Several varieties of pickle: Marloes to Herbrandston

We were up, out and walking early today. We were both feeling twitchy about Marloes to Herbrandston because we had two tidal rivers to ford, and we were concerned that if we didn't get our timings and the tides just right we might have to walk an extra 6 or more miles on top of the 12 the day was to cover.

I woke before the alarm, just before 6am and looked at a pearly sky through the slightly open curtains. It was going to be another lovely day. I couldn't wait. That's the thing when you are enjoying your walking, there is pleasure in getting up early, making the packed lunch, slurping down your tea and getting those boots on. The exhilaration when you step onto the next stage of the path in the fresh morning air is wonderful for the spirit.

Parking at Marloes again, we set off along the cliffs above the beach. The walking was easy as we rounded Hooper's Point, next to the disused Dale airfield, which was one of six constructed in Pembrokeshire during the Second World War, and was used by a Polish bomber squadron. It was decommissioned after the war and the land sold off to a local farmer. Apparently in 2010 an illegal rave was held there, with 2500 people attending and measures had to be taken to make the site less accessible to ravers, with road blocks being put in place and arrests made. To be fair, lots of the attendees brought plastic bags to clear up their litter after them. Could have been worse, I suppose.

This is the road down to Dale that we took. Not the most exciting and in the distance you can see the start of the oil refineries around Milford Haven. If we had been treading the paths of the Shire up to now, what we could see ahead of us was Mordor.

At Westdale Bay, we had a decision to make. Whether to go all the way around St Ann's Head or to cut through down into Dale. Well, dear reader, it was another one of those no-brainer decisions. Cut through! Especially with the tension mounting as we knew that once past Dale we would have to ford the Gann. Images of incoming tidal waters lapping at our feet, of Helen being dragged under by the force of the waters, of the bodies of two misguided women who thought they knew what they were doing but didn't being washed up at Mullock Bridge Pits upstream flashing through our minds, along with the strong desire for a bacon sandwich at Dale, we didn't hesitate to take the shorter route.

The path led us downhill, with the picturesque Victorian mock baronial Dale Castle on our right.. The castle was built in medieval times by the de Vales but now only the cellars remain of the original. (Photo pinched off the internet)

Something that you have to keep to the forefront of your mind is that we are not good at this sort of thing. Neither of us is Mother Nature's child. we are not really outdoorsy sorts and we are both fairly unfit. Rhian is better at reading maps than me but we have managed to get lost when actually on a coastal part of the path with the sea on one side and the land on the other. I was bricking it at the thought of having to time a walk to hit two points at low tide. My feet were in bits and I really couldn't face the two high tide diversions on top of what was going to be a long day.

I was so worried I sat and calculated how long it would take us to walk between the two between the two. Plus we had to drive to the starting point at Marloes. So we cheated and cut the neck of St Ann's Head and trotted down the road into Dale.

As we walked down through Dale we passed the church and eventually walked down towards the sea front. The village was very quiet and nothing like the busy harbour site it had once been. There were boats bobbing up and down in the sea and the front had an attractive grassed area. It's now a place for those into water sports and boating, with a pleasant harbour.

'Ohh look, Master Frodo, there is a café in the friendly village of Dale.'

'Could be, Sam. I wonder if they are doing breakfast. I'm fed up of Lembas all the time.'

'Mmmm, a bacon butty.' We walked on, in silence, each of us imagining crispy bacon and a soft white roll. Imperceptibly we picked up our pace.

The soft, white roll would be gently oozing melted butter and the sauce of choice. Lush.

'I wonder if its open?' Faster now, it would have been shameful to break into a jog, but we were beginning to ape speed walkers.

The bacon crispy, the roll soft and dusted with white flour. The word artisanal might have been used on the menu. The café would be perfumed with the small of good coffee.

Down to the front, we walked round the side of the building and were thwarted. We were too early! How could that be? There was another half an hour till opening time, and we had a tide to beat. Devastated is the word.

'Bloody Orcs must have beaten us to it!'

We tried hard not to show how upset we were but I thought that I saw Rhian wipe an eye.

We plodded on. I will admit to having got into a hell of a state about two tidal crossings in one day. We had only ever done one in the past and if we had mistimed that one it was a quick 15 minute diversion. This one would be worse as the inland diversion was much longer. I had sat at my kitchen table for hours looking up tide tables and working out the distance between the two crossing points. I was imagining the Brandywine River, running in full flood, hobbits swept out to sea. It was all very dramatic. And this is what we found.

I was so disappointed. I wasn't. And Rhian gave me that look. The 'side-eye', my friend Jean calls it. I just can't help myself sometimes. I was getting used to it. She had seen ample evidence of my incompetence this holiday between this, Short and Keygate. This is the wonderfully named Pickleridge causeway. Truth be known, the tide was so low we probably could have crossed the Gann without the aid of the causeway. I cheered myself up by reading the bit from the guide book to Rhian about the saltwater lagoons, how they had been made during the second world war by excavating sand to build runways and how they were now an important habitat for over-wintering birds. I could tell she was impressed and entertained. Ever so.

'Never mind, Hel, I'm sure the next one will be more exciting'.

The area to the left are the saltwater lagoons, with the River Gann coming down across the shingle to the right. It was a rather eerie place. As a closet twitcher, I was hoping to see some interesting seabirds, but it was all quiet. Either that, or, more likely, I had no idea what to look for and missed all kinds of fascinating species while half-listening to, half-ignoring Helen, who always says that birds are "the wrong kind of biology" for her, and yet still managed to twitter on about them endlessly as we crossed the estuary.

We crossed over to the other side and cut along the beach for a little while, following this beautiful sign which gives you your incidental Welsh for the day. It was a glorious day. Dale is said to be the sunniest village in Wales but I'm dubious. The local tourist boards make much of such claims, backed up by talk of 'Micro Climates'. Its so often that I wonder if Wales in the Land of no Macro Climate. Plus, look at these pictures, its green. Green means rain. This holiday, however, we had hit a lucky streak and the day was fine. It was another perfect day to be honest, and now that we had forded the great Gann estuary in about 10 minutes with no sign of a great wave like the Severn bore or Hokusai's Tsunami coming to wash us away, we were able to really relax and enjoy it.

Eventually we left the path and headed up on to some low cliffs. The walking was easy and we had some wonderful views across towards Angle. I'd thought we would finish the holiday there but between my feet and assorted cock ups we would be finishing in Pembroke. The next stretch of walking was very beautiful. This whole section had been breath taking and we were almost jaded by it all. We were almost getting to the point of thinking, 'Oh look ANOTHER studding secluded bay' or 'WOW its another dramatic rocky headland.'

We passed more places with interesting names, like Musselwick Point, and came down into a low, wooded valley to the small bay named Monk Haven, where a high, castellated wall with a doorspace led down to the small, pebbly beach. The wall marks the boundary of the Trewarren estate. It was scenic, and a lovely place to stop for a few minutes for refreshments, which we did.

The path led past small, lovely bays and headlands and we advanced ever onwards to the towers, chimneys, raised pipeworks and jetties of the Milford Haven area which formed a dark shadow in the distance on an otherwise glorious day. A little like Frodo and Sam, but without the accompanying Riders of the Rohirrim, the occasional wizard or Ent we felt a sense of impending doom. "Run, you fools!" I was tempted to yell down to the happy folk on Lindsway Bay, "The eye of Sauron is on you!". I restrained myself, however.

At this point you can see the juxtaposition of the stunning beauty and the industrialisation to come. After the bay at Lindsway we went around the the wonderfully named Great Castle Head. This has a huge radar mast and we were very excited to read that there was also an iron age hill fort. This would be the third year we had been walking the path and so far we had failed to find any iron age hill forts. I was holding out for great things. We rounded the small while building that was adjacent to the mast, read the information board and then carried on towards Little Castle.

Huge radar mast. It really was a stunning day.

The path took us into some scrubby woodland where the path is divided and split. We ended up going in a circle and eventually came back to the small hut. We stood and looked at the hut, somewhat confused as to why we were back where we had started.

'Lost by a radar site is quite ironic Hel.'

'Yeah, but it will give us the chance to look again for the iron age hill fort that we missed the fist time around'

We retraced our steps and eventually found what looked like a small raised mound.

'I think this is it'. I said.

'Are you sure?'

'I think so.'

'But it is just a ditch!'

'Hmm. Yes. but It is a very old ditch.'

'Somehow I was expecting something a little more impressive.'

'Yes, me too. A bit more Hill Fort-y'

'Indeed or even more Iron age-y. A bit more by way of the stunning defensive position type of thing'

'Still this makes me feel better about all the ones we have missed along the way, if this is all the excitement they offer'.

'True. Iron Age ditch doesn't sound so exciting, does it?'

Slightly let down we walked on to Little Castle Head which was still great to be honest, in spite of its name. This section of the walk was dotted with world war one defensive structures, rather as the section around Dale had been dotted with structures from the Napoleonic wars and eventually we walked down towards Sandy Haven.

Sandy Haven is a pretty, rocky creek with views to the Milford Haven Waterway, and I remember visiting quite often as a child with dad and dog. There were stepping stones to cross, accessible for about 3 hours either side of high tide, which have been superseded by a walkway similar to the one over the mighty Gann.

It turns out that Sandy Haven was much favoured by the artist Graham Sutherland. When I did A Level Art, all those many, many years ago, I was terrible at the art bit, but I really got into the History of Art we had to study. However, I learned all about the genius that was Leonardo da Vinci, and about Renaissance art, and not about modern art, though I do remember writing a terribly pretentious essay about it once, when Mr Thorne, our teacher, was in a bad mood about something and made the two of us write for an hour instead of actually painting something. He was a fabulous teacher and I have to say I was quite happy at the prospect of writing an essay, whereas my exceptionally artistically talented classmate, Chris, was less so. I have always had a hankering to learn more, and quite fancy a degree in the History of Art at the Courtauld Institute, please. When I retire and we have won the Euromillions, if we are still allowed to take part now that Brexit is happening.

Anyhow, as I was saying, Graham Sutherland was inspired by his stays at Sandy Haven and his paintings look to me like he had partaken of the alcoholic offerings of the Sloop Inn at said Haven (it is now a holiday home, I believe). I want to appreciate modern art. I try, I really do, so here is an example of his work, inspired by the locale.

Bird over sand. I like this because I can see a bird in it.

Entrance to a lane. Hm. It's all about form and colour. I think.

The tidal crossing at Sandyhaven Pill had been described as ' a more restrictive tidal crossing' in one of the two guidebooks we had been using. It was thanks to this that I had got my knickers in a knot as I was imagining crossing a swift flowing river. And what we saw was rather a lot of sand and a very easy crossing. I was very relieved that we didn't have to take the high tide diversion, which would have added some miles to what was already a long day. At the same time I will admit to being more than a little disappointed at the lack of drama involved in this second crossing. Rhian, used to my tendency towards the melodramatic, gave me another dose of 'Side Eye' as we crossed the Pill and arrived on the eastern side of the river. All we had to do was walk up the small rural road to Herbrandston where we had left the car. It was a mile up a nondescript path and I was looking forward to a quiet end to the day and maybe a pint of lime and soda in the pub. This wold be apt since it is one of only two 'doubly thankful' villages in Wales, since they didn't lose a single resident in either of the two world wars.

We were leaving the path that day at Herbrandston (Norse name, no doubt) (Norman, she said pedantically, or possibly Flemish - no, Norse!) and so cut inland slightly, nearing a cottage overlooking the bay. We had been in Lord of the Rings mode for most of the day, partly because of the tension of nearing Mordor, the possibly ill-fated timing of the river crossings that we knew we had to make and the fact that the countryside was so pretty it could have been the Shire, and Herbrandston really called Hobbiton. Well, our next encounter further added to the similarity with that epic tale of hobbits overcoming monsters, evil and the stairs of Cirith Ungol.

As we approached the cottage, we saw that the garden gate opened directly onto the path. On the other side of the gate stood a young woman whose behaviour seemed a tad histrionic. Helen and I glanced at each other, concerned. The young woman reached towards the gate then recoiled with a scream. Then she did it again. And again. We felt behoved to investigate and, if possible, be helpful. The hedge was quite high and we couldn't see the gate properly until we were right in front of it.

"Hello! Are you ok?" Helen asked.

The young woman looked helplessly at us. We began to work out what the problem was as we focussed on the gate itself, and the hedge on either side of it. Spiders. Or to be more precise, spiders' webs. Everywhere. Covering the gate, stretching like silvery mesh, across it to capture unwary flies, small horses and possibly even humans. There were spiders to be seen, lurking like horrible shadows within. Waiting. Waiting to run up your arm if you reached out, and make you panic and run around screaming and waving your arms wildly to shake the hairy eight-legged bastard off you before it galloped up your arm and got itself tangled in your hair. I shuddered. I saw Helen do the same.

The young woman said, "I just want to go for a walk! But I'm trapped! I'm terrified of spiders!"

The likeness of our story with that of Sam and Frodo loomed large in my imagination. Shelob! That huge, spidery demon was behind this abomination! She was hiding in the hedge, laughing up her eight sleeves at the three of us, rubbing her eight tentacles (?) (legs, segmented into seven, coxa, trochanter, femur, patella, tibia, metatarsus and tarsus. I bet you wish you hadn't asked now!) together in glee. We had to do something. We couldn't let her beat us! We stepped forward, like those heroic hobbits, walking poles at the ready, and began slashing at the webs.

Now, I must say that while I am not keen on those huge spiders that appear from under the sofa in Autumn and run at you like some arachnid Usain Bolt in training for the Olympics, I am not usually too worried by spiders and felt some pangs of guilt at the destruction of the webs. They were really quite beautiful. But we had to help this poor woman. So we cleared the way for her using our walking poles, Helen like a frenzied Sam, wielding Sting to defeat that demon Shelob. A few slashes, shakes and waves of the poles, accompanied by squeals and shivery "Uuuurgghhhh" noises from the three of us and the young woman was able to open the gate with an outstretched arm and fingertips barely touching the latch or the still slightly webby woodwork of the gate. She shot through that open gate as if Incy-wincy was going to leap out and grab her, thanking us profusely and breathlessly as she did so.

Shuddering slightly, we gradually got our breath back and finished the slow climb up to the village, happy to have finished the day and somewhat dreading our next walk which was going to take us ever closer to Mordor.