The road past Mordor, head south after Neyland

The morning of our last day's walking dawned fine and clear. The last day walking is always a bit poignant and my feelings were mixed. A week of walking 10 plus miles every day does get to you and I had started the walk in bad shape with mangled feet. Physically I was a wreck but on another level I didn't want to stop walking until we got to Tenby and joined together the Ceredigion and Carmarthen sections of the path that we had already walked. But we had run out of time on this holiday and we couldn't expect to get any further than Pembroke. I had really enjoyed the week. Granted, I had completely missed being chatted up by Short, I had tested my friendship with Rhian to the outer limits with Keygate and I had incurred a significant amount of 'Side Eye' over my faffing about crossing the Gann but it had been a great holiday. After all we had only got lost twice, there had been a dearth of cows and neither of us had fallen over. All things being relative it had been a great success.

The distances were not that great but to do it, day after day, becomes challenging. Every day you start with a little less energy and your legs start to ache sooner and sooner. I was proud of what we had achieved on this holiday.

I might have been proud of the week's walks but I worried that the 'book value' for the last day was 17 miles. In reality we always ended doing a bit more than the 'book value' due to faffing about, getting lost and misplacing Iron Age hillforts. As we sat over our early morning coffee I thought that I should mention this to Rhian.

'I'm a bit worried by the walk today, Rhi.'

'More mighty rivers to ford? Worried that you are running out of places to hide your keys?'

'17 miles.'

There was a long pause.

'17 miles? Fuck!'

'Yeh', there was a long pause.

'Fuck! 17 miles?'

'And I don't think that I can walk 17 miles. I can show you my feet if that would help you agree with me.'

'Please don't, I'm enjoying this scrambled egg. I agree with you, 17 miles is too far.'

'How do you feel about bypassing Mordor Master Frodo?'

'Sounds like a plan to me, Sam, can you top up my coffee?'

My gratitude knew no bounds. I topped up the coffee and offered her some orange juice as a bonus.

So the plan was to drive to Herbrandston and walk to Gelliswick. Drive on and bypass Milford Haven (Mordor), park at Neyland and walk on into Pembroke. This would shave about 4 miles of urban walking off the day. I just feel the need to interject here: Milford Haven is not really that bad. There are no armies of orcs (well not that I ever saw on my visits to stay with my auntie and uncle, though I can't say I know what the town centre is like on a Saturday night) and the marina area, and the Rath are really very pleasant. This is a fair point and I will strive to fill in this small gap at some point.

We drove to Gelliswick, parked up on a carpark practically on the side of the path, which was handy and then drove to Herbrandston. The walk to the path was easier down hill and we had soon passed the sandy inlet and started to walk back to the car at Gelliswick to complete part one of the day's walk. The path was good, springy grass underfoot and we soon rounded the headland at South Hook Point. From the headland we could see Stack Rock with its squat Palmerston fort but for some unknown reason I decided to take a photograph of the gas pipelines instead. The land ahead of us was now becoming more industrial , with gas tanks and there was a marked smell of petrochemicals in the air.

You can see the two gas pipelines

jutting out into the harbour and on the other side of the water, the petrol refineries. We would be walking past them but not on this holiday. We had run out of time and would be finishing the walk in Pembroke. The harbour itself is one of the deepest in the world and Milford is the third busiest port in the UK. This is good for local employment but not the most attractive place to be walking.

We had become used to unspoiled beauty but soon we were passing chain linked fences with 'No Trespassing' signs. At one point there were CCTV cameras and it all began to feel distinctly eerie. It might have been my imagination but I began to worry that the cyclopean lenses were tracking us and that an armed guard was about to arrive and ask us what we were doing there. This would have been a tricky question to answer honesty. After all what were we doing there? I wasn't convinced that 'Its all a desperate attempt to halt time and slow our decline into late middle age' was a good enough reason to convince an armed guard. There had been moments on this walk when it didn't really convince me. In all of the time we have walked the path I have never been worried (unless you count worrying that we would fall off a steep bit into the sea). The sections we had walked might have been very remote but they always seemed quite serene but this section felt quite different. The path eventually dropped beneath the first of the pipe lines that stretched out into the sea to connect to a jetty that had allowed ships to dock. The sand underfoot was dank and for the first time in days I felt cold. Actually that is not quite true, I had a shiver of fear when I had to tell Rhian about my fuck up over the keys, but this was different and it was not a pleasant place to be standing.

It felt sinister. Threatening warning signs were everywhere, and I felt like a character in a thriller investigating a top-secret military installation, about to be surrounded by baying German Shepherd dogs and men in black uniforms bearing guns. We would be bundled into the back of an unmarked black vehicle and taken somewhere concrete to be questioned, tortured and ultimately done away with, our bodies tossed into Milford Sound, weighted down with lumps of more concrete. Not that my imagination got overly carried away, but I didn't want to hang about.

I think I was trying to be 'arty' and take 'interesting' photographs. On balance I think this was probably a mistake.

We were both happy to clear the pipe lines and the path became paved. We met ordinary people out walking their dogs who greeted us cheerily. It was a relief to be back in normal surroundings but I still felt I wanted to warn them not to venture too far the way we had just come. It was good to be back in the sunshine and we were soon back at the car in Gelliswick.

The next part of the trip involved a bit of faffing about in the cars, repositioning one car in Pembroke and the other near the harbour in Neyland. We parked the car near the castle and decided to 'use the facilities' before driving back to Neyland. Locking the car, I popped into the loo and did the needful, came out and waited for Rhian to finish. Waited and waited and then waited some more.

Helen nipped off to the nearby Ladies, as had I, and then I put my rucksack in the boot, got in the car and started up the engine ready to go. I kept an eye on the rear-view mirror and saw Helen walking towards the car. Then she stopped. What's she doing? I wondered. I sat there for a bit longer. She seemed to be scanning the area. I felt a touch of impatience ("Surely not!" I hear you cry, "After everything that has happened this week, THIS is what irritates you?") and I tooted the horn to get her attention. A woman walking past on my right nearly jumped into the oncoming traffic in fright. I grimaced and mouthed an apology to the poor thing. Helen, however, was still standing there. I revved the engine. Exhaust fumes gathered around her. Enveloped in smoke, like a more rotund Mortisha Addams wielding a rucksack. Nothing. Oblivious again. (I have come to the conclusion that I have two settings only. Full on excitement or obliviousness.)

"Oh for Pete's sake!" I said, and leapt out of the car, "Helen! Get in! Why are you just standing there?"

"I was waiting for you! You were in the car all the time!" she exclaimed wonderingly.

"Yessss!" I found myself hissing, "Put your rucksack in the boot and get in - the engine is running!"

We set off and such was my admittedly unwarranted irritation that the C1 shot up the hill faster than it has ever taken an ascent before or since because my boot was hard on the pedal.

Funny how little things can wind you up when major cock-ups make your coping mechanisms kick in.

Here we are at the statue of Isambard Kingdom Brunel at Brunel Quay in Neyland. It is actually a replacement because the original was stolen a few years after its unveiling. It was made to commemorate that fact that Brunel brought the railway to Pembroke. A busy man, that Brunel and he crops up later in our walk. It was made by Robert Thomas, a sculptor who was born in Cwmparc, where Rhian used to live. So that is two famous people from Cwmparc then. (Four: H from Steps and Richie Burnett, champion dart-player). ( My cousin almost ran H from Steps over but that is another story. Cwmparc, the Beverly Hills of the Valleys, full of the rich and famous). Anyway Robert Thomas made another statue that has been the bane of my online existence.

And here it is. Hard to believe that this has caused me grief but it has. It is a statue of a miner and his wife, she is carrying their baby 'Welsh fashion' wrapped in a shawl, he has his miner's lamp and they are holding hands. It's a good statue and there is a family link as my father was the Chair of the Rhondda Civic society that raised the money to have it made and commissioned Robert Thomas to make it. I was at the unveiling. The latter point is important.

It is a much photographed statue and it is often posted on local social media sites. And every time it is, people say how much they like it but how sad they are that 'Someone stole his shovel/pick'.

'Isn't it dreadful that people can't leave things alone', which would be a valid comment but HE NEVER HAD A SHOVEL. Sorry, did I shout? I can't help myself. It is like a nervous tic. Every time, like clockwork. Someone would post a picture of the statue and someone else would say that it was better when the miner still had his pick. And every time I would explain that this wasn't the case. And people would swear blind that I was wrong. I would then share photographs of the unveiling. At one point the sculptor's son contributed and said there never was a shovel. The woman who was the model for the wife confirmed this and still people are convinced that there was a shovel or a pick and that it was stolen by some bastard. It is a Rhondda Urban Myth. Friends were amused by my rising blood pressure and got involved. They would helpfully tag me (couldn't resist it, sorry!) (Bastard!) so that I never missed a single discussion of the Mystery of the Missing Shovel. It was hilarious and infuriating by turns. And researching this article has informed me that in Neyland some bastard stole the whole bloody statue. Could have been worse, they might have just swiped his top hat.

Neyland was a quiet place. We walked past the Yacht Club and followed the path up the hill and through some scrubby woodland until we reached a busy road that was going to take us over the Cleddau Bridge. The bridge, which was built in 1975, let us cross to the southern side of the waterway. I think it must have been a bit of a blustery day as I didn't stop and take interminable photographs so there is no evidence but we crossed and started the walk into Pembroke. At this stage I was convinced that we would soon be back at the car park but We still had about three and a half miles to walk and we were going to to have to walk though Pembroke Dock. The walking was easy, through pavemented streets, but it was dull and we were both getting tired.

It was all getting a bit boring walking past shops and supermarkets. For some strange reason we always seem to start to walk at about 10 and finish it around 4. Six hours of walking is quite a long time. Some of it we spend in chattering and bickering and sometimes we walk by ourselves, lost in thought. Six hours really is a long time walking with one other person and so we often mull over our favourite books or films to pass the time. We have been known to spend whole hours discussing what will go in the next days packed lunch. A very enjoyable topic is what we would choose if we were ever on Desert Island Discs.

'Go on then Rhi, what would you pick?'

'Teenage Kicks.'

I had to admit that this was a strong opening choice. 'Nice one! Great track and full of memories of the back room in the Prince when we were drinking under age.'

'Happy days. And you?'

'Walking in Memphis, the Cher version.' Rhian nodded approvingly 'It always makes me smile and it would be my Karaoke choice if I did karaoke, which I don't. Plus it would remind me of my kids who refuse to believe that it is being sung by a woman. But then, they are easily confused as they don't believe that Tom Jones is Welsh!'

'That is sacrilege!'

'I know!' This was all going too well. Far too much agreement. It couldn't last, I thought. I was right.

'Beautiful Day, U2'

'No!'

'What do you mean, 'No!'?'

'I mean, no, you cant have it!'

'That track?'

'Well, nothing by U2, if I'm being honest.'

'Why not?'

'Christ because they are all so bloody dull and Bono is a knob who wears sunglasses indoors!' I felt this was a clincher of an argument. I was treated to some 'side eye'; things were getting a little strained.

Strained? In all the years I have listened to Helen - all those years, those long, long years - this had to been one of the most foolish opinions she had ever, ever voiced. Of course we all know about Bono but to dismiss the whole, stupendous U2 back-catalogue in such a ridiculous and categorical manner was pure folly. Opinionated I expect from her, but unsupported rubbish took me aback somewhat. I glared at her out of the corner of my eye and told her she was talking nonsense then said, reining in a desire to push her off the pavement, 'Oh yes, and what would be your next pick?'

'Jerusalem by Parry'

She made a tutting noise.

'And what is wrong with Jerusalem?'

'Play that when you are making jam, do you?'

'Nothing wrong with making jam. It is therapeutic.' I thought for a bit. 'And sustainable.' There was a long pause and I'm sure I heard her say, 'Pseud'. Moi? I love Jerusalem and jam, obviously, but I wasn't going to tell her that at this tense little juncture.

"Next one, Rhi," she said, after a pause.

"Dakota, Stereophonics."

"Oh. I don't know that one," Helen said, in a somewhat vague, uninterested and dismissive way that she has when she hasn't heard of something and therefore thinks it is beneath her notice. Or maybe, and this is more than likely, at this point I was reading things into her tone that simply weren't there. I stomped off a little ahead. ( I was just vague because I was ignorant, a not uncommon state of affairs.)

"What's your next pick then?" I called, over my shoulder, side-eyeing her once again.

It was a good thing that at this point in the argument we saw something that diverted us from our bickering; the Defensible Barracks. We stopped in our tracks and stared. It was a remarkable structure. We started to cross the bridge to have a closer look when a smaller door in the large wooden doors that barred our way in for a look around opened slowly, and out came an old labrador, followed by its even older and more venerable owner.

We greeted one another and we could not resist asking him what this place was, a very large, fortified building standing alone on a hill at the top of an ordinary suburban street. What was it? Why was it there? And other such questions.

He explained that it was the Defensible Barracks, a Bastion fort from Victorian times, and he was currently the only inhabitant. It had housed the Royal Marines in the mid-1800s. He told us that it was in the process of being converted into luxury holiday accommodation, and he even suggested, very kindly, that he give us a quick tour.

We jumped at the chance and followed him across the drawbridge (over a dry moat, no less!) into the large, grassy courtyard, or parade ground, as it originally was. We could see that most of the buildings within the 20-sided structure were derelict, but he pointed out one of the sections that was almost completely renovated, and showed us an open area of seating where guests could sit and eat and drink. On the wall of the gatehouse was a plaque in memory of 19 men who had been killed in an accident that occurred during the second world war. They were Pioneers being trained in defusing land mines when something went horribly wrong and the mine exploded. 18 men were killed outright and one died the next day. Three of the men were German Jews who had escaped Nazi Germany and wanted to fight for freedom. It was a sobering thought as we stood there enjoying the peace and quiet. It was the greatest loss of life that Pembroke experienced in a single incident, in spite of suffering regular bombing raids.

The venerable gentleman made his farewells and set off to walk his loveable, arthritic dog, who staggered along behind him, tail wagging gamely. (The dog was in better shape than I was at this stage in the walk. I had expected to be sitting down with a pot of tea and a cake by this time). We continued to wander for a short while, open-mouthed. I will be honest, the whole experience brought a genuine tear to my eye. It was awesome. And so totally unexpected. That is the joy of these walks: coming upon something fascinating, or breathtaking or totally unexpected is a regular, and wonderful feature.

A year after our visit in 2018, I saw the Defensible Barracks on RightMove. I was aimlessly looking at houses for sale in Pembroke because we had visited there days before and I quite fancied living down that way when what should pop up under Newest Listed, but the Barracks. Up for sale for £1 million. Unfortunately we couldn't stretch our budget that far, otherwise I might have been tempted to put in an offer. Anyhow, in 2020 it had acquired new owners, who I hope will do something fabulous to restore it and keep it alive.

We plodded on, finding ourselves walking down side streets and alleyways, feeling tired. We came to a field and suddenly the path seemed to be taking through countryside again. This was something of a surprise. I thought we would have arrived in Pembroke by now. The marvellous cake shop was calling us. But no. It was not to be. It seemed an age until we found ourselves looking across the waters at the wonderful Pembroke Castle.

The path seemed never ending. I remember walking through fields and along side a stream and as we passed from field to field we kept seeing the castle in the distance. And however long we walked, the damn thing never seemed to get any closer. By the time we reached the town I felt we had seen it from just about every angle possible. I was so knackered by the end point I wouldn't have cared if the army defending the castle poured boiling oil over me as long as I could sit down while they did it. But before that could happen we had to walk round the town's mill pond and over the bridge before we could reach the end of the day's walk.

Us at the castle. I hate this picture but it proves we were there and we do have the look of two women who are happy to be alive.

Well I don’t like it either because as every selfie seems to it emphasises my double chin and goofy smile. I just want to resemble somebody beautiful like Charlize Theron for God’s sake.

(I don't have that filter on my camera)

Just before we crossed the bridge we stopped to see the statue of Henry VII, first of the Tudor royal house. I thought the statue was older but it was only unveiled in 2017. There he is, wearing his crown, holding an orb with his dog standing beside him. Local rumour has it that the dog originally had a lead but some bastard stole it. Truth.

We left our walking poles in the back of the car and walked up the hill towards the cafe that Rhian had promised me was outstanding and worthy of a tea and a cake. There was a little wait to be seated as the cake shop was very busy, but the selection of cakes was enormous and we finally sat down and were revived by a pot of tea and large slices of deliciousness, as seen in the photo. Egotistically, I felt that our aura of having walked a VERY LONG WAY, should have preceded us and we should have been ushered to a private table on entry and swiftly been given a selection of cakes. Possibly free of charge. With a celebratory glass of champagne and a brass band playing something stirring. None of this happened but the cakes really were outstanding.

https://thecakeshoptreatbox.co.uk/the-cake-shop-pembroke

This little pick-me-up helped give us the energy for the drive back to Narberth, where, because it was our last evening, we were venturing into the bijou little town for food and, most importantly, cocktails. It had been a wonderful, and eventful week's walking and so we celebrated with an excellent steak and several exotic drinks. No wonder we never lose any weight. It had been an outstanding week's walking, truly memorable and astonishingly beautiful.

I had enjoyed this walk so much. We had walked through some of the most stunning scenery. I had completely failed to notice being chatted up, we had forded some mighty tidal rivers and I had tested my relationship with Rhian to the outer limits and fair play she passed with flying colours. I still can't understand how she didn't push me off a cliff. (canonization as a saint awaits me). We still had some sections of the Pembroke path to walk and I just couldn't wait.