*Commonly referred to as “the Waterfall Woods” in the Brecon Beacons, an area which is, in fact, very well-known indeed.
SUMMER SOLSTICE -- FRIDAY, 21 JUNE, 2013
The John Percival Building hummed along as usual. I shoved my carefully-packed backpack under my desk and headed off to Yet Another Meeting about Yet Another Thing. After this customary ritual was completed, I met my fellow microadventuring friends, Rhys and Jenn, to discuss transportation plans. Deciding on a train from Cathays to Aberdare, then a walk to Pontneddfechan, we ate lunch with some incredulous colleagues who sent us on our way.
Feeling excited, optimistic, and energized, we got off the train at Aberdare and started walking. After a brief false start due to my poor navigational skills, we got on the Cynon Trail and headed for Hirwaun. Spirits were high, the sun was shining, and the conversation was lively and full of belly laughs. At Hirwaun, we branched off onto a footpath heading up into the hills through some fields. The grass was marshy and filled with sheep poo but the sun shone on and we were happy to be outside. We climbed, deep in conversation, and then seemingly all of a sudden (though it must have been gradual), a spectacular view of one of Wales’ green, lush valleys spread out behind us like a living watercolor. What a reward!
Nearing Pontneddfechan, we descended via a public bridleway which cut down into the Afon Mellte gorge. The view remained stunning – or perhaps even grew increasingly more so – and before long the sound of rushing water greeted our eager ears. Walking the last half mile or so along the Mellte path, we headed for the village, hungry and ready for a rest. Finding the Angel Inn as quirky and accommodating as we’d hoped, we settled in for some bwyd and cwrw, giving our feet and shoulders a brief respite.
With our batteries suitably recharged, we headed back out, this time along the Neath gorge trail to the Sgwd Glawdus waterfall. We stopped for awhile, taking it in and dipping our feet in the clear, cool water. Then, with the sun lowering in the sky, we got back on the main trail and headed north, hoping to find the perfect spot to sleep under the stars.
Passing waterfall after waterfall, each as beautiful as the one before, we tried a couple of potential sleeping spots up the hill from the river, only to be driven away by clouds of what were probably midges. With the light failing and the trail rocky, slippery and muddy, we decided to abandon the river and head for higher ground. We made it to the next main road after dark and crossed via an old stone bridge, heading east back towards the Mellte, eventually curving south again. After a number of failed attempts at finding the right sleeping spot, we snuck into a field along the road whose edges were lined with trees and long grass; the field was, from what we could tell in the dark, unused, and there weren’t any suspicious lights nearby. Figuring that we couldn’t be seen from the road, and that we’d be gone before anyone would spot us from the other direction, we unpacked, bivvied up, and settled in for the night. Exhausted, sore, hot, and exhilarated, we cocooned ourselves into our bags, pleased with our successful first microadventure, and ready to give this bivy malarkey a try.
Soon after, a light, misty precipitation began to fall. It was actually refreshing – having spent much of the day overheated, and feeling a bit grimy, I welcomed the gentle rain on my face, finding it calming. Then the mist turned to a drizzle, then the drizzle turned to a steady rain, then the steady rain turned into a downpour. Then it poured. And poured. And poured. The rain against my bivy sounded like someone playing a snare drum directly next to my head. Despite my best efforts, rivulets of rain came in through the opening of my bivy, soaking my pillow and the arm I had under my head. My body remained surprisingly dry (thanks, Alpkit!) but there was no escaping the rain – it pooled in my rain jacket, vainly thrown over my pack and shoes; it splashed against my face under the bivy where it ricocheted off my mat. There would be no sleep tonight.
The rain finally let up to a gentle drizzle around 3:30, and I was able to sleep for about an hour. Then, with the light gathering, we declared the rain victorious. In the morning light, we could see that the field we had chosen was filled with yellow flowers, gently sloping off downhill into another beautiful valley view—or what would have been a beautiful valley view, were it not for the rain, cloud, and mist. Shoving our soaking wet gear into our packs, and shaking a slug out of my right shoe, we trudged back down the hill to the quiet, sleeping village, hoping for good news about the first bus out of town. Of course, no such good news was to be had, but we did pass a window full of kittens. Bonus!
After a couple of hours and a surprising amount of transportational dead ends, we managed to get to Neath railway station, where we got the next train to Cardiff. Back home, I hung my still-dripping gear out to dry, took a hot shower, and went to bed at 9 a.m.
And I forgot to mention, once we got up and started walking into the village, it stopped raining. The sunrise was beginning to paint some colors across the sky. And remember, it hadn’t started raining until after we had settled in for the night, just after 11. Oh, timing!
So we didn’t see the moon, which was nearly full, or the stars, or a beautiful sunset or sunrise. We didn’t sleep, and we returned home cold, wet, and nauseous from sleep deprivation. But, in the end, it doesn’t matter. By the time I was crawling into bed, I was already laughing about it all. We had a beautiful walk, a fantastic time, and a memorable first microadventure (and first night in a bivy). We’re all converts. We’re a bit wiser now. If anything, the taste of how it could have been if it hadn’t rained has overpowered the memory of the rain itself. And, as Rhys said, it’s good we got this out of the way, as it will only get better from here.
Until next time…
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