Day 5 - The Gower 'proper' - Gowerton to Llanridian

A 'beached' boat makes an interesting landmark

It’s hard to believe nearly two years have passed since Harri and I completed his book of circular walks on the Gower peninsula (soon to be published by Northern Eye Books). 

Like most people from south east Wales, I’d always felt I knew the Gower peninsula quite well. Once I’d passed my driving test (first time on my 27^th birthday with a very freckly-faced examiner), it was easy to pack the girls in the car and head for Rhossili, Port Eynon and Oxwich beaches. Years later, when Dad was living in West Cross, we discovered Pennard and lunched at The Gower Inn regularly.

Beautiful landscapes abound on Gower

Walking Gower with Harri has been an entirely different experience. We did most of our walking in the winter when tourists are few and far between, the roads quiet and the vast beaches practically empty. Harri introduced me to less ‘touristy’ places, like the spine of Gower - Cefn Bryn (more on that in a future blog) – and small inland communities, like Reynoldston, where sheep graze on the village green and cows mill around road signs.

In the introduction to his book, Harri describes the Gower as ‘a small but priceless gem’, adding ‘the peninsula is ... a place of stunning and astonishingly varied natural beauty. Here are hidden coves and glorious sandy beaches, high cliffs and windswept downs, dunes, marshland, wooded valleys and picturesque villages. Almost every path on Gower opens up a new and rewarding perspective, a different aspect of the peninsula’s varied landscape’.

Wow, I couldn’t have put it better myself. It’s true, every word. Gower is absolutely an absolutely stunning part of the world; unfortunately, the high house prices reflect this.

Entertaining local 'residents' in the front garden

These stepping stones are a recent - and very welcome - arrival

Our fifth day’s walking took us along the northern shores of the peninsula, past Penclawdd, Llanmorlais and Crofty.

Until the end of the 19^th century, Penclawdd was a thriving sea port but, according to Wikipedia, a 'training' wall built around that time with the intention of confining the fluctuating channel of the River Loughor had the effect of accelerating the silting up of the Penclawdd. 

The modern landscape is compelling if not exactly the stuff of picture postcards; at low tide, the empty mudflats with their deep-sided pills stretch almost as far as the eye can see to Whitford lighthouse and the open sea beyond. Wild horses graze here, inexplicably venturing out into the middle of the estuary at low tide. The few boats that remain tethered along this stretch of coast, relics of more prosperous times, have long since been abandoned to the relentless onslaught of mud.

If you’ve ever enjoyed cockles at Barry Island or Trecco Bay you’ll probably have been eating cockles from Penclawdd. We watched as a convoy of four-wheel drive vehicles and quad bikes edged carefully across the tidal mudflats to reap the day’s harvest before the fast-approaching sea forced them back to the shore. Until the seventies women were the main cockle gatherers, using donkeys to carry their catch back to shore; sadly, today’s obsession with profit and economy of scale has seen an end to this traditional way of cockle fishing.

Wild horses graze on what was once a busy estuary

Our need to return to the car meant that we        could only cover eight miles of the Wales Coast Path today. Rather than hang around for an infrequent - and expensive - bus we instead decided to do a circular route back to Gowerton via Llanrhidian and The Dolphin Inn – or The DolphInn as Harri likes to call it.

Day 4 - No 'bird' watching here - Kidwelly to Gowerton

The Millennium Coast Path - could that be the sea in the distance?

After an early start (we left Newport at around 7.20am), we found ourselves back at Kidwelly railway station having caught an over-priced train from Gowerton (how we single journey travellers are penalised!). In the morning haze, the previously bleak station was transformed into the perfect starting point for a long day’s walking.

On the fourth day of ‘our’ stretch, Harri and I were planning to cover 23 miles – far more than any one day’s hiking in the finished book but necessary if we were to complete our walking this week.

By now, I didn’t think any decision by Carmarthenshire council could surprise me. Later I was to discover how wrong I could be!

The day started promisingly enough at Kidwelly Quay where groups of bird watchers were already enjoying the glorious views across the estuary.  The official path followed Wales’ oldest canal - Kymer’s Canal - for about a mile before heading inland and alongside the railway. After crossing the track, we were forced onto a busy main road for several hundred metres and then finally joined Route 4 of the National Cycle Network.

By now I should be waxing lyrically about the sea views, but unfortunately, as per the norm, the Bristol Channel was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there were the usual fields filled with cows, and as we know by now, where there are cows, there are cow pats; this time they were deposited liberally along the concrete surface, ready to splatter unsuspecting cyclists.

You'll encounter more
 than just cyclists on Route 4

Eventually, Route 4 took us away from cows and across swathes of unoccupied MOD land, until finally we entered Pembrey Forest where there were no views of anything but trees (thankfully, deciduous) for several miles. We walked briskly through the woodland, aware that the sea was less than a kilometre away but unable to glimpse even a wave.

Fortunately, our tedious walk through woodland was interrupted by a rather exciting phone call. A senior editor  at the AA wanted to offer Harri some route-checking work in the Cotswolds later this month. This good news certainly put a bounce into our step and we emerged from Pembrey Forest feeling very upbeat.

We mused about why the official coast path route had diverted us behind Cefn Sidan beach, undeniably one of Wales’ most beautiful stretches of coastline. The beach, which is bordered by Pembrey Country Park, is popular with families and sunseekers, but bizarrely, these eight miles of golden sand seemed to be ‘off limits’ to coast path walkers.

We pondered why Carmarthenshire council had once again steered people as far from the coastline as possible, then Harri recalled reading that Cefn Sidan is a popular, though unofficial, naturist beach. We decided the long detour around the beach must be the council’s way of ensuring hikers aren’t distracted by a little unexpected ‘bird’ watching.

Whatever, we soon joined the 21km Millennium Coast Path which runs from Pembrey to Bynea Gateway on the other side of Llanelli.

At last, after many miles of inland walking, we had rejoined the Welsh coast and, in the early September sunshine, this stretch of the Wales Coast Path proved to be absolutely delightful if not a bit hazardous (there are a LOT of cyclists whizzing past).

Harri enjoying the sun at Burry Port

Neither of us had been to Burry Port before but we were instantly bowled over by this busy little seaside town, with its pretty harbour and colourful houses.

The next few miles brought back (painful) memories of my first half marathon in March this year, though the permanent markers are in kilometres (it was marked in miles on the day). It could have been psychosomatic but somewhere between Burry Port and Llanelli my feet started aching very badly. 

That’s the trouble with these long tarmac stretches – you can cover a lot of miles very quickly but they play havoc with the old soles of we old souls (okay, that's me). 

We limped into Gowerton in the early evening and, forsaking a drink in the pub, drove straight to our home for the next five days – a Travelodge room. At £123 for four nights, Travelodge delivers no frills but the rooms are clean and functional – and the receptionists are always extremely  helpful and friendly. 

After a 23-mile day, that’s really all that matters.

Day 3 Wet everything (Carmarthen-Kidwelly)

Leaving Carmarthen on a dull, wet summer's day

It was clear from the moment we parked in Carmarthen that the weather was not going to be kind to us.

First, which boots to wear? Both pairs were damp, uninviting and distinctively whiffy so I opted for the slightly larger size to allow my fast-disintegrating feet some extra toe room. Only 13 miles today, a stroll in the park compared to yesterday’s 18+ miles.

Harri had warned me in advance that the walk out of Carmarthen might be a bit ‘boring’ – nothing new there then. Actually, for once boring was good because it meant we walked quickly in the rain and had several miles under our belts before an official coast path sign sadistically directed us into a field.

If anyone's listening, I don't mind walking along roads...

On the whole, there was less mud around today but at the edge of one field, several feet of thick, brown, gunge lay between me and the stile. Harri tiptoed across, getting very muddy in the process, but every time I put my foot down, it sunk deeper and deeper into the mud.

At this point, I tend to do my ‘I’ve had enough of this’ speech, accompanied by a little stomping and some reminiscing about ‘perfect’ places for hiking, like Madeira, Portugal, Spain... anywhere that's not wet and muddy. I then peruse said field’s perimeter to see if there’s another way to cross (climbing an oak and dropping from its highest branch, wading through a waist-high river, cutting through barbed wire with my cheese knife) but, unfortunately, on this occasion, there was no obvious alternative.

Now Harri isn’t an overly-romantic man but even he can see when a small amount of chivalry might be a good idea. ‘Stand back’ I heard him shouting, before he proceeded to lift several large stones and hurl them into the mud. A few sank into the brown abyss without trace but two of the larger ones stuck firm and, choosing my route carefully, I was able to wobble my way precariously to the stile. Oh, the joys of coast path walking!

I was excited about reaching Ferryside. A few months ago, my writer friend Marilyn and I went house hunting (for her) in Carmarthenshire and Pembrokeshire and, out of curiosity, we visited Ferryside to look at a dilapidated terraced house in Horton View, up for auction with a price guide of between £15-20,000. The house ultimately sold for £42,000 and I was curious to see what, if any, progress had been made on its redevelopment.

I had no trouble finding the house, but was sad to find it in the same sorry state as months earlier (hopefully its new owner will bring it back into use in the near future).

Finally, we're back on the blustery, grey coast

We hadn’t passed any suitable seating for hours, but we were spoilt for choice in Ferryside, where four empty benches graced the windy, grey estuary and provided great views of Llansteffan.  All these estuary circulars were getting us down a bit; in Cornwall, ferries still run between Falmouth and St Mawes, Padstow and Roche, cutting down on miles of dreary, unnecessary walking. Hopefully, one day, when the Wales Coast Path is bringing in thousands of foreign tourists, it might become financially viable to resurrect Carmarthenshire’s ferries; until then, there’s no choice but to trek upstream until you reach a bridge.

The Swansea train leaving Ferryside

The route from Ferryside to Kidwelly was unnotable; more paths without views, more trekking through fields and woodland. Fewer cows, slightly less mud.

We entered Kidwelly on the cycle path, but, with the weather noticeably windier than on previous days, there were no cyclists to dodge.

Cold, wet and shivering, the 45-minute wait at the deserted Kidwelly station and the over-inflated single ticket price to Carmarthen (£4.20) did nothing to lift our spirits.

The next section takes us to Burry Port and beyond. It simply has to get better. . .

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.