Publication day looms

The author in the Brecon Beacons

 ‘I would like to thank my partner for… providing cheer and company on the walks themselves, and for not complaining – too much – when the weather took a turn for the worse.’ 

Harri Roberts, author, Day Walks in the Brecon Beacons

Can there be anything more exciting than seeing your partner's words in print as his first walking guidebook hits the shelves (figuratively speaking)? To see your own contribution acknowledged in black and white?

April 1 marks the official publication day for Day Walks in the Brecon Beacons (although the book has been available to pre-order from publisher Vertebrate and other online book stores for several weeks now). Underneath the thumbnail of the cover and book description on Vertebrate's site, there’s a little bio about Harri, which I’m going to repeat here:

Harri Roberts is a freelance writer, editor and translator based in Newport, Gwent. He has authored a number of Welsh walking guides, including a forthcoming official guidebook to the Wales Coast Path (Amroth to Swansea section). 

His love of the Brecon Beacons developed during research for an ambitious guide to the Cambrian Way, a high-level, Welsh ‘end-to-end’ across some of the most scenic and mountainous terrain in the country.

The trail levels out above Talybont reservoir 

So it’s finally looking as if all the hours of driving, freezing nights huddled in our tiny tent, aching legs and sore feet (plus the long hours confined to the study writing it) have been worth it. 

And just in case you're in any doubt, writing hiking books for a living is a long, mostly uphill struggle. 

I say this with feeling because I’ve been there alongside Harri from the outset and I'd like to believe my small contribution (photography and sandwiches) has gone some way towards helping him fulfill his lifelong ambition. 

To this end, I’ve trekked miles up, down, across and around Wales in sun, wind, rain and drizzle. I’ve been frazzled, frozen, soggy and sunburnt, hungry, thirsty, blistered and just bloody fed up. I've laughed and cried, paddled through icy waters and assisted in freeing countless sheep from barbed wire fences. I’ve ‘lost’ the camera more times than I care to remember, and spent more on bus fares in six years than in my entire previous lifetime.

Occasionally, for practical reasons (like needing to be dropped off/picked up miles from civilisation or a bus route or hiking in particularly difficult terrain like the Rhinogs), Harri has opted to walk alone but those occasions were relatively rare and as publication day of this first book approaches, I wear my hiking writer’s partner badge with pride. 

I've walked the miles, captured the images, earned my title. I've worked hard so that on April 1, I can announce with complete authenticity, 'Today, readers, I'm going to be The Walker's Wife'.

Looking down from Allt yr Esgair

Not that hiking in the glorious Brecon Beacons, with its spectacular peaks and escarpments, gorges, open moorland and peaceful valleys, can really be considered 'work'; rather we've simply been indulging our passion with the promise of a pay cheque sometime in the distance future .

Fortunately, the majority of our Brecon Beacons hiking was done last spring before the jet stream got stuck down south and the mountains were transformed into bleak, verdant bogs. Later, we were glad we'd seized the moment and spent the fine weather exploring trails, footpaths and quiet, metalled lanes.

We hiked some of the most popular spots in the National Park and some of the most remote. We joined a convoy of hikers approaching Pen y Fan from the north ridge (amazingly, we’d managed to forget it was a Bank Holiday weekend) and enjoyed the company of sheep on the isolated slopes of the (confusingly named) Black Mountain.

In early March, just two days after completing the Llanelli Half Marathon (my first ever race of this kind) and sporting rather spectacular blood blisters on the soles of both feet, I was back in the ‘saddle’, scaling a Black Mountains escarpment (Route 6: Castell Dinas and  Rhos Dirion) .

In May, and with the Black Mountains walks done and dusted, we battled against cold winds to complete a ten-miler around Mynyydd Llangatwg and Craig y Cilau (Route 9). 

Llangors Lake: a beautiful setting for bird-watchers

The landscape was always interesting and varied, even for a seasoned Brecon Beacons visitor like me.

The beautifully constructed wooden bird hide on the western shore of Llangors Lake was a wonderful surprise, as was the wooded ridge of Allt yr Esgair (Route 8). In the book, Harri describes the latter as ‘a pure delight, with panoramic views complemented in May and June by a wild profusion of colourful flowers’ . I can sum it up in two words, ‘absolutely stunning’.

The serene Olchon Valley (Route 5), just outside the National Park, is off the well-trodden tourist track but is equally appealing (the valley is now known as the setting for the film Resistance, based on the novel by Owen Sheers) and well worth walking.

Another Black Mountains gem is the 11th century Partrishow Church, with its intricately carved 16th century rood screen and the chilling, faded wall painting of a skeleton holding a scythe, hourglass and spade. 

A rival for Italy's Leaning Tower of Pisa?

A couple of miles away, subsidence in the hillside has caused the tower of St Martin's Church, Cwmyoy to lean precariously like a Welsh Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

One morning, we stumbled upon a field of daffodils, out of place against the wild heather-covered escarpment looming above but uplifting nonetheless.

We wandered among sheep, cattle and horses, along the Roman road of Sarn Helen, sections of Offa's Dyke and behind waterfalls.

Finally, in August and after the wettest summer in 100 years, we finished walking the Brecon Beacons and, for me at least, the hard work was over.

Inevitably, some memories fade as the months pass. But it doesn't really matter because we'll always want spend time hiking across the varied landscape of the Brecon Beacons, book or no book.

An unexpected field of daffodils 

When is a national trail not a National Trail?

The Pembrokeshire Coast Path - one of Wales's three National Trails

The Ramblers is urging everyone who enjoys hiking to sign a petition to save England’s thirteen National Trails.

The walkers’ organisation is afraid Government plans to radically alter the way National Trails are managed will lead to historic trails like the Pennine Way and Hadrian’s Wall Path becoming ‘little more than overgrown mud-tracks’.

One of Wales's very own 'mud tracks'

National Trails in England and Wales are currently maintained by two national bodies: Natural England and the Countryside Council for Wales.

The Government wants to hand over management of National Trails in England to what they call Local Trail Partnerships. In other words, they want individual local councils to form ‘partnerships’ with other interested bodies which will then assume responsibility for the management and maintenance of National Trails.

The Ramblers is quite rightly concerned that already overstretched councils will struggle to maintain hundreds of miles of footpaths and trails.

At the moment, the proposals only affect England and there are no similar plans in Wales; however, you don’t need a crystal ball to speculate about what’s likely to happen to our National Trails if the Government gets its way because this haphazard ‘local’ management style is already being applied to the Wales Coast Path.

Confusingly, the much-lauded 870-mile continual trail around Wales is not currently a National Trail despite its high-profile launch and national branding. Take a look at the website and you’ll see listed 22 ‘path partners’ (all of whom are involved in some aspect of the path’s establishment, maintenance and promotion). No less than 16 of these partners are local authorities, each of which has its own (constantly changing) political agenda and increasing budgetary demands. No marks then for guessing that in the current economic climate many councillors will not view the maintenance of footpaths as a high priority (or vote winner).

A muddy stretch of the Wales Coast Path
above Laugharne

Partnership is one of the buzz words in the public sector. A former senior manager of mine once used the immortal words ‘if you’re doing it alone, you’re doing it wrong’. He has been (anonymously) quoted in many a high-level strategy ever since.

The trouble with partnerships is they need managing… and administering… and promoting. Meetings have to be organised, minutes and agendas distributed far and wide. Local government (in Wales at least) already ‘facilitates’ (another word much favoured by council officers) various partnerships, e.g. the Community Safety Partnership, the Health, Social Care and Well-being Partnership, and the Children and Young People’s Partnership.  There are probably others but I’ve been out of local government for over a year now so I no longer need to keep track.

I just don’t think local government needs any more partnerships! Moreover, different local authority areas have diverse priorities and some do not prioritise footpaths.

How many cows trekked the
Wales Coast Path  before us?

A few years ago, Harri and I walked the Pembrokeshire Coast Path – one of Wales’s three National Trails – over several weekends, starting at St Dogmael’s in July and finishing at Amroth the following January. 

As we crossed the Pembrokeshire–Carmarthenshire border, the previously well-maintained and well-surfaced coast path immediately degenerated into a mud-bath.

The sad truth is that despite all the publicity, the boasts of ‘year-round activities’ and ‘family fun’, Wales’s newest tourist attraction is almost unwalkable in places. The churned-up ground along some sections, e.g. the stretch above Marros Sands, suggests the passage of a herd of tap-dancing cows; hundreds of metres are passable only in the sturdiest of hiking boots.

Carmarthenshire’s disregard for its footpaths, even the scenic cliff-top trails comprising the Wales Coast Path, strengthens the argument for continued management of National Trails by a national body.

And, being realistic, local councils can’t be responsible for everything. Most already struggle to maintain the smaller, lesser-used footpaths and will often choose to close a footpath completely (or divert it along a busy road!) rather than invest in its maintenance.

Boardwalks - a 'site' for sore eyes
 (and wet feet)

Newport Council promotes 10 Countryside Walks and, as we’ve walked them all, I speak from experience when I say that most of them have sections which are impassable due to ‘invisible’ footpaths, brambles, inaccessible stiles, etc. I’d like to think someone actually walked them before producing the leaflets but I’m not so sure. Last summer, Harri contacted Newport council about an overgrown footpath and was told that it was impassable because no-one used it. Er, we were trying to use it!

It’s the same story with the Monmouthshire and Brecon Canal. The towpath from Malpas Road to Fourteen Locks is in an abysmal state; at the steepest point, it’s so muddy and slippery I’m surprised no-one has fallen into one of the locks. Carry on past the Visitor Centre towards Risca and into a new local authority area (Caerphilly) and suddenly the surface is flat and even and a delight to walk/run/cycle along.

I’m really proud that this little nation of three million people is the first in the world to have a continual path around its coastline. It’s pretty impressive, eh?

If Cameron’s Government pushes ahead with its proposals for National Trails, it’s possible that these magnificent historic walkways will gradually deteriorate to the standard of the path above Marros Sands or the ‘invisible’ paths promoted by Newport Council.

If you believe that National Trails are worth saving, please sign the Ramblers’ petition today and urge this Government to rethink its crazy proposals.

And just in case you were wondering, the other two National Trails in Wales are Offa’s Dyke Path (shared with England) and Glyndŵr’s Way.

National Trails deserve national and
not fragmented management

It's raining, weathermen

Unexpected puddles can be troublesome 

Meteorology has to be one of very few professions (along with politics) where you can get it wrong, week after week, month after month – yet still hang onto your job.

Harri, like all outdoor writers, spends an inordinate amount of time online checking the short and long-term weather forecast and, as a couple, we perhaps discuss the weather more than most.

At the very least, it’s helpful to know whether it’s opportune to fill the space in the bottom of my day pack with a lightweight kagould or our miniscule Past Times picnic rug. On a more serious note, we want to stay safe and well in the mountains and that means wearing suitable clothing for the weather conditions (which always poses more problems for me than for Harri!).

First, there are the shoes – do I wear heavy, ankle-high Karrimors or my favourite Brasher sandals (my first present from Harri)? Perhaps I should hedge my bets with Salamon cross-country shoes – or would my feet fare better in last year’s waterproof Teva Itundas?

With fleeces of every style, weight and fitting filling my wardrobe, deciding which one to wear on any particular trip presents another pre-hike dilemma. Chunky and warm could turn out to be a life-saver (quite literally) on a freezing mountain top but is cumbersome to carry if the sun puts in an unexpected appearance; the stylish, light-weight choice ties neatly around the waist but provides little protection in a gale force 7.

Leg attire is just as troublesome. Long trousers? Shorts? What about that pair of zip offs? Long johns worn under trousers equals cosy, but overheating could become an issue during a tough ascent. Warm socks, cool socks, running socks, no socks?  

Decisions, decisions. Every hiking trip throws me into a quandary, and it’s one made worse by the weathermen’s inability to forecast accurately more than an hour or two ahead.

For near ombrophobes like me (I hate the rain and avoid walking in it whenever possible), it’s important to have specific advance warning of a soaking, however the language used in weather forecasting is becoming as vague as the read-into-it-what-you-will wording preferred by astrologers.

Wikipedia describes meteorologists as being ‘best known for forecasting the weather’ (my italics) and with phrases like ‘likely to’ and ‘expected to’ peppered throughout the Met Office and BBC weather pages, it’s difficult to believe there’s any science at all behind the current predictions.

Clouds often behave in mysterious ways

With 2012 likely to go on record as the wettest summer since records began, I suppose meteorologists can be forgiven for offering a tiny glimpse of hope every few days – though as Nietzsche argued ‘in reality, hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs man’s torments'’.

The relentless rain hasn’t spoilt all our fun – we did manage a 90-minute walk around Rhiwderin and Rogerstone this morning with just a light sprinkle of the wet stuff falling on us (me in  waterproof, Harri without) – but how much nicer it would be if we could roam the mountains in tee-shirts, shorts and sandals. It is summer, after all.

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?