Me and Lyn took a last minute decision on Saturday to spend a couple of days in Brecon. We were going to look for a campsite but thought bank holiday, busy or full of screaming kids. So we just stop wherever the fancy took us.
So off in Florence the motorhome and a nice steady drive from Cheltenham towards Brecon with a destination of the National Park Visitor centre in mind and only a short stop to stock Florence’s wine cellar. On arriving the car park at the centre was rammed resembling a car boot sale and certainly wasn’t the order of the day. So, out of the centre turn right, at the crossroads and turn right again and we meandered over a cattle grid into open moorland with just sheeps for company. A couple of miles down the road we pulled over onto what looked like a perfect spot. Open grassland with a clear view of the hills, nobody else, no screaming kids, just the odd car and the sounds of sheeps for company. I wasn’t too sure what the rules were on overnighting in Brecon but thought it worth the risk, although I had read that when wild camping on Brecon if you have a poo you’re supposed to dig a hole and bury it. Mentioned this to Lyn but the look said a little bit more than we haven’t got a shovel.
The evening was brilliant, helped on its way by Londis best Prosecco. Finished off by a stunning red sunset, far better than my amateur photography skills are able to capture. We awoke to stunning views on a very pleasant Sunday morning, just ghostly wisps of cloud gently caressing the hilltops and all the sheeps insisting on bidding us a top of the morning. And a meh to you to as the morning tug of war took place as Chester the ginger terrorist took me for my early morning walk. He didn’t have a shovel either so a doggie bag had to suffice.
As Chester had decided he’d had enough and dragged me back to Florence the National Trust warden drove passed and slowed up. “Bugger, he’s going to tell us off”, but he was just checking that the ginger terrorist was on a lead. My one arm now being six foot in length was apparently enough evidence of a lead and he drove on. Our entrance to Florence was blocked by a menacing Lyn with kitchen roll in hand with a warning of sheep poo. Evidently our woolly neighbours don’t have shovels either.
I cleared up my discarded fag ends, evidence of my failed attempt at giving up smoking (try again Tuesday) and just as we’re ready to leave the local farmer stopped by. My automatic guilt complex “should I be camping here” was kicking in again. “Morning, that’s a well tidy van, what make is it”? It would only have taken the word “boyo” inserted in there to complete the stereotype. We chatted about the van, about his sheep, the local area and he was full of advice on local places we should visit. A top man. “There’s nice!!”
Off we headed with no destination in mind, the farmers advice on places to go being far more than my memory is capable of taking in. All I could remember him saying was “end of the road turn left, it’s a bit of a tight zig zagging road. I therefore turned right. I’m still struggling with the saga of driving an A class down roads in Dorset I shouldn’t have been on.
So we picked up the A40 and followed it past Brecon heading west. By now I’d built up courage telling myself that Florence was only a PVC and so branched off on a road towards then through Pencelli until we finally ended up at a car park at Owl’s Grove. It’s just below the Brecon Mountain Railway station for the steam train down to Merthyr Tydfil. We probably would have embarked but the heavens had now decided to open so we parked up at the far end of the car park and settled there for the night. Car park doesn’t do Owl’s Grove justice. It’s a really beautiful setting within a mass of pine trees. So we settled down and I did what I do well, opened a bottle of wine. We settled down to watch a couple of films with the rain beating on the roof. Is there a better sound, sat comfy and warm, glass of wine in hand and the rain playing its merry tune on the roof.
So the weather was shite, Chester was as Chester is, a pain, but it was a lovely relaxed weekend, which is surprising for a bank holiday.
Cheers Alan & Lyn
So off in Florence the motorhome and a nice steady drive from Cheltenham towards Brecon with a destination of the National Park Visitor centre in mind and only a short stop to stock Florence’s wine cellar. On arriving the car park at the centre was rammed resembling a car boot sale and certainly wasn’t the order of the day. So, out of the centre turn right, at the crossroads and turn right again and we meandered over a cattle grid into open moorland with just sheeps for company. A couple of miles down the road we pulled over onto what looked like a perfect spot. Open grassland with a clear view of the hills, nobody else, no screaming kids, just the odd car and the sounds of sheeps for company. I wasn’t too sure what the rules were on overnighting in Brecon but thought it worth the risk, although I had read that when wild camping on Brecon if you have a poo you’re supposed to dig a hole and bury it. Mentioned this to Lyn but the look said a little bit more than we haven’t got a shovel.
The evening was brilliant, helped on its way by Londis best Prosecco. Finished off by a stunning red sunset, far better than my amateur photography skills are able to capture. We awoke to stunning views on a very pleasant Sunday morning, just ghostly wisps of cloud gently caressing the hilltops and all the sheeps insisting on bidding us a top of the morning. And a meh to you to as the morning tug of war took place as Chester the ginger terrorist took me for my early morning walk. He didn’t have a shovel either so a doggie bag had to suffice.
As Chester had decided he’d had enough and dragged me back to Florence the National Trust warden drove passed and slowed up. “Bugger, he’s going to tell us off”, but he was just checking that the ginger terrorist was on a lead. My one arm now being six foot in length was apparently enough evidence of a lead and he drove on. Our entrance to Florence was blocked by a menacing Lyn with kitchen roll in hand with a warning of sheep poo. Evidently our woolly neighbours don’t have shovels either.
I cleared up my discarded fag ends, evidence of my failed attempt at giving up smoking (try again Tuesday) and just as we’re ready to leave the local farmer stopped by. My automatic guilt complex “should I be camping here” was kicking in again. “Morning, that’s a well tidy van, what make is it”? It would only have taken the word “boyo” inserted in there to complete the stereotype. We chatted about the van, about his sheep, the local area and he was full of advice on local places we should visit. A top man. “There’s nice!!”
Off we headed with no destination in mind, the farmers advice on places to go being far more than my memory is capable of taking in. All I could remember him saying was “end of the road turn left, it’s a bit of a tight zig zagging road. I therefore turned right. I’m still struggling with the saga of driving an A class down roads in Dorset I shouldn’t have been on.
So we picked up the A40 and followed it past Brecon heading west. By now I’d built up courage telling myself that Florence was only a PVC and so branched off on a road towards then through Pencelli until we finally ended up at a car park at Owl’s Grove. It’s just below the Brecon Mountain Railway station for the steam train down to Merthyr Tydfil. We probably would have embarked but the heavens had now decided to open so we parked up at the far end of the car park and settled there for the night. Car park doesn’t do Owl’s Grove justice. It’s a really beautiful setting within a mass of pine trees. So we settled down and I did what I do well, opened a bottle of wine. We settled down to watch a couple of films with the rain beating on the roof. Is there a better sound, sat comfy and warm, glass of wine in hand and the rain playing its merry tune on the roof.
So the weather was shite, Chester was as Chester is, a pain, but it was a lovely relaxed weekend, which is surprising for a bank holiday.
Cheers Alan & Lyn