Pilgrimpace's Blog

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After an unintentionally slow breakfast, and entertained by energetic builders on one table and the world’s most moan-ey man on another, we walked the short distance along the river to Strata Florida Abbey.

(Note to self – large quantities of fried bread is not the best breakfast before exercise)

We arrived before it opened but were able to get a look over the wall and at the parish church next door.  I remembered that if I had not been injured a couple of years ago, I had a promise of a meal and a bed from one of the families there.

As we looked, we were watched by The Pilgrim, the statue by Glen Morris, which you can just make out on the picture above, reminding us that we were on a camino, a pilgrim trail.

We turned away from him to the north and began to climb past the old lead mines, following tracks and paths that disappeared on the high ground, with one of those strange hours where you haul yourself across moor and bog, traverse high barbed wire fences where the path should be, climb down and across deep drainage channels and – when you reach the road – find you have spent a lot of energy and time on very little distance.

There was a chance to rest at Ysbyty Ystwyth, the name showing an ancient pilgrim hostel.  We were shown inside the old church – and told it was the only one in Wales where the heating is from an open fire (arrive early for services in winter?).

On to Devil’s Bridge (we were now deep in Hinterland Country) for lunch.  While we were eating, a monsoon started.  We were forced to stay in the pub for longer (what hardship for pilgrims!) until it subsided to heavy rain.  Then picking our way down the valley through fields and forest, over the railway track and eventually to the footbridge.  Again, this walk through Wales really brings home to me the barriers that the rivers are.

Climbing up again.  An enforced stop to recover from swallowing a fly.  Through fields for cattle and horses, past the wonderful hill fort Castell Bwa-Drain, and onto moorland.  Heading for the forest west of Ponterwyd to find a place to camp.

Walking through a farmyard where a man studiously ignored us as he filled his van with diesel from an oil drum.  Pausing later as farmers moved someone’s entire stock to different pasture.

Arriving at the forest near dusk.  Close on an hour of searching for a spot to pitch.  The conifers planted on ground that had been ploughed into ridges.  Finally a spot just large enough to cram in the tents.

Up with the dawn for a day of tremendous walking on the Cambrian Mountains.  No one else until we were near the end.

It was cold for August.  I was wearing four or five layers and felt the wind bite.  There was little shelter.  Rain meant few chances for photos of the spare beauty.  A building on the map named Angler’s Retreat looked promising but was a holiday cottage.  We cooked and ate our dinner crouching in a ditch next to a barn.  Rarely have cuppa soup, noodles and meat balls been so appetizing.

Walking on across open land, through forests, past reservoirs.  A river across the path deep enough to overwhelm our boots (there was a tree-trunk bridge, but it was too rotten to risk).

And then we came to the edge of the Cambrians.  A view worth any walk.

Climbing down zig zags to Cwmyrhaiadr and threading our way through the lanes and tracks to Friday evening in Machynlleth for beer and the train home.

All being well, the next leg of The Cistercian Way will be Machynlleth to Conwy.  Bigger hills await …

Waking around sunrise, warmed by coffee and porridge cooked on our stoves, we began.  Water bottles refilled from the taps behind chapels, climbing up and down as we made our way through valleys.  As always, the second day was hard; the initial energy spent; fitness building up.  A day of stops, tucking out of sight, brewing tea.  Pubs closed down.

We headed for Llanllyr, the site of a community in Cistercian sisters, arriving mid afternoon.  Searching for the site, we wandered first into the water bottling factory, where we were able to quench thirst.

We were very generously shown around the fine gardens.  There is little or nothing left of the abbey.  This fine carved stone commemorates the gift of a plot of land to an Irish follower of St David.

The fact that the women left so little in terms of material traces interests me.  One of the benefits of this ongoing pilgrimage is a friendship with the sisters at Holy Cross, Whitland, which has become one of the places I go for retreat.  There is something important for me about the simplicity and humility of the life, that – in the words of RS Thomas,

they wrote
On men’s hearts and in the minds
Of young children sublime words
Too soon forgotten. God in his time
Or out of time will correct this.

written on the hearts of people rather than in huge stone works.

We were given kind permission to camp in a field nearby.  It was very moving to spend time quietly on this site.

I needed rest.  We cooked a meal of luminous tinned curry (it was filling; we were hungry; I would recommend something else if you have a choice).  I sat or lay, watching red kites glide.

Camping with permission meant a slightly later start in the morning, but heavy rain was forecast, so we set off.  We made our way climbing through the villages along the Aeron Valley.  Our diet improved with hard boiled eggs and cucumbers bought from stalls outside small holdings, glimpsing ancient church towers, passing historic ruined chapels.  Llangeitho has a handy village shop and café, from where we turned east, crossing the Roman Road of Sarn Helen.  Tregaron was first town of any size since Carmarthen – with the first open pub.  We drank an expensive pint, listening to confident and classed English voices, before resupplying with food.

And a climb.  Away from the rolling hills and pastures we had been walking through onto the beginnings of the Cambrians – proper hills.  The plan had been to make Strata Florida before the end of the day, but the rain closed in and was heavy, and we had booked into the pub at Pontrhydfendigaid for the night.  The weather and the prospect of a hot shower, dry clothes and a decent meal, called us off the hill in late afternoon.