Sunday, October 16, 2011

Don’t turn the spotlight off Wales

Fields in the Rhymney Valley


I groaned inwardly yesterday morning when I heard a Radio 4 presenter refer to rugby as Wales’ national religion. 

Wales so rarely gets a mention on UK radio that it was novel to find my countrymen the centre of attention for several minutes.  It was strangely unsettling, however, to have our national psyche analysed in such a public way and to learn that Welshness hinges on an obsession with an oval ball and the fifteen muscle-bound men who fight over it. 

Alas, we lost the semi-final to France so the Welsh squad is on its way home and this little country of three million people and several times more sheep will once again be forgotten as the spotlight turns back to England.

Okay, the Welsh team might not be playing in the Rugby World Cup final, but the Radio 4 team should know that Wales has an awful lot more going for it than rugby.

Top of the list is the stunning Welsh scenery and, for most people, it’s right there on our doorstep, ready to explore and enjoy without costing a penny.

Today, we decided to stick close to home and walk the lower slopes of Mynydd Machen and the Rhymney Valley.  Leaving my ruck sack behind (Harri carried drinks and a few nibbles), I galloped up the first grassy slope and was soon waxing lyrically about the beauty of the undulating fields surrounded by their forested hills.

It’s an area we walk regularly. We didn’t stick rigidly to Harri’s Walking World route, though we did manage to include his recommended stop at the Cefn Maby Arms.  Amazingly for mid October, it was still warm enough to sit outside with our drinks.  This is what hiking is really all about - you just can't beat a glass of beer or cider after a long, tiring walk.

The highlight of the route for me is always the magnificent Plas Machen farmhouse and the arable fields which surround it. 

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The magnificent Plas Machen farmhouse (copyright Newland, Rennie Wilkins)
If I’d been a location scout for Hammer Horror Films back in the fifties and sixties, this is the place I’d have brought Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing for filming.  Even in bright sunshine, there’s something tantilisingly haunting and spooky about the house, which is currently on the market for an undisclosed amount.

Plas Machen was once home to one of the innumerable branches of the Morgan family. Following the renovation and extension of Tredegar House (which itself hosts the scariest Halloween event I’ve ever attended) in the Restoration Period, Plas Machen was abandoned by the family and become a tenanted farmhouse.

I have no idea what the future holds for this beautiful and historic house, but I desperately hope its new owner won’t destroy its faintly gothic facade and that Plas Machen will continue to enthrall (and slightly terrify) future generations of hikers.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Channel hopping

Looking down towards the Severn Estuary from Portishead
The hot weather’s coming in from India, my 16-year old daughter informed me earlier this week, interpreting the term ‘Indian Summer’ a little too literally.

Whatever. The source of this week’s delightful spell of autumn sunshine is immaterial, the important thing is it’s here and it’s a great excuse to ignore the housework and other home-based tasks and head for the great outdoors.

Once we’ve decided we’re definitely going hiking, the conversation in our house goes something like this:

Harri: So where do you want to go?

Me:    The seaside.

Harri:  What about doing something local? We could walk from the house.

Me:     I want to go to the seaside.

Harri:  I thought you might like to try this new circular walk I’ve read about.

Me:     I wanna go to the seaside.  I wanna go to the seaside.

Harri:  So you’d prefer to go to the coast?

No prizes, then, for guessing that we’ve walked most of the Welsh coastline within two hours’ drive of our home – and we’ve done lots of it several times.

Keen to keep me happy while venturing to new pastures, Harri put on his thinking cap and after extensive research, i.e. checking out our walking bookshelf, he suggested doing the longer loop of the Gordano Round in North Somerset

The route involved a long stretch of coastal walking so I agreed. Unfortunately, there was just one little problem – the walk started in Portishead.

Now, for the past 30 years – and based on the verbal say-so of just one disenchanted former resident – I’ve imagined Portishead to be an ugly and industrial place; somewhere to keep away from at all costs.

I couldn’t have been more wrong and I hereby retract all my previously stated views about it.

Portishead is a lovely place, very reminiscent of Minehead, with the same interesting high street shopping and a magnificent, sweeping esplanade (which we viewed from our higher position on the coast path). 

Like other resorts along this stretch of the Severn Estuary there’s a lot of mud at low tide, but on the whole, it’s a very pleasant coastal town, with a marina, a lake, independent shops, distinctive architecture, and plenty of woodland and green areas.

The stretch of coastline towards Clevedon is much easier on the legs than Amroth–Pendine; it’s also popular with dog walkers so keep glancing down to avoid a close encounter with the squelchy stuff.

During the morning, we got talking to an interesting older man who told us how he’d sold his permanent home in the area some years back to buy a £40,000 camper van, and how, on the night of the purchase, he lay awake in bed wondering, ‘what have I done?’  He’s had a great and varied life since, living in different European countries and enjoying the sort of freedom most people only dream about.

Afterwards, Harri and I pondered the UK’s national obsession with bricks and mortar. The Thatcherite dream of home ownership has blighted millions of lives and condemned many people to mundane (and often badly paid and insecure) jobs for one purpose – to service the massive debt that is their mortgage. Why are we Brits so prepared, so enthusiastic, to sell our lives, our energies, our souls, in return for four walls and a patch of grass?  Anyone selling a camper van?

Staying on the subject of over-priced property and frenetic lifestyles, there was evidence of both in Swiss Valley, a stunningly pretty area near Clevedon, where you take your life in your hands just trying to cross the road.  

Fortunately, crossing the split-level section of M5 motorway in the Gordano Valley was easier, though looking down at six lanes of fast-moving traffic from the high-level footbridge was a teeny bit vertiginous (a good word, that one, and acquired in Madeira where almost every hike is vertiginous). 

Nearing the end of our 15-mile loop, we stopped for a thirst-quenching glass of Aspinal’s cider outside The Black Horse, a drinking hole of the very best kind.

Hiking and cider drinking. Could a more pleasurable way of passing an Indian Summer be known to man or woman?

Friday, September 23, 2011

Conquering coast paths

The seven-mile stretch of sands at Pendine

My brother-in-law, Paul, a keen hiker and passionate about the great outdoors, has always hated coastal walking, preferring instead to head for Wales’ more mountainous regions – the Brecon Beacons, Snowdonia et al.

Not me.  Given the option of an amble over the Black Mountains or a tough trek along the Welsh coastline, I’d opt for the latter everytime.  And yes, you did read that right, because as anyone who has done some serious coast path walking will confirm, there’s nothing tougher on the old legs than all those sea level to cliff top climbs – done over and over again in quick succession.

Anyway, with two proposed trips to the Rhinogs rained off in the past month and last weekend’s plans threatening to go the same way, we decided instead to enjoy the best walking this lush land has to offer in south, rather than north, Wales.

And with the launch of the Wales Coast Path looming ever closer (May 5th 2012), we thought it would be exciting to visit the Carmarthenshire stretch of this new national trail and find out how much progress had been made in waymarking the route.

No more mud, just nice solid boardwalks
Welsh readers will know that the official Pembrokeshire Coast Path ends at Amroth.  When we completed the 186-mile trial in January 2008, we were enjoying ourselves so much we decided to carry on to Pendine Sands (best known as the location of five land speed records between 1924-7). Unfortunately, almost as soon as we crossed the Pembrokeshire border, the path, no longer official or well-trod, deteriorated dramatically, with the absolute low point, a steep climb through thick, wet, squelchy mud from Marros Sands to the cliff-top above (I hate mud!).

I’m delighted to report that said mud is now a thing of the past and, in its place, there are nice solid boardwalks (I love boardwalks!).  So a big thank you to Carmarthenshire Council for sorting out this stretch of path well ahead of May 2012.

While the Council’s coast path officer may be diligent, there’s little he or she can do about the sheer amount of climbing on this short but spectacular section of path (Amroth to Pendine).  It probably didn’t help that we did an out and back walk, creating a sinking realisation (for me at least) that every knee-aching descent was going to become an even tougher ascent when we turned around and did the whole route in reverse.

It’s worth the effort though. The views from the top of those cliffs are amazing – Worm’s Head in one direction and Caldey Island, Tenby and Saundersfoot, in the other.

An active rain cloud heads in our direction 
It goes without saying that we got rained on, but Carmarthenshire coastal rain isn’t quite as wet or horizontal as Rhinog rain (or so Harri insisted), and there is a nice pub at Amroth (the New Inn) where you can sip your favourite tipple for however long it takes for the rainbow to appear.

Ah, Welsh pubs and the characters who prop up their bars – now that’s a subject for a whole new blog.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Rainy Rhinogs

The stunning Barmouth estuary


It’s been a strange week.

Our plan was to head up to Barmouth for the second time this month so Harri could continue his seemingly endless hike along the Cambrian Way and I could meander happily in the foothills of the Rhinogs getting hopelessly lost among the brambles and bracken.

The reality couldn’t have been different. This being Britain and the middle of the summer holidays, we were rained off again.

It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been a replay of our trip to north Wales two weeks ago when it rained for days on end. To anyone who has never been there, Barmouth is a stunningly beautiful place. The view from the wooden viaduct across the mountain-lined Mawddach estuary is up there with the Grand Canyon in my opinion.

Unfortunately, the weather in this lush land of hills and vales was anything but Arizonian and the magnificent rocky Rhinogs were shrouded in low-lying cloud and dense rain most of the time.

Harri bravely battled the elements in an attempt to complete a one-day hike in appalling weather conditions but even the most passionate of hikers eventually has to call it a day when he’s soaked to the skin and visibility is non-existent.

A couple of thousand feet below in Barmouth it drizzled relentlessly and not even a bag of fudge could lift my plummeting spirits as I wandered aimlessly around the town's delightfully quirky shops trying to kill time.

Looking down towards the Irish Sea
So with memories of being cold, wet and miserable still fresh in our minds, we took heed of the BBC weather forecast and decided to forego our mid-week jaunt to north Wales. 

Harri has been working flat out on various freelance projects while I’ve been decorating and running (I managed a personal best of 11.8 miles this week – thanks again to walkjogrun  which I now see as my personal trainer).

Plan B is to head back to Barmouth and some half-decent hiking when the children go back to school next week – the weather will undoubtedly improve then, it always does.




Tuesday, August 23, 2011

A Marathon Task

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My home city, Newport, is holding its first ever marathon on October 30th.

Now I've never run a marathon myself (just the one 10k in Swansea last year) but the announcement that we are going to be holding that most exciting of sporting events in my home city is fantastic news - and it's got me thinking.

Anyone who is familiar with Newport will agree when I say London or New York it ain't. We have hills everywhere in Newport - many of them long and steep. People who regularly pound the pavements around the city know that even the ostensibly flat bits of Newport, Chepstow Road, for example, have sneaky little inclines that catch you out when you're least expecting it. Newport mothers daren't take one hand off their pushchairs for fear that their little ones will go whizzing off down the street at top speed.

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At the time of writing, I don't think the official route has been published - the official website simply states 'this new and challenging event will take you past some of Newport’s iconic landmarks: Newport Castle, the beautiful canal routes including the Fourteen Locks, the Transporter Bridge, new University, the Riverfront Theatre and along the River Usk.'

Just for fun, I've devised my own marathon  around Newport - trying to keep it as flat as possible (or at least running downhill at the worst bits). This is fantasy sport, so I'm not worrying about potential road closures, etc, just avoiding those pesky peaks.

Check out my alternative 26.19 mile route courtesy of WalkJogRun.com

And now all that's left to do is to walk it (sorry, I'm just not fit enough to run it).

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Setting Off

Walking as a hobby? What’s it really all about? Why are some people passionate about heaving a rucksack onto their backs, lacing up muddy old boots and putting one foot in front of the other for mile after mile (after mile) while others – like a former colleague of mine – shudder at the thought and insist that walking is ‘boring’?

I’ve always walked a lot. When I was growing up in the 1960s and ’70s we didn’t own a car. I was such a Buddha of a toddler that my baby sister was in great peril whenever I sat, elevated above her, in my little pram seat. It seemed far safer to keep me at pavement level. So I walked – pretty much everywhere. In those days we shopped locally but by the time I was six or seven I’d happily walk into town centre (a mile and a half) and back again. 

Walking with my dad at weekends was fun. We’d stop at the newsagents where he’d buy a bag of boiled sweets and then challenge us to make each sweet last as long as possible – the strenuous efforts of our legs were forgotten as we concentrated hard on not crunching sherbet lemons.

Fast forward to high school where I was possibly the most uncool teenager who has ever lived on this planet. My obsession with Mario Lanza and Kathryn Grayson aside, I simply saw every outing as a potential expedition and dragged friends all over the place in search of a true hiking experience. Not that I had any outdoor gear – or any notion that packing a map, some water and provisions, even a coat, might be a good idea.

My usual ploy was to persuade some unsuspecting classmate to set off in high-heeled wedges, knowing all along that I had some vague distant destination in mind. Not surprisingly, these forays into the great outdoors usually ended in harsh words and tears, with the other girl informing me that this was the last time she went anywhere – and she meant anywhere – with me.

Life continued in pretty much the same vein for decades. Just ask my daughters about the pre-Christmas lunch walk they were forced to do a few years ago back.

Then a miracle happened. Four and a half years ago, I met Harri at work. We became friends and when, one day, he asked me if I wanted to go for a yomp that weekend, I knew I’d finally found a kindred spirit.

We walk a lot. We walk on fine days and we walk in bad weather. We do long-distance challenge hikes and shorter walks. We’ve walked the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, much of the South West Coast Path and most of the Cambrian Way. We’ve done circular routes around Cardiff and Bristol and hiked in Madeira, Portugal and southern and northern Spain.

Now it’s me who complains about exhaustion, hikes that go on forever and sore feet. You see, he’s far worse than me. Worse than I ever was. Really. He’s obsessed with hiking. And he can seemingly walk forever.

For us both, to be alive is to hike and I hope this blog will inspire others to share our passion.