On the Path of Prince Llewlyn

by Shelly Perkins (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown United Kingdom

It was a typical August day in Mid-Wales. A persistent fog hung over the treacherously boggy moorland that we carefully picked our way through. The map I carried had tussocky symbols dotted liberally over this area indicating marshy land but there were few other defining features to guide us, we were stepping into the unknown. The scattered remnants of a single-stranded wire fence was our trajectory. Twice that morning we had sunk deeply into thick, cloying mud, ground that appeared firm suddenly giving way, sucking us in and taking hold. I reached down and gave my pony a reassuring pat, as much for my own benefit as hers. Beyond the two fluffy triangles of her ears, it was difficult to see through the heavy moist air what lay ahead. I checked my compass again to reassure myself we were still on the right bearing. We followed a six-inch wide track worn deeply into the dark earth by centuries of ovine feet, barely wide enough for a horse’s hoof. I was thankful for my little mare’s sure-footed movements, I'd loosened my reins miles back allowing her to lead our rag-tag caravan across the desolate upland. Ahead our path wended it's way sinuously between grassy hillocks and mossy rocks before slipping into the gloom. Our group was made up of three mountain bike riders, with myself and another friend on horseback. We were three days into a little known trans-Wales route called ‘The Prince Llywelyn Ride'. The route follows bridleways and back lanes for eighty miles from sleepy Lloyney to the bustling coastal town of Borth. It passes through a handful of minute settlements and crosses some of the most unspoilt and remote countryside Wales has to offer. Perhaps little changed since Llywelyn The Great was ensconced here in the thirteenth century, enjoying his hard-won reign. The region boasts valleys of rich meadows, rushing streams, dense pine woodland and remote, high moors with red kites wheeling above. I turned in my saddle to look back at the rest of the group. My friend's mount wasn't fairing so well, the ancient sunken lanes, rocky escarpments and stone-pocked pasture had been a trial for his long, delicate limbs. The three mountain bikers were strung out in a line, daubs of garish colour in their cycle clothing, beacons in a sea of desaturated green. They had finally given up trying to ride and were now pushing or carrying their bikes through the dense clumps of rushes which snagged on their peddles and spokes relentlessly. The conditions that day might have been challenging but the scene had a stark, ethereal beauty. Not a sign of modern life was evident, the feeling of isolation was absolute. The region does not warrant the name 'The Desert of Wales' for nothing. As the fog began to clear the vast expanse of undulating grassland reached out to the horizon, interrupted only by little stream valleys cut sharply into the peaty earth. Our thudding steps disturbed the occasional skylark and hardy mountain sheep looked on nonchalantly, chewing pallid grass with grim determination. The paths we followed clearly saw little life today, but held a tangible sense of history. The farming and mining communities from a previous life had etched these routes into the landscape along with the wildlife. The passing of early commuters, drovers and farmhands had all been written into these ancient trails. Many of these tracks had been reclaimed by nature now, routes which seemed defined and clear would abruptly come to an end in a stream bed or thicket. Leaving us no alternative but to redirect our course as we forged West towards the coast. The silence and peace was a welcome break from modern life, there was no traffic, no shops, no 4G, just miles of moor, pasture, stream and forest. We often think of Wales as our damp and diminutive neighbour but whilst this country is indeed wet it is still in parts definitively wild. It's clear to see why Prince Llywelyn fought so voraciously for this land.