I'm still to-ing and fro-ing between Bristol and Cardiff several times a week as the Severn tunnel remains closed for track-laying. As I had an afternoon to spare there mid-week, followed the next day by a morning, I decided to revisit Porthkerry Country Park near Barry, as it it wasn't too much further to drive, and also because the last time I was there, in early May, I sprained my ankle and consequently got little walking done, apart from a visit to St Curig's Church.
The hemlock water dropwort has gone to seed since our previous visit ...
... and purple loosestrife and meadowsweet now dominate.
Cwtch and I made our way up through Cliff Wood, and where the track forked, took the lower path that led along the backs of some houses. Here I made a short detour to visit a tumulus I'd spotted on the map. Westward Corner Round Barrow dates from the Bronze Age.
It reminded me of Mill Tut, our local round barrow at Badock's Wood, which is likewise in an urban setting, but this tump is literally surrounded by housing, and also an iron fence, which makes it a bit more difficult to translate yourself into the past while contemplating it. I was glad to see it, though.
meadowsweet
We continued through Coed yr Odyn, and then made our way to the upper car park and single viaduct, where we took a path running alongside the railway.
Our route then took us along the edge of a wheat field that was itself on the edge of green and gold.
We also walked on paths along the edges of fields lying fallow, which had a variety of wildflowers.
This was a new one for me - it's called fiddlehead (Phacelia Tanacetifolia) and is native to California, apparently. It's grown over here as a green manure.
wild radish
cornflower
corn marigold
white campion
red shank
mustard greens
I thought this blue field in the distance had a crop of flax, but perhaps it's Phacelia.
marsh thistle
Our route then took us through fields which warned there was livestock in them at all times. But no livestock. Big phew.
We paused on the bank of Whitelands Brook to look at a ruined cottage, which might be part of a lost mediaeval village abandoned at the time of the Black Death, then crossed via a footbridge.
The next field had cattle in it, but I checked - no bull, no calves, no problem. Then Cwtch - who'd been put back on the lead before even the first mention of livestock - gave a little growl, just enough to alert the herd's attention. It started to follow us. And it got quicker. Came closer.
The route said to head for a gap in the hedge, which I could see, so we made our way towards it, but the heifters were still advancing and several times I had to turn towards them and say 'Back!' with my hand held up, which worked briefly and for about two feet. Cwtch, meanwhile, was glued to my legs and it started to feel a bit hairy, literally and metaphorically.
Through the gap I made for a gate, which didn't look like a footpath gate, but my walking book is quite old and I was beginning to feel like I wanted a barrier - any barrier - between Cwtch and me and the herd, even if we were where we shouldn't be. Except when I got to it, it was about ten foot high and padlocked.
'Back!' I admonished. 'Back!'
But the only back was mine, to a fence we couldn't get over and a gate that wouldn't open.
We sidled back the way we came, close to the hedge, facing the herd. On the way I glanced over into the neighbouring field and spotted a kissing gate. That was it. But how to get there?
After an age we reached ... well, a gap in the hedge, I suppose, leading to the Field of the Most Desirable Gate, but run through by a brook, and requiring much clambering over boulders and through mud, which, I felt, might have merited a mention in the directions as a distinguishing feature. Nevertheless, Cwtch and I clambered and squelched as quickly as we could, and the cows, bless them, decided the woman and the irritating black and white creature at her heels were altogether too much trouble and started grazing again.
Back across the other side of the field, I realised why kissing gates are called kissing gates - it's because you want to kiss them in relief when you're finally on the other side.
The route said to head for a gap in the hedge, which I could see, so we made our way towards it, but the heifters were still advancing and several times I had to turn towards them and say 'Back!' with my hand held up, which worked briefly and for about two feet. Cwtch, meanwhile, was glued to my legs and it started to feel a bit hairy, literally and metaphorically.
Through the gap I made for a gate, which didn't look like a footpath gate, but my walking book is quite old and I was beginning to feel like I wanted a barrier - any barrier - between Cwtch and me and the herd, even if we were where we shouldn't be. Except when I got to it, it was about ten foot high and padlocked.
'Back!' I admonished. 'Back!'
But the only back was mine, to a fence we couldn't get over and a gate that wouldn't open.
We sidled back the way we came, close to the hedge, facing the herd. On the way I glanced over into the neighbouring field and spotted a kissing gate. That was it. But how to get there?
After an age we reached ... well, a gap in the hedge, I suppose, leading to the Field of the Most Desirable Gate, but run through by a brook, and requiring much clambering over boulders and through mud, which, I felt, might have merited a mention in the directions as a distinguishing feature. Nevertheless, Cwtch and I clambered and squelched as quickly as we could, and the cows, bless them, decided the woman and the irritating black and white creature at her heels were altogether too much trouble and started grazing again.
Back across the other side of the field, I realised why kissing gates are called kissing gates - it's because you want to kiss them in relief when you're finally on the other side.
Then it was back along the bottom edge of Knock-man-down Wood and under the viaduct ...
... and a sit-down on the beach to recover, ready to return the next day ...
... when we were off through Cliff Wood again, this time taking the fork that runs along the cliff edge and passing the ruins of Cliffwood Cottage, where, it is said, a wise woman called Anne Jenkins lived in the mid-1700s.
At the entrance to the park, we headed for town, a short way into which stands what remains of Barry Castle: namely, the late 13th century gatehouse and the walls of the hall.
We then dropped down through suburbia to a path that circles back to Porthkerry between the cliff edge and some rather grand houses built quite close to it.
... all the way down to the Exmoor coast.
Did she?
Then a doze on a bench in the sun until it was time to drive back to Cardiff to pick up The Northerner. At least I dozed; Cwtch was rather more alert.
And next week we do it all over again.
hoggin
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