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

Struggling to adapt

It's not always easy to adapt to new surroundings, however beautiful

Why, after all these years, do I still find packing for holidays so difficult? What to take, what to leave behind, how many undies, posh frock or casuals for nights out, heels? The list goes on.

When we’re off on our UK jaunts, I generally tend to err on the side of caution; in other words, I pack the lot. In suitcases, plastic crates, carrier bags and rucksacks, it all goes in.

But this time we were flying to Madeira, which meant a strict weight limit and, that most inconvenient of regulations, no liquids in containers of over 100ml in the cabin (ruling out shampoo, shaving gel, sun cream, etc).

When we booked back in October, Harri and I had decided we could easily survive with just one suitcase, that 20kg of luggage between us would be ample for an eleven day holiday, which would involve running one half marathon, hiking most days, dining out… Now said suitcase was lying open on the bed, my half was looking decidedly small. I began to panic.

Take it slowly, I told myself. Slowly and methodically, then you won’t leave anything vital behind.

When it comes to packing for overseas holidays, I try to split items into three categories:

• completely frivolous or far too heavy
• might be useful but can survive without 
• must not forget under any circumstances.

Inevitably, there are some things, my heated rollers for instance, which potentially fall into two categories. Ordinarily, I can’t live without them, but as they weigh roughly the same as a small child and I was supposed to be ‘packing light’ (possibly the worst two words in the vocabulary), taking them was a non-starter. 

Anyway, I’ve promised Harri that I’ll   try out backpacking this year – yes, proper, ‘two pairs of smalls and a sleeping bag’ backpacking – so this holiday seemed like a good opportunity to practice straight hair.

I could do this, I told myself. I could set off on holiday with half a suitcase of clothing plus hand luggage. I started flinging things back into the drawer with gusto.

Relaxing with a glass of Coral and our new adapter

It was only 24 hours later, when we were unpacking in the Sao Paulo and Alegria Hotel, that the full extent of what I’d left behind hit me. Where was our Portuguese phrase book? The cheap Ikea sun cream?  My eye shadow? 

But far worse, from a practical point of view, was the missing electrical adapter. If there’s one thing that falls into the ‘can’t live without when abroad’ category, this is it. We needed it to charge our mobile phones, dry my hair (we were self-catering for five days) and charge our camera batteries (more on that later). I actually remember getting it out and putting it on the bed but for whatever reason it hadn't made the final 20kg.

This was serious – as serious as the time I left my daughters’ new coats behind on a camping trip to north Wales (I had no choice but to buy more), though perhaps not of quite the same magnitude as one of Harri’s childhood experiences. His father, Garrod, forgot to pack the tent poles on a family holiday to Cornwall. Realising his mistake, he packed the family – wife and three boys – back into the car and drove home to Cwmbran to get them. I think I’d have settled for buying a new tent, but then petrol wasn’t so extortionate back in the 1980s.

Well, we weren’t about to re-board a plane to the UK so we'd just have to buy another. Harri reasoned that the large supermarket just down the street was bound to sell them. We searched the aisles hopefully and came out empty-handed.

The cliff top walk from Camara de Lobos 

Harri came up with Plan B. We were doing a walk for Walking World the following day (Saturday) from Camara de Lobos back to Funchal along the newly opened promenade. The walk would take us past Funchal’s main hotel region, where, he reasoned, there were bound to be lots of shops selling the ‘can’t live without’ items at inflated prices.

We trawled round all three floors of Forum Madeira, Funchal’s answer to Cribb’s Causeway (though thankfully on a much smaller scale). It was all fashion, sportswear and cafes. No electrical shops and no adapters.

Finally, in despair, I persuaded Harri to do the one thing that men resist at all costs. You know, the thing that involves (ssshhh!) asking someone. Suddenly our luck changed.

The man sitting behind his computer in the small mobile phone/wifi shop was English. Not only that, he had a spare adapter at home. Best of all, his apartment was just metres away.

Man at C&A is still alive and kicking at Forum Madeira

I’m not religious but very occasionally you get the feeling there’s an omnipotent force watching over you and this was one such time (another was finding a 1917 edition of Raymond, Or Life and Death in a box of tatty old books I was sorting through at Raven House Trust).

Our new friend was indeed true to his word and wouldn't accept anything for the adapter.

So our holiday was saved by the kindness of a stranger. I’m thinking of flying with British Airways from now on though – for a higher fare price, each passenger gets a generous 23kg luggage allowance.

And that battery charger that we did remember to pack... someone (mentioning no names) managed to leave it behind in Madeira. Which only goes to prove that packing properly is essential at both ends. 

Sometimes it's easier just to sleep your way through problems