Making time to stand and stare

A blue plaque now graces the wall of the Church House Inn, Pill, Newport

Sometimes it takes the words of a dead man to make us slow down and reflect upon what’s important in life; what really matters when the layers of modern society and our consumerist lifestyles are stripped away.

Lately, whenever I find myself rushing from pillar to post, getting impatient in a traffic queue or just feeling stressed about life’s seemingly endless demands, I find myself mulling over the words of the poem  ‘Leisure’ by W H Davies.

W H died in 1940 and so copyright of his poetry has lapsed, which means I'm not breaking any laws by reproducing the poem here in its entirety:

‘What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care

We have no time to stand and stare.’

No marks for guessing what our favourite line is!

But seriously, I love the sentiment behind his words and the idea that life is richer when you slow down and start noticing how absolutely perfect the natural world is.

William Henry Davies 1871-1940

William Henry Davies, universally known as W H Davies, was born in Newport, South Wales, on July 3, 1871, an era where the world at large moved more slowly (though the rapid expansion of Newport docks undoubtedly meant Pill(gwenlly) was a bustling place at the end of the 19th century).

Born 90 years apart, WH and I nonetheless have a lot in common, quite apart from the same home town, family name (my mother’s maiden name was Davies) and the day of the month on which we were born.

We both had grandparents living in Portland Street, however while WH and his siblings were brought up by his mother’s parents, Francis and Lydia Davies, at the Church House Inn, I met my own paternal grandfather just the once.

And while poetry has never really been my forté (if you want to judge for yourself, read Rope Bridges) I absolutely share WH’s love of words.

But where I truly recognise a kindred spirit is in WH’s thirst for adventure, his desire from an early age to wander far and wide. Not, I hasten to add, that I’ve done anything like the amount of travelling he did. Neither have I ever slept rough or chanced leaping onto a moving train.

Yet the wanderlust is always there, simmering below the surface, unfulfilled in part because I have children and financial commitments but also, if I'm honest, because I lack something WH had in abundance: courage.

The poet was a self-proclaimed hobo (tramp)

He was young when he headed to America that first time – just 22. Yet, that’s exactly the age you should be doing outrageous things, travelling the world, and sleeping under the stars. Because one thing’s certain, if you’re not brave enough to throw yourself at life when you are young, you never will be. You've missed the boat. Our older selves will always tend to over-think and over-plan – we need itineraries, emergency money in our bank accounts, assurances that nothing will go wrong, comfortable beds with en-suite bathrooms. The list goes on...

As the publisher’s ‘trumpeter’ for The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp, George Bernard Shaw described WH as ‘a free knight of the highway, [who] lived like a pet bird on titbits’. 

The working-class poet, who had his lower leg amputated after falling from a train, was rather more blunt, referring to himself as a ‘hobo’.

I think I’d like to be the female equivalent, a free dame of the highway, with the highway in question a long-distance, high-level trail winding through varied, but always beautiful, landscapes. I can see myself now, legs toned and tanned, living on oranges and grapes, and just the occasional warm bread roll, always walking, always moving on.

In the magnificent Young Emma, WH gives a short account of the early days of his relationship and subsequent marriage to Helen Payne, thirty years his junior and a former prostitute. After sending the manuscript to his publisher Jonathan Cape in 1924, he had second thoughts about revealing just how badly he’d treated his doting young wife (he mistakenly believed she’d given him a venereal disease). He requested his editor return the manuscript and destroy two type-written copies to stop it getting ‘into the hands of strangers in about 50 years time’.

Fortunately for modern day readers, the copies were simply put into a safe and forgotten about until after his death in 1940. They were eventually rediscovered but Jonathan Cape continued to respect the author’s wishes and Young Emma was only published in 1980, a year after Helen’s death.

I recently read the book and the poet’s passion for the natural world is evident throughout. Eager to leave London, he decides to move to the countryside where he dreams ‘of passing more trees than human beings, and hearing more bird than human voices’.

Newport's 'Stand and Stare' statue by Paul Bothwell-Kincaid 

Though devoted to him, Helen/Emma never really understood why her husband’s ‘lonely country walks’ where he could ‘stop and stare’ were so necessary for his emotional well-being and creativity as a poet.

‘For while she was indoors, looking at the rooms, I was in the garden, trying to name the trees, and a dream of leaves I had: I wanted to cover the whole house all over with green leaves: around every window, all over the roof, and even around the chimney stack. But this, of course, would take years and years: and life would be generous indeed, if I ever saw that done.’

‘There appeared to be no ending to my liking for nature; whether a tree was so leafy that it reduced the whole heavens to a few blue eyes, or whether the twigs were as thin and bare as the bird’s legs that used them – it was all the same to me.’

Young Emma, W H Davies

Perhaps it’s me, but I find it slightly ironic that this passionate nature-lover, this man for whom time stood still whenever he walked in the countryside or woodland, should, in 1930, be awarded a grandmother clock by his townsfolk.

Time for some bench marking

Benches without views are commonplace

We’ve been rather grounded the past week or two while Harri juggles the day job and completes the writing of his Wales Coast Path guide (Amroth to Swansea section).

It’s particularly tough being indoors now that spring has finally arrived. Yesterday, the lure of an hour outside in the sunshine compelled me to clean all my downstairs windows. As for the rotary line… well, let’s just say I’m enjoying getting re-acquainted with my enviably skinny friend.

All this sitting around inside and staring at a computer screen has got me thinking about seats, or more specifically, about benches.

Anyone brave enough to sit here?

Benches have a special importance for walkers, particularly in verdant Wales where our bottoms tend to get rather soggy if we plonk ourselves down on the ground. We bought a small picnic blanket a few years ago (half price in Past Times) but forget to stuff it in our rucksacks more often than not.

Which is why, on damp, overcast days, we approach a distant bench as excitedly as Nicholas Crane cycled towards remote chai houses on the Tibetan plateau (he writes about his epic journey with his cousin, Dick, in the hugely entertaining ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth’).

I remember walking the South West Coast Path a few years back.  Faced with a particularly steep section which took us from sea level to towering cliffs in one seemingly endless climb, we brightened considerably when we spotted a distant bench. Halfway up, our spirits plummeted again as a couple appeared from nowhere and claimed it for themselves.

A prime location on the Wales Coast Path (Pendine)

Such is the impact that a well-positioned bench has on a walker’s emotional well-being. 

With the humble bench elevated to an almost symbolic level, it would be natural to assume that special care and attention was given to its positioning. A lengthy comparison between one site or another, perhaps? Informal consultation with the local community? Better still, a quick chat with the local Ramblers group? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The evidence suggests otherwise.

Probably not the safest picnic spot!

As our hiking experience has shown, benches appear in the most surprising of places with service provision (the service here being seating) ranging from overkill to sparse or non-existent.

You'll be spoilt for a seat at Llandudno's Great Orme

Like buses, they have a tendency to arrive in clusters. For miles there’s not so much as a stone on which to perch one’s derriére, then suddenly there’s seating everywhere.

The choice of location is equally mystifying. One would expect a bench to be placed close to something visually interesting – a gorgeous view, historic landmark, parkland or riverside – and yet we often stumble upon benches in the most unprepossessing of landscapes.

Another peculiarity of benches is their apparent ability to encourage natural growth. Walk along any footpath or trail and you’ll find that the vegetation inexplicably becomes thicker in the vicinity of a bench, often blocking any view entirely.  Stroll a few metres from the bench in either direction and the view magically re-appears. There’s no logical explanation for this widespread phenomenon (except perhaps hikers hurling unwanted liquids into the bushes).

At Llanrhidian, on the Gower peninsula, we were left wondering if there’d once been a nasty accident involving a public seat. The sole village bench is sited at the top of a grassy slope next to the church.

It’s a nice spot, but local officials were clearly concerned that ramblers who stopped to idle away a few minutes in this pretty village were an accident waiting to happen. Rather than risk a tragedy - someone rolling downhill like a giant cheese - they have thoughtfully installed a sturdy three-sided barrier in front of the bench.

Benches, eh?  You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.

WARNING: the most dangerous bench in Wales

So, if anyone reading this ever assumes responsibility for the positioning of a bench, I beg you to consider the following before taking any action.

Relax in the scented surroundings of... a car park

      First and foremost, please consider the location. No-one likes eating their sandwiches in a car park next to a row of recycling bins.

      

      Be sensible about quantity. While ten benches in close succession might make the installation process easier, it’s not terribly helpful for people who are walking a ten-mile stretch of coastline if all available seating is in the first half mile.

  

      Call me a romantic but a view is essential. When people sit down they usually like to look at something pretty, preferably at a distance. MOD land and busy car parks do NOT fall into this category.

.     Finally, do remember that it’s not only benches that need maintaining but the area around them. No point in keeping a bench in pristine condition if the surrounding land is so overgrown no-one can reach it. 

More on benches soon. In the mean time, where’s that picnic blanket?

Ferryside, where there's not just one bench awaiting you but four

Same place, different pace

The view across the Severn Estuary

Many landscapes look dramatically different depending on the season and the weather, and – as I discovered this weekend – on the speed at which you happen to be travelling through them.

I’ve visited Newport Wetlands at Nash many times since it opened in 2000.

In fact, my very first trip to this popular nature reserve was in an official capacity. As the local reporter, I was charged with covering the launch event for the South Wales Argus. On that occasion, the nature reserve lived up to its name; the weather was appalling, torrential rain and high winds. Fortunately, I’d had time to dash home to grab my hiking boots and a waterproof jacket; the lady dignitaries present, however, were dressed formally in suits and high heels. The poor women spent their entire time outside battling to keep their umbrellas up and side-stepping large puddles.

Across the reeds is Uskmouth Power Station (there were once three chimneys)

Newport Wetlands was established by the Countryside Council for Wales (CCW) to mitigate the loss of the wildlife habitat in the area after the Cardiff Bay Barrage was built. The land now occupied by the reserve used to be an ash-covered wasteland owned by the neighbouring coal-fired Uskmouth power station  (where, incidentally, my dad worked for over 30 years).

After the ash was removed, the site was landscaped and it now covers salt marsh, reed beds, saline lagoons, wet grassland, and scrub. At high tide, the site sits below sea level and water levels are regulated to ensure the saline lagoons get enough sea water.

According to the literature, ‘Newport Wetlands and the adjacent Severn Estuary are home to internationally and nationally important numbers of wintering and breeding wetland birds’.

I was there on that first (wet) day

Newport Wetlands certainly attracts keen bird-watchers, however, my guess is that many local people, myself included, enjoy visiting because it’s close to the estuary (and therefore the sea), boasts a fantastic children's playground and has lots of nice trails to walk around.

There is a lot of wildlife, specifically birdlife, but without binoculars, it’s hard to spot species like the rare bearded tit, black-tailed godwit, little grebe, knot and whimbrel (if you do remember your binoculars but are still not sure what you're looking for, the Wetlands Centre offers plenty of useful illustrations and information). Unfortunately, without binoculars, the only birds we spotted this weekend were ducks and swans.

The lesser-spotted Newport swan (as seen without binoculars)

When I first bought my mountain bike, Harri and I cycled all the way from Rhiwderin to the wetlands on Route 4, a round trip of about 25 miles (a permissive cycle route runs through the wetlands as an off-shoot of the main route).

We’ve also walked the Wales Coast Path from Chepstow to Cardiff and the official route passes along the seaward side of the reserve as far as Uskmouth Power Station before heading past the Wetlands Centre towards Nash village. 

I’ve even enjoyed interval training sessions there with Lliswerry Runners. On a warm summer’s evening, what could possibly be more enjoyable than sprinting alongside the (almost) open sea, a salty breeze blowing gently against your skin and the sound of seabirds calling?

The rather wonderful East Usk Lighthouse

The only drawback is the number of midges on the attack – their favourite snack moi!

Anyway, the point I’m making is that all my previous visits to Newport Wetlands have been for the purpose of fast activities – running, cycling and hiking at Harri’s speed.

On Saturday, I meandered around the reserve with my long-time mate and for the first time, I noticed the small things. Like the strange rusty-looking sculptures with cut-out silhouettes of birds, like how incredibly straight the reens are and the massive size of the lens that some of the serious bird-watchers were using.

Anyone seen this bird?

We idled along the main trail (love that word, idled, even though I’m so bad at it) and then took a left turn to walk alongside the sea wall and past the lighthouse. There were people everywhere: couples, dog-walkers, young families. East Usk Lighthouse, in particular, seemed to be attracting lots of attention.

It gradually dawned on me that my natural walking speed is fast. And I like fast. I was finding it really difficult to slow down, to stroll, to dawdle, even when engaged in the hugely enjoyable task of chatting with a friend I hadn’t seen in months.

We left the main reserve and wandered along a metalled lane, then turned onto a grassy one. At the far end, there was a locked gate to climb and, as my friend hesitated, I bolted over it, again realising how accustomed the Walker’s Wife has become to an active lifestyle where covering large distances at speed and clambering over obstacles has become almost second nature. 

Stop that dawdling ... the cafe's about to close

We’d planned to linger over a cuppa in the café, but, astonishingly, even on sunny spring weekends it closes at 4pm, so we set off home (I’ll said it before and I’ll say it again, Wales can be SO bad at catering for tourists).

Our stroll had lasted for about two-and-a-half hours and I doubt we'd covered much more in miles. In terms of stretching the old muscles, it barely counted as exercise.

But for once I didn't care. I’d already run six miles that morning and, you know, sometimes it’s rather nice to view the world from the slow lane.

UPDATE: Newport Wetlands features in a recent BBC news article and video, which claims the Wales Coast Path attracted 1.6 million visitors last year. 

Did they really write that?

On our travels we often spot some hilarious writing, many typos and abundant translation mistakes. Here’s a gem from a leaflet titled, Caravan & Glamping in Carmarthenshire. Writing about the friendly staff at Jenkins the Bakers in Ammanford, the writer notes: ‘be warned, they will also make sure you leave with half a dozen deliciously Moorish [sic] welsh cakes!’

 I had no idea the Moors’ rule stretched as far as west Wales!

Living in Rhiwderin

Tredegar Street - a vehicle free zone

Sadly, we can sometimes be in such haste to go off exploring new places that we don’t pause to appreciate the beauty on our own doorstep.

I spent most of my younger life lamenting the misfortune of being born in Newport, South Wales. I grew up in a Victorian terraced street on the east side of town, where I passionately loathed the steel industry and its accompanying grime, the concrete monstrosity of a town centre and the fast-flowing river which exposed banks of rich alluvial silt (or put bluntly, mud) at every low tide. Mostly, I hated Newport for what my younger self perceived as its complete lack of natural beauty.  

I could never shake off the feeling I’d drawn the short straw where my birthplace was concerned; a belief further compounded when, at twenty, I went to work in a hotel on the stunningly beautiful Isles of Scilly (and later mainland Cornwall). Returning from that first halcyon summer on St Mary’s, I travelled in the back of a taxi from Newport station to Corporation Road and sobbed such bitter tears the driver thought I’d come home for a funeral.

Home towns have a propensity for doing that… pulling you back time and time again, seemingly against your will. I’d lived somewhere else, somewhere pretty and clean. I was back, albeit temporarily on that occasion, and I detested Newport more than ever.

As I’ve grown older, the passionate loathing of my youth has developed into something of a love-hate relationship with Newport (which finally gained city status in 2002 after many years of trying). It’s lovely to live in the same locality as your family and long-time friends, to have a pretty good idea where everything is, to witness constant change but be able to remember how things used to be. And nowadays, of course, there’s the wonderfully sociable parkrun at Tredegar House to look forward to every Saturday.

The odd cow has grazed on this green 

In many ways, I’ve made my peace with Newport. Oh, it’ll never feature on one of those ‘most desirable places to live’ lists and I still hate the slimy mud on the riverbanks, but nowadays I’m not actively planning my escape.  The main reason for this massive change of heart is our move to Rhiwderin on the outskirts of the city, six years ago.

I often refer to the village as Newport’s ‘last outpost’ but that’s not strictly true because the 19 or so houses of Lower Machen, a mile farther along the A468, actually mark the very western edge of the city (confusingly, Machen itself lies within Caerphilly county borough but that’s bureaucracy for you).

The original Rhiwderin village was located directly opposite the level crossing, however newer developments – Springfield, Rhiwderin Heights and, most recently, Taylor Wimpey’s controversial Gerddi Rhiwderyn – have seen the village expand dramatically in all directions.

Our own little abode is located in the wonderfully quaint Tredegar Street, which, together with a few outlying farms and cottages, was pretty much the full extent of the village in the late 1800s. 

Our stone-fronted houses were built to house workers at the adjacent Garth Tinplate works (it closed about the time of the First World War and the site has long since been occupied by modern housing).

The Tabernacle Church was built in 1884

What makes Tredegar Street really unique is that the road is closed to vehicles.

And yes, you did read that right. Our street is probably the only terrace in Newport without bumper to bumper cars lining the kerb. Vehicular access is not completely banned but is limited to deliveries and the emergency services. The rest of the time, a heavy chain at the lower end of the street spans the distance between pavements and keeps it blissfully devoid of traffic.

It's quite normal to sit and watch the world go by in our street

The absence of cars means that residents and hikers generally walk up and down in the middle of the road. Stretches of pavement have been transformed into lawns and gardens; there are bird tables, potted plants and benches where locals sit on sunny days chatting and watching the world go by.

In the school holidays, children ride up and down on their bikes and play games in the street. It’s all wonderfully reminiscent of my own childhood in the 1960s before the rapid increase in car ownership put paid to enjoying terraced streets as playgrounds.

For such a small place, Rhiwderin has a lot going for it. For a start, it’s not a commuter village – deadly silent and deserted during office hours – but a living, breathing community full of friendly faces and boasting great facilities.

How many villages still have their own PO?

There’s the post office, run by Jackie, Howard and their son Rhys, which doubles as a corner shop and a very reasonably-priced off licence. 

Every Christmas Eve, Jackie throws a party in the shop where you can find locals drinking wine and munching sausage rolls between the toilet rolls.

Then there’s Rhiwderin Community Centre, which dates back to 1877 when it was built as the village school. Sadly, the school closed in 1986 but the building continues to play a central role in village life, hosting activities such as Women’s Institute meetings, indoor bowls, karate, a Meithrin playgroup and regular quiz nights.

The community centre was built as a school

A few metres away is Rhiwderin Village Hall, a single-storey prefabricated building which is used for regular craft fairs, dog training and guinea pig shows (no, I didn’t know people actually showed guinea pigs until we moved here!). The Tabernacle Church holds regular services, plus weekly slimming classes for the more weight-conscious members of the congregation.

We have a small children’s play area, a gurgling stream and a fair number of allotments, which were relocated two years ago after the original hundred-year-old site was sold to a housing developer. We have freshly painted white lines at our junctions and only a month ago, a rather nice new bus stop arrived in the village ‘square’!

Garfield is one of Rhiwderin's best known characters

If you fancy a beer, there’s a public house, the Rhiwderin Inn, in the village as well as several others, namely the Friendly Fox and the Ruperra Arms, just a short staggering distance away.

And of course there’s Garfield… the swaggering, ginger Tom who is everybody’s friend. Oh yes, it’s all here in Rhiwderin.

But what Harri and I enjoy most about living here is our proximity to the Welsh countryside.  

The 27-mile Sirhowy Valley Walk runs straight past our garden gate and when the urge to go hiking strikes, we can head towards the hills, wander along the river in the stunning Rhymney Valley or plan walking routes that involve passing our local castles.

Ruperra Castle was destroyed by fire

Ruperra Castle, now sadly dilapidated and out of bounds to visitors, was once home to one of the most powerful men in Wales. The impressive and immense medieval Caerphilly Castle occupies around 30 acres and is the second largest castle  in Britain. And for romantics, there is Castell Coch, a 19^th century Gothic revival castle built on the remains of a genuine 13^th century fortification.

Yes, there's plenty to keep the avid hiker happy in this part of the world.

Newport will never be my spiritual home. But if I avoid town centre and the River Usk and focus on the beauty around me, on the sheep grazing high above Rhiwderin and the wooded mountains and meandering footpaths beyond, it’s not so difficult to convince myself I’m living somewhere entirely different.

P.S. Rhiwderin is a Welsh place name which roughly translates as ‘bird hill’.

Update: The South Wales Argus (our local daily) featured Rhiwderin in a Now and Then feature.

It takes us five minutes to reach open countryside

Sugar and spice, flour and rice

There's not room for another crumb in my larder cupboard

My 17-year-old daughter was invited to stay at a college friend's house overnight on Friday. She had a really good time, however she couldn't help noticing one big difference in the way our two households operate.

The friend's mother does the household shopping once a week, on a Friday. She buys sufficient food to last a week. By Thursday, meal options are vastly reduced. On Friday, in my daughter's words, 'When she says they have empty cupboards, they have empty cupboards'. 

She laughed. 'It's insane, mum.'

I think she was talking about my approach, because having empty cupboards at the end of the week is not insane. Using restraint in the supermarket is a perfectly sensible and admirable way to live. It means food doesn't go out of date, that you can actually find what you're looking for in the fridge, freezer or cupboards and that you don't have to crawl under the bed to check what you're hoarding underneath every fortnight or so.

I really wish I could adopt the 'go shopping when the cupboards are empty' approach.

Only four boxes of food remain under the bed

Yesterday, I spent (wasted) half an hour reducing the number of cardboard boxes under my bed from eight to four. Cardboard boxes full of non-perishable foodstuffs: BOGOFs, special offers, discount shopping, bargains that'll be anything but if they never get eaten.

I transferred lots of items to my over-flowing larder cupboard (I can still remember my excitement when the kitchen fitter constructed it back in January 2011 - yes really!). It was a bit of a squash but somehow I managed to ram in more rice, flour, packet sauce mixes and tinned biscuits.. oh, and some (actually lots) of long-life naan bread. And crisps. 

As I stood on a high stool rummaging around at the back of the top shelf, I spotted four bags of flour I'd forgotten all about. Hang on, weren't there another four bags of flour stashed under the bed, sandwiched neatly between six packets of creamed coconut, various cake mixes and numerous packets dried onions? At the last count, there were nearly thirty curry sauces in this house. 

F

Four packets of mixed seed wholemeal stuffing?

You're probably getting the idea by now. Where food is concerned I've always adopted a hamster mentality. A website for hamster owners explains how they 'are natural hoarders and are notorious for stockpiling their food'. It adds, 'their... precious food supply has been painstakingly stored for future use... removing the hamsters' food hoard completely may cause the animal to become anxious'. The analogy stops there, I should add, because hamsters are prone to urinating on their food store to show who it belongs to!

I blame my genes; I come from a family of food hoarders. My late mother kept a shopping list on the kitchen noticeboard. When any foodstuff was used - a tin of tomatoes, a curry sauce, a bag of frozen chips - it was automatically added to the list so it could be replaced on the next shopping trip. I don't recall us ever running out of anything. My father, now nearly 80, lives alone but could probably feed a small regiment for several weeks.

Me? I could invite the whole British Army to a Come Dine With Me evening!

My intentions are always honorable. I pop to the supermarket carrying the shortest of lists  - fresh fruit and vegetables, some croissants, a French stick and half a dozen eggs - and invariably emerge an hour later clutching several large holdalls.

Wales' introduction of the carrier bag charge in October 2011 has just made things worse. Forget those flimsy, useless carrier bags that disintegrated halfway down the garden path. Now we all have wonderfully sturdy, cavernous shopping bags in the car boot, it's much less hassle to transport large amounts of shopping from car to house.

Summer 2012 wasn't great for camping

Last summer, we had lots of camping planned so I went a little bit mad on the instant packet mixes. Pasta meals and savoury rice... perfect for quick meals, grab ten of each. Curry sauces... adding a touch of spiciness to the campfire feast. Dried onions, tins of chili, spicy sauces... dare I admit it, there's even a very large box of noodles under the desk in our study.

The summer of 2012 is best forgotten. The BBC's Science/Environment section claims April and June were the wettest since monthly records began and the period April-to-June 2012 was the wettest spring ever. 

As you can imagine, we didn't get an awful lot of camping done despite completing Harri's Day Walks in the Brecon Beacons for Vertebrate Publishing. No campfire, no burning desire to eat salty, dried, convenience food. Most of it remains uneaten and under the bed.

So I've decided it's got to stop. It's time to rebrand. The Walker's Wife is a cuddly hamster no more. It's time to transform into a sleek and majestic jaguar, planning no further ahead than the next mouth-watering meal. 

Please tell me it's normal to keep noodles in the study

She will repeat the mantra, 'One should to eat to live, not live to eat' and frequently remind herself that it is immoral to hoard food while there are people starving in the world.

My daughter reckons we've got enough food in this house to last for three months... well,, not for much longer!

Rollicking on the riverbank

Trying to work out if there's a quicker way to the finish line

Given the lengths I usually take to avoid any contact with mud, I still can't believe I spent nearly two hours yesterday wading and splashing through reams of the stuff. 

My second ever cross-country race was ever-so-slightly more ambitious than the three-miler I completed around Cefn Wood a few weeks ago - three times more ambitious actually (yesterday's race was a nine-miler). There was also considerably more mud to contend with in Bristol thanks to a fatal combination of wet weather and lots of bridle paths. A more cynical person might harbour suspicions that Thornbury Running Club organisers had taken great pleasure in devising the muddiest, most slithery route possible.  

The Riverbank Rollick takes place mainly on trails and across fields (90% is off-road). The route starts at the Pithay near St Mary's Church, in Thornbury, goes out to St Arilda's Church at Oldbury and then back through the village of Littleton and over Thornbury Golf Course. There is 120 metres of climbing and the titular riverbank is the Severn. 

So how did this grandmother of two, a confirmed short-distance road runner who doesn't own a decent pair of trail shoes, end up competing in a mud-bath of a race alongside two hundred super-fit mudo-philes?

Ruth is feeling energetic before her first XC race

Well, the blame lies firmly at the feet of fellow Lliswerry Runners, Claire and Zara, who, fresh from their success in the considerably tougher 20k Bog and Bryn around Henllys last November, persuaded me that cross-country racing is actually really good fun. 



Harri, an experienced cross-country runner, had been disappointed to miss the Bog and Bryn, so he agreed to join me in the Riverside Rollick (on the proviso that we ran separately!).

The race was originally planned for January 19, however persistent snowy conditions in the weeks before resulted in some uncertainty over whether it would go ahead.

The day before, Newport parkrun was cancelled for the first time in its two-year history (we run along a wooded riverside path and many branches were snapping under the weight of the snow); things weren't looking good. Then the news came through - the Riverbank Rollick was postponed until April.

There were huge sighs of relief in Rhiwderin. I'd been increasingly half-hearted about the prospect of running through mud and water, up grassy slopes and along the Severn Estuary in cold, wintry conditions. Thanks to the icy, arctic weather, I'd done hardly any distance running since Christmas. A spring date bode well with regard to weather conditions; with a bit of luck, there might not be any mud underfoot at all!

Last weekend, the outlook was looking good. When Harri and I completed our final two walks on Gower, the coastal paths had almost completely dried out. From the evidence on the ground, it was hard to believe that the winter just gone had been exceptionally wet. Things were looking promising for a good weekend rollick.

But if you can rely on one thing, it's the unpredictability of the British weather. By mid week, it was raining again with forecasts of heavy showers at the weekend. 

By Saturday evening, we'd accepted that the Riverside Rollick was going to be a wet affair. Feel the fear and do it anyway, I told myself.

Lliswerry ladies were out in force

So I did it, I ran the nine-mile Riverbank Rollick and I can't believe how much I enjoyed the whole, mucky experience. Thankfully, the rain held off while we were running and though yanking one's shoes out of squelchy, clay-like mud was never going to be easy, I somehow managed to stay upright.

What really made the event special though was the wonderful camaraderie between runners.
I've always laughed at the tags 'attached' and 'unattached', wondering how someone who runs at my speed could ever be attached to Lliswerry legends like Keith, who recently completed a 100-miler, Speedy Gonzales (and appropriately named) Miles, or the amazing and very modest Emma, still in her teens and with a lifetime of running successes ahead of her. 

Still smiling at around 7.5 miles

Yet race with your running club and suddenly you are very much attached, even if you're never going to be one of the first four across the line (the only times that count for team prizes).  I wore my Lliswerry vest (still sporting its Welsh dragon on the back) with pride and loved the noisy encouragement from faster team members as I splashed through the final stream (the sting in the tail) and raced (uphill again) towards the finishing line.

The fact I finished at all, however, is due to the support of three friendly Hogsweed Trotters, who offered me encouragement throughout the race, and, most importantly, towards the end when I started doubting my ability to keep going. 

Cross-country running is tough - even tougher than road running. You need your wits about you when you're plodding along a squelching bridle path with a stream on one side. 

There are fields to slip and slide across, stiles to climb and rough terrain to trip you over. It's almost impossible to switch off, to get into 'the zone', before the next challenge confronts you.

The hill that brought many of us to our knees 

A long, steep field climb faced us as we neared the eight-mile mark, followed by another muddy track, a fence to clamber over and finally, in the woods, a rope with which to haul ourselves up the almost vertical footpath. 

For me, the toughest section was undoubtedly the mile-long riverside stretch along the Severn (between Oldbury-on-Severn and Littleton-on-Severn). Though flat and grassy, it was completely open to the elements, specifically a strong, gusting wind. Despite my best efforts, I knew I was slowing down and I couldn't help feeling a bit demoralized as runners I'd passed in the first three miles came flying past me.

My finishing time was 1:47:41. Harri was waiting, already changed into his warm clothes. He'd completed in an amazing 1:11:02 despite very little training (he cycles more often than he runs!).

Fellow Lliswerry Runner, Ruth and me. Happy to have finished.

I'm starting to love all the statistics that go with running. Within an hour or so of getting home, we were able to see that Harri had averaged 7.58 minute miles, while I'd taken three minutes more to pass each mile marker (11.57). This statistical breakdown certainly explains how crossed the finishing line a full 36 minutes ahead of me.  

So were Claire and Zara right about cross-country racing being great fun? You bet they were!