The 'Guard, the Bard and the Muddy: Trefin to Pwll Deri, Pwllgwaelod to Fishguard

This walk, the second day of our 3 day April trip to North Pembrokeshire, was widdershins, so to speak. We had decided to walk north, from Trefin to the Youth Hostel. It felt weird, breaking the rules, a mini rebellion. Fortunately we have guide books that go in both directions and we are just as able to get lost going north as going south.

Parking just near the start of the walk, across the road from the path and the sea, we paused to investigate the pretty cove and Trefin Mill. There isn't much left of it but apparently Archdruid Crwys' most famous poem is called Melin Trefin, and it is a pleasant spot, even on a fairly bleak Spring morning.

The Archdruid's real name was William Williams. This must be some kind of Welsh tradition, as my grandfather was called John John, and an uncle by marriage was James James. Either spectacularly unimaginative but no doubt highly traditional naming or, like New York, so good they named them twice. (I remember my Father telling me that there was a family called Diamond living near to him when he was growing up. the family was a large one, with lots of daughters who were names Pearl, Ruby, Emerald and Diamond. Not sure if Diamond Diamond was known as 'Double' to her friends, if if she actually did 'work wonders' as the advert had it.)

We headed uphill towards a headland, passing a modern stone circle and a ruined house, the trail giving us glimpses of the wonderful coastline ahead. It was steep and muddy but exhilarating. Looking down there were beautiful, inaccessible little bays and steep-sided cliffs.

It was muddy underfoot but it was a fine day and we were really enjoying the walk. We had 10 miles to complete and we were feeling quite confident that we would make the distance. So confident, in fact, that we broke our usual habit and took a short detour to see a prehistoric ruin. It might seem strange that we tend to stick to the path proper and don't go off to see interesting sites. All I can tell you that it has to be a really interesting pile of stones to be worth adding to the day's distance, seen one iron age hill fort that looks stunningly like an ordinary hill side and you have seen them all. But we were prepared to made an exception for Careg Sampson. Two reasons, its quite impressive and it was only 300 metres off the path. We had to get through one small gate that was surrounded by a small pool of water and sheep urine (nice to have a change, it was cow urine the previous day, Bovine to Ovine) and then we saw the burial chamber in the middle of a field.

The Dolmen is really impressive and its hard to imagine how Neolithic people built this 5000 years ago. Its called Careg Sampson, or Samson's Rock as it was said to have been built by the Saint Samson of Dol using just one finger. Samson has been dropped from the First Division of Catholic saints so it all sounds a bit dodgy to me. Whoever built it, its very impressive, Stunning, in fact.

Quite literally stunning. We were standing underneath it, enjoying a coffee and a short break while we soaked up the atmosphere. We finished, packed away the flask and I walked out, forgot to duck and smacked my head into the 5000 year old capstone. Whoever made it, Neolithic DIYer or redundant Saint, they did a bloody good job of it. It was very solid. If I had been a cartoon character there would have been a huge BOINK followed me going ARRGGGGH and three blue birds twittering round my head. I had given my head a hell of a crack, to the point that the jarring made my teeth ache. Rhian laughed, quite a lot but I forgave her as I'm a magnanimous sort. Plus, I might need her to take me to the hospital later in the day if I had actually concussed myself so it paid to keep on her good side. From my point of view, and in my defence, I saw that crack on the head as it came but was unable to stop the inevitable happening. I couldn't help but giggle, sorry. It was one of those "Oh no! Is there a dockleaf?" sort of moment when Helen, quite right to be concerned about possible concussion, but reacting with her usual dramatic tendencies, seemed to want to ring Air Sea Rescue, the Flying Doctor or failing that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (well there might be a local branch). Or perhaps Prince William would turn up in a helicopter and she could give him her considered views on the Royal Family as we flew to Withybush A and E. I couldn't call anyone because I had no battery left and no reception on my phone anyway. I tried to jolly her along a bit and she gradually recovered, thank goodness. (This is all quite fair, reasonable and, shamefully, accurate.)

We walked back to the path, round the headland of Ynys Deullyn and walked down to the port of Abercastle. This is a quiet sleepy place but it was once known as the Bay of Boats and food was exported and coal imported. The only remnant of this industry is a large grain store near the sea. I can't say I was paying a huge amount of attention at this point because I was still wondering if I was concussed. I can remember being happy to use the public loos as alfresco pees are not my style.

This was the first time we had walked this section of the Coastal Path. During our first attempt at walking in Pembroke the weather had been so awful we walked inland. After a few days at Pwll Deri we had to walk on to Llanrhian to stay in another YHA in a small village not far from the path. The Hostel was a converted school house, small and within the old playground and not too far from a nice looking pub. We checked in, found our beds in the dormitory room and explored the living area. The other residents were friendly and we were given a cup of herbal tea by another group. We chatted for a while and decided that we would all go to the pub for the evening. These were the halcyon days of the 70s when drinking age was simply advisory and a fine time was had by all. We made sure that we got back to the hostel by 11 and avoided getting locked out.

The 70s might have been a wonderful time for under age drinking but it was less blessed with creature comforts. We changed and got into our bunk beds. This was quite a complex procedure The YHA at the time insisted that people had an inner cotton sleeping bag which I have never understood, given that they didn't provide blankets. So you had to get into your inner bag, then into your main sleeping bag and then lie on the slippery mattress which was coated in a waterproof protector. On top of that, the bunk beds creaked and groaned when ever you moved. So there you lay, in a room full of 20 strangers and every time you moved, 'rustle, rustle, creak groan.' It was awful and you were mindful that other people would be trying to sleep. So you would lie on the mattress getting ever more uncomfortable trying not to move until someone else, in similar pain cracked and rolled over. 'Creak, groan, rustle, rustle' and then a tsunami of sound as the the 20 strangers shifted position. This went on for a while until we all dropped off to sleep.

Sleep was fitful and I woke in the middle of the night. We had enjoyed several pints in the pub and the pressure on my bladder was mounting. For a little while I did the pointless 'I will try and ignore the pain and go back to sleep', thing. We all know that this is a futile gesture. We are King or Queen Cnut against the rising urinary tide. All that it does is delay the inevitable but we have all done it. I really didn't want to get up as it meant shedding two sleeping bags, putting on a coat and shoes and going to the loo which was at the bottom of the playground...the hostel was an old school house, remember? It was raining and pitch black. Finally I gave up and got out of bed, exited the dormitory and scuttled to the Ty Bach (incidental welsh for Little House). These were never comfortable even in the day time, full of spiders and Izal toilet paper and it was a swift pine fresh scented experience and then back to the Dorm. It was so dark that I couldn't see my hand in front of my face so i tapped along the wall softly until I felt the wood of the door under my fingers, opened it as quietly as I could, and went inside.

It was still pitch black and my night vision was non existent. I was worried about falling over someone's ruck sack so I stood motionless for a while trying to get my bearings. Gradually i could see a little in the gloom 'Funny', I thought, 'I didn't think there was a window in the back of the room.' I was still unsure of where I should be walking towards and stood, in the middle of the room waiting for inspiration. The next moment there was a huge, sonorous snore. 'Funny, I thought, 'No one was snoring when I left' . The snoring continued, a deep, phlegm enriched, basso profundo. Not the sound of a female snore, this one was male. I had missed the doorway to our dorm and was standing in the middle of a roomful of blokes. I did a swift 180 and exited, found the right room, my bed and collapsed into it, heart pounding and faintly hysterical.

My memory of this was lying in my little, cot-like bed in an old classroom and feeling like I was back in infants school, being forced to have an afternoon nap before storytime on the carpet and then home with my mother. The rubber mattress creaked with every movement and I wasn't comfortable. I too made a foray to the toilet but by dint of running my hands along the walls and doors and counting them carefully I made it back. It really was very very dark. I also remember listening as Helen got up after me and wondering where on earth she had gone because she disappeared for an absolute age...

This time we stuck to the Coastal Path, walking round Mynedd Morfa and along the back of the beach at Aber Mawr. We had worried a little if the tide would be too high for us to cross small stream just after the beach but the tide was low and so we crossed and avoided the detour to the woollen mill at Tregwynt. the last part of the walk took us along the cliff edge and in our tiredness we missed the path and walked around the landward side of a hill that seemed to go on and on forever. eventually we clambered over rocks and were granted the view below. it was breathtakingly beautiful, and we could finally see the whitewashed youth hostel and the end of the day's walk.

Anyhow, our last day's walk was now going to be between Pwllgwaelod and Fishguard. When we had returned to the hostel the previous afternoon my little Citroen C1 had developed a very alarming clanking sound, not improved by the rocky nature of the car park at Pwll Deri. I was concerned, but decided that it might be ok in the morning and it was time for a glass of wine.

As soon as I started the engine next day I knew it wasn't going to be ok. It sounded like the exhaust. Helen, for comedy purposes, and with a total lack of understanding of the mechanics of cars, referred to this as my Big End. (Crass, I grant you, but too good an opportunity to miss) Anyway, whatever it was, it had gone. Sigh. I hate it when things go wrong with my car. It makes me panic. I got onto my phone and tried to look up a local garage. No service at all. Sigh again. Helen rescued me with her 4G (so bloody smug!) (Smug AND crass) and we found a garage to drop it into in Fishguard, deciding that we would then drive to Pwllgwaelod in Helen's car and walk the 5 or 6 miles back to the town. Perfect.

The day was grey. A stony grey that did not bode particularly well weather-wise, but we parked up at Pwllgwaelod, the bay was still pretty, and the path led steeply up the hill in a way that was appealing, in an out-of-puff sort of way. We could see Fishguard in the near distance and it should only take us a couple of hours.

There was a common theme about these 3 days walking and that was mud. The path was slippery from the start and soon we were sweating up to the top of the hill, thanking our lucky stars that we had our walking poles for leverage. The view was wonderful immediately and the path levelled off in a pleasing way to two overweight, unfit women of a certain age. There was some uppy downy and we descended to cross a wooden footbridge over a small lagoon at the lovely bay of Aberbach. Underfoot was somewhat wet and slippy though as we climbed back up through an avenue of ancient woodland, but it was manageable.

We stopped to chat to a German family (whose English was predictably impressive, unlike our German) who were very enthusiastic about their Welsh holiday. Gratified, we plodded on as the ground seemed to become muddier and more difficult. In fact, it was a relief to reach the caravan site that was perched quite spectacularly on the cliff edge and was paved. Thank god for tarmac!

It was on the approach to Fishguard that things became distinctly claggy. It was very tiring and more and more difficult to skirt the lakes of ooze that lay ahead. I usually go first in these circumstances. I don't know why. Perhaps because my longer legs can navigate more easily, or because I have the word MUG tattooed in invisible ink on my forehead. Anyway, for some reason Helen was in front this time. We were looking at a slope that was all deep, thick, sticky brown mud. There was no going around it, there was only navigating through it. And Helen boldly went where no sensible person should ever bother making the effort to go.

It began well. She stuck her poles in ahead of her and edged forward a few steps. I followed a few feet behind. The "path" (I use the term loosely) turned left and down, with a wire fence on either side. It was all mud. A hippo would have been very happy here. Helen, however, was not, and neither was I. She stepped forward again. "Fffffu...!" she cried as her feet went from under her and she slithered several feet forward on her behind and left leg. I chortled but held it in admirably. It was quite spectacular but I feigned concern. "Oh god! Are you ok?" (It must have looked ridiculous, made more so by the fact that I almost didn't fall just before I fell in the most dramatic way possible.)

Helen laughed a tad hysterically, struggling to right herself without disappearing up to her chest in the sludge. I edged on, slipping and sliding but managing to remain upright. She stood up, took a step forward and went down again, arms and poles waving wildly in the air, just seconds after righting herself. I gasped and held back tears of laughter. To be fair to her she laughed and lay there for a moment, like a beached cetacean, considering her position. A sheep in the field next to us stared, bemused. After much swearing, puffing and panting Helen got up and got through it, and so did I. The only way was forward and whatever we encountered we had to overcome it. A metaphor for life, eh?

The mud that caked Helen's back and legs dried in the brisk, chilly breeze and at least it gave her an extra layer of insulation against the April chill. We walked on towards the old fort on the outskirts of Lower Fishguard at Castle Point, looking back at all the coast that we had already walked, and resting for a moment, dried mud flaking off Helen's trousers.

The Guns at Fishguard. this fortification was built in 1781 to protect the area from American privateers and was later involved in the French attack. It was hard to imagine this area being so noteworthy as we walked through, with me shedding dried mud with every step.

We were tired by this time because the walking had been wearing. We could see the picturesque quay down below us and sensed, with the sixth sense of the seasoned walker, a tea shop.

Our pace would have quickened if we could have managed it but we got there in the end. Seldom has a cuppa been so welcome. I cannot speak highly enough of the Cafe on the Quay. It was mid-afternoon and we decided we would order a cream tea. I necked back those scones with cream and jam like I hadn't had a square meal for days. We hardly had time to bicker over what should go first, the cream or the jam, before we had eaten it all. We didn't have time to discuss whether the milk should go in first, or the tea, either.

Then it was up the steep hill into Fishguard, where we picked up my car, big end now thankfully fixed. I made Helen sit on a bin bag to protect the passenger seat. (She can he harsh.) Dropping her off at Pwllgwaelod, we hugged, said our farewells and headed off, another adventure on the path complete.

Our well earned reward. Our nostalgic weekend walking had carved off around 35 miles of the Pembroke path and we would be picking it up later in the year. Rhian's big end had gone on this one and I had tried my hand at solo mud wrestling. Who knew what the next stage would involve?