One Woman Walks Wales

by Ursula Martin

  The end of the mountains had come in a swerving avoidance, the late December weather forcing detours and anxiety. I didn’t feel I’d failed, I’d done all I could given my abilities and the conditions, but the fact remained that, on this path, I’d gone around the base of Snowdon and not over it.

  ANGLESEY AND THE LLEYN PENINSULA

  Route description: Part of the Wales Coastal Path which provides a continuous walking route around the whole coast of Wales. Although the route is obliged to turn inland on occasion, the sea is rarely out of sight. Most of the Anglesey coast is an Area of Natural Beauty and the two sections contain small fishing villages, estuaries and miles of sandy beaches.

  Length: 221.2 miles

  Total ascent: 6,330m

  Maximum height: 411m

  Dates:  31 December 2014 – 30 January 2015

  Time taken: 31 days

  Nights camping/nights hosted: 4/27

  Days off: 5

  Average miles per day: 8.5

  I reached Conwy with a buzzy, Christmas-morning feeling. The end of the mountains! I’d done it, I’d bloody well walked from Conwy to Cardiff and all the way back up again, climbing most of the highest peaks of Wales on the way. I’d passed half-way, I’d passed the arduous and difficult mountain section: now all I had to do was turn left and walk around the coastal path from Conwy to Bristol, detouring inland to walk the length of six rivers. Roughly another 1300 miles; it didn’t feel like much.

  The next day came another celebration: 2000 miles walked! I set myself the challenge of finding party supplies in one of the three small villages along the coast between Dwygyfylchi and Bangor, eventually feeling phenomenally happy to find a fancy-dress shop in Llanfairfechan. I armed myself with a glittery top-hat and party supplies and walked further along the path to take ten minutes to sit down on the coastline, the field edge breaking away to shingle. I sat on a sunken piece of ground where the trailing fence-edge poked out into air behind me and wreathed myself in streamers, drawing a sign with multiple exclamation marks and taking a silly selfie to mark the moment. The top hat squashed into the top of my rucksack and left stray specks of glitter hiding away for weeks.

  This was it: I was doing it, no matter how hard it was, I was still doing this. I’d propelled my way, in infinitesimally small pieces, to a journey of 2000 miles and I was still going. I wasn’t going to stop, nothing could force me to quit this. A bubble of excitement rose within me, I was going to achieve the end of this journey, no matter how long it took me.

  I’d reached this milestone just in time for Christmas. I took a break, going to stay with my brother in Derby, taking some time with family, putting my feet up. I didn’t do much, just took a week to drink booze, play cards and cook meat-based meals. I felt a warm glow of happiness looking back over the past year: all I’d achieved and all the ways I’d been helped to do this. The scattered stars of my Google map showed me all the places where people had offered beds, all the places people had stepped forward to help me, a complete stranger, who’d chosen to walk thousands of miles and share it on the internet. Just because I’d had cancer. Just because I was raising money for charity.

  I’d had help wherever I went, from hundreds of generous people, whether it was chucking a coin in the donation tin, giving me a cup of tea at the right moment or beeping their horns as they passed me on the road. I’d discovered community where I hadn’t expected to. People had used social media, the greatly lamented disconnector, to follow my journey, sending messages of support, aiding the spread of my symptoms-awareness work, giving donations. I felt a huge network of people around me, even as we all sat behind our smartphones bemoaning the state of modern Britain.

  The beginning of Anglesey felt hopeful. My accompaniment changed from the blowing of grass in the wind to the crash of waves. Coming back from Christmas fattened and well-rested, I set out across the bridge to a largely flat island. The high peaks of Snowdonia were rumpled land, crinkled up behind me against the Strait. It was a relief from mountain walking, steep hill climbs and shrieking calf muscles. Snow had fallen thickly throughout the Christmas break, and the mountains across the water were white, shining fierce in the sharp blue sky. Even the foothills were covered now, lapping mounds all the way towards the higher peaks, inaccessible to the casual walker. I would have a break from the worst of the January weather here: walking by the sea would keep the temperatures higher than further inland, frost wouldn’t coat the ground at night, and I could camp more easily, not having to stay alert and in survival mode.

  I arrived at the eastern headland of Penmon as the day ended, the narrow lane widening to a flat, open headland with a lighthouse on an island close offshore. The wind blew hard against this exposed ground and I hunted around for a sheltered place to camp, avoiding the gaze of the blank-windowed campervans which were scattered around the parking area. Around the back of a closed café, shuttered against the winter, I found a small garden with an enclosed space, walled in on three sides. There was just enough room for my small tent and I sat happily in the dark, toasting myself with swigs of brandy and Coke, savouring two whole packets of crisps. It was New Year’s Eve and I felt totally happy to be in this unusual place, celebrating alone. I felt tucked away, safe from the storm, even though gusts of wind were still bending the tent walls to press down against my face. It was annoying and intrusive to my sleep, but was nothing compared to the power of the air battering the headland.

  I woke up dreamily at midnight to hear the faint bangs and booms of fireworks in Beaumaris, the sound travelling clearly across the water from further along the Strait, but otherwise I had a thick, black, deep sleep of a night. Happy New Year!

  The following day was grey and bleary and I packed up as the rain started, turning quickly from drizzle to steady droplets. I knew that it would last all day and that storms were coming later. High winds and heavy rain were forecast to last all night. After a couple of hours’ walking I became lost, losing the coastal path somewhere behind a farm and resorting to the road down to a stony beach, seaweed-lined neatly, marking the highest wash of water.

  The rain was clear and steady, sheeting across the sea and hiding the other side of the bay. My route took me along a lane, the rain splashing directly into my face. It had been a few hours of walking and I was ready for a break. But where? There was nowhere that wasn’t wet.

  I saw a barn, climbed clumsily over the field gate, soaking wet and laden, but then couldn’t work out a way to get into the building. The gates seemed impassable, tied together with numerous small intricate knots that I had no hope of retying. I paused in the shelter of the corrugated-tin wall, unwilling to go back out into the storm, so I turned again to the puzzle blocking my entry. There it was, I was too rain-shocked to see it at first; two gates alongside each other could be shifted apart for me to squeeze in between them and enter the space – no undoing knots, no fussing. I stood absorbing the quiet space, just me and a pile of old pallets, straw and shit trodden thick on the floor. I put my waterproofs straight on for warmth, then sat for a while watching the rain sheet down outside, flickers of wind shimmering the water like silver fish scales.

  It was peaceful there. I looked around at the barn floor. It was a pretty ancient, leaky place, no real dry patches on the floor, and the pallets I perched on were green and dank with the beginnings of moss and overgrowth. I was tired and wet and didn’t want to leave, but there was no point in trying to sleep here. Plus it was only 1pm, I had to walk on.

  I found my way to the shore again and set to walk around the edge of the bay. There was no sand, just a flat stretch of slippery rocks, decorated with hanks of green moss that grew in the splash of the highest tides, reaching against the walls of the fishermen’s cottages whose windows and doors faced away from the sea. I slipped and picked my way around the great curve of water, heading for the pub I knew was around the corner. I thought of sheltering there for a few hours, of tucking in and finding a camping spot somewhere nearby, wait
ing for twilight in the heated pub before escaping to the tent at the last possible point before bedtime.

  Finally I was there, walking in to be met with a wall of noise and bodies. It was New Year’s Day – I’d forgotten in the overwhelming struggle against the weather – and everyone was here to socialise, families and children and dogs happily crowded together.

  I became intimidated by the people cramming every seat and table. There was no space for a huge soaking rucksack to squeeze through. Instead I found a tiny round table near the bar and made myself as small as possible, hidden behind the rows of people queuing at the bar, their bums backing onto me at head height. I spread some of my wet things onto the gentle radiator heat and set about making myself dry, first removing fresh clothes from my bag and then going up to change in the toilets, feeling very bedraggled and out of place in the glossiness and good cheer.

  Soaked to the skin I stripped down in the toilets, and smoothed a fresh outfit onto my damp body. It took ages and people banged on the door while I was still about it.

  I sat, stringing out a cup of tea, watching the wind blow outside, scudding plastic bags past the window and blowing people in through the doorway, laughing and jolly. I watched them all: happy families crammed round dark varnished tables, drinking and chattering, easy and relaxed, dogs in their under-table world, sniffing out scattered crisp crumbs, noses resting quietly on paws, searching for stealthy strokes, nudging against trouser legs. It was warm and cosy in the pub, I could relax in the invisible space where no-one else was. They looked past the solitary figure, didn’t notice me. Normally it would have been heaven, but I was worried about where I was going to sleep. The pub garden was too exposed, a small triangle of sloped grass with sheer rocky walls; the wind would hit me hard if I slept there, rip the tent down. I went for a stroll to scope out where I could camp, the strong gusts making it hard to walk out there. Finally I found a doorway tucked around behind the yacht club, a curl of blown leaves in the corner of the concrete porch. Out of the wind was the only option: I couldn’t put the tent up tonight, it would get blown apart. I walked back to the pub and started packing up, relieved to have found somewhere, even if it was a cold doorway.

  Just as I was about to leave the manager, Sharman, came over, slipped a fiver into my tin and asked about the sign on my rucksack. She asked if I wanted to stay with her, once she’d finished work. I could stay at the table, small and strange and humble, eating crisps and reading a book as the pub whirled around me. She didn’t tell everyone what I was doing, just quietly beckoned to me at the end of her shift an hour later, her quiet husband having bought me a second pint and packet of lovely salty crisps. I could go and explode my rucksack into her spare bedroom, covering cream linen frills and wooden hearts on the wall with hanging clothing, tarpaulin, tent. I went down to smoke cigarettes, drink tea and eat chocolate in the kitchen with Sharman. She was exhausted after her shift and we were all grateful for an early bed before heading back to the pub the following morning.

  Steph called me at 7.30am.

  “Can I come and walk with you today?”

  “Sure, Ship Inn at tenish?”

  “Great, do you need anything?”

  Steph lives in Shrewsbury and when I passed through there on the River Severn, all the way back in March, she came out and walked with me for a few hours, carrying her 9-month-old daughter on her back. This time she brought the rest of her family, too, 5-year-old Ben and husband Pete. They’d come to Caernarfon for a New Year break and to walk with me again. We all walked for a lovely few hours tramping up and down the headlands of Moelfre, trailing in single file over rises and falls, with thick hedges protecting us from the worst of the cliff-edge drops, catching up on all that had passed for us both. It felt like minutes had passed when we arrived at their car. They took my rucksack ahead for the day’s remaining miles, and promised to come out and meet me again in the spring.

  People just kept coming forward and offering me things; the bus driver taking me from a host in Pentraeth back to my starting place at the Pilot Boat paid for my ticket and gave me £20, with the strict stipulation that £10 was for me and £10 for charity.

  “People matter,” he said. “You’re doing a great thing and you need to take care of yourself.”

  I stood with him and talked about cancer, the devastating destruction of those we love, swaying in the aisle as the bus rattled around winding corners.

  Steph had told me about her cousin Nikki who lived at the northernmost point of Wales, Llanlliana. There was a gigantic house which was run as a luxury holiday home and an island just off-shore: Middle Mouse, the truly northernmost point of Wales. I wanted to kayak over to the island to spend the night there, but in the end found myself in a caravan for the night with a headache and a sore throat. I only wanted to escape from friendly Nikki, feeling awkward and headachy in her kitchen with people coming in and out, curious children. She gave me a selection box of chocolate biscuits, Christmas leftovers, as well as a box of Lemsip. I retreated to the caravan and felt sorry for myself, feverish and bunged up. No kayaking for me. She looked shocked when I suggested it; apparently the tides were too strong to make an attempt like that and I felt too ill to push it.

  My illness continued through the next day. I slept late in the caravan, dozing under the covers, pulling them over my head, willing the day away. It was blowy again, rain coming in a steady drizzle. I had to walk again but wished I could stay in bed. I took the afternoon to go around the western point of Anglesey, wind blowing on the exposed fields. The path took me on cliff edges, the land sloping down to the crashing white waves on rocks below. There was no hiding, the wind just came straight and block-solid over the grey water. I kept my head down, squinting ahead of me in short glimpses, eyes watering, face wet and reddened. This was a strange land, the wind blew my peace away, and I couldn’t look around calmly, everything felt jarred and jumbled. Under attack, the wind pushed at me, every step forward against pressure. There was no time to appreciate the landscape, the beauty of the gentle fields, fuzzy planted grasses. There were strange chimneys in the distance and the path took me towards them: single pillars of stone, standing straight, spaced away from each other, an enigma of architecture, grassed field bases, edge of the land. What were they? Long defunct industry? The druids’ last stand? A hare burst from under my feet and ran wildly away over the long, cropped field, no shelter in sight. I hadn’t seen it until I was almost stepping on it, crouched against my looming predation. I felt blind, hunched, the rain shutting down my senses.

  The wind was high and there was no shelter, the path winding in small humps and wriggles, a thin strip of trodden earth with exposed rocks to stumble over, gorse bushes to one side and the cliff edge on the other, falling away in sunken earthen wedges. I came at last to a forest, trees abutting the cliff path, allowing me to turn away from the wind, dropping down into the sanctuary of quiet pines. There was a pheasant enclosure not far in: a square of enclosed space, needle-carpeted, small openings at ground level for the birds to squeeze in and out with a track coming to it that wound away through the trees. I wondered if I would be disturbed by anyone coming to check the birds, but the flat area just outside the fence was too tempting. It was just the right width to pitch a tent and rest, listening to the weather. I was safe here, down behind the cliff edge, like a shell in the ocean as the waves rolled above it, the tent rocking gently, as the wind rushed in the pine branches overhead, washing them like tidal waters washed the beach below. Pine-needles pattered softly on my tent, depositing like grains of sand on the sea bottom, small leavings of the greater forces above me.

  The next day I reached Llanfachraeth where I met a cameraman for an interview. ITV Wales were going to put me on their evening news, my first piece of television coverage. It was a good sign that I was being recognised as making a newsworthy journey; more coverage meant more people thinking about ovarian cancer. Seeing myself on TV was a horrible shock, though. All I saw when I looked at that night’s
news, of the images of me walking thousands of miles for charity, was the way my stomach folded over the tightly-clipped belt of my rucksack. I was snapped back to the unpleasant knowledge of how my body appeared on the outside: fat, foolish, ugly.

  I didn’t feel that way when I was walking, I felt strong and wonderful, my body capable and able, and my spirit felt beautiful, bright and shining. Surely my skin would show all the happiness and love I felt. But in the mirror it never did; I only ever saw my pudgy, saggy body, squinty eyes and crooked goofy smile. I loved my body when I wasn’t looking at it, when I wasn’t forced by the jarring image in front of me to accept that I wasn’t all that attractive.

  This dichotomy, this inner lack of self-worth, was something I wanted to make a public part of the journey but I never found the right way to write it down, slip it amongst the blog posts of mountain – climbing and camping, photos of sunset and sheep. It was far too big an idea for me to articulate, that my unpleasant relationship with my body was a huge and hidden part of this journey and maybe this negative attitude had contributed to my cancer.

  Know your body and love yourself.

  I was doing my best to raise ovarian cancer symptoms awareness in women and I wanted to say this too, as a way to encapsulate my thoughts on how to recognise cancer sooner.

  I wanted to write a blog post that would talk about the way in which my experiences had shown me that I didn’t respect my body enough to take care of it, and that might explain something about the way that my tumour had grown without me realising. I’d ignored my body’s signals, the faint calling of cancer, telling me something was wrong as it swelled in my body, as it pushed my internal organs aside, as it swallowed my energy, siphoning the sugar from my bloodstream to fund its greedy growth. Part of the way this had come to pass was that for years I only paid attention to how my body looked, how it was of value to others – not how it felt inside. I’d always thought of my body in terms of fat and thin, its value as a purveyor of my sexuality to onlookers, as a scorecard held up to signpost my fuckability, beautiful or ugly, good or bad, pass or fail. I’d seen my body in such reduced terms, judging it myself before it passed the scornful gaze of others, pulling at my rolls of fat, wishing I was different, always finding my excess wanting. Had my cancer grown as I viewed the swelling of my body relative only to the amount I’d eaten?