When I was thirteen I set off with my three best friends from our home in the village of Glyncorrwg at the top of the Afan Valley which runs north from Aberafan/Port Talbot. We headed up a side valley known to us as the Welsh Main, named after a long dead coalmine which took us to the top of Craig-a-Llyn, the highest top in Glamorgan. From there we scrambled down a gulley in the cliff, past the lake and skirted around a then very live coalmine. I guess the distance was no more than 5 or 6 miles but, laden down with a canvas tent and flysheet, grey army blankets, pots and pans scrounged or pinched from Mam's kitchen and white enamel plates and mugs, it was more than far enough. We rested beside the rugby pitch on the edge of village of Hirwaun. As chance would have it , the Hirwaun under-fifteens turned up for a training match and their coach asked if we wanted to make up numbers and have a game. Delighted we forgot about the need to find a camping spot for the night and joined in the fray. After the final whistle we realised that we would have to quickly walk on to get clear of the village. The coach came to our rescue and said he we could camp next to the changing rooms which he left open so we could use the toilets, showers and get water for cooking. Hot showers to boys who had a memory of the tin bath in front of the kitchen fire on a Sunday night to get ready for school on Monday was an unheard of luxury.
In the morning we plotted a course across some fairly featureless open moor using the imperial measurement OS maps with their beautiful brown shading to threatening purples on the highest ground. The colouring seemed to promise so much more than their modern metric equivalents. We had no clear idea where we were going or what we would find when we got there. What we did find was magical. Among the trees of the tributaries to the north of the River Neath we discovered Sgwrd Gwladys and the Henrhyd waterfalls. I know them now as tourist attractions but then we saw no-one in the three days we spent there - we really felt we had discovered this enchanted realm. We built an igloo of cut ferns around the tent to keep warm at night (no sewn in groundsheets then) and cooked on an open fire out of fear of a brass primus stove that we were terrified to use for fear of it blowing up. I'm sure I recall one meal that consisted of instant mash, tinned curry, tinned salmon and creamed rice - all on one plate to allow for efficiency in washing up. We explored the waterfalls and cliffs, dreaming we were young medieval knights errant on our way to lend support to Owen Glyndwr in his struggles to confront the dastardly English, even then probably captained by Nigel Starmer-Smith.
We left our camp reluctantly and picked our way along the, sometimes perilously steep, banks of the river, down to its confluence the River Neath and on downstream to Pontneddfechan. From there we followed the canal towpath to Resolven and back in to the know world. Resupplying with beans, sausages and creamed rice we struck out up the hill and camped among the rocky canyons and steep shake holes that pockmark the landscape there. On familiar ground we explored the rocky enclaves, caves and disused drift mines. The next day we made our way home to Glyncorrwg on Forestry Commission roads, a labyrinth so complex as only to be understood by Forestry workers and small boys. We got to the edge of the trees and looked down on our home village, glad to be home, drunk on the memory of the past few days, but painfully aware of the gathering dark clouds of school time rushing towards.
The year was 1966. I dropped my rucksack at the forestry gate little knowing that I was now hooked, destined to spend a lifetime looking for this perfect moment, for this perfect freedom.