Ten minutes in and my walking companion is already recommending a rest. But I’m eager to get on. The sun is out, the skylarks are in song, and the hills of Radnorshire are calling. Yet I heed his suggestion.
As I sit on the grassy hillside, fiddling with my map, my impatience dissipates. Below, a spring breeze rustles through the treetops of Pen-y-Lan. Lower still, at the base of the steep dingle path I’ve just clambered up, the picturesque village of Clyro lies languid in the sunshine.
The Reverend Francis Kilvert (1840-1879), whose steps I am following, knew the value of a contemplative rest. Reading his diary entry for February 1870, I imagine him gazing at this very view: “Beautiful Clyro rising from the valley ... dotted with white houses and shining with gleams of green on hills and dingle sides.”
As his book, Kilvert’s Diary, attests, Clyro (or ‘Cleirwy’ in Welsh) is a fine starting point. Stroll a mile south and you hit the beautiful Wye river, William Wordsworth’s “wanderer through the woods”, whose gentle banks lead upstream along the Wye valley walk. Downstream, you’re on Offa’s Dyke, chasing the Mercian king on a crisscrossing journey through the Welsh Marches.
Curate of this parish from 1865 to 1872, Kilvert was an inveterate rambler. “About 12.20, I started to walk over the hills,” a typical entry in his diary reads. “Got out my old Swiss haversack, crammed night necessities into it ... and strapping all together started [out] after luncheon.”
I had selected one of his favourites: a six-mile hike over to the once fortified settlement of Painscastle. The first third of the walk involves a gentle climb through sheep fields of billiard-baize grass to a hilltop moorland called the Begwyns. Hardy ewes scurry away at my tread, their new-born charges gambolling along in hot pursuit.
A mile or so out of Clyro, I reach Lower Lloyney farm, a solid square-jawed place with a muddy yard. The workhorse building reminds me that this is hill farming country, as short on luxury as it is rich in weather. Neighbouring Herefordshire, with its rich fertile plains, is awash with grand farmhouses. Not so here. People build as they live: simply, without frills.
Kilvert knew every farm in his rustic, hilly parish. “Villaging all day,” he frequently writes, a reference to his regular pastoral visits. A short while later I pass Lower Cwmgwannon farm, where Kilvert had paid one such visit to Mrs Watkins. “A mad skeleton with such a wild scared animal’s face.” The dotty old lady was wont to dance naked around the house and smash all the windows. For her own modesty and safety, her family kept her locked in an empty attic room.
This custom of dropping in unannounced provides some of the diary’s most colourful passages. Old Hannah Whitney, with her “thin grey-bearded nutcracker face”; Etty Brown, her cheeks “the dusky bloom and flush of ripe pomegranate”; Edward Evans, close to death in his shabby hovel, his “gaunt ghastly” cat just waiting to pounce. So vivid are these pen portraits, I half expect them to greet us.
Yet I see no one until I crest the hill and reach the edge of the Begwyns. Stretching over 1,200 acres, this glorious upland moor is a favourite with local dog walkers and horse riders. Several cars are parked at the cattle-grid entrance; their owners dot the cloudless skyline.
The terrain is undulating and delightfully springy underfoot. The heather, so ablaze with purple and pinks in late summer, is now cropped low. There are paths zigzagging off in all directions. I pick one that looks straightish and head westward along it to the Roundabout, the highest point in the Begwyns.
After a couple of miles and a final short ascent, I reach the summit, which is crested with evergreens and encircled by a dry-stone wall. To one side stands a lone trigonometry point, a red dragon painted on the plinth. Over the wall is a wide semicircular stone bench, ideal for picnicking or late-night stargazing.
Sensing Kilvert’s presence, I stop for another breather, my back against the stone. A fork-tailed red kite rides the thermals above, its feathered limbs spread wide as it prowls for rodent morsels below. Down the hillside, several dozen sheep graze.
In the distance, surging upwards from the seabed flats of the Wye valley sweep the majestic Black Mountains, dressed in cerulean blue. At their feet, nestled against the far river bank, sits the market town of Hay-on-Wye, famous for its second-hand bookshops and annual literary festival.
My gaze follows the mountains’ plateaued path as it heads southward, dipping and weaving from peak to peak. It passes on its baton of rock and scree to the mighty Brecon Beacons. The highest mountain range in southern Britain, they leap graciously away towards the horizon.
Kilvert was a frequent visitor to the Begwyns, recalling the lapwings “wheeling about the hill in their scores”, the gorse flaming a “fiery gold”. Whether silver-ribbed with winter snow or, as now, joyous with springtime birdsong, the mountains always lifted his spirits. For him, they provided a taste of the divine, a clarion call from his creator.
From the Roundabout, I head north downhill, leaving the Begwyns behind in favour of lusher ground below. At Pentre farm, I cut across two hedge-lined fields to Bachawy brook. I find no evidence of the ford marked on the map, so make do with a hop, skip and jump.
In 1198, this same watercourse had run red with blood after King John’s forces trounced their Welsh adversaries here. The thought puts my now-wet socks into perspective.
A green lane takes us up to the remains of Painscastle’s motte-and-bailey castle, an enduring testament to this border region’s embattled past. Just beyond it, in the heart of the village, is the welcome sight of the Roast Ox. Kilvert once arrived at the porch of this same hostelry.
The pub, which dates from medieval times, recently underwent major renovation after a serious fire. Now it offers flagstone floors, friendly locals, Butty Bach on tap, a well-worn dart board, and great cod and chips. Kilvert never made it across the threshold, though. After finding Painscastle’s mayor at the porch, he asked him for a guided tour of a nearby quarry instead.
After a century and a half, there is still no better guide to this stunning corner of the Welsh Marches than Clyro’s erstwhile curate. Just this once, however, I ignore his lead in favour of a refreshing pint.
• In Clyro, Baskerville Hall Hotel (01497 820033, baskervillehall.co.uk) has doubles from £100 a night B&B
Oliver Balch’s book Under The Tump: Sketches of Real Life in the Welsh Marches will be published by Faber & Faber, £14.99, on 19 May. To order a copy for £11.99 including UK p&p visit the guardian bookshop or call on 0330 333 6846
