More Walking

Different stretch of coast: different vibe.
This stretch has broader paths, expansive views, wild ponies still in their winter coats, and gulls cavorting in the updraft. Fleeting and welcome sunshine lifts my spirit but there's always my constant companion nagging, tugging and buffeting me with an irritable persistence, trying to throw me to the ground. Whilst I walk I must look like a drunkard fighting to stay upright.
I'm getting the hang of this cliff walking. Somewhere there's a metaphor for life here.
One foot in front of another, again and again, over and over, distance is consumed. Concentrate on the task unswervingly, up the steep bits without resting, careful on the down slopes. Rhythm is everything.
Stop only with a purpose; tie a shoe, swig some water. Where the path allows, take in the view, but NOT whilst in motion. Danger Lurks there.
Look forward no more than to locate the direction of the path. Look too far forward and you're likely to be daunted by the task ahead and loose heart. Look back by all means to delight in the progress you have made.
Rest well for a few minutes only; remember that rhythm is everything. Getting going requires energy. Walking, like life, isn't a race
If you must take in the view, do so from a good vantage point with firm foothold. Do not be tempted by the sirens, mermen and mermaids calling from the foaming deep; resist all temptation for they will beguile you. Tempters all.
Watch carefully the path you tread, one foot in front of the other, over and over until your destination.
Most things are easy when you know how, when you realise the benefit of the rules to get you from here to there safely and in good heart.
Walk the walk...

Going for another walk

The day stared brightly enough, pale sunshine and a keen Westerly full on for most of the walk between Newport and the unfortunately named Fishguard. Progress proved tortuous. Paths echoed the terrain, steep narrow paths often steeply stepped up and down; narrow and too close to the edge for my liking much of the time.. I resolved to keep my eyes firmly fixed on the path, ignoring the booming mad crashing of the sea, colliding with the land hundreds of feet below. I have to force my thoughts not to go there or else my knees begin to tremble, inside.

I had not expected such a challenge. Total concentration was called for. Progress was halved, whittled to 2 miles per hour rather than the expected 4 MPH. Apart from the effort required to maintain progress there were but a few diversions.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I reached the top of one particular incline to be greeted with a bazaar scene. Often the vegetation is shaped by the prevailing wind in such a way that blackthorn sweeps over narrow paths creating a tunnel over the footpath, the floor often covered white like snow from the fallen tiny white spring flowers.
Here I encountered Bilbo Baggins, Frodo and his chums about to have a spot of lunch. A family of 5 or 6 had encamped in this particular tunnel and were preparing a pot of soup with a little stove, several French sticks salads and sundries. We were equally surprised by each other and profuse apologies were offered for the taking up of the whole narrow width of the path. Pots, pans and plates were removed to make stepping stones for me to continue of my way. And On I went.

Next, at the right angle corner of a field fence I looked up from my preoccupation of watching the path to see coming towards me a large woman walking alone wearing a blue trouser suit, and a tee shirt emblazoned with the word 'Wales' across her ample chest. She wore white trainers, spoke with a strong German accent, walked with a pronounced limp and carried a single Norwegian Walking Pole. In a brief conversation she informed me that she didn't much like the 'vind' particularly when it gusted and didn't get on with cliffs. Strange I thought, here in this particular location. I was keen to be off incase I was needed. I told her of my own fears and suggested she might pretend to look for Roman coins along the way to detract from her aversion to the frequent sheer drops of several hundred metres. she oped her purse and showed me a battered 1946 George VI halfpenny she picked up on a footpath in Siberia. She set off with her wonky gait dressed as if she was on the staff of the glove department in some Munich super store chuntering about looking for Roman coins. Very strange.

It didn't get any better.

Not too far from the previous encounter, I came upon a man and his unleashed dog up ahead where the path widened. He was deeply preoccupied with his mobile phone. I thought perhaps he was texting his lover to come to his side before it all got too much for him and he jumped off the cliff.
'If you really really loved me Gwendoline (Welsh) you'd leave your stupid job at the call centre and come to save me!'

As I passed, the dog, a kind of golden retriever/greyhound cross, gave me a wide berth; the man and I exchanged 'Or right then,' and I went on my way.
I recalled that the man had no backpack, didn't look like he should be out in the wilderness taking on nature. Very strange this man with a phone, locks of premature greyness, scruffy clothes and I demanding agenda. I began to mistrust him; he entered my thoughts. The click of a gate I had recently passed through caused me to stop and look back. There he was. Just metres behind me. How had he travelled so fast? I'm no spring chicken but I do walk with a purpose.

My mind ran amok. The dog passed very close to me this time, close enough for me to feel the brush of its coat on my shorted legs. It stopped ahead of me turned and stared at me. I turned and found the man was there right behind me. I jumped with fright.

'Give me your money,' he asked menacingly. 'Give me your wallet and anything valuable, now,' he demanded.
'I'll give you everything apart from my Swiss Army Penknife, with the clock,' I answered firmly. His small black eyed drilled into me. I remember the wise thing to do in these circumstances is to give stuff to prevent a worse outcome.

I burrowed in my backpack, handed over my wallet, my Tesco phone (what a cheap scape I am) my new binoculars, my trusty Panasonic camera and my moisturiser.

'The knife too,' he demanded, his hand thrust out in front of him. I handed him my knife.

To my horror he threw everything but the Swiss Army knife over the cliff. Noise from the crashing waves below absorbed the sound of breaking glass.

'Now the boots.' I swallowed hard. 'Now given me your boots and socks.' There was nothing i could do, so I unlaced and took off my beloved Salomon boots which held countless memories and watched with horror as he tossed these over the cliff into the abyss.

I felt the full horror of my circumstances. No money, no bank cards, no driving licence, no moisturiser, nothing. I looked down at my feet. I had at least 2 hours of clambering over sharp rocks to arrive in the town of Fishguard, unable to confirm my identity blooded and exhausted from my ordeal and a long way from home.

'Turned out fine didn't it,' the man said almost matter-of-factly as he passed me standing rooted to the spot for the brief moment I heard the click of the gate behind me.

The man disappeared from view. I turned, pulled myself together and resumed my purposeful gait.
Funny the sort of things that flash past in your mind.

It comes from having a fertile imagination.

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.

Planning on pounding the Pembroke Coast National Park footpath

Here's hoping the recent fine weather holds while I walk the 185 miles of the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park starting on 9/05, stopping to refuel, put up my feet and lay my head down at B&Bs along the way and perhaps snatch a swim or two when no-one's around. It promises spectacular scenery and abundant wildlife. Taking my bus pass just in case.

See me at 2far2shout.wordpress.com

Kiama, Illawarra, New South Wales

God's Waitingroom

By eight thirty on any morning, the residents of this little seaside of Kiama, two and a half hours by train south of Sydney, who can walk, are out in the bright sunshine.They walk alone, sometimes in twos, a few with purpose, most with exaggerated arm movements. Otherwise they wander aimlessly across the lush green sports fields, paths that zigzag over the headlands capped with Norfolk Island Pines, around the several bays, up to the lighthouse and along the beaches. Those who dont walk, gather and natter in groups at the ATM, sit outside at the Pie Shop, and numerous coffee shops on Terralong Street, Kiama's 'cosmopolitan' high street. Here the shops have a hint of thrift about them. Window dressing is checking how your sarong looks with sling-backs in a shop window; 'cosmopolitan' because every other shop is an Asian take-away. There's a heavy hint of Brit about the place; they're almost exclusively 'flat white' like the coffee.
I was told by an old stager that there's a little place down the coast that's known as 'God's Waiting Room', but I suspect he's talking about Kiama. The biggest development in town is an imposing health centre just back from the beach. There's every possible 'ology' available and Bingo twice a week. There can't be many places as lovely as this to while away final days. The early morning scattered walking reminds me of birds circling before migration.
I chatted to Liam, Manager of the Kiama Shed Project while a group of 4 men watched another man plane a piece of wood clearly imparting a sense of manly well-being and providing a place to retreat from loneliness and domestic routine.
Im being unfair...
Kiama is a beautiful little town; a little nostalgic with a lacy edge of promise. How can it go wrong with a breathtaking coastal walks, four sandy coves, one black, two rock pools for those who like to swim, one in a spectacular location close to the BlowHole and the lighthouse that looks perfectly natural. The busy little fishing harbour lands excellent fish and offers deep sea fishing experiences; the sea bream fish and chips at the restaurant/takeaway on the quay was as good as it gets.
The Patrolled Surf Beach is choice of young men who might have attended the local primary school behind the Lifesaving centre where children runaround energetically in maroon floppy hats chasing balls on the green field by the beach, with an eye on the brand new secondary school high in the hills behind the town, offering the 'best in Comprehensive Education'. There's no swimming or golden sand at Black Beach. Other more gentle beaches are dotted with a few locals, otherwise empty now schools are back. Ladies in flimsy floral dresses can be seen in numbers on Terralong Street walking sometimes with bandy-legged consorts enjoying coffee and ice cream, topping up their tan; their skin already as tough as old boots.
Up on the dramatic promontories, public land is close cropped, paths neatly chiseled and helpfully signed for dog walkers and lovers of fauna and flora. Several Norfolk Pine tree topped Promontories nose out into the ocean and provide spectacular views for the 'haves' in their horizontal glass and block eyries muscling the clapboard, tin roofed, extended verandas of homes of earlier arrivals. Pretty little cabins in lush planted shady heights can be rented for by the week year round at an extortionate price; theres more than one kind of high roller in town. It's a place to do nothing in.
For excitement there are two blow holes out on the rocky reaches of Lighthouse Point, which made me jump the first time I heard it. A small group of Chinese visitors were unmoved. The jester who dives into the hole and gets blown skyward was away on his holidays in New Zealand. This is a proud little town, well managed and spotlessly clean: a smart resort attracts smart people with time on their hands.
Nothing much happens in Kiama. Headlines in the local paper shows a picture of Ivy Burgess (93) who won her first ever 'ribbon' at the 165th Kiama Show this year. She entered her three-piece infant set made for her Great Grandson. 'This is the first time I've won anything!'
Corralled in a circular picket fence in the deep shade of the overhead railway track I found a curious remembrance. George Weighman, one of 4 ill-fated leaders of the Pentrich Revolution in London in 1817 is remembered for his part in encouraging uprising in England against the extravagant war taxes needed to shore up the Napoleonic Wars. He was found guilty and sentenced to hanging later commuted to transported for life. He settled in Kiama and by all accounts was a model citizen and died in 1865 aged 68. I bet a firebrand like George would have been a leading light in The Shed Project.
The morning I left to return to Sydney I was woken by the blood curdling screech of big black birds in a pine nearby, for all the world sounding like children being tortured in their beds. While i'm here I wish to note that birds on this continent do not sing, but hurl insults. However, the sun was shining brightly, rollers crashed and swept up the beaches and the good people of Kiama walked the headlands on neat sweeping pathways of this earthly paradise.

The 30th of January

The day after the 30th of January, the 68th year of my life,
I woke suddenly and early as is my habit in this strangely familiar place, Sydney, Australia. I'm woken by a pair of Lorikeets, their ratcheting call like the intermittent flaring of two welding torches; a neighbour across the road feeds these green, red, blue and yellow birds on her window sill. I listen for a while, then, without moving, my body tells me it aches from the exertion of yesterday's swimming at Bondi Beach.

The sun returned to Sydney yesterday after a long absence as it often does following a holiday weekend, this time, Australia Day 26/01/2013. Five us piled into the ever willing Honda Jazz and set off south from Killara to cross The Bridge and venture to the South Shore with one specific destination in mind. As a diversion we stopped off at Cooper Warf to stroll along Finger Quay, skilfully transformed into a marina, apartments and restaurants; the surrounding area, gentrified to provide yet more of the same. Conservation is rampant. The lesson learned almost too late, is that historic buildings and their setting remain a priceless legacy to be kept intact, used and reused according to some present and future function; for the moment eating drinking and sleeping is in high demand in this city with so much to offer: no use a game reserve with no animals.

Next stop Paddington, a once wild and inhospitable neighbourhood south of the of the inlet of Port Jackson. In the second half of the 1800's when the army barracks were removed to a site on Paddington Ridge, the area was parcelled up into lots and sold to small developers to build houses for the construction workers; terraced house for maximum profit. These garden-less, cramped, dark little houses didn't appeal to the upwardly mobile and by the 50-60's the area was ripe for renewal. Now an area of steep street after street lined with beautifully embellished terraces, the famous 'iron lace' balconies, barge boards and brackets, glimpses of Port Jackson Sound, soon attracted galleries, restaurants, cafes and fashion boutiques.
We decided a future visit on foot was necessary, even mandatory. Temperature increasing and Bondi Beach was next and final destination.
Some months ago I had torn from a life-style magazine in my doctor's waiting room of a picture of a restaurant called Ice-cube; a gleaming white glass cube over-looking the expanse breathtaking sweep of Bondi Bay.
Bondi is an Aborigine word meaning 'sound of waves crashing over rocks'.
We feasted on excellent 'fish and chips' (banish all images of 'fish'n chips' from your mind, immediately) watching the breakers sweep into the bay, spewing over retaining walls, flooding the 50m pool fashioned from the blackrocks of Mackenzies Point. Here is the The Ice-cube Swimming Club established in 1906 in order to train Bindi's famous life-savers. As a quaint but necessary requirement, diners dippers and lolligaggers alike are are required to produce ID in return for membership; it'll look good on my CV alongside my FBI record.
Yesterday was my birthday and I was about to realise a dream I always thought of as unattainable, but thanks to my hosts, JGW and CP I was about to swim in the surf on Bondi Beach.
I won't bore you with the details save to say the water was deliciously cool, the surf bullish and boisterish.
Fitness fanatics, bronzed body-beautifuls walked, ran, jumped and gender bent, cavorted on the promenade and lay gently cooking on the beach in significant numbers. In the blinding bright light and against a backdrop of houses and small hotels coloured like pastel fancies on a patisserie counter Bondi bloomed. In common with much of the city, Bondi is shaking off its working class. Blackpool of the Southern Hemisphere image to become an egalitarian resort.
Fabulous and what a birthday present!
On the way home we stopped off and clambered up on a narrow path through rough scrub to South Head, together with its sister sentry North Head, stand guard at the mouth of Port Jackson Sound and the Port of Sydney. One hundred foot of towering rock edifice, on this day pounded by the mighty ocean. Out in the Sound, a distinct line separated darker freshwater tide from the lighter more saline sea, emphasised by a bead of tiny white sparkling specks stretching into the distance, were sea birds feasting on food caught in maelstrom.
So the story goes, Captain Cook recommended Botany Bay to be the site of the first settlement. He had noted but not explored the inlet now named Port Jackson. When the First Fleet of 11 ships containing 1530 persons, soldiers, convicts and settlers arrived in 1787 under the command of Captain Arthur Phillip, Botany Bay was thought unsuitable for moorings. The following year, 1788, January 26th, a settlement was established at a point in Port Jackson Sound called Sydney Point in preference to Botany Bay, proclaimed Australia Day and the rest they say is History.

You can tell I'm suppressing the guilt...