Monmouth to Chepstow

Day nine: 26 August 2009

As I toyed with my usual hiker's breakfast (cereals, orange juice, bacon, two sausages, two fried eggs, tomato, baked beans, mushrooms, hash browns, fried bread, brown sauce, toast, marmalade and as much tea as I could drink) rain rattled onto the roof of the conservatory and violent pulses of wind slapped and sucked at the windows. Four Turkish packaging engineers at the table opposite peered through the streaming windows, aghast at their first taste of a Welsh summer. On the television Derek Brockway, the BBC Wales weatherman, smirked from his dry studio and dispensed wisdom of the "If you're thinking of heading out into the countryside, I'd leave it until the weekend because this is the tail of Hurricane Bill" variety. Cheers Derek, I'll bear that in mind.

I watched on glumly, delaying the moment I'd have to leave the building. The morning TV passed me by, apart from a vague awareness of a piece about some clueless loser being attacked by a cow after getting between it and its calf. Honestly, some people.

Eventually I tightened my bootlaces, shouldered my pack, fastened down my hood and stepped outdoors to square up to Bill. He gave way within minutes, and the rain stopped, almost. I took off my waterproofs and for nearly two hours made good progress along a wooded path close to the river until I neared Bigsweir Bridge, about four miles south. Then the rain returned and grew progressively heavier. Near the bridge I hid in a bus shelter, mulling things over. But however much I mulled them, I didn't have a choice, so I set off again. Occasionally the rain relented but the wind kept battering me with warm and very humid air, so it was never comfortable. My camera spent most of the day packed away.

I kept walking, but the conditions became so bad that I had to concentrate on the path a few meters ahead of me, my hood lashed tight and my head bowed against the wind and rain. It was frustrating to walk through some of the country's best scenery without seeing it.

Opposite Landogo my path was blocked by a cow which didn't yield to my usual approach - yelling and walking straight at it. I skirted round it and started along a muddy path between areas of brambles. Rounding a bend I was confronted by a nervous calf hurrying in my direction. I turned back but found that the first cow, presumably the calf's mother, had followed me.

Fortunately I spied another narrow path going off to the side, and jinked off along it - only to find another calf cantering towards me on this one. In a matter of seconds I'd unwittingly managed to land myself in the middle of a bovine soap opera at least one cow worse than the one that did for the now hospitalised walker I'd heard about over breakfast. I thought the cool thing to do would be to do nothing. I did it for a few minutes. Stalemate. I thought about getting the camera out, and slowly began unzipping stuff while keeping my eye on the mother cow - who I'd decided was where any violence would come from. But then in the periphery of my vision a fourth cow, probably hanging around in expectation of watching a human being dismembered, slid surreally down the muddy riverbank and into the water. I used the distraction to barge past the nearest calf, then legged it.

The indicated Wye Valley Walk was on the opposite (west) bank, but a few days earlier I'd talked to a couple heading north on the path, who'd told me that the southernmost section was very steep in places. I didn't fancy any sharp climbs or descents in this weather so I stayed on the east bank, confident I could link the many paths and byways into a reasonably level route to Chepstow.

But a mile south of Brockweir I spotted a sign to "The Devils Pulpit". A distant memory of a travel guide's assertion that it would afford me an unrivalled view of Tintern Abbey was enough for me to follow it. I was in the mood for something to break the relentless march along the river. After half an hour's climbing up the steep, muddy path two young Frenchmen appeared through the gloom. We stopped and had a chat, in which they told me how they were enjoying their holiday in the area. Ashamed by the low cloud swirling around us (it was August, remember) I felt obliged to apologise for the weather but they were both sanguine about it. Impressed by their fortitude I left them slithering down towards Tintern, and climbed into the ever-darkening clouds until I got to an unremarkable rock outcrop. I'd arrived at the Devil's Pulpit. The hazy buildings intermittently visible in the distance were probably Tintern Abbey, but they could have been Bluewater for all I could tell. I pushed on south, along the ridge, noting without much excitement that I was now on the Offa's Dyke path. The wind kept howling. Thick wet cloud streamed through the trees. It was the worst day's walking I've ever had.

At about 4pm I emerged from the forest onto a main road, and I was happy to see it. I stayed on it all the way into Chepstow, my only recollection being a glimpse of the Severn Bridge off to my left at one point, and half an hour later, at Broadrock, a good view on my right hand side of the last hairpin bend on the Wye, before it emptied into the Bristol Channel.

For a few weeks, at least, I'd had enough.

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-- RodBird - 27 Sep 2009