Rain, sheep shit and nettles: Llangrannog to New Quay

Day 3 - Llangrannog to New Quay

Emboldened by the breakfast of champions and a phlegmatic hotel owner who said 'No one has ever fallen off the cliff. Have you good shoes? Fine you will be ok then' we decided to walk on in the rain. We swithered and dithered, gazing at the steep, muddy climb out of Llangrannog and thinking of the weight of our rucksacks. We made what was to be a crucial decision: to send our rucksacks on a little trip via taxi to our next accommodation - the Black Lion in New Quay. Result!

Setting off with just daysacks we got half way up the hill before I had to stop and gasp for breath - I’m rubbish with steep hills. Helen scuttles up them with the fortitude and efficiency of a little goat while I am a sweating, wheezing, galumphing blob in a lilac pac-a-mac. It was a day of uppy-downy, and when I say that, those experienced in the Ceredigion coastal path will know that the phrase is totally accurate. The rain rained on, with occasional easings off. However, the scenery was outstanding, and we kept looking back and saying, with pride and incredulity, “We’ve walked all that way!” We also repeated, accusingly, the question, “Whose stupid idea was this?”  This was a day of hacking our way through overgrown bushes, flowers, bracken and stinging nettles.

This is the stunning Ynys Lochtyn, just after Llangrannog, not taken on the day we walked it. It was pissing down that day and a little less clear to photograph. there is a path down to the beach but I've never been able to find it. What you can't see is the Iron Age Hill fort, just to the left. We have a habit of not seeing Hill Forts.

The weather was dreadful. The rain started off as a light misty rain, that managed to get under rain hoods and half blinded Rhian by fogging up her glasses. As we flogged up a long slow climb, it started to rain in earnest, hammering on our coats and loading up the ferns with droplets which would splash us as we walked past them. The path was really narrow here, not much more than a foot’s width apart, worn away over time. On one side the ferns and on the other a drop into the sea below. Neither of us are that fond of heights so we spent a lot of time looking at the foliage on the right. The rise wasn’t that steep but it was long and the narrowness of the path makes it hard to get into a good stride. And it was wet and miserable. As we crested the rise we could hear voices.

‘It can’t be that much further’

‘Are you sure?’

‘It can’t be far now’

Alongside this there was a low key whinging that sounded as if it was coming from a child of about 7 or 8. Nothing specific at this point but this was a child on more than just the edge of a cliff. It was the child on the edge of a melt down.

‘Look, Darren, when we get to the next village you can have an ice cream!’

Darren wasn’t having any of it.

‘It’s too cold and I’m wet and my legs hurt.’

To be fair, I could see where Darren was coming from. I was cold and wet and my legs hurt too. And I’d tell his father where he could shove his ice cream.

‘Look, it’s not far now’

Rhian and I looked at each other. We were about an hour’s walk out of Llangrannog. Darren was going to be very fed up by the time he got there. By this time we could see the source of the voices. A family of 5. Mum, Dad, a grandmother who looked in a worse state than we did, Darren (who looked mutinous) and astonishingly, unbelievably, a toddler in a pushchair. This was just impossible. How on earth had they got to this point, with a pushchair? I looked at Rhian to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. She looked as confused as I did.

The father smiled at us, ‘Nice day for ducks! Is it far to Llangrannog from here?’

A tough one this. I’m all for honesty but if we told them the truth Darren might push me off the cliff. Rhian sensed the same danger.

‘No, not far’

'You lying bitch', I thought, 'sensible girl'.

‘See, I told you it isn’t far now! Ice creams all round when we get there’. And off they walked.

They faded into the driving rain.

‘Well I don’t know about you, Hel, but I don’t want an ice cream when we get to New Quay. I want a pint. Of wine!’

Me too. Oh me too. And we did, I remember. Just.

Rhian, with Ynys Lochtyn in the background. We were very wet and very tired at this point. What we didn't know was that things were going to get a lot worse.

We plodded on. The rain would ease off for a few minutes, tricking you into thinking that things were improving. Just long enough for you to start to get hot and sweaty. And the ferns that surrounded us on this part of the path were saturated and very tall. They rasped against us as we walked past them, so there was no respite from the wet. And the narrow path was now slippery and muddy and liberally strewn with sheep droppings. Liberally strewn? Paved, more like. It was an astounding sight, glistening in the rain and unavoidable no matter how you try. The path, which had been well worn up to this point, changed. It was hard to see through the rain but it started to look as if it had been asphalted. Which was odd as we were in the middle of nowhere. And it was very odd asphalting. It was green. And slimy. And oddly organic. This wasn’t tarmac. It was sheep shit. They had done a terrific job. It was a precision shitting job. Each turd was wedged next to the next with no gaps between them. Rather like a very closely cobbled village street in miniature, I thought to myself, trying to edge around it. The path was better covered than quite a lot of roads I’ve driven down.

A picture taken at the time. On seeing us, the sheep hoofed it up the hill. Smug bastards, sheep are the fell runners of the animal kingdom. Initially you think that they are stupid for being so close to the edge. After all, one blade of grass is much like another. But I think that they are taunting us with their ability. Both of us can drive cars so and we were on the same path as the sheep, so who was the most stupid, eh?

We walked up the path and its builders ran on ahead of us. They were sure footed, the smug ovine bastards. Four feet were better than two. We were less well placed. The path was a slimy mass and the rain was making it worse with every passing minute. Out boots were getting caked in the stuff and it was hard to see what was going on as we walked on. Our walking poles sank easily into the faecal depths. What I couldn’t quite understand was why the sheep had made their track here, it was bloody close to the edge. You had to wonder if they were suicidal, it was one hell of a drop on the left.  Sliding in the mess, I started to pay a lot of attention to the foliage on the right; the view to the left almost scared me enough to add to the asphalting.

‘This is bloody awful. I thought that this was supposed to be an easy walk’, Rhian said. ‘Whose stupid idea was this?’

‘Yours, I remember it well’

‘No, I’m sure it was yours’

‘We are a bit close to the edge’

‘Good album’

‘Just don’t start singing’

Close to the Edge- Yes

With that, Rhian started to skid in the mud and slime and fell. Thank god she fell to the right and landed with her hand in a patch of stinging nettles and her arse in a mound of turds, rather than going over the edge.

‘Arrgghh, nettles!’

‘Oh! Is there a dock leaf?’ exclaimed Helen, in plaintive, Victorian heroine,’ someone come to our rescue’ tones.

‘A dock leaf, a fucking dock leaf? What the hell do I want one of them for.’

‘For your nettle stings’

‘Are you kidding? Do you know what they look like?!”

‘No, but I remember learning about them in Brownies’

‘Do you want to go over the edge, Helen?’

‘Not really’

‘Are you sure’

‘Yes, so no dock leaf then?’

‘I think I will cope’

‘Wet wipe?’

She looked murderous. So I thought it was better to trot on a bit. And hummed. ‘Close to the edge, down by the river…’

The path wound on, climbing up and then dropped down. We went through a gate and left the sheep behind. ‘Good job they weren’t cows, Rhi, because then falling close to a cliff edge would have been really terrifying instead of funny. And it’s stopped raining, it’s all going to be easy from this point and cow shit would have been worse than sheep shit to fall into’

Choosing not to respond, I looked ahead trying not to breathe in the scent of eau de mouton which I carried with me.

All considered, things seemed to be brightening up a bit. I was cold, wet and tired. But looking on the bright side, I hadn’t fallen in the nettles. That was Nettle Woman.

The path flattened out and we walked into even more ferns. Initially the path was obvious but the further we walked in it began to peter out. And the ferns got higher and higher and they were soaked. And pushing through them we got wetter and wetter. They were quite prickly too, and threatened to poke us in the eye as we passed.

‘It can’t be this way, let’s take that path up the hill?’

‘Yup, at least that way we can see where we are going’

The field was on a 45 degree incline. And walking up was really hard work. ‘Look, there seems to be a gate up at the top, the path must be up there’ (I am crap at map reading and I should have shut up)

We flogged up the hill and walked to the gate. The few sheep there were sensibly standing on the flat ground at the bottom of the field.The ground was sodden, which takes some doing when it’s on that steep a slope, every now and then there were tufts of reeds. When we got closer to the gate my heart sank.

‘You silly sod, it’s barbed wire’

‘Mea culpa, so what do you think’

‘Back down there?’

I didn’t feel in any position to argue. So back down we went, slipping and sliding.

‘Tell the truth, you just like being back in the ferns, take you back to your misspent adolescence?’ I quipped.

‘Rubbish, the path must be there’

So back in we went, bushwhacking with our walking poles, and couldn’t really see where we were going. After a while the path just vanished. The sense of frustration was rising. We had been walking for hours and didn’t seem to be getting far . At a loss to know what to do, we headed back up the field again. Twice in one day, a 90 degree day. Shame it was so fecking cold and miserable.

‘Look it’s there, there’s the path, we missed it by about 3 foot’. There was an edge of hysteria to her voice at this point, and to be honest I couldn’t blame her. Hilary didn’t have this problem with Tenzing Norgay, Norgay was a professional and knew his stuff and I was a raging incompetent. I mean, how the fuck do you lose a Coastal Path? It’s easy, isn’t it, sea on one side and land on the other? But Norgay didn’t have to cope with sheep shit and nettles. It's a good job she is a forgiving woman. I wasn’t entirely sure that I forgave myself.

Eventually we arrived safe and sound in New Quay after 11.6 soggy miles along the path. There were some amazing points and some terrifying drops into the sea. For all it was a bit wet I wouldn't have missed it for anything . And I have now found a more terrifying way to get to Cwm Tydu.

We teetered, dripping wet, into the pub in New Quay that was our base for the night. The few locals at the bar turned, smirked,and one helpful chap said "You could have worn a coat, you know." We harrumphed in unison and and sloshed past him to check in.

We stayed the night in the excellent Black Lion at New Quay, favourite haunt of Dylan Thomas. it was welcoming and had a wonderful 'Cwtch' bar over looking the harbour where we sat and sank a lot of wine. Vioignier. Very, very good. Well, it was medicinal. We were in a lot of pain by that point.

The helpful staff provided us with old newspapers with which to stuff our soaking boots, and we almost burned out the element of the hairdryer provided trying to dry them as well. The room was very comfy and fortunately the bathroom, where we left said boots was down a small flight of stairs, separating us a little further from the terrible stench.