until I was close to the end of the ridge and spend the night camped out before descending the following morning and continuing the route. After last night's fitful sleep it struck me it might be uncomfortably cold so now I wanted to complete the ridge and get at least part way off before stopping.

I stopped in Hay-on-Wye for a hearty breakfast and to top up my water. It was then a weaving walk through the town's narrow streets and a long hard climb through steep fields and woodland to gain the first slopes up to the ridge. On another day those slopes would have made for perfect camping with their wide expanse of smooth grass extending close to the ridge and dotted with gorse and fern. But there was to be no stopping here for me today and I headed across the grass towards the dark, looming ridge to begin my climb up its steep slopes.

Hay Bluff

It was a slow ascent. I stopped a while to talk to a passing local woman who seemed to want to share her life story with me - I guess it can be easy to talk to strangers - and then continued more slowly in her tracks along the path that stretched out like a scar on the hillside. Eventually I made the top and the nine miles of ridge walk that now faced me.

The ridge top is wide and covered in gnarly heather. Its width tends to conceal much of the view to either side while ahead undulating ground and a series of high points limit any view forwards to the distant horizon. The ridge path cuts through the heather and dark peaty pools of still water, a path that is in parts gravel, in parts stones and in parts slabs but which is always hard on the soles. It is a barren landscape of browns and blacks, for the most part not practical camping ground and certainly not the walk I had imagined. To say it was unenjoyable would be overstating things but it did little to inspire. There was the occasional view to the distance and horses and sheep added distraction but for the most part it became a traipse to get the miles done. But those miles took their toll and despite my intentions I did not make the end of the ridge before I decided to stop for the night.

As a result I now find myself camped right by the path in a small patch of uneven grass that is no bigger than my tent, the best place I can find and still over four miles from the end of the ridge. I have food enough for a hearty meal and enough water to see me into the morning. The forecast is for a quiet and wind free night - in part a reason for my willingness to stop - so if I layer up before climbing into my sleeping bag I might get a reasonable night's sleep.

Day 8 - Knighton to to Disgwylfa Hill - 20.6 miles

I awoke wondering at the chaos in my large room and how being in the confines of a small tent seems to lend itself to tidiness and organisation. But my kit, spread around room and radiators, was now dry and the forecast was for good weather.

There was no food in the hotel and the cafe across the road was shut so I set off at 7.30am without breakfast and headed up the hill behind Knighton. It was a bit of an effort, especially after yesterday where, despite the weather and those warnings about it being the 'hardest' day, I generally felt well motivated and in a positive frame of mind throughout. In retrospect I certainly didn’t find it as hard as the first couple of days in the Clwydian hills, although after seven days of walking my body is no doubt better 'broken in' and was therefore more able to respond to yesterday’s challenges.

Once on the long and undulating flat above Knighton it was a wonderful walk, the best part of the day. The air was fresh but not cold and I was blessed with blue sky and a warming sun as I walked the gently rolling, grassy tops in a cooling breeze. It seemed I was surrounded by beauty, every view a photograph. To my left were the high points of the slopes of these Shropshire Hills, to my right a more rugged scene as the ground dropped gently away to a deep valley, the far side in the middle distance a patchwork of greens and browns on rugged and hilly terrain: the Radnor Forest area and the beginnings of the bigger hills of the Black Mountains and Brecon Beacons. Far below I could see a small village and the thin black line of a road that weaved its way along the valley floor. Occasional Sunday traffic drifted along it but here up on the tops and looking down, at that moment I felt an intense sense of detachment from the world below and an affinity to the beauty of the nature around me.

I had three climbs of note that morning - although plenty of smaller ones in between - but none seemed to compare to previous days. The last was a steep, curving climb onto a fern covered hilltop before Kington. It was then a couple of miles of field and hedge and dyke as I slowly descended towards the town. Just before Kington the route crosses the local golf course and on chatting to a passing local I learned the clubhouse did a good Sunday lunch. I had planned to stop in Kington itself before continuing my walk but I was unsure which places might serve food and what might be open on a Sunday. Taking the view 'better the devil you know' I made the short detour around one of the fairways to the clubhouse and enjoyed a beer and substantial carvery.

It was a short walk into Kington after lunch, a nice, tiny market town full of age and character, but it seemed liked an endless climb out, up the long slopes of the Herget Ridge that lay behind. It was undoubtedly beautiful walking: wide green tracks through bracken and gorse and not so steep that I had cause to break my pace except when I stopped to talk to other walkers or to enjoy the sweeping views. But it was also nearly four miles walking to cross that hill and at times I began to wonder when it would end and whether the destination I had in mind for the night may be a little too far. My concerns proved unfounded though and I am now camped among fern and bracken on Disgwylfa Hill about six miles north of Hay on Wye after two more miles of tracks and fields, and forests and dyke. And a few more hills than I would have liked after so many miles and so late in the day.

Above Kington

Kington

Day 7 - Mellington Hall to Knighton - 15 miles

I awoke early to the sound of rustling leaves but no rain. Given that the forecast yesterday indicated rain from early morning I thought I would make haste to pack everything away before it started. That done, and with banks of threatening grey cloud overhead, I set out in the first light to get some dry miles in.

Today has been billed as the 'worst' day by walkers I have met, a relentless up and down over the Shropshire hills for fourteen miles. It certainly started in an intimidating manner with a steep and slow nine hundred foot climb through fields up the side of the first hill of the day. It topped out below the cloud and I had a more gentle walk across the rounded top before a slow and careful, steep and muddy descent through pine forest to the valley floor for the next ascent. As I haltingly climbed up through more steep and wet grass towards the high second hilltop I was wondering just how long I could keep up any reasonable pace over such demanding terrain and why Offa could not have redefined his border so his Dyke went around the hills rather than directly over them.

Fortunately things changed. I found myself still climbing and descending steep slopes but their heights were now much reduced. I was generally able to reach the top in one push although I needed care on the wet and slippy descents. In between were longer more undulating stretches that allowed for a reasonable pace.

It was still dry and I was below the cloud enjoying misty views across the hills in the near distance. The air seemed heavy. It was a heaviness that affected the sound around me, blocking any noise from afar but accentuating that from nearby: the sound of the birds close by seemed particularly clear and heightened. But that sense of heaviness also seemed to be the prelude to the rain which hit me mid morning, at first a swirling drizzle that was more pleasing than problem but not long after, a steady hard rain.

I pressed on, warm but wet, and the easier, undulating stretches across the tops seemed to get longer. There was little to see through the rain and mist, even less so with my coat hood up, when my view became a dripping, narrow section of the world immediately in front of me, of wet grass and of muddy and rocky paths. It was unfortunate as part of the route now paralleled the dyke for some distance across barren hilltops. Not covered by trees or obscured by hedgerows, it stood proud of the landscape around it, disappearing into the rain in one long, linear sweep. Even with today's reduced visibility you got a much better sense of the scale of the structure and the effort behind its construction and I wondered how much more impressive this section must be on a clear day. 

After over seven hours of walking, up more steep hills, skirting contours and across largely barren hilltops, all mostly in rain, I caught my first misty sight of Knighton, a mile off and way down in the valley. It was still an hour before I was sitting in the Offa’s Dyke museum at the edge of the town with a much needed cup of tea and slice of cake while looking for accommodation for the night on the internet; I was soaked through, dripping onto the cafe floor, and it was still raining hard outside so there was no way that I intended to camp.

Knighton

I paid over the odds for an also-ran hotel at the bottom of the high street but in this weather and my wet state it all seemed irrelevant: the hot shower and radiators blasting heat that welcomed me were worth a king's ransom that day. Cleaned up, dried out and feeling more human I headed back out into the rain for food. Knighton is charming although smaller than I imagined and it seems quiet for a Saturday but there was enough to serve the needs of this walk and weather weary individual. 

Knighton

Day 6 - near Pool Quay to Mellington Hall - 15.5 miles

Last night I fell asleep to the sound of dropping acorns from the nearby oak and the hooting of an owl somewhere close. Apart from some wind and buffeting of the tent it turned out to be a quiet night and I awoke to only the whispering of leaves in the breeze, a whisper that would rise and fall with the wind. And there remained that distinctive crack and thud of more falling acorns.

It has been a long and tiring day, not because of particularly hard terrain but because the distance and time on my feet has slowly taken its toll. Traces of purple-grey cloud and a sliver of white moon accompanied me as I set off but not long after the sky had become a solid sheet of grey drifting slowly by. The morning may have lacked the classic blue skies of 'good weather' but it was well suited to walking. My day started with another short section of the Montgomery canal followed by fields alongside the Avon - a shortened replay of yesterday - and I reached that nothingness which is Buttington after less than an hour. Here was where I was to enter the Shropshire Hills and the hard work was to begin.

Along that two miles or so to Buttington I was on the lookout for water sources. It was too early to knock on doors, and there were few houses anyway, but I was sticking my nose into farm buildings on the hunt for taps. I had just over a litre to last me the day - not nearly enough if I were to hydrate properly. But my luck was in as I passed the tiny Offa Business Park on my way to the base of the hills: a sign spoke of food and drink and I sought out the source. Tim runs a van selling drinks and sandwiches to business park workers and today he was my saviour. He saw me straight with tea, topped up water bottles and provided bacon sandwiches. It was an opportune find as there were no other amenities throughout the day so I would have definitely been knocking on the doors of isolated houses to top up my water bottles. It is one of the challenges of this route, especially when wild camping: carrying and finding enough water to see you through the days. It is something that seems well recognised by both walkers and locals: today I passed two houses, both remote and lost in the landscape, which had signs inviting walkers to knock for water.

After my breakfast stop there followed my main ascent of the day, a steep and sweaty thirteen hundred foot climb up the grassy fields of Beacon Hill. My legs may have felt it but it seems I am now at least in the right frame of mind for this terrain. At the summit I walked around the edge of the large tree-covered Iron Age hilltop fort and rested a while before continuing, enjoying the commanding views that probably brought those people here in the first place: miles of green, of fields and forest and hills and the flatness of the Vale of Montgomery obvious in the middle distance. The clouds still swept slowly by but thinner now and to the east rays of sunlight broke through in white, bright shafts like those in a renaissance painting depicting some heavenly happening. Between the climb and the views I was in a buoyant mood. 

Beacon Hill

My descent was through plantations and fields and eventually into the relative flat of the Vale. I actually followed the Dyke for long stretches, either on it or alongside as I traipsed the fields it bounded. In general it was another stretch with mud and gates and plenty of sheep and despite the soft ground the soles of my feet were feeling the miles as the afternoon wore on.

Offa's Dyke

I am now a mile past the book's Day 6 suggested leg after eight hours on the move. My tent is pitched on beautiful lawn and near a small lake in the grounds of a caravan park centred on an old stately home. I have availed myself of the park's facilities and of its bar and restaurant within the imposing house so I am hopefully now ready for tomorrow: I have the triple whammy of awful weather, a very hilly route and fourteen miles to walk. It looks like my new found mental stamina may be put to the test.