We set off from St Mary Church at one o’clock in the afternoon, which already felt like a victory. No alarms, no rushing, no standing in a field at stupid o’clock wondering why I do this to myself. Just a nice, sensible walk up to St Hilary and back in a neat little loop.

That was the plan.

The weather, if I’m being kind, could be described as “moody”. If I’m being honest, it was cold, damp and thoroughly miserable. Not dramatic miserable, not even interesting miserable. Just that steady Welsh grey that sits on your shoulders and refuses to leave. Still, it suited the landscape. Everything felt soft and quiet. The sort of day where you tell yourself you’re capturing subtle tones, when in reality you’re just trying not to complain about being slightly damp.

We started well. Too well, in hindsight. The route was loaded, the path looked obvious, and there was a dangerous level of confidence in the air. The early stretch was actually lovely. Rolling fields, hedgerows doing their thing, the odd tree pretending to be far more interesting than it really was. I stopped a couple of times for photos, the sort that don’t shout but feel right once you notice them.

The long road ahead. Still smiling. Still convinced we know exactly where we’re going.

Then, naturally, we got it wrong.

Not lost, you understand. Just… creatively off route.

“It’ll join back up,” I said, which is the sort of sentence that should come with a warning label.

Classic Vale layering. The sort of view that makes you stop… and pretend you meant to stop.

It didn’t join back up.

So we turned around, retraced our steps, and rejoined the path with only a mild amount of muttering. At this stage it was all very civilised. A small hiccup. Easily forgotten.

Unfortunately, we decided to make a habit of it.

The second wrong turn came with slightly less confidence and slightly more discussion. By the third, we were fully committed to the idea that none of us had a clue what we were doing, but we were going to carry on regardless.

There’s a moment on walks like this where the tone shifts. You stop admiring the scenery and start negotiating direction like it’s a military operation.

“That’s definitely the path.”

“It clearly isn’t.”

“Well it looks like one.”

“So does the driveway to that farm.”

Toby, of course, thought this was the best day he’d ever had. Every wrong turn meant new smells, new ground, new opportunities to ignore us completely. While we were debating routes and dignity, he was living his best life.

Farm life carrying on as normal, completely unaware of our navigational collapse.

Somewhere along the way, despite ourselves, we found our rhythm again. The landscape opened up in places, dipped in others, little pockets of interest appearing just when needed. It wasn’t a grand, dramatic day, but there was something about it that worked. Quiet, understated, honest.

And then, just as we were nearing the end, we decided—quite deliberately this time—to go slightly off track again.

At this point it wasn’t even a mistake. It was tradition.

We pushed through a bit of undergrowth, convincing ourselves this was all part of the adventure. A short cut. A clever adjustment. A sign of experience.

We walked past that house in the distance

Then I met the creeper.

It was perfectly placed. Hidden just enough. Waiting patiently for someone like me.

My foot caught, and that was that. No saving it. No graceful recovery. I went down properly, in that way where you instantly know there’s no dignity left to salvage.

Toby’s reaction was immediate and enthusiastic. If dogs could laugh, he’d have been doubled over. As it was, he hovered nearby, clearly delighted that I’d finally done something interesting.

From somewhere behind me came the words, “Get you, you silly old fool.”

Or something very close to that.

And again, fair enough.

I got up, brushed myself down, and realised something wasn’t quite right. There was a smell. Strong. Unmistakable.

Wild garlic.

Not a hint of it. Not a passing suggestion. I smelt like I’d been rolled in it. Properly infused. If someone had handed me a frying pan, I could’ve contributed to dinner.

There’s a moment after a fall where you assess the damage. Pride slightly dented, body mostly intact, dignity long gone. We carried on, as you do, now with the added bonus of me trailing a faint garlic aroma through the countryside.

And then, as all good walks should, it ended in a pub.

The Blacksmiths Arms.

Warm, dry, and exactly what was needed. We settled in, ordered a couple of beers—possibly three, accuracy fades at this point—and some excellent food. The kind that makes everything that came before it feel worthwhile.

Enjoying a pint of Proper Job while selecting food off the menu and the specials board.

It’s amazing how quickly a pub resets the day. The wrong turns become “part of the experience”. The arguments turn into stories. Even the fall starts to feel like a highlight.

Looking back through the photos later, they made more sense than I expected. No big dramatic shots, no golden light, nothing that shouts for attention. Just a quiet, consistent set that reflects exactly what the day was. Soft, muted, slightly scruffy around the edges… but real.

In the end, it was about six and a half miles, three hours or so, three wrong turns, two or three arguments, one undignified fall, and a dog who enjoyed every second of it.

And honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because the perfect walks are forgettable.

It’s the ones where you get it slightly wrong, fall over in a hedge, and end up in a pub smelling faintly of garlic…

Those are the ones that stay with you.

A Slightly Wayward Loop: St Mary Church – St Hilary (and Back… via Llanblethian)

The Blacksmiths Arms.

Fifty Shades of Vale: The Scenic Route to the Blacksmiths Arms