Rainy Rhinogs

The stunning Barmouth estuary

It’s been a strange week.

Our plan was to head up to Barmouth for the second time this month so Harri could continue his seemingly endless hike along the Cambrian Way and I could meander happily in the foothills of the Rhinogs getting hopelessly lost among the brambles and bracken.

The reality couldn’t have been different. This being Britain and the middle of the summer holidays, we were rained off again.

It could have been worse, I suppose. It could have been a replay of our trip to north Wales two weeks ago when it rained for days on end. To anyone who has never been there, Barmouth is a stunningly beautiful place. The view from the wooden viaduct across the mountain-lined Mawddach estuary is up there with the Grand Canyon in my opinion.

Unfortunately, the weather in this lush land of hills and vales was anything but Arizonian and the magnificent rocky Rhinogs were shrouded in low-lying cloud and dense rain most of the time.

Harri bravely battled the elements in an attempt to complete a one-day hike in appalling weather conditions but even the most passionate of hikers eventually has to call it a day when he’s soaked to the skin and visibility is non-existent.

A couple of thousand feet below in Barmouth it drizzled relentlessly and not even a bag of fudge could lift my plummeting spirits as I wandered aimlessly around the town's delightfully quirky shops trying to kill time.

Looking down towards the Irish Sea

So with memories of being cold, wet and miserable still fresh in our minds, we took heed of the BBC weather forecast and decided to forego our mid-week jaunt to north Wales. 

Harri has been working flat out on various freelance projects while I’ve been decorating and running (I managed a personal best of 11.8 miles this week – thanks again to walkjogrun  which I now see as my personal trainer).

Plan B is to head back to Barmouth and some half-decent hiking when the children go back to school next week – the weather will undoubtedly improve then, it always does.

A Marathon Task

My home city, Newport, is holding its first ever marathon on October 30th.

Now I've never run a marathon myself (just the one 10k in Swansea last year) but the announcement that we are going to be holding that most exciting of sporting events in my home city is fantastic news - and it's got me thinking.

Anyone who is familiar with Newport will agree when I say London or New York it ain't. We have hills everywhere in Newport - many of them long and steep. People who regularly pound the pavements around the city know that even the ostensibly flat bits of Newport, Chepstow Road, for example, have sneaky little inclines that catch you out when you're least expecting it. Newport mothers daren't take one hand off their pushchairs for fear that their little ones will go whizzing off down the street at top speed.

At the time of writing, I don't think the official route has been published - the official website simply states 'this new and challenging event will take you past some of Newport’s iconic landmarks: Newport Castle, the beautiful canal routes including the Fourteen Locks, the Transporter Bridge, new University, the Riverfront Theatre and along the River Usk.'

Just for fun, I've devised my own marathon  around Newport - trying to keep it as flat as possible (or at least running downhill at the worst bits). This is fantasy sport, so I'm not worrying about potential road closures, etc, just avoiding those pesky peaks.

Check out my alternative 26.19 mile route courtesy of WalkJogRun.com

And now all that's left to do is to walk it (sorry, I'm just not fit enough to run it).

Setting Off

Walking as a hobby? What’s it really all about? Why are some people passionate about heaving a rucksack onto their backs, lacing up muddy old boots and putting one foot in front of the other for mile after mile (after mile) while others – like a former colleague of mine – shudder at the thought and insist that walking is ‘boring’?

I’ve always walked a lot. When I was growing up in the 1960s and ’70s we didn’t own a car. I was such a Buddha of a toddler that my baby sister was in great peril whenever I sat, elevated above her, in my little pram seat. It seemed far safer to keep me at pavement level. So I walked – pretty much everywhere. In those days we shopped locally but by the time I was six or seven I’d happily walk into town centre (a mile and a half) and back again. 

Walking with my dad at weekends was fun. We’d stop at the newsagents where he’d buy a bag of boiled sweets and then challenge us to make each sweet last as long as possible – the strenuous efforts of our legs were forgotten as we concentrated hard on not crunching sherbet lemons.

Fast forward to high school where I was possibly the most uncool teenager who has ever lived on this planet. My obsession with Mario Lanza and Kathryn Grayson aside, I simply saw every outing as a potential expedition and dragged friends all over the place in search of a true hiking experience. Not that I had any outdoor gear – or any notion that packing a map, some water and provisions, even a coat, might be a good idea.

My usual ploy was to persuade some unsuspecting classmate to set off in high-heeled wedges, knowing all along that I had some vague distant destination in mind. Not surprisingly, these forays into the great outdoors usually ended in harsh words and tears, with the other girl informing me that this was the last time she went anywhere – and she meant anywhere – with me.

Life continued in pretty much the same vein for decades. Just ask my daughters about the pre-Christmas lunch walk they were forced to do a few years ago back.

Then a miracle happened. Four and a half years ago, I met Harri at work. We became friends and when, one day, he asked me if I wanted to go for a yomp that weekend, I knew I’d finally found a kindred spirit.

We walk a lot. We walk on fine days and we walk in bad weather. We do long-distance challenge hikes and shorter walks. We’ve walked the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, much of the South West Coast Path and most of the Cambrian Way. We’ve done circular routes around Cardiff and Bristol and hiked in Madeira, Portugal and southern and northern Spain.

Now it’s me who complains about exhaustion, hikes that go on forever and sore feet. You see, he’s far worse than me. Worse than I ever was. Really. He’s obsessed with hiking. And he can seemingly walk forever.

For us both, to be alive is to hike and I hope this blog will inspire others to share our passion.