A walk from Cwmynyscoy to Cwmlickey and back.

Some walks begin with a plan. Others simply unfold as you follow the landscape. My recent afternoon visit to Cwmynyscoy Local Nature Reserve near Pontypool turned into one of those steady explorations that carried me from wooded valley floor to the open mountain slopes of Mynydd Twyn Glas, clocking up well over 15,000 steps by the time I returned.

The sky was a blanket of grey when I arrived, the kind of soft, overcast afternoon that flattens the light but somehow adds atmosphere to the hills. The valley felt quiet beneath the low cloud, with only the occasional call of woodland birds breaking the stillness.

Cwmynyscoy is a place where nature has slowly reclaimed a landscape shaped by industry. Long before it became a local nature reserve, the site was home to Cwmynyscoy Limestone Quarry, which operated during the 19th and early 20th centuries. Limestone was an important resource for both agriculture and industry, used as building material and to produce lime to improve farmland soils.

Quarrying dramatically altered the valley sides, but once operations ceased, the land gradually began to recover. Over time, woodland colonised the old workings and spoil areas, creating the mosaic of trees, scrub and open ground that now supports a wide variety of wildlife.

I launched the drone to gain a perspective above the valley.

From the air, the reserve takes on a different character entirely. The steep slopes rise sharply away from the valley floor, patches of woodland clinging to the hillsides while rough grassland spreads across the higher ground. Even beneath the dull grey sky, the landscape had a quiet beauty.

It wasn’t long before something caught my attention.

Gliding across the valley was a dark-form Common Buzzard, its wings broad and steady as it rode the air currents along the hillside. This bird was noticeably darker than the typical buzzards we see across Wales — almost uniformly chocolate brown, standing out against the pale cloud cover.

The buzzard’s presence didn’t go unnoticed.

A group of Jackdaws quickly rose up from the valley and began mobbing the larger bird, their sharp calls echoing through the air as they darted around it. Like agile fighter jets, they repeatedly swooped at the buzzard from behind, forcing it to bank and shift direction. The buzzard seemed largely indifferent, calmly gliding away from the commotion before disappearing along the ridge.

It’s a behaviour I’ve seen many times, but watching it unfold from the drone's perspective — high above the valley — added a completely different dimension.

With the drone safely back on the ground, I set off on foot, beginning the steady climb out of the valley towards Cwmlickey Reservoir.

The path gradually gained height as it wound through woodland and open grassland. Every so often, I glanced back to see the valley stretching out behind me, the patchwork of trees and slopes fading into the grey afternoon light.

By the time I reached the reservoir, the step count was climbing nicely, and I was out of breath.

Cwmlickey Reservoir sits quietly beneath the slopes of Mynydd Twyn Glas, the broad upland hill that rises above Pontypool. The reservoir was constructed in the late 19th century, when the surrounding valleys were expanding rapidly during the industrial boom. Growing communities, ironworks and coal mines all required reliable water supplies, and reservoirs like this were built to support the infrastructure of the time.

Today, the reservoir has a very different atmosphere.

Its calm water reflected the muted sky while the surrounding hills formed a quiet amphitheatre of grassland and scattered shrubs. Meadow Pipits moved across the open ground, their calls carrying faintly across the hillside.

From here, the walk continued upwards onto the slopes of Mynydd Twyn Glas.

The hill forms part of the upland ridge separating the Ebbw Valley and the Usk Valley, and at around 472 metres (1,549 ft) it dominates the skyline above Pontypool. Though it feels wonderfully wild today, these hills have been used for centuries. Evidence of old grazing routes, boundary walls and historic trackways can still be found crossing the slopes — reminders of the long relationship between people and this landscape.

However, as I walked across the open moorland, another far more recent human impact was impossible to ignore.

Large areas of the hillside have been severely scarred by off-road motorcycling. Deep ruts and wide tracks have been carved across the moorland, cutting through the fragile soils and vegetation. In places, the damage is extensive, with multiple tracks braiding across the hillside where bikes have repeatedly churned up the ground.

Seen from above with the drone, the scale of the damage is even more striking. The scars run across the hillsides like open wounds in the landscape — so stark and widespread that at times they feel almost visible from space. What should be a smooth sweep of moorland grass and heather is instead broken by raw, muddy tracks that continue to widen with each passing season.

It’s a sobering contrast to the quiet wildlife and history of the area. While the hills have long supported grazing and traditional use, the intensity of modern off-road activity is clearly leaving a lasting mark on the land.

As I continued my walk along the ridge, the valleys slowly opened out beneath the heavy cloud cover. Despite the damage in places, the uplands still hold a sense of space and wildness that draws you onward.

By the time I eventually made my way back down the mountain, my legs were aching, and I was desperate for a cup of tea.

Cwmynyscoy may once have been shaped by quarrying and industry, but nature now defines much of the valley once again. Woodland fills the lower slopes, birds patrol the skies, and quiet reservoirs sit beneath the broad Welsh hills.

And on a cloudy afternoon like this, with jackdaws chattering and a buzzard drifting across the valley, it’s still possible to glimpse the wild character that these landscapes have always held — even as they face the pressures of the modern world.