Poetry And Walking

When my sister and only sibling, Elizabeth, died from a brain tumour at the age of 29 in August 1987, I found myself turning to poetry for succour, consolation and a deeper view of things. I called on Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth and other English Romantic poets; I visited Lorca, Levertov and RS Thomas. I also began walking more and more, and further and further. In the simple act of walking, in the natural human activity of placing one foot in front of the other, I encountered a kind of fragile peace; and the sublime scenery I often walked through seemed to provide, at least partly, a benign and numinous response to my unanswerable questions.

I kept a written log of my walking routes from April 1987 to May 2006. Looking at it again recently, I'm reminded that a few weeks after my sister's death Carmen and I stayed for a while in Porthmadog (Wales), where I climbed the little hill of Moel-y-Gest and the mountain of Cnicht, and ascended the Roman Steps from Cwm Bychan. The landscape here in Snowdonia is wild, dramatic and breathtakingly beautiful.

My mother, Joan, died in November 2004, and again I turned to poetry: this time to the poems she'd  transferred to her commonplace books in a painstaking and neat hand, or cut out from magazines with scissors and pasted into her scrapbooks; and also those chosen by WB Yeats for The Oxford Book Of Modern Verse 1892-1935. Mum had been awarded this book as a prize for 'General Proficiency' at the end of her 1937-8 year at The Municipal High School for Girls in Doncaster, Yorkshire.

Three years later I completed my first Camino, and lit candles in memory of my sister and mum at various significant stages along the Way. Here's the wonderfully crazy signpost at Manjarin in the Spanish Montes de León:

My father, Fred, died in January 2009, and almost exactly one year later I walked the Vía de la Plata. I dedicated this Camino to him. We did not have an easy relationship, but all is now more peaceable. The last words he spoke to me were: 'You know I love you, Robert'.

Dad did not appreciate the finer subtleties of poetry as such, but he did love the words to the Wesleyan hymns he played on the organ each week at the Methodist village chapel. Only the other day I was leafing through his Methodist Hymn Book and alighted on John Bunyan's Who Would True Valour See (from Pilgrim's Progress):

Who would true Valour see
Let him come hither;
One here will Constant be,
Come Wind, come Weather.
There's no Discouragement,
Shall make him once Relent,
His first avow'd Intent,
To be a Pilgrim.

(The Monk's Gate arrangement by Vaughan Williams, adapted from a traditional English melody.)

Needless to say, he also loved the words of the Bible, and of course the words of the Authorised King James Version are poetry indeed. This is the title page of one of his Bibles:

Poetry and walking have been my salvation in the most challenging of times. There are times when I feel they have actually saved my life, or kept me sane at the very least.

Sorrow

Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.

DH LAWRENCE

(Collected by WB Yeats in The Oxford Book Of Modern Verse 1892-1935.)

The Roman Steps

It was Wednesday 16 April and the campsite turf was drying out nicely. I'd planned a circular walk in the heart of the Rhinogs taking in 2 mountain passes - Bwlch Tyddiad on the way out and Bwlch Gwylim on the way back. It was a fine morning and I followed the River Artro for a few miles to the head of Cwm Bychan. There's a farm here with space for parking and camping. It's a beautiful spot next to Llyn Bychan, a glacial lake formed 1 and a half million years ago (1st pic). The lake is home to the brown trout and the red bellied char - the latter a very rare fish found only in these high mountain lakes. This whole area is known geologically as the Harlech Dome - significant because it contains some of the oldest rocks (350 million years old) on earth.

I walked in bright sunshine through old oak and birch woods - where pied flycatchers flitted about among the trees - towards the 1st pass, Bwlch Tyddiad. The steady ascent was delightful, made easier by the presence of a rocky stairway known as the Roman Steps. The origin of these man-made steps is obscure - they're almost certainly not Roman - but it's likely they were built as a packhorse route in medieval times. I'd been here before when the children were young but we had never made it to the top. This time - 20 years later - I scampered up the ingeniously placed slabs of rock and reached the cairn at the top of the pass. The 2nd pic shows the route I'd come.

A herd of the Rhinog's famous feral goats was grazing in a forestry clearing on the other side of the pass. Once out of the woods the going got tough. I looked out on a vast bowl of wilderness. The vague path soon disappeared and I headed north-east over boggy and uneven ground in the general direction of Wern-fach, a small abandoned farmstead by the River Crawcwellt. Here I faced west and began the slow, hard climb along the river to Bwlch Gwylim. There was no real path, but there were plenty of unstable tussocks of grass and squelchy areas of marsh formed by numerous tributary streams. Occasionally there was a short, rocky scramble where I had to use hands as well as feet. I disturbed a snipe which zigzagged away up the valley.

Eventually I left behind the bare, open spaces and the cliffs closed in. At the top of the pass I took a well-earned rest. Another solitary walker gave me a wave as he deliberately picked his way down from the complex, northerly massif of Moel Ysgyfarnogod and Foel Penolau. He crossed the pass and continued up the other side of the gulch onto yet more high ground. Myself, I was weary. And glad it was now downhill all the way. The views around were magnificently desolate (3rd pic). I quickly descended steep, grassy slopes to Cwm Bychan and the car.

A Rough Day In The Rhinogs

The Rhinogs have a reputation as being some of the roughest walking country in Wales. Although I like to think I returned from my big Camino walk in December reasonably fit, since then I've done little strenuous activity and have put on some weight. It would probably have been sensible to have worked my way in gradually and taken on some easier walks for the first day or 2. But sensible? Me?

After Friday night's deluge the campsite field was sodden. Driving off I promptly got stuck in the mud. Luckily a party of Duke of Edinburgh's Award schoolkids, who'd arrived very late the night before, were able to give the car a push. I crossed over from Cwm Bychan into Cwm Nantcol, the next valley, along a narrow, winding road until it became a farmer's track and I could go no further. On the way I managed to hit very hard a large stone on the edge of the road. This had the effect of gouging out 2 chunks of rubber from the wall of both my nearside tyres. As you can see, things were going very well so far!

I set off on foot past the stone cottage in the 1st pic and headed for a slight dip in the skyline just to the left of Rhinog Fawr, at 720m the 3rd highest of the Rhinog summits. The weather was cold and cloudy. I made the classic mistake of vaguely following 2 other walkers along the sketchy, relentlessly uphill path. The terrain changed from tussocky grass and bog to slippery stones and mud. It wasn't until the path levelled out, and I glimpsed the gleaming lake of Llyn Du to the north-east, that I realised I had overshot the cairned path on the left flank of the ridge as described in my walking guide.

Having no desire to retrace my steps, I carried on for a while until I came upon another hint of a path zigzagging up the northern face of the mountain. As I climbed, the path became more and more snow-covered. Halfway up I looked back and saw the southern edge of the Lleyn Peninsula bathed in sunlight. But I was struggling up into the deep cloud which clung to the higher tops of the Rhinogs. Suddenly, and unexpectedly quickly, I gained the summit plateau where there was a cairn, a wind shelter and an OS trig pillar ( 2nd pic). I ate my sandwiches resting my back on the eastern side of the stone shelter out of the wind. Ravens cronked overhead.

Now I had to get off the mountain. A surprisingly clear path led south-east in the direction of the next peak, Rhinog Fach. I followed it. I was ankle deep in snow. The path terminated at a cliff edge above a steep, snowy, bouldery gully. I didn't fancy clambering down this way at all. My walking book became very unhelpful at this point. The author had written that he always got lost here and had never taken the same route twice. Later someone told me I should have picked up a faint path to the left of the gully. But I veered to the right, contoured across heathery, rocky, ankle-twisting slopes to the south-west, and eventually faced a steep, pathless, extremely rough descent down tumbling, rocky stairways and raking, heathery inclines.

There was a lot of scrambling - using hands as well as feet. I took it slowly. I didn't want to hurt an ankle or tear a muscle. I had to be very careful as the ubiquitous heather often disguised the presence of hidden rocks or depressions beneath. As so often happens, halfway down the angle of declivity increased before it lessened. But I had committed myself, and was much too tired to go back and find an easier way down. After what seemd a very long time I reached the pass of Bwlch Drws-Ardudwy. The 3rd pic shows my slope of descent.

In relief I relaxed and set off down the pass back to Nantcol Farm and the car. Rhinog Fach would have to wait till another day. Here I made another classic mistake. I relaxed too much and didn't check the map. Assuming the return path would be obvious, I blithely followed a sheep track alongside a wall at the far side of the valley stream, thinking this was the correct way. It soon brought me into difficulty. The track abruptly vanished. Too late I realised that I was on the wrong side of the stream - which now flowed powerfully and had widened considerably.

After a long period of slow, uneven progress through marshy fields and tight, rocky defiles, I eventually found a place to breach the wall and ford the stream. There was another steep, awkward rise to to the place where I thought the correct path should be - this time knee-high, spiny thorn bushes were the obstacle. Still no path. Field after boggy field later I found the path - along which 2 other walkers were quickly and cheerfully making their way. They seemed rather surprised to see me emerge from a field of goats looking wild, wet and exhausted.

An hour later I was sitting in the National Milk Bar in the seaside town of Barmouth drinking a welcome mug of tea. National Milk Bars, like Spar supermarkets, are a national institution in Wales. It had been a rather gruelling slog for my first walk of the week. But, as is often the way, when I reflected back on it I realised how much I'd actually enjoyed it. In a masochistic kind of way. Outside, gulls rode the wind in Cardigan Bay and jackdaws made their chack-chacking calls from house chimney stacks. And later still, snug in my sleeping bag, tired but content, the rich and lilting repertoire of a song thrush soothed me to sleep.

Not So Wild Camping

Although I love travelling on foot, long distance walking, short distance walking, linear walks, circular walks, discovering new places (the countryside and wilderness for sure, but sometimes towns and cities too), camping and experiencing the great outdoors whatever the weather, although I love all of these things I'm not really a backpacker-wildcamper. Or not yet, that is. Lately I've been following with great interest many of the lightweight backpacking and wildcamping blogs and websites such as Backpacking In Britain. For years I've been reading other people's personal accounts such as John Hillaby's Journey Through Britain or more practical guides such as Chris Townsend's Backpacker's Handbook. And dreaming.

The self-sufficiency of backpacking-wildcamping is, I suppose, the hiker's ultimate freedom. You're not tied down to the strictures of a B & B, a hostel or an official campsite. You can make camp for the night in a beautiful and remote location of your own choosing (within reason). You can come and go as you please. You have the immense satisfaction of knowing that everything you need you're carrying with you. However a successful trip like this (compared with car camping) does require some experience and a certain amount of forward planning, a degree of imagination and a smidgen of practicality, an ability to improvise and some careful research into the right lightweight equipment to buy.

You could say wildcamping is more purist - the ultimate in wilderness connection. If car camping is the regular army, then wildcamping is the SAS. With wildcamping you can be truly eco-friendly by leaving the car behind and reducing your carbon footprint. I look forward to doing it myself before very much longer - when I can afford the initial outlay on the right gear. But car camping does have some plus points. Weight is not an issue so you can bring what food you want - and books, a radio, lots of spare clothing etc. And on campsites it is nice to have hot water, showers, toilets, a place to wash socks and cooking pots etc. But you have to be very careful about which campsites to choose and when to go there. I've learnt from experience to avoid weekends, and school and public holiday times.

I like small, obscure, simple sites. Often these are attached to farms. Their facilities are often basic but that's fine by me. Of course they're cheaper (I don't like paying more than £5) and, generally speaking, quieter than the bigger, more commercial sites. Though there are always exceptions. I've been family camping in Brittany on a big, popular site where you couldn't hear a pin drop after 11 pm. Yet on the other hand I've been on small farm sites in Shropshire and the Lake District where noise (I won't go into detail!) from a few isolated tents lasted most of the night... On another occasion I went to the Literary Festival at Hay-on-Wye and camped on a small pub campsite. I was kept awake the whole night long by mind-numbing high-volume trance music pounding out from a rave taking place miles away. So it can all be a bit of a gamble.

The photos show my tent in peaceful (except for the peacocks - see yesterday's post!) Cwm Bychan - views of it, in it and from it.

Molehills And Peacocks

...You cannot live in the present,

At least not in Wales.

There is the language for instance,

The soft consonants

Strange to the ear.

There are cries in the dark at night

As owls answer the moon,

And thick ambush of shadows,

Hushed at the fields' corners.

There is no present in Wales,

And no future;

There is only the past,

Brittle with relics,

Wind-bitten towers and castles

With sham ghosts;

Mouldering quarries and mines...

From Welsh Landscape by R. S. Thomas.

I've been camping on my own in Wales for just over a week.

I wanted a break from the flat, ploughed fields of the grey-skied English Midlands, and its congested roads, shopping plazas, retail parks, industrial estates. I needed to de-stress and chill out. I craved a simple life for a while, far away from computers and hypermarkets and the niggling, ever-present problems of work and society and family life. I had an overwhelming urge to take myself off to some wild countryside and blend into nature. An ancient landscape called me, a landscape of many different margins: sea and shore, mudflat and sand dune, river and estuary, cliff and heath, rock and heather, valley and hill, sheep pasture and moorland. This was the landscape of West Wales - its coastline, and its mountains rearing up just inland from the coastal rim. From the cliff path high above Llanbedrog on the Lleyn Peninsula I was soon to see these splendid mountains in a line before me, stretching in shapely profile from Snowdon and Moel Hebog in the north, through Cnicht, the Moelwyns and the Rhinogs, to the great bulk of Cadair Idris in the south.

But that comes later. First I had to drive there. On the morning of Friday 11 April I set off with maps and rucksack, warm walking clothes and camping gear. I stopped off near Llangollen for an hour and explored the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct which carries the Llangollen Canal over the River Dee and was built by Thomas Telford (see photos). The view westwards from the aqueduct was very fine.

It was late afternoon when I pitched my tent on the no-frills campsite at Dinas Farm which is situated in the stunningly beautiful valley of Cwm Bychan east of Llanbedr. A red kite soared above me. A buzzard perched watchfully in a tree. The campsite was green grass dotted with the little black mounds of molehills. Every now and again a herd of strikingly marked feral goats (black head, white body, long brown tapering horns) would stealthily appear to crop the grass. Then they would vanish just as suddenly. I pitched in the lee of an old stone wall and some windswept birch trees. There were no other campers. Apart from the bellowing of distant cattle the only sounds were some unearthly wailing cries I couldn't quite place. It was like a band of souls being tortured in hell. Einir, the campsite owner, enlightened me. " They're peacocks," she explained, rather disdainfully. "But they're not natural. Like buzzards and kites are natural." Whereupon she zoomed off on her quad bike to flatten the molehills.

It rained all night. An owl hooted, competing unsuccessfully with the peacocks. I listened to the rain pattering down on my tent and lulling me to sleep. I love sleeping outdoors and hearing all the different sounds, registering all the changing moods of the weather. I was very happy.