What's in a name?

Hiking in mid Wales beats cooking Sunday lunch

I was lying in bed a few nights ago thinking about this blog (as you do) and it occurred to me that some readers might consider its name rather sexist. As ‘The Walker’s Wife’ was I perhaps suggesting that Harri was the pro-active doer and I was the little wife who follows, quite literally, in his footsteps.

It’s absolutely untrue, of course, our relationship is based on equality and shared respect, but in the middle of the night it seemed imperative that I explain the origin of the blog's name. So here goes...

I’ve always been passionate about walking, although in my younger days my wanderings were limited by a lack of transport (my parents didn’t own a car until I’d left home and I didn’t learn to drive myself until my late twenties) and the inability to read a map. Nonetheless, walk I did, as often and as far as possible.

Those early walks weren't anything like the scenic hikes I now enjoy with Harri. For a start, I usually had a reluctant walking companion in tow - a friend, boyfriend, my younger sister... I once even persuaded my then 60-year-old dad that a brisk afternoon walk around Grwyne Fawr reservoir in the Black Mountains was exactly what he needed. To explain, I'd treated myself to my first proper hiking boots and I was desperate to try them out in proper hiking country. 

The majestic Black Mountains

Recently retired, Dad  reluctantly agreed to join me on a strenuous, high speed hike on a scorching summer afternoon. Strenuous because my spur-of-the-moment expedition involved a meandering climb to the summit of Waun Fach (811 metres), high speed because my part-time job at Tesco (in Newport) required that I be sitting at a till in my uniform at five o'clock. My poor dad stoically tried to keep pace with me, a knotted white cotton handkerchief on his head as he struggled uphill and down, never quite sure where we were heading. 

That afternoon was probably the closest I've come to killing one of my walking companions... although, now I come to think of it, there was the freezing cold Boxing Day when my (lack of) navigational skills resulted in an ex and I combing the snowy slopes of Coity Mountain as we searched in vain for the Lamb and Fox (we later learned it's located on the Blorenge, on the other side of the valley). So you see, despite my great and enduring passion for the great outdoors, I didn't really have a clue when it came to preparing for hiking jaunts, planning routes or reading maps. As for using a compass... well, the less said about that... 

In my late thirties, I joined Gwent Mountaineering, a long-established club for mountaineers, climbers and walkers in South East Wales, where I met some very nice like-minded people, like the Abergavenny-based writer and publisher Chris Barber. 

Harri on top of a summit ... somewhere (I just take the pics)

There was just one problem - our weekly meeting places tended to be hard-to-find car parks in remote mountain areas, frequently a two-hour drive from my home, e.g. the Radnor Forest. With three children to drop off en route, Sunday mornings became just as hectic and stressful as working days. I lived in fear of arriving at the designated car park and finding everyone else had set off ten minutes early. 

The Ramblers met closer to home, and I enjoyed quite a few walks with our local group before a particularly opinionated (male) member told me outright that, as a mother, I should be home cooking Sunday lunch rather than enjoying a ramble. His forthright views (though extreme and misogynistic) rather put a dampener on things. 

Unfortunately, my career and family commitments meant I did very little hiking for several years and then, in 2006, Harri walked into my life (well, to be precise, into my office). We became friends and soon discovered we shared a love of the outdoors, hiking in particular. He texted me one day to ask if I'd like to accompany him on a 'yomp' that Sunday.

The absolutely stunning Whiteford Sands, north Gower

Little did I know it at the time, but that first walk over the Blorenge, would mark the beginning of a whole new life for me - as an outdoor writer's other half. 

Harri started writing for the Walking World website and soon secured a commission to write a book of day walks on his much-loved Gower peninsula. 

Other commissions quickly followed and I found myself spending more and more time accompanying Harri on his hikes. I prepared our packed lunches and was put in charge of photography. 

How cute - who could eat them?

I enjoyed being involved in Harri's new career, but one aspect of things bugged me. The remit of a guidebook author is to explain accurately and succinctly how to navigate a particular route. Guidebooks demand a lot of mapping and photographs and there simply isn't room to wax lyrically about pretty little coastal villages, how we freed a sheep from a barbed wire fence or the hilarious incident that happened in the local pub.

Yet so many interesting things did happen while we were out walking and these often amusing incidents added hugely to our enjoyment. I mused out loud that I'd like to write about walking too; not in an instructional way but linking our walking experiences with my own thoughts and ideas.

As I'd anticipated, Harri was 100% supportive of the idea and, since day one, he's been my blog's biggest fan. 

He will always be the one who pores over maps for hours on end and knows his north-west from his north-east. Me? I get enthused by newborn lambs, piglets and an unexpected field of daffodils in the Brecon Beacons.

And so The Walker's Wife was born. Not because I'm anti-feminist or subservient, but because like other outdoor writers, I yearn to share my love of wild places with others. 

... the irony, of course, is we're not actually married.

It's good to strike up a conversation with the locals

Birds of a feather

Low tide at Rhossili with Worm's Head in the distance

So Rhossili has been awarded third place in a list of best European beaches.

In a survey of worldwide tourists by TripAdvisor the windswept Welsh beach, popular with families and dog walkers alike, was beaten only by Rabbit Beach at Lampedusa, Sicily, and Playa de las Catedrales in Ribadeo, Galicia, Spain.

In the unlikely event that any reader hasn’t visited Rhossili, this magnificent three-mile stretch of sand lies on the tip of the Gower peninsula.

Thousands visit Rhossili annually to stroll along the beach, surf its waves and splash around in the sea.  As a tourist destination, Rhossili offers everything: miles of white sand, (at low tide) several shipwrecks, a public house, cafes, a National Trust shop, toilets, two small tidal islands and, most important, a large car park.

Two miles to the north, and tucked just behind Burry Holms, lies an equally beguiling stretch of sand but here the similarity ends. 

Whiteford Sands is largely ignored by the crowds

Unlike its buzzing, tourist-friendly, cash-grabbing neighbour, Whiteford Sands has no amenities and requires a ten minute walk from the nearest car park at Llanmadoc. 

Wild ponies graze the mud flats near Whiteford Sands

Our preferred route around Whiteford Point takes a good deal longer but passes some of the Gower’s most contrasting scenery and provides plenty of photographic opportunities, e.g. wild ponies grazing on the mud flats.

Now Rhossili has been crowned one of the top European beaches it’s likely to encourage even greater numbers to explore its attractions, leaving the peace and tranquility of Whiteford Sands to the locals and ‘those in the know’.

It’s the same story in the Brecon Beacons. The National Park's own website claims it is visited annually by ‘some 3.8 million people who spend around 4.2 million days there’.

So are the mountains thronging with hikers, trekking in convoy over the ridges?  The mere thought makes me chuckle.

Last spring and summer, Harri and I completed over 20 walks for inclusion in Harri’s forthcoming book on the Brecon Beacons for Vertebrate Publishing. 

Most days we saw hardly saw anyone at all, except when we ventured into villages and towns. Occasionally, we might pass a couple of hikers, or even more rarely, a small group of walkers, but more often we had great expanses of Welsh mountain all to ourselves. 

The truth is that the only places in the Brecon Beacons where you can reasonably expect to encounter large groups of walkers are on the well-walked trails leading to the twin peaks of Pen y Fan and Corn Du and in the popular waterfalls area at Ystradfellte. Hike anywhere else in the Brecon Beacons and it’s quite possible, and very probable on drizzly, grey days, that you’ll not pass another person all day. 

That’s right. No-one. Anywhere. There are more sheep than people in this part of Wales. 

I recall watching a television programme several years ago which rated the ‘must-see’ places in the world. No prizes for guessing which large American gorge came top of the list. Tourist after tourist gushed over the Grand Canyon – almost to a person describing it as ‘awesome’ – though few had done much more than gaze across the mile-wide chasm before turning their attention to the man-made attractions which line the cliff top.

Bryce Canyon, Utah with not a cafe or shop in sight

A few months later, we were there ourselves, having first visited the rather more accessible and equally stunning (if far less frequently raved about) Zion and Bryce Canyons in Southern Utah.

‘There’s only so much red rock you can look at,’ Alanna pronounced, at eight clearly unimpressed by this geological monster of nature.

Flicking through an old guidebook recently, I read that almost all visitors to the Grand Canyon visit the South Rim (the hotels, cafes, gift shops, 3D cinemas, etc, are located here) where they spend just 40 minutes of their two-three hour visit looking at the canyon. North Rim is apparently just too far off the beaten track for the majority.

It’s exactly the same story in Madeira, where coach loads of tourists flock to Monte for the toboggan run or to Rabaçal for the waterfalls. Not that either of these places isn't beautiful and well worth seeing, of course, but so is the magnificent and largely deserted high plateau of the Paul do Serra. 

St Ives: the most visited resort in Cornwall

In Cornwall, the big draw is St Ives, where on a rainy day in August, we were hard-pushed to find standing room in a pub. 

In Pembrokeshire, it's St David's that attracts the madding crowds (Harri will never forgive me for having to queue twice in a heaving beer garden for two halves of cider because, as I maintain, ladies don't drink pints!). 

Everyone, it seems, flocks to the same places for no reason other than these are the places that people flock. In our hundreds, we swarm into the pubs, cafes and gift shops that spring up in response to demand, though in some instances the natural landscape is so inaccessible, the commercial landscape now appears to be the main attraction, e.g. Cheddar Gorge, Tintagel. 

It often makes me wonder if humans really are birds of a feather… or just sheep?

 Birds... or just sheep? 

Live stock

I've gone off bacon sandwiches for good!

Two decades ago, as a breast-feeding mum, I watched a lamb tugging at a ewe’s underside as it tried to suckle and felt a sudden affinity with this other, slightly woollier, mother.

From that day, I stopped eating lamb completely except in situations when to refuse would offend, or worse, embarrass, my hosts.  I even went vegetarian for a few years until another pregnancy – and severe anaemia – sent me heading back to the meat counter.

After an abysmal April when our walking boots barely saw the light of day, we’ve been getting out and about again. And guess what – I’m getting all sentimental about baby animals to the point where Harri is forbidding me to take any more photographs of sheep, lambs or anything else with four legs.

Worse, I’m starting to consider vegetarianism all over again – yesterday’s evening meal was a delicious homemade butternut squash curry. 

You see, while it’s easy to divorce those hermatically sealed packs of raw flesh from live animals when you spend your days in town, it’s horribly difficult to cook bacon after you’ve spent a good ten minutes chatting to two friendly and oh-so-cute tail-wagging piglets on the escarpment above Llangattock.

Still fancy a beefburger?

And has anyone looked into the eyes of a young calf recently? Those big trusting eyes and eyelashes to die for – oops, wrong word but you get my drift. Somehow even the leanest fillet steak loses its appeal when you start joining the dots and working out what happened between number 1 and number 20.

Thankfully, I’ve never eaten mutton – I mean, how could anyone look at those dozy animals and think ‘haute cuisine’? 

Go into a field full of sheep and the entire flock does one of two things – runs away from you in terror or runs towards you in anticipation. 

One of the braver lambs

It’s impossible to predict their reaction from day to day. My theory is that it’s linked to what we’re wearing. Yesterday’s pink fleece was clearly sheep language for ‘we're here to feed you’ because we were quickly surrounded by up to a hundred sheep, while last week’s mass exodus was down to the subliminal message sent out by my navy fleece (‘we're here to eat you’).

I admit I’m a bit sheep obsessed. I must have taken at least thirty sheep photographs yesterday – most now consigned to the rubbish bin it’s true – but sheep are entertaining in so many ways. For a start, ewes are hapless mothers who seem incapable of keeping their young charges in the same field, let alone under mama’s watchful eye. There’s a tragic inevitability to what happens when we climb over a stile into a field of ewes and their lambs on a recognised footpath. One sheep spots us and baas loudly to warn her own offspring of oncoming danger (navy fleece warning). Within seconds, there are lambs running around in all directions, each one beating desperately like the kid in the Rolf Harris song ‘I lost my mammy’ . Meanwhile, another ewe emits a few gentle baas but doesn’t look unduly worried that in his blind panic, junior has managed to get his head stuck in a fence.

Oh, the joys of spring hiking. Where’s that tofu?

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.