Grwyne Fawr Bothy - The Black Mountains

South Wales, Late Winter 2019

We hadn't considered how soon the dark would come down. It was now nightfall. We had trekked, heavily laden with backpacks full of logs, for nearly 45 minutes by the time the curious shelter came into view; a small shadow shape nestled into a hillside that overlooked the silent waters of a remote mountain reservoir. A nearly new moon showed no smoke rising from the chimney, yet a faint glow seemed to be coming from a small window. If the shelter was already occupied it would mean a long walk back beneath the black curtain of night. Torchlight guided our trepid approach towards what we hoped would be home until dawn. 

Grwyne Fawr bothy is one of more than 100 rustic shelters scattered across Scotland, Wales and England. They are frequented by outdoor enthusiasts and accessible only by foot, bicycle or boat. Left unlocked and free to use, most offer little more than a roof, four walls and, if you're lucky, a wood-burning stove. The bothies stand as checkpoints for lunchtime pit stops, shelter from extreme weather, overnight stays or simply for sitting down to air your walking boots. 

The majority of bothies are repurposed structures with histories of offering respite in isolated locations: crofters’ homes, shepherds’ huts, remote farmsteads. When depopulation in rural areas led to the decline of hill farming, many of these shelters were deserted. They collectively came into recreational use in the 1940s as soldiers returned from the Second World War. Working hours were reduced and people were drawn to explore the great outdoors in their extended free time. Mountaineering and hillwalking thus grew in popularity, made more accessible due to public transport developments. Climbers and walkers started to discover and camp out in these long abandoned buildings. By the 1960s, the conditions of many bothies were deteriorating, so a small group of like-minded individuals got together to salvage them from various states of disrepair. The volunteer-run Mountain Bothies Association (M.B.A) formed in 1965 and are a charitable organisation that works with landowners ‘to maintain simple shelters in remote country for the use and benefit of all who love wild and lonely places’.

Grwyne Fawr bothy is buried deep in the Black Mountains; a range on the eastern edge of the Brecon Beacons. To reach it, we drove for seven miles down a dead-end track before parking at the Black Mountain (Mynydd Du) forestry car park. From here, it's a 2.5 mile hike to the bothy in the upper reaches of this remote valley. 

The smell of warm pine greeted us as we stepped out of the car. We loaded up our packs in anticipation as the last of the sun poured over the tips of the forest. Grwyne Fawr is a particularly small bothy which means that it operates on a first come, first served basis. To better your chances of securing a stay, the sensible plan would be to set off early, with a tent in tow in case it’s already occupied. However, we had been seduced by the water county that day and lost track of the hours as we dipped in and out of its falls. Setting off late, with no alternative lined up for the night – and foolishly no back up tent – we were very much chancing it. 

Bearing right up a trackway at the northern end of the car park, our phones lost signal from here on in. The trees swallowed us until we surfaced to high-level views across the valley. Patches of thin tree skeletons ran alongside a sweep of verdant pines, beyond which the misty outlines of the Black Mountains rumpled the horizon. The sun had fallen behind them, leaving a chalky blue haze in its wake. The route was a straight path all the way to an impressive Victorian dam at the southern end of the reservoir. The remains of a forgotten village still surround the site, built for construction workers and abandoned after the completion of the reservoir in 1928. The history of the bothy is also linked to this vast water basin, which is now decommissioned and no longer a drinking supply. 

From the top of the dam our torch was employed and the track became a little more precarious. We followed the contours of the water’s edge along an embankment ridge when we spied the bothy, neatly tucked alongside a stream that feeds the reservoir at its north-western tip. The tiny building merged into the hillside, easy to miss without knowing its position. I was relieved to have it in sight with the logs in my pack weighing down, but the glint from the window was disheartening. If the bothy was occupied we resolved to poke our heads inside and offer up our firewood before the long trek back. 

The bank was steep and difficult to navigate after nightfall so I was preoccupied with cautiously choosing my footing. It was only when we were peering directly down at the stone shelter that we realised the light was not coming from a window at all, but from a small reflective M.B.A sign on the door. The dark had played its tricks. Excitable grins plastered our faces but there was still a chance any dwellers could be snoozing. We reached the entrance and composed ourselves, taking a moment to soak up the quietude under a perfect starlight night. I knocked and gave the door a gentle push, accompanied by a nervous ‘hello?’. Remarkably, it was ours for the taking. 

Nobody should walk into a bothy expecting overnight luxury. Walkers battle harsh weather and tackle difficult terrain to reach dwellings that, by most modern standards, are ill-suited for human occupancy. The best way to think of a bothy is as a stone tent; there’s no electricity, gas, heating or running water, but often a fireplace and nearby stream to make use of instead. As with many bothies, Grwyne Fawr was dark and dank, with a cold stone floor and only a single small window for natural light once the door was closed. The mezzanine sleeping area was a stiff wooden platform in the rafters and the toilet consisted of a shovel to dig your own (a considered distance from the building). But for us, as with many others, the discomforts barely registered. In fact, they only added to the understated glory of this simple little shelter. 

We set about unpacking our provisions: the essentials being a sleeping bag and mat, small camping stove, dinner and a bottle of wine. The rest – silence and solitude – was already there, along with a few helpful extras. Supplies left from previous bothy residents lined a wooden ledge: the likes of tinned food, tea lights, matches and a pack of playing cards. We decided that our contribution would be a few more candles and a tin of instant hot chocolate mix. It’s also custom to leave behind some kindling and a bundle of logs for the next visitor, so we made sure to set these aside before getting carried away with the fire. 

It wasn't long until the candles illuminated the room and we were hungrily slurping soup from enamel mugs and tearing at a small loaf of bread; a simple supper made special by the place. Our wet towels and swimsuits from earlier in the day were steaming overhead, hung across ropes from the ceiling to dry above the fire as if curing salmon. The glow from the flames penetrated even the darkest corners of the room and the stove was drawing so well that we had succumbed to its drowsy ways. It was only when I stepped back outside that I remembered what a brisk evening it was. 

The moon gave just enough light to scare away imagination as I tottered towards the stream to wash our soupy mugs so we could recharge them with wine. In the process, I startled a dosy sheep who spooked me in return, before fleeing up the hillside into the great wild emptiness. I was enthralled by the scene that lay before me while I shook the icy water from my hands: the vast void of the lake, the bothy window a beacon in the dark, ablaze by virtue of the glowing embers inside. I watched a steady plume of smoke ascending from the chimney into the inky sky, strewn with bright stars. The area is known for being a Dark Sky Reserve and it didn't disappoint. I called to F who joined me outside with the wine. We sat in the silence and toasted the moment; nature just being nature and us delightedly there to witness it. 

Back inside, we pulled two chairs close to a pool of light from the stove and turned our attention to the log books; notebooks provided by M.B.A volunteers that encourage visitors to pen entries about their stay. The volumes were testament to great stories being told around the flames of a fire. As well as helpful advice, among the pages were yarns of challenging journeys, wildlife encounters, strangers using the space together that by morning had shared secrets, a marriage proposal within the bothy walls, soldiers returning from combat seeking comfort in solitude. There were so many heartwarming tales, an outpour of love for bothy culture and the simple joy in being away from the distractions of modern life. By the purring of the stove we delved into the accounts late into the night.

Full of wine and cheese followed by a little whisky from our trusty hip flask, we climbed the cold metal ladder to sleep on the boards above. Once settled in the sleeping bag I felt so hidden in the quiet, listening to the occasional bleat from our woolly neighbours and the odd rustle from downstairs, perhaps the infamous bothy mouse scuttling around. The firelight dwindled until it was lost to the dark. We drifted off to the steady song of the stream, content to shut our eyes until the first light of a brilliant morning.

I awoke to the smell of wood smoke lingering on my clothes and hair. Sunlight crept across the stone floor and beckoned me down the ladder. I couldn't have been happier, eager to push open the door and behold the place in daylight. It was one of those rare occasions when the reality surpassed my expectations. The rising sun blanketed the lake, drenched the valley and poured into any recess, turning greens into golds. What a view to wake up to!

Turning back, a silver flash from the blade of a large saw caught my eye. It was propped up against the front wall and certainly hadn't been there when we turned in for the night. I scanned the valley for signs of another person but to no avail. What could be perceived as a menacing offering, I hoped had been borrowed for cutting firewood ahead of our arrival by someone camping nearby. They had probably returned it while we were sleeping and kindly left it outside as not to disturb us. I tried not to imagine other unsettling, however unlikely, possibilities and lined it up with the handy tool collection inside the bothy.

Breakfast consisted of a bruised apple, a few scraps of leftover bread and cheese, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate, brewed whilst sat in the sun on the front step. We washed in the stream and spotted masses of frogspawn collecting around the reeds. After crossing the bubbling water via natural stepping stones, we discovered a flat grassy bank opposite. Beneath a cluster of trees, it could prove perfect for camping if the bothy were full. A little further along at the far end of the lake there were well-positioned ledges to jump into its waters. It was too tempting not to make the most of. We changed into our smoked swimming costumes and felt richly rewarded after a bracing dip.

Originally the plan was to make tracks first thing, but we resolved that haste could do nothing within these hills and instead let the morning idly unfurl in the raw winter sun. While our swimming costumes dried on the roof tiles, we spent a luxurious couple of hours exploring the surroundings and pottering about the bothy. It felt like a small part of this hideaway was now ours, without the want or need of possessing it. How lucky we are that this little old building has provided so many with lodgings in such a rugged, restorative and hidden corner of Wales – a place rich in opportunities to reconnect with a wildness that modern life has little time for. 

When the time came to move on, we did a thorough sweep, making sure to take all of our rubbish away. Ahead of leaving, the sound of muffled voices could be heard in the distance, before two couples appeared over the brow of the hill. They anxiously asked if we had just arrived and looked elated when we explained that we were heading off. It was lovely to share the joy we had felt the previous night. We set off back the way we came, feeling immensely grateful for the work of those that make staying in these wild places possible.

Bothies have given rise to a wonderful and unique culture that values communal respect for fellow visitors, for the bothies themselves and for the land on which they’re settled. The once guarded locations of generally hard-to-find dwellings are now easily available. With increased foot traffic, volunteers of the Mountain Bothy Association are working harder than ever to keep these precious shelters open and free for all to use. When planning your own bothy experience, I can’t stress enough how important it is to act responsibly, respectfully and to follow the bothy code. Please also ensure you tell at least one person where you will be spending the night.