The response from Ali was not unexpected. Much as she might admire the view from the top of a mountain, getting there without the aid of a helicopter seemed liked a lot of unnecessary effort, especially when there was rain in the forecast. She would spend the afternoon exploring the charity shops in Crickhowell, while I got whatever it was out of my system by walking up to the summit and back, via the halfway house of Table Mountain that is. Not the famous one that overlooks the southern tip of Africa – you’d worked that out already, hadn’t you? – but the rather more modest lump at the edge of the Brecon Beacons. At seven hundred and nine metres above sea level, I’m probably pushing it with you hardened outdoor types by calling Pen Cerrig-Calch a mountain, a claim all the more audacious given that the grassy plateau on top of the neighbour with the famous name is a mere pimple by comparison. Four hundred and fifty-one metres to sit at the Table if you were wondering.
We squeezed Brenda into the one remaining space large enough to accept her in the car park behind the town centre, a feat made all the more interesting by the fact I’d decided to break out with the ramps in an attempt to level her up. Ever tried making a cup of tea at a fifteen degree angle? No, I didn’t want to try that either. And while she now boasts a fridge that would work perfectly well whilst parked on the slopes of the mountain I was about to commune with, this was in the days of the gas powered affair that would give up the ghost at the merest hint of an incline.
After a brief lunch, we set off across the car park in our own separate directions, Ali heading for an afternoon of abandonment to see how many second hand clothes she could amass with a fiver and still return with change, while armed with Haribo and various other essential snacks, I made my way to the northern end of the town and the quiet lane that led uphill towards the farmyard where the mountain path across the fields began. In that farmyard stood a bull displaying his masculinity in no uncertain terms, and considering discretion to be the more sensible option in the pursuit of a slightly longer life, I carried on along the lane to a narrow mud strewn track between the boundaries of two fields before eventually finding my way back to where I needed to be.
With large and potentially unfriendly beasts out of sight and sound behind me, I lifted my heels and followed the trail, entering a woodland space which followed the brook that tumbled down towards the town from the high ground. For now the sun blazed through a mass of white and grey cloud, smiling over me as I arrived at a grassy high meadow on the other side of the brook. And from here the fun started, clambering across a narrow, rutted trail and wet ground, bumping into the very occasional party of hikers as I gained more height. In time I arrived at an expanse of open ground filled with orange bracken, the halfway house just above me offering a perfect view of the wonderfully symmetrical Sugar Loaf Mountain to the south. And again, if you’re keeping up, I hadn’t somehow magically been transported to Rio de Janeiro. This one watches over Abergavenny, our touchstone gateway into the Brecon Beacons with its welcoming Aldi opposite the big car park and its splendidly generous fish and chip shop.
For a while I sat on top of that grassy plateau, enjoying having the world entirely to myself as I chewed on a chocolate and nut filled bar before completing the meal with a small handful of Haribo and a swig of water from the bottle. This moment, now more than eighteen months ago was only a week after I’d finally hung up my abacus for good and left the rat race. The sense of elation was heightened all the more in these beautiful mountainside moments as an entire new world of possibilities opened up in front of me. Now I gazed up towards the eminence to the north, the trig point out of sight somewhere above the huge orange swathe between us. The adventure was only halfway done and there was more to discover on this day of moody skies and glowing sunshine.
As I came down off the plateau to continue further up the slope, I looked across the landscape to the west, and the Glanusk Estate where we were staying in the van. At the edges of the grey summits beyond, I could see it coming towards me at a gathering pace. Transfixed, I watched as a sheen of silver moved across the landscape, and while I knew my waterproofs were about to be well tested, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the elements at work. For five, maybe ten minutes I stood by what I hoped would soon be a protective wall, the fiercely yellow fields in front of me contrasting the darkening clouds above the hinterland, bright sunshine competing with grim shadows for supremacy over the landscape. While I was able to, I used the camera to catch these moments, fully in the knowledge that I’d come equipped with the light walkabout lens that lacks the weather proofing features of the others.
Further up the slopes the weather worsened, and by the time I found the trig point the views across the world had disappeared, leaving me only with the path back to Crickhowell and nothing else to see. Still, I had plenty more Haribo to keep me company. That always makes everything seem better. Later I did get to witness the Sugar Loaf once more, with a rainbow added for good measure as I made my way back towards the brook and the fields I’d crossed four hours earlier. And now with the lane almost in sight, the path was blocked by not one, nor two, but three muscled and morose looking steers, each of them sporting long twisty horns upon which I had no desire to be impaled. As I approached, the nearest one came closer to the path and glared in my direction, raking his hooves along the ground to make sure I’d got the message. I relented, retracing my footsteps to that narrow track between the fields once more.
Ali looked almost as grumpy as those steers. Not because I was even later than I said I’d be, but more to do with having learned that not everywhere is quite like her local stomping ground at home when it comes to charity shops. Just yesterday she showed me a pair of her favourite brand of shoes, liberated from one of her usual haunts for a price that almost constituted shoplifting. But here in the border market town, nothing of interest was available for under fifteen quid. Even up there in the rain, faced down by irritable cattle and forced down rutted tracks full of puddles, it seemed I’d had a better time of it. In fact I’d had a grand time of it on those rugged slopes, watching the weather race silently across the valley and the shining yellow pastures, before dousing me with its contents. An afternoon well spent I’d say.
