Day 2 Wet feet (St Clears-Carmarthen)

Come on Carmarthenshire, what about some boardwalks?

It’s official – Carmarthenshire is the muddiest, boggiest county in Wales. And the council officials who have spent years devising the Wales Coast Path are so proud of their fertile, green and wet land that they want to share every last squelchy inch of it with visiting hikers.

This isn't what it said on the packet!

After yesterday’s dismal final miles, we desperately needed decent scenery to lift our spirits this morning. Shod in clean boots (yesterday’s were just too sodden to put on again), we walked out of St Clears on a tarmac cycle path. So far so good...

Four long hours later, we sat down for elevensies at 2.30pm. For almost four hours, we’d ploughed through some of the muddiest fields I’ve ever experienced, watched by hundreds of mildy interested cows as we daintily side-stepped thousands of soft, fresh cow pats (maybe a tiny exaggeration but you get my drift). Some fields were virtually impassable but pass through them we did – Harri has to stick to the official route for his book though he is allowed to recommend ‘alternative’ routes on occasion. On the evidence of the first two days’ walking, my recommendation would be to bypass Carmarthenshire’s ‘coast’ and head from Pembrokeshire straight to the spectacular Gower.

Walking the Wales Mud Bath 

Unfortunately, as author and photographer of one of the official guides, we were honour-bound to walk every single inch, which is how we found ourselves meandering around the heavily cow-populated fields of Carmarthenshire on a convoluted inland detour which provided few glimpses of the estuary waters below.

The highlight of the morning was the ruined St Michael’s Church, tucked away in an eery, wooded glade (the reasoning behind the long detour inland perhaps?). The sight of medieval pilgrim graves with their stone vaults curving around long buried bodies was strangely unsettling.

Medieval graves at St Michael's Church

Finally, after a miserable morning’s walking during which we fantasized considerably about future commissions in hot, dry climates, where coastal paths meandered along stunning coastlines rather than between cow pats, we were rewarded with a glimpse of Laugharne across the estuary.

All those hours spent traipsing through fields and we were pretty much back where we started, albeit with a narrow stretch of water between us and the picturesque Laugharne. Years ago, the two communities were linked by a regular ferry but nowadays, unless you fancy taking your chances and swimming across, there’s no alternative but to walk up the estuary and back down the other side.

There must be a strategy behind this intriguingly
placed section of board walk

The views improved considerably shortly after we passed a National Trust car park and we ate lunch on a bench high above the estuary, looking down at the MOD land we’d been unable to access the previous afternoon.

Llansteffan is a pretty little village, with a wide, sandy beach but nothing much other than a busy tearoom to recommend it. The sun had come out, however, so, in contrast to the morning’s solitude, we were suddenly surrounded by lots of people strolling around.

We didn’t linger – we had 18 miles to cover and progress through the fields had been slow – and were soon climbing up a steep sunken lane out of the village.

I’d persuaded Harri that the only way I’d ever learn to map-read was if he occasionally relinquished his hold on his OS map and let me take charge of directing us. He (sort of) agreed, which was how I found myself gazing up at electricity pylons (in OS language ‘electricity transmission lines’), counting field boundaries and getting unusually excited about a ford.

The afternoon’s walk was a marked improvement on the morning section – clearly defined paths, lots of lane walking – however, for a much-publicised national coast path it would have been nice if we'd been able to enjoy some coastal views.

The final haul into Carmarthen was endless, taking us through steep, narrow lanes, a very saturated woodland, along a busy main road and finally, through school playing fields and a tarmac path into town centre.

This kind of hiking isn’t the stuff that memories are made of – if I wanted to wade through mud and cow pats, along slippery woodland paths and tarmac cycle paths, I could do it much closer to home.

Wales is the first country in the world to open a continual coastal path; the launch, in May this year, was accompanied by much fanfare and, as such, expectations are high.

It’s true the weather has been abominable this summer, turning normally passable paths into mudbaths, but I have other issues with the chosen route.

At the outset, I’d expected clearly defined, walkable paths, amazing coastal views, yomps across beaches and cliff-tops, sunsets on a distant horizon, picturesque seaside villages and colourful fishing boats bobbing in a harbour.

Harri walking the Wales Cowstal Path 

As I took off my boots at the end of Day 2, my abiding memories will be of cows, cows and more cows. Oh, and did I mention cow pats? And slugs?

Day 1 – Setting off (Amroth-St Clears)

The Wales Coast Path was launched in May 2012 -
Harri is  writing the official guide for the stretch from Amroth to Swansea

At the beginning of every hike, I have ridiculously high expectations. Forget the sodden marshlands of last month’s expedition, the endless clambering uphill and the relentless, sheeting rain of yesterday, the next journey promises to be different.

Time and time again, I set myself up for disappointment and that’s how it was with our first three days on the Amroth-Swansea section of the Wales Coast Path.

What made my optimism even less understandable this time around was that I’ve previously walked two out of the three stretches we planned to cover today. Buried deep in the dredges of my mind there were undoubtedly memories of the tough, undulating coastline between Amroth and Pendine, the interminable detour inland around MOD land and the endless wet fields. Whatever, my brain chose not to resurrect bad memories from previous walks and instead I experienced afresh the delights of squelching up the hill from Marros Sands (the boardwalks are a welcome addition but we need many more of them!) and trudging along the roadside path from Pendine.

This being our first day, we were late setting off. Sixteen miles isn’t a daunting distance but the difficult terrain of the five mile stretch to Amroth took us roughly three hours, slow-going by any standards.

There’s no denying the initial climbs are tough – and this being a coast path, the route regularly sends you plummeting back to sea level only to be faced with another soaring cliff – but the hard work is worth it for the views. I didn’t realise at the time, but the vistas across the waves to Caldey Island were the only proper sea views we would have in our three days’ walking.

Last autumn, Harri and I walked from Laugharne to Pendine and back in one day. It’s a tedious stretch of ‘coast’ path, namely because after reaching Pendine seafront, the walker is directed inland almost immediately to avoid the vast swathes of coastline acquired by the MOD during the Second World War. Harri is currently investigating an alternative weekend route along Pendine Sands when the weapons testing range isn’t being used so beach walking should be possible for those who prefer their coast paths to be coastal.

After what felt like a never-ending trek across tarmac, the Wales Coast Path meanders through a succession of fields running parallel to the main road. In some, the path is fenced off and the ground relatively dry underfoot; in too many, however, the path is ill-defined, wet and boggy – just the sort of hiking I love!

The views from Sir John's Hill are well worth the effort

At last, we reached Sir John’s Hill and entered Laugharne via Dylan Thomas’ ‘Birthday Walk’. Now Laugharne is a place that is definitely worth visiting, albeit a bit on the touristy side. The presence of Carmarthenshire’s favourite son is evident everywhere, from the sculpture overlooking the estuary to Brown’s Hotel, Dylan’s writing shed to his former home, the Boat House. It’s a pretty spot to while away a few hours, but unfortunately, we were running late and so it was a quick glance through the shed window and ever onwards (and at that point, very definitely upwards).

The atmospheric interior of Dylan Thomas's
writing shed

The final stretch of today’s walk was virgin territory for both of us and so mildly, no make that madly, exciting. It all started so promisingly – we trotted out of Laugharne along a wooded path high above the water, tiring a little but nonetheless keen to sample the delights of Carmarthenshire’s undiscovered coastline.

As our moods plummeted, the slug count soared. This county must surely be the slug capital of Wales; they were everywhere, thousands of them clinging to the saturated vegetation. I tried to avoid standing on them, but they were so numerous, I soon gave up. And bog run organisers, take note – I thought the Brecon Beacons were wet but they are nothing compared to the sodden, squelching fields of Carmarthenshire.

Carmarthenshire's exploding 

slug population is the only thing to look at for miles

Having worked in the public sector for many years, I understand the concept of committees, camels and horses, specifically how there is a reverse exponential relationship between the number of people around the table and the quality of the decisions made.

Assuming that premise, there were surely hundreds involved in determining the official coast path route for the Laugharne-St Clears section of the Wales Coast Path. In short, it’s terrible: there are no estuary views worth noting, in fact, there is nothing interesting to look at; the path is frequently indistinct, in many places no more than a line cut through the vegetation; there are slugs, slugs and more slugs no doubt relishing the bogginess of the ground.

At the end of a gruelling day there was only one thing left to do – toss my stinking socks into the bin and head to the nearest off-licence.

On - and off - the buses

You might need a bank loan if you're planning
to leave Porthleven by bus

Now that I’m in training for the Cardiff half marathon, I’ve been forced to abandon some of my shorter lane and riverside runs, and focus my efforts on pounding the streets of Newport West.

   

This morning, as I puffed along the pavements of Bassaleg, Western Avenue, High Cross and Rogerstone, something occurred to me. Despite passing numerous bus stops on several different routes, not one of the people waiting at them looked under retirement age.

Despite its terrain, most of Madeira is
accessible by bus

Of course, this could be because I’d waited until after rush hour to set off (unlike my mate Merv, I’m pretty useless at ‘car dodging’), however it is the middle of the summer holidays and with flexi-time/shift working pretty much the norm now, there must be plenty of younger people catching buses after 9am – or is there?

I love travelling on public transport; in San Diego, Paris, Barcelona, Madeira, Rome – anywhere, in fact, where it’s abundant, cheap and reliable, anywhere other than the UK.

In Wales, public transport is universally lamentable and costly – unless you’re travelling to Cardiff. The imaginatively named coastal bus services in Pembrokeshire – the Poppit Rocket, Strumble Shuttle, Puffin Shuttle and Coastal and Celtic Cruisers – are also great value and run regularly throughout the summer season but, unfortunately, services like these are in the minority. 

Elsewhere, the buses that do run are increasingly sporadic and, worse, completely unaffordable to those on low incomes.

My daughter, a social worker in the Rhondda, sees firsthand how many families and young people are effectively trapped because they lack the means to travel from their deprived communities to look for work or educational opportunities. How unfair and illogical that the retired teacher or nurse enjoys free bus travel for a shopping trip to Cardiff or lunch ‘down the Bay’ when a young person desperately seeking employment can barely scrape together the bus fare for an interview.

Travelling by bus to Lisbon from Setubal was cheap and easy

Let me make it clear, I’m not ageist; after all, at 51 I’m not exactly a spring chicken myself. I also think it's commendable that the Welsh Government recognises the importance of getting out and about for individual well-being. No older person should be cut off from their family and friends, from leisure activities and shopping, simply because they don’t drive and can’t afford the bus fare.

I agree wholeheartedly with these lofty ‘aims’ (good public sector word there) but not with the wholly predictable knock-on effect, i.e. massively inflated bus fares for everyone else, whatever their financial situation.

I went to a school reunion a few weeks ago and decided to catch the last bus home. The fare cost £1.60 for a single journey of around four miles, not too bad as a one off but it soon mounts up if you do the journey regularly. A quick glance around the bus informed me I was the youngest passenger by a good decade making me the only paying customer.

Journeys between neighbouring towns demand increasingly crazy fares. When Harri and I walked the Torfaen Trail  a few years ago, the deteriorating weather almost persuaded us to abort our plans in Blaenavon. It was only the cost of the bus fare back to Pontypool that kept us going – two single fares for a five-mile journey would have cost us over £9. 

It was a similar story when we were doing the South West Coast Path in Cornwall. The bus driver on the Porthleven to Penzance route admitted that demanding the astronomical fares really embarrassed him. 

I’m convinced that bus fares have risen dramatically since free travel for over 60s was introduced. It’s only a theory but I’m guessing that now the majority of the bus-travelling population does so absolutely free of charge, bus companies are hiking their prices (Freudian slip there) for everyone else.

Tomorrow as we embark on the Amroth-Swansea section of the Wales Coast Path (Harri is writing the official guide for Northern Eye Books), there is no doubt that the escalating cost of bus fares will raise its ugly head again. We have two buses to catch to our starting point at Amroth (we then spend the day walking back to the car) so, over the next few weeks, I’m certain to utter those immortal words ‘how much?’ 

I’m a socialist; I have no desire to see older people struggling to make ends meet or to experience social isolation because they can’t afford bus fares.

I often wonder, however, if the Welsh Assembly could have better used the money spent on free bus passes for the over 60s to subsidise public transport for everyone. I really am struggling to think of even one over 60 who isn’t far better off than Harri and me!

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.

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 

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.

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 4^th 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.