Climbing Twmbarlwm

I've wanted to climb Twmbarlwm in South Wales for some time - ever since its distinctive outline, which you can see from many places on our side of the Severn, was pointed out to me. Ideally, I would have gone with Dru Marland, as it is deep in Dru Marland Country, but these days she's headed east on the Kennet and Avon and somewhere in the Vale of Pewsey, so I went with my boys and our dogs instead. (And fine companions they were.)

First, though, we made a return visit to Caerleon - not to follow the whole route we walked three weeks ago, but just to see if the bluebells that grow all over the hill fort on the ridge at the back of the town were out yet. 

This has been a difficult spring to predict, what with the effect of all that late snow, but in this, our timing was spot on. 

Great waves of bluebells rolling over the ramparts of the hill fort ...

... and so beautiful. 

But we had a mountain - or at least, a sizeable hill - to climb, so after three quarters of an hour or so we headed west to our starting point at Cwmcarn Visitor Centre. 

I have to say, it was hard going, but fortunately for me, there were plenty of reasons to pause and take photos. 

On the way up we bumped into David Hockney. (Not really.) 

It was getting really tough now. Luckily, there was a raven overhead, chiding me into keeping going.

Bilberries - or whinberries - and very shouty larks

Eventually we reached the outer ramparts of the hill fort, which - like the one at Caerleon - is believed to have been constructed between 500 and 150BC by the Silures, a fierce Celtic tribe ...

... and then - with much relief - the trig point on the summit.

Brean Down, Steep Holm and Flat Holm in the far distance

There's a rather prominent tump on top of Twmbarlwm. 

Its origin is something of a mystery. It might have been built by the Romans as a signal tower after they defeated the Silures in the area ... 

... or possibly by the Normans during the invasion of South Wales in 1070, as a temporary motte and bailey structure. 

A small shrine to another mother and grandmother reminded us of a Welsh nanna who might have been celebrating her 97th birthday at that very moment in whichever place she is now. (Another mystery.)

Too soon it was time to go. We took in the last of the views, over to the River Severn and the two Severn bridges in the distance ... 

... and Ted had a final puddle about.

Then it was all the way back down, far quicker, admittedly, than the ascent but - in my case - on jelly legs with toes crunched against the toecaps of my boots.

Loquacious raven alert 

Next time I might just take advantage of the car park near the summit, the existence of which we only realised once we were up there ... 

... because, in the words of Son the Younger, You've done it now, Mum. 

The Coming of the King Part II: the Crumlin Arm

My children are half-Welsh, half-English. When they were young, we explored their West Country heritage extensively. Having a caravan in Devon helped. But apart from excursions to Big Pit and St Fagans, and a late-in-the-day weekend in Rhossili for a friend's 50th birthday, trips to Wales were limited to visiting my now late then in-laws.

To rectify this, Son the Younger and I have decided to combine walking our dogs with occasional explorations of his other, less familiar origins. This last weekend we decided to investigate some industrial history in Gwent by walking the northernmost end of the Crumlin Arm of the Monmouthshire canal, which was completed in 1799 ... about a seven mile round trip.

We parked a little above Fourteen Locks, also known as the Cefn Flight, and followed the canal as it curved around the foot of Twmbarlwm and Medart, overlooking the towns of Risca, Crosskeys and Pontywaun. 

The Crumlin Arm isn't navigable on this section, at least not by narrowboats or large craft. You could probably travel along it in a canoe or coracle, though.

Looking up the Ebbw valley towards Cwmcarn

I've got used to the bustle of the Kennet and Avon, so it felt strange to walk by such a deserted stretch of canal. It was beautiful, but considerably less interesting. 

What do you mean, deserted? There's us ...

... oh and a fairly consistent stream of cyclists, hawking like great dragonflies, their eyes a-dazzle, up and down the towpath. Not to mention other walkers. 

Oh and that pesky pupper tagging along with my boy, grumbled Ted. 

But I missed the narrowboats with their drifting smoke, the gangplanks, stacked logs and bikes on their roofs, the art being created and sold, the smiles and hugs, the camp coffee made with condensed milk ... OK, I'm getting a bit specific now. 

Crosskeys

Medart

Then we were in Pontywaun. Here the present canal ends, four miles short of Crumlin, its original terminus and the village that gave it its name.

The walk back seemed a lot quicker than the outbound leg, and the views were less spectacular, partly because the sun was getting very low on the horizon. 

Here, at last, there was a boat to be seen. 

Jackdaws scuttered overhead.

Stalactites

Almost back where we started there was a whirr of flame up the far side of the canal. A kingfisher! We watched as it perched for a while on a branch against a massive tree trunk, its feathers lit by the last of the sun. 

I remembered the last - and first - time I saw one, three years ago - again in early January, on the Kennet and Avon canal. I took it as a good omen for the coming year ... and broke my leg three weeks later. 





I didn't ascribe portent to this one. I just watched it and marvelled at how its folded wings made it look - fittingly - as if it were carrying its own small coracle on its back.