She has a point. Long, flat stretches beside a canal won’t pose much of a challenge to legs that have recently walked 200km of the Camino de Santiago. Once the thrill of seeing a couple of narrow boats chug by has evaporated, what then?

But there’s something about canals that evokes romanticised notions of olde world travel. They might have drifted away from mainstream life as quicker, more efficient modes of transport were developed, but they are still alluring; they are a connection to the past.

Abergavenny to Crickhowell

With the gentle curve of Blorenge Hill ahead, we cross Castle Meadows, home to sandmartins, Welsh Black Cattle, and tufted grasses used to make bonnets. A stone bridge over the River Usk leads to a path through the forest which was formerly a tramway where carts filled with coal or lime trundled between Monmouthshire and Hereford. Halfway along the tramway, we see a magpie riding a horse. Is it a good or bad portent? Who knows? The magpie nursery rhyme doesn’t mention a horse.

There’s a child-like thrill when we drop from the tramway to reach the canal. Despite having walked 3.5km, it feels like the proper start of our journey. Almost immediately, we arrive at Gavilon. Once a busy junction where the canal crossed beneath two tramroads, it’s now a biscuit-box scene of pretty cottages with small craft moored outside them. A parade of gaily coloured narrow boats decorate the towpath until we break free from urbanisation, albeit a rural version of it that still retains an air of the 1850s.

The towpath becomes less manicured where nature has snatched back land lost to relatively small-scale industrialisation. Ferns crowd the chocolate-coloured water; there are more ducks and moorhen than boats; many of the old bridges spanning the canal are overgrown to the point of being impossible to cross; and the leafy forest canopy closes in above, keeping us dry from gentle rainfall that adds a soporific pitter-patter soundtrack to our progress.

The rain becomes more persistent, and the tree cover less protective, as we draw closer to picturesque Crickhowell. Marking the point close to where we leave the canal are old lime kilns, still impressive even though they no longer belch out fire. A drenched information board depicts how they would have looked in their heyday – like the booming forges in Peaky Blinders. I hear Nick Cave singing Red Right Hand in my head. The heavy rain slapping us around the cheeks means we view the kilns through scrunched up eyes for only the briefest of periods. I’m gutted it’s far too wet to attempt a photograph.

Crickhowell to Brecon

After a day exploring the hills around Crickhowell, and two nights enjoying the irresistible hospitality of the Bear Hotel (Welsh faggots and Butty Bach beer), we return to the canal, re-joining it on a sunny summer morning at Llangynidr where five locks raise boats 48 feet. A man with a silver ponytail opens a lock as casually as if he’s resting against a wall – leaning back against a long, wooden beam, the paddle, to ease open sluggish gates. Meanwhile, nervous-looking rookie barge pilots manoeuvre their craft through the enterprising series of water lifts, whilst dogs on the bank bark excited hellos at their skittery counterparts on narrow boats. It’s a lively wee spot … well, as lively as it gets on the canal.

The towpath becomes wilder again beyond the locks. We part company with it to follow a route up to the Talybont Reservoir, giving leg muscles a shock awakening in the process. It feels odd to be leaving the canal. In fact, despite the beauty of the Brecon Beacons around us, I miss it. It feels like meeting up with an old friend when we re-join it at Talybont-on-Usk where the sun-swathed beer gardens of a brace of pubs call us like seductive sirens. If we didn’t have 12km to walk we’d give in to temptation, instead we continue onwards, reluctantly leaving the cheery glass-clinking behind.

After passing another ingenious contraption, a drawbridge designed so a single person can operate it, we reach a small community of houseboats in the forest; the bright designs on the slender boats made even more vibrant by the dappled sunlight which shimmers across their surfaces. Some have wooden terraces beside them. On one, a woman with a mane of unruly black hair lounges against a bleached wooden railing, smiling as she talks to a man nursing a glass of white wine on a canvas chair on the next boat – neighbours enjoying a chat on a warm summer afternoon. Both ooze an air of relaxed contentment. It’s an idyllic scene, painting a rose-tinted picture of a life on the canal which, at this moment, looks particularly appealing. We’ve lived in a cowshed and a wine press, why not on a canal barge?

Daydreaming of a simple life on the Welsh waterways, we move on, pausing to watch a pair of elegant adult swans and their signets sun their feathers on the opposite bank as a couple in a kayak glide past with a “they’re getting bigger every day.” People chat easily on these towpaths, there’s a friendliness that warms our hearts, dissolving fears of the ugly, intolerant nation we’d find on our return to Britain – the Britain portrayed by some on social and mainstream media.

As we draw closer to Brecon, we see a red and black narrow boat way ahead. Even though we’re sauntering, each step shortens the distance between us and the barge. It doesn’t take long before we draw level and then overtake it, smiling a “hello” to its pilot. There is Slow Travel, and then there’s slow travel. What a lovely way to explore the countryside though; the sights to be seen along the way must be quite different from the water.

With Brecon Basin coming into view, we ponder whether the amount of time we’ve spent canal-side has been boring. It’s proved a fascinating historical insight into the area, but what’s been more interesting is just how alive the canal is – human activity, wildlife, and flora all contributing to a gentle yet compelling rhythm that is quite different from anything else. It’s a constantly-changing world where the next person’s experience will be completely different from ours.

How could that ever be boring?

For a start, we underestimated the British weather. Foolhardy I know, but it was a sunny June day when we set off on the long slog to the peak. We had light waterproof jackets, just in case, and lightweight walking trousers. Neither were robust enough to repel the driving, icy raindrops which felt like death by a thousand slashes when they pierced our ineffectual clothing as we battled our way to the summit. By the time we descended from the mountain into non-Arctic conditions, we were sodden, and every extremity was numb to point of being frostbitten.

Jump to another June day two decades later. The upper reaches of Pen y Fan no longer hold any fear, apart from the fact that after months of walking on terrain that would make the Netherlands seem hilly, we aren’t sure our muscles are fully up to the job. But we have thicker jackets, more appropriate trousers, and better boots. This time we’re prepared for the ‘Top Spot’.

Being one of the best-known walking routes in the Brecon Beacons, combined with many Brits newly discovered love of their own countryside, we expect hordes to join us on the route to the top. The bus from Brecon is surprising empty. The only other passengers are a doddery-looking man with big shorts and skinny legs, and a quartet of young girls with backpacks; most people drive to the start of the route.
When we arrive at Storey Arms, the girls stay on the bus, the doddery man dodders off, looking very fragile … until he strides confidently in the opposite direction from the route to the summit. Although there are a few people around, the early bus gets us there ahead of the crowds. We lose more walkers when we head along the road to the alternative start at Pont ar Daf. A family take to the path ahead of us, as do four girls who are decently kitted out for the task. The family aren’t. About 200m behind us are a couple dressed, like us, in full hiking gear.

To the summit

Despite occasionally used for Special Forces training, Pen y Fan isn’t as big a beast as some we’ve tackled. But a 500m ascent and 800m descent isn’t to be sniffed at. We set off at a slow and steady pace, letting our hibernating muscles adjust to being drafted back into service. The four girls pull further ahead, the other middle-aged hiking couple quickly overtake us and, in front of us, the family’s two teenage children disappear into a swirling mist which blankets the landscape as we ascend. Jackets are zipped up, hats are pulled down over ears, and hands are slipped into gloves. Pen y Fan’s cool embrace won’t chill us to the bone this time.

The teenagers’ parents are the first casualties. It was clear from the start the mother wasn’t prepared for the gradient. Their offspring continue ahead, abandoning them to the fates. One of the four girls looks as though she has experienced this sort of terrain previously. She drives her friends onwards and upwards, allowing regular rests. We almost pass them a few times, but whenever we draw level, she eggs them on again. The pace set by the male half of the middle-aged couple is too much for the woman; she looks flustered and red-faced as we draw level. The man, presumably her husband, is nowhere to be seen. He’s left her behind … the prick.

A couple of hundred metres before we arrive at the ridge, we catch up with the pair of weary-looking teenagers, and then the four girls, three of whom have mutinied and lie flat out on the grass beside the path. When it comes to hiking, knowing the pace which suits you is massively important. We often find ourselves in tortoise/hare scenarios.

The views from the ridge should be divine, but the cloud has robbed us of the experience. We even struggle to see the route to Corn Du. Given the evenness of the path so far, the final few metres to Corn Du is surprisingly scrabbly. From there it’s an easy stroll to the peak of Pen y Fan where we find only two other walkers literally hugging the cairn at the summit. Even though we’re in a shroud, we take the obligatory photos before starting our descent.

Descending from Pen y Fan

Initially, the path seems steep, disappearing unnervingly into fog below our feet. It’s just an illusion. After 50m, it calms down and evens out onto a wide ridge. Almost immediately, the cloud dissipates and we’re treated to sun-kissed views of ancient slopes which curve like a verdant punch bowl below Pen y Fan; views we have all to ourselves as nobody else has followed us.

Having conquered the mountain, we take our time strolling back to Brecon, pausing regularly to bask in the glorious Brecon Beacons’ scenery. The weather gods had tested us again, but this time we’d passed, and now they’re not only smiling on us, they’re beaming. If anything, it’s too hot.

We meet only a handful of sweaty hikers heading upwards; the experienced ones in the initial stages, the absolute beginners later in the afternoon. These are the hatless ones with inappropriate clothing and no water supplies; the ones who have attempted to begin to climb the highest mountain in southern Britain during early afternoon on an unseasonably hot day.

After a 600m descent over 4km, and as we draw close to the car park where the northern ascent begins, we encounter a couple who look as though they’re dressed for a Saturday night out in Costa Adeje on Tenerife.

“Are we near the top yet?” the beetroot-faced man asks, as his wife treats clumps of grass as though they’re challenging obstacles.

Some people really shouldn’t be allowed out in the countryside on their own.

Since that fuzzy conversation I’ve been bewildered by the opinion of our culinary prowess, or lack off, by non-Brits. When I say non-Brits I mainly mean our American cousins as they invariably are the main perpetrators.

I regularly read travel pieces which accuse British food of being almost inedible.

Whenever I read this the same question pops into my head – where the hell do these people eat?

We’re based in Tenerife and view returning to Britain as a culinary treat. Not because food in Tenerife is mediocre, it isn’t, but because of the sheer diversity of the food available throughout the United Kingdom.

Recent visits have taken in Scotland, Wales and England, eating at randomly chosen restaurants and bars along the way, none of them expensive.

Food in Scotland
In Glasgow we started a day with a full on Scottish breakfast (including haggis, black pudding and tattie scones) in a city centre hotel. It might be a shortcut to a heart attack, but it is delicious. The day was ended at Asian fusion restaurant Opium on Hope Street where the most wonderful Thai green curry and chilli salt ‘n’ pepper squid was rounded off with deep fried ice cream. Can you get more west of Scotland than deep fried ice cream?

A trip to the highlands included a tablet tasting tour (of our own design). I’ve never met anyone whose knees didn’t buckle after trying tablet. At a nondescript motorway service station we picked up a range of Scottish pies, including venison pie; pure class.

Back on my home island of Bute, a place not known for its culinary greatness, we’ve enjoyed some ‘proper’ Scottish nosh – pheasant pâté (as local as you can get, it’s almost impossible not to run one over in those parts), tender venison fillets, haggis bons bons and rhubarb crumble.

Even at the restaurant in the Manor Park Hotel, chosen for its convenience for a flight from Prestwick Airport, the food was of the Scottish with flair variety, including a terrific tasting tower of black pudding, haggis and mash potatoes.

Food in Northern England
Anyone who writes about British food being poor clearly hasn’t been to York where there are pubs so welcoming and cosy, you’d happily set up home in some. Many of these taverns serve ales that have more flavour than some countries’ cuisine with food to match. In nooks and open courtyards we wolfed thick Cumberland sausages and flooded creamy mash potato mountains with savoury gravy, and demolished flaky steak and ale pies.

At Café No8 on Gillygate we struggled to choose from a menu of contemporary Brit food, each delectable sounding dish screaming ‘choose me, choose me’ from the menu. Slow cooked belly of pork with black pudding croquettes in an apple and fennel sauce wooed me in the end.
On another night I was transported dreamily back to south India with a mix of colourful creamy curries at Viva Goa on Fossgate, an unusually green chicken cafreal (mother’s favourite chicken dish according to the menu) being particularly good.

Food in Wales
Our most recent dining experiences in Wales were shocking. But that’s because we were pandering to young nephews who still view a trip to McDonald’s as a treat. It was awful food. But then, that’s an American import. Our Welsh eating experiences are normally in Hay on Wye where there are a head-spinning amount of rustically bohemian choices, warming soups at the Granary Café), or even just a simply, chunky homemade pork pie from the old school family butcher Chris Gibbons. The juices start flowing at the very thought of a visit to Hay on Wye.

Southern England
In North Devon our culinary travels veered from huge Cornish pasties beside the salty sea at Lynmouth to a Devon cream tea of scones, clotted cream and homemade jam. At night we had our first foray into the world of Nepalese food at the Gurkha Restaurant on Market Street in Barnstaple (locally recommended) which was a complete contrast with ye olde English Jack Russell pub in Swimbridge (where the first breeder of Jack Russells lived). The pub might be traditional English but the food, which included crispy sea bass and sweet potato chips, was bang up to date.

Our last visit ended in the capital at the World Travel Market where much of the food we ate was connected with the event; a Tenerife dinner (not Canarian food) and a Balearic tapas taster (tapas from the Balearics). However, we did manage to fit in another Indian curry (so-so) and a Turkish combo of dips (hummus, tzatziki and, my favourite, taramasalata) with fried mezes in the buzzing Sefa restaurant on Trafalgar Road in Greenwich.

Before stepping on the plane at Gatwick, we managed to slip in one more meal, a full English breakfast at Jamie Oliver’s in the north terminal – bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, mushrooms, beans, black pudding and potatoes served in a frying pan. Pukka, as a certain famous British chef might say.

These might seem random choices from around Britain, but that’s the point – they were. They also reflected the diversity of culinary choice, the use of local products, the old, the new and the multiculturalism of the country. We enjoyed some super British food and didn’t pay a lot for the privilege of doing so.

Some people might turn up their noses at the idea of some British offerings such as haggis or black pudding, but that’s their limitations and doesn’t mean the food isn’t good. It’s a mistake to confuse personal preferences with a judgement on quality – the same applies to books, movies, music etc.

The bottom line is anyone who thinks British food isn’t good is clearly looking for lunch in all the wrong places.

Jack is co-editor, writer and photographer for BuzzTrips and the Real Tenerife series of travel websites as well as a contributor to online travel sites and travel magazines. Follow Jack on Google+

A relaxed and elegant base from which to enjoy hiking in the Wye Valley and mooching around Hay’s book stores and antique shops, Hay Stables is perfectly located right in the heart of the town. With breakfast on a help-yourself basis from the generous store of ingredients, staying here is a bit like having your own country cottage with the added bonus of not having to clean before you leave.

Best known for its second hand book stores and for giving the world Hay Festival, the bohemian and bourgeois market town of Hay-on-Wye is an idyllic weekend retreat. Meander cobbled streets lined with cosy cafés selling organic salads and home made cakes; shop windows of moleskin caps and Clarks shoes and bookshops, all spilling out from the foot of Hay Castle. Walk out of town along the bank of the river or head into Brecon Beacons National Park for some  hiking in the Wye Valley before returning to top notch dining in one of the many pubs and restaurants that grace the town’s pavements.

Hay Stables is a three bedroomed Bed & Breakfast located behind the castle, a two minute stroll from the centre of town and with views over Brecon Beacons National Park.

Rooms:
Each of the double, en suite bedrooms is beautifully and tastefully decorated in contemporary design. The two downstairs rooms are bright and airy with French windows onto the front courtyard while the upstairs room where we stayed has attic windows overlooking the National Park and is located right across from the kitchen/dining room so it feels more like a self contained flat.

Furnishings are minimal and stylish while still giving lots of wardrobe and shelf space, the shower is powerful with lashings of hot water and beds are large and comfortable enough to induce lie-ins which, with breakfast in your own hands, is not an issue.

Facilities:
Breakfast is on a make-it-yourself basis which, given the remarkable selection of ingredients on offer, can run from a bowl of cereal to a full English. When we stayed there were four friends in the rooms downstairs who turned the kitchen into a student house, cooking up everything from bacon and eggs to mushrooms, toast and baked beans thrown in for good measure. Teas and coffees run to a dizzying selection, as do cereals, and a large bowl of fresh fruits including pineapple and mango ensure all breakfast angles are covered. With a very relaxed attitude to the whole B&B affair, owners Linda and James are happy for you to use the kitchen/dining room to prepare your own dinner too.

There’s free, fast Wifi throughout the house and there’s a small upstairs garden with a barbecue which you’re free to use on warm and sunny, summer evenings.

Hay-on-Wye is a delightful town which we have been week-ending in for decades and Hay Stables is beautifully in keeping with the town – relaxed, informal, stylish and full of character. Highly recommended.

Hay Stables, Oxford Road, Hay on Wye; (0044) (0)1497 820008; double room with breakfast £30 per person

Andrea (Andy) Montgomery is a freelance travel writer and co-owner of Buzz Trips and The Real Tenerife series of travel websites. Published in The Telegraph, The Independent, Wexas Traveller, Thomas Cook Travel Magazine, EasyJet Traveller Magazine, you can read her latest content on Google+

The post Review of Hay Stables B&B, Hay-on-Wye first appeared on buzztrips.co.uk.]]> https://buzztrips.co.uk/posts/review-of-hay-stables-bb-hay-on-wye/feed/ 0 https://buzztrips.co.uk/posts/time-travelling-to-hay-on-wye-the-town-of-books/ https://buzztrips.co.uk/posts/time-travelling-to-hay-on-wye-the-town-of-books/#respond Wed, 26 Jun 2013 11:34:45 +0000 https://buzztrips.co.uk/?p=7682 Everybody in Hay-on-Wye seemed to be artistic and doing interesting things, even the house we stayed in had a personality and a past, being a former abode of April Ashley. [...]