For the hike from Redbrook to the White Castle (no, I’m not stopping for a hamburger—it’s an actual castle that was at one time painted, sort of, with something that made it white), the sun shone all day with gentle breezes, and the temperature was in the 70s, making for glorious walking, if a bit hot in the mid-afternoon. After a nice breakfast with Keith and Kathy, we phoned ahead. The accommodation notes from Contours describe the day as ending at Llantilio Crosseny, but our hostess explained that there’s no cell reception there, and the practical pick-up is at the White Castle, two miles further. Setting a time doesn’t work well, given all the variables, so he asked us to call from the castle when ready. Fair enough. Keith and Kathy are having some trouble reloading the minutes on their cell, so I was the designated caller. I gave them my number in case of trouble (figuring they could find someone with a phone), and off I went.

After some pretty vigorous ascent up roads and across fields and through a bit of forest, the path arrives in three miles at a round house that was built by gentlemen of Monmouth, who wanted a retreat from town. They would come up and dine (sounds suspiciously like a euphemism—I’m assuming carousing and probably whoring, but maybe I’m being unfair to rich men circa 1800). It also provides a great view down to the pretty little city of Monmouth.

On the way down, I met some very friendly pigs, who seemed to believe I was coming with a treat. Though they’d been quietly rooting around in their pen before I cam along, when they noticed me, they started making big friendly pig grunts and walked over to the fence. There were four or five smaller pigs in one pen (and smaller in this context means maybe 15o pounds) and one gentleman pig in the next pen, a stout fellow of probably 250 to 300 pounds, who made me think, for some reason, of those rich gents who built the retreat at hilltop.

On I went, winding down the hill into Monmouth, a fairly charming little city where I heard the siren call, from a bakery window, of the Cornish pasty (pronounced pass -tee, not pace-tee). I couldn’t say no. So as I walked through town looking in shop windows, I munched on a pasty and had a very Proustian feeling of food memory. When I was in college, I did a term at Oxford (let’s be precise: Stanford had a program in Oxford, with an affiliation with Magdalen, one of the university’s colleges. That meant a great course on archaeology and the British landscape). Our housing was across the street from a little bakery, and I ate dozens of pasties in those three and a half months. So, here I was in the streets of a Welsh town, remembering little details about that time 26 years ago, recalling to mind people I haven’t thought of in years. And that, my friends, makes a good little meal.

From Monmouth to the White Castle is 11 miles of rolling country walking, with a bit of forest, a dramatic hilltop view or twelve, and just the sort of day when I can think of not very much and be quite content. A stop to contemplate a view feels great, but so does walking. I’m still experiencing the back and forth of counting and not counting, keeping score of miles and just letting walking be its own end, but I don’t mind it.

Late in the day, when my energy was starting to flag a bit, the path offered new surprises to keep me energized for the last three miles or so. First it was passing through, and I mean through, a cider apple orchard.

These orchards, I later learned from our hostess, are owned by Bulmers, a big cider producer. The apples are coming along nicely this season.

Then, not much later, the path plunges through a corn field, literally running down a row. It’s a crazy experience to walk for two or three hundred yards with corn leaves brushing you on both sides. In the guide book, I’ve been reading about the amazing wildflower displays to be seen on the trail in spring and summer, but at times like this, I’m very happy to be here in September and experience this other part of the seasonal changes.

I’ve hit a nice point in the walk in terms of my personal reflections. I can think about all the ‘where am I in life, how’s it all going, what should I be working on changing’ stuff, but there’s a sense that I don’t have to dwell on it. Those thoughts have time; there’s still a dozen days of walking left.

And so, after one last very steady and fly-bothered climb up a lane bordered with high hedges, I arrived at the White Castle, which is a pretty terrific ruin. I looked around, chatted with the woman running the admission and gifts booth, and had a chance to stretch out on the grass for a while before Keith and Kathy arrived.

We called our hostess, who drove over and brought us to the B&B, a lovely former rectory. It’s three miles further along the path, with the Offa’s Dyke Trail literally going through the rectory yard. I think Keith and Kathy will cut out those three miles, though I am going to have our hostess drive me back so I can cover those miles.

The three of us sat over tea (water for me) and Keith suggested that in my ideas about counting and not counting and walking, I might be romanticizing walking, something that in former times was simply a given, a way of getting from place to place. Fair enough.

Walker’s wisdom Shorts versus long trousers After the first two days, I’ve been wearing shorts exclusively to walk. I like the little bit of cooling that it allows for my legs. There are tradeoffs, of course. I’ve got little scratches on my lower legs, and along the path, you learn that the name stinging nettle is not a casual bit of nomenclature. For some reason, stinging nettle seems to thrive along the path, in little patches where it’s a bit shady. But that’s not constant, or even a certainty every day, and I prefer shorts. You’d be amazed at how cool the temperature can be and you still feel comfortable in shorts, like those over-enthusiastic teens when Chicago has an unexpected early bit of ‘warmth’ in March (say, mid-50s), and they break out the shorts. Oh great, so now I’m like some doofus teenager. Hmm, maybe you should consider long trousers.

Miles walked: 15