A two-day hike through Shropshire and Powys

Shropshire and Powys are two of the most sparsely populated and rural counties, but not far from the busy Midlands. The crew walk through a bright yellow landscape full of creatures

This story is the next in our Trails series. We invited people to apply to assemble a group of friends and walk a multi-day trail of Slow Ways. They could submit the story of their adventure in whatever form they liked. This group of friends are walking their route in three sections. This is their second, and the middle section, their first account is here.

We are three long-time school friends, mapping our way from Birmingham to Aberystwyth, testing Slow Ways walks, and sharing our experience.

Now middle-aged, and with careers spanning film, teaching, and visitor experience, we sought to reconnect our lives. The 130-mile pilgrimage-style walk, towards the Irish Sea, seemed a perfect way to navigate new life stages with grace and gravitas.

This trip from Church Stretton to Newtown, via Bishop’s Castle and Kerry, was our second walk. The first took us from Stourbridge to Church Stretton.

All the gear and more of an idea

There was a sense of anticipation at the Church Stretton B&B. Were we better prepared? How could we know? Would we follow waymarked footpaths, or enjoy Olympic-style fence-hurdling? We cross-checked orienteering tools; routes – downloaded, power packs – charged, navigational apps, and pink-highlighted maps – ready.

We compared the kit. Who’d invested in the most expensive water bladder on the market? What kind of spendthrift had risked it all with an online imitation? But, mostly, we fussed over our fourth team member, Ivy, part dog, part bear, and part something else – a little chocolate-coloured cava-poo-chon. We felt sure she’d bring us luck and oodles of cuddles.

The long ascent

Church Stretton to Bishops Castle 

At daybreak, out of Church Stretton, we climbed. As the road snaked and curved out of town, we passed bold black and white Tudor-beamed houses, vaulted into the hillside between tall beeches. Soon, the road diverged into a path. It felt like a million steps, then we scrambled over ancient tree roots and onto Longmynd Common.

The wind swept through the bracken and densely packed bilberryshrubs, locally known as whinberries. Ewes and lambs were bedded down for shelter. As the hill turned, it revealed a newborn foal resting in a dip; it pulled itself up on feeble legs and nuzzled beside its mother as we passed. Each way we looked, there were breathtaking sights and complex textures. The scene was beautiful enough to inspire one of us to paint a miniature landscape of the view towards Devil’s Mouth. As we walked, the town quickly disappeared, submerged in the volume of the hill.

Atop, we felt the play between land and air. Red kites called, fell runners streamed by, and there were gliders on the wing. It was the Bank Holiday weekend and we found ourselves in good company. The runners’ support team had set out trestle tables with squash and biscuits. They felt like a welcome committee as we passed.

Next, we were greeted by a huddle of tiny white horses, swishing their manes. The pony gang seemed happy to pose for photographs, but, smelling an apple secreted in a rucksack pocket, they chased.

“Just throw it down” one of our group called, but a passing car provided a welcome distance between us and the little tail-flicking herd.

Before we dropped down from the common, we passed the gliding club, as they prepared to catapult flyers in motorless crafts into the air; it evoked memories of a sky-high clip release, followed by a beautiful cruise. We imagined circling amongst the birds, in the resounding song of skylarks.

We tramped the road, appreciating our grounded earthly path, and dropped over the far side of the hill, on an ancient route known as the Portway. A red kite followed. It plunged into a deep fall and caught a bird mid-flight. Was it the skylark, its song becoming undone? We witnessed the spectacle of bundled feathers in the descent, as it wheeled back up, with victorious claws.

Longmynd Common offered clear views across our intended way. Its blanket of green, with occasional neon yellow squares, was threaded into the mosaic of fields, hills, and woods. The countryside stretched out endlessly – there was not a town or village between us and the pale horizon. Below we spotted the last hamlet of houses we’d see before evening. Our journey felt epic but exciting. Had anyone done our full route before? Trailblazing felt bolder than trail following.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

That neon string of fields had oscillated toward us; lemon-bright zesty diamonds set in a cluster of softer green gems. They loomed large, mile by mile. Suddenly, we were consumed by acid yellow, held in a day-glow stasis for an hour or more. We tramped along ruts and followed the arrows of baked-in tractor-tracks. Our faces were brushed by stems of blousy ruffled flowers. We were head-height in drifty blooms of rape. It was immersive. So yellow, so brassica – its colour scalded the senses. The flowers were bold against the bluest sky, and a sparse shock of iridescent clouds seemed to twinkle. If a soundtrack played somewhere in our distant imagination, would it play ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’, remixed with repetitive splats of smiley-faced acid house?

Finally, we stumbled beyond the yellow, over a stream, into a contrasting scene; a tarmac road through the manicured lawns of a greige static caravan park. As we headed along the next stretch of busy A road, we searched for an escape. In a mirage, we spotted a teashop sign painted on the roof of a building. Did the big white letters read, Ice cream, Teashop, or just Shop? Sadly, as we approached, we realised the place was closed – the sign was a relic from another time. However, the lovely proprietor filled our water packs and shared with us her garden-tearoom and pond re-opening plans. It turned out to be the break we needed.

Geog on!

Each day we picnicked beside the prettiest of streams, indulging in a rest and chat on the sandy shingle beach or steep banks. We sometimes took a paddle or a dip. The jury was out on whether the discovery of an oxbow lake was exciting, or if the topic should be consigned to the dusty pages of our old geography textbooks.

Merriment at Bishop’s Castle

We approached the medieval town of Bishop’s Castle from the east, wrapping our route over the densely built hill town. On arrival, the place was unnervingly quiet. But, as we made our way to lodgings, a sweet folk song wove through the rooftops. We followed the sounds and discovered perhaps the whole town enjoying the bank holiday Saturday with a summer garden party at the Castle Hotel. Keen to rest from the heat, we settled for a spot in the clement conservatory for cream tea beside the sound of cool running water, cascading over stone, mingled with the high song notes.

Next, we were in The Three Tuns, the ‘beating heart of Bishop’s Castle’, for supper and beer, before heading to bed for a daybreak start through the misty alleyways of the old town.

Hailing from heritage 

Bishops Castle to Newtown

Close to Offa’s Dyke Way, walking a long straight road marking the boundary between England and Wales, we rambled the topic of heritage, family and identity.

Collectively, we had grandparents and great-grandparents hailing from Australia to Kolkata, Cardiff to Crew, Manchester to Manx, Leominster to Liverpool, and Edinburgh to St Ives, with a good measure of mid-century London lifestyle spun into the yarn.

Each thread, each intergenerational line, felt double-woven like the chequerboard pattern of a Welsh blanket (carthen). Our individual familial stories felt inextricably threaded into inseparable woollen layers. They could not be undone. Strands that might be described as ‘high society’ crossed threads with layers of deep hardship; poverty, injustice, and a desperate desire to transcend.

We wondered if wider migratory and economic forces had tamped together the threads of our grand and great-grandparents: capitalism, colonialism, industrialisation, and war. We questioned what made us the way we are, and how we identify ourselves as citizens of the UK and the world.

We couldn’t help considering if our ancestors had trodden these Slow Ways. Ultimately, there was an appreciation that heritage stretched beyond our thread, or individual lineage, into a collective sense of shared humanity, and shared stories, to which we all belonged. These ancient routes, drovers’ ways, holloways, roads, and public footpaths formed a deep collective narrative about humanity without borders.

Powering through Powys

The walk was long. There were adventures and rescue missions. We saved a pregnant ewe, who was cast (stuck on her back). She had to be very carefully turned onto her front. Sheep can suffocate within 24 hours when cast. They cannot turn themselves, so we also told the local farmer what happened. The turn was messy, but it had to be done. We did the same for a burly lamb, who’d rolled on his back. We passed giant oaks, rows of melancholy pig huts, a birthing ewe (in a lambing field), and lots of fawn-coloured heifers full of sparkle. We skirted fields with cows and calves, met lovely farm kids on bikes, got chased by a range of dogs, and enjoyed some of the brightest, best days of the year.

Iechyd da

At the best pub in Kerry, we took stock. Behind us was the longest hill, and a field of dandelions that wouldn’t let us leave. We drank long, cold shandy in the little sidebar and listened to the rowdy main bar, all a-throng with bank holiday mirth. 

The kindly barman helped us call a cab to take the dog, our bags, and one of us to our cabin overlooking Newtown. With detours and fences, we’d already done 17 miles and had another three miles of hills to walk before dark.

Some drama, no llama, and plenty of panorama

Walking without our packs felt lighter and easier. The pretty evening light and the lure of supper swept us through the last hilly fields. We were amazed to have found accommodation on the route. We arrived just before dark, to idyllic views. One of the owners confirmed our teammate was cooking supper in the cabin. “And,” he said, “the boys will be up in the morning to say hello.”

We were baffled. But, as he gestured towards a couple of sheds fringing the slope toward Newtown, it became clear he meant the alpaca herd. He highlighted they were not to be confused with llamas, who he considered much less lovely.

The cabin was sweet, a cosy spot to recoup and relax. By morning, we were rested and refreshed, ready to say hello to the boys. Noteworthy was the alpacas’ capacity to help people feel connected to the world. They seemed to have much in common with our lovely dog mascot, Ivy. As we posed together for an alpaca-walking-group selfie, we realised we’d discovered Ivy’s true mix – she was indeed a dog-bear-alpaca combination.

Newtown lamb

We had just a few miles to complete when we set out from the Alpaca Hideaway towards Newtown. We took a simple descent through fields of lambs and ewes, past a big fallen tree, and then down towards the town, via an underpass at the dual carriageway.

On route, we spotted a distressed lamb trapped away from the herd. With careful herding, dog secreting, and gate opening, we carefully drove it into the field with the rest of the flock.

It was unclear how long it had been trapped, or if its mother was amongst the herd. As it rushed in bleating, one ewe stepped forward. She seemed gripped by unfathomable disbelief. The lamb ran to her and dipped down to suckle, its long tail bobbing; then we felt assured. We secured the gate and continued.

Strangely, as we passed the flock, our reunited pair raced down to stand on a cliff edge just above us. Ma-sheep bellowed, ‘BAAAAA, BAAAAA, BAAAAA’, in her loudest, deepest tone.

An inconclusive debate ensued. Was this a scolding or a ‘thank you’? Had the sheep released a transgenerational call, resonating with her forebears from the dawn of Neolithic farming? Perhaps she spoke of the heritage woven into the land and her place here. Maybe she told us of the hefted matriarchal pathways, the precious plants, and her right to roam. Had she voiced the long thread of her wool lineage, woven into the chequerboard pattern of the carthen? Whatever the meaning, her message was heartfelt, and we soaked up the rich depth of its baritone.

The paved streets of Newtown felt marvellously mundane. We perused the supermarket for lunch, then bundled into the car, homeward bound. On the return, we took a long-awaited stop at a plant stand, outside a cottage garden we’d hoped to rediscover at the foot of Longmynd Common. We’d passed it on our walk. Picking out garden plants felt grounding, even homely, igniting a yearning to be back in our familiar lives. We made our way home feeling happy, tired, and with plenty of planting to do.

Story: MÔRAFON, multidisciplinary artist and visitor experience consultant at VisitMôr
Navigation: Corinna Faith, film directo
Team overview: Hannah, SEN primary school assistant head
Photograph of Welsh blanket: Karen, Flickr Creative Commons
Other photographs: All
Painting: Devil’s Mouth; Longmynd Common ©MÔRAFON