A beast of a route, calf-high mud, giant tree balancing, beautiful hidden woodland in the sun, and the triumph of finally discovering a lost pathway…
Wednesday 4th March 2026
Walk start time: 9.29am
Walk finish time: 10.49am
Walk area: Lost footpath – Mynydd Gelliwion
Miles walked: 2.3
Four days into the new season, after many weeks of rain, we are presented with a perfect early spring morning.
There is still a chill in the air, but the skies are a clear cerulean blue, the breeze a low whisper, and the air buoyant with birdsong.
As I walk the first stretch along Danylan Road, the sun touches my face with its first burst of real warmth, and around me, the true energy change of spring has begun.
People are on doorsteps, outside chatting, there are sounds of sweeping, cars being tinkered with, folk pottering on the edges of gardens, starting their more considered yearly engagement with their outdoor spaces.
As I move away from the streets, nature takes the reins of the rising spring energy. Reflecting sunlight brilliantly from pools of water in the lane, illuminating tiny leaves beginning to unfurl, and propelling exuberant birds and squirrels across my path.
I am heading for the mountain, or more specifically, for a pathway with uncertain start or end.
Readers of previous walks may know that I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with the RCT Definitive Rights of Way Map.
I enjoy studying its overlaying patterns, trying to piece together the puzzle of where pathways may lie, each one a new possibility for adventure.
Most beguiling of all, to my contrary brain, are those that are difficult to find, or have fallen out of common use. They are a sort of primitive call to arms. A mission of re-discovery in hopes of kindling old routes back into life.
I have walked on Gelliwion mountains many times, but have much yet to explore.
The route in question has been studied frequently. One end begins from a farm track at the end of Llandraw woods, in theory, crossing a stretch of woodland to join the first dog- leg of the main track up the mountain.
It is route number 67 on the definitive map, thus:
I investigated the Llandraw end a couple of months ago. I crossed a stile into a waterlogged farmers field, to find at the other side a tumble down stile revealing nothing obvious but rushing water and seemingly impenetrable deep forest greenery on the other side.
This would necessitate finding the other end of the path then.
Now, there is no actual reason for me to need to walk this route, stretching as it does, between the perfectly good and solid tracks on either side – the lanes of Danylan, and the highly accesible wide mountain path. It doesn’t take me to a new destination, or link an otherwise difficult to access area.
The thing is though, it exists on the map, and I am a curious creature.
It would certainly not be my first time with attempting a barely existent footpath (See also Adventure beyond the fallen oak)
A few days ago, in the winter dieback on the mountain path, for the first time I thought I may be able to see an indent in the steep and overgrown woods below me that looked like a pathway.
Hence, I am back today.
I walk in the brilliant sunshine down the track at the end of Danylan, passing the playing fields. All is quiet except for the birdsong, and a chaffinch watches me curiously from a bare tree branch.
To my left are plots of private land belonging to farms and stables, and as I gaze up through the land toward the mountain, I feel sure I can see the faint outline of a track beyond, on its edge, exactly where part of route 67 should lie.
If there is a time of year to attempt discovery of a difficult or hidden pathway – it is now – when the winter branches are at their barest, and the spring is still too new too have powered up the thick growth of bracken and brambles that render unkept pathways invisible.
(See also Love letter to the winter spring crossing – a two minute read)
I feel invigorated and excited by the possible sighting, and continue onto the main path, passing the first bend as the glorious spring sunshine pools enticingly ahead.
Instead of following the mountain route into its alluring light, I keep my eyes on the steep drop off into the forest on my left, looking for signs of the mysterious indent glimpsed before.
I can see a bramble covered entrance point before the evergreens become dense, and this accords with where the path should start on the map – but it doesn’t look easily accessible – and I know that there is a gushing watercourse not too far ahead.
I keep my eyes on the paths possible course therefore, and pass the gushing water, deciding to try and get down to the path just beyond it.
The ground at my entry point transpires to be loose and shingly, and within a few seconds I am sliding down the slope on my bottom. It will probably end up being one of those kind of walks, and there is no way I’m staying clean, so I try to just enjoy the slide.
My bottom lands me in a slim gap between some tree trunks, and looking around me, I can see something which could be a pathway wending off to my right.
I dust myself down and continue in its general direction. I am only a few metres from the main path, but suddenly I am immersed in the woods.
The air takes on that earthy forest smell, and clear interludes of bird song are magnified in the stillness.
Stopping to listen, my bird app identifies a treecreeper amongst the more familiar melodies of tits and robins.
The woodland floor of an evergreen forest is full of false pathways – natural clearings between trees where the deep shade precludes growth – linking together to form patterns that pretend to be routes.
This woodland is full of mountain bike tracks, from the gentle to the positively hair-raising, and these, as well as numerous desire lines criss-cross from the main pathway.
I come to a small clearing, mossy boulders, or possibly old stone walls, forming soft shapes under a filtered cascade of sunlight.
Because of their scarcity, the golden shafts from the canopy glitter with intensified force and mystery – reinforcing the feeling that the forest is mistress in these depths – and they illuminate a suddenly clear track ahead.
Exuberantly, I follow the track, holding my breath to see where it goes, my fingers firmly crossed.
As I progress, fallen trees begin to intrude in places, and up ahead, I can see the new growth of younger evergreens beginning to confuse its flow.
After a few minutes more, all solid evidence of pathway ceases, and I come to a boggy patch of ground strewn with branches, terminating in another gushing watercourse with no easy way across.
I am not going to be deterred so easily.
I look around me, wandering between the trees and peeking behind fallen trunks for evidence of a possible route, or even a possible direction.
I settle on climbing down into a little nook that seems to go round a corner, flanked by an inexplicable bit of wall, deep in the forest.
Is the wall a remnant from when all of this was farmland I wonder? before mining, before the planting of the evergreens that now stretch, and climb, and fall, all over the mountain.
Beyond the little turning and the wall, the going becomes distinctly difficult. The sound of running water is almost everywhere, and I think of the many times I have accidentally followed a part concealed watercourse believing it to be a pathway.
With the weeks of rain we have had, many of the streams off the mountain have become torrents, and in my current location the ground is so overgrown that it’s difficult to locate their numerous channels.
I tread, slowly, deliberately, through thick undergrowth, regularly stopping to disengage my clothing from dry brambles.
My shoes soon disappear entirely into mud, completely soaking my feet, but there is nothing to be done about it at this point, so I carry on regardless.
There is no obvious pathway here, so I follow the direction of a more open stretch between the trees.
Even trying to avoid the worst of the mud, my shoes start making comedy suction noises every time they release from the ground, and I hang on to branches and various bits of greenery to keep my balance.
Just ahead, the faint gap in the undergrowth widens a little, and inexplicably, a discarded office chairs lies forlornly before me.
No one wants to see an office chair in the forest, but is this a sign that this was once a path here? or um, an office?
Further ahead, more fallen giants of the woodland are crossing the way.
I manage to get past the first few, but the ground underneath is getting still boggier, and my foot disappears up to about mid calf in mud.
Both of my shoes are now actually sloshing with water, and up ahead I see a far more tenacious looking blockage from tree fall.
There is no real way through the dense branches on the underside, and my feet need a break from the wet for a minute, so I clamber onto the lower trunk to see if there are any signs of a pathway beyond.
With a raised view, I see that it remains impassable for some way, completely filled with an uneven tangle of branches from the giant trunks.
Ahead a little further though, I can see a gap between the trees – the possible line of the original pathway.
The thought of working my way all the way back up through the boggy forest is not appealing.
The alternative however, is this…
The only possible way to progress in this direction is along the mammoth fallen trunk of the lower tree, which heads straight down the imaginary pathway, and blindly hope that something walkable appears at the other end.
I sigh – at this point it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion what I will choose – and begin to make my way tentatively along the trunk, clutching at random protruding branches for ballast.
Is this any way for a middle-aged woman to be conducting herself on a sunny spring morning I ask myself?
Yes. Is the answer. In fact it is defiantly perfect.
Though my knees somewhat disagree.
About halfway across, the branch I am clinging to for balance snaps, and I land sideways on my bottom on the trunk, narrowly avoiding falling off backwards. I am slightly shaken, but not battered, only a little cut on my thumb from the branch and a probably bruised bottom.
I regain my equilibrium along with a stronger grasp of gravity, and continue to the end of the trunk.
My reward is this, a wet but walkable pathway on the other side.
Ignoring my loudly sloshing shoes, I joyfully continue on the path ahead, but not before I look back in a state of some disbelief at the landscape I have just traversed.
Gradually, the giant trees that flank my route start to thin out, and the track moves from boggy greenery to more manageable earthy mulch, with a clear course now visible.
Trees grow fearlessly from the crest of another moss covered wall, which frames the pathway, giant pine cones litter the ground, and a gently burbling stream reflects the strengthening sunlight.
I can see more open sky ahead, and on the edges of this pathway the trees have become deciduous and infinitely less colossal.
Despite there being a clear channel heading forward, trunks and branches criss-cross everywhere. In summer, the route would be near impossible to see, let alone make your way through.
I navigate the branches and obstacles in this stretch, on the edge of the deeper forest, and make my way around a brambly corner to a joyous sight.
The broken down stile that lies on the edge of the farmers field – the gateway to the start or end of route 67.
I look back across the stile at the dark forest that tried to thwart me, and I stand on its bottom rung, face in the sun, triumphant.
Genuinely, in this moment, I feel a conqueror.
The pathway may have lost its way, but it’s not lost completely, and the forest it conceals is a magical place.
I am a privileged explorer, who picked the right time of year – and now I need to find some people who can move some really big trees, so people can tread this path anew...
Next on the list RCT route number 77, between the top of Graig hill and Penycoedcae. An older local I met on a recent walk, who knew the mountains well, told me it hadn’t been walked for decades…
If that’s not a challenge, I don’t know what is…
The morning sun shimmers across the soft folds of the farmers field, and the ethereal calls of three kites wheeling high above me add a magical air to the spring skies.
With weary legs, but wonder engaged and satisfied, I start my short return home.
bewilderbrain 
Thoughts or ramblings welcome here…