Revisiting Twmbarlwm

 Liz - my friend of 57 years standing -  knows Wales better than I do, which isn't surprising, given her father was from Pontypool and her mother's from Ebbw Vale, and trips back home were frequent. She hadn't climbed Twmbarlwm, though, so for once that made me the expert and therefore in charge of getting us there.   

We met up at Magor services, the plan being to leave her car there and continue in mine, in case Cwtch took it upon herself to do more rolling in cow pats, but there was a strict two-hour parking limit in operation, so we decided she'd follow me to our in-the-middle-of-nowhere destination, the car park round the back of the hill, not too far from the summit. Which was fine until the sat nav advised leaving the M4 a junction earlier than I'd anticipated, and then taking us all the way to Cwmbran before dumping us nowhere near the car park, it having no name or address, just a postcode.

We conferred and repaired to Risca Leisure Centre which was one of the waymarks on the route I'd prepared the night before, in consultation with said sat nav, and eventually we got to where we needed to be, but there's only one thing I hate more than the sat nav reneging on our agreed journey and it's when I don't have the nerve to override it. 

And then, when we got to the hill fort at the top, instead of this ... 

... we saw this.

I was a bit disappointed, as I was sure on a clear day we could have seen Liz's house across the Severn from up there, or at least Portishead, where she lives, and also the field where Cwtch, the Northerner and I walk most days ... I'd wanted to watch myself watching Twmbarlwm on the skyline.

Liz and I have climbed a few hills together in our time - Sugar Loaf in Bannau Brycheiniog and the nameless hill near Capel-y-Ffin in the Black Mountains as young children, and the occasional Dartmoor tor years later with our own kids. I remember Liz's mother showing me bilberries at Capel-y-Ffin, and explaining that in South Wales they call them whinberries. I thought she'd said 'windberries', which I really liked the idea of, and was disappointed to be corrected.

Twmbarlwm has a place not just in Welsh folklore, but also Liz's family mythology, as she recalled her father talking about climbing it as a lad with his cousin, Ken - 'more like a brother, really' - and everyone saying 'Oh, Twmbarlwm'. And as names go, it has so much resonance, why wouldn't you want to say it, and keep saying it ... Twmbarlwm, Twmbarlwm, TwmBARlwm.

When it was time to leave, I brooked no nonsense from the sat nav and headed resolutely in the direction of Risca and we were back home on our side of the Severn in three-quarters of an hour. I hope Liz will go back on a day when the views can be seen. I hope I'll be back as well before too long.