One Woman Walks Wales

by Ursula Martin

  Apart from the crackle of butter being spread on toast and the tick of a very loud clock, the loudest sound in the room came from behind a closed door where the nuns were having an audibly good time. They were clanking pots and pans, chattering non-stop, giggling, greeting new arrivals and occasionally breaking out into laughter. Occasionally a nun would bring out another piece of food for me or my silent companion, some more toast or a forgotten ramekin of baked beans, her face betraying no hint of the merriment she’d just left. I was glad it seemed nice to be a nun.

  Further down the road, once booted and bagged up, I stopped in at the well, entering through the gift shop. I sat by the edge of the water, where a rectangular grey-stone pool had been built out into the courtyard, filling out from the smaller octagonal pool, medieval-built, arched and curlicued, narrow steps leading down into it, too delicate now for the mass of public bathing. This was where people had been coming for healing for centuries, since Winefride had her head cut off by a man who was trying to rape her, water springing from the very place her head came to rest. Her saintly uncle Beuno reattached her head; she lived, became a saint herself, and the well became a place of pilgrimage. There was a museum attached, a wall full of discarded crutches, given by the people who came and bathed and walked straight once more.

  It was a subdued and respectful place. People spoke in hushed murmurs, quietly filled up bottles from a spout on the wall, a takeaway to drink in times of trouble. There was a woman who stripped down to a bathing costume, assisted by her husband. She waded down into the water and swam small strokes to and fro before coming out quickly to be wrapped and towelled by her waiting partner. She was crying.

  I thought about the desperation of illness, the necessity of something to take away constant pain. I didn’t believe in God, or miracles, but I believed in belief. The fact that the particular way a person perceived the world would help to make the world a certain way for them, whether through connectedness, coincidence or confirmation bias. If I had God in my life, then all the generosity I received during this journey would be assigned to the benevolent will of that entity. I wanted to believe that this water would heal me, I wanted to be healed, I wanted to be able to walk without pain, I needed this, my journey was really hard work.

  I decided to try it, to believe in the water. I had to be wholehearted about it or it wouldn’t work so I took time, sitting on the blotched and roughened grey-stone slabs that edged the pool, and thought about healing, calmed my thoughts until I focused on this place.

  I thought about the years of repeated visits to this place of pilgrimage, the belief and the need that brought people here. A place becomes holy when it’s sacrosanct, when it has no other function than a centrepoint for belief. The well held silence. People approached it in a pause of breath, the stillness creating an empty gap where hope could spark.

  I peeled off my socks, damp with sweat as ever, and rolled up my leggings. The water was deeply, icily cold. It was too great a shock and I wanted to take them out straight away but forced myself to rest them in there for as long as I could bear it, watching my luminous yellow feet magnified underneath the water, bobbing gently. I had to dip them three times, if the healing was to work. I felt deeply moved in doing this, my choosing to join something. By choosing to believe that the water was healing me, I was believing in something greater than myself. That there was a greater spiritual force in the world than my limited senses could realise, whatever the name given to it.

  I dressed again, solemn, my feet glowing and tingling from their immersion in the ice cold water.

  Within twenty steps from the exit I paused by the roadside, wincing as a sharp ripple of pain seared through both my heels at once, as if healed wounds had broken open once again. I guess mystical healing was no good if I was going to continue with exactly the same harmful behaviour.

  I walked along the road from the village, down towards the small concrete-lined launch ramp, cars parked either side. Here I was, back again at the concrete flood-barrier where the grey estuary lapped away from me, lined by the Welsh coastal path running left and right. I stepped onto it, a new route under my feet. Here, walking towards me and saying hello, was the pleasant man I’d said goodbye to four months earlier, moustached and rounded, still wearing the same baseball cap, walking the same dog; my first and last encounter on the Cistercian Way. 602 miles had separated our two meetings, but for him it was just another daily stroll by his local seaside, a nice chat with a tourist. He had no idea of the miles I’d covered, all I’d seen and experienced. I’d passed the summer away following the Cistercian path. Ahead lay autumn and the mountains.

  CAMBRIAN WAY

  Route description: Pioneered by Tony Drake, this mountain route covers most of the highest mountains of Wales and requires much stamina to complete. From the north coast it crosses over the Carneddau, the Snowdon massif, the Rhinogs, Cader Idris, Plynlimon, Carmarthen Fan, the Brecon Beacons and the Black Mountains before touching down in Cardiff. This is a tough high-level route and should not be underestimated.

  Length:  287.1 miles

  Total ascent:  20,864m

  Maximum height: 1,044m

  Dates:  4 September – 14 October 2014

  Time taken: 41 days

  Nights camping/nights hosted: 17/41

  Days off: 8

  Average miles per day: 8.69

  I was heading down the dragon’s back, from the gnarly shoulders of Snowdon, across the knobbly scatterings of the Rhinogs, the coccyx of Cader Idris, the soft belly of Plynlimon and the Cambrian moorlands, and curving around to the east-west whipped tail of the Beacons and Black Mountains.

  The mountain connoisseur’s route, it named itself. Twenty per cent of the route took me to heights over 610m and only 17% would be on hard, painful tarmac, the lowest of all my chosen paths.

  Coming up from Conwy and climbing to my first view, the surrounding heather fell away in a wide curve, and swooped down to a coast I could no longer see. I knew the road and rocks lay below, but instead I had a view of a perfect clear line of purple heather, then blue sea. The Great Orme peninsula lay comfortable in the distance, like a sleeping beast, head pushed out in full relaxation. Llandudno covered the animal’s neck, colonising the flat land, enjoying the luxury of two coastlines.

  I was heading into the mountains, excited at the change of scenery and the challenge to come. I was going to cross the highest parts of Wales, turn away from rivers and coast, and climb into the peaks.

  I gloried in the sunshine and clear air, admiring the carefully built stone walls that ran dividing lines along long-held boundaries. The route went gently into the beginning hills, dipping and rising but always climbing. As the sun began to set I came to a beautiful sleeping-spot, a small area of flat grass beneath a smooth-faced rocky crag, perfect to sit against in comfort and admire the light dwindling from the sky, the colours of heather and turf, first roared pink in the final tinge of sunset and then faded to muted normalcy. I welcomed my luck in being able to cross the land in this way, no human infrastructure needed, just my ability to take what the land offered, natural shelter for a living body overnight whether it was prostrate human or curled, comfortable sheep.

  In the morning I reached my fingers up from the gentle comfort of my feathered nest, and pulled aside the clammy plastic hood that covered my face. The hood shielded me from the fierce chilling of the cold September air, but in return it condensed the captured heat of my breath, brushing back damp and unpleasant against my skin. A short time ago, the light on the bristles of wiry grass was pale orange-pink in the first flashing exultation of the sun but now, in the blinking of eyes into unconsciousness and back again, it had dissolved to an ordinary grey. The clouds were thin and wispy and I knew that they would burn away to thin yellow sunshine later.

  I levered myself to sitting, slow movements, stiff and aching from the hard ground, leant back against the huge grey rock, furry with lichen, and came slowly to the world. Small bir
ds flew peeping above the thrusts of heather. They were the only animals I saw, apart from the thick black contented slugs.

  I walked from sunrise until sunset that day, looking out at a range of peaks and calculating the crossing of gigantic pieces of land, defining the swoop and rise of a peak in minutes and hours. There was clambering, my knees began to ache again and my thigh muscles screamed as I pushed myself further, physically, than I had managed before on this walk.

  The Carneddau were huge and gentle mountains, the heights wriggling around on the way south, always another rise ahead in the distance: first Foel Fras, then Carnedd Gwenllian, then Foel Grach, Carnedd Llewelyn, Carnedd Dafydd, each with two or three miles of high and wide ground between them, sometimes short grasses and sometimes rocky stumbles.

  The weather didn’t lift and there were wisps of mist everywhere around, semi-cloaking the surrounding peaks, blowing on and off like a fluttering scarf.

  I saw the final summit far ahead around the horseshoe curve of steep, gravel-sided Cwm Lloer. The cairn that marked the summit was seemingly only a couple of metres higher than the surrounding expanse of thin turf, sparse grass growing in inch-thick soil.

  I was passed, as I strode slowly towards my goal, by a thin man running in a neon orange T-shirt, glowing bright and unnatural in the dull outlook. He clip-clopped towards me, streaming sweat and with a huge happy grin.

  I’d seen him from hundreds of metres away, marvelled at his endurance to run up mountains, his bravery in being up here. With so little clothing to retain heat only his constant speed could maintain a safe body-temperature,.

  I had the wonderful anticipation of watching him approach around the whole horseshoe, growing in size as he came closer. We had just a few seconds to smile and exchange hellos before he was gone behind me, the heavy breaths fading away, his brightness a flash that disappeared, leaving no trace but retinal memory.

  Sitting on the rubble of rocks that heaped around the base of the low cairn, I consulted the map. The Cambrian Way went off to the east, winding a long way over as it descended off a spur of the mountain, passing behind the long lake at the valley bottom, before doubling back on itself to go west again and reach an easy entry point to the Glyders range. There was another footpath leading directly south off the face of Pen Yr Ole Wen. It was a much shorter distance away, and with the sun setting in an hour or two I was pushed for time. The contour lines looked very close together, but I’d rather a steep descent than a long detour. I didn’t know then that the name of that footpath is the Vertical Mile.

  I descended in small steps as the path, inches narrow, wound between huge stone slabs. Sometimes I stepped off tough heather roots, sometimes awkwardly lowering myself into rocky clefts, taking a handhold to take weight from my knees, bracing my sticks below me for balance.

  Every pace was calculated, no movement made without thinking; any slip would be a fall of hundreds of metres, slipping and bouncing, tangling myself in a crevice at best. Llyn Ogwen lay below me, a small puddle of water with toy cars zipping alongside it.

  I couldn’t tell how steep the hill was when I concentrated on the surrounding few metres. It was only when I looked up behind me, to see how far I’d come that I was taken aback; the rocks seemed ready to fall down on top of me, slammingly, impossibly vertical, no visible path.

  The path appeared and disappeared, melting into rocky tumbles for me to pick over, searching amongst the heather below for the resumption of the trail. The poles were mostly a hindrance at this close-quarters tangle; I needed free hands to grasp and clutch the rocks for balance.

  I started to feel in the grip of madness, regretting my unavoidable commitment to an increasingly difficult path, tiptoeing, pick pick, lumbering and descending, gripping and hefting, bulbous looming crags above me. The light left the valley, turning to pale purple to grey to black as I slowly, awkwardly lowered myself, my rucksack and my stupid bamboo poles, down steps and slides and drops. My water had run out hours earlier, I’d been on such flat high ground that there’d not even been a trickle to stoop and fill up at.

  In the darkness I came to a cleft, the path lost long ago, and realised I’d have to lower myself down the rock to a ledge. I peered over it with my torch and saw another ledge more than six feet below. I’d have to drop down by twisting around the edge of the split rock and let myself gently lower until my feet touched a facing outcrop, and I could change handholds to lower myself further. I couldn’t do it with my bag – too heavy and off balance – so I thought about it and let it drop down: a tired and angry decision.

  The bag went somersaulting about twenty metres down the hill in the circle of torchlight, contents flying out of the pockets in the whirl of turning. I paused in shock; there was no going back now, I had to descend and retrieve it. The poles tucked safely into the cleft and, as I searched for the second handhold I needed to lower myself down to where my feet would touch the rock, holding my torch in my teeth, I thought, This isn’t walking. I’m a walker, not a climber. I picked my way to the bag, gathering scattered belongings, and continued the descent: the worst was over. I noticed I was shaking as I tumbled awkwardly to my knees among the bouldered edge of the rushing river that was almost safety – gulping longed-for water, cupping it into my hands and slurping.

  There were flagstones laid for a sturdy trail alongside the river, leading me to a road with Idwal Cottage YHA at the corner, where the valley turned to run alongside Llyn Ogwen and east towards Capel Curig. Walking along the road in darkness, no energy left to search for a flat and private piece of ground, I walked into the glossy wood-panelled reception and unexpectedly burst into tears, the aftermath of a fear that had been camouflaged by adrenalin. I’d planned to go to the hostel for water but suddenly I really needed a bed. I got a cup of tea dashed with whiskey, my bamboo walking-pole bound and strengthened where it had split on the rocky descent, and a bed in a shared room for £30. The manager was calm and kind: nothing new to her in a shattered roamer coming in late with tales of a near-death experience.

  The following day I came up and over the shoulder of the Glyders, the path taking me over a wide grassy area with no discernible path; seemingly well-trodden marks petered out in a bog or rocks, or turned out to be winding sheep-tracks. I was still wobbly from the night before and decided to skip the ascent to the summits, keeping on the gentle walk that day. I had Snowdon to face the next day and didn’t want to exhaust myself.

  I descended into the valley, heading for Llyn Pen-y-Gwryd, reached the Pen-y-Pass hostel before sunset and had a quick pint, not really wanting to stay in this busy, anonymous building, people wandering everywhere in expensive, branded outdoor clothing. I was turned off by its blandness, the shiny new bar creating a gastropub atmosphere. I decided to wander along the path towards Snowdon and find somewhere to sleep, save myself a bit of effort the next day.

  Never having climbed Snowdon this way, I missed the car park corner entrance to the Pyg Track and found myself on the Miners’ Track, the route that Snowdon summiteers usually descend on. It was wide and flat, to begin with; the path had been laid in stone to counteract the scraping and degrading of many thousands of pairs of boots. I walked on a cobbled road, levelled and laid by man. It felt totally unnatural, the Snowdon travelator. Even as the light left the sky there were still plenty of people around, a steady trickle of descending walkers coming towards me, the last of the hundreds to climb the mountain that day. I felt this mountain was crawling with people, a steady ant-stream climbing and descending, following each other in marked trails, ants using scent, us laying stones.

  I settled for the night beside the first lake, Llyn Llydaw. There was an electrical building a short distance from the path, signs warning against entry, and I could lie on the flat space in front of the door, shielded from the strong wind that whistled against the building sides and rattled loose pieces of sheet metal. Even in the night hours – groups of walkers passed by, night-time mountain marauders, talking in loud, excited voices, flash
ing their torchlight over me, flicking away. It didn’t matter how many people were asleep or awake; the mountain dwarfs us, the beauty subdues us, we can’t tame this rock, only swarm over it. The peak of Snowdon remained serene, triangular above me, unaffected, singing its own song in vibrations too deep for human ear.

  At the point where the Pyg Track met the Miners’, where I climbed up the very steep rocky clamber to join the stony track to the summit, I stopped to rest for a while and take in the view behind me. I realised there was a girl sitting against a rock not far away, snuffling and weeping to herself, not quite loudly enough to distract the stream of passing walkers. I edged over to her and asked if she was OK. She was on the final summit of the three-peaks challenge – climbing the three main mountains of Britain in twenty-four hours – and had dropped behind the main group, losing their team mania and therefore her energy. She was feeling dizzy and tired, overwhelmed by the mountain.

  I urged her to eat but she refused, saying she felt sick. I couldn’t force in the thing that would almost immediately make her feel better so I just sat with her for a while, trying to calm her, asking small questions to bring her out of panic, getting her to tell me about her journey, about swaying in the minibus overnight, about almost no sleep and only a tuna sandwich for food. Come on, girl, I wanted to say, stop consciously consuming less, now’s not the time. Surviving on a small amount isn’t impressive, not on a mountain. Your energy directly depends on what you put in your mouth! No food equals no fuel! I dug in my bag and offered her some small things. Trail mix, then Skittles. She accepted them but didn’t eat, just holding them in her hand, not quite ready yet. I urged her to drink and she did, taking small sips of water.