A small waterfall on the river Usk at Llangynidr bridge. Photograph: P Tomlins/Alamy
Handful of valleys in Wales are much more verdant than that of the Usk, its river heron-sentried, swift and graceful in between banks lapidary with primrose, stitchwort and bluebell. Fallen trunks wedged high over the water bear witness to winter floods. Two sandpipers pulse and dip in time to the whistling diminuendo of their calls. A robin shrills its alarm. From the hump-backed and cut-watered medieval bridge the riverside way winds a long, engrossing mile east to the confluence pool of the Nant Cleisfer, up which impetuous moorland stream my journey lies. At the final settlement of Blaen y Cwm, abandoned to sheep and entropy now, wood sorrel’s flowering beneath mossed walls. I select a leaf, nip and chew at its apple astringency.
Ring ouzels scud ahead and larks falter skyward on ladders of song as I climb to a ford exactly where the path from Tredegar arrives from the south. The substantial plateau among Usk and Taf has prolonged fascinated me. It’s arduous terrain, deep heather pitted with hollows that mark the place underground chambers have collapsed. Some of the most tough problems in British caving lie deep beneath its surface in techniques the identified lengths of which are extended each 12 months by committed and hardy-humorous devotees of a sport in comparison to which mountaineering seems secure and effete. Also hard now for an old man like me, I consider, with a wry smile of gratitude and a host of recollections of exquisite crystal beauties that lie darkly in the rock far under my feet.
This barrier landscape of moon-like austerity amongst the wealthy nation of the Southern March and publish-industrial desolation of the mining valleys holds other resonances. Half a mile south-west of the ford at the head of the Nant Cleisfer is the Chartists’ Cave, exactly where pikes of the insurrectionists have been stored just before their 1839 attack on Newport. Far more just lately inside of the radical tradition, Aneurin Bevan and his buddies often walked up here from his Tredegar house, discussing as they went the political venture that should be his enduring legacy – the NHS, the dismantling of which we are now despairing witnesses. The three excellent stones, neglected and vandalised, that comprise his monument lie just beyond the moor at the back of Waun-y-Pound industrial estate. I would like to see our politicians walk this rough ground to it, quietly, in mindful pilgrimage.
Nation diary: Llangynidr: Here lies the rough ground the place politicians should tread
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