The South Wales Three Peaks: Who Needs Research When You've Got Grit (and a Healthy Dose of Delusion)?

One Wednesday evening, while wrestling with the existential question of "where should I wander aimlessly this weekend?", I stumbled upon the South Wales Three Peaks Challenge. Without a second thought (or, you know, any actual research), I downloaded the map, packed my trusty boots, and set off on a Friday morning adventure. It's just the South Wales Three Peaks, I reasoned. How hard could it be? Famous last words, right?

The peaks in question: Blorenge, Sugar Loaf, and Skirrid. A circular route, so technically I could have started anywhere. But Llanfoist, just outside Abergavenny, seemed as good a place as any to abandon my vehicle and embark on this journey of questionable sanity.

8:15 AM. The second my feet hit the trail, it was game on. No gentle warm-up, no easing into the day. Just straight up, baby! First on a civilized tarmac road, then under a canopy of trees, through a tunnel under the canal and boom – I was out in the wild, facing a climb that could rival a StairMaster on steroids. Paths crisscrossed like a spiderweb on caffeine, and naturally, I took a wrong turn. No helpful waymarkers on this route, just my questionable map-reading skills and a healthy dose of blind faith.

But hey, who needs directions when you've got sheer determination (and a touch of stubbornness)? Before I knew it, I was on top of Blorenge, gasping for air like a goldfish on dry land. There was a trig point around here somewhere, mocking me with its elusive presence. After admiring the view of Abergavenny and trying to decipher which of the million mountains in the distance were my next victims, I finally bagged that first trig point at 9:15 AM.

"Sugar Loaf and Skirrid are just over there," I muttered to myself, with the unshakeable confidence of someone who has absolutely no idea what they're talking about. "I'll be done by early afternoon, sipping a celebratory Red Bull and basking in the glory of my triumph." Oh, the sweet naiveté.

The descent off Blorenge should have been a walk in the park (or, you know, a stroll down a mountain). But the bracken had other ideas. It had engulfed the path in a leafy green embrace, turning it into an obstacle course worthy of an SAS training exercise. I stomped down the mountain, channeling my inner mountain goat, creating my own path, and praying I wasn't accidentally veering off towards the next county. Oi Red Bull, wheres my wings.

Eventually, I stumbled into the village of Govilon and onto the canal path. "Ah," I thought, "civilization! A flat, easy path to Sugar Loaf. This is where I make up for lost time."

Two hours later, I was still strolling along that picturesque canal, cursing the scenic route and its deceptive charm. Instead of taking me straight to the mountain, it had led me on a merry detour through the village of Gilwern and to a bridge that appeared to be closed for renovations. "You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, staring at the impassable structure.

The River Usk flowed below, mocking me with its uncrossable expanse. My map helpfully informed me that the nearest crossing was an hour and a half walk back the way I'd come, followed by another trek back to the other side of the river. Game over. My dreams of conquering the Three Peaks were sinking faster than a penguin in a hot tub.

As I sulked away, contemplating the cruel irony of a wasted day, a dog walker emerged from the "closed" bridge. "How did you get through there?" I asked, my voice laced with a mix of desperation and suspicion.

She casually explained that the locals had created their own makeshift walkway through the construction zone. Hope rekindled! I turned back, channeled my inner ninja, and sneaked across the bridge, feeling like a rebel who had just outsmarted the system.

Across the road, and back to the vertical realm. This time, through an ancient woodland, with oak trees that probably predated the invention of sliced bread. Red kites soared overhead, and for a moment, I forgot about the aching in my legs and the blisters forming on my heels. Nature, you sly dog, you almost had me fooled.

The woodland spat me out into a crowd of hikers, seemingly materializing out of thin air. Where did they all come from? Were they following me? Was this some sort of bizarre hiking reality show? I pushed those paranoid thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand: conquering the grassy cliff face that was Sugar Loaf.

It was a steep climb, no doubt about it. My legs burned, my lungs protested, and I started to question my life choices (specifically, the one that led me to this mountain). I had to resort to motivational self-talk ("You can do it! You're a mountain-climbing machine! Don't let those toddlers in hiking boots show you up!") to reach the summit. And then, the final insult: a queue to take a photo of the trig point. Seriously? A queue? This isn't Snowdon on a bank holiday, where you need to elbow your way to the summit and fight off selfie-stick-wielding tourists just to get a glimpse of the trig point!

1:30 PM. Two mountains down, one to go. I checked my map, muttered a few choice words about the sadistic route planner who designed this circuit, and headed off in the direction of Skirrid, leaving the crowds behind.

"Surely," I thought, "it's a straight shot to the final peak. A gentle stroll through meadows, a light skip up a hill, and then a triumphant descent to the car." Oh, how wrong I was.

My route was a descent into madness. A slow, winding torture test that led me through overgrown footpaths, bramble-infested stiles, and busy roads. At one point, I'm pretty sure I saw a sign that said, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I spotted Skirrid. But instead of a direct ascent, the path decided to take me on a scenic tour of the mountain's northern flanks. "Who designed this route?" I yelled at the sky. "A mountain goat with a GPS and a twisted sense of humor?"

The final climb was a lung-buster. But the summit? Oh, the summit was a sight for sore eyes. Except for one minor detail: a child, perched atop the trig point like a tiny, triumphant king.

"Seriously?" I thought. "Out of all the places to sit, you choose the one spot I need to photograph?" I waited, radiating an aura of polite disapproval that could curdle milk. Just as I was about to unleash my rain dance (a surefire way to clear a crowd), the child abdicated the throne. One photo, and I was on my way.

4:20 PM. Much later than anticipated, but hey, who's counting? (Okay, I was counting. Every minute, every second, every agonizing step.) But it was done. Three peaks conquered. Time for a victory lap…downhill.

I practically skipped across the ridge (okay, maybe more like limped), until I encountered a woman flying a kite. A kite! On a mountain! Was this some sort of surreal hiking dream? I blinked, shook my head, and continued my descent.

Down, down, down I went, my knees screaming in protest. I crossed a golf course, dodging errant golf balls and resisting the urge to yell "Fore!" at the top of my lungs. Then, a road, and finally…the outskirts of Abergavenny! But my car was still a few cruel mile away.

6:30 PM. The world was out enjoying the Friday evening sunshine, preparing for a night of revelry. And there I was, a conquering hero (or maybe just a slightly deranged hiker), limping through the town center in my sheep-poo-covered boots and salt-caked face. Ah, the glamour of the hiking life.

24 miles, and elevation gain about the same as Ben Nevis. Three new peaks bagged. A massive sense of achievement. Would I do it again? Probably not. But hey, at least I have a story to tell. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find the nearest pub with a comfy armchair and a very large pint.