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Day 5
I slept very badly again but for no apparent reason. In the past I have usually slept well in a tent and was puzzled by the restless nights which I endured in the early part of this walk. There was rather too much darkness perhaps at this time of year although the radio made it more bearable. As the days grew longer and the nights shorter towards the end of the walk I spent less time in the tent, slept better and had little time to listen to music.
Certainly the insomnia was not due to nervousness for I feel perfectly at home and happy to be alone on the empty hillside. Many people seem to find it incomprehensible that one should enjoy walking alone and the thought of sleeping alone in a tent would simply terrify them. I have walked alone in the hills since I was a teenager and solitary walking has always been a special delight. Without the distraction of a companion or companions one feels a much closer rapport with the hills. Fortunately my husband shares my love of solitude and we both feel the need to walk alone from time to time.
To sleep alone in the mountains is a particular pleasure. One feels a very special affection for a hill after a night in its company. Thus if anybody asks me which is my favourite Munro, although such a question is really unanswerable, I may well say, Carn nan Righ. Those who have climbed this hill on an ordinary day, whether in rain or mist or sunshine, might find this an inexplicable choice but they did not share my secret site where the sun rose over the Cairngorms and mist lay through the Lairig Ghru like the icefall of a mighty glacier.
Everyone has their own spectres I suppose. High on the mountain I will camp in utter contentment but I would be frightened to sleep on my own in a bothy.
It is a matter of pride to leave the campsite totally unmarked and indeed I will take all my litter off the hill except toilet paper which has to be buried to rot away with the excrement. I try to avoid using it at the campsite but this morning it could not be done. Fortunately there were hundreds of stones in the vicinity to make a good job of the burial but while dealing with this I was amazed and dismayed to find a large plastic lemonade bottle a few yards from the tent. Perhaps someone else had camped in this unlikely spot. Although in one sense it was unlikely, having only just room to squeeze my small tent in amongst the stones, it was also about the only place in this valley to fit one in at all. Anyway I felt obliged to take the bottle away which was irritating because it was bulky although quite light. On day walks I often take litter down off the hill, especially at home in the Lake District, but when backpacking usually look the other way.
The morning was dry and cloudy. I traversed out of the valley amongst a multitude of sheep each with a lamb. The next river had to be waded and although my socks were damp they were not sodden so I considered it worthwhile removing them and crossing in just the boots. I remembered to remove the insoles too and the reward was warm and relatively dry feet on the other side. I cannot remember now where I read or was told this gem of advice about wading rivers but consider it one of the most valuable tips I have ever received.
I emerged through a car park in which two groups were camping and another couple were booting up for a walk. We greeted each other cheerfully but I could not help feeling slightly superior!
Mist came down as I followed a vehicle track to the trig point on Pant y Creigau. At the top I felt that had I been a few feet higher I might have been in the sunshine, a feeling that one quite often encounters and in fact it is probably true because the clouds sometimes cover the hills like a blanket with blue sky and sunshine above.
As I proceeded along the grassy ridge the mist slowly dispersed and when I joined the bridleway I could see two fellrunners approaching. The sight of them pouring with sweat as they ran by with a panted greeting made me feel hot and I stopped to take off a layer of clothing and put the gloves away.
I was soon confronted by a notice 'DANGER WORKING QUARRY DO NOT ENTER' which was ridiculous because the bridleway goes right through it. Fortunately being Easter Saturday there was no activity and I dumped the rucksack and went up to the triple summit of Cefn yr Ystrad with only the camera. This hill has two ancient cairns as well as a trig point which made useful foregrounds to photographs of the Brecon Beacons, now completed, and the Black Mountains, next to be done. All were very distant, for Cefn yr Ystrad is a very isolated hill, but with sparkling clear conditions and bubbly clouds I was hopeful of reasonable results although I had not felt able to carry my big zoom camera and had brought only a tiny Olympus.
The next landmark was the ceremonial changeover from map 160 to 161 which have no overlap. I had decided to send each map home as I finished with it and was planning to buy new maps as I went along. Thus I had set out with these two only, having completed the short section on 170 before my final separation from the motorcaravan on the first day. Now I looked ruefully at 160 and wondered if it was worth the postage to send it home. Still I surveyed its battered state with a certain satisfaction much as a combatant takes pride in the scars of battle. It was a symbol of the tough conditions which I had endured and survived!
Now the sun was shining and there were lots of walkers enjoying the delightful stretch of path along the ridge south of Talybont Reservoir. It culminates in a pleasant hill, Tor y Foel, which is one of the hills in Alan Dawson's book and therefore a bonus peak for me on this walk. I was not surprised to find it a splendid viewpoint since it had been prominent in the view for some time. The sharp pull up to the summit was followed by a delectable descent on a grassy path down the long east ridge with the fleshpots of civilisation ahead.
I arrived at the pub in Llangynidr unsure what to do next. How better to decide than over a pint of lager in the sunshine. It was only 3.30pm and although continuing to Crickhowell would add a couple of miles to my overall route it would put me in a much more convenient position to get up into the Black Mountains tomorrow. Hence I decided to phone the Dragon Hotel which is listed in the Ramblers B&B guide as a place with single rooms and being the Easter weekend I was relieved to be offered one.
I bounded off along the towpath under the influence of the beer but after four miles it was getting a bit tedious. There were lots of people walking on it and it is being promoted on posters but I have to admit that towpath walking is something which I prefer in small doses. I was pleased when Crickhowell, or Crug Hywel as it is more properly called, at last came into sight.
The first thing on arrival at the friendly hotel was a long soak in a hot bath. 'I was disappointed to find a blister developing' was my entry in the log that evening. It is good to report now that this one was suppressed by wearing a plaster for a few days and it turned out to be the only one of the trip. I rang Rowland to tell him that I had survived thus far and then enjoyed scampi and lager in the hotel bar.
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