, Knighton, Powys,

Within a couple of miles, it was obvious that we had left the soft leafy lands of rural Herefordshire behind. The road climbed above valleys which were steeper than they had been on the other side of the border. My map told me we were approaching Offa's Dyke, but my eyes saw no sign of it as we approached the top of a hill and prepared for our descent into Knighton – Tref–y-Clawdd, the town on the Dyke. I had chosen to take a bus between Kington and Knighton to find out if there were real differences between two towns in two countries separated by only a few miles and a couple of mischievous letters. I had already drawn some conclusions about Kington, but proper comparisons and contrasts would have to wait until I returned from today's trip and spent some time in both.|As we reached the outskirts of Knighton, I began to recall faint memories of driving through the town when I was young, sharp and could still touch my toes. After those depressing thoughts, I looked more closely at the jumble of buildings ahead and began to appreciate the problems of trying to get to grips with the differences between perception and reality....|In a nearby shop, I met a good humoured and interesting man who told me he slept with his head on the Welsh side of the Dyke and his feet on the other. With a fleeting image in my mind of someone who lived in a tent on a grassy mound, I asked where his heart lay. He smiled as he said, 'In Wales, the line of the Dyke runs through the town and through my house.'....

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