All the Trails in Wales

Tan-y-Coed

Turns out the Women’s Land Army isn’t a radical feminist organization

February 15, 2017

Although I'd used John Gilham's superbly helpful 'The Mountains of Snowdonia' to hike up Craig-y-Garn, when looking through potential hike something struck me - the man hates trees. They block the view, they're managed forests, etc, etc. Having grown up in the woods myself, while I understand that at times they block the view - they're trees, and they're lovely.

In a place where chopping down trees in order to create more space for the sheep was encouraged by government legislation just a few centuries ago, I suppose thinking that some forests are in the way is understandable. But even with the tremendous beauty that comes with the rolling green fields, and the craggy sheep dotted mountains, largely devoid of trees, sometimes you just miss a walk in the woods.

So I found Tan-y-Coed

So instead of a lengthy hike through more farmers' fields, I made my way to the Dyfi forest - specifically nearby Tan-y-Coed. In between Corris and Machynlleth and managed by Natural Resources Wales, this is a small picnic area with well-marked (yay!!!) walking and running trails, and a children's animal puzzle trail through the forest.

Starting at the carved wooden statue of a doormouse, the trails are super easy to find. Along with the trail, I found a marker for the 'Women's Land Army'. Wondering what that could possibly have been, I tried to go to the website mentioned on my phone - as per normal, there wasn't any service, so I decided to look it up later.

As it turns out (if you download the NRW's handy 'PlaceTales' app before arriving you can hear all about it while you're there), the Forestry Commission started planting the forest after the WWI, when they'd run out of timber. The work then, and during WWII - when the occupation of Norway meant there were no timber imports to the UK - was largely done by women of the Timber Corps, part of the Women's Land Army.

Basically, while the men were off fighting, the women enlisted to take over the heavy-lifting work that still needed doing. It was only in the 21st century that these women received recognition for the role they played in the war effort.

Thanks to these ladies, I now have some very pleasant forests to walk through. Interrupted only by the occasional terrifying fighter jet overflight (they train here, and all hiking inevitably involves at some point being terrified by a really, really loud plane flying really, really low), I made my way on the 1.5 mile Tan-y-Coed hiking trail.

Trees, trees, trees

The first half is largely uphill as you travel north east, with some switchbacks through charming moss-covered forests. If you don't hate trees you'll be totally cool with it. Before you hit the top of the hill, the trail turns left towards the west, at one point you'll see a branch of one of the running trails. Eventually you slowly start to lose elevation, and the trail turns more to the south you come up to a river and a very nice two tiered waterfall.

Although it looked like the flowers were just starting to come back in at the base of the waterfall - unfortunately they weren't in bloom yet. Slightly disappointed, I had to remind myself that it was, after all, only mid-February. If I were at home I would probably be under a foot of snow and not worrying about flowers.

Turning back east towards the car park, the path meanders up towards a paved road through more woods, and is a pleasant, simple, 5 to ten minute walk back.

All in all, a nice day out - if you don't mind trees.

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Barmouth

I'm sure Cadair Idris is out there somewhere

February 22, 2017

I've now been through Barmouth a couple of different times on the way to various hikes in North Wales, like Moelfre, Harlech Castle, and Dyffryn Ardudwy. Having seen some spectacular views on the peninsula, I decided to try the area to the north of the Mawddach estuary (southern part of the peninsula), using the conveniently located train station in Barmouth as a starting point.

While the Mawddach estuary had certainly looked lovely from the Precipice Walk to the east and the Mawddach Trail in the south, it was from Barmouth to the north that Wordsworth described the view as "sublime" and comparable to the finest in Scotland - and having driven the road to Dolgellau several times in the past, I have to say I agree.

Dinas Oleu & Garn

After successfully navigating up Craig-y-Garn using John Gillham's 'The Mountains of Snowdonia', I decided to try the book again. In it he described a fairly short hike directly out of the Barmouth town center up to the top of Garn, the hill directly behind the town. Having a look at my OS map and feeling like a real adult actually making a reliable plan, I planned a route through the smaller Dinas Oleu, over to 'the Slabs' - the area for beginner climbers where the path turns to ascend to the top of the hill.

Unfortunately, I checked the weather and it seemed like rain and wind all week. But I decided I wanted to get outside and getting outside in Wales sometimes means getting wet. My book said that the top of Garn would be very difficult to navigate if there was sea fog - so I even had the forethought to make a backup plan, to instead take the Panorama Walk from the Slabs area if the weather was too bad.

I may have jinxed my visit

The superstitious part of me says that my unusual levels of preparation may have guaranteed the need for backup plans.

I arrived in a intermittent drizzle-downpour in Barmouth after a convenient and charming 45 minute train ride from Aberdyfi - which (I'm sorry but I'm American and the stereotype about us always talking about the price of things is accurate, in my case because I love a good deal) was insanely cheap at less than 5 pounds return. There I found that the Visitor Center the Rough Guide mentions had been closed in November 2016 due to budget cuts.

Grumbling that I hadn't been part of the consultation about where to put my Council Tax because I hadn't moved here yet when they happened, I decided to just pull on my rain poncho and get going. I won't describe how hard it turned out to be to put on a stupid rain poncho, because it was embarrassing enough at the time.

As I started out of town toward Dinas Oleu via several well way marked paths, I noticed that the visibility was absolutely terrible. Though I could see in front of me, clearly the tops of the hills were covered in fog, and I couldn't even see out of town to the estuary, never mind across the estuary to the fabled fantastic views of looming Cadair Idris.

I quickly found my way to the Dinas Oleu viewing terrace, where I was greeted with a placard explaining the history - specifically, that this hill, called the 'Fortress of Light', was the first property ever donated to the National Trust in 1895. To explain to non-British people, the National Trust is kind of a UK national Historic Preservation Society, which keeps up historic properties and allows public visits. I'm a member not just for the free parking, but because the sites they manage are amazing. Also the newsletter has a great crossword puzzle.

The National Trust crossword puzzle being neither here nor there, on top of Dinas Oleu, I was also greeted by tremendous amounts of rain, a wall of fog, absolutely no view, and the strong desire not to go to the top of a hill that involved scrambling up slippery rocks and where I would be entirely blinded by fog.

Figuring I had until the Slabs to make a decision, I climbed up Dinas Oleu and took a side path on the right - through a gate kept closed by an awesome mechanism of a rock with a chain through it - to see the Frenchman's Grave. This is a walled garden where French philosopher Auguste Guyard was buried - he moved to Barmouth after fleeing the Siege of Paris, and cultivated a beautiful hill side garden of rare plants that's commemorated in a plaque to him. It was a pleasant place, even when it was drizzly and the view completely obscured by fog.

To the Panorama Walk - maybe?

Back to the path and on my way to the Slabs, I passed through several fields of sheep and various rockfalls. Tiptoeing quietly past the sheep so they wouldn't spontaneously go into labor, as a sign had warned me it was lambing season (whereas I had thought they were just super-fat sheep), I thought how this would probably be a very nice walk if there weren't clouds of fog currently blowing the waterproof poncho off over my head.

Reaching the Slabs, it wasn't a hard decision to skip the ascent to the peak and make for the Panorama walk - what with the ascent looking like a foggy moonscape out of a horror movie. Making my way down via paved road, then muddy path, and then a walled road paved with large stones and covered in bright green moss, I found the entrance to the Panorama walk.

So then, I decided to go the other way. Figuring that something called a Panorama walk was best tackled on a day when someone could see a panorama, I continued instead down the walled road.

I'm very glad I did. Even though by this point I somehow had a soaking wet top half despite wearing several layers of waterproofing, I got to see several picturesque abandoned stone buildings that made me want to ask after purchasing as a fixer upper; a lovely forest walk; the Glandwr Mill, a charming now-B&B set on a river with a lovely bridge and garden; and several quaintly landscaped country cottages set along the meandering path.

When I decided to turn back north (I'd been walking mostly east) to make my way to a road that ran south west back to Barmouth, I stumbled through a farm with the right of way running through it that was just so charming I didn't even know what to do with it. I don't know how to describe it and my pictures turned out terrible - but it was just the most idyllic setting I could think of, and I found myself trying to figure out how I could convince P we should find property there and move even further away from Aberystwyth.

Meanwhile, back in Barmouth

When I found the tiny road I'd been looking for, the fog had just lifted slightly off of the Rhinoggyds to the north east, and I could just make out the edge of the estuary to the south. The view through the fields, the just budding daffodils and the rushing fog was stunning - and considering I couldn't even see Cadair Idris in the slightest, that's saying something.

Despite this, I really wanted to get back to Barmouth, mostly because I was soaking wet. In particular my feet were squishy, a problem I've been able to avoid so far with my waterproof hiking sneakers, but they seemed to have failed this time.

I also had the best tuna steak ever (although since I don't normally eat cooked fish, I'm really not the best judge on this one) with spicy prawn sauce at the Last Inn. Described as 'one of the most famous Olde Inns in Wales', this 15th century inn-now-gastropub certainly deserves fame. Quaint and dark and full of nooks and crannies and fireplaces, built around a bar centered in the middle of the pub, it's pretty much what you would think an Olde Inn would be like. Even though it was apparently originally a cobbler's house, somehow it perfectly fits into what the American stereotype of what a British pub should be like - maybe minus the red Christmas lights.

But in addition to the stereotype - it boasts an internal waterfall. Apparently the pub was fashioned so that the continuous stream of water coming off the cliffs behind it would flow down through the pub - where it was used to keep the casks of ale cold.

Not wanting to get myself any wetter than I already was, however, I sat in the front room, watching the waterfall from afar. I greedily ate my tuna steak and local ale, and considered the advertisement for the Three Peaks' Yacht Race I could see outside. This sailing race starts in Barmouth and entails navigating to and running up the highest peak in each country in Great Britain (Wales, England, Scotland), and likely draws a massive crowd to town during the already busy summer season. That kind of crowd, along with the amusements lining the promenade, are probably why people talk about Barmouth as a brash seaside resort.

But if you're like me, and want to see 'real-life' in beautiful settings rather than the introvert's nightmare of being constantly entertained and jostled - it's places like Barmouth that are oftentimes better viewed in the off season.

So even though I was soaked and cold, I left fairly happy that I'd been able to spend time there in the winter.

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