I’m booked in a B&B in Knighton. I’m not going to get there as I’ve had a rest day and am 29 miles short. At the end of today I will have done over 150 miles in some hot weather, carrying a heavy rucksack so I’m not too disappointed. My feet need some attention. My new boots seem a bit problematic but I’ll sort it. Tanat Light Railway was an experience and the morning was bright when Mike came to pick me up to take me back to Trefonen so that I started walking where I finished last night.

I walked round to the Post Office and bought a tuna sandwich for breakfast. Then I set off at a brisk pace. There were a few hills to climb and the first gave a magnificent 360 degree panorama of the Welsh hills and English valley.

What a morning! Look at this as well.

The route crossed a disused railway line which was actually an extension of the Tanat Valley Light Railway. It runs for miles!

By noon the Path was leading towards the Llanymynech Rocks, an escarpment with a cliff face on one side. The climb was grinding but great, and the views were wonderful, being a last chance to wander a hill before the long plain to Buttington. The Rocks were photogenic too.

I dropped down into the valley and followed the flood embankment by the side of the River Severn through fields. Some were empty, some had sheep and some had cattle. I am wary of cattle and avoided conflict where they wouldn’t move off the path. In one field a large bull was shouting and showing off to his cows. He blocked my path and pushed me away with his head. I got past him and quickened my pace but he started running after me, then two bullocks joined him, then the cows followed suite. About twenty cattle legging it after me. I concentrated on the metal gate as I ran to it as I would only get one chance. I reached straight for the latch, pulled the gate open, dashed through and slammed it as the cattle hit the gate and the fence. I was a bit nervous but as you get older these things aren’t so scary as they used to be and you concentrate on escape rather than trying to jump hedges. 

I made it to the Green Dragon at Buttington by 6pm. Fed, watered and put my tent up out back in their field. A decent last day of this section. I’m now 17 walking days away from completing John O’Groats to Land’s End and I’ll do that in July. Thanks for reading my blog. See you in July.

Night night.



A decent sleep and packed by 9.45 and off, down the track to Llangollen. (‘Track’ – railway terminology). A cool but dry day and a cheap but lovely full English in town.

The town is a canal centre, steam train centre, historical centre and a beautiful location. I’m becoming a Taffyphile.

The Offa’s Dyke Path ran along valley floors today but I wasn’t finished with mountains. I found a route to Trefonen, where I was headed, which climbed two serious hills and took me down narrow country lanes. After half an hour I was questioning my sanity as I gasped for breath up the steep slope. But looking back was worth it.

Over the top of the hill the track dropped down for a couple of miles to a small village on a river and then kicked up a rougher track to the top of the second hill. This was not as steep but higher. Again, looking back was lovely. 

A few miles over the top of the hill I met Offa’s Dyke Path and carried on along it. King Offa may not have defined the Welsh/English border but the Path certainly straddles it most of the way down. Switching backwards and forwards. 



The path cut across fields and through ancient woods where things got very Lord of the Rings. Treebeard in person. Look at those beechy toes.

Then it dropped down to a stone seat with a stone roof, custom made for Gandalf, Strider and Elrond. Sat around having a chat about the Ring and things. Shooting the breeze. Killing Orcs. Normal Wednesday afternoon in Lorien.



Climbing up out of the valley was the first time I had seen Offa’s Dyke itself. Eroded and not as high or wide but still brooding over a thousand years since it was built. 

I was camping in Trefonen at Fron Farm and I walked up the posh drive to it when a 4×4 came up. I asked if I could camp there and he said they didn’t take campers or caravans and never had. My research and planning was cack. There was another campsite which I’d contacted but didn’t get back to me. The bloke with the 4×4 said they could put me up at the local pub. The local pub said I could camp out back on their AstroTurf as long as I didn’t knock pegs in??? I had no signal so they rang local B&bs and the nice people in the bar all tried to help. 

Eventually a bloke in the corner, Mike Thorpe, said he was a volunteer at Tanat Light Valley Railway and he would drop me off there to camp. What a star!

There were real trains in this quiet valley. And if you look over my shoulder above you can see the fireplace and wood remaining from a hippy weekend. Wow! I was tired but I couldn’t resist a fire. Particularly when Mike gave me a bag of tea, toilet rolls, blankets, fire lighters and a gas lighter. 

All by myself. 

Night night.

Funny innit that the Welsh and the Spanish both have these double L features in their languages, including place names, and they are both pronounced similarly. Thle. I think. Therefore I am.  

I had a rest day yesterday in Llandegla because it had a shop and a cafe and my bloody feet (blistered as well) needed a break after a week. It was lovely with a lie in and a great all day breakfast in the community shop and cafe, staffed by volunteers and well deserving of support. The local pub was closed until late afternoon but I needed a seat in the shade so I sat outside and read the free local newspaper. The landlord summoned me in and suggested that I sit in their enclosed beer garden where I could stay until they opened. They opened at 5pm and although they weren’t serving dinner they gave me cheese and crackers and a big slice of home made pizza. I went back to my tent after a couple of beers for a tin of cold beans. Then I watched Gold Rush on my iPad in my sleeping bag in my tent. Frickin awesome (even though this phrase is banned on this blog). Frick Frick. 

The Welsh people in these borders are so kind and pleasant. Really nice folk. 

I upped tent at 9.15 and packed all my gear. Off by 9.45 and walked to the community cafe for another cooked breakfast. Lovely. By 11.00 I was back on the Path up from Llandegla into the hills. 

The forest hid any views of Llandegla but created some good ones looking forward.

Up on top of the hills the moor was bare of trees and the Path headed over to a steep escarpment that wound its way west to east, passing Llangollen in the process, nestled in the valley to the south. I spotted the start of the scarp from a distance.

Luckily today was cooler than of late and I made decent time. Dropping part way down the valley the Path cuts left to run across the middle of the escarpment. Keep your footing old lad.

The path eventually dropped down and met the road, which I followed down into Llangollen two Coors and momentous fish, chips, curry and mushy peas eaten inside for under £6. I like Llangollen. It’s relaxed and rural with a bit of sophistication, but not too much to hike prices.  I walked up to the campsite.

Walking uphill the ruins of Crow Castle stand out solidly on the skyline. Originally an Iron Age fort, then Norman, then rebuilt in the 13th century by Welsh princes. 

And beauty in the hedgerows. 

The view from my tent was better than Gold Rush. That good! 

Night night.

I got up at 8.15 after a decent night’s sleep, although getting up for a pee in a tent that you can’t sit up in during the night is a bit of a challenge. I don’t actually pee in the tent. I get up in it and from it to pee. OK, OK, OK. This genre of joke is exhausted. I won’t bore you with it again. Funny though innit! Frickin pure gold, as the Hoffmans from Portland, Oregon might say on Gold Rush. Then bash their safety helmets together. Praise the Lord but that is just badass summat. New series on tonight at 9.00pm. Better get my iPad recharged. Frickin awesome. 

I had my cheese and tomato sandwich bought from Tesco and it was frickin awesome. OK, OK, OK. the Gold Rush genre of phraseology is hereby frickin dispensed with. 

Frick!

Frick, Frick, Frick, Frickin Frick. 

Quest, Channel 37, 9pm. Be there or be square.

I’ve titled a blog ‘the Long March’ before, but this one was relatively short for a trekker. However it was killingly up and down on steep mountainsides in full sun and heat, climbing 4,000 feet with 16 kgs of rucksack and water on my back. And the march was 18 miles. My legs are stronger than my lungs,  but my legs were aching towards inaction. 

This is Bodfari looking back with a line of caravans to the bottom left of the church tower on the valley floor. That’s my campsite that is.

The first big summit was Penycloddiau which had a 4,000 year old burial chamber on the top as well as being one of a number of Clwydian hills that were perfect for defensive works and became hilltop villages in the Iron Age 2,500 years ago. Surrounding the hilltop are huge earthworks which have since eroded to small, but still impressive, fortifications. Dug by hand, antler and stone. If our ancestors reproduced on average at age 20, and we took the male of each generation since then (including ourselves), there would be 125 people. Take all 125 Smiths to Magaluf, give them 10 pints of Estrella each and there would be carnage. I’d probably be the least mental, strange as it sounds. 

 This is the defensive ditch.

Offa’s Dyke is a similar defensive works, dug out 1,250 years ago with a ditch 60 feet wide and a wall of earth over 8 feet high defending Mercia (middle England) from the Welsh. It is 150 miles long. No power tools, no bulldozers, no Hoffman’s, just English muscle. Thank you stock photo.

                            
Incredible. It would only be 60 Smiths going to Magaluf to reach back to Offa’s Dyke building. Still make a mess though. 

I had fully hydrated before I left the campsite and took one and a half litres of water with me. I was pouring out sweat and was so focused on grinding up the steep hills without dying that I didn’t take many photos. Sorry. But it took me 11 hours to get to Llandegla. 

I managed around 30 steps up the steepest parts before resting, although further into the journey that was reducing to 20. The pain in my legs was harsh but you’ve got to keep going and ignore it if you can. I got a last few views towards the coast before I got too far inland.

The hilltops got higher and I got more tired and I’d run out of water. Luckily I found a couple of springs about five miles apart and stocked up, rehydrated and reinvigorated at each one of them. The next photo is Moel Arthur, another hillfort with the defensive wall clear as day.

The next drop and climb were very steep and difficult up to a Jubilee fort at the top of Moel Famau. The views from there were stunning, over to the east towards the Dee estuary which I had left two days ago. 

Eight miles to go, broken up by a tea wagon in a car park in the valley below the Jubilee Tower. A cup of tea and a seat in the wagon out of the sun. Great. I’d been playing with ideas of wild camping or finding a campsite down in the valley before Llandegla. But now I was going to push it to get to Llandegla. Looking forward the hills were smaller and less steep. 

And eventually I made it to Llandegla just before 8pm and 11 hours after I set off from Bodfari. 

The local pub wasn’t serving food. The shop was shut. But the campsite owner saw the state I was in, not having eaten since breakfast, and made me two ham sandwiches and a cooked sausage. Heavenly. I’ll sleep well.
Night night. 

In the last blog the first photo was a map of the area I was walking. This contained the hidden message. The map was from Google and there were two other tabs open at the top which, if you read them across, spelt ‘You can kiss my arse’. Funny that eh?

The first stage of the Offa’s Dyke Path today and it’s going to be a warm one. I upped tent, bought a sandwich at Tesco for later and found a great cafe for brunchfast. 

It’s difficult to imagine how you can beat chips with a full English, and two cups of tea. Full as a fat person might be I set off up into the hills with Offa’s Dyke badges cast into the pavement. 

Christ it was steep. And long. There was a fret over the sea but it was clearing in the sun. As I got higher the views became more spectacular. I’d never rated Prestatyn, with it being a seaside town for Scousers, but it was very pleasant. 

At the top of the first hill Snowdonia opened up to the west, still slightly shrouded in mist. Fabulous views in these hills.

And a 1920s sophisticated lady looks permanently out to sea, waiting for Freddy to come back on his yacht with a jaunty smile and a jug of Pimms. “Marry Freddy?” That’s what happens when you let a woman in your life and grow accustomed to her face. Aaah. The long ago miracles of vinyl. Other worlds leaping out of the Dansette and taking you away with the stars. My Nan singing along as she dusted her small terraced house with the voice of an angel. Well, she sang with the voice of an angel but dusted the house with a duster. Eliza, fetch my slippers. 

The path cut over the top and inland, revealing the Clwydian Range of hills. There was no-one else on the path and it was peaceful, but hot and rollercoastering over hill and down valley. 

Today was a 12 mile jaunt which I thought would take four hours. It took 7. I sweated like a pig lugging that rucksack around. I wondered if I was getting too old for this caper. But the views and the peacefulness were worth the effort. 

South Pacific. There was a film. There is nothing like a dame, nothing in the world. There is nothing you can name, that is anything like a dame. 

The A55 runs across North Wales joining northern and central England to Holyhead and ferries to Ireland. You can see it in the bottom of the valley in the photo above. The A55 not Holyhead.

The smells are amazing, much like the skylark songs and the vistas. There were huge banks of gorse in full bloom, identifying themselves to the sightless with fragrance. 

Ooooooh! To the sightless with fragrance sergeant-major. Getting all poetic are we, you orrible little man. Eventually the path ran down into Bodfari and the first house was Bellavista. Spanish for beautiful view; and it was. The owners were just getting in their car and pointed me in the direction of the Station Caravan site, which they thought was great and they hadn’t heard of the one I had earmarked. Not a good sign in a small village. 

So I went to the Station, they allowed tents as well as caravans, I pitched mine up and had a great ham sandwich in the local pub. A long and sweaty day but only 165 miles of Offa’s Dyke left. Sleep well my dears.

Night night. 

Today was a longer stage, around 19 miles, from Northop Hall, back down to the Dee estuary and round to Prestatyn. I woke at 5.30 and tried to get back to sleep but failed. I finally got up at 8.00 and dried my clothes, which I’d washed in the bath the night before, with a hair dryer. Only use I got out of it. I’d had my first wash in four days last night; well a bath actually but one of those tiny ones you can only get your legs in so you have to get the shower down and wave it around the rest of your anatomy. I shaved too. Bloody hell. I was a clean man for 12 hours. 

I set off at ten to nine in decent weather with a cooling wind.

From Northop I dropped down to Oakenholt and along the long coastal road to Prestatyn. As I got closer it was clear that the river was turning into an estuary, with the Wirral peninsular on the opposite side. 

I found a real good cafe in Flint, full of construction workers, and had a superb breakfast for a third of the price it would have cost me at the hotel. And I’d done 5 miles to get a twist on. Tomatoes or beans? Daft question really. Bring on the beans! And the bacon, eggs, toast, sausage, black pudding and cups of tea. With brown sauce! And mustard! Kismet Hardy!!!!!! Don’t you despise dipsticks who use a lot of exclamation and question marks?????? 

Down at valley level the farms took over. One ambitious farmer had started growing ships!!!!!!!

It was brightening and then clouding, getting warm and then cool. Make your mind up please Mester God. 

Some stupid idiot had grown a boat on a grass verge. Wtf as they say on Facebook. It means summat rude. Don’t ask. I said don’t ask. OK it means ‘what the frick’, like they say on Gold Rush. Brilliant programme. ‘Gaaad (that means God in the Klondike). Gaaad thank you for your bounty in releasing these treasures to us. In Gaaad we truss’. Then they take their safety helmets off, lift them up and bash them all together. Because they’re in a circle to pray. Brilliant innit!!!!!!

I was walking down the road and I saw these monkeys on a wall. They didn’t run off so I got close enough for a photo. Only kiddiiiing!!! They’re dead.

The road got closer to the coast and I got a good shot of the Wirral and two islands near Hoylake where Cheggers plays golf I think. Only there was a tree in the way.

It was turning warm to hot and this north coast was sheltered from the wind. I got my head down and cracked on. Sweating like a sweater. 

Cop this bank. How lovely.

And this was a recovered pit head winder from a local pit which was the last deep coal mine in Wales to close, in the 1990s. The mine itself was deep below the Irish Sea. 

When I eventually made it the campsite was bathed in sunshine and looked great. The Clwydian hills behind are my target for the morning. Yeeesss!!!!!!!!!

Did you spot the hidden message????? No!!!!!

Clue – first photo in this blog. 

Night night.

For those of you who are sheltered from exposure to such phrases, a Dee Dah is slang for someone from Sheffield. 

The night was long and I was woken at 3am by a group of kids walking past my tent. I grabbed the handle of my machete but they buggered off. It was lonely there but I soon got back to sleep. This is my tent in the early morning light. On a hillside desolate. Can nature make a man of me yet?

Today was to be a walk from Chester to Northop Hall Country House Hotel. On the map below from Chester on the right bank of the Dee, crossing at Queensferry, along to Shotton and up to the Hall. 

I got up early and walked a couple of miles to a business park where I got a bus to Chester, had a breakfast and hit the road. Chester is ok but not as spectacular as this looks. It’s a bit shabby in many places. Historic though with the walls, castle and Roman remains.  

I thought it was a bit inappropriate for the funeral staff to be smiling. They’re paid to mourn the passing of people they don’t know and look miserable. Lovely horses.

I left the city and headed down to the River Dee where the stone pillars either side of this cycle path marked the Welsh border on the English side of the river. Cheeky taffs, nicking our land. 

The path ran on and on with a hard surface grinding my feet. When I took my boots off this evening my right sock was stiff with blood. Did it hurt a real man like me? Yes it did. Mummy, mummy, mummy. 

The river is tidal and the tide turned to come in, bringing a bore which was frightening in it’s intensity. I was too slow to capture it but it looked like this stock photo, and then water kept blasting in from the sea amazingly fast. 

At the same time a strange plane which looked like a dolphin flew over to land at Liverpool airport. It was the second time in two days at 4pm and I missed it again. Stock photo to the rescue.

Small doner kebab for a late lunch and up the hill from Shotton to Northop. Looking back to the Dee valley the steelworks at Shotton were still churning out metal sheet.

And finally 11 miles to Northop Hall. I’m tired. My spark’s gone and my blog is flat.

Be alright tomorrow though.

Night night.

And just to prove it.

Would you like your horse shoeing? 

And there are still a few Owls about. But it took a Blade to create this one.


A long sleep. I got up at 10.00, not really wanting to get out of my sleeping bag. It had rained a lot in the night but it was clear when I vacated my pit that the worst was over. I’d met an old bloke in the toilet last night and we had a chat over the Dyson Airblade. He invited me round this morning for a coffee with him and his old lass. Smashing bloke. From Manchester but had gone to west Wales for two weeks’ work 50 years ago and never went back. He was a doctor. Pretty good one by the sounds of it. 

I went round to their caravan after I’d packed all my tent and stuff and they gave me a proper coffee and croissant. Turned out that he’d been a bit of an adventurer in his time and had been Chief Medical Officer on the Everest Marathon. He made sure each competitor didn’t get altitude sickness and dealt with those who did. He worked in Nepal four times and made films there sponsored by pharmaceutical companies. Eventually I told him that me and Jet were doing the Annapurna Circuit and told him of my concerns about my head, which had been answered. He confirmed it was ok and that drinking water was crucial. When you get higher the oxygen gets less and you breathe in more but exhale more carbon dioxide which strips your blood of acid. The alkali screws with your system and you need to drink water to pee it out. 

Karma, coincidence, whatever. It was a brilliant explanation and for an 80 year old medic he was a star. Rob – may the road rise with you. I had to tear myself away but needs must. Over to Chester today and a bus ride out of town to a campsite and back in the morning. Only 14 miles but by the time I’d left Rob and his missus it was not too far from noon. 

I got my head down and enthused by Rob’s advice I smashed it, stopping in Kelsall for fish finger sandwiches and then cracking on again. This decal on an old Land Rover summed up my  euphoria. 

It was road again but I managed to find an overgrown footpath that might shave half a mile off the total. Sadly at a cost to my legs, photographed as I write in an empty marquee in the middle of nowhere. 

Anyway less about me and more about you. How are you? Well? Good, good, good. So look after yourself. 

Bugger that. More about me now. I’m so interesting and clever and my dad says “Thank you Lord for giving me such a son, such a bum, such a son. Good boy. You’re such a …. lick spittle ….. lick spittle. Good boy, good boy, good boy”. 

Sorry. I’m back again. Cop this. The grazed leg was worth it.

And back on the road the heaviest cherry blossom in it’s prime.

Luscious and framed by a blue sky. 

I was beginning to smell by this time. For those who don’t ‘get’ trekking this might sound gross. I was sweating in the same clothes that I’ve worn for the last three days. I haven’t washed or showered. I’m staying in a posh hotel tomorrow night that I found ridiculously reduced to 27 quid. I’ll turn up with my rucksack and shorts stinking like a skunk and they’ll either call security or take my money and let me in. 

I got on the bus in Chester. Nobody sat next to me. Their olfactories are working ok. The views were nice but I didn’t get time to see Chester as the 17.01 was the last bus and I onlyjust made it. 

The campsite is on a massive complex called Chester Lakes. Year round top class carp fishing on 5 lakes, a caravan and tent site that could accommodate at least a thousand caravans, a restaurant, a cafe and a bar in a marquee. Who’s there? Nobody. This place is the size of Hyde Park in the Smoke. No bugger. And everything is shut. And I’m 2 miles from the nearest pub.

I pitched my tent and the people running the site drove round, opened the bar and let me buy crisps and cider for 10 minutes. Nowt else to eat here. They were here to stock up for the weekend then pushed off but have let me stay in the marquee and plug in my iPad. Least they could do for a hungry geriatric. 

I’m going to get the 9.17 in the morning to Chester. Get back where I finished, get a breakfast and walk four hours only to this hotel. Twenty seven quid! Way Hey!

Night night. 

From Macclesfield to Winsford on foot is 24 miles of road walking. Sounds grim but the first 16 miles were in beautiful rolling English countryside, with Georgian houses, well to do farms and country estates. More pheasants than peasants. And what could represent the strength, structure and history of England than this magnificent oak. Proud in the morning wind and cold sun. I’m sticking out my chest like we never lost a war!

Come on England. Let’s do summat in Russia this year! Semifinals at least. Come on lads. Hearts of Oak. What a great Richard Hawley track. Georgie and Adam walking back down the aisle to that song. Brilliant.

This country estate at a distance looked fantastic.

And over the next brow I caught a glimpse of the iconic sky-scourer, Jodrell Bank, still looking up to the heavens 60 years on.

Spring has taken over. Look at this woodland display. White and bluebells together. 

Further down the road it got a bit quieter and I didn’t have to dodge so many cars. It’s a bummer when the roadsides are steep up to hedges and there’s no pavement. 

I managed to make a few new friends. The first was typically oddball.

I had set off at 8.00 and made it to Holmes Chapel by 13.00. A Scotch egg and tap water for breakfast and fish and chips for lunch. The traffic queue from Holmes Chapel to the M6 motorway was horrific. When I crossed it the problem was road works on the southbound carriageway. Gridlock. Glad I’m not working any more.

The black car behind the lorry on the left was full of chavs. When they eventually drove under the bridge they leant out of the windows and shouted abuse at me. I bravely waved two fingers at them and then legged it in case they had seen me! 

Even in this busy traffic, over the final third of the journey, spring was undefeated.

I made it to the campsite at 18.00, put up my tent and fell asleep. Just in the local now – sticky toffee pudding and Robinsons dark mild beer. A very British combination.

Night night.