Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Rope Bridges


The coastal rope bridge at Carrick-a-Rede, Antrim, Northern Ireland 
We writers like to think of ourselves as versatile, so when I heard about Caerleon Arts Festival’s comic poetry competition, I decided I should have a go.

My entry was very hush-hush (I know one of the judges) and – I thought – not a bad effort for someone who hasn’t attempted to write poetry of any kind since university.

Harri liked my poem very much, but wondered if it was maybe a little elitist, i.e. he thought that few, if any, on the panel of judges would understand the feeling of absolute exhaustion (mental as well as physical) when faced with yet another peak to climb. In essence, he doubted whether they would grasp the exciting concept of a system of rope bridges across Wales!

Alas, he was right - I wasn't even short-listed. I am, however, determined to publish my first-ever comic poem so, for all you hikers who wish there was some way to make the mountains a little easier, here it is:

Rope Bridges

If there’s one thing that hikers hate – yes, even more than stiles –It’s conquering the highest peak for miles and miles and miles

Then spotting just across the vale, another bloody cairnAnd knowing that the only route is down then up again.

But wait, I think there is a way to salve those weary feet A nifty little rope bridge ‘twixt where the high points meet.

Starting with the Beacons, Snowdonia, Pen y Fan,Rope bridges are Wales’ future – our all-inclusive plan.

The Rhinogs, Cambrian Mountains, Carneddau, Cadair Idris
Just sway your way from A to B and hike above the abyss.

You’ll need a head for heights it’s true; perhaps Glyndŵr’s nerve.When faced with sheep or goats, a bull, it’s wiser not to swerve.

The all-Wales coast path beckons, those heathered trails drop deepRope the gaps between the cliffs ‘cause tourists don’t do ‘steep’.

From Rhyl to Aberdovey, Mwnt to Pembroke DockTransform the landscape, add the ropes, keep hikers off the rock.

The plan solves unemployment. No job? Then plait a bridge.What skills are more transferable than linking ridge to ridge?

Think of it, one climb a day, the tough bits done and dusted.Yet a question still remains, can suspended ropes be trusted?

Brecon beacons cattle might appreciate a few rope bridges 




Saturday, June 23, 2012

Phantom footpaths

Harri battles his way across a Newport footpath
One of the best things about living in Newport’s prettiest outpost is being able to leave our garden and be in the countryside within minutes.

There are definitely some places well worth seeing in our immediate vicinity – the fire-damaged but still haunting Ruperra Castle, Craig Ruperra’s stunning 360 degree vistas, the beautiful Rhymney Valley and (Harri’s favourite) Mynydd Machen, to name a few.

Newport council is doing its best to promote the countryside around the city with its Let’s Walk Newport pack – ten walks ranging from 2.8 miles to 8.7 miles. To (mis)quote Naomi Campbell, Harri and I don’t generally get out of bed for anything under ten miles, but there’s a certain appeal to exploring the countryside on your doorstep.

Factor in high petrol costs and it makes perfect sense to hike local . . . until you try to find some of Newport’s footpaths. In theory, they exist – at least Let’s Walk Newport and our Ordnance Survey maps suggest so – but locating them on the ground is akin to searching for a needle in a haystack.

Blocked footpaths are the bane of a hiker’s life. In popular hiking areas, footpaths are walked sufficiently often to keep brambles, nettles and other plant life at manageable levels, but Newport, it seems, just isn’t particularly popular with outdoor types.

Last week, we really had to battle to stay upright in Pen-y-lan as we struggled through a huge field of overgrown rape. The plants weren’t just growing across the footpath, they’d been planted on the footpath. Accidental or what?

I'm a hiker, get me out of here!
We’ve had similar experiences trying to circumnavigate a restaurant/garage in the Bassaleg area (no prizes for guessing which one). The footpath has been legally diverted but the new route is so overgrown with nettles that it’s virtually impassible (quick tip: if you do get stung by nettles, do not, repeat DO NOT, scratch your skin – the pain rapidly diminishes if ignored).

We’re not unsympathetic to the plight of those who have inherited or bought up great swathes of Wales’ countryside, mountains and coastal areas, of course we’re not. We realise that they want their birthright or hard-won gains protected from the pitter-patter of hikers’ feet. We understand how having walkers peering over the wall into their palatial homes and landscaped gardens can be – well, perhaps a little unnerving at times. After all, what's the point of money if you can't buy yourself a bit of privacy, a sizeable slice of the countryside?

It’s just that, as law-abiding citizens, we like to see other people operating within the law too. Public footpaths, as depicted on maps, are part of the Queen’s highway, and if landowners don’t understand what that means, I’ll keep it simple. Hikers have a legal right to walk across a footpath on your land – you have a legal duty to ensure we can find them!

Don’t even start me on bulls. A future post, maybe.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

RIP Tommy Jones



An obelisk marks the spot where Tommy Jones' body was found
After weeks of walking in the peaceful Black Mountains, the twin peaks of Pen y Fan and Corn Du on a Bank Holiday Monday came as a bit of a culture shock.

The Brecon Beacons National Park might span 519 square miles but yesterday there were only two summits that people wanted to conquer. 

The heavily eroded trails might have resembled school walking buses, but no amount of ‘traffic’ can diminish the magnificence of these mountains (the highest in South Wales).

Tommy was trying to reach Cwm-llych when he vanished
Our descent from Corn Du also gave me the opportunity to reflect once more on the tragic story of five-year-old Tommy Jones, who died on the ridge above Llyn Cwm-Ilwch (where a memorial stone now stands) after going missing on August 4th 1900.

The story has haunted me since I first heard it twenty years ago. My daughters were roughly Tommy’s age and I could barely bring myself to think about the terror that small boy must have felt, lost and alone in the blackness of the mountains.

A tragedy like the one that befell Tommy’s family would never happen today.

Tommy had been walking to Cwm-llych with his father but was allowed to run ahead with an older cousin; refusing to cross a stream, he tried unsuccessfully to retrace his steps alone.

A hundred years later, our risk-averse society means that few children are allowed to venture to the local park without supervision, let alone wander around in the countryside, or god forbid, up a mountain.

When I grew up, in the sixties and early seventies, the widely held view seemed to be that parents were there to guide their children but not to control their every move. As for entertaining us, a trip to the local cinema or swimming baths was as exciting as it got.

This meant that during the long summer holidays we children had to entertain ourselves – and without spending money (in our terraced street there wasn’t much around). We were lucky back then; there were pockets of wasteland that hadn’t been ‘developed’ where we could play and build dens, an adventure playground a short walk away at Somerton and exciting (if dangerous) playground equipment like the Witch’s Hat and the Cradle.

As we got older and willing to walk further afield for our entertainment, the long-closed Bulmore Lido became popular and if we experienced the call of the sea, there was our very own coast path a few miles away at Goldcliff. 

Goldcliff at low tide - Newport's own 'sandy' coast
Fishing in nearby reens was another favourite; in those days, they were all teeming with wildlife – tadpoles, minnows, elvers, ‘flatfish’, newts, pond skaters. No self-respecting child of the late sixties could fail to be fascinated with the life cycle of a frog.

We walked for hours with nothing to sustain us but the odd tiptop (bought for pennies in the ubiquitous local shop). I can’t recall our parents being particularly concerned if we disappeared for the whole day, which was just as well as we rarely had any idea where we were going.

This was rambling in the true sense – but without the maps, rucksacks, sandwiches or water bottles.

The odd calamity – my sister once lost a shoe between the boulders at Goldcliff and I’ve still got a scar on my thumb from slicing it open in the local reen – and one awful tragedy – a boy from our street was crushed by a paper bale – certainly didn’t deter us from pursuing future adventures.

Halcyon days, unfortunately unlikely to be experienced by the majority of today’s children.