Last year’s trip to South Wales was so good that we couldn’t resist going again. This time the tour was designed especially for Junior members, and so it was that Frances Lofty (16), Jackie Lofty (18), Mark Morton (15), Glenn Powling (11), Kevin Presland (16), Richard Read (13), John Stuart (16), Matthew Tewson (13), Nigel Wilson (15) and myself set off for an August Bank Holiday that we’ll never forget! Frances takes up the story.

(Michael Jones)

Apart from Jackie’s cut hand, we all reached Newton Abbot Station on Saturday 29th virtually unscathed. The train journey was pretty quiet until we neared our destination, Severn Tunnel Junction – riding in a guard’s van through a very long tunnel with all the windows open isn’t the most peaceful way to travel!

A fairly gentle ride from the station took us past Chepstow Castle and on to Wynd Cliff woods for lunch, a beautiful area with extensive views across the River Wye. The walk to the view point was somewhat longer than we had expected, but it was well worth it even though the air was hazy.

Food consumed and saddle-bags packed we continued our walk through the woods, intending to pick up the main road again at the bottom. The going got harder as we went on, with tree trunks strewn across the path - presumably to discourage cyclists. When we finally reached the open road two hours later we were surprisingly near Tintern Abbey, and we didn’t need much encouragement to stop for a rest and a well-earned cup of coffee.

Apart from a long climb up to St Briavels Castle hostel that evening the remainder of the ride up the Wye Valley was quite easy. It was the first time that most of us had spent the night in a castle, with or without ghosts! The boys slept in the East Tower, above the dungeons, whilst Jackie and I took the Chapel. Just so that everyone was in the right mood by 10.30, a short evening walk traversed the darker outskirts of the village.

(Frances Lofty, 16)

We left in style the next morning, being filmed by a BBC Bristol film crew as we rode out of the castle entrance. Thus began a day of hard riding in the heat. Leaving the varied and woody scenery of the Wye Valley behind us we continued through the lanes to White Castle for lunch and a tour of the battlements. We stopped again at the edge of the Black Mountains, gasping for a drink; it took Mike some time to get us back on our bikes, only to find that we’d taken a wrong turning along a new road that wasn’t marked on the map.

Finally we reached Capel-y-Ffin hostel, relieved to find that it wasn’t at the top of too big a hill. I think everybody will agree that this was the best hostel we stayed at in every way. The evening meal was delicious, and after doing the washing up we set out to climb the mountain behind the hostel. This, undoubtedly, was also the best evening walk of the tour, and was certainly something to remember.

The climb began quite steadily when it was still daylight, but we soon found that the only way to get up was on all fours. Gradually foot and hand holds diminished until we were sliding and grabbing handfuls of bracken, heather and gorse. Mark reached the top first, although Jackie still claims she could have beaten him if she had tried hard enough, and shortly afterwards the rest of us puffed to the summit. Scratched and battered we flopped down for a rest. If we thought the ascent was hard enough it was nothing compared with the descent, as we later found!

We stayed at the top until it was dark, at which point somebody spotted a light moving up through the bracken towards us on the other side. After several suggestions as to what it was, which stretched from a ghost to a search party, we decided to go down for a closer look. I’m not sure whether we found out what it was, but I still think it was a cyclist.

It was now so dark that we couldn’t see our feet, and the prospect of climbing down a steep slope without a path was pretty daunting. As we edged downwards the silence was frequently disturbed by shouts and yells as people slipped and landed squarely in gorse bushes. We found that laughing was the best way to handle the agony – Mike went so far as falling over with hysterics when Jackie stuck her hand in a gorse bush he had just warned her to avoid!

Finally we caught sight of the hostel light in the valley, and a great sigh of relief was heaved by us all. But we still had a long and eventful downward journey. When we had nearly reached the hostel we sat down, numbed and full of thorns, for a rest. For just a few moments there was silence, and we became aware of just how remote we were from civilisation. The laughter and yells then continued until we reached the hostel gate – back to sanity at last. At the end of that evening walk I had certainly come to the conclusion that Mike wasn’t quite the sensible person he at first appears to be – still, it’s fun to be idiots some of the time!

(Frances Lofty, 16)

Mist prevented us from climbing the mountain again in the morning, and we began the chilly descent out of the Black Mountains. We reached Hay-on-Wye by about 12.00 along with two other cyclists who had come with us from the hostel. We stopped for coffee (some had beans on toast) and then rode on to our lunch stop after a rather long but enjoyable detour secretly devised by the map readers.

We arrived at Tyn-y-Caeu early that evening, Kevin a little the worse for wear after trying to climb a hedge on his bike (luckily no damage done). That night saw our first attempt at self-catering, and it was really quite successful. Our evening walk took us around a dark field in which cows had left their mark, as some of us unfortunately found! We returned quite early for an ecological discussion in the hostel common-room while the younger members played table tennis.

(Frances Lofty, 16)

Next morning Nigel walked out of the hostel leaving his jumper in the games room. Of course we didn’t know that at the time – he remembered when he got home! A short ride and we were in Brecon itself, which provided us with numerous cans of baked beans, creamed rice and fruit which were all stashed away somewhere. Funnily enough, our film was showing in the Brecon Odeon – home from home!

Thus began the assault of the Brecon Beacons. Once into the National Park the surface scenery looked quite like Dartmoor, although the giant mountains most certainly did not. We ate our Brecon-baked pies and cakes at the mountain centre on the lawn, and supplemented our meal with delicious coffee from the café. The information centre showed us, in relief, the hills we had yet to climb and it was at this point that great gasps were heard from all members of the group (especially Matthew and Richard); to reach the final hostel, an impenetrable ridge had to be traversed – right over the top!

Undaunted, we set off again through the Brecons. It wasn’t long before the conspicuous zig-zag appeared in the distance, and a moment later we were riding up an “interesting” hill. The scenery was tremendous. Our younger members certainly showed the rest of us that they were now fit by climbing right to the top with scarcely a pause!

A few moments’ rest and we were on the last drop to the hostel – Ystradfellte. According to the guides I had read, Ystradfellte was situated in waterfall country, but I don’t think any of us realised the full meaning of that statement. Reference to the map lead us to stop for our first taste of what was to come – a small waterfall in a delightful grotto, close to the road but completely secluded from it. We were reluctant to move on, but milk had to be purchased before the shop shut.

Down, down, down through the woods, past the tiny village school and on into Ystradfellte itself. The hostel was described in the handbook as “Simple, Non-VAT, No Meals”, but it really wasn’t as primitive as it sounded. The warden was a pleasant old lady with a wonderful Welsh accent – just the type you’d imagine her to speak. The girls had a dorm in the main “cottage”, but we had a separate little house on the other side of the road, complete with common room and wash basin!

After a quick visit to the shop we set off for the track which led to the main river and waterfalls, hindered for the first few miles by a massive flock of sheep following their shepherd. A ten minute walk took us into the wooded valley, and soon we could hear the distant sound that we had been waiting for – the sound of crashing water. Dusk was almost nigh, but there was just enough light to fully explore the first incredible fall, with all its varied levels and vegetation. It’s the kind of experience that’s difficult to describe – one just has to be there. The sheer scale is breath taking. Then there’s the noise – such a noise that there’s not much point in trying to talk over it. It was darkness that finally forced us to return to the hostel at about 8.00; for once, food had taken second place to our enthusiasm. How grateful we were that we had left plenty of time next morning for further exploration. Contented and a little sad, the last night’s chatter died away into the depths of sleep.

(Kevin Presland, 16, and Michael Jones)

It was an incredible stretch of river. There were about five waterfalls in all, each more amazing than the last. It was possible to crouch right under the second without getting too wet – a truly exhilarating experience – but the last had a path running right underneath with plenty of room for standing. The tracks along the gorge were difficult going; two people injured themselves along those very tracks the night before, and a few people get killed in the area every year. However, Mike made quite sure that there were no casualties in OUR group, apart from a few wet feet!

It was 12.30 before we set off again to meet our train. Soon we were into the industrial area and after a two-mile drag we reached Hirwaun. Lunch was purchased but kept in saddlebags until the four-mile mountain road had been tackled, with a zig-zag even more acute than that of the previous day. There, laid out before us, was the Treherbert valley. With the time at 3.30 there was just time for lunch before making the final descent to the station. Cycles had to be stripped of luggage to fit into the small guards van, but soon we were aboard and heading for home.

As our second connection rolled away from Bristol, darkness was falling fast. Plans were already being laid for next year’s tour. But really, this one will take a lot of beating. Special congratulations are due to Glenn, Matthew and Richard, who coped very well with their first “proper” tour.

(Kevin Presland, 16, and Michael Jones)

People living in the vicinity of Maypool Youth Hostel were no doubt surprised to see the sky lit by fireworks on the 7th November, two days later than most displays. But this was the date of our Bonfire Night. I am told by those who arrived early enough for the evening meal that it was very enjoyable.

When the last of the fireworks smouldered and died the excitement was not yet over, for we then gathered around the bonfire which provided light and warmth while we ate hot dogs and jacket potatoes and Robert entertained us with his harmonica. I wonder if, while we stood watching the burning guy, any of us thought of why we were really there – in remembrance of Guy Fawkes and his colleagues. Or could it be, as in my case, that we were just there to have a good evening with our friends in the CTC.

(Frances Lofty)

[The attendance list for this event is currently incomplete]