Between Llanidloes and Newtown in the county of Powys lies a fifteen kilometre ridge, mostly above 500 metres and peaking with a slight bump at a respectable 584 metres at the summit of Pegwyn Mawr. This translates as ‘large pole’ and believe it or not, sticking out of the summit cairn is indeed a large pole. It’s hard to believe that the pole is more ancient than the name, or that you would name a mountain after it, but then why would you call a rounded moor (albeit with steep lower slopes) large pole if one didn’t exist? If anyone knows, it would be great to hear. Perhaps it really didn’t have a name, and the Ordnance Survey snuck one in.
Last Saturday, the snow still settled on the lower fields and forming drifts one or two feet high across the upland tracks, I went up to cross this ridge. Running first along Glyndwr’s Way from Llanidloes east and then south, the track then shoots straight up the hill, the snow now coating the ground and the sheep looking miserable trying to find the grass beneath.
Above 500 metres there were infrequent blasts of hail and snow, interspersed with great views towards Plynlimon and the hills far away in the north. The grass poked through the white, but not all was frozen, and I was soon struggling through mushy bog, my running shoes submerged.
Most of the ridge is taken over by a large windfarm, though the turbines themselves are not as large as most I have seen elsewhere. This meant that, on my route along the ridge, I was soon giving up the bog for a track, which seemed less invasive now that it blended seamlessly into the white grass and heather. The turbines rotated rhythmically on either side, and give you that slight quickening of the heart when you stand underneath one. The blades fly down towards you and then are swept skywards again, suddenly, just at the moment you imagine them breaking off and thudding into the earth.
There are quite a few wind farms in mid-Wales, and from any hill they are visible. I like running next to them, and am glad they are here. I didn’t live here before they were built, so perhaps locals have more reason to object, but they are no more unnatural that sheep or roads, and I doubt anyone would prefer having a coal-fired power station or an oil refinery nearby.
The northern end of the ridge started to become brown and green as I dropped in altitude and picked up other tracks and then a road down into Newtown. Frozen patches turned out to be covering black water and these broke frequently as I stepped on them, providing my feet with a special kind of cold spa treatment.
The Newtown side of the ridge is far gentler than the western side I had ascended. From that side the ridge is more pronounced, the wind turbines more obvious as waving guardians on the top. I have wanted to do this running traverse since I came here, and I ran from my door. There is no doubt the wildness of the ridge is reduced by the wind turbines, both the beasts themselves and all the countless access tracks. But I would rather run with them, than whatever the alternative is. After all, those of us who love the outdoors are used to being battered by the wind – it feels like getting one back to get home and have a cup of tea heated using the energy provided by that same force.
Feet in the Woods 