'Call me Ishmael' 'Hello, Ishmael': Carmarthen to Kidwelly

After the sodden day of banana walking it was nice to wake in the morning to a better day, safe in the knowledge that I wasn't going to have to dress up in any silly outfits. We got ourselves started, drove to get breakfast in Carmarthen and set off for the day's walk. This one was going to be a long one, 14 miles. Carmarthen is one of the oldest towns in Wales and has links to the wizard Merlin (Myrddin). Supposedly he was born there. I think his mother must have got about a bit because Nikolai Tolstoy (no, not that Tolstoy, another one) thinks he is based on a Scottish druid. Wherever he was born, his father might have been an incubus, which seems quite likely for a Carmarthen lad, and they like to claim him.

You can all do a little 'incidental Welsh' using this sign as a visual aid. We were walking in the opposite direction, away from the town, down the eastern side of the estuary.

The first part of the walk was dull, along Route 4 of the National Cycle Network and after that along a minor road to the village of Croesyceiliog. The path wandered through fields and farms and we wandered with it. The miles passed and eventually we arrived in Ferryside. In Victorian times there was a ferry that would take holiday makers arriving by train across the estuary to Llansteffan. This made the village grow and there were several attractive houses clustered along The Cliff, high above the train station. Strangely I felt the town had a French air about it. My feet were in bits, my blisters were hurting and Rhian suggested that we get some drinks and sit the the beer garden at the local pub.

We stepped in through the door and I felt as if I was in a film or a story where unsuspecting tourists walk into a remote village hostelry and everything stops. They all turn to stare at these outsiders. The main bar of the pub was populated by a number of locals, sitting in the window seats and playing pool. They looked at us. I glanced a little nervously around at them - an interesting collection of individuals, some with teeth, some without, some slurping a pint, one or two on the gin, bag of pork scratchings open on the sticky looking table in front of them. It would be an exaggeration to say that there was a chap playing the banjo in the corner but only just. I smiled at the chap behind the bar, as did Helen, stuttered out our order and asked where the garden was. He pointed, silently, at a dilapidated stairway out to the beer garden at the back. We beat a hasty retreat and could hear chatter resume, and the sudden clack of the balls on the pool table as the game continued.

We got two pints of lime and soda and walked though the bar full of locals and we sat in the garden. It was very pretty, and secluded out there and clearly someone had tended the flowers and made an effort to make it look attractive. It was heaven to put down our back packs. My feet were so sore I wanted to take my boots off but I was terrified at what I was going to see. I unlaced my boots and took off my socks. They looked even worse than they felt. The blisters were running into double figures and the blister plasters I'd put on at the start of the day were oedematous. (Good word, Bracey!) My feet looked as if they were attempted to shed all their skin. Rhian recoiled in horror and I would have if I hadn't been attached to them. I redressed them as best I could and put on fresh socks. I knew that it was going to really hurt when I put my boots back on and I rested my feet for as long as I could.

The two of us on the walk to Ferryside. the walk was easy but dull and long. At least it wasn't raining.

As we came out of the village we were faced with an option, we could take the high route to the historically interesting village of Llansaint or we could take the lower level route. The book said, 'If you would prefer to avoid the steep climbs and descents of the inland route, it is possible to follow the lane along the coast to Kidwelly'. It took all of 5 seconds to say 'Hell yes!'

The first village we walked through was St Ishmaels and we stopped and wandered round the church. St Ishmael's . The church was lovely and had lots of information about a local worthy who was involved with the Rebecca Riots. Hugh Williams seems to have lived an interesting life, he first married a woman 25 years his senior (she was rich), had an illegitimate daughter and when his first wife died he married a woman 39 years his junior. The Rebecca Riots were an exciting time in West Wales when local men, often dressed as women, rioted and smashed toll gates. This should have been really interesting when we studied it in History lessons in school. But the lessons were dull, terribly dull* and Rhian and I would amuse each other by passing notes to each other...nothing much has changed. The 'Rebecca' was after the Rebecca in the old testament who was married Isaac and I don't remember her doing anything exciting with toll gates. Thinking about it, wearing women's clothing at that time, long skirts and shawls, while rioting, seems a really odd strategy. Maybe the rioters were bored and just fancied dressing up.

* In a slight diversion, this reference to our History lessons reminded me vividly of the tedium of turning to page 21 and summarising the content of the text book up to page 27, which was the kind of task we were given to do, lesson after lesson, week after week. The teacher was uninspired and uninspiring and I have tried to make myself the opposite of this over the years. He once, in one of my school reports, wrote, "Rhian is a conscious and able pupil." I have it, to this day. See below. He meant to write "Rhian is a conscientious and able

pupil", which is what I was, but he was bloody lucky that I was conscious because some of the rest of the class nodded off on a regular basis. Needless to say I failed O Level History. I got a D. Sorry, Mam. Could have tried harder. That is epic, just epic. I swear to god, that man couldn't have held the attention of a class if he'd been juggling live chickens with his arse on fire. I too made it my life's work not to teach like him.

After we left the church we followed a B road that was blessedly flat and stood back a little way from the sea. It went on and on, easy walking with the odd car passing us, but dull. We could see the sea beneath us and the railway that hugs the coast but there was little to recommend this bit of walking.

We amused ourselves by discussing the walk for next year: Pembrokeshire. Of course, we had already looked into this and realised that it was 186 miles or so, so we wouldn't be able to walk it all at once, given our work and other commitments. However, we were excited to do it because we knew it was sensational, having visited most of it many times over the years. My mother-in-law always says she needs her "fix" of Pembrokeshire every year, and I concur. As we continued ahead, we talked about all the exciting places and things we would see. "Puffins!" I cried. "Perhaps we will see puffins, as we walk along the cliffs! They are so cute!"

"Puffins!" Helen exclaimed. "On the cliffs! They don't live on the mainland!"

"Yes they do! In burrows!"

"Yeah right! You daft bint! They don't nest on the mainland!" she insisted.

"They do!"

"They don't!"

As you see, the level of intellectual debate on these walks is impressive, and so we continued, puffins becoming a source of discord, bickering and banter right up to the present day. Neither of us really know the truth about the bloody birds. We just like an argument. What can I say? She's right and it helps to pass the time.

Design by Emma: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/EmmyFoeDesigns?ref=shop_sugg

Emma is a very talented surface designer who has a fantastic way with shape and colour, and produces cards, prints and all manner of lovely things, to order. She is currently working on some designs for a t-shirt for us, two women walking!

This is fantastic, the puffin even has sore feet.

Eventually we could see a caravan park on the other side of the railway line. This site was vast, it must have taken us around 20 minutes to walk past it. We could hear the children shouting and yelling happily at the swimming pool that was a deep blue. I feel quite sure that pitching your caravan on that site would be really expensive and there were lots of facilities to enjoy but from our vantage point it looked all the world like a WW2 prisoner of war camp. All that was missing were the guard towers. We plodded on.

'Stalag Luft Carmarthen.'

'Yes, look! I think there is someone taking a wooden horse out into the parade ground!'

'And there are people shaking sand out of their trousers to hide it from the guards. I bet they will start singing next to cover the sound of the digging'.

'I bet that man in Big X.'

Keeping a look out for exit tunnels for Tom, Dick and Harry we plodded on and eventually the highland route re-joined us at a place called Penallt Farm. The hill was steep and for all I had found the last few miles dull, I wasn't unhappy that we had opted to take the easier path, my feet were bloody killing me.

Suddenly Rhian shouted and pointed up the hill. 'Look, it's Steve McQueen on his motor bike! He must have made a break for it!'

I laughed. 'You'd think that he would know where the barbed wire was after a while. I watched that every year at Christmas, and every year he got caught at the same place!'

'And that fella gets tricked by 'good luck' every time.'

'They just never learn.'

Gradually we approached the outskirts of Kidwelly and the path took us along a tarmac cycle path along side the river Gwendraeth Fach (Little white beach if you are still looking for incidental Welsh). At this point we started to see people out walking their dogs and enjoying and evening stroll. Seeing more people is a great thing on a long distance walk as it normally means you are about to 'Arrive Somewhere'. Somewhere often means a sit down or a cup of tea, or the end of the day's walk, all of which lift the spirits. Plus there is often a chance to have boasting rights about how long we have walked and I enjoy that immensely. Seeing someone's face look incredulous at the distance we had walked could take the edge off the pain in my feet like little else.

A small man approached us, in hiking boots, and nodded. Just behind him, wearing strappy sandals and an unflattering pair of leggings, tottered a chubby young woman (look, I'm not judging because I have absolutely no right, when my legs closely resemble giant redwoods) (I'm saying nothing) with an extremely disgruntled look on her face. They were evidently a couple and he was keener on walking than she was. She puffed past us, glaring, and we glanced at each other, somewhat smugly, I have to admit. This was not the last time we were to encounter her, and we developed an interesting theory about them.

The castle. It says a lot about the history of this area that you end up thinking, 'Yeh, it's a castle'. This was our third, fourth if you count the motte and bailey one we couldn't be arsed to find in St Clears. Fifth, if you count the second motte and bailey one we didn't see later that same day. We were getting very cavalier about the whole thing, history wise. We are also first rate at failing to find Iron Age Hillforts. Picture is blurry because my feet were aching and I wanted to sit down.

There was a lovely view of the castle up ahead and we resolved to go in and have a look. However, as we approached, clouds gathered again, and darkened. It began raining, Helen's feet were killing her, and Kidwelly seemed to be closed. We gave up on the castle, gazed longingly in the window of Serenity salon, which offered massages and treatments of all sorts. A bit of pampering would have been perfect at this point, but the salon, too, seemed to be shut. Just as well - pity the poor therapist who had to deal with our feet.

Our campsite was outside Kidwelly, up a steep hill and across a rather dangerous dual carriage way. We were delighted to find a small supermarket at the foot of said steep hill and we treated ourselves to an ice cream, as the weather had changed again and the sun had come out. Trouble was, having sat down on a bench to eat our Magnums, we struggled to get up again. Creakingly, we staggered up the hill and walked along the grass verge of the dual carriageway. It wasn't very far but crossing to the drive way of Waungadog Farm was hair-raising, though Helen's burst of speed as a white van hurtled down the road towards her was impressive. Mo Farah with a rucksack,I thought, as I jogged after her. Terror is a wonderful thing.

It was a relief to shower and relax for a while, but this evening was going to be different, dinner-wise. We had had a recommendation for a good steak restaurant in Carmarthen from an old school friend of ours and we were going to venture to the fleshpots of said town! Excitement reigned.

Helen drove, and I looked up Diablo's on the Quay on Google Maps. Those of you who know Carmarthen will know that it's not too complicated to navigate the place, and Diablo's on the Quay is exactly where it says it is. Except that for us two hapless individuals it was very complicated. We finally parked on a steep hill leading up to the main part of town, having driven round and round several times. Helen was stressed. At this point I would like to say that I learned to drive in Fife (flat) and I live in Lincoln (also flat with just the one big hill) so I'm not used to parking on hills. I'm always terrified that I will come back and find that the handbrake has failed and that my car is now in someone's front room. We got out and wandered three times round the block that Maps was indicating as the location of the restaurant. Everything was closed, shops, offices, nothing around resembling a restaurant, or a quay, come to that. My temper was rising. Everything Helen said started to annoy me. She marched off in one direction. I marched off in the other. Nothing. Where the bloody hell was this place? She really is a very patient woman but we both really wanted to sit down and the delay was getting frustrating.

We got back in the car, and as she started the engine and looked ahead Helen said, "Oh my god, Oram! Look over there!"

Across the road, just a little way along to the left, was a building standing on its own, by the river, with a large car park, and even a walkway of its own over the road. Diablo's! It was so obvious and so large you could probably have seen it from the International Space Station. Instantly the world was a better place. All cantankerousness disappeared, we had an amazing steak and all was right with the world again.