Day 12 – A train journey from Welshpool

I had breakfast at 8.30.  This was very late when compared to the rest of the week.  Martin served me breakfast.  He had a habit of repeatedly saying “There we are then” in response to me.  “Would you like tea or coffee?”.  “Tea please”.  “There we are then”.  And he would announce the arrival of the tea with another “There we are then”.  Still, he was thoroughly lovely.  I packed my things and watched some trashy daytime television until my taxi came to deliver me to Welshpool Railway Station at 10.40.

I caught the 11.01.  After ten days of sheep, hills and mostly lovely B&B’s the cars and then the people waiting for the train were a little overwhelming.  It all seemed to be moving at a velocity known only to the crew of the space shuttle.  Yesterday it was easy to ignore them as I walked towards the end point.  On the train full of people busy ignoring each other the world seemed lonelier surrounded by people than it had when I’d been alone.  I was very aware that at this time next week I’ll be working in Mansfield, the land of the thirty year old Grandmother.
 
I haven’t gained any great insights about myself during this walk except that I despair quickly when lost, am quickly annoyed when at risk of falling on my arse in mud and sludge and when alone I am a world champion swearer and moaner.  But, if put on my arse I’ll get up and keep moving forwards.  When things got tricky I was always able to tell myself ‘This too will pass’ and appreciate that I was fit enough to be attempting to walk such a distance and had the eyes and ears to enjoy the peace and beauty of my surroundings.  I’ve learned that like Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney cows and sheep can coexist in the same field.  I’ve developed the ability to identify several different types of animal faeces.  I can be annoyingly reticent but I knew that already.   I've reminded myself how warm, welcoming and friendly people can be.  With the work I do remembering that is a constant struggle.  I’ve learned that I can walk 136 miles.

Day 11 – Meifod to Welshpool

I woke feeling very chirpy.  Eleri quickly informed me that this cheery optimism may be a foolhardy way to greet the new day.  It had rained all night and she told me there had been some minor flooding where the river had breached its banks and, consequently, I may struggle to access the early stages of the walk.  However, she had called her mother who lived near both the path and the river and the view from her window seemed clear.  Breakfast was very lovely.  I’d told Eleri about my Cann Office experience and she seemed keen to get it right as if I was a hotel inspector.  She talked anxiously just as she did last night and told me anecdotes about some of her stranger guests.  This time next week I’ll be starring in one of those anecdotes.  I’d already noticed that she owned the Dave Peltzer books (‘A child called it’, ‘A teenager called it’, ‘A dog called Spot’) so I didn’t let on what I do for a living.  It was a conversational meringue; it passed the time but was empty and unfulfilling.

It's important to keep your spirits
up during snow storms

         The flooding which had concerned Eleri wasn’t an issue and I set off at a good pace.  After about an hour it began to snow heavily and the snow began to settle.  A problem I hadn’t previously encountered developed in that snow began to gather under the strap of my gaiter on the heel of my right boot.  The snow would quickly grow into a sprout sized ball and I’d have to stop very regularly and kick it out.  I couldn’t fathom why it was only a problem with my right boot.  I think it was purely because my legs and brain knew this was the last day that I was walking at a ridiculously good speed.  There was a steep ascent through Figyn Wood and in there I found a new stick to help me.  It was more like a tree trunk than branch and I abandoned it later when I reached Welshpool. 

I reached a very high and very windy point marked as Y Golfa on the map and from there I was able to see Welshpool.  Because of this I seemed to be within minutes of it for a long while.  The area before I entered the town was like the grounds of a stately home and, as ever, I was grateful for having tarmac beneath my feet.  I walked along Raven Street and Mount Street and into the area of shops and shoppers.  With the Powisland Museum on my right I crossed the bridge over the canal and spotted down to my left a small area of garden and in it the commemoration stone which marks the end of the walk.  It was 13.50.  I felt extremely pleased and proud of myself.  A couple of people wandered by and I thought of telling them I’d just walked 136 miles and requesting a hug or a high five.  I don’t know why I felt a greater sense of achievement from this than various qualifications I’ve gained or jobs I’ve been headhunted for but I did.  Some recognition of my achievement would have been nice; meeting the Mayor to be given the keys to the town, construction workers downing their tools to punch me on the shoulder, being carried into the town surrounded by baton twirling cheerleaders to the sound of a marching band playing ‘Gonna Fly Now’ or something like the ‘Thank you very much’ dance sequence from Scrooge.  In the absence of any celebration I took a photograph of the stone and, as it began to rain, walked to Tesco’s for a wee.  I took my headphones off when I entered the store and when I replaced them on leaving found that the left one was no longer working.  Either it was broken or I’d suffered a stroke and lost all sensation down my left side.


The end of the path

 

I called Tynllwyn Farm and told them I’d be arriving early.  Jane, my host for the night, told me it would take fifteen minutes to walk to them.  It didn’t.  It was more like fifty.  My legs had reached the marker post at the end of the walk and then booked themselves into a retirement home.  They weren’t pleased to be asked to walk another mile and half and my hips hurt more than they had all week.  On arriving I noticed that there was a Jehovas Witness hall just inside the grounds.  I wondered if they were going to try to convert me over the next few hours.  Jane opened the door on my arrival at Tynllwyn Farm.  I think I may have greeted her with a less than charming “Well, that wasn’t fifteen minutes”.  I’d say my lack of charm was temporary.  Hers may not have been.  Her focus seemed to be on ensuring that all of my walking clothing remained outside more than on welcoming me.  She and the house quickly struck me as all gong and no dinner.  I was, however, guided into a sitting room to enjoy a pot of tea and a plate of homemade mince pies.  There was something very ordinary and a bit sparse about the furniture which didn’t match the grandness of the house or Jane’s somewhat affected manner.  It looked like they’d been raided, the house emptied of furniture and someone had done a frantic supermarket sweep through Dunelm and TK Maxx.  They did have some stuffed animals in cabinets, something I’ve never understood.  I sat on the floor, enjoyed the tea and mince pies and bathed in the glory of my achievement. 

After three hours of lying on my single bed and several episodes of ‘Come Dine With Me’ I descended the stairs for dinner.  Martin, husband of Jane, greeted me at the foot of the stairs with “Patrick! Patrick! Congratulations on making it here!”.  I said “Where were you at two o’clock?  That’s the sort of greeting I wanted at the stone marker” (and from your wife).  Martin and I chatted while he served my dinner.  There was a huge amount of food.  Even though I wouldn’t be burning over a thousand calories the next day I ate all of it.  His friendliness and helpfulness was bordering on subservience.  As I retired for the evening he offered to bring up a pot of tea and cake later.  What next? A bedtime story and tucking me into bed?

Day 10 – Llanwddyn to Meifod

I woke at seven having enjoyed the most wonderful sleep.  I gathered my things together, did my stretches and applied plasters to a selection of my blisters so that I could have a quick breakfast and be on my way.  However, Michael turned out to be great company and he spent a lot more time chatting than serving or cooking.  We talked about my work, the media, the local area, children’s education and his former career amongst many other things.  Since 1979 he had been the estate manager of the dam, lake and surrounding area but decided to leave when changes were made to the company.  At that time he looked at what his assets were and thought the house and its location was the greatest of those and began B&Bing.  He’s very good at it.  He said that now that he’s in his seventies he’s thinking of downsizing. 

I was very touched that he’d cleaned my boots.  He said it was “all part of the service”.  I left at 9.15 without getting to meet his wife, the wonderfully named, Daphne Duggleby.  I walked into Abertridwr and then into woods at quite a brisk pace.  It amuses me how I consciously and unconsciously allow the tempo of the music I’m listening to to dictate the pace at which I walk.  However many hundreds of times I’ve heard those songs before they will forever remind me of this walk now.  It was a lovely day with areas of blue sky between white clouds.  At 11.30 while negotiating some bogginess my stick snapped in two.  This saddened me.  It had been providing good physical and emotional support. 

It seemed that I sprinted to Dolanog which was just over halfway.  Around three o’clock I entered a field and soon realised it was inhabited by cows.  I haven’t previously disclosed this but I have a bit of an issue with cows.  This is slightly controversial but I think they are pure evil.  I’m not sure of exact figures but I would imagine that dozens, if not hundreds, of people are injured by cows each year.  Normally, when walking, I take detours to avoid them.  So far on the Glyndŵr's Way I’ve only seen them off in the distance.  All of my fears and beliefs were confirmed today.  When I spotted them I was trying to tell myself I was being unreasonable and they are up there with cats and dogs in terms of friendly cuddliness.  I speeded up and tried to give them a wide berth but they started walking towards me.  All of them.  And then some loud mooing began.  I don’t speak cow and didn’t know if this was friendly or aggressive but it got louder and louder.  Of course I walked faster and faster and so did they.  It would be overly dramatic to say they were running after me but they were definitely power walking.  I was sure to be trampled to deaf like a bovine Midsomer Murder.  As I ran I made a mental note to return to eating meat or buy some leather shoes at the very least if I survived.  With the help of my genital protecting hat I went over a barbed wire fence and then climbed over a gate.  I’m sure it looked highly comic to anyone watching but I was more than slightly anxious. 

Soon after narrowly escaping death by cow I was crossing a particularly boggy area and found myself a new stick.  I kept it for twenty minutes until I reached the road to Meifod.  I got rid of it because it was about eight feet long.  If I was more intelligent I’d have broken the top of it off.  As I walked into Meifod at 4pm I noticed that the whole village had the aroma of manure but suspected it might be me.  

The Tan Y Graig B&B is very lovely.  As usual after arriving I showered and rinsed my flasks at my feet and rested.  The presence of croutons in the plughole may have confused cleaners who have followed me during the week.  My evening meal was provided by my host Eleri who I talked to about her children’s careers and academic careers.  She did, rather curiously, ask if I’d picked and eaten any wild mushrooms while walking.  “No.  Picking them off the supermarket shelf is as adventurous as I get”.  I can hear torrential rain hitting the windows but it’s the final stretch tomorrow and I don’t think anything could stop or slow me down.

Day 9 – Llangadfan to Llanwddyn

I was woken during the night by an extremely loud bang; a door? a gun?  Who knew.  I knew I wasn’t walking the sort of distance I had on other days so set the alarm for eight rather than the six o’something it has been on other days.  I wasn’t feeling particularly perky though.  I went downstairs to what appeared to be an empty pub and went to find the laundry room.  My heart sank when I found that the boots were wet.  Very wet.  They didn’t seem to be any drier than when they entered the room sixteen hours earlier.  I was really annoyed at myself for believing the silly old sod who told me it would be warm enough in there for them to dry.  I was also annoyed that there didn’t appear to be anyone working on my breakfast.  A woman and her granddaughter arrived.  She was the cleaner.  The woman, not the child.  She didn’t know why there wasn’t anyone in the building to cook my breakfast but went to wake the chef who slept in the pub.  She said that if I reappeared at nine my breakfast would be ready.  And it was.  When I went into the dining room the Spanish chef who had the physique of a man who was no stranger to second helpings appeared with buttered white toast and a cup of tea.  This was a little surprising since no menu reading or ordering had taken place but the will to live was leaving me.  It appeared that he had put sugar in the tea.  He told me “I THOUGHT YOU WANT TEA LIKE AN ENGLISH PERSON, NOT COFFEE”.  I am aware of the cliché that English people will shout at foreigners when they don’t speak the language but this Spaniard (with the strong Welsh accent) was shouting at me; “YOU WANT MORE TOAST.  YEAH?  MORE TOAST.  YEAH?”.  I was wondering if anything more substantial was on offer but with the second helping of toast came a full cooked breakfast.  I sighed a sigh that touched my socks and told him I didn’t eat meat.  He told me the cleaner had told him I wanted breakfast.  He disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned my breakfast sans bacon and sausage.  It was obvious he had only flicked the meat from the plate.  Normally I would complain about cross contamination but I really wanted to leave the building as soon as possible.  He explained that the mix up over who should be preparing my breakfast was because “WE IS NOT A HOTEL.  WE IS A PUB WITH ROOMS”.  If this was a charm offensive he was only fifty percent there.  It must be the only hotel in Britain that puts its guests on suicide watch. 

A few minutes later, as I was preparing to leave the building in my wet boots the landlady emerged and was very apologetic about the mix ups.  I accepted this and kept moving for the door and set off at 10am in torrential rain.  My thighs ached and something I’d identify as a hamstring did too.  I felt as miserable as the weather.  The walking and terrain wasn’t too dreadful and after a few minutes of bogginess the path took me up into some woodland.  When I saw some vans, caravans and campervans ahead of me I thought it was a traveller camp but it was actually a meeting people racing Huskies on sleds.  Well, sleds with wheels.  I didn’t get to see anyone actually doing any racing, just lots of people preparing and dogs tied to stakes.  From the people I saw it seemed to be a sport that largely involved covering yourself in mud.  Some of the Huskies were very lovely looking and others appeared to have been bred into pure evil.  I ghosted through them like Bruce Willis in ‘The Sixth Sense’, completely ignored.  Perhaps this was because I didn’t have any Huskies.  Perhaps this was because I smelled like a Husky. 


This is a footpath!!

 
I walked for several miles in the woods and then descended into some bogginess.    The suction the bog caused on my boot was like pulling a plunger from a plughole and caused a recurring pain on my heel.  Some of the paths looked more like streams with very fast moving water.  I’ve come to realise that in Wales water is always in motion, either downwards from the sky or flowing down hills.  I found a good stick to help me move through the swamp and judge depth of sludge.  I soon discovered why real walking sticks have metal tips since mine seemed to quickly shrink.  Having walked off the path slightly to avoid bogginess or boggy streams I then did have to stepping stone across a stream.  Who’d have thought this would end up so much like one of Ben Fogle’s Extreme Dreams?

I arrived at LLanwddyn at 14.30.  There I saw the first person I’d seen all day.  I asked them if they knew where a B&B called The Oaks was.  She pointed to a house about fifty metres away and we both laughed.  I took a brief wander to the dam to take some photographs of the dam and lake.  It’s clearly quite a tourist attraction at other times of the year.  There was a tea shop (closed), souvenir shop (closed) and sculpture park (wet).  I then went to The Oaks.  I was greeted by Michael who was very lovely.  He said he’d deal with my boots which I left by the front door and he showed me to my room.  I had a long soak in the bath and then watched a Christmas movie.  I felt very different to how I had at the start of the day. 

Although Michael had offered me a lift at seven o’clock I walked over the dam to find The Tower Tavern which was part of the Vyrnwy Spa Hotel.  I hadn’t imagined it would take me twenty minutes to get there.  I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for my torches.  My feet coped well with wearing shoes  and although a little chilly it was a lovely evening with a clear sky and apparently full moon.  The night was so silent it could probably hear itself.  It was the sort of night on which you and your spouse might take an evening stroll when on holiday but I was with my anorak and a dozen blisters instead.  With my arrival at the tavern the customers now outnumbered the staff.  Within twenty eight minutes I’d ordered and eaten two courses; Crab cakes and then sea bass.  A combination I often order.  My waitress was called Vendula.  Her accent was thicker than molasses and I had no idea whether she was Welsh or Russian or Mexican.  It wasn’t always clear what she was saying to me or asking of me.  I just nodded and shook my head when I thought it appropriate when she spoke.  I returned to my room at The Oaks.  It had a strong odour of sweaty, rain sodden clothing.

Day 8 – Llanbrymair to Llangadfan

 I woke feeling tired and in need of more sleep but the legs and feet felt good.  I thought they’d finally got used to what I was asking of them.  I descended at 7.30, which felt incredibly early but is over an hour later than I’d normally get up, and had breakfast in the dining room.  It was, like the rest of the house filled with an assortment of expensive furniture (and a hostess trolley).  I had porridge and then some scrambled eggs.  I was slightly surprised that before we left Richard charged me for the lifts to and from Llanbrynmair.  This seemed a little odd since it was Sue’s suggestion.  I paid but in my head I pulled out a Christmas card list and removed their name.  While I put my boots and gaiters on Richard told me that he made walking sticks as a bobby and often sold them.  He brought some out to show me.  I wasn’t sure if that was my cue to buy one.  I didn’t.  Richard drove me to Llanbrynmair so I could rejoin the walk where I’d left it.  It started with a steep ascent but there’d been a mild frost so the ground was firm underfoot.  The path then took me into a lovely area of woodland. 

 There had been a strong frost in there and even some snow.  I took the time out for some photography.  I haven’t done much over the week.  I haven’t had the time and it’s been a struggle to keep the lens clean and free from falling water.  I’ve noticed that sheep are very camera shy.  I don’t know quite what motivates this but when I first enter a field several will look at me and then urinate.  Is this an aggressive act or meant to intimidate me?  I’ve learned that there are several different types of sheep; small heads, wide heads, white heads, black heads, long legs, chunky legs.  Reading this is like watching QI isn’t it? 

When the path emerged from the woods it was straight into a boggy field.  And then the day started going downhill.  I spent a lot of time trying to find routes through the bog/water since it was consistently at a depth that would go over the top of my boots.  I noticed on three occasions that previous walkers had pulled up the signposts and used them to bridge these mud streams.  It’s dangerous to leave people unable to follow the path but I did use them for some tightrope walking.  I also climbed wooden and barbed wire fences to avoid sludge (I put my woollen hat over the barbs to protect my genitals, thank you for your concern).  As the ground dried out very slightly (or I’d given up on any hope of keeping dry) there were horses and ponies on the moor.  The horses circled me like a ‘West Side Story’ gang but quickly lost interest.  I also saw a fox up there.  It was a real struggle to keep my legs moving with wet boots and wet socks. 

Soaking wet and thoroughly miserable I felt like an escapee from a Barrymore pool party when I arrived at the Cann Office Hotel in Llangadfan at 15.50.  I’d done six miles less than yesterday but only finished seventy minutes sooner and was exhausted.  The member of staff who greeted me was then leaving and had only waited for me.  He put my boots in the laundry room and assured me they would easily dry in there.  The hotel is more of a pub and when that member of staff left I had the entire building to myself.  It’s basic to say the last.  My room is like a Gauntanamo cell with a Floral Border.  My feet are in a worsening state.  I have several black toenails and the back of my right heel is like an open wound.  The room is more than a little tired.  For the first time in a week I switched off in front of the television all evening.  The pub seemed very busy below me but I stayed in my room and let the X-Factor wash over me.  

Day 7 - Machynlleth to Llanbrynmair

I woke early again.  I am yet to get a full eight hours since this walk began.  I descended for breakfast at eight (the earliest they served it).  My host suggested that I should walk further than I planned to today.  I said I’d stick to the plan but ten minutes after I’d returned to my room he brought me a phone so I could speak to Sue my host for this evening.  She too thought I should walk further since I would probably reach Cemmaes Road (it’s a village not a road) by midday or one.  She said that I could go on to Llanbrynmair or call her in the afternoon whenever I felt I’d had enough and she would collect me.  I agreed.  When I set off my legs were pretty stiff but I soon got into my stride.  I walked out of Machynlleth like Bill Bixby with a rucksack full of tattered clothing.  It was a lovely day and, unlike yesterday, I stuck to the trail properly today.  It was quite firm underfoot which was surprising after yesterday’s weather.  I was also pleased that I was able to get a radio signal until 10.30.  It was a nice change.  So far this week every word I’ve heard whilst walking has been sung and it’s been like being trapped in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.  I was on track to arrive in Cemmaes Road around 12.30 but lost the trail and like a man in search of God I wandered around looking for a sign.  I descended a hill towards Cemmaes too early and had to walk along on the road. 

So, I arrived in the village at one fifteen and shortly after doing so a woman in her sixties stopped her car, got out and asked me “Are you staying with me tonight?”.  It could have been an ill judged chat up line so I declared myself to be an idiot and said “I don’t know, am I?”.  “Did we speak on the phone this morning?”.  “Yes”.  She seemed a little stiff and humourless.  And that wasn’t just because of the huge amount of hairspray on her head.  She said she was going into Machynlleth (she pronounced it Mahuntliff) to shop and then would be available to collect me from Llanbrynmair (6 ¾ miles away) later in the day.  I agreed to this plan. 



Unfortunately, by about two o’clock I was really wishing I’d stopped for the day.  I trudged on being more than slightly frustrated that the trail was more poorly signposted on this section than it had been in others.  I then realised that I’d lost a glove and cheekily sent a text to Sue asking if she would buy me a pair of gloves if she was still in Machynlleth.  It was probably because I had to consult the guide book so often and was taking the gloves off to turn the page that I lost the second one later.  Around 3pm I happened upon a mother and her teenage daughter but had met their dog about two minutes before I saw who it belonged to.  Mum said “Did my dog jump all over you?  I’m so sorry”.  I said “It’s been that many hours since I saw anyone I was about to jump all over him”. 

As it got darker I tried to move faster but only arrived in Llanbrynmair at five.  I called Sue as I approached the village.  She collected me and drove me to her farm house/manor house and seemed intent on getting my full life history during the journey.


           “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a forensic psychologist”

“That must be fascinating”.

“No, I have to be honest, it isn’t”.  I’m trying a new policy during this walk.

Inside the doorway of her home she gave me The Daily Mail to stand on which seemed to be the ideal use for it.  She then produced the gloves she had bought for me.  ‘One size fits all’ they said.  This worried me slightly since I can’t imagine this principle working with trousers or shoes.  Although slightly tight they fitted well.  I’m not planning to play the piano over the next few days so won’t need full blood circulation in my fingers.  I then met her husband Richard.  It was soon apparent that he is a bit deaf.  I was invited to join them for tea and cake by the fire in their sitting room.  I learned that Sue is a former nurse while Richard works as a magistrate and in organising hunting and fishing trips.  He was a farmer but they sold their land to bail out their son whose ex-wife left him with huge debts.  Would they have told me all of this if I’d said I was a postman when they asked what my profession was?  They are soon swapping properties with their son and family who live in a cottage in the grounds and will then stop Bed and Breakfasting.  Their daughter is single, has had a number of weird boyfriends and is a fashion designer and lives in London.  She seemed to have more baggage than Louis Vuitton.  On that subject, they mentioned that she’d bought a handbag for £3000 and Richard said he’d once spent £70 on a pair of shoes.  He said that was in 1982 and then raised his legs to show them to me.  No doubt that joke had been told many times before.

They said that earlier in the year an eighty nine year old man had stayed with them who was also doing the walk and at the same pace as me.  There’s no excuse.  I have to finish this thing.  I left them to their evening at 18.30.  I hope the musty smell I was radiating didn’t distract anyone from enjoying our time together.  As I left them I asked if my boots and their copy of The Daily Mail could sit by the fire.  Richard asked what make they were.  I had no idea.  They were the pair I opted for after trying on most of what the shop stocked.  Despite the number of times I’d pulled them on and off I still didn’t know what make they were.  His were a very expensive, famous brand.  He got them and encouraged me to touch them and see how soft the leather was.  It’s hard to know how to respond when a man you met less than two hours earlier extends that sort of invitation.  I hobbled back to my huge room, bathed in my huge bathroom and then rested in my huge bed. 

Day 6 – Stay Little to Machynlleth

I was aware of the wind and rain in the night and again when I woke.  I wasn’t feeling too great on any level and was particularly lacking in energy.  At breakfast Becky told me that rain and winds of 27mph were forecast.  I was thinking of avoiding the path and zig zagging around it on roads and forest paths so that I always had something firm under my feet.  She told me that this time last year it was minus fifteen and didn’t get above freezing for several weeks.  She offered to drive me to Machynlleth but I declined her offer and stuck with my plan to keep on the tracks and roads.  While I ate breakfast she told me she’d previously worked as a music teacher although by that point I’d pretty much figured that out.  When I told her this she said thought I might also be a teacher.  “What made you think that?” I asked.  “The beard.  The walking”, she said. “The brown corduroy suit?” I added.  She’s been giving piano lessons at Rock Villa to a number of children under ten and a lady in her seventies.  She describes a very nice life.

So I walked on the road.  The wind, 27mph or not, was relentless.  I wouldn’t say it took my breath away but at times when it was blowing directly onto me I felt like I was going to suffocate because it was difficult to breathe out.  The breath was blown back in before it could escape.  I’ve also never known a wind so strong it could spin me around.  Within an hour of leaving Rock Villa everything I was wearing was wet; my waterproof coat, trousers, sweatshirt, t-shirt, underwear and, surprisingly, my boots seemed to be penetrated quickly and easily.  You know you’re wet when MacCarthur Park is playing constantly inside your head.  I kept my head down and just walked.  The only thing I can tell you of note is that I saw a farmer driving along the road and herding his sheep from his car.  I couldn’t say his activity was any more or less insane than mine.  Before I got to within a mile of Machynlleth I was passed by nineteen cars and four people stopped and offered me a lift.  That’s a hell of a ratio and either indicates how bad the weather was, how rough I looked or how lovely people are.  I think people tend to be closer and friendlier when there’s greater geographical space between them.  In a town or city you could be lying in the street and people would just step over you.  I was touched by each offer but determined to keep going although it registered with me that if I really did start to struggle another offer would soon come along.  So, I did two miles less than I should have today but because there was something firm beneath my feet I walked at the sort of pace I would keep on a treadmill in the gym and arrived at my hotel just after midday.    

I was shown to my room by a man who seemed to be particularly disinterested in me and may have had an operation to have his manners removed.  His hotel is a little dodgy.  So dodgy one of its AA stars has been erased with felt pen.  After a shower and a spot of 'Countdown' I walked/minced into Machynlleth for a brief wander and to get some supplies from the Co-Op and then retired to my tired hotel, tired.

Day 5 – Llanidloes to Stay Little

I slept well and woke feeling good except for a slight muscle spasm in the right hand side of my back.  When I slipped over later in the day and put out my left hand to stop my fall, because, as always I was holding my camera with my right hand, I realised why the spasm was only on that side.  Roy provided a somewhat minimal breakfast but he was still thoroughly charming.  His voice is so posh he makes Joanna Lumley sound like she’s in ‘Shameless’.  The name Roy really isn’t right for him.  He’s more of a Julian.  Anyway, I had company in the dining room and was joined by Martin who was in the area for a meeting.  He works in renewable energy and his meeting would be about wind farms of which I’ve seen many on the walk.  He looked like he’d stepped out of a Davidoff advert, was very interested in walking, had completed several long-distance paths and had even done some on mainland Europe.  Even when I’m in the middle of a walk and there are only two people in the room I still don’t get to be the one who knows the most about the subject.  You’ll notice I can always find time to feel inadequate.  Chatting delayed my departure a little but it was a very pleasant exchange.  As usual I covered my feet in plasters and myself in Deep Heat and descended to the ground floor to locate my boots.  Roy was reading and listening to music.  An ‘absence of television’ theme is emerging this week.  He had not only dried the boots but had cleaned all of the mud (and sheep shit) off them too.  “Fresh boots for a fresh day” he said.  I was really touched.  I’m realising that this trip isn’t about walking it’s about meeting lovely people and realising not everyone is like my clients.  I’d already noticed an African theme through the property.  With so many pictures on some walls there was barely any wall visible.  Perhaps it’s intended to create an impression or prompt conversation.  I followed the prompt for conversation.  It transpired that he’s originally from Zimbabwe and was there last week for his niece’s wedding, his first visit since his mother’s funeral last year.  He mentioned that he has two other properties in the UK.  Why on earth are you cooking breakfast for me then?         


I walked out of the town and into woods and that was the end of mobile phone signal for the day.  I managed to get a radio reception for twenty minutes.  Perhaps I should have brought audio books or comedy performances rather than all of the music as more of a distraction, to keep me company more.  Perhaps walking with other human beings would have kept me from panicking about time keeping also.  Soon after leaving the wood I saw an old woman collecting logs from the back of her garden.  I smiled and waved.  “It’s going to be a raw one” she said.  Not overly optimistic but her smile and wave cheered me.  I didn’t see another person until 3pm and they ignored me.  Was it the smell from the socks?  The focus for the day was Clywedog Dam and reservoir.  This was good since as lovely as it is the walk so far has been one hill or field full of sheep after another and it’s hard to distinguish one hour or day from another.   

I’ve noticed that farmers don’t recycle, trade-in or scrap their old vehicles and machinery.  The fields are full of rusting machinery and all farms have at least one moss covered caravan.  The contrast of the dam and reservoir from the constant stream of sheep filled fields was very pleasant.  When I got to the dam it became apparent that I was making very slow progress.  This was partly because of strong, cold winds but also because my legs were seizing up.  Well, it was mostly my right leg that was letting me down.  It had stiffened at the knee and it seemed that it was only moving because of the momentum caused by my left leg moving.  For the final forty five minutes I walked on tarmac parallel to the path so as to avoid boggy fields and ease the damage done to my knees.  I wandered into Staylittle village but the marking of Rock Villa, my accommodation, on the map provided no guidance when in the village itself.  Fortunately, and curiously given that the viIlage only had a dozen houses, there was a post office.  “It’s blowy out there” said the man at the counter.  I might ordinarily have thought “No shit” but I smiled and agreed and asked for directions. 

I was relieved to find Rock Villa in Staylittle at 15.40.  It was a beautiful little cottage surrounded by fields and sheep built in 1756 (and they don’t have a chocolate bathroom suite Brian!!).  I greeted my host, Becky, like a Labrador desperate for company.  She was a blonde haired woman in her early to mid thirties with a little girl attached to her hip.  As usual I stripped at the door, shedding flakes of mud on her floor and allowing puffs of musty smell to escape my layers of clothing.  She and her daughter, Alex, showed me to my room which couldn’t have been lovelier, more warm and embracing or typical of a country cottage.  I changed quickly and went back downstairs for tea and cake by the fire.  It’s amazing how quickly cake and tea can revitalise.

     

In my room I noticed that I was a little red faced.  I don’t know how this could be since I’ve barely seen the sun all week.  I bathed and rested and went downstairs for dinner at six.  I was clearly in the mood for company but Becky stayed and ate in the next room.  Probably some ‘my daughter is only two and can’t be left’ nonsense.  I flicked through her copy of The Thames Path guidebook while I ate.  She asked if I’d done other walks and if I would normally choose to walk at this time of year.  I discovered that she and her husband had lived in Budapest for five years, then in central London for three before deciding to relocate.  They wanted to move to Herefordshire and kept searching further and further west until they found property they could afford.  They’ve been at Rock Villa for three years running a B&B and small holding.  She said there was nothing she missed about London and loves that the nearest Tesco or cinema is thirty miles away.  There is no television here too.  I thought we might play scrabble, bake Eccles cakes or make wool into balls in the evening but she didn’t extend an invitation for any of these activities and I retired to my room.  It’s so blissfully peaceful here. 

Day 4 – Abbeycwmhir to Llanidloes

I woke up feeling drained and with a bad stomach (It took three trips to the toilet before I felt better since you asked.  Oh, you didn’t).  However, I did feel differently about Nita and Brian.  I no longer thought of this as paid accommodation but more like staying with slightly eccentric, chaotic friends or relatives.  I had a very nice breakfast and spoke to Nita about some relatives she’s fallen out with who live in Leamington Spa, her father who died aged one hundred last year and that she recently discovered she has an intolerance to fruit (I’ve seen people queuing in McDonald’s who have a similar ailment).  I plastered my blisters, covered my legs in Deep Heat and headed for the door.  “What’s that you’re wearing, Patrick?” Nita asked as if it was a new cologne.  “Deep Heat”.  It was very nice that they all gathered by the front door to say goodbye but wrapping myself up and tucking sweatshirts into waterproof trousers and putting gaiters and boots on can be a long process.  Brian asked if I felt fit and prepared for walking today.  I did.  “Would you normally walk at this time of year?”.  “No, not normally”.

I shook their hands, wished them well with retirement and holidays in Greece and departed.  The boots rubbed and felt a little tight at first but the legs felt good.  It was going to be a soggy day though.  In the first hour a postman in a van passed me several times as I emerged from a field or wood and was briefly on a road.  It seemed to amuse him how slow my progress was.  Here’s something that’s fairly obvious; water that’s on the tops of hills will find its way downwards.  It can be found doing this in rivers and streams but also, as I discovered, down long distance pathways.  Often, as I made my way up there was water around my feet making its way downwards.  There were lots of steep ascents but I was often on forest roads which aren’t quite tarmac but helped me make good time.  Whenever a good ‘80’s 12 inch remix came on the mp3 my pace quickened.  I’d classify the gradients I experienced later in the day as ‘Bloody hell’, ‘Fuck me’ and ‘I want to go home’.  Around midday I spent ten minutes or so wandering around a field searching for the lens cap on my camera.  Although I found it that dampened the mood slightly.

It rained or sleeted for most of the day and there were several occasions where my backside suddenly descended to the ground.  However, there was socialising to do since I saw two people today to say hello to.  They were talking to each other in Bwlch-y-sarnau.  That was around 10 am.  Then I didn’t see a soul until I got to my accommodation.  It was in the early afternoon that my sense of humour left me a little because the ground was so boggy that my boots would disappear such that I would struggle to pull them from the suction of the mud.  This meant that water got into the boots and then my socks and I knew this was ideal for making blisters.  It was becoming difficult to appreciate the stunning scenery or the different colours of the leaves or enjoy the rhythm of the rain.  I was viewing the walk as the hangover and the accommodation as the party, rather than vice versa.  As usual I panicked as darkness neared.  I tried to speed up which hurt my legs and feet more and with the pain I got slower and I panicked more.  As the afternoon progressed going downhill was really hurting my knees.  Then my boot descended into more sludge and my foot got even wetter and I got lost briefly around three as I neared Llanidloes.  I was really wondering why on earth I was doing this and had always wanted to do this.

   

My host, Roy, at Lloyd’s in Llanidloes, greeted me at 4.10.  He was lovely.  As is the becoming the norm I removed my boots, gaiters, coat and waterproofs at his door.  He said that another twenty minutes and he would have been concerned for my welfare.  “Would you normally walk at this time of year?”.  “No, not normally”.  He said he’d put my boots by his fire to ensure that they were dry by the morning.  He showed me to my room and quickly returned with a pot of tea and some homemade biscuits.  I was pulling on my cleanish trousers as he entered but was too tired to care.  After tea, biscuits and a spot of lying down and ‘Deal or no Deal’ I showered in an attempt to improve my overall smell.  The smell from the socks which had descended into mulch several times during the day defied description.  My feet are in a dreadful state and it was difficult to put ordinary shoes on (or move) but around 6pm I did so and hobbled up the road to The Red Lion for dinner.  I was quite choosy in selecting this establishment; It was open, it served food and it was the first place I spotted after leaving Lloyds.  There were some odd characters in there.  I think ‘Special Needs’ is the correct phrase.  I was able to overhear a conversational gem;

“Did you hear about Gary Speed?”

“Yes, he committed suicide”. 

“No, an English footballer shot him because he was making the Welsh too good”

“But he was found hanging”

“That was to cover it up”

Back at Lloyds I covered my feet in Germolene, my legs in Deep Heat and rested. 

Day 3 – Felindre to Abbeycwmhir

I went to sleep surrounded by the aroma of Deep Heat and Germaline.  Nothing unusual for some of you.  The bed was huge, the mattress soft and the duvet thicker than the cast of ‘Loose Women’.  A pea, brick or another person could have been hidden beneath the mattress and I wouldn’t have noticed.  The body, or mine, is a funny thing.  You probably won’t be fascinated to know that I walked for just over seven hours yesterday, taking in liquid all the time, and didn’t feel the need to hide behind a bush for a wee at all and yet as soon as I got to the B&B I was in the toilet every half an hour and woke twice in the night to do so which I don’t normally do.  I woke before six but felt fully refreshed.  I repacked most of my things and went downstairs to be served breakfast by Richard.  It was, of course, wonderful.  Fully satiated I returned to my room and covered my blisters with plasters.  I was confident the plasters would have gathered at the bottom of my socks within the hour.  I put yesterday’s t-shirt (from a concert I attended in 1990) in the bin and set off just after eight.  Richard and I shook hands.  I think meeting me was less significant for him than meeting him was for me.  Today I was wearing my waterproof trousers and gaiters.  When it began to rain and then sleet yesterday it was too impractical to put them on without anywhere to sit down and do so.  There had been a decent snowfall overnight but the temperature was pleasant and I was very thoroughly wrapped up with my t-shirt tucked into my trousers and sweatshirt tucked into my waterproofs.  It’s not a sexy look though.  I walked through the tiny village of Felindre and out into the hills.  More sleet fell during the first hour but it didn’t bother me.  I walked past, and waved to, two workmen sitting in their van (until the weather improved I would guess) who smiled and nodded but clearly thought I was barking.  The first half of the day as far as Llanbadarn Fynydd was lovely and when I got there I was ahead of schedule and feeling good.  However, then there were a lot of steep ascents and when I was going up the hills they were often exposed and the strong winds were very cold.  I was increasingly aware of a blister developing on the sole of my right foot and aches in my right hip and left knee.  If I stopped to eat or drink or take a photograph it felt like my hips had seized up when after just a moment or two of rest I wanted to move again.  If I was on tarmac I was fine but there was very little of that on offer today.  The occasional stunning view or emergence of the sun to cast new light on a view or a favourite song on the mp3 would give me a boost.  And just like yesterday around 3.30, as darkness descended and I was moving slower and slower, I started to panic a little that I was yet to reach my base for the night in Abbeycwmhir village.  The positive is that although I did fall on my arse four times today I was much more focused about following the path and not letting scenery or photography distract me. 

After a brief detour into Abbeycwmhir village in search of my accommodation I arrived at Mill Cottage just after four.  A man in his sixties, who later introduced himself as Brian and a younger man, his son Isambard, were at the front of the property.  Brian said “Did you go into the village?  They always go into the village.  I don’t know why”.  I should have said “Is it because you don’t have a sign?” but just followed him into the house.  My host, Nita, then appeared and insisted I remove all of my mud covered clothing at the door.  More positively, she was also offering to wash and dry them.  The set up here is a little odd.  The home couldn’t have a more bizarre assortment of furniture and really doesn’t look like somewhere set up for paying guests.  My room is about seven foot by ten, doesn’t have heating, does have a single glazed window but, most importantly, doesn’t have an en suite.  When the booking was made the shared bathroom was mentioned but it wasn’t mentioned that this was the family bathroom and I was sharing it with three others.  When Nita showed me to my room and then the bathroom she pointed towards the bathroom and stressed “It’s a bath, not a shower.  A bath!” as if I might stand in it, turn the tap on and wonder why it was only my feet that were getting wet.  Okay, sharing a bathroom isn’t dreadful.  Nor is it’s chocolate brown suite.  Perhaps it is the absence of frosting at the bathroom window and a glass door, with minimal frosting, leading to the landing which made me feel uncomfortable.  Still, shortly after arrived I bathed and displayed my bits and bobs for anyone daft enough to stand in the field at the back of the house and look into the window.  It is also slightly disturbing that, with this set up, I won’t be able to make sure all of my things are dry for the morning.  And I don’t have a kettle so I won’t be able to make soups for my flasks (which would be cold by the time I wanted to eat/drink them anyway). 

I ate my evening meal with Brian and Isambard (that’s pronounced to rhyme with size not bizz....Izeambard).  It was only at this point that they introduced themselves to me.  Brian and Nita were due to fly to Greece on Saturday and spend the next month on a friend’s yacht so we talked about that and various countries the three of us had travelled to.  Brian always seemed disappointed and unimpressed if I hadn’t been to somewhere on the planet he’d been to.  He told me that he had lived in Kent and holidayed in this part of Wales in 1976 and liked it so much he, somewhat impulsively, soon relocated his family there.  He renovated the cottage and continued to work as a builder in the area and, it seemed, each former client had become a friend.  1976?  That explains the colour of the bathroom then.  He had met Nita in the mid-eighties after she was widowed.  Isambard told me that he had retired from the army on a full pension six weeks ago after twenty two years of service.  His girlfriend is in the RAF and he wants to find work as a tree surgeon next year.  Before he told me all of this I was well aware that he’d been in the forces since the house was full of pictures of him in uniform in some exotic location sitting on a tank or jeep holding a weapon.  I’m sure the home of every plumber is filled with pictures of them sitting on the bonnet of their van, slip-joint pliers in hand.  It’s a gift to get people to talk about themselves.  That’s usually most people’s favourite subject.  When Brian asked what I do for a living when even dessert had been consumed the answer was greeted with something close to silence.  It seems that it’s best to use the skills of a psychologist without letting anyone know I am one.  


I’m a little deflated and I’m not too sure why.  My legs ache a lot and I have so many blisters it’s hard to tell where one ends and another begins.  I worry that I may not be up to this.