bewilderbrain

Dramatic moorland pathways, wild landscapes, mud as far as the eye can see, and the first peeps of spring…

Wednesday 4th February 2026
Walk start time: 9.15am
Walk finish time: 10.59am
Walk area: Penycoedcae lanes and hilltop paths
Miles walked:1.8

Today is another lone dry day in a week of rain, and seizing the opportunity, I start an exploration mission from the lanes of Penycoedcae.

Footpaths and rights of way criss cross these high fields on the maps, many of which have been recorded years ago, and may no longer be accessible.

To me, the little lines arcing hopefully across green countryside are as enticing as a fruit crumble on a cold February day.

(See also – Into a Frosty Wonderland, a coldly magnificent January walk.)

Exploring a new footpath gives me a familiar buzz – almost enough to warm through the biting cold at my walk start point – where a roving wind howls like a haunted flute through the bare branches.

The hedgerows on the little close up here are chattering with sparrows, and the mixture of jovial birdsong lends a less isolated feel to the winter mountain.

Ominous clouds crest the horizon as I make a swift and well calculated traversal of a pavementless section of Llantrisant road, to arrive at Black Road – a small country lane which winds off over the high tops of the hill.

On the verge beside the road, I see them, the first daffodils, stalwart little beacons, not ready to show themselves yet, but offering a joyous spark of gentle green promise in the bare landscape.

My first evidence of exactly how soggy my walk is likely to be is on the road itself, where an enormous puddle, or more accurately small pond, spreads across the lane. I select the shallowest looking pathway and hotfoot it through at top speed, aiming to take the puddle by surprise, not giving it time to get me wet.

It works, and I continue down the road dry-footed, occasionally consulting the RCT definitive map to see how far I need to go, and undeterred by the dark grey sky.

(See also my last Winter Walk – Chasing the Sunlight)

I arrive at a marked footpath with a kissing gate, beyond which a little atrium of trees flanks a muddy path, providing glimpses of a less sheltered landscape beyond.

Beyond the trees, the land opens out, untamed and barren – tussocks of long grass the only relief to open plains of waterlogged ground. The wind travels unhindered across these flat moors, insisting on its wildness with every breath.

I look about me a little lost, wondering which way the path goes, and wishing I had thought to bring gloves.

The track, it appears, is currently a series of puddles of varying depth, wending between the tussocks. My boot disappears entirely into the muddy deep at an early juncture, and realising the extent of the watery peril, I try out several styles of ungainly straddle walking, as though riding an invisible horse. The path however, is too broad – and my horse is not wide enough.

I take instead to trying to leap, ungazelle-like, between the thick grassy tussocks along its edge as though enjoying a solo mountain-top game of Floor is Lava.

Tussock- hopping, I think to myself, could be a new middle-aged category in the Winter Olympics.

A bare open landscape spreads before me, and the further I walk or hop, the more complete is the feeling of wilderness.

But for the lone pathway winding across the land, it feels bereft of human concern. Road noise has disappeared up here and from the middle of the fields there are no buildings of any kind in sight.

The wet tussocky ground, as well as the exposure to the wind, make for an inhospitable, but brutally wonderful landscape to venture into.

The immediate silence is broken by the whistle of the wind, eerie and foreboding, but the busy chirrups of birds in the bushes are my company, and somehow infuse the harsh plains with a gentler edge.

I reach a rocky stream crossing the land, glugging faintly through the banks of mud. Beyond this, a path diverges, one way continuing across the open landscape ahead, and one disappearing into arches of blackthorn and a raised field path between the trees.

I take a chance on the blackthorn path, and follow it for a distance, clambering over some wayward trunks and branches.

The sun is faintly attempting to break the dense grey cloud, and droplets of dew glisten in utter stillness on the branches around me.

Eventually the path seems to terminate in a little copse of trees, rivulets of water spilling between their roots, and disappointingly, my way is blocked entirely by a boundary fence.

Re-tracing my steps to the diversion point, I consider turning back through the first muddy field – the going isn’t easy – and the alternative track ahead looks like more of the same.

But by this time, the sun is trying even harder to make a faint appearance, and I have a streak of stubbornness in me when it comes to discovering pathways.

I strike out again over the next boggy and bumpy field, feeling for all the world like the path I am following is heading straight into a solid wall of trees and bushes.

At its very end however, I arrive at a another clear track, crossing mine horizontally, with neither direction looking any easier to traverse.

I can hear running water though, and the right hand path leads down to the bank of a little stream, where a lone tree is protecting its pumpkin coloured crop of autumn leaves in the sheltering arms of a gnarly oak.

The tinkle of water here is light and musical, the breeze softened – a sheltered little haven tucked neatly into the moorland.

I emerge to survey the scene from the field edge – this path tracks towards the same fence which thwarted my journey before – and doesn’t look promising. I will have to retrace my steps across the two fields.

As I make my way back to the central cross point on the field, the wind swishes insistently through the grasses in front of me. A lone horse grazes the distant hill-top, like something from a painting, and a bird of prey swoops silently above.

Finally, the sun wins its battle to break through, and the barren landscape before me transforms in the fresher light.

Patches of blue sky are now visible, and as I am now covered in mud anyway, I am emboldened to venture down the short impassable looking track which heads the other way – just to see if I can get a glimpse of what might be beyond.

It consists of that very particular stickiness of mud that will do all in its power to suck your boots off your feet, and I am momentarily transported back to Glastonbury 97. Yes, yes I am that old. But I am still adventuring in mud, so there.

After a brief battle, my efforts are rewarded – I find a gate – with the all hallowed and oh so welcome sign affixed. A simple arrow, a holy grail, and moreover, a lovely flat solid farm track beyond.

My relief at not having to re-cross Tussock-Land is such that my pace across the tarmac becomes positively jaunty, despite the several kilograms of mud weight with which my feet are now adorned.

The farm track, it turns out, should lead me back to an exit point further on down Black Road.

There need be no further mud on this walk, and I am no longer lost.

There should be other pathways beyond here to discover, several of them arriving at the village of Penycoedcae, according to the map. At least one of them apparently now goes directly through the back garden of a newbuild house, which presumably wasn’t there when the rights of way were created.

I am coming for you, Other Paths. On a day when it hasn’t been raining solidly for three weeks.

I imagine finding my way across the tracks and into the newbuild garden, stopping to explain that I’m allowed to be there, and requesting a cup of tea and a buttered scone.

As I approach the farm gate at the lanes end, the sun paints the landscape in newly warm, forgiving hues. The scent of fresh greenery is carried on the breeze, and plateaus of glistening grass sweep invitingly to a clear blue horizon.

Back on Black Road, I enjoy the sunny vistas of hilltop ponies, where one of them treats me to an expression I can only describe as mildly indifferent rebuke, as I disturb his grazing by climbing on a wall to take his picture.

The landscape of the winter moorland under its brooding skies was a thing to behold today, but I am glad to be on solid familiar ground now, and I can feel the faint warmth of the sun on my back.

The hedgerows either side of the road are humming with vibrant bird song, coal-tits and nuthatches adding their voices to the ever present robin’s chorus.

As I re-cross the puddle- pond near the end of the lane, a bright cluster of snow-drops stands proud amidst more daffodils on the edge of a garden.

Their delicate purity belies the barren winter earth – for it has never been barren – only resting, and the fruits of its repose are already baring their brave heads, in tentative hopes of spring.

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