I carried on into Ynysybwl and a woman called to me from her front garden.
“What are you doing? Do you need anything?”
I grabbed the chance to refill my water bottle and have a wee! We had a nice little chat and I moved on again, through the village. I stopped at the furthest edge, a short rest before moving up into the forestry. It’d been so hot all week, I was sweating and sweating and needed to keep stopping to rehydrate. My feet were also unused to walking. Just a week’s break meant I needed to break them in all over again. It’s a certain kind of pain, the connecting parts complaining as I forced them to stretch out again in a regular walking motion. They’d forgotten what this was like, life at full stretch, and creased and cramped back into their usual positions, set for strolling.
People kept getting off the bus at the stop nearby and enquiring about what I was doing. They’d seen me walking through the village and were curious about me. I gave out more cards, received more donations.
Up in St Gwynno Forest I rescued another sheep, this time with its head stuck in the entrance to a water-trough, which made a total of three stuck sheep rescued thus far. I also got told off, mildly, by a farmer, for going through the wrong field. He was young, about 17, and looked incredibly pleased with himself as he showily pulled up beside me on his massive shiny red steed – I mean quad bike. Direction corrected, I proceeded into the forest where, at the meeting of two roads and surrounded by thickly-crowding trees, there’s a small collection of five houses, a church and a thriving pub called the Brynffynon Hotel.
Sitting alone in a pub is a licence to dream, to listen to the gathered old ones at the bar, forever chatting, airing their views, discussing their favourite kind of cheese sandwich for an hour at a time.
The best kind of pub contains:
Music that’s quiet and unchallenging;
Freely available, functioning plug-sockets that the landlord is happy for all customers to use;
A bookcase of tired but excellent literature that the customer is free to swap for their own battered and thumbed books;
Tables and booths in tucked away corners where the tired customer can take off her boots and rub her feet without attracting comment;
Good ale of a name that’s not freely available in every chain pub outlet.
Public house in the literal meaning of the name: a place for anyone to sit indoors, where it’s safe and the weather cannot touch them. A haven: for me, a retreat from the physical effort of walking.
I spent a happy hour there filling up on water and beer. I was bought a dangerous (for 3pm) second pint by the owner, and received a lovely £20 donation from the same. I left, goodbyes slightly slurred, and headed out of the forest towards Tylorstown, another concrete mass of housing.
It was still hot, the sun beating down endlessly. I tired very quickly in the heat, got lost on the way down the steep hillside and found myself on the wrong side of a spur, almost in Wattstown, another clinging, hillside estate. I would have gone along the road but was directed back up the hill by a friendly farm-worker. He, Jeff, also invited me to stay at his house, because of all the hospitality he received when he was travelling in New Zealand, but I had another couple of miles I wanted to do that day. I came down into Tylorstown, stopped to pick up some food and an ice-cream treat and headed out again, up yet another steep valley-side towards Penrhys. Ever since I’d met a biker couple from the Rhondda over in Monmouth, people had been warning me about the Penrhys estate. Apparently a notorious place about twenty years ago, people didn’t have much good to say about it.
“If you want to buy drugs, just ask any eight year-old.”
“Don’t take your donation tin in there, it’ll get ripped off in minutes.”
“It’ll be alright during the day but don’t go in there after dark.”
Well, guess what. I emptied the notes out of the tin, shoved them in my bra, headed on up the steep, steep hill into the estate and around the edge… and was totally ignored. Well, that’s not true actually, I paused for a rest half-way up, turned round to look behind at the view of the two valleys running either side of the Mynydd Troed-y-Rhiw dead ahead, and noticed a group of people sitting in their back garden staring at me, about 50m away. I temporarily forgot that I was in the deadliest, most drug-ridden and violent estate ever in the whole of Wales, lifted my flag and waved at them. They waved back and I carried on, unmolested.
I came up out of the back of the settlement, past a small pine plantation, and out into the long grass of the open, high hillside. The sun was starting to set far away and, nearby, tall wind-turbines continued their slow powerful circuits. I walked about a half mile from the houses, turned away from the path carved by motorbikes, people and vehicles, and into the long grass to find a bed. The grass waved gently in the wind and the sky faded slowly into the pale gold and lilac of a summer evening. I heard voices behind me and realised that a family were making their way home after a walk. Would they see me? I really hoped they wouldn’t. If they did, and they were going to come back and bother me later on they’d only find a flattened patch of grass. I lay flat, with my head turned towards the path. First came the sound of the dog, hurrying and panting, then the high calls of the son, excited. Then came the father, I could just see his head and shoulders, slow and ponderous. Then came two women talking together. I couldn’t catch the words of their chatter, just the swooping tones of their sing-song south Wales accents. None of them turned their heads or saw me, and their voices faded away down the hillside towards home.
Much later, when the sky was a deep dark blue, a jeep came roaring up through the grass and I lay flat again, hoping the passengers wouldn’t turn their heads. They didn’t and I nestled down into my comfortable sleeping spot. It was a beautiful night, I remember waking up as I turned over and deciding to lie on my back for a while and look at the stars. It only lasted a few seconds before I faded down into the darkness again, but I remember feeling the deep peace of simply being a body lying on the earth. The grass waved over me, rustling quietly, all night.
I had a big day next day. My brother was coming to join me for a few days. Maesteg would be the best place to park up, so I had to walk right over there to meet him by 5pm. So, down into Pentre in the Rhondda Valley, into a café for a breakfast cup of tea that turned into half an hour of chats with the owner and the customers, as people kept coming in and being told about me and they kept giving money. Just a few coins or even the occasional fiver but it all adds up, and it means a lot, when you’re in one of the poorer areas of the country. A pot of tea was 80p in that café and was bigger than the £2.50 mug I was served in the upmarket gastropub near Chester where everyone ignored me.
I hurried on through the town, waylaid by a man who wanted to tell me how much he loved the Rhondda. He’d been working away for years, no jobs here, forced to go over the bridge for employment. But finally, at the age of 50, he was finding work in the valley, installing windows. He felt great about it, and seeing as I wasn’t from round here he thought he’d stop and ask what I was doing, tell me the story of his struggles, sharing some of his history in that open South Walian way.
I crossed the railway into Ton Pentre and set off up the steep hillside, heading for a bridleway which would take me over the Mynydd Mendy and across the Bwlch. It was hot, so hot, and my steps slowed as I tottered up the steep pavement. It was a relief when someone called over to me.
“What are you doing? Do you want a cup of tea?”
It was the Cherrys: Mr, Mrs and two daughter Cherrys. I went inside for a quick glass of squash and a chat; they were lovely, trying to force more water and snack bars into my rucksack. It was difficult to leave but I had to get on – somehow it was half eleven already. I trudged up the steep hillside and onto the tops where I could see for miles, turbines waving in the distance, just pine plantations and sheep covering the land, with houses nestled into the crevices of the land below. I walked a few miles over to where the mountain road from the Rhondda came up a
nd met up with the Bridgend county boundary. The views were spectacular. I had no idea that what I had thought was such a downtrodden, post-industrial area was so gorgeous. I had a great chat with the jolly man running the ice-cream van at the top; he used to inspect sewers, now he sold ice-cream and couldn’t be happier.
On I went, across the road and up another sharp climb to walk along a cliff edge, the land dropping away down to the Ogmore Valley below, the road winding in Alpine horseshoe curves below me. I was making good time. Another couple of miles along a stony track brought me past a collection of radio masts and over to the head of the Pontycymer Valley. The land swelled gently downwards and there was another set of steep cliffs ahead. I had to climb up the side of them and walk along the top into a forestry plantation; this day was really taking it out of me and I was only about two-thirds of the way through it.
Coming down through the forestry I got lost; the trees had been felled, leaving a confusing and ankle-rolling mess of stumps, branches, dips and baby brambles. There was supposed to be a footpath winding its way through this, but I couldn’t find it. Instead, I looped around on the forestry roads, always making my way downwards, trying to orientate myself with the houses I could see in the farmland below me. Eventually I made it down through the bracken to the highest farm on the hillside. Now there was just a funny little trapezoid of footpaths before I could get to the straight road and the final three miles to Llangynwyd, where my bro awaited. Well, the OS map said there should be a path there but all I could see was a rusty gate and, on the other side of it, head high brambles.
No Way.
I searched around for another route. On one side there was a stream, on the other a high barbed-wire fence at the top of a steep bank. I decided to cross the stream; maybe the path was on the other side. The bank started out being covered by Himalayan Balsam, not too bad; but eventually, as I climbed higher, thrashing my way forward, the brambles came creeping in until I was struggling in a morass of thorns and scratches.
“I’m going back!” I suddenly shouted, at the end of my tether, and started crying as I picked my way back down the bank. “This is stupid! I hate everything!”
I blubbered like a child. I was back at the gate again, there was no way I could cross it; it was pure brambles on the other side and I would make it no more than a few feet before becoming inextricably entwined. I fought through the trees instead, branches catching my hair and realised I could pull my way up the bank and climb onto a cleared patch, which led towards the house and barns.
“You’re going the wrong way,” a woman called to me.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I called as I came closer. If you’re trespassing, always apologise, even if it was the stupid brambles’ fault. I wiped away the tears as I came closer but the couple sitting outside having an evening drink could still tell I was in a bit of a state: sweaty, wild hair, scratches all over my hands and arms.
I’d started the day at 400m altitude, dropped to 150, climbed again to 500. Another few drops and climbs of 100 metres meant I’d climbed a bloody mountain that day, as well as walking seventeen miles in the high summer sun, and getting caught in a nest of brambles.
“Let me get you a drink,” she said, seeing how frazzled I was, and we had a quick glass of squash and a chat, mostly about footpath permissions and a nearby angry farmer who’d once waved a gun at walkers. This couple had three footpaths crossing their land and didn’t want them there; that’s why they didn’t clear the morass I’d just tried to fight through. We talked politely, sharing our points of view about what a pain it was, them to have people crossing their land, me to see a path on the map but to find it’s unwalkable on the ground. I casually dangled my hands over the fence as we talked, caressing the dogs as they leapt and licked. Eventually I realised one of the Rottweilers was gently toothing the pads of my fingers, they were forbidden fruit, dangling meat grapes; and he was teasing himself with the almost-biting of them. It added to the unsettling feeling from this family, politeness covered guarded unfriendliness. I was an intruder; they didn’t want people on their patch.
I hurried on, finally coming to the road and there he was, my bro. Come to meet me in his summer holidays, complete with a new smartphone and a great fund of stupid jokes. We covered the last few miles to Llangynwyd. I was really tired by that point; if I hadn’t been coming to meet him I would have camped up on the hills. The pub more than made up for all the effort, though. The oldest pub in Wales! There’s been a pub on that site in Llangynwyd since 1147.
“Who’s this now with the flags?” they were saying as I walked in.
“Long distance walk for charity!” I carolled, the magic words. “I’ve walked over from Penrhys and I’ve been thinking about drinking a pint in this pub for hours!”
I really had, the hot sun drying out my mouth as I imagined that first sip of cold lager, sitting down with my feet up.
Well, within two minutes came a wonderful wave of friendship and generosity.
“Have a drink, on my tab”, said Lee.
“Have a shower at my house across the road”, said Karen.
“There’s a caravan in the garden, you can sleep in it if you want”, said the landlord.
I sat there a bit stunned, trying to keep up with all the quips and conversation coming my way. There was a really funny man in the corner who just got it when I explained what I was doing and how I was travelling.
“Freedom!” he said.
“Exactly,” and we clinked glasses.
“Is it always like this?” said my brother.
“Of course!” I lied. “All the time!”
But it is, in a way – just not usually as concentrated as in that particular pub on that particular night.
I had my shower, we had our pints, Karen and Lee invited us over for breakfast the following morning and we were the last to leave the pub, the poor barmaids sitting and texting as we chatted on unthinkingly, not realising that everyone else had gone home.
Fuzzy-headed, we dragged ourselves out of bed early, yawning extensively as we sat opposite each other in the shaky caravan. We only had to go down to Margam Park, see the abbey and stately home, before almost turning back on ourselves to head up into the forestry to the west of Maesteg and over towards Neath. We were sorry and slow, heads throbbing a little – at least mine was. We came over the hill and found a glorious view of the Bristol Channel and the Port Talbot steelworks, smoke and fire belching into the air. Margam Park turned out to be a bit frustrating; we’d come into it the back way and couldn’t find the way out! It was a long, slow walk back to the path and unfortunately the next bit of the route was a steep climb through difficult, tiring reeds and long grass at the end of a farm track, up to the forestry above Margam. The path disappeared and we fought through long bracken before collapsing in the welcome shade of the pine trees to have lunch.
We could have continued up and over one more hill and further north, but decided to cut left and down to the ex-colliery village of Bryn. There was one pub, full of about ten older gentlemen who had clearly been coming and sitting in the same seats for years upon years. The pub didn’t do food, but were preparing a meal for the cricket team who’d been playing away, and the barman took pity on us and brought a very welcome bowl of chips into the back room for us. Another few hours passed, feet up, comparing aches and pains. Owen had a blister coming and I had a small hole in the side of my foot where a thorn got into my shoe. We left the pub early that night and walked up into a nature reserve. I looked around at the fresh-grown grass covering the old slag-heaps and realised that these were the faded remnants of the mining industry that used to employ all the men lining the seats of the bar. Tight communities left with a hole at their centre and slowly-fading scars.
We bedded down in the heather as a mist came over the valley. The air was still hot and close, but it felt good to see water going into the ground, keeping the lush green growth around me alive.
The next day we tried to cut across the hill
side to join the other side of the forestry at Afan Argoed, but the paths were non-existent. I wanted to give up and go around, fed up of energy-sapping undergrowth thrashing. But my brother was fresh to the fight and we tried to find pathways, Owen forging ahead through brambles and bracken. Eventually we found our way to a bridleway and a route between the hills to the next valley, Cwm Afan. There was a choice between another hillside thrash or a road walk. We chose the road walk, both of us a bit knackered – me from the unexpected extra booze the night before, and my bro from the unexpected toll that long-distance walking takes on your feet.
He went back to Derbyshire that day, catching a train back from Neath to collect his car at Llangynwyd.
We spent our last hour that morning in a cafe, the Tea Cosy. It was lovely. I met a photographer from the local paper there, and he had me posing for a photo holding a cup that the café owner was pouring tea into. It prompted a surge of interest and donations, people coming to me to tell their stories.
Otherwise, Neath was a bit smelly and lots of men kept staring at my chest. There was a sexually aggressive air about the town. Once Owen left, I tucked down in the corner of a Wetherspoons to write for a while, and had to run the gauntlet of groups of men making sexual comments about me whenever I walked past them to the bar or toilet, talking amongst themselves about what they’d do to me. I felt angry and intimidated, dropping my head and hoping I wouldn’t get noticed.
Neath redeemed itself on my way out, though. First, as I left the pub, a young guy sitting in a doorway lifted his head up from his arms as I passed. His eyes were bleary, his clothes filthy and he wore a badge that said On The Prowl.
One Woman Walks Wales Page 15