Crossing the Severn

I hadn't been to Wales for five months; then, in the space of ten days, the chance of three trips to and beyond the hills on the horizon I see most days while walking the dog.

First, flooding in the Severn tunnel and a drive to Newport to pick the Northerner up after a day's work in Cardiff and save him the lunacy of a journey home via Gloucester and ... wait for it ... Swindon. Yes, our rail service was only going to be able to get him home via a city forty miles east of his destination. No chance, apparently, of a train directly from Gloucester to Bristol, or of organising a bus over the Severn Bridge, so to save him 140 mile trip home, I picked him up instead. 

My second trip was again courtesy of the railways, as the train drivers went on strike, which action I support (although it's a bit of a pain, the way the employers have let it drag on). 

I've had a lot of driving to do lately, so I decided to stay fairly local to Cardiff and save myself some mileage by heading to Porthkerry Park, which is just west of Barry. Unfortunately, almost as soon as I arrived, I sprained my ankle on the edge of an eroded track - a common hazard for someone like me, whose joints are so unstable, I'm capable of breaking a leg falling off the front door step. 

There was no question of going back home and putting it up with a bag of frozen peas on it, as I'd only have to drive back later in the day to pick my partner up, so I decided to do what I was always told to do when I turned my ankle as a kid: walk on it. Although not quite as far as I'd originally intended, obviously.  

As I was hobbling past Barry Brook - surely one of the best-named streams in the country - the DWP rang about my son's PIP, just to ice my cake of misery. Fortunately, I got the one person they employ with an ounce of humanity and he agreed to postpone the call until the next day.

blackbird egg

My luck continued to improve when I spotted some borage - one of my favourite flowers - teeming with bees. I decided to take it as a sign that the day was get-through-able.

borage with white-tailed bumble bee; pink whitethorn; bush vetch and buttercups; sanicle; three-cornered leek; wild radish and forget-me-not; primroses; flag iris and hemlock water dropwort

Porthkerry viaduct

Eventually I made it as far as the beach and flopped down on the pebbles with my back to a driftwood log. Tiny clumps of herb Robert were growing through the pebbles ... 

... and valerian, another favourite. Looking along to Cold Knapp as the sun burnt off the morning mist felt very soothing ... 

... even if the calm was sporadically shattered by planes coming into land at nearby Rhoose airport ...

... and Cwtch, who was briefly outraged by an imaginary dog hiding in the nearby woods and answering back every time she protested its presence. (Collies might be clever, but mine clearly has a lot to learn about sound waves and reverberation.) 

After a bit I decided to prevent my whole body stiffening up by doing some more walking, so headed up through Viaduct wood to St Curig's Church.

The paths were very steep and on the way up, I picked up some bits of blue and white hoggin.

St Curig's is believed to date in part from the 13th century. Unfortunately it was locked so I wasn't able to get inside and have a nose about.

The churchyard cross is probably of 15th century origin but its steps have been rebuilt. 

The path we descended to the valley bottom was even steeper than the one we'd come up, and there was a bit of a wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey thing going on with the vegetation that made it look a bit like a portal.

King Alfred's cakes

Passing under the viaduct

Having returned to Cardiff, picked up the Northerner and driven home, I began to wonder whether taking the old-fashioned advice to walk on a sprain had been a mistake, as my ankle had swollen right up, but by the next morning, it had subsided and after a day or two of putting it up as much as possible, I was back to (slightly limpetty) normal. 

My third trip to Wales came on Sunday, when I drove to Pont Abraham in Carmarthenshire to bring Jinny and her lovely Macedonian rescue, Millie, back to their boat on the Kennet and Avon canal, following their spell over-wintering in New Quay on the Cardigan coast.

What with an intervening trip to Oxfordshire, Gloucestershire and Warwickshire the day before - more on that some other time - my trusty car had covered a lot of miles, but it should be a while before I have to hit the road again. 

A birthday trip on the Severn Valley Railway

Son the Elder's birthday wish was a day out on the Severn Valley Railway, so off we went.

Our starting point was the heritage station in Kidderminster in the West Midlands, which has a Victorian pillar box ...

... and a reasonably authentic-looking tobacconist, except that it was selling second hand books about steam trains. 

Once aboard, the ticket collector came and clipped our tickets. It was all very exciting.

We'd decided our outward journey should be straight through to Bridgnorth at the end of the line. En route we stopped at Bewdley, Arley, Highley and Hampton Loade. 

Bewdley

Trimpley Reservoir

We passed oceans of bluebells and universes of wild garlic.

A glimpse of the River Severn

Diesel locomotive 'Sir John Betjeman' in commemorative London Transport livery

Hampton Loade

Bridgnorth

We had an hour and a half to spend at Bridgnorth, so after lunch in the refurbished Refreshment Room, we climbed Cannon Steps to Bridgnorth Town Park, which is sited on top of a sandstone cliff in the grounds of the ruined castle.

A glimpse of Bridgnorth High Town

It turns out Brignorth Castle was strategic in rebellions against Kings Henry I, Henry II and Edward II before being destroyed by Parliamentarians during the Civil Wars. My kinda town.

A wallflower growing on the walls of the ruined castle

Looking down on the Severn Valley Railway

The train we took back down the line as far as the village of Highley, where there's an engine shed housing a number of heritage locomotives, was one of the familiar green and yellow Diesel engines of my childhood, and it struck me that almost all the people with legitimate feelings of nostalgia for steam trains are now old enough to be dead. 

Not that Diesels were any less mucky, mind. 

While Son the Elder visited the museum, I enjoyed the view of the River Severn and videoed a steam engine on its way to Bridgnorth. I even began to wonder if I was in danger of turning into a train spotter, except it was flowers and wildlife I'd been happily identifying as we chuffed our leisurely way through the valley. I even saw two rhinos in fields alongside the track just outside of Bewdley, attractions at the West Midlands Safari Park, which I remember visiting nearly 30 years ago when my kids were small. Sadly, my phone battery conked before we reached them on our return route, so no photos of tranquilly grazing rhinoceroses in the Worcestershire countryside were taken after all. Maybe we'll have to come back for that.