Not more walking!

You guessed it; another wet day dawned. Sometimes the task seems daunting in the foul weather, there's not much enjoyment except to load on the miles and hope.
The route suggests I take a circuitous arc of more than 20 miles through the petro-chemical installations of Milford Haven, out onto the wild windy reaches of West Angle; it seemed from OS OL 36 unlikely I would find accommodation and an drying fire. The locals confirmed my worse fears: the rain was set for the day.

In cut out and discarded the 20 miles round the oil refineries. i took a bus as a gesture of defiance and set out from a more southerly point in the pouring rain.
Nature was closed for the day. At Stackpole Head there were no kittiwakes, razorbills, fulmars or guillemots and my new 'bins' remained in my backpack. The sea had the all the character of a wet blanket, even the blow-holes were closed for the day and the ruffians at the base of the cliffs were having a lie-in.
The bakery and teashop at Stackpole Quay was lifeless, a single fishing smack anchored off shore rose and fell with the gentle swell. There was only me, the cliffs and the sea.
Soon into my rhythm the light rain presented few problems. The grass on the track, however, grew in great tussocks of rain drenched leaves and soon my boots were waterlogged; I had only one option and I was exercising it with little enjoyment. There were places to stop and amaze at the view through the rain. Vertical strata rose out of the sea and at times the cliffs resembled giant organ pipes. In other parts the vertical cliffs were ground down by the sea at the base of the cliffs like a vast surface of wet, black waffles, each indent an enticing, deep mysterious rock pool. Sweeps of sandy beaches rinsed by the rain came and went, missing the chatter of birds and cries holiday makers on sunny days.
At last the path nose-dived from the cliff tops to an arching stretch of would be golden sand. In the beach toilet block I warmed my hands and dried my fleece hat in the hot air hand-dryer and plodded onward on the soft wet sand; soon a path rose steeply into the cloudy sky and I was back in business.
Up on the cliffs, I gave up taking photos as the rain notched up a gear and I began to crave a log fire and hot buttered toast with strawberry jam.

A few hours later I lay in a hot bath, my sodden jacket and sloshing boots whisked off to dry by the AGA and replaced with a pot of Darjeeling and a dozen chocolate Digestive biscuits. Upon recommendation from a couple of dog-walking residents of Manorbier village, I landed in the B&B of Wendy and Roger, not their real names you understand.

I had a burger and chips at the local pub with couple of pints of cider and stayed to join in the quiz before hobbling 'home' in the brogues borrowed from Roger. He told me he'd purchased the pair in Buenos Aires. He clearly never paid for them because they squeaked and began to sever my big toe from my foot as I tottered back to my billet. I woke the ancient 'deaf' Jack Russell called Crumble and climbed the last steps of the day, not to a hilltop but to an enormous four poster bed and voluminous duvet. I knew breakfast was going to delight. I fell asleep instantly and dreamed of galleons in full sale.

There's always a tomorrow.

Going for a walk

I cast the heavy bow howser out over the widening gap between the departing boat and the quay, so-to-speak and wave goodbye as my wife Lynne drives away in our car waving furiously, her eyes not on the road but in the rear view mirror until turning a corner and disappearing from my view. I heard no sound of collision!

Im aware I stand alone in a strange place, white cottages tumble down to huddle along the shore of an snaking estuary; muddy banks bared at low tide.
I hitch up the unaccustomed weight of my rucksack to get comfortable. Gone are the lazy, hot sunny days of the past few weeks; here on the coast the wind whips people brave enough to venture, just now licking the back of my knees; perhaps I shouldn't have chosen to wear shorts. Patches of blue in the sky came and went. My grandmother would have said ' there's enough blue up there to patch a Dutchman's trousers'. Without the wind it would be a fine day to begin a long walk along the coast of West Wales. But first i need to find my bed for the night.

I feel like John Bunyan's Pilgrim about to embark on a journey into the unknown. In my backpack the bare essentials for protection against the elements and a few nut bars and a bottle of water to quell the munches. I realise I have with me items from every room in our house: windup torch from the garage, my Swiss Army knife note book and pencils from my work work room, from the bathroom electric tooth brush and razor, even from the toilet, a few sheets, and all the rest. I strode purposely into the unknown, carrying my house on my back.

Looming sinister rain-bearing clouds begin to gather as I find an easy rhythm climbing gently up the gradient away from St Dogmaels to follow a lane carved out by a babbling brook, upward and onward. People unloading shopping, trimming hedges and walking dogs welcomed me with a cheerful hellos. Two ruff looking handlers of Engish bull terriers looked like they might bar my way so I tipped my hat and bid them,
'Ello, Bon jour.' I thought a spot of French might dissuade them from roughing me up and pinching my penknife.

The shaded dingle dell, over which trees, displaying the first vigorous growth of spring, spread across the lane throwing shadow patterns and allowing floating glimpses of blue sky, mercifully providing shelter from the increasingly strong westerlies.

Out in the open upland I stop to lean on a gate to take in the scenery; wind swept pastures and coppices nestling in the folds of vigorous rolling landscape. I knew then I had got away, i was reduced, subservient to a greater whole, one small part of many. I began to look forward to tomorrow.

B&B at a farmhouse tucked into high bank, a beech stand holding on for dear life in the gale took me into its cosy embrace; provided every creature comfort.The outdoor pool however continued to wear an overcoat. Tomorrow after breakfast my walk will begin in earnest.

I'm woken by bright sunshine at 5 am but by 7 the sky begins to grumble and by the time I'm waving goodby to my hosts the lashing begins and doesnt let up for 6 hours. The cliff-top walk was no fun in the driving rain, mist obscured much of the dramatic views; there were no birds and i was in no mood to take photographs; i just wanted to get to my destination. By the time I finally reached Newport, Pembrokeshire i was freezing, my teeth chattered, everything including my underpants where soaked; only the pilot light of optimism remained alight.

I'm now in room at the Golden Lion in Newport. My wet stuff snuggles up to the radiators and heated towel rail. I read for an hour or so this afternoon while nature continued to take its revenge upon west Wales....then suddenly the clouds disappeared, to be replaced by blue skies and a warm buffeting wind. Been out to see where I came from out of the mist and gales just hours ago. I've given up the idea of getting the bus to Fishguard tomorrow for now. I get the feeling I'm being given a lesson...

At least the forecast for Friday looks more positive.