Cyclokairos

Well, not to the east of Offa’s Dyke, in fact, west, in Wales, the dominant colour is also brown. You know it is dry when, in its entirety, Wales is suffering a drought. In the higher ground of the Cambrian Mountains I found green, just not the intensity I’m accustomed to. Similar to last year, I spent a couple of days in the Elenydd region but stayed overnight at Dolgoch’s sister hostel, T’yn Cornel. Described as the most remote hostel in Wales, it sits in the Doethie valley, and although accessible by motor vehicle from the west via a dirt track, feet or bike is your only choice in other directions. I choose bike; I choose The Black Bike. The Surly logos are gone (the font of which has never been to my taste) but otherwise it remains unchanged from last year, which for a bike-tinkerer like me, is unusual. I tell a lie, the strut for supporting the front of the front mudguard (a remnant from the pre-front rack days) is gone, and a bolt and spacer from the mudguard to the rack its replacement.

The randonneur bag and two small panniers provide more than enough room for an overnight stay in a hostel that provides bedding and cooking facilities: a change of clothes, tools, camera, binoculars, wash kit and towel, snacks, and food for the evening (tea to me, perhaps, dinner or supper to you?) and breakfast.

I left the car in Builth Wells and followed National Cycle Route 43 through Llangammarch Wells and on to Llanwrtyd Wells, and although the latter is the smallest town in Britain you have plenty of refuelling options, unless you pass through on a Monday like I did and found all of the cafes to be shut. The convenience store was open at least—UPFs then.

Quiet country lanes so far, not a million miles away from my usual trundles at home; fewer cars, yes, lumpier, yes, but not what I’d come for—that lay further up the Irfon valley. North towards Abergwesyn, then left, the lane shaded by arboreal shrouds before the open expanse sandwiched between Coed Nant-yr-hwch and Abergwesyn Common.

From here it was a case of leaving the Irfon valley for the Towy valley. Hopping from one valley to another involves ascent, not a lengthy alpine in this case, but when it is called the Devil’s Staircase you don’t need to be told its difficulty. I got up it and the brief stop just beyond the hairpins was definitely for the purpose of taking a photo back down the valley and definitely not to bring my heart rate and breathing back down away from alarming.

A rapid descent and I was in the Towy valley; Dolgoch hostel was briefly glimpsed before heading south and then crossing the river Towy, a stream due to the drought, before another, albeit more becoming, climb over to the chapel at Soar y Mynydd. If T’n y Cornel is the remotest hostel in Wales, is Soar y Mynydd the remotest chapel? No service today but they do take place.

The hostel was close, just a couple of miles along a track. From afar it looks perfectly rideable, in fact many maps have it down as open to motor vehicles. It is the track in the middle of the picture below, snaking up towards a communication mast.

Looks nice, doesn’t it? The stretch across the top of the hill was. The rest? At its worst a slither of steep single track adjacent to a washed out chasm.

Those two miles took three quarters of an hour; fighting gravity’s grasp, I pushed the bike uphill, rode it across the top, then wheeled it downhill fighting its determination to plunge away from me. An ever present thought: I’ve got to come back this way tomorrow.

The hostel was a fine reward though. A hospitable volunteer warden and his family, cooking facilities, a comfy bed, and silence. Visiting places like this drives home just how noisy my life is. The occasional sheep bleat and buzzard shriek aside, pin-drop silence at T’yn cornel, glorious pin-drop silence.

The journey back, that track. Well, I was rested, it was cooler, and the engulfing silence and emptiness (beside the warden and family, I hadn’t seen another person since around 3 pm the previous day; the last time I had phone reception too) made for a more enjoyable traverse than the previous day. There was time to stop and watch red kites hunting for breakfast.

To get back to Builth Wells meant a climb out of the Towy valley. I retraced my steps from Soar y Mynadd back to the river then rather than go up the backside of the Devil’s Staircase, I headed south towards the Llyn Brianne reservoir and picked up a forestry track alongside Nant y Fannog. It was a far more agreeable incline than the Devil’s Staircase as I weaved my way through Coed Nant-yr-hwch, in fact, perhaps my favourite segment of the two days: solitude, a sensible off-road track, fresh legs, and being early in the day, not hot. I exited the forest at Abergwesyn and descended the valley towards Beulah. The distractions of normality returned: a phone signal, people, cars but a usefully located petrol station to restock on fluids, food, and caffeine. After that, an unenjoyable section of the B4358. Open to the sun, 60 mph cars and lorries, and undulations of steep ups and downs, never being able to find a rhythm. A lane eventually provided an escape and I picked up National Cycle Route 8 into Builth Wells. Thinking about future rides in the Cambrian Mountains, I need to tailor future trips that lack the sections like the start and end of this trip—starting and ending in the middle of nowhere would be ideal.