What a lovely morning’s walk I had yesterday.

Over the last three weekends winter has tried hard to reclaim momentum but somehow the spring is too strong, even when fresh snow has fallen.

I headed out to the Long Mynd. I was at Church Stretton early. Few people were about. It was a glorious morning, one of those which sees everyone smiling and saying hello to each other. The Post Man in All Stretton stopped his van to say hello. My plan was to climb Caradoc and do a full circuit ending on Ragleth Hill. Ragleth and Caradoc may be minor hills but they have very steep bits. One look at Caradoc told me this might be a little beyond the worn tread of my Terrocs. Instead, I headed out for All Stretton and a climb up to the ridge that I knew would be bot wonderful and quiet. So it proved and I didn’t meet another soul until I got to the top of the ridge.

Climbing up from All Stretton

The climb was a little slower than planned. There was more slow lying on some of the precariously angled sheep tracks, but progress was gentle rather than risky.

On the ridge I met many walkers up from the Cardingmill Valley, all having a great time trudging along in their boots. All looking are me a little weirdly as they noticed the Terrocs. The sun shone even more strongly and the patchwork of fields and hills looked at its winter best.

Happy Ramblers

Both of my routes down would have been difficult with very sharp inclines. I took a quiet and more gentle slope, fine in its upper reaches but a little trickier lower down. I had forgotten that much of this walk was in the shade. Rocks slick with frozen ice had to be navigated with care. Walking back into Church Stretton it was almost impossible to envisage the scene up there.

A wonderful morning’s walk and another contribution towards Spring fitness. The calf muscles don’t ache this morning — progress is being made. Mind you, the work with the walking poles has left its mark on my shoulders and upper arms!

From now until May I plan to be out cycling or walking each weekend. Next weekend is a weekend off though. I shall be in Wembley watching the Villa boys destroy United.

“We’re the famous Aston Villa and we’re going to Wem-ber-ley …”

(I might get a chance to do some urban walking and photography though).

From the Ridge

Not quite what I thought I’d be writing about this. I was in Hebden Bridge this weekend to stay with an old mate and his new-ish partner. My mate John is more of a rambler than a hill walker so I knew there would be walk even if it was a gentle one. It all helps contribute to the pre season fitness regime.

Our walk was scheduled for Saturday and off we drove to Howarth, home of the Bronte family and their famous parsonage. I always find Howarth a little odd. It is a bit like one of those historic recreations you find at Beamish or the Black Country museum, yet it is all real. There’s a steep cobbled street and lots of arty craft places, pubs and cafés. The buskers are of a high quality. Every pub has a plack on it commemorating the fact that one of the Bronte’s used to frequent it. The Brontes mentioned were all me. I suppose the ladies didn’t frequent such rough places. Or were the men simply escaping from all that story telling?

The walk was straightforward enough, a seven mile round trip to Top Withins (a collection of broken down farm buildings) and the Bronte Falls. The day was not too bad but it was a real shade of grey, one that matched the stone of this part of Yorkshire really well. It was a walk of conversations rather than a walk of breathtaking views. You are never alone on these paths — there are walkers everywhere.

Half way along the route we encountered a family out on the hill. Dad was lying on the heathery grass. He’d been yomping across the ground, turned his ankle and couldn’t move — he was wearing wellies! It must have been bad because he wouldn’t even let me offer a shoulder for hopping support. I guess he’d either broken it or torn ankle ligaments — the most painful thing I have ever done. This made the walk a little more interesting in all honesty. I raced off back towards the main road and managed to raise help from a farmer who chugged off up the path in his four by four to rescue the man in difficulties. We’d called an ambulance who appeared in pretty good time. After all of the drama it was time to abort the walk and go and do something else.

This was a salutary reminder of some basic hilly things. Don’t go running over ground you don’t know without real care. Wellies are not the thing to be wearing. And always carry some backup provisions and clothes. The guy was clearly shocked and his family upset. They turned down our offer of some food. I was more worried about the cold. It was not the worst of days but he’d soon find himself uncomfortable. Luckily the ambulance appeared quite quickly — but he’s have been better off if he’d had some back up warmth with him. It was quite clear that neither him or his family understood how often the body temperature can fall.

In the evening we sampled something of Hebden’s counter culture. Hebden Bridge is a kind of toy town and centre for any things greeny, leftie and alternative. A health shop called the Banyan Tree was offering organic erotic potions for Valentine’s Day. This is the spiritual home of the slow movement in the UK. There is not enough space for chain stores to open and so independents thrive. Low property values in the 70s and 80s made this an escape for lefties and crusties from Manchester, Leeds and the rest of Yorkshire. Today, it is a unique place. There is a small supermarket but it is, of course, the Co-operative.

The Hebden Trades Club is one of the town’s great institutions. And music venues. My friends — knowing I like my music — were pleased to see a concert of electric folk scheduled for Saturday night. What a time we had. Getting into the Trades Club was a nightmare as the guy on the door couldn’t really grasp the fact that they sold tickets in advance. He let the two women in and then stopped us males. They demanded a one off payment as this was a member only club. I pointed out that they’d let the folks in before us without this. “Well you have to start at some point” came the reply. We politely (at first) pointed out that we’d paid for this with our tickets. I don’t think it was helped by the fact that the tickets were in fact emails — waving around an Outlook print out just added to the confusion.

Eventually we entered a scene of complete confusion. After a long wait that was. The bands were ’sound checking’ For a long time. I know all about this having run folk and blues clubs. Bands get nervous. They are far happier sound checking than actually performing. The sound check can last longer than the gig. And this is what happened with band number one of a four band line-up.

To be fair band one were reasonably good. Well, I think they might have been. The sound was so bad that it was difficult to hear anything. As a person well acquainted with PA systems an amateur sound engineers I suspect it had probably been quite good before they started messing with it. This was the only gig I’ve been to where the quality of performances gets worse as you go through the bill.

The headline band were called the Steals. I should have known better when I saw them described as a mix of electronica and folk. Any idea what that would sound like? Ambient music that’s what. Loud ambient music with crap sound.

Again, being fair, I should acknowledge that the audience were much younger than me. However, the young woman and her boyfriend next to us were equally disappointed. They’d come expecting folk rock or at least something like Eliza Carthy.

The Steals describe themselves as effortlessly blending together electronica and folk. They were right. It seems to me that had put very little effort into combining the two. No doubt I’ll be flamed by Steal fans but they really were terrible.

However, it is good to have a ‘youth’ experience every now and then.

Things looked up on Sunday, after we’d moved a chest of drawers for our host’s 90 year old mum. The problem was the traffic in Hebden — which we had to go through there and back. I must say for a community that is so environmentally aware the locals do seem to like their cars! It was — I suppose — a kind of GreenGrid lock.

We then ambled up to the village of Heptonstall via the lane we were staying on, tracks and footpaths. I’ve always liked the idea of living some place where I could just walk out of the front door and out onto the hills.

We were just walking to the pub — a Super Sloman I think this is now called. But the lane was quite long, it became a path and then I spied footpath sign for Heptonstall. Suddenly we were on a real walk — an one that was more fun than Howarth. A guess we only walked for a mile or so but we went through woodland and onto the edge of the Heptonstall Cragg. It was a long way down. This was unexpected excitement. I suppose it was a Super Sloman with Additional Fun (and Pike — well the Olympics are back).

Heptonstall was once a high, lonely kind of a place. Today it is quite posh in parts and very trendy. But the stone still gives you a clear sense of how it might have looked in bygone winters.

The centre piece of Heptonstall is its fine church and graveyard, where I was able to pay my respect to two old heroes. David Hartley was the ‘King of the Coiners’ and band of outlaws in the 18th century who filed down the edges of coins and made new ones from the shavings. It was big business — a counterfeit operation on a big scale. Their location in these wild valleys gave them a great deal of protection. Eventually London had enough and soldiers were despatched to arrest Hartley who was publicly hung at York. As his coffin was carried up the hills to Heptonstall the route was lined by hundred of local men and women.

Also here is the grave of the American poet Sylvia Plath. This is the home of the family of Ted Hughes, Plath’s husband. Plath’s gravestone is apparently one of the most regularly defaced in Britain, by feminist followers who believe Hughes drove her to her death. I’ve always found this theory sad and suspected that those who promote it haven’t read much of her work. Plath’s Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams is an autobiographical piece written before she met Hughes. It makes for painful reading as Plath clearly had all kinds of mental health problems before she came to the UK. She must have been a difficult person to live with. Then again, for somebody of that background to marry such a gruff, difficult and dangerous Yorkshire man was probably not that wise. It was a sad and tragic relationship and who knows what really happened. I just wish they’d leave the grave alone.

The highlight of the Super Sloman with Additional Fun was the pub — the White Lion I think. We’d missed lunch by 15 minutes. I’ll go off back and do you something said the land lady, pointing us to the full menu. How many places would do that? The land lord is a great Irish bloke. And the food was fabulous. Steak and Kidney pudding was just that — a proper suet pudding with not a puff pastry topping in sight. Cozy, warm and welcoming, staff that go our of their way to help, great food and beer. What more can you want. If there is anyone reading this who is thinking of popping up to Heptonstall to deface the grave, why not pop in here first. You’ll instantly feel much happier and probably not make it to the grave. A better arrangement all around I feel.

And that was it really. The walk down was more direct and allowed us a fabulous view of these valleys. It is amazing site. Deep sided valleys dominate the view for 360 degrees. Each one is home to a small community who’s houses cling precariously to these steep slopes. NO wilderness this, but a great natural sight non the less.

Saturday was a good day for a walk. Change was in the air. Day is now beginning to stretch, straining to reclaim just a bit more of the night. The air was mild and although we have certainly not seen the last of the cold the direction of travel is clear; Spring is on the way.

The Train Guard looked out of the early morning window and contemplated the hanging mist. “It’s not going to be nice out there today”. But he was wrong of course.

As we started to walk blue was already beginning to shine through the low-lying cloud. The sun burnt through quickly and the mist was only able to cling onto the highest of ground. The threat of the mist had one good effect though as we more or less had the high ground to ourselves all day.

We climbed up to the top of the ridge without having a clear plan. Kate announced that she felt it was a day “for a Sloman”. She meant it was a day for a walk to the pub, something which is certainly a tactic that Al has shared on more than one occasion (see Alan Sloman’s big Walk blog).

This was a new concept for me. It has to be said that I seldom hit the hills with the aim of ending up at a pub. Kate certainly has more in common with Al in that regard. As we began to descend the ridge a whole series of new phrases set out to expand this new doctrine.

There was (I think) the Classic Sloman. This was described as a good country walk to a pub. This was followed by the ‘Vintage Sloman’ — a good country walk taking in two or more pubs. And then there was the ultimate ‘Super Sloman’, which turned out to be — well — just a trot to a pub.

By the time the Sloman doctrine had been properly defined we were strolling into the Shropshire hamlet of Bridges. Keen readers will realise that I have blogged about its pub, the Three Horseshoes before. This idyllically situated establishment is run by a miserable git who really doesn’t like walkers. But he does keep a very good pint of local Shropshire Ale. We arrived to notice a sign, ‘Closed due to flood’. Next to it was a second sign ‘Still closed due to flood’. The pub had been closed for some time.

So, the miserable git was also something of a waster. I thought of a lovely pub I know at a place called Lower Lode near Tewkesbury. The pub is virtually ten feet from the water. It floods here regularly, more than once every winter. As soon as the flood waters recede the stone flags are brushed down and the place re-opens. The Lower Lode is only closed when you have to swim to get there! I wondered what they would make of this performance. After all, Bridges is called Bridges for a reason. There are lots of streams here. Flooding can’t be too rare an occurrence. We sat and ate chocolate bars in lovely February sunshine. As we left we passed a skip full of flood debris, much of which seemed to be roof insulation, Perhaps the flood was caused by a burst pipe? Anyhow, I’m amazed it was still closed. They have real character and true grit at the Lower Lode.

We re-jigged our plans. walking back over the hill and down to Church Stretton for some lunch. I looked longingly at he first little café that we came to, which is a favourite haunt of mine when walking alone. I was told quite firmly that this was not a pub — it simply could not be classified as a Sloman.

We strolled around the corner to the pub. Years ago I used to avoid this place like the plague but since the smoking ban it has actually become quite nice. It was packed. We drank a rather wonderfully well kept pint of Banks’ Best and then went to order food. They’d sold out of food.

I’m willing to bet this never happens to the real Sloman.

We settled for the Berry House café which was something of a find. You are given two menus one of which simply gives you details of all of their suppliers. Everything is bought as locally as possible. The house white is a medium dry made in a Shropshire vineyard. The organic cider must be brewed only a few miles away. All waste is composted. Non local products are chosen from countries that do not use air freight. Everything is weighed up with a view to air miles.

It was a nice place, very nice. Not that cheap though but the Good Food Guide are right to include it in their 2010 edition. My sausages were not only good but (the menu told me) came from the Wenlock Edge Farm which I know well. I often find myself strolling past the farm’s pigs foraging around in woodland. They always seemed to be very happy pigs. And they tasted that way too.

Disappointment from the pubs aside this was a good day. The calf muscles were a bit stiff this morning but all in all there was a feeling of satisfaction, of training for this year’s walking season getting underway.

There’s more than a few miles to get under the belt before Braemar — the ultimate Super Sloman experience!

Using the sleeper service you can pack a lot into a weekend of walking in the Highlands — even more if you use a Colin Ibbotson itinerary! And once in a while the traveller can strike real gold with the weather … (more…)

Well, I’m back! Lots to chat about here and I’ll do a series of weird and wonderful pieces rather than one trail report.

I must remember, next time, some of the basics in life. Colin is younger than me, carries a lot less weight in his pack and a lot less weight on his body. By the end of day three I was completely knackered!

We ended up on the Cairn Gorm ridge in poor visibility and rain. We descended to the funicular station and took the train back down to Aviemore. Such slackers !!!

As we rolled down the hill I was conscious of the fight to stop the damn thing being built, while being relieved it was there. There was something bizarre about the trip. The funicular carriages emerged from a tunnel out on the hill. Visibility was virtually zero but the taped message churned on:

“In front of you can be seen the splendid country of Strathspey, with its wonderful lakes and trail that run through the Rothimurcus Forest” (Or something like that).”

We wondered what our fellow travellers made of it all. A Chinese family looked quite bewildered. What did they make of it all? Then again, what else is there to do on a wet afternoon in Aviemore?

Weird. Ironic. And very funny. A bit like the whole trip really. I’ll try and capture some of it in some of the posts.

One bit of advice to end on. Just in case you’re in Aviemore some time soon do not eat in the Star of India Restaurant. This was by far the worst Indian meal I’ve had for a long time. As I write my stomach is still remembering it!

My second walk was on the magical island of Cape Clear, Ireland’s most southerly island and the ‘last stop’ before North America. I’d been here before, just once and only for a few hours. Reading Paddy Dillon’s coastal walks I saw that somehow he’d managed to eek out 12 miles of walking on this small island. This seemed the perfect spot for walk number two.

There is something wonderful about the atmosphere here. You can almost feel the strains and stresses of life just flowing away; the forty five minute crossing probably has something to do with it.

Cape Clear — or Orlean Chléirein Irish — is only three miles long and one and a half miles wide, but it makes the most of it. A permanent population of only 120 live here, making the most of the climate which is milder here than on the mainland. It is a favourite for bird watchers and casual visitors of all kinds. The Cape Clear community is famous for being one who’s main language is Irish.

My first visit coincided with the annual Cape Clear Story Telling Festival and I was fascinated by this. A small but happy band of people were taking over the island. If you can imagine a Glastonbury atmosphere but without the mud, music and throngs of people you might get some feel for the atmosphere. Rather weirdly from my point of view I got to the ferry this year to find that it was the same day as last time, the Friday on which people were arriving for the festival. Sadly, I thought that the timing of the walk would not really allow me to explore much of the festival.

Paddy has managed to squeeze twelve miles walking into Cape Clear, something he achieves by a rather ingenious figure of eight route. This being September the ferry timetable had already begun to reduce and I reckoned I would only just have 6 hours in which to do the walk, and the book quoted six hours. Should I do the whole thing? Or should I allow myself time to wander, relax and take in the view?

From the little north harbour I climbed up a tiny lane to drop down to the south harbour. Here there were signs of the festival gathering. The small but friendly campsite featured two teepees and two Mongolian Yurts laid on to give the festival feeling. But I was off to the ‘hills’, or rather the rugged ridge that runs the length of the eastern part of the island.

The wonderful karma of the trip was broken the minute I stepped off the road and onto the footpath. Was this fence that I was crossing an electric fence. There was no sign. Ouch, a shock confirmed this was electrified. Pulling myself together I set out onto the path. I knew that the land would be waterlogged and so it proved, What I hadn’t counted for was the rest of the natural hazards.

Paddy’s walk runs out to the cliffs, faffs about a bit and then comes back inland a little to follow the crest of the ridge and a stone wall. What could be simpler? Except there was this gorse and brambles and brambles blackberries. The brambles were vicious and within no time at all my legs were hacked to pieces. The narrow paths were often so waterlogged that there was no option but to try and stomp over some of the brambles. Heavy boots and thick gaitors might have helped _ but this was summer!

I found the wall and clambered up to it — a not insignificantly painful experience. The odd small path ran on and I jumped on to it. Within a metre of two the path simply dropped me in the middle of a huge expanse of water. I climbed around the edge, over thistles. regaining the path I soon found myself faced by more water. Should I carry on? Of course I should. I took another faint path and this time found myself walking back to the coast. I slogged up to some high ground, over more thistles. I spied what looked like a path in the distance. I clambered over more thorns to reach it. Yes it was a path but guess what? It soon disappeared into more bog.

The going was incredibly slow. Was I really enjoying it? I suddenly realised that despite the slog the path hadn’t really taken me anywhere. I found myself gazing at the very cows that I’d walked past on the other side of the wall half an hour before.

Enough was enough. I had no idea how Paddy had managed all of this but knowing him now I was a little suspicious, for Paddy seems not to have the same idea of pleasure and pain that the rest of us do. Curious about all of this I turned to the inside cover of the book. It was first published in 1999 which I guess meant that it was researched in 97 or 98. I suppose Paddy wasn’t walking the path at the height of the summer — with all of the undergrowth at its most vicious. Perhaps, over ten years or so the paths and the foilage had changed. I have no idea how — or even why — he wanted to carry on with this walk!

Just in case you have found this page from Google — and are thinking of walking the walk — well, this is for you. From the road slip under the electrified fence (no sign). Follow the path out to the cliffs. The guidebook suggests you retrace your steps to find a path that follows the line of the wall. The wall is easy to see and you will have crossed it. But the path is no more. From the cliffs the path you will have walked on continues as if to go inland and to follow the ridge. It comes and goes this path but eventually goes back out to the cliffs again, so it doesn’t really follow the line wall. Maybe it does eventually but I wasn’t hanging around to find out. The Martello Towers are easy to make out but the wind turbine is no more, although it still stands.

I gave up. I slipped back under the electric fence and onto tarmac. If I had happened to chance on Paddy there and then I’d have throttled the bugger. Maybe, it would be more diplomatic to suggest to Cicerone that it was time to revise the book!

I’d walked less than a mile. My trousers were caked n mud, my feet soaked through and my legs torn to bits. Sod this. It was time to go back to north harbour, find some lunch and a drink and find out what this festival was all about.

Back at the harbour there’s a lovely café. I sat outside in the sun and eat a wonderful crab salad. There I got talking to a London guy and his Northern Irish relative. They’d discovered this festival by accident, loved it and had come back five years on the trot.

The festival seems to be quality experience but it is small, and all the more interesting for that. I think the programme featured four or five top class storytellers who were doing ‘gigs’. Apparently the audience is about 200. I was sat and chatted the place began to come alive. On the next ferry a large throng (well relatively) emerged as if they were off to Glastonbury. There were flowery wellies, lots of hippie type clothes and other adornments. In that rather strange way that you see in the UK hippies seem to be getting both older and younger. Some of these folks were only just out of their teens. The first session had begun, an exchange session for story tellers. The rest of the programme featured: a session on Fathoms and Metres from the Hebrides with Hebridean story teller Ian Stephen; Meandering Minstrels: songs and takes from Ireland with Clare Murphy and Jimmy Crowley; World Wondering Tales with Lyn Ford and Clare Murpy and much more. The main story tellers came from the US, Ireland, Scotland and Scandanavia.

The atmosphere of the place was great and the people lovely. You tell from their happy demeanours that this was one great — if tiny — festival. I’ve added it to my list of things to do. One year I’m going to stay for the festival, campin that delightful campsite and drink in the local pub

But it was time to go and soon as I was back on the ferry, riding the swell back past the Fastnet lighthouse and into Baltimore.

Despite the walk I’d had a wonderful day. What a great place and what lovely people — both the visitors and the locals. To stay here for a few days would be an experience that I reckon would relax even the most stressed on city dwellers.

It was my last day before moving on to Dublin. In the evening I met with family and friends for a fine seafood meal in the village in which I was staying. Everything was wonderful with the word …

… until I jumped into the shower next morning. Boy did those brambles cuts hurt!

Take my advice. If ever you’re in this part of the world make sure to visit Cape Clear. But give Paddy’s walk a miss. This is a place to relax and amble about. Leave the brambles to the loonies.

The Cape Clear Website

The Story Telling Festival

Postscript: This is a tiny community and like many island communities is trying to regenerate itself. They’re looking for residents. You don’t have to be Irish or speak Irish. It might be just what you’re looking for. I quite fancy it myself. More here:

A new life on the Cape?

To walkers Ireland is something of an enigma. This is a country that has some breathtaking scenery — mountains, hills and coast lines — but where access can be almost impossibly difficult. Yet this is a country deep in recession on one in which recovery will have to be based on a different economic and social model. Walking in Ireland last week shows just how much we should be grateful of our access here in the UK, despite its frustrations, and also shows just what the Irish are missing. (more…)

Well, Bob and I got off eventually. After a pleasant train journey to Malvern I popped off down to see Bob and Rose and to make the most important choice of the weekend — where to go. The two of us were as indecisive as ever but eventually we decided that we were in a seaside kind of a mind.

We parked the car at Goodwick which was once a picturesque little village but which these days is just above the ferry terminal at Fishguard. After a quick coffee in the Beaches café (there are no beaches here) we shot off along the Pembrokeshire path.

We walked for an hour I guess in pretty grotty weather. It was raining heavily and the wind was picking up. Our campspot for the night was just past a little creak, in the bottom half of a cattle field. Luckily there were no cattle around but they had been recently and the ground was pretty uneven and beaten up. After some pleasant food and a platypus red it was off to bed for an early night. The weather during the night was atrocious. We found ourselves in the middle of a dramatic storm with horrendous rain and dreadful winds. Still, this was good weather to test out the new shelter even if it was difficult to get some real sleep.

We awoke to a calm morning and sunny sky. It was sunny enough in the early morning for us to spend a good hour successfully drying off kit. About 7.30 we hit the trail.

This footpath is one of my favourites, there is something simply wonderful about the quality of the western light. Footpaths like this are no easy option. On a good day the walker has to deal with a high level of combined ascent. The rain in the evening had left the path in a treacherous state. Mud was thick and deep and the stones slimy and slippery. Some of the sharper descents were very precarious and the going quite slow at times. Bob reckoned this was worse than Scotland in that the ups and downs meant that you simply couldn’t get into your stride.

We stopped for breakfast in a small, secluded cove. Just a few feet away from us, in the water, were three seals — they were not happy that we were there. I seem to remember being here in September once when the newly born seal cubs were basking with their mothers on the beach. Perhaps, we were disturbing preparations for birth?

Anyhow, we’re pretty insensitive to thee kinds of seal warnings. We had croissants to toast!

The Master at Work!

The walk continued to be difficult but the weather just got hotter and hotter. I’m not sure how long we walked but it could well have been over 15 miles and up and down and sliding along the path.

At Abercastle we sat to rest near the tiny harbour. It was a glorious afternoon. Wild camping is a bit more difficult around here and so we fixed on a campsite in the village of Trefin for the evening. Just as we were thinking about heading up off the hill a Welsh couple told us that they were waiting for the Strumble Shuttle bus which was heading in the right direction. A few minutes on the shuttle and we were in Trefin and perfectly placed in the Old Ship Pub.

I mention the Old Ship because it was a cracking place. Originally, we were heading for the pub in Porthgain. This is a lovely spot but a bit trendy. When Bob realised he’d been to Porthgain once before we decided to sample the Old Ship. The Speckled Hen ale was one of the best pints I’d had in a while. This is sold in a real ale pub near me in Birmingham, but it tastes nothing like this.

At the campsite we rather disturbed the site owner by asking if he had a pitch. Of he went into a real panic. He had regular coming. Would there be enough room? I suspect he was not too enamored by two smelly and muddy backpackers strolling in at the beginning of his busy season. But what does expect from the coastal path. After much reassurance about the small amount of space we needed we were granted entry. What is it about the Welsh in campsites? This only ever seems to happen to me here.

We spent a happy hour or two relaxing in a proper summer’s sun, testing tent configurations and washing ourselves and kit.

For the evening we hopped off back to the Old Ship. I remembered I’d eaten here before. This is in no way a pretentious place but a pub that still looks like the village local. There’s a nice beer garden at the back and we both ate the best steak and ale pie that either of us had tasted for years. As the sun died down we retired to the bar. The pub was quiet but then again it seemed the whole of Pembrokeshire was quiet. I’m not sure people are holidaying at home this year but staying at home.

Thankfully, there was no return to the storms of Friday and we had a pleasant, warm night. In the morning we had a leisurely start before taking the Stumble Shutttle back to Goodwick. The Beaches café may not have beach but it does do a mean and reasonably priced full breakfast.

We were back in Malvern by four in the afternoon. It may have been short but it was a great break with a long and wonderful day;s walking in the best weather for six weeks or so. These short trips really are refreshing, times to natter about plans and ideas for the future, all backed by some chill-out walking.

We decided that we must do this again soon. We wondered about a couple of days of bicycle touring, perhaps taking the Fishguard Ferry over to Cork.

Which reminds me. I’m off to Cork again at the end of the month. Fabulous place.

Oh, and there will be a podcast.

My trail journal for the 2009 TGO Challenge is now online. here may be a few tweaks yet to be made but all of the links work fine. Hope you enjoy it.

2009 Trail Journal, RAB TGO Challenge

On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
A.E. Housman

There’s no doubt about it, the English Countryside is looking glorious at the moment. I was grateful for this weekend’s trip to the Cairngorms had to be cancelled but I did manage to get out overnight for one glorious walk in Shropshire.

Warm air, sunshine and rain have all combined to make this the most lush, verdant and vibrant summer than I can remember in years. I walked on along country lanes shaded by the canopies of aged, spendid, trees and through secretive paths, hidden from view by hedgerows ripe with summer blooms. Streams and rivulets sparkled in the late afternoon sun. I set up camp just before evening storms but the bouncing of rain on fabric seemed the perfect soundtrack against which to finish the novel that was stashed in the pack. It was a gentler rain that fell during the night, the kind of rain that soothes the soul and lulls the camper off to sleep.

An early morning stroll across high moors was just as splendid. Others had not yet risen for the day. The views were long and the vistas wide, seen through the shimmering haze so characteristic of the English summer. The moorland was alive with fresh, green, foilage and the air filled with a happy chorus of bird song.

Mid morning found me at the high point of my walk. I set up my shelter to dry in the now fierce sun. It was still too early for the first ramblers to have reached my spot from the car parks below but I chatted to a local mountain biker out to shake away the cobwebs of the weekend. Had I camped at this point? He’d always wanted to. We discussed bivy spots, lower down in secluded valleys. I have bivyed here once, many years ago. Water had to be carried up from below but I was rewarded for the effort by a stunning sunset descending in the general direction of Ofar’s Dyke. My companion and I reckoned that this summer might just be the time to revisit a night here in a bivy.

I had wondered about a mammoth walk, joining together all of the high points here in a kind of giant circle. But the day began to get busier and company put me in a more mellow frame of mind. Suddenly it seemed preferable to amble down to a quiet village and to sit in the pub garden with a pint of fine ale and a Sunday newspaper.

The pub is in a fine location. Familes with small children had made their way from the campsite up the road. The play of the children was a charming and as carefree as the birdsong on the moor.

I doubt that there was a better place than this — and a better time to be there. But the newspaper spoke of other places, of strife, struggle and war; of soldiers dying in far off lands. I recalled Housman’s poem. I imagine him sitting in a place like this on a day like this, delighting in the wonder of a Shropshire summer’s day but dwelling on the horrors of places far away.

On the idle hill of summer,
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.
Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.

East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.
Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.

A.E. Housman (1859-1936)