GLADMAN

Another of Greywether’s ‘obscure specials’ which, together with several other monuments in the immediate vicinity, was scheduled for a visit last year. Then, as per usual, time simply ran out. By happy coincidence, however, I happen to find myself with an opportunity to rectify that situation whilst on the way to Glasgow. Right on! Trouble is it is teeming with rain. Not so good.

From Carnwath I take the A70 to (eventually) park just before Redford Bridge. Not sure I’m at the right bridge at first, since I’m unable to get a positional fix until I stop and locate the farm of Waulkmill, tucked away down a track on the right. Then it’s a case of crossing the bridge, slipping down to the right and following the left hand bank of the North Medwin between forestry. The path veers left along the treeline where the Greens Moor round cairns should become visible to your right, beyond a fence. Cross this and the long cairn will (hopefully) be self evident.

I wish I could say this is physically a classic monument... however, unfortunately, it is not, having suffered grievious damage, no doubt at the hands of generations of farmers. According to Canmore it is now ‘nowhere more than 1m high’, although this is hard to judge due to its overgrown nature. What is clear, however, is its length, ‘measuring 82m long from N to S by 13m in greatest breadth’ (once again according to Canmore). Or in other words, what Greywether said. This is most certainly a ‘long cairn’, then.

And of course there are the metaphysical attributes, too. What this monument lacks in terms of preservation it more that recuperates in terms of vibe. Extreme vibe. Despite the hammering rain, this traveller felt no compunction to leave whatsoever. To the east, beyond Westruther Burn – about half a mile distant, I think – stands another long cairn. North, the substantial remains of a round cairn.... ditto to the south. Hey, Greens Moor long cairn may be denuded, but don’t be deluded, since I would say it is well worth a visit.

The Burngrange chambered cairn ‘calls’ me. ‘C’mon, you know you want to visit me, too’. It’s right, dammit. Despite the appalling downpour beginning to penetrate the zips of my expensive overtrousers, I have no choice. Yeah, it’d be rude not to. To the east, then...

As incredible – or just plain stupid – as it seems to me in retrospect, I actually considered passing over a visit to Arbory Hill in favour of completing my (fruitfully) interrupted journey to Loch Tay. Luckily, however, reason prevailed – for once – and I got to see what must surely be one of Scotland’s finest hillforts?

The site is one of enormous natural defensive potential, the ground more or less precipitous to north, south and west, with the col between Arbory Hill and Tewsgill Hill (to the east) the only remotely practical approach. Suffice to say that, in my opinion, the successive planners and builders of the Arbory enclosure took the opportunity presented to them by the short n’ curlies... and flung it screaming down the stairs. The resulting structure must have been as near to impregnable as any hillfort – anywhere – ever was ... water supply notwithstanding? As implied, attaining the ramparts of Arbory is no easy skate, even via the aforementioned saddle to the east. But, hell, to say it is well worth it for lovers of pre-R*man fortified enclosures is, I think, a major understatement.

The hillfort is protected by three lines of powerful, concentric rampart, the outer two – now mostly grassed over – in all honesty all that was really required. In support of this observation Canmore reckons the inner, massive drystone rampart was actually a later addition. Assuming this to be so, such over the top fortification, allied to the provision of no less than five entrances through the outer ramparts (the inner citadel has ‘just’ the two), strongly suggests a warlord with a serious need to impress/overawe his supporters and would-be opponents.... ‘don’t even bother opposing me when I can pimp my hillfort like this’.

I stand upon this windswept, rain-lashed hilltop, gazing across the Clyde to the Abington Services on the A74(M) and – more scenically, perhaps – to the surrounding hills and the deep valley separating Raggengill Hill to the south, and try to imagine what Arbory must have been like in its prime. It is silent now.... a vacant, empty shell, where once people actually lived and died, perhaps occassionally violently in respect of the latter. Yeah, it’s difficult to envisage the noise, the smells that once held sway at this ethereal place. Needless to say the manner in which the location oversees and dominates modern communication routes says all that needs to be said about the strategic value of the hillfort in its heyday. This would have been the abode of ‘The Boss’. Yeah. And not that American with the, er, idiosyncratic voice.

The linear grouping of cairns is puzzling. Initially, so is a series of what I take to be walkers’ shelters within the rubble of the inner drystone rampart. Why here? I mean, where are the bloody walkers? Perhaps these were actually later dwellings inserted within the partially collapsed wall, thus implying continued occupation beyond Arbory’s use as a fortress? The previous post’s reference to nearby Cold Chapel Farm is intruiging. Hermit cells, perhaps? Pure supposition, of course, but why not?

[Note – back at home a fortnight later... I notice numerous other forts/settlements to the north and south of Arbory, particularly on the southern slopes of Castle Hill. I need to do more research, clearly, but Arbory’s position as a focal point of the area seems ever more likely, does it not?]

An obscure one, this. Or so it would appear. Nevertheless Black Hill is mentioned in my battered old Oxford Archaeological Guide (Anna and Graham Ritchie; ISBN 0-19-288002-0), so I decide to take a look... particularly since a visit promises the opportunity to see both a Bronze Age cairn and hillfort at the same time. Two of my favourite things. Nice one.

The site is actually signposted on the B7018 a little west of Lanark – it’s apparently owned by the Scottish NT – an (even more) minor road heading west to eventually join the B7086, crossing the southern flank of Black Hill as it does so. At the approx highest point a – currently signless – pole marks a parking spot in front of a gate. Warning signs suggest the area is a prime spot for locals to dump their rubbish, but there you are... only a pile of road aggregate is in evidence today. Hopping over the stile, a curving track brings me to what are apparently the enclosing banks of a later period settlement adjoining the southern-eastern flank of the earlier hillfort... unfortunately the cow, which appears intent of guiding my footsteps, doesn’t elaborate.

Crossing another stile, the relatively well preserved eastern rampart of the hillfort leads me to the summit of both hill and enclosure.... like many, it is surmounted by an OS triangulation pillar. However this example happens to sit upon a relatively large cairn, c1m high and of 18m diameter (according to Canmore), the form of which is scrupiously respected by the later defences. What’s more, the western arc of the cairn features several large stones still in situ; the obvious inference is the remaining section of a kerb. The northern rampart of the hillfort is also pretty well preserved, all things considered; sadly the same cannot be said of the remainder of the perimeter, although the ramparts are at least traceable, with several large stones visible along the way.

Looking to the horizons there is much to see, Black Hill occupying a prime location overlooking the River Clyde. Tinto, with it’s great cairn, dominates the skyline beyond New Lanark (incidentally where early utopian socialist Robert Owen established his model factory), Glasgow, with those distinctive tower blocks, emerging from the gloom to approx north-west. Yeah, Black Hill is not a spectacular site... but combining Bronze Age cairn, hillfort, settlement and extensive views, it has all the attributes for a great couple of hours, I’d say.

Talk about blundering around in the landscape... having only decided to try and visit the massive Tinto cairn the night before, I’d no time to purchase an OS map of the area... so took a few compass bearing notes from TMA (in case I got into trouble with cloud), nonetheless leaving me completely ignorant about the existance of this rather fine hillfort literally right beside the approach path from Fallburn. Pleasant surprise on the descent of Totherin Hill, then, to see the enclosure lying below..... although how I walked blindly past on the way up Tinto might well be a case for Mulder and Scully.

To be fair the site is (in late May, anyway) overgrown with heather, so much so that – aerial views from Totherin Hill notwithstanding – it is only by getting up close and personal that the true, substantial nature of the twin ramparts and ditches becomes apparent. Initially I must admit I thought the enclosure was tri-vallate... however Canmore cites my third, outermost rampart as being ‘a slight upcast bank on the counterscarp [of the outer bank] round all but the NE quarter of the circuit.’ Hey, the heather’s my excuse. Although, having said that, the relatively powerful inner rampart is easily ‘walkable’. I make out two entrances to the enclosure (Canmore agrees... to ENE and WNW) with some unidentified enclosure in the centre (probably more or less modern).

In my experience this is a rather unexpected location to find such a well constructed defended enclosure as this, that is at the foot of nearby high ground. Perhaps there was a ritualistic focus upon the great, sprawling mass of Tinto, crowned by its extraordinary cairn? Or perhaps just the practicality of the site won the day for the planners, the man-made defences being thought more than enough in their own right? Dunno. But Fallburn is certainly a great, albeit unexpected, way to end a visit to Tinto.

Mind you, if mountain climbing isn’t your bag, I’d say Fallburn is well worth a visit in its own right. Simply follow the main track towards Tinto from the large Fallburn car-park... and the hillfort stands to the immediate left a little way up. Can’t miss it. He says.......

I’m not one for planning holidays months in advance... perhaps it’s a somewhat childish ‘defence’ against disappointment if/when things don’t go to plan. Ha! Because there is no plan! Or simply a reaction against the sterile, packaged ‘experiences’ that seem all too prevalent these days? Nevertheless, deciding to try and visit the (apparently magnificent) Tinto cairn only the night before commencing this year’s Scottish tour is perhaps taking the policy – such as it is – to extremes. But there you are. Anyway, I arrive at the large car park at Fallburn around mid-day, the pristine blue skies of early morning Essex long since replaced by the far more hostile South Lanarkshire version.

Neither the objective, nor route are in question at the outset, a well-worn track snaking away up the hillside to the approx SW towards the prominent skyline cairn, via Totherin Hill. The optical effects of fore-shortening, not to mention the company of a number of other local Saturday walkers, reduce the impact of what is, after all, going to be an ascent of a 2,320ft mountain in less than ideal conditions. To be fair, it’s not the most difficult climb, although, ironically, I make very heavy weather of it due to a combination of lack of sleep and a ‘stitch’ which just won’t go away. The dodgy shoulder again. Then there’s the wind.... which suddenly makes itself felt as I leave the lee of the mountain above Maurice’s Cleuch. Suffice to say I’m glad I can delve into the rucksack to retrieve full kit and not simply apply a ‘hoodie’ like others. But then I’m not a tough local, but a soft Sassenach. So, a final struggle, and there it is. From what I understand, Scotland’s largest upland cairn.

I don’t think I will ever be able to adequately relate why these mountain round cairns – after all no more than large piles of stones – affect me to such an extent. Perhaps it’s the recognition of the sheer effort they must have taken to erect? Or possibly they unlock some long suppressed folk memories, remnants of which survive in the infuriating ‘need’ for some to add to their fabric today? Or are they simply physical representations of that ‘on top of the world’ feeling of dominance most social animals seem to seek? Or just the connection with the elements, both on the physical (wind, rain... hey, even sun)and metaphysical levels (appreciation of views)? Or is it simply that they were erected by people so long ago, yet still remain to provide a link to them, no matter how tenuous?

Whatever the truth – assuming there is a truth – all of the above applies to the great Tinto cairn to arguably a greater extent than most – possibly all – of the other such monuments I’ve visited in these Isles. It is simply massive! Gigantic. Truly astonishing. I climb to the summit of the massive stone pile.... alone.... since a sudden, violent squall accompanied by a mantle of mist sends the other summit visitors heading for their cars, soaked from head to foot. Ha! How dare you call me a mere hill..... However the swirling cloud disperses and the vistas are once again exquisite... yeah. I’m convinced it is the outlook which was the primary factor in the siting of these monuments. The cairn marks the spot.... some spot, some cairn. Methinks extreme locations generate extreme emotions.

Unfortunately the cairn has not been well treated. Litter is all too sadly in evidence, not to mention a pathetic attempt at a ‘storm shelter’, with remnants of some circular, stone pillar to the south. However Tinto cairn is simply so overwhelming in stature that these merely scratch the surface, so to speak. I stay for c4 hours, gobsmacked by the magnitude of this mountain top monument, only to spot what appears to be a multi-vallate hillfort beside the track upon the final descent. It is too much. How I missed the Fallburn enclosure on the way up, I’ll never know. Some first day.

Sited a little below and to the approx south of the Llyndwr Fawr alignment, this trio of cairns – what, just the three? – form an arguably much more substantial grouping of monuments than their summit neighbours..... much more pleasing on the eye, too.

Arranged in a north-west/south-east alignment, the central cairn of the three is the most upstanding, despite having been internally altered to form a sheep shelter. Such is life in Wales, I suppose... and at least it’s not been fashioned into the more usual walkers’ shelter, but something of far more practical use. Its companion, to the south-east, is also pretty substantial, albeit grassed over and bearing a central hollow, no doubt made by treasure seekers or what-not in antiquity. To be sure, I’ve seen worse, such as the final cairn of the triumvirate to the north-west. Unfortunately this example has received by far the shortest straw in the preservation stakes, now much denuded.

Although the view of Nant Garw, to the east of the alignment, is somewhat restricted by forestry, that to the north by the bulk of the rising mountain, there’s something about this grouping of cairns that just feels ‘right’, you know? Landscape and monuments simply complement each other. Don’t think I can really articulate my thoughts any clearer than that. The cairns just ‘tick all the boxes’ required for a fine afternoon’s hang. A local family, the husband a typical rollicking ‘outdoor type’, pass by with a greeting, the only people I encounter upon this otherwise deserted, special mountain all day. In fact time runs out before I know it – a sure sign you’re having fun, apparently – and I’m not able to inspect the Bwlchgarw monuments following another look at the Llyndwr Fawr alignment. Another time, perhaps?

Reality bites as I descend back to the ‘goldfish bowl’ that is Abergwynfi... and the car... people staring as I approach, suggesting they perhaps don’t see many people walking these hills for the sheer fun of it. Whatever for?

Easter Friday afternoon is mine to do with as I so wish. However it has to be conceded, with some justification, that a trip to the ‘industrial highlands’ of South Wales might well not be high upon most people’s lists. Nevertheless my trip to nearby Carn-yr-Hyrddod back in February has made a visit here essential. Simple as that.

The inhabitants of Abergwynfi are most probably a friendly sort, given the chance. However I decide not to risk parking beside a group of youths ‘mending’ a motorbike in the road and instead leave the car a little way to the east near a cattle grid, incidentally opposite a gate warning visitors to keep out in no uncertain terms. That’s nice..... anyway, the map shows a public footpath giving access to Mynydd y Gelli running beside the eastern extremity of the village. There’s no sign, however, and the going is very, very steep indeed. Nonetheless I crest the escarpment without problems and set a bearing for Llyndwr Fawr to the approx south. Not sure why, to be honest, since the weather’s fine. Habit, I guess, but never a bad one to develop upon the hills. Upon crossing the (dry) Cwm Ffos Griffiths, Bwlchgarw is not long coming, the landscape worthy of serious aesthetic consideration, in my opinion. In fact I feel suitably chastised for my patronising surprise. Here the map depicts not only a dyke (boundary or defensive?), but also a ‘Tumulus’. Later, perhaps?

For now I veer south-westwards (right, in other words) and once again ascend very, very steeply up the escarpment edge towards the OS trig pillar at the summit of the mountain. Here, heavy haze limits distant panoramas – where not restricted by the treeline – until several passing showers duly cleanse the atmosphere and reveal the summit plateau to be a superb viewpoint. Particularly coastwards to The Gower and approx northwards towards the mountains of the National Park, occassional wisps of smoke highlighting moorland fires sparked by the unusually dry weather of late. And moronic muppets throwing cigarettes from car windows.... it’s therefore a little disappointing at first that the NE/SW linear alignment of seven (count ‘em) grassed-over cairns are not more prominent in the landscape. In fact only that bearing the OS trig pillar is immediately recognisable as such. The others are denuded to varying degrees.... nonetheless, taken as a whole, what we have here crowning this mountain top is pretty special indeed. Why, there is even a possible eighth monument a little to the immediate south-west.

So why here, then? Perhaps this was just the nearest/most prominent hilltop to the settlement site of these people? Or then again, perhaps the rising of the Nant Garw in several springs just below and to the approx east of Bwlchgarw might have been the deciding factor? To my mind the frequency of the cairn/river source association is fast becoming too high to be dismissed as mere coincidence. A point worthy of debate, perhaps? For now, however, a further trio of cairns await discovery a little south of the summit upon Mynydd Caerau..

themodernantiquarian.com/site/13804#post-96336

This much overgrown, yet nonetheless impressive hillfort, is sited upon Greensand Ridge within The Hurtwood, an area of private woodland above Holmbury St Mary which was dedicated for public “air and exercise” in 1926, apparently thanks to the efforts of Reginald and Jocelyn Bray.... which by coincidence also happens to be my mother’s maiden name. Right on, lads!

The easiest way to access the site would appear to be – appropriately enough – via Holmbury Hill Road, which leaves the B2126 a little way past the prominent hillside church, heading south. This leads to a large off road car park, the hillfort a short walk away to the approx south-east. Obscure site this is not, although, to be fair, a bright Bank Holiday Weekend Sunday was probably never going to be the quietest. But hey, take what you can get is my motto. And I guess the somewhat comically attired ‘mountain bikers’ have just as much right to be here as I. Yeah, unfortunately an ‘official’ bike trail actually cuts through the site.

The defences are damaged, overgrown (as mentioned), yet still substantially bi-vallate to north, west and parts of the east, with a powerful single rampart to approx south-east. It would appear that only to the south, where the hillside falls away very steeply, were minor earthworks deemed necessary. Certainly not a route for a man to take if wearing any form of body protection, hands clutching weapons. Not if he wanted to live, that is.

In my opinion Spring is without doubt the best time to visit a hillfort, and Holmbury is no exception. Wild flowers colonise the ramparts, carpets of blue bells arguably forming one of these Isles’ most beguiling natural sights (there are others, but certainly not suitable for a family web-site!). It is possible to just about walk the entire enceinte of the hillfort – probably easier in winter – so such things must be done. Then there is little finer an occupation than to lie amongst the bluebells, drink some coffee and watch the ‘cycling muppets engaged in their wacky races.

A cairn (very much modern, unfortunately), ‘toposcope’ (highlighting Chanctonbury Ring, amongst other locations) and an information board occupy the very busy 857ft summit of the hill.

Yeah, I’m glad I came.

With an hour or so to spare, following an excellent visit to nearby Holmbury, I decide to drop in and see what actually remains within Deerlap Wood. Not much, probably. Wrong! Anyway, I park in the NT car park near the memorial to Samuel Wilberforce, son of the remarkable anti-slave campaigner William (and by all accounts not a patch on his dad, judging by his alleged high profile mockery of Charles Darwin). Deerleap Wood lies on the opposite side of the road, it being immediately clear by the numerous ‘Private...’ signs that the Wotton Estate landowners are perhaps intent upon following in the tradition of ‘Soapy’ Sam, not the awesome Mr Darwin. In short, there is no official access to the woods, save a public footpath linking several houses with West Lane. Every path to the centre of the wood is fronted by one of the aforementioned signs.... except one, that is. ‘Perhaps this is intentional to allow access to the barrow?’ thinks I, full of faith in human nature and progressive, forward thinking. So, with no-one around to ask, I decide to take a look.

Upon arrival, however, the somewhat oppressive vibe suggests I’m most probably being naive, so grab a few pictures and enjoy the brief presence of a superbly preserved bell barrow – complete with well defined ditch and berm (the level terrace between ditch and mound) – before making a tactical withdrawal. What a pity, eh? The Wotton Estate could gain great kudos within the community – and beyond – with a simple concessionary path ‘to the barrow only’... (think how much excellent PR the Forestry Commission has regarding access to its land). Sadly they choose to plant a Scheduled Ancient Monument with new trees instead. One can only assume the proper legal procedure has been followed – and everything’s above board – but it still doesn’t seem morally right to me? But there you are. Different viewpoints. Here we have the paradox of a very fine Bronze Age monument, historically well preserved no doubt due to its location within a private estate, now threatened by the very same factors.

Needless to say I could never advocate trespass, so if you can manage to obtain permission from the estate, go and see this barrow before it’s too late. Seems it needs all the friends – and public exposure – it can get. Wouldn’t it be great to remove the mutual antagonism? Yeah, wouldn’t it?

Even a cursory glance will reveal that there are many, many impressive monuments logged upon this web-site. Sadly, the Shelley round barrows, near the small Essex town of Chipping Ongar, are not among them. At least not if physical form is considered to be the prime criterion, the trio barely surviving – in a severely denuded state – beside the meandering Cripsey Brook. But hey, something is better than nothing. And, of course, there are other selection criteria...

That time, or to be more specific, succeeding generations of farmers, haven’t accorded these monuments any favours, would, at first glance, appear to go without saying. But that would perhaps not tell the whole story, for the siting remains idyllic, particularly upon a sunny, late Spring afternoon. A farm still occupies the rise to the east, beyond the water course crossed by two – count ‘em – bridges, the track eventually arriving at the tiny settlement of Shelley. Here, a church claims the physical high ground, arguably in lieu of the moral equivalent? To be honest this is where I expected to find the barrows, charging across the more-substantial-looking-bridge before realising my mistake.

The northern mound is arguably the best preserved, for what it’s worth. But perhaps that is just splitting hairs, for the landscape... and the suggestion of what once was.... is sometimes more than enough. So if you happen to find yourself at Chipping Ongar, take the Moreton Road northwards out of town. Just past Bridge House, on your right, it is possible to park a car by the entrance to a bridleway. Advance down this to a gate and the Shelley Barrows are to be found a little way before the near bank of the brook, to the left. At least they were last time I looked. Just about.....

A companion site to the more defined enclosure of Ambresbury Banks, a little way to the approx north-east, Loughton Camp possesses the forest vibe of the former.... with bells on.... thanks to its location, well off the beaten track, in the middle of Epping Forest. As such, it is arguably not the easiest site to find, although it must be said that I am notoriously bad navigating through woodland. Perhaps the most straight forward way is to therefore take the main track from the car park until it bisects another. Follow this to the right for a little way, then veer to the right into the trees... (hopefully) you find the ramparts emerging from the forest in a short while. Ta dah!

As mentioned, the atmosphere here is intense, brooding... almost as if the forest is simply aching to tell you something of great magnitude... but not quite yet. I’d say you would hear a pin drop, but.... even cliches have to possess a basis of truth... As with Ambresbury, today the trees surmounting the rampart create shadow representations of themselves to paradoxically highlight irregularities in bank and ditch with shade, so forming a whole new abstract world to challenge the senses. Or something like that. Yeah, there is a real feeling of ‘other-worldliness’ here. It is pretty much accepted that the not-so-dandy-highwayman – and erstwhile all round ‘nutter’ – Dick Turpin used to hide out in Epping Forest, Loughton being one location cited as his camp. It would certainly fit, since this enclosure just feels right, you know? A place where legends just might be born.

Metaphysical doodlings apart, Loughton is also a pretty decent defensive enclosure, although I did find the rampart a bit difficult to track in places when walking anti-clockwise. Better off meandering clockwise, then. Like Ambresbury it is said Loughton probably also functioned as a defended animal fold in times of trouble. Always a good idea to protect your most important assets from the neighbours... Nowadays, however, all is quiet. Assuming you can put up with the occasional falling pin on leaf, that is.

A few too many Saturday afternoons ‘doing not an awful lot’ prompted this visit, to be honest.... funny how I’m prepared to travel the length of Britain to see the Tursachan, for example, yet can’t be arsed to drive half an hour or so to a site in Essex. ‘Better late than never’ would be a major understatement, since I would cite this enclosure as being a quality site in every respect.

Always the innovative trend setter, my 1:50 OS map is so old it doesn’t even show the M25 – due for completion Summer 1983, apparently; nevertheless I manage to locate the B1393, which bisects north-eastern Epping Forest, with relative ease. Why, there’s even a roadside layby for parking... although watch your car nether regions, since it’s pretty rough. For Essex, anyway. The road is also very busy....

The hillfort, or more accurately ‘plateau fort’, is just a little way from roadside and therefore not the quietest of prehistoric sites you will ever visit. Having said that, note that Ambresbury Banks is believed to have been used as a protective livestock enclosure, so will presumably have been much louder in it’s heyday. Livestock enclosure.... bit of a swizz? Yeah, that’s what I thought... but if you stop and consider that animals (i.e. the ability to feed others, henceforth your dependants) are generally equated to power in Iron Age Britain, then it becomes clear that here we have a prehistoric structure of major significance. Not to mention defensive capability.

It is also beautiful, particularly on a day like today with sunlight slanting diagonally through the woodland canopy, trees throwing incredible shadows across the forest floor to furnish abstract definition to the very real bank and ditch. The exquisite interplay of highlight and shade, perhaps prompting a fleeting resurrection of long buried, instinctive memories recalling a time when such environments were our world and woodland spirits were a very real proposition. The univallate rampart is relatively impressive, too, at up to 2m in height in places, although what I take to be a droveway at the south-west corner apparently dates to the Middle Ages. Huh! Only yesterday, then. To the south-east the defences are a little less defined as the landscape slopes down to a very busy bridleway through the forest. Runners, walkers, mountain bikers, horse riders... you name it... even large parties of ramblers dressed head to toe in the latest extreme summit gear. However none, no-one, not one person ventures onto the ramparts in the three hours I’m on site. In fact my only visitors are a stag and his harem, the former clearly ‘up for it’ in true Essex style. No, you’re alright, pal. I’ve just got myself out of a Saturday rut. Don’t fancy another.

The information board reckons it’s unlikely Boudicca met her end here, despite the legends. To be honest I’m glad. Ambresbury is the epitome of life today. Not death.

I’m in two minds.... which is pretty good actually, since it’s often more.... whether the gibbet which surmounts the long barrow upon Inkpen Hill adds to, or detracts from a visit to the monument. Now I guess we all possess a certain interest in the macabre, something which needs to be satiated every now and then (hopefully not too often) by reminders of how brutal society once used to be. Still is in certain countries, of course. Perhaps this represents remnants of the relish ordinary people had for gladitorial games, public executions, even bear baiting and other completely uncivilised activities. Sure, we like to think we are well past that... but also perhaps worry that it still resides within to some degree. Dunno. Yeah, I know the massive public execution device which looms above this monument to the dead isn’t original – not unless one thinks in terms of ‘original’ as applied to Trigger-out-of-Only-Fools-and-Horses’ broom (with five new heads and ten new handles) – but what it represents still has the power to unsettle/disturb the visitor. Even if the only thing currently ‘strung up’ is a half empty cola bottle. Perhaps some wag is making a very witty, cutting point? Perhaps not.

Now – unlike the Mam C – I’ve been here before, but the impact is still intense, particularly with a biting wind swirling around the hilltop and mist beginning to do likewise as dusk starts to close in. Clearly the fact that the long barrow was chosen as the base of the gibbet was no accident... being situated upon the most visible part of the hill, and no doubt the object of much local folklore for millennia, there really was no other choice for maximum deterrent value. Just try NOT looking at it and imagining what went on here. Which is precisely the problem.... people come here to do just that, drop their litter, let their dogs do what dogs do and generally not give two hoots that this is actually a rather fine Neolithic long barrow.

Aye, that it is. Set in a perfect position in the landscape, with stunning views to north and south, the rather impressive Walbury Hill hillfort to approx south-east and – surely – an ancient ridgeway track to west, it is only the aforementioned litter which detracts from a great hang at what is a fine, substantial example of such a monument. Ha! I’ve just got the pun, which was actually unintended, believe it or not... of course the greatest distraction of all – by far – is the wacking great reminder of past judicial systems towering above one’s head. Hmm. With darkness upon us we decide to beat a hasty retreat to the car.... not that we’re scared or anything, you understand?

Bringing the Mam C back to Essex for a week, I decide to stop off in Wiltshire to break the journey en-route. As you do. Well, the M4 is a major drag, it has to be said. But herein lies the problem. Where to go when you’ve a travelling companion tuned to the subtleties of the South Walian uplands? Simples. I put my faith in Chance. Ha!!

How I’ve missed out on this beautiful Neolithic monument, having driven up and down the aforementioned motorway all these years, is beyond me... true, the glory of Avebury may radiate far and wide, but, for me, sites such as Fairmile possess more of that abstract ‘stuff’ which would appear to speak directly to whatever we humans – at least some of us, I guess – call the ‘soul’. Yeah, James Brown, as opposed to that Boyle woman. Much to my chagrin, I visited the nearby – and, it has to be said, somewhat inferior (although still pretty good) – Tow Barrow last year, so have only ignorance as a defence.

Access is easy from the minor road to the east, this route well worth a drive for its own sake for the sweeping vistas it provides, panoramas dominated by that vast sky which seems to be so much more extensive here in Wiltshire. Clearly it’s not, but the feeling is nonetheless tangiable. A bridleway, with plenty of parking room at the entrance, heads approx westwards a little north of a track cross roads. Don’t be decieved, now.... the mound visible in the field is, in fact, a reservoir, so follow the field edge towards a copse of trees until the long barrow appears to the right, protected within a wooden-fenced enclosure. This fence-line lessens the initial impact, but advance through the gate and the sheer size and superb preservation of the long barrow takes the breath away. It really does. Well, it must be that since the physical exertion required to see this beauty is minimal, compared to some.

The setting is classic ‘long barrow’, positionned just back from the edge of a steep escarpment, with far-reaching views to the north. Agriculture dominates here, so much so that it’s tempting to think very little has changed in millennia. Delusion, perhaps, but this monument to farming nevertheless is not exactly out of context. Damage to the long barrow would appear relatively minimal, making it a perfect perch to sit and watch the farmer (I assume) do his ‘rounds’, his two dogs engaged in the time honoured ritual of chasing hares across the fields. Don’t worry, now. The hare doesn’t even bother to resort to evasive manoeuvres – he clearly reckons sheer pace is enough to leave these suckers standing. It is.

It’s difficult to think what more could be asked of Fairmile? Easilly reached, yet obscure; very well preserved, with intact ditches (oh yes!); classic siting; great views; friendly farmer? Tick all those boxes. For my money – with the possible exception of the heavilly overgrown Botley Down (hard to judge) – it is the finest long barrow in an area literaly chock-a-block with them. A fine day can be had in the vicinity, but keep this beauty to last.

I approach along the western escarpment edge of Mynydd Llangeinwyr from The Werfa barrow, the route overlooking Cwm Garw and Pont y Cymer.. hey, I’ve been to the Bryngarw Country Park on quite a few occasions in times past – as you do – and often pondered upon the source of the Afon Garw. As you probably don’t. Well, here it is. Ta dah! Overlooked by Bronze Age barrows, too.... who’d have thought it, eh?

The summit of the mountain is not long coming... or at least the severely undermined OS trig pillar... with Carn-yr-Hyrddod itself visible a little to the approx north across waterlogged terrain. Well, it does rain here. A bit. Coflein is non-committal regarding the perceived age of this scheduled ancient monument; however the Glamorgan/Gwent Archaeological Trust surveyors place it firmly in the Bronze Age – (PRN) 00059m:

“...The cain stands in a commanding position on the top of the ridge. It is turf-covered, 14m in diameter and 1.7m high. A small cairn has been built on the top and on the south side there are several disturbance hollows, c0.4m deep and 1-3m in diameter. Stones are lying on the surface in these hollows and in the middle of the cairn. On the north side there is a slight ditch c 2m wide and 0.2m deep. (Source 05) GGAT 72 Prehistoric Funerary and Ritual Sites Project”.

The siting is indeed fine, particularly bearing in mind the industrial pedigree of the area, with a sweeping vista eastwards, across Nant y Moel, toward Mynydd William Meyrick, itself crowned by several Bronze Age cairns. Yeah, there is more to this upland area surrounding The Rhondda than may at first be apparent to the untutored eye, so to speak. Consider the source of the Afon Ogwr (Ogmore) a little to the north, the very same river crossed by idyllic stepping stones beside Ogmore Castle. Perhaps the placing of these cairns wasn’t as arbitary as is sometimes supposed? Look (very approximately) north-westwards towards Mynydd Caerau and you will see another heavilly cairned hill near the previously mentioned source of the Afon Garw....

Carn-yr-Hyrddod is much more substantial than I ever supposed. Not that I really ‘supposed’ anything at all until 30 mins or so previously, of course. It is a great hang, too, the sun bathing the landscape in swathes of golden light and making this the place I want to be right now. OK, the walkers’ cairn erected on top of the monument inspires me to ‘substitute an ‘n’ please Bob’ to the term, and the couple of trail bikers in the distance deserve a slap for being such ignorant muppets. But, this apart, I’m impressed. As well I should be. However this is Wales and, naturally, it can not last.

Suddenly I notice a bank of cloud sweeping in from the west(ish)... just time for a compass bearing before I’m engulfed in thick, clammy vapour and the expansive views are distant memories. Yeah, I’d swear I could almost hear the wind mumur ‘not so easy now, is it?’ It would be right, too. Despite being just below the ‘magic’ 2,000ft mark, you take these hills lightly at the risk of a much longer walk than you might have otherwise anticipated.

If I recall correctly, Tom Hanks delivers the immortal lines “Life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get” in Fforrest Gump. The same could be said to apply when visiting obscure prehistoric sites... such as the remains of the Bronze Age round barrow set a little below, and to the south, of the 1,864ft summit of The Werfa.

Unfortunately the ubiquitous label ‘Tumulus’ marked upon the OS map gives no indication as to what may – or may not – exist beneath the dominating transmitter antennae which crown the summit of the high ground to the west of The Rhondda. In short, there’s only one way to find out... don the boots! Or perhaps get on your bike. Two ways, then. Two previous visits having been thwarted by snow-bound roads and zero visibility, an incidental visit has thus become a ‘must visit’. I will not be denied. Or something like that.

There are a number of possible approaches. However I choose the easiest, from the A4107 mountain road to the approx north-east. Verge parking is possible beside the gated entrance to the concrete track accessing the transmitter station (please don’t block this like a tourist muppet). Then.... simply follow the track, veering left (unless you fancy a trip to the summit first, that is) until the edge of the escarpment overlooking Cwm Garw looms. Here, just before the track swings sharply right you might – if you’re lucky – make out the seriously denuded round barrow to your left. OK, perhaps it’s not as bad as that, but the disappointment is palpable after the false starts. Nothing more to report, I’m afraid. Worth a wander for a look, but the archaeology isn’t exactly going to blow you away, so to speak. The weather might well, though.

However... as Mr Hanks duly noted, life rarely goes to plan... and Mother Wales usually has something up her sleeves. Yeah, sure enough, I notice a prominent cairn some way distant upon the (approx) southern skyline. Checking the map, this appears to be Carn-yr-hyrddod. A named cairn? Well, it would be rude not to have a shufti, I guess?

Bit of personal history here... since the Mam C first settled in South Wales, at nearby Eglwys-Brewis, some 26 years ago. More or less. How time flies, eh? She’s moved on since then – in more ways than one (ha!) – but perhaps a quarter of a century is too long to wait before finally checking out the Summerhouse Camp... so thanks, Carl, for the prompt. Although, as usual, low cloud over the mountains ensures today is the day.

The little village of Boverton, complete with ruined, ivy-clad ‘palace’, adjoins the eastern end of Llantwit Major. Follow the minor road south-eastwards towards Boverton Mill Farm, from where a very rough – but nevertheless driveable – track leads to a parking area near trees. Beyond, my old 1:25K OS map depicts a ‘Christian Centre’, the realisiation of this fact inducing horror in this traveller. What could well be described as an ‘utterly redundant sign’ warns one to keep out. Ha! Who in their right mind would wish to venture further? Love thy neighbour, eh? But enough of such absurdities... a muddy track leads into the trees and in a short while massive earthworks suddenly materialise from the undergrowth. Note the plural, too, for I count three ramparts and ditches, the tri-vallate nature of the defences later confirmed by our friends at Coflein:

....’A strongly defended site, set on the E end of a spur between a defile to the N and an eroding cliff-line on the S. A subrectangular inner enclosure, c.60m WNW-ESE, defined by a bank and ditch, is set within a similar, larger enclosure, c.126m WNW-ESE, defined by triple ramparts and ditches. There is a possible annex, c.52m WNW-ESE, on the E. The whole complex is cut by the E-W cliffs, being from c.82-46m N-S....‘

(source Os495card; SS96NE16) RCAHMW AP955145/42. J.Wiles 19.12.02

True, the site is completely overgrown. However the ramparts are substantial and ‘walkable’ (I use the term figuratively, you understand) for the most part, the sound of breakers when approaching the southern extremity of the fort instructive. Yeah, Summerhouse Camp is a promontory fort, the Glamorgan coastline terminating in a characteristic cliff-line and therefore forming a natural defence at this point. A footpath along the cliff-top links the semi-circular defences and also provides access to a ‘Seawatch Centre’.. where you presumably ‘watch the sea’. And why not? I can think of many worse things to do.

Summerhouse Camp is named after a C18th ‘summerhouse’ standing within the inner enclosure... funny, that. To be honest I struggle to make out the form of the latter, but there you are. Strip away the foliage and – arguably – this fine, powerful promontory fort would lose much of its charm and vibe. I think so, anyway. Another, larger enclosure sits upon the coast to the west at Cul-how point (Castle Ditches). However that must wait for another day, as I’ve put my trust in the forecasters and am off to the hills......

According to Coflein, Royal Commission surveyors saw fit to describe Garn Fawr as ‘…one of the most striking of the stone forts of the United Kingdom…’ upon concluding a field visit here in 1921. Quite an assertion, this... for it must be noted that competition in the category is fierce, to say the least. However, following a visit of my own, I reckon it’s justified. Yeah, a classic site, this.

The sharp, bitingly cold wind – which has served all day to remind me it’s still technically Winter – decides to up the ante as the day moves into late afternoon, thus making the visit to this coastal fortress a decidedly hostile affair. Walking poles are of great benefit if one wishes to avoid being blown from the collapsed drystone ramparts of this great enclosure in such conditions... that much is true. But there is something indescribably invigorating – primeval, even – about accepting the challenge and placing the body on the line. Perhaps that’s it. Perhaps we actually do activate subconscious survival sub-routines we no longer need in the course of urban living. I believe so, and this is the primary reason I will continue to do this while I still can.

Having said the above, access to the site is easy, a large car park suggesting popularity with punters during the summer season. A prominent, rocky crag veers up to the west with another – Garn Fach, bearing a smaller companion hillfort – to the east. Follow the path to the right of the former and the substantial, inner rampart is soon reached. This connects a number of other crags, incorporated within the defences like numerous proto-mural wall towers, to form a powerful main enclosure... although a drystone field wall does confuse matters a little. The summit of the site is crowned by both an OS trig pillar and the remains of a WWII gun position. It seems appropriate. There is more to Garn Fawr than this, however, a walk – or more accurately, ‘stagger’ – revealing several, additional lines of rampart encircling the hillside below. Not to mention two satellite enclosures (Dinas Mawr to the west and Ysgubor Gaer to the south) and exquisite views of Pwll Deri and associated cliff-lines. In short Garn Fawr (the ‘Fawr’ must relate to the size of the hillfort in relation to the surrounding enclosures, since the crag upon which it sits is not of significant altitude) is well worth a visit, even if archaeology isn’t your thang.... it’s a fabulous viewpoint.

Brambles impede progress and I get the distinct impression I’ve gatecrashed Nature’s private party. But it is worth the not inconsiderable effort, the discomfort, even. If sites can retain echoes of the past, perhaps I hear something rebounding from the crags of Garn Fawr. Or is that just the wind?

Hmm. What do we have here then?

Merrick reckons ‘there is a ragged, botched feeling to the state of this cromlech’. I concur. However, despite coming from the sublime Garnwnda a little to the approx west, this wedge tomb still presents a visually impressive aspect upon arrival, thanks to restoration between the wars, of course (thank you). The size of both the capstone and supporting orthostats ensure this is a substantial tomb indeed... if a little rough ‘round the edges, so to speak. And then some. Hell, I prefer to term it ‘character’. Rest assured there are no smooth surfaces here.

I park to the west beside a cemetery of rather more modern origin – one assumes – a bridleway leading past stables to Penrhiw Fach farm. To be honest I lose my bearings somewhat, so ask a passing ‘horsey’ person for directions to the burial chamber. ‘Don’t look out for those sort of things’, she replies. Fair enough. Except, upon rounding the next corner, there it stands in full view in the centre of a field, a gate providing public access. No comment.

In typical wedge tomb fashion the visitor must recline somewhat to enter. However this enables me to escape the truly biting wind prevalent today. Which is a bonus. I also have the opportunity to inspect a lovely growth of orange lichen upon the rear stone.... see even here, within such an austere structure, there is exquisite beauty waiting to be discovered.

Even a thorn has a rose...... OK, perhaps that’s not a very elegant paraphrase; neither is the Pen Rhiw wedge tomb, for that matter. Elegant, I mean. But to find a wedge tomb this side of the Irish Sea is a wonderful thing in itself. Unlike my sense of direction, needing a compass bearing to find my way back to the car...

I used to view these ‘earthfast’, ‘sub-megalithic’ burial chambers as not worth the effort of visiting. That I was wrong is, I think, self evident; not least since even the remnants of a largely destroyed monument still serve to focus attention upon the landscape it once formed a part of. Yeah, for me location will always be the primary attribute of a prehistoric site... so it depends upon where the tombs are....

It goes without saying that the Garnwnda chamber is exquisitely placed, overlooking, as it does, the justifiably famed northern Pembrokeshire coastline. That much can be surmised by anyone who can – ahem – read a map, after all. What isn’t so obvious, however, is the size and sheer aesthetic beauty of the capstone supported upon its single orthostat. Hey, this mighty stone doesn’t need any additional, supporting acts... not when it puts in an oscar winning performance of such magnitude just by remaining upon this hillside. No need for any pretensions here. It’s an impressive, substantial tomb appearing to emanate from the very crag upon which it was built. In a way, I guess, it did.

Nevertheless it is the location which elevates Garnwnda to the status of a megalithic ‘must see’ for me. Despite the overcast weather, the fine hillfort of Garn Fawr crowning a somewhat murky skyline to the approx west, this tomb speaks volumes.... much of which it would perhaps not be prudent to try and put into words. Even assuming I’ve understood, of course. Suffice to say it feels ‘right’ to be here, you know? It is not a ‘pretty’ spot, the gorse and brambles not at all out of place in a landscape which might well be labelled brutal. But nature is brutal by nature (ha!). And Garnwnda seems to me to reflect what its builders thought about their relationship with the earth. Perhaps such a relationship was too intense for a 21st Century mindset to begin to comprehend millennia after the fact? However I think we – from the vantage point of a ‘modern world’ which has no doubt reduced our capability for sensory perception – underestimate these people at our peril. There may well be much to learn at places such as Garnwnda which is not only relevant, but possibly essential to the future of our species? Here’s to insight, then. In whatever form it may take.

Lingering, swirling mist ensures thoughts of guiding the Mam C all the way up the wonderful Y Grib from Castell Dinas remain just that. Abstract thoughts. I mean, you wouldn’t visit a fine art exhibition during a power cut, would you? Nevertheless the presence of the Bwlch Bach a’r Grib cairn crowning the next section of the ridge is felt a little too strongly to be ignored. The call is unspoken, never unheard...

We slither – great word, that – down from Castell Dinas’s entrance into a morass of mud, the distinctive hue of which leaves us in no doubt we are in Old Red Sandstone country, regardless of visibility. From here a rather steep climb to the north-east brings us to a small drystone walker’s shelter. NO! They haven’t got this one as well? Thankfully, however, the mist swirls and the ridge is seen to continue to rise for a short distance more. Yeah, false alarm. Since here, crowning this minor summit, sits the deceptively substantial remains of a grassy Bronze Age funerary cairn. Funerary? Well, yes, particularly since Coflein cites a possible cist buried within the structure. Closer inspection reveals that, just like the similar monument upon Pen-y-Beacon (Hay Bluff), virtually straddling the English border to the east, our friends are on the money. I concur.

Slowly the mist rises and the sun breaks through to illuminate the landscape. And what a landscape this is! Behind us to the south west rises Mynydd Troed, beyond Castell Dinas itself. The siting of several of the Neolithic monuments in the locality suggest the former may possibly have been viewed as a ‘mother hill’ by the long cairn builders? Perhaps the architects of the rounder variety of cairn viewed it as ‘special’, too? To the south/south-east the beautiful Rhiangoll valley is worth the price of admission in itself, whilst the western/northern arc is that of pastoral beauty, the gliders which soar above the northern escarpment of the Black Mountains on clear days remaining firmly upon terra firma today. Which just leaves the north-east, the twisting grassy ridge of Y Grib leading the eye to the desolate peat bog summit of Waun Fach upon the right hand skyline. Incidentally a further Bronze Age round barrow is to be found upon Y Das, the far left hand peak.

As we sit and take it all in the only sound – aside from the call of an ‘interceptor’ crow, dispatched from the collective to engage and comprehensively ‘shoot down’ a bird of prey (of some description) foolish enough to approach the colony – is that of the nascent Rhiangoll cascading into the valley from its source just below, and to the north-west, of the aforementioned Waun Fach. Small eight ‘person’ teams of army cadets are visible labouring up Y Grib, their positions betrayed by orange rucksack covers. They are by no means the first, of course, finds of flint arrowheads instructing us that men bearing arms have roamed these high ridges for millennia. Perhaps one of them was interned in this very cairn which still crowns this summit? What an inspiring thought.

Low cloud continues to lie – like a wet blanket, perhaps – upon the high mountain summits of South Wales. However it’s not unusual. As that bloke from around these parts once sang.. what was his name, now? Big fella, bit hairy, wore a medallion? Consequently the Mam C and I embark on one of those ‘let’s drive around a bit and see what turns up’ mornings, the ones we subsequently pretend were clinically planned to the last detail... if everything works out.

Anyway, to cut a long story short we eventually find ourselves in the pub car park at the foot of Y Grib, a wonderful, narrow, grassy ridge which provides arguably the finest line of ascent to the high peaks of The Black Mountains. Not that you would realise any of this today. Not with an impenetrable wall of opaque vapour smothering the landscape to the east virtually down to ground level. Nevertheless, after handing over the quid parking fee (it goes to a local charity, by the way), we decide to visit the hillfort-cum-castle of Castell Dinas, which crowns the isolated, initial ‘hillock’ of Y Grib somewhere within the mist. Follow the footpath sign from the car park, descend to – and cross – the stream (no bridge), then basically head uphill. Even in virtually zero visibility (like today) it’s impossible to get lost, although the steep gradient, not to mention soaking hillside, means it’s all too easy to slip up in less abstract ways. Wear your boots... I performed a near perfect double twist with pike, but the Russian judge still wasn’t having it.

The initial outer defences encountered are comparatively minor – as you would probably expect – the ramparts presenting an attractive aspect courtesy of numerous skeletal trees diffusing the flow of clammy vapour. Very ethereal. The main citadel crowning the summit, however, is anything but minor. A medieval castle, apparently dating to the later 12th century, occupies/overlies the northern section of a fair sized Iron Age enclosure, the latter divided by a cross-rampart. Although no doubt repaired to serve the later castle, the inner ramparts remain very impressive, indeed, with an entrance at the north. The stump of a masonry gate tower here would suggest the practical Iron Age choice facing the easiest approach was adopted by the later inhabitants, too. Well, if it ain’t broke..... the remains of some kind of Great Tower crown the highest point of the enclosure, presumably medieval in origin.

As we walk the defences breaks appear in the swirling mantle of mist to reveal tantalising glimpses of Mynydd Troed to the south-west... and the rest of Y Grib rising to the Black Mountain summits to the north-east. Yeah, the next ‘hump’ in sequence, overlooking Bwlch Bach a’r Grib, possesses a Bronze Age cairn I’ve wanted to re-visit for a while now. Oh, why not? It’d be rude not to, now we’re here.

Finally note that the so called ‘holy well’ of Dinas Well can be found in the immediate northern environs at SO17893022 (shown on my 1:25k OS map). Holy? Perhaps. Practical? Definately.

The approach from Coetan Arthur was a lot more tiring and time consuming than I thought... thick gorse and soggy mud the culprits. However the concrete access path just seemed too, well... perhaps some will understand.

The tombs stand near the concrete bases of what I take to be World War II gun emplacements – historic monuments of immense significance, let it be remembered. However the summit of Carn Llidi, rising to the appox east, calls the stronger, as I guess such places always have to me. It is perhaps significant that the chambers are sited in a subservient location below and not at the summit itself. Then again this could have simply been a matter of practicality, I guess, since there’s not much room on top. What there is, however, is the most exquisite 360 degree view! Ramsey Island sits off the coast to the south-west, beyond the white breakers of Whitesands Bay, like some enormous beached whale. Hey, or sea monster! Yeah, this is a place for superlatives, the overblown... for legend... for burying your dead, in fact. Funny you should say that? Well, other people had the same idea, did they not?

Although only rising to 181m (whatever that is in proper height) the proximity of the sea ensures the head swims, the mind reels at the enormity of being here in the approaching dusk. Suddenly I realise I must make my way down – like, er, now – to avoid being be-nighted upon this rocky crag. But what of the tombs? I will have to return some day for a proper look, I guess.

Another site I’ve been meaning to get to for, oh, ages... but continually baulked at the long drive. Let’s face it, it’s quite a pilgrimage for most of us. But then I guess that’s the whole point... wouldn’t be a kosher pilgrimage if the journey was easy, would it?. So no more excuses man! It won’t get any easier with time, that’s for sure.

Entering St David’s upon the A487 is a somewhat odd experience. So this is a city, then? Hang on, Brecon’s also got a cathedral... yet remains a town? Good for Brecon, I say. I don’t get to see St David’s famous building, instead veering up the B4583 to park beside the thundering breakers of Whitesands Bay. Judging by the size of the car park, this is a popular spot in season. And rightly so, numerous ‘Johnny Utah’ surfer dudes ridin’ the crests in lieu of the bucket ‘n spade brigade... when they are not ‘wiping out’, that is. Awesome! Anyway, The Pembrokeshire Coast Path heads north from here, hugging the coastline – as you would probably expect of a coastal path – and consequently providing some excellent views down into rocky coves. Hey, this is worth the parking fee in itself. Except, out of season, there is no parking fee. Nice.

Coetan Arthur – certainly got around a bit, that Arthur, didn’t he? – is visible from a long way off, the chamber sited (arguably) somewhat unusually between crags upon St David’s Head itself. Incidentally, the map cites a ‘fort’ to the west. Upon arrival, I’m surprised at the size of the monument... for some reason I expected it to be diminutive. Perhaps because of the ‘sub-megalithic’ construction of the chamber, that is with one end of the capstone resting upon the ground, the other supported on an orthostat. However any aspersions of insubstantiality are strictly illusory, the chamber able to accommodate me with ease. This is just as well, since a vicious rain front suddenly sweeps in across Carn Llidi to give the landscape a pasting. But not me this time. Cheers Arthur. As I sit – or perhaps more accurately ‘slump’ – the sight of Carn Llidi looming beyond intrigues. Was there an association here?

The squall passes, the sun vanquishes the cloud and illuminates St David’s Head. I check out the capstone, a fine slab of stone with a pronounced ‘spine’ or ridge which... hang on... appears to point straight towards the site of the tombs upon the aforementioned Carn Llidi. Now, being somewhat the realist – I hesitate to say ‘cynical’, but perhaps – I’m wary of making the evidence fit a desired outcome. But, hell, it does appear to be a possibility [see image post]. Perhaps. Whatever, I find it difficult to leave this spot. The coastal views are sublime, Ramsey Island probably taking the plaudits in this respect, the chamber seemingly, well, just made for this very corner of Wales. Which, come to think of it, it was! I am glad I came.

Then, all too soon, time has expired. Can I make Carn Llidi before dark? We’ll see.

Ffyst Samson’s intrigued me for a while now. Hard to define the reasons why... I guess it just looks so, well, ancient.. so ‘hoary’, an iconoclasm to this modern world of ours which demands that everything must be defined, must have its place, must be categorised. Sanitised with bleedin’ antibacterial handwash before it can be touched. Ffyst Samson seems to say ‘I think not. Come back in another thousand years and we’ll talk!’ Yeah, sure, we think we know what it was for. A tomb. But what ritual, what rites were carried out here? Ffyst Samson seems, to me, to represent everything we don’t understand from the old times before we (apparently) learned to use our reason.

So, low cloud over Y Preselau suggesting it would be unwise to wander once again upon bluestone territory, I decide to pay an overdue visit. As noted by others, even a relatively recent 1:25k OS map is of little use, save directing me to a parking space (opposite a very long farm shed) a little south of St Nicholas. A footpath sign points uphill and.... basically keep going, crossing barbed wire fences when encountered until the ‘rocky outcrop’ is seen in the field to your left. Cross yet another barbed wire fence to enter this field and there the fabulous cromlech is. Not that my approach was that direct, you understand.... wouldn’t be fun otherwise.

The first thing you notice about the monument is that, like a bumble bee, the capstone shouldn’t really stay up at all.... that it manages to remain supported upon its two rough orthostats is an undeniable fact that seems to defy the very laws of physics themselves! The second is the rather obvious siting beside the rocky outcrop. Coincidence? Hmm. If I was a betting man.... The wind is absolutely biting cold, but there is no leaving here in a hurry. The Pembrokeshire coastline lies beyond, to the north, the hillfort of Garn Fawr prominent upon the horizon. Yeah, expansive views are there for the taking – sorry, that’s the wrong word... for the ‘accepting’ – but the difficulty of location, let alone access, ensures the vibe here is one of private meditation. No doubt this was not the original intention, but hey.

A further stone lies prostrate a little distance away, in all probability once part of the structure, but now taking it easy. Then there’s the rocky outcrop. Needless to say one can’t leave without a quick view from the top of the cromlech’s natural companion, predecessor, even, although the export strength briars and gorse render the accomplishment of this somewhat uncomfortable, yet nevertheless essential. Structurally speaking, Ffyst Samson is a simple monument of a type the antiquarians of old (not the Modern Antiquarians, oh no!) would have called ‘rude’ and ‘brutish’. Maybe. But I’ll tell you something, there is nothing remotely straightforward about the effect it – and others like it – can have on a receptive human mind. The power of suggestion, no less.

Perhaps the farmer is playing ‘silly buggers’ with regards access... or perhaps not? Whatever the case, in my opinion a visit here is worth the hassle. Not to mention a long drive.

It would appear that Brecon has always been a town of some significance. Today it is probably best known for lending its name to the ‘Brecon Beacons National Park’, a great east-west mountain escarpment effectively isolating South Wales from Mid, the highest summits of which soar above the town to the south. Topography was clearly the prime factor in assuring Brecon’s local primacy, a glance at the map highlighting the confluence of several rivers in the immediate locality, most notably the Usk and Honddu (Brecon is ‘Aberhonddu’ in the vernacular), as well as the north/south A470 and east/west A40 land routes. Those bleedin’ Romans – no mugs, it has to be said – were clearly well aware of this strategic value, siting a fort (Y Gaer) a little to the west, overlooking a ford across the Afon Ysgir near its confluence with the Usk, superseding a hillfort upon Coed Fenni-fach. The Normans, too, erecting a motte nearby, this itself replaced by the stone castle which still stands in the hotel grounds. Another hillfort is sited at Slwch Tump, not to mention several small enclosures upon the great northern ridges of the Brecon Beacons themselves. But it is that upon the great, isolated hilltop of Pen-y-Crug to the north-west that dominates the town.

It is possible to approach Pen-y-Crug on foot from Brecon... however the Mam C and I make our way to the north, via the little village of Cradoc, where parking can be found beside a recycling area. A bridleway, initially very muddy today, leads to the base of the hill before ascending the left hand flank, and hence gaining the ramparts. We’re here since a cloudbase of approx 1,000ft has buggered up any plans of adding to yesterday’s snow-bound excursion along Craig y Fan Ddu and Graig Fan Las. But any sense of this being ‘second best’ is immediately and irrecoverably banished upon setting eyes upon this fine fortress. Surely this must be up there with Wales’ finest Iron Age creations? To say I wasn’t exactly expecting to find a powerful quadrivallate enclosure (although reduced to tri-vallate at the steeper western flank, it has to be said) occupying the summit of this hilltop is an understatement all right. Nice.

Quarrying to the south-east has left its unwelcome legacy to some degree, but nonetheless the ramparts remain relatively well preserved, the views, particularly across the fertile Usk valley to the cloud-wreathed mountain summits, of sufficient quality to no doubt have excited Wordsworth should he have ever come here. Sadly I don’t believe he ever did, nor do I possess his poetic genius, but I think I get what the man meant when visiting such landscapes.... The aforementioned low cloud, not content with the likes of Pen-y-Fan, decides to pay our hilltop a visit, engulfing us in evocative, swirling mist before peeling away to leave washes of brilliant sunshine and a rainbow girdling the inner rampart. Hey, it’s true. There is treasure at the end of the rainbow! Hang on... where’s that ‘Ladybird Book of Poetry’ again?

The hillfort’s relationship to the surrounding landscape is intruiging – in particular with respect to the other two nearby enclosures. Were these contemporary? Surely not hostile? Friendly rivals?It’s also interesting that the Roman engineers didn’t consider Pen-y-Crug sufficient for their needs. Guess they required a much more aggressively placed site to control local movement. Ditto William the Bastard’s lot.

The Mam C’s long wanted to experience what the great Wessex hillforts are like. Ha! Pen-y-Crug.

Rounding off the day following a long overdue visit to Dunraven, I’m sad to report that this poor round barrow has been mutilated almost to the point of destruction. Hey, ho. Bearing in mind the complete lack of protection afforded the monument from the users of the nearby minor road – not to mention reports of the apparent aggressive/ignorant ‘attitude’ of some local landowners (one of whom, a sour-faced old bint, tried unsuccessfully to force me off the road as we passed) – I guess this is no great surprise.

Nevertheless worth a quick look if/by taking the ‘short-cut’ across the coastal hills from St Brides Major to Ogmore, via Norton (the site of crop-marks indicating an apparent causewayed enclosure, no less)

Slowly it dawns upon me just how special this Glamorgan coastline really is.... although, to be fair, the prehistoric treasures are not exactly obvious, particularly in the absence of an OS map. And again, who in their right mind would shell out for one covering the urban sprawl of Bridgend? Indeed. Nevertheless it would be a fine investment, as even a cursory glance at my newly purchased ‘library sell-off’ copy confirms. Numerous round barrows apart, a whole string of cliff/promontory forts are shown crowning the coastline. Duh! Only been visiting the Mam C here for 25-odd years....

Perhaps the most accessible of these Iron Age enclosures is that which overlooks Dunraven Bay, a little south-east of the seaside town of Ogmore-by-Sea and its near neighbour Southerndown. A newly refurbished road heads southwards from the latter (according to the Mam C the original was in dire danger of falling into the sea) to its terminus at a large ‘official’ carpark, a magnet for the locality upon those hot summer days which sometimes occur in South Wales. Today, with a hint of drizzle hanging in the air – or is it sea mist caused by the violent pounding of the cliffline by breakers? – there are still a fair few people about, walking dogs and what not. The majority head for the remains of Dunraven Castle, the ruins of a rather dodgy mansion which defile the north-eastern flank of the much older enclosure, presumably having destroyed the defences in that area.

The Mam and I, of course, head for the cliff line and sit a-while upon the relatively upstanding northern ramparts which still bar the direct approach from the car park. OK, these aren’t in themselves that particularly inspiring.... but the setting and coastal views most certainly are! A cliff-fort upon a cliff... whatever next? Pragmatic bunch, these ancient inhabitants of what was later to become Wales. The map shows additional ramparts to the south facing any approach from Trwyn y Witch (see Rhiannon’s post), although these are – to my mind – nowhere near as obvious. We go for a wander down to the aforementioned Trwyn y Witch... from here the cliff line is simply magnificent, the strata comprising the vertical rock faces, compressed and buckled by primeaval forces too powerful to even contemplate, rising above a raging malestrom of water. Fishermen have apparently been swept off this coastline to their deaths, and it’s not difficult to see why. Incidentally legend tells of how locals used to lure shipping onto the lethal offshore rocks, which are a prominent feature of these waters, in order to collect the resultant booty. Today surfer dudes brave the waves in search of spiritual enlightment.

The iconic coastline stretches away to the south-eastern horizon and, according to the map, bears numerous other Iron Age fortifications upon its dizzy heights – the nearest just a little along at Cwm Bach. Well there you are. Just when I thought the ‘list’ was diminishing....way to go, TMA’s Carl. The Mam is captivated by a bird of prey which perches upon a post to keep its beady little eyes upon us. Perhaps the greatest compliment I can accord Dunraven is that such a creature does not appear at all out of place here.

Forming the final visit to a triumvirate of long barrows today – and preceded by the mighty Crippets and evocative Coberley – Lamborough Banks was, in retrospect, perhaps on a hiding to nothing in the Gladman appreciation stakes.

The unusual nature of the visit to come was perhaps foretold by a village sign along the B4425 duly announcing ‘Barnsley’.... now my route finding is bad, granted. But not that bad, I’d have thought? It’s not, the Ablington turn off at Bibury leading me past the former to an seemingly abandoned farm within trees to the left of the minor road. With no sign of a farm house (that I could see) and a deserted commercial concern of some description to my right, I decide to go walkabout down the seriously muddy track, veering right as suggested in previous posts. Sure enough, a break in the trees heads left past a large enclosure of chicken wire.... and there it is. A seriously overgrown long barrow.

And I mean seriously overgrown, a single orthostat upon the southern end of the mound all but consumed by brambles. So then, not a place to hang out unless you have a cast iron constitution... or happen to be a devotee of the Marquis de Sade. But hey, who am I to judge? Despite this, a walkabout hacking one’s way through the undergrowth reveals Lamborough Banks to be quite an upstanding monument, one featuring traces of what may well be chambers in addition to the previous mentioned stone.

And then the shooting starts.... shotgun reports to my north, south, east and.... yeah, there it goes... west. I’m surrounded by ‘individuals’ with guns, the sort who think shooting ‘things’ is fun. Oh dear. Time to leave unless I fancy a walk on/carry out part in a remake of ‘Southern Comfort’. Speaking of which, a man lurks silently in the trees as I return to the car. To be fair, however, a landrover parked in the yard suggests this to be the farmer not wishing to make a big deal. If so, I appreciate the gesture.

So, self preservation took precedence over the study of antiquity this time around – although the visit did last an hour. Come to Lamborough Banks when the guns remain silent and no doubt a great time can be had by all.

If visited following a sojourn at its not too distant neighbour, the Crippets long barrow, Coberley will always prove something of an anti-climax, I guess. Yeah, but not a disappointment.... since, although crudely dismembered by a lateral trench and subjected to numerous other horrors, Coberley nevertheless remains an upstanding, well positioned monument.

I approach from the east along what the map reveals to be the ‘Gloucestershire Way’, having parked upon the nearby minor road just before a sharp left hand descent to Coberley village. It is certainly an aesthetically pleasing approach above Coldwell Bottom to the south, the valley cradling what I assume to be the nascent River Churn? Ha! A long barrow upon a hillside overlooking a fledgling water course... whatever next?

The Gloucestershire Way veers to the south-west beside the monument, perhaps following the same contours of millennia past, an unlocked gate providing access to the long barrow itself. Once upon the barrow, the wanton damage to ancient fabric somehow becomes irrelevant – after the moral indignation has subsided, that is – as vast, billowing clouds take centre stage and raise both the visitor’s gaze and spirits (if not consciousness, but hey, one day perhaps?) to, quite literally, another level. The stratosphere itself, no less. The notion recurs.... is it just me or were these monuments designed as viewing galleries for a theatre where the very landscape itself was the stage?

Needless to say, it still is to me.

You know how it is... you love your job so much that you find yourself in the ‘use it or lose it’ annual leave situation upon entering February. How the hell did that happen. Again? So a week at The Mam C’s in South Wales it is, then. En-route, however, the usual Gladman improvisation kicks in and I arrive a little past 8am just south of Cheltenham. As you do. Ah, Crickley Hill....

However, having visited the Cold Slad some years back, I’ve my little eye focussed instead upon an apparently rather fine long barrow the Sweatcheat kindly brought to my attention a while back. A minor road leaves the A436 near the A417 roundabout and, in a short while, a bridleway leads to the left beside woodland.... where it is possible to park a car. The path, initially very muddy – hey, this is a field after all – leads gently uphill to a further belt of trees, Crickley Hill rising to my left. The long barrow lies within the field beyond to the north, the field best entered by the gate mentioned by SC in its western (left) flank.

First impressions count for a lot, or so they say. Sadly I concur.... sadly, since I’ve no doubt we miss out upon so much which is not readily and immediately apparent at first glance. But not here. One glance is enough to completely entrall this early morning visitor, a classic copse of trees surmounting what appears to be a very substantial long barrow indeed. For once a foreshortened aspect does not deceive – not in the slightest. Horses grazing the surrounding pasture approach to check out the intruder and – apparently satisfied – resume what horses do best. Hey, perhaps that ‘horse whispering’ stuff actually works? Or perhaps I simply told them to ‘piss off’ in horsey language? I hope not.

As I climb the mound and settle down for coffee the sun breaks through the morning mist, sending well defined shadows of monument and tree line across the field. The moment resonates with abstract meaning I cannot define....

The long barrow is in pretty good nick, it has to be said, despite some obvious damage at the eastern end where, presumably, a chamber was once located? Not sure whether this was the result of ‘excavation’ or treasure seeking muppets, but needless to say the end result was the same. The visit turns into a full morning hang, the munching horses adding to the aura of calm and well being here. No reason to leave.

N.B – According to the OS map a ‘tumulus’ lies a little way to the approx south of the long barrow. Perhaps I’m not that perceptive, but it would appear very little remains save an almost imperceptible rise. If this is not the case, I guess the former applies!

Another afternoon visit, this, following a drizzly morning at Ballina’s ‘Dolmen of the Four Maols’... well, you can’t stay in a city and not venture out on foot to see the local sights, can you? Anyway, that done, a drive-about Co. Mayo, taking in Castlebar and Bemullet (Beal an Mhuirthead, that is) just happens to provide an opportunity to stop off at another prehstoric monument. Strange, that.

Heading back on the R314 to Ballina, the coastal loop at Barnatra is a worthwhile diversion for travellers with a little time – and the inclination – to experience something a tad out of the ordinary. After a while the minor road passes through the tiny ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ settlement of Dooncarton, nestling between the sea and a large, transmitter-bearing hill. Assuming you haven’t – blinked, that is – park-up and seek out the ‘West Coast B&B’ (oops, little bit of product placement there), above which, unseen, sits an excellent little stone circle. Access is via an uphill road beside the B&B and a subsequent step over a barbed wire fence. Well, this is Ireland, after all.

The siting is glorious, featuring superb coastal views – across sandbanks – to Garter Hill to the north, and the exquisite Sruwaddacon Bay to the east. Sure, the proximity of habitation does detract from the wild, untamed vibe a touch, but, strangely enough, engenders a feeling that the monument remains relevant, part of the community still. Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking?... The orthostats are substantial for a stone circle of these modest dimensions, lovely and unkempt, almost as if they have always been here. Come to think of it – to all intents and purposes – they have! Right on! I wish I had more than an hour to enjoy an extended ‘hang’ at this wonderful spot... but such is life. Having said that, Dooncarton’s obscure, shy little stone circle is now a part of mine. And I’m glad. I think we complemented each other for a few moments in time.

All is not rosy in Dooncarton, however, since a proliferation of ‘anti-Shell’ posters are visible upon telegraph posts as we drive above the – it has to be said – frankly gorgeous bay. Yeah, by all accounts big business is looking to develop this beautiful coastline. There are always two sides to every story, true... but...here? Somehow, though, I’ve the feeling Dooncarton’s little ring will remain aloof regardless. Seen it, done it, whatever.

Needing to travel from Donegal to Mullingar – as you do – the opportunity to visit this Fermanagh beauty cannot be overlooked. Indeed not. Might be the only time I pass this way, after all. The journey is no hardship, the N3, spontaneously morphing into the A46 at Belleek, following the southern flank of the beautiful Lower Lough Erne all the way to Enniskillen. Only the familiarity of the latter name – and, ok, a heavilly defended police station – reminds the traveller of the all too recent brutal history of the area. A detour along the A4 takes us to Belcoo, a small town right on the border between the upper and lower Lough Macneans, from where a road signposted ‘Boho Scenic Route’ climbs northwards towards the Ballintempo Forest. Forking right to approach Dooletter, a dead end road a little way before – apparently once signposted – heads left to a forestry track crossroads barred by a locked barrier. Time to revert to the Mark 1 boot, then.

We head straight ahead initially before veering right to locate a quite wonderful court tomb – quite bizarrely signposted from the track here, but nowhere else (methinks the locals have been playing ‘silly buggers’) – set upon a somewhat restricted hillside terrace beside forestry. It is immediately apparent that Aghanaglack is a special site. It is a type of ‘double’ court tomb known as a dual court, whereby two monuments are, in effect, placed back to back to form a composite whole. Here, however, there is nothing remotely ‘composite’ about the resulting structure, the eastern ‘half’ being of (charmingly, I think) inferior build quality... far less substantial than its western counterpart. Whatever for?

Both phases of the monument – I understand that an 1938 excavation determined that, surprise, surprise, the eastern segment was a later addition – consist of a shallow forecourt allowing access to a gallery of two linear chambers, now open to the elements. Interestingly, the western entrance was closed – apparently symbolically since the blocking stone was only of modest height. Perhaps when the ‘other half’ took over? The author Carleton Jones, in his excellent book ‘Temples of Stone’ [ISBN 13: 9781905172054] has hypothesised that Aghanaglack may have witnessed two social groups merging together... no doubt to a chorus of ‘these youngsters don’t make ‘em like they used to in my day, so they don’t...’ Also worthy of note is the landscape setting chosen for the (presumably) original western monument, the restricted nature of the terrace not leaving sufficient space to complete the northern flank of the court ‘arm’ without quarrying away bedrock. This, curiously, was not undertaken.

Confusing, intriguing, down right barmy, even. What were the builders of Aghanalack ‘on’ when they erected this idiosyncratic monument? So full of human imperfections, and incidentally boasting superb, sweeping views south to Dooletter Lough and north-east to Boho, a visit here is infinitely rewarding precisely because of the all prevailing sense of ‘humanity’. It is a ball-up, true, but a gloriously uplifting one. Marvellous.

The morning ends in frustration – an occasional ‘occupational’ hazard for those who attempt to locate rural prehistoric monuments, particularly here in Ireland. The veritable maze of country lanes around Bunnyconnellan may keep the Carrowcrom wedge tomb from my reverential gaze, but the fine countryside at the south western end of the Ox Mountains affords some compensation. Perhaps I may be able to find the apparently excellent Rathlackan court tomb, then? As Harry Hill says, ‘there’s only one way to find out!‘

Heading for Killala – the town incidentally possessing a most excellent example of those pencil-thin Irish round towers – we stop off for lunch at Lackan Strand. It was here, at this fine beach, that the (apparently) not overly competent General Humbert landed to provide French, er, ‘support’ for The United Irishmen’s doomed rebellion of 1798. But, hey, that was only yesterday. What of the court tomb which has presided over this landscape for millennia? To be honest it is easilly found... luckily, he says... head for the Lackan United playing fields (are they any good?), park up a little way beyond and take a rough track towards the coast; the monument does its best to remain incognito to the left a little way down. Yeah, barely rising above the surrounding bog, perhaps this explains why it is in such a superb state of preservation....one of the finest I’ve seen to date, in fact. Out of sight is out of mind?

Rathlackan will never win any prizes for self promotion in today’s world of ‘package experiences’ and holidays under geodesic domes – no doubt quite the opposite to what its architects envisaged. But it could very well do so for quality of archeaology. Set within (what I believe to be) a modern, walled enclosure, a virtually intact court gives access to a gallery subdivided into three, linear chambers, each defined by large, protruding jamb stones. Courses of original drystone can still be discerned resting on top of the chamber orthostats, the capstones, moved to one side, allowing wild flowers to flourish where once there was darkness. The interior is waterlogged, as you might expect; nevertheless the surviving cairn material provides an excellent perch to enjoy the sweeping coastal views – albeit somewhat curtailed by forestry in places.

In short, Rathlackan is a seriously good, no, great court tomb. Don’t hold this portion of Mayo. This sleeping beauty deserves your attention. Just don’t talk too loudly...... although an occasional ‘Lackan United!’ may well float on the breeze.

The fine, partially restored court tomb of Cloghanmore is a fitting companion site to the nearby half dozen assemblage of portal tombs at Malin More. The monument lies beside the moorland road to Lough Auva in the shadow – or at least that would be the case if the sun was out – of the large 427m hill of Leahan. Seems everything is substantially constructed in these parts, whether by the unerring forces of nature honed over countless millennia, or by the comparatively recent hand of humankind.

Cloghanmore is a case in point, a major tomb in every respect, not least with regards its size. Approached from the aforementioned moorland road, however, the initial portents of a visit are perhaps not the best.... a small car park, not far from the tourist woollen mill, gives access to a bridge across a small stream, whereby a concrete path leads across boggy ground towards the site. Ah, one for the half interested tourist then? Well yes and no... for although access is straightforward, the monument itself is – judging by conditions underfoot – liable to flood somewhat and lacks the towering profile of a portal tomb to excite the more limited imagination, shall we say? Hence the couple of visitors who do join us do not linger past the few obligatory snaps for the ‘folks back home’. More fool them, since what Cloghanmore lacks in profile it more than compensates for in sheer extent of court area and interesting architectural detail.

The court itself is almost completely enclosed by boldly projecting ‘arms’, the latter just failing to meet and thus allowing access at that point. Furthermore, small subsiduary chambers (with capstone) are located within the drystone masonry – a feature I have not seen before. The two main burial chambers – or galleries – are located to the west and are of more standard construction. One still retains a capstone, a fine place to sit and contemplate the original role of several enigmatic stones located within the court itself.

Yeah, it has been an enlightening day. Whatever reconstruction has been undertaken at Cloughanmore was clearly performed by similarly enlightened people in a tasteful, unobtrusive manner, thus leaving the aura at this great, slumbering, beguiling tomb intact. Not to mention ensuring the traveller is able to grasp just what a major Irish court tomb should look like. Do not be put off by the apparent ‘show site’ vibe. There is much more to this site than that.

West of Killybegs – apparently Ireland’s ‘premier fishing port’, no less – lies a wild, sparsely populated area known as the Slieve League Peninsular... named after a mountain range possessing (arguably) the highest sea cliffs in all Europe. Although there are few settlements of any size to visit today, the proliferation of megalithic tombs to be found in the locality would strongly suggest that, relatively speaking, this was certainly no prehistoric ‘backwater’. Oh no.

Like a child before the sweetie counter, palms sweating through tightly grasped coins, it’s difficult to know where to start. The fantastic ‘two for the price of one’ tombs of Croaghbeg and Shalwy get the initial verdict on a split points decision. A difficult act to follow, it has to be said. Nevertheless we continue along the R263 towards the road’s near terminus at Malin More, a small cluster of houses set below the western extremity of the aforementioned Slieve League. Although the coastal scenery is exquisite, Malin More is unpretentious almost to the point of submission. No doubt the inhabitants have no wish to engender the wrath of the winter storms through ostentatious display? So it come as a major surprise to find that this little settlement could well be the case study to prove the maxim ‘appearances can be deceptive’. Aye, ‘tis true.... standing in an east-west alignment beside a minor farm road stand (at least) six – count ‘em – portal tombs!

Granted, none of the half dozen monuments is a classic specimen of the type in itself, each sadly having suffered structurally – to a greater or lesser extent – across the millenia. But there are SIX of them! Something I’ve never encountered before.... and probably will never again. Are there any other comparable groups? Dunno. The best preserved – and thus showpiece – tomb of Malin More’s collection is a gigantic edifice of the ‘two-tiered, double capstone’ type, a design perhaps best exemplified at Knockeen, Co. Waterford. Although the main chamber’s massive capstone now rests upon the turf – having slipped from its supporting orthostats some time in antiquity – the secondary example remains in situ, a beautiful slab of shining quartzite. Nice. A little Irish frog, clearly with no qualms concerning the tombs current stability, nevertheless makes a leap for freedom as we enter. Wisely, I think. You know what these clumsy English tourists are like?

So what of the other portal tombs, then? Well, that nearest the farm house is also in pretty good nick... although taking a full on picture of someone’s home didn’t seem right... at the time. Wish I had now, but there you are. The others have fared less well, but can nonetheless still be traced and appreciated within the farmer’s fields. And... well, two out of six ‘aint bad... to paraphrase Mr Meat Loaf himself. Can’t argue with that as we prepare to leave Malin More to revel once again in its obscurity. Especially since the fine court tomb of Cloghanmore lies close at hand....

Another overcast morning as we leave our Downpatrick B&B under the watchful gaze of himself – well, at least a statue of St Pat, anyway – on the hill opposite... and head for Belfast. Ah, Belfast. As an Englishman, brought up with lurid BBC news reports of sectarian violence and Stiff Little Fingers’ searing tales of youthful repression from all sides, I’m not surprisingly brimming with preconceptions about the place. And not a little nervous, too. But when there just happens to be a veritable ‘super henge’ located at the southern city limits, a stonehead’s gotta do what a stonehead’s gotta do.

Sited above the River Lagan between Carryduff and Dunmurry, the surroundings are surprisingly rural, despite high rise buildings looming through the trees not more than half a mile distant? The henge is so large that the impression is of arriving at a hillfort, the mis-conception heightened by numerous locals arriving to ‘walk the dog’... a universally popular activity at hillforts, it has to be said. Ascend the earthworks, however, and this is clearly no hillfort. Especially with the rather fine remaining chamber of a former passage grave set at the centre. Albeit a passage grave currently being utilised as a temporary (one hopes?) dwelling by two Buckfast swilling loons, in accordance with what would seem to be local tradition here? Yeah, by all accounts people have a different ‘take’ on life and their relationship with others in these parts? Perhaps this is inevitable in light of the well documented history of social unrest and outsiders are not really informed enough to comment. Anyway – luckily – they keep their ‘curtains’ drawn, enabling me to have a good look around the upstanding chamber before undertaking several circuits of the massive henge bank.

And it is the henge which is the star of the show here. Apparently it measures almost 660ft in diameter, with an average bank height of 15ft. Amazing stuff. The distinctive profile of Cave Hill rises to the north-west of the city, itself crowned by the remains of an Iron Age fort. Apparently this was the venue for the meeting leading to Wolfe Tone’s rebellion of 1795 – the not altogether ‘successful’ one, that is. Yeah, there’s clearly a lot more to Belfast than an outsider might first think.

You know... the more hillforts I visit, the more I’m convinced that there is a far greater symbolic aspect to them than is usually attributed by the authors of guidebooks and academics. In short, I guess what I’m suggesting is that in not all cases was defence the primary, overriding concern of the inhabitants. Far from being simply ‘fortified villages’, I reckon they performed a serious spiritual function, too, perhaps recognising that ‘the spiritual world’ was as tangible to peoples’ everyday lives as the basic human necessities of water, food and shelter? Cow Castle is, I think, a case in point.

I decide not to take the longer, northern approach from Simonsbath – lazy sod – but walk from Horsen Farm at the terminus of a minor road leaving the Simonsbath/Braysford road at Blue Gate [incidentally also the route of The Two Moors Way]. I think it was the old time, cheesy entertainer Max Bygraves who’s catchphrase was ‘I want to tell you a story’. Well, the stream which flows roughly eastwards towards Great Ferny Ball says more or less the same thing... but with infinitely more style. Yeah, the traveller is compelled to literally ‘go with the flow’ towards what lies unseen ‘around the corner’. Upon meeting a ford I decide to take the higher approach via the aforementioned Great Ferny Ball, to be rewarded with a jaw dropping view of Cow Castle to the north... in its magical landscape setting, within a natural ampitheatre of encircling hills. Is ‘jaw dropping’ over-eulogizing, perhaps? To be honest, I don’t think so. A military engineer might disagree with Cow Castle’s placement, but not those with a permanent spot reserved within the psyche for wild, uncompromising, down right beautiful landscapes.

A sharp descent brings me back to the main track [stay on this if you prefer and so avoid the climb] and a wooden bridge across the River Barle, followed by another crossing its tributary, White Water. Here a steep ascent northwards brings the traveller to the summit of Cow Castle. Just how a cow is supposed to get up here is anyone’s guess? But there you are. Perhaps utilising rocket assisted cow take off, or something. The ramparts aren’t exactly the most formidable you’ll encounter, granted, but they are pretty well preserved, with entrances – original, I think – to south-east and north-east, the latter, it would appear, with additional outworks. So this was clearly a pretty defensible enclosure, well protected against surprise attack. And only your wannabe Beserker would attempt to storm it, surely? Not with flanks that steep. OK, our military engineer would no doubt cite the higher, surrounding hills as a weakness. Perhaps. But then again – even though we aren’t talking anything as extreme as, say The Chesters up near Edinburgh – I reckon the inhabitants just felt compelled to occupy this isolated hilltop, no matter what. Their home just HAD to be here, perhaps to gain some supernatural protection, perhaps in veneration of a long time spiritual site? In many ways the landscape says it all, the enclosure more or less surrounded by water courses, save a gap to the north.... a ‘meeting of the waters’, no less. There are possibly other clues, too, most notably that the enclosure ditch is traceable on the INSIDE of the ramparts at several points. That this apparent absurdity echoes henge structure may be coincidental, or it may not?

Many walkers pass by below my hilltop perch. None, however, take the effort to join me. Consequently the vibe remains intact. Yeah, there’s definately more to these hillforts than meets the eye.

Visited 21/8/2005: Here we have a fine Kentish long barrow set high above the Great Stour and small village of Chilham, the latter also possessing a rather interesting polygonal Norman keep, located beside a great house of some repute.

Near the junction of the A28/A252 a ‘dead-end’ road leads across a railway line to a wooded car park. Contrary to the fine forecast, a hint of August drizzle hangs in the air... the path leading across the aforementioned river, past a striking white timbered building, to an attractive weir, the fast flowing water enhanced by a veritable submerged forest of weed and such-like. The path swings to the left, after negotiating a second bridge near a house of attractive red brick, to ascend to the downs above... (ha! How excellent is the English language?) where the long barrow lies, unseen by the casual observer. Not to mention the interested one, too.

The monument is cloaked in summer vegetation and foliage, natural camouflage of the highest order which takes me for a ‘monumental’ sucker. Yeah, I walk straight past, to finally cotton on courtesy of a retrospective glance by the edge of a freshly harvested field... so there you are, you beauty. This long barrow is no ploughed-out vestige of its former self either, measuring a substantial 6ft-odd high by 144ft long beneath the greenery. I reckon it would have been clearly visible from the river down below in days gone by; however, it now backs up against an area of woodland which has possibly served to protect the remaining fabric. Out of sight is out of mind, so to speak.

Upon finally locating a bramble-free spot to sit and contemplate the surroundings, the paradoxical nature of the site is all too evident. Common place sounds of urban life – traffic noise, the very-close-to-annoying peel of church bells etc – may be clearly audible, yet all I can see are rolling agricultural fields sweeping into the distance. The two do not converge in any meaningful way, leading to a somewhat surreal experience, if the truth be told. Occasionally it is apparent that – sometimes, anyway – places don’t change that much, do they? Julliberrie’s Grave keeps on keeping on. Regardless.

Revisit – 27/1/2024: some 18 years later, I’m back. Older (certainly).. wiser (in some respects, perhaps?)... but with no loss of appetite for these enigmatic places. Unfortunately, the expected ‘wooded car park’ is no more, the visitor being met with ‘No Unauthorised Cars blahblahblah’ signs. Nonetheless, it is still possible to leave one car beside the waterworks building, which I duly do. Failing that, park in nearby Chilham and walk back across the level crossing. Preferably during the seemingly not very frequent intervals when trains are not trundling past. Careful now.

As before, I follow the public footpath across the weir to ascend to Julliberrie’s Downs, the great Neolithic mound slumbering away more-or-less immediately above the red-brick house. Despite it being the depths of winter, the monument is SERIOUSLY overgrown with brambles and not at all obvious. Nevertheless, I’m able to eventually make my way along the crest – albeit with much difficulty, not to mention a scrape of sorts – and reminisce upon times gone by perched upon the truncated northern end...

Several hours later, I’m greeted by a local walking his dog who assumes (the gentleman, not the dog, that is) I’m here to photograph kingfishers on the Great Stour. Damned good idea, to be fair, but not quite – and no such luck today. However, he’s aware there’s a long barrow ‘up there’, no doubt since his daughter happens to be an archaeologist. Trouble is, he explains, it’s not at all easy to identify... even when you’re right on top of it. Ha! Tell me about it.

The two Low Longrigg stone circles are in the worst ‘nick’ of the five upon Burnmoor. In many respects, however, this is of little consequence... for as IronMan says, the view to be had here really IS everything. Particularly when looking south-east across the plateau to the other monuments, mist swirling all around to add that essential ‘edge’. To remind the viewer that this is not make believe... oh no, it is cold, wet and.... hell... a joy to be alive and experience something so wild, uncompromising and... real. Yeah, suddenly everything appears to make sense. Or at least as much sense as this ‘hobby’ ever will do, I guess?

Both ‘circles enclose cairns, the north-eastern site possessing a pair, the other ‘circle one. According to Burl – who should know since he excavated one in 1947 – a further grouping of cairns to the south-east are Bronze Age clearance cairns. Seems quite a lot was going on upon this now deserted moor millennia ago.

Today, however, all is (mostly) quiet, the atmosphere overwhelming, the only sounds that of the wind and the skylark. Come to think of it, the latter is a pretty noisy little sod – very close to irritating, in fact – but since he lives here... and I don’t.... his exuberance is not an issue. Sure, I’ve no compulsion to blast him out of the sky, unlike some ‘educated’ morons I might mention. I stay for several hours, simply looking and taking it all in, until the mist descends to finally envelope the plateau once again in mystery....

Back at the car in Boot I find 8 hours have elapsed since parking up this morning. Well, there you are. Despite being so ethereal and silent, Burnmoor clearly has quite a bit to say to those who may wish to listen. If you get what I mean?

Set a little to the north-west of the wonderful Brat’s Hill stone circle enclosing its myriad cairns, the paired stone circles upon White Moss would need to be very special indeed to sustain the drama – I think that’s the correct word – and maintain the feeling of evocative abandon experienced by this wide-eyed traveller up here upon this wild moor. Fortunately, they are.... Oh yes! With bells on. In fact I have to admit these two are arguably my finest monuments in Lakeland for sheer atmospheric vibe, affecting me no end. In fact you could say to the nth degree. No, really. Although I was never any good at algebra or trigonometry at school, Thom might well have approved of the analogy. Perhaps, perhaps not.

That other great stone circle luminary, Aubrey Burl, cites the circles as being ‘ruinous’. Maybe, but when you’re used to tiny Welsh upland ‘circles as I am, these are nothing less than ‘substantial’ in comparison. Mist swirls evocatively – evocatively as long as it doesn’t head this way, that is – across and around the long summit crest of Illgill Head to the north, the far flank of which plunges precipitously, albeit unseen, to the depths of Wast Water. To the north-east Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain, is itself cloaked in a mantle of grey vapour. So what’s new? Well, viewing it from inside an enigmatic stone circle, for starters. I swear if you was to look up ‘evocative’, or, say, ‘ethereal’ in the Oxford English Dictionary there would be an image of White Moss. Ok, ok, there isn’t. But there bloody well should be.

Both circles have ‘just’ the single cairn, placed centrally. It is more than enough, but Burnmoor doesn’t let the visitor off the emotional hook that easily. No, look further to the north-east and two more stone circles are visible upon Low Longrigg. Go on. You know you must. You have no choice in the matter.

themodernantiquarian.com/post/93174/fieldnotes/low_longrigg.html

It’s difficult for me to relate a visit to the five – count ‘em – stone circles located upon this remote Cumbrian moorland plateau without descending into trite cliche. You know the sort of thing.... evoking Wagner’s Tannhauser or something similar? But then again, just how do you adequately describe something so intangible – and yet, paradoxically, so real – that the medium of language, perhaps even in the peerless hands of a Shakespeare, cannot hope to convey? I guess there are just too many mutually dependant factors involved in forming the ‘moment’, complexities maybe a whisky blender or perfumer may be equipped to handle. But not I......

A heavily overcast dawn at Chapel Stile, Great Langdale precedes a never-less-than... er.... ‘interesting’ drive over the Wrynose and Hardknott Passes, the descent into Eskdale, past the Roman fortress of Mediobogdvm, not for the faint hearted. Or those with dodgy brakes. Probably safe to say that this Imperial outpost was not the most favoured of postings for your wannabe Roman citizen? But, hey, that was only yesterday. Well, two millennia ago... but I’ve even older ‘things’ on my mind.

Upon arrival at the tiny village of Boot, the label ‘chocolate box’ is so apt it has me reaching for a certain confectionary item lying temptingly upon the front seat. Go on, you know you want me. To be fair, despite the tourist tearooms, the charm isn’t altogether illusory here, the cascading Whillan Beck crossed by a fine stone bridge. Beyond this, a wooden gate gives access to a VERY steep bridleway ascending the fell to the right, along what appears to be a dry stream bed. Probably rains a lot, then. Ha! The angle begins to ease as I approach some old stone buildings and emerge onto the moorland plateau beyond.

The first monument to emerge from the gloom is the Brat’s Hill stone circle. Although somewhat – hell, marvellously – dishevelled, this is a gem and well worth the climb in itself in my opinion. The largest monument upon the moor and overlooked by a prominent rocky outcrop, Brat’s Hill is particularly notable for the five kerbed cairns which occupy its interior, four clustered to the west and one standing isolated, aloof from the others, in the eastern sector. According to Burl – yes, himself – these cairns were excavated in 1827, the eastern cairn’s kerb – now gone but like the others then comprised of fourteen orthostats – being described as a ‘parallelogram of stones similar to that in the Keswick circle’... in other words, that’ll be the enigmatic, still surviving ‘enclosure’ within Castlerigg, then.

So that’s what the Castlerigg feature was/is. The kerb of a burial cairn. Or was it? Bearing in mind Thom thought the two circles very similar in design, I think I’d go with that, all things considered.... Yeah, suffice to say Brat’s Hill sets the mind in flux, never a bad thing, I find. The weather’s on the move, too, so I take a compass bearing and head towards the next of Burnmoor’s linear treasures visible to the north-west.... the paired White Moss stone circles.

themodernantiquarian.com/post/93173/fieldnotes/white_moss.html

The A4061 is still blocked by snow beyond Nant-y-moel this Bank Holiday Monday; consequently the Mam C and I head westwards in a bid to reach Y Mynydd Du, or thereabouts. Unfortunately time is limited by a late start, so I make a snap decision to park-up at Craig-y-nos [Cliff of Night] and (try to) visit the fine stone row which stands, unseen, above and to the west of the mock medieval edifice, once the home of Victorian diva singer Adelina Patti. The acknowledgement of a  farmer – imagine a hybrid cross of Beethoven in his 50’s and an elderly W.E. Gladstone driving a dumper truck – serves to fortify willpower flagging at the sight of so much bloody snow! Yeah, the last time we were here, some years back now, it was August and pushing 90 degrees. Bit different today, then.

The route uphill to the row is not that clear, the most obvious public footpath sign – opposite the old mansion – directing the visitor through an area of equine enclosures which may be a little off-putting when filled with the beautiful, unpredictable beasties. In retrospect, however, I guess this is the favoured route if you wish to avoid knocking on farm doors. Needless to say we take the path further to the north and swing round through Nantygwared farm, the farmer kindly allowing us passage through his farmyard, before beginning the relatively short, yet steep ascent to Saith Maen. The going is far from easy due to deep, drifting snow, the Mam C actually completely disappearing within the mantle on one occassion. Ha! Well she does love it so, I suppose. Cribarth dominates the valley to our left, the form and texture of its steep crags accentuated by the conditions. Veering to the right, away from the Nant y Gwared (stream), we pass a small shake hole on our left... and there it is.... a classic stone row set in surely some of the most brutal, yet beguiling winter conditions a seeker of such treasures could wish for? It’s seriously cold, though, the frozen waterfall petrified upon a crag to the approx north-west speaking volumes through its inactivity.

Of the stone row’s seven othostats the two largest have (predictably, I guess) fallen. The remaining stones – including the lead – are nonetheless pretty substantial..... The alignment leads the eye beyond the confluence of the nascent Afon Tawe and Nant Tywymi to Bwlch Bryn-rhudd, the mountain pass carrying the A4067 between Bronze Age funerary cairn crowned Waun Leuci and Fan Gyhirych, the latter engulfed by a mass of freezing fog. There are further such monuments set upon Cribarth, the peak towering above to the south. Yeah, it is a fine site, especially so bearing in mind the paucity of substantial stone rows to be found in Wales.

But there’s more. The usual sedimentary ‘red’ sandstone – which comprises most of the high South Walian uplands – gives way to limestone here, the peculiar water solubility of which makes it liable to feature cave systems like the nearby Dan-yr-Ogof showcaves... and – more to the point – circular depressions known as ‘shake holes’. There is a truly massive – nay, awesome – example of the latter immediately to the north of Saith Maen. View the monument from the far arc of this shake hole and I think you’ll agree the placement of the row is no accident. Can’t be, surely? In fact I’d go as far as to say this shake hole should arguably be regarded in the same context as the natural gorsedds at, say, Bryn Celli Ddu and Capel Garmon... that is as an integral component of the monument. [I have a couple of further images exploring this association should it be of interest to anyone].

Before we leave this barren hilltop we simply have to visit the aforementioned frozen waterfall... wonderful, but the difficulty crossing the deep snow means we return to the car nearing dark. The Mam C still adores her snow. My head, however, is filled by that shake hole. My old teachers would say that probably explains a lot.

Boxing Day morning dawns with a heavily overcast sky... in stark contrast to yesterday’s pristine, cloudless blue. Typical. No snow, though, a state of affairs which, despite the Mam C’s assertions to the contrary, I’m pretty happy with, to tell you the truth. So, leaving the Mam to look after little Evelyn – wild horses wouldn’t drag her away, not even her favourite, incomparable Welsh cobs – I head towards Nant-y-moel and the round barrow upon Werfa... only to find the A4061 blocked by snow. Bugger. What now? Help me Rhondda, to paraphrase the Beach Boys badly out of context. Although they do appear on just about every Christmas compilation I’ve heard, to be fair.

Tythegston pops into the head. Aye, that’ll do. Back towards Bridgend we go, then. However, upon arrival at the parking area mentioned in previous posts, I notice a brand new ‘private’ sign in situ upon the now chained gate. I therefore decide to check out the approach from the village itself, the map showing a public right of way across the intervening field of shimmering white. Right on! No problem parking, although I very nearly sprawl headfirst upon the icy road before the stone ‘stile’ across the wall. Almost, but not quite. I think the Russian judge gave a 4. Anyway, a couple of magnificently gaunt trees in winter raiment lead the eye towards the distant long cairn... the monument – as you would expect – profiled upon the skyline to the left of a prominent area of woodland [see image]. Further stiles allow access across a cross-track [the one now officially ‘private’], the right of way traversing the following field to the right of another iconic tree. At the far boundary the long cairn once again becomes visible, remnants of the usual covering of undergrowth all that escapes the overwise overwhelming mantle of snow.

There’s something about deep snow, isn’t there? To be honest I wouldn’t choose such conditions for a first visit to a complex site since, as with mountain landscapes, deep snow obscures form, camouflages detail.... I suppose you could say remakes a site in its own image? But there’s no denying it adds a special ‘something’ to the vibe. For me, Tythegston has two salient details..... firstly and not surprisingly, the large capstone which still surmounts the mounument, today bearing the tracks of an unknown creature (fox?) no doubt looking for a vantage point, in its covering of snow. And secondly, the view of the Mynydd Herbert round barrow, which is perfectly profiled upon the (approx) north-western skyline when seen from the capstone. Coincidence? Yeah, right.

This is a fairly upstanding long cairn which Coflein describes as “A disturbed oval stony mound, 29m WSW-ENE by about 20m and 1.2m high, the capstone being the only visible structural feature; a number of loose small boulders along the northern side of the mound are thought to result from recent field clearance. Source: RCAHMW AP955221/59”. I’d concur with that.

In lieu of visible detail I consequently sit/lie upon the capstone, drink my coffee, open a chocolate orange upon said capstone [how many people can claim that?] and ponder..... and ponder. As you do at places such as this. Finally, following a somewhat confusing attempt to check out an ‘enclosure’ shown upon the 1:25K OS map within the nearby trees, I return to the car just before dark, having made an unholy mess of the previously virgin snow lying round about this Christmas time. Hell, someone’s gotta!

There are times, particularly during high summer, when this otherwise superb stretch of South Walian coastline can seem somewhat.... how can I put it?... ‘Gavin and Stacey-like’, I guess. What with the amusement arcades and rides of Porthcawl to the immediate west and local punters packing out the beaches of Ogmore-on-sea and Southerndown, it is best avoided. At other times, such as was the case upon Christmas Day 2010, it can be enchanting.

It’s difficult – if not impossible – to succinctly define what ensures a prehistoric site/location is ‘enchanting’ or ‘evocative’. There are many contributary factors, usually involving an complex interplay of physical remains and landscape setting, together with prevailing weather conditions, lighting etc. Merthyr Mawr Warren relies exclusively upon the latter since there is very little, if any – from my experience anyway – physical remains of prehistoric structures to be seen amongst the great sand dunes. However the lack of people and, primarily, the exquisite colours generated by the low mid winter sun contrasting with a white mantle of snow, make the Warren appear postively ‘otherwordly’ this Christmas afternoon. Forget the gaudy seasonal decorations, this is artistic embellishment of the highest possible calibre. Nature knows best, methinks. According to the GGAT website (see miscellaneous) humankind has occupied this landscape since, well, forever. This is – in the most literal sense – ‘The Sands of Time’ personified. On occasions like this the landscape itself is overwhelming, short circuiting the human psyche with the sheer contrast in light. The Exmoor coast looms beyond little Tusker Rock as clear as I’ve ever seen it... but all too soon we must leave to further participate in that ritual we call ‘Christmas’.........

Merthyr Mawr Warren is most easily accessed by following signs for Merthyr Mawr village from the A48, there being a parking area at the terminus of Merthyr Mawr Road, near Candleston Castle. A much better alternative – for those with time – is to park at the Norman fortress of Ogmore Castle and cross the Afon Ogwr, via some wonderful stepping stones, followed by suspension bridge to the chocolate box village of thatched cottages; hence follow the road to the left (west), past the church.

If you decide to visit keep your eyes peeled. Who knows? You may be perceptive enough – or lucky enough – to uncover the sand dunes’ more tangible secrets that have eluded me to date? If not, the intangible attributes should see you alright regardless...

Mynydd Pen-y-fal, aka the ‘Sugar Loaf’, is a mountain possessing a distinctive profile which seems to ingrain itself upon/within the consciousness of walkers of upland South Wales... in a similar manner to that of the much more substantial Pen-y-Fan and Corn Du to the west. Why this should be so, I don’t really know, but many has been the time the Mam C has excitedly pointed it out from the summit of much higher peaks. It’s shapely isolation rising to the north of Abergavenny beguils, maybe, or is there simply ‘something’ in the local memes, perhaps? As a result I had to bring the Mam here, sooner or later, if only to stop her bloody going on about it, although at pains to point out that it possessed no prehistoric cairns. That I knew of, that is. Shows how much I knew, then.....

By far the easiest approach is from Abergavenny itself, a busy gateway town, with remnants of a Norman fortress where William de Braose infamously murdered the local Welsh leaders in 1175. King John, in turn, sorted him out and the present day locals appear to hold no grudges to visitors .... although if they knew my mum’s maiden name was ‘Bray’ things might be different! Anyway, a minor road leaves the A40, just past the hospital on the right [heading west out of town], climbing steeply – and rather spectacularly, it has to be said – to a large parking area upon the southern flank of Mynydd Llanwenarth, this boasting superb views across the Usk to neighbouring Blorenge and its massive Bronze Age burial cairn. Hence, clear and obvious paths lead northwards towards the summit of the Sugar Loaf. This should be well within the scope of even occasional trekkers as long as right hand diversions down into Cwm Trosnant are avoided! A final, steep section brings the traveller to the top, crowned by a pristine white OS trig pillar. And most certainly no funerary cairn. Not up here anyway, although they grace many of the summits of The Black Mountains arrayed in splendid ranks to the north. Yeah, despite just failing to reach that ‘magic’ [in reality purely academic] 2,000ft mark, the Sugar Loaf is one hell of a viewpoint and well worth the effort of climbing purely for the perspective it provides of this corner of Wales, particularly bearing in mind the relatively modest effort involved reaching the top. Ysgyryd Fawr, that sacred-hill-cum-hillfort, is seen to great effect to the east with another hillfort, Crug Hywel, profiled to the north west.

Your average punter can return to the car from whence they came... or – in retrospect the essential route for any TMA-er – the more adventurous may follow the grassy ridge to the west. We choose the latter on a whim and, while passing a couple of cairns nearing the end of the ridge, the Mam C comments that these do indeed look very, er, ‘old’ to her. Upon checking the map, I reckon not and think that they must be ‘walkers’ cairns’ since this is such a popular peak (ha!). We consequently don’t linger, but swing southwards before descending sharply eastwards to pick up a track back to the car.

So ends a brilliant day, but one with an unexpected, if somewhat embarrassing, yet very welcome twist for the old stone hunter. Subsequent checking of Coflein records confirm that the Mam was indeed right. Sugar Loaf has its funerary cairns after all....

Strange one, this.... although Danbury Camp overlooks the ‘Sunday walking’ route I’ve undertaken for the best part of two decades – when not otherwise engaged somewhere else in these Isles, of course – I’ve only actually visited the site upon a couple of occasions.

I guess the most obvious reason for this is the paucity of visible prehistoric remains. Or at least of the kind that didn’t need digging up by your friendly local archeaologist. There are no impressive, free standing ramparts left to walk around, or sit upon looking south-westwards towards Hanningfield Reservoir... just a few, barely identifiable remnants of tree-cloaked earthwork running from north-west to south-west backing onto residents’ gardens... I think. Hey, even the information panel by the church entrance has rotted away to oblivion. However this is not to say that this former Iron Age enclosure is empty. Oh no. Far from it. The 13th Century church of St. John the Baptist is the most obvious Johnny-come-lately (ha!) with attendant graveyard and garden allotments providing a rather peculiar juxtaposition of ‘life and death’, if the truth be told. A water tank/tower and, last and definately least, a large antennae add to the general confusion.

Today only a few locals taking shortcuts break the silence and disturb the pristine white blanket of snow.... seeing as the expected multitude of children sledging down the hillside are simply nowhere to be seen. What is it with kids nowadays? Yeah, in conditions such as this the old hillfort still retains echoes of its ancient past, if somewhat uncomfortably in the literal shadow of such an impressive Christian edifice.

I retrace my steps back down to road by The Cricketer’s Arms and continue on my way – without pausing to sample anything, you understand. The landscape can look no better than it does today under this brilliant winter sun slowly sinking to the horizon, trees a firey combination of orange and red, the fields a mantle of glistening white. As I cut through Danbury Lakes on the way back to the car, the sun’s rays reflecting off the frozen water and silhouetting a moorhen standing somewhat confused mid-lake, I’m suddenly chuffed to bits that Danbury Camp is still clinging to existance upon the overlooking hill. The nearby ‘palace’ may be a conference centre now, but somehow the ancient hillfort adds a sense of substantiality to being here. Funny, isn’t it?

To be honest I wasn’t expecting much from Caer Caradog, not having swotted up beforehand, or anything. So it comes as a pleasant surprise when, having taken the very obscure right hand turn from the B5105 east of Cerrigydrudion – yes, that one of Cope fame – I park at the entrance to Pen-y-Gaer farm to see somewhat impressive earthworks enclosing the hilltop to the north. Needless to say the mist and low cloud, which had earlier put paid to any thoughts of high level outings on the way back to Essex, serves to add a quite literal cloak of mystery to the site. Never a bad thing, I find. Unless you’re climbing a mountain, in which case it is. Very much so.

Anyway... a public footpath heads north to pass the enclosure a little to the east... however seeing the gate unlocked, I decide upon a direct approach. In retrospect the footpath’s probably the better bet as I end up having to step over some unseen barbed wire cunningly protecting a gap in the dry stone wall. Ha! That’ll get the tourists.... not that any tourist is likely to come here in a million years, I’d have thought?

It is immediately apparent that my first impressions were correct (for once) – the ramparts, particularly towards the east, are quite substantial, albeit patrolled by sheep in lieu of ancient warriors. Sheep who abandon their posts and flee as soon as I approach. Not very good substitutes, then. It would also seem that they are destructive little blighters, too, judging by notable damage to the fabric of the banks... however this does provide the opportunity to see, in cross section, how the defences were actually constructed. Walking the enceinte, two gaunt trees add their haunting profiles to the site, already very evocative because of the swirling mist. However this gradually dissipates to reveal a fine vista in all directions, in particular across Cerrigydrudion to the Central Snowdonian mountains, the latter still swathed in opaque vapour. Yeah, Caer Caradog is well sited, no doubt about that and pretty difficult to assault in its day, I reckon. As long as it wasn’t defended by sheep.

An appropriate way to end a fine week in North Wales. Although, like Postie, I do leave thinking “what the hell is that big boulder in the eastern ditch there for?” Any ideas? A slingshot ‘slung’ by one of those giants the Welsh are so fond of? Now I think we’re getting into the realms of fantasy here, Jones......

Tyrrau Mawr, presenting an almost unfeasibly beautiful facade (Craig Las) to visitors to the Llynnau Cregennen situated above Arthog, stands towards the western end of the great mountain ridge that is Cadair Idris. Reaching 2,168ft, it is significantly lower than Pen-y-Gadair, Cadair Idris’s summit peak at 2,928ft; nevertheless it is arguably a better all round viewpoint – strange as that may sound – and very possibly one of the finest in all Wales, in my humble opinion.

There’s something else, too. Something which has haunted me (in a ‘nice’ way, you understand) for the past couple of years. Yeah, something in the form of several large, Bronze Age funerary cairns set upon Carnedd Lwyd, a rocky outcrop well placed upon Tyrrau Mawr’s eastern shoulder. Dismissed as ‘quarrying’ during my last visit way back in 1994 – in my defence the cairns aren’t all that obvious from the ridge to the north (!!) – a return visit was therefore long overdue. Having said that, you can’t just ‘book’ an appointment to see high mountain sites as you would others, a fact made only too clear by an obscuring mantle of cloud which greets my arrival at Ty Nant today.... I make a judgement call and decide it will (hopefully!) peel away in an hour or so and consequently set off up the Pony Path towards Rhiw Gwredydd [there is an expensive official ‘pay and display’ carpark here, or some very limited roadside parking options if you’re early enough. I am]. The early stages of the walk feature some excellent, cascading streams beneath foliage, well worth the trip in itself, to be honest. However as I gain height the landscape becomes much more open, more brutal... hell, even desolate. Cyfrwy and the main summits of Cadair Idris tower above to my left, my ‘holy grail’ crowning the ridge crest to my right, with the hillfort of Pared-y-cefn-hir far right. I leave a group of young climbers at the bwlch (pass) with a few words of encouragement for their summit attempt – right on, lads – veering right myself to follow the remnants of a dry stone wall towards Tyrrau Mawr’s top at a much more modest altitude.

Although the cairns stand before and below the summit, I can’t recommend an extension to the crest of Craig Las highly enough. Really, I can’t... if only for excellent views of a number of other prehistoric monuments in the locality... the aforementioned Pared-y-cefn-hir; the two Hafotty-fach cairns below to the west; Craig-y-Llyn and its funerary cairn; the Arthog stones, with the site of Cerrig Arthur across the exquisite Afon Mawddach; The Tarrens to the south; Arans to the east.... and last but not least, the exceptional view of Carnedd Lwyd itself set below the summit peaks of Cadair Idris, surely one of the finest of any prehistoric site in Wales? But then I’m clearly smitten by what’s on offer here. And biased. Hey, check it out for yourself.

Anyway, where was I? Ahh, yes. Carnedd Lwyd. Approaching from Craig Las, following a sudden, violent hammering by a fast moving weather front, with returning cloud engulfing all – which, I have to admit, catches me napping – I ascend the crags to find the two northern-most cairns are far more substantial than appeared to be the case from above. The eastern – although somewhat ‘hollowed out’ – is a fine monument, completely dominated by the bulk of the rise to Cyfrwy and Pen-y-Gadair, mist still swirling around the summit peak. There seems (to my eyes) to be a definite correlation between mountain summit and cairn, the latter in awe of the former and sited in an appropriately subservient manner. The western of the pair is better preservered and supports a wooden pole which... er... accidentally falls down when I touch it. Strange, that. To the south, a wire fence stands before another small crag with – I think – two more, smaller cairns in situ. I check my watch. I’m already at the optimum departing time for a safe descent. But this place is so evocative I decide to push my luck and take it to the wire. Yeah, the relationship between cairns and mountainside is truly compelling. In short, I think I ‘get it’, understand for once. Hell, it was worth the sixteen year wait. Eventually I simply have to leave, or else see whether the legend of either becoming a poet or madman by spending a night upon Cadair Idris is just legend. Despite another weather front I make the car before dark. Just.

Following a somewhat illuminating time – in the metaphysical sense, you understand – at the Nant-y-Llys and Pen-y-Gwryd cairns, Bryn-y-Castell hillfort beckons... well, there are several hours to spare before darkness... and it’s been on the ‘list’ for a long time now. Too long, in fact, despite a very dodgy evening weather forecast. Unlike Postman, I approach via Betws-y-coed and the Machno Valley, the drive up Cwm Hafodyredwydd (take care) and across the brutal Migneint a perennial favourite shortcut, what with the funerary cairn-topped Arenigs crowning the south-eastern horizon... a real sense of ‘I don’t know what’ pervading through the open car window. Joining the B4391 to Ffestiniog, a short, if exceptionally vertiginious drive above Cwm Cynfal (nice waterfall, by the way... but stop before you look!!) leads past a car park to a minor road on the left. Wishing to approach on foot, I park upon the verge just before this and take the public footpath (signposted) across the road.

Passing through a gate, a track leads towards a copse of trees and walled courtyard, beyond which a craggy hill rises. I climb this for a great initial view of the hillfort I’ve come to see to the north-east... and my first indication that the forecast of ‘deteriorating conditions’ was no fallacy. In a short while I attain the ramparts of a nicely compact little fortress, the walls – except where apparently somewhat reconstructed – little more that footings, but the siting is such that this is of small consequence. Yeah, the attuned psyche can easilly add the missing pieces of the jigsaw in a place such as this and visualise what once stood here. Not just gaunt, drystone walls, but the human element which built and occupied them, too. What a place to live on one of those glorious Snowdonian days when the light is the match of any Shakespearian sonnet, what with Manod Mawr presenting an exquisite facade to the north, and Moelwyns Mawr and Bach offsetting a glorious coastal view to the approx south-west!

But on a day like today.... with sudden weather fronts sweeping in from the aforementioned coast to literally blow me off my feet? Thoughts turn to how hardy the inhabitants must really have been and how humble I feel (trying to stand) here against the onslaught. Eventually it is too much, even properly equipped for such conditions, and I seek the lee of the north-eastern walls to ponder awhile. Perhaps it is at times like this when the door of the past can be coaxed ajar... if only a little. Dunno.... are there distant, repressed folk memories which are released only in such situations? Perhaps, perhaps not. Whatever the truth, I cannot leave until darkness leaves me no choice.