King of the road
After a moonless night. Soothed by pattering waves of valley rain and the occasional sheep bleat. I woke to the green light of my chrysalis for the last time. At first this made me depressed. Then I looked at my feet.
I packed for the last time whilst chickens ran in and out of my tent. Everything was a struggle but one of the best things about camping is waking up to a view like this:
Thankfully my campsite was easy for dad to make a return entry into this little story. He joined me at 9:30, took my heavy rucksack off me, treated me to an amazing breakfast and headed off. Once again up and up I went. Not up huge mountains but up large hills consisting solely of farms and the occasional wood.
I had left Snowdonia and I was very, very sad about that. Not least because the few days I was there I felt high on the thin mountain air and dizzying nights out in its valleys. But also because if you thought there were lots of bulls in Snowdonia then you definitely haven’t been to Conwy.
I’m not sure why Bulls love Conwy so much? It must be all the lush grass and farms full of cows. It’s a well known fact that when a bull occasionally thinks it will only ever think about 1 of 3 things: 1. Is that grass? 2. Is that a lady version of me? 3. I really feel like killing some innocent hikers today. One of the more intelligent Bulls had eaten away at a hedge to make a statue of a bull. This was a bull party and I wasn’t invited.
Did I mention there was Bulls?
It wasn’t long before I wondered into the centre of a field up a hill only to find myself staring at a big ol’stupid bull. This one had the worst case of resting bitch face I’ve ever seen. It didn’t help that even the kindly farmer yesterday had warned me to stay clear of them as at this time of year most Bulls are ‘frisky’. I slowly backed away, jumped into another field and nimbly climbed over several barbed wire and thorny hedges until I was back on a road. I repeated this fun filled exercise a few times before I gave up and just stuck to roads. It was quicker that way anyway.
Bulls aside, this walk was lovely and quaint. Although have you ever been in the sea having a perfectly lovely time, then out of nowhere a wave stupidly big rises towards you. And you think ‘I’m done for!’. Well I had a similar feeling about a hill (or a ‘Bryn’ in Welsh, glad we got some Welsh education in there before its all over!) today. Having already climbed several hills I wasn’t ready for this. For quite a while I seemed to be just stomping higher and higher, hard sweaty work.
It was all worth it. At the top I got one last glance at the dark mountains I’d been scaling for the past few days. After this huge hill, after this sheep filled field. The days I’d lived as a wild man high up in green life filled valleys. All that pain and laughter would be nothing more than an ominous misty dark shadow in the distance.
I lost my favourite jumper. This put me in a foul mood for a while. It’s been a great companion over the last 6 years with one of the best marls a man could ever ask for. So much lost in such a short time. Oh well!
I won’t bore you with the rest of the walk. I saw no one which was strange for this part of Wales on a Saturday. But come to think of it there were no villages, no towns just farms, Bulls and one pub in the whole 15 miles between my camp and home.
The only highlight was seeing a 12 year old herd a field of cattle into a shed. Using only a stick. I stared in disbelief. I am too ‘city’ these days I thought.
The last hill, a familiar one for me was the hardest. Home was so close. The sun was going down over golden fields full of crops and memories. I remember cycling into that tree! That sort of thing. I limped myself over into shady cool woods and dragged my feet up the driveway of home.
Now resting everything my mother gave me in a bath of hot soothing water. I can’t believe the amount of dirt floating off me. And how did I walk 15 miles in 7 and a half hours? I asked my feet. They weren’t talking to me anymore. A part from little lefty toe nail (who is somehow still hanging on) who simply said “You’re a f**king d**k”.