National Environment Trail - Walk this way

Could a fully-laden pack animal, accompanied by a solo, modern-day drover, travel across Britain safely, without support, off classified roads? Would my six native breed ponies and a hinny mule get me through? On June 6th I arrive at Cornwall's Lizard Point to find out.

Native breeds have their own agendas. The farrier struggles to fit Kengar's front shoes. Next morning he suddenly rears, escapes the paddock and gallops along the main Helston road, military pack saddle under his belly. The saddle's wrecked!

Expect the unexpected. Cornish winds spook Sweetie; she bolts from charging cows then tries to buck off the saddlebags. Uncontrollable jumps over bogs later pin me to the ground. On Dartmoor's Wild Tor refusal to cross a shallow ford forces a four-hour backtrack in thick mist!

Work with them. Along the Shropshire Union canal Dorothy will not budge; she prefers to be driven, so I rig up driving reins. You can't lead a mule to water! Later, near Froghall Wharf, she refuses to cross a slippery bridge, instead dragging me towards a rushing weir.

Native ponies put self-preservation first. Brightly coloured walkers surge towards Dai on Pen y Fan; he almost pulls me off a ledge. On Llantysilio mountain he turns his back on a hailstorm. The towpath crumbles beneath Dorothy's feet; she daren't continue, even after I repair gaping holes. Olivia tries to roll on a hot Yorkshire afternoon, almost breaking the saddle.

Be prepared. Into Cumbria, half-way up Brant Fell, Prince bolts, tramples me then gallops 800 yards across the hill. I retrieve him, pack intact, on a precarious ledge. Sleeping is painful! Near Hawick, Ailsa rams and breaks her paddock gate, an antic she repeats across Scotland. We finally reach Dunnet Head in 120 miles-an-hour winds on St Andrew's day. Ailsa has had enough! Kicking and bucking she trots south, leaving me stranded!

Why use natives? Kengar's spirit is unrivalled, teaching me lots during preparation. And, despite her age, only one day training and an inflamed back, Sweetie makes it across Bodmin moor, Dartmoor and Exmoor. She never gives up.

Dai's courage through Wales is indisputable. He survives a short tether among dangerous shake holes, an emergency hill camp without water. Near Abergwesyn he sinks into deep bog, trapping me under his belly. Could this be the end? He struggles free. No horse has successfully crossed this hill.

Dorothy's unflappable. At Low Tetton bridge, Middlewich, freight-pulling horses often fell into the canal, but Dorothy scrapes cleverly through. On Derbyshire's Tissington trail cyclists whiz past, perilously close. She ignores them.

Olivia's fast, willing, full of exuberance. I barely keep up! Heavily laden, she sinks into wild Malham moorland, slipping her bridle. Thirty seconds later she's free. At Stainforth, where track abruptly meets tarmac, I hurtle head-first downhill. Only Olivia saves me, standing steady as the reins break my fall.

Loyal, magnificent Prince never lets me down. High on Lakeland's Belt Howe he becomes stuck in a hidden ditch, but frees himself easily. Shoeless for 5 days, he soldiers on, hugging the marshy verges of hazardous precipices. At Chew Sike, in Northumberland's park, we are in unavoidable quagmire. A rider recently lost her horse here; it panicked and broke both legs. Riders can quickly dismount; a pack takes time to detach. But this is Fell pony country.

Native breeds sense danger, breathe heavily, sniff the ground, snort, hold back. I ignore Ailsa along the disused Edinburgh-to-Carlise railway. She's soon deeply into peat, on her side, eyes closed, motionless. Frantically I undo the slipped pack, spilling boxes to release the surcingle. She walks away, calm in a crises.

The special tenacity, courage, strength and resilience of our native breeds, not forgetting a hinny, are wondrous to behold. I'll always have faith in pack horse power!

You'd be crazy to spend 167 days walking from Lizard Point to Dunnet Head without good reason! These are some:

(1) Copy early drovers (alone, off-road, on foot, without vehicle or other back-up).

(2) Travel via packhorse, drovers', bridleway, forestry and hunting tracks.

(3) Record track conditions (camera, video, audio).

(4) Use native breed ponies and a mule to carry food and equipment!

(5) Help conserve Exmoor, Welsh, Dales, Fell, Highland ponies and mules.

(6) Record farmers' views on rights of way, farming, hunting.

(7) Launch appeal for Injured wildlife hospitals.

(8) Launch conservation resource for schools (www.matilda.mcmail.com - Dreaming and CLIMATE) to monitor global warming.

Plan these before the expedition starts:

Route - Preparation time = 18 months. Maps used = 150. Advisers = 100+.

Supply points - Pony feeds, pre delivered to 40 farms, riding / outdoor centres.

Pack animals selection / training - with a special harness / saddle / pack.

Diet - Quantities / mixes agreed with Spillers' nutritionist.

Transport - Getting each animal to / from its start / end point.

Harness - Selection, testing and manufacture time = 12 months

Pack - How can one person load / unload without assistance (normally two-man job)?

Going Solo - Training with Defence Animal Centre, Equine Division, Melton Mowbray.

Insurance - Animals / equipment covered by South Essex Insurance Brokers (B.H.S.).

(1) 7 tough pack-animals, each carrying 175 lbs!

(2) 100-year-old military pack saddle frame (Army Defence Clothing).

(3) Leather harness. Sold my car to pay for it!

(4) 2 custom-made pack bags (lots of testing here)

(5) 50 bags Spillers feeds.

(6) Farrier-crafted tether chain/rope/stake; Army neck collar.

(7) Horse / harness accessories: grooming, feeding (nose bag, supplements, water bucket), cleaning, First Aid, spare harness, repair tools, blanket / coat, Mosi guard!

(8) Portable computer (information: Farriers, routes, farms, vets, media).

(9) 150 maps (+ 150 back-ups)!

(10) 250 items (camping, cooking, clothing, navigation, survival, food, water, hygiene, scientific recording).

(11) Mobile 'phone back-up (worked 25% of route)!

(12) 6 plastic boxes, weighed each day to distribute load evenly.

(13) Rucksac for cameras, video, computer etc.

Native breeds -

Britain's closest links to prehistoric horses.

Will not let you down when the going gets tough!

Help the 8 breeds survive extinction. Support a Native Breed Society.

Mules -

Highly intelligent companions, once they trust you.

Underestimated.

Contact the British Mule Society: www.hamill.co.uk/british_mule_soc/

Rights of Way -

We need more bridleways. See my Web Site (ww.matilda.mcmail.com) NET Quest) for latest on a national database.

Lobby your M. P.

Help conserve ancient green lanes, green ways and drove roads.

Try walking with your pony.

It's as much fun as riding!

It could reduce track damage.

You see countryside closer up.

But be warned. You tread where the horse goes. Get fit!

Breed: Exmoor Welsh Cob (D) Welsh Cob (D) Mule

Name: Helman Tor Kengar Ashridge Sweet Rocket Abercippyn Welsh Flyer Dorothy

Sex: Gelding Mare Gelding Hinny

Age: 5 11 7 20

Height:12.1 14.1 14.3 13.2

Colour:Bay Chestnut roan Chestnut White

Stage: Preliminary West Country Wales Midlands

Past: Semi-feral Ridden Show stallion Driving trials

Breed: Dales Fell Highland (garron)

Name: Olivia Sleddale Black Prince Ailsa of Croila

Sex: Mare Gelding Mare

Age: 15 4 8

Height:14.0 13.2 14.1

Colour:Bay Black Yellow dun

Stage: Yorkshire Northern Fells Scotland

Past: Trekking, foaled '98 Semi-feral Deer carrying - Balmoral

Cornwall - Across Cornwall the drovers' way

On a sunny, early June evening I arrive at the Lizard to begin a journey on foot that will end, with luck, almost two thousand miles later, at Scotland’s northernmost tip, Dunnet Head. Meanwhile, a Lizard farmer transports Helman Tor Kengar, a specially chosen Exmoor pony, from Higher Trevelmick, near Bodmin, to expedition base at Haelarcher Farm.

Kengar, the first of my seven equine companions, must carry survival gear, scientific instruments and our food across Cornwall. My intention is to avoid classified roads. Sounds easy? Cornwall's ancient tracks, bridleways, packhorse trails and drovers' routes are today peppered with man-made obstacles. Even natural hazards can thwart a modern-day drover's best intentions.

A perfectly proportioned, young native pony, Kengar is unshod and needs further training, but time is a precious commodity. I lead him about the village then test him, lightly loaded, above southernmost Lizard Point, our starting location. Here, on waterlogged ground in thick mist, the expedition vehicle, the last I shall use for six months, lurches precariously towards the cliff edge. Luckily, as the lighthouse bellows out its warning signal to passing ships, a working fisherman manages to tow it to safety. We haven’t even begun!

Mike, Lizard’s farrier, shoes Kengar's front feet while I struggle to hold him. Trials continue; he hates the military packsaddle but I test him, assisted by villager Elizabeth, with a fully loaded pack on the very first leg from Lizard Point beach to Haelarcher. So far, so good! Optimism is short-lived. Next morning Kengar escapes during preparations and gallops uncontrollably along the main Helston road, the saddle under his belly. Mike and I give chase. Kengar is unhurt. A damaged harness is easily repairable, but can Kengar be properly trained in time?

I desperately need a replacement pony, or the expedition may never begin. Luckily, during his travels across Cornwall, Mike discovers Ashridge Sweet Rocket, a Welsh Cob from St Keverne, Helston. Will Sweetie, unfit, untried and imperfectly trained in the art of packing, manage the job? On a hot mid-June afternoon, after just one practice day and despite my better judgement, Sweetie and I head north from Lizard Village along Chapel Lane Track.

The immediate coastal path, via Kynance Farm to Windyridge Farm, is impassable; a gate is too narrow, but I refuse to remove Sweetie’s pack. Our alternative bridleway heads north-east across Lizard Downs, then north-west over Lower Predannack Downs. Soon we encounter dangerous potholes on a rock-strewn route. Unwilling to risk any injury, I skirt around Predannack Airfield on Higher Predannack Downs, wading through knee-deep bog. South of Mullion on a hot evening, Sweetie's lack of fitness forces an emergency camp at Trevane, Curry Cross Lanes.

In scorching weather Sweetie carries a load of one hundred and seventy-five pounds, but she never falters. At Roskymer Barton, aggressive cows charge us, so we divert around Treverry via Rose-in-the-bush. Beyond Mellangoose, a jungle-like bridleway near Trewennack is virtually impenetrable. Native ponies can easily cope but I arrive at Crahan Farm tired and battered.

Strong winds unsettle Sweetie this morning. At the first cattle grid, as I remove a rusty gate, she canters back towards last evening's rest place, White Alice, repeatedly attempting to buck off the pack for good measure! Cows charge towards her. She turns then gallops back. I manage to grab the bridle and hold on as she swerves past. Now she is agitated. What a wicked sense of humour!

Leaving Stithians Reservoir, we must follow narrow lanes through Yellow-wort, Penhalveor and Gwennap. Amidst a wildlife wonderland, disused mining tracks casually snake past Wheal Clifford and Twelveheads into Poldice Valley. Old workings resemble a strange, lunar-like landscape. Tin mining tracks run west to east through Cornwall, so are only occasionally useful.

North-east of the A390, unsurfaced tracks are intermittent with black lanes. I need a machete halfway along a bridleway engulfed by gorse and elderberry thickets. Sweetie cannot turn. Finally, just twenty-five metres from a rusted iron gate, low lying branches force us to backtrack then re-route by road to Watergate Lodge, Wheal Frances, and our supply point at Higher Polgoda Farm.

Many of Cornwall’s traditional bridleways have been either downgraded to footpaths or upgraded to byways open to all traffic. A glimpse of Goonhavern's main road frightens Sweetie, but soon we follow an obsolete, overgrown, snake-infested railway line from Little Lanteague, an exquisite nature trap, past Shepherd’s Farm to Fiddlers Green. It is the summer solstice, hot and dry. Past St Newlyn East, quiet country lanes east of Newquay are hard on any pony's feet. Remnants of pretty, unspoilt bridleway offer respite to Killiworgie Riding Stables.

These first days we struggle to find a rhythm. Loading and unloading Sweetie at the beginning and end of each day each take about ninety minutes. Where the breasting rubs against her sweating body, I use alcohol to ‘harden up’ her skin. Sheepskin, taped around the leather harness protects her from sores. This morning, as I adjust the saddle, she accidentally head-butts me; blood pours from my bottom lip. My teeth are bruised but intact.

Minor country roads, tracks and occasional bridleways lead to Withiel and Mullberry Downs. Across the River Camel, the ‘crooked one’, gates along the Camel Trail are locked from Boscarne Junction Station, north of Nanstallion. North Cornwall District Council officer Brian quickly arrives with a key. Through undisturbed stacks of mature deciduous oak and beech woodland we are alone this early evening. As I unlock gate after gate along the Trail, we travel quickly, easily, northwards amidst the solitude of East, Outlands, Park and Colquite Woods.

The Camel’s chattering waters snake peacefully below Penhargard Castle Settlement. Already dusk, we pass through Shell Wood, exiting the Trail for Tresarrett Mill, our emergency camp at the edge of Bodmin Moor, properly named Fowey Moor. I share a field with four pet sheep! The summer’s first drizzly rain begins.

Sweetie gets fitter daily. This fine, sunny morning, accompanied by a local shepherd, from Ford Pendrift we cross Pendrift Downs to Jubilee Rock. I explore, with owner Dominic, South Penquite’s intriguing stone circles, remnants of Bronze Age hut settlements. From Kerrow Downs we follow the only track to King Arthur’s Hall. A sparsely defined private four-wheel drive track bisects King Arthur’s Downs. We pass grazing cattle and wild ponies en route to Cornwall's highest altitude farm, Fernacre. Rough Tor lies northwards. To the east, Brown Willy’s majestic cairns are visible.

This morning Rob and Kelsey, Fernacre Farm’s managers, accompany us on horseback over picturesque Brownwilly Downs. A boundary gate is too narrow, so off comes the pack! Soon Sweetie and I are alone on serene Catshole Downs, easily navigating over a fence line between Catshole, Codda Tor and Tolborough Tor, then skirting around lethal bog to Codda Ford.

At Trezelland Farm, approached by a clearly defined bridleway, no one's about, but a donkey is interested in Sweetie! We are momentarily three! Beyond Halvana Plantation, careful navigation across tranquil East Moor locates the ford, our only accessible avenue into Smallacoombe Plantations. Climbing, we run the gauntlet of two excited thoroughbreds. The forest track at Smallacoombe Downs winds quietly towards the forest edge and a marshy ride, knee-deep in water, between tree rows at Withey Brook. A collapsible walking pole is an indispensable depth gauge!

Doubling back at the old railway line, Trewortha lies north of Withey Brook. Where shall we safely traverse this rocky gully? A local, exercising his sheep dog, reveals the only possible crossing place, hidden by tall grasses and bracken. Trewortha, our next supply point, is the site of magnificent reconstructed Bronze Age hut circles. The barn resonates with the banging of loose fittings in light breezes, spooking Sweetie as I unload her. Only much later, grazing away from buildings, is she calm.

This morning Sweetie, carrying food for five days, accidentally nudges me over boulder-strewn ground. The compass flies from my hand, seemingly lost in thick gorse. Thankfully, after a frantic search, I spot a shiny, red encased object. What relief! My spare is buried deep inside a saddlebag!

Marshy ground hampers our trek across Twelve Mens Moor; we deviate upstream before crossing at Kingbeare. Progressing easily to the moor’s edge and Bathpool, unavoidable roads, once sandy lanes, still secluded, bring us via Linkinhorne to Kelly Bray, where an old mining track is fenced off. Sweetie panics when thick, high gorse dislodges a saddlebag. We backtrack. Sharp thorns cling to clothes and equipment.

The track over Kit Hill does not echo my mapped route. Unsuccessful sorties lead to stiles, so we follow the bridleway northwards to the lookout at disused Kithill Quarry. Now a fence bars entry to Clitters Deer Park. We reach South Haylands Farm, cut and buffeted, as darkness descends.

Last evening locals reconnoitred, for me, the ford across the Tamar. It is two metres deep. As planned, we re-route from Greenscombe Wood, home to Heath Fritillary butterflies, via Luckett. Best-laid plans often fail. Sweetie refuses to cross a footbridge over a tributary after I unload her pack. I search vainly for another crossing but am resigned. We must return to Luckett then follow the minor road to Horse Bridge, originally called High Bridge, once a traditional drovers’ crossing into Devon.

Sweetie has travelled safely across Cornwall in the footsteps of her ancestors. Ahead lies Dartmoor. I have no misgivings now. Cornwall has forged a team able to meet any challenge.

Devon - Taking the drovers' way to Dartmoor

Nine days after leaving Cornwall's Lizard Point on June 17th, we cross the Tamar into Devon. Welsh native pony, Ashridge Sweet Rocket, loaded with food supplies, camping and survival gear and scientific instruments, has made it safely across Fowey Moor. With luck, I could reach Scotland’s northernmost tip, Dunnet Head on Saint Andrew's day.

"So what?" I hear you say. "Sounds easy." Not so, if your intention is to use neither vehicle support nor classified roads! For the West Country's ancient packhorse trails, traditional drover's routes and bridleways are today peppered with fences, locked gates, stiles, narrow bridges, felled trees, tunnels, buildings, frightening motorised traffic and tarmac. And deep rivers, bogs, eroded and slippery ground, flooding, rampant vegetation, torrential rain, perilous climbs, or charging cows can thwart a modern-day drover’s best intentions. Man and pony must tread the same ground. Miscalculations may have serious consequences for both. Can Sweetie, carrying one hundred and seventy-five pounds, Army style, make it across Devon?

Leaving the Tamar's chattering torrents, our way twists gently through private Tavistock Woodlands, where we quickly encounter a locked gate at Weir Cottage. Sweetie dozes off as I unpack my repaired sub-notebook computer, now protected in my rucksack. It contains names and telephone numbers. Five calls later I discover, sadly, that the forest manager, my contact, has recently died. Luckily I locate the Chief Forester, who arrives eventually with the key which will open barriers ahead. Now it’s four-o-clock; there are miles of forest trekking and two rivers to cross before nightfall! Travelling urgently through pretty Blanchdown, Gunnislake, Morwell, Sheepridge and Maddacleave Woods, Sweetie responds well. But a fierce, distant storm gathers as we reach Hocklake Farm in half-light. No one is about, it seems, so we continue warily along the disused woodland mining track. It is almost dark; a difficult crossing of the Tavy lies ahead. I decide to return to Hocklake Farm. This time I am mightily relieved when the owner, who loves horses and has heard of our adventure, appears in his dressing gown! It rains heavily tonight.

I become alarmed. Sweetie’s lower back is swollen, though she appears to be in no pain. Directed by Hocklake’s owner, we wade across the River Tavy’s shallowest point, then ford the Walkham. The Walkham’s northern shore, a merry wooded track, skirts around West Down to Halfway House, Grenofen. There a local veterinary diagnoses muscle spasm but believes it isn’t serious; Sweetie is unused to the military saddle. Hopefully, an anti-inflammatory injection and short rest will do the trick. Our campsite is the Inn’s garden. By first light her swelling is amazingly reduced! The innkeeper’s daughter rips foam from an old chair, which I place under the saddle’s rear, before loading forwards.

Minor roads, eastwards through Whimington and across Ward Bridge, lead to Dartmoor’s edge. The track zigzags with the contour, passing, to our right, Ingra Tor and Leeden Tor. Soon, in rapidly deteriorating weather, we join a dismantled railway line as it winds gently upwards, eastwards through old tin workings, to Plume of Feathers Inn, Princetown, our next supply point. This easier, foul weather, option proves beautiful despite swirling mist. Tonight Sweetie has the run of a fifteen-acre hill paddock and I use the welcome bunk barn. It rains heavily and incessantly. By daybreak visibility is down to ten metres. Thick mist and fine, drenching drizzle engulf Princetown. Sweetie’s inflammation has largely subsided, but her lower back is slightly tender, still unusually warm. I try to disguise powdered drugs with food, but she’s clever at spotting it, refusing to finish her nosebag quota! I decide to rest her, particularly as the weather’s so dreadful. The vet agrees, although he is pleased with her quick recovery. Cool rain on her back will help. I can sort out supplies and complete urgent repairs.

This drier morning Sweetie becomes alarmed and agitated when a refuse truck, reversing into the Inn’s car park, beeps its loud warning signal. Saddling her takes ages. Finally we head south-east, past delightful South Hessary Tor, then north-east past Whiteworks, a disused tin mine, onto the bridleway over Royal Hill. Rain still threatens as we reach the Pony Trekking Centre at Sherberton, where we traverse the rivers Swincombe and West Dart at two sets of stepping stones. Here Sweetie’s incurable habit of jumping wildly over boggy holes gets me into trouble. She lands her front right hoof firmly on my left ankle, pinning me down and severely bruising my heel. It might have been worse; thank goodness for tough, plastic toe caps.

North-eastwards over Dunna Bridge, by Dunnabridge Pound and isolated Laughter Tor, we continue into Bellever’s wooded enclosure, a remnant of once vast Dartmoor Forest. Now Sweetie refuses to climb a nine-inch stone step at a gateway, even with the pack removed. She will not budge. Despairing, I suddenly notice that the adjacent farm gate, though padlocked, can be unlocked by slipping the chain over a broken support! Beyond quiet Bellever and Postbridge lies our campsite at Middle Merripit Farm, where the farmer’s new spring water filter isn’t working. Tonight I use precious reserve fuel, methylated spirit, to boil a murky, brown liquid. Next rainy morning the farmer has reverted temporarily to the mains, so morning tea is more palatable! Packing up in wet weather takes longer. Sweetie hates stables; she likes to see what’s happening, so I load her outside. Already drenched, we eventually head across wild Dartmoor, bathed intermittently in drizzly mist. Long Ridge stretches northwards, momentarily alongside the East Dart River, past ancient hut circles remains. The military ‘danger area’ of Winney’s Down firing range stretches to our left. White Ridge lies to our right.

The Grey Wethers, two large restored stone circles, magically appear through the fog at the foot of Sittaford Tor. Beyond this outcrop, rising to five hundred and thirty-eight metres, we turn eastwards towards Fernworthy Reservoir’s nature reserve and our encampment at Collihole Farm, peacefully nestling close to the South Teign River. This is good grazing. Tonight I speak by mobile ‘phone, my only means of communication, with the skipper of a small sailing vessel that will take me, but not Sweetie, across the Severn Estuary to Newport, an option that avoids roads, motorways and towns. The Spring tides have slowly risen beyond eleven feet. He must sail from Watchet by July thirteenth, at latest, or the crossing will become too dangerous; I could be delayed for another week. But we are behind schedule. How shall we catch up a day?

Today’s planned trek is arduous, over high moorland, first by walls then along ridges, to Ford Farm, requiring meticulous navigation on another misty morning. Sweetie’s back has healed but I still pack forwards. On Stonetor Hill she will not cross the stream, so I search for an easier crossing. Over Hew Down, at the North Teign River, she again refuses, so we cross downstream at the cattle ford. This saps valuable time and energy, but eventually we reach the impressive rock structures of Watern Tor, barely outlined in now thick, swirling mist. Here Sweetie again demonstrates her wicked sense of humour. She absolutely declines to cross a shallow ford at Watern Combe. The bottom is peaty black but perfectly safe. The ford is just nine inches deep, but she isn’t interested!

I scout, without luck, upstream and downstream for an alternative safe crossing, finding only deep gorges, cotton grass and lethal marsh. There is no other way onto Wild Tor, the beginning of our planned ridge walk. A group of sodden hikers, huddled around the cairn, have decided to head home. In rapidly deteriorating weather there’s no alternative. We must now backtrack on compass bearings! Visibility is about ten metres. Two strenuous, painstaking hours later we are back at Long Stone on Chagford Common. At last we can re-route from Teigncombe, along unplanned lowland bridleways and drovers’ ways. From Leigh we head through Gidleigh Park, where the hotel manager kindly unlocks a private access gate. Along pretty Deave Lane lie Throwleigh and South Zeal. We finally reach Ford Farm, supply point five, after nine-o-clock, exhausted.

At Collihole insects have bitten Sweetie’s legs. I treat them with alcohol and antiseptic cream. Extra ‘Mosi Guard’ is needed today! In South Zeal, as the rain continues, locals try vainly to hold back a flooding river with sandbags. Will this become an ever more common consequence of climate change? Leaving Sticklepath, a lovely byway of the Tarka Trail is too soon over; stiles bar further access. Our only obstacle-free option is a long, tough trek up seemingly ever steeper hills along quiet minor roads. Occasional flower-embroidered tracks, overgrown through disuse, offer welcome respite. At Langdown Village we are, thankfully, back on softer ground to Higher Cullaford but, just before Coxmoor’s ford, we seem to be walking down the middle of a cascading stream! Intermittent track and path now lead through Bow and Zeal Monachorum to Gissage Bridge. Suddenly, on a short, steep climb over rough rocks, the pack slips sideways, forcing Sweetie precariously off balance. Just in time I right it. Beyond Loosebeare, Blackditch Cross and Gillscott Cross lies our next encampment, Birch Farm.

North of Chiverton Cross my chosen bridleway, though recently reopened by agreement, is blocked at the gateway. Further north, at Coldridge, the horse path is again obstructed by a stile near its ending, so we detour. Crossing the River Taw at Chenson, I meet a local sheep farmer wrestling with ewes. A true indigenous native, his family has farmed here for centuries. Immediately, at the railway crossing, I cannot rouse ‘Railtrack’ on their phone. We cross warily. Now we are north of Tonyfield Farm. Field gates regularly punctuate the bridleway; route finding becomes challenging and enjoyable. On a humid, cloudy late afternoon we meander, seemingly endlessly, through delightful Great Leigh and Cobley Woods, privately managed. At the woodland’s heart the track is sodden, muddy, pointing simultaneously in several directions; a compass is needed to avoid mistakes as daylight fades. Sweetie, fed up and impatient, attempts to gallop off! Eventually we reach Affeton Barton, across the Little Dart River via Affeton Mill Bridge, as darkness descends. I pitch the tent in a barn on bales of warm hay. We have successfully negotiated Dartmoor the drover's way. Northwards beckons serene Exmoor and the sea.

Somerset - A triumph for Sweetie in Lorna Doone wilderness

Eighteen days after leaving mainland Britain's most southerly shore we have almost reached Exmoor national park. Welsh native pony, Ashridge Sweet Rocket, heavily loaded with every item we need to survive, has safely crossed Dartmoor. Can she now, accompanied by a human on foot, make it to the Severn Estuary?

It pours until midday, leaving a bright, clear steaming afternoon across lush, rain-freshened fields along the bridleway that bisects Affeton and Yelland Moors. Here fifteen frisky, playful bullocks charge us. There is no way around the long narrow meadow; my metal walking pole rescues us continually as they attack first from the front, then the side, then the rear before finally giving up! Sweetie stays calm; she is getting used to such antics.

Trouble-free, peaceful lanes and byways take us through West Lutworthy, by Mouseberry, Burrow and Meshaw Moor Crosses, to Meshaw. At Cherridge a sign reads ‘Beware of Bull with Cows and Calves’. Discretion is needed, so we divert around the field into Cherridge Wood. Here, along a slimy, leaf-littered, narrow, almost non-existent track, Sweetie becomes stuck on a steep, slippery slope amongst low-lying branches. This bridleway is unsuitable for pack animals, even native breeds! Finally she disentangles herself and we scramble tenaciously, uncontrollably uphill into a calm, grassy clearing. Thankfully, the horse path to Rodsworthy is clear and easy. Soon, quiet roadwork leads to The Black Cock Inn where, this evening, locals need no encouragement to espouse the arguments for fox hunting with hounds and against a ban, a reminder that we are trekking deep into a hunting stronghold.

Washing and cleaning take all morning. Distant cumulus clouds linger. Our exquisitely pretty route into Molland district lies through fields, alongside multicoloured, tree-lined hedges, through pastures where sheep and cattle lazily graze on Higher Hill, to the cattle grid on Round Hill. This marks our gateway to southern Exmoor. Along a badly eroded track to Cussacombe Gate we are rewarded with exquisite views of this wide expanse on a humid afternoon. I film a family of Exmoor cross-ponies at White Post. Many pure and half-breed families wander about in this virtually wild fashion. The bridle track to Upper Willingford Corner is partly obscure, but across Halscombe Allotment the enclosed drovers’ road to Porchester’s Post presents fine views of Withypool Hill to our right and Withypool Common ahead. Sweetie is enjoying this; better behaved she is happy to graze at every opportunity! At Knighton, supply point six, the local farrier waits to re-shoe her, as he promised yesterday. Now, though, he changes his mind. "It’s unfair to make her stand after she has walked such a long distance with that pack."

On a pleasantly warm, slightly breezy, day we take the grassy bridle path west from Knighton, skirting around Brightworthy Barrows to the ford at Landacre Bridge. Westwards, past Landacre Lane, the Two Moors Way, though badly eroded in places, offers delightfully open views of Exmoor’s farming countryside. From Pikestones Farm the drovers’ way follows the River Barle past disused mine Wheal Eliza and Flexbarrow. At a tributary crossing near Simonsbath, the tree line presents an impassable barrier to Sweetie, compelling us to enter the river forty metres downstream, then wade against the current to the far bank. A narrow walking path to Simonsbath now follows the line of a barbed fence that continually buffets the pack, repeatedly ripping into the saddlebags. Here, at last, is a chance to catch up lost time. Ignoring an opportunity to publicise the expedition’s conservation aims at Simonsbath, our pre-planned stop, we continue instead north along a sign-posted line of low-branched trees, Lime Combe, to Limecombe Cottage. A barely distinguishable track heads north to sheep pens, where a compass bearing north-west over Dure Down brings us to a meeting of the Two Moors Way and Tarka Trail. Soon we are traversing magnificent Cheriton Ridge towards Cheriton and our next campsite at Brendon Manor Farm.

Rested after yesterday’s mammoth trek, we set off leisurely at midday. On this hottest of days in magical ‘Doone’ country, walking over burned heather on Farley and Little Hills is not a pleasant experience. Reaching Dry Bridge we encounter the Brendon Manor Pony Trek on their afternoon stroll. Eager for an unusual view, I decide to avoid the wide, worn though apparently sustainable Brendon Common track. Instead we turn south-east via peaceful Little Black and Great Black Hills to shady Badgworthy Wood. It is now just a short walk northwards, alongside bubbling, sparkling Badgworthy Water, to isolated Cloud Farm.

Next morning Cloud Farm’s owner suggests a high land route across Deer Park, which means dry feet, as we don’t need to cross the river again! He reckons the gate above the climb up Land Combe onto South Common is wide enough for the pack. It isn’t! After reloading, we finally reach open moor seventy-five minutes, and one mile, after leaving camp, but are rewarded with unrivalled views over cooler, isolated South Common. Manor Allotment lies to our right, Kittuck to our left, as we eventually descend to Larkbarrow and our original drovers’ route east.

From the cattle grid near Alderman’s Barrow, a gently undulating bridleway picks the easiest route south-east around Almsworthy Common, towards the corner of Greenlands. Continuing, Exford Common is a rough sea of thick, two feet high, heather. Suddenly it happens again! Sweetie treads on my left heel, pinning me to the ground. I struggle free, wrenching knee ligaments. Walking is suddenly a sore, uncertain experience as we quickly attempt to regain the track one kilometre on. We are now climbing over National Trust land to Dunkery Hill. At Dunkery Beacon’s wonderful View a walker gives thirsty Sweetie an apple. She also gets my last litre of water on a sultry afternoon, which she eagerly accepts! Our high route has crossed no streams all day. Descending easily to Dunkery Gate and desperately needed fresh water, our pleasant journey continues through Blagdon and Little Quarme Woods. A proper bed at Dunkery View Farm, Wheddon Cross, offers welcome relief this evening for my troublesome knee.

Sweetie needs new shoes. I try to locate a farrier, but without success. From Cutcombe Cross via Popery Lane we skirt around an aggressive herd of cows on White Moor. The bridleway now crosses Lype Hill, where we must bisect another herd, and Lype Common on a cloudless summer day. The track twists and turns through the pretty valley of Collyhill Wood, where I manage to lose a water bottle, wrenched by branches from the saddle, which leaves me temporarily vulnerable. At the wood’s exit off comes the pack at a narrow pheasant's cage. The birds, still unable to fly, scatter before us. We continue through Chargot Wood into Pooltown this hot, cloudless afternoon. What would I give to be sipping Champagne on a newly mown lawn! Beyond the splendid, contour hugging bridleway to Court Farms, we encounter two unusual pets near Treborough, Llamas, pack-animals for another time and place. Into the valley of the next plantation, flower-studded Broadfield Wood, danger lurks. Sweetie suddenly sinks into peat but manages to extricate herself admirably. I cautiously pick the safest line in an eerie half-light. Almost a mile of minor roadwork later we arrive at Hook Hill Farm, where fresh supplies await. I wash Sweetie down. Her sensitive back has worsened. What should I do tomorrow?

Today we travel north-east through Pond Wood to Monksilver, then along minor roads, a revised route, to Crowcombe. Due to Sweetie’s injury I have decided, reluctantly, to miss out our intended camp with a wild Exmoor pony herd at Cothelstone Hill. Instead we access the Quantocks around Great Hill, via Little Quantock Combe, on yet another clear, blue-sky day. Soon we are making steady progress north-west along the old drovers’ track, by Crowcombe Combe Gate, Crowcombe Park Gate, Hurley Beacon, Halsway Post, Thorncombe Hill and Bicknoller Post. At last we reach The Great Road Track. From Beacon Hill and through Staple Plantation, Watchet and the sea are clearly visible against a perfectly setting sun. Soon we descend from West Quantoxhead. Narrow roads lead to Doniford Farm and the Severn Estuary. We have made it in time!

I rest Sweetie today before we commence the short, late afternoon, trek to Bridgwater Bay, her final destination. Through Watchet’s cobbled streets she walks proudly. Her old shoes have lasted, after all, thanks to a largely off-road route. Finally she stands contentedly, fit and lean, amidst excited Girl Guides at Watchet Harbour. We are both mesmerised by the wide expanse beyond the Western Pier’s sheltered walls and lighthouse. Perhaps Sweetie wonders how she will get across! I unsaddle her then, helped by the skipper and crew, load the gear onto Sophie, a small sailing boat.

Tonight Sweetie grazes again at Doniford Farm. Tomorrow she will be transported home, where she will quickly recover. This pack pony has successfully traversed Exmoor in the drover's way, a manner befitting any native breed. I shall miss Sweetie’s companionship. Across the Severn, at Newport’s sea mouth, waits Abercippyn Welsh Flyer, another Welsh Cob. He will try to carry our gear through the Welsh Mountains on the next stage of the National Environment Trail. But that is another story! First I must cross a salty expanse and tides are running high.

Severn Estuary - Channel's far from plain sailing

On July twelfth, twenty-six days after leaving mainland Britain's most southerly shore, Lizard Point, Ashridge Sweet Rocket and I reach Watchet harbour. 'Sweetie', a Welsh native pony, has carried a heavy load, willingly, without flinching, safely across Fowey Moor, Dartmoor and Exmoor. As I gaze seaward, a small sailing vessel, Sophie, appears at the shimmering harbour entrance. Skippered by Geoff and crewed by his wife, Lesley, this is my only means of reaching the Welsh coast without using roads or motorised transport.

Excited girl guides gather on the harbour wall as I unsaddle Sweetie for the last time. The military pack saddle, the packs, the tent, in fact every item, must be painstakingly stowed in Sophie's hold. I can afford to lose nothing. Tomorrow a horse transporter will carry a tired pony back to Cornwall. Meanwhile, with luck, I shall sail via Barry to Newport, where my second equine companion, Abercippyn Welsh Flyer, a Welsh Cob from Cardiff, waits to accompany me through Wales on the second stage of the expedition. I have arrived at Watchet just in time. This is the last chance to sail, a now tiny window of opportunity, before rising Spring tides make the crossing too difficult. Tonight we sleep on board Sophie.

I awake to the skipper's alarm at fifteen minutes before five this beautifully sunny summer morning. Lesley checks the shipping forecast. A falling barometer, mist and rain are predicted. We weigh anchor and slip quietly out of the harbour, sailing on a course for Barry and South Wales. "The crossing to Newport must be completed in two stages, as the tides are so tricky," explains Geoff.

An hour later the north-westerly wind has become so slight that Sophie is becalmed. I vowed, before the expedition commenced, never to travel using fossil fuel power. Sabrina perh, the goddess of this river, doesn't rescue us today, however; there is no option. Geoff must use the small on-board engine to make any headway, despite our full sail. By eight, at high tide, a still too slight breeze is blowing from the north-east as we head on a bearing of two hundred and forty-five degrees. Lesley maintains a cautious lookout for larger vessels that might swamp us. "The channel can be so treacherous," she warns. "Take it easy," Geoff advises me. "We want you to have a well-earned rest. Let us do the work." Sounds like a good plan to me!

Ninety minutes later we chug gently into Barry harbour, a safe haven to anchor whilst the tide turns. Geoff pumps up his on-board dingy. He and I row ashore for fresh water and reserve oil, just in case. He has planned carefully. Our intention is to set sail again in six hours, just before the next high tide. This suits me perfectly. There is even time to snooze after lunch.

When we cast off for Newport, at about three-thirty this afternoon, circumstances are altogether more challenging. The weather has worsened. The sea is much rougher. Now the wind blows from the stern, not consistently, but in large squalls. Course setting has become difficult. We are soon travelling at six knots without any motorised assistance. The wind speed increases to force seven. Have we angered the goddess? Our radio is in constant touch with the coast guard, who broadcast a gale warning to all shipping in the channel. Suddenly Sophie seems alone. No craft has ventured this far out save, on the horizon, one giant yacht and a solitary tanker.

Geoff and Lesley are worried. This is their first trip from Barry to Newport. But they are too experienced, too confident to panic. We lower the smaller sail and reef down to reduce the surface area of the mainsail. Geoff concentrates at the helm. I have complete faith in their ability. I do what ever is asked of me. Fierce, sliding waves crash against the hull. Sophie begins to roll alarmingly. Spray repeatedly engulfs the tiny craft and its occupants. This adventure has suddenly become a serious business.

After ninety minutes of expert sailing, Sophie is on her final tack for the Usk’s mouth. Now the coastline affords some shelter, minimising the effect of the squalling wind’s ferocity. "I am glad to have left that behind," confesses Geoff, smiling again. He relaxes a little at the tiller. Everyone is visibly relieved to be heading into calmer waters. The skipper is red-green colour defective, so Lesley sights the marker buoys with binoculars, reading off their colours to confirm Sophie’s location and the water’s depth. Soon we approach the Sea Reach and, beyond, the safety of the breakwater and Bridge Waterman’s Reach.

We glide serenely towards past West Pier. On, up the wide, snaking river from Powder House Point we arrow, past Crow Point and under the Transporter Bridge, gently navigating the river’s curves at Old Dock Reach. Local sailing club members, from their club house nestled on the eastern bank, welcome us by thrice blasting a siren in honour of our arrival. Soon, around Spittles Point, we reach Newport’s southerly, seaward outskirts at Pillgwenlly. Sophie's skipper lowers his sails beyond the breakwater. A host of colourful triangular flags attached to the rigging flutter in the stiff breeze as the tiny oil-powered engine chugs forward with the tide. Under George Street Bridge I can, at last, spot Dai, a proud Welsh pony from Glamorgan, who prances about impatiently on the keyside, building up quite a sweat.

We have safely reached Newport. Sophie arrives at the disembarkation point, by Castle Bridge, at fifteen minutes before seven this evening, almost precisely as predicted by Geoff. However, we must moor temporarily, then wait another twenty minutes for the rising tide to lift the boat level with the jetty steps. Newport’s Mayor and Mayoress wait to greet us. They want to hear about the crossing. "It was not all ‘plain sailing’," insists Geoff. Several supporters have gathered at the jetty. Dai's owner, Malcolm, helped by his wife Glenys and young son Tom, is exercising Dai. The harbourmaster, who advised us of this best entry point to Newport, waits with Newport's planning officer Wyn, and local ranger Andrew.

At last, formalities completed, I am almost ready for the next stage of the quest. Dai is eager to be off. His chestnut coat now glistens with sweat, a combination of anticipation and the light workout. Geoff and Lesley unload whilst I adjust the harness, shaping it to Dai's large, five feet one inch, frame. We met months ago, so I know the saddle will fit, though Dai is broader and taller than Ashridge Sweet Rocket, the Welsh pony used through the West Country. Now a gelding, he was, until recently, a successful show stallion, winning prizes. I must punch extra holes in the harness straps.

Geoff and Lesley can’t tarry. They sail down river with the quickly ebbing tide, but only as far as Newport’s sailing club, where members wait to entertain them tonight! Tomorrow, mission admirably accomplished, they shall return to Bridgwater, Somerset. Now it is up to Dai, just seven years old, strong, powerful, fit and clever, to carry our equipment and food over testing Welsh mountains. Will we successfully reach Llangollen and the English border, without support from any car, travelling in the footsteps of the early Welsh drovers? Is Dai ready for deep rivers, bogs, steep climbs, eroded tracks and freezing torrential rain? Only time will tell!

Twenty-seven days after leaving Cornwall's Lizard Point on June 17th, I reach the Welsh coast. Despite a squalling force seven wind from Watchet across the Severn estuary, Sophie, our tiny boat, sails via Barry into Newport at high tide.

There, at Castle Bridge, Abercippyn Welsh Flyer, the third of my seven equine companions, waits impatiently with Newport’s mayor. Flyer - I call him Dai - is a strong, four feet eleven inches Welsh Cob from Cardiff. He must carry food, survival gear and scientific instruments across Wales to Llangollen. With luck, I might reach Scotland’s northernmost tip, Dunnet Head on Saint Andrew's day.

We will use neither vehicle support nor classified roads. 'So what?' you may say. Today, Cambria's ancient packhorse trails, traditional drover's routes and bridleways are peppered with fences, locked gates, stiles, narrow bridges, felled trees, tunnels, buildings, frightening motorised traffic and tarmac. Deep rivers, hidden bogs, eroded and slippery ground, flooding, rampant vegetation, torrential rain, perilous climbs, or charging cows can thwart a modern-day drover’s best intentions. Man and pony must tread the same ground. Miscalculations may have serious consequences for both.

I unload the military packsaddle from Sophie, harness and load Dai then head along the Monmouthshire canal in fading light. At the Star Inn, Mamhilad, aware of wild camping ahead, I train Dai on a long tether.

This morning clear felling blocks our exit from the towing path to open hill. Luckily a passing motorist helps unhinge a locked British Waterways gate. From peaceful Middle Ninfa, we strike out for the Brecon Beacons via the Punch Bowl, a lake where illegal fist fighting occurred. Around Blorenge Hill, above nestling Abergavenny, unexpected stiles force an intriguing diversion through the Tumble, a disused quarry, along a horse-drawn tram bed used one hundred and fifty years ago for iron smelting.

It takes an hour to cross the frightening A-road at Gilwern. From Llangenny Riding Stables, via Sugar Loaf, the Black Mountains beckon. Across a deep ford, we climb towards Crug Mawr, where a fence obstructs our bridleway into Mynydd Du Forest. What an inspiring panorama of the Vale of Grwyney!

Climbing Blacksmith’s Anvil towards the trig point high above tiny Capel-y-ffin monastery, Dai tries to roll. It’s a hot day, but if he succeeds he could break the century-old birch pack frame, donated by the British Army; replacements don’t exist. I pull him up, just in time. Beyond glassy Grwyne Fawr reservoir hides Cwmfforest Riding Centre, our supply point; food rations are spent.

Above shimmering Llangorse Lake Dai's saddle needs urgent repair. The local saddler is ill, so I must make do. Mynydd Llangorse ridge avoids steep, stony, terribly eroded ground. At pretty Bwlch we navigate around a locked forest barrier over treacherous ground in torrential rain. Alongside the Usk, Dai has had enough. He turns and attempts to trot home! We reach Cui Lodge, Talybont after dusk, soaked.

This afternoon, from a desolate, windswept trig point past Bryniau Gleision, we hurry down towards our emergency camp, Birch Hall bothy in sheltered Taf Fechan Forest. A large truck arrives; Army trainee officers spill out. At 3 a.m., I peer out of the tent. Dai's short tether, anchored amongst boulders, has wrapped dangerously around his hindquarters. He yanks out the fifteen-inch stake.

Next morning we hasten past Upper Neuadd reservoir towards Bwlch ar y Fan against a biting wind and showers. As we climb towards Pen y Fan, Dai shies from charging, brightly coloured Army cadets. Expect the unexpected or a horse may pull you down a mountain!

Avoiding Cribyn, too eroded for any packhorse, our south-westerly track quickly descends to The Old Coach Road. Dai dislikes Sarn Helen's cobbles, but native Welsh ponies are tough and resilient where ordinary horses might easily become lame. This classic Roman road, named after Emperor Macsen Wledig’s wife, once connected Welsh forts south to north, Carmarthen to Caerhun.

A barely discernible moorland track snakes towards Glyntawe, through treacherous pillow mounds and swallow holes. At sunset, a stile near Carreg Cadno forces an emergency hill camp. I dare allow Dai only a four-metre tether. We have just one pint of water. Next morning, padlocked gates exacerbate our difficulties on the hottest summer day. Finally, assisted by Pwllcoediog's farmer, we escape this hill.

The track from Dan-yr-Ogof Shire Horse Centre onto Black Mountain is indistinct, undulating. "Be careful," approaching hikers warn. Dai breathes heavily whenever he senses danger. Streams with steep, marshy banks surround us. Two worrying, painstaking hours later we exit this dark hill, setting up makeshift camp in Llanddeusant Churchyard. Long, delicious grass suits Dai. Before dawn, he cuts a fetlock on the tether rope. Thankfully, it isn't serious.

From Usk reservoir we reach the edge of Glasfynydd Forest. Horseback riders have inadvertently locked us inside the forest enclosure. I eventually hacksaw through the boundary fence to reach open hill at Mynydd Bach, Trecastell. We are safely through the hills of fire.

Ahead is Halfway Forest, gravel tracks in a sea of trees. Into Crychan Forest, the bridleway is obliterated by Forestry Commission clear-felling; we get stuck in a steep, rutted, water-eroded gully. Attempting to avoid Dai's feet, I trip. I lay sprawled on my face, but Dai extricates himself cleverly. He climbs effortlessly, alone, to safety! This path is too risky, too dangerous, for horses, so we backtrack then follow lanes to Llanerchindda Farm. Worse is ahead. A gate-less cattle grid crosses the track at Trawsnant on Irfon Forest's boundary, high above enchanting Llyn Brianne reservoir. My steel wire-cutter, a Christmas present, snaps as I attempt to sever the fence. Fortunately, a passing canoeist carries a toolbox! We render a temporary repair with cord from my map case, then 'phone Forest Enterprise.

From Llanerch Yrfa, 'open space of the droves', our trek by remote Drygarn Fawr's trig point is over treacherous peat towards Carreg yr Ast. Dai snorts heavily, sniffing the ground at every step. I must turn back near Bryn Rhudd. Too late! He sinks into bog, trapping me beneath his belly. I am helpless, pinned down by horseflesh and a pack weighing 175 pounds. Seconds later - it seems forever - Dai struggles free, unscathed. I can walk, just! We urgently backtrack towards a dazzling setting sun. I learn tonight, bruised but safe, that no horse has crossed this isolated, wild terrain.

Elan Valley boasts over one hundred nesting bird species. Skirting Caban-coch, Garreg-ddu and Pennygarreg reservoirs, we detour around waymarked marsh at Cwm Garw and fences by Esgair Perfedd. To avoid wind turbines, which terrify horses, and impenetrable bog Cefn Nannerth, I choose a northernmost crossing of the Afon Gwy. Coedcochion Mawr village is, locals insist, the geographical centre of Wales. Across the Dulas River's dry, stony bed, we slog uphill along minor roads. Glassy Llyn Clywedog reservoir, a Severn-Trent reserve, obliterates the drover's route. Dai can, at last, quench a severe thirst.

From the Star Inn, a seventeenth century drover's refuge at Dylife, Glyndwr's Way follows a spectacularly steep, rocky pass, over tricky cross striations. At Glaslyn wildfowl reserve, scientists are setting up sheep feeding stations. These may yet protect precious wild vegetation. We are leaving the sea of trees far behind, heading for a high place.

Ahead, Machynlleth, Wales' historic capital, is our gateway across Afon Dyfi to 'a high place', home of red kites and few accessible horsepaths. A thunder-and-lightening storm drenches us at dusk along Sustrans cycle route 8, as we climb through suddenly dangerous conifers towards Gyllellog Farm. Dai seems unconcerned.

A customised cycle path, part of the Penmaenpool-Morfa Mawddach Walk, follows an obsolete railway bed towards Barmouth. Dai cleverly handles locked barriers onto the path; his three-point turn is wondrous to behold! Fishing boats glisten on a blue-sky morning. 'Railtrack' help us across their long, narrow, wooden footbridge spanning Barmouth Bay. Our timing must be impeccable; trains would pass within feet of Dai. Children on bicycles, holidaymakers, queue at the toll gate to greet us.

A magnificent grassy drover's track leads to Cors y Geddl. Eastwards over the Rhinogs, stiles could severely hinder a horse. Instead, we follow metalled lanes, hard on Dai's feet, into the Vale of Ffestiniog. Across Afon Dwyryd we must run the gauntlet of traffic between temporary lights. Dai trots faster than most when survival's at stake!

A mediaeval packhorse road, last straightened in 1580 to accommodate horse-drawn carriages, hugs the pass from Croesor to Nantmor. Roman legions marched here. Beyond Beddgelert Forest a tiny hill farm, Ffridd Isaf, lies at Snowdon’s foot. Tonight, midges hiding in long grass relentlessly attack Dai.

A weighted gate bars progress along Ffestiniog Railway's once abandoned, soon to be rebuilt, track bed. Some farmers have unsuccessfully opposed the line’s reinstatement; it cuts through their farms. We reluctantly follow the dangerous A-road towards Llyn Cwellyn reservoir, an option I sought to avoid. At Bron-y-fedw-isaf we can, at last, gain the track bed towards Snowdon Ranger hostel. In rapidly deteriorating weather, I avoid the Ranger Path to Snowdon's summit. Visibility is fifteen metres. From Bwlch Maesgwm, Llanberis' gentle pass is too enticing!

Next morning, climbing steeply, precariously, from Llanberis museum along a disused tramway track, Dai's shoes spark against iron rails. Through Hafodty woodland he carries new supplies yet tackles foot-high slate steps without faltering. Past Dinorwic, fences bar access to Penrhyn Slate Quarries and, by Mynyddv Llandegal, huge boulders, positioned to deter vehicles, block the track. At Braichmelyn 'mountains' of slate spoils litter the roadside. Dai panics when lorries thunder by. His hindquarters veer, without warning, into their paths. Finally the old A5, a Roman road, is a welcome sanctuary.

From Gwern Gof Uchaf, eastwards along the Old Coach Road, treacherous bogs caused by off-road vehicles might easily engulf a horse. Methane gas bubbles from the surfaces of stagnant, peaty pools. Local farmers regularly lose sheep, especially in winter snowdrits. I unload the pack. Dai struggles through, up to his belly in black, stinking, mud.

We head towards the Vale of Conwy via Ty Coch Trekking Centre and Penmachno, a meandering forest route. Leaving Llanerchigwynion, bullocks chase Dai through a quagmire. Tonight it pours. I sleep off a fever.

Cold autumnal showers delay our climb from Cerrigellgwm-Isaf to Bwlch Blaen-y-cwm, an exposed pass on Snowdonia's edge. Descending into Denbighshire, Dai slips repeatedly on strangely composed metalled roads. A serene track follows the contour of Llantysilio Mountain. By y Gamelin's hillock, a sudden hailstorm rips into our faces. Dai refuses to budge. We stand, motionless, backs to the wind.

Onto Llangollen's canal side, a horse-drawn narrowboat approaches. The pulling horse, our last obstacle, spots Dai, turns then bolts back along the towing path until arrested by the boat keeper! The Horse-drawn Boat Centre, our final destination, is in sight. Dai has safely overcome every challenge. He has crossed Wales in the footsteps of the drovers.

Midlands - Lead a mule to water

This is the story of a 1,740-mile expedition, mostly off-road, with 7 pack animals. Dorothy, a hinny mule 'makes it happen' on Stage 3 of the journey, from the horse-drawn boat centre at Llangollen to the Yorkshire border. Along the canal system of Shropshire, Cheshire and Staffordshire and through the Peak District National Park, Dorothy proves her worth. In the process she keeps me guessing and entertains everyone she meets!

Tuesday 17th August. I say a final goodbye to Dai, my Welsh Cob, then take the horse-drawn narrow boat to pick up Dorothy from the field near the canal-side museum at Llangollen. This boat trip is a fascinating insight into an almost lost profession. We walk back to the boat centre and are soon off, travelling south along the towpath.

Soon our troubles begin! Dorothy walks briskly for the first 200 yards - she is impatient to get going, it seems - then slows down to about 1 mile an hour, a pace she continues through heavy showers for the next two hours. This hinny is not too interested in going anywhere, not intent on doing any serious work. Nevermind, this is her first day and everything is strange, so I'm not too concerned.

The first aqueduct appears too narrow to get a pack through, so it's road-work for half a mile. After just 3 miles Dorothy decides that's enough. Fifteen minutes later, after much labored reasoning, we move uncertainly forward. At a long tunnel the pack is again too wide. I unload it, but she is determined not to venture forward at any price, so we set off once more along the road. Now, at 8 o-clock, she refuses to budge. In desperation I rouse a retired farmer who offers his field at Pentre. Six hours cannot equal less than 4 miles, surely!

Wednesday 18th August. Dorothy is moving more easily. The gate onto the canal is too narrow, so off comes the gear. At Pentre marina I discover the towpath is on the far side of the canal, so must unload once again to backtrack through the same gate. Progress is slow along the pavement to Chirk, where we head for the station and the second aqueduct. We must avoid the next narrow tunnel but the aqueduct, a marvellous feat of mid nineteenth century engineering, is passable. Safely across, we leisurely amble along, stopping at Chirk Bank village shop for some biscuits and a rest in the warm sunshine.

Soon we reach The Poachers Pocket Inn, having traveled a grand distance of three and a half miles today! We are already thirteen miles and one complete day behind schedule. No matter, it's all about getting used to each other, I keep telling myself. It's fourteen miles to the next planned stop, a tall order for Dorothy, which means a 9.30 start tomorrow.

Thursday 19th August. Dorothy is behaving better. When others travel with us, she speeds up, perhaps because she is used to being driven; she certainly enjoys attention. At the waterside Inn we leave the canal. She hates roadwork even more than I, resisting almost every step. But eventually, at 7.30 we get to Colemere Lake campsite. It's exhausting pulling rather than leading her. At least the weather has been kinder today.

Dorothy has a slight harness rub, caused by the crupper, which needs treating. She grazes happily in good grass. Lorraine, her owner, and I chat by telephone late this evening. Driving her from behind, with a crop to guide her, may be the answer. I have decided, reluctantly, to miss out Bishop Bennet Way through Cheshire, to make up time.

Friday 20th August. A warm, sunny day greets us. I rig a double lead rein for Dorothy. Now I can either drive or lead. It is past midday as we set off. The driving option works beautifully. She walks ahead along the grassy towpath with only occasional prompting! This is certainly much easier than trying to lead her. Mindful that she is still soft from lack of recent harness exercise, leading also prevents rubbing under her chin.

Dorothy seems happy to push on. We finally make good progress on this warm afternoon along the quiet, peaceful Llangollen branch of the Shropshire Union canal. There's even time to take photographs without stopping. Perhaps you can't lead a mule to water! Eventually we arrive at Mill House campsite, Grindley Brook Wharf.

Saturday 21st August. It is midday before we get going. Holiday boaters frequently stop us, amazed to see a mule on the canal. Dorothy walks at her preferred pace, slow but steady. I now lead her only along difficult, overgrown sections, by locks and under narrow bridges, to avoid pack damage.

The day is wearing on when we stop to talk to a painter of canal-side scenes. There are still three and a half miles to our intended destination on a glorious summer evening. I decide to look for emergency accommodation so we leave the canal at Bremilow's Bridge. The farmer at Stoke Hall farm is out. It's too dark to continue so we wait, and wait. Much later the farmer returns. I can unload Dorothy and pitch the tent in a field of heavily pregnant cows. At 1 o-clock I finally get to sleep.

Sunday 22nd August. A clear, cool, sunny morning finds us early onto the towpath. Dorothy is rapidly becoming the most famous mule in Britain! I still drive her, but she always stops to say hello whenever me meet strangers. Then I am forced to lead her past them. A working boat-man, who delivers stone to renovate eroded canal sides, times her top speed. We are travelling at 2 miles an hour!

Near Middlewich the lock keeper remembers horses that used to pull canal freight. Leaving a concentrating fisherman at the town's southern edge we head to Tetton bridge which, in days long gone, was too low for horses; some fell into the cut. But Dorothy, sure-footed, clever as ever, scrapes through, dragging the tent against the bridge arch. We arrive abruptly at our destination, Bridge Farm, Moston, the next supply point. She grazes contentedly this evening.

Monday 23rd August. It takes ages to pack new supplies. Finally, on a warm sunny afternoon, we continue along the canal. Dorothy negotiates all low bridges well. Progress is slow but relatively uneventful. The mule seems lazy today, probably because of the heavier weight. She uses every opportunity to duck through gaps in the towpath hedge onto an open bit of grazing.

Close to our destination the towpath is blocked by locked gates, barred to discourage motor cyclists and horses. This means a detour through Thurlwood village along the pavement, a time-consuming exercise, to Bridge Farm, Stoke on Trent.

Tuesday 24th August. With repaired saddle bags and clean tack - the military pack saddle looks great - we arrive at Red Bull Wharf Visitors Centre, our official publicity point. Now our way winds through Stoke along a route devised by North Staffordshire Bridleway Association. At Gloucester Road the railed path under the bridge is too narrow, so we detour along the high street pavement; Dorothy, unperturbed, negotiates all human and other obstacles effortlessly.

We pass an old brick works along a pleasant track, but now face 4 miles of minor roads. She stops at every opportunity. I must drag her up the long hill to Lawn Farm, Endon where the owners wait to greet us, 9 hours after we started. Dorothy enjoys a stable tonight, so doesn't notice the deluge of water which hits my tent!

Wednesday 25th August. The morning dawns cool, wet and grey. At the bridge onto the canal a photographer grabs pictures for the local paper. We soon settle into a steady pace. I first drive then lead Dorothy along a lovely stretch of Staffordshire countryside. A flint mine, now a museum, and still working watermill are relics of a bygone age.

Dorothy is thirsty so I get some water from the Boat Inn. Children feed her bread. A man who has worked for Pilkington's explains how, in pre-war days, mules carried the finished round glass windows across the Pennines. We set off again. Immediately, 2 sets of new metal gates force another stop to unpack.

At the next bridge Dorothy's right foreleg suddenly disappears as the towpath crumbles into a deep hole. My crop slips from the saddle and disappears into the cut's murky waters, never to resurface. Thankfully, she is uninjured. She will not risk it, even after I have repaired the hole with nearby stones and gravel, so we can't squeeze under the bridge. A mule's sense of self-preservation can be annoying! Luckily, three British Waterways workers, who have just finished dredging, provide a gentle push.

Iron posts have been erected in the middle of the track at each end of a weir bridge. We squeeze past the first but the second forces another halt. It is raining heavily. Everything is soaked.

Along the edge of deciduous woodland in the half light, mist from the canal and rain conspire to create an eerier landscape. At the next wooden bridge Dorothy will not budge. She knows it is tricky from earlier experience so decides, instead, to head down the steep bank towards the rushing river, almost dragging me with her. Thankfully, with help from a passer-by, I coax her unloaded, slowly but surely, across the slippery planks.

At last we are at Froghall Wharf. The old horsedrawn narrow boat stable at the picnic site is a welcome place to untack as it is still drizzling. I have to shorten the tether chain by eighteen inches as there is little room between trees, but Dorothy soon settles down. She tethers brilliantly all night, always seeming to avoid the rope and chain attached to the stake.

Thursday 26th August. Almost two miles from Froghall lies rough moorland, where pockets of splendid purple heather remain. Dorothy hates this climb, but I lead, occasionally drag, her steadily up the long hills. Higher up it is cooler, but showers have ceased and the sun is trying to break through on a pleasantly breezy day.

After quiet, minor roadwork towards Cauldon, we reach the cement works and head off along a track south-east, a bridleway marked 'footpath'. The track is at first muddy, then becomes a single track less than a metre wide, lined with pretty native shrubs, as it winds its way through open farmland onto the moor at Dale Tor.

Now we are on more minor roads, once green lanes. The day wears on. I anticipate another late finish. Dorothy seems to enjoy our descent through the beautiful Ilam Country Park as the sun makes a belated full blooded entry onto the scene. At Thorpe Mill Farm campsite Dorothy grazes, tethered, in long delicious grass.

Friday 27th August. At about midday on a lovely morning we reach the Tissington cycle trail. Its surface is probably too hard for horses, particularly where it has worn away to base limestone covered with a layer of fine dust, but not so bad for mules. There are lots of cyclists out but this hinny is not bothered. Most slow down for her. We are travelling at just under two miles an hour.

As the afternoon wears on cyclists become less frequent; we are alone on the old railway line for long peaceful stretches. Time is getting on. It's after 6 o-clock as we leave the trail. The steep steps from the embankment prove not too difficult for Dorothy, who is warming to the task, although I sense she is getting tired. After a final tough climb we are at Middlemoor. She has the run of a large barn covered with fresh straw and hay

Saturday 28th August. On a fine, warm morning Dorothy enjoys a couple of hours grazing in the sun whilst I sort out supplies. Finally, we are off at 1 o-clock. The Flying Scotsman is on display at a nearby fair, but we scurry past through intense traffic.

Back on the Tissington Trail lots of people - it's the busiest day of the year I reckon - stop to ask questions about mules. The surface changes to blacker, coal-like, fine gravel over limestone, which is slightly easier on Dorothy's feet. She behaves impeccably. She has this knack of ignoring cyclists who whiz past, perilously close, from either direction. We reach the Cycle Hire Shop without incident. After a cup of tea it's time to make tracks for Street House Farm via the High Peak Trail. An old packhorse track leads from the trail to the main road and two hundred yards of grass verge later we arrive, where Dorothy and I get a field to ourselves, next door to the main campsite.

Sunday 29th August. At 7 0-clock on a warm, peaceful morning Dorothy is lying at the door of my tent, on her side, fast asleep!

The packhorse route is fascinating, quiet and mostly off-road. Dorothy is in a lazy mood but generally things are going well. As the day wears on we have still to travel over the moor via a bridleway to Rowter Farm. The weather deteriorates as we get to the highest point; wind freshens; rain is imminent; cows are lying down. An old rusty gate on rusted pole and hinges will let only walkers pass, so I wrestle with it for half an hour. At last I manage to turn the gate on its side past a boulder obstruction, but my companion refuses to budge. I hold my breath. Suddenly she decides to cooperate. Bags scratch against gate-posts. What a close call, and what relief!

We are scarcely moving over the moorland track. Dorothy is on a go-slow in the middle of this isolated place. It could be dark before I get the tent up and a,storm is gathering. Then we meet day walkers, out for a ramble. Alert again, she mysteriously speeds up, and I coax her easily to the campsite by 9 o-clock. Tomorrow should be interesting! We must trek onto the Derbyshire fells across tricky terrain in expected bad weather.

Monday 30th August. The morning starts dull and misty. The route is testing over open moorland at height. I am apprehensive. We get going at 11 o-clock. The breeze keeps rain away. To avoid the roads at Windy Knoll we cross National Trust land. The pack is too wide for the far gate but, with the help of passing cyclists, I remove the gate and Dorothy scrapes through. The pack requires urgent repairs. This route is wonderful, largely off road with superb panoramic views of surrounding green hills.

Dorothy walks steadily; she moves faster up mountains than on flat ground, and faster on grass than roads, where she crawls along. I still need to persuade her, as hills are a new experience. We scrape through gate after gate, but there are no further halts to progress along these packhorse routes to the National Trust farm, Ashes. Tomorrow is likely to be a more difficult trek across boggy, open moorland. Will my friend be up to it? She is tired.

Tuesday 31st August. The strong winds of yesterday evening have died away, and I am looking down at Ladybower reservoir and the Derwent Valley from my tent, pitched on a severe incline. We leave at 11 o-clock on a fine, dull, breezy, warm morning. Soon we turn along the east shore of Derwent reservoir, owned and managed by Severn Trent. The track is well maintained and we can walk easily along the edge of the gritstone and grass verge. Dorothy warms to the task. We make excellent time.

Now we leave behind views of the pretty tree-lined reservoir and head north-east, following the packhorse track uphill over moorland, amidst the beautiful blue and purple heather of this rugged section of the High Peak. Dorothy carefully avoids patches of peat bog. Mules are great environmentalists. They prefer firm ground, which reduces erosion.

The wind is cool and the sky still gloomy as we head along Mickleden Edge, an enchanting little valley, then head down through forestry to the road, disturbing several grouse along the way, to reach our destination, Moorland View, in good time. Dorothy has performed brilliantly today. Her anticipated feed supply from Spillers is missing when we arrive, but our host saves the situation, at least for now.

Wednesday 1st September. There's still no way of transporting Olivia, my Dales Pony, to Derbyshire, which means that I'm reliant on Dorothy to get us both to the Yorkshire border. She gets fitter every day though and seems recovered from yesterday. I have great confidence in her now. Nevertheless, I wonder how we can make almost 15 miles today. From the grassy track at Low Moor Ridge we soon reach the railway line, but the pack must come off once more at a narrow gate. Its now 1.30 and we've hardly begun.

On a beautiful late summer afternoon, the kind trekkers long for, Dorothy makes good progress along the railway line, which has separate, parallel running, tracks for cyclists and horse riders. I decide to drive her, which she enjoys immensely. We soon reach the Inn at the end of the line, then begin the long, 2-mile, haul uphill towards the Longdendale trail. This is quite a steep climb for a small hinny with four days food supply on board, but she copes well and, for the most part, keeps going.

The drone of large lorries, winding across the Pennines on the A628T, greets us. Despite this, the route along the old packhorse trail retains exquisite beauty. At Salter's Bridge - packhorses and mules used to carry salt across the Pennines - Dorothy will not let me take a photograph. She is eager to get on and marches into the distance without so much as 'may I?'.

We are soon moving west. The Longdendale trail splits cleverly again into cycling and horseback routes. The latter is mostly on soft grass. We ford and re-ford the river and now trek along the southern shore of beautiful Woodhead reservoir, shimmering in the warm afternoon sun. A handful of cyclists and walkers share our route. The bridleway passes along grassy rides still brimming with wild flowers. North West Water can be commended on their landscaping and management. We pass regularly under the vibrating pulse of electricity pylons, a reminder of our modern age and the only distracting feature in an otherwise marvellously invigorating valley.

There's little time to dawdle if we are to make base, Crossgates Farm, before dark. Dorothy soldiers on magnificently almost without faltering, stopping only occasionally to sniff old horse dung. Now the lovely Torside reservoir comes into view. We wrestle with a thoroughbred before crossing the dam onto the back road to Tintwistle. The sun has dipped behind the hill as we arrive at Crossgates Farm via Arnfield Lane, an old cobbled packhorse road. The hinny has covered almost fifteen miles in superb fashion. She improves each day.

Thursday 2nd September. This warm misty morning heralds another fine day. We set off at midday. The packhorse route across the Pennines to Higher Swineshaw reservoir is clearly defined, grassy and delightful. We soon cross the reservoir at the dam. North West Water's gate is locked on Brushes Road. Luckily an officer from the Environment Agency, out testing water quality, rescues the situation!.

The grassy bridle route from here is easy, pleasant. Dorothy trundles off on her own. But now she's up to her old trick of stopping at every turning, every horse and every bit of dung. We approach a Roman road on a hot, humid afternoon, way behind schedule. From Moor Edge we head through Greenfield via a well thought-out bridleway, and are then onto the disused railway, converted to a walk-, cycle- and bridleway, with a sandy surface that is excellent for mules' feet. Dorothy begins to falter. At the canal I look for a campsite closer than Globe Farm.

The aqueduct at Uppermill stretches over the river at an unusual angle; but there's no time to linger at this delightful spot. Soon we are back onto the second dismantled railway line, heading for the village of Dobcross. By 7 o-clock traffic is heavy and we have had enough, so a local farmer finds us emergency grazing. As we reach the Lancashire border I ponder how to transport my Dales pony from Malham to Rakewood Mill, Littleborough. Dorothy must be rested there.

Friday 3rd September. We leave Roundhill Farm after midday on a very hot, blue sky, day. Dorothy is in no mood to walk. Our speed is one mile an hour up the lane. I have to lead her to get anywhere as she wants just to graze.

Grassy, stony Harrop Edge Lane, one of Britain's oldest packhorse routes, offers fine views over surrounding countryside. The quiet road turns east from Castleshaw Upper Reservoir, along a track to Gastreb Lane.

Now we are on the delightful Drovers' road again. Two cyclists from the direction of Moor Lane Track - a footpath - lift their bicycles over a stile. After walled, stony lanes to Denshaw, the track forms a narrow gully alongside the local church. At the main road we take the footpath then strike out along a lovely old packhorse route, grass and stone again, by walls to Tunshill Lane. Finally we arrive at Rakewood on the Lancashire-Yorkshire border at 7 o-clock. After unsaddling Dorothy for the last time Olivia, my Dales pony, arrives from Malham.

Saturday 4th September. I believe Dorothy senses imminent change. She has been wandering backwards and forwards by the tent all night. During the night she rubbed off some scurf near her withers, leaving a tiny area of bare skin which I treat with alcohol. I still must sort out how to get her back to Lorraine at Ashbourne in Derbyshire.

Stage 3, blessed with some memorable experiences, and possibly the best weather of the expedition, is over. At 12.30 I reluctantly, and with much sadness, say goodbye to Dorothy, my constant companion for almost three weeks. She has reached her destination in style. Fit and happy, she deserves a well earned rest. We will both remember this trip for a long time to come!

Acknowledgements: I would like to thank especially the following for their support, advice and training: Equine Division, Defence Animal Centre, Melton Mowbray; Lorraine Travis; Nell and Turley OÕConnor; Sgt. Martyn Thomson; The British Mule Society.

Finally the rain has stopped as we skirt south-east around the contour of Maesyrychen Mountain. A local reporter greets us. What a wonderful job Abercippyn Welsh Flyer, a native breed Welsh packhorse, has done to carry food, camping and survival gear and scientific instruments safely across Wales.

He has travelled fearlessly from Newport harbour, along the towpath of the Abergavenny and Monmouthshire canal, into the Brecon Beacons, through the mid-Welsh hills and forests and across Snowdonia, over challenging Welsh hills in sometimes diabolical weather!

Now onto the canal-side leading into Llangollen, a horse-drawn barge approaches us. The pulling horse suddenly spots my Welsh Cob, stops in his tracks, hesitates then abruptly turns and bolts back along the towpath, chased by the boat keeper! The passengers are amused. Dai – that’s what I call him - is completely unruffled.

I am quietly pleased to be back onto the canal, courtesy of British Waterways and meticulous planning a year earlier. The Horse-drawn Boat Centre, where Shire-Welsh crossbreeds pull visitors gently along in the manner of their ancestors a century ago, is in sight!

Dorothy, a hinny mule from Ashbourne, my fourth equine companion, waits patiently at the Centre to help me along the Midlands canals on stage three of a seventeen hundred and forty mile journey from Britain’s southernmost, Lizard Point, to most northerly, Dunnet Head, extremities.

Sounds easy? This simple proposition becomes a serious challenge if your intention is to use neither vehicle support nor classified road.

For Britain’s ancient packhorse trails, drovers’ routes and bridleways are today peppered with fences, locked gates, stiles, narrow bridges, felled trees, tunnels, buildings, major road crossings, frightening motorised traffic and tarmac.

Our inland waterways offer my only chance of remaining off-road en route to the Peak District. Man and heavily loaded mule, a once common sight, must tread the same way. Miscalculations may have serious consequences for both. How will Dorothy cope along the canal systems of Shropshire, Cheshire and Staffordshire?

Today, Dai’s owner transports him home to Cardiff. I say a final goodbye then hitch a lift on the horse-drawn narrow boat, as it winds leisurely north-east, to pick up Dorothy from the field near the canal-side museum at Llangollen.

This recommended boat trip is a fascinating insight into an almost lost profession. The Boat Centre's manager keeps four pulling horses and runs two boats. Once inertia is overcome, we glide virtually effortlessly, harnessed by real horse power, along the cut. Fumes and the chugging of an engine – I once lived on a narrow boat, underneath Bridge 61 at Foxton - are strangely missing. Fifteen minutes later I disembark. The craft, carrying smiling families, continues on.

Dorothy and I walk back, past a museum buzzing with waterways memorabilia and vintage cars, to the Boat Centre. I quickly saddle then load her. As expected, the harness fits almost perfectly after adjustments, a consequence of pre-expedition training.

This mid-afternoon we are off, travelling eastwards through the splendid scenery of the Vale of Llangollen, along the pretty towing path of the Shropshire Union Canal.

Dorothy, apparently keen, walks briskly for the first two hundred yards, but soon our troubles begin! She slows down to one mile an hour, a pace she continues through heavy showers for the next two hours. This hinny is not interested in serious work today!

Never mind; she will eventually become used to the pack. An aqueduct looms past Pont Cysyllte. The way is unexpectedly, annoyingly, too narrow for the pack, so we divert temporarily along a roadside verge.

Back onto the canal, Dorothy comes to a grinding halt. Twenty minutes on, after much laboured reasoning, we move uncertainly towards a long tunnel! The pack is again too wide. I unload it.

A holiday family, chugging by, offer to light up the tunnel, but Dorothy’s determined not to enter, so we detour once more along the road, where she again refuses to budge. Soaked and in desperation I rouse retired farmer Eifon and his wife, Dot, at Whitehurst Gate, Pentre, who find us a field to camp. Six hours cannot equal less than four miles, surely! A cup of tea and an egg sandwich later, I feel more philosophical. What is wrong with Dorothy? I intend to find out.

She is moving more easily, albeit slowly, this drier morning. The gate onto the towing path at Pentre Marina is too narrow, so off come the packs. Having reloaded, I suddenly realise that we are on the opposite bank to the towing path, so must unload yet again to backtrack through the same gate. Now we trek along pavement to Chirk’s station, avoiding the next narrow tunnel. Happily, the aqueduct across the river Ceiriog, a marvellous feat of mid nineteenth century engineering, is passable, just.

Safely across after pausing mid-way to enjoy the valley’s wooded scenery, we leisurely amble along, stopping at Chirk Bank village shop for some refreshment and a rest in the warm sunshine. Dorothy happily grazes, unconcerned.

Soon we reach The Poachers Pocket Inn by Gledrid Bridge, yesterday’s anticipated campsite! We are already a day behind schedule. It’s all about getting used to each other, about teamwork, I keep telling myself. I can recommend the Inn’s mushroom and Stilton bake!

Narrow boaters often walk along towing paths ahead of their craft, aiming to open locks, get exercise and enjoy the scenery and peaceful solitude of the Shropshire Union. When they temporarily travel with us, Dorothy speeds up. She loves the attention.

Too soon however, as they forge ahead, she slows again. On one occasion she stops for twenty minutes. Why? She has been previously employed to pull a carriage. Driving her from behind, with a crop to guide her, may be the answer.

From the Waterside Inn at Hindford we must leave the canal. British Waterways managers advised me, months before, of insurmountable obstacles towards Lower Frankton. Dorothy hates roadwork as much as I, resisting almost every step, but eventually we rejoin the cut at Coachman’s Bridge, reaching welcome Colemere Lake campsite this evening.

I treat an irritated patch of skin on Dorothy’s buttocks, caused by the rubbing of a leather strap, the crupper, which holds the harness in place. She grazes contentedly in good grass.

Colmere Reserve’s warden kindly offers me a freshly baked organic loaf and local cheese, impossible to resist. I rig a double lead rein for Dorothy. Now I can either drive or lead her.

It is past midday as we set off. The driving option works beautifully! North-east along the grassy towpath, past the junction with the Prees Branch of the Ellesmere Canal, she walks ahead with only occasional prompting! This is certainly much easier than trying to lead her.

Finally we make excellent progress on a warm, sunny afternoon along the peaceful, wildflower-strewn, Shropshire Union Canal.

A cup of tea from the canal-side shop past Platt Lane – the proprietor’s about to sell up to travel "before it is too late" – is, consequently, most enjoyable. There’s even time to take photographs; Dorothy pushes on without me, a strange sight to all who pass!

Perhaps you can’t lead a mule to water!

It is mid August. Four days ago, though it seems longer, I left Langollen with a hinny mule, my fourth equine companion. Dorothy, from Ashbourne, must carry our food, camping equipment and survival gear, together with scientific instruments, along the canals of Shropshire, Cheshire and Staffordshire. Our arrival late this evening at Mill House Caravan and Camping Site, Grindley Brook Wharf, close to the Cheshire-Shropshire border, causes quite a stir.

Tom and Alan, the campsite's proprietors greet us warmly, helping to unload and feed Dorothy, then organising an on-site collection in support of my Wildlife Hospitals Appeal. They, and their regular caravan campers, have expected us for days! We are behind schedule.

Stage three of a 1,740-mile off-road journey, from mainland Britain's most southerly, Lizard Point, to northernmost, Dunnet Head, extremities, is not going according to plan. British Waterways maintenance and a narrow aqueduct have twice forced us away from the canal. Worse, Dorothy has politely declined to enter tunnels, decided on a go-slow, one mile an hour, and refused to budge in pouring rain! Mules are astonishingly intelligent creatures. Self-preservation is their priority.

Finally, I have the answer. Dorothy was once trained to pull carriages. This morning, on the Prees Branch of the Ellesmere Canal, I rigged a double lead rein. Now I can drive her. She walks happily ahead. Only occasionally must I prompt her from behind!

We get going at midday. Delays mean we must reluctantly bypass The Bishop Bennet Way, an exciting new bridleway, part of our pre-planned route through Cheshire. Two centuries ago explorer Bennet, with Reverand Thomas Lemon, surveyed the old Roman road between the forts at Deva (Chester) and Mediolanvm (Whitchurch). This horseway snakes quietly across south-west Cheshire. It would take us in a clockwise loop by Bell o' th' Hill, Lower Wych, Oldcastle Heath, Overton Heath, Shocklach, Rowley Hill, Coddington, Milton Green and Gatesheath, then back onto the Shropshire Union Canal at Crow's Nest Bridge.

Instead, we continue north-eastwards, along the towing path of the Shropshire Union's Llangollen Branch, now part of the Sandstone walking Trail. Holiday boaters frequently stop us, amazed to see any pack animal, never mind a mule, on the cut. The canal skirts north of Quoisley and Marbury. Dorothy walks at her preferred pace, slow but steady, amidst a gentle farming panorama. I now lead her only along difficult, overgrown sections, by locks and under narrow bridges, to avoid pack damage.

Beyond Wrenbury the towing path turns sharply northwards, keeping east of Nantwich on a glorious summer evening. Near Wrexham Bridge I chat, over a brew of tea, with a painter of canal-side scenes. He has set up an easel by his moored boat. Meanwhile, Dorothy is the subject of two dozen photographs.

Reaching Bremilow's Bridge at dusk, we are still three kilometres short of Crossbanks Farm, our intended destination. We leave the canal, looking for alternative grazing. At Stoke Bank, the Inn's proprietor directs us. Stoke Hall's farmer is out, visiting friends. The sun has gone. We wait, and wait, and wait. An unsympathetic local, who fears travellers with pack mules, orders us to move on. At eleven, a kind farmer returns. I may, at last, unload Dorothy and pitch the tent in a field of heavily pregnant cows.

A clear, cool, sunny morning finds us early onto the canal. At Barbridge Junction we turn right, north-eastwards onto the Middlewich Branch of the Shropshire Union. Here, increasing waterway traffic and excessive speeds contribute to an ongoing problem of towing path erosion. A working boatman, who delivers stone to renovate eroded canal sides, times Dorothy’s top speed. We are travelling at almost three and a half kilometres an hour!

Dorothy is rapidly becoming the most famous mule in Britain. I still drive her, but she stops to say ‘hello’ whenever me meet strangers. Then I am forced to lead her past them. At Venetian Marina a friendly local policeman is waiting. Over piping coffee, he confirms that Cheshire police never tolerate the harassment of travellers or pack mules.

Around the canal's pretty loop into Middlewich, to avoid roads, we join the Trent and Mersey Canal. Lock keeper, Maureen, remembers horses that pulled freight for Cheshire's thriving communities. Leaving a solitary, concentrating fisherman at the town's southern edge, our way is south-eastwards to Tetton bridge which, in days long gone, was too low for horses; some fell into the cut. Dorothy, sure-footed, clever as ever, scrapes through, dragging the tent against a bridge arch. We arrive casually at Bridge Farm, Moston, home of Geoff, Josephine and Belinda, our next supply point.

It takes ages to pack; all boxes must be weighed to ensure the load is balanced. The saddle’s birch frame, donated by the British Army, is a century old. Despite her slight, fifty-four inches tall, frame, Dorothy easily carries the expedition's 175 pounds.

On a warm sunny afternoon, we continue south alongside the Trent and Mersey, part of the Cheshire Ring Canal Walk, past Elworth. Dorothy is in lazy mood, probably because of her maximum load. She takes every opportunity to duck through gaps in the towpath hedge, onto any open bit of grazing!

Close to our destination, south of Thurlwood, the towing path is blocked. Locked barriers, purposefully positioned by British Waterways managers, discourage motor cyclists and horses. Although we have permission to travel the cut, nobody mentioned these dragons! Long before the gatekeeper arrives, we detour through Thurlwood village, along the pavement to Bridge Farm, Stoke-on-Trent, where Anthony and Peter, two young sons of farmer John, enthusiastically unload Dorothy.

We are on schedule at last. Past Lawton Gate the canal climbs through Cheshire Locks, so-called 'heartbreak hill'. British Waterways Visitors Centre at Red Bull Wharf, our official publicity point, stands precisely on the Staffordshire border. Why has our journey through Cheshire been relatively trouble-free? I have learned that sometimes you can't lead a mule to water!

It is late August, sixty-seven days since I left Cornwall's most southerly shore, Lizard Point. Dorothy, my fourth equine companion, a clever hinny from Ashbourne, has so far carried survival and camping gear, scientific instruments and food expertly from Llangollen. This early evening we reach Bridge Farm, Stoke-on-Trent, our gateway to Staffordshire, where the farmer and his two young sons are waiting to help me unload.

Our canal-side trek has, so far, been eventful. We have encountered torrential rain, precarious bridges, tunnels too narrow for a pack and locked gates. Dorothy has remained calm, undeterred, but refusing to budge when she wishes to rest.

"Why choose a mule?" I hear you say. Two centuries ago most bargees and boaters used horses, a matter of pride, when mules would have suited better their pockets. Though some cargoes demanded heavy horses, mules used as towing or pack animals have advantages: greater stamina, endurance, courage and longevity. Mules commonly pulled day boats on the Staffordshire and Worcester Canal.

It takes ages to pack Dorothy; all boxes must be weighed to ensure a balanced load inside her two packs. A clear, cool, sunny morning finds us early onto the towpath of the Trent and Mersey canal, championed by potter Josiah Wedgwood and engineered by James Brindley in 1777.

Some people reckon that hinnies, offspring of a stallion and a jenny, are weaker than mules, offspring of a mare and jack. Not so, in Dorothy's case. Despite her relatively slight, fifty-four inches tall, frame, she can carry up to 220 pounds with the help of a traditional military packsaddle. The saddle’s rare birch frame, donated by the British Army, is a century old.

Past Lawton Gate the canal climbs through the 'Cheshire Locks', also called 'heartbreak hill'. Dorothy prefers to be driven. I discovered that the hard way. Sometimes you can't lead a mule to water! These days I rig a long double rein. Now she usually leads me. She is rapidly becoming the most famous mule in Britain, always stopping to say ‘hello’ whenever me meet strangers. Then I am forced to lead her on.

The Visitors Centre at Red Bull Wharf, our official publicity point, stands precisely on the Cheshire-Staffordshire border close to the junction with the Macclesfield Canal. British Waterways personnel expect us. Shortly afterwards, at Hardings Wood Junction, we must temporarily leave the towing path.

At The Tavern, as I sip refreshing lemonade, occupants stare in amazement as Dorothy busily cuts the lawn. Just south of our exit point, Harecastle tunnel reminds me of a glorious industrial past. Horses were unhitched and taken around via Boathorse Lane. Locals worked the barges through the tunnel. They lay on a plank lashed across the barge and 'walked' their feet along the ceiling, exhausting work at any price.

Our way winds eastwards around Kidsgrove and Stoke-on-Trent, along an exciting off-road route devised by North Staffordshire Bridleway Association, a short cut to the Caldon Canal.

Weaving from busy, noisy Gloucester Road towards Mount Road, Dorothy deliberately negotiates all obstacles, both humans and vehicles. We quickly reach a permissive horse path, the quiet track to a disused mining shaft. Birchenwood brick works is timely reminder of a great revolution.

We gain the delightful course of a dismantled railway line south-eastwards, a tarmac-free route that cleverly avoids metalled roads. Will such a desirable way, part of our heritage, one day soon become a shared footpath, cycle track and bridlepath? If so, though the sealing of its surface for cyclists may be a sad inevitability, will path planners also create a preferred, unsealed surface for horses? Compromise is essential. Differences between improvement and destruction are often fragile.

Just beyond a tunnel under Colclough Lane we climb along a pretty, meandering, path towards Turnstall, sneak around a vehicle barrier then follow an uncluttered track to the main A527. A shale track veers northwards around a conical hill, by an old brick mine at Whitfield, where another path leads past fishing pools to Tongue Lane. I now drag Dorothy up the long metalled track from Ridgeway, past Brown Edge Farm, three kilometres to Hill Top. She hates roads. A further three kilometres takes us downhill, to a welcome ford. Tonight, at Lawn Farm Endon, she enjoys a stable, so doesn’t notice the deluge that hits my tent!

This morning, cool, grey and still very wet, the farmer's young children accompany us onto the Caldon’s towing path just east of Endon Bank. Beneath the bridge, between showers, a local photographer grabs pictures for his newspaper. She negotiates low bridges easily. Soon Dorothy and I are keeping a steady pace. Several days ago, a working boatman - he delivers stone to renovate eroded canal sides - timed her top speed, just two miles an hour!

I drive her along an exquisite stretch of green Staffordshire countryside. When landscapes either side of a cut remain unchanged by human developments there is no finer place on earth. Should we better protect and conserve the natural heritage and wildlife corridors of our canal systems? Otherwise, qualities that we greatly admire might so easily disappear forever. Should England’s canal system become the first of a different breed of National Park?

North of Cheddleton, a flint mine, now a museum, and still working water mill are relics of a bygone age. Dorothy is thirsty. I fetch some water from the Boat Inn, where more children feed her bread. A man who worked for Pilkington's explains how, in pre-war days, mules carried the finished round glass windows across the Pennines. Mules and horses hauled other precious Staffordshire cargoes: coal and iron in the county's south, lead, copper, and zinc around the Manifold Valley in the north, brass at Cheadle, raw materials for bone china at Stoke-on-Trent.

We set off again. Immediately, two sets of locked barriers, positioned by British Waterways to discourage motor cyclists, also thwart an equine's progress. We have permission to travel this route, but no-one mentioned these dragons! Three holidaying narrow boaters kindly stop to help transport boxes across the barriers.

WE continue. Immediately the path caves in; my right leg disappears into a gaping hole, drenching my boot. Fortunately, nothing is broken. At the next bridge, Dorothy stumbles as the towpath crumbles beneath her right foreleg. My riding crop, used to guide her, slips from the saddle and disappears, Excalibur-like, into the canal’s murky waters, never to resurface. Thankfully, she is uninjured, but will not venture forward, even after I have repaired the hole with nearby stones and gravel.

We can’t squeeze under the bridge, but there’s no access around. A mule’s sense of self-preservation, coupled with astonishing intelligence, can be annoying! People often interpret, mistakenly, a superior intellect as unwillingness to co-operate. Handling a mule isn't easy. Three British Waterways workers, who have just finished dredging, sneak up. Dorothy’s taken by surprise as they provide gentle persuasive assistance from behind!

Iron posts have been erected in the middle of the track at each end of a weir bridge. We squeeze past the first but the second bars our way. It is raining heavily as I remove the pack again. Virtually everything is soaked.

Along the edge of majestic deciduous Consall Wood in half-light, mist from the canal conspires with rain to create an eerier landscape. At the next wooden bridge, Dorothy will not budge, even without the pack. The bridge is flat, smooth, wet and slippery, definitely not to her liking. She decides, instead, to charge down the steep bank towards the weir and rushing river, dragging me with her. Finally, helped by a resident narrow boater, I coax her slowly, unsurely, across the sodden, muddy planks.

Froghall Wharf, once a hive of industrial activity, is the picturesque home of a horse-drawn Boat Centre. Beside Staffordshire County Council’s picnic site, our planned encampment, the old brick stable is an inviting place to unload. Dorothy is very thirsty. Tonight I have to shorten her tether chain by eighteen inches as there's little room between trees, but she soon settles. She tethers brilliantly, always meticulously avoiding the rope and chain attached to the stake. What a day!

As I cook breakfast on my meths stove, a Radio Stoke reporter arrives to record Dorothy’s adventure. Two miles north-east of Froghall and the Caldon Canal, pockets of splendid purple heather remain on high, rough moorland. A tough climb takes us by peaceful Stony, Dale and Common Lanes to the edge of the Peak District National Park.

The setting sun makes a sudden, belated full-blooded appearance as we descend casually through beautiful Ilam Country Park. Ambling, relaxed, across St Mary's bridge over the Dove, we finally reach Staffordshire's eastern boundary.

Tethered at Thorpe Mill Farm campsite, Dorothy grazes in long delicious grass. Ahead lies the Tissington cycle trail, our gateway into the National Park's heart. As a busy Bank Holiday looms, there is no means available of transporting Olivia, my Dales Pony, from Malham to Ashbourne, so I must rely on Dorothy to get us both to the Yorkshire border. Can she cover fourteen miles a day over mountainous terrain? That is another story!

Tonight I reflect upon a unique journey through Staffordshire in the footsteps of the forgotten pack mules. In the process she has kept me guessing and entertained everyone we met! If you spotted a pack mule on the canal, chances are it was Dorothy!

Acknowledgements: I would like to thank the following for their support, advice and training: British Waterways; Equine Division, Defence Animal Centre, Melton Mowbray; Lorraine Travis; Nell and Turley O’Connor; Sargent Martyn Thomson; The British Mule Society; Staffordshire farmers; North Staffordshire Bridleways Association; those I met who shared ideas; those who helped us to survive!

Note: Sadly, Dorothy died suddenly at her home, nine months after her expedition finished. This article is a tribute to her.

It is late August, seventy days since I left Lizard Point, mainland Britain's most southerly shore. Dorothy, my fourth equine companion, a clever hinny from Ashbourne, has carried survival and camping gear, scientific instruments and food expertly from Llangollen. Leaving beautiful Ilam Country Park this sun-drenched late summer evening, we cross the Dove into Derbyshire.

Dorothy prefers to be driven, so I let her lead. Despite her relatively slight, fifty-four inches tall, frame, she can carry great loads with the help of a traditional military packsaddle. Mules delivered precious cargoes, including lead and glass, great distances across the Pennines even a century ago. Tonight, tethered at Thorpe Mill Farm campsite, she grazes long, delicious grass.

The Tissington Cycle Trail, a pre-planned avenue into the Peak District National Park, lies along the route of the closed Ashbourne to Buxton railway line. Trains once carried locally quarried limestone to Buxton's kilns and crushing plants. The Trail's surface, perhaps too hard for horses, isn't bad for mules, who have tough hooves and exceptionally flexible joints. Alone for long peaceful stretches, we glimpse distant hills beyond naturally regenerated trees. A final, tough climb brings us to Middlemoor, a large barn and fresh straw and hay.

I check supplies and pack a warmer sleeping bag. Eventually we scurry through intense traffic past the Flying Scotsman, on display at a nearby fair. Back onto the Tissington Trail, cyclists whiz by on the busiest day of the year. Dorothy behaves impeccably, ignoring them. From the Cycle Hire Shop, home of uniquely designed bikes, it's time, after a welcome cup of tea, to head for Street House Farm via the High Peak Trail. "It's impossible to carry out repairs or buy new equipment this year," confides the local farmer, a common economic plight for Derbyshire's hill farmers.

This fine morning Dorothy is on her side by my tent doorway, fast asleep! I try not to disturb her, busying myself with breakfast. The bridleway to Rowter Farm is mostly off-road, over high, occasionally boggy, moorland. At the Limestone Way's highest point, cows are lying down; a storm is imminent. Our progress is urgent, but an old rusted gate will not allow Dorothy through, even without the pack. I wrestle with it, eventually managing to turn it past a boulder obstruction. My intelligent companion weighs up every situation. I hold my breath. Saddlebags scratch mercilessly against gateposts. She is through!

Hordes of bank-holiday hikers meander, termite-like, along worn trails. Exiting National Trust land at Windy Knoll, the route via Mam Tor, Hollins Cross and Backtor Bridge offers superb panoramic views of the River Hoe valley and surrounding green Edale hills. Perplexingly, Dorothy moves faster up mountains than on flat ground, and faster on grass than roads, where she crawls along! Pack mules once stopped overnight at Clough Farm. "The stable ceiling is about six feet high", remarks the granddaughter of a farmer who entertained them.

Travelling towards Jaggers Clough and along Open Nagg, modern vehicles have caused startling erosion. A motor cyclist overtakes us, initiating an eleventh parallel track, gouged from a now harsh hillside. At the National Park Information Centre, Rangers confirm that some off-road drivers create severe winter problems for sheep.

I gaze down at serene Ladybower Reservoir and the Derwent Valley from my tent, pitched on a severe incline at the National Trust Farm, Ashes. Yesterday evening's strong winds have died away. "Sometimes scientists don't consult locals about management strategies that involve rare species," explains Ashes' farmer over a pot of tea. 'Textbook conservation' can encourage inappropriate actions.

The easterly shore of pretty, tree-lined Derwent Reservoir is owned and managed by Severn Trent Water Authority. We walk easily along the reservoir's well-maintained gritstone and grass verge. Soon, however, we turn north-east, following a packhorse trail uphill, amongst the rugged High Peak's beautiful purple heather. Dorothy avoids peat. Mules prefer firm, rocky ground. They are great environmentalists!

Against a cool breeze and still gloomy sky we traverse enchanting Mickleden Edge, then descend through forestry, disturbing grouse. At Moorland View, our next supply point, Dorothy's anticipated feed is missing. Our host, busily shearing hundreds of sheep, saves the situation. I continue to harden Dorothy's back with methylated spirit from my cooking ration.

From the grassy track at Low Moor Ridge, a gateway onto the causeway of an obsolete railway line is too narrow; off comes the pack. I drive Dorothy along a grassy horse-riding track that runs parallel to the cycle path. Soon we face a tough, four-kilometre, haul uphill along the road towards the Longdendale trail.

The drone of large lorries, winding across the Pennines on the A628T, greets us. Nevertheless, this ancient packhorse trail retains exquisite beauty. Mules and horses used Salter's Bridge a century ago to carry salt across the Pennines. Westwards, the Longdendale trail splits cleverly again into cycling and horseback routes. Later, fine sandy gritstone provides the kindest man-made surface.

We meander carefree along the southern shore of shimmering Woodhead Reservoir. A handful of cyclists and walkers share this wildflower-edged bridleway, landscaped by North West Water. Our passage beneath the vibrating pulse of electricity pylons, a constant reminder of a modern age, is the only distracting feature in an otherwise marvellously invigorating valley.

Lovely Torside Reservoir jumps into view. Crossing the dam before Valehouse Reservoir, we hasten downhill as I wrestle with a thoroughbred that takes more than a passing interest in Dorothy! Onto Tintwistle's back road, the sun has dipped as we arrive at Crossgates Farm via Arnfield Lane, a cobbled packhorse road.

Across Arnfield Low Moor we finally reach the National Park boundary. Ahead, our northwards route is along traditional, walled, stony lanes through a corner of Lancashire to Rakewood, Littleborough, Dorothy's final destination. As I unsaddle her for the last time, Olivia, my Dales Pony, arrives from Malham. Stage three, blessed with perhaps the expedition's best weather, is over.

Dorothy senses imminent change. All night, unsettled beneath the glare of motorway lighting, she wanders backwards and forwards by my tent. We shall both remember an eventful journey across Derbyshire's hills! Dorothy has successfully trodden in the footsteps of the forgotten pack mules.

Dorothy and I reach Rakewood near Littleborough on day seventy-nine, the expedition's half-way point since leaving Cornwall's most southerly shore last June. So far my worst fears have been realised. Our ancient pack-horse trails, drovers' routes and bridleways are today peppered with fences, locked gates, stiles, narrow bridges, felled trees, tunnels, new buildings, major road crossings, frightening motorised traffic and, hardest to overcome, tarmac, where rights of way have been upgraded to 'byways open to all traffic'. Not a problem, I hear you say. Well, no, not unless you are determined to walk every inch with a four-footed friend, just as the early drovers did!

Natural hazards can delay or prevent straightforward progress. Deep rivers and bogs, eroded or slippery ground, flooding, rampant neglected vegetation, freezing winds, torrential rain, sleet, precarious climbs, or even a herd of charging cows will thwart a modern-day drover's best intentions. Man and beast must tread the same way, so miscalculations may have serious consequences for either, or both. What will Yorkshire offer? Can one man and a pack animal travel this longest of counties off classified roads without vehicle backup? The advice of colleagues with intimate knowledge of this walled landscape, sought a year previously during meticulous route planning, will be severely tested.

Since we left Ashbourne a week ago I have tried desperately, without luck until now due to Yorkshire's frenzied bank holiday activity, to arrange transportation of Olivia, a Dales pony from Yorkshire Dales Trekking Centre at Holme Farm, Malham. At last Olivia is here and can take over the pack from Dorothy, my exhausted hinny mule, who has carried five days food supplies, scientific instruments, camping and survival gear along Midlands canals, across moors and over mountain passes. Tonight Dorothy, sensing imminent change, wanders restlessly backwards and forwards by the tent.

I bid Dorothy - she deserves a well-earned rest - a sad farewell. The NET (National Environment Trail) Quest route on a hot September day now lies north along Yorkshire's Gates, traditional drovers' paths and pack horse trails established since 1830. My fresh companion - the military pack saddle fits Olivia's fourteen hands (fifty-six inches) frame admirably - is eager; I can barely keep up. Despite her fifteen years, and slight rheumatism in a knee joint, Olivia is the fastest of the herd; the other trekking ponies may hate her for it, but this energetic exuberance is just what I ordered; difficult miles over tough, hilly terrain lie ahead.

Strange ponies need careful watching until you anticipate their tricks, habits and idiosyncrasies. At a wayside Inn beyond Lydgate, Olivia, itching from sweat, suddenly kneels and tries to roll. A broken saddle would mean serious delay or, worse, expedition failure.

Still mindful of my final goal - Dunnet Head by Saint Andrew's day - we climb steadily from pretty, disused Rochdale Canal over Summit Tunnel to Calderbrook Moor. Our descent offers superb views to Stone House Bridge and into Yorkshire, where the bridleway passes majestically alongside farms, over fashioned millstone grit slabs, the backbone of traditional Pennine routes. At Mankinholes, Olivia discovers an ancient stone water trough. Can we preserve our byways - sacred sites which give us a geographical, historical and cultural sense of place - for another century?

The non-stop pace and repeated climbs take their toll. Now in Hebden Bridge at dusk, a seriously narrow passage - I'm too tired to unload the pack - forces a reroute along back streets, potential death traps for horses. Thankfully, a car owner, roused from his armchair and slippers, lights up the last dark, precarious mile towards Hollin Hall, our National Trust campsite and supply point twenty-one.

Essential dehydrated rations were posted here six months ago but Olivia's promised feed hasn't arrived; luckily she carries emergency cubes. Drovers knew that, without quality protein, an older working pony's condition would deteriorate quickly.

This trip offers a rare opportunity to better understand real concerns and extreme difficulties of farmers, nation-wide. The stony track - now part of the Haworth to Hebden Bridge walk - heads steeply north-east along heavily wooded Crimsworth Dean Beck, a natural bird sanctuary. At Lathe Farm, our welcome tea stop, sheep farming is part of Yorkshire's fifty centuries old tradition, but the farmer must diversify into subsidised stone-walling to survive; fortunately five thousand miles of walls need maintaining.

Past Hardibut Clough ravine, between two such banked, unrepaired, walls approaching cyclists, training for a sponsored ride to Australia, insist we look like 'something out of a Cowboy film'. I know what early Australian drovers would have thought about bikes in the outback. A pack animal who trusts you offers companionship, a mutual reliance; but cycles are certainly more predictable, and you can lift them over stiles!

We descend casually - it's too hot to hurry - through still blue heather to shimmering Leeshaw Reservoir. Though not Wuthering Heights - a downgraded right of way makes Bronte Falls inaccessible to horses - pretty Penistone Hill is bathed in wild autumnal colours. We pause at Howarth's Sun Inn where local ladies, mesmerised by my calm, sensible friend, serve Olivia a double apple treat. "Isn't that pack too heavy?" asks someone; one hundred and seventy-five pounds is well within a native breed's capability.

Dales ponies were commonly found at traditional watering holes in bygone days. They carried heavy loads long distances at speed over rough country. Olivia is willing, sure-footed, eager to please. Every farmer we meet wants to help her.

South Yorkshire's high moorland is a drover's paradise. Across the delightful pack horse bridge at Dean Beck a grassy track continues west, affording spectacular views from Grey Stones Hill. Olivia, now settled, precisely judges the pack's width through narrow gateways. Both saddle bags, nonetheless, require urgent attention. A local jokes "On your way to the Himalayas?"

Drovers would have hated metalled roads; occasionally they're inevitable today. A steep enough climb via Stockshott Lane takes us past ripe blackberry and elderberry hedges towards Skipton. Rush-hour cars whiz frighteningly by; do these drivers understand horses?

Into Skipton - Olivia's feet are probably burning too - we reach the welcome sanctuary of Leeds and Liverpool canal, effortless travel at sunset. Past the 'Leeds 30' mile post I ignore the warning sign 'Horse Riding Prohibited. Towpath Unsuitable'. British Waterways have granted permission; I checked this link section a year ago. Soon afterwards we exit at swaying Thorlby Swing Bridge - Olivia mistrusts moving ground - for Stirton and the beckoning Dales, good grazing and safe fields.

There's time to talk to the Craven Herald and Pioneer about the expedition's aims, a national schools conservation project - 'Dreaming 2000', environmental monitoring studies - 'CLIMATE', and 'Injured Wildlife Appeal U.K.' in support of our wildlife hospitals.

Between showers - rain battered the tent all last night - we climb amongst low lying cloud, north-west "from a 'Private Road - Authorised Vehicles Only' sign up a narrow, well worn, cobbled bridleway towards Flasby Fell. The little-used moorland track between Sharp and Rough Haws to Skyrakes offers inspiring views of surrounding Eshton and Rylstone districts on a wild, crystal clear morning. Olivia, sure footed as ever, enjoys this challenge.

Past grassy hillocks, pillow mounds, aptly called Giants Graves, at a too narrow gateway into Alan's Plantation the pack must be unloaded. This perpetual hazard - the record's five obstacles in one day - is annoying, but unavoidable. Defence Animal Centre at Melton Mowbray recommends a two-man packing method, but I don't have that luxury. Olivia, well-trained, stands patiently, motionless. In just seventeen minutes we are through, but with untidy effect!

Enclosure walls support diverse mosses, legacy of long ago tundra colonisation. Deeply rutted, water filled, tracks, gouged by motor-bikes, hazardous to sheep, stretch westward towards Street Gate. Olivia needs little encouragement - she recognises familiar terrain - as we approach Malham Tarn. I wonder whether she misses her foal. Navigating around Dean Moor's shining crags at sunset, we descend via Langscar Gate to the Trekking Centre, Olivia's home and our next supply point.

From Malham cap rock lies exposed amongst pot and sink holes. An indistinct track climbs north-west over wild National Trust land. Suddenly Olivia sinks into soft peat. Calmly she then sits down. I begin frantically to release the pack, but without warning she slips her bridle and struggles free, thankfully unhurt.

Injury or lameness would thwart any ambition to cross Britain safely, without support; and my reserve Dales pony is unavailable. The way ahead is obscure, boggy, risky and timeÕs against us. Olivia trusts me, but native breeds intuitively sense danger; they breathe heavily; sniff the ground; snort; hold back. I daren't risk her further so we back-track via pretty Grizedales to our alternative, bad weather, route, Stockdale Lane, planned a year earlier for such eventualities.

It's getting late as big Dales feet steady Olivia down steep inclines. At mediaeval Settle a villager offers her water but she prefers a wayside trough. Below Blua Craggs the pack jams fast against gateposts; I manage to remove the gate, but now an imminent storm forces a premature hill camp at High Winskill, two miles short of our destination.

Tonight, exposed against ferocious wind and rain, the tent collapses repeatedly. I learn something about survival from Olivia; she stands motionless all night under a single oak, the field's only sheltered spot!

Next morning is calmer. The wall-enclosed route winds beautifully alongside Stainforth Beck but, at tiny Stainforth, where steep hill track abruptly meets man-made tarmac, I twist an ankle then hurtle downhill, head first. Olivia saves me; she stands steady as the reins break my fall. Benefits of earlier training do sometimes pay off.

I talk to her a lot. She seems instinctively to know my needs now. Eventually recovered, we follow Goat Lane over rain-soaked, mine-scarred hills into Ribblesdale via a severely rutted track. 'Closed, Under New Management' is no deterrent at Helwith Bridge hotel; we are their first customers. "Where are your six-shooters?" interjects the local garage mechanic. Obviously, I conclude, Yorkshire folk enjoy a good western!

Pen-y-Gent fell lies behind, Ingleborough to our right. From the 'Private Road, Footpath and Bridleway Only' to lovely Wharfe village, we meander by old dwellings; this narrow, blackberry-lined sun trap climbs gently towards Crummack, where National Park rangers, pleased to see traditional transport, are replacing a rotten bridleway post. Their unobtrusive wooden signs blend cleverly into this rugged landscape, but there's little cash for repairs at a time when off-road vehicles threaten sustainability of historic coaching roads upgraded to byways open to all traffic.

Leaving splendid views of Crummack Dale on a stunningly clear day, the descent from Long Scar into Clapham village confirms the survival of historical pack horse route records at St James' Church Hall. A keenly anticipated detour via Cold Cotes to say hello to Charlie Parker at Lowkbers - he still trains working Dales for snigging, timber extraction - sadly proves fruitless; he's at a logging demonstration. Now rare, Dales ponies were used as pack ponies until the 1950's, carrying coal and lead from mines to coast in pre-railway days.

From Ingleton an undisturbed pass over Twisleton Scar End, among a tricky, lunar-like mosaic of exposed boulders and sink holes, affords unrivalled views of Ingleborough and Whernside. Two elderly walkers, initially with us, soon a mile away, navigate surely towards Dent Youth Hostel. They choose a valley route too difficult, too dangerous, for a pack pony. Scales Moor and Kirkby Gate - 'Please keep to the waymarked signs' - are dotted with honeycombed fault-lines towards Ellerbeck.

I peer from the tent. This misty early morning Olivia is missing. The far gate at Winterscales Farm is open. I soon discover her grazing contentedly in the next field. The farmer confides that twice earlier she mischievously pushed open gates wedged shut by large boulders. We can't work out how she managed it! Just then John Conway, a knowledgeable point-to-point rider, arrives to accompany us over tricky ground.

A stream of walkers - The Caravan Club of Britain's 'Three Peaks Challenge' - meets us momentarily along Blue Clay Ridge. We climb over evidence of soil inversion, an expensive but clever anti-erosion technique; a drainage ditch is dug to subsoil, which is then replaced over topsoil.

Along the Craven Way, dikes have collapsed causing severe bogs, worsened by trail bikes. John, concerned, scouts ahead. A horse is easily lost in this quagmire; riders can quickly dismount, but a pack takes time to detach. Olivia seems unperturbed as we safely cross the valley of a natural drainage system, peat formed eight thousand years ago underneath rush-like grasses. Job completed, John heads home.

Access into sheltered Dentdale lies via Howgi