Heeeyho Readers! Wet days in Wales, Brecon Beacons, trails and more.
It boils down to a pitiful, damp, and idle couple of days. I sought motivation to get on moving after realizing the weather wouldn't give me a break. The forecast predicted non-stop showers for the weeks to come, so... I was bound to get wet—as if lazing in between the tent and the cafe wasn't pleasing enough. Where should I go? The east coast intrigued me. From there, I could follow the Euro Velo 11 towards Scotland, into the unknown. Yet... I'd be soaked and even farther away from London, where I should be 'till my Visa expired.
After banging my head over the map, I finally decided to cycle down to the Brecon Beacons, in Wales. And so I did.
A 20-kilometer ride from Hope, through Castleton, Sparrowpit, and Doveholes (and who the heck created these names) led to Blackwell Mill, where I’d follow the Monsal Trail (14 km) down to Bakewell. From there, a total distance of 140 kilometers completed the plans for that day in Birmingham.
The Monsal Trail is a cycling, horse riding, and walking trail in the Peak District. It was constructed from a section of the former Manchester, Buxton, Matlock, and Midland Junction Railway, built by the Midland Railway in 1863 to link Manchester with London. Most of the Monsal trail opened to the public in 1981. In 2011 the four railway tunnels—Headstone Tunnel, Cressbrook Tunnel, Litton Tunnel, Chee Tor Tunnel—were also opened.
Here’s where I regret the dumbness of wet-o-rama cycling, for there was no chance to pull the camera out to register the spectacular scenery. Anyways. I made my way through Birmingham, met the Peaky Blinders, and went straight to the outskirts. A lovely camper type of place denied my stay in a tent, forcing me to camp on a random farm somewhere. Another 150-kilometer ride rolled by as I cycled God-knows-where—I was indeed lost. What I do know, however, is that I went through Worcestershire simply because I couldn’t pronounce such a name. The sheer damage of those rainy days was visible.
I called it a day at a well-run campsite called Aberbran Fach near Brecon, where the manager, Dave, gave me access to Wi-Fi. Loquacious old man, a legend, and an excellent woodcarver. When the rain gave us all a break, I ran to the supermarket and bought sausages and other stuff. My head was blowing; I felt tired. I crashed in the tent just to wake up the morning after, throwing up the guts and more. That day I spent between the tent and the toilet. Goddamnit!
As the saying goes: “a smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”
After recomposing, I followed what I believe is the Taff Trail. The cycle route alongside the canal led me to a second campsite named Talybont Farm. My guts were still burbling, but I felt encouraged to explore the Brinore Tramroad to view the Talybont Reservoir from above.
I went up the mountains in search of a famous trail named The Gap, which runs down the valley in a single-track of loose rocks—I never found it. But I did go down the valley somewhere else, just to come back up through the same path. Down the Brinore Trail I went, bouncing rocks and hanging on to dear life. The trail is so bumpy that, by the time I reached the campsite, my guts were burbling again (but no throwing up this time.)
The Brinore Tramroad or Bryn Oer Tramway runs for 8 miles (13 km) from Talybont-on-Usk to Trefil, within the Brecon Beacons National Park in Wales. It was operational between 1815 and 1865 and linked the Tredegar iron works and Trefil limestone quarries to the Monmouth & Brecon canal at Talybont. Its route passes through the dramatic and scenic valleys of Talybont and Dyffryn Crawnon before reaching the uplands of Trefil mountain. Source: Brinore Tramroad
I don't recall what made me cycle from Talybont-on-Usk to Abergavenny so early on since the weather did seem to shine. I was indeed frightened to cycle down to London and have my new bicycle stolen. For that reason, disassembling the bicycle and going by bus seemed wise. The folks at The Great Western Pub and Lounge were legendary in providing me with a place to work.
Later that day, I met this old Welsh fella from Cardiff. He was absolutely drunk, watching a documentary about the Pyramids of Egypt in the living room. "God, I'm so drunk," he repeated tirelessly. "You know, I was in Cardiff, drinking at the pub. And... well... I decided I should visit Abergavenny. And here I am. I took a train and came here. God, I'm so drunk."
The morning after, I met him again as the sun glazed in the front yard, at the picnic tables.
"You alright after yesterday?" I asked.
He laughed. "Was I that drunk?"
"Hah! Kinda."
"God, how shameful. And I slept on the top bunk-bed. How could I?
"Oh, you did... just above myself..."
The old man managed to go to bed without disturbing, incredible.
"Well... since I'm in Abergavenny, I shall go for a walk. It was nice to meet you, my friend." And there he went. I returned to London.
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Disclaimer: The author of this post is a convict broke backpacker, who has travelled more than 10.000 km hitchhiking and more than 5.000 km cycling. Following him may cause severe problems of wanderlust and inquietud. You've been warned.
