thesweetcheat

Not much further down the road a footpath gives access to a field boasting two round barrows, Hindwell Farm I and II. Sadly, neither is exactly well-preserved, having been ploughed to within an inch of their (considerable) lives. But when viewed in the context of the other sites nearby, they should not be overlooked. The views to Bache Hill and The Whimble are inevitably fabulous.

Passing Hindwell Farm, a further barrow (Hindwell Ash) is visible in a field to the north, on the left (west) side of the round. An OS trig pillar has been inserted and the barrow proves to be in a poor state, crumbling away under the pillar on its northern flank. The fourth barrow in the group, Upper Ninepence (great name) is not visible from here.

Unmarked on the OS map, even Coflein have a “?” after its standing stone attribution. I like it very much, in its field of lambs and with the ubiquitous great views of the mountains. It certainly seems all of a piece with the other stones of the area, both in composition and shape. Deserving of attention anyway.

Then I’m back at Four Stones, in my Dad’s countryside. Last time, I was hit with a wave of emotion I hadn’t foreseen, but this time I’m prepared and enjoy the site for itself more. It would have been his birthday in two days’ time though, so it seems more than fitting to be here and raise a metaphorical toast.

It is a wonderful site. The proximity of the house, road and telegraph wires perhaps just enough to keep it from the front rank of circles for the modern visitor, but otherwise the setting, and the stones themselves, are exquisite, the cupmarks on the south-western stone a little bit of icing on the cake. A site to be savoured. Time passes as it often does.

Like Gladman before me, my previous trip to the summits of Radnor mountains had neglected the shapely, but sub-2,000ft Whimble. In truth, my previous trip in thick, dank mist had been something of a nightmare of zero-visibility and soaking wet feet. I’m hoping for a contrast today, so I’m relieved that as the bus drops me in New Radnor, the skies are blue if rather hazy.

The lack of car precludes me from following Gladman’s advice and so I have to start off with the steep “road-bashing” of his warning, taking a minor road north out of the town. In truth, the firm surface provides a nice easy way to gain some rapid height. I pass a couple of walkers on the road, as they stop to remove outer layers – despite the single-figure temperature, it’s soon warm once you get going on the uphill. At the gate where the road stops, I pause to do the same and shed my coat.

The long months since I discovered that I had torn my hamstring badly on Moel Eilio last year have been seriously frustrating, even climbing a couple of flights of stairs had been a strain. As such, I feel immensely relieved to have made the first couple of hundred metres of ascent without problem. From the gate, a bridleway continues the climb, more gently now, around the western edge of the forestry that clothes the southern slopes of the Whimble.

Sheep and Spring lambs are the only company and pretty soon a fine view has opened up along the steep-sided valley of Summergill Brook to the southwest. Rank after rank of hills line up to the horizon, fading gently into blue on this hazy day. I realise that the views won’t be extensive in a haze more reminiscent of a summer’s outing, but to be out in the sunshine on these hills provides more than ample pleasure.

The bridleway is easy walking and after a while a flat-topped expanse appears to the northwest – this is Great Rhos, the highest part of the mountains and a top that I had to navigate across by relying on compass and contour alone. No such trouble today, it’s nice to finally see what I missed before. Directly ahead of me is Great Creigiau, the southern part of Black Mixen, underpinned by steep cliffs falling away into the valley below. It’s quiet enough to hear the tumbling water down in that narrow channel. This is what I’ve been missing these last months, away from the solitude of the lonely hillside.

Then, through the thinning trees to my right, as if conjured from nowhere by powerful magic, the conical shape of the Whimble appears. The path continues northwest, but a smaller, much-used trail heads off to the foot of the hill. I’m suddenly overawed by the steepness of the climb ahead, although it’s less than 100m of vertical ascent from where I am now. I briefly weigh up how my leg feels against the steep hillside, but this is what I’ve come for and the urge to go on far outweighs any concern now. I take the climb steadily, one foot in front (above) the other. When the summit approach comes, a deep sense of joy comes too. I’ve made it! It’s not the biggest hill in the world, but after a winter wondering if I’d get up in the mountains again, the feeling of relief is overwhelming.

Also overwhelming is the view from the top, even with the haze. The hill drops away steeply on all sides. Away to the southeast is Hergest Ridge and on a clearer day the Black Mountains would be visible to the south. To the west and north the higher, flat-topped summits of the range cut off the longer view, but the intervening valleys are far below and steep-sided, providing plenty of visual interest. To the northeast, Bache Hill is the focal point, topped irresistibly with a line of prominent round barrows that I will hopefully visit later.

And then there’s the summit barrow, a fine, turfed-over specimen with a flat top. About half a metre below the top, the sides of the barrow are stepped-in. Coflein states this to be a later cairn placed on top of the round barrow, although it doesn’t say how much later. But for all the world, this wonderful, conical proto-Silbury seems topped with its own mini-Silbury barrow.

To all those people who cause endless debate by climbing Silbury, why bother? Come here, to quiet of the Radnor Mountains and climb a proper sacred hill instead. Sky gods, earth goddess, if such beings exist, then this is the place to commune with them. No man-made vanity project striving and failing to reach up to the heavens, this beautiful, shapely hill is the real thing, the focal point of Radnor’s sleeping goddess. It has the power to remind me how small I am, a tiny speck of dust in the infinity of nature, yet so alive and ecstatic too. I live for places like this, days like this, when mundane cares are so far below and there’s only the sky, the wind, the hills.

***

I stay as long as my body temperature allows, for it’s cold up here in March, even in the sunshine. My route onwards is to the east, where the hill is at its most gentle, sloping down a wide grass strip to the bwlch below. Here I meet two riders, the last people I will see in the hills today, apart from distant stick figures on Black Mixen. A bridleway heads northwards. Neatly bisecting the twin summits of Bache Hill, the path crosses the saddle between the two. To the northeast is the main summit, where I went in the mist last time I was up here, together with the low remains of an intervening barrow. But I have unfinished business with the south-western summit, above Whinyard Rocks, to get better acquainted with the two prominent barrows here.

A narrow sheep track winds in the general direction, so I take that to avoid the worst of the heather that clothes this hillside. The Whimble comes into view straight ahead, a reminder of the shapeliness of its curves. But the track doesn’t head to the barrows and I’m forced to take to the heather after all. A summer visit would be tough and my dodgy leg doesn’t enjoy the motion of stepping over the vegetation very much. But the barrows are worth it, especially the fine south-western example (Winyard Rocks I), placed perfectly for views of the Whimble and of the other Bache Hill barrows to the northeast. The other barrow (Whinyard Rocks II) is smaller, or more reduced, but placed so that nearly all of the barrows in the group are visible from it.

Back across the tiresome heather to the saddle. The next barrow (Bache Hill III) is visible in the grassy field beyond, it appears to have been much-reduced by erosion (ploughing?) and has no cover of heather to keep it warm. Of all the barrows in the group it is the least impressive, but still boasts a wonderful location. The Bache Hill summit barrows are not visible from it, but the Whimble and the Whinyard Rocks barrows all are. [Incidentally, this is the only barrow of the five on Bache Hill that is not on access land, although a stile gives easy entrance into the field from the bridleway to the southwest.]

The final walk to the summit of Bache Hill is easy from here, and I’m elated to be back on top of a mountain after such a long absence. Previous fieldnotes extol the virtues of the summit barrow, so I’ll just add that this is one of the finest round barrows I’ve visited in Mid-Wales – if not the finest. Good spot for lunch too, with back against the trig point and Radnorshire spread out in patchwork below.

After a quick revisit of the final barrow, at the eastern end of the arcing group, I bid farewell and start the long descent off the hills via Stanlo Tump. The last time I was here, I was pleased and surprised to see Titterstone Clee away to the northeast. Today the haze prevents any such revelations, but in the interim G/F and I have walked close by along Offa’s Dyke, so now I have the pleasure of recognising Castle Ring, Beggar’s Bush, the approximate position of the Cwmade Barrow and the wonderful Burfa Bank hillfort. Another bit of jigsaw slots into place.

Saturday dawns dry but very foggy. We finished our last walk in thick mist that enveloped the cliffs of Creigiau Eglwyseg and completely hid Castell Dinas Bran from view. Sadly, it looks like we will be picking up where we left off in almost identical conditions.

The top of the hill is invisible ahead, which may be something of a blessing; as others have mentioned, it’s a steep walk up here from the town, especially the last climb up to the fort itself. As a place to assault, I think I’d be favouring the “starve ‘em out” option, rather than the direct approach.

Due to the restricted visibility, we come upon the medieval ruins before really seeing anything much in the way of prehistoric ramparts. It’s an atmospheric spot, enshrouded in thick mist, where chunks of masonry loom out of the murk and just as quickly fade away again. We are missing out on the spectacular views though.

There are earthworks to be “seen”, especially at the northeast of the hilltop, outside the medieval ruins. There is also a daunting rock-cut ditch, but this probably belongs to the castle, rather than the fort. Even for Iron Age builders of great fortifications, I think that would have been a challenge too far, perhaps.

For all the atmosphere conjured by the mist, the lack of views makes the visit rather less than it could be. One to come back to on a clear day, with blue skies and a warm summer breeze. We make our way off the hilltop utilising the path heading northeast, and once off the top of the hill, fort, castle and all are immediately swallowed back into the pervasive gloom.

A grey and very cold late Winter’s day (23.2.2013), coupled with the usual end-of-month lack of money, deters me from venturing too far afield, so instead I decide to make a foray into Warwickshire, a county I have pretty much ignored until now. The meagre pickings on TMA don’t suggest this to have been much of an omission, but it would be wrong to pass judgement without a visit. A recent internet trawl has also revealed that permissive access has been granted to part of Meon Hill, which otherwise lacks any public rights of way.

A meandering double bus journey takes me through plentiful pretty Cotswold towns and villages, before crossing from Gloucestershire into Warwickshire just after the village of Mickleton. From here the flat-topped hill is obvious, dominating the landscape and providing a commanding vantage over the rural patchwork below. The bus finally drops me at Upper Quinton, from where I will make my way up the northern slopes to the fort. The climb, like many up onto the Cotswold escarpment, starts gentle and gets steeper as the top is neared. By the time I’m through the trees and into the field below the northern rampart, I’m uncomfortably hot under the warm layers that had seemed so welcome scant minutes earlier.

On its northern side, the rampart is set back from the scarp edge slightly, leaving a sloping field between trees and defences. The earthworks are in poor order, obviously the plough has taken its toll over the centuries. For all that, the views, even on such a grey day, are extensive. To the north, a flat expanse is laid out for as far as the eye can see, while to the west the nearest eminence is Bredon Hill in Worcestershire (although it takes me a while to realise that’s what I’m looking at). Southwest, the Malverns are dimly seen. Only to the south is the view curtailed, by Ebrington Hill – the highest point in Warwickshire, which also marks the border with Gloucestershire.

Following the top of the hill round to the west, the rampart effectively ceases above a steeper, wooded slope shown on the map as Jarrett’s Brow. Crashing through tangled undergrowth here I startle a pheasant, which rises squawking from the hillside – the crump of not-so-distant shotguns indicates that this is not the time for it to be breaking cover.

At the southwest, the rampart is at its finest, a double row of banks and ditches following the contour in a manner reminiscent of Uley Bury, much further south along the Cotswolds’ western edge. The view really is very far-reaching. Apparently, the hill was the inspiration behind Tolkein’s Weathertop, but there are neither ruins nor wraiths to disturb my visit today. I walk along the southern part of the rampart, where the ditch is at its deepest. In the southeast, the defences disappear, lost to the centuries of farming up here.

It’s a short, steep descent to the access area on the western slopes, then a very muddy walk along the “Heart of England” Way to Mickleton. I recall Gladman commenting on the ability of South Walian farmers to grow mud: suffice to say, they would be given a run for their money by their counterparts in Warwickshire, who specialise in a clinging clay that adds pounds to the boots in the space of a few short yards. I’m glad to reach tarmac in the village, where a once-huge nursery and market garden has been demolished to leave only crumbling brick and tangled weeds. Shame.

From the village, I continue a while along the Heart of England Way, where further views of Meon Hill from the south confirm its excellent choice as a hillfort site. Past Hidcote gardens and up to the top of Ebrington Hill, before a gentle stroll back into Gloucestershire to Chipping Campden.

I don’t imagine I’ll be spending much time in Warwickshire in the future, for prehistory is not well-represented here, sadly. But Meon Hill is a fine hillfort for those who like their views long, and a reminder that every part of the country has something worth the TMAer’s effort.

A ladder stile leads onto the tussocky lower slopes of Fan Nedd. There is no obvious path and so I’m left to pick a route that is reasonably direct to the summit. Due to time constraints after the lengthy stop at Maen Llia, I’ve decided to abandon a visit to the two cairns on the eastern slopes of the mountain and to concentrate on getting to the top of the mountain. I confess to a certain feeling of unfinished business here. A couple of years ago I came here a matter of hours after Gladman had been (small world). On that occasion the slopes were snow-covered and going was slow. My friend and I made it to the pointy cairn on the ridge in a hailstorm (what is it with these tops and hail?) and very stupidly mistook it for the summit trig point marked on the map. As such, we didn’t reach the summit and I’ve been keen to come back and rectify the error. So today I head straight up the mountain’s eastern flank. This proves to be very hard going, the slope is very steep and the vegetation is ankle-knee deep. Only the occasional stops to look back at Maen Llia, dwindling into a black dot below, and the unfolding view of Fan Llia across the valley, make the ascent anything other than a trial.

But reaching the ridge, close to the trig, the views to the west make up for the aching knees. Once at the summit (663m OD), the views to Fan Gyhirych and Y Mynydd Du are magnificent and far-reaching, clear of the clouds of earlier.

From the summit it’s a fairly easy stroll north along the ridge towards the “pointy” cairn. About halfway along the ridge I come across a recumbent slab, unworked but with a hole drilled in it. No-one is likely to have ever put a fence up here, so perhaps a fallen boundary stone? The pointy cairn is every bit as ludicrous looking as the last time I came here. But what’s this? It rests on a turfed over mound of much greater diameter, with stones protruding through the thin covering. Suspicions start to grow and I get the feeling that the walker-made pyramid conceals something much, much older. The positioning is typically clever, allowing the maximum panoramic view, particularly northwards, absent at the mid-ridge summit. It is certainly similar in construction to the cairn on neighbouring Fan Gyhirych.

[A post-visit Coflein check suggests that the instinct was correct and that these are the remains of a bronze age cairn, positioned with the usual fine attention to detail.]

The cairn is separated from the Maen Llia monolith by the Afon Llia itself, fast-flowing and not as easy to cross as it looks, with peaty banks quick to crumble underfoot. But cross I must, as the pull of the stone, one of South Wales’ undoubted megalithic stars, is too much to avoid for long. This will be my second visit here. The last time I came with a friend by car and to be honest I had little hope of ever making it back here under my own steam. It’s a wonderful, wonderful stone, enjoying a lovely view down the valley between the two steeply rising mountains that flank its either side. The shaggy coat of moss gives it a primordial look, and even years’ old graffiti can do little to undermine its towering charm.

I spend a good while here, undisturbed by any other visitors, although an empty car is parked nearby. Time stops briefly, and I recharge for the next and steepest of today’s climbs. When the time comes to bid farewell – adieu hopefully – I do so with some sadness. This is a site that rewards the effort of getting here tenfold.

In a line between the standing stone and my route is a green mound, which will prove to be the Rhyd Uchaf cairn. To get to it, there are a couple of deceptively steep-sided streams to cross. Although ruined, the placing of the cairn is nicely judged, on a little knoll surrounded by various tributary streams of the nascent Afon Llia, the water source that may well have provided the inspiration for the siting of the little complex of monuments here and of this cairn in particular.

As I make the Fan Dringarth ridge, the thick grey cloud is now right over my head and the temperature drops as I walk into an increasingly strong wind. Here I meet a group of three walkers, the only other people I will see on the whole of the walk today. At length the summit of Fan Llia comes into view ahead, a straightforward plod to the top. The summit itself, at 632m OD, turns out to be marked only with the concrete base of an otherwise vanished trig pillar, but enjoys very decent views of the surrounding peaks. The cairn is further south, off the very highest point but still on the summit ridge. Unfortunately, as I get to within 100 yards of the cairn, it starts to hail, the wind blasting the icy bullets straight into my face. Not the nicest way to make your first site of the day!

Even less nice is the poor treatment that has been inflicted on the cairn itself. There is the usual turfed footprint of a large cairn, boasting excellent views to the south that are lacking from the summit and emphasise the obvious reasons for its positioning at the end of the ridge. Sadly, the mound itself has been badly “altered” by walkers. The stones are flat slabs of sandstone, heaped up into a somewhat shapeless pile. Other, larger slabs have been leant and propped up around the perimeter, giving the whole thing the air of half-built neglect. It’s difficult to respond to such a wilful lack of respect with anything but anger.

All that said, the setting is terrific, even the ongoing hail doesn’t detract on that score, although it doesn’t help photography much! It’s too cold and windswept to linger here for long, body temperature quickly dropping when not I’m moving. Besides which, it looks like a cruel up-and-down to get from here to Fan Nedd, the next summit on my route and so I head westwards off the top, not following any particular path but making generally towards the visible block of Maen Llia far below me. Needless to say, the hail stops within a minute of leaving the cairn.

Along with the other Gwent chambered tombs (Gaer Llwyd, Heston Brake and Thornwell), this had been on my radar for a good while, but I’ve never made it here, despite Gladman’s compelling exhortations.

So on my way back from Herefordshire (7.1.2013) I decide that it’s about time I broke the train journey and had a look for this. Various Newport-Cardiff buses run past Cleppa Park industrial estate, so it’s easy enough to get here.

It’s a grey, overcast day, dry at present but with the threat of more rain hanging in the air. I take the bridge over the motorway mentioned in other notes, then the track. The stones are visible soon enough and access is fairly straightforward, apart from the fact that the almost persistent rain over the last couple of weeks has turned an already muddy field into something resembling a good day on the Somme, so I’m a bit splattered by the time I squelch across to the stones themselves.

There is a decent amount left of this tomb, including a dismounted but substantial capstone and four orthostats of a pebbly conglomerate, one of which lies pinned under the capstone itself, as well as some smaller stones. There is also the faint trace of a mound, a ghost of a ghost, but still there. A self-seeded bush, getting more like a tree as the years pass, has burst its way forth between the cap and its crushed supporter. In the long run, I don’t think this is a great state of affairs, so if anyone happens to be passing with a saw ...

Sadly, the place lacks atmosphere for me today. It’s a Monday and the traffic on the M4 below the tomb is unceasing. The muddiness doesn’t encourage much sitting about either. The siting of the tomb would be very smart, looking down to the mighty Hafren/Severn making its way to the Bristol Channel, but the motorway and the sprawling industrial estate beyond have robbed the monument of even that joy, to a large degree.

I can’t help but feel that this place, one of only a precariously surviving handful of such ancient tombs in this part of Wales, has been – and continues to be – done a disservice by the surroundings. So although the visit doesn’t charge me with the energy and enthusiasm of many of the more remote places this obsession takes me to, I would join in Gladman’s pleas to come here and see what there is (preferably with a saw).

I take my leave, feeling rather saddened. Instead of the route over the motorway, I elect to find a footpath that the map shows running along the western edge of the field. This involves a steepish descent from the tomb to a little stream, crossed by a sturdy footbridge. Unfortunately, once over the bridge, the mud of earlier pales into insignificance compared with the bog under the trees. It’s a nasty, mucky business this, but eventually I emerge onto the hillside opposite, with the concrete of the motorway blocking all views south. An underpass provides the way out (so this might be a useful approach for anyone who doesn’t like the vertiginous feel of crossing motorway footbridges), back onto the main road and a bus ride back to Newport.

Offa’s Dyke Path has been routed across the moor on a snaking network of duckboards, making our progress across what would be tough terrain much quicker and smoother than expected. It doesn’t take us long to reach Aber Sychnant cairn, which is skirted by the Path itself – probably a little too close for comfort, but tired legs and receding daylight make me grateful for the ease of access today.

The cairn is all but buried under a heather toupee, but is a good size and largely intact apart from the inevitable central scoop. The views are not that extensive, as the cairn sits in a shallow valley, with higher parts of the moor rising on all sides. Substantial enough to be worth a visit though, despite the irritation of dropping my glove and having to come back again to retrieve it.

The first of the hills to be tackled is Moel Gyw, surmounted by a barrow to add incentive. Offa’s Dyke path has been re-routed to avoid the climb up to the summit, but on such a beautiful day there is no way I was going to miss out on the views. Rashly, I choose to go for a direct approach from the northwest, which turns into a mistake that can’t easily be rectified once started. The climb is extremely steep, through and over dense, deep heather. I find myself clinging to the bushes above me as the only way to gain enough purchase to carry on upwards. By the time I finally emerge on to the hilltop next to the cairn, I am knackered, my knees are aching from scrambling over the heather, the laces of my boots are festooned with bits of vegetation and under my warm winter clothes I’m boiling alive. Not the best route to choose, it would seem. But, oh boy, was it worth the effort. The views are utterly magnificent. To the south, the flat moorland expanse of Cryn y Brain that we hope to be tackling later can be seen, the shapely, Sugarloaf-esque peak of Llantisylio Mountain further to the SSW, with the start of the Berwyns range beyond. And then, rising over the temperature inversion of the valleys, the serried ranks of the ranges of Snowdonia, that I will later come to know as the Arans, Cadair Idris and the Arenigs, and the mightiest peaks of the Snowdon massif itself, the Glyderau and Carneddau. Eyes dragged away north from this vista also get a view of Foel Fenlli, illuminated briefly in the rays of the early winter sun.

The sides of the cairn itself are buried in heather, but the centre is clear and an inevitable excavation scoop into the stone construction is visible. The positioning is interesting, being set back from the steep western edge of the summit, where the Ordnance Survey have built their trig pillar and a slate upright marks Offa’s Dyke Path, which no longer comes up here. For such a modest height (whatever my legs tell me), this is a spectacular place, one of the undoubted highlights of the Clwydian range.

As well as a fine church and a decent medieval castle converted into a hotel, Rhuthun has a piece of enigmatic rock parked in its centre. Maen Huail now resides next to a bank, after it was moved to make room for a car park. It is a rough, unworked block of limestone, its age impossible to determine and its purpose less so. Arthurian enthusiasts will be impressed to know that Arthur was reputed to have used it as an executioner’s block to behead Huail (see Folklore). The setting is not the most atmospheric or inspiring, but certainly worthy of our attention. No bankers have yet been publicly executed on it, as far as I know.

After a bracing visit to a busy Leckhampton Hill, this is an oasis of quiet, the perfect New Year’s Day objective for legs lacking a certain degree of energy and a brain turned sluggish by lack of fresh air.

Low winter sun slants through the trees topping the long mound, painting tiger stripes across the field. The horses pay me no mind today.

I can’t help feeling that, on the quiet and unheralded, this is one of the Cotwolds’ finest long barrows, for all that the chamber has been destroyed. It’s always a pleasure to come here, anyway. A good harbinger for this year’s stone-hunting pleasures.

New Year’s Day, 2013. After what seems like weeks of interminable, miserable wet weather, finally a sunny break happens to coincide with the start of a new year. Hopefully that’s a good omen.

Anyway, transport options are limited, so a stroll up to my local fort seems to be the way to go. The approach from the north is as stiff as ever, the regrets about too many mince pies and not enough exercise come sharply to the fore. It seems that lots of locals have also chosen to make this their place of post-indulgence pilgrimage, because the interior of the fort is pretty busy. Amazing what a bit of sunshine can do.

In the 18 months or so since I was last up here, the northern ramparts and the ever-enigmatic barrow have been kept nicely clear of vegetation. The views across Cheltenham, over towards the Malverns and the northern reaches of the Cotswolds are as far-reaching as ever. It’s soooo nice to be back outside.

As well as maintaining the tidiness at the north of the fort, some enterprising people have cleared the brambles and scrubby vegetation from the southeastern and southern section of the ramparts, leaving them much easier to see. There is no sign of an external ditch here, but ploughing of the adjacent field may have filled it in. Parts of the rampart, notably around the trig pillar, have been cordoned off by that orange plastic temporary fencing, presumably to try to combat erosion damage.

Over on the western flank, where quarrying has destroyed whatever archaeology there may have been, the views are the most extensive, but the wind is bitingly keen. Enough to encourage a hasty retreat along the Cotswold way, then off to the Crippets.

I head north, as I have one further cairn to visit on this inhospitable hilltop. Again, the going is surprisingly tough, the paths are faint and before long I’ve stumbled into a much boggier area, where clumsily leaping from tussock to tussock is the only hope of keeping dry feet. Eventually I get towards the edge of the scarp, and the cairn comes into sight, another weirdly rebuilt shape, apparently hanging right on the edge of the void. There’s a small stream to negotiate first, narrow but fast-flowing, swollen by the melt from the heavy snows before Christmas. Here I meet the only people I’ve seen for hours, but as I follow the top edge of the scarp, the views become superlative and breathe is taken away. Whereas the view from the other cairns was of a gently receding slope in front of a long-range mountain backdrop, from here the drop is steep and the Usk valley appears, dizzyingly far below. Crickhowell is a toy-town, white against the fertile farmland of the valley. Crug Hywel fort is now in view, very different to the snow-covered vista of my recent visit.

The cairn, Eglwys Faen (“stone church”, pronounced egg-lewis vine) is indeed perched above the drop. The stones have been fashioned into an odd pyramid, belying the larger footprint below. That said, for some reason this seems less appalling than the damage inflicted upon Mynydd Llangatwg cairn. Perhaps the wonderful placement makes up for any damage, perhaps in truth the landscape really is the thing and the cairn is merely intended to be the draw, the bait. If this is indeed a stone church, the beautiful, epic vista across the valley is worthy of worship, whatever your views about gods.

The most westerly of today’s cairns, Mynydd Llangatwg is a wreck. What would have been a fine cairn, comparable with the larger monuments already visited, this has been properly buggered about with. Instead of a smoothly curving dome, the top of the cairn has been sculpted into two ridiculous horns, while sheep shelters eat into the sides below. What a shame. The location is excellent, with a great view of Waun Rydd, the Brecon Beacons, Mynydd Troed, the Black Mountains and the Sugarloaf. There is an enormous limestone scatter immediately to the west of the cairn, once again providing plentiful material. The ground drops away in every direction but east. Yeah, a great spot for a cairn, shame about the idiocy that has so distorted its shape.

At length I head off west, following a narrow track through the tussocks of reedy grass and whin. Although the top of the hill is pretty flat, the terrain is still quite hard going, with boggy areas to traverse and ankle-sapping vegetation as soon as you step off the “path”. Luckily the next cairn, a little less than half a mile from the summit group, is right beside the path and it’s another biggie. Slightly smaller than the two main summit cairns, with a scooped-out centre now filling with vegetation, Mynydd Pen-cyrn cairn sits on the saddle between the Twr Pen-cyrn cairn group and the solitary Mynydd Llangatwg cairn. It’s an easy stop-off between the two, serving to liven up what would otherwise be a bit of a slog, truth be told.

However, there is also the small matter of the “stone circle”, one of the main reasons for coming here today. This proves a rather harder task to find.

As mentioned, the whole hilltop is covered in scatters of limestone blocks, a crazy jumble of swirls and fans. I wander about for a while in the area where Coflein suggests the “circle” is to be found (slightly north and west of the main cairn group). Eventually I find a circular feature that pretty-much matches the description and location. I would never have described this as a “stone circle” though. I looks more like a ring cairn of some sort. More visits by more knowledgeable people might help decide. It’s somewhat churlish to complain anyway, as the location and the main cairn group make this place more than worthwhile for a visit.

The very top of the hill slopes more steeply in a little crest. Once onto this, the wind increases dramatically and the chill becomes noticeable, even after the heat generated by the steady climb. Views open to the west, to Waun Rydd and the cloud-shrouded central Brecon Beacons.

Of more immediate interest is the collection of cairns on the hilltop, hidden from view until now. The name of the top, Twr Pen-cyrn (pronounced too-er pen keern) defies my translation efforts, settling on either “Tower [of the] head of the peak”, or “Peak-head Tower”, which seems too clumsy to be right. I have a little hand-drawn plan and notes taken from Coflein, but the numbering (and indeed the number) of cairns on Coflein doesn’t readily associate itself with what I’m seeing.

The entire summit area is liberally scattered with limestone blocks, making for plentiful cairn-building material. The first cairn I reach is small and to the southwest of the main summit group. I think, if it follows the Coflein numbering and descriptions, that it’s Cairn VII. Beyond it, framed by an impressive backdrop of the Sugarloaf, Ysgyryd Fawr and Blorenge, is the southeastern cairn in the group. This is a monster, about 15 metres across and a couple of metres high. It has been messed about, inevitably, but remains a truly impressive monument. The ground falls away from the cairn to the east, leaving a fine, unobstructed view across Monmouthshire. To the north, the Black Mountains ridges, centred on Pen Cerrig-calch from here, glower darkly. I wonder whether the geographical and geological divide between the limestone plateau of this hill and the sandstone ridges of the mountains across the river were reflected in tribal divisions when these monuments and the comparable cairns of Pen Cerrig-calch were constructed?

The other big cairn of the group is right on the summit, next to the trig pillar that itself surmounts a further, smaller, cairn. The summit cairn is a match for the southeastern neighbour. The be-trigged smaller cairn rejoices in the name of “Hen Dy-aderyn” (Old House of the Birds), which Coflein suggests might be linked to use as a shooting hide. The group certainly make for a great – if windy – spot for a cup of tea and contemplation. The clouds to the west briefly part to reveal the sawn-off tops of Corn Du and Pen y Fan, 15 miles or so distant.

These four cairns are the only apparent cairns here, so I can only conclude that the Coflein records include a degree of duplication.

Safely across and into the trees, the next barrows of the day are before me. Mutilated in the usual way, the largest of the Emma’s Grove round barrows is still an excellent example. I remain surprised that I seem to be only TMAer who has visited. Unfortunately this visit is hampered by snow that has turned heavier still, and I’m nearing my furthest point from home. But I’ve one more site to visit today, and as Macbeth would have it, I’m stepped in so far that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er. Besides which, I never really like to retrace my steps, there’s always something new to see up ahead. Except today, when there’s precious little to see in any direction.

I continue along the Cotswold Way to Crickley Hill. By now the snow has started to fall again and as I sit at a bench in the picnic area for a welcome cup of metallic tea I’m joined by a magpie, appropriately enough on such a monochrome day. I salute and wish him a good afternoon, after which he departs, apparently satisfied that the necessary dues have been paid.

By the time I enter the fort itself, through the entrance in the northeastern rampart, the snow is threatening to turn heavy. Freezing mist reduces visibility and photos start to become splodged. Needless to say, I am alone here today. After a circuit of the rampart, I make my excuses and leave through the woods to the east.

The path climbs up towards the edge of the escarpment, joining the Cotswold Way as it enters Barrow Piece Plantation. This name records no dredged memory of a forgotten barrow, for here is one of the finest of the long barrows of the western Cotswolds. Tree-covered, even with mound mutilated and chamber wrecked, this remains a fine, upstanding monument, every bit deserving of its “long” classification.

Stark, black-limbed trees tower protectively over the white-shrouded mound laid out beneath their feet. There is deep peace here, in this quiet place. The only sound is the crunch of my footfalls breaking the crust of snow. I came here in winter once before, when a bone-deep cold threatened to strip the skin from any hand left ungloved for more than a few moments. Today, despite the snow, the cold is much less, almost an abstraction. How easy it would be to lie down in its warm blanket, nestled here amongst the sentinel trees.

But that way lies the fate of Dr Wilson and I depart, spotting for the first time the ghost of the nearby round barrow, its very slight existence revealed by the snow.

Little Hill VII proves to be a rather uninspiring end to the day. A very overgrown cairn, on a golf course. Not one to make a special effort for, unless you like golf (I don’t). I always feel sorry for barrows on golf-courses though. If they manage to avoid being turned into a landscaping feature (like a couple of ones on Ludlow racecourse), they seem doomed to be “in the rough”, where vegetation is encouraged to smother them and legions of pringle-clad middle-aged men assiduously try to avoid them. Shame.

The second trig-surmounted cairn of the day, The Beacon is less impressive than Gelli Hill cairn. It’s quite reduced and low, but it does boast similarly expansive views to many of today’s other sites, especially to the northwest where Llandrindod nestles in the valley below. Carregwiber fort can be seen, and the Radnor Mountains provide the backdrop to the northeast. It would have been a fair size, judging by the footprint and stonework protrudes here and there through the grass. Access is easy, a footpath leads straight to the cairn across a single field from the road. I don’t stay long, but head on to Little Hill VII.

I skirt the hill below Carregwiber fort, I had tentatively hoped to get a visit in but I’m tiring and quite cold now, so decide to press on. Instead I manage a quick stop at Carregwiber stone, which is a small stone that in many places would be dismissed as a rubbing post, but here we seem to be surrounded on all sides by standing stones so it’s part of a complex. It’s a shapely, tapering stone, set above a slope to give greater prominence and a terrific view of the Radnor mountains. The ambience is rather spoiled by the carcasses of a rusting car, caravan and assorted junk in close proximity, but don’t let that put you off (too much).

From the Gilwern Hill cairn I head back north to byway and past a scenic little lake at Ffrwd. A padlocked gate across the byway is accompanied by an chunky upright megalithic slab, spotted with yellow lichen and leaning against another smaller slab. Coflein places Ffwrd stone hereabouts, this fits the (limited) description, but is it “it”? The location is only approximately near the Coflein blue dot, so it’s not certain.

I head on over to the outlying stone. It can be seen from the circle, so isn’t hard to find in clear weather. Wedge-shaped, is it fallen, was it always recumbent? There are various smaller stones scattered nearby which would make for promising packing material, but might equally just be random scatter. It has very decent views of the big cairn and over the valleys and hills to the west and northwest, I guess maybe towards Pumlumon and the major watersheds of mid Wales.

The stone circle is close to the big cairn and should be really easy to find from it, look, just follow the fence northwest until it meets the bridleway, follow the bridleway along, job done. But it isn’t, because the ground is more up-and-down than you’d think and the fences have all moved! So it takes a while to locate the circle, Mr Burl’s description helps, although he doesn’t mention the big slab in the middle of the circle (off-centre). One of the new fences hems the circle in closely on its southwestern side, not like the open field shown on the current 1/25000 map.

The circle is a ruin, and even when it was brand-spanking new would have been a little underwhelming for anyone who’d been to any other stone circles anywhere. Perhaps they hadn’t though, or perhaps the ritual quality was so impressive that the circle was nothing more than a performance space. It was all about light and magic here, maybe. To be fair, the setting is fine, with nice views especially to the west where the ground drops down to the Wye valley.

The off-centre slab is intriguing, unsure whether it’s an original feature or a more recent interloper. Big though (see picture with map for scale). The other stones are pretty small, none more than a foot or so tall, some are buried – there are mole-hills inside the circle that are taller than some of the stones. Burl reckons it’s one for the “determined”, I won’t disagree as that should be enough to bring many TMAers anyway.

I spend a good while here, wandering around the perimeter rather than sitting as I’m feeling the cold a bit now – the sky has started to clear and blue patches have appeared but there’s a distinct chill in the air and my boots are squelching a bit from the earlier downpour.

Despite the confusion of fences, the Gelli Hill cairn is a big bugger, so there’s no missing it. It helps greatly with orientation and perhaps it was always that way, helping visitors to find the diminutive stones of the nearby stone circle over the millennia. A proper, stone-built monster cairn this, damaged by digging and the addition of an OS trig pillar to the cairn’s top.There are big blocks amongst the smaller rubble, perhaps there was a central cist of some sort? It’s reminiscent of the cairn on Bache Hill not far away. To re-inforce the point, the top of the Whimble peeps into view briefly through the cloud.

There would be great views of the Radnor mountains from here, but sadly the tops are still enduring a deluge and are hidden within a curtain of grey. Luckily for me, the heavy rain that marred the visit to Gilwern Hill a short time earlier has mostly passed over, leaving behind light drizzle and a substantial drop in temperature.

One field on from the ring cairn, I leave the comfort of the broad byway and head uphill on a footpath that leads direct to the cairns on Gilwern Hill. At this point, the cloud and light drizzle turns inconveniently into a proper mid-Walian downpour. The top of the hill is cairn II itself, a large grassed-over mound the best part of 20m across and well over a metre high, with a little walkers’ addition on top that I didn’t expect to find in such a remote spot. Evidence of the mound’s stone construction is apparent from protruding stones, otherwise it could easily be taken for an earthen round barrow. A modern post-and-wire fence cuts across the southeastern side of the cairn. Aside from the lashing rain, this would be a fine spot with extensive views, particularly of the neighbouring Gelli Hill cairn.

Gilwern Hill cairn III is supposedly close by. I can’t see any sign of another cairn here. I head on down the hillside, southwest, hoping to find cairn I. This is shown on the map, but I fail to see any sign of it either, as it’s at this point that I begin to realise that the field patterns shown on the OS map have been altered and replaced by post-and-wire fence lines in other places, as well as a re-routed farm track. These re-arrangements will come back more strongly later in the walk, but here it conspires to confuse me and I fail to find cairn I. A pair of red kites hangs over cairn II on the hilltop behind me; this is obviously a little haven for these magnificent birds.

First though, there’s the small matter of a ring cairn discovered on a late-night trawl of Coflein’s blue dots but not shown on the OS map. As I climb the hillside up towards the cairn, a red kite comes to check me out, swooping low above my head to display the characteristic forked tail of the species.

Nearing the hill top, a low mound appears on the right of the path, with a number of stones protruding from the top. Here it is! It’s a decent ring cairn, fairly well-preserved, nothing spectacular but nicely sited on a high-point, with good views of the surrounding hills. If you covered it in heather instead of grass, you could sneak it onto Stanton Moor as an embanked stone circle and you’d get away with it. Definitely worth the walk and shame on OS for missing it off the map (hooray for Coflein obviously). My newfound red kite friend comes back to see what’s occurring. Not much, actually.

My ostensible purpose for starting the walk here is the “Standing Stone (recumbent)” marked on the OS 1/25000. Unfortunately, despite wandering back and forth across the general area for about 20 minutes, I find no stones. The vegetation makes it difficult to see and it could easily be hiding sneakily under a gorse bush. So reluctantly I give up and head on my way. There are good views of the prominent rocky ridge of Llandegley Rocks from here. The ridge is home to an Iron Age settlement, but it’s one for another day as I’ve got quite a walk to my next site.

Visited 17 October 2010 on a lovely autumn day of full sun and leaves gradually turning to gold. After leaving Long Stone I walk through Blake’s Wood to Staunton, an attractive village with a lovely church, a restored pound and decent pub.

At the western end of the village, a byway leads southwest to Hymens Meend, and the Buckstone is easily reached along this path. The stone is situated on an unexpectedly terrific viewpoint, with great views of the eastern aspect of the Black Moutains across the Welsh border, including the recognisable tops of Pen Cerrig-calch, Pen Allt-mawr, Pen y Gadair Fawr, The Sugarloaf and Ysgyryd Fawr, then south across the Usk valley to include Blorenge. I’m excited to see the top of Pen-y-Fan in the Brecon Beacons from here too.

The stone itself is a monster, a wedge-shaped lump weighing several tons, supported on a spindly base, which apparently used to allow the stone to rock, but no longer. It reminds me a little of the High & Low Bridestones on the North Yorkshire Moors.

Between the path and the stone are a number of scattered boulders, one of which has been (naturally) sculpted into a basin, the sort of thing that Gentlemen’s Magazines would have had lined up for Druidical blood sacrifices. Today it’s filled with water, which is cool to my dipped finger tips on this unseasonally warm day.

A quieter and more relaxing spot than the Long Stone, come on a clear, fine day and admire the views. Just don’t expect the stone to rock.

Visited 17 October 2010. A lovely autumn Sunday with evening plans limiting the distance I can go persuades me that it’s about time I ventured into the Forest of Dean. Despite living in Gloucestershire for four years by this point, I have never made it amongst the ancient glades of one of the county’s most famous areas. TJJ’s recent late summer pictures of the Long Stone are the clincher.

Taking note of comments about the busy nature of the road, I take the bus to nearby Christchurch, from where it’s a stroll along the quiet paths of Ellis Reddings Wood and Marian’s Enclosure towards the stone. The forest here is a lovely mix of deciduous species and widely spaced conifers, making for a pleasant atmosphere as sunlight slants through the canopy.

Approaching the edge of the woods, the Stone itself comes directly into line of sight. What a beauty! About seven feet tall, of sedimentary rock (I guess it’s sandstone) with a slight lean and lovely tapering shape. Surrounding by bracken turning orange, with the backdrop of trees, this really is a great stone. A couple of tendrils of ivy snake their way up the stone’s side, these will want watching if it’s not to disappear from view. Being Sunday, the road is not too busy (although busy enough) and it is possible to disregard it enough to admire the stone at some length. Perhaps not a place to lounge around, but nevertheless the fine stone is enough to make a visit highly worthwhile despite the road’s proximity.

After a while I head over the road and take a circuitous woodland route to Staunton, before heading on to The Buckstone.

I head back to Long Row and down to the road again. Alongside the road, I stop for a quick look at St Margaret’s (or Margret’s, as Ordnance Survey have it) Well. The well is behind a grill set into a modern stone façade, topped off with railings. Sadly, it lacks any kind of ambience or even much in the way of interest, behind the dense grill. I don’t linger, but head off for a walk around the various monuments on Calton Hill, as the dusk closes in.

From the rocks below and to the north of the summit, I hope to be able to see a line of six (yes, SIX) hut circles shown on the Ordnance Survey map along a rocky ridge above the forbidding sounding Hunter’s Bog. But the aerial view offers nothing, so I head down the steep path to the ridge to investigate further. The location is great, with good views and a flat surface. But of hut circles I can find nothing. Not even one, let alone the six that the map promises. There are some stones scattered about, protruding through the grass, but that’s about it. I spend a while walking up and down, sure that either I’m not in the right place or that sooner or later I’ll find something, but still nothing. Failed notes it is for this one. [I’m slightly relieved when I get home to find that the RCAHMS 1998 visit was similarly unable to find any hut circles here. Perhaps we’re all looking in the wrong place?]

Holyrood Park stretches out before me, a relative wilderness at the heart of such a cosmopolitan city. I’m immediately glad to be wearing boots, for the paths are muddy and slippery. No gentle urban promenade then. I take a path marked “Dry Dam” on the Ordnance Survey map, skirting the southwestern end of St Margaret’s Loch and passing below the fragmentary remains of St Anthony’s Chapel, perched on a rocky shelf above the water. The whole of the park appears covered in archaeological remains of one sort or another.

Dry Dam becomes Long Row, a gently sloping climb up the valley between Whinny Hill and the higher Arthur’s Seat. Tiny figures surround the trig point on the summit, a popular walk even on this grey October evening. Whinny Hill, over to my left, looks the perfect spot for a hillfort, being encircled by a series of natural terraces, but the hill is actually bare of any remains. After a while, the view to the east reveals Dunsapie, where a kidney-shaped loch provides a natural moat on the north and west sides of the flat-topped hillfort. One for another day though.

My path continues to climb, before a fork offers a choice of the lower Crow Hill straight ahead or the steeper route to the main summit to my right. I take the latter, eager to get up to the top while the best of the light remains. It’s not the best of visibility either way, a misty grey cloud hanging low and blotting out anything much further away than the centre of the city, the Pentland Hills are little more than a blue smudge.

The climb steepens, providing a view down onto the flat plateau above the Salisbury Crags cliff tops. At the top, the path turns to bare rock and becomes a near-scramble. Being a volcanic hill, the rock is hard and glassy, making it very slippery in the slight damp of the evening. The summit is marked with a graffiti’d trig pillar showing, rather enterprisingly, a sword in a stone. There are also quite a few people (mainly tourists like me) who’ve made the walk up. Calton Hill looks a long way below and even the rocky promontory of Edinburgh Castle is dwarfed by this hill, despite its relatively modest height. There is an excellent view of neighbouring Crow Hill, but from this side no traces of the hillfort remain that I can see.

So I head off over there for a closer look. The summit of Crow Hill is lower and much flatter than that of Arthur’s Seat, more suited to enclosing for settlement or defensive purposes. However, there are no obvious remains that I could see on the hill, the possible exception being on the eastern slopes. Here, some bands of rock suggest the possible remains of a rampart, but these could equally be natural. Below these, a series of cultivation terraces cut across the hill as it slopes towards Dunsapie. I walk around the hilltop for a while, still finding nothing obvious, before heading back towards the path below Arthur’s Seat.

The site is a short stroll along the road from the main Clava Cairns, access is along a neat path from Milton of Clava, where the road bends sharply southeast.

The most obvious marker is the lovely “playing card” slab, all that remains of the circle that once surrounded the cairn here. The cairn itself is disturbed and much of the material has been rather scattered, but a low mound remains, still pretty substantial. It lacks the special atmosphere of its near neighbours, and the river is unseen and unheard in spite of its proximity. The valley location is very pleasant and peaceful though, and the site probably sees substantially fewer visitors than the more famous site so close by. Certainly worthy of the very minimal effort required.

Instead we return along the road towards the main complex, where a gate leads into the field in which Mains of Clava SW can be found. Previously dismissed as a hut circle, this site has now been reinterpreted as a ring cairn after excavation. We find a decent sized but rather overgrown mound, with some exposed stonework. Obviously nowhere near as impressive as the main enclosure, but this is still a very decent addition to the group.

We head back to the Mains of Clava standing stone that we’d bypassed on our way earlier. It stands in a field right next to the road, so unless there are animals about, access is as straightforward as can be. The current OS 1/25000 shows a “Chambered Cairn” to the NE of the standing stone, but all we can see is an overgrown area with some possible field clearance. [Post-visit check of Canmore reveals nothing either.]

The stone itself is rather fine, at least six feet tall and very solid and chunky. It appears to serve as a rubbing stone, but there are no animals in the field today.

We have a quick look over the wall in the vicinity of the Mains of Clava SE site, but it all looks very overgrown and the wall in between isn’t particularly inviting for climbing, so we decline a closer look.

As soon as we’re under the trees the incredible atmosphere of this place hits home. Under a canopy of leaves turning slowly from green to autumn shades, the NE cairn is the nearest to us, surrounded by an impressive ring of upright stones. It’s almost too much for the brain to compute, the size of the cairn, the exquisite choice of stones for the circle. And then the eye relays the information that there’s two more of the damn things, right THERE. I’ll be honest – nothing I’d read about the site, no photos I’d seen, really prepared me for its raw, in the flesh, splendour. And it’s all ours for the moment, no coachloads of disinterested gawpers, just us in this magical glade. By now I’m wearing the stupidest grin ever.

Walking around the NE cairn reveals the deliberate grading of the stones, up to a slender monster all of 9 feet. Both of us walk around the circle for a while, neither somehow quite ready for the cairn itself yet. During our circuits, we admire the amazing cup-marked kerb stone. What a beautiful thing. At length we head into the chamber. It’s a little difficult to imagine this open passage as a low “creep”, in truth. But the stonework inside the chamber is wonderful and the feeling of seclusion, already heightened in the quiet of the glade, is complete in here. When we re-emerge we spend another 10 minutes or so re-circling the circle. I can’t get enough of this.

The central cairn is very different. The mound is lower and there is no passage into it (and apparently never was). Although its surrounding circle is similar to that around the NE cairn, it is connected to the cairn by a series of low rubble “spokes”, apparently at random but no doubt anything but. The effect is striking, if typically unfathomable, at least to me.

Tucked away on the edge of the site near the central cairn is a lovely kerb or ring cairn, consisting of an open ring of small boulders, one decorated with cup-marks and a cup and ring. I like this little ring very much, although it feels almost like a whimsy in the company of the three main cairns and circles.

The first thing that attracts my attention at the SW cairn is the rather unusual “double” stone in the surrounding circle. It looks like a single stone that has been split vertically and then prised apart, leaving an enigmatic upright V shape. There is so much to ponder over at this complex. The cairn itself is very fine, sitting on an even wider low mound. As well as the “double” stone, the uprights in the surrounding circle match the careful choice of those around the other two cairns. As with the NE cairn, we spend a while circling, taking in the stone over the road, sadly divorced from its family, and the couple built into the fence/wall.

While we are here a couple on bikes arrive at the other end of the site, the only people we’ve seen so far. We head into the interior of the SW cairn, noting both the lovely cup-marked stone just inside the chamber and another stone built into the walling that appears to have a single cup-mark (although I’m not aware of reading about that). I could sit and look at the different stone textures for hours, but at length we decide to head back around the site again before checking out some of the neighbouring monuments. Apart from the cyclists, we’ve had the whole place to ourselves for over an hour.

I can’t put into words how deeply this place has impressed me. I hope we can come back again, although perhaps the perfect visit won’t be easily repeated.

Luckily there’s a possible collapsed tomb to be seen at the bottom, which restores impetus and purpose to my aching legs. Next to a (medieval?) settlement, the positioning of the tomb, if that’s what it is, is perfect. It stands on a prominent little grassy knoll surrounded and enclosed by the cliffs that separate the Cwm from the Carneddau tops. The stone blocks involved are very large, well, they’re megaliths aren’t they? They are perched on top of each other in a way that doesn’t seem particularly probable as a natural landform but isn’t conclusively man-made either. But the spirit of the Carneddau is upon me and I give it the benefit of the doubt, someone can always “prove” it’s natural if they’d like to do so.

Approaching the cairn from Carnedd Llewelyn, it looks like a nothing of a marker cairn. The cairn itself is very small, even a walker looking for a pile to drop a stone onto might turn their nose up. In fact, my eye is drawn far more to the amazing views, down to Cwm Eigiau and Ffynnon Llyfant far below to the left, Ffynnon Llugwy to the right. Not to mention the Bwlch Eryl Farchog ridge below Pen yr Helgi Du. And Tryfan.

However, as we draw near it becomes clear that the cairn is beautifully positioned on a natural knoll of rock, right above the cliffs that drop away to Cwm Eigiau. If you want a suitably awe-inspiring place to lay a heroic warrior to rest, you couldn’t imagine anywhere much better. Whether this really was the final resting place of a Bronze Age chieftain, or an Arthurian knight, I still couldn’t say. The sky gods certainly have this place in their eye-line whatever.

I leave not knowing any more about its prehistoric authenticity than I did when I came, but I’m glad we came to find out. If you want a high, lonely spot away from the crowds, with breathtaking views, this might do it for you too.

The summit plateau, even more than Foel Grach’s, is a lunar landscape of shattered rock. Although it’s busy, there’s plenty of room to find a patch of solitude away from the cairn and wind shelter. On a day when Snowdon is doubtlessly teeming with hundreds of people, this lofty peak is a much better prospect. The views are simply staggering, from Carnedd Moel Siabod and Moelwyns, across to the Glyderau where Tryfan steals the show from the loftier Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach. Directly ahead of us Carnedd Dafydd fills the foreground, while the Snowdon massif itself looms beyond. Y Garn and the conical summit of Elidir Fawr complete the vista of 3,000 foot peaks before us. I would defy anyone to come here and not be moved by such a scene. I resist the urge to fall to my knees in wonder (too many pointy rocks for genuflecting).

At a gap in the stream of people at the cairn, we make a break for it and snatch a few pictures before the next visitors arrive for their photo opportunity. Much as I like quiet and unfrequented tops, it’s difficult to complain about other people here, as every one of them has had to make an effort to reach this high spot. No rack and pinion railways up here.

We swing northwest towards the summit. As we come onto the top of the ridge, we get our first view of Carnedd Llewelyn, tantalisingly close and not much higher than we are. At the same time, we are hit by the full force of the wind. Bloody hell. The walk takes on an aspect of farce as the wind tries to tear the sunglasses off my face, while my trusty map-case becomes an evil monster, smashing me about the face and arms each time I try in vain to take a photo. Like two deep-sea divers in lead boots we crawl across the landscape of broken and shattered stone that forms the summit of Foel Grach. Certainly no shortage of cairn material, perhaps the biggest cairn on the planet stood here until the wind tore it down to teach the builders a lesson in humility. I’m certainly learning that lesson right now.

We spend some time taking pictures, with difficulty. When you look at our images, dear reader, try to forget the cloudless blue and apparently idyllic setting and imagine us being buffeted and bruised by a howling gale. The things we do to bring you these bloomin’ pictures.

I joke that at least no-one has turned this cairn into a shelter, not realising that they don’t need to as there’s a proper one just to the north of the summit. Proper as in roof and mortared walls. We take refuge from the winds for a lunch stop, enjoying the feeling and sound of being in the eye of a raging storm but safe and protected from it. Other pilgrims come to interrupt our reverie and so we head back out into it. Heading south we have the wind largely behind, to speed us on our way – don’t relax though, you’ll be over a cliff if you don’t keep planting the feet firmly.

We carry on down the slope to the little river; the intervening ground requiring some bog-hopping. Lucky the weather has been dry, this could be a bit of a problem in wetter conditions. The eastern end of the Pant-y-Griafolen settlement can now be seen under a small stand of trees, from where it stretches away upstream towards Llyn Dulyn. The Afon Melyllyn is easily crossed on plentiful stones, even in spate I don’t think this would cause a well-balanced visitor (that’s us) too much trouble.

Like the nearby Clogwyn-yr-Eryr settlement, this is not well-preserved, little more than circular rubble rings remaining. It is however extensive and fantastically well-placed. It’s hard to reconcile the fact that the site is 530m above sea-level with the degree to which it feels sheltered from the elements. The surrounding Carneddau ridges are so much higher that we are completely out of the gale force winds that are blowing over the tops today. You can almost feel the presence of the people, or perhaps they can almost feel ours. I could happily stay for a while in the sunshine, but we have hardly begun the hard work of the day and so we press on.

Before reaching the valley bottom, we angle our route to take in the small settlement shown on the map on the opposite slope to the larger Pant-y-Griafolen settlement. The map shows three circular features linked by a wall, with a further square feature close by. And this is exactly what we find. Three hut circles/round houses in a line, with the low remains of an enclosing wall around the northern side, with natural outcrops incorporated into the western end. There is a more substantial structure (probably the remains of a sheep fold) adjacent on the north side. It’s not the best-preserved of settlement sites, but the positioning is lovely, on the gently sloping valley side with the mountain ridges giving shelter on most sides. On a sunny day like today, I’d move here.

Our route will decide itself as we go on, but the first bit of business is to gain some height, so we head north-west along a good track that takes us with a zig and a zag up the slopes of Clogwynyreryr. The Ordnance Survey have helpfully made this all onelongwordthewaythatGermansdo, but actually it ought to be Clogwyn-yr-Eryr (there, that’s better), which translates into English as “Cliff of the Eagle”. Nice. We don’t see any eagles, but Chris does point out the location of the Hafodygors Wen four poster and stone row. There’s a great view of Pen-y-Gaer hillfort too, a site Blossom and I have admired previously from the Tal y Fan area and must get better acquainted with one day.

As we round the rocky end of the ridge, a view of the high Carneddau main ridge unfolds, from be-cairned Drum and across to Foel-fras. It looks a long way up yet. Our path turns its face westwards and we pause to look at a couple of suspicious looking stones either side of the track. One is about six feet tall and has a hole drilled right through it, the other is about half the height. Not an obvious pair of gateposts, we joke that it must be a stone row. Then we spot a further six-foot plus stone lying prostrate in the grass and joking turns half serious. We take a couple of snaps and proceed. Perhaps we should trust our instincts more, Coflein has this down as a possible stone row indeed! We note a further upright further up the slope but don’t even give this the respect it perhaps deserved (I don’t even have a photo).