GLADMAN

Dun Diarmaid isn’t going to win any popularity contests, that’s for sure. Despite being hard-by the A863 as it (the A863, that is) makes its scenic progress along the eastern flank of the lovely Loch Beag, I’d wager you could probably count the number of annual punters who stop for a planned inspection on your fingers.

To be honest this is not surprising.... the site looks like any other loch-side rocky knoll from the tarmacadum, not particularly defensible. However these new fangled OS maps – mine is 1976 vintage – clearly provide insight beyond general perception. Yeah, praise be to maps and map makers. Let them and their kin inherit the earth, I say. However my personal insight is much more mundane than the landscape the wiggly contour lines upon faded paper – stained with baked bean residue (not forgetting the pork sausages) – represent. Much more... sitting upon the virtually destroyed Dun Garsin ‘broch’ in drizzly rain I notice the antiquarian script and think... ‘well, whilst I’m here... might as well, I guess’. Not exactly Aristotle.

Easier done than said, for once, a layby affording easy parking a short way off and a minor scramble bringing the traveller to the top in little time. As I do so, however, the ‘everyday’ is suddenly a distant memory, the shattered, yet still recognisable ovoid walls of the broch – for ‘tis ‘probably’ a broch (see below) – commanding a magnificent vista up and down the loch. Just as suddenly the mass of cumulo-nimbus looming overhead is whisked away, to be superseded by blue sky... the wind correspondingly dissipates to leave a becalmed loch mirroring the low hills rising beyond in its still waters. How can anything be so beautiful? It can’t ... and doesn’t ... last. But the moment is everything. Yeah, once again Skye provides its ancient monuments with that little bit ‘extra’. Unfair, perhaps. But if you’ve got it, I say flaunt it.

The broch itself is, archaeologically speaking, nothing to raise a particular sweat over, although some original wall footings can still be discerned – a lot of the original stone work no doubt now residing in suspiciously nearby drystone enclosures lying below to the south-west. But natural beauty will always win my vote. Yeah, no artificial enhancements for my goddesses, thank you very much. Just come as you are.

Anyway, enough wittering... the technical bit according to Canmore:

‘Dun Diarmaid is probably a broch. The outer and inner wall faces survive intermittently in the N, W, and S giving an internal diameter N-S of 8.0m with the wall 3.1m thick in the N and 3.5m in the S. In the E, the wall has incorporated outcrop rock and the outer part has completely disappeared though the inner face may be partly in situ under turf-covered debris. The entrance is in the W, but has tumbled and its footings are obscured by debris; here the wall is 3.6m thick. No intra-mural features are visible. OS (A A) 5 November 1971.‘

Though the chamber is sadly trashed, the presumed former orthostats lying incongruously upon their flanks upon the south-eastern apex of the cairn, this was nevertheless a much more upstanding monument than I had anticipated. And if sitting upon a chambered cairn... gazing at Britain’s finest mountain range rising above a great sea loch... is your thang, it would be remiss of me not to recommend a visit, would it not?

Take the dead-end road toward Struanmore from the A863 and, veering right, park at its terminus between two white cottages. The road continues as a track to the south-west (ignore the track to left), the chambered cairn soon coming into view beyond a prominent, fenced gulley. Although, to be fair, the coastal scenery of Ardtreck Point across Loch Harport and, nearer to hand, Bracadale Point will probably make more of an immediate impression. Nice. Trend left at the aforementioned fence and your ancient grandstand perch awaits, my friends.

What else is there to say? The cairn is more substantial than many of the genre I could mention, but it is where its creators saw fit to place it that truly matters, I reckon. Yeah, the coastal location is everything. Absolutely exquisite. What’s more a light breeze has seen fit to materialise this afternoon, thus keeping the damned midges at bay. A further, better preserved chambered cairn lies a little to the west beyond Ullinish Lodge, the excellent Dun Beag (broch) occupying high ground to the north. Not to mention Duns Garsin and Diarmaid the other side of Loch Beag. Great sites, all. To my mind, however, it is this monument which possesses the finest location .... and finest vibe. Which is what Skye is all about. Yeah, lose yourself in the melodrama for a while.

Another essential site I missed last time around... and pictures in books do retrospectively mock my ignorance of these islands’ treasures so. My advice – for what it’s worth – is to rectify such errors as soon as possible. I reckon it’s good for the soul, you know? Or at least mine. Now Glen Brittle campsite is a good base for travellers on a budget, or for those simply wishing to maximise intimate contact with this wondrous Isle... if only for the jaw-dropping skyline of The Black Cuillin which greets those returning wearily at the end of a long Hebridean evening. Guess I (currently) fall into the latter category, so it’s arguably a pretty big deal to admit to myself that the (dreaded) midge onslaught is so bad I might as well abandon the coast and seek an inland wild camp tonight. Macho, huh? So, what to do in the interim, then? A glance at the map reveals this to be no simple decision. Following a visit to Dun Ardtreck. That is a given in these parts.

The B8009 follows the western shore of Loch Harport, past Carbost and the Talisker distillery (of interest to some, I’d imagine) before terminating upon the pier beyond Portalong. Now unless you’re Roger Moore driving that Lotus (with Barbara Bach in the passenger seat... ahem... I say) it is advisable to turn left before Portalong and in short order take the minor road signposted ‘Ardtreck Point’. I followed the road around to its left hand extremity and parked beside the ‘Tin Shack’, a red-roofed timber building (as you would no doubt surmise... had me in stitches, that ‘un). Walk back down the road and take a signposted (incidentally in gloriously DIY typeface), gated track to the left toward a white cottage. The locals will continue to direct you, by proxy, to their pride and joy set upon the western flank of Ardtreck Point.

In many respects the broch, semi-broch, dun... or whatever the correct term for these bespoke ancient castles is... is incidental to the immense coastal view across to Macleod’s Tables that confronts the gobsmacked visitor this morning. In my opinion the Mediterranean has nothing on the western coast of Scotland. Having said that, the archaeology is nevertheless pretty special, too, a D-shaped enclosure set upon a rocky knoll, further protected by a perimeter wall, entrance to the south-east. The western flank, falling sheer to the impossibly blue water, clearly required little artificial defence. The ‘arc’ of the ‘D’, however, still retains a pretty substantial double-skinned dry stone rampart, which according to Canmore once rose to at least 16 feet [RCAHMS 1928; E W MacKie 1965; 1967; 1969; Curr Archaeol 1967]. The only sound is the aforementioned water engaged upon its timeless battle of attrition with the coastal rock... oh, and the occasional seabird.... noisy blighters. Yeah, forget nearby Talisker. For me Dun Ardtreck is Skye’s premier ‘distillery’ .... everything I love about Skye’s brutal, yet paradoxically incredibly beautiful, sublime coastline can be appreciated upon the shattered stonework of this ancient enclosure. Sure, it is easy to overlook, particularly upon a sunny late Spring morning, just how extreme the weather can be... but today I reckon there’s little to be said that could be described as detrimental. Yeah, it is a drag to eventually leave... but a chambered cairn is indicated upon the map just across the water near Struanmore. Duty calls...

This is something else. Really, it is. Since I don’t know where to begin I’ll simply quote a part of the retrospectively sourced Canmore record: ‘Carn Liath, a chambered cairn of uncertain type, about 80’ in diameter with sides rising steeply to a height of about 18’.’ Yeah, that’s not a typo. 18 feet. Outside of Ireland – which, let’s face it, is a law unto itself.... truly away with the fairies, in the best possible way – the thought of stumbling upon such a virgin TMA site was unthinkable in the extreme. Never considered the possibility. However this is Skye. Clearly we need to do a lot more ‘work’ here, people!

Sitting upon the wondrous Dun Artreck this morning (incidentally another highly recommended site) the eye, glancing across the old 1:50K OS map – as it does – notes several ‘chambered cairns’ not mentioned upon my TMA notes. ‘Hey, guess it’s time for the ‘cherry-picker’ of sites to record some of the more mundane more-or-less-destroyed sites’, thinks I. One such monument indicated lies a little west of the A87 near the small settlement of Kensaleyre, the nomenclature a reference to Loch Eyre, south-eastern extension of the great Loch Snizort Beag. Now I’d passed by previously, coming ‘home’ – well, to my midge infested tent at Glen Brittle, anyway [seriously, an excellent campsite] – from Trotternish... and didn’t notice a thing. Duh! Today I cross the bridge across the River Haultin and park – self consciously and rather awkwardly (in character, I guess) – some way before a strikingly scary white chapel.... or church. There, looking west, sits an overgrown mound looming across barbed-wire. I check the map. Yeah, guess that’s it then. The barbed wired is high, rough ground beyond ensuring I must literally take my balls in my hands as I cross. The ground is certainly ‘undulating’... boggy also. However the relevance is lost as I draw closer and realise just how substantial this chambered cairn really is. Blimey! What’s more it appears, to all intents and purposes, intact. How can this be, a short distance from the A87? And upon a major tourist destination?

Truly gobsmacked, I clamber to the top. Surely a possee of enraged locals will swarm to intercept the interloper daring to violate the secret of Kensaleyre? But, of course, no retributive local throng materialises. Carn Liath is clearly forgotten, ignored. No HS information boards, no kissing gate access. But here we have (arguably) Skye’s finest chambered cairn.... without the need for the 8 mile walk to the magnificent Rubh an Dunain. The cairn is truly in the ‘Ireland’ class, sited where the River Haultin makes a final – and perhaps significant – meander before reaching Loch Eyre. Another look at the map discloses a hillfort upon Dun Cruin to the north-west, not to mention a number of standing stones and cairns in the vicinity. I sit upon the cairn and try to take in the moment... to appreciate what is but a fleeting hour or so in my life. There are so many questions, chief amongst them – perhaps – is what drove the people who erected this structure to do so? Dunno. But whatever the reason, it mattered. In a way I envy them.... to have such a certainty of purpose. Whereas I am but a swirling cauldron of... to be honest I don’t know what? Raw emotion dueling with the reluctant requirement to conform to a society that falls some way short of my expectations... you know, where most things don’t really seem to matter? Whatever, the on-going quest, the search for ‘meaning’ certainly appears to bring me nearer to that elusive mental state where the individual can perhaps begin to embrace altruism. An impossible dream, maybe. But places such as Carn Liath seem to amplify the attempt, by many degrees of magnitude. Yeah, perhaps it is all a fallacy.... self delusion. But, if so, is it not a noble one?

P.S. prospective visitors to this wonderful site should note that there appears to be a much easier access to the site just monument-side of the bridge... no need to risk the tender, sexy bits – be you male or female.

OK, perhaps Dun Garsin is not completely destroyed... but more or less, I guess. Unless my map reading was totally out (not beyond the bounds of possibility, it has to be said.. and if so please correct the error) little but a few masonry footings exist to ‘suggest’ to the average punter that a broch once stood here in awe of Knock Garsin. However I agree with the splendid OS people and reckon one did, overlooking the Amar River and thus commanding a fine glen. Light rain – the first and only such occurrence during these truly remarkable two weeks in Alba- cannot detract from the sheer beauty of the Skye landscape. Yeah, Mother Wales may be my first... and true love... but Skye is Nicole Kidman asking me back to her place for ‘coffee’ and bolting the door. Hell, it’s never gonna last... but what a ride! Assuming you survive the cerebral onslaught.... amongst other things.

As mentioned, very, very little of the broch survives... as far as I could tell. But a visit here is still worthwhile, if only as part of the Bracadale trinity completed by the mighty Dun Beag and the exquisitely sited Dun Diarmaid (not to mention the two chambered cairns in the vicinity). Hey, what more do you want? Easy parking... but the rest requires a touch of... hell, I don’t know how to describe it. To be satisfied with ‘apparently not very much’, such insubstantiality nevertheless seemingly representing ‘everything’. Yeah, is less really.... more... in some respects? Or do we ‘fill in the blanks’ in accordance with our wishful thinking? Whatever the truth, I reckon it’s rewarding to try, you know?

A disappointing – and only partially successful visit, this.... since I was expecting a lot having noted Greywether’s comments and images. Quite excited, in fact. Steady on, old chap. However I, er, sort of assumed that the alignment – information boards ‘n’ all – would be easy to find without a 1:25 OS map. And I certainly didn’t expect the area to be almost totally over-run by head high vegetation ... including the infamous rhododendron... and a plantation apparently set-up in 2005 to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. I’d rather they hadn’t, but there you are.

I approached via the Minard Castle B&B turning from the A83, taking the first left forestry track. Logging operations ensured this was strictly on foot, although personally I’d walk anyway (note the possibility of closure if making a special trip). The track forks right and soon enough arrives at a heavily overgrown hilltop surrounded by an unclimbable deer fence. I first follow this to the left toward the shore of wonderful Loch Fyne, but see nothing. So, to the right, then. Sure enough, a standing stone pokes its head up through the greenery. But how to get to it? Further along a gate in the deer fence offers promise... only to meander down hill toward the loch. Backtracking, I try to penetrate the screen of vegetation, cursing the brambles, getting increasingly more disorientated and pissed off with bloody ‘Trafalgar Wood’. I try again, but eventually have to admit defeat. Sometimes Nature just will not be bargained with, you know? So, onto the beautiful shore of Loch Fyne, trending left and then right. I see nothing, although the fact that such a wondrous ‘watery vista’ is not enough in itself is, in retrospect, frankly ludicrous. It is frustrating, the feeling that the stones are just ‘around there’ no doubt well known to all who search out such things in the field. But it is not to be, not today.

Time is running out if I want to reach my Tinto nightly stop-over by dark. Then I suddenly notice that someone has actually made an unobtrusive hole in the fence below the aforementioned standing stone seen at the start. I crawl through to find the monolith is indeed a handsome monument. But what’s this? There’s more, in the form of two(?) further stones which lie broken in apparent shattered alignment before it, heading uphill. A stone row? Looks like it, but aligned upon what? Too much vegetation to tell. Unfortunately I must leave it there. Perhaps a lochside approach from Minard would be more revealing. But at least I managed to glimpse something of why the ancients came to view the greatest of our stars here. I shall return, better prepared, if I can some day.

I was searching for the Baroile chamber... without success... using an old 1:50k OS map (my excuse, anyway) when I stumbled upon this. Since it looks nothing like Greywether’s pics I reckon it must (surely?) be the Rhudil cairn.

With regards the apparent doubt as to this being a chambered cairn (and bearing in mind that, although I’ve seen a few such monuments in my time, I’m clearly no expert) I would have thought the rather obvious – to me, anyway – capstone [see images] set upon a large, linear cairn makes this a pretty good bet for being kosher. Whatever the truth, the vibe here is fabulous, nice n’secluded, tucked away from the honeypot sites of Kilmartin Glen. Worth a visit for that alone. Hey, perhaps you could even locate the Baroile chamber, too? I reckon I could, in retrospect. But then hindsight does simplify matters, does it not?

Heading from Kilmartin pass the Ballymeanoch stones on your right and, just before Dunadd, follow the minor left hand road signposted ‘Rhudil Mill Antiques’... or something like that. Carry on past the house to the end of this road and park in a rough clearing currently used to store ‘farm stuff’. A local walking his dog asked if I ‘was OK’ and was quite happy when I replied I was looking for the cairns... anyway, cross the burn by the handy bridge opposite and trend to the right beneath a tree-crowned crag. The Rhudil cairn lies ‘round the corner’ to the left. I’m assuming the Baroile version is just a little bit further up. Hindsight, eh?

I’ve deleted my previous (dodgy) images of Cothiemuir from 2004... they tell me – and presumably, anyone else – little about what it is like to be here. An irony, perhaps, since the visitor – nay, the honoured guest – assumes this woodland clearing is merely the environment chosen for this shattered RSC’s retirement.... and far removed from that of its ‘working life’. Yeah, trees and a’gazing at Madame de la Luna are mutually exclusive, are they not?

Needless to say Cothiemuir didn’t want to be photographed today. Far too much light contrast prevalent for this amateur. So I tried to capture the mood instead... something as nebulous as the clouds which manifestly refuse to make an appearance in the sky today.... then gave up and simply did as I was bid by the vibe. Lie back in the long grass and.... do nothing. Much to the apparent bemusement of a lizard basking upon one of the shattered, sun drenched orthostats. Yeah, he/she soon sussed I was there for reasons other than obtaining a rather small handbag. I mean ‘man bag’. To be honest I don’t know what I mean... Cothiemuir Wood is enchanting this late afternoon and rational thought seems, well, irrational, I guess. So much so that my recent decision to head towards Strathpepper tomorrow is discarded. Why not Schiehallion? Er, yeah. Why not?

One middle-aged woman walking her dog wanders through the circle... other than that I’m left to ponder the relationship the frankly magnificent recumbent and flankers have with the light that plays upon this corner of Aberdeenshire today. With utter wonder. In fact so fine, so beguiling is the atmosphere that it is easy to forget that this was a deadly serious structure. Somebody was interned within the central cist. No messing, this was – hey, is – for real. No Damien Hirst bollocks. Yet there is no feeling of foreboding. No shadow of retribution hangs over the traveller penetrating the sacred enclosure like the proverbial ‘Sword of Damocles’. Just the feeling that there are few places I’d rather be right now. Cothiemuir may be ‘camera shy’, but it’s certainly no Garbo. Oh no.

So... I wouldn’t say Cothiemuir Wood is Aberdeenshire’s finest stone circle. But I’ve yet to find another that I rather spend a few hours at, you know?

Like Greywether I was initially a tad confused as to how to access this frankly superb trio of standing stones... the deer fence is still there, still unclimbable, and an approach via the main road would have been in the direct vision of the sunbathing occupants of the house across the way. Yeah, that’s right. Sunbathing. In addition it’s never wise to be seen acting ‘furtively’ in the immediate vicinity of schools... people with warped minds will inexorably arrive at warped conclusions, will they not? So... for once.... I actually take the time to deliberate over the map. Should do that more often, since it transpires there is a riverside track (incidentally the mighty River Don, with great views to Mither Tap) which affords easy access to the site. Who’d have thought it? To locate the track carry on heading out of town to the next house on the left. Opposite is a layby with a stonking big red metal gate. Look closely and it incorporates a small, sliding grille. Beyond this the track heads for the river bank – as every good ‘riverside walk’ should, I guess – so continue to the right until just before the Gullie Burn discharges its contribution to the Don. Don’t cross the burn; instead head right along the edge of light woodland and there you are. Simples.

To be honest there’s not much more to say, not by utilising the English language, anyway. Three fine orthostats stand in leafy shade and invite me to do the exact opposite upon this baking hot afternoon. Chill out in the most literal sense. The shrill sound of a bell, a sudden cacophony of children’s voices accompanied by the to’ing and fro’ing of cars raises the possibility of disturbance. Yeah, the end of the school day. But thankfully it does not materialise – huh, kids these days, eh? – and I am left in peace at this wonderful spot. As Greywether said, idyllic.

I decide to approach from Oldmeldrum – although, in retrospect, Drew’s Bourtie route is probably a better alternative. Not that the northern ascent is dodgy.... oh no, far from it, a initial walk through woodland leading to a well marked stroll across the green hillside. It’s just the vibe at the start will no doubt be better. I park in Millburn Lane (near the roundabout) and walk up the ‘private road’ to Redhouse Farm, just before which a signed footpath leads through the aforementioned woodland to the left. Stiles will keep you on track thereafter across the fields. A point to note, however, is the ‘Hill of Barra Closed to Public for Lambing’ sign. However it is late May and, since locals are out and about walking dogs, I decide to join them and go ahead with my plans. Needless to say the only sheep I see are in the distance, but there you are... a restriction of such duration a trifle OTT, perhaps, particularly bearing in mind this is an ancient monument, and a rather fine one at that?

So... as I approach the summit of Hill of Barra I’m suddenly confronted by a fine, tri-vallate enclosure. Not what I was expecting, to be honest, but all the more welcome for that. The inner rampart is actually very susbstantial, the defences extending around all the circumference save the western flank – simply no need there since Nature has thought fit to create a natural, craggy defence line.

As for the views... Oldmeldrum and its industrial estates need to be factored into that to the north; the rest of the points of the compass need no such caveats. Yeah, the hill is a fine viewpoint, indeed. What’s more the stone circles of Kirkton of Bourtie and (the utterly wondrous) Sheildon can be seen in their landscape settings either side of the former’s nearby farm. It is a nice touch. Tap O’Noth is also conspicuous.... but then of course it would be, wouldn’t it?

The vibe is one of peace rising above a hive of activity to the north, an oasis of calm so near to, yet completely detached from, the modern world. Consequently I choose the southern arc for lunch and drift off for a while. Gazing across to the Bourtie RSC a wave of timelessness washes over me. It can’t last, of course.... time waits for no Gladman.... but at least I’m off to find the Deer Park ‘circle. Not exactly a drag, it has to be said.

Reconnoitring a route up The Hill of Barra (Incidentally I eventually go with that from the north) the remnants of this great RSC rear up from the road at Kirkton of Bourtie. Well, under a sky as blue as that towering above this wondrous, fertile land this morning, I decide to reprise my visit of a few years back. And why not?

Despite the destruction, this is a special, nay, potentially overwhelming stone circle featuring – as I understand – the largest recumbent stone of any RSC? [Thanks to Les Hamilton for subsequently pointing out that Old Keig is actually the largest, by mass.... the Bourtie recumbent the longest]. The field appears in early crop. However tractor tracks lead inexorably to the ring, or what remains of the ring. Two circle stones remain erect.... but they are very substantial. However it is the remaining flanker, still undertaking the role of cohort to a truly massive – hey, overwhelmingly so – recumbent which steal the show. Sundry other stones lie in a jumbled mess within the partially enclosed, overgrown space, whether field clearance or shatter orthostats it’s difficult to tell. Probably six of one and half a dozen of another. Or possibly a bit more than that... left me calculator at home, I’m afraid.

As mentioned by ‘those who’ve gone before’, the chock stones are an interesting feature of the monument. So is the extensive view toward – as you’d no doubt guess – Bennachie and the Mither Tap, as well as that in the direction of the aforementioned Hill of Barra, according to the map bearing a hillfort. I missed out upon the latter last time I was here. But then the wondrous, nearby Shieldon stone circle accounted for that. And rightly so. But now there is no excuse and I leave this massive recumbent stone – and its ravaged associates – to resume their perennial hill top brooding once again. Yeah, a fleeting visit, but aren’t all human interactions such? Need to make them count when given the opportunity, I guess.

I make it as far as Middle Broomhill farm before becoming sufficiently concerned with the deteriorating track – and thus my poor car’s nether regions – to seek local advice. As it happens the gentleman who answers my knock is a true Scot, if ever I did encounter one. Looks one, too. A credit to old Alba. In actual fact it is ‘probably’ (he says) possible to drive to Upper Broomhill – depending on your car’s clearance – although I would say the best bet is to park off track, to the left, a little beyond Middle Broomhill and not be so bloody lazy. No, on second thoughts the best bet is to park and have a chat with the local dude.... you might learn something, as I did. Such as the existance of a standing stone at the corner before the previous farm, which I subsequently completely forget about! Anyway, I discuss the hillfort with the chap... ‘nothing much remains’, apparently. A matter of interpretation, perhaps... but, as Harry Hill says, there’s only one way to find out! So, after promising ‘I’ll be back’, in my best Schwazenneger, off I go into the blazing heat of this May morning. Yeah. I know. In Aberdeenshire.

Passing the seemingly deserted Upper Broomhill the track terminates.... Barmekin Hill lies dead ahead and, in retrospect (what else?) the best idea is to head up hill and approach through woodland to the ascend the left hand end of the site. Needless to say the right hand looks the easier to me... however this means negotiating several tough barbed wire fences. Jeez, how I hate the stuff! And when that is done there’s the not insignificant matter of the steep, heather clad slopes of The Barmekin itself. Hey, why the need for stone ramparts when you have virtually impregnable Scottish heather? Nevertheless I persevere and in due course the hidden magnitude of the fortress is revealed. And then some! I concur with Drew and Bill..... five – count ‘em – concentric ramparts still girdle the hillside, the inner two as substantial as you could wish for, with a complex entrance to south.

Bennachie and the wondrous Mither Tap rise upon the northern horizon... and the traveller can’t help wondering if the multitude of defensive lines upon Barmekin Hill represented a touch of ‘bling’ to boot.... ‘hey, those guys may have occupied Bennachie, but just look at our defences!’ Yeah, there is a case for arguing that ‘five’ was simply taking the piss. Whatever, all is now silent. A place to ponder ‘stuff’, to pick out the locations of the wondrous RSCs of Sunhoney and Midmar Kirk far below to the approx south-west.

Eventually I descend and head through the woodland back to Middle Broomhill. I talk with ‘the wife’ this time... she reckons the blistering weather will last into next week... what a contrast to the 100mph gales of this time last year. Yeah, tell me about it.

Loved this.... an utterly trashed site, yet endowed with such a vibe I doubt if you could squeeze any more atmosphere in with the proverbial crow bar. Yeah, just the one orthostat remains erect from the ring enclosing the green cairn.... presumably funerary in nature. But it is more than enough, to be honest, thanks to the natural aesthetic beauty of its fallen companions, not to mention distant hills. Of the former, none are more exquisite than the recumbent – has ever there been a more ‘recumbent’ recumbent? – and attending flankers.

Again, the fabulous, full on light no doubt has a great positive bearing upon the visit, highlighting colour and texture of stone to great effect. However I’ve a feeling a visit in pouring rain would be far from a washout upon Candle Hill... hey, some sites have simply ‘got it’, others haven’t. Difficult to define, I guess. You just ‘know’ when you arrive there.

As mentioned, despite being collapsed, the recumbent and flankers remain – for me – the focal point of the monument. A light covering of lichen and moss enhance form, Dunnideer and Bennachie taking care of the horizon.... as you would expect. However all is not rosy in Candle Hill’s garden, the view of Tap O’Noth having to be made across a gulley filled with rusting cars and other assorted junk. Yeah, Candle Hill doubles as a dumping ground, much to the shame of the landowner.

Which brings me to the question of access. Who owns Candle Hill? Hmm. Upon arrival I find the metal field gate secured with barbed-wire. Not very nice, it has to be said. I therefore make for the nearest house (Coldhome) and ask permission, only to be informed that the hill is not the property of the occupants.... and they have no idea to whom it does belong. Consequently I assume ‘they’ – whoever ‘they’ are – will not mind. Well, it wouldn’t do to miss out on an audience with Candle Hill, would it?

An intriguingly complex, multi-phase series of defensive dwellings crown the crest of Turin Hill.... not to mention examples of those enigmatic cup-marked stones, the purpose/meaning of which still eludes us. Perhaps that will always remain the case. To be honest I misinterpreted the remaining grass-covered ramparts which still girdle the hill as a large multivallate hillfort with contemporary central ‘redoubt’, to which a very powerful circular dun was later added.

In actual fact it appears the inner hillfort, straddling the summit of the hill, was a later addition, perhaps a consolidation of resources when the larger enclosure was found to be too large to defend, too vulnerable to a surprise assault, perhaps?

For me by far the most impressive structure extant upon this hilltop is the aformentioned dun, sited a little below the summit to the west and unfortunately bisected by a dry stone field wall. Although virtually reduced to footings, the remaining volume of stone debris strongly suggests that here we have the significant footprint of what was a very powerful structure indeed. According to RCAHMS records [see thelonious’s link] there are additional examples of the genre to east and west, although much less distinct. Phew, clearly a lot has gone on upon Turin Hill across the millennia. The views are not bad, either, particularly looking northward across Hill of Finavon (incidentally bearing a fine vitrified hillfort) toward the distant, snow-capped Cairngorms. The large Carsegownie cairn can also be seen, nearer to hand, beneath its woodland copse.

Perhaps the greatest surprise, however, occurs as I take a wander along Turinhill Craigs (upon the southern flank) and literally stumble over a slab bearing several distinct cup marks. According to TMA rock art expert – and local resident – Tiompan there are more here [check out the related site]. Once again it is interesting – and perhaps instructive – that these slabs were not destroyed during the periodic remodelling which appears to have occurred upon this hilltop. Yeah, as I said at the start... what an intriguing place.

For reference I ascended Turin Hill from the north, past Back of Turin Hill (very prosaic). As usual, however, I misread the map and cut through woodland. Big mistake since, upon negotiating a wire fence, I suddenly feel a very sharp jolt surge through the right leg and fear the worst.... ‘Oh no, not the hamstring!!’. However the anticipated, searing pain does not follow, ‘just’ a further jolt as I replace the leg (think Homer stretching for the four pack suspended upon power cables). The penny eventually drops.... electric fence! Consequently if you come this way please keep to the right of the treeline... field gates give access to the western end of the hill and you won’t subject yourself to a dose of ECT. Unless you enjoy that sort of thing...... hey, none of my business.

Denoon Law is one of those sites that appears to have been bypassed by the modern world... it doesn’t feature in any guide I’ve seen.... indeed in ANY book I’ve seen. Yet it is most certainly very much a dominating feature of this wee corner of Scotland.... a very substantial fortress, indeed.

To be fair I probably wouldn’t have come here had it not happened to lay more or less between last night’s stopover in Glenisla and Brechin. But there you are... it did. So I duly arrive upon a cloudless morning of stunning – if rather severe – light. The field gate is closed but unlocked.... so I reckon I’ll take a quick shufti, so to speak. The eastern flank is protected by what appears to be an initial bank and ditch, a ‘barbican’ to hold up a surprise assault and give the inhabitants time to respond, no doubt. Otherwise Denoon Law is univallate, just the one rampart forming the defences of the enclosure. Hey, but what defences they are! Having said that, Canmore’s dimensions would seem excessive....

The foundations of what would appear to be a large rectangular structure lie within... a substantial hall, perhaps? Oh to be a fly on the wall of that mead hall. What stories, what tall tales! And then there is the beautiful, fertile countryside Denoon Law oversees. To be honest that is that. Nice ‘n’ simple. But then (near) perfection usually is. Yeah, I reckon Denoon Law is that good.

As I frantically snap away upon the camera, well aware that the light contrast is pushing my photography skills well beyond normal operating parameters, a rather young chap attired in farm overalls arrives upon a quad bike. ‘Can I ask what you are doing?’, says he. Seems not for the first time my camera tripod has been mistaken for a metal detector from afar. Nae bother, however. Once he determines the truth he simply wants to talk... seems there is a Roman fort nearby, local folklore adorned with tales of pesky Pictish warriors causing serious problems for the local legionnaries. Methinks Denoon was not a favoured posting in those days....

Anyway there is work to be done feeding cattle and wotnot – hey, ‘farmer things’ – so I’m left alone upon Denoon Law’s mighty ramparts for a few hours in the sun. Yeah, there are worse places to spend time. It is a good place to be. Eventually, however, it is time to leave Denoon and head for Turin Hill. But that’s another story.

There is no obvious place to park other than the start of the (relatively) long access road for Carsegownie Farm. Consequently I left a note on the windscreen of the trusty Rover and went to have a quick look at what appeared – from the busy B9124, anyway – to be a quite substantial cairn, lying resplendent within crop beneath a canopy of trees.

The initial worry – well, not actually ‘worry’, but you know what I mean – is unfounded.... tractor tracks give access through the crop to the site, an oasis of prehistory within a sea of green. Or something like that. Initial impressions are immediately confirmed... the large diameter of the cairn, albeit not that tall. There is a significant volume of debris on top, both organic and inorganic in nature. No doubt some of this represents field clearance, but there are also several large, enigmatic stones to be seen, perhaps surviving from the original monument? Note the excavation detailed within my miscellaneous post of last year... a cist was discovered here; however the interior is too overgrown to be any more specific, I’m afraid, other than to confirm the existance of a ‘hollow’ where I assume it once lay? Pity, I guess, but the vibe within the trees here is pretty special nonetheless, what with Turin Hill – topped by myriad forts and rock art – keeping watch upon the southern skyline.

The farmer drives up and is either satisfied by my note, or does not give a monkey’s one way or another. Yeah, it is refreshing to be at Carsegownie for a while.

Funny, isn’t it, how incidental views of something from a viewpoint can act as a spark for future action? In this case it was Schiehallion rising upon the distant skyline from the wonderful Na Carraigean ‘four poster’ last year. Hmm.... ‘The Fairy Hill of the Scots’ (seems this is the generally accepted translation?)... which just happens to dominate Loch Rannoch, apparently the land of my distant ancestors, assuming the genealogical research undertaken by my late (and much missed) aunt Maureen to be correct. Yeah, I knew I really needed to do something about arranging a personal audience before it became an entry upon the ‘if only’ ledger in later life. But Mother Scotland doesn’t just ‘do’ favourable weather to order. Oh no! Which is why I find myself hanging out within Aberdeenshire’s fabulous Cothiemuir Hill RSC, pondering the best route towards Skye, when the thought suddenly enters my head. It has to be tomorrow! To the Fairy Hills!

My weather hunch is correct, the day dawning cloudless as I rise from my overnight stop upon the Devil’s Elbow (heh! heh!) above Glen Shee. So, a passing nod to the wondrous Spittal of Glenshee upon its glacial moraine en-route, I duly arrive at the Braes of Foss car park. Yeah, the knee feels OK, so today’s gonna be a good day. I hope. There is a £2 parking charge, the monies apparently used to maintain the approach track, which the John Muir Trust noticeboard explains has been re-routed to minimise environmental impact. Hey, I can live with that. The ‘board has a further surprise.... a fine, multi-cup marked stone standing right by the initial stages of the track and not shown on my ancient 1:50K OS map. Schiehallion looms above to the approx west and, foreshortened, looks a bit of a doddle, to be honest. Are they sure it’s 3,553ft (1,083m)? The first stage of the ascent does little to dispel this illusion, despite the fierce heat and thick coating of 50 factor sunblock. Yeah, the aforementioned track does its job well. A large cairn appears upon the immediate near horizon... surely not. Already? Err.... no. Needless to say the ridge stretches away to the summit upon the far horizon, the intervening distance a moonscape of shattered rock and quartzite outcrop. Quartzite... hmm. Funny, that. As for the cairn, a lack of bonding footprint with the earth strongly suggests no ancient providence. More’s the pity. Oh, one more thing. It is here that the nice, easy going track ends. Abruptly. Schiehallion may be a ‘fairy hill’ but, much like the celebrated gay contingent of 2 Para during the Falklands War, she is as hard as nails. And don’t you ever forget it.

So, the traveller, not so cocky now (ha!) is forced to pick his way across the knee juddering rock, small patches of grass veritable oases of relative calm within the brutal carnage that is the serpent’s rocky back – suggest trending to the left is possibly the better bet? The mighty Ben Lawers rises in this direction to as near-as-dammit 4,000 ft, a skyline of Cairngorm and Lochaber mountains to the right, ahead just shattered rock rising slowly, but anything but ‘gently’, to the summit cone. It is the first view of the latter which explains why Schiehallion has no need of a ‘Tinto-style’ Bronze Age cairn.... the summit itself is formed of one massive, nay gigantic, natural cairn of shattered rock. Mother does it best, does she not? Eventually I reach ‘the top’ where the view down to Loch Rannoch – and across to Rannoch Moor, Glen Coe etc blows my mind, vestiges of last week’s snow still apparent upon the high tops. Schiehallion has none, but needless to say has no need, her whiteness built in courtesy of the liberal coating of quartzite.

I move a little down hill to the west to avoid the noisy trainer-clad brigade and try and take it all in. I can’t, of course, there being too much sensory data to process. But if this landscape does hold my ancestral roots, what a privilege that would be. Hell, it’s a privilege to be here full stop. So... ‘Fairy Hill?’ A retrospective look at TMA shows the Braes of Foss site is but one of numerous examples of rock art below the mountain’s mighty flanks. So, yes. Seems pretty clear that Schiehallion has always basked in the attention of humankind. Time, of course, is fleeting. So I decide to stay the night below in order to maximise the moment. Yeah, it just feels ‘right’, you know? Perhaps it always has....

Frankly, it’s not that easy to know how to follow a visit to the not too distant Bigbury, the mind a veritable cauldron swirling with tales of heroic deeds and defiance against the Roman invader. Go for the smooth ‘chill-out’ option at Jullieberrie’s or Bodsham long barrows, perhaps? However I saw those a few years back, the eye instead settling upon a group of barrows, these of the ‘round’ variety, situated in chestnut (?) woodland a little east of Godmersham, not far from Ashford. Yeah, that’ll do. To be honest I could have chosen a number of others in an arc around Canterbury.... clearly there’s a lot more to Prehistoric Kent than I’ve thought to date.

Anyway, leaving the A28 at Godmersham, a minor road sneeks beneath a viaduct and proceeds to snake its way this way and that... as all good country roads should do... eventually arriving at the hamlet of Sole Street. Needless to say, take care... single track leading from a pretty popular pub... need I say more? A little way beyond, ‘Penny Pot Lane’ heads left (north) to pass through Eggringe Wood. There is a parking area on the right, but carry on to a much larger area and park here. You’ll know it’s the right one since, looking to the left (south-west) you’ll see two large round barrows – not that tall, but of pretty substantial area – within a clearing either side of a forestry track. Somewhat overgrown and unkempt, but hey, what can you do? And at least the trail bikers haven’t destroyed them. Yet. According to Pastscape these monuments are:

TR 09665035 : 24.0m in diameter, 1.0m high.
TR 09635041 : 27.0m 1.7m

Not bad for starters. However follow the (much smaller) track into the woods to the approx north-east – albeit more akin to a stream during the official ‘drought conditions’ of May 2012 – and two more, with in my opinion a far superior vibe, can be visited with relative ease. Trending left, follow the track to a crossroads at a clearing. Ignore the left branch and carry on for a little while before veering left. Here, if you’re lucky, competent (or whatever) the barrow at TR09965091 (according to Pastscape c27m diameter, 1.0m high) sits in a clearing. Blue bells adorn the damaged mound, birds give it all they’ve got – quite a bit, it has to be said – and innumerable ants turn a decaying tree stump into a shimmering mass of industry. Nice. So that’s where several fierce looking soldiers ants clambering over me live, then? Belieing the not too promising forecast, great white clouds advance across the otherwise pristine blue sky in serried procession. Yeah, this is a spot to lie back and think of England. No, literally. Although if you happen to get carried away by the ‘moment’...........

But wait, there’s more. Returning whence I came, a short distance beyond the cross-roads... a very indistinct path leads through the trees to my right (west) to the boundary of a field. Here sits another damaged round barrow within another, much more isolated clearing, literally engulfed with blue bells today (Pastscape – TR09795069: 21.0m, by 1.7m). The feathery remains of some species of bird beside a burrow suggest the occupant isn’t to be trifled with. So I don’t. Sunshine streams through the fringe canopy and, just for a while, everything’s all right with the world. It’s good to ‘recharge’, you know? And Eggringe Wood is the ideal spot.

Having read in the past – some time or other – that Bigbury had been seriously damaged by gravel digging (you can’t make it up), it’s consequently taken a while to finally pay a visit to this legendary site. Legendary? Well, yeah. It would appear that most authorities are happy that this is (well, probably) the place where the Cantii ‘retired on the woods, where they had a strongly fortified position of great natural strength’... the words of a certain Julius Caesar in 54 BCE, the Vain One having repulsed a mobile assault by the locals near the Great Stour. Needless to say the Cantii stood no chance against the siege techniques of the VII legion during Caesar’s abortive invasion of these Isles. The rest, as they say, is history. Or at least the master propagandist’s version of it, helping to cement his inexorable rise to ultimate power.

To be honest it is worth coming to Bigbury for that alone.... to stand upon the ramparts and just IMAGINE what it must have been like to see the Romans advance, see your missiles bounce harmlessly off their testudo shield formation.... and realise you would most probably die this day as the siege ramp grew higher. But there is much more to Bigbury than that. Tangible remains, too, giving credence to the fact that Bigbury was probably the most important hillfort (south of the Thames) in Caesar’s path. According to yer man, ‘they [the Cantii] did nothing unworthy’... which of course may have been a quote designed to inflate his ‘achievements’... but I reckon reflects the fatalistic last ditch defence by the local warriors... a defence which may well have contributed to the Romans’ eventual retreat back across the Channel for a century. And, in all probability, it happened here. Jeez.

Needless to say I nearly don’t make it here at all ... in-car navigation is not my forte. However I eventually locate Harbledown and, crossing the A2, via a bridge, park just beyond upon Bigbury Road. The ‘North Downs Way’ long distance path cuts through the site from here, pretty substantial earthworks, clad in a beguiling May carpet of blue bells, soon materialising within the woodland. I’m confused, however. Why does the hillside rise steeply to the south, apparently bearing an outward facing rampart? It takes a while.... not to mention much clambering about... to suss that the blue bell adorned ramparts actually represent a north-western annexe.... albeit a pretty powerful one, possibly (according to Dyer) a cattle pound? Some cattle pound! Yeah, the defences of this additional area are substantial, particularly those linking it to the main enclosure upon the western flank. Ascending this bank the penny drops... the OS 1:25K map helps, to be fair... that most of the southern defences of Bigbury, beyond Bigbury Road, are no more. However the northern, towering above the aforementioned annexe, leave no doubt that this was once a major fortress, indeed. But no match for you know who? Damn him and his dodgy haircut to blazes! Although, to be fair, the discovery of a slave chain at Bigbury emphasises that these were extreme, violent – hell, inhuman – times. We need to keep things in perspective.

Fallen trees currently lie stacked upon Bigbury... notices state that this is an official attempt to clear more of the Iron Age ramparts, the back breaking work, I believe, undertaken by volunteers of the Kent Wildlife Trust. Now although regular TMA-ers will know that I’m your archetypal ‘tree-hugger’, it appears that the mature examples are being spared. Hey, I can live with that. Well done Kent Wildlife Trust. Come to Bigbury and celebrate the defiance of the Britons to the invader. Yeah, sing their praises in the Mead Hall. Or failing that, the Slug and Lettuce.... that’ll wind up the punters no end.

As Mr Cane states, this excellent, deceptively small – yet powerful – hillfort is easy to find.... simply follow the B3180 heading south from the A3052 a little way east of Exeter, the enclosure well sited overlooking the estuary of the beautiful River Exe. Can’t miss it (he says). Providing you refrain from following a turn-off to Woodbury and getting hopelessly lost. Stupid is as stupid does...

Anyway. Having (eventually) parked up in the large car park the scale of the defences of this hillfort are immediately apparent. It is also clear (from the information board plan) that the aforementioned B3180 is perhaps not as intrusive as I first thought, utilising the original north and south entrances to traverse the enclosure. How thoughtful. For once. The main body of the fortress is shaped roughly like a back to front capital B... with a squashed top bit beyond the road. There’s also a further rampart covering the approach from the north. But enough of this technical jargon!

The southern section of the enclosure, easily accessed from the car park, appears univallate, the massive single bank complemented by a counterscarp beyond a very impressive ditch. Unfortunately ease of access is causing conservation issues here, the bank clearly suffering from the moronic attentions of ‘mountain’ (ha!) bikers, this despite numerous signs pointing out their endemic idiocy. No excuses, then. I block the passage of one upon the counterscarp and note the immanent lack of expression in his face. In short, Woodbury Castle is a local recreational amenity, albeit one I think (or at least hope) is substantial enough to cope. In common with the wondrous Blackbury Camp not too far to the east, Woodbury is lightly wooded (as you no doubt guessed from the pragmatic name), it being necessary to traverse the roots of some rather splendid trees in order to walk the rampart.

However, for me, the true joy of Woodbury lies across the busy B3180 [take care when crossing, please... it’s rather dangerous] in the form of the ‘squashed bit of the B’ overlooking the estuary. This arc of the defences appears multi-vallate (I think) and is completely overgrown, fallen trees overlying the overwhelming inner bank. It seems very few come here.... the perfect spot for lunch, then.

Given the right conditions, this is possibly one of the most enchanting prehistoric enclosures you could ever come across, all things considered. In my opinion, a truly wondrous place indeed.

As Carl notes, Blackbury Camp is by no means large. However I prefer the adjective ‘compact’ to ‘little’, for this is no minor engineering work, remaining a very powerful univallate fortress. Pieces of flint protruding through the top soil inform the traveller that the hillfort is not in fact an earthwork, which comes as something of a surprise, I guess. Perhaps this has had a bearing on the excellent state of preservation, flint obviously far more resistant to the wear and tear of the myriad visitors who walk the rampart this morning... and presumably every other Sunday. Yeah, the elderly, young mums with children, annoying people walking dogs, a very attractive young lady in very tight jodhpurs (with a ‘wiggle’ that suddenly becomes a little too pronounced for the good of my health... jeez – I’ll say no more)... the whole community seems to be here today, engendering an aura that is perhaps far more representative of the past than the usual Gladman hillfort visit.

What is far from representative, though, is the triangular outwork protecting what was presumably the original main entrance in the southern flank. Medieval castle-heads will no doubt recognise such ‘barbicans’ designed to counter surprise assaults upon what was always the weakest point of the enclosure... the way in. However such an arrangement as is to be found at Blackbury is rare at prehistoric sites... in my experience, anyway. There is a twist, too, the ‘barbican’ defences apparently unfinished – or at least destroyed – to the south. Given the very substantial nature of these additional banks and ditch I find it very unlikely that the constructors suddenly decided ‘sod this for a game of soldiers, we’re offski’. Perhaps a neighbouring warlord decided it was ‘now or never’ and made a desperate assault before completion. Dunno. Obviously. But what grim tales has Blackbury to tell?

I mentioned at the start ‘given the right conditions’. Guess I should explain. Blackbury Camp is lightly wooded, no doubt at its best when sunlight slants through a thin April canopy to illuminate both the twisted roots colonising the defensive bank and the carpet of blue bells adorning the latter’s flank, rising above the great ditch. I am lucky, the overcast conditions of mid morning breaking by lunchtime to achieve just this effect. Yeah, you could well walk around Blackbury’s ancient rampart in 10 minutes or less. But I’ll wager you’ll want a couple of hours.... given the right conditions, of course.

Readily seen from the round barrows upon the western flanks of Cold Kitchen Hill – which, incidentally, possesses a frankly superb long barrow to the east – it would’ve been rude not to have dropped in before heading home. So I did. Although, to be honest, another such monument – near the Court Hill plantation across the way – was beckoning, too. Some other time, perhaps?

Parking at the spacious entrance to Dairy Farm, I peered under the hedge before sussing that an (unsigned) public footpath actually runs past the site, entering the field from the bend in the minor road a little to the south-east. It’s immediately obvious that the view from on high does not deceive.... this is a very substantial round barrow, indeed, set within verdant pastureland. However herein lies the problem... literally, in the form of the bovine occupants of the field. Yeah, sadly – disgracefully – it would appear the southern flank of the monument has been seriously damaged by the clambering actions of said creatures, much of it crumbling away, in fact.

Ascending, carefully, to the flat summit of the mound to investigate further, the sight of several fresh cow pats tell their own story to these incredulous eyes. Hey, I’m well aware cows are able to climb... but, in my not inconsiderable experience, this is unique... the damage so appallingly obvious, yet preventable. Words fail me, they really do. How can the landowner not see this is wrong? I mean, HOW?

What price a simple fence to protect a priceless part of the locality’s ancient heritage? This is no mere eroded, grassy bump in the corner of a field. Oh no, this is a fine, seriously upstanding Bronze Age monument, mute testimony to those who worked this land before. I return to the car intent upon asking ‘why?’, only to see the farmer (I presume) disappearing down the road in his tractor. Perhaps it is as well...

Although I approached from the Chittaford cist, in retrospect Doug’s nailed directions to this exquisite cist. Located immediately beside the western footings of the Roundy Park settlement – I assume the modern dry stone wall, apparently a fraction of the original thickness, incorporates a substantial volume of what stood before – the site is confusingly marked as merely ‘cairn’ upon my 1:25K OS map. Suffice to say that is a massive understatement. Indeed, not much of the ‘cairn’ survives, but a great deal of what it (presumably?) covered most certainly does... a very substantial, heavily built cist topped by two capstones. Albeit somewhat wonky ones.

The only disappointment is that I’m too much of a big lump to squeeze my frame inside... well, not without a serious risk of remaining within, nightfall fast approaching. Not a very good idea upon this wildly brutal Dartmoor hillside, it has to be said. As mentioned, the ancient enclosure stands immediately to the east, the later occupants clearly content to leave such reminders of times past intact within their Brave New World. Whether that was the result of genuine respect or downright fear of supernatural retribution is, of course, a moot point. Can’t exactly ask them, can we?

Wish I had more time here. But there you are. However now I must leave and quickly find somewhere to camp before nightfall... or else the wonder engendered within the traveller by this stark, windswept landscape will quickly dissipate!

Needless to say I was looking for the substantial Roundy Park cist... and assumed the ‘cairn and cist’ indicated upon the 1:25K OS map was one and the same. Wrong! But a fortuitous ‘wrong’, you might say. Don’t mind those in the least.

Although lacking capstone, I nevertheless think this is a great little monument, occupying a fine, if typically bleak location overlooking the East Dart River. Sitting inside to (partially) alleviate the adverse effects of the inclement Dartmoor weather – OK, just a few spots of rain, but the wind is up and it’s bloody freezing, clad in just my ‘lowland gear’ – I suddenly see the farmer approaching upon his quad bike (with trailer). ‘Here we go’, thinks I. But no.... the gentleman just wants to enquire if I need assistance. Receiving a ‘thumbs up’ he flashes a smile in return and proceeds to career beyond Roundy Park, engaged in ‘farmerly things’, moving sheep and such like.

I check the map.... the skyline rising above is home to the wondrous Assycombe stone row, not to mention the equally great Grey Wethers paired stone circles... and that’s just for starters. Yeah, I’ve been too long away from Dartmoor. However there is so much to see within these Isles. Another ‘cairn’ beside the Roundy Park enclosure catches my eye. Is that my original quest? As always, there’s only one way to find out. [Incidentally, it is, so combine the two for a nice little excursion].

As Mr Hamhead says, the solitary tree is the key to finding this obscure site. Head for that, trend a little to the right and, with a little perseverance, an audience should be yours.

The perimeter of Oldbury hillfort is so substantial... of such extreme length.... a ‘hill city’, in fact... that my only previous visit here, in 2008, merely focussed upon the well defined defences to the south. Yeah, ‘I’m a lazy sod’, a phrase once used to great ironic effect by Johnny Lydon when taunting the British establishment out of its own stupefaction. But, credit where due, a few years on I realise my mistake and reckon... at the very least... the bluebells might have made an appearance upon the ancient ramparts once again, earthworks which I understand could possibly – nay, probably – have succumbed to an assault by Caesar and his barbarian boneheads during the course of his self-aggrandizing trip across the water from Gaul. Why not try the whole two and a half-odd miles. Angry farmers permitting? Yeah, why not?

The enormous Iron Age fortress of Oldbury rises above the Kentish village of Igtham, famed – and rightly so – for its exquiste, moated Medieval manor house. Not that the informed passer by would know the former existed at all, if not for the name. Oldbury... hmm. So where’s the ‘fort, then? A dense encircling canopy of trees is the culpruit here, predominately oak, or so I understand.

Well, to cut a long story short – even with map and compass – I soon lose any sense of positionning upon this tremendous fortification. Yeah, I’m soon bewitched by the ancient forest, so I am. The defences are pretty upstanding for the most – as mentioned, very much so to the south – but have the tendency to go walkabout in places (or so it seems). Some may find woodland claustrophobic, but not I. Love it, the roots of trees clinging to rampart sheltering the aforementioned first bluebells of Spring, the wooden tentacles themselves the very epitome of Nature. I blunder into an orchard and notice the path continues, a couple noncholantly walking a dog.... beyond, the tree line is bordered by a mass of farm implements... not to mention council road signs. Hey, use an ancient hillfort as a storage depot, why don’t you? Guess this must be the ‘private’ part, then? Carrying on along the edge of the hillside I encounter some rocky outcrops...... no, couldn’t be? Aren’t there supposed to be some cave dwellings here?

There are. And for a reason I can’t really explain the experience completely blows me away. Overlooking a steep drop and accompanied by another fine tree with copious roots, I gaze into the black void and know I must brave the arachnids and venture inside. There is no choice. I must.... and, although well versed in crawling down the claustrophobic passages of Orcadian tombs, I begin to freak out within. What appear – at least to me – ‘artificial’ markings upon the left hand cave wall heighten the vibe, the darkness beyond showing the literal ‘light at the end of the tunnel’. To my suprise – aren’t caves damp and uncomfortable? – the ground is absolutely bone dry, powder dust, but the roof is perhaps just three foot high. Good for sleeping, then. Hey, much like my one man tent? These Neanderthal fellas (and lasses) had their world sussed, methinks. Although light beckons, the roof begins to contract to a point where I can’t go on. No, really. Approx half way, I guess. Retreating towards the entrance I gaze out and am suddenly overwhelmed by a connection to what went before. Hey, the finds prove it. People sat here at a time beyond my comprehension... people of a different species, goddammit!.... and no doubt thought ‘look at that bloody rain... and she’s gonna kill me if I don’t return from the hunt with something better than that bloody squirrel yesterday.... Mighty hunter... me. Ha!‘

I sit at the entrance, beneath the overhanging rock protecting the fire... if there was one... eating my pre-packaged lunch... and wonder how I’d cope if I actually had to catch my own lunch. Yeah, I’m sure I could do it. Do or die. But how dare we be-little the people who’ve gone before. How dare we!! How dare we, indeed..... I sit here in awe, I really do. The birds sing, and perhaps only the distant road noise reminds the traveller this is actually the 21st century.... how can one experience such emotions in quaint modern day Kent, American tourists swarming below? I feel red raw with emotion. And mighty better for it, I can tell you.

A retrospective check of the ‘log book’ divulges the slightly unwelcome fact that I last visited here back in June 2001. Yeah, doesn’t time (seem to) fly? More to the point, I guess, is the realisation that the Iron Age earthworks didn’t make that much of an impression upon the would-be prehistoric antiquarian back then, the – it has to be said – frankly bonkers Norman motte apparently having blown the somewhat younger mind. To be fair the incredible 80ft castle mound is peerless in its class ... if I understand correctly, second only to the one and only Silbury in the UK artificial mound stakes. Yeah, I know. There’s no comparison. But nonetheless.... simultaneous plaudits and pity are due to those poor Saxon peasants who no doubt struggled to raise this monster for their Norman ‘overlords’.

It therefore fair knocks me back to approach this time around from Castle Hill – that is to the north – and come face to face with towering bivallate banks... and I mean towering. Hell yeah! According to Norfolk HER records excavation has proved these to be of Iron Age origin, although no doubt ‘touched up a bit’ a millennium or so later. The surviving defences form a roughly east/west barrier, the original plan, although not clear to me, possibly using the loop in the River Thet (and presumably, resulting marsh?) as natural defence to other points of the compass? A sort of promontory fort, without the promontory. Or something like that. Whatever, impressive in the extreme.

Which is a lot more than can be said about the tediously puerile, pathetic reaction of a group of Thetford’s yoof to a lone man daring to take pictures of this wonderful site. Vile chants – I’ll spare you the details – ring out from the top of the motte.... safety in numbers. Sure, I’m intimidated by such odds. But I won’t back down. Oh no, not with such wondrous evening light playing upon these ancient, and slightly-not-so-ancient earthworks. Later on I climb to the top of the motte for a rare, aerial view of a hillfort and meet another group of ‘yoofs’, one of whom again states a distaste toward me taking images. Why? Well, clearly (?!?) it proves I’m a pervert. Sorry... don’t get your logic. Hmm. Call me what you will. But I will not stand for that. I really, really hope I’m wrong. Truly, I do... But the young man doth protest too much, methinks.

Hence there are conflicting emotions generated from a return to Thetford. Wonder at the overpowering, overwhelming nature of not only the Norman, but Iron Age defences. And sadness at what visitors to ‘in-town’ sites sometimes have to go through. I would therefore recommend you take a friend, just to be on the safe side. But please go. Don’t let the bastards grind you down. Having said that, I found Castle Hill difficult to locate. So no change there, he says. In retrospect, make your way to the roundabout co-joining the A1088 and A1066 (Hurth Way) and look out for Castle Street – bit of a give-away, that. The earthworks will rise up to your left... parking is within a small free car park (signposted).

Stopped off at Belsar’s Hill during the course of a long-delayed visit to the wondrous Stonea Camp... and duly discovered that it was round-about here that the equally wondrous Hereward The Wake gave William the Bastard’s lot a bloody nose in 1071. Or rather a damn good soaking... OK, only ‘yesterday’ in terms of TMA, I know, but of fundamental importance in proving The Bastard wasn’t exactly ‘the people’s choice’ as he liked to pretend. Belsar’s Hill lies due east(ish) of the Cambridgeshire village of Willingham – appropriately enough within Willingham Fen – and is reached by a rather unusual, single track ‘causeway’ road. A causeway across what is now dry ground. At least today. Parking is available at the gated entrance to a public access green track – the fabled Aldreth Causeway leading to The Isle of Ely, once a virtually impregnable fenland redoubt. Yeah, Hereward knew his stuff. How William must have cursed. An information noticeboard relates the history... and duly throws a great big oily spanner in the works by stating that the enclosure bisected by the track is private, out of bounds. You what? Why?

However, despite copious barbed-wire, there are (currently) gaps.... and somehow I, er, inadvertently take the wrong turn, finding myself upon the circular bank of this.... well.... guess it depends on your point of view? Although nowhere near the 4m quoted from other sources, the defences are relatively upstanding – quite substantial, in fact – the morning mist – fog even – evoking an ethereal vibe. Perhaps the most striking aspect of the site is the sheer circumference... in my experience much too large to be of Norman origin, looking very much a typical Iron Age enclosure. But what better place for a Norman army besieging Ely to make its base camp, its home.... following some necessary improvements? Yeah, on balance I’m happy to go with the ‘Iron Age adapted by Norman’ hypothesis. It’s not exactly unknown, is it?

The sun gets to work upon the mist mantle and, suddenly, I’m basking beneath a pristine blue sky. In late March? Whatever next? The enclosure actually continues to the east of the green track, again out of bounds to the general public. However once again gaps in the fence afford access. The bank here is much more denuded – shame on them – but nevertheless remains, a couple of horses looking on in that trademark combination of curiosity/fear so typical of those wonderful creatures.

I’m also far from happy with access to this legendary, lost site. The Normans got a severe kicking from the local resistance and.... I’d never heard of it. Strange that. One can only assume the ghosts of the original builders – assuming they were Iron Age – placed ‘the mockers’ upon the sour-faced barbarians for violating their former home. Right on!

Will you come to the Bower?

Set a little to the north-west of the fine ‘Five Knolls’ barrow cemetery, near Dunstable, first impressions upon arriving at this large, univallate enclosure are not good. To put it mildly. Yeah, sadly sections of the local yoof would appear to enjoy nothing better than to drive (presumably stolen) cars within the ramparts and torch them. Or else consume plastic bags full of ‘super strength’ and duly dump the empty cans in piles around the perimeter. I’ve heard the former referred to as ‘joy riding’.... but, honestly, can any occupation better betray such an intrinsic sense of self loathing than this? Or such a sense of benign resignation from the locals walking their dogs amongst THIS, as if saying ‘hey, but what can you do?’ Sure, it makes the traveller think... but unless you share a (in my opinion) warped Damien Hirst worldview, I’d be surprised if the instinctive visitor reaction isn’t to ‘get the hell outta here!’ To be honest that was mine. Too far out of my comfort zone, I readily admit. Soft, middle class Essex boy that I am. However I’d recommend perseverance. For Maiden Bower is a fine hillfort. No, really. It is.

For the most part the single rampart is cloaked with a (very painful) mantle of hawthorn. Now ordinarily this would be a veritable pain in the arse – not to mention numerous other parts of the anatomy – but not here. For I am in no doubt that, without this natural ‘armour’, the ancient defences would be in a far worse state of preservation than they currently are. OK, rabbits are clearly a major menace, the majority of the northern-western arc having also crumbled away into a quarry... but nonetheless Maiden Bower is upstanding. And duly begins to cast its spell, sunlight breaking through the early morning cloud mantle beginning to work its magic, the unfathomably complex relationship between highlight and shade now interacting upon the rampart. Perhaps it is the knowledge that this enclosure really is the ‘real deal’... people died here, horribly, too (by all accounts)... that the current destruction seems so utterly ridiculous. So meaningless, so damn pointless. Yeah, how I wish I had been endowed with some metaphysical ‘ability’ to somehow convince those super strength swilling youths that nihilism is a one way trip. Jesus, now I’m wishing I was... well... Jesus. Time to stop.

Yeah, there is a lot more to Maiden Bower than initially greets the eye. Such as the fact that the Iron Age enclosure apparently overlays an earlier causewayed camp. So yes. I’d recommend you do come to the Bower. And if you happen to be a local reading this... ask yourself... are you happy to put up with what is happening to your youth and local hillfort? Guess it’s up to you.

TMA-ers wishing to make the trip are advised to drive to Chalk Farm on the A5 and take the ‘dead end’ minor Sewell road (near the White Lion pub) to park before an old railway bridge. Go through the arch, turn left and.... well.

This wonderful promontory fort couldn’t be more unlike the not too distant Maiden Bowers – from whence I’ve just come – if it tried.... occupying the northern tip of a wondrous chalk spur of The Chilterns, set beneath glorious beech.

To be honest there does not appear a lot of archaeology here, the cross bank, isolating the enclosure from the southern hinterland, apparently substantially amended in medieval times to serve as a rabbit warren (hence, perhaps, the name), the defences of the remainder of the perimeter probably never that upstanding in the first place. Yeah, there really was no need, not when the location posessed such natural strength, nothing more than a little scarping of the existing promontory edge deemed necessary, perhaps?

Despite the steady procession of visitors, the vibe here is excellent, the sun, streaming through the thin Spring canopy, sending shadows streaking across the landscape – like the Clappers – to contrast with the brilliant, white chalk in the most striking manner possible. Yeah, the ‘Daz doorstep challenge’ has nothing on this, I can tell you. Roots, twisting this way and that in a do or die effort to secure a grip, envoke images of the ancient forest in my mind, the gnarled, twisted trees they support the very epitomy of Nature, the lungs of the Earth, in turn supporting the creatures that live upon it. Including me. Ha! QED.

By far the majority of visitors arrive from the south, a car park accessible from Sharpenhoe Road. This would appear the route if you’d rather not – or perhaps physically can not – make the very steep ascent from Barton Road to the north. Needless to say I wasn’t aware of the alternative at the time... but, hey, guess I probably need the exercise. Wonderful.

Like the none too distant Gallows Hill round barrow – incidentally the wondrous Therfield Heath barrow cemetery lies between the two monuments – this seriously mutilated round barrow surmounts a small hill crowned by an iconic copse of trees. Another commonality is the negative attitude of the landowner toward visitors, or at least the casual, unannounced sort, a high set ‘Private – No Public Access’ sign... (or words to that effect) ... albeit consequently easily overlooked by a traveller approaching (with eyes fixed upon the knoll) along the track leading from the A505 to the south-east... making this clear.

In retrospect, upon studying the map, it is probably advisable to take the Melbourn road and approach Summer House farm from the east in order to ask permission, particularly if you wish to make an extended visit to the site. To be honest there is not a great deal to report, the round barrow, as mentioned, seriously damaged by a myriad animal burrows and much fallen tree debris.

Nevertheless an authentic vibe remains beneath the hilltop woodland, the monument consequently well worth my brief diversion from the road where, incidentally, there is a handily placed layby.

This is a reasonably upstanding round barrow sited upon Gallows Hill – as you might expect – overlooking the busy A505 at Odsey Corner, below to the north. The iconic, attractive copse of trees engenders a somewhat ‘Minning Low’ vibe, although a trashed red brick building footing of some description encroaching upon the mound to the north-west, together with an ugly concrete shell of a building to the south, the latter preceded by remnants of a large fire, ensure this is (nowadays, anyway) not exactly a classic location. Not to mention aerial and large, linear compost mound to the east. Then again, I’ve always been a sucker for woodland, especially a tree line viewed in stark profile against a glorious early Spring sky, the viewer bathed in sunlight, perched upon a Bronze Age barrow whilst drinking tea. How very English... what could possibly be wrong with that?

Clearly nothing. Unless you happen to be one of the occupants of Heath Farm, standing below to the south, that is. Checking the map, I was pleasantly surprised to see Gallows Hill ascended by the ‘Chain Walk’ public footpath, said route passing literally within a whisker of the round barrow’s unfenced eastern arc. So, allowing a violent shower to pass overhead, I set about attempting to make sense of the site. Suddenly a rather comical labrador appears and decides to noisily confront me. Ha! Now don’t get me wrong, I like labradors – why, the Mam C used to own one, and Ceri was one day literally mauled by the cat at the top of the street, the pathetic creature. Some light relief, then. Except this dog’s owner was far from pleasant, the woman seemingly a cold, acerbic mixture of overbearing pedantry juxtaposed with ignorance of the significance of her own surroundings. Yeah, she is very hostile, completely unable to comprehend why I – why anyone – might feel the need to take pictures of ‘her’ hill top. Apparently I’m trespassing, despite the public footpath being literally a few feet from the mound, grossly ignorant for not walking all the way down the hill to ask permission to deviate a few feet from an unfenced public path. I beg to differ, the traveller consequently only able to feel pity toward what would appear such an unhappy soul.

Needless to say I won’t be rushed and, happily, my perseverance is rewarded when Nature decides to take a hand, the rain clouds duly dissipating to a pristine blue sky, the round barrow illuminated in a golden glow. A wonderful moment well worth all the aggravation. And at least the landowner’s wishes are now on record, should any other member happen to be passing by. If so – and why not? – arguably the best place to park is within the layby leading to a petrol station just north-east of the Ashwell junction of the north carriageway of the A505 (hey, why not pay a visit to Arbury Banks as well?). Needless to say, please, please be careful when crossing the road... and beware of the landowner!

Bit of an enigma, this.... apparently only (re)discovered upon its hilltop during 1993 [in retrospect the question must be, in this day and age .... how come?!?] I only became aware of this chambered tomb’s existance thanks to the local archaeological trust, CPAT. Cheers, people. Consequently my frame of mind was, to be honest, more that a little ‘yeah, right... we’ll see’ as, facing down the local farm yard dog at Ty-croes, having parked at the road’s terminus [rough, but no problem here], I follow the continuing hard track, then grassy path uphill toward Bwlch Sych to the north-west. Here the fence line literally leads the traveller across the bisected remains of a Bronze Age round cairn (Carnedd Cerrig – reports of grave goods confirming authenticity) set overlooking the Afon Barog, another such monument apparently set below to the north (I can’t locate it, however). The positionning is excellent, with fine views... a bonus site always more than welcome.

From Carnedd Cerrig I follow the fenceline westwards to its junction with a north-south boundary. Here, a keen, ‘clued-up’ eye should discern the chambered cairn surmounting the left hand crest of the green hillside rising upon the western skyline. Unfortunately my vision possesses neither criterion, so I assume the cluster of stones perched above the deep gulley formed by the Afon Y Dolau Gwynion represents the shattered remnants of the monument. Yeah, should’ve gone to Specsavers, then. Struggling across the aforementioned watercourse, two prostrate stones, looking remarkably like capstones, apparently confirm my assumption. Oh well. Lovely spot, worth the effort... and more, or less, what I’d expected. Time for lunch, methinks. WRONG!

Thankfully, however, the usual Gladman ‘I’ll just go for a wander to see what’s over there’ kicks in to save the day. Well, it’d be rude not to, would it not?... barbed wire fences... or no barbed wire fences. And there it is. To be frank, a rather obvious chambered cairn, sitting in a fine spot crowning the crest to the approx south. Granted, the capstones are missing – what price they sit upon the ‘field clearance’ I’ve just vacated? – but numerous orthostats remain, the whole monument pleasingly substantial, particularly so for such an obscure, Mid Walian site.

Needless to say this chambered cairn possesses just about the perfect, windswept vibe. Hell, I’d be gob-smacked if anyone – save a CPAT dude – has ever intentionally ventured here during the past two or three-odd millennia, such is the ‘feeling’ hanging in the air. I mean, I only arrived at the correct location by chance... or – to be fair – thanks to an overly inquisitive nature. Thanks mum. What a gift, an inquisitive nature! Reclining within the roofless chamber it seems very odd, indeed, that this monument could have been ‘lost’ – to the point of oblivion – for so long. Granted, these bare, high hills sandwiched between the heather-clad Y Berwyn to the east and the mighty Aran ridge, are not exactly the most popular of hillwalking destinations, despite their proximity to Llyn Efyrnwy, so beloved of tourists. But nevertheless.....

So, feeling jaded by visits to too may well known sites? Happen to be in the upper regions of Mid Wales? I have an antidote, my friends. You won’t find this on your satnav. I assume, not having one of the bloody things. Or even on the OS map. But nevertheless it is here. I promise you that.

Pumlumon.... ‘Mother of Rivers’, extreme Bronze Age cemetery... and all round bloody natural marvel... dominates this area of Mid Wales, not so much in profile as by sheer, green, soggy mass. Its magnetic pull is such that the previous day’s visit is extended to more or less nightfall, the traveller simply loathe to waste a moment. Consequently, too late to find a place to camp before dark, I settle down for the night at the Waun y Gadair picnic area overlooking Llyn Clywedog. Surely no man-made reservoir has a right to be so damn attractive. Surely? But credit where it’s due, I guess.

The morning dawns overcast, ethereal even, with occasional shafts of sunlight piercing the gloom. Noticing a small ‘fort’ marked upon my (old charity shop procured) 1:50k OS map above the southern tip of the reservoir, I decide to pay a ‘quick’ visit... no time for another apparently ancient earthwork, Dinas (yeah, very linguistically prosaic, these Iron Age inhabitants of Wales), immediately west of the car... or yet another, due south of Bryn-y-Fan. But there you are. Needless to say things do not go to plan for, like the poverbial ‘just the one’ in the bar, a visit to Pen-y-Gaer intoxicates... not by way of alcoholic inebriation, the progressive dulling of the senses, the somewhat comforting sensation of retraction of self awareness... but by an euphoric explosion of thoses senses – at least today, battling high winds – each straining at the leash to experience the promise of heightened perception! Ha! Time to cut the restraints, methinks, and let the spirit fly... or something like that. I really don’t have the words.

A minor road leaves the B4518 and heads towards the reservoir dam, crossing the outflow, the Afon Clywedog, en route to the remains of a lead mine. Fine, if that’s your bag. However if not, stay calm and carry on, the road rising steeply, and after negotiating a sharp bend, park verge side near a cattle grid. Looking back, the hillside rising immediately to the right is Pen-y-Gaer, stone rampart clearly visible, the dam lying more or less immediately below to your left. Simples. A fence bars progress upwards, but as I recall this was in pretty poor repair.... a short, grassy ascent all that is required to reach the summit of the hill, girdled by the aforementioned single dry stone rampart, collapsed, but still pretty substantial (sadly the summit cairn is cited by Coflein – and to be honest, appears – modern).

The wind is sharp this morning, but sunshine continues to periodically light up the landscape which, it has to be said, is pretty special. Ironically it is man made Llyn Clwyedog which makes the biggest impression aesthetically speaking... but the surrounding hills... chief amongst them Pumlumon itself, are not really in need of a supporting act. As for the hillfort fabric, here and there original courses of stone work appear to have survived the millennia. But, as is often the case with such sites, it is the location, the very manner with which the visitor must interact with the landscape, that leaves the most lasting impression.

Or is it that, somehow, time has left Pen-y-Gaer to enjoy its retirement in obscurity. How come?

Here’s one to which to take your kids – assuming you have any of the little blighters, of course – and chuckle whilst imagining prim Ms Wilberforce (all starchy white blouse and heaving bosom) wishing she’d never asked little Johnny what he did at the weekend.... much to the amusement of the other children in class. Ha! But, hey, I kid you not, this is what it’s called. Check the map.

The monument upon Bummers Hill is actually quite an upstanding round barrow, albeit heavilly overgrown and sited behind barbed wire immediately north – and in full view of – Mutfords Farm. An adjacent farmyard of ancient, rusting cars adds a somewhat ‘hill-billy vibe’ to proceedings, but (thankfully... not to mention obviously) shotgun wielding country dudes are conspicuous by their absence. In fact there is no answer at the farm, so I assume no-one will mind if I go and have a little look at close quarters.

The positionning of the barrow is interesting, overlooking Little Hormead Brook to the north and the River Quin – not that ‘mighty’ (hence just the one ‘n’)... but it does the job – to the west. Other minor streams complete the water features, the presence of these perhaps a significant original factor, perhaps not?

Bummers Hill will not blow visitors away with its size, siting or vibe. No, there is a softer... dare I say it, more ‘mundane’ feeling in the air here, set upon a working farm in a sleepy corner of Hertfordshire. But to me that is precisely its charm. It’s just... well.... here. No fanfare, no information board. Almost as if it’s always been here, a part of the landscape itself. Which, if you think of it, is not that far from the truth. And, somehow, it’s survived the millennia. Right on!

I approached from the north, parking in a dedicated ‘field car park’ set aside for visitors to the church. Reach the latter by taking Worsted Lane from the B1368, then turning right.

Excellent little promontory fort, this, set upon a promontory (funnily enough) overlooking, but shielded by woodland from the Afon Ogwr as it reaches the Bristol Channel below to the approx west. A fine, substantial bank, preceded by ditch, provides a defensive screen to the east, steeply sloping ground doing ‘the business’ at the other points of the compass very nicely indeed, thank you very much. Economy of effort was clearly the name of the game back then. Intelligent people, those that designed, erected and called Fleming’s Down ‘home’.

Unfortunately the same adjective can not, by any stretch of the imagination, be applied to the moron who decided to have a nice, big bonfire within the aforementioned ditch, so leaving a truly unrighteous mess as grim testament to his (or her) terminal lack of mental capability. Honestly, sometimes I really can’t begin to comprehend what planet some people are on. Draw your own conclusions as to the culprit, bearing in mind the site must be approached on foot....

However I guess the scars will fade... eventually... and Fleming’s Down nevertheless provided a great perch for the Mam C and I for a couple of hours. We approached via the footpath to the east of the water works on the B4524, parking in a layby near the Pelican public house (incidentally very good – the pub, not the layby, unless you happen to be into such things, that is). The footpath provides a good idea of the excellent defensive nature of the western flank of Fleming’s Down – yeah, just try storming that.

Sadly, though, it seems that prehistoric earthworks have no defence against South Walian pyromaniacs.

The cluster of monuments in the vicinity of Nash Point do not advertise – or, it would appear, endear themselves to the casual visitor. This is a pity since it would seem, to gauge by the capacity of the car park at least, that there are often quite a few of the latter, particularly so during the summer months. In the absence of an information board – always handy in such popular areas, I find – it is debatable whether more that the proverbial handful have any idea that here, just a few miles from the great urban sprawl of Bridgend, can be found much of what makes the Glamorgan coastline so intoxicating to these eyes. But hey, great place to walk the dog, though....

Some may argue that a day of low cloud, drizzle and high winds may not be the most salubrious of days to go walkabout in South Wales. Maybe. However head for the coast, stick on the waterproofs... and I would suggest there is a strong case for these being precisely the optimum conditions to truly ‘experience’ this coastline in all its wild abandon. As with Carl, there is no need to pay the £1.50 toll to traverse the private road heading south west from Macross to the car park today. Simple things, as they say.

So, suitably ‘tooled up’, I literally immerse myself in the ineluctable weather and head for the first monument, Cae’r Eglwys, a little way up the road towards the lighthouse at SS91666825, that is to the right. I guess I need to point out that the ‘earthwork’, as marked on the 1:25k OS map, is not a certain long cairn. However Coflein appear pretty confident, and it does seem pretty difficult to explain otherwise. Unfortunately ignorance of its (assumed) function has not served Cae’r Eglwys well within this community, the grassy long mound being covered in dog excrement, coke cairns and assorted rubbish. In short, it is a disgrace, even for South Wales. A ghostly chiming of bells appears to emanate from the sea and, recalling the association with a ‘church’ on the site (hence the name, of course), I doubt my senses for a moment. No, it’s definitely church bells! Oo-eer... But more of this later.

I head north-west towards the defile cut by the Marcross Brook, the serried strata of the crags of Castell y Dryw truly a natural wonder worth the price of admission alone (assuming you have to pay one, that is), despite the litter-despoiled environs of the water course. Hey, you mean people actually lived up there? Nah, surely not. The obvious way up is.... er, straight ‘up’ the eroded, steep left flank. However Carl’s bridge is already long gone and the water difficult to cross, the far bank treacherous in these conditions. In retrospect I’d therefore recommend heading right up the valley and ascending the far (right hand) flank of the site. Whichever way you do it, make sure you do, since this apparently minor, obscure enclosure occupying the summit of the ridge is defended by four – I concur with Carl, count ‘em – very powerful cross ramparts to the north. I’m utterly unprepared for this, I have to confess. There’s also a single bank – at least partially – defending the eastern flank. Jeez. Where have you been all my life, Nash Point? Oh, here.

But mankind’s puny defensive efforts pale into insignificance when I’m confronted with the glorious, lethal – bloody awe inspiring – mess Nature’s made of the western and southern flanks of this former fortress, crumbling cliff lines falling sheer to rocky pavements pounded by crashing breakers. Ha! The vertigo kicks in and I may as well be upon Crib Coch or The Cuillin... one false step in these conditions will mean death. Suffice to say this is not a place for children, then. As I head toward the southern apex of Castell y Dryw, the linear enclosure not very wide at all, it has to be said (although possibly much reduced through erosion to the east?), I again hear the ethereal peel of bells coming from the Bristol Channel. Contrary to some opinion, though, it seems I’m not mad after all. Yeah, the aforementioned rock pavements hold the key to this mystery, a bell clanging away eerily upon an offshore bhoy (hopefully) warning any nearby ships to take immediate, violent evasive action. What a swizz! Needless to say said bhoy was red, not green and white....

Moving north beyond the impressive defences and crossing a stone stile, I follow the cliff-line approx north-north-west and, upon passing through a second drystone wall, follow the field edge inland. Well, I couldn’t exactly head in the other direction, could I? A farm track is encountered running at a tangent with two reasonably preserved round barrows lying beside it to the left. OK, perhaps ‘reasonably’ is overdoing it a bit generally, but not in this part of the world. To the right of the field wall the OS map shows another, larger ‘tumulus’. Unfortunately this is the monument Carl rightly describes as being more or less no more.... an almost imperceptible rise in a soggy field. However at this moment a bank of sea mist sweeps in to engulf all in clammy vapour, thus rendering the landscape as ethereal and thought-provoking as many other more extreme sites I’ve visited.

Nash Point. Litter strewn, uncared for? Yes. But mind blowing in the right conditions? You’d better believe it. Neolithic (probably), Bronze Age and Iron Age. Take your pick....

English Heritage has this very obscure ‘fort logged as ‘the remains of a probable Iron Age univallate ridge-end hillfort, partly destroyed by quarrying’ (English Heritage, National Monuments Record TL 31 SE 20). Guess I’d more or less agree with that... with the additional caveat that the site lies within woodland and barbed-wire. Consequently I found it by no means as easy to locate as it first appeared from the map. Assuming I did in fact locate it. But there you are. Perhaps it was a case of me making the evidence on the ground fit the preconception, of ‘seeing’ what I wanted to see? Perhaps.

Whatever does remain of the enclosure occupies a fine defensive position, protected by steep slopes falling away to the River Ash to the east, the river executing a wide loop at this point, and by a lesser, although still significant, drop to the south and west toward the artificially manipulated River Lee. The only feasible direction of attack – as you may have gathered, from the north – was defended by a curving bank and ditch. This still exists (I think, but happy to be corrected if you know better and my images are spurious!!) although it is now very denuded, overcome by woodland, riddled with rabbit warrens, littered with accumulated rubbish, bottles discarded by feral teenagers and winos. In short, it is in no way impressive. Hey, but at least it still exists. I think.

By contrast the naturally defended flank overlooking the River Ash is a joy to behold, lying beneath its canopy of trees... worth the diversion from the B1004 in itself, to be honest. Better still, combine a visit here with a sojourn at the impressive, nearby Easneye Wood round barrow and you’ll have little cause for complaint (however bear in mind there is no official access to either monument, although public footpaths will get you close). Parking was a bit of an issue, so I left the car just outside of Ware at the Hollywood Road junction with the B1004 and walked the short distance back. There are worse things to do on a Sunday afternoon....

You know how it is... the lethargy, the call of the ‘roll over in bed’ too great to harbour any intention of going anywhere this morning? Tell me about it... so it’s with some irony that I find myself heading up the M25 shortly after bound for.... Ware. An apparently rather fine bowl barrow within Easneye Wood, to the east of said town, is the objective. Yeah, about an hour’s drive to visit a mound of earth, with no guarantee of an audience... there must be easier ‘hobbies’, surely? No, I think not.

The first pleasant surprise is the quality of the Hertfordshire countryside as I park up opposite Watersplace Farm on the B1004. I guess the clear blue sky, the catalyst for the visit, helps... but nevertheless... nice. The track, heading approx south east through the farm before crossing the River Ash, is wide and well maintained. Entering Easneye Wood it begins to climb, flanked on the right by a very deep drainage ditch. I head off uphill where this terminates, following a wire-mesh enclosure... one assumes there for the (poor) grouse... until a quite splendid bowl barrow emerges through the trees. Now there is some dispute as to the dating of this monument. EH is pretty confident it’s Bronze Age in origin, no doubt in no small measure thanks to the cremation deposits mentioned in Rhiannon’s post [refer English Heritage, National Monuments Record 638576].... deposits incidentally replaced within the mound following excavation. Hertfordshire HER, however, reckons it ‘looks’ Roman..... what chance of analysing the cremation using modern methods for a definitive answer. Can a ‘contaminated’ sample of organic material be of use? Dunno. Whatever, I must admit the round barrow certainly looks ‘authentic’ enough to me.

The monument’s setting, beside a dirt track with piles of logs here and there, is disorder itself, yet curiously aesthetically pleasing to these eyes .... a working wood, albeit one apparently worked for a purpose many of us, myself included, will no doubt find abhorrent. But such is the countryside. More disturbingly, a ‘christian college’ lies below to the south-west, a place where adults still – even in the 21st Century – succumb to religious dogma unsupported by any evidence whatsoever. Not a problem if they were content to leave the rest of us alone and not invoke the political power trip.... but of course such people can not. But there you are. Many others will clearly disagree, as is their right. Just stay the hell away from me and allow me to believe my own senses.

The northern half of this substantial barrow is overgrown with brambles; however these are absent from the southern, affording a very fine perch from which to take in the vibe of the ancient forest.... the remnants of trees which once crowned the mound are still in evidence, one destroyed by Nature, the other by man. A couple of others ‘hang in there’, thriving upon the fertile soil. There are also the remains of a magpie, a pile of distinctive feathers all that is visible from the kill of a fox.... or perhaps bird of prey. Periodic sunlight streams through the bare winter canopy – or rather lack of it – and only the sound of headbanging woodpeckers, the odd shotgun, microlight, squirrel... etc... OK, it’s not the quietest spot ... breaks the silence. No christian missionaries, however. Thank, er, goodness. Although, in retrospect, an encounter may well have proved ‘interesting’. Or maybe not.

Time runs out and I return to the car, noticing ‘Private – No Path’ signs I (honestly) missed on the way up. Hey ho... note that these are private woods, then. Whatever. But what a great bowl barrow this is.

Garreg Las, a long ridge of shattered rock thrusting northwards from the otherwise predominately grassy uplands of Y Mynydd Du (The Black Mountain), sits in sulky isolation a little south-west of its higher – not to mention far more popular – peers. To be honest it’s not really a ‘peak’ as such, the 2,076ft summit ‘merely’ the highest point of a chaotic, broken table of limestone overlooking Cwm Sawdde Fechan to the east. There are no dramatic mountain lakes here to inspire legend – as just ‘up the road’ – no soaring cliff lines to entice more than the occasional walker.... just an uncompromisingly brutal landscape combining with utter silence to generate a feeling as near as dammit to complete isolation as you’ll probably experience in all the Welsh mountains.

Yeah, that is ‘the Garreg Las experience’ today, the ideal spot to practice whatever amateur philosophy takes your fancy with minimal risk of some group of route marching muppets spoiling the ambience. However there is evidence that this high ridge was not always so marginalised within human society.... two great big stony piles of it, no less! For it was here that the Bronze Age peoples of the area erected two massive cairns which, although much mutilated internally – as you would probably expect – still overwhelm the senses of receptive upland travellers with their dramatic profiles.

It is truly hard to come to terms with the fact that people used to actively select such uncompromising locations as this to lay their important dead to rest.... but there’s no getting away from it, an example upon Fan Foel to the east having been excavated before suffering the same fate as these two beauties, revealing a stone cist bearing grave goods. So, far from being at ‘the back end of nowhere’, as it is – gloriously so – today, Garreg Las clearly occupied a prominent position in the Bronze Age psyche. My, times have changed. Tell me about it.

The twin cairns which still stand here – the Carnau’r Garreg Las – do not quite measure up (in terms of physical stature) to those found upon the extreme western flanks of Y Mynydd Du; however they are still very substantial indeed, their haunting profile, suddenly materialising upon the final approach from the north-west, enough to cause me to involuntarily chuck my trekking poles half way across the mountain... or at least it seemed that far going to collect them again. The southern is arguably the more substantial of the pair, although both are soon placed very much in perspective (as are The Mam C and I) by a violently changeable sky dispensing hail and sunbursts in quick succession. To view towering cloud formations hovering overhead (like the alien mother ships of... er... more fertile imaginations) when perched upon an ancient Bronze Age cairn is to be completely overwhelmed by the immensity of existence. Or something like that... steady on, old chap. The look on the Mam C’s face tells me she feels the same. No need for words.

Approaching Garreg Las from the neighbouring summits of Y Mynydd Du requires suitably substantial walks, it has to be said. However an expedition of somewhat lesser magnitude can be enjoyed by leaving the A4069 at Pont Newydd to the north-west. Take the minor road heading south-east and park at the crossroads leading to Ty-brych farm to the right, a rough track continuing straight ahead. Follow the (tarmac) road downhill, past the farm, and it becomes a muddy bridleway descending to, then crossing, a cascading water course (the Nant Ffynnon-wen, I think). The track continues, climbing now, to the south-east to begin to ascend the open hillside. Carn y Gigfran, another Bronze Age cairn, crowns the left hand extremity of the ridge rising above and beyond. You can do worse that head for the col to the right of Carreg Yr Ogof, the great Garreg Las cairns lying unseen over the rocky crest further along to the right. The ascent, over grass until the final shattered, rocky pavement is attained, is a bit of a drag. But worth the effort? As Harry Hill says... there’s only one way to find out...

Essex is probably best known in ‘antiquarian’ circles for its hillforts.... somewhat ironically, perhaps, seeing as we haven’t exactly got many hills, fortified or otherwise. Prehistoric monuments of other types are few and far between, even the usually ubiquitous ‘Tumuli’ a priceless scarcity, the sum of examples further depleted by association with ‘Romano-Britishness’.

I didn’t do any ‘homework’ for my visit to Lawford Park.... this time, however, with the express intention of forming a judgement based solely upon the light entering these two eyes of mine. Needless to say I arrive under a crisply blue winter sky and conclude, a little disappointed (I guess) that here we have another post-Iron Age monument. Yeah, it just looks too, well.... large, covering too large a surface area to be Bronze Age in origin. Nothing wrong with that, of course. But less than two millennia old, erected by Boudicca’s lot? Ha! That was only yesterday.

The mound, as mentioned, is a big’un... not in terms of elevation – traces of central excavation damage no doubt account for that – but certainly with regards circumference. A juxtaposition of tall pine and oak surmount the barrow, throwing deep shadows, in addition to the former’s cones, upon the irregular summit. A great, evocative place to chill out in the shade of the towering copse and daydream of Celtic warrior women, hair a’ streaming in the wind. But enough of that, this is a family web-site.

Consequently I go for a wander in the field to the south and begin to progressively doubt my initial dating presumption. How could it be otherwise when here lie two/three(?) severely trashed circular, earthen features. Remnants of additional barrows, perhaps? If so, why did the primary monument survive? Or possibly ring ditches? Was there much more going on within what became Lawford Park than at first meets the eye? Upon returning to the barrow, perplexed, the farmer arrives in his landrover and waits before receiving my ‘raised hand’ acknowlegement. Although more in the style of ‘Alan Shearer’ than most, it is enough to satisfy him I’m kosher, so off he trundles in silence. I can do with that. Yeah, the way it should be, since after all, this is private land.

Intrigued, back at home I take a look at Essex HER records.... ‘Round barrow in Lawford Park, excavated in 1812 when 2 urns were recovered..’ Bronze Age funerary urns, that is. And wait, there’s more...’4 ring-ditches to the south.... further ring-ditches to the SW...’. So, it seems that, indeed, Essex has a slumbering prehistoric ritual complex of its very own. Who’d have thought it? Clearly not I.

Access is pretty easy, too. Follow a green track heading northwards at the point where Dedham Road (approaching from the A137, a little west of Lawford) makes a right angled left turn. The Bronze Age barrow is visible beyond a gate to your left at a cross-track... however I carried on to the forest line and approached along that. Nice. Obscure, too, with a landowner who doesn’t appear to mind the odd (as in ‘occassional’, that is) traveller having a look... in return for a touch of common courtesy.

Well, this was a turn up for the books this sunny, winter afternoon... a major hillfort instead of the denuded remnants of earthen banks I was expecting to supplement the trashed, yet still evocative Pitchbury Ramparts this morning. To be fair, the ‘Iron Age’ origin of Erbury has yet to be conclusively determined, in no small part due to the incredibly rich history of occupation at the site. Hey, tell me about it.... notably the home of Aelfric, a prominent Saxon thane and son of Withgar (according to the Wikki... oh, and some ‘Domesday Book’, or other), no doubt the enclosure was also utilised in some respect by the powerful Norman interloper de Clare, whose motte and bailey castle once controlled the River Stour south of the church (surprise, surprise)... and who ‘generously’ gave his name to the town. Later, the site was incorporated within the medieval common, still extant, the majority of interior detail apparently dating from this time. In short, quite a challenge for archaeologists seeking answers, methinks? However.....

A field survey/magnometric scan conducted during 1993 determined that ‘the stratigraphy of the earthworks confirms the likelihood of a prehistoric origin.’ [Clare Camp: An Archaeological Survey by the Royal Commission on the Historical Monuments of England, September to October 1993, Archive Report, p15]

More recently, construction work at Clare Primary School in 2009 discovered postholes/a ring ditch of a late Bronze/Early Iron Age structure nearby [Suffolk Institute of Archaeology & History, Vol XLII Part 2].

It also has to be said that it looks very much like an Iron Age defensive enclosure, too. Particularly if, having seen many examples upon his travels, this punter is not put out by a less than perfect strategic placement... to my mind defence was but one consideration to be taken into account by the Iron Age planners – albeit a very important one – the metaphysical requirements seemingly just as important. No doubt the priests’ voices were heard loud and clear, the proximity of the Stour and its tributaries perhaps rendering their views decisive?

The enclosure would appear to be (at least at the best preserved northern and southern flanks) powerfully bi-vallate, the eastern and northern banks now encroached upon by the houses of the town which outgrew their protection. Only to the west are the defences badly eroded, to the point of partial destruction. The common is alive with locals today, some walking dogs, some.... just walking. A black cat deems it necessary to sit upon the outer bank and keep a close eye upon me, ‘yoofs’ on bikes deciding the man taking pictures of ‘nothing but the sky’ is not worth challenging. Yeah, impressive as Erbury’s earthworks are, they pale into insignificance beneath the towering magnificence of the winter sky.... then there are the snowdrops sheltering from the sunlight beneath the eastern bank.... awaiting Spring.

This is another of the great Essex hillforts to which the Essex general public are actively denied access by the land owner; most, in all probability, therefore having no idea such priceless, tangible links to our past still exist... cloaked as they are within their mantles of trees. Some may argue the ‘ordinary’ punter wouldn’t care if they were aware, but I like to think the people of Essex have more class than that. What a crying shame, therefore, that we tolerate laws which allow such a state of affairs to persist in the so-called ‘enlightened’ 21st century.... statutes which grant land owners absolution from moral responsibility to the community in this respect. Guardians of sites on behalf of their neighbours and anyone with a love for this land? Ha! What an inconvenience that would be.

To be honest it is amazing that anything remains of Pitchbury Ramparts at all, the southern two thirds (or so) of the great, bi-vallate enclosure having been apparently ploughed to oblivion in the 1920’s (according to Essex HER). After all, that’s what we fought the Great War for... to preserve our identity, our heritage. Er... wasn’t it? [update – to be fair, Rhiannon’s comment to this fieldnote strongly suggests the active destruction of the site began somewhat earlier].

What does remain is an arc of double ramparts preserved in Pitchbury Wood to the north, the inner, again according to Essex HER, some 10ft high. Thankfully we know a little about the site thanks to a ‘partial excavation’ undertaken by Colchester Excavation Committee in 1973, the team recovering dating evidence in the form of Aylesford-Swarling La Tene III period pottery. It seems the dig followed the line of the laying of a gas pipeline.... again, you simply couldn’t make it up....

As mentioned above, the remaining earthworks lie within the ‘private’ Pitchbury Wood, numerous abrupt notices making it clear visitors to this ancient site are not at all welcome. In retrospect I would suggest prospective visitors try calling upon the occupants of Woodhouse Farm since, not being comfortable with ‘trespassing’, I asked a local emerging from the direction of Scarlet’s Farm... only to have the gentleman look at me with complete incomprehension and point me in the opposite direction. Yeah, such notices do little for vibe. The crystal clear winter sky that accompanies me today helps to compensate, however, sunlight throwing shadows of skeletal trees to accentuate the form of the earthworks which provide a good, sure footing for the former’s root systems. Difficult to articulate, but there truly is something about wooded hillforts which captures me hook, line and sinker. Perhaps there is something relating to the ‘ancient forest’ retained deep within the folk memory, the legends of Herne and what-not all too easy to appreciate in such an environment.... shadows inhabiting a parallel world which has no physical ‘substance’, yet clearly exists. Or does it?

So.... bearing in mind the actute access issues... you will find the remains of this evocative Iron Age enclosure located a little south-west of Great Horkesley, a nice town with a couple of ‘watering holes’ for the thirsty (modern) antiquarian. Take the Old House Road from the A134 and park just right of where it meets Coach Road (incidentally both roads are signed for convenience), before heading south along the near flank of Pitchbury Wood. As mentioned, recent-looking signs make it all too clear the land is private..... but perhaps some things are just too important, you know? Once they are gone, they are gone. This ancient enclosure is hanging on in there. Just about.

Of the four main ridges of The Black Mountains, rising from the fertile Usk valley in the south to terminate at the great northern escarpment in the... er .... north, the eastern-most is probably the most frequented nowadays. Whether this is the inevitable by product of said ridge rising between the wondrous Vale of Ewyas and the contrasting, yet superb Herefordshire plains, or the fact that it represents the Welsh/English border at this point, thus carrying the long distance Offa’s Dyke path, is perhaps a moot point. For what it’s worth, I reckon the latter, the myriad ‘heads down’ walkers striding along the central path surely unable to ascertain anything more than a perfunctory sense of ‘place’. To achieve this the visitor, in my opinion, must ‘leave the beaten track’ in the most literal sense and head to the flanks.

Hatterrall Hill occupies the southern section of this high borderland, the landscape inexorably falling further away from the 2,000ft contour during the approach toward Abergavenny... only to rise up dramatically in the form of Mynydd Pen-y-fal just before the town. But that’s another story. Here Cwm Iau forces the ridge to divide, the Offa’s Dyke path continuing to the south. Venture to the south-west, however, and two obscure archaeological treasures await discovery. Or at least they would have if the Mam C and I had not lost ourselves – figuratively speaking, of course – in the environs of Black Darren last Easter, before being ushered from the mountain by a violent electrical storm. We therefore return today from the opposite direction, starting at the idyllic village of Cwmyoy. Parking is somewhat difficult here unless you know what you’re doing. Needless to say... I don’t... until informed by a passing local – within a worryingly large mechanical digger – that I’d be better off in a good spot just above (north) of the seriously wonky church. I take the, ahem, hint. Happy to oblige. From here a public footpath heads north, veering to the right beneath a towering crag, before resuming its course towards the farmhouse of Ty-Charles. Just beyond this isolated habitation turn left, then right – between parallel drystone walls – to ascend steeply to the crest of Hatterrall Hill rising above.

The retrospective views, these being The Black Mountains after all, are superb. But then you probably guessed that. It will probably also come as no surprise that the promontory fort’s single line of defence isolates the site from the northern hinterland at the narrowest point of the ridge. Not daft, these people. This ensures that the enclosure is by far the largest we’ve yet encountered, the cross dyke quite a while a’coming. It is worth the wait, a great drystone mass of masonry which, although collapsed, remains impressive in its brute strength, despite all Mother Wales has seen fit to throw at it for a couple of millennia. Which is no doubt ‘quite a lot’. To emphasise the point the weather deteriorates to rain, although thankfully the cloud base remains high, allowing us to enjoy the truly magnificent positionning of the fort. Yeah, the north-western terminus of the cross-wall possesses arguably the finest view of the Vale of Ewyas extant, a perfect spot for lunch. That to be had from the south-eastern opposite is not exactly lacking, either, the hillfort-cum-sacred hill Ysgyryd Fawr dominating the skyline with a finality far in excess of its modest elevation. This is the point where words become futile, to experience the moment everything.

The obscure, severely overgrown Garreg Las enclosure lies beyond grouse butts to the north. The latter represent tawrdy monuments to the ridiculous actions of ridiculous people. The former, however..... Coflein cites the enclosure as defensive in nature. The Mam C and I are in agreement... that we are not so sure. There is an aura here which suggests otherwise. Just a feeling in the wind and rain, you know?

Foel Feddau, a nice medium sized hill (for Wales, anyway), lies upon the main east/west ridge of the legendary Mynydd Preseli. The summit is probably most easily attained from the B4329 at Bwlch Gwynt (windy pass) to the west... however, finding myself upon Foel Cwm-Cerwyn’s grassy northern cairn – as you do, if partial to such things – the decision is simply whether to visit at all. Needless to say some fantastic winter light draws me in and I really have no choice... like a moth to the flame. Sure, the hillside may be all a’glow, but, seeing as I choose to abandon the main path and ‘cut the corner’ to the north-east, the only heat in evidence is that I generate myself as I stagger and stumble across the rough terrain.

As I draw nearer I’m still none the wiser as to the relative size of the Bronze Age cairn which surmounts Foel Feddau. It is only upon reaching the summit that the annoying walker’s cairn is placed in proper perspective as a puny little construction set upon a massive, grassy monument. To be honest the grass mantle does make it somewhat hard to differentiate cairn from hillside at first, but several distinctly ‘artificially placed’ stones upon the flanks reveal the truth upon closer inspection. But don’t take my word for it... Coflein reckons the monument ‘....still stands up to 3.4m high. (J.Wiles 26.02.02)’. Not sure what the dimensions of Foel Drygarn’s (apparently now restored) trio are, but is this possibly Mynydd Preseli’s finest cairn?

It is also a great viewpoint, the main treasures of the massif lying beyond Mynydd-bach to the east, the wondrous Mynydd Carningli and the coast to the north-west.... not to mention the landscape of Pentre Ifan, Bedd yr afanc and Craig Rhos y felin – the latter apparently the confirmed source of the bluestones – below to the north. That’s just for starters, worthy of much more time than I have at my disposal. Incidentally RiotGibbon’s ‘wasp nest’ was not in evidence... possibly dormant for winter, possibly abandoned? However I’ve seen a number occupying South Walian cairns, so don’t hold me to that. I suggest any visitor respects the little blighters if he/she knows what’s good for them!

All in all I reckon Foel Feddau’s well worth the diversion, you might say... particularly if combined with a visit to Foel Cwm-Cerwyn.

Mynydd Preseli... the very name evokes images of jagged, rocky outcrops looming over mist-wreathed slopes, shifting masses of vapour analogous to the metaphysical apparitions the human mind has always deemed appropriate to inhabit such locations. Is it any wonder this should be the case... when none other than the Stonehenge ‘bluestones’ originated here prior to their epic journey eastwards, although whether this involved extreme human agency or glaciation remains a hotly contested point. It’s perhaps somewhat ironic, then, that it is the very absence of such mist – a (relatively speaking) high cloud base – which prompts a belated return to this wondrous place.

The majority of first time TMA visitors to Mynydd Preseli will no doubt – and with good reason – head for the central and eastern hills... for the iconic stone setting of Beddarthur, the trio of massive, Bronze Age cairns crowning the hillfort Foel Drygarn and... of course... Carn Menyn’s legendary spotted dolerite. But what of the actual summit of the massif, Foel Cwm-Cerwyn? Granted, the OS map depicts a couple of ancient cairns upon its ridge, but seemingly nothing to warrant the not inconsiderable diversion from the aforementioned highlights. What’s more Mynydd Preseli, like the majority of the (to my mind) comparable Dartmoor uplands, fails to reach the ‘magic’ 2,000ft altitude so beloved of hillwalkers. Suffice to say not high on most people’s lists, then. It certainly didn’t make it to the top of mine with a great deal of alacrity, but there you are. Better late than never, or so they say.

Parking to the approx south, near the entrance to Fronlas farm, I follow the signposted bridleway northwards towards prominent woodland, the peak – for want of a better word – rising shyly upon the left hand skyline. It looks like it will prove an easy ascent as I veer left at the trees before making the proverbial bee-line for the summit. In retrospect it is perhaps better to stick with the tree-line and follow it north, particularly since I encounter a couple of high barbed-wire fences and generally make a right ‘pig’s ear’ of my approach. Eventually, however, both the summit and the promised monuments are attained, the wind, fierce and bitterly cold, making a complete mockery of any notion of this being ‘easy’. Coflein cites three Bronze Age cairns at this brutally evocative, uncompromising spot.... I’m only aware of two during my visit, however, a large example crowned by an OS trig pillar upon a concrete base, overgrown with reeds and grasses which obscure form, and a substantial, grassy cairn a little to the north. The latter has a hollow summit featuring an internal stone slab, perhaps a remnant of the cist found upon the excavation of one of the trio, according to Coflein a cist containing an ‘inverted urn cremation’. This monument also possesses what may be the remains of a kerb, two substantial orthostats upon the eastern arc and another to the west. Nice. Not to mention superb views eastwards across Cwm Garw to the heart of Preseli. Yeah, perhaps it is all in the mind, but this place truly sends shivers down the spine... could be the wind, I guess. But I reckon not.

There is more. A further large, apparently ‘unopened’ monument lies upon the lower northern ridge of the mountain. According to Coflein it is:

....flat-topped, sub-circular, measuring some18-19m in diameter and being 1.2-1.5m high, apparently undisturbed. (source Os495card; SN03SE12)‘

As I sit upon this isolated grassy top, Foel Feddau’s annoying walker’s cairn rises in profile to the approx north-east. The map cites another ancient cairn beneath this modern desecration. But is it worth the detour? There’s only one way to find out. Walk some more of Mynydd Preseli. What a drag.

Membury Camp is one of those sites I’ve ‘seen’ many – goodness knows how many – times from the M4 services of the same name.... but never got around to visiting. Well, you know how it is? Probably not much there, better places on the ‘list’ etc.... However I decide to remedy that today, inspired, I guess, by tjj’s images back in October. Which is what TMA is all about, is it not?

I approach from the north, so, leaving the M4 at Junction 14, I take the A338 toward Wantage, almost immediately turning left upon the B4000. At Lambourn Woodlands, where the b-road veers sharply right, continue upon a minor road past Fox Farm, parking at the entrance to a farm track on the left. Follow this, past a house, to pick up a public footpath crossing the M4 via – you’ll no doubt be pleased to note – a bridge. The stony track continues, passing a prominent wood and with the nissen huts of the former RAF airfield to the left, towards another phalanx of trees concealing the hillfort. The track becomes path and, eventually, affords access to the enclosure. Jeez, it’s a big one, Dyer quoting a very impressive 12 hectares, although I’m arguably more impressed by the sheer size of the defensive bank encountered by the traveller. Initially I take the enclosure to be bi-vallate – that is protected by two concentric banks; however Dyer cites the outer as being a counterscarp to the massive ditch. Whatever.... splitting hairs, perhaps.

As with all hillforts, the only real way to appreciate the form and substance of the defences is to walk them.... suffice to say, despite the vegetation being, relatively speaking, not that prohibitive – at least in winter – a circuit takes me over an hour, such is the circumference of this massive earthwork. In fact it is only the distant hum of the M4 which provides an indication of where exactly I am. Are we there yet? No. Are we there yet? Shut-up. Not that this is exactly a hardship, not with Nature having taken over the ramparts to do her thang, occasional pieces of flint lying provocatively upon the bank, as if to say ‘for all you know I’m an ancient tool’. But therein lies the problem... I’m no expert. Sigh.

Following lunch, I’m just about to complete my second, and final circuit when the hitherto hidden, entirely unwelcome side of a visit to Membury raises its head. To be fair, I guess she was only doing her job, but I’m suddenly confronted by a ‘plummy’ middle-aged woman with dogs (I’d seen her about half an hour earlier and thought nothing of it – guess it took some time to summon the bravery to confront me, then... honestly). In short, it appears that I’ve strayed from the path (I know), that this is very bad (she has no answers to my demands to know why this should be and why the estate wish to forbid me access to my heritage) and that if ‘security’ catch me I’ll be sorry. Oh dear, threats. I assure her I most certainly will not be – sorry that is – that I had no idea walking the ramparts was an issue (there are currently no signs or fences when approaching from the north) and as I’ve been on site for some three hours, ‘security’ aren’t exactly a formidable unit, are they? I complete my exploration of the defences and have a wander inside the massive enclosure before leaving this exceptional hillfort.

So, there you are. Sadly it seems that here we have another ‘high end’ landowner who has a problem having a (very) fine example of England’s heritage upon his/her land. How damn inconvenient, what? Now there are many ordinary – dare I say ‘common’ – landowners/ farmers throughout this land who, from experience, I know do not see this as an issue and consequently apply a morally decent attitude to access. Work with the people who want to see your stuff and attitudes invariably improve on both sides, do they not? Yeah, I know. It’s plain common sense. Unfortunately such intelligent reasoning, although prevalent somewhere as off the beaten track as the environs of Loch Fyne, for example, does not appear to have caught on yet at Membury. Guess it takes time to filter down....

Following a morning’s (11/9/11) tough walkabout in the vicinity of the Afon Arban, south of Claerwen (no megaliths, but some things need to be done), the intriguing ‘trio’ of cairns depicted by our OS friends upon Carn Gafallt finally make it to the top of ‘the list’. ‘Lucky us’, I can almost hear the resident spirits of the ancestors groan. Or is that just a combination of an overactive mind and the admittedly strong wind playing the usual tricks? Yeah, let’s go with the latter.

So, no evidence for any ‘insubstantial’ friends, then, although the adjective could well be employed to describe the mind – for want of a better word – of a muppet farmer who stops his land rover, winds down the window and attempts to stare me down as I make a three point turn near Blaen-y-cwm. What is it with these people? Banjo duels at dawn...... Needless to say us TMA-ers are made of sterner stuff... and I won’t back down, particularly since I haven’t a clue what I’ve supposed to have done wrong. But there you are. For the record (Tom Petty comes to mind, by the way) a car can be parked, without causing any obstruction, near a corrugated iron-roofed barn at approx SN940641, a little west(ish) of Talwrn farm. Take the public footpath opposite (north), which veers left, then right to arc through the woodland of Coed Bwlch-glas. A little beyond, the cairns stand, unseen, surmounting the steep hillside above to the left. The official route exits the trees before doubling back along the crest of the ridge to the north-west... assuming an encounter with a moron farmer doesn’t encourage the traveller to undertake any deviations, that is.

Whatever route you take to the substantial cairns, however, be sure to schedule an audience if you are in the area.... since the setting of the monuments is class, if not classic. No, I reckon it is the latter, come to think of it. Incidentally Coflein reckons there may actually be five, not three cairns upon this windswept ridge, possibly once connected by a drystone wall, of all things? Apparently some of the cairns are co-joined, although the ravaged interiors and deep heather made this unclear. Well, at least to me. However never let it be said that the ancient occupants of Wales were anything but original. Idiosyncratic, too, particularly the manner in which the summit of Carn Gafallt, rising some way to the north-west, is ignored in favour of linear escarpment edge placement. Yeah, although the highest point was clearly not of specific importance, it is very difficult to believe that the vistas to be had from the site were not. Look to almost every point of the compass (save the north, where the bulk of the hillside obscures, albeit with numerous natural ‘mounds’ in evidence) and hilltops bearing Bronze Age cairns stand as far as the eye can see..... Y Gamriw to the south (must revisit), Drum Ddu to south-east, Drygarn Fawr and Gorllwyn to south-east... even a stone row upon Rhos-y-Gelynnen to west.

Why, there’s even an apparent stone circle upon Allt Goch across the valley. Guess I’ll need to come back, then?

The ‘green desert’ of Mid Wales – that wild expanse of high moor stretching north of Llandovery to Pumlumon – has altered somewhat since our Bronze Age forebears erected their hill top cairns in veneration of their dead, the most obvious change, the creation of the massive reservoirs of Cwm Elan and Llyn Brianne.... although forestry is also much in evidence. This recent adaptation of the landscape to support an evolving way of life has not been unflattering to the eye, although, of course, there are other criteria to consider when evaluating the overall impact of the relatively recent actions of humankind. However, from a purely aesthetic viewpoint, my judgement is that these hills, although demanding, offer much to the prehistorically-inclined walker prepared to venture off the ‘beaten track’. The highest summits of Drygarn Fawr and Gorllwyn, both crowned by Bronze Age cairns and rising to the north-east of the attractive Irfon pass (north-west of the small hamlet of Abergwesyn) will probably top the list of TMA-ers making an initial sortie into the locality. However note that the ascent of both is problematic due to the more-or-less trackless terrain and subsequent extreme navigational issues prevalent in poor weather. Hence the considerably easier/safer route to the summit barrow of Pen-y-Gurnos could well be a fine, introductory alternative, particularly since it features excellent views of Cwm Doethie, arguably the jewel in the region’s crown.

Strong walkers, upon studying the map, may wish to start from the west, near the Youth Hostel of Ty’n-y-cornel, this presenting the option of exploring the enigmatic, prehistoric complex upon Bryn y Gorlan beforehand... not to mention a walk beside the Afon Doethie. However, poor weather having vetoed a proposed attempt upon Pumlumon today (10/9/11), I approach from the north. The isolated chapel of Soar y Mynydd is the key here, accessible by mountain road beyond the north-western ‘tentacle’ of Llyn Brianne. Ignore the obvious track ascending the hillside to the west (this will bring you back again if you take the circular option and visit Carn Saith-wraig) and instead head to the south-east upon another substantial track above the waters of the Camddwr. Keep your eyes peeled for a sluice gate upon the river and ascend the hillside to the right in the direction of Nant Llwyd farm, this bridleway continuing all the way to the escarpment edge overlooking the Afon Doethie... a wonderful viewpoint. The summit of Pen-y-Gurnos, surmounted by its monument, in turn supporting an OS trig point, can be attained without too much effort by traversing the hillside to the left at this point (to approx south).

The round barrow is by no means an overbearing monument, but nonetheless remains relatively substantial, with traces of kerb a welcome, surviving feature. Needless to say, however, it is the location which takes the proverbial biscuit, endowing the site with, oh, ooodles of vibe, fast moving weather fronts adding that extra authentic ‘Welshness’ to the experience. Forestry restricts views to the south, but this is of little consequence since the primary focus is – and I would assume always has been – the beautiful gorge carved by the Afon Doethie. Hell, I’d seriously doubt if the natural, abrasive action of flowing water has resulted in more sublime contours in a landscape anywhere else? There is nothing to do except plonk myself upon the ancient barrow and enjoy the silence which pervades this isolated corner of wildest Wales. Not sure if George Borrow ever came here. But if not, he should’ve. Bryn y Gorlan rises upon the north-western skyline.... but, needless to say, I still haven’t the foggiest what went on there. Pen-y-Gurnos is made of simpler ‘stuff’. If ever such nebulous material could ever be described as simple.

Two further examples of substantial – if ravaged – Bronze Age cairns lie beyond the ascent track to the approx north-west at Carn Saith-wraig, albeit obscured by high ground. This latter is fenced, although I was able to make my way without excessive problems to connect – following a sojourn at the cairns – with a byway leading east back to Soar y Mynydd (as mentioned earlier). Well worth the additional effort. Yeah, closing the circle is always worthwhile.....

As Carl notes, the simplest manner to visit this overgrown, slumbering giant of an enclosure is via the caravan park immediately to the west. However – for me – the promontory / cliff forts which grace this Glamorgan coastline are far and away best approached from water’s edge. So, particularly following on from a visit to the unique Sully Island, that is what I must do this Boxing Day afternoon. Romantic fool, that I am.

The initial approach in the car is not especially salubrious..... via the perimeter road to the east of Cardiff International Airport, near Rhoose. However, upon reaching the tiny settlement of Porthceri, the visitor is suddenly transported back to an era where gentlemen emerged, ‘glistening’, from lakes and ladies had heaving bosoms laced up in their undergarments. Oh, and the peasants did as they were bloody well told, no doubt. Or something like that. Anyway, there is room to park near the church – no cucumber sandwiches on offer, though – from where a public footpath leads down the left hand of private drives to descend, steeply and with much mud, through woodland to a golf course beneath an impressive viaduct. Advance to the foreshore – dodging any bloody golf balls – and follow the coastline around to the right until a little before the point where the cliffs of the promontory tower above; here a path ascends the wooded, lower slopes to the interior of The Bulwarks, following the line of the south-eastern defences in the latter stages.

Upon arrival within the enclosure the immediate impression is that of ‘so what?, an interpretation not countermanded by several electrical pylon-wotsits standing in the north-eastern corner. Don’t be put off, though.... since the far treeline conceals some pretty substantial tri-vallate earthen banks. The most impressive of these are to the west, terminating at cliff-edge to the south and easily seen by following the footpath to the left towards the caravan park. The northern arc, although much more overgrown and thus less defined, is nonetheless still substantial. As is the eastern/south-eastern flank. Sadly, however, this last section has clearly been treated appallingly, not only having the aforementioned electrical pylons inserted – and being allowed to become completely overgrown – but also acting as a hang-out for local ‘yoofs’.... consequently much litter is to be seen, a general feeling of ‘who gives a damn?’ hanging in the air. Yeah, there is a definite aura of melancholia in evidence here as I force my way through the gorse (and other such prickly, thorny stuff) in the gathering, drizzly gloom. Nevertheless the earthworks, despite such ill treatment, remain as mute testament to this coastline’s rich ancient heritage. If only the locals could grasp what they have upon their cliff-top. If only. Speaking of ‘cliff tops’, that to the south obviously rendered any artificial defences there superfluous.

So, yeah, a visit to The Bulwarks will probably not need to be filed in the TMA ‘classic’ folder.... needless to say it’s not in mine. But an approach from the seashore adds a touch of preceding drama to a viewing of some pretty substantial defences of what was once a major Iron Age site. Now, of course, The Bulwarks is engaged in a new battle for its very survival. The enemy is formidable.... that of apathy and ignorance

Wandering down for a quick look whilst visiting the impressive Old Harlow round barrow on New Year’s Day....well, it’d be rude not to... I’m sad to relate there is as ‘unvibey’ a feeling upon this waste ground as you might find behind a block of flats on a council estate in London. To be honest, the clearly relatively recent ‘landscaping / contouring’ makes the traveller think ‘surely not?’ at the outset.

Unfortunately it appears that Essex HER agree, an opinion based upon some solid fieldwork, however. To quote SMR 7268:

‘Site de-scheduled October 2008 as no longer regarded as a cursus.Field survey and trial trenching was completed in order to evaluate the impact of unauthorised re-contouring groundworks upon it. This archaeological work was undertaken by the Essex County Council Field Archaeology Unit at the request of English Heritage. It consisted of a site walk-over inspection, collection of spot height data and the excavation of trenches across the plotted position of the cropmark and the area to its immediate west. The principal objectives of the work were to establish the presence of the cursus monument and to assess the extent of any damage which may have been caused to it.

The archaeological fieldwork identified the presence of prehistoric and Early Saxon remains,but no trace of the putative cursus. It also established that there had been relatively little deep and extensive truncation of archaeological remains across the majority of the scheduled area, and that the groundworks had largely comprised the removal and the stockpiling of topsoil. However, general compaction, disturbance and rutting caused by the movement of heavy plant were observed on the exposed surface that is likely to have had an adverse impact upon below-ground remains present. It is concluded that the cursus had never been present and that the linear ‘cropmark’ features evident on aerial photographs, from which it is was identified, are more likely to have been modern-day tracks, footpaths or other wear marks on the field surface.‘

So, in all probability not a cursus, then? Curses! However note the stated presence of ‘prehistoric’ remains..... so something WAS going on here, near the barrow, in ancient times. But what? As usual we clear up one mystery – albeit unsatisfactorily from a TMA point of view – and create another. Right on!