The Grapes of Amroth

The morning broke bright and early. Far too bright and far too early, given we had spent the previous night sitting in front of the tent drinking wine and then tried to sleep it off on an air bed. It was a very good air bed and was well inflated at the start of the night but as is so often the way it ended up less well inflated by the morning. And the flat ground beneath the bed proved to be less level than I'd initially thought. I love the smell of fresh coffee in the morning so I leapt out of my sleeping pod and staggered outside to get the water boiling.

Proof that the sun was shining. I've tried all manner of camping stoves, including fancy ones with legs that try to con you into thinking they are actual cookers. They aren't, they wobble and have all the drawbacks of smaller ones just with longer legs. It took a while to heat the water but eventually we sat outside the tent with mugs of coffee and French pastries. A Kidwelly Continental breakfast; this was the life.

The day dawning fabulously sunny, and with warnings of rain over the next few days, we changed our plans and decided to walk further than originally intended and instead of stopping at Pendine we resolved to make for Laugharne, adding an extra six or so miles. It turned out to be a memorable day of distant cows, barbed wire, firing ranges, incredibly steep ascents and descents and the most wonderful poetry.

https://www.walkthewalescoastpath.co.uk/routes/walk-the-wales-coast-path-from-amroth-to-laugharne/ The altitude tracker on this page gives you an idea of the uppy downy nature of this stretch of path, particularly between Amroth and Pendine...

We both drove to Laugharne, parking one car and driving together to Saundersfoot. This year, alongside camping we decided to 'bunny hop' the walk. The Dentists we had met the previous year had told us about this way of walking the path. They were bunny hopping the whole of the coastal path until blisters and a lost filling intervened. This way of walking was new to us as the previous year had been a straightforward linear walk. By doing this we had the advantage of being able to leave our kit in one place. Arriving at Saundersfoot we parked the car and walking out of the car park on the sea front headed out towards Amroth. We passed some very chichi shops and along the path, through some tunnels. The guidebook told us that we were walking along an old railway track. It was hard to believe that this had once been a thriving harbour that had shipped coal and iron around the world. These days it was doing good business in selling bunting and holiday keepsakes. The path was paved at this point and we soon found ourselves in a very smug and celebratory mood. This was going to be an easy day and the 14 miles were going to just fly by.

We walked through tunnels and along the flat coastal walkway to Wiseman’s Bridge, a lovely bay with a hill at the far end, a steep but pleasant walk which led us down again into Amroth. The sun was getting hotter and it was mid-morning. Passing Amroth Castle, we stopped outside the Amroth Arms, an attractive blue and white pub whose doors were open and which was clearly being prepared for the start of the day’s trading. We asked if we could use the facilities as we knew there was a long stretch where there would be none, and then asked if we could have pots of tea and coffee. There was a lovely seating area across the road looking over the bay and we fancied a rest before tackling what was to come.

It was a fantastic day and a wonderful cup of coffee. 'Cariad' means darling in Welsh and I must say I fell in love with that coffee. One of the nicest things about the Wales Coastal Path is that you can often stop for a cuppa or an ice cream, or a pint, for that matter. We like some civilisation while we walk.

Three miles in and feeling smug. We thought that the remaining 11 miles we had to walk that day would be a doddle. How very wrong we were.

The landlady brought us our tea and stopped for a chat. She was a woman of a similar vintage to us and was interested in our story, and the charities we were walking for. We chatted for a while, and, very kindly, she gave us a donation for each of our charities. I swore that I would return and stay in the apartment accommodation above the pub one day. I haven’t yet, but I haven’t forgotten about it.

https://amrotharms.com/

Amroth is a lovely place with a rather fine castle (which we didn't visit) and the beach was one of those chosen for the rehearsals of the D Day landings which involved 100,000 men. It was impossible to imagine this as we sat on a sunny day and sipped our drinks. Amroth also contains a marker for the end of the Pembroke part of the Wales Coastal Path. It was more than a little daunting to see that it was 300Km back to the starting point at St Dogmaels and that we had a meagre 12Km of that in the bag. Never mind, the Carmarthen section lay ahead of us and the sun was shining.

On our way out of Amroth we encountered a man who looked like a seasoned walker, all muscular calves, expensive hiking gear, wraparound sunglasses, useful things dangling from his backpack.

"Hello," we said. "How was that stretch?"

He sucked his teeth and said, "Bloody hard going! Good luck!" and strode on. We didn't look at each other.

As we left the town we saw this sign which amused us. Elvis Prescelly indeed, I'd give a lot to have seen this but sadly we couldn't manage a visit. Man v Pancake also had a certain curiosity value. Shame.

But I could let The Sleeping Dogs lie.

The tide was in and we couldn't walk along the beach, so we headed inland a little and walked towards Telpyn Point. We went down some steps and crossed a small stream that is the official border between Pembroke and Carmarthen and then saw a gorse strewn hill ahead of us. It was steep and the day was getting very hot.

'Christ, its hot! I'm sweating like a mad thing' said Rhian.

'It's your age!' I quipped. 'Everything is your age at a certain age. I'm waiting to go to go to the GPs with leprosy, only to be told it's my age.'

'Quite possibly true but its also bloody hot and this hill is very steep'.

'Also true'.

We flogged up a few more steps and stopped, catching our breath and looking backwards towards Tenby, ostensibly to enjoy the view but in actual fact because we were rapidly running out of steam. Red faced and sweating we were just pulling ourselves back together when another walker closed in on us. She was bounding up the path with ease. As she got closer it became clear she was an older woman, old enough to be our mother.

'Hello, isn't it a lovely day?' She was a woman dressed as if she was going to wander out into her garden to prune the roses. Unlike us, she was wearing a crisp floral blouse tucked neatly into walking trousers and a straw hat. Unlike us, she looked as fresh as a daisy. At this stage I was a bath of sweat and had a face like a baboon's arse. She was petite, delicate and smiling, with her guide book slotted neatly into the pocket of her trousers. Even her daysack was neat, petite and perfectly formed. She moved effortlessly. I wished, uncharitably, that there was a puddle of mud so I could push her into it. But there wasn't, and anyway I was too sweaty and knackered to try.

'Have you walked far?' she asked us. This is the standard Path Walkers question. You ask it because you are interested but really your motivation to give yourself a chance to boast.

'Saundersfoot'.

'Oh how lovely!'

'And you?'

'Not too far,' we started to relax a little, 'Just from Tenby'

This was shameful, she had walked 7 miles to our 3. She looked like she was about to present the prize for the best Victoria sponge at the WI and we looked (and probably smelled) vaguely feral.

In a desperate attempt to recapture the upper ground distance-wise, Rhian asked,

'Are you going much further? We are walking to Laugharne today'. We looked at each other smugly.

'Not too far' she said and we began to relax a little, 'Just St Clears'.

This was dreadful! We had another day's walking before we would get there. Then she twisted the knife. 'I have to cram it all into my holidays, and it is so wonderful to walk the hills, don't you think? I don't have them at home.' This was getting worse with every sentence. 'I live in the Netherlands, you see and we don't have many hills so I don't get much practice'.

And with that she bade us farewell and bounded up the hill. We looked at each other,

'Did that really happen? I didn't imagine her?'

'Nope'

'Farking Hell!', and step by exhausted step, we followed in her sprightly footsteps up the hill.

That was one of the many hills we clambered up, that afternoon, sometimes even clinging on to clumps of grass to help us up the almost vertical climbs. It was shortly after we waved that awful woman off that I started to feel wobbly. In fact, I started to bonk. "Bonk?", you may say, with a leer and a smutty laugh. Almost irresistible, isn't it? And frankly the woman has history in outdoor bonking.

But bonking, in my case, was not fun. It means, in walking and running terms, that you hit the wall. My legs turned to jelly, I started shaking and I had to plonk myself onto a tussock of grass to drink some water and eat something - quickly. The heat, and hunger made me see stars and so we sat down for a few minutes.

Pushing on, the ascents and descents continued to be quite astounding, but so did the view. It was glorious, right the way over to the Gower. The zigzag path led us up and down and we stopped in Teague's Wood for some lunch in the shade, because I was bonking again. Apparently legend has it that this is where the last live wolf in Wales was killed. What silly bugger would chase a wolf up and down these slopes, I wanted to know? Thinking about it, the wolf probably overextended itself, didn't realise the horrific terrain it was getting itself into and expired from sheer exhaustion. Bonked to death, in fact.

Possibly due to the bonking, once we got out of the woods we walked past an iron age hill fort, completely failing to take it in. This was going to prove to be a regular thing for us, its amazing how much like a normal hill side an Iron Age hill fort can look. We also failed to find Neolithic burial chambers and some more Iron Age earthworks. We climbed over Gilman Point, stopping to catch our breath and eventually we were rewarded with a stunning view view of the sweep of Pendine Sands.

It was a huge relief to walk down into Pendine itself where we had several pints of lime and soda and some crisps, to replace the salt lost, in the Spring Well Inn. We sat there, exhausted, two sodden lumps. We had walked 8 miles and we had the horrifying realisation that we had another 6 miles do go. The first 3 miles of flat walking had sold us a pup, the walk had been so hard.

'Look, I've been looking at the map, the next section is dead flat. It's going to be EASY', I said, trying very hard to convince myself.

'You are lucky that I'm too tired to hit you. Whose stupid idea was this?'

'Yours'. It was hard getting up. I was aching all over and so tired. but we had 6 more miles to go and our car was waiting in Laugharne, so off we went.

We passed the beach that was the site of land speed records but were too tired to visit the museum. We walked past the MOD testing range on a cycle path, it was dull walking and walked through Llanmiloe, a small strip of a village and then cut into a field. The path at this stage was narrow, wedged between a hedge and a barbed wire fence that ran parallel with a busy road. It was hot and boring and all we could do was plod on. The map showed us that we would walk through the village of Plashett and I held out the hope that there would be a tea room of some sort where we could rest. Nothing. This wasn't what we wanted. Hot, hard work, with no view or a breath of breeze. A bloody slog and then it got worse. At this point I was starting to feel very grumpy. It was the first time that I had felt, in all the miles of the path that we had walked, that this was not a proper path. I felt cheated by somebody, somewhere, and the steep verge right next to a very busy road made me very cross. Teetering along at a steep angle through high grass, weeds and rubbish was not what I had signed up for, I thought, sweating and slogging along uphill as cars belted past us at high speed with pounding music.

For a kilometre we had to walk along the side of the road on a verge that was littered with all manner of crap.

'Jesus, do people just drive out here to throw litter? I don't think there is a Kentucky Fried anywhere around here. Did they store it up just to lob it out the window here?'

'No idea, but they seemed to have a shit load of beer with it'

'I'd love a beer.'

'I just want to sit down.'

'Look, we turn off here, down to Causeway Farm'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

Rhian turned right down a small lane. I wasn't sure but I was too tired to argue. Anyway she is much better at reading maps than I am so I followed her down the hill and eventually we were walking though salt flats on the edge of the River Taf. Cows grazed in the tranquillity of early evening, thankfully too far away to menace us. I thought how attractive they looked, from a distance.What a relief it was to return to the quiet of the path proper. We were getting close to the end of our walk; it was only a mile or so to go.

We passed a kissing gate and then, heartbreakingly, there was a steep climb through trees. This was killing me. Why the hell did we decide to do this? Mile after mile, blisters, aching legs, miles and miles past barbed wire and MOD exclusion zones, beside a busy road and through litter. Whose stupid idea was this? Step after step, through a dark forest and not a breath of breeze to help us. So fucking hard. We gasped and floundered up that hill, with its steps cut into the earth and roots of the hillside.

And then, and then, the trees open up for us and we see this.

And at this point it was all worth it. Every bloody step of 14 miles. Every bloody step. On we walked, along Dylan's Birthday Walk. He couldn't have felt as proud as we did. He was probably pissed for starters. 14 miles and we had done it. We walked along the estuary, seeing the castle and the end of the days walk. Whose stupid idea? At that point I think we would both want to claim it as ours.

And this is the story that we have found as we do this - that there is something wonderful at the end of the hardest walks. At the top of the hill there was a plaque with Thomas' beautiful Poem in October. I have added it to the end of this page.

'Remember that lady we saw at the hill before Telpyn Point? Where do you think she is now?'

'Cardiff airport, on the way back to Amsterdam probably. The bitch.'

'Bitch.'

We climbed into the car, and headed back to the campsite for our supper, wine, and possibly an in-tent disco, complete with fairy lights.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood And the mussel pooled and the heron Priested shore The morning beckon With water praying and call of seagull and rook And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall Myself to set foot That second In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water- Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name Above the farms and the white horses And I rose In a rainy autumn And walked abroad in shower of all my days High tide and the heron dived when I took the road Over the border And the gates Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder, Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly Come in the morning where I wandered and listened To the rain wringing Wind blow cold In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour And over the sea wet church the size of a snail With its horns through mist and the castle Brown as owls But all the gardens Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud. There could I marvel My birthday Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country And down the other air and the blue altered sky Streamed again a wonder of summer With apples Pears and red currants And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother Through the parables Of sunlight And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine. These were the woods the river and the sea Where a boy In the listening Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide. And the mystery Sang alive Still in the water and singing birds.

And there could I marvel my birthday Away but the weather turned around. And the true Joy of the long dead child sang burning In the sun. It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon Though the town below lay leaved with October blood. O may my heart's truth Still be sung On this high hill in a year's turning.

(Fuck me, but he was good. Why didn't I recognise this when I was in school? Where can I buy a pen that lets me write like that, eh?)