I reached the hostel. It was closed.
The doors locked, the building dark, just a single light on above the central door. Oh… No way. I rattled the doors, I knocked, I chucked gravel up at the lit window, I shouted out. Nothing.
I was going to have to sleep in the wet tent. I loved my borrowed tent, except for one problem. In the mornings, there was condensation inside and out, so when I took the tent down it all soaked together. All day strapped to my rucksack with no chance for it to dry meant I had to put up a damp tent to sleep in. I’d been camping like this for three days running and was fed up.
I laid down in the wet tent, feeling my legs sticking out below me like stiff boards, the muscles tensed and held tight. I pounded my thighs with my fists in an attempt at tough massage, running my palms up and down until I felt them release a little. It took a good hour for my feet to stop throbbing, in all the many ways which they do: the bones, the ankles, the tendons underneath. I rubbed them and stretched and rubbed them and stretched until finally they relaxed. I’d walked too far that day and, in the end, for nothing.
I got up the next morning feeling rubbish – grumpy about the hostel and with stabs of pain running from my feet into my ankles. Too much distance yesterday meant I needed to take it easy today. It was a precarious balance; if I pushed myself too hard I’d have to stop, I could feel that my feet wouldn’t take it. I walked until Myddfai where I found a visitor centre with lots of polite and interested people who donated loads of money. That made me feel better. They also mentioned a bunkhouse in Llandovery; I felt like I was owed a bed. I made it to The Level Crossing Bunkhouse and stopped. It was kind of a half day, even though I walked eight miles, but I needed it.
The hostel dormitory was empty apart from me; a quiet bar downstairs, just a single old man propping up the counter, grey and bearded. I talked to the landlady about what I was doing, and it turned out she’d had ovarian cancer. Fifteen years clear. It was good to meet someone who’d survived that long, given the low five-year survival rates. We had hugs and a selfie; it was a useful post to put online, remind people why I was doing this, prompt them to share the symptoms or donate. I had a steady stream of small donations into my tin day-to-day and a trickle of larger donations online, prompted by my regular social media updates. Every time a donation bigger than £30 came in it was a cause for celebration, thrilling that I’d inspired someone to give so much. I’d raised a few thousand pounds by now and was starting to believe the target of £10,000 was feasible.
I spent three beautiful days coming over the hills from Llandovery to Rhayader, the weather cold and bright, bringing the best of the colour out of the oranges and browns of dead bracken and fallen leaves, highlighting the whites and greens of sleeping foliage. This was the middle of the country, barren and bare of towns, with only scattered houses and thin ribbons of road laying a thin web of human presence over a land too huge to feel overcome by it.
In and out of safety I skirled, temperatures dropping down to near-freezing every night, mornings of frost-crusted grasses: hopping between nights out in the chilled wet leaves and shivering winds, and the hosted comfort of friendly hugs and hot meals.
The coldest night I spent outside was near the upper reaches of the Elan River. I said goodbye to my lovely friends Sam and Noel, walking a short way from Elan Village with them before Sam’s pregnant belly held them to a short stroll, and we had long hugs goodbye.
It was a beautiful day in the wilderness, walking around the many reservoirs of the Elan Valley complex, eventually climbing away from the thin slivers of water and walking along a long straight valley with very few farms along it. The wiry, coarse grass still showed the soil to be that of the boggy, unfertile uplands. There was just a thin strip of tarmac road and the occasional car, this road linking Rhayader and Cwmystwth, climbing and winding across the Cambrian high ground.
I found a tucked-away flat place to make camp, held in the curve of a rise of ground. There’s no relaxing when you camp in the winter, no sitting and staring before sleep. I couldn’t even sit down in the tent without the insulation of my sleeping-bag around me, needing it zipped up to my chin, hood over my hat and head, any exposed skin on chest or hands would soon become numbed with cold. Winter camping meant constantly monitoring my body temperature, because once that was gone I wouldn’t get it back without moving again. I was still in my three-season sleeping-bag, it was close to the margin of safety. I could feel the dullness of the surrounding cold, a blank-faced solidity that hits the senses like an open-handed slap. I was almost too cold to sleep, I hunched into a ball to shield my innards from molecular slowdown, pressing my little handwarmer heat bundle onto my lower back, which I’d found was the best place to spread heat around my body.
In the morning I reached up a tentative finger to find my breath frozen to the inside of the tent, scuffled the thermometer within eyesight and found a reading of -4°C. Pride and intimidation all at once, that I’d survived this night outside. To get up properly I had to brace myself for movement, poised to rip aside the covers and dress with speed and efficiency, not allow the unnecessary emanation of my carefully-hoarded body-heat. I’d only taken off the outside layers – my fleece waistcoat, my waterproof jacket and trousers – but they all had to be immediately put back on again to insulate me. Hat, gloves, neckwarmer. It had to be quick movement, no dreaming: jerkily dress, breathing hard in short blows and gasps, then immediately pack down the tent, frost crumbling away and dribbling down the fabric like windblown sand.
I couldn’t bring myself to walk straight away, and sat on the nearby metal road-barrier to come to, unwilling to be fully awake. The sun had risen but the surrounding hills were too high to allow more than a diffuse pink dawn light into the valley. A single bird flapped dark and searching across the stillness, and I watched the land sit in its cold until I realised I was slowly freezing to the metal, my bottom heating and melting the ice. I pulled my trousers away from the metal, small scratching sounds as ice crystals shattered, and walked away along the valley floor. Within half a mile the path turned away from the road and climbed a hill, still yellowed white in its night-flung frost blanket. I crossed a small river, the wooden bridge furred with ice-crystals and the water a blue-black jewel-seam between white banks. There was a low boulder a short way up the hill, glowing above the sunline, and I sat there to eat my breakfast, mixing water into muesli, taking sips of the freshness of the ice-cold liquid. The sun glowed from a misty blue sky, creating diamond flashing grasses, feathered in a thousand sparks.
It was hard to walk in such low temperatures. I kept dropping down into cold valley bottoms or plunging through forest. The movement kept me warm from the inside, but when I arrived at my host’s in Llangurig that night and ran a bath, the hot water tingled against my cold, cold skin; a sign my clothing wasn’t robust enough for full-time winter-walking.
I scaled Plynlimon in a day – much easier without my bag. Jenni, my Llangurig host, got her mother to take it all the way around the bottom of the mountain for me, 43 miles through Aberystwyth and up to Machynlleth. I’d take the direct route – a fifteen mile walk. I followed the rubble road past the Sweet Lamb rally complex, then cut away before it led into the Hafren forest for a steep pull up the grassy mountain to the frozen parts, where ice-crystals nestled in grassy hollows, clustered against the clawing wind. At the final fence white frost outlined every wire and surrounding grass blade; crystals electrified, standing outstretched to the grey air.
The rocky summit was a monotone blend, grey stone holding quiet within a coat of white. Each rock emanated cold, an infinity of freezing condensed inside it like the sad-eyed Groke. I’d climbed this journey’s first winter mountain and it felt fine. Coated in woolly and waterproof layers, covered against cold and wet, I could sit happy at the top and eat handfuls of peanuts, savouring them in the window of time before inactivity lowered my body-temperature. My cheeks felt iced by the wind but I was so happy to be here witnessing this beauty, swallowi
ng chill water from my blue metal bottle, my heart pumping good hot blood around my body.
It felt great, this slow mountain pull and an easy descent on the other side, down to the familiar friendliness of James and Vicky. I didn’t stop to rest as often and could feel the power inside me. Released from the weighted cage of my rucksack, my body felt like an endless machine, reliably pushing me upwards from the ground, carrying me forward for miles.
I was back in Machynlleth the next day, picking up my bag, and then walking a short way out of town where friends in their little cottage lay on my path. I could stay there overnight before heading north towards Cader Idris. First I’d head up and over a pine-planted line of hills and down into Abergynolwyn, an easy day before heading out to cross the shoulder of Cader Idris at the head of the Dysynni valley. It felt like it should be a simple day, but I discovered I’d gone off the edge of one map and didn’t have the next one. There was a small corner of my journey missing, the route untraceable, so I sat with my friends Ruth and Scott and pieced it together from their paper maps, taking photos of the route, listening to their directions of crossroads, lefts and rights and following tracks. It seemed simple, and I walked upwards with Ruth the next morning along the stone access-road into the forest, hearing her stories of growing up in this place, a dream holiday-cottage that she’d finally been able to come to live in. We crossed the stream that was her water supply, pushing through a rusted gate and into the forest itself, saying goodbye at the final tin-roofed cottage before waves of trees became all there were for miles ahead. The cottage doorway was a dark hole leading to a green-rimed dankness of ferns, moss and tumbled stone, remnants of farm life overtaken by compulsory purchases, dreams lying dormant awaiting potential purchasers to bring human settlement back again.
I followed the track upwards, winding in sinuous curves along the contour lines, sometimes tall waving trees alongside, sometimes the blasted aftermath of felled forest.
From Ruth’s directions I knew I’d come to a fence eventually, but this seemed too soon. The land fell steeply away in front of me, but there were more pines ahead at the base of the hill, a square of green field in the middle of them. I didn’t have a map to check my position, didn’t know where I was in relation to these serried ranks of silent trees. I knew I needed to cross a hill and decided to head downwards, thinking I’d probably come out on the other side of the Tarrens. I climbed over the fence and descended the steep field, carefully placing my feet so as not to slip. Every step down was a commitment to continue, considering the difficulty of scrambling back up the slope again. Stubbornness prevented me turning back, retracing my steps, covering ground I’d already walked. It was hard enough to walk this land once, I couldn’t face the hideous spectre of wasted effort.
At the base of the field there was no pathway and I plunged into the forest itself. It quickly became horribly difficult. The trees were clogged, growing feet apart, branches linking and mingling; there was no space between them, not even winding animal tracks, just thin twigs reaching and pine-needles falling like skin-flakes in a constant whispering rain against my clothing. All I could do was push and push against them, holding my arms against my face and using them to hold away the scratching claws that formed such a solid barrier.
I felt pinioned in all directions, a limp puppet in the grasp of blind branches. I could try and fall in any direction but I’d remain upright. I knew that if I hurt myself, if I placed my feet in a way that made me fall and break a leg, I could die there and no-one would find me until the trees were harvested, thirty years in the future. It had happened near here before. It was impossible to see me; no-one knew I was there, I’d taken a wrong turning, wasn’t even on an expected path. No other human would come here until the trees were cleared, one by one – a great machine grabbing and chopping at them until my skeleton was released, bones dangling and swaying like Christmas ornaments, ragged clothing hanging in streamers.
I came to a place where the trees cleared, but found that it was because there was a series of steep boulder-drops; no earth to root trees, but gorse grew there, spiky, unfriendly gorse. I was forced to keep descending, picking through prickles, awkwardly lowering myself off the rocks to unknown footholds beneath, trying to keep a solid footing on writhing roots. I fell awkwardly, wrenching one leg to the side as I tried to keep my balance. It was an irritating, arduous slog and there was nothing I could do but keep descending. I’d committed myself to this stupid route the moment I’d crossed the fence and started down the steep, steep field.
Eventually, hours later, I emerged on the track and stopped to take a photo of myself: a sulky-faced woman in a needle-pinned bobble hat, green streaks of smeared lichen dirtying her yellow jacket. There were pine-needles everywhere; I pulled handfuls out from the back of my neck, my hood, hat and pockets, even found them in my bra that night. I’d been thoroughly investigated by the forest – pinioned, probed and discarded. There was no way I’d make that mistake again.
I looked around: a stone track going left and right and rolling hills of lined pine in every direction. I genuinely had no idea where I was and no map to work it out. I chose a direction – right – hoping it would eventually lead me out to somewhere I could identify. I was only five miles from my home town, surely I had to recognise the shape of the land eventually. I came down around the hills through a fox-hunt, dogs lolling and lolloping around the road as men in well-worn clothing, beanie hats and fleeces made the barest glimpse of eye contact, busy in their own world and used to being judged by those that don’t know them. I eventually got a lift with one outrider who welcomed me into his jeep, long radio antenna waving gently above it. Seven foxes that day, he told me, all in the Pennal area. Pennal, that was where we were coming out. I knew it so well, could point out the houses where my old ladies had lived; I’d come here regularly as a care worker. I stood by the side of the road and a friend pulled over within minutes, giving me a lift back to the cottage I’d waved goodbye to that morning, Ruth and Scott bemused but happy to host me again.
I took a rest day, tired and irritated. I was waiting for my fantastic new sleeping-bag to arrive anyway, and would have to return to Machynlleth to collect it so I gave up again, in a small way, and waited there for it to arrive. The next day I tried again, waving Ruth off for the second time in the forest, resolving to be more careful. I came to the end of the track and continued upwards into the trees, but where I came to the dead end I looked around and saw a thin gap in the trees I should have turned towards, only a short fumble through branches before it widened out into a path: narrow dark peat lining a small stream, moss muffling the ground between the trees. The path was trodden away to dark peat where I walked, following a thin stream out towards another fence with endless misty ground beyond and there I was, on the right track to cross upwards and over, down into Abergynolwyn.
There’d been a confusion over phone numbers. Having no mobile signal, I squeezed into a phone box and spoke to a mystery voice, waiting in the dark and drizzle for the next strange person and their bed, not feeling in the mood for interaction. An awkward meeting in the dark, speaking to a silhouette, took me to a small house with an open coal fire where I could huddle close on the hearthstone, stuff my sodden boots with paper and sit quietly steaming while daughter Matilda jumped over my legs and mother Sarah made tea. It was comforting and homely. These were deeply ordinary people, with a hidden thread of quirk running through them, and the atmosphere was relaxing and happy.
Sometimes I felt I was in an endless chain of favours: tea in cafés, people buying me meals, getting ferried to a house following a Facebook message, clothes washed, bath run, food cooked. I couldn’t even wash up in return, shrill rebuttals meeting any offer of help. Accepting it felt like a crushing responsibility. Guilt, I suppose. I felt overwhelmed by all the giving, unworthy. Each gift of help meant so much to me, it was a hand reached out to pull me along through a hard and unforgiving journey. Each time I received help it was a piece of tenderness
that enabled me to relax from constant alert, always aware of my money dripping away or my personal safety.
I wanted to hug, to cry, to give heartfelt thank-yous but realised this made people uncomfortable. For me it was an important experience, for them mundane. I learned to accept their gifts quietly and gracefully, eventually gauging that this was ordinary generosity. I was just a houseguest for a single night, one of many in the course of years.
I realised that for many women, the drivers of my invitations and hospitality, I was just another person to be looked after.
“Do you want a packed lunch?” they’d ask, as I sat humbly eating their breakfast.
“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”
I didn’t want to make a fuss, be a burden. But whizz, slap, slap and it was done: sandwiches in a bag with crisps and cake, and suddenly I was aware of their years of child-rearing, whether their children were tumbling and squawking around the house or long past university. I understood that I was just a small part of their years of care and tenderness, and that it was OK to accept this from them. I was mothered in small and large ways by hundreds of women in Wales, in awe of what I was doing, inspired to help in any way they could. I was doing something that intimidated them, sleeping outside, spending days alone. I was responding to my ovarian cancer, suffering for it, in a way that impressed other people. Some saw me as a woman alone in the world, challenged and in danger. Whatever their reasons, whether it was cancer or adventure or feminist-inspired, they helped me and it took me a while to realise that this was normal.
One Woman Walks Wales Page 24