Laurence Golding

Wandering along the Wye
by Laurence Golding

Printed in The Rambler magazine - Spring 1987

The article was intended to introduce walkers attracted to the area by the recently created Wye Valley Walk to the other walking opportunities on offer but little used.

Hay on Wye is well known as a book-lover's Mecca, but hill walkers could similarly claim the place. Above sits the escarpment of the Black Mountains. Offa's Dyke Path runs through the town, its course the true boundary of Wales and England - wild hills on one side, farmland the other. Here too begins the Welsh section of the Wye Valley Walk which can be regarded as an easy throroughfare through some of Britain's most unspoilt landscape.

Two maps cover almost all the Upper Wye region: O.S. 1:50, 000 sheets 147 and 148. Path hunters will gain much from using the 1:25,000 series because up every valley and hill are remnants of tracks serving Celtic settlements from earliest times, as well as the roads and ruins of the invaders - Roman, Saxon and Norman. This thinly populated land of marginal economic value has retained the patterns of the past remarkably intact.

The Begwyns
Beginning at Hay the first section of the Wye Valley Walk, to Erwood, rounds the last great hill of Radnorshire, The Begwyns. The river circling the far side of the hill is the pretty Bach Howey which enters the Wye near Erwood via a deep, wooded valley crisscrossed with paths. Its brief course features four castle sites including the ruined Norman fortress of Painscastle, stronghold of William de Braose, the Ogre of Hay. Three thousand Welshmen died in battle here.

The crown of the Begwyns is a huge grassy common where horses graze with the sheep. Here are splendid views of the Black Mountains and Radnor Hills. A multitude of paths will take you to the tiny, ancient churches tucked into the lower slopes - try to find Llandewifach. Many of the tracks are overgrown, leading to places abandoned for the sake of mains services. That famous Victorian, Kilvert, vicar of Clyro, at the eastern tip of the hill, must have taken his rambles in a busier, tidier landscape than that found today.

Aberedw
From Erwood to Builth, the Wye runs in a gorge as the hills crowd in. For much of its length the Welsh Wye is a boundary of the shires of Brecon and Radnor. At this point the W.V. Walk opts for the Brecon side taking a swift, high route on the slopes of an enormous hill, Pant-y-llyn: an excellent stretch. On the Radnor side the next tributary is the Edw which runs down a valley of secret beauty sunk between two magnificent hills. The first of these, Llandeilo Hill, stops abruptly at the Wye, at Aberedw Rocks, a canyon-like feature. Here hid Prince Llewellyn in flight from Edward's armies. On top is a very fine ridge walk along a chain of heathy hills which form a key watershed and include the springs of the River Arrow. The pattern is typically small sheep farms with neat, hedged pastures which stretch up from the valley to a distinct boundary where an extra thick bank marks the limit of the enclosed land. Beyond are the ancient commons; hills brilliant with heather and traversed by drovers' roads. In their heart, at Glascwm, is a simple Youth Hostel.

On the other side of the Edw is Aberedw Hill. It stands huge and apart, being totally surrounded by deep valleys. Just below the top is a stone circle and a place whose name means 'wraith's bush'. Above is a burial mound, one of four on top of the hill. They are mentioned as sighting mounds by Alfred watkins postulating the theory of ley lines in The Old Straight Track (Abacus Books).

The Heart of Wales
From the bridge at Builth one looks west to where the Cambrians march to meet the Radnor Hills near Newbridge, their great bulk making a backdrop to the land. In between is a great glacial valley, a wide expanse of lower, softer country, fondly known as The Heart of Wales. Around the rim sit the small towns, several of which were flourishing spas a century ago.

The quarry outside Builth marks the ungracious end of the line of hills that form the Radnor wall of this little world. Another chain, they run to the Wye from Radnor Forest, the central and highest upland of the county. Snaking out of them, from a magical valley at Cefn Llys, is the River Ithon which enters the Wye near Newbridge. On the edge of these hills, gazing across to the huge sky over the Cambrians is Llandrindod Wells, the modern capital of Powys. A well preserved, lavish, Victorian Spa, it is built around two linked parks which reach from the top of the hill to the banks of the Ithon at Lovers' Leap.

All roads lead to Builth, the market town (Mondays), with a medieval pattern of streets around the castle mound. The wells are no more, although the spa buildings at Park Wells are worth seeing. Be sure to pick up the programme of theatre, film, concerts and exhibitions at the Wyeside Arts Centre. Roy Brown's buses are Builth based. They run frequent services into the Heart of Wales from Hereford and Brecon. There is also a twice daily Post Office bus service to Painscastle.

The Irfon Valley
Joining the Wye at Builth is a major tributary, the Irfon, which, like the Wye itself, rises in the Cambrians. It emerges first to cross the drovers' road to Tregaron at the foot of the Devil's Staircase, deep in the mountain range, and tumbles down a dramatic valley to Abergwesyn. Lovers of Dartmoor will love the Gwesyn which here joins the Irfon. Bleak and wild it rises on the very ridge of the Cambrians below the massive Bronze Age cairns of Drygarn.

The Irfon leaves the massif at Llanwrtyd Wells (one of the wells is being restored). The town is popular for its recreational events and riding stables, but the walker must be clear exactly where the forestry plantations are, for afforestation is extensive around here. At Llanwrtyd the single track railway from Swansea to Shrewsbury enters The Heart of Wales and crosses to Llandrindod Wells. It runs with the river beneath the lofty escarpment of Mynydd Eppynt which forms the southern side of the valley. On a clear day there is no better way to drive here than over Eppynt from Brecon to Garth via Upper Chapel. The Heart of Wales appears like a relief map below. A Post Office bus serves the Irfon Valley as far as Abergwesyn from Builth.

From Builth, the W.V. Walk follows a good stretch of river bank and then heads towards the Cambrian foothills at Llanafan. Walkers are directed along a pretty road crossing Comin-y-Garth, but to divert briefly over the common to the River Chwefru is recommended.

The Mid-Cambrians
Upstream from Newbridge the hills again close around the Wye. To the west stretches the wildest part of the Cambrians. It is desolate country, home to the the Red Kite. A language barrier too, for to cross these hills is to cross into welsh-speaking country. At Llanwrthwl, the eastern ridge of the Cambrians plunges to the Wye, having held a steady 2,000 foot elevation from Drygarn Cairns. A medieval road to Llanafan takes a treeless route between the ridge and a plateau thick with the sites of hut circles. Another road, through richly wooded valley, links Llanwrthwl with Elan Village.

The valley of the river Elan, with its sister river, the Claerwen, provides a direct access to the centre of the mid-Cambrians. In the 1890s Birmingham Corporation built a proud series of dams up the valley and created, at a stroke, a new water supply for the city. Elan Village was the model village which housed the staff. The architecture of the dams and buildings is extraordinary, the stonework simply superb. In purchasing the entire watershed Birmingham, was obliged to manage the land with a result that sets it quite apart. Today we may hope to see it become a focus of conservation for it is a jewel in the mountains. Unlike the coach parties touring the reservoirs, the walker can strike out and be instantly alone in the wilderness, the Drygarn cairns now visible from the other side.

Above the highest reservoirs runs an ancient road built by the Cistercians to connect the abbey of Cwmhir with that of Strata Florida on the western edge of the range. In parts it disappears into the peat but at its highest point it is on rock and skirts two rocky tarns. A little further on, where it crosses the Upper Claerwen, remnants of a clapper bridge can be seen. Crossing the Cambrians is a thrilling walk in any weather.

The Wye Valley Walk presently ends in Rhayader, although plans exist for an extension. From Newbridge to Rhayader it follows intimate, ancient roads with an alpine quality. It includes a climb onto Corngafallt, a fine vantage point. North of the town, the Wye passes through spectacular scenery, finding its way out of the Cambrians from its source on Plynlimon. A quiet lane follows the valley up the west side as far as Llangurig, delving deep into these half-forgotten places.

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Head For The Hills - How it All BeganInterview of Laurence Golding by Satish Kumar

Resurgence Magazine (Spring 1983)

Satish writes: I am not new to walking. Even so, walking with Laurence across Exmoor was one of life's experiences. His kind of holidays are a true alternative to tourism and the packaged holiday.

Satish Kumar: How did you start 'Head for the Hills?'

Laurence Golding: The idea itself is very simple: a way to fully enjoy the countryside; to stay in Nature for an extended period of time without having to leave it; to make an ancient journey. But it must have all begun in childhood. In the late 1940s my parents opened a vegetarian guest house in Swanage, Dorset and grew organic vegetables. Through the '50s that's where I grew up, influenced by the landscape of the delightful Isle of Purbeck. It was my playground. It must have stayed latent until much later because for many years I took the countryside for granted and had no great inclination to walk and explore. Cities were more exciting. It was in Canada in the late '60s I rediscovered the land.

S.K.: How did it happen?

L.G.: To the north of Montreal are endless mountains, forests and rivers; wilderness. Friends lived out there and I would visit them. Lost River was one such place. We were expanding our minds in various ways. My eyes opened to Nature.

S.K.: How long were you there?

L.G.: Almost five years, culminating in a year spent travelling through Mexico experiencing the peasant tradition first-hand.

S.K.: So when you were in Canada, in Nature, what sort of feeling did the surroundings arouse in you? Surely that must have been an inspiration to you to start something here?

L.G.: I had no thought of starting anything. I just felt right living out, being a nomad, gathering wood for the fire. My thoughts concerning a career turned towards the British theatre. I had qualified as a Drama teacher, done various things in education, been involved in light shows, but lacked the confidence to become an actor.

When I got back to England, I was sick from hepatitis and malaria contracted in Mexico. The first thing I had to do was to clear my system of this illness. I did it through nature-cure which involved dieting over a long period. During that time I crept into theatre through an obscure back door: taking puppet shows around schools throughout the country. Often I would stay in Youth Hostels - there was no money to stay anywhere more expensive. At the same time I adopted this very strict diet and tried to get as much exercise as possible to build up strength. Then I truly discovered the English countryside.

After North America the quality which impressed itself strongest over here was access. What a rare fruit of civilisation this is. In America, apart from the National Parks, there is no access to the landscape. People are frightened of the land, of distance, feel it as hostile. Americans who have come on Head for the Hills have been amazed at the way we can walk so informally through our countryside, through the property of people who take their livelihood from the land, utilising an incredible network of footpaths, many easily traceable to prehistoric sites; paths that must have begun as animal tracks because they follow the basic shape and bones of the land.

S.K.: Did you discover those paths while you were doing your work with the theatre?

L.G.: Yes. At one period I was based near Loughborough and would go into the Derbyshire Peak District almost every weekend. That is a fascinating area. Arbor Low stone circle is the key Neolithic feature there and from it all the hills and valleys visible around that limestone country are adorned with mounds, earthworks and stones. I became obsessed with the prehistoric landscape. It's as if those people were embellishing the country rather than asserting themselves on it. It's as if everything they did was celebrating its form and structure. When you walk between such places you move a little closer to their perception.

For the next few years I was in various companies touring all over England. But all the time it seemed I was leaving the real show, which was happening outdoors, in order to go into buildings; trying to attract people inside and construct a cardboard experience. Anyway I wasn't particularly happy in the theatre world. I couldn't make the same sort of friends I had in Canada. It seemed a retrogressive step to be there at all.

It was partly that discontent and partly the increasing enthusiasm I had for just getting outside, that formulated the very simple notion of establishing some sort of nomadic hotel where people could be "out in it". Rather like a 'happening' in which a group of people are brought together in a given situation. Ours would be in order to make a journey. The plot would be determined only by natural phenomena - the landscape, the weather, the group dynamic. Our route would be chosen for the way it captures the natural essence of an area. Everything else would be arranged to heighten the experience; aspects which intervened would be reduced to a minimum, but we would maintain a comfortable experience with a well-designed camp. So I resolved to do it.

S.K.: Because you like Nature and enjoy it did you think that there were other people who would like the same sort of experience?

L.G.: I was aware, as we all are, that ours is an alienated society, that we no longer function much in the landscape. We function primarily through mechanised processes in cities and so forth. And yet here is this amazing facility, the footpath network, all too little used, offering a direct way to the Source. I know there are plenty of rambling groups that go out every weekend and many enthusiastic walkers; however if you wander any of the more remote paths you encounter numerous obstructions. They are totally neglected. [Not any more. The situation has improved steadily since the mid-80s]

And when you do penetrate it, there is always the comedown at the end of the day: the retreat behind walls; perhaps in a Youth Hostel with a rowdy party of kids that have arrived in a Transit for some other adventure. The tranquillity that one acquires from being out all day is shattered. Even if you carry a pack there's the difficulty of sustaining a wholesome diet out in the country. You can't buy what you need in villages, so you have to find a town, get involved with roads, traffic. Always you have to leave the wild. I wanted to establish a facility whereby people could stay in it and develop. So evolved the idea of a journey where you would move on each day and so be exposed to a constant stream of images and impressions from nature. The burden of carrying equipment would be alleviated by a support vehicle.

S.K.: When you say that there are ramblers and rambling groups who go for country walks, what is it that you didn't like in their approach that you had to think of your own venture?

L.G.: The main difference was to do something sustained, that went on for a whole week or maybe two weeks. But one reservation I have about rambling groups is the way they cluster together. It is more of a social event than anything else. People walk along in a tight huddle, chattering away, creating a noisy little capsule passing through the countryside; not tuning to the quiet and subtle things that are happening. It is as though they want to avoid discovering the uniqueness of the time and place.

S.K.: So what was your initial step?

L.G.: I stopped working as an actor in the summer of '75 resolving to start Head for the Hills the following Spring. I had a VW microbus and lived in it that winter while researching five, week-long routes in Dorset, Shropshire, Derbyshire, the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District. This would be the skeleton of what would become, the following year, a circuit. We could then set out in the Spring and go from one area to the next, living nomadically, collecting groups at little towns where we would also stock up for the trip. I wanted it to be a nomadic lifestyle for myself and wanted to make an economic / ecological point with the food we were eating and the price we were charging.

While I was working out those first walks I made many lists. By February I sold the VW, bought an old Land Rover, collected the horsebox from the makers - I had it built with certain modifications but it never-the-less looked like a horsebox (we travel incognito). I proceeded to fit it out with cupboards, bookshelves, and places to store everything. I printed brochures, wrote to magazines and papers, finding it almost impossible to convey what I was doing. It was all done on a shoestring and if a penny could be saved by doing something myself, I did it.

I managed to attract a few people - that was the hardest thing. I have always avoided extensive advertising so that overheads do not become unduly reflected in the cost of the trip. I wanted people to see what they were buying; perhaps be surprised how well one can live as a traveller for relatively little. If you feel someone is making money you expect some service in exchange. I wanted to avoid that, concentrating on the mutual aspect of the experience and that we were all contributing equally. I did eight walks with between four and eight people on each and broke even (actually cleared 72 pence) on the season's operating costs! But within three years, charging the same amount for a week that the government paid dole, I had recouped the two thousand pound initial outlay. I've been living through the business ever since.

S.K.: So you managed to get the first year together. When you went on your first journey what was the experience, how did you feel about the people who came?

L.G.: I remember walking out of Ulverston in the Lake District feeling very high, acutely aware of every twig and stone, of every shift in the sliding view. I had walked most sides of every hill and selected a choice passage, like a golden thread across the land. I didn't want to interfere with people's discovery of our situation, yet I didn't want a detail to be missed. In Derbyshire I once felt I was an acolyte in a nature temple showing pilgrims around the precincts. Yet few came ready to receive the experience at this level and I was disappointed in those first walks at the way people reduced the experience.

In leading a walk one takes on a burden quite different from merely going on one. Everybody's difficulty becomes your difficulty and in finding the energy to carry through the spirit of the adventure, you risk becoming the spearhead of everyone's experience. But clearly the walks were working and people were finding them rewarding.

Gradually i discovered some basic techniques to help people enter deeper into the experience I was offering. After three years I wrote some guidelines. Everyone receives a copy when we arrive at the first camp. It's a booklet which explains where things are located in the camp, how they work, how to put up and take down the little sleeping tents, and also how to view walking as meditation.

S.K.: Have you been able to get through to people with this idea that walking is meditation?

L.G.: Yes. We have had so many different sorts of people and always they find a special happiness that is to do with just being in nature. She really is the supreme mother!

S.K.: How do you get this idea through? Do you have some sort of technique or some way of explaining to people that walking and being with nature is more than consuming it?

L.G.: Krishnamurti says,

When you wander among the hills, let everything tell you the beauty and the pain of life, so that you waken to your own sorrow and the ending of it. Meditation is the root, the plant, the flower and the fruit. It is words that divide the fruit, the flower, the plant and the root.

I try to set an example by taking the walk seriously and not chatting idly. Actually if I do lose concentration we invariably wander off the route. I stop at or just before a significant change of view, so that the walk is phrased by these rests. I take any opportunity to point out the direction we are going so people can walk freely without feeling they are following. If I can avoid being at the front I do. My favourite position is somewhere in the middle, if not the back.

In the 'Guidelines" are suggestions on how to walk well-spaced without getting lost, how to regard pace and taking rests. It may sound as though I am pre-empting the experience but in reality some gentle instruction has proved encouraging. For many walks I have prepared information cards which I put daily onto a notice board for anyone who is in the mood to read them. Apart from facts I've gleaned about the places we visit, I have pieces by various writers about walking and nature.

Nowadays trips are regularly at least half-full of people who have been before. This helps enormously to get the group into the rhythm of the thing.

S.K.: Can you describe what you see while you are walking, what does it signify for you?

L.G.: The landscape before the 20th century was handmade rather than machine-made. There is a quality to it that has a certain harmony; the scale is always correct because it was built by people for a world inhabited by people. A road, for instance, cut by a J.C.B. has quite another quality.

When you arrive at a place on foot, under your own power, you come upon it gradually, able to absorb it little by little. First, its general context at a distance, then slightly closer, until eventually you are completely under its aura. Then you are passing away from it and onto the next thing that happens to dominate or catch your eye. Each tree, each rock assumes its essential place when fully perceived. There is something fundamental in walking-speed that enables all the other parts of you to assimilate your perception. Ideas clarify and focus because of that speed.

You come, for instance, upon a village with a medieval pattern of streets and fields. You enter through some obscure field path which turns into a field access lane, and then you come upon the first cottages on the edge of the village. Moving at that speed you understand so profoundly the way of life that created the village.

Or approaching a power-line; its alien presence getting stronger with every step until, under it, you are tingling. And as you leave it the buzz gradually diffuses into the sounds of nature. It is obviously an assault on the landscape. What walker could defend it?

The wildlife you encounter, the changing pattern of weather, of the unfolding day and the approaching night, and the next day . . . All these things arise so clearly out of their context and you are a part of it. All I am really saying is that you become at one with it all and lose that strange separation that is the main experience of modern life.

S.K.: Is there any particular event or story which you remember?

L.G.: So many moments: camped below The Whimble, watching the dawn across Radnor Vale, the mist dissolving, the sun rising. Days full of rainbows; we were once crossing the Berwyn Hills on an extraordinarily long day, heading for a hidden valley, a Celtic sanctuary, sacred to the hare. From the wild tops is an exquisite track which plunges straight down into the valley. We had had a pretty wet week, in fact it rained every day, and this shrine, where we were to have a free day, was something of a promised land. As we reached the last ridge a rainbow appeared right over our valley. It was the brightest rainbow any of us had ever seen, and it just beckoned us. We had a long stretch to cover across the rough, boggy, heathy top and the closer we got the brighter it shone. As we dropped into the valley, it arched over our camp. It was so bright and so close that I had eye-ache for two days. The following day was one of glorious sunshine

We've had some lovely encounters with farming people. On a walk from Lancaster through the Dales to Ripon we stayed with a farmer who had learnt so many stories - like Stanley Holloway monologues. They were a sort of hearth-side entertainment. He loved to perform one or two in the big tent. They were brilliantly told and very witty.

Then there is Mrs. Jones in mid-Wales, in her eighties. Her eyes are always twinkling with excitement and pleasure that we are there sharing her love of the countryside. She talks with animation about the local springs, about the fine herbage of her farm and how fine was the milk and butter. For her it is so precise.

Only a few miles away is a lady who every year makes us tea and shows us the church. Once we came by to find her distressed by the death of her husband. She said we should all sing and bring some happiness into the house. One of our team played fiddle and we ended up dancing and singing in our smelly socks and sweaters while she stood watching and smiling, tears streaming down her cheeks.

On another walk five years earlier that same fiddler was playing a tin whistle. It was a very hot day and we were taking a rest. The sound enchanted a woman in her house and she brought us all in for home-made lemonade.

Then there was this old cottage on a rough lane near the Wye valley. It was overgrown and virtually derelict; the only sign of life was a bucket of coal by the door. Peeping through the window you could see a shrivelled old woman sitting in front of the fire waiting to die. For two years I saw her there, then one year, no coal, and a single pane of glass broken. She had gone.

But it is hard to isolate incidents because events and weather, a fox or a heron, even accidents and unpleasant encounters with landowners; everything arises out of what's gone before and all you have been feeling. Each journey is a single adventure.

S.K.: What sort of farms do you choose to put your camp on?

L.G.: When I'm planning the walk I arrive at a place I feel is ideal to stop; perhaps because it is sheltered and by a stream; perhaps because it is exposed and dramatic. I find out who it belongs to and ask permission. Usually they say yes. Where I think we are not welcome, or if there's too much fuss confirming permission each year, I look for a different site. In time we achieve a series of sympathetic farms who aren't put out by us arriving out of the blue. Often the path we take to get to our field has been blocked by the very farmer with whom we are camping. So often farmers aren't aware the paths are used, or simply don't bother to make a break in the barbed wire as they unroll it for a new fence.

S.K.: What kind of people come?

L.G.: Mostly professional people in their 20s, 30s and 40s, but quite a few older people and students too. Occasionally a parent with a child. You can rely on a child to show us all how to enjoy whatever the weather.

S.K.: Mostly people working in cities?

L.G.: Mostly city and townspeople, but quite a few country dwellers and a number from abroad too.

S.K.: What about the relationship between people who come?

L.G.: Time and again I have discovered that appearances are very deceptive. In the simple day-to-day reality of travelling together a person's experience, class, age, education, philosophy or politics are not their key qualities. Much more significant is their personality and temperament; their concern, kindness, generosity of spirit; their ability to notice what needs doing and responding; sensitivity to the presence of nature. It is our awareness we ultimately communicate to each other.

S.K.: So this is also an experience of forming relationships?

L.G.: It can be. Many friendships have started on walks; several couples initially met on a walk. It is a situation in which natural spirit is allowed, encouraged, to flow. It is hard to maintain a pretence for easy to be open and communicative. This need not be intense. You can be surprisingly private withinthe group, too, either when walking - spread over the landscape - or at camp gazing out from the seclusion of your personal sleeping tent.

S.K.: And how about their relationship with you? Do you have any correspondence, do you remember them, do they remember you?

L.G.: Oh yes. I've made many friends. People write, send photos and, of course, come back. Some end up helping me: half of the people who work with it originally came on walks.

S.K.: And what sort of experience do they have, what do they see?

L.G.: It's very diverse and the feedback is delayed. People often don't register the experience until two or three weeks later. At the beginning, moods are very mixed. There is a three day period of adjustment. By the fourth day the group, whatever its make-up, is settled. People feel at home, they get lighter and lighter until, by the end, things are almost running themselves. It's great fun then. Anxieties and personal patterns of routine are forgotten. When they return to all that, I hope it is with fresh energy. Some tell me they spend times remembering each stage of the walk; it is a pool of peace within them. It is surprisingly easy to remember the details of a path when you walk with concentration.

The spectrum of emotions you pass through when walking is like the landscape itself. You have hills to climb, peaks that are reached, and downhills rolling away. Sometimes when you are climbing a hill you get quite depressed and start feeling your mortality. And as you struggle up, all the fears, all the things that beset and depress you start to rise to the surface. What is happenening is that you are finding the hills in yourself. Then you reach the top and behold the panorama, and however low you sank is surpassed by the height you suddenly spring to. That whole area of confusion is thrown into relief and you can see how superficial it is; how it is merely the landscape reflected within. After days of this you get a clearer perspective on your problems. You realise how much we are corks in the sea of prevailing influences. Our journey is, in microcosm, a journey of life.

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