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Fieldnotes by GLADMAN

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Lamington Park Long Cairn

"A radio plays 'White Christmas'; it's been doing that for years"... so noted a young Gary Numan way back in 1979, the seemingly innocuous statement some years later conjuring up images of the dystopian nightmare within the mind of this (then) young listener wondering whether anyone would get out of the 80's alive: a world dominated by programmed machines with (presumably, if only to allow for the narrative) a residue underclass of human survivors from some unspecified holocaust; and the horror of the communist commune force-feeding the subjected population 'what's good for them'... whether they like it, or not; and, as I recall, Jello Biafra's 'suede-denim Secret Police' secreting 'uncool' people away to the gas chambers with always - but always - a smiling face. In retrospect, Mr Webb's choice of song was second to none for it's unrivalled, sugar-coated familiarity. I mean, who doesn't feel a warm and cosy glow at the instantly recognisable sound of old Bing wishing us only the best within the perennial yuletide classic? Only for that sentiment to be ripped away upon the realisation that in this context no-one could - or would? - end that maddening loop. The disturbing implication that even our most revered, favourite things can be party to a journey to the dark side of the human psyche.... if we don't keep our wits about us. Or, to put it another way: that we should question everything we're told.... the very essence of punk, as emphasised by Mr Webb's choice of the distorted guitar in lieu of the rich synthetics of the Minimoog. Are we sure the anodyne are not wolves in sheep's clothing?

Such as one of my favourite things: the tree. C'mon, what is there to not like about trees? Aside from giving us vertebrates a hefty helping hand through their penchant for photosynthesis, very little is guaranteed to elevate my mood with more alacrity than to witness sunlight streaming through a summer woodland canopy, unleashing endless variations of highlight and shade from their overcast dormancy. To experience this is to perhaps access some ancient hunter-gatherer spiritual meme filed deep within the subconscious, to have an all-too-brief epiphany concerning what we once were... and to some extent still remain. Maybe this is why my sensibilities are jarred no end whenever I see a prostrate, lifeless tree - let alone one actually being felled. Suffice to say, if I was a lumberjack, I wouldn't be alright. There is, I think, a sense of reassuring, if somewhat illusory, 'permanence' associated with a plant evolved to devote so much energy to producing a wooden trunk to reach the light... to then display the very anthropomorphic idiocy of engaging in an 'arms race' with its brethren. And yet still we have to endure 'intelligent design' nonsense from the likes of that Meyer and other myopic religious apologists. Yeah, far from being part of a divine plan.... it seems to me that trees, with their often gnarled, twisted, improvised ethic, add yet more potency to Mr Darwin's wondrous theory embracing the perfection of imperfection.

So, consider: how the hell can trees also appear so malevolent to some, such as I? A perceived sense, perhaps, of an organism living within a fragile, complex, interactive society - where, ultimately, it's a case of 'every tree for itself' - suggesting an all too human analog? Maybe tapping into another of those ancient memes whereby a solitary human can easily become prey to unseen eyes watching from the cover of... well, trees. The hunter becomes the hunted. The guardian trees no longer an ally but in league with the darker corners of the psyche, where the light of reason can not penetrate. Where the senses play tricks, previously benign branches and roots seemingly grasping for a firm, permanent hold. For assimilation. The ultimate realisation of becoming 'one' with Nature, of 'going green'. Robert Smith's nightmare scenario echoing that of Numan's: the ultimate betrayal since the most unexpected, unforeseen - when friend becomes foe.

Now, despite not having a fondness for badly applied cosmetics - and not nearly enough hair - I do nevertheless share something in common with The Cure frontman: I've always had an issue with losing myself within the forest. Well, ever since getting lost during Air Training Corps overnight manoeuvres as a kid. Fearful of that moment when the exquisite ambience of the woodland clearing is torn asunder by the realisation that I don't know my way back to the 'outside world'. Consequently, following an overnighter at Strath Rory, I approach Lamington Park having - for once - done my homework. Yeah, apprehensive of losing my way within the trees cloaking the great long cairn depicted upon the map at NH74737800, I am taking this very seriously. So, I've my route all worked out... down to the specific forestry 'rides' that will lead me to the monument. What could possibly go wrong?

Pretty much everything, as it happens. Having parked up at the foresty entrance point a little north-east of the Maybank junction, I set off with the intention of following the track heading more-or-less north, a track that will, if my 'megalithic radar' is functioning correctly, bring me within 'striking distance' of the long cairn, a little to its west. Suffice to say my systems are not functioning to optimal specifications, the anticipated turnings overgrown, camouflaged... not forthcoming, the main track consequently luring me too far to the west before - after what seems like an age - finally swinging north. I should know better, I know... but it is so hard to resist the forlorn hope inherent within 'let's just look around the next corner' which, it has to be said, has served me so well in the past. But not today. Eventually, I call time and return to the car in low spirits. Beaten by the trees?

Not yet. I regroup and consult the map. The hastily improvised Plan B is to approach via the 'waterworks' just before the junction with the road to Kildary a little further to the east. The southern of two tracks, blocked in places by vegetation, bypasses the reservoir enclosure to its west before accessing a ride to the (very) approx north-west, this, in turn, joining another heading to the south-west. Sure enough, a large clearing materialises to my right after a short interval, this occupied by a central, pronounced grassy rise. Clambering to the top, the tell-tale spread of loose rock peeking from beneath the verdure confirms that my mighty quest is at an end! I have to say I'm in agreement with Strathspey, having immediately formed the impression that the majority of material en situ represents the remains of a very substantial monument owing to the consistent, uniform nature of profile. Hey, finding this beauty was not so difficult after all, eh? At least the navigation, that is... since the inclement conditions, aided by the surrounding forest line ensuring wind is kept to a minimum, couldn't be any more conducive to swarming midges this afternoon. Merciless swine that they are. Nevertheless, armed with a compass bearing upon my exit point and a head net to negate the worst excesses of the wee beasties, I settle down to enjoy this fabulous long cairn. For wondrous it is, seemingly almost intact beneath its mostly green mantle... and of significant length.

I wander around the perimeter of the clearing to observe the scene from differing viewpoints, revelling in a vibe of such overwhelming intensity, such complete tranquillity that this traveller may as well be on the moon, not under a mile from civilisation. No wonder Michel Faber saw fit to base the superb 'Under the Skin' around these parts. One almost expects Isserley to turn up in search of vodsels.... such is the other-worldly atmosphere here in this clearing. I wonder whether it was always such: an oasis of light and space within the woodland? As it is, my watch all too quickly records "The swiftest hours observed as they flew", although I doubt even the Bard himself could've evoked the ethereal feeling of belonging, being meant to be here... "Like a door thrown open on a life I've lived before", as Midge Ure noted in 1984 following, or so I understand, a visit to Lewis's great Tursachan (incidentally it was the glossy image of said wondrous stones upon the 'Lament' album cover which first implanted this antiquarian notion in my head... thanks lads).

So, all too soon it's time to leave. However, upon leaving the clearing and heading to the left for some distance.... I find can't locate my 'cleverly placed' wooden directional markers... for the trees. Damn. However, mindful of this morning's farcical failure, I decide not to arse around and to instead return to the clearing, fix my position and take a true compass bearing upon the car. Except, circling around, I can't find the clearing again. Small problem, which perseverance only exacerbates. The forest, a mere quarter of an hour earlier the most magical of environments, is suddenly fast becoming my nemesis, the rain deteriorating - as if on cue - into a downpour. Trees loom in my path this way and that and I find my disorientation begins to escalate, the mind begins to swim. Lost in The Forest. All alone. And I had planned to reach Glen Loth before nightfall.

OK, having a map and compass is all very well... but, just as when caught within hill fog upon a summit, they are of little use when the traveller can not fix his (or her) position upon said map. I, therefore, decide to cut my losses and 'guesstimate' my whereabouts prior to taking a bearing for the road, henceforth attempting to follow it as literally as the trees - with their seemingly grasping branches and roots - will allow. Never has half a mile seemed so far, the water-laden foliage proving way too powerful a foe for my light-weight waterproofs. However, I eventually stumble out upon the road, free from the forest's soaking embrace.... only to find myself nowhere near where I should be. I conclude I've been forced too far to the west and set about remedying this. Back within the sanctuary of the car, I dry off and attempt a quick post-mortem before starting off for the planned night's stop within Glen Loth. In retrospect, it all looks so easy. However, just like repeating 'White Christmas' ad-infinitum can suggest dark, dystopian thoughts, the wondrous tree - when multiplied and set in serried rank - can also seriously mess with the brain. Or at least mine.

Waun Sarn (Cairn(s))

It was another Robert - Robert Louis Stevenson, in fact - who noted that "to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive"; a wondrously succinct way of emphasising the apparent psychological benefit to us homo sapiens of sustaining the belief, the aspiration that your 'lot' will... hey, must... improve. Even when, on occasion, such a notion seems to counter all logic when faced down by the cold reality of everyday existence. Yeah, no matter how pants life may be at the moment, tomorrow is another day; and when the likes of (pre-professor) Brian Cox dared to dream - or rather D:Ream - and assert that 'things can only get better', isn't it the fool who doesn't subscribe to such wishful thinking?

You know, now I come to think of it, this quintessential human trait may well explain the enduring appeal of the pilgrimage to some and, to expand upon that, the need for religion for the many: the focus upon the journey as representing far more than 'a means to an end', of getting from A to B... but rather the desire to be perpetually moving towards something better? At the expense of making the best of what you have right here, right now? It is this latter part which impels me to disagree with the esteemed Scot. For, to (slightly - apologies) paraphrase James Dean Bradfield from 1996: "But all I want to do is live; No matter how miserable it [sometimes] is". To experience, to feel. To be human.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no automatic contrarian - despite being in awe of the late, great Christopher Hitchens' intellect and peerless debating ability. Nevertheless, I see no sense in always looking to the future and consequently have no time for pilgrimages, the plodding of dull long-distance paths toward an unattainable, utopian ideal. Be it earthbound or metaphysical. For me, it is the here and now that should engage us, that should receive our primary focus. We should live in and for the moment, subject to securing an adequate safeguard for the future in the proverbial bank. Well, after all, life is no rehearsal. And where better to (quite literally) 'walk the talk', as our friends from across The Atlantic might say, than by getting back to basics within The Great Outdoors? Yeah, 'Come back to the land', as Dave Gahan once implored in that sonorous baritone... strip away the accumulated jibber-jabber of this Facebook age, set oneself some goals... and strive to realise them? Having said that, perhaps the sweetest attainment of all is the improvised rescue of a day fast careering toward oblivion. Snatching victory from the seemingly insatiably hungry jaws of defeat when everything's turning a bit 'Pete Tong'? Such as my chaotic - but ultimately successful - attempt to visit Gro Hill, a minor hilltop deep within the watery fastness of Cwmdeuddwr.

OK, judging by a quick perusal of the 1:50K map, upon rising from an overnight camp at the head of the dynamically cursive Afon Ystwyth - overlooked, incidentally, by the to me hitherto unknown, cairn cemetery upon Craig y Lluest boasting arguably one of THE views of Mid Wales - things should have proved straightforward enough. But then it doesn't work like that when I travel to The Green Desert of Wales. Tell me about it. Anyway, a protracted, if pleasant, north-south traverse of the Elan Valley Reservoirs eventually sees me arrive a little beyond the terminus of Dôl y Mynach Reservoir, the southernmost of an extensive chain, whereby a somewhat 'structurally challenged' bridge crosses the Afon Claerwen to access the southern hinterland. Here I ignore the abrupt dog-leg servicing Rhiwnant farm (and the wondrous Nant Paradwys) and, a little further on, a track ascending Waun Lwyd (and eventually the be-cairned Gorllwyn) to the south-east to follow the upper of two tracks heading approx north-east for about a mile. The route passes the rather fine Llannerch y Cawr medieval longhouse afore negotiating several fords, where watercourses draining said hinterland bisect the track, prior to disgorging their precious cargo into the reservoir.

Upon crossing the last of these, the Nant y Postau, I veer 'off-piste' to the east, heading for the low rise of Gro Hill upon the skyline. Now fair play to the reservoir engineers for knowing their subject since the terrain is mighty soggy, to say the least. However, what with the aforementioned stream filling the air with an agreeable ambience, reaching the crest of the hill isn't a drag. What I discover there, however, is: in lieu of the expected cairns to act as foci for a lazy day's chill out nursing a touch of shin splints, I instead see an obvious cairn some way beyond - about half a mile - to the approx south-east, crowing the northern aspect of the plateau. Checking the map, I find a 'worn section' obscuring whatever detail may have once existed. However Coflein lists nothing upon Waun Sarn... so I conclude the distant cairn must be my objective and, as is often the case, The Green Desert has beguiled me.

The location is certainly a fine one - classic upland, in fact. Furthermore, the monument possesses, in my opinion, a more-or-less certain prehistoric pedigree evidenced by a pronounced, embedded footprint underlying the modern marker cairn. I plonk myself down and survey the scene. And what a scene! South-westward, the Dôl y Mynach reservoir, with dam overflow adding pleasing kinetic detail - the fine brushstroke, if you will? - draws the gaze to the sentinel peak Drygarn Fawr and its twin, iconic beehive cairns. To leftfield, Gorllwyn, the second 2,000 footer, features a further pair of monuments. Both summits offer a wondrous wilderness vibe belying their relative lack of height above ordnance datum, an atmosphere only amplified further by their splendid isolation and difficulty of access across seemingly limitless bog. To the north, the hydrous landscape stretches away the horizon, the surprisingly apparent dearth of visible surface water testament to the relatively uniform topography of Cwmdeuddwr's uplands contrasting with its steep-sided cwms... and proving once and for all that a utilitarian landscape need not offend aesthetic sensibilities. While below to the approx north-east... the linear Bronze Age cemetery resplendent upon Y Gamriw overlooks the obscure stone circle of Crugian Bach. All is silent, save the occasional shrill battle cry of a patrolling Red Kite soaring high above... and, yes, the distant, almost imperceptible sound of ever-present water in motion. No wonder Shelley found inspiration hereabouts. I mean, how could he not have when the very landscape itself is poetry, invested with perpetual motion by the elements?

The close proximity of Y Gamriw does not sit at all well with what I've attempted to convince myself thus far: that I'm enjoying a classy sojourn upon Gro Hill. Yeah, the angles... the landscape geometry simply does not fit. To resolve the conundrum I decide to go find Gro Hill's reported summit cairn... and can not. It just is not there. So that's that settled, then: clearly the cairn I've just had the pleasure of meeting is an unrecorded example upon the north-western prow of Waun Sarn's summit plateau. Pretty obvious in retrospect, I guess. Satisfied with my elementary deduction - no shit, Sherlock - I head southward, descending a rocky spine toward Pwll Tribeddau, source of the Nant Rhyd-goch, henceforth veering northwards along Esgair Gwar-y-cae. Coflein lists several monuments in the vicinity of the ridge, but such is the height of the industrial-strength fern cover - the unbridled astringency of terrain - that I can not say for sure what, if anything, I found. With the notable exception of what appeared to be a multi-phase settlement, judging by the juxtaposition of structural styles in situ.

Struggling for fitness now - owing to the ludicrously verdant vegetation ensuring onward progress is very difficult indeed, fern fronds grasping at my legs as if I was an extra in Ultravox's 'Thin Wall' video - I nevertheless decide to cross the Nant Rhyd-goch and (finally, at long last) check out the cairns upon Gro Hill to the north-east. The Pteridium are unrelenting, but ultimately not enough to prevent me from returning to... the exact same spot I had stood this very morning! This time around I venture a little further to the north and am duly greeted by a well-defined round cairn with kerbing still in situ. So there you are. Once again, the monument occupies a grand spot, albeit, it has to be said, not in the same class as that looming above upon Waun Sarn. Owing to the day's shenanigans time is now limited, but I resolve to use whatever I have to appreciate the vibe here. To ascertain, to the best of my ability, what the landscape has to 'say'. The overriding impression is of immense space.... the gaze drawn upward to an overwhelmingly vast sky filled by great billowing cumulonimbus clouds placing everything we say, do and think in its proper perspective. Mere ants upon the greatest of stages, perhaps. But working together, ants can achieve the seemingly impossible, right? A little further north sits another monument, ravaged and robbed, but nonetheless there, accompanied by wind tousled vegetation. There are other, smaller examples, too. But all too soon I must leave and begin the return leg to the car before darkness falls.

Back within my metal carapace, I ponder the elapsed day. Yeah, what should have been a simple chill-out ended up being nothing of the sort due primarily to human error. My error. Instead, it was so much more: the opportunity to discover something I had no idea existed; to find myself adrift within an unforgiving landscape yet persevere, regroup... and win out in the end. To learn something not only about Cwmdeuddwr.... but ultimately, about myself. To appreciate the moment, not the prelude. To grasp that, for me, it doesn't matter how you get to where you want to be.. wherever it may be. Only that you make the attempt while you can.

Tarrenhendre (Round Cairn)

I once read - in an interview with Andy Partridge, perhaps? - that one of the defining idiosyncrasies of an Englishman (one assumes an Englishwoman, too?) is a propensity to 'make lists'... or was it 'to collect'? Clearly, the memory isn't what it once was. Whatever the case, both could be seen as manifestations of that oft-derided 'insular character' so readily applied to a specific, indigenous male demographic of this island of ours. If so, it's probably fair to say such a generalisation is applicable in my case - with one important caveat: I like to collect 'experiences', memories... not things. Some bad; the majority, hopefully, good. All are worthwhile additions since, as Mr Cope pointed out some years back everything, the positive and the negative, fuels, helps to inform my 'Rock 'n Roll'. Albeit running to a rather more European-esque, sequencer baseline.

Now while naturally, I'm aware that 'writing stuff down' is of benefit to the, er, advancing memory, maintaining the designated hierarchy when planning visits, for example, can be problematic when one is open to influence by external stimuli, by sensory perception. A case in point being Tarrenhendre. Indeed, a return to this relatively obscure outlier of the wondrous Cadair Idris, while certainly upon 'the list' was, to be frank, so far down as to be languishing within the proverbial 'footer'. There simply are not enough days within our fleeting turn upon this global stage, this cabaret... sometimes Liza Minnelli dark, sometimes Ethel Merman bright... this ongoing story of humanity. Factor in the, according to the map, almost prohibitively steep final approach from the south against perceived benefit and we get to the crux of the matter: the vagaries of the human mind (or at least mine)... "So, what's in it for me?" Hey, I guess I'm no different from most other people, right? To attempt to be more succinct: the large, round cairn dimly recalled from my youth crowning this 2,076ft summit - OK, technically a little way to the approx south-east of the highest point (for all us supposed geeks and assorted misfits who've always thought 'Architecture and Morality' wasn't pretentious, simply classic art) - and this inquisitive traveller were not set to rendezvous once again in the foreseeable future... if ever again?

That is until that aforementioned sensory perception saw fit to do its subliminal thang last month as I wandered the bleak fastness of Pumlumon: sea views absorbed, as if by some kind of osmosis, upon the exquisite hillfort of Pen Dinas, rising above Bont-goch Elerch; a shimmering horizon noted upon the sentinel peak herself, Pen Pumlumon-Fawr. Seemingly disparate, peripheral moments, yet electrical impulses across synapses constructing something much more. Yeah, just like the organic, beyond sensual voice of Regine Fetet, infused with 'Je ne sais pas', somehow merged, coalesced with Hard Corps' precise, robotic, Kraftwerkian beats to create a new, sublime synergy back in the mid-80's (or maybe even Vince and Alf, if you prefer?), it required the input of all Mr Partridge's 'senses working overtime' to ensure I find myself parking-up beside the farm access track to Rhos-farch, a little north of Pennal, under a leaden sky promising nothing very positive, to be honest.

The sense of inauspiciousness is heightened by the all too real perception that I am a very unwelcome guest, judging by the brusque refusal of the arriving farmer to even acknowledge, let alone reciprocate, my friendly greeting. What is it with some people? OK, walker/landowner relations can sometimes get a little fraught, with neither party able to claim a monopoly of righteousness... but to my mind, there is no excuse for such sheer bad manners. Whatever, the gurgling Afon Pennal has sufficient class to compensate for any number of apparently ignorant people and I'm nevertheless, inspired to go walkabout. The farm access track bears a ravaged notice proclaiming 'Private Road'... however since such-like are never (in my long experience) an impediment to rural wandering on foot, I head off down the track to join with the public footpath ascending Tarrenhendre's southern ridge. However, upon achieving said junction, a retrospective glance at the exit gate reveals another notice declaring the route I've just taken as 'out of bounds'. I'll leave you to make your own judgement. But what's done in good faith is done, right? The public footpath - or rather stony track - arcs to the left before branching steeply right to advance across the lush grass of Ffridd Rhosfarch, the primary line servicing the old quarry within Cwm Ebol.

OK, before proceeding any further I should declare a fair degree of favouritism toward the Afon Dyfi (Dovey). Yeah, as much as I'm captivated, in turn, by the aesthetic appeal of the Mawddach, the Dwyryd, Snowdon's very own Afon Glaslyn, the wild Ystwyth of Cwmdeuddwr, even... and surely no river executes a more emphatic discharge to the sea than Pumlumon's Severn (Hafren)... only one watercourse rises within the ancient, traditionally lawless heartland of Ardudwy, cradled within the rocky bosom of Aran Fawddwy. I guess, no matter how we might deny it in polite company, we all harbour a fascination for the outlaw, the moody outsider? And this approach to Tarrenhendre offers arguably almost the finest of all vantage points to witness the former Llaethnant continually achieve its full potential. Second only to the view from the summit ridge rising above, in fact. Needless to say, the impact is greater upon the descent.

In due course the path arrives at the bwlch below Tarren Rhosfach, the space more-or-less occupied by sheepfolds, whereby the 'ask' demanded of me by the mountain to reach the top becomes all too readily apparent. Ouch. A near-on vertical ascent upon grass with no discernible path to speak of, the 'zig-zag' depicted upon my map notwithstanding. Which, when you think about it, is not really surprising? I mean, who in their right mind would want to climb up there to see an old pile of stones? Point taken. Particularly with tendrils of unforecasted hill fog beginning to grasp at the summit towering to the north, above the headwall of the cwm of the Afon Alice. Which begs the obvious question, just who was Alice? (wise to leave Roy 'Chubby' Brown out of such a deliberation, methinks?). What is beyond doubt, however, is the fact that I must earn my rendezvous the hard way by expending every joule of energy at my disposal. The fenceline running the length of Y Tarenau's extensive main ridge - some seven miles of it - is an correspondingly awful long time a'coming, something which appears to be a recurring personal theme nowadays. Nevertheless I... eventually... arrive at the crest of what is named Mynydd Esgairweddan upon the 1:25k ODS map, a pretty featureless 'lumpy hump' which refuses to divulge the whereabouts of some apparent monuments listed by Coflein with anything approaching ease. Suddenly feeling somewhat nervous due to the inclement, not to mention deteriorating conditions, I elect to head straight for my ultimate goal... and resign myself to having a detailed look upon my return. The 'umbilical cord' fenceline, reassuringly, heads unerringly to the great cairn of Tarrenhendre. Too unerringly, in fact, ignobly bisecting the monument in the process. But there you are.

And 'great cairn' it certainly is! Despite the dual indignity of wire and rather pathetic modern marker cairn plonked on top, there is no muppet shelter to be found here, the monument seemingly intact and standing apparently inviolate upon its coastal perch. Although featuring a grassy mantle, the cairn boasts a fine profile and relatively consistent elevation. Check! As noted earlier, the great stone pile does not occupy the actual summit of Tarrenhendre. However, to my mind the visitor doesn't need to look far for this apparent oversight, if not error... indeed, the evidence is all around: staring, awestruck, to the south-west, the magnificent vista towards Aberdyfi and Cardigan Bay highlights the anfractuous course of the Afon Dyfi to perfection; to the approx west, the aforementioned ridge of Y Tarenau is seen snaking away toward Tarren Cwm-ffernol and the significantly be-cairned Trum Gelli, the latter visited a few years ago; while to the south, looking across the sinuous river to the upland cemeteries upon Foel Goch and Moel y Llyn - the latter, incidentally, the subject of another localised 'lady in the lake' legend - the gaze, with eyes straining to penetrate the swirling mist, finally comes to rest upon the summit of Pumlumon herself. Pen Pumlumon-Fawr. Mother of Rivers.

And so the subliminal workings of this challenged mind achieve their goal by finally reversing the perspective of last month. Yeah, for me there can be no doubt behind the placement of this cairn. It had to be, surely, the epic outlook such a position presented, the overview of the Dyfi reaching the sea? To check this theory out, as any good scientist would insist an enthusiastic, er, layman should, I make my way to the summit to discover it is, indeed, simply not in the same league as its panoramic neighbour. OK, that's not to say the views toward Dyffryn Dysynni, yet another upland cemetery gracing Allt Lwyd, not to mention Cadair Idris (although the latter is mostly subsumed in vapour) are not expansive - hey, I even reckon I can make out the iconic hill fort upon Craig Yr Aderwyn? - but, let's face it.... the Dyfi is the business around these parts and, owing to the relatively uniform topography of the summit plateau, this traveller can only conclude the great cairn is where it needed to be. Needs to be, in fact.

And there's more. Following lunch perched upon the craggy eastern face of the mountain, looking across to Tarren-y-Gesail (Y Tarenau's cairn-less summit top) progressively losing an ongoing duel with the all-encompassing hill fog, I return to the cairn to chill out - a little too literally, unfortunately - and discover a further, completely grassed-over monument a little to the approx north(ish) of the star attraction at SH6839103998. According to Coflein, this represents:

"Remains of round barrow standing 1m high and eroded away to an almost rectangular shape on the windward sides. Approx. dimensions 7m x 4m. S.D. Lowden, Archaeophysica, 1 June 2006."

So there you are. In fact Coflein cites another prehistoric site, but that is not forthcoming in the billowing mist. Perhaps it's just me? Checking the time I realise I have to make a move to reach the car before dark. Like, er, now? So I begin the descent and, despite another quick review of Mynydd Esgairweddan, do not discern anything I could say, with my hand on my heart (not that I'm attempting to dump Kylie, or anything, you understand?) matched Coflein's descriptions. But there you are. The descent back to the bwlch is not exactly what tired, aching legs would choose if they were sentient, but what has to be done, has to be done... and the views of Dyffryn Dyfi, free from the gathering gloom, really are exquisite compensation. Arriving back at Rhos-farch I briefly consider ignoring the 'Einreise Verboten!' but, in accordance with my moral code, decide to give the landowner the benefit of the doubt and stick to the 'official' route. I mean, how far can it be? And no one with a realistic, holistic view of life in 2019 would deliberately take actions to discourage tourism, the very economic lifeblood of Wales? Surely not? Hmm. Prospective visitors should note that it is, in fact, a considerable diversion so I leave you to consider the intelligence/morality of suchlike. So, more-or-less dead on my feet, I finally arrive back at the car. It's been a long, challenging day, both physically and mentally. And, upon reflection, one I wouldn't have undertaken if it hadn't been for the subliminal deliberations of this lump of grey matter we call the human mind. Ah, introspection. Guess it's what separates us, alienates us from the other creatures inhabiting this crazy, spinning globe. I mean, Molly, my cat, will truculently bite me one moment, yet smooch up 30 minutes later as if nothing had occurred. No sense of 'memory'? Or maybe she's simply ruthlessly manipulating me for her own ends? Dunno. But there's no way she would ever consider climbing a mountain. Lazy cat.

However, if 'introspection' is, indeed, what locked us out of the primaeval forest and gives us so much pain... joy and, crucially, hope for the future... You who are about to be introspective - I salute you!

Pen Pumlumon-Fawr (Cairn(s))

Ah, Pumlumon.... I've never been able to determine, to articulate the origin of the apparent synchronicity that exists between this often world-weary traveller... and the soggy summit of The Cambrian Mountains; this synergy inspiring me to efforts well outside my comfort zone, drawing me back to these bleak uplands time and time again where, or so it would appear, so few modern antiquarians see fit to tread nowadays.

OK, consider: there is the unrivalled rising of THREE major Welsh rivers upon the main ridge according Pumlumon the status of fountainhead extraordinaire; there is its location, both geographically and within the national consciousness, blocking access to the fastness of Gwynedd, natural fortress of yore, from the south - pivotal watershed in more ways than one; then there is Pumlumon's inclusion within the exclusive traditional mountain triumvirate of Wales (the others being, of course, Yr Wyddfa herself and Cadair Idris); and last but certainly not least, the fact that the local Bronze Age inhabitants saw fit to erect Wales', arguably the UK's, finest collection of upland cairns upon Pumlumon and her subsidiary hills. You know, upon reflection I reckon all the above are pretty compelling reasons to visit. But considered in unison the mix is overwhelmingly potent.

Consequently, it's rather ironic that the decision to ascend to the sentinel summit once again was - as seven years previously - a spur-of-the-moment thing made following three days wild camping below. Yeah, packed and ready to leave upon a glorious, cloudless morning the sight - or perhaps the sound, the 'aural sculpture'? - of the cascading Maesnant proves the catalyst for an abrupt change of plan. A volte-face or, if you prefer, Amy Winehouse's '180'. To be fair, it does happen to me. Quite a bit, in fact. Clearly it would take minds far exceeding mine in complexity to rationalise such apparently arbitrary choices in a coherent manner; however should one of those 'engineers' from Ridley Scott's 'Prometheus' happen to suddenly appear brandishing a 'universal translator' gizmo, what odds that the fast-flowing waters were revealed to be saying something akin to "And WTF do you think you're doing on a day like this, muppet? Up you go and let's say no more about this, capisce?"

Whatever, it's good advice since cloudless mornings at Pumlumon, in my experience, tend to be notable by their absence. Hence, despite a gaping hole in my left boot acquired the previous day, I shove everything back in the car boot and set off steeply uphill alongside the left-hand (northern) bank of the tumbling stream. The path, such as it is, is certainly soggy, but since rivers not only run through here but are endlessly reborn here, what else should one expect? Just not ideal with a hole in the footwear such as to cause Neil from the Young Ones to have a really heavy bummer. Indeed, the route soon crosses the access track to one such river's 'womb', the Llyn Llygad-Rheidol (Eye of the Rheidol) cradled beneath the powerful, craggy northern face of Pen Pumlumon Fawr, now beckoning to the approx south-east. From here the view is that of restrained anticipation, rather than head-spinning primaeval beauty - just as I like my approaches. Well, you wouldn't tuck straight into the main course of a cordon-bleu meal without the hors d'oeuvres, would you? Or perhaps you would?

As chance would have it I happen to catch up with another punter, previously some way in front, taking a breather before the final push to the summit. However any triumphant exclamations of 'Get in there! There's life in this old dog yet!' are stifled at source upon ascertaining said gentlemen is not only an octogenarian... but also convalescing from a recent heart attack. Yeah, clad in a 'Cwm Ystwyth' T-shirt - a none too subtle clue to the whereabouts of his retirement home (and, incidentally, site of a wild camp earlier this week) - he's happy to discuss the relative merits of large scale geological maps versus the current OS series.. or rather 'educate' since I know nothing of the former... and can barely use the latter, even after all these years. One thing we can agree upon with more-or-less certainty, however, is there is 'something' about Pumlumon... so quiet, trodden by relatively few boots etc.... and there are surely few more rewarding places to be this morning. The irony - yes, that again - is therefore not lost upon me when having bid farewell and made (very) surprisingly short work of the final ascent, I'm greeted by a horde of ramblers seemingly poured over the summit like Lyle's Golden Syrup over that pudding I used to have as a kid. To be fair the 'person in charge' does apologise for the rather excessive noise of her charges.

Nonetheless, miserable bastard that I am, I instead retreat eastward to enjoy a peaceful, extended sojourn overlooking the aforementioned Llyn Llygad Rheidol. This is arguably the finest perch upon Pumlumon, with the quartzite blocks of the Cerrig Cyfamod Glyndwr, shining beyond the brooding tarn to approx north, drawing the gaze toward a horizon crowned by Cadair Idris and The Arans. Here, at this classic spot making a mockery of all who seek to arraign this wondrous mountain with charges of monotony, minutes imperceptibly become several hours until, eventually, I venture a little further west toward an apparently inauspicious bog to the north of Pen Lluest-y-Carn to labour the point. For here, within this infelicitous marsh, rises none other than the sinuous River Wye (the Blaen Afon Gwy). Furthermore, as if having two prodigious watercourses seeping from the very earth in the immediate locale isn't enough.... just a mile or so further to the north-east, beyond the massive cairns of Pen Pumlumon-Arwystli, can be found the birthplace of the Afon Hafren; the mighty Severn. This traveller knows of no other comparable landscape within these Isles. Frankly, the mind swims at the realisation, at the significance of what we have here set among the great cairns. This is the compelling reason to come to Pumlumon.

But what about the cairns? Yeah, forgot about those. Returning to the now-empty fastness of Pen Pumlumon-Fawr's summit a diverse trio of stone piles can be appreciated, each affording magnificent panoramic views, particularly to the north-west where, gazing out across a multitude of similarly-endowed lesser hills to the distant Dyffryn Dyfi, the rounded green tops of Y Tarenau catch both my eye and deep consciousness. Not that I realise it yet. South-westward, the main ridge connects Y Garn, resplendent with its own massive Bronze Age behemoth, to the sentinel, while to the west Aberystwyth sparkles in the autumn sunshine, in turn, marking journey's end for our pre-eminent senior mountaineer's own river. Of the three cairns, the central has by far the largest footprint, if not elevated profile; in fact, it is so large - and unfortunately so disturbed (has there been significant slippage?) - that it is debatable whether any authority can ever definitively assign dimensions. Suffice to say, the incomparable Miosgan Meadhbha looming over Sligo notwithstanding, it covers the largest surface area of any proper upland cairn I've seen and holds three 'muppet shelters' with ease. Although the educated will weep at the actions of such ignorant people. Stupid is as stupid does, as Tom Hanks perceptively remarked once upon a time. In stark contrast, the northern monument is, by Pumlumon standards, rather small. But nevertheless nicely formed.

Which brings me to the southern cairn, arguably combining the aesthetic best of both worlds with a classic profile incorporating significant volume of stone. By any account a classic upland cairn, particularly when appreciated in context bathed in the warmest of warm light ... but, as usual it's all about where they put it. Crucially, crowning a mountain that, for me, defies all classification. Unique, teeming with prehistory, Mother of Rivers and occupying a salient position within this nation we call Wales... perhaps it is its very idiosyncrasy that places Pumlumon in a class of its own.

"And a man said, Speak to us of Self-Knowledge.... But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure" (thanks Claudia).

Carnedd Moel Siabod (Round Cairn)

There are, I reckon it's fair to say, both positive and negative attributes to 'spontaneous action'. Ah, spontaneity: anathema to some - the methodical thinkers, planners, those with compartmentalised car boots ensuring everything is always in its right place (one assumes Thom Yorke is an advocate?)... yet a prerequisite to others - the instinctive, inquisitive, opportunistic, the reckless, even? As for myself, I guess I fall between camps... as I do for most things nowadays. Implacable opposition to religious and political extremists (particularly farcically ignorant, far left champagne socialist 'rappers') naturally proving the rule. Yeah, plan for the worst, but be prepared to improvise at short notice. Seize the opportunity. Speaking of which...

A passing shower, pounding upon what back in the day would've been canvas, wakes me with a jolt at Fferm y' Rynys, my tent, if not exactly in the shadow of the great long barrow of Capel Garmon - unfortunately sunshine is required for such a phenomenon - certainly not too distant. Upon gingerly emerging from my erstwhile cocoon I note a seemingly immutable mass of opaque, grey vapour looming where the elegant profile of Moel Siabod should be to the west. Should be, but as experience informs, all too often isn't. Nevertheless, as dawn gives way to early morning, these clouds progressively realize a warmer, more optimistic glow suggestive of change... sufficient, in fact, to prompt me to head toward Capel Curig to see what's what. One of the wettest places in the UK? What could possibly go wrong? However, sure enough, Moel Siabod's facade is present and very much correct, towering above the cascading Afon Llugwy at Pont Cynfyg. Now there are some that maintain rivers 'talk' - divulge their story, if you will - to the susceptible. If so, perhaps the Afon Llugwy should be accorded a PG rating? Whatever, the subconscious duly primed, the penny finally drops upon passing the shiny 4x4s aligned outside Plas-y-Brenin... why not reacquaint myself with the summit cairn? Ah, the moth to the flame....

Spontaneity triumphs in the ensuing deliberations and - before I have the opportunity to reflect and countermand - I set off, skirting the eastern extremity of the Llynnau Mymbyr to ascend into the trees, that familiar, intoxicating blend of nervous excitement/determination/what-the-hell-am-I-doing-you-muppet? to the fore. The path is initially heavy going underfoot: wet rock, slippery following the recent rain, the slitheryness factor exacerbated by fallen leaves... however, as height is gained and the woodland left behind it morphs into a straightforward grassy/muddy plod all the way to the top. Well, almost, that is. More-or-less. That 'the top' is a very long time coming - and takes everything I've got in my available energy reserves - probably signifies more about it being some thirteen years since my last ascent of this mountain than anything else. But there you are. With grandstand retrospective views to Y Glyderau and Y Carneddau, thankfully unimpeded by the cloud of morning, to animate the all too necessary frequent pauses... a traveller can't exactly complain, can he? Not that any spirits or other similar manifestations contravening the laws of physics that may - or may not - frequent this apparent behemoth beached humpback whale of a mountain, would give a monkey's if I did. Eventually, I reach the crest of the summit plateau, whereby the landscape suddenly explodes - hell, like John Hurt's chest in Alien - into a shattered disarray of mechanically weathered dolerite intrusion. Yeah, the 'shapely hill' bears its jagged teeth in no uncertain manner assuring further onward progress is no easy matter.

Finally, there it is. The cairn. Now as upland cairns go... structurally speaking, it is a poor example, having been hollowed-out by successive multitudes of unschooled walkers to provide shelter from the wind. Or rather, to judge by the very significant footprint, a pale evocation of its former self. Unfortunately, all this is to be expected in this day and age. Anyhow, noting that, owing to my early start, none of the aforementioned muppets is as yet on the scene, I take the opportunity for closer inspection. But not before applying every item of kit I have brought with me in an - although not totally successful - at least B+ attempt to keep out the punishingly brutal cold wind. No need to vandalise scheduled prehistoric monuments... if you understand your environment. Funnily enough, it does tend to be windy upon mountain summits. Although it has to be said that the application of thermal underwear over boots is not to be recommended. Not a good look. Although observing what passes for 'fashion' these days I'm pretty sure someone would buy it.

Anyway, the solo exploration reveals unexpected detail: a large slab and associated lesser fragments suggestive of a former cist, an assumption given further credence by what look very much like two small orthostats still remaining in situ within the 'shelter'. How these have survived the millennia upon such a popular mountain is beyond me, it really is. And yes, the circular footprint is indeed much more extensive than I recall. But it is where they put it that counts. Yeah, the archaeology, of course, is but of secondary importance to the sense of place. It is the landscape context that makes this the archetypal spot to set your Bronze Age VIP on the road to eternity. Or David Byrne's 'nowhere', depending upon your point of view.

Although this is my fifth visit over the years, the spellbinding vistas nevertheless continue to blow the mind. The key here is Moel Siabod's isolated location, standing aloof at the eastern extremity of Y Moelwynion and, to be honest, sharing little of the characteristics of its neighbours. Its elevation, measuring up at a very respectable 2,861ft, is also noteworthy thus ensuring the aesthetic dividends to be enjoyed here are among the finest in all Snowdonia. In my opinion. Today, all the old friends are present and correct: to the north, beyond the eastern heights of Y Glyderau and the obscurely wondrous long cairn at Bwlch Goleuni, are the massed summits of Y Carneddau bristling with upland cairns; to the northwest across Dyffryn Mymbyr and its cists, the chaotic, natural rockpiles of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr separated by the unearthly Castell-y-Gwynt... the latter in its element today overlooking the soggy stone circle beside lonely Llyn Cwmffynnon; directing the gaze further west, beyond Llanberis Pass, is the Snowdon Massif, sentinel peak Yr Wyddfa subsumed within its customary cloak of grey; then Nant Gwynant and Y Cnicht... the remainder of Y Moelwynion, some peaks standing in mute, ravaged homage to Wales' former industrial heritage; eastward toward Betws-y-Coed (reversing my dawn view), the moors of Denbighshire, Y Berwyn. In fact, it is only to the south that the iconic 360-degree panorama is interrupted... by the summit itself. Easily rectified. Ah, there you go. The Migneint and Southern Snowdonia. Tick.

Here the uninitiated punter will be in for a shock, the bulbous form of Moel Siabod's northern flank - so apparently benign when viewed from the shores of Llynnau Mymbyr - catastrophically transformed in an impressive display of naked rock plunging toward the gaunt, restored keep of Dolwyddelan Castle, set far below within Cwm Lledr. Here, too, is Daear Ddu, a superb natural route of ascent (one of the finest in Snowdonia) from the glacial corrie tarn Llyn-y-Foel, a shining glint of water visible sheltering far beneath the towering north-eastern ridge. It was here (at SH71005520) that, if Coflein is to be believed, a fabulous Bronze Age shield was discovered in 1784. Surely not? But then again, what an appropriate location! I make an extended stop here to delay returning to the increasingly more popular summit, my mind swimming as a rainbow arcs across the void. Was there really a priceless treasure to be found at its base a couple of centuries past? Whatever the truth, there is certainly priceless treasure of a more metaphysical nature to be experienced here today. Steady now. But don't just take my word for it... similarly impressed, by all accounts, are a couple of 'scally' climbers struggling past... we share a brief mutual epiphany. Top lads, eyes aglow with wonder.

With a little over an hour or so before I must begin my descent, I return to the now deserted summit... and find Moel Siabod has one more surprise for me today. With minimal warning - as if a boxer flooring his opponent with a zero backlift uppercut - the cloud base swirling above Cwm Lledr and the excellent Y Ro Wen suddenly envelopes all, sending me into a claustrophobic environment of looming apparitions and spiralling wraiths of moisture. An abstruse world seemingly for my eyes only. The sun, however, refuses to submit... and, upon executing a 180, I find myself face to face with... myself. A Brocken Spectre, a rainbow kaleidoscope of colour illuminating my shadow as if I've become the 'Ready-brek Kid' styled by JMW Turner himself. That's making the assumption it wasn't the former occupant of the nearby cairn going walkabout? Or a ghostly warrior muttering 'I'm sure I left it hereabouts?' No, definitely the wind. I think. Wow, what a finale.

Returning to the cairn I make a compass bearing for Plas y Brenin and, after confirming this with one taken earlier (as is my way) and throwing a respectful nod to times - and people - past, I set off back down the mountain. Overjoyed, but a little unnerved, too. Emerging from the gloom I find my bearing is true, but nevertheless I'm quite a way to the west of the path. Rain moves in during the final half-mile and I realise my window of opportunity was indeed but fleeting. Spontaneity, eh? I'm all for it. But best take a compass....

Cwm Bwch, Great Rhos (Round Barrow(s))

The Radnor Forest, that compact horseshoe of heather-clad summits rising to the north(ish) of New Radnor, has, for me, always stood aloof within the canon of Welsh mountains; not really belonging, yet nonetheless indispensable to anyone attempting to understand the 'big picture'. Yeah, despite possessing more than a hint of the unforgiving topography of Y Berwyn and - not surprisingly - that of the not-too-distant Black Mountains, culturally speaking, at least, the distinctly Anglo Saxon nomenclature prevalent here sets the region apart. Too distant from the Mam C's to facilitate day trips and not easily accommodated within itineraries focussed upon Rhayader, 'out of sight' too readily became 'out of mind'... that is, prior to viewing - in seemingly glacial time - a sprawling, grasping tsunami of hill fog envelope all from the ramparts of the excellent Cefn-y-Gaer hillfort last year. So, the burrowing worm of curiosity was set upon its impetuous course; not quite as dramatically as the Ceti eel larvae scenes in The Wrath of Khan, perhaps, but inexorably nevertheless.

So, one year hence I happen to notice a brief hiatus in the usually inclement Mid Walian weather patterns actually coinciding with my travel plans. For once. Now if I was a religious man - or even Leonard Cohen - I might well have uttered a 'Hallelujah!', if only inwardly. However, I'm not, so a wry smile must suffice until, sure enough, blue skies overhead, following an exhausting early morning drive from Essex, confirm we are good to go. That's both the determined 'Captain Mainwaring' me and the counterbalancing 'Sergeant Wilson - Do you think this is wise?' me. Somewhat disconcertingly, a full twenty-four years have elapsed since my only previous visit to the 2,165ft summit of Great Rhos; a comparatively recent seven since a sojourn upon the wondrously Silbury-esque Whimble and parent Bache Hill... so Great Rhos it is, then, the approach from the west seemingly most conducive to success, bearing in mind my wonky knees and Harley Dingle-related uncertainties. Well, I like my visits to the hills to be a blast, but not literally so. Furthermore, unlike the aforementioned tops and, indeed, Black Mixen, Great Rhos's trio of Bronze Age round barrows are not located at the summit, but upon the dramatic northern and southern flanks of Cwm Bwch to the north-west, precipitously plunging facades of grass and rock riven with prominent water-sculptured gulleys. Hey, it's almost as if the people who erected these monuments knew what they were doing?

A minor road winds its sinuous way northwards from the A44 at Llanegley to eventually terminate within Cwm Ffrwd at - appropriately enough - Cwm Farm, whereby I'm subjected to a rather farcical 'interrogation' by a young(ish) farmer-type on a quad bike.... 'Where are you staying?'... 'Dunno, depends. Wild camping'.... etc. Mindful of leaving the car unattended for the duration in such circumstances, I bite my tongue. For once. Anyhow, a public footpath ascends very steeply eastwards to attain the summit of Cefn-y-grug at a cross dyke, the western flank of Great Rhos utterly overwhelming the scene beyond despite its 'modest' elevation. From here I follow a rather eroded upland byway to the approx south-east to, in turn, gain the southern headwall of Cwm Merwys... leading eventually to the summit. The retrospective views to the west are as exquisite as they are expansive, the captivated gaze drawn toward the distant Cwmdeuddwr Hills and, further to the north, Pumlumon herself. Perhaps not household names to some. But in my opinion, they should be.

However, the summit can - indeed must - wait for a while since it is time to keep an appointment with the southern-most of Great Rhos's tumuli, this a little to the north at SO17566414. Although bisected by a fenceline, the monument possesses both relatively substantial form and sublime positioning. Although clearly located so as not to overlook Cwm Bwch, the equally, if not superior, setting of the northern barrows is readily apparent across the unseen void. It dawns upon me that the descent to Cwm Bwch will be very, very steep indeed... but such is the overpowering, almost spiritual majesty of this landscape I have no choice but to visit, to experience. To be drawn into the melodrama. I would suggest the Bronze Age architects were only too aware of the possible quasi-hypnotic outcomes of the manipulation of psychosomatic processes up here. I could, quite literally, stay all day upon this wondrous perch... but there is so much to see.

The diversion, to approx south-east, to visit the summit of the mountain is much more arduous than the limited height gain would imply upon the map. Trackless plods across rough, heather-clad upland moor are like that. However, eventually, the concrete OS triangulation pillar is within my grasp, the deep defile of Harley Dingle more-or-less isolating Great Rhos from the rest of Radnor Forest, the craggy, western elevation of Great Creigiau a fine precursor to the great, truncated cone of Whimble itself. Yeah, as monumental an achievement as Silbury is, nobody does it better than Nature. Not so auspicious, perhaps, is the massive antenna standing beside Great Mixen's summit round barrow. I guess I should also mention that Harley Dingle, a live military firing range even during my first foray here 24 years ago is now, so it would appear, 'out of bounds' to walkers following a recent extension of the Danger Area "well beyond the confines of the valley itself." I'll post a link within the Miscellaneous section of the Whimble and Bache Hill page for reference.

So I retreat to the north-west and circle the headwall rim of Cwm Bwlch, keeping the forestry line to my right, to descend to the pièce de résistance of the day: the pair of round barrows at SO17586497 and SO17576494. The southern-most is by far the more impressive, perhaps even mirroring the monument seen in skyline profile to good effect across the gaping cwm... however it is the locale, the landscape context.... which truly blows my mind. Set almost upon the very lip of this grassy spur with vertiginous perspectives down to the valley floor, complete with serpentine stream, one simply cannot ask for more from an upland monument. To the approx west, I make out the 'Shepherd's Tump', another round barrow overlooking Cwm Ffrwdd from the north. I had intended to visit, but all focus is now upon enjoying the moment. And then reaching the car. In one piece. Without plummeting headfirst to oblivion.

The descent to Cwm Bwch is as ludicrously steep as I anticipate, verging upon the perpendicular, in fact. And, furthermore, is followed by an unbidden uphill grind to the cross dyke upon Cefn-y-grug upon reaching the nascent river. Just what I wanted at the end of the day. Not. Nevertheless, the hardship is but fleeting, relatively speaking. The retrospective of the barrow-crowned horseshoe is music to my eyes; the near-silent ambience, enlivened by just the subliminal sound of water upon displaced rock... and my own heavy breathing... likewise to my ears. A near-perfect natural symphony so complex as to overwhelm narrative cognition. Yet so simple.

If the insights of Newton are anything to go by I reckon Nature is pretty pleased with Cwm Bach.

Beinn na Caillich (Cairn(s))

Now while there are obviously much, much worse things to endure than a day (or two) of trademark driving Highland rain seemingly intent upon proving Mr Newton wrong - in every conceivable respect - with its sheer gravity-defying persistence, that's not to say the spirit can't flag somewhat under the sustained onslaught. For what it's worth I rely upon one of WS Churchill's idiosyncratic maxims to see me through: 'When you're going through hell, keep going!'... perhaps better expressed in the secular as 'Keep Buggering On'... or, if 'text-speak' acronyms are your thing, 'KBO'.

Suitably inspired, and not subscribing to the warped doublespeak uttered by the democidal Stalinist apologists Orwell warned us would keep on exploiting the credulous to this very day, but rather the knowledge that the universe very much does not revolve around me, I persevere. To greet the following dawn beneath the exquisitely contoured profile of (Broadford's) Beinn na Caillich - instead of in my bed back home - inferring from the swirling cloud base that there might, just might, be an opportunity to correct a forced omission from last year and visit the 'other' Beinn na Caillich. The one overlooking Kylerhea, that is. Although lacking the titanic summit cairn of its gloriously mammarian 2,402ft namesake, this mountain is nevertheless eulogised as the last resting place of Grainnhe, wife of Fionn, whom students of Celtic mythology will recognise as head of the mystical warrior-giant clan The Fiennes.

Yeah, the folkloric pedigree could not really be any higher, could it? Trouble is I baulk at the prospect of the perceived severity of the climb; forewarned is not always forearmed. Hence, and before I can change my mind - yet again - I set off along the A850 toward the mainland, soon enough veering to the right to follow a wondrously single track road descending through Glen Arrochar to eventually terminate at the Kylerhea ferry. Caol Reithe in the vernacular, this little hamlet apparently name-checks another of those behemoths of lore, Mac an Raeidhinn. Suffice to say it would appear the long jump was not his forte. But there you are; neither is it mine. Aside from said ferry plying its summer trade across the water to the glories of Glen Elg, Kylerhea is home to an Otter Sanctuary, the latter serviced by a more than adequate car park. Now, having found I lacked the extra 'oomph' to ascend both Sgurr na Coinnich and Beinn na Caillich from Bealach Udal last year, starting from more-or-less sea level this time around strikes me as being a somewhat nonsensical thing to do. But hey, two rather Germanic-looking ladies 'doing Skye' override the cautionary inner voice... and no doubt 'tweak' those miscellaneous male insecurities a gentleman is obliged not to mention in polite company. 'OK, let's give it a go', I whimper to myself. What could possibly go wrong?

Despite being nowhere near as hot as last year, those extra c1,000ft of ascent - following the tree line to the north-west of Beinn Bhuidhe across a mercilessly rough, trackless terrain - exact a pitiful toll. Furthermore, as if that was not enough, the Allt Grianach and Allt a' Choire Buidhe have carved formidable gulleys into the landscape, isolating Coire Buidhe, as if by defensive design, behind great 'V-sectioned' ditches complete with glacis scarp, although the cascading watercourses do accord the opportunity to replenish an already much-depleted water supply. Really hard going. In retrospect, it might well be a better idea to circle around to the left instead of right... but hindsight is a wondrous thing, is it not? So, rather the worse for wear I eventually reach the high ground beyond and continue northwards, my not-so-cunning plan being to arc around and make the final ascent of Beinn na Caillich from the (hopefully less brutal?) northern flank since, much to my chagrin, the southern appears prohibitively steep to these glazed eyes. Nonetheless, the 2,401ft summit is a long time coming... so much so that I have full empathy with Craig and Charlie when it comes to collapsing at a feminine threshold. Tell me about it, my bespectacled friends.

The sheer breadth of the panoramic vistas to be experienced from Grainnhe's domain is breathtaking. Or at least would be if I had any breath left in me to relinquish. Surrounded on all sides, save the west, by water, it's fair to say aficionados of coastal viewpoints will want to come here. To the north stratocumulus clouds dispense their erratic aqueous content upon Loch Alsh and its environs... however, keeping a measured distance like predatory border collies only too aware of the consequences of losing control, Beinn na Caillich remains inviolate all day. How's that happen, then? Beyond, the undulating, occasionally serrated skyline of Glensheildaig Forest, Applecross and mighty Torridon stretches away to apparent infinity. It is a mesmerising sight, one within which even the artificial construct of the Skye Bridge does not disappoint with its graceful arching span of concrete. Indeed, select any azimuth upon the compass and it is nigh on impossible to find fault, the optic nerve overwhelmed with data at all times. Jeez. Hey, even looking 'inland' - as much as one can upon Skye - the 'other' Beinn na Caillich more than holds its own in foreground profile before a peerless Black Cuillin horizon, the 'Old Man' looking on from Trotternish with apparent detached indifference to the two 'Old Women'. The nomenclature accorded the landscape by us humans suggests a need to grasp the time immemorial - and not let go. The implication of permanence, being overseen, protected by the ancestors upon the heights still; a palpable exigency of the current state of affairs having to reflect the way things have always been, perhaps? A baseline to help make sense of an ever-changing world.... nevertheless, the hills and mountains remain as they were, the cairns still reassuringly gracing the skyline? Or... were they viewed as Lennon's 'folks on the hill'? Something to be feared, but necessary to maintain order?

OK, a viewpoint to last an eternity. But what of Grainnhe's cairn? How does it compare with 'Saucy Sue's' across the way? Simply put, to my mind it doesn't. What could? Although substantial enough to grace many of the summits I've had the pleasure of spending time upon, clearly this cairn would not suffice to represent the last resting place of a giant... even a presumably elegant, feminine one. However, there are, to my mind, more factors in play here than sheer bulk, the volume of stone. Consider: Undertones versus Beethoven? Well, I happen to think the world is a better place for having both the 6th and 'True Confessions'.... not to mention the sublime 'Teenage Kicks'. Multiple, disparate viewpoints approaching the same dilemma from differing angles. Human emotion, why we feel what we feel. And more to the point, what it actually feels like to feel. Perhaps you do, too? It is those emotional sensibilities, the apparent tactility with the landscape suggested by the extreme environmental conditions... the epic physical and mental struggle just to be here.... the feelings associated with - and driven by - where this cairn IS that makes it so special for me. In short, it's the location itself that matters. The primaeval, proto-monument.

As I sit and ponder whatever comes to mind the two 'Germanic' ladies duly arrive by way of the 'prohibitively steep' (ahem) south flank. Funnily enough, one is indeed German, both as blown away as I am. I assist with photographic duties and in due course, they continue toward neighbouring Sgurr na Coinnich. However, having been there, seen that... done it last year I opt to - if not stand on the shoulders of giants - at least hang out in their 'abode' until advancing time insists I begin the descent or face benightment. Now, being well versed in the legendary antics of another of the ginormous brethren, Idris, I reckon I can be forgiven for not wanting to risk the latter option. Mythical or not, it's all in the mind, you see?

I end the day with The Five Sisters of Kintail a resplendent vision in skyline pink, a widescreen Copeian panorama through the windscreen at Bealach Udal. Brutal, uncompromising... yet compellingly beautiful at the same time. The summa of my visit here, perhaps?

Sling (Burial Chamber)

Now, despite being well aware that a visit to Sling - or Frondeg, if you prefer - was long, long, long etc. overdue, a spare hour or so before dark... in absolutely appalling conditions... and with a hole in my left boot, to boot.... probably did not constitute the ideal circumstances to introduce myself to the area, to be fair. But hey, what could possibly go wrong? I mean, how difficult can it be for a guy long practised in locating obscure cairns upon hill-fog cloaked summits to find a monument a couple of hundred yards from the road? Come on, really? But there you are; suffice to say I've never possessed a plan, for better or worse. Clearly, since I never actually located the primary monument, I'll need to return at some point. Preferably not in a torrential downpour conjoining with near-zero visibility to fiendishly diabolical effect, though...

The reason for this lamentable personal muppetry is simply that, like Ironman before me, I had no doubt whatsoever that the secondary 'fallen stone' first encountered when leaving the public footpath represented the capstone of a burial chamber (possibly earth-fast?) supported upon what I saw to be clearly defined orthostats, the whole surmounting the remnants of a cairn.... albeit covered by industrial-grade brambles such as to cause even Br'er Rabbit to pause to consider options. Or, to put it another way, THE burial chamber I'd come to see. As that Kurgan bloke said in Highlander, 'There can be only one'. Who's ever heard of two such monuments so close together in North Wales? Malin More, yes, but Gwynedd? Naturally, the fact that, as usual, I had not done my homework - and therefore was not aware of the specifics of what I was actually looking for - duly negated the need to venture further into the soaking mist. So that was that. But again, there you are.

What particularly puzzles me in hindsight, however, is the almost total absence of detail upon Coflein, or, indeed, anywhere online concerning this secondary site? How can such an obvious - to me and Ironman at least - burial chamber, however it may be subjectively categorised, not have generated some interest? Hey, any interest? Does anyone know what was going on here back in the day, because it seems to me that here we have nothing less than a megalithic cemetery slumbering amidst the quarrying residue west(ish) of Bethesda?

Browsers of the 'Archaeologia Cambrensis' - see link - will notice that pages 62-63 of Volume 13, Series 3 give a brief mention of other internments being discovered in the immediate locale c1855 (to judge by the somewhat nebulous 'nearby'). I know, I know... I hark on. But a traveller can perhaps be forgiven for thinking some professional archaeologists maybe favour the showpiece Wessex sites for, er, non-professional, personal reasons? Let's face it ... you will never see a myopic Guardian reporter turning up at Sling demanding to know why CADW and 'The Tories' (who else?) haven't done more to protect what may lie forgotten, unseen, round about here. It's a scandal, I tell you! The Sling and arrows of outrageous fortune, as Will Himself almost put it. Most certainly not during periods of proper North Walean weather the Bethesda locals take in their stride. Coats? We'll have none of that southern tomfoolery here, and no mistake. So basically, who cares? Well, call me a hopeless romantic, but I happen to believe the prehistoric heritage of Wales is every bit as important as World Heritage show sites. One can't complete the jigsaw with a piece or two missing, can one?

Needless to say, I fully intend to have another look at some later date and form my own opinion... with my own eyes. I hope I have the opportunity since despite - or perhaps even because of - the inclement weather, I sensed this place is the real deal. With a story that deserves to be told.

Beacon Hill (Barrow / Cairn Cemetery)

Fire. Arguably no other natural phenomenon evokes more ambivalence among us homo sapiens inhabiting this crazy, spinning globe. Consider: on the one hand - thanks to our predecessors' ability to (tentatively) harness its positive attributes - fire was the catalyst for human colonisation of the planet, enabling the roaming omnivore to process an increasing diversity of otherwise indigestible flora and fauna; on the other, a merciless predator biding its time, waiting for an opportunity to consume all in its path. Guess it's fair to say fire is intrinsic to our existence. Throughout history - and, so it would appear, prehistory, too - fires have been lit as foci both for celebration and less salutary events... the passing of the dead, the signal beacon warning of impending invasion; even for consuming effigies of a certain conspiratorial, regicidal mercenary. Food, warmth, the metaphysical, communication, bonkers traditional 'celebrations' - our fascination with this dangerous, quasi-life form goes back a long way.

Consequently, I arrive at Beacon Hill with this perpetual curiosity relative to all things 'combustible' far from sated. Unlike the celebrated, c3,000ft 'Beacons' overlooking Brecon some way to the south, the exothermic reference is not expected here, an obscure hill a few miles inside the border and, ostensibly, the former stomping ground of that man Glyndwr. Relatively speaking, in the middle of nowhere. Furthermore, why the association with a quartet of Bronze Age round barrows crowning the summit? If signal fires were raised upon them in lore, why here? One should don the boots and simply be curious, methinks.

A short way south of the little hamlet of Dulas upon the B4355, the thoroughfare shadowing the River Teme through exquisite countryside - and, incidentally, passing a fine round barrow at Fedw Llwyd - a single track road heads roughly SW to access the very prosaically named 'The Farm'. A local, careering around upon a quad bike, doesn't object to my parking within the yard, nor, thankfully, is there any sign of a scouse 'groovy train' in the vicinity. Well, to be fair, the latter would've been most inappropriate within such an idyllic, sleepy, pastoral environment. That being said, there's no sleep 'til Beacon Hill... so, on foot now, I follow the road northward before the route, morphing into a bridleway, veers abruptly to the west to gradually ascend the southern flank of Fron Rocks. It's a pleasant stomp, a fair maiden encountered advising me to 'continue climbing to the end where the path to the top is obvious' - or something like that - no doubt a charitable alternative to 'why don't you use your map, you muppet?'.

Circling the head of the cwm, a track does indeed ascend (more-or-less) NW to the top. At c1,795ft the summit of Beacon Hill isn't going to invoke gasps of awe/amazement from the card-carrying peak bagging punter.... for me its appeal is much more esoteric, insidious even. Deceptively benign... as subsequent events are to prove beyond doubt. Reasonable or not. The distant vistas are expansive, to say the least. That to the west a veritable smörgåsbord of green hills leading the eye in an arc from distant Cwmdeuddwr to Pumlumon herself. Mid Wales observed through the wide angle lens, represented upon a canvas of colours muted by the overcast light. However, it should be noted that owing to the rather uniformly flat topography of this hill, vertigo-inducing views of the near locality are conspicuous by their absence. Yeah, the penny drops.... reverse the viewpoint and Beacon Hill is the obvious place to place a signalling beacon to be visible from a significant distance. Which would be the whole point, would it not?

Which brings me - literally - to the primary round barrow, surmounted by an OS trig pillar. CJ Dunn ['The barrows of east-central Powys', Archaeologia Cambrensis 137 (1988)] reckons it is of '..Approximately 20m diameter and 2m high..'. So pretty substantial, then, a noticeable 'scoop' from the top possibly the work of the usual treasure hunting vandals of yore.... or perhaps representing the former base of a beacon? I sit, ponder, drink my coffee.... and brace myself for the arrival of a fast approaching weather front which in very short order renders all preceding thoughts of 'fire' frankly irrelevant, if not ludicrous, with its sheer, primaeval intensity. Ditto, any musings concerning the views. What views?

So, with not far off zero visibility there's nothing for it but to go walkabout and check out the other three round barrows gracing this hilltop. The most obvious sits (perfectly?) upon the near north-western skyline at SO1754776859 and is 'approximately 25x21m, and 1.5m high' (again according to Mr Dunn). The third, located at SO1772976775 - and to be honest quite difficult to discern within the heather and swirling mist - is 'approximately 16m diameter, 1.5m high.' The final monument stands to the south-east (SO1778876733), again pretty substantial at 'Approximately 16m diameter and up to 1.5m high at the south end'. Stripped of their landscape context by the all-pervading grey, clammy vapour it is, at first, difficult to fully appreciate what we have here upon this windswept Mid Walian height.

Then, suddenly - as Billy Ocean might have noted if he'd ventured up here - Beacon Hill has new meaning to me... as the claustrophobic, orographic condensation is swept away in one glorious instant to reveal the surrounding landscape once more. Fair to say that, for me, an appreciation of upland cairns/barrows and the views from them are mutually inclusive considerations. OK, my perpetual curiosity may have been satisfied for a while; I might have ascertained why Beacon Hill may well have been seen as a focal point of the locale in times past - in a number of ways. However even such adverse conditions as experienced today could not extinguish the fire in the blood that still acts as a siren call, drawing me to these high places. Long may it continue.

Foel Frech (Round Cairn)

About half a mile south of Cerrigydrudion - yes, the village immortalized in song (well, in certain 'antiquarian' circles anyway) by Mr Cope back in 2007 - the B4501 leaves Thomas Telford's A5 to immediately cross the Afon Ceirw at Pont Moelfre, prior to cutting across the hills to Frongoch. Now, should the latter also sound familiar.... well, to be fair, it should. Since it was here that Michael Collins, among others, was interned in the aftermath of the farcically inept Easter Rising of 1916, no doubt busy laying the foundations of his public - albeit ultimately personally tragic - eventual triumph of the Anglo-Irish Treaty of 1921. The landscape here certainly echoes such lofty ideals and I'm verily captivated by the vivid colour contrast as the low early morning light periodically illuminates the flanks of the valley. Suffice to say the words to further elucidate such natural beauty will not come to me just yet. After all, to paraphrase Dave Gahan backstage at Pasadena in 1988, I ain't no Wordsworth.

So, there's serious history in them thar hills. However as momentous as such events may be I'm today mostly wearing my 'prehistoric hat'; and boy, does it need a wash. Speaking of which.... be careful what you wish for, my friends. Anyway, in due course a single track road at Nant-y-crytiau ventures northward across Cadair Benllyn, subsequently veering westward upon encountering a multi-gated cross roads beside an old chapel, to eventually terminate at the isolated farm of Blaen-y-cwm. As I negotiate the final livestock barrier I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of, by all accounts, the smallholder, his initial countenance one of bemused bafflement at my very presence. He rather brusquely enquires whether I speak Welsh, presumably since (clearly) no tourist would venture here in a million years? Or thereabouts. As it happens I do not. Although in mitigation of such a heinous crime most Welsh people I know do not speak Welsh either. Including members of my own family. Nevertheless my explanation, to the effect of planning to go for a walk in the teeming rain to find an ancient burial cairn, strikes him as perfectly rational behaviour for an English gentleman. As long as I fasten the gate behind me, mind. Well, after all, one doesn't get much opportunity to venture forth in the midday sun. In North Wales.

At Blaen-y-cwm a green track-cum-bridleway makes it way in a south-westerly direction, ascending across the eastern flanks of Foel Frech to a gated bwlch (col). The track veers approx north-west to (eventually) meet a metalled road accessing the former medieval pilgrimage hub of Ysbyty Ifan astride the Afon Conwy; however, not requiring sanctuary at this time, I instead cut across the western aspect of Foel Frech to (eventually) locate the Bronze Age cairn marked upon the map. Sited overlooking the Nant Llan-gwrach a quite considerable distance below and to the north-west of the summit, the monument occupies - or at least did at the time of the visit - a position that may be plausibly described as, er, 'rather wet indeed'. To be honest this was always going to be the case given both the topography... and fast moving fronts of vicious, driving hail.

Now there are occasions when venturing out in seriously inclement weather - particularly upon the hills - can result in a veritable working over by Mother Nature for no real correspondingly tangible reward. Tell me about it. However it soon becomes apparent that here, set within the not insubstantial remnants of this cairn, we have the clear and rather copious remains of a large cist still extant. Furthermore, the intervals between hail fronts are denoted by the sweeping washes of golden light so prevalent earlier in the day. In such conditions, despite leaky boots overwhelmed by the sheer deluge of frozen precipitation ejected by the looming, at times overbearing, cumulonimbus, this wild hill side is the place to be right here, right now. Well, for a Citizen Cairn'd, anyway.

Those interested in the technical detail should note that Coflein reckons the monument is:

"...circular in plan and measures approximately 6.5m in diameter by up to 0.4m high. It is well constructed with densely-packed stones and has a cist in the centre. The cist measures 1.4m long by 1m wide and 0.4m deep. It has a long vertical cist slab running along the southern side and a shorter slab on the eastern side. There is a further shorter slab that has been displaced and is sat on the northern edge of the cairn... " [P.J. Schofield, OA North, 16/9/2009].

As is usually the case, however, it is the landscape context which makes a visit here so worthwhile, the cairn's obscurity assuring a great, windswept upland vibe. However it is as a viewpoint that the site really excels since, arranged in serried rank to the west, sit the mountains of Northern Snowdonia in all their expansive glory, Moel Siabod standing vanguard to the fore. Well, at least in the welcome, brilliantly lit intermissions between hail storms, that is.

Now should there be, due to some currently unfathomable breech of the laws of physics and everything science holds dear, mountain gods inhabiting these regions, suffice to say they are a bunch of mischievous, nebulous rogues, so they are. Well, put it this way: I've lost count of the number of times when, a mere few hundred yards from reaching the sanctuary of the car nice n'dry... the heavens duly open. Such is the case today. Hey, if one didn't know better it's almost as if....

Foel Ystrodur Fawr (Round Cairn)

Motorists travelling south upon the A470 between Trawsfynydd and Dolgellau may well find their gaze irrevocably drawn to the undulating, albeit somewhat serrated, skyline of Y Rhinogydd… prior to Cadair Idris, Snowdonia's last, emphatic hurrah before Pumlumon, seizing centre stage upon the wide screen. As a result none but the most inquisitive - or possibly pedantic? - tourists will consider heading east to penetrate the wild hinterland of the Afon Lliw sandwiched between the near 3,000ft heights of Arenig Fawr and Aran Fawddwy. Only traversed by a gated, single track mountain road, the paucity of traffic here is perhaps understandable, a cursory glance at the map highlighting many apparently more tasty fillings elsewhere. However there is much to be said for adopting a minimalistic approach once in a while, grasping the opportunity to cleanse the landscape palate, so to speak; to get off the beaten track.

Having said that, the start is not overly auspicious: the mock ski-chalet complex of Rhiw Goch suggestive of muppets in shiny new 4x4s enduring 'outdoor experiences' (the former ski centre having apparently now closed down). However all is forgiven when noting this is actually a recycled army training camp. Furthermore the nearby, excellent monolith of Llech Idris (him again) and Sarn Helen/Tomen y Mur stand (if a track can be said to 'stand', that is) mute testimony to the fact that folk have been passing this-a-way for millennia. Anyway... beyond the wooden cabins the minor road follows the course of the Afon Gain to a rather fine little stone bridge before climbing to the summit of Pen y Feidiog, subsequently descending to cross the fledgling Afon Lliw at the farming hamlet of Blaen Lliw.

I feel a sense of everything having a pragmatic reason to exist here... of there being nothing superfluous, nothing but sine qua non. Although, of course, that may well be just middle class fantasy on my part. What is (once again) beyond doubt, however, is the continuity of the human story here, the evidence for which lies above and beyond in the form of two obscure prehistoric cairns. Obscure? Well, neither are indicated upon either the latest 1:50k or 1:25k OS map, so thanks are due to the wondrous people at Coflein. The larger of the pair sits below and to the south east of the summit crags of Foel Ystrodur Fawr and according to CADW "is circular in shape and measures c. 5.5m in diameter. The cairn is shallow and rounded in profile, measuring c. 0.4m tall". [F.Foster/RCAHMW 04.10.2006]. A little to the east of Blaenlliw Isaf farm a livestock gate allows access beyond a drystone wall and proves the key to locating the monument upon its little terrace: once through it is possible to park within an old quarry(?) a short(ish) distance on the left.

Having donned boots and scrambled a little to the north the aforementioned wall will be discerned heading approx north, then, in plain wiry mode, north-east beneath the slightly higher of the rocky Foel Ystrodur twins to the Afon Erwent. Yeah, potential visitors should note that the official bridleway is not much use here, heading eastward. Contrary to my expectations the cairn sits to the north of the fence line; however a helpful stile eases progress in this respect, so no matter the slight faux pas.

OK, the cairn isn't that large, doesn't show signs of a former cist (that I could determine, anyway), nor kerb. In fact not much at all… yet it is immediately apparent that this monument occupies a special place in the landscape. The mighty Arenig Fawr rises, unseen within a mass of opaque vapour, to the immediate north-east, the shapely Moel Llyfnant - to approx north-west - proving a little more obliging by periodically slipping its clammy raiment from the shoulder to reveal a prominent summit (the peak is incidentally well worth an ascent from Blaen Lliw). To the south Dduallt is visible (head for Pont Aber-Geirw and Cwm yr Allt Lwyd for this one), although no doubt The Arans would dominate the horizon in better weather? The silence is absolute, the vibe consequently superb .... so much so that a Citizen Cairn'd can readily absolve the map makers of the oversight, appreciate why the OS passed this one by. Well, c'mon - the local farmer(s) aside - who but a loon 'off-piste' hill bagger would have reason to venture forth upon this wild hillside? Who indeed?

I decide to return to the car in a circuitous manner, via the second of the cairns (at SH81943306) a little to the south-east of the rocky outcrop Bryn Cau. This is a smaller, more ragged affair set upon a saddle just above the road. In other circumstances I might have been inclined to cite it as 'clearance'.... but here, upon this lonely moor devoid of any loose surface stone? I think not! With a superb vista of the Lliw Valley there for the taking just a little to the east, it is abundantly clear that this cairn was specifically sited NOT to overlook the course of the Afon Lliw now flowing toward Llanuwchllyn.

To be fair I have noted other instances of such apparent constructional pedantry elsewhere in the Welsh uplands - e.g the pair of cairns upon the Nantlle Ridge's Y Garn immediately spring to mind - where the act of negating a field of vision has appeared (to me) a conscious decision requiring not a little effort. Perhaps suggestive of local inclusion at the expense of peripheral passers by? Conjecture, of course. But it is a worthwhile exercise to have ventured here to contemplate such things.

Gelli Ffrydiau (Hillfort)

In my opinion this is an exquisitely sited little hill fort overlooked - nay, completely dominated - by the wondrously sinuous Nantlle Ridge to the south... and the much more elephantine bulk of Mynydd Mawr to the north-east. Needless to say both the latter heights feature their share of formerly interred Bronze Age VIPs, although, as one versed in such matters may suspect, no inkling of cairns can be determined from down here. Indeed, there is more than a hint of Cadair Idris's wondrous Pared-y-Cefn-Hir enclosure in the overwhelming mountain vibe to be experienced at this obscure spot, if not the defensive archaeology, which here is much more compact, more coherent in nature.

The all important water feature, arguably a prerequisite in any classic landscape, is to be found in the Llyn Nantlle Uchaf to approx south-west, the lake perhaps best eulogised - in paint at least - by Richard Wilson in 1765, his focus naturally being upon the grandeur of Snowdon and her cohorts framed by, and rising beyond, the jaws of 'Drws-y-Coed' to the east. One can almost hear the faint reverberations of a mighty 'I don't believe it!' still echoing down across the centuries. Likewise Mr Turner also came here to have a gander. Well, the brusque gentleman did get around a bit, to be fair. And it would've been rude not to pay a visit to such an iconic location in passing.

As it happens, contrary as ever (albeit due to the topography), my eyes are drawn in the opposite direction to those esteemed artists of yore, away from the magnetic pull of Yr Wyddfa-Fawr to gaze across the alternately shimmering/glowering tarn to the 'Three Brothers' perched overlooking the distant Lleyn coastline. Ah, Tre'r Ceiri! The titanic 'Town of Giants' occupying the inner of the far triumvirate. Perhaps Wales' finest hillfort, no less! The small enclosure where I perch riding out a sudden, violent hail storm is no such thing, existing upon a much more unassuming scale; perhaps a temporary citadel for folks living their daily lives below in Dyffryn Nantlle; or maybe just home to an extended family unit not necessarily on their neighbours' Christmas Card list? However I would suggest - recommend, even - that there is 'something' here that warrants a little of your time. Indefinable, perhaps, but none the worse for that. Previously cited as a 'Settlement' upon older OS maps, the substantial nature of the defences for a relatively small site soon convinces this traveller that the current OS denotation of 'Fort' is much more representative. As for Coflein, they have this to say:

"A sub-circular defended hill-top enclosure that measures approximately 30m in diameter. It is defined by drystone walls/banks that comprise of medium to large unworked stones that have been built into irregular courses that measure 2m wide and 0.50m high." [P.J. Schofield, Oxford Archaeology North, 3/2/2006.]

So... motorists venturing through Drws-y-Coed and traversing Dyffryn Nantlle, perhaps intent upon visiting the seaside, will be none the wiser regarding what lies above, such is the obscurity of the 'fort. I eventually parked up opposite the eponymous farm buildings and made my way to the defended crag via a walled track a little to the east. Very steeply. Presumably the former inhabitants actually knew what they were doing and there exists a better way?

Esgair Beddau, Cwmdeuddwr (Cairn(s))

Ah, Cwmdeuddwr. So, what's in a name? Now whilst Welsh speakers will no doubt already have a pretty good idea where I'm heading, those unfamiliar with the vernacular, but nonetheless harbouring a fascination with language, with words... may be interested to discover the prosaic epithet transposed to my mother tongue as 'Valley of the Two Waters'. Or something like that. It would be churlish to deny that there certainly is a lot of water in these parts; however my understanding is we're concerned with two rivers here: the Afon Ystwyth and Afon Elan. Not house hold names to the uninitiated, perhaps, particularly with that superstar of UK rivers - the mighty Wye - flowing a few miles to the east, en route from its enigmatic birth upon Pumlumon to subsequently caress the less rugged landscape of blighty. However it is fair to say both of the underlings have their moments: the nascent Ystwyth undertaking an initial alacritous, youthful cascade through Cwm Ystwyth to finally merge with the Irish Sea at Aberystwyth... clearly with nothing more to prove - an analogy for life itself maybe?; the Elan, flowing in the opposite direction, of course gives rise, in a quite literal sense, to the wondrous water world of the Elan Valley Reservoirs so beloved of travellers and tourists alike. Mind you, I'd wager even Costner couldn't find 'Dry Land' here in Mid Wales.

Yeah, water. For me, one of the signature features of the Cwmdeuddwr Hills is the supporting cast of a myriad crystal clear streams feeding the ever-demanding reservoirs. Arguably, few offer a more impressive spectacle than the Nant Cletwr where discharging into the Craig Goch Reservoir, here spanned by an old stone bridge carrying tourists upon their motor itineraries looping back toward Rhayader. Now, according to a scrawled annotation upon my somewhat distressed map, I stopped here on 15/4/95 and duly observed: 'Good valley and falls'. 23 years later... a stone track leading westward along the northern bank to the (now derelict) farmstead of Lluest Abercaethon beckons the curious traveller onward into the unknown. Should he feel so inclined. I do, as it happens. Well, as Einstein once famously said, "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious....". Now, whether or not one believes in the faster-than-light neutrino, I reckon Al had 'beauty' bang to rights.

Speaking of which the track, although traversing a working landscape devoted to sheep husbandry, as you might expect in Wales, is not without aesthetic appeal, this courtesy of the aforementioned river. The farm buildings stand in stark profile at the head of the cwm, roofless, gaping door and windows in drystone walls inviting - or rather compelling - the traveller to enter and view what was once a glowing, vibrant hearth in curiously hushed reverence. Beyond the stock control paraphernalia and fence lines: the open hillside. Here, at SN87156877, my map shows.... bugger all. However owners of the latest 1:25K version will note a 'mound' at said spot. I prefer the much more enigmatic 'Tumulus', but there you are. To be honest this is but splitting hairs, not that I've much to spare myself, you understand, since Coflein has no doubt that this represents the remains of a round barrow. A pretty substantial, impressive one, too. Furthermore, the monument has no corresponding issue with 'top cover', duly sporting a mop of that ubiquitous 'tussocky' Mid Walian grass so luxuriant that even Boris might well consider reaching for the shears. When not spouting shite about Brexit, that is. It's all that rain, see? Whatever, it surely doesn't take an Einstein to deduce that the sight of early morning light illuminating the round barrow is infinitely preferable to that upon Mr Johnson's napper? Theoretically speaking... not that I've experienced the latter. The barrow's positioning is excellent: surrounded - nay, encircled - by the bleak, clean lines of the grassy ridges of Cwmdeuddwr stretching away into the hinterland, the latter strangely inviting under blue skies. A natural amphitheatre.

So, that's the 'easy bit' over, then. Yeah, tell me about it. No more tracks to ease a Citizen Cairn'd's progress across this brutally uncompromising landscape. To the (very) approx north-west one of the aforementioned ridges, Esgair Beddau, is my next objective, the site of two obscure cairns. Again, these are absent from my map but highlighted upon the new in that wondrous 'antiquarian' typeface. Don't you just love it? Now this is the point where I reacquaint myself with the equally wondrous Nant Cletwr, the erosive action of the river across millennia ensuring I must descend steeply to, then step over its nascent flow prior to undertaking an equally abrupt upward scramble beyond. Suffice to say the cairns are not exactly upstanding. However, upon electing to follow the vague ghost of a sheep track to the west, I finally notice an orthostat peeping above the grass. This belongs to the western of the pair; there are more uprights, albeit of lesser size, it being - in my opinion - fair to state the sum of the whole representing a former kerb. There is also what appears to be the remains of a cist, although in no great repair. The companion cairn, a short distance to the approx east, lacks the surviving orthostats of its neighbouring monument, but compensates the traveller with a more obvious cist element... if still not conclusive. But there you are. It is the overwhelming sense of place which engulfs here, not the archaeology.

Needless to say both cairns share the same 'other worldly' vibe, their lack of stony profile ensuring the gaze is drawn upward to focus upon the billowing, white galleons of cloud... advancing across a disconcertingly blue canvas in stately procession. Yeah, it's more or less impossible to think of mundane topics in such an environment. Not with the 'big picture' quite literally before my very eyes. Such vibrant colour can not last, of course, as Winsor apparently noted to JMWT himself. So one must enjoy the moment. Time flies, as it always seems to do 'up here'; however, loathe not to explore further, I decide to continue my ascent to the west and, upon circling around the headwall, return to the car via Trumau across the cwm. Looks easy on the map - even an old one - and, for that matter, on the ground, too. However half way 'round I find myself cursing the lack of any kind of path whatsoever... whilst simultaneously revelling in the fact of their very absence. Now this may seem paradoxical, absurd even? Maybe. But then perhaps having the opportunity to experience a landscape so raw, so uncompromising, yet within scope of an average punter is the prime reason, the whole point of coming to Cwmdeuddwr. Truly, it is the Green Desert. Only with water. Lots of water.

I arrive back at the car, intent upon sleeping below the source of the Ystwyth, with satiated questions duly replaced by yet more to ponder. The mystery of why I love these bleak uplands still very much undiminished. I hope Einstein would've approved of the harmonious equilibrium of the universe remaining intact. If not Mick Jones.

Cerrig Cewri (Round Cairn)

There is, I reckon it's fair to say, a widespread view prevalent amongst the 'hillwalking fraternity' assuming a direct correlation between increasing height above OD and quality of 'outdoor experience'... to resort to the annoying modern parlance. Now while I'll happily concede there is some merit in this outlook - altitude does, after all, tend to help eliminate periphery obstructions to far reaching vistas, not to mention progressively isolate the potentially transcendental 'up there' from the everyday, humdrum 'down here' - my experience over the course of some 30 odd years inclines me to believe that it is the exceptions which, in this respect, very much disprove the rule.

Consider a visit to the great upland cairn of Cerrig Cewri (Giant's Stones) a little to the approx north of Carn Twrch, an obscure Mid Walian summit looming above the southern, sinuous extremity of Llyn Brianne: a perfunctory, somewhat blurry perusal of the map over breakfast upon Cwmdeuddwr had suggested a relatively easy, straightforward mile and a half (or so) walk along a public bridleway to what is, after all, a hill not quite reaching 1,600ft in height. Yeah, how hard can it be? No, really? Suffice to say I reckon, with the warm glow of hindsight, that the approach from the north is quite possibly one of the most physically demanding ascents/descents of any Mid Walian summit I've undertaken. All things considered.

To be fair, the proverbial penny drops as soon as I park up above Bwlch-y-ffin and lament the initial height loss inherent in following - or rather attempting to follow - the aforementioned official 'bridleway' depicted upon the map. You see, these little details matter when the knees don't want to keep on doing what you want them to keep on doing any more. Furthermore, I soon find myself apparently bereft of any map reading skills I may - or may not - have been born with as my chosen route is abruptly terminated by a semi-trampled barbed wire fence above a stream. Mmm, seems I'm following in the uncertain steps of other, more militant punters before me? Where's the friendly(?) neighbourhood giant to stand upon the shoulders of when you need him. Or her?

Anyway... beyond, the terrain rears up at a seemingly prohibitive angle, the Nant y ffin cascading down the hillside within a seriously deep gulley so steep-sided I baulk at the thought of crossing. Instead, I elect to continue onwards and upwards following the natural line of ascent where, theoretically at least, Nature will provide a less overwhelming obstacle. Sure enough, a little before the forestry limit upon Cefn Ystrad-ffin, I step over the nascent stream... and ... straight into deep bog. But there you are. Serves me right for losing the 'obvious' track, doesn't it? The low ridge of Cerrig Cewri is soon visible to the approx south-west, significantly further away than I had anticipated, to be truthful. The landscape is an unforgiving mix of the aforementioned bog and tussocky grass ensuring my yomp is subject to a bovine grace. Hell, this bloody cairn had better be worth it.

It is. According to RCAHMW (12/2/2009) it measures "13.20m in diameter and is up to 2.0m high". So pretty substantial, then, despite being, assuming the 'Inventory of the Ancient Monuments in Wales and Monmouthshire' (HMSO 1917) is to be believed, but a surviving remnant of what once was: "The carnedd has been so much reduced within living memory as to be now no more than 4 feet high, and it is said that in the course of its disturbance traces of fire and some burnt bones were met with". Ha! Voices from yesteryear throwing light upon our own tentative forays into that yawning void BCE, observations published at a time when the very fabric of society was being torn asunder by the clash of imperialistic titans and the birth of the fledgling, evil spectre of Lenin and his acolytes. For me it is this desire to understand the past, to view what went before as the foundations of an ongoing, hopefully improving story which defines the western democracies; a worldview which, if maintained, will ensure our way of life will always be worth fighting for. Precious detail... adding additional pixels, further definition, clarity to that image of who we were, what we are and, potentially, what we could be. So to speak.

A sun burst streams through a crack in the otherwise minacious cloud base illuminating the ancient stone pile for but a fleeting moment. All too soon it is gone, a tantalisingly brief wash of colour from the cosmic paintbrush rendering all the poetry, prose and whatever other descriptive language you may think of redundant. For a few seconds. To the south, appropriately enough, the great, mountainous escarpment demarcating South Wales rears up, darkly brooding in sombre intensity, upon the horizon. Nearer to hand and on a more intimate scale is Twm Siôn Cati Cave, set upon the sculptured crags of Dinas to the west, the legendary, infamous former owner apparently a sort of Welsh 'Robin Hood'... only without the 'giving to the poor' bit. Which is kinda missing the point of being a 'people's hero', one would have thought? But there you are. A case study in notoriety for a certain Jessie James, perhaps? The dubious heroic ethics of our Twm notwithstanding, Dinas is a striking landscape feature fully prototypical of the harmonious aesthetic of the area. And to think, as compelled to think the traveller most certainly is here, that this haunting, ethereal cairn is not even at 1,600ft. Surely some mistake? I fumble for my glasses and check the map again. No. It would appear not.

All is not rosy up here where giants apparently did not fear to tread, however, for forestry plantations encroach with their attendant widespread devastation, the shrill clatter of logging lorries upon forestry tracks, their whereabouts betrayed by clouds of dust, periodically echoing across the hill side. Indeed the great, summit cairn of Carn Twrch, visible to the immediate approx south(ish) sits within a landscape which may well have brought a shudder to the contemporaries of those 1917-era archaeologists. But there you are.... at least Carn Twrch survives, albeit topped by an OS trig pillar. And pretty hefty it is, too.

For me, however, the Giant's Stones are the jewel within this Mid Walian crown and it is a bummer to have to begin the descent. If anything, this proves to be more difficult than the ascent, the terrain sending me sprawling, head first, into a murky pool at one point. In no uncertain manner. Yeah, I find no sign of the supposed 'bridleway'... although, of course, that might well have just been me. Again. Losing patience, not to mention reserve endurance, I go for broke and fling myself down and up the other side of the mighty defile of the Nant y ffin. The final pull to the car is sheer purgatory. Whether one believes in that sort of thing, or not. But hey, it was worth every step to prove - once again - that spending a few hours or so 'being elevated' doesn't necessarily mean what your average hill walking punter might think it does.

Dun Kearstach (Stone Fort / Dun)

It is said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder... an oft-quoted axiom implying, I guess, that just about everything can be 'beautiful' to someone, somewhere, at some time or another. Depends upon your point of view... whether the sleek form of a fast car floats your boat (incidentally I'm with Pete Shelley here), that packed beach upon the Costa del Sol, or even the tribalistic shenanigans inherent in watching people kicking/carrying/whacking a ball around a field. To be honest I find the ideal of beauty much harder to pin down, to define. A nebulous, intangible concept seemingly spontaneously occurring during perceived moments of heightened awareness; of emotional fulfilment, perhaps? Those occasions when the senses appear to align, attaining optimal equilibrium. Or something like that. Arguably it is better not to attempt to define, but simply to experience? Suffice to say I know beauty when I happen to chance across it. My beauty.

A case in point, perhaps, is to witness dawn beside the chambered cairn at An Sithean, the monument presenting a breath-taking aesthetic vision harmonising with the elegantly sweeping profile of Beinn na Caillich towering above and beyond, the cloudless sky emphatically refuting Skye's 'Misty Isle' epithet. It is, in the absence of any more appropriate adjective, simply spellbinding. Yeah, a 'treasure so rare that even devils might care', to quote a certain Mr Ferry from '73. The moment can't last, of course, a passing bus highlighting the obvious dilemma intrinsic to current public transport solutions by emitting an all-consuming cloud of noxious diesel fumes choking both myself and the otherwise alacritous neighbourhood sheep. Yeah, clearly there is no simple answer to the conservational issues raised through simply 'getting around'.

The landscape is overwhelming in its sheer, naked grandeur as I approach Loch Slapin, passing beyond the reedy waters of Loch Cill Chriosd and nearby churchyard-cum-stone circle, the jagged skyline of Bla Bheinn and its gabbro cohorts rising majestically to the west presenting perhaps every child's vision of what a mountain should look like. Well, it certainly appeals to the child within me, illustrating the unequivocal truth that reality can be every bit as intense as fantasy. No need to indulge in fairy tales when travelling upon Skye, methinks. But I digress...

So... a little before Torrin a very rough single track road exits left to access the foreshore at Camas Malag, the environs popular with 'overnighters' possessing a, shall we say, more communal ethic than I? From the bay a track heads southward, hugging the coast toward the abandoned hamlet of Suisnish, presumably still standing mute testimony to the appalling enforced clearances of yore. It is a fine walk, worthwhile in its own right and, perhaps not surprisingly, reminiscent of another, some way to the west, accessing Rubh an Dunain from Glen Brittle. The route, otherwise defined by a pregnant silence highlighting the absence of those locals who once called this coastline 'home', is enlivened by several streams cascading into Loch Slapin upon abruptly running out of hillside, although it is the vistas across the loch which naturally hold the beguiled traveller's attention. Eventually the track swings to the left approaching light woodland and the bridge across the Allt Poll a'Bhainne; here, after refilling the water bottle, Dun Kearstach can be discerned upon a prominent moorland rise to the east, within Glen Boreraig. As Les notes, there is no path.....

For me, Dun Kearstach is a magical place, a miniature 'Lost World' plateau arguably too diminutive to support even one of Conan Doyle's giant sauropoda. Exquisitely positioned, the coastal scenery, gazing across to Sgurr Alasdair, sentinel peak of the legendary Black Cuillin, is of the highest calibre... certainly when viewed under today's exceptional weather conditions. The location is highly defensible, too, the flanks of the little knoll falling sharply to the floor of the glen and thus accentuating the limited strength of the single drystone wall enclosing the summit. OK, not an awful lot of masonry courses remain in situ but, with clear evidence of an entrance to the west (facing the approach of least resistance), it represents more than enough archaeology to emphasise the point that the previous incumbents knew exactly what they were doing. And let's face it, what with the Allt a' Ghairuillt flowing immediately below to the north fresh water wasn't exactly going to be a problem, was it? All in all this must have been a pretty epic place to live.

As I lie back and take it all in... it becomes increasingly apparent that here, reclining recumbent upon this little grassy plateau overlooking Loch Slapin in the sunshine, I have (albeit with Les's help) chanced upon another obscure moment of sheer natural beauty upon this special island. Ultravox's 'Lament' - the video incidentally filmed around these parts - worms its way into my consciousness and it occurs to me that it is the perceived sense of melancholia, suggested, perhaps, by remnants of times past permanently set in stone within the landscape (whether funerary cairn, defensive enclosure or deserted clearance village) interacting with the haunting aesthetic of the wild mountains... that accords Skye its enigmatic, ethereal status. The human element. All the triumphs, all the tragedies, all the humdrum moments of everyday life.

Curiosity overtakes me and I clamber up the hillside to the east and I'm reminded of the lower settlement upon Foel Offrwm in far off Gwynedd. But, to be honest, Dun Kearstach is unique. I am reluctant to leave and break the spell, only eventually doing so in order to visit the two further duns guarding the northern aspect of the loch. As it transpires this is easier said than done - both the leaving and the subsequent visits, particularly that to the larger of the two fortified enclosures, Dun Mor - but there you are.

Loch Ailsh (Chambered Cairn)

It is perhaps debatable whether the human trait characterised by a marked reluctance to be content with the fleeting view... by finding the superfluous insight less satisfying than none at all... is a psychological attribute or flaw? Whatever, add it to the respective list. Now, whilst subscribing to the view that extremes of just about anything you care to mention are not a good idea (from alcohol to chocolate... religious lunatics... to political extremists such as Trump, Sturgeon, Corbyn.... etc) I have to admit that I find 'whistle-stop' visits of sites - the opportunity to place another 'tick in the box' - counter-productive at best, well aware that the querulous worm of dissatisfaction will insidiously burrow into my subconscious sooner rather than later and ensure I must return. So... just as the intoxicating sight of Cnoc Fillbhear Bheag from the bus en route to the Tursachan inexorably lead to a return three years later, my all-too-brief stop over below Cnoc Charornaidh in 2013 inevitably sees me waking beside the Allt Eileag this morning.

This time I have a plan - well, sort of - in lieu of the on the spot improvisation of my previous visit to these obscure parts. Albeit a rubbish one based upon a more-or-less total ignorance of the topography. Hey, a stroll along a river bank in the sunshine. What could be easier? As I ponder the map, pitifully unaware of my impending ordeal, if not doom, a very hard looking gentleman from Edinburgh is disgorged from a passing car. Seems he's about to go cross country for a few days sleeping in bothies. His primary concern? The midges, naturally. He is a study in meticulous preparation; and then is gone. I follow in short order, heading approx east along the northern bank of the Allt Eileag…. and running straight into deep bog rendered vaguely passable by 'islets' of that ubiquitous, industrial strength grass so familiar to those who care to venture upon the Mid Walian uplands. The occasional presence of a deer fence doesn't help matters either, to be fair. I assume one isn't supposed to venture this way, then? Unless standing on the shoulders of giants, perhaps? Anyway, I eventually reach the confluence with the River Oykel - this being Glen Oykel, of course - and continue, with no let up in the challenging terrain, following the parent water course to the north-west toward its birthplace… Loch Ailsh.

Exhausted - hey, this is worse than climbing a bloody mountain, this - I finally reach the chambered cairn at Garbh Ath Chaoruinn (NC31700853). Although clearly having seen better days the stone pile remains deceptively substantial, a large, elongated capstone having been displaced by persons/events unknown to reveal the remnants of a chamber defined by several orthostats. One can almost hear a pithy Stephen Fry admonition accompanying that QI klaxon as I state that almost anywhere else this site would surely represent a TMA-er's primary focus. Here, however, the quality control is turned up to 11 on the dial. So, I take a well earned breather as the watery sun begins to establish its ascendancy over the morning cloud base, promising a fine afternoon. Just the thing for a full-on wade through bog. The hour I elect to stay here, although not exactly a fleeting visit, is not sufficient, but with so much more to see I must, all too soon, re-engage with my personal struggle. Suffice to say the short absence hasn't made the heart grow fonder. Consequently it is a blessed relief to finally near journey's end.... the chambered cairn lying unobtrusively before the unseen source of the nascent river now beckoning the traveller onward.... Loch Ailsh.

A bridge carries the Benmore Lodge access track (yes, it is possible to drive here should you so wish) across the Allt Strath Seasgaich, a slight deviation from which allows the thirsty traveller to replenish the water bottle, before veering left beyond a damaged deer fence to arrive at the impressive monument. Impressive? OK, the cairn isn't the largest one will ever encounter; furthermore, the chamber is indicated by pretty minimal stonework - at least that remains visible. Nevertheless, at further risk of invoking the Wildean ire of Mr Fry, there is an aura here which even the occasional shrill discourse of picnickers beside the loch can not dispel. So, why is this the case? Hmmm. Perhaps it's partly a reaction to the intense energy expended upon the journey - the pilgrimage - here? At least when coming my way. Sid as opposed to Frank. The calm after the storm, to be (apparently) characteristically obtuse. Or perhaps there is simply something... that indefinable 'something' … about the way Ben More Assynt dominates the northern skyline? Or the pastel hue of the Bryophyta subsuming the stone pile, moss indicative of the tree cover which, according to the map, once restricted the outlook here? Or perhaps some things are always beyond analysis, beyond reason.

As I sit and ponder, amongst other things, the sheer surreality of sunbathing upon a chambered cairn in Assynt, my thoughts turn to the return leg of my journey. Now I want to stop off at the third of my stony triumvirate (at NC31350794), but clearly, retracing my steps along the river bank is a non starter. No shit, Sherlock. I therefore elect to ascend Cnoc Charornaidh by the treeline and attempt to fix a bearing from the summit trig. The retrospective view across the loch to Ben More Assynt is pretty special, it has to be said. As are the vistas from the summit itself, the trig set upon a stony mound which does have a Citizen Cairn'd wondering. Probably no prehistoric ancestry, but it goes without saying folks have been coming up here for millennia. Descending into the trees, the ride soon deteriorates into a soggy, churned up mess. Nevertheless, upon taking a right hand fork, I duly arrive at what is a pretty special monument to end the day at.

Once again there is a lot of cairn still in situ. However it is the clear remains of passage and chamber which ensures, structurally speaking at least, this is - for me - the finest site in the immediate locality. OK, surrounding views are non-existent due to the tree cover, but by crawling face down (not that I have a lot of practice undertaking such a manoeuvre, you understand) it is possible to peer into the void within, eyes adjusting to the semi darkness discerning some pretty hefty orthostats still in situ. The sun dips below the tree tops and seems to imply that I should leave this place to gather whatever it is that engenders such an ethereal feeling in susceptible visitors. It is wise, I think, to comply with the very reason for life on Earth, the ride continuing roughly south-west to eventually strike the A837. In retrospect this is the way to come...… river bank strolls can be fun. But as the Gershwins duly noted, it ain't necessarily so.

Carrol (Broch)

I'm aware that most generalisations proffered are, by their very nature, likely to be sent packing back to whence they came in short order. That being said, however, I reckon it's fair to suggest that many areas of these British Isles feature what might be termed a 'signature' type of prehistoric monument. Consider: Cornwall has its quoits; Wessex has its overwhelming multi-vallate hill forts; Dartmoor has its interminable stone rows; Wales its seemingly boundless supply of upland cairns, to all intents and purposes forming one huge Bronze Age cemetery in the (all too frequent) clouds; Ireland... spoilt for choice... but I'll go with its raths. Yeah, but what of Scotland? OK, Aberdeenshire is famed for its RSCs, granted. But, upon reflection, I think it has to be the broch. Those idiosyncratic, double-skinned, dry stone 'cooling towers' of yore erected with such sublime skill the mind boggles. It would seem we have a consensus that some 500-odd brochs may still be seen gracing the landscape today. Not that I've undertaken the arithmetic myself, you understand.

Of all the brochs I've had the pleasure of spending some time at over the years arguably few (Allt a’Bhurg, perhaps?) offer a better appreciation of the archetypal ground plan, the inherent component parts, than that overlooking Loch Brora above Carrol farm. Now fellow Essex man Martin Gore may well caution against employing a strict 'policy of truth'... however I must confess to not having a Scooby about the existence of the monument prior to some hasty, last minute research a few days before my visit. But there you are. That, after all, is what TMA is for and, following a short drive south along the A9 from my overnight stop within the wondrous Glen Loth, I park up before the (rather fine) suspension bridge spanning the River Brora. A notice informs the curious traveller that said bridge was erected to assist local children travelling to/from school. Tsk... soft, mollycoddled kids of today. What are they like? Commuting in a Ford not good enough, eh?

Anyway, the plod along the estate track following the river back toward its inception is, well, quite a plod, albeit one enlivened by anticipated watery views to the right upon breaking free from forestry above Leadoch. To the left tower the deceptively impressive crags of Duchary Rock harbouring a (so it transpires) rather fine hill fort. My 'plod' morphs into more of a purposeful 'stride' as the way ahead becomes more focussed, an islet within the loch (Eilean nam Faoileag) apparently bearing the remains of a castle (what price replacing an earlier structure?), the tall, wire fence defining my other flank ensuring no serpentine deviation from my route into the once again prevalent forestry. Len's stile, preceding the Allt Coire Aghaisgeig, is easily spotted, a brief, sweaty struggle - sorry, I don't wear deodorant when walking - earning an audience with the elevated broch. So, that's the water source sorted, then? Check.

From afar the broch resembles a rather impressive chambered cairn. That this is manifestly not the case becomes apparent, however, upon clambering up to the summit of the stone pile to find the structure hollow, albeit in a strictly 'structural' sense. For one thing, the circular central court is occupied by some industrial strength vegetation - forget the Weedol, we're talking flamethrowers, or a harangue by that appalling wee Sturgeon woman; furthermore there is nothing remotely 'empty' about the vibe here, the silence, punctuated now and again by the rhythmic call of the cuckoo, pervading an atmosphere seemingly pregnant with implied meaning. If only one had the 'key' to facilitate the delivery of such knowledge, such insight. Hey, just what is the landscape trying to say? After 30 years doing this I actually think I'm beginning to get it, to understand. However trying to communicate it is another matter entirely. Tell me about it.

The broch itself is, frankly, quite superb, the entrance passage arguably the most well preserved I've seen to date, complete with door jambs and draw bar slot, not to mention lintels still in situ. The attendant 'guard cell' - not sure about the veracity of such a classification since the draw bar didn't seem operable from within? - is intact, a crawl inside revealing the superb 'dry stone corbelling' construction technique illuminated by natural light streaming from above, the chamber an oasis of cool from the heat without. Even with me in it. Yes, really. Hey, are we sure this is Scotland? Above, the wall head exhibits intra-mural passages and steps; in fact all the 'brochy things' one would anticipate, but not always get. Hey, there's also a low, surrounding wall and what appears to be a proto-'barbican' protecting the entrance... although whether these are original elements of the design or remnants of later settlement I guess might well be open to debate within musty academic circles.

The sweeping vista across Loch Brora is very much in order, too, complementing the archaeological excellence. To be honest I could've sat here all day watching cars trundle along the minor road traversing the far side of the loch, content in the knowledge that no muppet was likely to venture up here to shatter the idyll, this perfect symmetry of past and present. However the hill rising more-or-less immediately south above Coire Aghaisgeig draws the eye. Not for itself - although it's hard to believe it's only c856ft high - but for what lies beyond: Duchary Rock and its hill fort. I decide to forego an easy return, put myself out a little and go have a look.

Auchoish (Chambered Cairn)

I'm sure Stephen Hawking - now of course occupying his rightful niche between Mr Newton and Mr Darwin in eternity (although why we have the remains of two exceptional atheists within Westminster Abbey is, er, rather puzzling) - would've been able to forward a convincing theory as to where the time goes... however it's 17 years since I first ventured forth into the verdant Kilmartin Glen, a more-or-less megalithic illiterate seduced into undertaking the nightmare-inducing drive from Essex by the siren call of Mr Cope's garishly coloured tome. A lot of water has flowed under both the allegorical bridge and that which connects my home island to the mainland in the interim; however one aspect of my life that has proved pretty constant is the compulsion to seek out new places associated with those pioneers responsible for laying the foundations of the - admittedly 'wobbly' - edifice we call civilisation.

So yes, while the great linear grouping of monuments gracing the glen will rightly take precedent for newcomers, the periphery exerts a far greater attraction for me nowadays. I mean, with time so limited why repeat oneself when there is so much more to discover? Such as the Auchoish chambered cairn where all but Greywethers fear to tread. It is therefore with a fair degree of irony that, following an overnighter beside the mighty Loch Awe, I note, upon perusing the map, that an approach to said chambered cairn will mean passing the tourist honeypot that constitutes the Achnabreck rock art panels. Hey, but while I'm here.... guess it would be pedantic, if not downright rude not to have a look. What can you do?

Furthermore it is doubly - nay, trebly - ironic that, despite consciously avoiding the goddam place for all these years, I duly find myself captivated by the beguiling, swirling, circular motifs and depressions carved into the naked rock. Touch, arguably that most sensual of senses, confirms the growing feeling that executing such designs must've been a very time consuming process indeed. And then some. A serious undertaking surely only justifiable by a correspondingly high accepted 'worth' of the finished 'product'. Hell, this art must've really meant something. OK, no doubt the (almost) complete absence of other punters this overcast, drizzly morning lent a positive cadence to the silent symphony playing out within my head... but even so, isn't it great to have such specific preconceptions proven so emphatically wrong in such an overwhelmingly affirmative manner? Yeah, I can handle that.

So.… moving on I pick up the forestry track heading east. Now stomping along such tracks - while not my favourite of pastimes - does have compensations, such as the clean scent of pine pervading the muggy, moist atmosphere; appealing enough in lieu of a fragrance of a more deciduous origin. Or Chanel No.5 in the nape of a woman's neck. Sadly the compensations do not extend to a chat with Keith Flint... well, seeing as a notice informs the traveller this is also the 'Twisted Fire Starter' mountain bike trail. But there you are. To be fair the unusually coiffured gentleman did appear rather athletic performing within the video back in the day; but then again we are all inexorably advancing in years, are we not? And 'Breathe' was by far a better tune. The route duly swings abruptly south before veering north (thankfully conflagrations are not in evidence), passing an old quarry prior to crossing the Auchoish Burn where one should select the left hand fork.

Unfortunately things now get a bit complicated (I won't say 'interesting' upon the assumption that disciples of Donatien Alphonse François tend not to favour seeking out Neolithic chambered cairns upon Scottish hillsides) the monument being located 'somewhere' upon the thickly afforested rise to the right. According to the 1:25K OS map matters should be straightforward enough; however the trees are so dense that an attempt to head straight to the tomb on a compass bearing is a non-starter. Consequently I head further along the track before making a very rough ascent to the highest ground in the locale and taking a bearing from there. This allows me to pick up the heavily overgrown run depicted upon the map and, knee deep in mud, systematically force my way through to the monument within its clearing. Brute force is not something to be admired. However sometimes needs must.

It is immediately apparent that all this effort is so, so worthwhile: the elongated 'Clyde' cairn is aligned on a SW/NE axis with the significant remains of a façade/forecourt to north-east... a number of the orthostats still standing before the hollow ghost of a chamber, albeit with traces of stone work also to be seen within the latter. For me, however, it is the relatively well preserved lateral chamber subsumed within the lower, south-western section of the substantial cairn that represents the structural pièce de résistance. Greywether reckons there could even be a rare 'porthole' stone in situ. Didn't realise at the time, but in retrospect I'm not going to disagree with the suggestion since there are definitely two segments here with curiously shaped dividing stones.

However at a fundamental level the primary motivation to visit sites such as Auchoish is surely the response to the question 'how does it make me feel to be here?' Hence the discerning Citizen Cairn'd will surely wish to make the effort to come for the - in my opinion - truly exceptional vibe further enhanced by the site's isolation from the general (relative) hubbub of the area. Yeah, unlike the arguably over manicured monuments within Kilmartin Glen itself the silence here is absolute, a serenity so total the atmosphere is electric. If you excuse the oxymoron.

Despite the drizzle-laden cloud sweeping, quite literally, through the treeline according optimum conditions for the midge - that wee awful woman aside - Scotland's most appalling inhabitant, I stay for approx three hours before retracing my steps. A diversion to the enigmatic, moss-clad remains of Dun Na Maraig ensures I reach the car in no fit state to do anything but sleep. To be fair a man can ask for no further reward from a day pottering around in the damp forest: obscure chambered cairn, hill fort and.... well …. how does one begin to describe, to attempt to decipher the meaning inherent in those symbols? Then again, perhaps it is best that we never do so. That we simply allow them to inspire that symphony in the head?

Trum Gelli (Barrow / Cairn Cemetery)

I don't read too much into symbolism. Generally speaking. However perhaps there is a degree inherent in citing Wales' glory as her abundance of mountains, rivers and coastline. Interdependent components of the hydrologic cycle. A triumvirate, if you will, one pretty much responsible for life on Earth when one stops to think about such things; as I'm pretty sure we should all more often do so. Yeah, intrinsic to existence, utilitarian, yet nevertheless infused with an aesthetic that has long haunted the susceptible such as I. Maybe you, too?

I think it's fair to say that Wales' rivers and mountains share a fundamentally closer infinity (as coastline is obviously not always 'within scope'), the latter channelling precipitate run off to define the former. From the iconic Afon Glaslyn, cascading from its legendary source beneath Yr Wyddfa to a conflux with the Afon Mawddach within its sublime estuary... to the River Dee (the Brythonic "River of the Goddess") flowing to Chester, via Llyn Tegid, from an obscure inception upon the slopes of Dduallt... Wales possesses its fair share of iconic rivers. Primus inter pares, as scholars would say, is probably the River Severn (Afon Hafren), the UK's longest watercourse, rising upon the incomparable 'Mother of Rivers' that is Pumlumon, close by the birthplace of the Wye (Afon Gwy), the latter arguably our most serpentine? Nonetheless it is the Afon Dyfi which gets my vote, all things considered. Sourced and nurtured within the epic, primordial bosom of Aran Fawddwy, the tumultuous birth of the nascent water course perfectly complemented by the final, stately procession to merge with Cardigan Bay 23 miles hence.

Which - finally - brings me to Trum Gelli following a morning drive from an overnight sojourn - as you do - upon said Pumlumon. Set at the south-western extremity of Y Tarrenau overlooking the Afon Dyfi's exquisite journey's end at Aberdyfi, the 1,754ft 'Ridge of the Grove' is, to be fair, not where the thoroughly modern mind would expect to find the locale's premier Bronze Age funerary monuments. Granted, I don't consider myself to be of this ilk; but then again, despite all the bollocks spouted by archaeologists proffering pet theories, what does the thoroughly modern mind really know of the Bronze Age mindset? It would appear there is a conundrum to be considered here. Hey, could it be that my preamble has a bearing and that the view from the summit was all important, an attempt to cement an association between life/death/rebirth... as symbolised by the nurturing waters of the Afon Dyfi merging with the sea prior to repeating the cycle, the process - to go 'round again'? OK, mere supposition, but intriguing nonetheless; and given credence by the location of a similar disposition of monuments upon Allt-llwyd, overlooking the end game of the Afon Dysynni to the north-west? Perhaps placement in relation to water really did have great symbolic meaning back in the day? The mountain/river duology or... even better, as here... the mountain/river/sea sacred trilogy?

Now I first became aware of the potential significance of Trum Gelli's archaeology through a '3m cairns' reference in Dave Ing's 'Hill Walks in Mid Wales' (ISBN 1-85058-433-8). Checking the veracity of this has, to be fair, taken quite a while. But there you are. Although I would, in retrospect, recommend that interested travellers start from the (now 'retired'?) chapel within Cwm Maethlon (Happy Valley) to the south-west and make their ascent via Bryn Dinas, I end up coming from the east. It is possible (even for me) to park a car upon the hairpin bend at Pant-yr-or, west of Cwrt, whence a by-way climbs away to the north-west, accessing the excellent little cairn circle of Eglwys Gwyddelod before heading off west toward Bryn Dinas. This track is unfortunately also the legal preserve of those odd, noisy people whom appear to enjoy the mad adrenaline rush of riding a motor bike at 1mph. But there you are. Whooah! Crazy, far out dudes! It takes all sorts, doesn't it? Anyway, the track is an enjoyable stomp in its own right according excellent, sweeping views across Cwm Maethlon and Mynydd-y-Llyn (the lake in question being the curious 'Bearded Lake', Llyn Barfog) to the wondrous Aberdyfi and, beyond again, Pumlumon.

At the col before Bryn Dinas the track swings to the northwest. I therefore leave it here at the fence junction and head for the southern slopes of Allt Gwyddgwion rising above, the route just to the left of an overgrown cairn featuring remnants of a possible - nay, surely probable? - cist. The path, such as it is, heads straight for Trum Gelli so Citizens Cairn'd wishing to check out Allt Gwyddgwion's two cairns are advised to following the ascending fence line instead. The first, over to the left, is a small yet tidy monument. However that upon the crest [SH65150123] at a further fence intersection is, aside from a concrete 'capstone', actually rather good, complete with what I take to be the remains of a kerb still in situ. According to Coflein [RCAHMW, 14/11/2007] it measures "approximately 10 metres square and 1.5 metres high", the concrete slab perhaps the base of a former temporary OS trig pillar? Curiously they clearly don't seem to know for sure. Whatever, the watery vistas to be enjoyed from here are, quite frankly, majestic. Perhaps unsurprisingly.

The ridge continues approx north-east to finally grant an audience with Trum Gelli's brace of summit monuments. These are in a different league altogether, the southern, just beyond a stile, surmounted by a (presumably) modern beehive very much in the style of Drygarn Fawr topping the Cwmdeuddwr Hills not that far to the south. The underlying footprint is substantial - very much so - and, furthermore, embedded with strategically placed blocks of quartzite. I get the impression some degree of reconstruction has taken place, but nevertheless the effect is aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

The northern [SH6561801554], at the actual summit (or so it would appear) is more 'ragged', yet - or perhaps because of this - my favourite of the quartet. Once again the footprint is very substantial, more so than its southern neighbour, perhaps since it possesses a smaller beehive. The onward view across Cwm Ffernol toward Tarrenhendre is excellent, the cwm itself featuring woodland.... although I couldn't decide if this represented forestry or perhaps the vestiges of the original namechecked 'grove'? Coflein gives dimensions as "5m wide, 2.5m in height" [S.D. Lowden, Archaeophysica, 1/6/2006] although their records do appear a little confused at the present time.

As I sit and contemplate H2O-related stuff - fortunately none sees fit to fall upon my head - I elect to enjoy an extra 30 mins up here by not reprising my ascent route in reverse, so to speak, instead descending steeply southwards more-or-less straight down to the byway far below. Suffice to say it is a mistake, the latter regions of this, er, route proving to be malevolent, deep bog. Schoolboy error and most certainly not the water association I was looking for, but there you are. Guess that's one way to retain the child inside. Albeit a rather soggy, smelly one. Whatever, I decide to undertake my own symbolic gesture, my personal homage to the principles of hydrology... by 'closing the loop' and following the Afon Dyfi back into its nursery upon The Arans. I spend the night at Bwlch-y-Groes.

Cader Berwyn (Round Cairn)

Dawn arrives at Bwlch-y-Groes without due fanfare, the elevated 'Pass of the Cross' (presumably another nod to the influence of that Tydecho?) separating the upper reaches of the exquisite Cwm Dyfi from Cwm Cynllwyd too exposed to offer shelter to any of the usual feathery suspects generally contributing to an avian chorus. In lieu, within the pregnant silence, I perceive a sense of heightened possibilities, of unspecified opportunities to be grasped whilst the relatively high cloud base lingers. So, what to do then? Fortunately the answer is forthcoming upon administering a Coco Pops catalyst, my gaze being drawn north across the aforementioned Cwm Cynllwyd to the rounded summits of Y Berwyn. In keeping with the all pervading silence, the call is unspoken. But nevertheless it registers loud and clear. Just need to do something about it, then. Damn. I am aware there are easier hobbies.

So.... following a splendidly scenic drive toward Y Bala, I take the B4391 across the high moors to descend Cwm Rhiwarth to Llangynog and, henceforth, Dyffryn Tanat. Samuel Coleridge came here in July 1794 and noted that the mountains were 'sublimely terrible', which is a pretty classy description, to be fair. One assumes - being a poet and that - that, like I, he made it to Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, whereupon a single track road heads NW to Tan-y-Pistyll... and the magnificent c250ft cascade of Pistyll Rhaeadr, the 'Spout Waterfall', traditionally one of the Seven Wonders of Wales. The little café serves alcohol to tourist punters who flock here to gaze at the awesome aqueous spectacle. The Citizen Cairn'd, however, may well wish to drink his/her fill of the landscape beforehand. If so, rocky steps ascend to the right of the wondrous waterfall to access Trum Felen, the southern ridge of Moel Sych ('Dry Hill', appropriately enough in this context, but very much not so in nearly any other!).

To be honest this direct route to the main ridge of Y Berwyn is, in my opinion, better suited to a descent (an ascent through the valley of the Nant y Llyn further to the east is recommended) but there you are. One is compelled to seek out new experiences. Nevertheless as I slowly.... very slowly... gain height I begin to doubt the wisdom of this selection, particularly since this morning's cloud base is high no longer, the summit of the mountain conspicuous by its absence, subsumed within a mass of opaque vapour. In due course I must venture into this surreal environment of curtailed vision and apparent swirling wraiths.... a sensation of mild claustrophobia countered by having (with apologies to Andy Partridge) one, two, three, four senses working overtime to compensate. Navigation, however, is not an issue, the fence line leading unerringly to the 2,713ft summit crowned by the profile of a Bronze Age funerary cairn slowly materialising through the gloom. Although of no significant elevation, the embedded footprint of the monument is much more extensive than I recall from my previous visit here.... some 21 years ago. Hey, it is quite something to return almost half a lifetime hence. What's more, this time around I reckon I can even discern a trace of former kerb.

As I sit in my own private little spirit world pondering imponderables, wondering what to do next, Nature castes a final, emphatic deciding vote by sweeping away the cloud mantle in an instant to reveal Cadair Berwyn standing angular and proud to the north, its form in complete contrast to Moel Sych's broad, rounded dome. Recognising a sign from the heavens when I see one I cross the fence line (via a stile) and head east to Craig-y-Llyn, the escarpment edge towering above Llyn Lluncaws cradled far below. The lake is suitably idiosyncratic featuring a curious surface covering of weed that is quite unique in my experience. A kamikaze sheep track now engenders a somewhat 'airy' onward route toward the castellated, rocky pinnacles of Cadair Berwyn's 2,722ft summit, the cliff line, progressively fragmented in nature, displaying quite literally 'another side' to Y Berwyn, one completely at odds with the gently rolling profile seen to the west. But there you are; Y Berwyn are secretive hills... and all the better for that, in my opinion.

Anyway, cresting the craggy summit the first of a brace of cairns gracing the mountain is seen a little below and beyond. The location is classic, albeit taking great pains to avoid any view of the wondrous Llyn Lluncaws in true Bronze Age style. Yeah, I'm not saying this is pedantic, but what were these people like? There is good news and bad news to relate here. Firstly, the bad: the stone pile is defaced by a large 'shelter' clearly constructed from the original monument fabric; although whether this is to cater for sheep of the Ovis aires variety or homo sapiens is open to debate. I suspect the latter, but happy to be corrected. The good, however, more than compensates: the circumference of the footprint is very impressive indeed. Far more so than vague visions from my youth had led me to earlier surmise. Clearly this was the last resting place of a major personality back in the day. The second cairn lies a little further on, beyond a diminutive little tarn - or lakelet, if you prefer (which, as it happens, I do) - and surmounts Cadair Berwyn's northern summit. This is a much more subtle monument consisting of a very large, grassy (apparent) mound topped by an OS trig pillar. Stonework protruding from the surface confirms that this is indeed a cairn, however. Again, the views are superb, and not without archaeological foci. Looking east, the distant summit of Mynydd Tarw ("Bull Mountain") is crowned by another, massive funerary cairn as is, looking north across Bwlch Maen Gwynedd, Cadair Bronwen, the last of Y Berwyn's big trio. This, a significant 'platform cairn' known as Brwdd Arthur (Arthur's Table - yes, Himself again) is unfortunately about a mile and a half distant. Consequently unless you are superfit - or, as I was back in 1994, somewhat on a mission and only beginning to appreciate the overpowering significance of these cairns - a separate ascent from the north-west, via the wondrous cairn circle of Moel ty Uchaf, not to mention the 'circle at Bwlch y Fedw, is highly recommended.

It is fair to say that Cadair Berwyn is not a spot to leave in a hurry. Exquisite vistas and copious archaeology to boot, er, sort of make that a 'no brainer'. Consequently I linger, let the aura, the atmosphere, the ambience... whatever you want to call that peculiar 'upland vibe' enhanced with the human element.... slowly seep into my consciousness. Although far from unique in this respect, Y Berwyn has nevertheless witnessed its fair share of legendary, historic events to complement whatever 'metaphysical stuff' may or may not have occurred back in those days of yore when the cairns were in use. For it was here in 1165 - well upon Ffordd Saeson, apparently a little east of Moel ty Uchaf at SJ091369 - that the forces of Henry II feverishly engaged in the pursuit of Owain Gwynedd were routed. Given a sound thrashing, so to speak. Not by the then Prince of North Wales... but by the ferociously inclement weather these mountains are able to conjure up on a whim. One can just imagine the poor old Plantagenet dude retreating in soggy shame citing witchcraft and sorcery by the fiendish Welsh as reasons for failure; anything but arrogant incompetence.

With time marching forever onwards - tell me about it - I reluctantly retrace my steps to Moel Sych and begin the descent to the car. However, prior to the obligatory, not to mention essential final gawp at the Pistyll Rhaeadr, I stop off within the glacial 'hanging valley' of the Afon Disgynfa, specifically to take an all-too-brief look at yet another mighty cairn at SJ070297. Citizens Cairn'd may be interested to be reminded that this valley is also graced by a stone circle at Rhos y Beddau (SJ058302). Is there no end to the attractions of this wondrous area? Overtaken by darkness I spend the night upon Coleridge's 'sublimely terrible' mountains... assuming he was heading for Y Bala... below the summit of Foel y Geifr (at the head of the Hirnant Pass). The rain lashes down and, unlike Henry II, I think I get the point.
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Hi, I'm Robert ... aka Citizen Cairn'd. I've a passion for attempting to understand the lives of the pioneering prehistoric inhabitants of these British Isles, seeking out the remains they left behind in order to ask myself "why here ... why did it matter so... why such commitment?". Needless to say I'm still pondering such intangibles. Just as an empty house appears to retain echoes of past humanity... so does the stone circle, the chambered cairn, the long barrow and the mountain top funerary cairn. Visiting them, I think, helps engender a certain 'connection' with this land of ours, with ourselves - our past, our present and our future; a reference point for those of us perhaps struggling to make sense of this so-called 'computer world' Kraftwerk warned us was a'coming in 1981.... danke, mein herren.

George Orwell - 'The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection.'

Martin Gore - 'Like a pawn
On the eternal board
Who’s never quite sure
What he’s moved towards
I walk blindly on'...

Truman Capote - 'Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavour.'

Oscar Wilde - 'The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.'

John Lydon - 'It is a reward to be chastised by the ignorant.'

Winston Churchill - '“The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.”

Ultravox - 'Taking shelter by the standing stones
Miles from all that moves....'

My TMA Content: