Day One of Glyndwr's Way: Knighton to Felindre

"It's no fair putting a camera on the cat's collar and invading his privacy," says Dana after our satisfying Welsh breakfast. And with that, it is time to start our trek. We bid Dana and Nigel (but not the cat, who is out who-knows-where doing something private) a friendly farewell. I even get hugs and cheek kisses. Our hosts will drive our luggage to our next B&B in Felindre, so we only have to carry daypacks. We stop by the local shop for some essential supplies (bread, cheese, custard cremes...) and are ready to go.

We are off to find Owain Glyndwr. His Way officially starts at the Knighton clocktower and climbs quickly out of the village. Equipped with both Ordnance Survey topomaps and a detailed trail guide, we shouldn't get lost, especially since there also seem to be plenty of signposts to follow. The acorn designates a national trail, and the red dragon indicates Glyndwr's way. At times it will become almost a treasure hunt to find the little symbols on the appropriate gate or stile across a pasture full of sheep, but the first few miles out of Knighton are well-traveled and well-signed.

At nine-ish, the day is already hot. For hikes in the States, I am used to starting as close to dawn as possible to avoid both crowds and the heat. Staying in B&Bs prevent such an early start because of the wait for an appropriate breakfast time (usually around eight o'clock, it seems). So, while I am happy to have a full belly and lots of energy for the walk, I am quite warm.
Not that I'm complaining! I brought my waterproofs because I expected wet Welsh weather, and the sky is perfectly blue. The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing and everything is green. I have sunscreen and my wide-brimmed hat and a moisture wicking t-shirt, so I am prepared to enjoy the unexpected sunshine.

As we walk, we see very few people. Occasionally, someone waves from their garden or a farmer rides a tractor in the distance. We pass one old couple out for a stroll on a country lane. Other than that, our company consists of sheep, cattle, horses and the odd farm dog. Many of the dogs seem absolutely ecstatic to see us. Some like this little black pup, want to be petted. Others, like a tail-wagging golden retriever, run full throttle out to greet us only to veer off to pursue some more interesting smell. Once in a while, a border collie type will come to our heels to herd us along until we are safely out of their territory. I am not brave enough to see what happens if I don't allow myself to be herded like a sheep.

And speaking of sheep, I see ones that are all white, some that are brown or black, and a few with spotted legs and faces. Some have long tails that become very noticeable when the lambs are nursing, as they invariably jab their poor mothers in the udder roughly with their whole heads and wag their tails spastically. Others have very short tails and I wonder if they have been docked. Many sheep are marked with letters or numbers in red or blue or green paint, and I wonder where one goes to buy sheep paint. Later internet research will show that there are certain paints designed just for sheep http://www.premier1supplies.com/detail.php?prod_id=44&cat_id=14. I am happy to learn that these paints are non-flammable and can be applied to either a wet or dry sheep.

Most of the sheep have not yet been shorn for the summer and most have one or two lambs following behind. Many are quite dirty, especially around the rear, and it's only the lambs that really look fuzzy and huggable. They tend to think we plan to eat them right then and there, though, so despite my desire to hug a fuzzy lamb, they all run away.

I have often read that sheep are considered the stupidest farm animals, and I see lots of evidence confirming this view. Lambs scoot under gaps in the fence without noticing it and end up fenced off from their mothers. They only realize their separation when our approach makes them nervous, and they are inevitably unable to easily find their way back. Lots of baa-ing ensues, but they don't ever seem to be able to consider the fence logically. I soon encounter a very stupid lamb who has gotten his head stuck in a wire fence. I worry whether my presence will make him panic enough to possibly strangle himself or break his neck, but I'm hesitant to leave him in case he really is stuck (and not just stupid) and might starve to death. We've already passed the odd sheep bone or skull that make it obvious that a farmer doesn't necessarily check his pastures every day. I decide to pull him out, but as I approach closer he manages to break free and run bleating back to his herd. Foiled again in my attempt for a wooly hug.

I still think the lambs are cute, and take lots of pictures of them. This handsome one photo bombs from behind a tree as I try to take a picture of his friends.

The cattle are almost as wary as the sheep. None want me to pet them. Johnny Bamamfa thinks that some of the cows are sporting hairstyles. He finds this hilarious. They just look like cows to me, but I cut him some slack because cows are silly-looking anyway. And some do seem to have bouffants going on. Check out the one lying down in the picture (with hairstyle) as opposed to the standing cow (sans bouffant).

After six miles or so we arrive in the village of Llangunllo, which doesn't seem to have any stores, but does have a red British public telephone box. We don't need to ring anyone up, but it's nice to know that there are still pay phones around, since our ridiculous American mobile phone does not work in Europe. Llangunllo also has a pub, The Greyhound, which, alas, is closed and undergoing construction. We will have to make do with water.

As we leave the village, we pass a lady in shorts and wellies washing her pig in a kiddie pool. The fence has a sign saying, "Please do not feed the pig. She is on a strict diet." She is identified as a Kune Kune pig from New Zealand. Her name is "Pig". I do not get to pet her, either, but I do think it's kind of funny to watch a pig get a bath. The woman gives Pig treats for being a good pig. I'm not sure what a bad pig would do if you tried to bathe it.

Seeing the pig get her yummy pig treats makes me want some tasty treats of my own. We decide to have lunch perched on some twisted trees on a hill about the town. Our Welsh cheddar tastes quite nice. As we climb up into the moors, I keep looking for Owain Glyndwr, but I don't find him. Perhaps he knows how to hide in the midst of a herd of sheep.

We keep climbing up and down hills until finally, after over fifteen miles, we see the village of Felindre below us in a valley. It has been a lovely walk, but it's after five and my feet are tired. I am looking forward to a hot meal and a comfy bed.Our B&B looks like it will provide both. It is a very charming old farm, with a cheerful and welcoming English host. Although we've walked the whole day, we are still quite close to the English border. Richard kindly directs us to our room, which looks very comfortable, even without a pink heart in sight. Our luggage is magically there already. Richard offers us tea on the patio after we've had a little time to wash up, which sounds lovely (the only word allowed to describe tea in Britain).

Sitting in the afternoon sun with a refreshing cup of hot tea and some delicious cake feels wonderful. Marmaduke the cat tries to steal our milk. A hen tries to persuade us to drop a few crumbs. Lambs and their misplaced mothers are still baa-ing in the distance. We are the only guests, and everything is peaceful. Since Felindre's pub is closed for meals on Sundays (because the publican has to write up the local fish reports), Richard will be cooking dinner. Lovely.