Beasts of the Brecon Beacons

 

After been told by an NHS employee that any upcoming surgery to remove a very uncomfortable alien object from my stomach had not yet had a date set, I immediately went into a silent depression. Because of an operation in September 2015 to remove a cancerous tumour from my bowel, going away on any customary excursions to the wonderful countryside of my native pastures had had to be put on hold for, what I was told, at least four months. But ten months later no letter has dropped on the inner porch floor to indicate that I would be under the knife any time soon. And when I visited the Cancer Clinic at the QEHB (Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham) on the morning of Monday 4th July 2016 to see if there was any news about my operation I was informed by the head nurse, Linda, that there was no G.D. Peyton on any surgery list to remove any godforsaken object from his wretched stomach.

 

“Leave it to me Geoffrey. I’ll try and sort it out for you,” she told me.

 

Totally pissed off by now I made up my mind, there and then, that I was going to do a spot of camping on my own in Wales. Why Wales? - you ask. Well, Wales football team were in the semi-final of the EURO Championships and I wanted to indulge in the celebrations, because England had been knocked out by the mighty nation of Iceland. Yes, fucking Iceland.

 

Now, you may have noticed that my language has, up to now, been a little fruitful to say the least. Well, I am really fed up and utterly depressed. So if you are easily offended by the numerous amounts of my filthy tongue being printed, I suggest that you give this read a miss. I am not usually so expletive with the old English aggressive verse, but as I have just explained, I’m in a mood, and I will be in a mood all the way through this journey, although I will try and calm down as I go further on with this adventure trek. In fact, I have calmed down a little now.

 

As I have just said, England were beaten by f***ing Iceland (is that better), but the Welsh were still in. In fact, they had just beaten Northern Ireland, the birth country of my grandfather and grandmother on my father’s side. But my grandfather on my mother’s side was born in Swansea, which, in my estimation, makes me part Welsh. About 25% I’d say. But can I up the ante? I think I could. If I eff off to Wales and find a pub to watch the game in on Wednesday I know that the welsh fans will sing the nation anthem because they are a very patriotic nation. And when they see and hear me singing ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’ (Old Land of My Fathers) that should get me a wholehearted Taffy welcome. Because how many Englishmen can sing the Welsh national anthem in a perfect Brythonic tone? Not many – but I can. In fact, I love national anthems, except ours. When ‘God Save the Queen’ is played on the TV, or whatever, I truly turn the sound down. This is nothing to do with me being less patriotic, it’s just that it lacks passion, the passion that the Irish, Scottish and of course the Welsh anthem has. I also know the whole of ‘The Flower of Scotland’ and the English bit of Amhrán nabbFiann’ the Irish anthem. In fact, all of the anthems around the world are a delight to listen to, but not ours – ours is shit (but I do like the Sex Pistols version).

Okay, let’s get back to my five-day journey around South Wales.

 

I returned home from the hospital at around 11.00am on the Monday. Pam asked how I had gotten on, and so I told her the bad news. She almost demanded that I get in touch with them again and plea for my operation, of which I am desperate for. But I had had enough of the bullshit that I was being fed by the staff at the QEHB, and so I told Pam there and then that I was going camping rough around South Wales, and on my own.

 

“You must be mad” she moaned. “it’s too dangerous living out in woods and things like that.”

 

“Why is it?” I answered. “There’s no animals in Britain that attack and kill you here. Not intentionally anyway.”

 

"Well, Be careful.”

 

There was no more deterring me from going to Wales from Pam, and to be honest, there was no stopping me from going anywhere. I was off.

 

It has been eleven years since I had had a few days sleeping rough in the woodlands of our nation, and that was when I attempted and failed to walk the Cumbrian coastline in 2005. But I only failed to finish that target because I was out of time, but I did finish off the trail six weeks later when I had another week to spare. But I had no target to complete here, as all I wanted was to get away from the headache that lay in Birmingham. Pam was probably pleased to see the back of me for a few days anyway, as I was pretty moody from day to day and she knew that I was missing my annual vacations immensely.

 

Although I had been out of work for almost a year now, due to my cancer recovery program, I still managed my finances with care. I was currently being fed by the state, and was getting a reasonable amount to live on - and to be honest, more than enough for my needs. I was even offered a further £60 per week, of which I refused, as greed is certainly something that irritates me immensely. So I had plenty to pay for my own fare to Swansea, which was only £30 return. I paid the fare and eventually boarded a train at around 2.00pm to Bristol, and from there I would jump on sprinter to Swansea.

 

While I was at New Street Station drinking a latté before my train was due in, a young female beggar with the most grotesque rotting teeth, asked me to spare, not some lose change, but five quid.

 

“Are you serious?” I told her.

 

“You can afford it. You’ve got plenty of money.”

 

Looking at this pathetic poor soul, who, despite her gangrenous looking teeth, I saw a pretty young girl who could not have been more than twenty years old. I wondered how on earth she had become a homeless drug addict. I do take pity on these unfortunate people, as I have been in their shoes myself at some point in my younger days, although I had mostly left the drug side at bay.

 

“I’m not giving you any money towards your inevitable demise.” I told her.

 

“Fuck you then,“ she said, as she continued on her merry way.

 

I watched as she moved away to attempt to trap someone more vulnerable than myself. I couldn’t help but notice her pristine slim figure that she boasted, which I doubt was by design. After I had finished my latté and disposed of my paper cup I walked towards the ticket barrier for my train to Bristol. Walking parallel with me was the very girl who had tried to collar me for a fiver, but she wasn’t alone. She had a male subject with her who was roughly my age. He must have offered her something more than a five-pound note. What a blow!

 

Before I left the house this morning I decided against the big backpack. All I had was an average size holdall that had very little in the way of survival materials. I did have a sleeping bag, a mini water-bottle, a small saucepan and a mini stove that I purchased last year but never got round to using until now. My plan was to live from day to day and buy requirements when they are needed. This ploy was down to the fact that I was still in rehabilitative mode and carrying 40lbs of goods up and down hills and valleys wouldn’t do me much good.

 

It didn’t take too long before the train pulled in Bristol Temple Meads on a warm midday Monday afternoon. When I looked at the timetable for trains to Swansea I had to rush to another platform where my 3.58pm ride was awaiting departure. I had to change at Bristol Parkway, and then again at Cardiff Central. This whole route I had to take because a direct train to Swansea would have cost twenty pounds more.

 

The train chugged into Swansea fifteen-minutes shy of 6.00pm. The first thing I did was to eat fish and chips, as I was incredibly hungry. I ate the lot in student style before taking a walk down to the harbour. An unpleasant drizzle spoilt the walk a tad, which could also spoil my sleeping needs later on. Not having a tent could be a problem too, especially as I am in the wettest city in the whole of the UK. With the drizzle and a sharp wind coming up the Bristol Channel I was forced to retreat back into the city centre. A lot of the shops were open and so I took advantage of the nice offers at Poundland. What caught my eye was a green 4x4 tarpaulin sheet. If I am going to rough it out in the wild, then this bargain would be very handy indeed. I also purchased a few food items and a cigarette lighter in case I need to start a fire. I had given up smoking recently and threw, or gave away, most of the lighters that I had, not realising that they have other useful purposes.

 

After a two hour ‘tour de Abertawe’ my legs were beginning to give up on me. This forced me to take refuge in a pub. The Pump House was right next to the waterfront, and as the name suggests, it was an old pump house which was used to house the hydraulic pump for Swansea’s south and north docks from 1900 until early 1971. The pump’s high pressure was used for many high performance machinery, such as the swing bridge, cranes, lock gates and hoists to load coal onto ships and boats. After the redevelopment of the marina here in the 1980’s, the pump house was converted into the pub where I am supping a pint of expensive lager right now. I selected a comfortable seat by the window that overlooked the marina and drank my needed beer greedily. When I returned to the bar for a second helping of toxic waste, the young barmaid and an equally young barman were in conversation in fluent Welsh. This is nothing new, as I come across this situation quite often. In fact, over 750,000 people speak it as their natural tongue here. The language is a compulsory lesson in Welsh schools, and people even believe that the English language will all but disappear within the next 100 years. Unlikely. And here’s another useless fact. Wales is not the only country in the world that speak this Celtic tongue. The Patagonian region in Argentina has more than 10,000 of their citizens speaking Welsh as the first language. Honestly. Google it, because I’m not explaining the reason why.

 

“A pint of lager please mate.” I asked the young chap.

 

As he poured my beer slowly, he asked if I was here on holiday.

 

“Kind of,” I replied. “I wanted to come to a country that had a decent football team.”

 

“Ah, jumping on the Welsh Bandwagon, are we?”

 

“I am.” I replied. “I’m using my 25 per cent of Welsh ancestry while Wales are still in the Euro’s.”

 

“What part of Wales do they come from?" he asked.

 

“My grandfather was born next to the old Vetch Field Stadium.”

 

“Okay, we’ll accept you then.” He said, sarcastically.

 

“My grandfather was Tom Jones.” I continued. “But not that one.”

 

I’m sure that I was really impressing him with my Welsh background - as he moved away to continue his conversation with the barmaid who had the name of Elizabeth James, according to the badge resting upon her left breast. The barman was Keith Forbes, which don’t sound welsh to me. Perhaps he’s less Welsh than I am.

 

I left the Pump house at 8.00pm and then went for a walk to find an off license for my compulsory nightcap drink. Fortunately, there was one in the city that happened to have a chip shop next to it, and so I bought four pieces of southern fried chicken for my supper.

 

With the light disappearing quickly I returned to the shore and walked along the sand dunes. Earlier on, while I was observing a few people fishing off the harbour pier, I noticed a few alcoves in the dunes that may create decent windbreaks. The drizzle had stopped a good while back, and hopefully the sun dried the sand enough for me to set up my small camp. I had my water bottle with me this time, even though it wasn’t that cold. Mind you, it wasn’t that warm either. Nevertheless, it’s rather doubtful that I will be overcome from hypothermia tonight.

 

There were a few tall apartment towers next to where I intended to rest for the evening, and these were a godsend for a little needed light. The sun had disappeared beyond the hills to the west and now it was almost completely dark. Due to my heavy travelling duties today I was overcome with real tiredness, and so after a can of lager, followed by my chicken pieces, I was out for the count shortly after 9.30pm.

 

Little droplets of rain soon became heavier by the second when I awoke sometime between 3.00am and 4.00am. The batteries in my radio had burned out, and not having any in my pack I was unable to find out the exact time. This forced me to retrieve my mobile phone from my holdall which I was trying to avoid, due to the light it would dish out on what was a reasonably dark morning, and therefore I would stick out like a sore thumb, thus I would be detected by anyone who happened to be within viewing distance.

 

What I did need right now was shelter, and that £1 tarpaulin sheet seemed to be a good purchase after all. But because of its small size I was unable to keep my entire self and my small amount of belongings completely dry. This forced me to pack up my gear and head inland and try to seek shelter elsewhere. Although it was obviously overcast, there was sufficient light developing to navigate comfortably, hence why I gathered the time was around the 4.00am mark. Another big concern was the need for a toilet, as I was dying for a pee. I cursed myself for not doing the needs when I was on the beach, but I left in such a hurry that I forgot all about it.

 

I was now deep inside the city itself, and because of the area being all built up I couldn’t find anywhere convenient enough to pee. Eventually I came across a massive billboard that was advertising some ‘Sky Sports packages and so on. I moved to the rear of the board and simply pissed for England, or should I say Wales. Why am I telling you all this? Do you really want to hear about me having a pee behind a billboard? Well, the reason is, is that I was spotted by the local Heddlu De Cymru (South Wales Police). I hadn’t spotted the vehicle that was well camouflaged in plain sight. As if I was some kind of terrorist, the cop car sped towards me with flashing blue lights. Both the driver and co-driver jumped out of the vehicle like Starsky and Hutch. They kind of cornered me so I couldn’t make a dash for it.

 

“Hello” said a rather large bearded specimen of a copper, no doubt a rugby union forward for the local constabulary XV. “Can’t you wait until you get home of you need to take a leak?”

 

“I live in Birmingham.”

 

“Oh, funny fucker, hey"

 

His sidekick, a much smaller specimen, decided to have a giggle at my expense, but little did they realise it at the time, but I was to have the last laugh.

 

“I’m allowed to wee anywhere, as long as it isn’t directly in public view,” I told PC Hooper (bearded one).

 

With a look of bewilderment, he asked, “And how does that one work then?”

 

I took out a card from my wallet that I received from the cancer department, which actually states that I indeed can take a leak almost anywhere I like, due to problems in my urinal tract. That problem has since been cured, but they weren’t to know this and I still had the card. I then informed them of my cancer treatment, which in itself should boost my chances of getting out of this without needing to pay a hefty fine. PC Hooker showed the card to his hoppo, and between them they just stared at it like two gormless Welsh coppers.

 

PC Hooker handed the card back to me.

 

“Okay mate. Sorry about your cancer and all of that. What are you doing here in Swansea anyway?”

 

I explained as best I could so as I could get on my way, and eventually everything was sorted out.

 

I don’t know what it is about the fact that I so often bump into the local law enforcement nearly every time I go on these hikes. If I was an escaped convict on the run from the authorities it’s very likely that I would be back behind bars before one could shout “nos da”(goodnight in Welsh).

 

While digging into a hearty Welsh breakfast (minus the seaweed) in a delightful old café near the marine I got chatting to Lewis, a local chap who works a few miles down the road at Port Talbot. He looked like one of those good looking surfing kind of dudes, and when I told him so he told me that he was in fact - a surfing dude. I asked him if there was any waterfalls near Swansea, and he, being born in Neath, knew not only of an ideal spot, but also which bus to catch there.

 

“you can catch the X55 from the bus station; they run every ninety minutes, or something like that.”

 

I thanked Lewis for his kind help before I left with a full stomach and a takeaway sandwich, plus a couple of cans of pop for later, just in case I get caught short.

 

A single decker bus with the number X55 stood silent at the appropriate stop when I reached the coach station at 8.00am. I had been walking the streets of Swansea for about four hours and was really knackered, plus I really wanted to get on this bus and have a much needed rest. Four other passengers were already queuing and waiting for the driver to arrive. Eventually a man in a grey uniform and wearing a turban greeted us waiting patrons with a smile.

 

“Good morning everyone? Lovely morning, izznit?”

 

It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Mr Singh was fluent in the Welsh language as well as English and his natural Punjabi tongue. I waited until all before me boarded the bus before I myself jumped on.

 

“I believe you go to a place called The Waterfall Centre?” I asked the driver.

 

“Oh yes, and how lovely it-izz” he replied.

 

“Oh good. How much is the fare?”

 

While tapping a few digits, he asked me if I was returning to Swansea.

 

“Err, I don’t actually know" I answered, before eventually replying “okay yes.”

 

The fare was a startling £6.50p, considering that it was just down the road. But after nearly ninety minutes of dodging through nearly every hamlet in South Wales the fare worked out to be a bargain. The views from the bus ride delivered spectacular (and free) views from every mountain range that was possible to see on the south coast of this most divine country.

 

“The Waterfall Centre, my friend” called out Mr Singh.

 

“Dhanwad bharrjee,” I replied. “Changa hai.”

 

“You speak Punjabi and you didn’t tell me” said Mr Singh, as I walked away from the bus.

 

I turned and smiled at my Punjabi friend before continuing on my merry way towards the waterfalls.

 

Just in case you were wondering if I do speak Punjabi, the answer is actually yes. I began teaching myself the fine tongue for a couple of reasons. One, I always wanted to know what our Asian friends were speaking about when I was kind of involved in a conversation that was taking place in my company. The other was down to the fact that I worked for a Sikh for many years and most of the time my helpers were from the Punjabi area and spoke little or no English. I picked up a book on common Punjabi phrases from Waterstone’s, plus I downloaded an app from the Google Play Store. And due to the fact that I worked six and a half days a week with some young Punjabi lads I ended up learning even more of the language from them. Okay, I may not be fluent in the tongue but I can get by pretty well when asking for materials at work, plus it’s good to show off in front of my friends and family when in conversation with the good and kind Sikh folk.

 

I was surprised with the lack of tourists at the Waterfall Centre at a place called, according to my Google location, Pontneddfechan. The pubs, however, both seemed to be doing rather decent trade. I actually forget the name of one of the inns, as I wasn’t here for the beer I was strictly on an adventurous mission. Nevertheless, a pint or two later may perk me up. But the other inn I did acquaint my backside with a comfy seat for a meal latter on.

 

Walking along a trodden path of many centuries of folks gone by I felt once again the freedom of being alone and doing what I loved best. It was a pleasant day with decent sunshine and a moderate temperature of around 18 degrees celcius and with zero wind. There was an ambush of trees (a collective noun I just made up) and undergrowth to my left, which also made up a high hillside. And down to my right ran the River Mellte, which bed had a copper colour. Whether this corroded colour was caused by the silica (Silicon dioxide) mines from the manufacture of firebricks from 1822 onwards, I am not sure. And although it looks very poisonous I believe the water is perfectly safe to consume as the copper tint is firmly resting on the river bed for the rest of time and a day.

 

In 1857 the Vale of Neath Powder Company built a ‘gunpowder manufactory’ after it obtained a licence from the local authority to erect several mills along the river. This area was also perfect for timber to build the mills, and many of the surrounding trees came in very handy indeed. Despite the constant felling of lumber there are still an abundance of them here to build umpteen more. The mills that were built are no longer upstanding. In fact, there is zero sign of them ever being there in the first place.

 

Th firebrick, or refractory brick, is a block of ceramic material that was invented here by the Quaker Entrepreneur of Bristol and Glamorgan, William Weston Young, who was an artist, botanist, wreck-raiser, surveyor, potter and inventor, and probably had a cuddly toy. The firebrick was built primarily to withstand very high temperatures. They are today used for the likes of kilns and other heat deterrents. The site was taken over in 1862 by an explosive company called, Curtis & Harvey. When Harvey had had a quarrel too many with Curtis he merged with Nobel’s Explosive Company which eventually became ‘Imperial Chemical Industries Ltd’. In 1926 the works finally closed for good and is now named, for nostalgic reasons, the Gunpowder Works. The site is now cared for by the National Park Authority. Oh, the famous Welsh poet Evan Bevan died here at Pontneddfechan in 1866. No, I ain’t heard of him either.

 

I managed to do a little climbing up hillsides and navigate difficult obstacles for half hour or so but I was becoming weaker by the minute due to my cancer recovery program. This forced me to take a rest on a vacant felled tree where I greedily gulped down a can of orange pop and then puffed away on my E-Cigarette. I was interrupted by only one passer by in the ten minutes that I sat enjoying the peacefulness and tranquillity of being alone amongst the wild of this brilliant country.

 

“It’s a wonderful place this, isn’t it?” said an elderly man, who along with his wife, had all the rambling necessities that must have set them back a small fortune, and who were also negotiating the hills and other obstacles with relative ease.

 

“It is” I answered.

 

The chaps wife, who boasted a beautiful length of greyish-blond hair and still extremely pretty for her advancing years, seemed to take pity on my being totally out of breath.

 

“You look as if you’ve just climbed Snowdon” she said, with plenty of sympathetic looks.

 

Trying not to come across as a novice to her and her husband I decided to just come clean about my illness. This was, unfortunately, a big mistake, as I had just pulled myself into an unwanted, and lengthy, conversation.

 

Pointing towards her husband, she told me, “Ooh, Howard has just finished his treatment for bowel cancer, and after two years of therapy, is only now starting to get his real health back.”

 

Howard gleamed with pride as his wife explained what I needed to do in order to become, once more, a fully fledged rambler like Howard. Eventually I was left alone to wonder why people don’t just don’t mind their own business, which, I have to say, was really my own doing. If I didn’t mention that I had the big C, then they would have left me alone to rest in peace.

 

It was getting rather late in the day when I had decided that once you’ve seen one Welsh waterfall you have seen them all. I was really hungry and needed a meal of some sorts. There was a shop close by but it sold nothing in the way of warm food, and a pork pie wasn’t really wetting the taste buds right now.

 

Stepping inside ‘The Angel’ for a hopefully good meal, I was surprised at the amount of people who were either waiting at their tables for food or hopefully were just about to leave after their fill. The bar, however, was thankfully empty, and so I moved in for the kill. I was immediately met by Maggie, a very pretty long dark haired young Welsh lass who was wearing a red pinafore apron and a John McEnroe headband. She gave me the customary smile before asking me of my desire. Looking directly at her, my desire was to become thirty years younger and sweep her off her feet, but I know that those days are well gone and I am now an old pervert who needs serious help. I looked at the plethora of ales on tap before deciding on what o gathered was a local brew.

 

“ Could I have a pint of ‘Rhymney’s Bitter’ please.” I asked.

 

“Yes of course. Will you be dining as well?”

 

“I will.”

 

I took a quick glimpse at the menu and immediately ordered the rump steak and chips with salad. Rather than pay after your meal I was asked to hand over my cash right away, as I no doubt looked like a dodgy character from the city, possibly Birmingham. My knees buckled momentarily when Maggie demanded the sum of £12. I handed over £15 and demanded that she keep the change because I enjoy being swindled and used as an idiot.

 

As I was moving towards the front window of the inn I noticed that someone else had also ordered the rump steak. Now I realised why the bill was so large. The steak was about the same size as a small bull. In fact, I believe that they shot the bull, wiped its arse and nose and placed in on a large plate. I dearly hoped that my steak is the size of the one on that gentleman’s plate.

 

Maggie, who was now my personal waitress, delivered my food within twenty minutes of me ordering it.

 

“Hi there” she said, once again accompanied with the customary smile. “I hope you enjoy your meal.”

 

I gave the customary customer smirk and thanked her loads.

 

The steak was as I had anticipated - flipping large. Far too large for me to handle at this one sitting. And one thing was for sure, and that was: it was not going in the bin. I carefully lacerated it into three individual thirds, and when nobody was looking I placed one of them into a napkin for later devouring. In fact, when I had ate all of the large-cut chips and side salad, I was too full to eat the remaining third, which meant placing that one into the napkin as well. Supper was sorted.

 

After I had finished my food I returned to the bar and ordered another pint of ‘Rhymneys Bitter. Maggie was once again at my service and asked if I had enjoyed the meal.

 

“Oh yes” I replied. “That has to be the biggest helping of steak that I have ever seen served in any establishment. Ever.”

 

“Ooh, I’m glad you were pleased with it” she said, in a deep Welsh accent.

She then looked at the table that I had been dining at and noticed that my plate was bare.

 

“Wow, you must have been hungry. You’ve eaten it all.”

 

I let out a short chuckle before owning up to wrapping it up for later.

 

“ I know,” she replied. “I seen you putting them into into a serviette. Don’t blame you like. Pointless wasting them, innit?

 

“Oh it is.”

 

I was pretty tired after my beef fill, and the Rhymney’s Bitter had certainly hit the spot. Nevertheless, I need to decide on my resting quarters for this evening. I popped into the local stores and purchased a couple of cans of beer just in case I need help sleeping. I had already decided that a nice woodland area in the south of the Brecon would probably be ideal for a night of solo camping. Now in my advancing years, I am a little more nervous about camping out alone out in the wilds. Twenty plus years ago it wouldn’t have bothered me but as one gets on a bit in years the fear of being struck down by the ‘Beast of the Brecon’ does give one the jitters somewhat.

 

A mile or so back in the direction of Swansea, I seen a sign for Pen-y-cae. Once I had made the tiring ascent to the top of a narrow road I was met with a quite magnificent vista of what could only be described as, well, magnificent. It seemed that I could see the whole of Wales, as the views of many, many rolling hills, woodland pines, lonely lakes of all sizes, several streams and mini rivers, some minor waterfalls, thousands of acres of varied coloured grasslands: oh God, it was all there.

 

As the night was less that a couple of hours away I needed to select a decent woodland area that wasn’t too far from the main road (the A465). But my quintessential brain took me a lot further inside the Brecon Beacons that I had anticipated. An hour after entering this massive national park, I at last chose what I believed to be the perfect spot. Not only did I select a small coppice next to a rapid flowing stream, but also one that gave the perfect sunset view for this mild and sunny evening. The main road, or any road for that matter, had long disappeared from my well selected view. I had also lost my bearings slightly, and wasn’t totally sure in which direction I had entered the small woods. But I don’t worry about things like that, as when the morning comes I shall simply head for the way of the sunrise, and that will take me to the main road - eventually.

 

Electing to start a fire for what would no doubt be a dark night shouldn’t be a problem. But I was a little worried that it may be seen from a distance. But if I head for the dead centre of the coppice then that would be a better option, as it would be less likely to be seen at all. It was also very doubtful that any human or animal would come this way, as there is nothing here for man nor beast, except for the idiotic camper. Or so I thought.

 

I had collected plenty of small sticks to larger timber, just in case a fire becomes essential. With that task completed I moved back outside and into the open to settle down to a spectacular sunset. I sat down on a meteor type rock, waited and watched as the sun began to dip itself from my view and beyond the mountains to the west. Moments later the orange ball in the sky was no more. Looking in a circle from my lonesome point of view, it finally hit me that it wasn’t only going to get dark, but possibly pitch black. To calm my nerves a little I cracked open one of my cans of Budweiser. I also had a small bottle of whiskey that had been in my holdall for many months. As I hadn’t drank much alcohol for quite a long time, it shouldn’t take too long for it to hit my brain cells and send me to a long, long sleep, at least that was my hope.

 

Within the hour the dark had become completely worrying. Clouds had formed from nowhere and visibility was absolutely zero. With my torch I made my way back into the woods with a certain amount of thoughtful nerves. I sat down next to a tree where my unlit fire was and pulled out my small stove. I placed my saucepan and water that I gathered from a spring earlier on upon the stove and waited until it boiled so that I could have a water bottle in my bag. The blue flame from the stove did little to help towards any light, forcing me to ignite the fire for needed assurance for the dark hours ahead. With my radio now fully charged with new batteries I tuned in to Talk-Sport for some much needed company. The fire was burning perfectly and it seemed that it wouldn’t cause any impediment to the outside world. What it may also do in my favour, and that is warn off any curious creatures that may want to invade my privacy. Mind you, isn’t it me who is invading their privacy. After all, it is their home, not mine.

 

The alcohol had certainly calmed my nerves a lot, and I realised now, that I do not have the courage that I had when I was young. Twenty or so years ago, sleeping out in the wilds was my preference, but as I have grown older, the worry of being hacked to death in the middle of absolutely nowhere, where nobody knows where I am, and no one will be any the wiser of my whereabouts if I was killed , eaten, and my bones buried beyond ever being found.….Shit, I’ll stop there.

 

I downed the last can of lager and chased it down with the rest of my whiskey. After I had barbecued my leftover steak and puffed on my E-cigarette, I was out for the count. I placed a few more logs on the fire and then collapsed in a heap on top of my sleeping bag. By 11.00pm, I was out for the count.

 

I must have slept for all of three hours when I was awoken by umpteen noises about me. The fire was smouldering gently next to me and still keeping me warm. But it needed more fuel, as I needed to see what was going on around Now that I was basically sober, I was actually shaking with fear at what could be making all those noises. And moments later my worries were conformed when two foxes glared at me before producing a mighty howling noise that I had never heard before. I screamed out loudly.

 

“Get out of her you bastards.”

 

They both shot off through the woods as I threw a few small pieces of burning embers at them, scolding my palms in the process.

 

“Shit,” I yelled. “What the fuck did I do that for?”

 

Apart from the water in my water-bottle, I hadn’t any do douse my hands with. All I could do was let time heal my burnt wound. To be honest, it wasn’t all that bad, as the shock of being temporarily cornered by those two foxes had pumped my adrenalin up so much, pain was the least of my worries.

 

Getting back to sleep was, by now, impossible. The only saving grace that I had was the fact that it was 2.00am and in a few hours it would be light. My decision to sleep in the middle of the Brecon Beacon was a stupid mistake. The radio did give me a little solace from the fact that I was alone in a place that was incredibly pitch black. And if it wasn’t for the fire I would be able to see absolutely nothing in front of me. It really was the blackest moment that I had ever experienced, especially as there was no stars or moon to help towards a lit up night.

 

By 4.00am the first few choral of birdsong gave me a sense of calmness. And within the hour I could see shadows forming in the woods where I lay motionless against a pine tree. I would really love a cup of tea right now but I neglected to bring those sort of supplies with me. All I could do, and did, was to empty the water from the water-bottle and add pine needles to the saucepan, just as Bear Grylls had done on one of his survival episodes. When I sipped at the pine tea I spat it out immediately, cursing Mr. Grylls as I did so. But what I did have in my holdall was two cans of pop, and I found that a cherry coke was far more refreshing than natural hot vegetation in a cup. After a few belches from the fizzy drink it was time to move out of this small coppice and get back on the road and make my way to my next destination, of which I hadn’t yet made up my mind up on whereabouts that was going to be.

 

I trampled on the fire embers to make sure that there wasn’t going to be any bush fire and headed out into the open fields. As I was just about to exit into what looks like being another lovely day, I came face to face with a rather large and stupidly tame beast. Not more than five yards from where I stood frigid and terrified, a stag with prehistoric antlers stood also motionless, and possibly as shit scared as I was, looking pretty hostile and ready to charge and stab me to death. My knees began to tremble, and I was stuck in limbo, totally unprepared for the attack that would surely kill me off. And what’s more - and worse, is that I would then be eaten by those two foxes that I abused with unnecessary foul expletives four hours ago. I would never be found, unless someone decides to take a few DNA samples of animal faeces, which id rather unlikely.

 

Still trying to stare one and other out, the deer made a splattering noise with its mouth before darting off into the woods that I had just left behind.

 

“Holy shit,” was all I could muster from my drooling and trembling lips, followed by a “phew.”

 

All of the prior moments suddenly hit me before I fell almost to my knees in hysterical laughter. I loved being here with the wildlife; my friends; my buddies. This kind of life is the kind of life that I loved and missed over the passed plenty of years. Oh the utter sublime and beautiful country of Wales. Long live the dragon.

 

Coincidence was just about to change the course of my destination for what would probably be for the best. Just as I had finally negotiated a horrible dirt track that eventually led me to the main A465 to Swansea, my phone rang and then the battery died in the process. I connected one of my portable chargers to it (I had four fully charged USB chargers with me) and waited ten minutes before turning my mobile back on. The one missed call was from Mike, who, if you have read any of my other rubbish, was a good friend who has travelled with me on one or two of my previous excursions. I called him back whilst drinking a welcomed cup of sweet tea that I grabbed from a stationary mobile café in a lay-by.

 

“Hello Geoffrey. How’s it going?”

 

“Hi Mike. You’re not going to believe where I am?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Up the Brecon ‘f*****g’ Beacon’s.”

 

“That’s interesting. I was just about to ask if you wanted to go to Ponty. (Pontardawe)”

 

After a twenty minute natter it was decided that I would meet Mike when he arrived in Ponty at midnight. During the waiting time for his arrival I would walk about and have a few cocktails in the local pub until he arrives. This was actually good news for me as I didn’t fancy another kip in the woods again tonight. Well not alone anyway. As l have already stated, when I was young and scare-free, living alone in a rural world never bothered me in the least. But as one gets older and wiser your fading days on this planet become more precious.

 

I decided to walk the 15 miles to Pontardawe via the A4109/A4221 and the A4067, with the first two running parallel with the southern edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park. A lot of the roads at times were without paths. This was most discomforting when I had to take on a hairpin of a bend, which can cause a serious accident when you have two nutcases coming from either direction. But I am pretty sensible in these situations and I am always alert and extremely careful when I come across this hazard.

 

Sightseeing this beautiful country took a lot off my mind whilst challenging this mammoth walk, and it seemed that the first eight miles had flown by. Eventually I took refuge at another lay-by café at a town called Ystradgynlais, where I ate a bacon, sausage and egg sandwich with another well needed mug of sweet tea. The Sun began to finally make its acquaintance and when I continued my walk the heat started to get to me somewhat. I was determined not to indulge in any alcohol until I reached Pontardawe, which by my calculation should be around 4.00pm. The problem therefore would be what would I do for a further eight hours. I couldn’t start drinking that early as I would be totally paralytic by the time Mike arrives from Birmingham. And although I may seem like a heavy drinker to you, I am in fact a rare drinker of alcohol. I only drink when I am out in the sticks to give myself a little bit of Dutch courage when I need to park my anatomy on some derelict land during the night time. I wouldn’t have the bottle to kip out in some woodland area these days - maybe in older times in my youth - but not now that I am older and sensibly wiser.

 

Worrying about being drunk later on was soon a problem solved. After walking for another hour I decided to take a rest about three miles from Pontardawe. I lay on a hill top that overlooked some rather gorgeous fields that where full of grazing sheep. The weather was kind, with plenty of sunshine to help keep me warm. Whilst listening to the quiet sounds of nature and seated comfortably under the welcomed shade of an old oak tree, I fell asleep. I was wearing only a t-shirt that boasted the name of the legendary Motörhead front man ‘Lemmy. And with it being a few minutes after 8.30pm the wind chill got the better of my cooling body. I was also quite hungry and had nothing in the way of food in my holdall. I had no alternative but to wait until I reached Pontardawe Town Centre and indulge in a nice piece of fish, of which I duly obliged when I finally reached the wretched place. I then did a spot of walking along part of a narrow river in the centre of town which was blessed with more waterfalls. Feeling that I had had enough of waterfalls for a the time being I finally gave in and entered the ‘Pontardawe Inn for a much needed pint of lager. A young slim, bleach blonde haired girl of about twenty years old, and also boasting a plethora of wonderful tattoos on every part of her body that was visible, sang to the accompaniment of a guitar that was being pleasantly strummed by a fellow of about her age. He had long dark hair and had a canny resemblance to the Godfather of Rock himself: the legendary Ian Fraser Kilmister (Lemmy). He too was covered in physical graffiti but still nowhere near the amount of his female companion. The Lemmy lookalike quickly took his strumming fingers away from his guitar to give me a thumbs up while also pointing at my T-shirt; the Lemmy t-shirt. I nodded my approval to his approval and then sat down at a vacant corner and listened to the duet playing a couple of ‘Fleetwood Mac numbers from the legendary ‘Rumours album. A few more cover versions of various classics and it was time for a break from them. The performers audience comprised of only six people in the bar, and that included the barman. But it was early evening, and I guess that the bar will be crowded a little later where the two will be inundated with requests for a few 60’s and 70’s classics.

 

I was a bit annoyed when I was joined by the singing duet who immediately, and once again, admired my heavy metal t-shirt.

 

“Seen em have ya?” said Lemmy II, referring, I guess, to Motörhead.

 

“Yes” I replied. “About twenty two times.”

 

“Yeh, me too” he said.

 

The two introduced themselves as Vicky and Crapps. I don’t know if Crapps got his name from an unfortunate medical bowel problem or it was an Hells Angel induction title. I never bothered asking. He was, however, a member of the ‘Hells Angels Wales -est. 1999, at least that was what his leather jacket said. Vicky was too a member of the same motorbike outfit, and I at last felt amongst friends. During the late 70’s, and well into the 80’s, I was more than befriended by bikers and other heavy metal bangers. I was in fact a punk come rocker myself, and had more than often attended punk and heavy metal gigs, some of them massive open air concerts. It felt nostalgic, and I liked it.

 

I offered Vicky and Crapps a beer, of which they more than obliged. They were probably after one from me anyway, but their company was more than worth it. They left for the lounge at 8.30pm to start their gig. Yes, they were the main act that evening in a tribute band. The band played a various rock classics from the likes of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, etc. You know the score.

 

I stayed until 9.30pm before making my way out while the band played on. I neglected to give Crapps and the band a wave on my way out, but I did receive a light hug from Vicky, who played only in a handful of numbers from the band (of whom I can’t remember their name). I was also disappointed that they didn’t play any Motörhead for me, or maybe they did after I left. I don’t know.

 

Whilst making my way towards Mike’s house in Pontardawe, and as if by divine thoughtfulness, Mike himself called me on my mobile.

 

“Hi Geoffrey. Where are you?”

 

“I’m on the way to your house. I’ve just come out of the ‘Pontardawe Inn.”

 

Mike was already parked up when I reached the house and I at last was able to rest my tired body on a comfortable sofa. I suggested to Mike that we go and see the band down the pub. And with Mike’s taste in music resembling mine we made our way down to the inn to enjoy the last few numbers from the tribute band.

 

I had another couple of pints of beer until the band played their finale song called, appropriately, ‘Goodbye - A ‘KISS number. The audience of a good amount neglected to give the band an encore, possibly because it was well past 11.00pm. Crapps seemed pleased to see me and shook my hand before settling down with a drink at a table that was reserved for them, no doubt. Vicky took a liking to Mike and they chatted for a while until she too sat at the table with her band.

 

The next few days were far more comfortable on my legs. Mike chauffeured me to many places of interest, and even took me to see an air show in Swansea. When l returned to Birmingham I vowed not to drink again until my next excursion. I have kept my promise up to the completion in writing this, which is some three months later, and will not touch another drop until the wilderness calls again. Whenever that may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.11.2017

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Widmung:
Thanks to the people who decide to read this without the unnecessary criticism that I do not believe I deserve. All I am doing is telling an affectionate story of one man's travels amongst the wilds of Great Britain. Thank you very much.