An Autumn Adventure on the Monmouthshire & Brecon Canal

Ah, autumn. That magical time of year when nature decides to put on a firework display of falling leaves, transforming the landscape into a painter's palette gone wild. What better way to soak it all in than with a leisurely stroll along the Monmouthshire & Brecon Canal? That's what I thought, anyway, until I realised that "leisurely stroll" translated to "35-mile odyssey of questionable decision-making."

Now, I'm not one to overthink things. So, armed with a map that could double as a sail for a small yacht and a phone with a compass app that seemed to have a drinking problem, I set off on my canal adventure. My plan? Walk as far as I could, turn around, and walk back. Simple, right? Well, it would have been if I had any sense of direction or, you know, a basic understanding of public transportation.

11:00 AM. Brecon. The canal basin bustled with barges, the theatre overlooked the scene with a touch of dramatic flair, and I, in my infinite wisdom, promptly headed down the wrong side of the canal. Cue the amused onlookers from the theatre, probably placing bets on how long it would take me to realise my mistake. (Spoiler alert: it wasn't long.)

With my tail between my legs (figuratively, of course), I scurried back to the correct side and began my journey again. The towpath was a dream—flat, well-maintained, and perfect for unleashing my inner speedwalker. I practically sprinted past the bypass, leaving a trail of bewildered dog walkers in my wake.

The colours were glorious. Orange, yellow, red—it was like walking through a kaleidoscope of autumnal splendour. Even the brightly painted barges seemed to join in the celebration, adding their own splashes of colour to the scene.

Bridges crisscrossed the canal, offering tantalising glimpses of the other side before promptly returning me to my original side. I crossed the River Usk, where a group of canoeists braved the chilly waters. "Intrepid paddlers,” I mused, "or perhaps just folks with a peculiar fondness for paddles." 

Each bridge bore a number, counting down as I headed towards Newport. "160… 159… 158…" It was like a giant, linear advent calendar, except instead of chocolate, I was treated to the occasional scenic bench and the odd patch of particularly photogenic moss.

I passed Brynich Lock, the first of many (or so I thought). "Surely," I reasoned, "with all those hills and valleys between here and Cwmbran, there must be a lock every few hundred yards. 

Villages came and went, each with its own cast of dog walkers and canal enthusiasts. But for the most part, it was just me, the water, the trees, and the occasional startled heron. It was a peaceful solitude, a welcome escape from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

At Cwm Crawnon, I encountered a scene that could have been plucked from a fairytale: a house nestled amongst the willows, its beauty reflected in the still waters of the canal. A giant Horse Chestnut stood imposing on my side, its leaves a fiery orange against the azure sky. I half expected a fairy to pop out from behind a tree and offer me three wishes.

Then, just past this idyllic scene, came my second lock…or should I say, locks! Five of them, stacked like a watery staircase, lowered the canal by a dizzying 55 feet. It was a feat of engineering that made me question my own life choices. Canal builders: the unsung heroes of scenic strolls 

The colours here were even more intense—a photographer's dream. But alas, the clock was ticking. 2:30 PM. Time to turn back, or risk being swallowed by the encroaching darkness. I bid farewell to the vibrant hues and set off on my return journey.

Now, I'm a firm believer in the "return trip is always faster" theory. But my calculations were a bit off. The Brecon Beacons decided to play a game of hide-and-seek with the setting sun, plunging the canal into an inky blackness that would make a bat feel right at home. And did I have a torch? Of course not. I stumbled along, relying on my finely honed sense of echolocation (or maybe just sheer luck) to avoid a watery demise.

5:30 PM. Brecon. Streetlights. Civilization. Relief. I emerged from the darkness, blinking like a mole in a spotlight. My legs ached, my eyes strained, and my ego was slightly bruised. At least I hadn't fallen in the canal.

The next day, I returned to Cwm Crawnon, armed with a newfound respect for the setting sun and a slightly more realistic assessment of my walking abilities. 9:00 AM. The low sun painted the sky with rainbows, glowing against the dark grey skies. The ground squelched underfoot, and I set off with a renewed sense of determination.

Llangynidr, Llangattock, Gilwern – the villages rolled by, each with its own unique charm. I marvelled at abandoned barns, ancient lime kilns, and even a Giant Redwood that seemed to have taken a wrong turn on its way to California.

At Gilwern, I noticed the benches. Each one bore a map of the canal, with a red dot marking your location. It was a helpful touch, although I couldn't help but wonder if it was also a subtle way of saying, "Don't get lost, you idiot."

Llanfoist marked the end of my second day's journey. So much for completing this in two days. I turned back, feeling a twinge of defeat but also a growing sense of accomplishment. with enough daylight to see my return trip.

Another day, another walk. Llanfoist again. This time, the leaves seemed even more vibrant, their reflections dancing in the water like a thousand tiny flames. I passed Goytre Wharf, a hive of activity with its countless narrowboats. On the hillside, a folly stood proudly. Its name, as I later discovered through a frantic Google search, was "Folly Tower." (Seriously? They couldn't have come up with something a bit more creative?)

Pontypool marked the end of day three. I snapped a few photos of a bench, hoping to use it as a landmark for my next attempt. (Yes, I was determined to finish this, even if it took me a month.) I hurried back to Llanfoist, just getting there as darkness stole the day.

Day four. Back to Pontypool, under the Usk Road bridge, and there it was: the bench! The difference in scenery was remarkable. This side was quiet woodland, the other a bustling town. No wonder I hadn't recognised it.

Within minutes, I was plunged into an old industrial landscape, the canal a stark contrast to the natural beauty I'd experienced so far. The canal from this point turned into a hive of activity; everyone and their dog seemed to be using it. The canal is part of everyday life in this area, houses are built just a few meters away from its edge.

By 12:30 PM, I reached Five Locks on the northern side of Cwmbran. The scenery had taken a turn for the worse. Instead of vibrant leaves, shopping trolleys littered the canal, and mud had replaced the once-clear reflections. I decided to end my journey there, content with the memories of the colourful sights I'd encountered. As I walked back, highlights of the trip replayed in my mind. The lack of locks between Llangynidr and Cwmbran puzzled me, as did the dwindling bridge numbers, now down to 52. Where had the others gone? 

The end of this particular adventure, perhaps, but certainly not the end of my exploration. Countless miles, countless paths, and countless opportunities for delightful detours still awaited. After all, isn't that where the true magic of any journey lies? And who knows what surprises the next adventure will hold? The journey continues...