My Collie and I

MAGAZINE A countess, a collie, and a walk along Offa’s Dyke Sally FitzHarris, Countess of Malmesbury,tells of an 80-mile adventure with only her dog Flora for company HOLIDAYS, as any counsellor savagely mauled corpses. Next overwhelms both of us and we feel and I fall asleep before I finish knows, can test a relationship. morning at breakfast we are the urge to return to the road. counting the gnomes from my Hence my companion for a walk- joined by Robert,a combine con- Bigsweir Bridge to Quicken bedroom window. Supper that ing tour: Flora, a border collie, in- tractor, and it becomes apparent Tree Wood: forestry in progress night is taken in Monmouthshire, telligent, affectionate, possessed that the real spectre stalking the and no waymarks. I keep to the as we recross the Wye to the Boat of inexhaustible energy, and un- countryside is Tesco. He talks of edge of the woodland, failing to Inn, which is said to be the site of questioning of any decision I village shops and petrol stations observe that the wood has an an ancient ferry crossing. make with a map.We are bound disappearing. Local farmers are eastern spur. A builder working Next day, Mr Evans our host for 80 miles of the Offa’s Dyke getting 15p a litre for milk.‘They on a local barn puts me right with points out the old railway line as path,from Chepstow to Knighton. need 18p to break even,’ he says. the familiar, ‘Straight on: you the quickest way to Monmouth. A brilliant orange, single-car- Our route next day plunges us can’t miss it.’ I seem to be pro- By 8.55am we are passing St riage train bearing Dylan Thomas back into woodland, along a nar- gressing to Redbrook by a series Mary’s Church in the centre of quotations brings us into Chep- town, which is about to celebrate stow. Leaving the town over the Mass.‘Catholic dog?’ says a man River Wye,with Chepstow Castle as we enter.‘Certainly is,’ I reply, brooding at its edge, a dramatic suppressing Flora’s Scottish Pres- border crossing takes us from byterian background.A grizzled Wales back into English Glouces- elderly Welshman fetches a bowl tershire. For the first two days I of water for her. She curls into a am cautious over distance:Brock- silent ball and remains that way, weir, followed by Redbrook; until going up for Communion I short journeys which take us up see a familiar sight ahead: black, the wooded edges of the Wye.My wavy,white-tipped tail weaving in first map-reading error brings us and out of the queue. Sorting the deep into the Lancaut Nature re- sheep from the goats possibly? serve, until, bending beneath ‘Flora!’ Obediently,she returns. brambles and wild buddleia, I Leaving Monmouth via Wa- notice Flora standing on rocks tery Lane, which is now very dry which fall sheer to sluggish brown indeed, I have resorted to ‘route water. I retrace my steps to find notes’, which give comforting in- the path, which passes along the structions such as: ‘Turn right at limestone cliffs some 200ft above. far corner of field to footbridge Brockweir lies beyond Tintern over deep gully.’ This brings us Woods. The climb through these safely into and through King’s seems interminable. A signpost Flora, ideal travelling companion: ‘affectionate, and Wood. The orange train might points to Devil’s Pulpit,a mile dis- have quoted De la Mare: ‘Very tant.These are the longest miles I unquestioning of any decision I make with a map’ old are the woods … ’ We are now have ever trodden and I suspect a heading west, in the direction of devious plot of the Welsh to low- row and vertiginous path, with of triangles. But it is good to be Penrhos,crossing farmland above er English resistance.The Pulpit the slope falling away to our left, out in the sunlight. I am not a and below the River Trothy. It is is a giant slab of limestone rock, and on the right, trees tenuously purist for the Offa’s Dyke path: domestic, pacific countryside, at a natural viewpoint looking rooted in crags and boulders. It we head downhill into a valley. small fields bordered by enor- down upon Tintern Abbey. feels like border country and it is Between hesitation, deviation mous oaks, the Black Mountains In late-afternoon we find our not difficult to imagine ancient and the local art scene, the jour- a dim blue in the distance.There first hostelry. Ron Peacey, our hostilities. Emerging at an un- ney to Redbrook takes about five seems absolutely no movement host, is still talking of the foot- scheduled T-junction we meet hours. Our destination, with its apart from the occasional crow. and-mouth crisis. Now he keeps another walker, striding towards villa-type houses clinging to a Stock is huddled into the hedges only 100 sheep.‘I lost heart after us with a dalmatian. steep hill,has the look of a seaside or beneath trees. Flora seems to foot-and-mouth. I had anaemic Flora makes horrible faces at town. Reaching our accommoda- be leaping the stiles a little less sheep;they wanted grass;I wasn’t the dalmatian, so I turn down its tion we are greeted by Oscar, a gracefully and feels evidently bet- allowed to move them. Normally owner’s offer of guidance and re- standard poodle. I remember as- ter for a dip in the Trothy. you’d have me locked up for route myself back towards Bigs- suring our landlady that Flora There is no pleasure like that keeping animals like that.’ weir Bridge.Passing a small farm- loved meeting new dogs.She puts of arrival: in the mid-afternoon Talk turns to wild cats. He had house I am intrigued by a sign on her most fearful scowl accom- we reach Grange Farm,solitary in lost many lambs.Then a wild cat saying ‘Open’. Stumbling in, we panied by a low, threatening, the midst of hills.Our 80-year-old expert came along with the skull discover an art exhibition. After back-of-the-throat rumble. hostess tells me bed-and-break- of a three-year-old puma,and the attempting to comment on the ‘Nervy,’ I apologise. We are fast is her third career: ‘I was a teeth marks fitted those in the pictures,the need for social nicety shown into a narrow bedroom maths teacher and then a com- ANNIVERSARY 2006 COUNTRY ILLUSTRATED 65 MAGAZINE ‘We jaunt downhill, spirits high, as the delight of this tramp lifestyle takes hold’ puter analyst.’ The 115-acre farm, now run by her daughter, be- longed to a nearby Cistercian abbey until the Dissolution, and 12th-century stone has been found among the house foundations. Day four, and the weather has cooled. Pandy is 12 miles away,at the foot of the Hatterall Ridge, via Llantilio Crossenny.We jaunt downhill from the farm, spirits high, as the delight of this tramp lifestyle takes hold. The Sugar Loaf mountain and weirdly shaped Skirrid are before us.As a fine rain starts to fall they some- what ominously disappear. We are criss-crossing the Trothy again, surprising a buzzard, come down to drink,and,a little farther on, see the flash of a kingfisher. I am having cravings for a Mars Bar and assume Llantilio Crossenny might supply this. But no. The emptiness of this country is making itself felt.We eat our sandwiches beside the Herefordshire spreads out, derelict Little Poole Farm: I serene and sunny, in hun- wonder how many generations dreds of small fields and had lived and worked here, be- occasional farms. fore giving up on the attempt to The way to the highest make a living. The hills are be- point of the ridge is marked coming steeper, recalling the by an interminable number Celtic blessing:‘May the wind be of small cairns. Then we always at your back.’ But at the drop down sharply until the top of a hill stands St Cadoc’s final trig point is visible at Church, newly white-washed, Hay Bluff ahead. Time for a one of several on the route to celebratory cheese sandwich: offer make-your-own tea, cof- Flora flops down beside me, a fee and hot chocolate. bank of heather at our back. We reach the Lancaster Arms Top: The Wye Valley between Hay Bluff is positively crowd- in Pandy by early afternoon. Rushock and Herrock Hill. Above: ed: picnickers and couples have Morale is high,the weather fore- St Cadoc’s Church, dispensing tea now only ancient climbed up from the car park cast excellent, and Hay-on-Wye, and hot chocolate as well as religion. bumps of grass buried among the below. A few yards beyond the 17 miles distant, seems possible bracken. Common sense tells me stone marker, the ground falls the following night. I had forgot- green line travelling the vertical that the path has to run straight sheer: the Wye valley lies at our ten the Royal Welsh Show, which length of my map, in country ahead,and this brings me eventu- feet and,beyond,a dizzying circle has filled every guest house for 20 coloured-in like the Sahara, ally to the required trig point. of Welsh and English counties. miles around.A concerned Welsh showing no dwelling within miles, The track is visible far ahead. I make an unbalanced de- voice at the Tourist Office, care- has alarmed me. It is 13 miles Over several hours’ walking, the scent, envying Flora her agility.

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