From Knighton we climbed a great hill that followed the track of Offa’s Dyke. The view was indescribable, though I will try. To the west the land fell away in long green slopes dotted with sheep and wild forests only to rise again on the far side of a valley in steadily increasing hills. To the east a great bank of hedges, broken by untended wood and a house that teetered on the edge of ruin. Over the whole scene loomed great ominous clouds billowing out of the west, swept from the sea and past the hills of Wales by a chill wind.
When the wind and rain hit us we had passed the crest of the hill and were speeding down the other side. We hit the rain like a solid wall and when we finally reached the end of our run we sought shelter under an oak then in the nearby town of Presteigne. We lunched under a small tree by a river that had been tamed and channeled until it looked like nothing more than a sewer. 
We pressed on from there, past the town of Titley and on to Kington. Our travel was over much flatter ground but the exhausting climb of the morning had left us unable to go further. We pitched our tent beneath a great tree of unknown species and had time enough to eat and make comfortable our camp before the rain came once more.
The rain here has a sporadic quality that both baffles and delights. Delights because it is cooling and casts a magical veil over wood and farm, baffling because it seems to rain only until one is prepared for rain, then ceases to be.Our plans for the rest of the journey are ever changing. I had chosen a path because of convenience and the possibility of exposure to many antiquities but not through any heartfelt attachment. I was misunderstood and the path was assumed to be set in stone. But we have rectified that and have chosen a, hopefully, better route.
Next Entry: Day 14
Previous Entry: Day 12
No comments:
Post a Comment