Will’s World: The heady rewards of a proper upland education
© Richard Stanton The two of my numerous daughters who are of the teenage variety have started their Duke of Edinburgh bronze awards and are soon off on their first overnight expedition.
What a fantastic initiative it is, and the present Mrs Evans and I are tremendously excited for them. How wonderful to be young and have endless opportunities stretching out ahead of you.
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I wasn’t quite so excited, however, when we received the unfathomably long list of eye-wateringly expensive kit they need.
Judging by its contents, I’m not convinced they aren’t going to re-invade the Falklands rather than walk up a few hills and pitch a tent in mid-Wales.
Luckily, my better half isn’t known as the Queen of Thrift for nothing, and the majority of it has been sourced from various second-hand online selling sites.
Bootcamp
It occurred to me that if they were going to be walking reasonably long distances at various elevations, they’d better get a bit of practice in.
So a couple of weeks back, we loaded up the Vengabus with numerous daughters, packed lunches, bottles of water and plenty of layers, and headed 20-odd miles west to the lovely village of Llandrillo.
I tend to understate how far we’ll be walking when we go on these treks, much to the family’s annoyance.
I wave my hand in the air and give a vague answer such as: “Oh, just a few miles,” before striding off ahead while shouting back to them: “Come on, hill walking in the rain builds character,” as only an irritating middle-aged dad can.
I’d rather not hear what they mutter under their breath in response.
It was a double adventure this time, as not only were us intrepid explorers headed off into the wilds of the Berywn mountains, but we were going in search of Moel Ty Uchaf, a prehistoric circle of standing stones constructed in the Bronze Age in 2500-1500 BC at an altitude of 1,450ft.
We set off from the car park, and stopped for a few minutes as we passed the village war memorial.
I’m never not astounded by the number of names on them and, as this is rural Wales, the farm names of the fallen are engraved beside them.
How their families must have mourned them, and we were glad to pay our respects.
Hills are alive
Out of the houses and into the hills, we were soon headed up old drovers’ roads where generations of tough and hardy men walked livestock down from the uplands of Wales to the large population centres of England.
I explained to our youngest that the track we were walking on had been carved deep into the landscape by heavy use and the relentless Welsh weather, and that we were very likely travelling in the footsteps of her ancestors, which made me feel like some sort of wise elder.
Gandalf leading the Fellowship of the Ring, if you will.
In parts, the track was flanked by crumbling stone walls, sections of it built with medieval slate, backed onto modern sheep netting.
What a wonderful testament to the skill and hard work of the multiple generations of people who’ve farmed here and made this landscape their home.
Eventually, we crested a hill – and there it was in all its glory.
There wasn’t another soul for miles around. We stood in the circle together, admiring the stunning views and enjoying the feeling of exhilaration that you only get in these moments.
As Gandalf himself said: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” Indeed.
