I ordered a full breakfast which came served on a plate the size of a man hole cover. There was bacon (fried ham), eggs, two kinds of sausage, potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms and I’m absolutely sure I’m forgetting something. They also brought out a fruit tray replete with grapes, oranges, bananas, grapefruit, and like three different kinds of melon. I wouldn’t have made myself so completely uncomfortableif it hadn’t been so good. It was hands down the best breakfast I had ever eaten, or eaten since.
We were eventually joined at the table by Justin, co-owner of Porthmawr House, and I pounced on the opportunity to pick his brain about the area. His command of regional history was impressive, and I began to suspect that there was more to our new friend than he was letting on. I wasn’t too surprised to learn during the course of our conversation that he was no less than the mayor of Crickhowell. We chatted for the better part of the morning, and he gave us a personal tour of the grounds, including the 15th century gatehouse. In the end I felt like we needed to tip him for having been so generous with his time.
Taking one of Justin’s many suggestions, we headed out of Crickhowell, crossing the old bridge and motoring up the far side of the valley towards Llangattock in the car. We were looking for a road that would take us into the hills south of town, but the lingering fog made it tough to get our bearings.
We never found Justin’s road, but followed a small lane that meandered through the Usk Valley, instead. The fog lifted about 20 minutes into our drive, revealing a deep emerald landscape set against a bright cerulean sky. Dew clung to every surface, even the backs of little ponies and shire horses, and the whole scene glistened in the morning sun.
The little lane eventually brought us back into Crickhowell, and we decided to try another of Justin’s suggestions; a short trail connecting the old bridge to a different (though equally ancient looking) church. I only wish I could remember the church’s name…I can’t find any mention of it online.
The walk was nice, and the church was beautiful, but we were back at the car too quickly. We sat there for a few minutes, debating whether to move on while the day was still young, or attempt the most ambitious of all Justin’s suggestions before quitting the area.
One of the Brecon Beacons, Crug Hywel (Howell Rock) is a tall, flat hill that towers above Crickhowell and the Usk River Valley. According to Justin, it was once the sight of a large fortress built by Hywel Dda (Howell the Good), The 9th C King of Wales and author of the original Welsh Common Law. It’s also the feature from which Crickhowell derives its name. Justin assured us that it was well worth the strenuous hike to reach the top, so we pointed the car north on Llanbedr Road and followed the signs to a low field where we started our climb.
From the bottom, Crug Hywel looked like a piece of cake. The slope near the base was gentle and we found ourselves practically jogging up the incline. I thought we’d knock it out in twenty, twenty five minutes max. About halfway to the top, though, the gentle slope became a steep bugger. It took us about three times longer to ascend the second half than it had the first. I’m not sure how long it actually took us to get there, but we reached the top pretty winded.
The view from the summit was certainly worth the exertion. Crickhowell sparkled below, and the Usk River snaked its way through the valley for as far as we could see into the distance. That there was once a fort there was obvious, too. The mounds and earthworks were still very much discernable despite centuries of erosion.
Earthworks near the top of Crug Hywel.
The day was perfect and we lay down in the grass to soak up a bit of the early afternoon sun. After about a half hour on our backs making cloud pictures, we stood up and petitioned a fellow climber to take a picture of Shauna and I together.
We eventually made our way off the mountain and back to the car. It was on our minds to return to Porthmawr House and thank Justin and Simone for everything they had done to make our time there so memorable. I can't imagine Crickhowell without them. By the time we had gassed up and devoured a pair of service station sandwiches and a couple bags of crisps, though, it seemed a little late in the day. In the end we determined that a well worded letter and a little plug in cyberspace would be even better.
We left Crickhowell not really knowing where we were headed next. North, was about all we had decided. There were vague and unformed notions about Snowdonia, but little more. We didn't have a route, a timeline, or a reservation. In fact, we didn't have a single thing we had to do for nine days.
Nine days to Edinburgh...
