Waterfalls of Middle-earth: Autumn Adventures at Cwm Nant Dyar

There is a moment, standing on the Cwm Nant Dyar Railway Viaduct, when the world seems to breathe in. The valley below folds into itself like a great green-gold tapestry, oak and beech flashing copper, amber, and wine-red as the autumn light sweeps across their crowns. That hush, broken only by the murmur of the river and the quiet hum of a drone climbing skyward, told me I’d picked a perfect day to explore one of Monmouthshire’s lesser-known gems.

Launching the drone felt like sending a curious raven out across a mythical realm. From above, Cwm Nant Dyar reveals itself as a branching network of waterfalls and steep wooded gullies stitched together by the sheer geology of the gorge. The cascades foam and tumble in tiers, gleaming white among moss-dark ravines. Through the drone’s camera, the waterfalls looked strangely otherworldly—something Peter Jackson would gleefully scout for an elven refugee camp. The viaduct itself, an enduring relic of local railway history, spans the Nant like an ancient bridge out of a forgotten saga, stone arches catching long shadows as if hoarding them.

Eventually, the lure of rushing water and the promise of new angles dragged me downward. The path off the viaduct winds like a serpent, damp leaves clinging to boots with mischievous enthusiasm. Each step demanded focus—parts of the trail were slick enough to convince a mountain goat to reconsider its life choices. At the bottom, the roar of the river closed in, the sound echoing off rock walls that have watched centuries come and go.

I spent the morning hopping between boulders, tripod tucked under my arm like a wizard’s staff. Photographer instincts warred with common sense as I edged closer to the spray. But the reward was worth every cautious shuffle. From river level, the waterfalls transform: curtains of water dance over limestone rocks, mist drifting like conjured smoke, and the surrounding forest glows with that late-autumn fire. Reviewing the shots on the camera’s screen, I couldn’t help but grin. Some frames looked less like Monmouthshire and more like Middle-earth—the kind of scenes where wandering hobbits would stop, take second breakfast, and ponder the meaning of moss.

 Cwm Nant Dyar does that: it blends the quiet story of its woodland ecology with the grandeur of its geology, each waterfall a little chapter carved by time.

As dark clouds started to loom above, I packed away the camera and drone, climbing back up through the golden valley. The viaduct loomed behind the trees, now sombre in the dying light, but the river kept singing the same old tune. There’s magic tucked into this corner of Clydach—magic you don’t have to squint to see. Sometimes all it takes is a slippery path, a curious lens, and a willingness to wander a little further than common sense suggests.

Scenes like these are what keep the camera batteries charged and the boots muddy. The next adventure is out there already, waiting between branches and waterfalls, whispering like distant elvish voices through autumn leaves.