New Quay to Aberaeron , stinking boots and bottles of wine.

New Quay to Aberaeron

The morning broke fine and clear. Well, outside was fine, the rain from the previous day had gone and the sky was cloudy with patches of blue. What wasn’t so fine was the state of us. The Black Lion proved to be as welcoming to us as it had been for the alcoholic Dylan Thomas. We had found a small lounge overlooking the harbour, the cwtch, and we settled in. In spite of a soak in a very nice bath and a much needed change of clothes, I was feeling rough. I ached all over. I was aching in places that I didn’t know that I had. And my feet were covered in blisters. So, the bottle of wine was therapeutic. As was the one we had over dinner. As were the ibuprofen tablets I needed the next morning. The hangover was vague but persistent and didn’t put me in the best place for dealing with The Odoriferous Boots of Hell.

The plan had been for us to carry our belongings along the way. The pain this had caused us on the second day meant that we’d had a change of plan and had sent our rucksacks on ahead of us each day by taxi, leaving us with a small day sack and our walking poles to carry. But the initial planning meant that I had tried to cut down on weight. And while I had overpacked on clothing (as ever) I tried to minimise the weight by limiting the number of walking socks I was carrying. The stupidity of this surprised even me, although I don’t think it did Rhian, as walking socks don’t actually weigh that much so I had been wearing the socks for 3 days. And my feet had got wet and been dipped in sheep shit. Added to that my boots were leather and not exactly breathable. The smell was vile. I picked up the boots gingerly, worried that my hands were going to melt and had the sickening realisation that I had to wear them all day. The fug was spreading through the room and Rhian looked aghast. Booted, suited and resolute we left the room into the mercifully fresh air outside.

Black Lion This is a great place to stay. The bar is excellent, food was first rate with large portions and the bedroom and bathroom comfortable. I recommend it to anyone in the area. And they have probably shifted the stench of my boots by now. We set off into New Quay and wandered among of the souvenir shops, bought our lunch from the wonderful Pasty, Pasty (so good they named it twice http://www.pastypasty.moonfruit.com/) and walked off to start the trek to Aberaeron.

We waved the rucksacks off in their 6-seater minicab to Hazeldene Guest House, Aberaeron, where we would be spending the next night. Anticipation was high because we were going to be meeting up with Helen’s good friend and partner-in-crime, Ian Thomson, at the Harbourmaster (there’s posh!) for dinner that evening. I was looking forward to meeting this chap in the flesh having spent many a happy hour bantering with him and Helen via the Book of Face.

Anyway, we set off and immediately began dithering about whether we were going the right way. You would think that it would be impossible to lose a coastal path but we manage it most days. Eventually we found our way onto the beach and low ground where the walking was flat and easy. We passed along the front of Quay West Holiday Park and past the church of St Ina to walk along Cei Bach Bay. This might be dedicated to Ine a Christian King of Wessex or otherwise St Ina, a female member of the royal house of Gwynedd. You have to love the vagueness of early Welsh history.

Rhian, on Traeth Gwyn ( AKA White Beach). The introduction of bilingual signs confused the hell out of my father when they were first introduced. He thought that the beach in Aberaeron was called Traeth, the beach called beach.

We were becoming hardened to awkward terrain and damp weather. My memories of this day’s walk are dimmer than others, possibly because we had developed a feeling of “zen” calm. Our boots had dried out well but now stank to high heaven and I wondered if those few people we passed were downright unfriendly or just repelled by the stench. I suspect the latter.The path rose up slowly through woods and fields and became a wide grassy path which was wonderful to walk along after the difficulties of the day before. We stopped for lunch and I ate my beef and blue cheese pasty which was excellent. Rhian might have been getting Zen but getting up after a rest was starting to be hard work. My legs were aching, the small of my back was aching and the blisters on my feet were starting to really hurt. At least it wasn’t raining. The grass was springy underfoot, hawthorn bushes arched over us and soon we became to meet people coming from the other direction.

We pondered about the friendly couple from Chester who we did not run into at around lunchtime that day - unusual. Where were they? Had they changed their plans? We worried. She had been having trouble with blisters (rather like Helen). Had they given up? Speculation was rife.

We soon came to the first house on the outskirts of the town and as we got closer we were astonished at its design. It was the house of many pillars. Roman and Greek pillars of almost every style were there. I couldn’t decide if this was a style statement or if they had simply got a bargain batch of oddments from B and Q. As we walked past the garden the owners had another surprise in store for us.

‘Christ, they have got a horse in their garden!’

‘It’s not moving much.’

‘That’s because it’s a fake one, a statue’

‘who the fuck has a full sized statue of a horse at the bottom of their garden?’

‘The sort of people who mix Corinthian and Doric columns with gay abandon!’

The view of Aberaeron from the path. the town oddly turns its back on the sea and concentrates on the small, orderly harbour.

As ever, arrival at our destination was a blessed relief. Aberaeron hove into view and I was bowled over by the loveliness of the place.

My memory of Aberaeron was a childhood family holiday when I was very small. My parents and I had gone with my auntie, uncle and my two, older cousins, and as always we had booked somewhere from a tiny advert in the Western Mail. An “apartment” on the seafront. There was no photograph to accompany this advert, and my dad had gone for it because it was such a bargain (cheap is another way of putting it). It turned out to be a basement flat on the main road. It was freezing, it had black mould on the walls, it smelled, and I recall the walls being painted a sludgy orange colour. The beach at Aberaeron, I remember, was underwhelming too. As always my parents, auntie and uncle sat, huddled in jackets and thick, home made knitted cardigans, the women in headscarves, all four of them chain-smoking behind the windbreak. My two cousins sat there being teenagers, and I was expected to enjoy playing with the dog on the pebbles, which hurt my feet in their jelly sandals. Eventually I remember insisting that I was going in the sea despite the fact that it was bloody freezing. In I went, watched from the bank of pebbles by the rest of them. The dog ventured into the shallows and scarpered back up to the windbreak immediately because it was too cold for her. I waded in up to my waist, decided it was unbearable and ran back out, to see my mother’s face change to a look of horror. I wondered what I had done now. I looked down at myself in my favourite bathers (with the little white ballerina-type skirt) that were new and which I absolutely loved, to find that I was covered in sticky black stuff. Oil! Mayhem ensued. My mother leapt into action shouting “Christ, Ken, do something! Look at her!” at which my father carefully stubbed out his fag before saying “What do you want me to do about it, Gwyn?” I can hear him saying this, he was such a lovely man.

My sainted Auntie Olwen (a relative of Helen’s, I might add, from Gelli. Big family. I am related to half the Valley) picked up a towel, spat a little on the corner of it and tried to wipe a bit of the oil off my leg. It didn’t work. In fact, it just spread the oil onto the towel as well. My mother who, characteristically, somehow felt that all this was my fault, shouted at me, grabbed me, wrapped me in our newest and most beautiful beach towel and took me back to the flat to try to get me cleaned up, which involved scrubbing, sponges, washing up liquid, sore legs and much whining on my part. When I realised that my much prized swimming costume was forever ruined, I had the temerity to complain about this, and was told quite firmly that I was an ungrateful little bugger. Throughout all of this, I remember my cousin Carol laughing like a drain and her brother, Clive, couldn’t stop grinning. Family holidays. Mother's spit was a Universal Solvent in the 60s, its a wonder any of us survived.

Anyway, modern Aberaeron is a very different place. Pretty, interesting, rather cool. Great eateries and places to stay, interesting shops. We made our way towards the guest house, which was located on a street behind the main road, and Helen stopped off in Boots the Chemist to buy supplies for her feet. And who should she run into but the dentist from Chester! Ironically the dentist was in town having a filling replaced in one of his teeth. and his poor partner was resting up, trying to let the blisters on her feet recover by the next day. Sadly we never saw them again and I often wonder if they finished their epic walk along the path.

The town was first developed from a small fishing village in 1807. It was designed by the architect Edward Haycock and the harbour is ringed with Georgian buildings. These days the houses and painted a range of wonderful colours and my kids and I would choose which one we liked the best as we ate ice creams on the harbourside. When I was growing up it was a much greyer place but these days it is a mix of interesting tourist shops and good places to eat. And one of the best places to eat is the Harbour Master.

A wonderful pub, restaurant and boutique hotel. Ian Thomson was staying at the hotel.

We rocked up at Hazeldene B and B a little early, hot, sweaty, tired and in Helen’s case, with sore feet. The house was a beautiful double fronted Victorian villa, very well kept and imposing. We were greeted at the door by Eleri, our host, and introduced to Stan, her husband. When I told her my name she startled me by putting me on the spot, asking “Siarad Cymraeg?” Shamed, I had to shake my head and confess that no, I didn’t speak Welsh. This would count as Rhian's 'incidental Welsh' for the day. She was very impressed by our tales of derring-do and all that walking, and showed us to our room where, thank god, we were able to take our boots off - leaving them on the bathroom windowsill in case the gaseous emissions from them were also poisonous in enclosed spaces.

https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Hotel_Review-g551973-d1913279-Reviews-Hazeldene_B_B-Aberaeron_Ceredigion_Wales.htm

We freshened up, realised that was little we could do about the smell of the boots, closed the door on them and walked down into the centre of the town, passing another statue of a horse. This one looked a little less incongruous than the seemingly home made one at the bottom of the garden. Arriving at the hotel we walked into the bar and up to the reception desk.

‘We have come to visit a resident, Ian Thomson’

‘Ah yes, he’s in a suite on the first floor’

We turned to head up the stairs when the receptionist stopped us, ‘ I will just call him to come down’ she said, looking us up and down and frowning. Ian arrived, hugged us both and we went upstairs after getting a bottle of wine at the bar. The receptionist gave us all another cold stare.

Over the first glass, Rhian piped up. ‘I think that woman thought we were ladies of negotiable virtue.’

‘Gawd, Ian, you are going to have a terrible reputation’

‘Yes, and they will think I have low standards!’

The ladies of negotiable virtue.

One of the great joys in life is when you introduce friend to each other. I’d known Ian for years and Rhian for most of my life, but they had never met before. They had spent many a happy evening teasing me on Facebook and I thought that they would get on well. And the teasing went on all evening.

The food was outstanding and almost as good as the company. After a second bottle of wine we went downstairs and had a fabulous dinner. With a third bottle of wine. And then pudding. With more wine.

A fine time was had by all, we exchanged hugs under the censorious eye of the receptionist and we staggered back to the B and B. We staggered even more at the wave of Eau de Boots that hit us when we opened the door. Excess alcohol, physical exhaustion and a lack of oxygen in the room meant we slept the sleep of the dead as our boots mouldered in the corner of the room.