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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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