Sunday, September 30, 2012

Bike theft - the forgotten crime



Best to keep a bike owner's identity secret

I don’t usually write about bikes; generally, I prefer to get around on four wheels (or foot) but bikes are very much on my mind at the moment.

The reason? My lovely brother-in-law had his new bike stolen from a locked garage last week – he’d used it just four times and was understandably very upset and angry about the theft.

The crime appears to be the work of professional thieves who, not only knew when their property would be unattended, but arrived with metal cutters strong enough to cut effortlessly through a large padlock.

The whole incident was over in seconds – and if you’re wondering how I know that, it’s because Harri had his own bike stolen in broad daylight in Caerleon High Street in July 2010. We didn’t have to surmise what happened because it was all there, captured on the grainy black and white film of the Roman Museum’s  CCTV camera.

The previous day’s footage revealed two tall, hooded men walking confidently into the forecourt in front of Harri’s place of work (then closed) and checking out possible escape routes – they had a good look around, it’s all there on film.

Coincidentally (!), on his way home earlier that week, a group of younger teenagers hanging around on the pavement had shouted ‘nice bike’ as Harri cycled past. Maybe it’s wrong to put two and two together but there are kids who will do anything for a tenner.

Fast forward to the following lunchtime when Harri disappeared to the staff room at his usual time. He returned half an hour later to find his bike, which was padlocked to the metal railing, gone.

Needless to say, he was gutted. Which is exactly how Paul felt last week. Bikes are not cheap and neither are they automatically covered by most people’s household insurance policies.

In our case, all was not lost. Afterall, the CCTV footage suggested the thieves were the same men who’d stalked the place the previous day. Not kids but big, strong men, one of whom pulled large metal cutters from under his hoodie. As one man kept a lookout, completely unperturbed by the passing cars, the other leaned over the high railing, cut through the lock and lifted the bike effortlessly onto the pavement. Armed with this footage, we were confident that the police would quickly recognise and arrest the culprits.

Not a chance. The police’s standard reaction to a non-violent crime is to issue a crime reference number – for the insurance you usually can’t claim. And just in case, you’re thinking the police had carried out some investigations, the CCTV footage came to light when concerned museum staff presented it to Harri. Stealing a bike, however valuable (Harri’s was worth about £1,500) simply doesn’t rate as a crime in police eyes. Or not one they care to do anything about.

My brother-in-law, who was on holiday when the theft of his bike took place (it was reported by his brother), was promised a visit by police officers last night. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t show; no phone call, no explanation, just no show.

Nothing’s changed then. In 1994, my daughters’ new mountain bikes were stolen from our padlocked garden shed. After a tip-off, my ex found both bikes in the garden of the teenage thief. We tried talking to his mother but she said she couldn’t be expected to know what her son was getting up to, the boy himself said he’d found both bikes abandoned on wasteland and the police . . . did absolutely nothing.

Okay, I understand they have to prioritise resources. Bike theft isn’t (usually) violent so it’s never going to warrant the attention given to more violent crimes; nonetheless, it is a growing crime and it affects a lot of hard-working people who are simply trying to get to work without getting into their cars and polluting the atmosphere. Theft is theft. If I was to steal a pair of knickers from Tesco, I’m pretty certain I’d be prosecuted, but bike thieves know that they’ll get away with it.

An article on BBC News claims ‘More than 26,000 bicycles were reported stolen to the Metropolitan Police last year, up a third on five years ago, BBC London has learned. Arrests for thefts and numbers of bikes recovered by the police are also down on last year.’

When you consider that only one in four bike thefts are reported in the first place, that’s an awful lot of bikes disappearing, around 71 a day in London alone.
Given my family’s experiences with bike theft and the dire response of the police on each occasion, it’s no wonder people don’t think it’s worth the effort of reporting this upsetting crime.
There’s some interesting stuff about avoiding bike theft on this blog.
In the mean time, I shall be putting in a Freedom of Information request to Gwent Police asking how many bike thefts were reported last year and how many arrests/bike recovered. 
Watch this space.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

The Cotswolds: Cider with Harri

A top contender for our favourite Cotswolds pub - the Lock Inn Cafe

If there’s one thing the Cotswolds has in abundance, it’s charming, centuries-old inns, resplendent with stone fireplaces, flagstone floors and floral facades. We strolled into several Cotswold villages to be confronted with not just one enticing pub, but frequently two, and sometimes more. And thrillingly, the majority seem to remain open all day.

This situation takes a little getting used to, I can tell you. As Wales-based hikers, we’ve long stopped fantasising about sipping a cold pint at the end of a twenty-mile day. Hard experience has taught us that you can’t even assume the local pub will be open when you’re walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path on August Bank Holiday. It’s a similar story in the Black Mountains, the Brecon Beacons and, most recently, in Kidwelly.

Historic, picturesque... and open
Outside the cities and popular tourist spots Wales’ pubs are fast disappearing. No doubt, the majority of the closed rural pubs we encounter on our travels are casualties of the recession and people choosing to drink at home rather than pay high pub prices.

Others have, through necessity, transformed themselves into upmarket eateries with extensive menus and vast car parks (and prices to suggest two scruffy hikers with a fiver to spend are not their target market).

We often stumble upon rural pubs which would probably be referred to as ‘life style’ businesses, meaning that the doors only open when the publican cares to position himself behind the bar (and our own experiences suggest this rarely coincides with the end of the hiking day).

Uley brewery - keeping the Cotswolds flowing
But these problems belong to Wales and, as we traipsed through the Cotswolds’ rolling hills and valleys, our spirits soared as neighbouring villages vied with one another to provide the best draught beer/cider. This was a land where friendly locals perched on bar stools happy to idle away their afternoons with visitors and where a fit, young South African gardener was willing to stop and talk Virginia Climbers with this old gal (Harri had disappeared to check something out).

In short, from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, the Cotswolds were a delightful surprise where pubs were concerned; and not only were they all open but they offered an amazing range of beers and ciders.

The obiquitous Strongbow and Magners were nowhere to be seen; this was a land of abundance which catered for a grown-up palate.

Sadly, our alcohol consumption was restricted by the need to remain upright on numerous, and surprisingly slippery, wooded slopes – and to drive back to our Travelodge room. So, despite the abundance of temptation, we had to restrain ourselves to one drink at the end of the day.

With so many perfect hostelries visited (and so many others resisted), it’s difficult to single out just one, but high on our list of favourites must be the enchanting Lock Inn Cafe, next to the canal in Bradford-on-Avon

Al sheddo dining at the Lock Inn Cafe
This family-run pub is a worthy tourist attraction in its own right; it feels organic, its colourful decor evolving gradually rather than ever being planned. It’s lively, quirky (a penny farthing is one of hundreds of items hanging from the bar ceiling), garish (not one of the table cloths was the same) and has fun stamped all over it. 

The cafe spills onto the canal courtesy of a narrowboat covered with flowers; on land, assorted garden sheds, filled with tables, chairs and benches, provide additional undercover eating areas. Best of all, the menu is a literary work of art and kept us thoroughly entertained while we enjoyed our two halves of scrumpy.

The pub reminded me of the wonderful Admiral Benbow in Penzance, which, coming from me, is high praise indeed.

Nourishment, alcohol and advice on child-rearing
Other notable pubs were The White Hart Inn, (at Ford, near Castle Combe) which dates back to the 1500s, The Bell in Sapperton (boasting its own horse parking and home of the aforementioned Virginia Climber (and gardener), and The Ram Inn in Bussage where we were immediately welcomed into the fold and thus felt obliged to stay for a hitherto forbidden second drink.

It's going to be so hard to return to Carmarthenshire pubs and their closed doors the week after next!

Arriving on horseback? Parking;s no problem at
the Bell at Sapperton

The Cotswolds: Walking nine to five - what a way to make a living


The English countryside - so different from 'our' side of the channel

One of the perks of being ‘workless’ is that I don’t have to worry about booking annual leave when Harri is offered a well-paid but very last-minute outdoor writing commission.

This one was particularly exciting as we were venturing over the border and the work was being offered by none other than the mighty Automobile Association (I write this in full to avoid any confusion about the nature of our work). The timescale was extremely tight but once you’ve said ‘yes’, there’s nothing for it but to get the miles walked.

To be fair, compared to our usual terrain, hiking in the Cotswolds is a walk in the park; the ‘hills’ are small and paths are well-maintained, so well-maintained, in fact, that Harri experienced continual bouts of ‘footpath envy’ throughout our three visits.

Bradford on Avon is definitely worth visiting
From the dry nature of the majority of footpaths, we could only conclude that rainfall is far less frequent in the Cotswolds than in sunny south east Wales.

Our task was straightforward enough. The AA is updating several of its hiking guides, including one called 50 Walks in The Cotswolds, and its editors have commissioned freelance writers to do the groundwork.  Harri’s brief was to check 13 existing walks, making sure they were still walkable, that the number of stiles was unchanged, parking remained available, toilets open and eating places were correctly named (and were still open). It sounds simple – and mostly it was – but quite a few times the directions were confusing and we ended up retracing our steps, several times having to walk  downhill and start again from the bottom.

Great Chalfield Manor, Holt, was built in 1480
It’s strange but once we crossed the Severn Bridge into England everything felt, well different. It’s hard to put my finger on what  changed exactly, but the whole landscape, the ambience in villages, the architecture... everything felt, well, foreign and unfamiliar.

Harri uses the term ‘gentrified’ to describe the pristine villages, former farmhouses and country pubs/restaurants that we often encounter on our travels but, somehow, it’s more than that. England just feels different from Wales and, with the exception of my beloved west Cornwall, I’ve not always warmed to middle England’s landscape.

Our first walk in the Wiltshire Cotswolds did little to change my view. Holt was a pretty enough village boasting several pubs, the obligatory upmarket (and over-priced) delicatessen and a National Trust manor, but the busy through-road and narrow pavements were not conducive to relaxed strolling. The neighbouring fields with their wheat crops and well-defined footpaths made for pleasant walking but, fresh from our trip to the Gower, there was little about the landscape to impress.

The Kennet and Avon Canal at Avoncliff
Fortunately, things picked up after elevensies when we headed for Bradford on Avon where we had two routes to check. We didn’t park in the town but further along the Kennet and Avon Canal in Avoncliff where it was free (one of the big pluses of Cotswold walking is that the parking is almost always free).

Both afternoon walks were thoroughly delightful and thankfully the ominously named ‘water meadows’ alongside the River Frome were solid underfoot. 

This was the quintessential English countryside, the idealised rural idyll Hollywood producers are convinced is enjoyed by all Brits who don’t live in London (Londoners, we know, live in four-storey, terraced mansions with butlers to answer the door, as portrayed in The Parent Trap, or, if young professionals, in vast, converted Victorian warehouses). And this deluded view of everyday life doesn’t stop with Hollywood producers if the friendly American woman we encountered on the Paris metro a few years ago is typical. Having established we were Welsh, she then asked the eight-year-old Alanna if she bought her school uniform at Harrods! Er excuse me, BHS no less.

While all this annoys me intensely, I couldn’t help getting a little bit excited when I spotted a  gorgeous detached cottage perched halfway up a hill; within minutes, I'd convinced myself that this  was the home of Kate Winslet’s character Iris in the immensely silly but very watchable romantic comedy The Holiday. For most of the film the cottage was covered in snow but I was as sure as anyone could be... until I got home and checked the facts out online. Iris’s cottage isn’t real – a fake exterior was built in two weeks in the middle of an empty field. Worse, the fictional character lived in Surrey and not the Cotswolds at all.

It was all beginning to make sense. I’d always been sceptical about Iris’s daily commute  – travelling from the Cotswolds to central London seemed an awfully long journey to do every day. Then an estate worker (though with that accent, he could have been the owner) confirmed that many people do commute from the Cotswolds, including the Wiltshire villages, and when the proposed super fast Bath to London trains are running, the journey will be reduced to just one hour, 20 minutes each way.

Maybe it’s me, but that still sounds like an awful long time at the beginning and end of each working day!

Friday, September 14, 2012

Day 8 - And so it ends - Three Cliffs Bay to Swansea marina

A mammoth bench overlooks Three Cliffs Bay
Our last day of coast path walking this year.

Whenever my spirits plummet, Harri assures me ‘we’ll be back’ – he’s right, of course, because one of the bonuses of being commissioned to write an official Wales Coast Path guidebook is that you also get to devise the accompanying Top 10 Walks book. So, one way or the other, we’ll be back in Carmarthenshire/Gower before the winter’s over.

Harri’s stretch of the path ends at Swansea marina which posed us with the problem of where to park. Parking for anything up to ten hours is never cheap, but was likely to be even more expensive in a city centre.

Harri’s solution was to park midway along the Swansea seafront, catch a bus back to Pennard then walk past our car to complete the final three miles to the marina. There was one drawback – unless we wanted to pay two astronomical bus fares in one day, we’d have to walk back again.

While we were waiting for our bus, Harri spotted a car driver having a quick shave while he waited in rush hour traffic. I’m not sure if this is legal or not – the car wasn’t actually moving at the time - but can you really be paying due attention to the traffic when you’ve got an electric shaver pressed to your cheek? I'm not sure.


Enjoying the sunshine without a care in the world 
At Pennard, the stroll to rejoin the official path at Three Cliffs Bay was infinitely more enjoyable than it was the previous evening when we’d been tired and hungry.  The ever-present cows roamed contentedly around the golf course, completely uninterested in any human comings and goings.

There’s always something bitter-sweet about your last day anywhere and knowing we were gradually edging our way towards urbanisation didn’t help.

As we walked past the beautiful houses of Pennard, Harri spotted his former Masters lecturer, now semi-retired, and we slowed down for a catch-up. After we’d said our goodbyes, I sat on the grass while Harri went off looking for the poet Vernon Watkins’memorial stone at Hunt’s Bay below. Watkins, who died in 1967, was a lifelong friend of Dylan Thomas and the stone is inscribed with two lines from his poem ‘Talieson in Gower’: 'I have been taught the script of stones, and I know the tongue of the wave'.

Unfortunately, like others before him, Harri was unable to locate the stone, leading him to believe that it’s been subsumed by vegetation over the years. 


Explore the beautiful Bishopston valley behind Pwlldu
At Pwlldu, Harri took his final dip of the week and I dipped my toes in at the water’s edge. Higher up the beach, I leaned I closed my eyes and lifted my face, relishing the warm sun on my skin and trying hard to create sensory memories to sustain me throughout the winter months. There’s something magical about the sea; I don’t think I could cope with living in a land-locked country. I seem to remember reading that Bill Bryson was almost an adult before he had his first glimpse of the ocean but then the States is a lot bigger than little old Britain. Newport’s not the most scenic of cities (oops, nearly wrote town there!) but its location is ideal for travelling to the coast.

We continued on our way, eventually reaching the tarmac path that hugs the coastline from Caswell to Langland and beyond. Both are undeniably pretty places but they lack the rugged splendour of Rhossili, Broughton and Oxwich. I sensed I was dragging my feet as the Mumbles headland came into view – around that corner sprawled Swansea, its manmade landscape, its crowds, its queues of traffic. All too soon we were returning to civilisation – how I longed to turn and retrace our steps back to Rhossili.


Looking down at Caswell Bay 
Trying to stay positive, we upped our pace, reasoning that the faster we walked, the sooner we’d be finished. It was late afternoon and we still had the full sweep of Swansea Bay ahead of us, plus a nasty little sting in the tail – that return walk back to the car. At least I wasn’t running it, I consoled myself, remembering how ill-prepared (and over-dressed) I was for the Swansea 10k in 2010. 

As we neared the car park, Harri gave me the option of stopping but I knew we’d be sorry if we did;  aborting the walk with just three miles or so to go would have presented us with future problems. No, I insisted bravely, we’ll walk to Swansea marina as planned (Harri later admitted that he'd been half-hoping I'd insist on stopping!).


The boat park at the Mumbles
I’d forgotten that the docklands area of Swansea has been expanding rapidly in past years; the reality of walking to the marina meant passing block after concrete block of shiny new apartments with their bare, unloved verandahs, all crying out for some TLC. I’m at a loss to understand why anyone would want to live in one of these modern tower blocks when they could buy or rent a terraced house with a nice little garden for less, but each to his own I suppose.

By the time we finally reached the marina, my feet were in a sorry state and I was somewhat regretting my earlier magnanimity. It was, however, a beautiful evening and a cunning plan was forming in my mind.

So that’s how we ended five days and almost one hundred miles of coast path walking – sitting on a bench overlooking Swansea Bay, with a bottle of Sainsburys’ best dry cider and a large packet of Tyrells (definitely the best crisps ever) and (me) getting my hand kissed by a (drunken) stranger.

All in all, a very decadent end to a hard week's hiking.


We finally reached Swansea marina at twilight

Day 7 - Beach Bypass - Rhossili to Three Cliffs Bay



Romance is alive and kicking at Three Cliffs Bay
I knew I’d be complaining about bus fares before long.  Today, our bus driver’s embarrassment was all too apparent. A single fare from The Gower Inn, Parkmill to Rhossili was £4.30 each, he told us, so why not pay the extra 20p for unlimited travel all day? £4.50 per person and we could travel from Swansea to Rhossili all day long if we so wished.

Unfortunately, coast path hiking is a strictly one-way business and a single bus journey is all that is required; we had no choice but to count out the disgraceful £8.60 fare.

Still, not every business is as money-grabbing as First Cymru; the assistant manager at The Gower Inn very kindly allowed us to park at the rear of their car park free of charge. Nice pub, good value food, friendly staff.


More Swiss Alps than Wales Coast Path?
It was still a bit hazy when we arrived at Rhossili but there was a certain amount of excitement in the air. A lone dolphin had been spotted close to the beach and was attracting a lot of attention from visitors. Yesterday, we’d spotted a small, dead porpoise (at least we think it was a porpoise) on the beach so presumably dolphins are regular visitors to these waters.

Thankfully, Rhossili has remained relatively uncommercialised. The hotel, few cafes and shops are generally unobtrusive and, unlike Land’s End in Cornwall, the Welsh headland is blissfully free of highly-priced ‘attractions’. 

I presume this is because Rhossili is owned by the National Trust rather than a private owner who can sell it to whoever he chooses at whim. Long may this state of affairs continue.

It was just as busy this morning as yesterday afternoon but once we’d passed the coastguard hut opposite Worm’s Head the crowds disappeared and we pretty much had the coast to ourselves for the next few hours.

The coast is far more rugged from Rhossili onwards, with high cliffs and lots of rocky inlets, which sometimes involve a steep descent followed by an even steeper ascent (okay, I know that’s unlikely, but the uphills always feel tougher to me).

Culver Hole is well worth a detour
Harri climbed down to Culver Hole sea cave but my footwear – well-worn Brasher sandals – wasn’t really ideal for rock climbing so I was content to wait at the top. Culver Hole is owned and maintained by the National Trust and featured on BBC’s Coast programme a couple of years ago. It’s well worth seeing if your footwear is up to the vertiginous and difficult climb down.

The big beaches on today’s itinerary were the iconic Oxwich and Port Eynon, beaches I’ve visited many times with my children and walked on previous Gower expeditions.

Why wasn't I surprised that the official Wales Coast Path directs walkers around the back of both. So mind-boggling are the constant detours around some of Wales’ best beaches, that I’ve just checked the Countryside Council for Wales website to see what criteria were used to determine the official path.

The website states that the path is as near to the coast as legally and physically practicable, whilst fully taking into account the needs of health and safety, land management and conservation’.

I'm still none the wiser. I understand the need for conservation, but presumably a beach that attracts thousands of holidaymakers, local people and dog walkers every week isn't going to be adversely affected by a small cohort of Wales Coast Path hikers. One thing Harri and I can vouch for, is that with a few notable exceptions (Snowdon, St David's, Cader Idris, Pen y Fan), Wales really isn't in danger of being overrun with hikers any day soon. 

However... Harri is writing the official guide so the official path we followed, even if it mean missing almost the whole length of Oxwich beach in favour of the burrows behind (which are very pleasant but have no sea views). An exciting new addition to the landscape is a smashing little footbridge across the pill between Oxwich and Nicholston Burrows - there's even a sea view at this point though not for long. Soon we were heading inland, on a steep, sandy path running between trees.

A welcome addition to Gower's gorgeous coastline
And here I must raise the question of accessibility. I know, of course I do, that a coast path can never be completely accessible. People with mobility problems, those in wheelchairs, families with pushchairs - I'm sure they understand that, even with the best will in the world, there will be natural landscapes which remain inaccessible to them.  



What I cannot accept is an official footpath that’s almost completely inaccessible to everyone – and I include the super-fit Harri Roberts. 

In the midst of Nicholston Woods, there were several instances where we were literally scrambling up sand dunes with overgrown vegetation, including brambles, attacking us from either side. At one sandy ‘crossroads’ there was no signposting at all and we had no idea which path to take. This lack of signage could, of course, be down to sabotage as we had earlier spotted several official signs with graffiti scribbled on them. Still, it was extremely frustrating, especially as there wasn't a beach or wave anywhere to be seen to lift our flagging spirits.


We had planned to walk to Pennard today but hobbling across Three Cliffs Day, we decided to call it a day and head inland instead, past the spectacular ruins of Pennard Castle. 
Scrambling through the burrows
behind Oxwich

We were descending through more woods into Parkmill at around 7.15pm, when a couple approached us and asked us how long it would take to walk to the beach.  Given the distance, the terrain and the fast-disappearing daylight, we were incredulous. It was clear these two weren't hikers - not feet-aching, armpit-smelling, stomach-rumbling, cider-longing hikers, definitely not official Wales Coast Path hikers like Harri and me.

Day 6 - More bog than blog - Llanridian to Rhossili


The majestic Rhossili Bay with Worm's Head in the distance 
The full splendour of the Wales Coast Path was finally revealed today, no doubt helped by the glorious autumn weather.

With the lure of the open sea and the majestic Rhossili Bay later on, it wasn’t difficult to believe that Harri has landed one of the best jobs in the world.

A concrete path weaves its way around the coastline for several miles from Llanridian and, from the amount of dead crabs scattered in the grass alongside it, we deduced that a recent tide had been particularly high.

Gower's coastal landscape is richly varied
Fortunately, there was no sign of sea water as we made our way past the spectacular Cwm Ivy and North Hill Tors and through the dunes around Broughton Bay. The beach, though stunningly beautiful, is unsuitable for swimming due to the strong tides at the mouth of the Loughor estuary so Harri resigned himself to waiting until we reached the magnificent Rhossili beach for his daily dip.

While he enjoyed splashing around in the sea, I paddled in nearby rock pools, amused by the antics of two dogs who were running in and out of the largest pool and seemed to be having even more fun than Harri. Bbbrrr! I get cold just looking at him.

I’m always astounded at the iciness of the sea around Wales, actually around the UK generally. Years ago, when I lived on the Isles of Scilly and had a beach on my doorstep (literally), I found the best time to go for a swim was after my evening shift as a silver-service waitress. The sea always felt much warmer at that time of day and there was the added incentive of a brandy and babycham in The Atlantic Hotel afterwards – lethal for the legs but definitely one to warm the rest of the body. Does anyone even drink it these days?

Boardwalks - my favourite terrain 
But I digress. At Broughton Bay, we were unsurprised when the official route took us high above the beach and along the edge of Rhossili Down – the views across to Worm’s Head were superb but, even so, I longed for the feel of that fine, white sand between my toes. There's just not enough beach walking on the official coast path - it would be interesting to know the rationale behind some of the more baffling route decisions.

From Rhossili, Worm’s Head looks deceptively close and it’s not unusual for people to underestimate the time needed to walk there and back across the rocky causeway and end up stranded there, Dylan Thomas apparently one of them.  Fortunately, there are now volunteer coastguards who display each day’s ‘safe to cross’ times prominently so there’s really no excuse anymore for cutting it too fine and having to call out the emergency services.

We reached the village of Rhossili in plenty of time for the bus to Reynoldston and killed some time in the National Trust shop. Not for the first time, we mused on how we can walk for hours and barely see a soul then arrive in a popular tourist spot and find ourselves in the middle of a throng. It was exactly the same on the Pembrokeshire Coast Path when it seemed like all Pembrokeshire’s tourists congregated in and around St David’s and Tenby.

There isn’t a bus from Rhossili to Llanrhidian so Harri’s plan to get off at Reynoldston and walk the short distance over Cefn Bryn seemed sensible. At this point alarm bells should have been sounding in my head, but lulled by the warm sunshine, stunning scenery and the promise of another cider at the Dolphin Inn, I agreed enthusiastically.  Reynoldston is one of those sleepy, affluent Gower communities that I never tire of visiting.

A few years ago, in nearby Burry, we experienced one of the most imaginative bed and breakfast arrangements at Green Bank Cottage. This is a place that understands hikers! Instead of the usual unwanted cooked breakfast (as well as being problematic in terms of slowing us down, catching buses, etc. a big breakfast makes us feel sluggish for hours), the wonderful hosts at Green Bank provide a fridge and nibbles in the room and leave a continental breakfast (with hot croissants and rolls) outside your room at an agreed time. Perfect! Other bed and breakfast owners please take note.

Anyway, the day seemed to be going well. All was idyllic on the short, early evening walk to the top of Cefn Bryn. Below us, in Reynoldston, sheep grazed contentedly on the village green and cows predictably gathered around road side signs; we climbed the backbone of Gower on a wide grassy path, barely raising a glance from the wild horses which roam the slopes, foals at their side.

Having a scratch - wild horses mingle with
walkers above Rhossili
I didn’t think anything was amiss until I noticed Harri looking anxiously at the map – this is a sight so far that it should immediately alert me that something is wrong. His verdict? While the path under our feet was wide and distinct, it wasn’t taking us in the right direction and, unless we veered downhill towards the treeline, we most definitely would not end up in Llanrhidian.

There was just one teeny, weeny problem, i.e. what lay between us and the treeline. It was then that I experienced that awful feeling of deja vue – hadn’t we been here before, on this very hillside, facing the very same problem? That problem being how to traverse a bog without a boat/thigh waders/water skis or very long legs? Given that my available accessories were shorts and sandals and very short legs, I instinctively knew this was not going to be pleasant!

Now readers of this blog will know that I’m not too keen on mud or very cold water. Mix the two together and you get icy cold runny mud – my idea of hell on earth! After lots of prevarication (for some reason, Harri prefers to call it 'whingeing'), during which I struggled to think of some solution which didn’t involve holy intervention or a helicopter, I finally accepted I had no choice but to wade through the filthy, revolting bog. And so began one of the most unpleasant experiences of my hiking life.

Just when I’d think it couldn’t get any worse, Harri would study the map again, shake his head and announce that we had to retrace our watery steps and attempt another ‘route’.

After half an hour’s desperate floundering, we finally made some headway and managed to fight our way through to a farmyard – only to have several barking dogs come running at us. Fortunately, their friendly owner came rushing out to assure us their barks were louder than their bites.

Determined to have our cider come what may, we ‘cleaned up’ our filthy, scratched legs on a pavement a few yards from where a man was mowing his lawn. He didn't seem too bemused by our antics so I'm guessing getting stuck in the local bog must be a regular occurrence in these parts.

A few days later, Harri stumbled upon a news story about a woman who’d got stuck on Cefn Bryn last year and had to call the emergency services out to pull her out.  Lucky escape or not,  Harri knows he’s not heard the last of today's misadventure! 

High above Rhossili beach are spectacular 360 degree views