thesweetcheat

Visited by accident 17 October 2023, after leaving Park Neuk stone circle and heading west along the road towards Heatheryhaugh and Burnside of Drimmie.

In an open area north of the road close to where the OS map shows some hut circles, which we didn’t find, stands a stone, which we did find.

The road slopes down to a little burn, the watercourse hidden by reedy grasses and the area a little boggy underfoot. The stone is irregularly shaped, but smoothed like the stones in the wood south of Park Neuk. It appears to have been stood here by humans rather than being a natural erratic. There are no other obvious stones in the vicinity. From here, the stones of Park Neuk circle can just be seen on the brow of the hill.

No idea whether it’s ancient, Canmore is silent about its existence so it may be a modern addition. However, it serves no obvious purpose, as there are neither dykes nor gateways anywhere near that might need a stone to be stuck in them.

Onwards to Hill of Drimmie.

Maybe visited 13 September 2023.

This is an elusive one. Chris and I tried to find it in gloomy wintry light back in 2018, but eventually drew a blank after walking round in circles. Gladman came the following year and was successful, finding an edge set slab that appears to mark the cist, tucked away in reedy grasses.

CADW and CPAT have had differing experiences of this monument. In 1994, CADW described it as:

“Ring cairn 12m diameter with central cist. Rough stoney encircling bank with upright stones forms outer kerb. Central cist composed of 2 uprights (1 side and 1 end slab)”

5 years later, CPAT said this about it:

“Ring cairn consists of low bank c.0.4m high and 1.5m wide, with small stone visible through vegetation. Fairly well preserved except on W side. Along the inner edge of the bank there are occasional edge-set stones forming a kerb – not on outer edge as Cadw description suggests. One edge-set stone on NE of centre has been interpreted as a possible cist.”

So does the cist have one stone or two? An inner bank or an outer?

Anyway, with all this behind me, and nearing the end of a joyous 13 and a half mile ascent of the highest peaks of Berwyn range from Llandrillo, I decide to try again. The path from Cwm Tywll cairns to the south squelches across boggy slopes; my feet sink into deep holes that are sometimes muddy and sometimes watery, but always wet. I’m really tiring now, and I recall the imminent crossing of Clochnant as a challenge the last time I was here with Chris.

Reaching the general area of this monument, I notice a pair of small stones to the right of the path, forming an edge to a roughly circular area of higher ground, with reedy grasses in its centre. Confident I’ve found the monument this time, I leave the path and poke about. I find a large slab, leaning over so as to be more vertical than upright. Just to the north of it is another smaller slab, this one definitely edge-set but partly buried and with a chunk of quartz next to it. Taking a step back, from the north these stones do appear to be incorporated in a clear mound. Happy that this is ‘it’, I take some photos and then plod onwards north. The crossing of Clochnant is difficult as feared, slippery mud where livestock have used the crossing. I make an absolute meal of it as I usually do, aching feet and legs now running out of steam as I near the end of the walk.

Looking back now however, what I hadn’t found was the clear edge-set slab in Gladman’s photos. The angle to the surrounding hills is similar, but not perhaps identical. I wonder if what I found wasn’t actually the right monument after all, although I remain convinced that it was ‘something’. There’s a lot of archaeology in this valley, so I’m ready to believe that there may be two separate monuments close together here. I reckon someone else needs to go and have a look now.

Visited 16 August 2023.

A fine and dry day, so making use of the excellent bus services in the Buxton area, we get the bus to Cat & Fiddle high up on the moors, right on the border between Derbyshire and Cheshire. The bus does most of the uphill, so it’s a very easy stroll along good paths to climb Shining Tor. Like many Peak District hills it’s a victim of popularity, so the paths have been laid with stone flags. It makes for a somewhat sanitised experience, but with increasingly dodgy joints I’m not complaining!

There are great views from the summit, especially of the nicely conical profile of Shutingsloe to the south. The summit itself has a good bit of gritstone edge on its west side, but just to the east of the summit there’s a very obvious circular mound in the angle between paved paths. There’s nothing at all on the HER, but I think this is a good bet for a round barrow. It’s clearly artificial at any rate. Not the best preserved or biggest, but well worth it just for the views and the striding countryside to get here.

From here we carry on north along the ridge to Cats Tor, before heading east to visit the standing stone on Foxlow Edge.

Attempted visit 29 June 2023.

After missing this one the previous week due to the excitement of Higher Boden Fogou, we opt to come here and then walk down to lovely Coverack on the coast.

Unfortunately the best laid plans, etc...

We decide to approach from the southwest. The footpath initially runs along the edge of a back garden, the owner of which seems have done their best to pretend there’s no path, then it’s over a stile into a large field.

We’re almost across the field when two horses gallop over. One of them is clearly very unhappy with our presence, rearing and stamping, and dangerously close with its flailing hooves. After passing a very large recumbent slab set into the ground surface (which looks interesting) we make a hasty exit over the next stile, which leads into a short section of an old enclosed lane. We stop here to calm our racing pulses, relieved to have escaped from the horse.

The short section of lane leads to the field with the long stone. A helpful sign board informs us that the whole field has been granted permissive access, which is excellent news. Over the stile, we’re about halfway to the stone when a rumbling noise announces a herd of horned bullocks, thundering towards us in a manner that suggests trouble. We’re forced to retreat back into the enclosed lane.

There are only two exits. The hedges on either side are impenetrable. It’s either Death by Horse, or Death by Bullock. A sense of panic sets in. We conclude that the bullocks are unlikely to intend harm, but could very easily squash us flat anyway. Whereas the unhappy horse is clearly in Attack Mode. We faff about, very uncertain what to do. Eventually we head back to the stile into the horses’ field, and the horses seem to have moved away. By virtue of the layout of the field, it might be possible to sidle over the stile and skirt around the edge of the field without being in their eyeline, but it’s risky as they can clearly run much faster than us. Running out of options, we go for this and get around their field as quickly as we can. Luckily the horses stay out of sight from us and we emerge unscathed but very shaken by the experience.

It’s a shame, because the stone looks excellent. Maybe we’ll try again in the future, but I’m not going to get stuck in the Lane of Dilemma again!

Visited 27 June 2023.

After meeting up with family in Padstow, G/F and I head across the River Camel on the ferry to Rock. I’d last done this 30+ years ago, when I visited St Enodoc Church, probably best known for the grave of John Betjeman in the churchyard.

Today we follow the coast path, along and over sand dunes above the river estuary. The views are fine, towards the mouth of the Camel and Stepper Point with its prominent chimney. That side of the river is where I spent most of my summer holidays in my teens, often walking along the coast path with a Walkman for company while my cousins went surfing.

At the bottom of the hill, the path narrows between banks of brambles and G/F decides to forego the climb to the top so I’m on my own. It’s short but steep, but it’s only a few minutes before I’m face to face with the westernmost of the four barrows on the top of the hill. The barrows are in a linear group, curving in a northwards arc in the middle.

The westernmost barrow has the best views of the coast, but it’s quite badly reduced in height, and its shape shows the effects of digging. The second barrow is the best-preserved of the group, a fine monument covered in turf which nevertheless reveals some stone protruding on the top. Although they look like earthen barrows they’re more likely to be stone cairns under the top-covering. The third barrow is the smallest of the group and easily missed amongst the others. At the far end of the group, the fourth barrow is the largest but the most badly damaged. There’s much more exposed stone visible in this one, as well as big crater in its top; according to the HER it was converted into a lookout post at some point, although that’s thankfully gone now.

It’s a fine little summit to climb on a summer’s day. The hill is prominent above the surroundings on all sides, so the views in all directions are extensive despite the modest height.

I head off down the steep east side of the hill, which gives a good aerial view of St Enodoc’s church, before completing the circuit and rejoining G/F for the easy walk back to Rock.

Visited 23 June 2023.

After leaving Roskruge Beacon, we headed northwest along more winding lanes past the imposing gates of Roskruge Barton. A footpath leads across a ploughed field, thankfully bone dry after a prolonged dry spell, up a gentle slope towards the site of the fogou.

I was completely unaware of either the Time Team dig here, or the ongoing excavations, so was really just hoping for some kind of glimpse of something in the corner of the field. Instead, we arrive to an active site, with two archaeologists (Peter Seabrook and David Clifton of the Meneage Archaeology Group) braving the baking heat to uncover yet more of this amazing site.

With no prompting, we get invited onto the site to see what they’re working on, and are given access to both the exposed main passage and also the scaffolding-propped tunnel to the west. It’s really impressive. The main passage is roofless but otherwise very well-preserved. It has a very unusual right-angled bend in it, beyond which a surviving lintel stone lies fallen across the passageway. The partly dug tunnel off to the west appears to be rock- or rab-cut. Back on ground level, we’re shown the tantalising end of another blocked tunnel and void to the north of the main passage. This apparently is a second rab-cut passage running from the fogou to the outer enclosure ditch and is likely to have been the ‘artificial cave’ reported by the Rev Polwhele in 1803. The Iron Age enclosure ditch is currently filled in, but was itself very deep and enclosed the whole fogou site. It’s terrific to see this second passage in the process of being encovered.

Peter shows us some of the pottery finds from the site. What a brilliant stroke of luck to find the site being worked on and to get such a great reception.

We’re pointed off in the general direction of the settlement site to the northwest. Much of this is unworked, with only some shallow trenches in place. We’re asked to stay out of the dig site, which we readily agree to. From here we carry on northwest along the footpath, which promptly vanishes and leaves us to improvise an exit from the next field.

I had intended to visit the Tremenhere standing stone today, but time at the fogou means that we no longer have long enough to get there before the infrequent bus back to Helston. It can wait for another day, this has been more than enough reward for the little effort involved in our visit.

Postscript: Since our visit in June 2023, the rock-cut northern tunnel has been fully dug out, and the fallen lintel stone we saw in the bottom of the main passage has now been lifted back into place (see link to video).

Visited 23 June 2023.

A lovely summer’s day, we walk from St Keverne, after a look around the church. Winding, narrow lanes that would probably be quiet most of the time are being used by a succession of huge tractors and trailers, so getting to the Beacon without being permanently squashed into a hedge is quite the triumph.

The Beacon turns out to be easy to access, a double stile from the road next to the trig pillar giving access straight to it. It can also be reached from the field-gate to the southwest, providing a more level (but potentially muddier) route to the barrow.

The Beacon itself is a really impressive mound. It has a metal cage on its top, for wood to light the beacon fires, but is otherwise in excellent condition, a very tall, grassy mound.

Although the Lizard isn’t particularly hilly, the Beacon stands on top of one of the area’s highest and most prominent summits; only a metre or so lower than Goonhilly Down a few miles away. This gives it superb views, especially to the coast to the northeast. Falmouth and St Mawes are easy to see, but despite the slight haze we can see Nare Head and Gull Island, and as far away as Dodman Point with its huge cliff fort. It’s easy to see why this spot was chosen for a beacon, but also for a round barrow. Presumably a fire atop Carne Beacon near Veryan would be visible from here. We stop for lunch and enjoy the quiet now the tractors have gone.

After a while we head off northeast, to an even more exciting site, Higher Boden Fogou.

Visited 4 March 2023.

A gloomy Sunday, but no rain. I walk up the steep and narrow lane from Wattsville, passing a weird shrine/well complete with life-sized saint (I think, I don’t go close enough to inspect it). Views open up as height is gained, and before long I’m looking across the Sirhowy valley towards the long ridge I walked a year earlier, taking in lots of Bronze Age sites between Wyllie and Mynydd Machen.

Today’s walk is easy enough, at least as far as the uphill bit goes. I arrive at a crumbling track heading east towards the masts that mark the open access plateau of Mynydd y Lan. There are a couple of dog walkers and some mountain bikers around, more people than I expected to see here.

Rather like last weekend’s Foel Fynyddau visit, the area around the masts seems a bit folorn. Unlike Foel Fynyddau though, the round barrow here is much more elusive. I head off the path into the rough ground north of the masts and wander round for ages, poking around in patches of reedy grass but not finding anything. Eventually I head back towards the masts and finally, here it is! It’s no great surprise that it’s been so hard to find. The circular mound is very low, barely a mound at all, more like a small ring cairn it’s so depleted and reduced. It is recognisably a round barrow, with a deep pit dug into the centre, now sprouting thick, reedy grasses.

Not the most impressive of monuments, even the OS surveyors missed it. Still, it’s on a prominent hill with decent views, even on this grey day. After some rather unsatisfactory photos of the barrow and a snack stop, I take a narrow, boggy trail south-southeast to the hill’s flattish summit, then head down to the crest of the escarpment. There are great views across to Mynydd Machen from here, the much larger barrow on that hill clearly visible.

It’s now a very steep drop off the hilltop to the southeast. I obviously haven’t learned my lesson from last week, but this is mercifully easier than the awful descent of Foel Fynyddau, at least until I reach the ‘cleared’ forestry near the foot of the hill, where the going gets tougher. I’m glad to reach a firmer track, from which it’s easy to regain the road. A short day, but it’s still good to be in the hills.

Visited 25 February 2023.

The last hill and last site on a hilly walk from Port Talbot. After steep but straightforward visits to Twyn Disgwylfa round barrow and the Buarth y Gaer sites, my post-Covid stamina is starting to fail as I get back to the minor road to the west of Foel Fynyddau. The sporadic sunshine that had accompanied me so far is gone, replaced by failing light, grey skies and a chill wind.

Foel Fynyddau’s summit is open access land, with a track heading off from a bridleway to the southwest of the summit, past a farm. For whatever reason, probably fatigue-induced brain fog, I decide to avoid the farm and the easy track, instead heading directly up the rough ground to the west of the summit. Although the terrain is open and the distance not that much, I regret this decision pretty soon, as the tussocky grass, ankle-sapping heather and various small streams and valleys suddenly seem as exhausting as climbing a mountain. By the time I reach the upper slopes I’m practically falling over with tiredness, resorting to a longer but less steep zig-zag along faint sheep tracks to avoid having to tackle the slopes head on. It’s a blessed relief to make it to the masts and the cairn.

Despite the inevitable trig pillar and central hollow, the cairn is decent and stands to a good height. The views are excellent, other than the masts and sundry fenced off compounds in close proximity, which sadly detract from the monument’s atmosphere. On this grey afternoon, the whole area feels a bit forlorn and unloved.

I sit down on a handy bench a little way off the summit, eat my sandwiches and feel a little less weary. Restored, I have another mooch around the barrow and take in the sweeping views from this very prominent hill. Y Mynydd Du, Fforest Fawr and central peaks of Bannau Brycheiniog are all on display to the north, with the Hafren/Severn and far away Somerset to the south.

To the east and south the hill drops very steeply to forestry tracks which have been co-opted to form a network of suicidal cycle routes. I don’t fancy going back to the west, having decided to catch the bus back to Port Talbot from the village at the foot of the hill, so I tentatively head off to the southeast.

This turns out to be a very bad decision, as the very steep descent off the hill this way is perilously slippery, with me clinging to the vegetation to avoid a swift fall. Once past the steepest section, I’m into the cycle tracks, which have been made smooth and slippery by use. Before long I’m on my arse in the mud. Eventually I emerge onto a broad, stony track, but unfortunately it only seems to go back up the hill and so I have to resort to a much smaller track, shown on the OS map but quite badly overgrown. The further I go, the more overgrown the narrowing passage between gorse and brambles gets, and eventually I have to climb underneath a gorse bush to get any further, as there’s no way I can face going back now. I emerge with lots of bits of twigs and branches down the back of my neck and under my clothes. Yuck. I slip over again on the muddy tracks before I finally reach a road, battered and exhausted. It’s rather taken the shine off what had been a really nice walk! I strongly recommend just following the damn track from the west and returning the same way if you come here.

Visited 25 February 2023.

Like Carl I come down here after visiting Buarth y Gaer hillfort and cairn. The fences on the current OS 1:250000 are out of date; the fence to the south now encloses the whole site rather than separating the outer earthworks from the central site.

It’s a big site overall, there are two low banks uphill and to the south of the central site, which if continuous would enclose a very large area. Although the OS map describes it as a “fort”, the size suggests a big settlement site, with Buarth y Gaer being a more likely position for a properly defensible spot, with extensive views in all directions.

The inner enclosure is however surrounded by at least three lines of banks and ditches, so there is a sense of something more than the mere domestic here as well. There are great views to the north across the Vale of Neath, stretching as far as Y Mynydd Du’s distant summits, with the prominent ridges of Mynydd Marchywel and Hirfynydd dominating the middle distance (there are plentiful Bronze Age remains on those ridges).

Interestingly neither the Buarth y Gaer cairn or hillfort are visible from the central enclosure, although they can be seen from the uppermost/outermost rampart.

The sun comes out briefly and casts some welcome light on the scene. Not exactly a first rate site, but there’s certainly enough here to warrant a visit coupled with the Buarth y Gaer sites. I head back up to the cairn and then regain the forestry track to the east, which provides an easy and fence-free route up to these sites. I have one more hill to climb, the biggest of the day.

Visited 25 February 2023, after Twyn Disgwylfa round barrow. Carl came at this site the hard way; a much easier approach involving no fences is to take the forestry track from the minor road to the east, which leads to a gate into the field to the north of the hillfort, just above the cairn. From here it’s a gentle ascent over the grassy slopes to the fort. A rudimentary (i.e there’s no foot boards) stile then gives access to the earthwork.

It’s a pretty decent univallate ring, well preserved but not particularly big ramparts. The views are excellent, taking in Twyn Disgwylfa, Bae Abertawe across to Mwmbwls and the Gower, then northwards as far as the southern flanks of Y Mynydd Du.

There’s a small, dug out round barrow on the high point of the fort’s interior, which makes a good place to sit for a bit to get out of the fresh February breeze as the sun goes behind cloud.

From here it’s an even easier stroll back down the hill to the north, to visit the cairn and the neighbouring complex enclosure.

Visited 28 January 2023. The first site on a grey winter’s day of urban prehistory visits around the north and west of Bristol city centre.

Arriving from the northeast, along a muddy footpath mostly frequented by dog-walkers, this is a very impressive sight as it appears through the trees.

A fine, upstanding barrow, I’d be very chuffed to find something as well-preserved as this in most rural places I visit. Here the urban setting means it lacks much sense of place, but it’s still a very decent barrow.

I really like the steel sculpture that’s been placed close by, it gives the site a feeling of continuity, that somehow it still means something even as the suburbs have grown around it.

From here I head off to Henbury to visit the first hillfort of the day.

Visited 23 January 2023.

After leaving Bradlow Knoll and making my way down from Frith Hill, I approach Kilbury Camp from the north. The OS map shows a confused series of earthworks, most of which don’t join up. It looks like there’s a small hilltop enclosure, with a much larger area enclosed by a couple of lines of ramparts around the base of the hill.

From the road to northwest, some traces of a rampart can be seen following the modern field boundaries. A helpful footpath leads me directly up to the corner of the hilltop enclosure from the west. There are indications of a low earthwork along the west and south of this inner enclosure, but much of the site goes into a fenced-off woodland area and I haven’t the energy to engage with trying to get into it.

Instead I follow the footpath eastwards, which crosses the southern part of the larger site. Dropping down to the next field boundary there are indications of an earthwork under the hedge, but there’s little to see. There are excellent views of the southern part of the Malvern Hills, particularly British Camp and Midsummer Hill which reward the visit and give the site some great landscape context.

Barbed wire bars a walk northwards along the rampart, so I decide to content myself with this part of the site. I don’t think there’s going to be a great deal more to see for the effort involved in further exploration.

Heading back to the road, I can see what appears to be two quite well-defined lines of bank and ditch along the southwest of the wider site. Unfortunately this area has been incorporated into a domestic site, in which a line of caravans and motor boats have been parked. It’s frustrating, as this appears to be the best-preserved part of the ramparts. I manage to get a further look at it from the road to the southwest where there’s a covered reservoir site, but that’s the best I can do without seeking permission for a closer look.

All in all, despite the limited archaeology it’s been worth scratching the itch of coming here, especially on such a lovely winter’s day. Another Herefordshire hillfort and somewhere I’ve been meaning to make the effort to visit for a long time.

Visited 23 January 2023. Taking a spontaneous break of train journey at Ledbury, I walk up the steep, winding lane to Bradlow, then an even steeper footpath up the hill beneath humming pylons.

The January afternoon is sunny but hazy, the views back down to Ledbury all soft blues and greens. May Hill inevitably looms on the skyline south. By the time I reach the treeline and “Chris Johnson’s Bench” I’m quite out of breath, my slow winter recovery from Covid not yet behind me. After sitting for a while I head onwards into the trees, a set of rough steps leading up towards the Knoll.

The Knoll itself turns out to be a rounded mound on the southwestern end of the summit ridge of Frith Hill. It could very well be natural, but there’s certainly the possibility of a round barrow, and the “low” part of the name adds credence to the idea.

It’s quite lovely in the woods, although the trees block the views from what would be a quite prominent viewpoint. I walk the length of the summit ridge, then follow paths down to Upper Mitchell Farm. Emerging from the woods on the eastern side of the hill there are terrific views of the southern Malverns, taking in British Camp and Midsummer Hill. From here I head off to visit Kilbury Camp.

Visited 20 January 2023. After a Christmas and New Year spent slowly getting over Covid, a family gathering takes me to Musbury at the eastern fringes of Devon. A quick check of the OS map reveals a hillfort within a short distance of the village, a test for my weakened legs.

It’s a beautiful afternoon when I arrive in the village after a sunny and scenic train journey to Axminster, and I’m raring to get out and visit the fort. A fairly gentle ascent follows a farm track southeast from the church, giving good views of the profile of the wooded fort from the west. A stile gives access to fields, thankfully still frozen to keep the mud at bay, the route gradually getting steeper the further up I get. At length a footpath heads off up to the fort itself, and it’s only a few minutes before I’m at the massive southwestern rampart.

The earthwork here is very impressive, cutting off the interior of the fort from some kind of much less defined southwestern annexe. There are great views across the Axe valley to the west, and down to the coast at Seaton, partially hidden by another hillfort on Hawkesdown Hill.

I follow the rampart along the northwestern crest of the ridge. Here the earthwork is under trees and much smaller, relying on a very steep hillside to do most of the defensive work. The interior of the fort is a grassy field, the grass deep and tussocky and not that easy to walk through. Heading further north the way is barred by a fence, over which I can see a second huge earthwork, even taller than the one at the southwest. I follow the fence round to the corner of the field and a pedestrian gate, which gives access to the more overgrown northern part of the fort.

There are two enormous parallel banks here, forming the northeastern defences. Both are heavily overgrown with dead bracken and bramble, but this is definitely the time of year to come as it’s possible to walk along the tops of both of them, the undergrowth trying to catch my stumbling legs and trip me over. In the woods at the western end of the banks I startle a couple of deer, which run pell-mell down the field.

After disentangling myself from the vegetation I follow the southeastern side of the ridge round. Again there’s a lesser rampart running along the crest of the hill, but the natural slope is utilised to form the defences. Back at the southwestern end of the fort I have a look at the slight bank of the annexe. This a great little fort, the views are terrific on such a lovely day.

It’s cold and I’m tiring quickly, my recuperation not yet complete. I head back down the way I came, the sun sinking and the still frozen ground preparing for another hard frost. Tea and warmth await below, and despite the wobbly legs by the time I reach the church, I’m delighted to have been able to visit this fine site in such perfect conditions.

5 August 2022. In a few months time it will be 25 years since my first visit to this place; the source, the font, the seed, of the obsession that has filled a quarter of a century, over half my lifetime.

We’re staying in Youlgreave for a few days, ostensibly to check out the awesome Burning Man sculptures on display in the park at Chatsworth. After a rainy start, the afternoon has brightened into a lovely summer’s day, all big banks of cloud and sunshine.

We stroll along Bradford Dale to the always slightly weird village of Middleton, where Green Men and stone faces peer from houses and wells, and where Thomas Bateman lies a’mouldering in his grave. We stop off to pay our respects to him first; his techniques may have been destructive to modern sensibilities, but he furthered our knowledge and understanding of the prehistoric Peak more than anyone else of his day.

Leaving the village we briefly do battle with the quarry road, but it’s quieter than I remember. Up to the farm, pay the fee, is it really 11 years since we last came here? My life is flashing past, but it’s all the blink of a gnat’s eye to the slumbering stones and banks of Arbor Low.

It’s a joy to be back here, especially on such a lovely afternoon. Memories of the place are seared on my brain from that first meeting, but it still feels stupendous and awe-inspiring and fresh each time we come here.

We sit on the bank and take it all in, the long views across Derbyshire given texture by the scudding clouds. Since the last time we came, we finally got to Minninglow (poignant now, recalling Stubob) and it’s nice to nod at the familiar trees in greeting across the landscape. After a long while we pop across to Gib Hill, but before long we’re drawn back to the henge again.

I have no new revelations or profound thoughts to add about the archaeology. This is very much an embrace of an old friend, a pang of regret that it’s taken so long to reconnect and a promise to return again sooner. But then we always think that, and time is a cruel master, running ever faster onwards. For now, it suffices to enjoy the moment and replenish myself once again from the source, the font, the seed.

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 wasn’t necessarily expecting much from this, a barrow in a field with all the attendant risk of being ploughed down to nothing. It comes as a very pleasant surprise to find this is a very decent monument, a good upstanding mound with a few stones embedded in its top and sides. As Carl notes, there are good views down to the valley below; the Rhymni valley in this instance, as this barrow is at the top of a southwest-facing slope, unlike the other monuments I’ve visited today. The name (“Hillock of the Fair Hollow”) seems very apt. It’s a great site to finish the day despite the failing light, and lifts me after the irritation of my experience on Mynydd Machen.

The final hill of the day is now directly ahead of me. It’s not that steep a climb from this direction though, and the going is easy. I reach the summit area next to the masts to find a few other people up here, enjoying the last of the sunshine, which is rapidly giving way to an overcast evening as the sun sinks behind low cloud. There’s also a 4x4 parked up, overlooking the much steeper drop eastwards.

The cairn is another fine one, but judging by ruts and loose stone on its top and sides it’s being actively damaged by vehicles. It’s a real shame, as the placement here is terrific. Although visibility has lessened with the cloud, there’s still an amazing panorama looking south and east across the Gwent Levels to the mighty Afon Hafren (Severn), with the instantly recognisable Flat Holm and Steep Holm islands.

While I’m taking photos, the 4x4 pulls away from the edge of the drop and comes and parks up right on top of the mound next to me. The driver and passenger grin idiot grins through the window at me, I’m sure they think they’re very clever. I carry on taking photos, now with the 4x4 as an additional feature. Belatedly realising that number plates can be traced, the driver decides he’s had his fun and drives away off the hill. It’s left a sour taste at the end of what has otherwise been a fine ridge walk. It’s so frustrating that people like this are wrecking the excellent archaeology around here.

With them gone, I enjoy the last sun rays on the barrow before making my way down the steep slopes to the east.

When Carl visited Twyn yr Oerfel (which appears to translate as “Hillock of Chill” or “Cold Hillock”) he expressed concerns about the barrows being damaged by motorbikes. From my elevated vantage on Mynydd y Grug I can see that the nearer western monument has now been encircled by a double ring of stone blocks, presumably to discourage vehicles from encroaching.

After making my somewhat slip-sliding descent from the spoil, reaching the western cairn reveals an excellent monument. Although there are ruts from wheels cutting its side, they appear to be mostly old and are being slowly grassed over. The mound stands to a good height and doesn’t have the usual signs of antiquarian digging in its top. Best of all though is the view. Perched right on the edge of steep slopes of Cwm Sirhwyi, the cairn enjoys a brilliant vista to the north and east. It’s a shame it’s been badly treated, but don’t let that put you off, it’s a cracking site.

The eastern cairn is similarly poised above the drop. As I approach a number of motorbikes zip along the ridge path towards me, thankfully ignoring the mound which stands next to the track. Like the cairn I visited on Y Domen Fawr last weekend, this one has had the ignominy of a wooden bench being inserted into its top. Fair enough, the view is superb, but surely the Powers That Be didn’t need to actually stick the bench right on top of the cairn? The feeling persists that there is a lack of care or concern about the preservation of the heritage these monuments represent.

Whatever, this is a great pair of monuments; in terms of placement these are the best-situated cairns on this ridge. I stop here for a while and have a late lunch (yes, I am sitting on the bench).

Heading southeast, the main ridge path starts to climb gently up towards an area of forestry on my left. And rising rather majestically from the forest’s margins is the biggest barrow so far by some distance, Twyn Hugh-Cae (“Hillock of Hugh’s Enclosure/Close”). When Carl visited it was covered in summer vegetation, but today it has been close-cropped, probably by someone with a strimmer. The fence at its foot has been broken and there are worrying signs of bikes tracks cutting into its edges. Nevertheless, this is a big, impressive monument, regular sides sloping up to a flat top. On further investigation, the summit of the mound has been dug deeply into, a wide crater exposing earth and roots but no sign of any central chamber or cist this high up in the barrow. The construction appears to be more earth than stone. Views to the south are truncated, but the barrow has decent views north across Mynydd Bach (Maesycymmer) and beyond.

Across the main track to the west is an area of open ground, which hides the low banks of a square-cornered earthwork. The shape suggests it’s medieval or later, but it’s curious how close it is to the massive barrow and I wonder if it’s related to the site’s name. Immediately south of the barrow is a pointed standing stone. None of the HER records mention it, and it’s far too obvious to have been overlooked so I assume it has been taken to be modern. However, it’s a nice slab of sandstone and all its sharp edges have been worn smooth in a way that suggests it has been exposed for a long time. Hmm.

The first cairn of the day is Mynydd Bach 2, a low monument marked on the Ordnance Survey map. It sits in an area of gorse and scrub, criss-crossed by various tracks and I’m not particularly optimistic that it’s going to be easy to find. I follow one of the broad tracks running west from the main ridgeway, then another heading south. And amazingly, clear of the thick gorse smothering much of the area, here is the cairn. As described in the HER, it’s a low, circular monument. It rises highest above the surrounding ground surface on its eastern arc. I wouldn’t be surprised if it has always been a low monument, rather than the remains of a bigger robbed-out mound, as there are other ring cairns close by. From here I can see the obvious profile of Mynydd Machen, which is on the agenda for later.

Apart from a couple of stones protruding where gorse bushes have been cut back, the monument is covered in turf. Close by are signs of rubbish or motor debris having been burned, but at least it’s not happened on the monument itself. Although it’s not the most exciting cairn, I’m delighted to have found it so easily and drink in the extensive views.

Next I head into the scrubbier ground to the west, where there is supposed to be another ring cairn, unmarked on the OS map. After wandering for a bit and poking around in the gorse and tussocks I declare this one a failure. There’s plenty more to come, so I’m not too disheartened by this setback.

Returning to the main ridge path, the next cairn south (Mynydd Bach 1) is much more obvious. It lies in a grassy field to the west of the access land, and can be seen prominently from the path. The unexpected obstacle to this one turns out to be resident sheep, who take curiosity to heights bordering on belligerent, crowding around right behind me as I cross their field. To be fair I’m intruding on them, but it’s like something between panto season and Life of Brian; my attempts to convince them that I am not the messiah are unsuccessful.

They follow me all the way onto the cairn itself, which makes taking photos somewhat difficult as I’m constantly on the brink of being pushed over from behind by whichever sheep is the bravest of the flock. Nevertheless, this invasion of my personal space doesn’t detract from what is a fine monument, with a cist exposed in its centre. Two side slabs remain, one still in place, the other lying out of position. There’s a bit of rubbish too, unfortunately, although by local standards it’s quite minor. A further small slab lies on the northern edge of the mound, but I’m not convinced it would have been large enough to be the capstone. There are fine views to the northwest, looking towards the higher ridges. To the west Cwm Rhymni drops away. If you can shake off the sheep, this is a very decent monument to visit.

With my retinue following me to the fence, I head south. Leaving them behind, the ground drops quite steeply and according to Coflein (but not GGAT) there is supposedly another very irregular cairn here. Apart from an area of stone exposed from quarrying, I can’t find anything at all in 10 minutes or so of walking backwards and forwards across the sloping field, so I give up and head back to the ridge path.

The next monument, Pont Bren Gwyn ring cairn, sounds like it will be elusive. However, the OS map is helpful in showing an obvious kink in the wall right where it’s supposed to be, and so it proves. Beneath a lone tree, with a broken wall on its west side, the arcing bank around the east side of the monument is quite easy to make out in the low sunlight and low vegetation of this time of year. Definitely one for the enthusiast, but like Mynydd Bach 2 it’s the sort of monument that gives a sense of satisfaction just from finding it at all. The name defies my attempts at translation; although it sounds like it may be related to “Brenin”, it seems that “Bren” may be a proper noun, which would make it “White Bren’s Bridge” I think. Like Mynydd Bach 2, the views are all eastwards, towards Mynydd y Lan.

All in all this little group of sites has been a great start to the walk. There are plenty of other people out enjoying the winter Sunday sunshine, but no-one seems overly interested in these obscure lumps and bumps. No change there!

Tyle Gwyn (“White Bank”) stone turns out to be a big upright lump of sandstone. It’s one of those stones that looks too improbably erect to be natural, but too bouldery to be an obvious choice for a menhir. The stone is close to the lane, with a barbed wire fence between it and me. The field has cattle and some farm workers are repairing fences across the way, so I decide not to make the effort of trying to get any closer.

The contrast between the sharp shadows of the lane and the brightness of the field and hills beyond makes getting any decent photos difficult, but it’s a worthwhile stone to come and see. Given the prevalence of South Wales’ standing stones marking apparent routes to upland stone circles and cairns, I can’t help but feel nudged towards accepting this as the real thing and not merely a natural erratic. It certainly sets me on my way with hope for the monuments to come.

(22.1.2022) Leaving Ebbw Vale town centre behind me after my descent of Mynydd Carn-y-cefn, I carry on with the second half of my horseshoe walk of the two ridges either side of the Afon Ebbwy.

My route follows roads into the suburb of Briery Hill, then from a sharp bend turns onto a track which will take me onto the open hillside. It’s still bitterly cold, with ice lying in the ruts of the track untouched by the early morning sun that quickly got smothered by the afternoon’s cloud.

Ahead of me to the south Y Domen Fawr rises with the appearance of a steep, conical dome. It’s partly an illlusion, as it’s actually the northern end of a higher section of ridge, but from here it looks like a solitary lofty peak.

Somewhere off to the southwest I can hear the buzz of off-road bikes. I’m hoping to avoid anymore tire damage after the mess encountered on the Mynydd Carn-y-cefn cairn.

My mind is soon distracted by the steepness of the climb and my protesting leg muscles. At length I crest the hill and the parlous state of Y Domen Fawr’s own monument becomes apparent. It’s a very large mound, but its size and prominent position obviously attracted the attentions of the British Army, who decided it would be a brilliant idea to insert a brick and concrete emplacement into the northern side of the monument. To add insult to injury, a sturdy wooden bench has now been added to the top of the mound. Next to the bench, a rusty iron rod has been draped with blue and yellow ribbons, fluttering in the light breeze. In a couple of weeks’ time, Russia will invade Ukraine, although I don’t know that yet.

Ironically the obstacles caused by brick, concrete and wood may have spared the surviving mound the threat of motorbikes, and the tire tracks here just about skirt the western edge of the mound.

I decide to make the best of the bench and stop for my sandwiches. While I’m finishing off, I’m joined by an older gentlemen who tells me he’s from Nant-y-Glo, a couple of valleys away. We have a chat for a while, he tells me that the brick building was used for radio transmissions at one time. I point at distant hills and talk about Bronze Age barrows and how much I like visiting the Valleys. I enjoy his company and our chat; the “Covid years” have suspended these sort of chance encounters and it’s nice to re-engage again.

As he leaves, the sun finally comes out and I get some nice winter light for a while. Eventually I head south along the ridge, before deciding to head straight off the escarpment down the precipitous slopes to the east. A scramble and tumble through bracken, scrub and quarried areas, this may not have been especially wise but it is quite fast! Eventually I regain roads and head back to Ebbw Vale Parkway for the train back to Cardiff. It’s been absolutely brilliant to get back into the South Wales valleys after such a long time – I won’t be waiting so long for a return.

A hot, sunny trip involving a horseshoe walk around Mynydd Coety and the ridges above Blaenavon in May 2021 reminded me how much I have been neglecting South Wales recently, but even so it has taken me until the turn of a new year (22.1.2022) to act.

It’s freezing cold when the near-empty train drops me at Ebbw Vale Parkway station, a hard frost rendering the pavements slippery. The sun is shining though, and as I start to make my way uphill on a zigzag path to Waun Lwyd, there is a great view of Y Domen Fawr across the valley westwards. If my legs permit, I hope to get up there later today, but it looks like a long walk to get all the way around the head of the valley and up the other side.

First things first though, I already have one steep hill to negotiate above me. The scruffy path climbs to a reservoir, where further four-wheel vehicle access has been blocked by huge stones. Sadly two wheel vehicles are not prevented, as will become apparent later.

Above the reservoir, the escarpment climbs steeply and I’m soon feeling pretty warm underneath layers of clothing. I’m relieved to make it onto the top of the ridge, although the path becomes increasingly lost in heather and grassy tussocks. From the south a big cloud-front is now moving overhead, and my hopes of a lovely blue sky are quickly smothered.

Still, it’s great to be back up on the ridges again. The views are fine despite the overcast sky. My only company as I make my way across the heather to the summit trig is a herd of ponies, wary of me but no trouble. The trig is placed on the highest point of the ridge, giving good long views but absolutely no good views of the valleys either side. For that you need to head to the edges of the escarpments either side. It’s not a great place for a Bronze Age cairn and the builders of such monuments have clearly taken this to heart.

To find what I’ve come up here for, I have to keep heading north along the ridge. Unfortunately the damage caused by motorbikes now becomes apparent; a broad black line cutting through the surface vegetation into the peat below, stretches all the way to the end of the ridge and the solitary cairn at its end. The tracks sadly continue onto the ruined monument itself, no respect given here.

In truth the cairn is in a pretty sorry state even without this latest desecration, a ragged rim of earth and stone around a central scoop, the southern edge almost down to ground level. However, the views and location make up for the state of the archaeology. A sweeping panorama stretches from Y Domen Fawr across Ebbw Vale to the west, taking in the Brecon Beacons (mostly hidden in the cloud), the limestone plateau of Mynydd Llangatwg and Mynydd Pen-cyrn, with the Black Mountains behind, and the solitary peak of Mynydd Pen-y-Fal (The Sugarloaf) beautifully framed by valleys to the northeast, then across eastwards to Mynydd Coety with Blorenge peaking out beyond. A superbly placed monument, for all its unloved, battered state. It’s 11 years and a handful of days since I wandered across the limestone of Twr Pen-cyrn and got my first long distance views of Mynydd Carn-y-Cefn. It’s taken far too long to get up here.

I stop at the cairn for a good while, partly hoping the cloud will lift but it’s not happening. Eventually I follow the scarred tracks steeply down to the flat area below, named Bwlch y Garn (Pass of the Cairn) on the map. At the north-western end of this flat area is another irregular mound. GGAT dismiss this as a clearance cairn and they may be right, but the setting would be excellent for a Bronze Age monument. From here the definite article is clearly visible on the lip of the escarpment rising behind me to the south.

I head off downhill via crumbling paths to Ebbw Vale town centre, a drab place on what has become a grey day. But I’m not stopping, I have another hill to climb, and set my weary sights upwards on Y Domen Fawr.

Walked up from Tideswell on a lovely late summer/early autumn evening (6.9.2021). I approach along Tideslow Rake from the east, with the extremely disturbed ground and the trees at the top of the hill obscuring the tomb. The trees are full of clearly artificial mounds, but these aren’t the mounds I’m looking for.

Coming out of the trees, the mound I am looking for is massive but very disturbed. Sadly I’ve timed my visit a bit late, so the monument is in deep shadow cast by the trees, while the surrounding countryside basks in lovely low light.

The central pit with the slabs is interesting. Stu describes the pair of slabs at the southeastern end of the pit as coming from a lime kiln. This may be so, but they’re also just the right size for the edging slabs you get in some of the chambers round here (I’m thinking of Green Low near Aldwark, for example). There are further smaller slabs lining the long sides of the pit and I wouldn’t be surprised if these were also part of the original megalithic structure.

Whatever, it’s a fine spot. The resident sheep are a bit non-plussed by my visit and I don’t stay as long as I might have done due to the deep shadow making photos rather unrewarding.

I leave the hilltop down the western slopes, the retrospective view back to the top reminiscent of Minninglow. Once you know where this is, the trees and mast make it quite an obvious landmark in this part of the Peaks.

I return to Tideswell via a nice stroll down Brook Bottom, passing a very peculiar wellhouse made of a cone of (presumably) concrete.

A good way to finish the day.

I read about this stone in a little book of Penwith monuments I bought a few years ago. Visited 19 June 2021 at the end of a very pleasant beach and cliffs walk from Godrevy Sandshifter to Hayle Towans.

After leaving the coast, we head past Phillack Church and the Bucket of Blood to the point where the road bends sharply south-east. From here, a path heads north-east then north through a scrubby wood and out onto the dunes. The stone is reasonably easy to find, next to a fence separating the open dunes from a house and garden. It’s a nicely tapering 7 foot+ granite monolith, partially covered in hairy lichen.

Looking at the angular edges, my feeling is that it’s more likely to be medieval or post-medieval than prehistoric, although its tall height would be unusual for a boundary stone of that type. There are other boundary stones nearby, none of which come close to the height of this one. The Cornwall & Scilly HER says:

Boundary stone. A tall block of granite, about 7 foot above ground, about 1 foot in section, tapering to a point. Possibly a re-used menhir. The stone marks the bounds of Phillack Towans and Kernick Towans and is indicated on the 1842 Tithe Map. Its height, shape and tapering form suggest an early medieval or prehistoric origin, if not always in this location, certainly here for some time.

After a bit of wandering about in the towering dunes, the sky takes a turn for black and the sunshine of earlier is replaced by a swift rain front, so we beat a hasty retreat back to Hayle before the soaking arrives.

This one has been on the list for a few years. It’s been a bit lost over the years, but is now kept clear and is used in an annual “dolly dunking” ceremony.

We’re quite a way into our walk from St Just (18 June 2021), taking in Tregeseal stone circle, Kenidjack Common, Boswens Croft, Chun Quoit and Castle and a rare revisit to Men-an-Tol.

From the latter, a path heads south-east, slowly descending into a shallow valley. In other years, this area is a bog and we’re very fortunate that it’s dry underfoot for us today. I only have the vaguest idea where the well is, but I figure that when we reach the stream we can just head north-east and eventually we’ll find it.

The further we get upstream the boggier it gets, although it’s still perfectly passable today. The vegetation also gets higher, blocking sections of stream bank from easy exploration so that looking for a well-head becomes harder.

We press on, and we’re rewarded by the sight of some granite slabs protruding from the bank across a small pool – we’re here! It’s a lovely spot, the relative low-level compared to the rising moors giving a feeling of seclusion and peace. There are tadpoles swimming about in the pool, which is quite deep, and lovely and cool to a hand (we don’t sample the water’s healing properties!).

Really pleased to have found this and to come on such a lovely day. From here we head north towards the Four Parish Stone, which is probably an easier place to come here from once you know where you’re going. Then it’s up to Nine Maidens, our place of pilgrimage above all others.

Cape Cornwall is an obvious landmark on the coast, especially from Sennen and Land’s End. Sometimes dubbed the discerning person’s Land’s End, to distinguish it from the tourist trap of the real thing, it has featured in the peninsula’s human history going back to the Iron Age (probably) and the Bronze Age (definitely). Sadly there’s nothing left to see of either, but it’s well worth a visit.

Today we’ve come along the coast from Botallack, after a revisit to Kenidjack Castle. It’s a steep drop and re-ascent from Nancherrow stream, a lush valley filled with vegetation at this time of year. Dropping back down from the “mainland”, the neck of the promontory is occupied by lush green fields, and the early medieval St Helen’s Chapel. Sadly there’s no sign of the ramparts reported by Borlase.

The last and only time we’ve previously made the climb up to the chimney was in June 2001, almost two decades ago to the day. At 64m above the crashing waves below, it’s not a huge hill, but it seems quite a stiff little climb on a warm day and I’m glad to reach the chimney. The top of the promontory is rocky and it’s hard to see that this part of the headland would have supported habitation, but it would be a superb place for a lookout or beacon. It’s quite busy up here today, wildlife photographers and people out to enjoy the stunning scenery. The wind is blowing strongly here, but not enough to stop us having our sandwiches and taking a good break. One nice touch is the plaque on the chimney recording the fact that the headland was bought for, and donated to, the nation by Heinz. Beans means Iron Age promontory forts, right on!

From here it’s a steep drop (another) and then a steep climb (another) up to the Carn Gloose road to revisit another old favourite, Ballowall barrow.

We first walked this stretch of the coast in June 2001, but we didn’t visit Kenidjack Castle for some reason, and we must have walked right past the cairn circle without even realising it was there.

I intended to put this right a decade later in June 2011, when we did manage a visit to the excellent cliff castle, but I failed to find this in tall undergrowth around the ruined mine buildings. With hindsight I was probably looking in the wrong place.

Seeing Costa’s photos a couple of years ago had me kicking myself. So 20 years after first walking past, and 10 years (less one day) to the previous failed attempt, I’m definitely not missing out this time. We walk from the main road at Botallack, round the coast path past the evocative decaying buildings of Botallack mine. It’s an easy walk to come here, and there are a fair few folks about in the glorious Summer sunshine.

I can’t believe I’ve missed this before. The site is completely clear, surrounded by cropped grass. The granite blocks making up the kerb are big, similar to several of the other kerbed cairns of West Penwith. The kerb appears to be mostly complete, although there’s no sign of any central mound that may once have filled the inside.

Although obscured a bit by the mine building, there is a fine view of Cape Cornwall with The Brisons beyond. Looking back inland, the most prominent feature is Carn Bean (with barrow) and Carn Kenidjack rock outcrop next to it. The ground drops very steeply to the south, down to the steep-sided valley of Nancherrow stream, which has wended its way from the edge of the moors and through Tregeseal.

From here we head down to the cliff fort for a revisit, then come back for a second look. An excellent monument, I can’t quite believe it’s taken me 20 years to come and see it.

Onwards to Cape Cornwall and Ballowall barrow.

A summer’s day revisit (11 June 2021). Fancying a trip to the Wye Valley and realising it’s been a decade since my previous visit, this seemed like a good place to combine with a couple of quiet hills on the border between Herefordshire and Gloucestershire.

The bus drops me at Goodrich, and a steep climb takes me up Coppet Hill from where I can survey most of western Herefordshire, across to the Black Moutains in the west and even as far north as Titterstone Clee in Shropshire. Everything is beautifully green and lush. A superb start to the day.

From here I can also see The Queen Stone, which I’ve never visited but which I really should. The excellent aerial view unfortunately also reveals that the farmer is busily spraying the crop in the stone’s field today, which puts paid to that idea. Instead, after a pleasant wander along the ridge to take in the excellent views, I drop down to the valley and cross the river over Huntsham Bridge (not a very nice road for pedestrians).

A footpath runs southeast along the banks of the beautiful Wye, through lush grasses, to the bottom of Huntsham Hill. From the riverside there’s a fine view up to the sheer cliffs of the hillfort and Yat Rock. The towering location of the fort is very imposing, clearly no-one would be attempting any kind of attack from the river.

Leaving the river bank through a short stretch of chest-high nettles (shorts seemed like such a good idea earlier), I climb up through Elliot’s Woods to the top of the hill, before heading to Yat Rock for the stupendously picturesque view of the Wye and back towards Coppet Hill.

A quick cup of tea at the cafe, and it’s into the trees for a revisit to the fort. The last time I came was September, it was really quite overgrown but just starting to die back. Unsurprisingly, June is just as bad in this height of the growing season. The western ends of the ramparts are a choked tangle of briars, hazel and nettles. Luckily, the tall tree cover is thicker to the east, so the shin and ankle shredding undergrowth is less deep and difficult to get through.

I’d forgotten just how impressive the inner banks and ditches are, the earthwork standing well over my head from the ditch. A winter or spring visit would almost certainly be better to reveal more, but it’s very pleasant here in the trees and no-one else seems inclined to leave the paths and roads.

After exploring as much as the vegetation allows, I head off along quiet footpaths, to catch a bus from English Bicknor. It’s been a lovely revisit to this scenic part of the Wye Valley, and definitely worth approaching the fort from below to truly appreciate its daunting location.

A revisit towards the end of an excellent bank holiday Monday walk from Blaenavon over Mynydd Coety and Cefn Coch (31.5.2021).

It’s taken me over a decade to make the revisit I promised myself after stupidly missing the northeastern cairn in worsening weather last time. No such problems today, the sun is shining and dehydration is a greater threat than lack of visibility. Heading over the heathery moors from the WT station at Cefn y Galchen, I meet a women who has walked up from somewhere on the eastern side of this high ridge. She tells me she’s a farmer and a grandmother, and she’s obviously fitter than I am. Like me, she’s come up here to get away from everyone and everything; she expresses a vague plan to drop down to Abergavenny, but clearly intends to go where the mood takes her. I like her immensely, we chat for a while and wish each other well on our walks.

I brave the pathless heather for the yards to the big cairn that I visited last time. It’s a really decent monument, a huge pile of stones with its central scoop not really detracting. The northeastern cairn that I missed last time is not far away, slightly downhill and hanging right on the edge of the escarpment. As such, it enjoys the better views off the ridge and towards Ysgyryd Fawr. A great place to stop for a while and just let everything melt away.

At length I make myself leave, it’s still quite a walk back to Blaenavon for the bus. On the road, I catch up with a huge shirtless man, with bottle-thick glasses, who wants to chat about all the pubs in the town and slows me down greatly. I don’t begrudge him, it’s that sort of day. I’m knackered by the time I get back to the valley and the bus stop, but it’s been brilliant to come back to today’s sites, with fresh enthusiasm and a decade’s worth of familiarity with this upland landscape.

A long overdue revisit on a hot and sunny bank holiday Monday (31 May 2021).

I arrive here the long way round this time, after a lengthy walk from Blaenavon over the moorland tops of Mynydd Coety and Cefn Coch. Descending to Waun Afon, I’m glad of the dry weather as the causeway across the moor (complete with mostly-stripped, overturned car) is partially under water. Once I reach the road, the landscape turns rather grimly industrial, gravelly tracks winding up the humps of disused mining and quarry tips. The scars on the immediate foreground are greatly compensated for by the terrific panoramic views along the northern skyline though, from Pen y Fan to the northwest, Mynydd Llangatwg and the Black Mountains north, and the Sugarloaf/Mynydd Pen y Fal and Blorenge northeast.

The stone is as small as I remember, although at least it hasn’t got any smaller. The last time I came, I came straight up from Blaenavon and I barely knew any of the skyline hills by name, let alone by personal experience. Now I return to a landscape where I recognise all the distant hills and have climbed most of them, so the landscape context is greatly enriched on this second visit. I still have doubts about the age of the stone, but there’s no doubt at all about the pedigree of its placement. I’m glad to be back here, and it’s especially good to return to South Wales after what seems like a very long time.

After a nice rest and some food, I head up over the tall spoil heaps to the east before heading to the heaving bank holiday carpark by Pen-ffordd-goch pond, then on to the gentle (and thankfully final) climb to the masts on Cefn y Galchen and an equally overdue revisit to Carn y Defaid.

After leaving an overcast Condicote Henge, the Gloucestershire Way takes me northwest along a muddy track before crossing a minor road near Crabs Corner (1.5.2021).

The sun is now shining, at least for the moment. Looking south I can see the prominent mound of Oak Piece long barrow, a site for another day. The Gloucestershire Way parts company with the Diamond Way on the eastern slopes of Cutsdean Hill; I take a detour along the latter south of Cutsdean Lodge, as I want to visit this round barrow. Past a pleasant little wood, the bridleway turns into a minor road and the round barrow is clear in the field on the south side of the road.

It’s a really decent mound, not the usual ploughed-down to nothing monument that this part of the country seems to prefer. Today it sits resplendent in Spring sunshine, with this year’s new lambs playing about on the mound. I don’t venture into the field, as the mothers won’t be happy and I don’t want to spoil this fleeting idyll. A dark bank of cloud is building quickly to the south, so I don’t linger.

Cutsdean Hill rises gently from here. Despite being the third highest hill in Gloucestershire it’s pretty innocuous from this direction. On my way to rejoin the Gloucestershire Way, I pass the summit trig sitting forlornly in the verge, surveyable views westwards blocked by trees. Across the gallops the ground drops quite quickly to Ford, but the rain arrives before me, becoming torrential by the time I reach the little settlement – so heavy that I take refuge in the decommissioned phone box for 10 minutes. Once it passes, I have a clear sky to take all the way to Winchcombe, thankfully. I’m glad to have detoured to see this barrow, it’s a good ‘un.

A revisit on an overcast May day while walking the Gloucestershire Way from Stow-on-the-Wold to Winchcombe (1.5.2021). In contrast to the lovely warmth of the previous weekend’s walk, a cold wind is blowing across the wolds today, and rain is threatening to arrive from the east.

It’s been over a decade since I last came here, less than the blink of an eye for the henge. Last time I came, the southern part of the henge was accessible through a little pedestrian gate from the village hall. Sadly the gate is now locked, possibly a reaction to the ongoing pandemic, although it’s pretty unlikely that anyone will catch Covid in an empty field. The road runs right through the middle of the earthwork, but this ain’t no Avebury! The dull weather makes photographing the almost-gone earthwork from the road even less easy than before.

I content myself with sitting on a bench and having a snack, on the edge of where the henge once was. It’s a survivor, but only just. A rarity in Gloucestershire, so worthy of the revisit for that novelty. Onwards!

After leaving Hazleton long barrows and rejoining my route, the Gloucestershire Way takes me through Salperton Park and the pretty Cotswolds villages of Notgrove and Cold Aston (26.4.2021).

I’m not sure what to expect in the way of access to this next site, although I’ve seen it standing prominently in its field from the bus window on many occasions. It turns out I needn’t have worried, as the field is open from the Camp Farm track to the south, and there are also numerous gaps in the hedge separating the barrow from the footpath.

It’s a superb barrow, very reminiscent of East Kennett with its crown of tall trees and isolated setting, on top of the high ridge separating Cold Aston from the Windrush valley to the north. The earthwork is well-preserved and stands proud above the field surface. It’s the jewel of today’s three sites, and one of the best long barrows in this part of the Cotswolds.

At length I resume my walk, dropping down to the Windrush at Aston Mill, then re-ascending the next ridge. Looking back from here, the barrow is a very obvious landmark across the valley. Getting tired by now, I head to the tourist trap of Lower Slaughter (“private property” signs abound) and then have a final, tiring climb up Stow Hill to finish today’s section by the Tolkein-inspiring church door. A good day out.

After a very enjoyable visit to Salperton Park round barrow (26.4.2021), I head south along a surprisingly busy road to Hazleton long barrows.

I’ve been aware of these long barrows for years, but knowing that they were in a pretty bad state I’ve never made the effort to come. However, as I’m now walking the Gloucestershire Way less than a mile away, it seems rude not to finally come and have a look. Older StreetView images suggest that the southern barrow lies open to the road, but sadly someone with a penchant for barbed wire has put an end to that.

The site of the nothern barrow reveals nothing much, other than what appears to be a lighter scattering of limestone on the planted surface of the field. The southern barrow is better, a reasonable mound right next to the road. The barbed wire doesn’t invite a closer look, but it’s not really a monument you need to get up close and personal with, sadly.

Still, it’s an easy visit and I’m glad I’ve finally made the effort. Of course, post-visit the barrows have taken on a much wider fame, courtesy of careful DNA research. All this is still to come though.

From here I rejoin the Gloucestershire Way route, which will take me past Salperton Park, through Notgrove (Notgrove long barrow is sadly too much of a detour today), then onto Cold Aston, heading across the Cotswold plateau via a few minor ascents and descents. The final barrow of the day will be the best though...

The first of three new-to-me sites visited while walking the Gloucestershire Way from Shipton Oliffe to Stow-on-the-Wold (26.4.2021).

A grey morning start and a cold wind blowing across the Cotswolds plateau is slowly giving way to brighter skies as I head north-east from Shipton. There’s a good retrospective view towards the ridge surmounted by St Paul’s Epistle round barrow, prominent on the skyline to the west.

Salperton Park round barrow is in a narrow band of pleasant woodland immediately north of Penhill Road. The trees are a mix of deciduous species which provides a nice open canopy at this time of year, but unfortunately also allows plenty of light to support tangled vegetation at ground level. The barrow is quite overgrown, but also large enough to still be easily seen. In contrast to many ploughed down Cotswolds barrows, this is a large mound. It appears oval on plan, and I wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find that it was the remains of a truncated long barrow rather than a round barrow. As I poke about in the brambles and branches the sun breaks through the cloud, filtering a lovely Spring light through the canopy.

Well worth the detour from my route. Buoyed by decent barrow and improving weather I head off to Hazleton long barrows.

A revisit while walking the Gloucestershire Way (17.4.2021) after the usual dice with death crossing the road by the Air Balloon roundabout from Crickley Hill.

I last came here a year ago and was depressed by how overgrown everything was getting. It’s still knee-deep in vegetation this year, but there seem to be fewer nettles and the whole wood is beautifully pungent with wild garlic in the lovely Spring sunshine. It’s a cheering, restorative place to visit after the road crossing, and I look forward to the re-routing of the road in a few years that is planned to incorporate wildlife and pedestrian bridges.

From here my route will take me to an old favourite, Coberley long barrow. I set off with a renewed spring in my step.

Walked up from Shurdington at the start of my sixth section of the Gloucestershire Way (17.4.2021) on a beautiful Spring morning.

The walk has already had a set-back due to the farmer at Greenfield Farm blocking the path, which leads to an annoying detour west then south, followed by a steep climb up from the A417. I’m out of practice at hills after a couple of months of being largely inactive as the latest lockdown combined with rubbish weather has kept me at home. My Gloucestershire Way efforts resumed a couple of weeks back on the flatlands of the Severn, this is the first uphill section since leaving May Hill and the Forest of Dean.

I’ve not come up here on this route before, and I had never heard of a limestone block called the Devil’s Table until route-planning. Like the Devil’s Chimney at nearby Leckhampton Hill, this appears to be a remnant of quarrying rather than a natural feature. When I get up there, puffing and panting, I find it’s partially buried in brambles, but it offers an excellent place to stop for a while, cool down and take in the extensive views across the Severn vale. I idly wonder why the quarrymen were so keen on giving Devilish names to their workings.

From here it’s a short pull up to the fort itself and familiar territory. It’s great to be back here on such a beautiful morning and the fort is quiet.

After a wander around in the sunshine, my route heads off through the lovely beech woods to the Air Balloon and then to Emma’s Grove round barrows.

Visited 5 December 2020 as dusk was approaching.

Nearing the end of an unexpectedly arduous section of the Gloucestershire Way from Mitcheldean to Huntley via the summit of May Hill, made difficult due to the incredibly slippery mud that seemed to coat every hillside and every field, which has had me on my arse three times in the first few miles.

The visit requires a detour from the Way at Gander’s Green, so I approach through the forestry to the southwest. The tracks are initially good and easy to walk, but then drop steeply to a little valley to the south of the earthwork. From here the going is hard, pools of water concealing sticky mud. Once I reach the bottom of the valley, the track climbing up towards the earthwork was so slippery with mud I begin to wonder if I’ll ever get up it. But like Macbeth, I’m stepped in mud so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.

Eventually I round a bend and the gradient levels. From here it’s an easier walk to the earthwork, which turns out to be right next to the path. It’s been cleared of trees at some point, making it easy enough to follow the single bank round. Like all woodland sites that are not kept clear, it is already teeming with self-seeded brambles and what will no doubt eventually become more trees. It’s a well-preserved site, although I’d still not like to guess whether it’s Iron Age or medieval. It crowns the top of the little hill, but any panoramic views are sadly restricted by the trees on all sides.

The light is failing and I’m tired after the mud-slogged miles. But I enjoy the short visit here before plunging back into the woodland. Rather than retracing my steps down the mudslide southeast, I head westwards. The path soon becomes a wide and impassible pool, forcing a detour into a clear-felled area where I somehow manage to avoid tripping over hidden roots and stumps and eventually rejoin the path proper. It’s been a harder visit than I had expected, but it’s a nice site and worth the detour. A spring visit would probably be best, as long as it’s been dry.

Visited 30 August 2020 after leaving Withington long barrow. I thought this one might be harder to find in August vegetation, but it proves to be easy. It’s visible next to one of the main paths running through the woods, prominent above the immediate surroundings and sporting a fine crown of ferns.

It’s pretty big and appears to be well-preserved, although the vegetation makes it difficult to properly see the extent of the mound. On its top, beneath the ferns and brambles, it appears to be constructed of limestone rather than being an earthen mound.

One word of warning – even in pleasant summer weather, the tracks through the woods are very muddy. I pass a couple who have come to pick blackberries, and white trainers maybe weren’t the ideal footwear.

From here I head northwest to seek out the multiple banks of a cross-dyke shown on the OS map. It proves to be a very reduced monument, struggling to be seen above calf-height undergrowth. Still, it’s a pretty spot and I stop for lunch.

I leave the woods to the northeast and drop down to the pretty villlage Withington, where the cool interior of the church is open for visitors, the first I’ve been inside this year. From there it’s an easy stroll back to Colesbourne and the bus home. The monuments in Withington Woods aren’t of the first rank, but in this strange summer of limited travel and adventures close to home, I’m delighted to have visited some new-to-me sites in such a lovely woodland setting.

Of the four new-to-me Gloucestershire long barrows I visited during the post-lockdown summer months, Withington is both the best preserved and potentially the least easy to get to. Visited 30 August 2020.

I start from Colesbourne down in the picturesque Churn valley, a nice summer Sunday stroll along a quiet lane heading east then north up onto the high ground of the west Cotswolds. A bridleway from Hill Barn provides somewhat muddy access to Withington Woods. I get the feeling that this woodland is a ‘country pursuits’ kind of place, as various quad-biking lads wearing gillets and farming gear pass me en route and the distant crump of shotguns, a Cotswolds staple, breaks the peace.

Once in the woods I’m foolishly confident of choosing the right forestry track from a selection, but not sure how overgrown the barrow might be at the tail end of August. In any event, I end up going round in a circle, as the barrow isn’t apparent on my initial pass of the area where I think it is. Second time around, I realise that I missed it because it’s actually inside a high-fenced pheasant or partridge enclosure. Luckily the gate into the enclosure isn’t locked, otherwise there would be no way of getting to the barrow.

The barrow is actually much better than I’d expected, a fine upstanding mound covered in pieces of limestone under a sparse covering of shrubby bushes and less undergrowth than I envisaged. I find no sign of the chamber referred to in Chance’s miscellaneous notes but it’s still an impressive monument.

Despite the nice woodland setting, the barrow isn’t a particularly inviting place to hang around, as being effectively enclosed by 7 foot high wire mesh with only one way in or out kind of kills the atmosphere. Still, it’s really pleasing to find a decent monument here, the main threat to which seems to be tree roots and some light animal burrowing in the flanks.

Having escaped the wire, I head northwest along a broad track to seek out Withington West round barrow.

After leaving Woodmancote round barrow I head to the little village of the same name, from where a bridleway heads westwards. The landscape ahead is open and I can see the next site of the day as a lighter patch in a field across the dry valley dropping away on my left.

The path enters a little wood and turns right, and here a field gate allows access into the fields adjacent to the long barrow. Skirting around the top of the valley, the barrow’s field is margined with bright blue cornflowers, but the barrow itself is crowned only with long grasses.

It’s clearly been ploughed over the centuries, as it’s quite reduced in height. It’s nevertheless a good length and has enough left of its mound to be obvious. Now unploughed, it’s a nice place to sit for a while, as banks of cloud rush over. The crest of the hill blocks views to the west, hedges to the north, but to the southeast I can just make out the distant edge of the Marlborough Downs in Wiltshire.

From here I rejoin the bridleway to Cotswold Park and then up onto prominent Pen Hill to the north. Making my way up to the clump of trees on the top, the clouds that have been building all morning finally decide to drop their load on me, a temporary blip on an otherwise hot and sunny day. After a lunch stop by the trig, I drop down to Colesbourne and munch on a ice-cream before deciding on an impromptu revisit to Norbury hillfort and a long walk back to Cheltenham.

An easy stroll up from the bus stop at Rendcomb on a warm August day, the sun playing hide and seek behind billows of Cotswolds clouds.

The tree-covered barrow is prominent in a field next to the minor road east of Woodmancote. It’s at the top of steeper slopes dropping down to the picturesque River Churn, hidden by woodland from the barrow itself. There are neither crops nor livestock on my visit.

The trees make the barrow an obvious landmark and appear to have saved it from the plough, although the mound extends outwards into the field from the wooden fence surrounding the trees. The drawback with my summer visit is that the trees conceal the barrow beneath a deep covering of nettles, which also guard the site with a knee-high barrier. Clad in shorts, I make a half-hearted foray but am quickly stung in multiple places and retreat from closer inspection.

Vegetation aside, it’s heartening to find a Cotswold round barrow that hasn’t been ploughed down to nothing. The situation is pleasant, but the lack of longer views and the proximity of houses on the edge of the village stops it from really being a place to spend very much time. Worth the visit though, especially as I haven’t been here before.

I head off to Woodmancote itself, then on to Cotswold Park long barrow. A good start to the day.

Visited 7 March 2010.

A visit to the “Three Castles” of Skenfrith, Grosmont and White Castle with some friends includes a walk up Edmund’s Tump (Graig Syfyrddin), a prominent hill in eastern Monmouthshire. A lovely spring day, a bit of a chill lingering from a cold morning, the mud still firmly frosted. From the hill, an impressive view stretches west across the Monnow valley to the Black Mountains, but the real draw for me lies nearer at hand in the form of the wedge-shaped Ysgyryd Fawr, an outlier of the bigger hills, sharp-crested and solitary in its elevation above the valley. It looks close enough to touch.

After leaving White Castle, a hasty plan is made to climb Ysgyrd Fawr before the light fades. We park to the south and make our way through woods to the steeply rising ridge. The sky is a deep blue, the ranks of hills, ridges and mountains themselves hazy in powder and periwinkle, ice and Delft.

It’s cold on the top, the summit is exposed to winds that didn’t register down below. The views are wonderful though, I watch a couple of planes leave their high altitude vapour trails, the only mark on the otherwise flawless sky. There’s little to see of any hillfort, although scant remains of the later chapel are discernable. But coming here isn’t really about the archaeology, it’s a matter of location and landscape.

It’s not long since I climbed the neighbouring Blorenge, a first foray to these South Wales peaks. By now my appetite is properly whetted and I long to visit the hills I can see spread before me. I won’t be waiting long.

Visited 2.9.2017

The wheel of the year turns another click. It’s dark when I get up, and mist fills the valley of the Severn as I ride the early train along the estuary, a chill in the air in plain contrast to the heat of the last few days.

By the time I get to the pretty town of Ledbury several hours later, the sun has returned, the heat with it. The summer bus service to British Camp is in its last couple of weeks, and I’m keen to revisit a fort that I last came to on a cold and wet December day some seven and half years ago.

Rather than climbing onto the hills, I take the lower path round British Camp reservoir, unusually starting my walk with a descent rather than getting the uphill out of the way at the start. From down here, the bulk of British Camp looms oppressively, blocking all views westwards. People high on the ramparts are tiny, dwarfed by the enormity of earth and rock.

But I’m not going to get distracted by British Camp today, instead heading south to see the near-neighbours. Woodland canopy provides welcome shade on Tinker’s Hill, continuing more sparsely to Shadybank Common and the picturesque Dales Hall. Across Berrow Downs the view opens up massively to the east, from Bredon Hill (two hillforts) to the Cotswold escarpment (lots of hillforts).

Past Fairoaks Farm a path sneaks invitingly into the trees, so I head off this way. It proves to be a steep pull through Hollybush Roughs, and by the time I emerge onto a wider path I’m feeling rather disorientated about where I am in relation to the fort. A final slog takes me up to the open top of the hill and the memorial shelter mentioned by Carl. This is where I came on my previous visit, but on that occasion I was with a group and we climbed up from the northeast, as cold December rain started to fall. No such problem this time, instead it’s blazing heat to contend with.

There are a few people up here, unsurprisingly on a day like this. I head to the southern edge of the fort, where two ramparts head off around the western circumference. Following the higher of the two, some way below the top of the hill, the lower rampart soon drops away, leaving a wide space and steep hillside between the two levels. The views south and west are terrific, from the inevitable May Hill, across the Forest of Dean, the hills above Cwmbran, Pen-y-Fal (The Sugarloaf), the high ridge of the Black Mountains, the Radnor Forest, the hills of Herefordshire and eventually northwest to the Clee Hills in Shropshire. There must be two dozen hillforts in view from here.

I follow the inner rampart round, a challenge in places as the chest high bracken conceals some ankle catching brambles. Eventually coming to the northern entrance, the higher hills of the Malverns and the obvious contours of British Camp fill the view.

Last time I was here we only visited this higher part of the fort, but actually it comprises less than half of the occupied area. This time I head eastwards downhill, back into the trees. Passing through the woodland, the path re-emerges into another open area. The fort is in the shape of a fat-tailed ‘q’, and the eastern area is broad and flatter than the high part of the hill. Sadly the views here are much more restricted by the trees below the rampart, and the rampart itself is overgrown with brambles that make it impossible to follow. Instead I walk south through the middle of the section – it seems probable that this was the main residential area of the fort, sheltered from the winds and exposure of the western part. On a nice sunny day it feels like a good place to make your home. It’s easy to see why the fort is where it is, well-defended by steep slopes and with commanding views in all directions.

Eventually I re-enter the trees at the southern end, trying to get back to the rampart on the western side of the “tail”. Crossing a fence brings me to the lip of a huge drop, with water glinting far below. This marks the edge of a deep quarry cut into the hillside below the fort, taking the edge of the rampart with it. A potentially dangerous place for the unwary, the sheer drop is head-spinning and I head back to the open area before following the rampart again along its southern route. It’s probable that the main entrance was close to where the body of ‘q’ joins the tail, but a group of teenagers are doing teenager stuff in the trees here, and it’s not clear that an old git lurking in the woods with a camera is going to provoke a positive response, so once again I head back uphill.

By now time has run away, as it always seems to, and it becomes a dash back to British Camp to get to the bus-stop. Still, it’s been a very satisfying return to Midsummer Hill. By the time I get home it’s getting dark, and the fleeting months of summer seem to be ebbing away. The wheel keeps turning.

Visited 12 August 2017.

After last weekend’s unplanned spontaneous trip to British Camp in the Malverns, this weekend I have a plan. And it’s a cunning plan, so cunning you could put a tail on it and call it a fox, etc. Anyway, I’m off to Fownhope, a little village on the banks of the River Wye towards the south of Herefordshire.

As well as two pubs (one called the Green Man), a shop and fine church with slightly twisty spire and a Norman tympanum carved with a toothy winged lion, Fownhope sits between two wooded Herefordshire hillforts. I have three hours to visit them both. That’s the plan.

Things start promisingly, the sun has come out and the bus from Hereford drops me off on time. I’ve decided to visit Capler Camp first, on the basis that it looks less likely to be an overgrown slog and also it’s further away than Cherry Hill, which is right next to the village, so will help gauge the time I have better. A fairly straight minor road leads from Fownhope church towards Capler. I’ve anticipated a slow climb followed by a steep bit at the end, but that’s because I haven’t read the map properly and don’t realise that the whole way is a succession of up and down hill bits, guaranteed to tire out of practice legs before I even arrive at the proper hill. The first of these ridges does at least give a nice view of both forts from about halfway between them.

A buzzard flies over the tractor throwing up dust in the nearby fields, sheep are cajoled and corralled at Rise Farm, and I realise that there is a good view of Aconbury, another of Hereford’s fine hillforts.

Passing Capler Cottages marks the start of the steep section of the road, but a slightly overgrown track beckons invitingly off to the left, promising a less direct and more zig-zag route up to the fort. It proves a good choice, quite dry despite the ridiculously wet summer, and far less steep than the road would have been. It emerges near the top of the footpath to the south of the fort.

From here I head to the ramparts. The fort is in two distinct halves, the western side covered in trees, the eastern side an open field. I head west, into the trees.

It’s not a good time of year to visit wooded hillforts, brambles make the earthworks difficult to access and the thick canopy makes photography frustrating. Nevertheless, getting round this fort is easy enough as a wide swathe has been cleared inside the perimeter of the inner rampart, and a broad track follows what would have been a ditch between the inner and outer defences. The defences are strongest on the south, two lines of earthworks making up for the relatively shallow gradient compared to the west end and north side. It’s very pleasant under the trees and on reaching the north side I drop down from the inner rampart to the track below.

On the north side the natural steepness does all the work, and the track is a good three metres or more below the inner rampart. Some of the trees that mark the outer “bank” here are towering, one is a venerable beech that wouldn’t be out of place on the chalk Downs or limestone scarps to the southeast. The woods are an attractive deciduous mix, not the dense conifers of recent forestry plantations, but an older woodland that feels right on this hilltop.

At length I come round towards the eastern end. Climbing the inner bank brings me out into the open half of the fort. I’m somewhat surprised to find a tall post, carved to the effect that this is an Iron Age hillfort. It turns out that this is the end of a succession of similar posts marking a permissive path up from the picnic area on the road to the south. The interior is lovely, the inside of the southern rampart is rich with harebells. From here the view stretches south and east. I’m not in the slightest surprised to see the ever-present shape of May Hill, while the vista to the south is filled with the dark mass of the Forest of Dean, over the border in Gloucestershire. To the southwest the edge of the Black Mountains is visible. This is a great spot, and I end up sitting here for a while in the summer sunshine.

Finally leaving through the eastern entrance, past a lovely old stone barn and a neat cottage, I follow the Wye Valley Walk footpath along the outer rampart. It’s a good hillfort this, not perhaps in the front rank of Herefordshire examples like Wapley Hill and British Camp, but a very decent site nonetheless.

Reluctant to leave, I take a final turn around the wooded half of the interior, before heading south back to the road. A little picnic area gives glimpses of the Wye sparkling in the sunshine below, living up to its picturesque billing. I follow the road down, noticing the steepness and also how many cars seem to be driving up and down this narrow lane, from nowhere to somewhere or back again.

The extended stay has wiped out the time I have left, and Cherry Hill will have to wait after all. A Spring visit would be better anyway I reckon. The best thing about a cunning plan is how easily it can be abandoned or reshaped, and this one will easily bear a bit of reshaping.

Visited 5.8.2017.

Three and a bit years on since my last visit, which was a claggy Easter day with visibility truncated by hazy mistiness. No such problems today, a rolling front of thunder has pushed its way up from the Black Mountains across Herefordshire, and the skies are clear and views are long in its wake.

No plan, just an entirely spontaneous diversion, jumping off a train at Hereford and catching a bus at Ledbury to emerge at the foot of the hill as the rain carries on to soak Worcester.

I decide to follow the lower rampart round the west side of the fort, which gives a great view of the ranks of earthworks climbing the flanks of the hillside, as well as beautiful unfolding panorama of Herefordshire. When I first came here in 2009, I hadn’t explored the Black Mountains, or Radnor Forest, and my memories of the Clee Hills were from my childhood. All of these are in clear view today, as well as the Cotswolds escarpment to the southeast, Bredon Hill to the east and the ridiculously ubiquitous May Hill to the south. Three English counties and quite a bit of Wales to admire then.

In the years since that first visit I have come to recognise these distant hills, and the Malverns ridge is the common landmark visible from where I grew up and where I live now. The fort itself overawed me when I first came, and this third visit does nothing to diminish the impression of what must be one of the finest hillforts in these islands. The presence of other visitors, tiny specks against the serried rows of banks and ditches, serves only to enhance the sense of wonder.

I spend an hour walking the perimeter and up to the top, before reluctantly deciding to continue my broken journey. The thunderheads have broken over Worcester, and magnificent rainbows over Bredon and Cleeve Hill will follow later. Sometimes England is really very lovely.

A very overdue visit on 17.12.2016.

It’s the best part of 7 years since I added this site to TMA, so really about time I made the effort to come here. Heeding the warnings of Carl’s approach, I come at the site from Little Dean to the south, via the edge of the woods below Chestnut Inclosures. It’s been a claggy, misty December day and the light is dull, tendrils of mist rising from the Severn a couple of miles or so to the east.

Where the path Carl was on gets to the southern edge of the hill, a narrower footpath heads north up the hill – it might be easy to miss this in summer as the vegetation seeks to strangle it, so look out for a stile into a field on the south, which is opposite the entrance to the footpath. Coming from this direction the ascent is at its most gentle, the steeper slopes of the hill are on the north and east sides.

Before reaching the fort, there is a meeting with a remarkable tree, a massive beech of huge height and girth, and great age for the species. The woods here are a lovely mix of deciduous trees, birch and beech, oak and chestnut. The footpath arrives at the southern tip of the fort, where a bank rises on the right but nothing on the left, making it a little difficult to gain bearings of the layout at first. In fact the fort is an irregular shape, like a “q” with this bank being the western side of the short tail (in fact it’s very similar in layout to Midsummer Camp on the Malverns). It’s immediately apparent that the banks here are stone-built, plentiful mossy stones protruding through the winter cover of dying vegetation.

Because of this disorientation I initially keep heading north rather than following the bank around. The ground is still rising slightly, with a big drop now becoming apparent on the right (east). Soon I reach a confused junction of banks and ditches, which resolve themselves into the point where the tail of the “q” meets the body. The drop the east is now quite severe, with any view curtailed by the heavy tree cover and mist rising from the river valley beyond. Without the trees I imagine I might be standing in the thin upper reach of a temperature inversion.

Deep leaf litter muffles my footfalls. Towards the north I come to a clearer circle, a fairy ring among the trees. This is the only clear and relatively flat spot within the fort interior, and makes a good place to stop and take in the quiet of the woods on this somewhat eerie day.

At the northern end the ground drops very abruptly, a 5 metre drop from the top of the rampart to the next level down. It seems that this has been created by terracing the naturally steep slope rather than needing to create a wholly artificial defence, but it would certainly be a formidable obstacle and provides an excellent vantage over the valley below.

The killer construction though is on the west. Here a massive inner bank towers above two further lines of bank and ditch. There is a wide space between inner and middle defences, which gives the impression that the outer ditches are slight and shallow in comparison. This impression is quickly dispelled by dropping down the slippery slope for a closer look, which reveals the middle ditch to be a good 6 feet deep.

Near the southwestern corner, the lines of ramparts are crossed by a slightly raised causeway, but it’s not clear whether this represents an original feature or a later intrusion. Either way it’s a pretty steep climb back up to the inner rampart.

Disembodied voices and the bark of a dog rising from the valley settlement below to the west, the screech of an irate squirrel somewhere in the trees above me and seagull cries from the Severn are the only noises to interrupt the quiet. No boars today, although grubbings and scrapings in the soft earth at the top of the hill appear to indicate their occasional presence.

The day has been grey throughout, and this close to Midwinter the light fails early. By the time I’ve walked around the site and its defences, it’s getting towards 4 o’clock and already darkening. Although it’s a fairly compact fort, the multiple lines to explore make it feel bigger and it’s taken me a good hour to get round it. It’s an atmospheric place, and one that would repay a visit on a sunny spring day before the canopy refills and the brambles entwine the accesses.