GLADMAN

themodernantiquarian.com/site/9679#post-174565

Arriving from the sublime ‘Heap of Sinners’, that monumental stone pile gracing Huntington Warren across the valley to the west, the traveller is required to experience rapid height loss, followed by immediate – and just as accelerated – gain... as if those immeasurable natural forces of yore had simply taken an axe to the interim landscape upon the shrill exclamation of the cosmic factory whistle at clocking-out time, perhaps? Whatever, I find the going ‘difficult’ for such modest hills, particularly since, owing to the steep topography, the summit of Pupers Hill recedes from view until one is almost upon it. The rocky tor outcrop of ‘Outer Pupers’ appears to my left but, since obviously not at the highest point, I do not deviate until finally... there it is.

Ah...right.. ermm. I cannot suppress a sense of anti-climax, a pang of (relative) disappointment. Since, far from encountering the gargantuan twin of ‘Heap of Sinners’ supposedly viewed from the latter earlier in the day, the monument surmounting Pupers Hill is a far different affair. Thankfully, however, the disillusionment is but temporary, the result of my ignorance rather than any lack of intrinsic worth pervading what can be found upon this windswept hilltop. I set about educating myself, soon discovering that, far from consisting of a possibly modern marker cairn upon the summit rock formations, what we have here is the remains of a large ‘tor cairn’, arguably that most enigmatic of Dartmoor’s ancient monuments: the veneration of the very living rock itself by the act of its incorporation within the ritualistic plan?

As I go ‘walkabout’, the tell-tale signs manifest themselves in due course: traces of what would appear to be formerly loose stone long since subsumed within an earthy mantle filling in the gaps between crags; cairn material visible elsewhere upon the periphery, likewise just under the surface. Yeah, clearly a traveller must ‘tune in’ to the vibe here – tweaking the antiquarian ‘antennae’ to obtain a robust signal, in contrast to being fully immersed in that generated by the overpoweringly intense spectacle experienced early doors today. And what a fine vibe it is, naturally not dis-similar to that to be enjoyed in the company of the ‘sinners’ to the west, albeit subject to subtle differences in timbre, in topographical outlook. There is, of course, a unique aspect of this summit, one alluded to by the name accorded it by our former perplexed puritans. As I understand it ‘Pupers’ is a linguistic mutation/variation of ‘Pipers’, the eponymous musicians... you can see where this is going... said in local lore (of indeterminate age and providence) to have been turned to stone for dancing upon the sabbath. Sure enough, two admittedly rather ‘truncated’ orthostats still stand in situ upon the south-western arc. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a proper TMA welcome to.. ‘The Height Challenged Pipers of Pupers Hill’! Or rather ‘Piper’s Hill’?

Two points (more come to mind, but these will do for now) strike me as pertinent here: assuming our ‘men of the cloth’ wished to cow the illiterate peasant into submission, best not pick upon musicians, eh?... yeah, as any artist from Elvis, through Jim Morrison to the Frankie scallies could have made clear, the bad boy has a certain ‘allure’ that endures; secondly, the very inference that our heroes had to climb this hilltop in order to have some fun – so, by definition knew the consequences of what they were doing – has inherent within it the seeds of the eventual downfall of such an intolerant ruling class. A precedent for resistance. Consider: it is the ‘sinners’ who are immortalised upon this hilltop... not the long-forgotten priests. The human spirit has always and shall always prevail until we shuffle off this mortal coil, so take heed ye suicide bombing lunatics. You cannot win. Once music – leading to the joyous rebellious expression of rock ‘n’ roll – was thus let out of Pandora’s Box, there is always hope.

Of course, it’s not just the religious fundamentalist that is, in my opinion, the scourge of humankind... but any dogmatic, myopic bigot: the redneck storming Capitol Hill upon the (apparent) urging of a ludicrously coiffured madman in the name of ‘democracy’; the far-left ‘comrade’, somehow unaware of the Ribbentrop/Molotov Pact and oblivious to the brutal Soviet suppression of Dubcek’s ‘68, let alone that people were prepared to die to cross that accursed former Berlin Wall; the far-right inadequate railing against immigrants ‘taking’ jobs he/she could no more imagine than fulfil; the racist community leader/rapper making a very ‘good’ living espousing division, not integration. Yeah, it would appear there is no limit to self-delusion in the face of contrary evidence. Indeed, perhaps the greatest self-delusion is to believe oneself to be untainted by self-delusion? A-ha! Alan Partridge writ-large. Needless to say, I do not absolve myself from this, finding the opportunity to clear one’s head, to put things in perspective by seeking out enigmatic open-air locations – such as sojourns upon Pupers Hill and Huntington Warren – to be cathartic to essential self-criticism.

You know, over the years I’ve sometimes wondered if, upon screaming that punk maxim “Question everything you’re told!” into the microphone in ‘79, SLF’s Jake Burns considered what – if any – future impact his actions might have? OK, The Clash and Pistols may have made a joyous noise, but their cartoon ‘politics’ were straight out of a Ladybird book. SLF, for me, were different, the stance arguably the Belfast youth’s equivalent of that heroic lone figure facing down the infamous line of Communist tanks in Tiananmen Square? It was subsequently gratifying, when knocking upon a farmhouse door in County Tyrone during 2006, to be directed to a (fabulous) stone circle by a young man who held the entrenched religious sectarian positions of both Irish Nationalist and Unionist in utter contempt, citing the need for new thinking. Perhaps it was the ‘ancient vibes’, perhaps not? Nevertheless, more green shoots...

As I sit and gaze out across the wild, windswept expanse of western Dartmoor I contemplate a visit to nearby Snowdon. Mmm, more cairns. Another tick in the box, perhaps? However, the ‘magnetic attraction’ of Pupers Hill is overriding, too intense to break until the fading light makes leaving an imperative. Suddenly a lone woman appears to break the spell, clad in what would appear ‘jogging gear’. It transpires she is armed with one of those little OS guide books – but no map, no compass, no jacket... and is completely lost, contemplating walking further into the hinterland early evening. You what?!? Directing her on her way from a distance – damn you COVID-19! – I’m simultaneously aghast at her apparent self disregard, yet slightly in awe of her – admittedly reckless – spirit of adventure. As it happens, I reckon the ‘pipers’ would’ve approved. Ha, maybe they do, looking on from some as yet unidentified ‘further dimension(s)’. But that still wouldn’t make the priests right, would it? Far from it.

In conclusion, as I make my way back to the car, this ‘connection’ with the past, of whatever form and however obtained, seems to me an essential prerequisite enabling us to move forward as a species. To evolve. ‘Facts’ after all, are only any use with context applied to give them meaning. To me ‘blind faith’ signposts the dead-end road to nowhere. I’d therefore like to thank the ‘sinners’ and ‘pipers’ of legend for representing the irrepressibility of the human spirit. And, in a strange way, thank the religious bigots for making them anonymous beacons of hope, residing upon their hill and mountain tops, hidden in plain sight to engage the curious traveller. Hey, go and see them if you can, I urge you. As Christopher Hitchens noted: “If someone says I’m doing this out of faith, I say, Why don’t you do it out of conviction?”

Why not, indeed?

The weather forecast appearing reasonable enough for a foray upon the high moors... I scan the map – while munching the ubiquitous granola – seeking a reference to ‘Heap of Sinners’, this eventually to be found a few miles west of Buckfastleigh. The initial comic intonations are soon tempered by the realisation that those who named this massive Bronze Age funerary cairn, set high upon Huntington Warren were, far from having a laugh, in all probability po-faced dogmatists with deadly serious intent. OK, perhaps the choice of nomenclature was not overtly driven by malice – rather to save the souls of any ‘black sheep’ of the local flock tempted to revert to the heathen ‘old ways’ – but nonetheless, such a blatant allusion to the mass murder of ‘heretics’ by a vengeful god fair sends a shiver down my spine, so it does. Yeah, as Mark Twain (apparently) noted: “The so-called Christian nations are the most enlightened and progressive... but in spite of their religion, not because of it”. Whether the result of a perceived kinship with these metaphorical victims of past intolerance, or morbid curiosity, I realise I must indeed don the boots and go see for myself.

In my opinion, there’s something deeply unsettling about those willing to take dogma at face value. You know the sort: the ‘faithful’ who will brook no challenge to their chosen doctrine; those who refuse to even contemplate that there might be (at least) two sides to every story; those who simply ‘know’ they are right without the need for any corroboration. Arguably, the most noxious of this class is the religious fundamentalist: not content with their own ‘infallibility’ and forthcoming ‘salvation’, they are furthermore consumed with a burning desire to purge every dissenting viewpoint, too... OK, as the perceptive Mr T suggested, the malign aspects of Christianity are, thankfully, progressively losing their grip upon the Western European world view. Nevertheless, when monotheists of another ilk see no mutual-exclusivity between being a human being and the beyond-vile act of flying a packed passenger jet into a tower block, we’ve clearly still a very long way to go before a corporeal Captain Kirk, Picard, Janeway or – hey – Archer could one-day state something like: “We humans used to be intolerant of others, but we learned to overcome that”. Indeed, it might be argued that divisive, tribalistic tendencies are so inherent within human behaviour that this will remain forever out of reach? Perhaps, but then again, maybe the allusion to ‘education’ here really is the key to attaining what may now appear an impossible dream? If so, it seems to me it will be a slow process of incremental gains effected by stepping back and actually stopping to think. Question everything you’re told. Ah, that old punk chestnut again.

So – in solidarity with our petrified ‘sinners’ of yore – Huntington Warren it is, then. Now I would appropriate Mr Armstrong’s timeless epithet for this personal act of irreligious defiance but, well... it’s actually quite a trek (for me). And besides, very few give a monkey’s what a modern antiquarian gets up to nowadays, right? Hey, just look at the paltry number of Citizen Cairn’s YouTube ‘likes’ and you’ll get the picture. Suffice to say, one mustn’t kid one’s self. I might as well be... say... walking on the moon? Let’s just ‘hope my leg don’t break’ in the process.

Anyway, I decide to approach from the east, an initial obstacle – the temporary closure of the road accessing the Venford Reservoir (from the B3357) – rendering my prior directional calculations null and void, subsequently casting me adrift within a maze of ‘local’ roads dependent upon signage – never something to be savoured. Eventually, however, I locate the junction at Cross Furzes and manage to park upon the verge a little before the lodge to the northwest. Heading due west now, the road morphs into a stony track near Hayford Hall to finally access open moor at Luds Gate.

Pupers Hill – another apparent focus of local puritans back in the day – rises immediately ahead. I, however, decide to follow the path traversing its southern shoulder, briefly tagging along with the ‘Two Moors Way’, before swinging westward again at a boundary to head straight for Huntington Warren, its prominent cairn now visible upon the horizon. Hickaton Hill is to my left, the site of a prehistoric settlement, beyond which lies the Avon Reservoir, the environs of which are home to a rich abundance of further significant reminders of former human habitation. Ah, ‘home’. Curious isn’t it – hard to fathom, one might say – how a landscape nowadays perhaps the epitome of ‘getting-away-from-it-all’ wilderness, was clearly once verging upon a prehistoric metropolis? OK, nothing Fritz Lang would have recognised, but nonetheless there must’ve been a fair few punters out and about back then. Only stone foundations, enclosed within retaining circular drystone walls, now remain to stand mute testimony to what once was ‘everyday life’.

The forebears left more for us to ponder, of course: their great – and more modest – cairns. The path descends to Western Wella Brook prior to scrambling steeply uphill, to the right of prominent husbandry pens, to attain an audience with a fine example of the former. An involuntary [self-censored] exclamation escapes the lips upon dawning realisation of the huge dimensions of this ‘Heap of Sinners’... the Citizen truly Cairn’d. The sheer audacity of those assigning such nomenclature – assuming they really weren’t just taking the piss – beggars belief, leaves me gobsmacked at the implied horror worthy of the deranged mind of a Hitler, Stalin, Franco or Mao. Surely such (presumably relatively) educated people did not REALLY believe this huge stone pile represented the petrified mass grave of human beings, each of whom having subsequently been smashed to smithereens for the ‘crime’ of flouting the ‘will’ of their god? Any more than the current priestly castes believe in the literal content of their respective ‘holy’ texts? One is left with an overriding sense of empathy toward – of standing ‘in the corner of’ – the uneducated ‘flock’, some of whom were perhaps not so credulous, held private misgivings that their preacher was feeding them a load of bollocks to maintain the status quo, the mutual power monopoly of church and state? It is a privilege to stand here and contemplate that, despite the earlier pessimism, my basic comprehensive education has engendered personal actions indicative of progress. We, in the UK at least, really have come a long way, haven’t we? The priests may reckon the Israelites brought down the walls of Jericho with their trumpets, but I place much more importance upon Dexys’ brass section ‘Breaking Down the Walls of Heartache’. Green shoots, eh?....

Time to sit and take it all in. And what a spot this is, the vast monument occupying a classic upland landscape position with, thanks to the relative uniformity of elevation, far-ranging views in all directions. A glint, a shimmer of sunlight upon water, highlights the Avon Reservoir below to the south-east, a number of settlements gracing the lower slopes, beyond which is the cairn-crowned Grippers Hill; to the south, the massive profiles of the White Barrows are clear, the eastern to the fore... albeit well out of range today; sweeping to the west, the very sharp-eyed (or optically-enhanced) viewer may discern a veritable cornucopia of archaeology: Stalldown and the sublime ‘Kiss in the Ring’, Ditsworthy, Down Tor. Classic country for wandering, indeed. Looking north, a path leads to cairned Ryder’s Hill with a similarly-endowed Snowdon (no, not that one) to its right. Finally, the gaze is held by what appears to be a very substantial monument crowning Pupers Hill across the void to the east. Clearly, I must pay it a visit upon the return leg.

For now, however, one must enjoy the moment. The silence is not total – unlike at the majority of Mid Walian sites earlier in the year – the serene calm subject to brief interruptions, notably by a couple intent upon ‘collecting’ the trig ID of Ryder’s Hill who are, by all accounts, enamoured to learn of the providence of the cairns hereabouts. Nice people, even kept at arm’s length due to COVID-19. After a couple of hours hanging out with fellow – much quieter – sinners, however, it’s time to go see a couple more: the pipers upon Pupers Hill. Now, what is THAT all about?

themodernantiquarian.com/site/8052/pupers_hill.html

Spike Milligan once noted that “a sure cure for seasickness is to sit under a tree”. Now I guess one could either take this ‘nugget’ of wisdom at face value – can’t exactly argue contrary to such logic as long as said tree is not itself located upon a maritime vessel of some description – or assume the surreal comic loon was making a wider point here: that rubbish things happen, deal with it. To be fair, any Citizen Cairn’d worth his/her salt (50% sodium-reduced, naturally) is already well aware that things don’t always go to plan, particularly when seeking out stony stuff in the uplands of these Isles. Yeah, tell me about it. Near the top of any such copendium... my apologies, compendium... of ‘variable factors’ is, surely, the weather? Not that we British like to talk about it, of course.

Now when I was a kid I would frequently wear my ‘medieval head’ (no, in case you’re wondering, we’re not talking ‘Frank Sidebottom in a bascinet’... although the notion is tempting) in order to visit yet another castle – still do, on occasion – whereby my mum would ostentatiously place a ‘weather spell’ upon proceedings to mitigate against any unwarranted soakings disrupting the event. OK, not exactly the opening scene of that ‘Scottish play’, granted. But, now I come to think of it, the ritual did seem to work more often than not. Unfortunately, now that I’ve got to look after myself, it’s pretty clear I do not possess any similar deftness of touch... if only to judge by the pretty grim scene which greets me as I arrive at the copious parking area behind the Dartmoor Inn this morning, said establishment located midway between Mary Tavy and Sourton upon the A386.

To be honest, October is.. err.. probably not the optimum time to go wild camping upon Dartmoor, inclement conditions not exactly an unexpected occurrence; however, what with the Mid Walian wilderness out of bounds due to Wales’ tragi-comic administration’s ineptly ‘political’ COVID-19 response, one has to make the best of it. I check the forecast again and, with another front moving in later in the afternoon, decide Marilyn Monroe’s maxim “Ever notice ‘what the hell’ is always the right decision?” is probably apt in the circumstances. Probably. So, with the cloud base suggesting possible scope for some early views before the deluge – Great Links Tor it is, then. Taking an age applying the garb appropriate for the hostile conditions – the delay not so much Arnie-like precise preparation, but perhaps childish forlorn hope for an eleventh-hour stay of execution? – I eventually venture forth from my aluminium carbuncle, purposely heading approx north-east across a level ‘heath’ occasionally populated by that hardiest of all persons: the dog walker.

The path descends to the River Lyd, flowing from its rising south of Branscombe’s Loaf, the pedestrian presented with a choice of method to negotiate the watercourse dryshod: footbridge or stepping stones? Despite the abundant rain of late, the elements of the second option (mostly) stand proud from the torrent so, well, you simply have to, right? I now begin the ascent of the col between the well-matched Arms Tor to north and Brats Tor to south, the latter crowned not by a prehistoric funerary cairn, but by the gaunt profile of the Widgery Cross (a ‘commemoration’ of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee erected by one sycophantic William Widgery in 1887). The angle of attack eases, prior to eventually levelling-out out as I traverse wild, inhospitable moor towards ‘Dick’s Well’ (SX551860) some distance to the east, my initial goal being a ‘Cairn’ shown upon my ‘well-thumbed’ 1:25k map in that wondrous ‘Antiquarian typeface’ a little beyond.

As with all high moorland – indeed, the ‘uplands’ in general – the traveller’s state of mind is heavily influenced by the prevailing weather conditions: what would no doubt be a ‘Julie Andrews-hands-a-cartwheeling’ frolic under a blue sky requiring a no less intense, but more focussed mindset beneath monochrome. This being Dartmoor, however, there is an additional ‘layer’ inherent in the vibe with the sporadic report of automatic weapons fire from the army’s Willsworthy Range to the south only too audible. Now I like to think I’m pretty resourceful, but, hell, I’m no soldier. Furthermore, I’m reasonably fond of my (admittedly rather windswept ‘n’ craggy) features and would rather wish to retain them... so one observes the tattered red flags flying from the summit crags of Rattlebrook Hill warning the visitor to keep within bounds... and takes heed. Let’s face it, it’s a hard enough job without some civilian muppet complicating matters further through sheer stupidity (please check the official MoD detail online at gov.uk/government/publications/dartmoor-firing-programme – or call 0800 458 4868 to be sure).

This was tin-mining country, a fact evidenced by various spoil visible as the walk proceeds; peat working, too, the nearby ruins of ‘Bleak House’ apparently that of the former site manager... one assumes Inspector Bucket never paid a visit, however? To the north, two isolated rock formations (Higher and Lower Dunna Goat) are my cue to leave the track for the rough hinterland. Here at SX556862, I locate the ‘Cairn’. Set in a wild, windswept location, with the aforementioned outcrops complementing the broody, serrated skyline of Great Links Tor itself to the north-west, it certainly looks the part. However something seems wrong, not quite right... since a tinner’s gully approaches the ‘monument’, stopping just short. Hmm, industrial spoil? A distinct possibility, methinks. Damn and blast. Consider:

“Gerrard, S., 1993-2002, Monument Protection Programme Alternative Action Report, 27/04/1993 (Report – non-specific). SDV145710. (27/4/1993) Lower Dunna Goat. Not a cairn. Overlies a gully associated with tinwork. Considerred [sic] under the Monument Protection Programme but not recommended for scheduling.”

Unlike our malleable, ductile tin, however, the looming summit tors of the sentinel peak exert a seriously magnetic ‘pull’ that is impossible to resist, despite my trackless ‘off piste’ route ensuring the ‘going’ underfoot is a lot more strenuous than it might otherwise have been – such are the vagaries of exploration, I guess. And on this occasion nothing to do with poor map reading, to be fair. Upon arrival, the effect of all that towering, naked rock is quite overwhelming in its brutal intensity. OK, we aren’t talking The Cuillin here... but there is simply ‘something’ about Dartmoor that ‘connects’ with some deeply primaeval part of the human psyche, as Conan Doyle knew only too well.

I decide to check out the summit views before the steadily darkening skies see fit to descend upon me like a ‘Vitalstatistix the Gaul-ian’ nightmare. It is not easy to attain that special ‘aerial’ view today, the topography of the central tor – c40ft high, ensuring Great Links Tor reaches a very credible 1,939ft – clearly well out of my league. That to the east(ish) is more promising and, despite the ludicrously high wind, I find myself a very precarious perch in due course, away from the other punters who, intermittently, arrive to consume hasty lunches, huddled below to the lee, before executing equally rapid departures whence they came. I note the great summit cairn visible downhill to the southwest (SX549864) and take a precautionary bearing.

For now, however, it is the inclement elements which utterly dominate proceedings, the wind not quite attaining sufficient velocity to dislodge me, but nevertheless making it crystal clear just what ‘pitiful, microscopic nobodies’ (to use Cope’s phrase) we are relative to the ‘strategic view’, that great algorithm driving the ever-expanding scope of existence. It is exhilarating, my gear thankfully just about up to the task. Just about, mind. Although one can be pretty certain those miners and peat cutters of yore would’ve found my actions absurd, to say the least. Yeah, times change, albeit in some places – such as this wind-lashed summit – the pace would appear much more glacial.

Taking a fearful battering, I direct my gaze to the north toward the site of the iconic ‘tor cairn’ surrounding Branscombe’s Loaf upon Corn Ridge and, beyond to the right, High Willhays and Yes Tor, highest ‘swellings’ of the great, billowing, soggy mass that is Dartmoor. Incidentally, whether or not the central tor of Great Links Tor is itself surrounded by the remains of a ‘tor cairn’ is perhaps a moot point. On balance, I would say not, although there does appear some material in situ. Eastward, swinging subsequently to the south, the scene is devoid of habitation nowadays – seemingly desolate, empty... but with so many tales to tell should one wish to take the trouble. I can see with, I admit, a little nervousness, the advancing weather front promised earlier in the day, wispy ‘fingers’ of hill fog momentarily engulfing the summit and flanks of Brats Tor, to then relinquish their clammy embrace. Nearer to hand, the eyes pick out the great cairn below. Time to move on.

As I approach it is clear this round cairn is much more substantial than I’d foreseen. Suffice to say, while the ‘monument’ at Lower Dunna Goat was ultimately a disappointment, the main event certainly is not and is worthy of such an iconic location: a large, round cairn c60ft(ish) in diameter and around 5ft high in places, historic robbing, unfortunately, negating any discussion regarding previous internal detail. Nevertheless, I did discern an apparent – albeit incomplete – ring of small stones just breaking the turf beyond the existing circumference. Now, whether this represents the remnants of a kerb demarcating the original extent of a now reduced footprint... a freestanding feature... or is it a figment of my imagination, well? As I ponder imponderables the weather takes a significant turn for the worse, the tor-side suddenly engulfed with hill fog and subjected to industrial-force, horizontal rain driven upon the unabating wind. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say, but nonetheless, the conditions are pretty grim.

Eventually, the cold bites and a tactical withdrawal in the face of overwhelming Natural odds is called for. Besides, it’s getting somewhat late. Thankfully my bearing is sound, Mr Widgery’s dodgy erection materialising in line of sight to guide me towards the safety of the outward track. Yeah, I may be beneath the cloud mantle now, yet the rain sees fit to – if anything – increase its intensity, a veritable ‘power shower’ tracking me all the way back to the car. Indeed, such is the volume of water falling down on me I’d wager dear old Spike might even have reconsidered his seemingly otherwise indisputable advice.

Upon reaching the car I sit within – immobile and a little shellshocked at the abrupt change in environment – and wonder what to do with all the excess water from my waterproofs. Ah, ‘what the hell’, eh? Saves on washing...

It’s always struck me as significant – if not telling – that (the then West) Germany led the way in redefining popular music during the final decades of the 20th Century – Kraftwerk’s techno-pop influencing Bowie and thus driving the post-punk electronic explosion – since when a society’s immediate past history is so horrific, one can only look to the future, right? Appropriately enough, I reckon Hamburger Peter Heppner nailed this sense of Teutonic emancipation/alienation from the past in Wolfsheim’s wondrous ‘Kein Zurück’ in 2003: “Und was jetzt ist wird nie mehr so geschehen; Es geht kein Weg zurück (And what is now will never happen again; There is no way back)“. But is this truly a healthy, progressive worldview and not one simply borne from an inability to face the past, at least for now? Is the past really irrelevant? And if so, what does that say about us ‘Modern Antiquarians’ so intent upon trying to understand how our pre-history moulded us into what we are today? For better or worse. Sure, we cannot physically ‘go back’, but is it possible to understand – or at least gain a tenuous insight into – the minds of our forebears? And then what use would that be?

On balance I reckon that, while we can take elements of such a German mindset to heart – don’t dwell upon negative emotions etc – the truth should always win out if we are to have any future at all. Orlando Battista once said ‘An error doesn’t become a mistake until you refuse to correct it’, which I guess is another way of highlighting we homo sapiens’ propensity to learn far more by ‘ballsing things up’ than by acting with the technical precision of, well... Die Mensch-Maschine. It follows, therefore, that one has to try to understand the past to enable any attempt to avoid the mistakes of our history/pre-history?

Of all the negative human emotions it is perhaps ‘regret’ which is, in the long run, the most damaging if left untreated, gnawing away at one’s inner self like a rodent through an electrical cable... or corroding the mind like the blood of H R Giger’s myopically savage beastie through a spaceship’s hull. Sooner or later something’s gotta give, right? Now don’t get me wrong, there are many, many worse things in this life than neglecting to visit a prime archaeological site, when in any given locale, due to ignorance of its existence. Nevertheless, I’d wager you won’t deny it can be galling not to have taken chances to accomplish something worthwhile, particularly regarding this ‘outdoor exploration’ lark, where opportunities can be fleeting, fitness not what it once was... the ‘tweak’ in the knee progressively more pronounced as the years pass. Yeah, none of us is getting any younger. As the gorgeously bonkers Roisin Murphy emphatically stated some years back, the time is always ‘NOW’.

The thought occurs early morning as I scan the map at my wild camp above Cwm Ystwyth: do I really want to reprise a visit to Cwm Paradwys in order to see a cairn I happened to miss out on a few years back? Just the one, requiring a half-day at most... when I could experience something brand new instead. I mean let’s face it, things are never as exciting the second time around, are they? Luckily, in retrospect, I conclude I should take the opportunity to correct the ‘error’ since ignorance, as in law, is ultimately no defence. Besides, I seem to recall that image on Coflein did appear rather tasty. The drive southwards through Cwmdeuddwr shadows the sinuous course of the Afon Elan, the artificially corralled waters of which wait patiently behind successive masterpieces of Victorian engineering prowess pending onward progress. Eventually, I reach the southern-most reservoir (Dolymynach) and park up by the ‘phonebox’ – remember them? – at SN901616. Crossing the Afon Claerwen (flowing from the massive reservoir collecting the copious run-off of western Elenydd at road’s end), I veer right at the medieval longhouse of Llannerch-y-cawr to join the track accessing Cwm Rhiwnant, experiencing a flash of deja-vu as I do so. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to experience the walk once again, what with sunlight streaming through the cloud mantle and that special ambience of cascading water below me releasing the endorphins.

To the west(ish), the crags of Craig y Llysiau are surmounted by a standing stone which, if you are that way inclined, may be of interest (I must confess that solitary monoliths have to be in the ‘Maen Llia league’ for me to consider a primary visit). Continuing onwards, a fine view into Cwm Rhiwnant soon manifests itself as I begin to gain height, the topography of Dalrhiw suggestive of it being a good viewpoint. Duly noted, the track veers to the south, a headwall waterfall hinting at what lies above and beyond: Cwm Paradwys. A little before Carreg y Fedw, that is just beyond a right-hand fork, the track swings abruptly uphill to the left. I, however, maintain my approach line scrambling up the rough slope to attain the green track traversing the cwm... all the way to Bwlch y Ddau Faen and Carnau if one wishes... or even the legendary Drygarn Fawr itself! Err, not today thanks. Yeah, I’ve smaller ‘fish to fry’, albeit – as it will transpire – only in terms of overall effort, not quality.

More-or-less opposite the final cascade of the Nant Paradwys, I exit the magnificent stage left and climb steeply to the top of the crags of Esgair Ceiliog, expecting to see my goal, the ring cairn, visible below to the north-east. To be fair.... it is. But not so as I can recognise it with my hopeless peepers first time of asking. More obvious, even to the likes of me, is the great Waun cairn crowning the hillside to my right (SN897599); an essential visit for any Citizen Cairn’d who may not have had the pleasure. As for myself, it takes an uncomfortable period of (quite literally) stumbling around within the trademark tall ‘tufty grass’ of Cwmdeuddwr (perhaps only rivalled by Pumlumon when it comes to pitiless disregard for the traveller) before I glimpse stone upon the sloping hillside beyond.

To say it is worth the effort is akin to reluctantly conceding Mozart may have written a few ‘half-decent tunes’ back in the day. In short, this is, in my estimation, a truly exquisite ring cairn set in perhaps as vibey a location as one could possibly wish for, given the physical outlay required to get here. Let’s face it, if any other punter was to disturb you at Esgair Ceiliog, verily, I’d eat my hat. And if you could see my hat, well.... OK, as with numerous other monuments gracing the Cwmdeuddwr Hills, the outlook is more ‘aquatic’ in nature than originally intended by the architects; that being said, it’s certainly none too shabby with Rhos y Gelynnen (incidentally the site of a fine stone row) rising beyond Craig Llannerch-y-cawr to the immediate north, the gaze panning rightward across the Dolymynach and Caban-coch Reservoirs to rest upon the be-cairned skyline of Gro Hill, memorably blundered about upon last year.

As regards the archaeology on display... Bill and Ted’s ‘Excellent!’ comes to mind (with a Copeian ‘bass air guitar’ for added emphasis), the ring cairn possessing a well-preserved – in fact more-or-less complete – circular footprint, the whole low lying construction forming a curiously grey interlude within a veritable rolling sea of various shades of green. At once distinct from, yet remaining an integral part of, this hillside. In fact, there’s nothing for it but to lie back and follow suit for a few hours. For those who may want to do the Maths, Coflein notes:

“...a stony ring bank 2.5m-3.5m wide and up to 0.5m high with overall measurements of 12.5m from east to west by 11.5m from north to south. There is no entrance gap in the bank.” [D.K.Leighton, RCAHMW, 8/8/2005]

With a couple of hours still in the ‘bank’ before I must return to the car, I reject a return to the Waun cairn in favour of a quick shufty into Cwm Rhiwarth from the top of Dalrhiw. Simple enough, right? Haha. Yeah, right. Crossing the Nant Paradwys at the waterfall I’m immediately reminded once again why it’s no mean feat to venture ‘off-piste’ upon the Cwmdeuddwr Hills, the terrain ludicrously rough underfoot to the point of allusions to purgatory. Furthermore, the sky, relatively benign earlier in the day, is now growing progressively darker and darker. The profile of Carnau appears upon the southern skyline as I reach the ‘summit’, such as it is, of the hill. A few spots of rain... and suddenly I know what’s coming. Nevertheless, the electrical storm hits before the waterproofs are in place, but I’m OK. For now. That is until the thunder booms out, echoing off nearby crags with a ferocity that fair short-circuits logical thought. Odin! Yeah, is it any wonder why people came to such supernatural conclusions back then when faced with such Super Natural, mind-blowing occurrences?

Lightning follows, flashes of electricity arcing across the sky uncomfortably near at hand. Hey, did that one just hit the ground? Yes, No? Whooah! This is now serious. I’m engulfed by that peculiar juxtaposition of exhilaration and genuine fear, impossible to categorise, truly alive. Let’s keep it that way, eh? High on adrenalin, I throw my trekking poles as far away from me as I can and sit upon the rucksack to ride out Nature’s furious onslaught. My mind resurrects vivid memories of a similar time upon The Black Mountains with the intrepid Mam C... and visions of the monument to Mike Aspain (RIP) upon Drws Bach, high up in The Arans.

The storm recedes... as Odin sees fit to lay his hammer to one side again... or whatever. The air washed – nay, scrubbed, thrashed – clean by the preceding atmospheric shenanigans, is a joy to breathe, sunshine streaming across the landscape as vivid gold as old Tut’s death mask. Not that I’ve seen the latter first hand, you understand? Perhaps it’s the sheer relief, or senses at the top of their game maybe? Take your pick. However, as Govan’s finest Rab C would say, I will tell you this: even being aware of how/why such natural phenomena occur I can fully appreciate why mountain folk of times past thought what they did. Perhaps one needs the practical lesson to obtain the insight?

Distant ominous rumbles remind me that I shouldn’t press my luck, so I begin the descent to the banks of the Afon Rhiwarth. Despite evidence of historic mining, Cwm Rhiwarth is an attractive environment defined by Craig y Dalrhiw to the south and Craig Rhiwarth north, the latter topped by the standing stone mentioned earlier. I follow the river eastwards until a ford allows access across the Nant y Dyrys at its confluence. It is a beautiful spot by any criterion, a nearby footbridge across the primary watercourse suggestive of other possibilities to be investigated some other time perhaps? For now I must reverse my outward steps to the car, reaching its rubber-insulated sanctuary without any further cacophonous incident.

You know, there’s something to relish about voluntarily experiencing life in what might be termed its ‘base’ or ‘raw’ form... as long as nothing permanently detrimental occurs, naturally. Yeah, tell me about it! Brief interludes to offset against – to apply a critical lens to – everyday existence. If we’re lucky normality, on balance, is revealed to be tolerable enough, subject to the inevitable variability of the grass hues subject to location, as they say. The key to such an insight is, in my opinion, experiencing some aspects of the way we used to live in order to obtain a different viewpoint, one based upon verifiable evidence and not some loon saying stuff ‘just because. Since Mr Well’s time machine is yet to be perfected, I reckon our best bet is to use the past as a yardstick for where we are... and where we might want to go. I guess that probably includes revisiting errors before they become mistakes.

Although needless to say, if I had have been fried by bolts from the heavens on Dalrhiw I might well possess a different viewpoint on that. Been inspired to write that follow up to ‘Reynard The Fox’, perhaps? Or it might have ended right there and then upon that hilltop... Yeah, makes a chap think, doesn’t it? Always a good thing.

Back in the car following the conclusion of my morning/early afternoon sojourn upon Esgair y Llyn....

themodernantiquarian.com/site/19837/esgair_y_llwyn_cwmdeuddwr.html

.... the rather ‘noticeable’ precipitation upon the roof renders thoughts of the removal of waterproofs for the short drive to Esgair Pen-y-Garreg superfluous to requirements.. as our Irish friends might well have observed, the weather ‘throwing cobblers knives’. That being said, I do find it advisable to remove those clunky boots to minimise the chances of careering off the road to one’s doom, however. Better ‘safe’ than potentially not even being accorded the opportunity to be ‘sorry’. Anyway, the road, upon being joined by that ascending from the Pont ar Elan, proceeds to climb steeply up the southern shoulder of Moel Geufron to then traverse the wild hinterland, the high moor swelling up to an apogee at Pen Rhiw-wen, prior to descending sharply to the pleasant market town of Rhayader. This is one of the busiest routes upon The Cwmdeuddwr Hills catering for a wide diversity of traffic: muppet ‘off-road’ aficionados in shiny new 4x4s sharing tarmacadam with farmers in battered Subaru pickups towing ‘Ifor Williams’ livestock trailers overflowing with bleating, wide-eyed sheep; camper vans that even Scooby Doo and the gang would perhaps baulk at travelling in; local tradesman in ostensibly ‘white’ vans (the kind hilarious workmates are liable to inscribe ‘Clean Me Please’ upon with dirty fingers... if it was not for the heavy Mid Walian rain) engaged upon unknown errands; and that class of visitor everyone else cannot even begin to fathom: The Modern Antiquarian. I mean, walking around in the pouring rain gawping at old stones.... like, what’s all that about?

This is the well-known face of the Elan Valley locale, the first sight of ‘wilderness’ encountered by the more curious tourist electing to check out the mountain road alluringly signposted from Rhayader. Yeah ‘mountain road’ does have an enticing ‘ring’ to those living in urbanity, doesn’t it? I must confess, even after some thirty-odd years doing this sort of thing – careful now – it still does the trick for me, heightens the pulse somewhat above the norm... gives expression – a voice – to that ‘something’ deep inside the human psyche which the town and city, by definition, must suppress to maintain the veneer of civilisation. A whiff of excitement, of danger percolating down the centuries like the incessant water runoff inexorably responding to the laws of physics: the call of the wild, no less. Tales of bandits, highwaymen or, looking further back, rebellious local tribesmen liable to give the unprepared a good kicking... or worse. It would appear, judging by the presence of the remains of a ‘marching camp’ here upon Esgair Perfedd, that Roman patrols back in the day were well aware of this. One can perhaps speculate that a posting here was not high upon your average legionary’s ‘wish list’? I mean, didn’t a certain Thracian gladiator and a bunch of slaves destroy a couple of legions back in the day? Hmm, best get those banks raised, lads. And keep those eyes peeled.

So, familiar country, perhaps, but nonetheless a landscape not to be taken lightly. Yeah, tell me about it? Despite being forewarned, courtesy of ‘Jeeves’ formidable knowledge base, it soon becomes apparent just how little I really do know. No shit, Sherlock. I park up beside the cascading Nant Gwynllyn, the impressive crags of Craig Ddu complementing the sheer, shattered flanks of Esgair Dderw to its north, the latter surmounted, incidentally, by the imposing monolith the Maen-serth. The rain continues unabated, the traveller obliged to overcome that curious – or perhaps not so curious, come to think of it? – reluctance to leave the sanctuary of shelter to brave the elements once again. Rising to that challenge, the next, occurring in swift progression, is to traverse the swollen stream cascading toward its llyn located in the valley below. Now Heraclitus may have reckoned that no man (or woman – ahem) steps in the same river – or presumably lesser water course – twice, a subtle doctrine concerning the ever-changing aspects of life, of stuff in general. I, however, would think it more of an imperative to refrain, if at all possible, from falling in even the once....

Safely across, albeit not exactly dryshod owing to a surfeit of surface water, I follow the obvious track ascending to Esgair Pen-y-Garreg beyond. Now I came this way a few months previously – en route to spending a few hours upon Crugyn Gwyddel pending the arrival of a car battery at the garage in town – and was utterly oblivious to the existence of a rather large standing stone looming at SN93226964, camouflaged in plain sight (always, it goes without saying, the most effective method, I find). Similarly, I walked straight by what may – or may not – be the remains of a megalithic tomb right beside said track at SN93256957. Fair enough, I guess, if one’s peripheral vision happens to be ‘switched off’ when focussing upon the over-arching goal of attaining a summit... but surely inconceivable to walk right past both once again this time around? Nevertheless, that is exactly what I do.

Thankfully it would appear my megalithic radar is better attuned to spotting standing stones in multiples thereof, although, having said that, the three-stone row gracing Banc Trehesglog is not exactly staring one in the face, with even the wondrous people at Coflein having apparently required a couple of attempts at locating it correctly:

“3 upright stones in row. Orientation E-W. Both outer stones are irregular and approx. 1m x 1m. Both are leaning over to the N. The middle stone leaning to S. Previously mis-sited (RSJ 2000).”

The key, may I suggest here – assuming one isn’t going to go down the route of having bloody GPS lead you unerringly to the very spot, but do it the ‘organic’ way – is a little homework, allied with the ability to read the topography of the landscape, so to speak. Yeah, as the track makes its way below and to the east of the summit crags of Crugyn Ci (the prominent OS trig pillar of which ‘may’ stand upon the remains of an ancient cairn) the traveller should note a low rock formation to his/her left prior to passing above a reasonably large ‘pond’, albeit one minus ducks and someone’s long-missing old boot. Scrambling upon this ‘outcrop’ and glancing towards said ‘pond’ the reasonably sighted should make out the trio of orthostats below and to the right.

And indeed, there it is, the alignment’s existence, given the relatively substantial dimensions of the flanking stones, pretty obvious.... once you know where it is... and begging the question: ‘so why IS it so obscure?’ I mean, just off a main track traversing these hills with, even today, several walkers/mountain bikers passing by. Not that I’m complaining, of course, the silence elevating the atmosphere to almost the heights experienced upon Esgair y Llyn earlier in the day. And there is just ‘something’ so enigmatic, so ethereal – so ‘right’ – about the profile of a stone row viewed upon a windswept hillside. Tears at the soul, does it not?

This, of course, would be more than enough. But wait, there’s a little extra. Or rather a lot, to be honest: a short distance to the approx north-east of the row, lying submerged within tall upland grass, can be found a most fine example of a cist, lacking capstone but otherwise perfect. Needless to say that this, too, is not to be found upon the map. I tell you what, that ‘Jeeves’ fella certainly knows a thing or two, does he not? Unlike the alignment, the passing antiquarian-minded traveller wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stumbling across this gem. Coflein notes:

“Remains of stone cist. Approx 1M x 0.80M x 0.20m depth. Orientated N-S. Mudstone. Sunken into ground, only visible by tall reed grass. Poss. stone base. No stone scatter. Poss. robbed for sheepfold to SW(RSJ 2000).”

OK, the views, in my opinion, are not as far-reaching as those to be had upon Esgair y Llyn but, nonetheless, Rhayader is visible away to the east to add some context to what is a fine upland vibe accentuated by a temporary hiatus in the downpour. Once again, the spellbound visitor sees fit to sit back, drink his coffee and savour the moment. Well, it would be rude not to, right? Inevitably perhaps, the rain duly returns.... and how! As if synchronous with the inclement weather, time begins to run away with me, heedless of trivial, mortal concerns, my thoughts turning to getting back down to the car again. Reckoning I’ve left it too late to locate the ‘tomb’ and standing stone before dark, I’m left somewhat bemused by just how obvious both actually are – in stark contrast to those higher up the hill. I practically stumble over the ‘Brindell Felen Tomb’ on the way down – not quite head over heels, but with a little less boot traction in the torrential downpour that would have been a distinct possibility. Sad to report that Coflein are undecided about the prehistoric pedigree of said structure:

“Poss. chambered tomb side of trackway. 1 stone upright approx. 0.5m high x 1m w. Cap stone resting on upright, triangular in shape, approx. 0.75m in length. 2 Poss. uprights collapsed. Set in oval hollow approx. 3m x 2m. May be animal shelter(RSJ 2000).”

Hmm... may be an animal shelter? Furthermore, CPAT are adamant this is a ‘natural feature’, which, to these eyes, didn’t seem credible. Yeah, I have to say it certainly looked the real deal to me, for what it’s worth. However, if so, why wasn’t it noted by any earlier antiquarian passing this way? On balance I guess this latter point is arguably telling. Luckily we are, metaphorically speaking at least, upon much firmer ground when it comes to the standing stone, located just beyond the ‘tomb’ and (incredibly in retrospect) within clear sight of the road. Coflein notes:

“Large standing stone, approx 2m high x 1.75m wide x 0.40m thick. Mudstone. Orientated E-W. Located near trackway and at edge of peat-cutting area (RSJ 2000)”

I decide, in view of the fading light and rain liable to have Russel Crowe reaching for his copy of ‘Carpentry for Beginners’, to return for a follow up hang at some future date. Yeah, happy with that. I’m also more than happy with the experiences of the day. Not bad for an area I was convinced had been exhausted by this so-called ‘expert’. Yeah, right. A lesson for us all, perhaps?

It could be argued that curiosity, the search for knowledge – perhaps archetypal of what it is to be human? – is, regardless of subjective merit, by no means conducive to personal happiness. Upon considering the issue in 1711, Alexander Pope famously noted: “A little learning is a dang’rous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring”, thus seemingly committing the reader to a lifetime of academic labour in order to gain fulfilment from said fabled font of learning. Yeah, thanks for that. Another perceptive dude, Thomas Gray, took a seemingly alternate view in 1742 by suggesting avoiding the dilemma altogether: “...where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise”. So, if I’m understanding the learned 18th Century gentlemen correctly, one can either be content in your stupidity, or a miserable ‘Professor Fink-style’ boffin? Hmm... given the ability to influence matters, neither sorry state of affairs appeals, to be honest. So perhaps a more centrist ‘third way’ is the answer: take what you do seriously, educate yourself... but don’t beat yourself when one happens, inevitably, to fall ‘a little short’ at times? Sounds like a plan to me.

In retrospect, perhaps the most lamentable aspect of my wanderings across the length and breadth of these Isles during the past three decades has been my propensity to assume I have joined the ranks of the archaeological cognoscenti more-or-less as a matter of course. Aye, like a perpetually bemused antiquarian Stan Laurel – albeit comedic by default, not exquisite design – I find myself constantly surprised (if not indignant) when, having ‘seen everything’ in a given locale I’m proved, yet again, to be in error. Yeah, I guess the problem inherent in being a ‘Modern Antiquarian’ is one is induced into using this blasted Internet thingamajig, so ensuring a chap’s learning curve is not only steep but oft verging upon the perpendicular, as Wodehouse might have put it. Consider, as cases in point, the grassy promontory Esgair y Llwyn [SN8961873373] and, a little under four miles to the east-south-east, Banc Trehesglog (SN93136893), these sites located within the inhospitable Cwmdeuddwr Hills rising to the west of Rhayader: a glance at either scale of OS mapping will divulge plenty of interest hereabouts, granted.... but nothing at said co-ordinates. Zero, zilch, nowt. So why bother? Indeed... except the browser of Coflein’s web-site finds himself better informed – if not educated – with access to a cyberspace ‘Jeeves’ to correct those blasted faux-pas. Dash it all, what rot! There’s nothing there! Ah, but I believe sir will find there is...

So... sporadic rain – albeit what the Irish might term ‘only spitting’ – greets another dawn at the head of Cwm Ystwyth; not one, to be honest, to inspire thoughts of grand deeds for the forthcoming day, the low cloud mantle obscuring the ‘jaws’ of the cwm issuing a stark challenge to the bleary-eyed engaged with mopping copious condensation from the interior of the windscreen. Reaching – or perhaps more accurately, fumbling blindly – for my tattered map, the memory is duly jogged.... Esgair y Llwyn, just a short drive in the opposite direction to the forbidding wall of opaque vapour. Which is handy. A navigational error, resulting in overshooting the access track to Cwm Nant-y-ffald, ensures the journey is a little longer than anticipated, but not overly so. I park at the entrance, opposite a sinuous loop effected by the Afon Elan, the watercourse seemingly unwilling to surrender its lithe youthfulness to the middle-aged ‘conformity’ of the Craig Goch Reservoir. Hmmm, luckily the surface is not able to render a simulacrum of the viewer. Anyway, a newly erected, crudely-painted bespoke sign – similar to others noted en-route – bars vehicular progress to the fastness of the cwm, this – along with the unusually high volume of litter – reminding the visitor that these COVID-19 times have drawn to the great outdoors an additional, most unwelcome class of vertebrate (think Fintan Stack in Father Ted) which clearly does not give a damn about the environment... or anyone else, for that matter. Needless to say my empathy – and, I would suggest, that of any reasonably objective thinker – is with the locals. Yeah, surely even those dogmatic activists welcoming such increased ‘diversity’ must concede everyone has a responsibility to act as a human being? So what’s the plan then?

I follow the gravelly track to the north beside the gurgling Nant y Ffald, negotiating a ford to continue in a roughly north-easterly direction while embracing – save the sounds of my exertions and the ever-prevalent running water – the progressively increasing silence as the road fades from view. Quite why any tourist would consider driving up here is beyond me, but there you are. ‘Stupid is as stupid does’, eh Forrest? Anyway, the steep, grassy flanks of Esgair y Llwyn tower above to my left, the concern now to choose a line of ascent avoiding as much of the ubiquitous soaking bracken as possible while not overdoing the angle. I eventually decide upon the southern flank of the deep defile carved by the Trawsnant, overlooked by the great cairns of Carn-Wen and Carn Nant-y-ffald to the north, veering steeply upward to the west to gain the crest of the plateau above (Citizens Cairn’d wishing to visit these excellent sites should naturally improvise their own route... or approach from the north, as I did back in 2013).

Now, it’s all very well to be informed of the existence of a cairn where none was thought to be.... but another thing entirely to actually locate it upon a billowing expanse of soggy, industrial-strength, tussocky grass at altitude. Or perhaps ‘within’? Indeed, writers such as Peter Hermon have made the analogical connection between walking the Cwmdeuddwr Hills and being at sea, noting the relatively homogeneous height of the tops, separated by deep troughs. I get that, although I would suggest being ‘all at sea’ is often more appropriate in my case, such is the paucity of useful navigational features in mist to be found in these parts. Yeah, in a number of aspects I reckon these hills could be said to be homologous to the more obscure parts of Dartmoor: the traveller focussing to a great extent upon the ‘vibe’ inherent in negotiating a pathless wilderness where even a sheep track can be manna from heaven, so to speak. Suffice to say that you are almost guaranteed to have your hill, your chosen monument, to yourself for the duration. Assuming one’s map reading is up to scratch, of course. And the sight of a red kite, seemingly suspended in space as it contemplates whether you are upon the menu, invigorates the soul rather than hastens an approximation of algor mortis.

I make my way towards where I reckon the monument should be, a rather serpentine – if not circuitous – route borne out of reliance upon a moth-eared 1:50k map rather than any symbolic affinity with the aforementioned Afon Elan. And there, eventually, it is... the traveller momentarily pausing, in vain despite the deteriorating weather conditions, for a thunderclap to engender a heightened sense of drama perhaps appropriate to the moment? Yeah, the surviving archaeology may well appear a little underwhelming to some, particularly to those not already immersed in the idiosyncrasies of Cwmdeuddwr. Nevertheless, the little cairn is pretty well defined to these eyes and, furthermore, features a couple of earth-fast uprights which might – or might not – represent the remnants of a former cist. Whatever the corporeal detail, the grassy stone pile does an effective job of marking a point in the landscape suitable for ponderings above and beyond the here and now. The more you see, the less you need to see, perhaps? Coflein reckons it represents:

“A low, grass-covered stone cairn positioned on a gently sloping terrace with clear views down the Elan valley to the south. The cairn is less than 0.25m high and approximately 5m in diameter, with only a few stones now protruding through the grass cover....” [J.J. Hall, Trysor, 8/9/2009]

As I sit and attempt a mental reconstruction, an approximation of what the scene may have appeared like to an engaged onlooker millennia past, the most obvious difference is the broad expanse of water to the south, a reservoir where once the river continued upon its way unimpeded by the castellated dams which are now such an imposing feature of the locale. And what of tree cover? The hills and elongated spurs of Cwmdeuddwr are green and bare nowadays – overwhelmingly, perhaps brutally so – but I understand this was not always the case? For me, the most important aspect to consider, however, is the ambience, the ‘vibe’ to be experienced here. OK, one assumes there were more people around back then, working the land below the sentinel ancestors’ vantage points, the occasional shrill shout of a child briefly duelling with the cry of the bird of prey; however, it is not difficult to concede that, then as now, it is Nature which calls the shots – and it is her often inclement vagaries which determined the placement of this cairn in the first place. The focus of human thought when we wish to transcend those logical boundaries.

To emphasise the point a weather front duly arrives to lash the plateau with driving rain, a swirling cloak of opaque vapour contracting and expanding in turn as if representing some unstable portal to another, ethereal world fleetingly glimpsed beyond. To be fair, I’m more than happy with this one so settle down for lunch and... well... just to watch for a couple of hours. My curiosity eventually sated, the urge to move on finally manifests itself, my intention, having rejected notions of revisiting Banc Cynnydd above to the west, being to locate a small stone row a little below, and to the east, of Esgair Pen-y-Garreg, again not shown upon the map. And whatever other potential gems ‘Jeeves’ has up his immaculately attired sleeve.

Baulking at that steep descent – and not wishing to encounter any motorised idiots – I opt to follow the grassy flanks of Esgair y Llwyn downhill to the south-east, a good decision which, in retrospect, would serve as a less taxing ascent route. I reach the track at the ford, my own Ford – thankfully – waiting a short distance beyond. Hey, the day is yet young. Banc Trehesglog it is, then.

themodernantiquarian.com/site/19835/banc_trehesglog_cwmdeuddwr.html

Cwm Ystwyth is pretty quiet these days... even during the height of a Ceredigion summer, with punters enjoying a brief respite from the all too necessary COVID-19 restrictions. Traffic making use of the single track road traversing the valley is ‘sporadic’, at worst, the scene primed for the shrill cry of a bird of prey – the magnificent red kite, perhaps? – to emphasise the silence by glorious exception. However, by all accounts, it was not always thus. Yeah, if a landscape can be said to be evoked by the universal language of music – and, to my mind, the gruff old ‘punk’ maestro made a pretty good case for this with the premiere of his ‘Pastorale in F major’ in 1808 – Cwm Ystwyth would surely require nothing less than a symphony to interpret its complex diversity. For me, the best place for a prospective composer to seek initial inspiration is upon the summit of Craig y Lluest at SN84997587, at the cwm’s eastern extremity, a small Bronze Age cairn cemetery assisting no end with the all-important vibe. Here, the cwm stretches away to the west, arguably as sublime a representation of scenic splendour as Mid Wales has to offer.

themodernantiquarian.com/site/19436/craig_y_lluest_cwmdeuddwr.html

The Afon Ystwyth – sourced from a series of contributory watercourses, including the Afon Diliw – begins its journey westward with alacrity... our composer considering an allegro con brio, perhaps?... the pace abating to, say, moderato as the cwm widens and dissipates some of the initial constrictive foreboding of the chasm formed by Esgair Elan and the aforementioned Craig y Lluest. Beyond this, however, the sight of the shattered flanks of Bryn Copa invokes apocalyptic notions of a bonkers Wagnerian prelude... or, at the very least, portentous Yamaha CS-80 synth chords (I’d go with the former unless Vangelis happens to be a mate). Not that it helps the ecology, granted – what’s gone is gone and it ain’t never coming back – but this industrial devastation has form. A lot of form, in fact, with silver, lead and zinc having been mined here stretching way back to Roman times, the apparent average life expectancy of miners (32) indicative of the savage disregard for human life by your progressive entrepreneur back in the day. True, time is a great healer, but nevertheless, the heart is sometimes torn asunder at the injustice of it all, isn’t it? There is more, however: evidence of copper mining by Bronze Age locals upon Bryn Copa itself and, perhaps best of all, the discovery of the fantastic golden Banc Ty’nddôl sun-disc in 2002 (cue those Vox Humana Polymoog strings, methinks).

themodernantiquarian.com/site/5072/copa_hill.html

It, therefore, comes as blessed relief to travel through the eponymous hamlet to enter the lushly wooded – including beech, so I understand – Hafod Uchtryd, ragged senses soothed by... an allegretto? Here, the B4574 to Devil’s Bridge nowadays bypasses a curious, somewhat ragged arch erected in 1810 to celebrate George III’s Golden Jubilee. Since the Hanoverian is now generally considered not to have been ‘mad’ – but rather a victim of bi-polar syndrome – it could be said, bearing in mind the extremes of the landscape itself, that the siting, a couple of years after the chaotic birth of Beethoven’s masterpiece, is actually rather apt. ‘What, what?’ Anyway, the arch stands in a ‘picnic spot which is, coincidentally, the starting point of several forestry walks... one of which happens to lead to the sentinel peak of the locale: Pen-y-Garn. Needless to say, contrary as ever, I decide, having made my way here from a wild camp upon the wondrous Pumlumon, to forgo the obvious in order to reprise a visit to the same made way back in 1999.

About a mile(ish) south-east of ‘The Arch’, just before the B4574 loops back towards Pont-rhyd-y-groes, a mountain road heads steeply to the left, arcing to the east, above Cwmystwyth village, to a prominent ‘plantation’ of trees on the right (south). Here there is plenty of space to park the car before, plastered with ‘Factor 60’ to combat the unfeasibly ‘seasonal’ Mid Walian weather, I continue on foot to where, at approx SN793754, a heavily overgrown ‘sunken track’ heads north beside a copse. Passing a ruined dwelling, ducking and diving under the impeding branches of trees as I do so, the green track continues through lush pasture to, eventually, meet converging tracks sweeping in from the right and left. The route, ‘stony’ underfoot, now begins the ascent proper, fording the cascades of the nascent Nant Perfedd, prior to cutting through a further copse and zig-zagging up Banc Myheryn. Increasingly expansive retrospective views alleviate some of the – it has to be said – relative monotony of the climb, the track making its serpentine way (one assumes those bloody Romans never ventured up here, then?) in a generally north-easterly direction to, in due course and not before time, arrive at the 2,005ft summit of the mountain.

That Pen-y-Garn (incidentally, you might also find it referred to as ‘Bryn Garw’ upon some older maps – assuming there are any pre-dating mine still extant in this digital age) is, despite being one of only three peaks exceeding 2,000ft within Cwmdeuddwr, in my estimation not exactly one of Wales’ premier mountains... one can assume to be a ‘given’. Nevertheless, there is a very good reason why I would recommend a visit to the dedicated Citizen Cairn’d, not to mention the incurably curious: it possess another small piece of the Bronze Age jigsaw of this land in the form of the shattered, but considerable remains of a funerary cairn. Not to mention a fine upland vibe... with sweeping views to the south across Cwm Ystwyth to the wilderness of ‘The Green Desert’, the watery heart of Mid Wales; west to Aberystwyth and the coast; east across brutal upland moor studded with small lakes, water sparkling in the sunshine... and, last but certainly not least, northward, the great crags of Craig Dolwen, towering above the deep, afforested defile Cwm Rhuddnant, leading the eye to Pumlumon. Herself. Hang on, that’s more than one good reason, isn’t it? Suggest you do the maths to save further confusion. As for the technical detail, Coflein notes the following:

“A ruinous Bronze Age round cairn, 15m in diameter & 0.4m high, is set on the summit of Pen y Garn. Only the base of the cairn has survived, the rest of it used to create a shelter which now occupies most of its interior. Towards its north edge, between shelter and cairn edge, is set a triangulation pilar.” [D. Leighton & T. Driver, RCAHMW, 17 June 2013]

Hmm. If I may be permitted to raise a point of order, I would dispute the assertion that the shelter occupies ‘most’ of the cairn’s interior, such is the extensive circumference of the circular footprint (making the arguable assumption that subsequent slippage across millennia has not inflated dimensions somewhat). That being said, the vertical profile of the monument is certainly minimal, at best, the considerable size of the parasitical shelter clearly indicative of heinous redistribution of material. The alternative name quoted for the monument – Carn Nant-y-Llys – suggests an association with a former ‘law court’ somewhere in the locale (unless my Welsh is even worse than my maths), although where the remains may be sited I couldn’t say at this point. One assumes – indeed, would hope – that, what with such evidence of wanton destruction to a scheduled ancient monument extant, it is not current? Perish the thought.

Silence – for the most part, anyway – reigns supreme upon Pen-y-Garn. A decent composer might be thinking ‘andante’... or not. However, obviously, this was not always the case with, as noted earlier, mining taking place on and around Bryn Copa for more-or-less the monument’s full tenure as stony sentinel of Cwm Ystwyth. To tell you the truth, it is a difficult concept to take in, such is the unfettered tranquillity. Yeah, only the eolian tones of the wind acting upon the radio antenna ‘stuck’ within the OS trig pillar (a notice states the benefit to the local community in these COVID-19 impacted times of said ‘aerial’ aerial) – combined with the rather more inhomogeneous ‘notes’ caused by my good self simply being in Nature’s way – are audible prior to the sudden arrival of two very poorly attired ‘student-types from the direction of ‘The Arch’. What they make of me, sun-bathing in full kit upon the footprint, is not evident since they immediately disappear within the ‘muppet shelter’ like, well... muppets, to hastily consume whatever it is such people eat before buggering off to once again leave me in utter peace. I mean, who would’ve foreseen it being cold upon a mountain top when it’s hot down below? I ask you?

As it happens the great cairn – or at least what’s left of it – is not the only iconic construction for the visitor to contemplate up here since, some way to the north, stands an extensive wind farm stretching across Rhestr Cerrig and Cefn Groes, like something out of that dystopian sci-fi novel Windy Miller so wanted to write after being evicted from Camberwick Green in ‘66. The sheer scale of these structures is emphasised when I spy a figure arrive at the base of one unfortunately skewed out of alignment with the others. Hey, is that a retro-styled hat and cider flagon in hand.. no, surely not? Funny thing is I’ve actually grown rather used to these wind turbines now... as long as I’m not directly beneath them... or they are located upon ‘classic peaks’, why not? Perhaps it should be up to the locals to have the final say in such circumstances, methinks?

With the continuance of such excellent weather into the early evening, I’m even more loathe to depart than usual, but there you are... in the final reckoning there really is no choice. Back at the car, following a leisurely descent, I elect to camp up for the night below Craig y Lluest. It is a wondrous spot, the Afon Ystwyth fading from sight through the entrance ‘jaws’ of the cwm, Highland ‘coos’ adding the occasional distinctive ‘vocal embellishment’ to the proceedings, harsh bovine utterances rising above the persistent ‘gurgle’ of the fast-flowing water. Once again, it is hard to reconcile what used to occur a little to the west: all the trials, tribulations, triumphs, failures.... danger, exploitation and death. Nevertheless, it is a story well worth recounting for its intrinsic human interest. All the time overseen by that pile of stones upon Pen-y-Garn...