One Woman Walks Wales

by Ursula Martin

  Back in Tregaron, as I descended the River Teifi I’d met Paul for a pint. He’d emailed me during his preparation for a walk around the coast and the Offa’s Dyke Path, a 1000-mile circle around the edge of the country. I’d given him advice about blisters and rucksacks and blagging hotel rooms. Later on, in Pembrokeshire, I met Gareth – big smile and a baseball cap – coming towards me on the way to St David’s, two weeks into his own circle around the Welsh outline. They were both cheerful and gregarious and I loved being part of their supportive club. Like long-distance travellers Hannah and Rebecca and Alex, these were people who understood how to battle against the aches and pain, how to draw strength from stubbornness of will and keep yourself going when motivation becomes low. They knew how incredible and wonderful and transcendent this was, how it would leave you sore and thankful, completely exhausted but in no way ready to quit. We cheered each other on via Facebook and Twitter, tracking each other’s progress.

  John and Jo took up the strain as I walked around St David’s Peninsula and the northern part of St Bride’s Bay, having me to stay for another few nights. It made it so easy; they cooked me huge delicious dinners and John walked with me whenever he could, pacing me really well with his long legs and 4mph stride. I loved playing with their bright and funny boy, Jacob. It was a relaxed and friendly house and I felt like I was at home, as I had done in so many places. The magic of a welcoming and happy family made me feel cared for and loved, despite spending so much time alone.

  The weather oscillated between heavy rain and bright burning sun but it didn’t matter, I was always en route to a house at the end of the day. Whether I was sweaty or rain-sodden I was always walking to a place where I could clean my clothes and my body, start again the next day with fresh hair, dry fabric against my skin. It was such a relief. My mileage went up and up: twenty-one miles, sixteen miles, twenty-three miles…

  Walking twenty-plus miles in a day is, for me, a matter of keeping up a steady rhythm, watching my rest-breaks, timing myself on my hourly mileage, keeping it going, walking all day, rarely stopping. My legs powered forward, my thighs taking the force when each booted step struck the ground, my calves springing me forward for the next plunge to earth.

  I push, I push, I push, in the groove that other walkers have made before me, grasses brushing my ankles, nipping the bud-growths from fresh green brambles that attempt to hang across my way. Most of the time there was a cliff falling away to my right side, a sheer drop down to jagged rocks submitting to the wash of the turquoise water. The sun beat down; I walked on, sweating, pushed forward, didn’t stop.

  I’d pick a spot on the map – Broadhaven, Dale, Freshwater East, Amroth – and set myself the task of reaching it before the day’s end, before sundown, before my friendly host came to pick me up. It meant walking fast for hours, twisting my hips from side to side to bend around the slower walkers, those without urgency, no mission driving them on, slipping through curves in the path, bending forward to ascend slopes without slowing my pace, pushing up on strong muscles to climb the steps out of yet another idyllic small harbour.

  Passing beaches I looked down at small coves with solitary trails of footsteps, inviting hours to be spent exploring, meandering over smooth sands, staring into rockpools, teasing fingers over the pull of tiny tentacles. I saw all that, the leisurely hours I could have spent, and I walked on – no time for detours.

  I walked past small cafés, wind-shelters, sandcastles, dogs racing for tennis balls, crowded caravan-parks. Past headlands, islands, jetties, speedboats and tinkling boatyards, jovial boat owners, pensioners clipping flowers in quiet suburbs, lawn-strimming, bringing shopping in.

  On beaches there were always children: crying children, sunburnt children, children running scampering into the sea. Once, an entire family wearing jeans and hoodies waded into the water while a rounded mother, arms crossed, waited at the water’s edge. One wrinkled woman in a headscarf sat at the beach edge and watched her grandchildren finding special rocks to show her. Flecked rocks, marbled rocks, heart-shaped ones, drift wood, beach glass.

  I passed in the background of every tableau: a fat woman, in black, walking quickly on my own quiet mission.

  It became hard to keep updating my blog. There was never enough time to sit and write, especially when I was spending every evening with hosts. Days passed and I walked, rested, met new people and somehow, when I came to look back on it the minutiae had slipped away. Did it matter where I sat to rub my feet? Or the ten minutes I spent watching seagulls curve upwards on clifftop wind currents, swooping and jockeying for territory? Or the packet of sandwiches wrapped in paper and secured with a rubber band that I opened under the table in a café, only drinking tea because it was too wet to sit outside for free? All these small details of every day, wet grass shedding water into my boots, a line of sheep standing patiently with their backs to the wind, the heavy ache of my tired thighs as I pulled up onto another stile, a line of wooden-edged steps stretching up into the side of yet another hill; all felt wonderful, beautiful, extraordinary, indistinguishable, mundane, normal.

  Had I been doing this too long? Was I no longer able to document it? I ate my breakfast in a field, finding a suitable flat rock to sit on, swilling out the bowl from my water bottle, drying it on my knee, repacking it in my rucksack, as I’d done hundreds of times over. The excitement of the new had subsided into comfortable repetition.

  I suppose it was another stage, another state to experience. I was a walking-machine making its way towards the predetermined destination, satisfied with its simple, mechanical life.

  I left Lorna and Gez in Laugharne, saying goodbye to their cute children, all eager eyes and scattered toys, and headed out towards Carmarthen. I was going to wild camp that night; for the first time in ages I had no host arranged. Lorna offered to take my bag ahead to a pub in Llangain and I eagerly agreed, welcoming any chance to walk without the usual 14kg on my back. Steady trudge all day in the hot sunshine, up and over Lord’s Park, with a view across the tidal estuary back to Laugharne and ahead to Gower. I reached the pub at 5pm, not too tired after fifteen miles but ready to search for a place to sleep.

  The barman hauled my bag out from behind the bar and said, “There was a man in at lunchtime, said you could stay at his campsite.”

  I looked and there in a side-pocket was a piece of paper sticking out of my donation-tin. It was an invitation and a map.

  “You gonna go there or what,” said the barman.

  “Yeah, I’ll go there,” I said, “that’ll do,” not thinking how strange it might seem for me to be so relaxed about potential sleeping places.

  I followed the map through the village back-roads and found Ian and Angela at the end of it, running a campsite and offering free nights to anyone walking for charity. Ian talked a lot, I’ll be honest, but they showed me where to pitch up on the lovely flat, short grass, invited me in for dinner and even opened a couple of bottles of Prosecco in my honour. A lovely, lovely couple, just doing their thing and doing it very well in a quiet village in Carmarthenshire.

  Next morning, up to say goodbye, I left them a card and walked off. I was definitely going to wild camp that night, somewhere near Ferryside. First, up to Carmarthen where I sat mindlessly in a café for a couple of hours (a necessary part of my journey) and received a message. It was from Helen, the person who’d offered me a place to stay in Llanelli. “I’ve got friends in Kidwelly who can have you to stay, they’ll come and pick you up from Ferryside. Peter and Frances: here’s their phone numbers.”

  Peter was very efficient, texting me the car details and an identifying photograph. I just had to get to Ferryside by six. It was a bit of a struggle and I made it by seven instead: getting lost in a derelict farm, no signposts to show me the way out. Eventually Ferryside came into view and there she was as described – Frances, come to pick me up.

  “So how do you know Helen?” Frances asked. I had to admit that I didn’t, not at all. She was just a name on a
Facebook message and an offer of help. I was a stranger to her and therefore to Frances, just putting my trust in what was coming forward.

  Frances and Peter were very nice but I was tired, so tired. I’d been walking for two weeks straight and needed a day off. I planned to have one on the Gower, just find a place to put my tent and lie quietly for a day, letting my feet rest. They were starting to throb painfully again, as they had for most of the last year, the plantar tendons strained beyond stretching. Their only resort to cope with the pressure I put on them was to rip away at the heel-bone, small sharp pains making me feel as if tiny tears took place each time they flashed through my heels. I needed to stop, rest, give them a chance to heal.

  The next day I had to walk to Llanelli: nineteen miles. I plugged away, through fields and hillsides at first, over to Kidwelly but then came a tough stretch. The path took me for three miles alongside Pembrey airfield, heading towards a section of forestry, then a two-mile beach walk before I could turn inland and find a cycle path. The gritty forest road seemed to last for hours; every time I came to a corner I’d think, this is it, now I’ll see the beach ahead, but no, there was another section of road, stretching away into the distance. Finally I came to the beach but that was even worse: a long straight piece of sand, kite buggies rattling along it but not another person to be seen.

  I was looking for a café which marked the place to turn inland. Far away in the distance were some dark posts sticking out of the sand. I walked, finding places where my feet didn’t sink in and sap valuable energy. The dark objects came closer; they were the skeleton of a huge fishing boat, left there to rot. Far, far away in the distance there was a line of rocks, built to break the force of the waves. I trudged towards it. When I reached the rocks, far, far away in the distance there was a van parked on the sands, small stick people milling around it, flying kites. I trudged on. When I reached the van, far, far away in the distance there were some flags, the RNLI stand. That was where the café was. I trudged towards it, raising a grudging hand when the kite buggies waved at me.

  Reaching the café I collapsed on a bench. Boots off, lie back, cup of tea, check the internet. Oh, damn, rain on Sunday, the day I was hoping to camp on Gower. That would mean a truly unpleasant day off, trying to relax in a wet tent. Perhaps I could ask Helen if I could have a day off in her house, although I don’t like to ask for more than people are willing to give. She was going away for a night, though, and it would be really nice. Argh, I’d have to at least ask.

  But first, more walking. I found the beginning of the cycle-path and trudged on, resorting to music to help me move my feet. I wasn’t going to make it to Llanelli – my feet were too painful for that – but I could at least get to Pwll, a respectable seventeen miles.

  Helen and her friend Penny came out to pick me up. I was tired as usual, not able to make much by the way of conversation. Helen regaled me with travelling tales and I felt a funny, relaxed spirit within her.

  “Could I stay here tomorrow night, while you go off to St David’s?”

  “Of course! Make the house your own! Here’s a key, I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”

  Helen’s home came with a hammock, in which I spent most of the forty blissful hours I spent there. I didn’t see anything of Llanelli but a nearby supermarket and the white, clouded sky through the windows as I lay prone, rocking gently back and forth, reading Helen’s books. I stretched every piece of my body, washed my clothes, and had a good session with the tennis ball (my favourite bit of kit – you roll around on it to give something like deep tissue massage) and most of all I snoozed, naps between every bit of activity.

  I was restored: not fully, but enough to keep injury at bay and allow me to walk a little further.

  The next day came easily after my day off, posting the key back through Helen’s letterbox with a note of deep-felt thanks, and setting out to walk around the Llwchwr estuary. There was water falling from the sky as I walked away, soft wet thick water that came steadily. That night I really would wild-camp again, out in the wilderness of North Gower salt marshes. I got soaked through in the heavy rain, but the storm passed over by the time I came the final few miles onto the peninsula, sun breaking through as I came past Penclawdd. I made camp on the side of the road where trees grew, guessing that this was where the tidal water didn’t come. I’d picked samphire as it grew neon green in the muted mud and grass of the village edges and pressed it into my cheese sandwiches, enjoying the crunch and tang of the sea. Ponies grazed far out on the flat green, the setting sun haloing them in yellow outlines that flared bright against the black clouds massing over Llanelli, far on the other side of the estuary.

  After a slug tried to slurp its way across my sleeping face at about 5.30am, I was wary of further investigations and slept no longer. I bent my way out of the wet tent and scared a bunch of wild ponies that had wandered to the edge of the marshland nearby, then sat quietly on a bench until one brave pony, with luxurious blonde punky hair, came close enough to smell my hand. His dreadlocked mate hovered in the background.

  The edge of the sea had crept to the other side of the tarmac overnight. It trickled and seeped, lapping, gently rising, overflowing earth and running down to fill dips, pouring into small gorges, creating islands. A maze of blue pathways now lay where yesterday was undulating green.

  Within an hour, as I followed the road leading along the edge of the marsh, the water had receded, leaving wet mud and gurgling grass once again. I wanted to walk eighteen miles that day, if I could. There was a pub at Worm’s Head where I could charge my phone and get some food. I wasn’t carrying many rations and would resupply when I reached the supermarkets of Swansea. So I walked – road at first. Breakfast on a roadside boulder at seven, a man with a lovely fluffy collie stopped and offered me a bag of freshly dug potatoes. “No thanks, kind stranger, I don’t carry a stove.” The path turned to fields and then sandy forest edge before dunes lead out to a wild windy point. This was the closest I’d be to the Carmarthenshire coast, before I turned and changed direction, heading around the point of Gower Point to walk east. I waved goodbye to Laugharne and Llanelli, the last time I’d see them on this journey.

  Eventually I reached the nests of mobile homes, caravan parks and Burry Holm, the island at one end of Rhossili beach. Ahead of me was an age of never-ending beach, three miles, and I must plod the ghastly length of it in order to reach the pub. Tiny dots in the distance marked where people ran their dogs, close to the ascent to Rhossili village. It felt like hours, the background cliffs never seeming to get closer, the sand too wet and clinging to stop for a proper rest. Eventually I made it, feet throbbing, but in plenty of time to put them up, read a book, eat some food, drink two pints of good ale and charge my phone. I headed out to sleep behind a wall with a view of the Worm’s Head island, white waves splashing up the full forty-six metre height of it.

  I started to push at this point, aching to get to Cardiff where I would turn inland again, walk my final pair of rivers and then to Bristol where I’d walk up the River Wye and finish. Finish the walk: only another 400 or 500 miles and I’d be done, this would be over. I could start pushing for eighteen or nineteen miles a day, focused on the end-point, only thinking about getting myself to the finish. My feet were hanging in there, just about.

  My mum came to walk along the Mumbles with me. She lived there for eight years and it’s where I was born.

  My parents left Swansea too soon after my birth for me to have my own memories of it, but I feel a connection all the same. Swansea, my birthplace. Clydach, the home of my grandfather’s family. This is my Welsh blood, this is my Welsh birth, but still I hesitate to call myself Welsh. I grew up in England; so did my Welsh grandfather and my half-Welsh mother and my English father. My culture is English and, although the differences between Wales and England are small when viewed on a world scale, they do exist. To be Welsh is to be local. To be intensely connected to one place, to know its history in great detail. I’ve walked the
land of Wales because I love it and in loving it I’ve come to know it well but it’s a different sense of nationality. Wales is my adopted country as well as the place of my birth; I’m from here but not of here.

  I met people upon people over the following week, spent nights in B&Bs with my mum. She’d come and walk with me for the odd half-day and then go to visit friends, or spend some time reminiscing in Swansea while I walked the 100 miles to Cardiff.

  Almost in Cardiff, I took an accidental shortcut from Cadoxton, walking straight ahead at a roundabout instead of turning right. It cut out a whole four miles of the coastal path, leaving me joining Penarth at the pier a whole hour early to meet effervescent Arry, the woman who holds the record for the first and fastest completion of the Welsh Coastal Path, in a run averaging twenty-six miles a day for forty-one days.

  We walked across the barrage and into Cardiff city centre, as I absorbed her story. She didn’t talk about how hard her run must have been, just stated a few casual facts about her journey, leaving me to realise the impact of her statements and her absolutely incredible achievement.

  Later, I met up with an old friend for a few drinks and then went to another friend’s house for a bed: nice catch-ups in a week of meeting person after person, none of whom I really knew. I’d pushed hard to get to the city, walking almost twenty miles a day for over a week. I loved meeting all these wonderful friendly people. I had to admit, though, a small part of me was yearning for the solitude of high open hills and nights in a tent. I wondered how I’d feel when I actually got there.

  RIVERS TAFF AND USK AND WALES COASTAL PATH TO BRISTOL

  Route description: The rivers Taff and Usk both rise in the Brecon Beacons within 15 miles of one another and trace parallel paths to join the Bristol Channel at Cardiff and Newport respectively.