I climbed the Knob – still in cloud, no view – and came back down the short hill to turn down into the valley. I remembered that the first house on the path was an empty one, a holiday cottage with a barn attached. I’d go there, I decided; the ground was sodden with water and there would be nowhere dry to sleep tonight. It was one more mile. The light became twilight as I walked, stepping over and around the many swollen rushes of water that poured from the hillside and into the stream next to me. Eventually I came to the barn; half was full of rocks from a collapsed wall and the other half was a dirty, uneven surface of packed-down sheep shit, a hay-rack running the centre of it. But I found a flat corner, tucked against a hay bale.
I slept late into the morning, continually waking to turn over, an effort that gave my aching hips a sense of relief, allowing me to slide back into sleep for another half hour before discomfort spread to the new side. I only woke properly when the flutter of a small bird landed on the edge of my sleeping bag hood. It was a barely-sensed experience, the air of its wings against my face, the scratching of tiny talons against the fabric brought me awareness of this small animal as the stirring of my eyelids scared it to immediate flight. I saw myself from the viewpoint of this tiny forager, the stillness of my body in the barn, the sudden appearance of a strange-smelling object, its tentative exploration in search of food.
That night, after an agreeable day of walking a pleasant woodland path on the edge of the descent into Abergavenny, became a terrifying experience as darkness fell. Tree roots became trip hazards, trailing branches became stabbing, scratching obstacles. As the light dwindled, I became eerily aware of the creeping darkness behind me. I was on the edge of a town where humans are, where danger is, where the lapping waters of society jettison the unwanted out into the night: the oddments, the lurkers, the people with no place. If I used a torch for guidance I was clearly defining myself in the dark trees as a target, something to be focused on, followed. The light doesn’t illuminate, it blinds, limiting my senses to the small circle at my feet.
If I turned off the torch I’d become part of the wood, another creeping element of shadow, moving silently with the waving branches and the small busy creatures. If I sat still, eventually I’d hear the rustling mice, the gliding owls. I needed the light because I didn’t belong there, I needed to move through this wood, not become part of it.
I was relieved when I climbed the final stile to reach the chemical-orange tang of streetlight on tarmac and could once again become an anonymous shadow, seen for a moment slipping past an empty street corner.
I made my way down the steep road, the lights of Abergavenny laid out before me, and waited at the hospital for Jess to come and pick me up. I’d exchanged texts with Olivier; he’d also reached Abergavenny and was in a B&B, drying out his sodden clothing. He was at a turning-point, deciding whether to finish here or take an extra couple of weeks to walk the northern section, buying a new pair of boots on the way.
A day or two later I arrived at the city of Cardiff, coming down via the canals of Cwmbran and Pontypridd, a squat urban kingfisher making a welcome appearance. It was the only highlight of the day, that and the woods around Castell Coch at Tongwynlais. Once I reached Cardiff Bay after a long, draining tramp on concrete, I was done. I’d finished the Cambrian Way, the toughest route of all of them. And I was half-way to my total. This was my walk and I was doing it my own way. It was hard to fix on just one feeling about the achievement.
There was the happiness of knowing I was half-way through; that I, with my plump little legs that turn in at the ankles, had managed to stride, plod, climb, drag and stumble my way through almost 1700 miles. If I could do this I could do anything; or at least walk another 1600 miles.
There was also the apprehension of only being half-way through: half-way through the effort, the grime, the sleepless nights trying to curl my body around the unyielding ground. There was the same again to come. All the high hills rising in front of me, all the muddy patches, all the gleefully saturating bog, all the pain: foot pain, back pain, neck pain, ankle pain. All the evenings spent hobbling, barely able to put feet to the ground. All the foot rubs, calf stretches, back-bending sun-salutes. All the outdoor shitting. The difficulty of no private space. I had to do the same again. Except the second half would be through the winter.
There was also the anticipation of being just half-way through. I got to walk another 1600 miles before I had to go back to work, had to return to a normal life where people didn’t tell me how brilliant and inspiring I was. I had another eight months of freedom, of the wild wind blowing my hair, of hard-won mountains, of turning to look back at the view, of dreamy hours in cafés, of conversations and connections with strangers, of wild flowers and bird calls, talking to animals, waking up at night and watching the moon. The wind could blow my senses out to the horizon for another 1600 miles. There would be rain in my face, frozen red hands, deep, deep exhaustion…and I would savour it all because, despite everything, it makes me deeply, deeply happy.
I went back to work in Machynlleth, borrowing a car to get around. I slept in it for the first night and then was lucky enough to stay at a friend’s place while they went to France. I had a fortnight to savour an empty house, time to eat and rest. My leg muscles slowly relaxed, kicking and twitching in the space of the big double bed, shooting pains running through my bones. It wasn’t predictable, the way my hurts would manifest. A single small bone in my ankle would suddenly start to throb, spending an entire day sending pulses of pain into the rest of my foot before silencing, returning to obscurity overnight. I stretched and rested, trying to swim as often as possible, allowing my body’s tension to float outwards with the ripples from my crabbed and awkward swimming-strokes.
My body was hardened and held, braced against the workload of the previous eight months. Once I let the effort go I felt groggy and tired for almost all the two weeks, allowing my will to stop pushing my body onward meant I could allow it to feel all the lack of energy underneath. There was a friend, Guy, who was also staying in the house while his own was uninhabitable. We watched films and chatted, drank small amounts of booze, cohabited in a gentle and relaxed way. I cooked in the high-ceilinged, slate-floored kitchen, ate chicken and chorizo, buttered toast, pots of rich ice cream. Two weeks of work and then a week to wait for a replacement bank-card, a lost purse conspiring to allow me a final morsel of rest. There were things I could do: write, update my blog, do publicity, make the journey better-known, organise my kit, plan ahead. But doing nothing was equally important. While walking, all my separate pains condensed into a constant, scratching noise that scraped in a high-pitched line across my flow of thought. After all the stimulation of the journey, all the intensity and high bright days, the joy of generosity and the beauty of leaves and sunlight, I needed some nothing to balance it out.
Until the moment I started back out again, the walk felt very far away. I was sophisticated, showered and clean, clothes laundered, nice-smelling hair waving long across my shoulders. Luxuriating in the feeling of stretching out for a lie-in in a clean double bed, I couldn’t imagine heaving a rucksack onto my shoulders and walking with it, for months, for miles, over hills and mountains, down to the shore and around the coast where the icy wind would sting gritty droplets across my face, blow my senses out to sea. Salt and grime would taint my possessions, rubbing sweat and slime nightly into my sleeping-bag until eventually everything stinks and I’m a wild-eyed mad woman, staggering into pubs and ranting my story, crying out, shouting of cancer and wilderness hardship, intimidating the normal people who cower behind their safety barriers of just-in-case and what-if, fearing discomfort and the unknown.
That’s exactly what I was setting out to do though. I knew what I was heading for.
COAST TO COAST PATH SNOWDONIA TO THE GOWER
Route description: Another high mountain route including the peaks of Snowdonia from the Carneddau to Cader Idris, continuing past the great dams of The Elan Valley from remote
moors to beautiful valleys before crossing the Black Mountains to reach the Gower coast.
Length: 207.1 miles
Total ascent: 13,415m
Maximum height: 1,043m
Dates: 10 November – 18 December 2014
Time taken: 39 days
Nights camping/nights hosted: 16/23
Days off: 5
Average miles per day: 9.29
It was only a three-week break but I came back to a tangible difference: darker evenings and a sharp chill in the air. The weather was cold and bright, there were sunny days and the beginnings of frosty nights. When I’d stopped I could kid myself that it might still be late summer, but it was definitely autumn now. Now I watched the wind scatter falling leaves around me. There was no going back.
The forecast told me I was set to walk through a week of gales and rain. First I had to walk west from the end of the Cambrian Way in Cardiff along the coastal path to the tip of the Gower where I’d pick up the tail end of the Dragon’s Back, a path that led from the Gower back to Conwy. It was another mountain route, but not quite as challenging as the Cambrian Way. This time I’d miss out the Brecon Beacons and go around the Rhinogs, rather than doggedly over every peak as the Cambrian Way had taken me.
A gale blew as I walked along the clifftops of the coastal path, the crumbling edges scattering drops of earth. There was mud and rain, leaves rattling and scratching. A flock of crows rose and flapped ineffectually at the oncoming force, fighting to stay still. Trees washed themselves in the wind, swaying and swishing, freeing the detritus. Dead dry branches too stiff to flex came down with a crack and thud to start new lives as moist, rotting beetle-homes, delicately disintegrating flake by flake. The time for relaxed walking was ending. Body temperature and waterproof kit were now problems to take seriously.
It was all a bit of a shock, really. I knew it was coming but it was still pretty difficult to cope with. I could still do this but I had to be more regimented about it. It took definite steps to get into bed warm and clean. Before this temperature drop I could stop anywhere, scatter my belongings and slump for a while, mostly sleep safe in the knowledge that no rain would come overnight. Now I had to clamber into the tent, shed wet trousers and jacket in the tiny entrance, keep muddy kit away from the tent walls, climb into bed, tucked up by 7pm, make sure I’m warm enough, no skin left uncovered.
The clocks had changed; sunset came at half past four, total darkness by five-thirty, so I had to stop and make camp by a terribly early hour. I’d been used to nice lazy mornings, a gentle wake-up, sit and stare for a while before lumbering off, as long as it was by 10am I didn’t mind. Now I had to revere the daylight hours: there would be only ten of them and I was used to walking for ten hours a day. So I’d set an alarm for 6am and get walking by 7.30. It was enjoyable, once I got past the pain of the first alarm.
The foot pain, which had disappeared while I was working, came glimmering into being once again. I had to stretch religiously; it was the only thing that made it bearable. As the pain returned I wanted to weep in anticipation of the future. This is how torture works, I realised. People don’t break under the duress of the suffering but in fear of the many more painful days to come.
I could walk in the rain all day; that was fine. The problem was finding dry places to sleep, and keeping enough of myself free of damp so I could sleep comfortably. I could change into dry clothing, but putting on a damp waterproof, hat and gloves was unpleasant. Packing a wet tent away was awful: pulling out a wet tent to sleep in even worse. Finding a truly waterproof jacket was impossible. Rain soaked through where the straps of my rucksack rubbed at my shoulders, it leaked in at the neck, ran down and dripped onto my legs, and oozed down into my socks. I couldn’t find waterproof trousers that weren’t incredibly cumbersome and sweaty, so preferred to go without. I’d tried at least three pairs of gloves – Sealskinz, ski gloves, mountaineering mittens – tucking them into my raincoat at the wrists, tucking my raincoat into the gloves. It always ended up with rain gathering in a small pool at the crook of my bent elbows – I could pour water from my sleeves whenever I stopped to rest. I’m not sure if I had bad kit or if it’s impossible to find properly waterproof, durable, lightweight clothing that will withstand daily use. I had neither the time nor the money to experiment.
Back in Cardiff, I’d borrowed money from my mum to put towards better equipment. £400 to spend on a new sleeping bag, rucksack and waterproof. I really needed to put money into good-quality kit, not make do with the cheap and readily available alternatives that were actually making my journey harder. The new waterproof I chose from the sale-rail, breathable Gore-Tex and reduced to £90: simple. The other items were more complex to procure.
I searched online for the rucksack, finding one on a discount site that seemed OK. The big excitement was that it weighed 600g less than my current rucksack, mainly by minimising strap padding and the thickness of the material. I’d been galled to discover that while I’d been trying so hard to reduce the weight I was carrying by minimising its contents, the actual rucksack itself weighed a whopping 1.4kg, 10% of my total carry weight. It had to go. The new rucksack was one main pocket inside, instead of two separate ones. Less material to make up the rucksack, but it meant I’d have to remove everything to get at my sleeping bag every night. I took a gamble that this wouldn’t matter too much, even in the rain or unpleasant conditions, and ordered it. There were lighter ones available through special order companies, but they were twice as expensive. I’d found lightweight-gear companies through the walking blogs I followed, but I didn’t have the time or budget to order everything from them. An expensive sleeping-bag was vital, I had to compromise on the rucksack.
The sleeping-bag was a £300 lightweight bag, made to special order from an online company. The bag I had just wasn’t meeting the winter conditions, I could feel the cold cutting through it, a thin sharp blankness of cold, slicing away and stealing my carefully hoarded body-heat. I had to have better if I was going to keep myself safe and alive through winter camping; I couldn’t compromise. Four-season bags were available in UK outdoor shops but they weighed so much, up to 2kg. This one was good to -12°C and only weighed a tiny 600g. It was the right decision, but would take almost two weeks to arrive. I’d just have to sleep cold until then.
Coming along the coastal path towards Porthcawl, I found a river blocking my way at Ogmore. It ran wide across the beach, spreading out over the flat sand and carving a wide and shallow path through the washed grains. Fordable at low tide, the guidebook said, and here I was, just half an hour past time. It looked possible – the river washing out thin and shallow, a wide stretch of water ruffling up against the sea. Clear blue sky and small clouds scudded as I walked away from the higher grassy dunes, and out over the wide flat sands towards the water barrier. But close up the water was still deep and rushing, ripples in the surface showing the depth further into the centre. I tried but it wasn’t possible, getting as far as the thick current reaching up for my ankles and threatening to fill my boots with any further steps. I could have taken them off, waded through but somehow I didn’t like it. Didn’t want the tape on my feet to get wet; the adhesive was too delicate for the icy water. There was no sense of how deep the water went, or how strongly the current would pull me along. It was too cold. I’m not sure why I stopped and turned away but I didn’t try and ford all the way through.
There was a chubby man in a rugby shirt who was turning away from the same challenge and I caught up with him, interested in what he was doing, sensing another searcher, as Olivier had been.
“I wanted to walk from Llantwit Major to Porthcawl,” he said, embarrassed. “I don’t know why.”
I said that there was a way around the river crossing: we just had to make a detour a couple of miles upriver to some stepping stones, and perhaps he’d like to walk together We chatted and walked and he described a life that spoke to me of a cardboard house on an estate of the same, shopping trip on Sa
turdays, ASDA, Halfords, B&Q, men like rugby and women look after children. He was shy and awkward, nervous of seeming out of the ordinary, obviously used to living a life of conformity. Little did he know how strange the person he was talking to was, or that I didn’t care how he lived as long as he was fulfilled. Eventually he revealed that he was a Christian; God had told him to make the walk today. I got a sense that he was dissatisfied with his life, that he didn’t know where to go next. He saw a colleague and stutteringly explained that he was out for a walk. I suspected he felt judged for being seen with a woman who was not his wife.
Finally, in the last ten minutes of the detour, he tried to convert me to Christianity, telling me that I should try and see God in my life, that He was sending me messages.
“Maybe I’m a message to you from God”, he said.
I pulled away, telling him that his way home was through the sand dunes and onto the beach, where he’d find a straight walk to the town. Maybe I’m your message from God, I thought irritably. Didn’t I come along at just the right time and show you the way? And aren’t I melting away to anonymity, leaving you when you’re safely on the path towards home? There was a blinkered sense about him that irritated me: only one way to live life and anything unusual to be avoided, leaving him floundering in dissatisfaction when he wanted more but didn’t know how to search for it. I was happy to turn away and head into the forest, leaving him to find his way home through the sand dunes. The ruins of a castle dominated my view, a double-storey broken building, ivy and stones. I was still resisting sleeping in a tent wherever possible and this night was too exciting to resist. I could sleep in a castle!
One Woman Walks Wales Page 22