Country diary: A scrattly climb to Llywelyn’s cave

The interior of Ogof Llywelyn, where graffiti reads ‘In memory of Llywelyn ap Gryffydd [-sic] Prince of Wales’. Photograph: radnorimages/Alamy

At Afon Gwy’s confluence with Afon Edw, the valley narrows, takes on a more dramatic aspect. Jagged precipices rim the shoulder of Llandeilo Hill. The diarist Francis Kilvert was enraptured: “Oh, Aberedw, Aberedw. Would God I might dwell and die by thee.”

There’s a friendly village pub here and an old church, dedicated to a seventh century Welsh saint, “Hen Gewydd y Gwlaw” (“Old Cewydd of the rain”). The priest and historian Giraldus Cambrensis railed against the appropriation of Saint Cewydd by English ecclesiastics – the particularly rapacious monks of Winchester renamed him Saint Swithun, buried his relics in their own cathedral, and broadcast the legend.

Aberedw church’s ancient foundation is apparent: the yew trees in its circular burying ground are huge. Below is Afon Edw, one of the loveliest tributaries of the Wye, once revered for its salmon and strictly keepered for English anglers.

Kilvert tells an amusing story of local poachers who, on the brink of arrest and probable transportation while in possession of fish, escaped by hiding the salmon in a box-tomb. In such a busy churchyard, the reek of rotting fish went unnoticed. When the capping slab was shifted for the next interment, fishbones decorated the coffin within.

The entrance to Ogof Llywelyn (Llywelyn’s cave). Photograph: radnorimages/Alamy

I took a glass of Welsh ale at the Seven Stars. Bar talk was in the soft burr of the Marches. A hundred yards along the road is a path leading to what was originally called Cell Cewydd, but is now Ogof Llywelyn, or Llywelyn’s cave. It’s a scrattly climb to a square, dank rock shelter where Llew Olaf – Llywelyn the Last, the last true Prince of Wales and the final royal defender of Welsh liberty – dozed away the last December night of his life in 1282.

Next morning he splashed on horseback across a ford of the Gwy and made for the town of Builth. When the castellan refused him admission, he rode on northwards, and at Cilmeri met his death.

In the mustiness of the cave I brood on his awful fate while outside rain pelts down, as it has done on every subsequent day these last few weeks. On a rock by the entrance someone has painted Owain Glyndwr’s standard. A wind rattles the oak leaves, releasing torrents of drops. Jackdaws in the wood noisily applaud.

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• Jim Perrin is speaking at Kington Walking Festival on Friday 22 September, 7pm; more details on the festival website