The barrow to north of the great round cairn at SH6839103998. Arguably, it could be said this is how upland monuments were meant to be viewed, through swirling hill fog. Incidentally, I couldn’t see any sign of the remaining member of Coflein’s trio, although obviously that’s not to say there’s nothing to be seen there.
The monument to the immediate north of the round cairn at SH6839103998.
Showing the southern part of the cairn to the east of the fenceline, looking towards the Dyfi......
Highlighting the substantial footprint of the round cairn. To these eyes, it does look more or less intact.
Looking approx SW towards the continuation of the long ridge of Y Tarenau... there are numerous other monuments to be found there... particularly upon Trum Gelli.
Placing the DSLR at the mercy of the elements for a scale shot – it survived.
The great round cairn is topped by a small modern marker cairn... and crossed by a fenceline. However it has mercifully been spared the ravages of a shelter for muppets – without any hill sense – to hide within. The estuary of the wondrous Afon Dyfi, rising within the bosom of Aran Fawddwy, can be seen through the swirling hill fog.
To my mind, the approach from Pennal is as severe – if not more so – as many a 3,000-footer I’ve had the pleasure of visiting in the past.... or then maybe I’m just getting old? Whatever, it is worth it.
The primary monument here (at SH6838203964) is actually a lot more upstanding than I recalled from my youth. Last month’s views from Pumlumon’s wondrous Pen Dinas were the collective catalyst for this visit... despite the intermittent cloud cover.
The final remnants of the morning’s rain clouds cling to the summit of Tarrenhendre, hiding the cairn from view.
Tarrenhendre, centre skyline. Afon Dyfi below.
The Tarrenau from Foel Fawr across the Afon Dyfi to the southeast.
The twin summits of the Tarrenau, seen from Pant-coch across the Afon Dyfi in Ceredigion. Tarrenhendre is the rounded summit on the left, Tarren y Gesail – with no cairn – on the right.
Tarrenhendre is the rounded mountain on the left, Tarren y Gesail its companion on the right. The summit of Cadair Idris is framed between them. The view point is near Bedd Taliesin across the Dyfi in Ceredigion.
Tarrenhendre (centre) from the summit of Tyrrau Mawr on the Cadair Idris ridge.
The fence cuts straight across the barrow.
Looking down on Afon Dyfi.
Looking south – Pumlumon can be seen on the left.
The round barrow with modern cairn on top. The Tarren Hills continue to the west, Afon Dyfi winds its way through the valley to the sea, over on the left.
Tarrenhendre from Foel y Geifr (“Bare Rounded Hill of the Goats”) on the ridge walk to the southeast.
Tarrenhendre from the southern slopes of Tarren y Gesail. From here there’s a great view of the fine ridge walk between the two mountains (just don’t attempt any short-cuts directly through the dense forestry).
Looking toward a hazy Dyfi estuary – yep, the same river which has its source beneath Aran Fawddwy’s massive cairn – from Tarrenhendre. The Pumlumon foothills lie beyond. [archive scan from 29/6/1995]
The more obvious of the three Round Barrows at the top of Tarrenhendre. Awesome panoramic views from here!
Retrospective towards Tarrenhendre and its three burial cairns/barrow from Foel-y-Geifr on an unusually hot day........ [archive scan from 29/6/1995]
23 July 2011. After the last three Saturdays spent in the foothills of the Carneddau and continuing our slow progress southwards on Offa’s Dyke Path across the flat Hafren plain in Mid-Wales, I decide it’s about time I climbed some big hills again. An optimistic plan is made for a day trip to Machynlleth and a scoot up the twin summits of Y Tarrenau, the range of steep hills between the iconic Cadair Idris to the north and the Dyfi estuary to the south. Effectively the southern extreme of “North Wales”, the range boasts quite a number of round barrows on its lower westerly hills, but only one of its two 2,000 ft summits, Tarrenhendre and Tarren y Gesail, has any monument.
The train drops me at Mach just before 11 o’clock, giving my about 6 and a half hours to climb the two summits and get back again. After crossing the border from Ceredigion into Gwynedd over the Dyfi bridge, there’s a mile or so of open hillside climbing up to Bron-yr-aur before I plunge into the deep dark forest. Tarren y Gesail is already looking like a forbiddingly steep climb before it disappears from view behind the conifer screen.
The weather has been forgivingly dry for the last few weeks and the forestry tracks are kind underfoot for once. I’m not a fan of these dense conifer forests and my aversion is going to be deepened before I’m done today. An hour or so after leaving Mach, I’m on the open, grassy slopes of Tarren y Gesail. It’s a proper slog up to the top in July heat, but the unfolding views south and west make it much less of chore. There’s a great high-level view of the ridge between the two summits that I will take later on.
By the time I stagger up to the trig on the cairnless summit of Tarren y Gesail I’m hot and bothered, puffing and panting; the buzzards circling overhead seemingly waiting for me to collapse into carrion. But the view northwards is sumptuous; my first proper sight of Cadair Idris, a mountain I’ve dreamed of since reading The Grey King as a child, as well as the dramatic peaks of the distant Aranau to the northwest and glimpses of Arenig. Southwards the view stretches across the Dyfi to Pumlumon. Wonderful. It’s a fabulous place to stop for a while and drink it all in.
After leaving the summit and heading back down towards the forest, I make my first bad choice of the day, heading into the trees thinking I can cut off a corner to gain the open ridge on Foel y Geifr directly. It’s only about a quarter of a mile, but the forest closes around and over me like Mirkwood, any semblance of a path disappears and I’m fighting through dense, scratching, catching conifer branches, up a steep slope with no room to stand up straight beneath the trees. Eventually I reach the top and emerge blinking on the open ridge. I’m sweating profusely and covered in flecks and fragments of gritty twig and branch. Yuch.
From Foel y Geifr (the delightfully named “Bare Rounded Hill of the Goats”) everything improves immensely. A really lovely ridge walk with some up and down sections takes me to the base of Tarrenhendre and the second steep climb of the day.
Like Tarren y Gesail, the last 100 metres or so of ascent to the top of Tarrenhendre is punishingly steep. The earlier sunshine has disappeared and the sky is now filled with ominously grey-black cloud that threatens rain.
The round barrow or cairn is reached before the summit. Despite a dilapidated fence crossing right over it, it’s a really decent monument, a turfed-over mound keeping its shape under a small modern marker cairn. The views are truly excellent, especially to the south over the estuary and west across the lower hills of Y Tarrenau. Northwards the ground continues to rise, gently now, to the summit. From there the views of Cadair Idris are exceptional. What a marvellous place for a funerary monument this is, high above everything.
What I completely fail to notice, or take any photos of, is a further barrow on the undulating grass-covered area between the main barrow and the summit. It’s not on the OS map and my radar is obviously not tuned in properly to realise it’s there. No real matter though, there’s plenty to enjoy without it.
I reluctantly tear myself away at last. The rain has held off, but the train timetable isn’t going to flex to allow me to stay longer. My second forestry mistake follows, as I decide to avoid more narrow paths in favour of broad tracks that won’t swallow me whole. Instead they zig zag for what seems like miles, getting me nowhere slowly, dropping down, climbing back up, never apparently getting anywhere. Time vanishes and I’m still zig-zagging through the forest.
By the time I’ve eventually slalomed my way back to the Dyfi I’ve wasted a load of time and the walk has lengthened to almost 15 miles.
But this is churlish moaning about route-finding. Concentrate instead on the lovely ridge, the wonderful summits and the fine barrow, devoid of people but overloaded with views. These quiet, unheralded hills (I haven’t seen anyone on the whole walk) have absolutely rewarded the effort of the climbs today.
I once read – in an interview with Andy Partridge, perhaps? – that one of the defining idiosyncrasies of an Englishman (one assumes an Englishwoman, too?) is a propensity to ‘make lists’... or was it ‘to collect’? Clearly, the memory isn’t what it once was. Whatever the case, both could be seen as manifestations of that oft-derided ‘insular character’ so readily applied to a specific, indigenous male demographic of this island of ours. If so, it’s probably fair to say such a generalisation is applicable in my case – with one important caveat: I like to collect ‘experiences’, memories... not things. Some bad; the majority, hopefully, good. All are worthwhile additions since, as Mr Cope pointed out some years back everything, the positive and the negative, fuels, helps to inform my ‘Rock ‘n Roll’. Albeit running to a rather more European-esque, sequencer baseline.
Now while naturally, I’m aware that ‘writing stuff down’ is of benefit to the, er, advancing memory, maintaining the designated hierarchy when planning visits, for example, can be problematic when one is open to influence by external stimuli, by sensory perception. A case in point being Tarrenhendre. Indeed, a return to this relatively obscure outlier of the wondrous Cadair Idris, while certainly upon ‘the list’ was, to be frank, so far down as to be languishing within the proverbial ‘footer’. There simply are not enough days within our fleeting turn upon this global stage, this cabaret... sometimes Liza Minnelli dark, sometimes Ethel Merman bright... this ongoing story of humanity. Factor in the, according to the map, almost prohibitively steep final approach from the south against perceived benefit and we get to the crux of the matter: the vagaries of the human mind (or at least mine)... “So, what’s in it for me?” Hey, I guess I’m no different from most other people, right? To attempt to be more succinct: the large, round cairn dimly recalled from my youth crowning this 2,076ft summit – OK, technically a little way to the approx south-east of the highest point (for all us supposed geeks and assorted misfits who’ve always thought ‘Architecture and Morality’ wasn’t pretentious, simply classic art) – and this inquisitive traveller were not set to rendezvous once again in the foreseeable future... if ever again?
That is until that aforementioned sensory perception saw fit to do its subliminal thang last month as I wandered the bleak fastness of Pumlumon: sea views absorbed, as if by some kind of osmosis, upon the exquisite hillfort of Pen Dinas, rising above Bont-goch Elerch; a shimmering horizon noted upon the sentinel peak herself, Pen Pumlumon-Fawr. Seemingly disparate, peripheral moments, yet electrical impulses across synapses constructing something much more. Yeah, just like the organic, beyond sensual voice of Regine Fetet, infused with ‘Je ne sais pas’, somehow merged, coalesced with Hard Corps’ precise, robotic, Kraftwerkian beats to create a new, sublime synergy back in the mid-80’s (or maybe even Vince and Alf, if you prefer?), it required the input of all Mr Partridge’s ‘senses working overtime’ to ensure I find myself parking-up beside the farm access track to Rhos-farch, a little north of Pennal, under a leaden sky promising nothing very positive, to be honest.
The sense of inauspiciousness is heightened by the all too real perception that I am a very unwelcome guest, judging by the brusque refusal of the arriving farmer to even acknowledge, let alone reciprocate, my friendly greeting. What is it with some people? OK, walker/landowner relations can sometimes get a little fraught, with neither party able to claim a monopoly of righteousness... but to my mind, there is no excuse for such sheer bad manners. Whatever, the gurgling Afon Pennal has sufficient class to compensate for any number of apparently ignorant people and I’m nevertheless, inspired to go walkabout. The farm access track bears a ravaged notice proclaiming ‘Private Road’... however since such-like are never (in my long experience) an impediment to rural wandering on foot, I head off down the track to join with the public footpath ascending Tarrenhendre’s southern ridge. However, upon achieving said junction, a retrospective glance at the exit gate reveals another notice declaring the route I’ve just taken as ‘out of bounds’. I’ll leave you to make your own judgement. But what’s done in good faith is done, right? The public footpath – or rather stony track – arcs to the left before branching steeply right to advance across the lush grass of Ffridd Rhosfarch, the primary line servicing the old quarry within Cwm Ebol.
OK, before proceeding any further I should declare a fair degree of favouritism toward the Afon Dyfi (Dovey). Yeah, as much as I’m captivated, in turn, by the aesthetic appeal of the Mawddach, the Dwyryd, Snowdon’s very own Afon Glaslyn, the wild Ystwyth of Cwmdeuddwr, even... and surely no river executes a more emphatic discharge to the sea than Pumlumon’s Severn (Hafren)... only one watercourse rises within the ancient, traditionally lawless heartland of Ardudwy, cradled within the rocky bosom of Aran Fawddwy. I guess, no matter how we might deny it in polite company, we all harbour a fascination for the outlaw, the moody outsider? And this approach to Tarrenhendre offers arguably almost the finest of all vantage points to witness the former Llaethnant continually achieve its full potential. Second only to the view from the summit ridge rising above, in fact. Needless to say, the impact is greater upon the descent.
In due course the path arrives at the bwlch below Tarren Rhosfach, the space more-or-less occupied by sheepfolds, whereby the ‘ask’ demanded of me by the mountain to reach the top becomes all too readily apparent. Ouch. A near-on vertical ascent upon grass with no discernible path to speak of, the ‘zig-zag’ depicted upon my map notwithstanding. Which, when you think about it, is not really surprising? I mean, who in their right mind would want to climb up there to see an old pile of stones? Point taken. Particularly with tendrils of unforecasted hill fog beginning to grasp at the summit towering to the north, above the headwall of the cwm of the Afon Alice. Which begs the obvious question, just who was Alice? (wise to leave Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown out of such a deliberation, methinks?). What is beyond doubt, however, is the fact that I must earn my rendezvous the hard way by expending every joule of energy at my disposal. The fenceline running the length of Y Tarenau’s extensive main ridge – some seven miles of it – is an correspondingly awful long time a’coming, something which appears to be a recurring personal theme nowadays. Nevertheless I... eventually... arrive at the crest of what is named Mynydd Esgairweddan upon the 1:25k ODS map, a pretty featureless ‘lumpy hump’ which refuses to divulge the whereabouts of some apparent monuments listed by Coflein with anything approaching ease. Suddenly feeling somewhat nervous due to the inclement, not to mention deteriorating conditions, I elect to head straight for my ultimate goal... and resign myself to having a detailed look upon my return. The ‘umbilical cord’ fenceline, reassuringly, heads unerringly to the great cairn of Tarrenhendre. Too unerringly, in fact, ignobly bisecting the monument in the process. But there you are.
And ‘great cairn’ it certainly is! Despite the dual indignity of wire and rather pathetic modern marker cairn plonked on top, there is no muppet shelter to be found here, the monument seemingly intact and standing apparently inviolate upon its coastal perch. Although featuring a grassy mantle, the cairn boasts a fine profile and relatively consistent elevation. Check! As noted earlier, the great stone pile does not occupy the actual summit of Tarrenhendre. However, to my mind the visitor doesn’t need to look far for this apparent oversight, if not error... indeed, the evidence is all around: staring, awestruck, to the south-west, the magnificent vista towards Aberdyfi and Cardigan Bay highlights the anfractuous course of the Afon Dyfi to perfection; to the approx west, the aforementioned ridge of Y Tarenau is seen snaking away toward Tarren Cwm-ffernol and the significantly be-cairned Trum Gelli, the latter visited a few years ago; while to the south, looking across the sinuous river to the upland cemeteries upon Foel Goch and Moel y Llyn – the latter, incidentally, the subject of another localised ‘lady in the lake’ legend – the gaze, with eyes straining to penetrate the swirling mist, finally comes to rest upon the summit of Pumlumon herself. Pen Pumlumon-Fawr. Mother of Rivers.
And so the subliminal workings of this challenged mind achieve their goal by finally reversing the perspective of last month. Yeah, for me there can be no doubt behind the placement of this cairn. It had to be, surely, the epic outlook such a position presented, the overview of the Dyfi reaching the sea? To check this theory out, as any good scientist would insist an enthusiastic, er, layman should, I make my way to the summit to discover it is, indeed, simply not in the same league as its panoramic neighbour. OK, that’s not to say the views toward Dyffryn Dysynni, yet another upland cemetery gracing Allt Lwyd, not to mention Cadair Idris (although the latter is mostly subsumed in vapour) are not expansive – hey, I even reckon I can make out the iconic hill fort upon Craig Yr Aderwyn? – but, let’s face it.... the Dyfi is the business around these parts and, owing to the relatively uniform topography of the summit plateau, this traveller can only conclude the great cairn is where it needed to be. Needs to be, in fact.
And there’s more. Following lunch perched upon the craggy eastern face of the mountain, looking across to Tarren-y-Gesail (Y Tarenau’s cairn-less summit top) progressively losing an ongoing duel with the all-encompassing hill fog, I return to the cairn to chill out – a little too literally, unfortunately – and discover a further, completely grassed-over monument a little to the approx north(ish) of the star attraction at SH6839103998. According to Coflein, this represents:
“Remains of round barrow standing 1m high and eroded away to an almost rectangular shape on the windward sides. Approx. dimensions 7m x 4m. S.D. Lowden, Archaeophysica, 1 June 2006.”
So there you are. In fact Coflein cites another prehistoric site, but that is not forthcoming in the billowing mist. Perhaps it’s just me? Checking the time I realise I have to make a move to reach the car before dark. Like, er, now? So I begin the descent and, despite another quick review of Mynydd Esgairweddan, do not discern anything I could say, with my hand on my heart (not that I’m attempting to dump Kylie, or anything, you understand?) matched Coflein’s descriptions. But there you are. The descent back to the bwlch is not exactly what tired, aching legs would choose if they were sentient, but what has to be done, has to be done... and the views of Dyffryn Dyfi, free from the gathering gloom, really are exquisite compensation. Arriving back at Rhos-farch I briefly consider ignoring the ‘Einreise Verboten!’ but, in accordance with my moral code, decide to give the landowner the benefit of the doubt and stick to the ‘official’ route. I mean, how far can it be? And no one with a realistic, holistic view of life in 2019 would deliberately take actions to discourage tourism, the very economic lifeblood of Wales? Surely not? Hmm. Prospective visitors should note that it is, in fact, a considerable diversion so I leave you to consider the intelligence/morality of suchlike. So, more-or-less dead on my feet, I finally arrive back at the car. It’s been a long, challenging day, both physically and mentally. And, upon reflection, one I wouldn’t have undertaken if it hadn’t been for the subliminal deliberations of this lump of grey matter we call the human mind. Ah, introspection. Guess it’s what separates us, alienates us from the other creatures inhabiting this crazy, spinning globe. I mean, Molly, my cat, will truculently bite me one moment, yet smooch up 30 minutes later as if nothing had occurred. No sense of ‘memory’? Or maybe she’s simply ruthlessly manipulating me for her own ends? Dunno. But there’s no way she would ever consider climbing a mountain. Lazy cat.
However, if ‘introspection’ is, indeed, what locked us out of the primaeval forest and gives us so much pain... joy and, crucially, hope for the future... You who are about to be introspective – I salute you!
The Tarrens are a compact group of mountains to the south of the great Cadair Idris and separated from it by the deep rift holding Llyn Mwyngil (better known as Tal-y-Llyn Lake).
Much encroached upon by forestry plantations though the Tarrens are, the main ridge linking Tarrenhendre with Tarren-y-Gesail still provides a fine walk, particularly for those with an interest in ancient burial cairns, since the former – at 2,076ft – possesses three examples in varying states of preservation at SH68350395, 6838203964 and 6839103998.
According to Coflein the round barrow is:
a ‘large round barrow 12m diameter approx. with small stone cairn on centre which is clearly a later addition. Original round barrow is covered in peat with some stone now eroding out of it but is generally in good condition. Area of possible original stone quarrying to the W and NW of monument. Round barrow is approx.1.5m in height. Field boundary runs right over the middle of the monument’.
Note that the mountain is also the site of a Spitfire crash on 22/10/42........
