Where the Silures Once Stood: Winter on the Twmp

There are hills you climb… and hills that feel like they are watching you climb them. On a cold January morning, with the mountain top dusted in a fragile skin of snow and the sky hanging heavy and pale above South Wales, Twmbarlwm revealed itself as very much the latter. This was not just a walk to a summit—it was an ascent into deep time, where every footstep echoed against centuries of human presence, conflict, and survival.

Earlier this month, I finally made my first visit to Twmbarlwm, accompanied by my good friend Paul Joy. Paul remained at the car park below, flying his drone and anchoring the modern world, while I began the steady, solitary climb toward the ancient hillfort at the summit—known locally as the Twmp. It was a lovely crisp day with clear skies, and a thin layer of snow softening the landscape and lending the hill an almost mythical stillness.

The path upward to the summit was quiet and atmospheric. Snow crunched faintly underfoot, and the cold air sharpened the senses. With each pause, the views widened—valleys unfolding beneath a thin winter haze, ridgelines fading into the distance. It was easy to imagine sentries once standing here, scanning the same horizons for movement, smoke, or threat.

Before returning to the heart of the hillfort, I diverted briefly to the trig point. Standing there, exposed to the elements, the wind tugging at coat and breath, the scale of the landscape truly hit home. This is a place built for watching—for seeing and being seen.

Back within the hillfort, surrounded by low, snow-lined banks and ancient contours, it was time to fly the drone. Launching from such a site feels different—almost ceremonial. As the drone rose, the full form of the Twmp became clear: sweeping defensive rings, carefully shaped earthworks, and a commanding position that dominates the surrounding lands of Cwmbran, Newport, Risca, Machen and Ystryd Mynach. Standing there, I could see the Severn Estuary, England and even Pen-y-Fan.

The footage captured was superb. Slow aerial passes revealed the fort's geometry—its banks and ditches tracing deliberate arcs across the summit—while wider shots showed just how strategically perfect this hill truly is. Snow highlighted the fort’s structure beautifully, picking out lines and edges that might otherwise be lost in summer greens.

Twmbarlwm is a large Iron Age hillfort, likely constructed between the 6th and 1st centuries BC. The fort is defined by substantial earthen ramparts and defensive ditches, enclosing the summit in a powerful statement of control and permanence. These were not casual defences; they were carefully engineered barriers designed to protect people, livestock, and resources in an often-hostile world.

The hillfort is most strongly associated with the Silures, a formidable Celtic tribe who occupied much of south-east Wales. The Silures were known for their resilience, tactical intelligence, and fierce resistance to Roman invasion. Classical Roman sources describe them as determined and uncompromising—traits perfectly reflected in their choice of defensive sites. From Twmbarlwm, they could monitor movement across vast swathes of land, control routes through the valleys, and retreat into a position that was naturally difficult to assault.

When the Romans eventually pushed into the region during the 1st century AD, Twmbarlwm did not simply fade into irrelevance. While there is no evidence of a permanent Roman fort here, the hill’s strategic value would not have gone unnoticed. It may have been reused as a lookout or observation point, or deliberately neutralised to prevent its reuse as a rebel stronghold.

Centuries later, during the Norman period, the Twmp once again entered the strategic consciousness. The Normans frequently reused ancient sites that already commanded the landscape, and while Twmbarlwm never sprouted stone walls or towers, its role as a vantage point and territorial marker endured. Even without permanent structures, the hill continued to shape how people understood and moved through the land.

As the light softened and the cold deepened, the drone returned home, and I began the descent. Paul was still below, his own aerial work complete, and together we compared perspectives—his from the skies, mine from within the frozen earthworks.

With its snow-dusted ramparts, immense views, and deep-rooted history, Twmbarlwm left a powerful first impression. It is a place that doesn’t demand attention—but once it has it, it doesn’t let go easily.

Some hills whisper their stories.

This one remembers them all.