Day Three of Glyndwr's Way: Abbeycwmhir to Llanidloes

I am ready for another day of walking the countryside. I have slept well, despite the odd environs and the over-eager neighborhood rooster who wants everyone to wake up at 4:50am. Nita does make us scrambled eggs on toast (no ham), but anyone's mother would be appalled at the lack of presentation associated with the Costco-sized box of corn flakes. I accidentally use the wrong bowl for my cereal and am glad to escape unscathed.

Today, the weather is more like what I picture for Wales: cool with low clouds and mist over the hills. The landscape is just as beautiful as in the sunshine, and much more literary. I can easily picture Mr. Rochester or Mr. Darcy riding though this kind of scene, though, of course, they aren't Welsh. I am thankful for my warm fleece.

We pass through forests with official signs that forbid the use of motorbikes and other off-road vehicles and suggest reporting any flouting of these rules. I don't see any motorcycles, but nearing a private lane to a house, I do see a hand-made sign saying, "Not Tom's 4x4 Farm". They have not posted a sign saying what they might be instead. We do not find Tom's 4x4 Farm, and I am not sorry.

Whether because this is the third straight day of walking or because of the weird vibes of last night's B&B, my feet feel more tired today. I happily take my boots off at another stream and refresh my toes, even though we haven't walked all that far yet.
We soon head into a farm ghost town, past numerous tumbled down buildings and mysterious old farm equipment. Not a soul is in sight. As I walk along old farm lanes passing some not-quite-ancient barn ruins, I suddenly feel myself being watched. The place could conceivably be haunted, if I believed in that kind of thing. The ghost is only a sheep with her own window in the corrugated steel.

We have lunch under a tree in a picturesque and oddly livestock-free meadow. After my sandwich, I take advantage of the lack of sheep poo and walk barefoot through the field, enjoying the feel of the damp grass under my toes. Boots back on, my feet are once again incredibly refreshed. After all this walking, I am finding that my abused feet appreciate any change from the hiking boots.

As we get closer to Llanidloes, the largest town we will pass through on the walk, we encounter many attractive horses and cute foals in what seems to be a slightly less sheep-centric zone. We also start to pass more houses as the trail follows a small road. The sun comes out again, the temperature warms, and I have no more need of my fleece. A suitably Welsh terrier emerges from the grounds of a B&B to have his ears rubbed. A church takes historical accuracy to the limit with its overly precise sign.

We see our hotel soon after reaching Llanidloes, since it is right on Glyndwr's Way (and has a sign, which I take as a good omen). One of the owners, Roy, fully-clothed (another good omen!), welcomes us kindly. He also wears an apron, since he is in the midst of preparation for our meal this evening. Roy's speciality is a never-repeated, set-menu, five course meal using local ingredients. He takes into account any dislikes or allergies of the guests ahead of time (I requested no bell peppers), but otherwise the meal is a surprise and an event. I am looking forward to it.

Roy leads us up a few flights of stairs through a narrow hall to our room. The bedroom is cosy and comfortable with windows overlooking the roofs of town and a pleasant garden square. The bathroom is enormous, and I have eyes only for the gigantic tub. A soak will feel so good after all this walking.

Despite being busy prepping a gourmet meal, Roy brings us a tray with hot tea. After a relaxing cuppa and a soak in the juniper bubbles, I am starving. We go downstairs to the sitting room to await the revealing of the menu. Two pleasant and friendly guests are already there: Alfred from Brighton and Antony from London, who are old friends of the hotel owners. All I know about Brighton is from literature like Jane Austen, in which it sounds tacky, so I don't mention that. Antony reminds me of a vicar; I never find out whether or not he is one (I don't ask) since we talk about birds instead of jobs. We are both especially interested in the red kites I have occasionally seen flying overhead during the walk, which have been rescued from near extinction.

Tom, the other owner, comes in to play the role of jovial host. He announces that we are waiting for the arrival of a party of four who are not guests of the hotel but live in the area. Little did I know that I would soon be in the august presence of the oldest woman ever to win Britain's Rear of the Year.

The four new arrivals are obviously quite wealthy, referencing recent time spent in Greece and Paris and Fiji and aboard some cruise ship that the Queen once used that employs seven servants for every passenger. I feel a bit self-conscious in my casual dress (I packed for walking, not fine dining), but I think that as an American I might just get a pass. They are quite different from the rest of us, but friendly enough in their own way and quite entertaining to listen to. One man says, "I'm off Beaujolais," which I didn't know was possible. Another refers to his property in Kensington, and even I know that that's a 90210 kind of address. When talk turns to the wonderfully sunny weather and I ask whether it is supposed to continue, they all turn to the blond woman. "She reads the weather on the news," explains the brunette woman. The weather lady amusingly doesn't know the forecast.

I later discover that the weather reader is actually semi-famous throughout Britain. Not only did she win the Rear of the Year for her shapeliness, she also participated in celebrity reality shows and was on the cover of Hello magazine. Her millionaire husband's daughter dated Tony Blair's son. I never knew we would be dining at such a posh place. I think this evening might just top my celebrity sighting of the Olsen Twins. Or at least Richard Simmons.

The five course meal unfolds over about three hours, and I enjoy it all, from the pear that had been marinated in red wine as the base for the salad to the fabulous cheese souffle. Roy has likely been having fun with a new kitchen gadget, since he garnishes the various plates with crisps made from apples, carrots, tomatoes and beets, to name a few. We chat across the aisle with Alfred and Antony about traveling and the established perceptions of different parts of Britain and the States. We have not ordered wine, since it is only available by the bottle and drinking half a bottle of wine hardly seems like suitable preparation for another day of walking. After a while, Alfred offers us some of his red wine to toast our holiday. The main dish is rack of lamb accompanied with potatoes and various vegetables including broad beans (British fava beans) and a great breaded zucchini. I feel a little guilty eating the lamb since I have been spending my days with sheep, but I have to admit that meat couldn't get much more local and fresh. It tastes excellent, and goes very nicely with the kindly shared shiraz.