Nefyn to Porth Colmon: If at First You Don't Succeed

We woke to rain and wind and our first job was get into a pub out of hours. I should add, at this point, that neither of us was in dire need of the hair of the dog. The reason was that we were due to be interviewed for Woman's Hour and we needed a good internet connection to get it to work. The chalet we were staying in was great and had been advertised as having Wifi but the connection was intermittent. We had gone to the office on the holiday site and explained this (I think they thought I was mad) and they had kindly said we could use the Wifi in the pub. So at 8.45 in the morning, we found ourselves slipping into an empty bar.

We logged into the campsite Wifi while watching the driving rain hammer down onto a small swimming pool outside the bar. In no time we were chatting with a very nice young man at the Beeb (Jesus that makes me feel old typing that) who checked the volume setting and commented that it sounded as if we were in a large empty space.

'Yeah, we are in the pub and, so far, we are the only people in here,' said Rhian. There was a long pause, when the nice young man reframed his picture of us from a pair of keen, outdoorsy types, to a pair of old soaks. It was only 9 o'clock after all.

'Right. Well, that's all ok. Right. Fine. Jane will contact you just before the ten o'clock news.' and off he went to fiddle with his faders, or something.

Rhian, waiting for the call. Please note, no alcohol and we didn't raid the optics, honest!

I think if someone had offered me a stiff drink I might have accepted it - I was absolutely terrified of having to sound coherent and thoughtful on national radio!

In no time we were chatting to Jane Garvey as if we had known her all our lives. In part this is because she's a great interviewer and is obviously very good at putting people at their ease but it's also because my kitchen has so often played host to her voice. This seemed to give us a spurious connection as she had been an unknowing witness to many a kitchen catastrophe. For example, she was chatting away in the background when I stupidly tried to take the door of my cooker off to clean it. Jane had carried on, chatting calmly while I swore and wrestled with the door half on and half off. The good thing was that she didn't judge me in my stupidity and I felt the blossoming of a friendship. So, it was nice to finally get to chat to her directly. :)

As Woman's Hour is something I rarely got the chance to listen to before I retired (though I hold it in fond regard from my university days) and because the thought that I might, at any time and true to form say something crass and stupid, I was terrified. However, Jane really did put us at our ease before the thing itself was broadcast and I hope I didn't make too much of a tit of myself. I have never listened to it to find out. My cousin, however, who is a devotee of Radio 4 and Woman's Hour, and who I hadn't told about our interview, nearly crashed her car in excitement when she realised it was my voice and Helen's she was hearing on her car radio and was disappointed that she was on her own at the time and didn't have anyone to tell immediately.

A chap who was acting as my mentor at the time met me later on in the summer and asked if I'd been on Woman's Hour. He was shocked to have heard me on the radio and said, 'I couldn't imagine there were two Helens mad enough to be walking the Wales Coast Path in the middle of gale force winds', which amused me.

When we said that we were planning to walk from Nefyn to Porth Colmon today Jane laughed and asked if we had heard the weather forecast. We had, and there was all sorts of extreme weather predicted for the day, including high winds and heavy rain (which was already in evidence). Storm Gareth was gathering pace.

You can listen to the interview here

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000m108?partner=uk.co.bbc&origin=share-mobile

Interview over, we packed our rucksacks and set off in some trepidation. Yet again we drove down the long straight road to Trefor and today the top of Yr Efil was covered in thick cloud, we went around the mountain ridge and towards Nefyn and I was entertained by Irish radio while the wind battered the car. It really was proving to be a most unusual day.

The winds buffeted our cars as we followed the road back towards Nefyn, this time peering ahead through the wipers and driving even more cautiously along that winding, narrow road. Ahead I could see the long sweep of the bay and the coastline beyond being battered by the rain with dark clouds lowering over land and sea and I thought "I really don't think we will get very far today." as the car shook in the wind. I tried to remember what I had learned in Geography when I was 11. The Beaufort Scale. Where were we on that scale, I pondered? Probably not at 12, Hurricane force winds, but it felt like my Fiesta might take off at any moment and I reckoned we must be somewhere around 8 or 9 on the scale. I almost expected to see Dorothy and Toto hurtle past out into the Irish Sea. The Beaufort wind scale, originally drawn up in 1805 by Commander Francis Beaumont of the Royal Navy was calibrated based on the effect of the wind on a full-rigged man-o-war. The Fiesta is much smaller but thankfully we were on land and there were no sails involved.

"Pull yourself together," I told myself as we approached the car park at Morfa Nefyn. We had managed to miss the turning for this initially (typical!) and so we finally pulled in at the start of the day's walk much later than we normally would. I think we both knew there was no point in rushing today.

We parked up and it was noticeable how few cars were in the National Trust car park. Normally starting this late in the day would involve prowling round to find a place to park but today it was almost totally deserted. In fact, there were only two other cars there. Both cars were nondescript but what was most odd was that there was a small child standing on the roof of one of them. Well, I say standing. The kid was actually leaning at an angle against the buffeting wind and rain which was getting stronger with every passing minute. His coat was flapping in the wind but he was holding his own. He looked like a windswept statue but he was yelling happily.

The wind was getting worse and worse. I'm not exaggerating when I say that it was hard work getting the car door open and I was half blown over to Rhian's car. And somehow this kid was managing to stand on the roof of the car.

'This is bonkers!', Rhian shouted into the wind, 'We can't walk in this, we will get blown off a cliff.'

'Yeah but look at that kid! He's managing to stand on the car.' The sight was an arresting one. The father of the Windsock Boy was now holding on to the feet of his storm tossed offspring and pleading him, somewhat pathetically, to step down onto the bonnet of the car. He wasn't having much luck. The mother was in the back of the car, presumably trying to persuade the other kids that going out in the storm wasn't a good idea and pretending that her other son wasn't about to get blown offshore. The second car was a relative oasis of calm in the storm. The windscreen was partially misted over but we could just make out an older couple, togged out in waterproofs enjoying a cuppa while looking at the entertainment of the boy on the roof whose father was now making strenuous attempts to drag him inside the car. It was all go!

'Shall we go to that cafe?' asked Rhian, nodding in the direction of a small building on the other side of the road. 'I bet they will sell us a bacon roll.'

We staggered in through the door and waited in a short, socially distanced queue. The staff of Caffi Porthdinllaen eyed us in some amusement, and I suspect that our often dishevelled appearance was even more pronounced today because of the high winds. The little cafe was warm and welcoming with coffee sacks and nautical themed flags and signs as decor. My glasses steamed up. Even more crazed and weather worn. Helen gazed at the menu. I was starving and when the fog had cleared in front of my eyes we could both agree on a latte and bacon roll each. I have to say, that was the best bacon roll I had had in a very long time. The bacon was local, we learned, and the bread roll was lightly crusty and delicious. Evidence of the difference between Helen and myself was clear when we chose our condiments - she always goes for tomato ketchup and I always prefer brown sauce. Not sure what it says about us but there might be a dissertation topic for a psychology student in there somewhere. (She is just wrong.)

When we had finished our delicious second breakfast of the day, we reluctantly turned our attention to the outdoors. It really wasn't getting any better. Two people walking their dog clung onto its lead for dear life in case the poor animal was carried away into the air. Squally rain hit the windows of the cafe. Windsock boy had either been dragged off the car roof by his parents or by a wild gust of wind.

"What do you think? Shall we walk up towards the golf club and see what it's like?" I suggested tentatively. Helen agreed but I could tell her heart wasn't in it. A gust of wind hit her as we stepped outside the door and she teetered first left, then right. I smirked.

Rain hit my glasses and not for the first time in my life I wished I had a pair of those glasses that I saw Elton John wearing once - the ones with the windscreen wipers attached.

The difference between the warm, calm inside of the cafe and the storm outside was too much for us and we quit for the day. This was the first time we had failed to walk because of the weather. Rain is one thing, but gale force winds (now officially 9 on the Beaufort scale) are quite another, so we drove back home, round the mountain range with the car being buffeted by gusts of wind and down that bloody road one more time. Back at the chalet we stood and watched the torrential rain frustrated at the lack of a walk.

The next morning dawned as bright and sunny as the previous had been storm swept. After yet another drive down the long straight road and round the hills, entertained by the slow unfolding of bad behaviour by an Irish politician during the Covid lock down, we started the walk.

The view back along the coastline was simply stunning. We were smug with the thought that we had climbed over Yr Eifl. The climb was so strenuous that mediaeval pilgrims who did it three times on the way to Bardsey earned the same spiritual benefit as a Pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Having climbed over it once. Rhian and I were a third of the way to being shriven of our (numerous) sins.

Today was going to be so much easier. For a start we were no longer at risk of getting blown to a watery grave and the guide book promised us a relatively easy day. We set off along the headland of Porth Dinllaen. This was now the site of a rather plush golf course but the WCP takes you around the edges. It was wonderful to walk on the springy grass and well-maintained paths under a sunny sky. It was hard to believe that this beautiful, rather remote place, had once been considered as a port for ferries to Ireland. At its peak it had been visited by 700 ships a year because of its good anchorage and weak currents. The ferry port was never built but its history tied in with my current radio listening. This isolated part of Wales seems to have as many connections to Ireland as it did the rest of the principality. We walked past the wonderful pub, the Ty Coch Inn without paying a visit as it was sadly too early for a half and came back round the other side of the headland. This pub has been voted the third best beachside pub in the world and I would love to visit it sometime.

The golf course was full of men in jaunty, pastel coloured polo shirts enjoying the fine sunny day as they wandered round whacking their little white balls with determination. The coast path crosses quite a few golf courses and I am always left feeling a little like a guilty trespasser when we walk across them. And I am always vaguely worried that one of us will get felled by a flying golf ball.

Walking alongside the golf course and out of the corner of my eye a chap in a pink polo shirt and turquoise trousers thwacked his ball and it sailed through the air, bouncing on to the path in front of me. Absentmindedly I picked it up and tossed it back towards the golf course. It rolled down the banking into a small thicket,

Helen gasped. "Those men will never find their ball!" She indicated the man and his fellow golfer approaching, clearly and reasonably expecting to find it in the place they thought it had landed. "You should have left it where it fell!"

She was right. I put on a spurt of speed and shot off, leaving the scene of my crime rather than having to face irate golfers wielding a potentially vicious mashie niblicks. I was shocked, shocked I tell you! It was her nonchalant air that amused me most. And she really should have known better because we had been taught the rudiments of golf while at school. I have to give the PE department credit here, they did try hard to give us a range of activities to enjoy. It wasn't all hockey and country dancing. It wasn't their fault that I hated all of them. Golf was more fun than country dancing and I still flinch whenever I hear 'Dance of the Blessed Spirits' by Gluck as I can remember heffalumping to it every week in the assembly hall. All that l that I can really remember about the golf lessons it was wasting a huge amount of time walking down to Treorchy Park where the lessons took place and the importance of 'Following through' the stroke. Some of my favourite memories of PE were of my class doing an early form of Step, stepping upwards and back down the two steps in the school hall to the tune of "Mouldy Old Dough" by Lieutenant Pigeon playing over and over on the PE department record-player (possibly permanently borrowed from the Music department). It was mesmerising. I think Mrs Davies PE was deliberately trying to hypnotise us. Give it a try:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O465enGz03w

Following the signs for the WCP we crossed the golf course and from there the path led us across the top of the cliffs looking down to small bays and crossing streams. It was very beautiful and very welcome after the frustration of having missed a day's walking yesterday. It's a strange thing that while sometimes the walk is really tough for us yet we cannot not do it. There is no question that it has to be tackled if and when we can. And today had that odd sense of urgency about it.

We paused to admire the lovely beach at Porth Towyn, near the village of Tudweiliog, but chose not to descend on to the sand. Tudweiliog is a curious name for a place and it has three possible explanations, one of which linking it to a local saint who was probably related to St David. So many of them are.

We passed pretty inlets and stopped for a rest at Porth Ysgaden with its ruined gable end and chimney. This is another interesting place name, meaning 'Port of Herrings'.

It was classic coastal path walking: beautiful, wild cliffs, ups and downs, kissing gates, stack rocks, stunning scenery in every direction. We passed Penrallt campsite with its sign "Pilgrims are welcome to camp or use our facilities" which was heartwarming. (And made me think that we were working towards our 1/3 of a Trip to Jerusalem badge)

Traeth Penllech came into view and we decided to take the alternative route this time. As it was low tide, we began to walk along the beach, which is the largest on the northern Llyn. Walking on sand is fine when it is firm, and this was, which was good, as we were tiring by now.

We knew that we had to exit the beach near the end, but instead of reading the guide book properly we managed to get lost on an empty stretch of sand where you would think that getting lost was impossible. We should have headed up a stepped path near the end but instead took what turned out to be the main exit from the beach (specifically noted as a no-no in the guide book) and found ourselves, hot, grumpy and lost in a little car park.

There is never a good time to get lost but the worst time has to be at the end of a long day's walk. The guidebook wasn't helping us and we were both tetchy. The only good thing that could be said for the car park was that it had an information board with a map of the area. The best that we could do was to take a picture of the map with our phones use that to navigate to Porth Colmon. It was hard to believe that after 5 years of walking we were still so crap at it.

We managed to navigate ourselves onto a narrow country road between high hedges and hoped for the best. The map in the guide book was tiny and I wasn't convinced. I don't think Helen was either. We trudged on. She was getting on my nerves and I was getting on hers.

In the end we walked three tedious sides of a square and finished the walk trudging down the small country lane we had driven down at the start of the day. It was hot and we were both tired. Heads down we plodded along and then we were astonished to see a snake crossing the path ahead of is, its body tracing lazy coils in the sand that had blown across the path. The snake looked as if it was in much better shape than we were.

'Look at that!' I said

'Bloody amazing, and unlike us the snake knows where it wants to go.' It was hard to accept that we were being out-thought by a small reptile.

After 10 more minutes of hot sweaty trudging, we reached a small cafe at a campsite. Because of the Covid regulations we had to sit outside in a pretty garden. By the time we had finished some cold drinks and cakes our moods softened and we both forgave the other for the stupidity of losing a Coast Path on a beach. We chatted over the high spots of the day and drove back, yet again going round the mountain range and along that long, long straight road, looking forward to a long sit down and a well earned bottle of cider.