That’s what we did last weekend, although minus the idyllic evening setting and more revisiting old ideas. My brother lives in Wales and had been eyeing up a couple of long bridleways stretching over the Black Mountain. You can see them here. They looked enticing and we imagined pony tracks into the wilderness that would ease us up and over to drop back to the valley the other side of the mountain. The first one proved us not far wrong as after a dynamic drive through mountain lanes we parked, pulled on more clothes than expected for late April, thanks to a biting wind and turned the pedals over up a stony track into the teeth of a stiff breeze. After a while things turned downhill and small rock gardens gave way to boggy grass and discussions about how this was just about as wet as it could be to ride. Some sketchy navigation placed us at the gate as expected and we spun down the road to pick up a bike track along the valley, feeling pretty damn pleased with ourselves.
The next track was where we expected and we paused for quiche Lorraine under a tree before pressing on.
And then things got less straight forward.
Following a concrete track we arrived at the end of the main route over the top of the hills, except it wasn’t there. Bringing on our combined map reading experience we followed the fence that was beside the marked bridleway and managed to drop knee-deep into a bog. There was no track, so we branched out to try and meet where it should be. There was no obvious path anywhere on the hillside but we pressed on, looking for high ground to scope the possibilities, then following the route of the path that wasn’t. We spent the next few hours walking, pushing bikes over unmarked moorland, round boulder fields and down steep inclines, until we picked up a stream that we followed to its source on the shoulder of the hills.
The hours we spent trudging across the hill were not what you hope for in a ride and there were definite moments of less enthusiasm for the whole adventure, until we started the descent. Here we found a marginally better defined path, although that didn’t stop me high-siding myself straight into yet another bog as I stalled the bike on some inconvenient reeds. After rolling down to civilisation in the shape of a gate we realised the map had fallen out of a bag thanks to a fault zip and we tried to remember the end of the ride. This went well, on a final track that was mostly ridable and then a switchback road climb, to complete a 30km ride in something like 5 hours. We madeit back to shower before dinner.
It turns out we were remarkably close to the route of the bridleway most of the way, and can confirm there is no path there. This would explain why this route appears in no mountain bike guides.
Perhaps frustrated by this non-ride I went looking for an easy thrill the next day. Nothing does that quite like South Wales’ trail centres and I headed to Glyncorrwg to get a fix on Whites Level. The beautiful combination of singletrack climbing and flowing fast built technical descents had me grinning and jumping everything I felt I could, riding it fast (for me) and smooth. Exactly the buzz I wanted, and making it impossible to not stop off at Cwm Carn for a lap of Cafall (with Pedalhounds) on the Sunday. Climbing strongly and enjoying each moment the bike fell away in front of me and stuck in the corners, I revelled in the contrast of a damp trail, over the dry dusty conditions on Whites. The woods were steaming as the warmth of the day evaporated the water in the dirt and sections that were covered in leaves were now clearer and slightly scarier for it.
A weekend of balance and contrast that showed everything that Wales and mountain bikes can offer you.
A
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