It was a glorious late September morning, bright sunshine with an autumnal chill in the air, made more noticeable by the fact that I had the roof off the car as I drove to Bewdley. It was a struggle competing with impatient commuters and Kidderminster roadworks. I shall not go home via Kidderminster! It is only 15 miles from Worcester to Bewdley but it took me just over an hour to cover that distance. Thank God I don’t have to commute every day.

Parking at Bewdley station I paid my £3 for all day parking (what a bargain) and headed off down to the river. The early morning sun reflected off the white fronts of the individual houses on the opposite bank.

The first four miles or so follows the east bank of the river. Here the water is sluggish but quite clear. Swans and ducks spuddle about in the relatively shallow water. It is not always easy to stick close to the river, a fairly lengthy section being designated as private land. Above, ridges of trees rose from the river with early morning mist still clinging desperately to the tree tops but losing the battle against a warming sun.

Returning to the river bank much of the early part of the walk is through  woodland with occasional stretches of open fields, particularly around Trimpley Reservoirs, hidden behind a raised bank. Dropping down through trees to a shingle beach I was provided with glorious views of the river, glistening in the sunshine downstream and overshadowed by trees in the first throes of autumnal change. Now the water is less sluggish as it tumbles over little clusters of rocks, not big enough to call rapids or waterfalls but just enough to disturb the gentle flow and give a background sound of babbling water. The quacking of ducks sounding more like an over enthusiastic reaction to a joke rang out through the trees to let me know that there was plenty to see on the river. I was keen to see heron and perhaps the flash of colour from a kingfisher, but there were none, certainly on this first stretch of the river.

After nearly four miles I emerged out of the woodland to Upper Arley, a riverside hamlet of attractively expensive houses and a pub. Here a footbridge took me to the West Bank of the river and from now on the walk was largely across fields with less woodland. I was also now walking parallel with the Severn Valley Railway and ideally positioned for viewing any passing trains. I had heard none so far but as I continued my journey north I began to hear the hoot of a steam engine echoing in the valley. Eventually a sight from my childhood emerged, a classic steam engine pulling carriages over a bridge  and along a raised embankment. As it came by heads popped up from the river bank as fishermen were distracted from their hypnotic staring at bobbing floats to watch it pass.

Much of this stretch of the river between Bewdley and Bridgnorth has restricted fishing for the Birmingham Angling Association. Clearly not satisfied with their miles and miles of canals in Birmingham, they have to invade rural Worcestershire and Shropshire. Do you have to be a resident of Birmingham to be able to join? Judging by the accents I heard it would appear so. They were not a happy bunch. While they were enjoying the warm sunshine, the fish were not biting. Very few had employed their keep nets and I am convinced some had dozed off under the hypnotic bobbing of their floats.
Another one complaining about the good weather was the landlady of the Ship Inn at Stanley which I ducked into for a coffee (£1.85). When I suggested that this fine spell of weather may last another fortnight she bemoaned the fact that she would not be able to have a day off.

The route now not only stuck very closely to the river but also the railway was never very far away. Much of it was along the natural field margins and the river bank. A lot of the fields were laid to pasture or were now resting having been harvested. Tractors were out preparing for the next crop in the never ending cycle of plough, sow, nurture, harvest.

Eventually I saw a heron, and then, having seen one, I saw two more. The first was standing mid river on a sharp bend at one of those points where the water tumbled over a small ridge of stone, hoping to catch small fish caught up in the increased water flow and unable to escape the heron’s darting beak. The second I stumbled upon on my side of the river bank. Startled, it flew off before I could get my camera out. The third, clearly having no more luck than the fishermen, had given up and was standing some distance away in the middle of a field.

For the last couple of miles the river and the railway separated, the path choosing to follow the river on a sweeping bend. You could tell we were nearing Bridgnorth as the noise of traffic on the busy A442 travelled across from the other side of the river. On my side the path ran adjacent to the finest tilled fields I have ever seen. Any gardener would have been proud to have such finely worked soil.

Soon Bridgnorth came into view and the end of the walk was nigh. The path left the river on the edge of town and emerged onto the road beneath the viaduct carrying the A458. From there it was a short walk to the station. As I entered the station a train was just pulling out. I was in no great rush; I had covered the distance much quicker than I had anticipated and I needed a cup of tea. I had a little over an hour to wait. Although the Railwayman’s Arms sold not very appetising vending machine tea, the attractive array of real ale beers was too enticing. One has to re-hydrate after all, and what could possibly be more comforting than a pint of ale?

This was a river walk without any ups or downs and the River Severn, on our doorstep, provides lots of beautiful opportunities. It was delightful. When I walk it again in three weeks with a group, providing the weather is kind and the sun shines, the trees, and there are plenty of them, will be at their autumnal best.

Last weekend was beautiful, perfect September weather with early morning fog followed by brilliant sunshine. Saturday proved to be a little better than Sunday but it was still well worth venturing out on to the hills. Remarkably the Black Mountains on Saturday were relatively quiet, perhaps because Abergavenny was bulging at the seams with visitors to the food festival.

On Sunday I met up with friends at Kington for a walk on the Hergest Ridge, not realising that it was the final day of the Kington Walking Festival. Despite the main street being cordoned off with a rather large hole in the middle of it, the town was quite busy with people signed up for one of the several walks advertised for the day. The bonus for us was that the car park was free throughout the festival. We were a select group of eight, a couple of whom I had not seen for some time. Sallie, carrying a heavily bandaged wrist following surgery, which rendered her unable to paddle board, but able to walk and another Sally who missed out on much of this year’s walks because of a family wedding. It was good to see them both. I was also pleased to have Stephen, my son, walking with us. He has spent the last six years working in Papua as a pilot (‘The Worst Place in the World to be a Pilot’). He has now left Indonesia and is looking forward to a few months of adventuring before looking for another job.

Having driven through foggy vales and sunny highs, by the time we reached Kington the fog had lifted but the sun failed to materialise. It was warm and humid.

The climb up the Hergest Ridge is easy, rising steadily up wide grassy paths flanked on either side by browning bracken. It follows the line of Offa’s Dyke. To the north we looked across to the hills of the Radnor Forest, the tops still cloaked in low cloud. To the south, Hay Bluff and Twmpa, and the whole of the northern escarpment of the Black Mountains rose mistily from the Wye Valley.

Coffee break at the monkey puzzle trees

Near the summit there is a small clump of trees planted in a circle. Nothing strange in that, but what is strange here is that these trees are not the sort you would expect to see on an English hill top. They are monkey puzzle trees! Why? Who planted them and why here? Was it something to do with the Hergest gardens on the outskirts of Kington, or the race course on the hill itself? Apparently they were planted by a keen gardener who noticed that the climate on the ridge was similar to the climate in their native Patagonia.

The race course, still visible as a wide, grassy track, was popular in the first half of the 19thC.

Looking across to Radnor Forest from Hergest Ridge

Continuing to the end of the whaleback ridge, we reached the little village of Gladestry, nestling closely under the steep western end of the ridge. The beckoning power of the Royal Oak pub was too great and we ventured inside for some refreshment, for most of us a coffee but it was close enough to lunch for something a little longer. It was a friendly, welcoming pub with a good looking menu that might, on another occasion, have deserved our closer attention.

The nature of the second half of the walk changed having left the pub. I say half, but in reality we had only walked a third of the total distance. We were now picking our way through fields, woodland, country lanes, up and down contours. At times the path was not very clearly defined and many of the stiles were overgrown and hidden in hedges.

We stopped for a late lunch leaning against the wall around Thomas a Becket church in the lovely, sleepy village of Huntington. The church is much smaller inside because of its very thick walls, keeping the building cool. The windows are small ensuring that the light remains dim at all times.

Leaving Huntington we crossed many fields, hidden stiles, waded through nettles, and caught our clothes on overhanging brambles. In places the path, and more particularly the stiles were poorly maintained and difficult to find. I was grateful that I had walked the route two weeks beforehand but even then, I still made a couple of slight errors. At least we did not have to spend twenty minutes, as I did then, looking for hidden stiles. One such hidden stile gave access to a bridge avoiding a ford. Whilst the rest of the group picked their way through the foliage, Sallie and I decided to wade through the ford. Sadly, unlike on my recce, I did not manage to prevent the water from coming over the top of my boots so the rest of the walk was done with wet feet, although I was not particularly aware of it.

Sunlight filtering though the trees on to the River Arrow

Shortly after crossing the River Arrow, by a bridge, the path took us through a cottage garden, across the well manicured lawns. It seemed wrong that we were doing that, but I had met the owner two weeks before and they were perfectly happy for us to be there, saying that people had had the right of way for hundreds of years. Judging by the excellent condition of the lawn, it would appear that not many come this way.

It was a delightful walk with plenty of variety and plenty to interest the mind. Good conversation continued throughout and we were always able to look up at the ridge to the west and see a strange clump of monkey puzzle trees silhouetted against the sky.

David Thomas, Simon Davis and I set off early on the 26th June to travel to Broadway and Creampots Camp Site, just a couple of miles inland from Broad Haven. Our objective was to set up camp prior to the rest of the group arriving. After all, I had advertised that by the time they arrive, the kettle would be on, the wine chilled and the dinner cooking. So, having lunched at the Galleon, a rather seedy looking pub that served good food, in Broad Haven, we set about the task of setting up camp. We had the whole, substantial field to ourselves, allowing us to spread out enough to satisfy Ros, our characterful campsite owner, and the fire regulation of placing the tents at least three metres apart. The conditions were perfect and, true to my word, camp was set up and all those bold statements in the advertising material were in place by the time the group arrived. We were not a large group, just eight in total but growing to nine by midweek. That night we ate a lovely beef goulash and celebrated Sandy Davis’ birthday with bubbly and cake, although the breeze meant that it was impossible to light the zillions of candles.

A damp start

During the night rain drummed on the taught canvass of our tents, promising us at least a wet start to our Pembrokeshire Coast Path journey. It was still raining, not too heavily, as we drove to Newport, the starting point of the walk. It was sufficiently wet to have to don our waterproofs, to protect us from the wet vegetation on either side of the narrow path as much as anything. As we left Newport, with light rain still falling, we were approached by a local in shorts and wellies returning from a dog walk. As he passed he advised that we would have been better staying in bed. But he was wrong. Within an hour the rain had stopped, the clouds began to break up and the sun shone. Waterproofs were bundled, damp, into our rucksacks and we enjoyed pleasant walking conditions, sunshine, not too hot with a cooling sea breeze, for the rest of the day.

In places the path was very narrow and in need of a little maintenance to cut back the encroaching vegetation. For much of the time we were walking along a narrow channel, not quite wide enough to walk properly along and causing us to have to concentrate on each foot placement. The route was also very up and down, none of them being excessively long but collectively energy sapping. The steeper parts were stepped, not evenly, but with a varied drop, some of which were excessively high and particularly difficult when going down. It was hard to get a proper rhythm on them.

The coastline was dramatic throughout but I was particularly looking forward to walking around Dinas Head. It bulges out into the sea from a relatively narrow neck and is often referred to as Dinas Island. It is approached from the north via Cwm-yr-Eglwys (Valley of the Church). Following storms in 1850 and 1851the church was seriously damaged. The graveyard was breached by the sea and human remains began to appear. Another storm in 1859 rendered the church unusable and it was immediately abandoned. The sea continued to claim the church until all but west end was demolished in 1880. The sea continued to attack the remains and the graveyard, and, after a storm in 1979, a new sea wall was built to protect what was left. For us it was an attractive resting place. The sea was a placid as it could possibly be and it is hard to imagine the force that was necessary to do such devastating damage to a solidly built church.

Dinas Head

The east side of Dinas Head is protected from the prevailing winds allowing for a much wider variety of plants and trees to grow. The flowers that lined the way were in full bloom, something we saw throughout our journey along the coast path, and their perfume filled the air, particularly so on this this morning after being freshened up by the rain. Sheltered from the wind, it was much warmer travelling up to Pen y Fan (top of the hill) and the heat emanating from the vegetation was stifling at times.

A colony of guillemots

It wasn’t just plants that thrived on this sheltered side of Dinas Head, birds also. Stacks, now separated from the mainland, were safe havens for colonies of sea birds. Guillemots crowded on to precariously sloping ledges, jostling for position and producing a cacophony of noise. We were fascinated as to why some stacks were heavily populated while others were devoid of any bird life at all. I think there may be a number of factors which determine which stacks, cliffs and rocks are favourable to colonisation. Shelter from the elements must be a major influence. I also think the type, texture and angle of the rocks is important, accessibility to a reliable food source and protection from predators.

On reaching the top of the headland the wind was in our faces again and it was much fresher, and continued to be so all the way down the western side of the headland. The vegetation was much more limited, with largely grasses and brackens and no trees. The few trees that could withstand the elements were stunted and severely shaped by the prevailing winds.

Back on the north coast we looked out into Fishguard Bay and along the coast to Fishguard, and Goodwick from which the ferry now left for its crossing to Rosslare in Ireland. Stopping at Penrhyn Campsite we enjoyed a refreshing ice cream before completing the final leg of our day’s walk. It was warm and very sunny, stark contrast to the conditions we set out in, and the ups and downs were beginning to take their toll on our legs.

Lower Town

Passing through the attractive Lower Town, we followed the coast round, missing much of Fishguard  and meeting Angela who walked to meet us. Finally we reached our designated finish point and while Angela took David and John back to Newport to collect their cars the rest of us contemplated a drink. Seeing brown signs for the Ferry Boat Inn, we followed their direction, inland for quarter of a mile. On arrival we discovered it had changed from being an inn to a b&b with no bar! Trudging back to the finish point we popped into Tesco and bought bottles of beer having been confidently informed by Claire that she had a bottle opener. Salivating, we waited while she rummaged in her rucksack to produce her credit card size Swiss Army Knife, not with a bottle opener but with a pair of scissors. Desperation, or was it experience, enabled us to remove the caps and savour the nectar within, while we waited for our lift back to camp.

Although I had tweaked the itinerary in order to make the days more even, the second day was always going to be a tough one. Even with the new finish at Abercastle, we were still going to walk in excess of 16 miles with over 4,000 feet of ascent. At least the weather was in our favour. While the rest of the country was entering a heatwave that would see the highest July temperatures on record, we were blessed with sea breezes which kept temperatures down to a maximum of the low 20s. Stella, had a foot issue and, having only walked a few steps, decided not walk but to keep Angela company for the day.

Zig-zagging our way through woodland, we climbed out of Goodwick to join the clifftop path which hugged the line of the coastal cliffs. The scenery was, again, spectacular with stacks and arches adding to the interest. Also adding to the interest were our first sightings of seals basking on rocks and playing together in the water. We heard them before we saw them, their deep, guttural barks alerting us to their presence. Despite the fact that we were 120 feet above them, they knew we were there and played to their audience, gamboling and rolling in the water, or simply treading water so they could see us more easily.

Dropping yet again to sea level we climbed back up through cooling woodland back to the clifftop and a memorial stone at Carreg Goffa, to mark the place where the last invasion of mainland Britain took place at Carregwastad Point on 22nd February 1797. The invasion by 1200 French soldiers, led by Colonel William Tate, an Irish American, resulted in the Battle of Fishguard. The invaders saw little success and surrendered three days later.

Following the coast we reached Strumble Head in time for lunch, sitting a short distance from the lighthouse flashing its powerful light as a warning to any passing ships. I was looking forward to rounding this headland as it would mean we would not be able to see Dinas Head again and that we were making progress. The coast was now at its most spectacular with some beautiful, inaccessible coves, dramatic cliffs and many jagged stacks constantly lapped by the sea. I couldn’t help feel how dramatic it would look in a storm.

Dramatic coastal scenery

The heat was beginning to take its toll and we were beginning to run out of water so we sent a message to Angela to meet us where a lane came down to meet the coast path and to bring water and other refreshments to give us a boost. It was so welcome. Claire, having stopped for a break, decided to call it a day and forgo the last three miles or so in favour of staying with Angela in the car.

Angela, Stella and Claire walked towards us as we approached Abercastle and the refreshments Angela gave us at the finish were unexpected but most welcome. While some went off to get the other car from the start, the remainder of us enjoyed some good beer and this time we did have a bottle opener!

We had now completed, probably, the two most arduous days of the trek. Day three was another beautiful day and while temperatures soured even higher in other parts of the UK, here they remained comfortable. The walk involved less up and down and had long stretches of relatively flat, clifftop walking. We were back to a full compliment of walkers.

Porth-gain’s industrial past

Leaving Abercastle, we continued westwards, bypassing Trefin and eventually came upon Porth-gain with its rich, but short, industrial past. Porth-gain harbour was used for almost one hundred years, until 1931 for the export of roadstone, slates and bricks. Alongside the harbour are the remains of the old brick works and the massive bins that held the crushed stone. Now it is quite a smart village with some of the old industrial buildings converted into smart restaurants and curio shops. We took advantage of the facilities to rehydrate and eat local ice cream.

Whitesands Bay

St David’s Head was getting ever closer. Looking back the way we had come we could again see the winking eye of Strumble Head lighthouse, now more than twenty miles away. The coast here was less indented and the inland scenery more interesting with the hills of Carnedd lleithr, Carn Llidi and Carn Hen rising to their impressive rocky outcrops. Rounding the headland we could see Whitesands Bay and the expansive beach that attracts many holiday makers on a good day. It is a bit of a Mecca for surfers, being exposed to the Atlantic swell and the opportunities that gives for riding the waves. Today there was little swell but it provided excellent conditions for novices to hone their skills.

It proved quite warm throughout the day and I had been dreaming of having a swim when we reached Whitesands. Going on to the beach, we released our feet from the confines of our boots and wandered down to the water’s edge. We did not go far and any thoughts of having a swim were quickly dispelled. The sea was not warm. This was confirmed when you took time to observe those that were in the sea, were all wearing wet suits.

After three days of walking we deserved a rest day so I arranged for the group to take the boat from Martin’s Haven for the short crossing to Skomer Island. Thankfully it was only a short crossing as I don’t think Simon would have been able to keep his breakfast had it been much longer. You only had to look at him to realise he was concentrating hard.

In parts of Britain this day was the hottest July day on record with temperatures above the mid thirties. On Skomer, we started out in sunshine but after only an hour there the sea mist rolled in and temperatures were suppressed. Although we could not see much of the cliff colonies and there was no chance of seeing seals, porpoises and dolphins we had such a wonderful time enjoying the clown-like antics of the puffins. Not only do they look like clowns, they act like them. They are such delightfully innocent birds and I could spend hours watching and enjoying their company. They seem to have little fear amongst humans, which makes them all the more attractive.

It was a calm day but the unseen noise of the sea on the exposed side of the island suggested that it was quite rough. I wish I could have seen it. I would love to see it during stormy conditions. I imagine it being a very dramatic place to be in a storm. I certainly want to go back and spend a night or two on the island, enjoying the birds after most of the tourists have gone home. Then we might be able to see something of the 316,000 Manx Shearwaters that emerge from their burrows at night.

Before heading to Whitesands Bay for the resumption of our walk we spent a little time in St David’s, taking time to visit the cathedral. It is unique as a cathedral as it is build in a hollow and cannot be seen until you actually stand on the edge of the hollow, almost level with the top of the tower. Most cathedrals are built in prominent positions where they can be seen from some distance. At least, being built where it is, it is protected from the strong winds coming off the Atlantic. I have been to the cathedral a number of times but I don’t remember the pronounced slope of the nave, nor the angle of the supporting pillars either side of it. They lean out at quite a sharp angle.

The western end of the peninsula around St David’s was far less indented and good progress could be made. At St Justinians, path diversion signs redirected us around the construction of a new lifeboat station.

Ramsey Sound

Our interest was now drawn to Ramsey Island, or more precisely to the stretch of water between it and the mainland. This stretch, where the tidal currents are squeezed, is renowned for its choppy water and strong currents. The rocks that jut out from the island at its narrowest point and adds spice to the flow are known as the Bitches of Ramsey Sound. We watched a launch make little progress against the flow despite having the engine running at full throttle. Suddenly, having fought its way through it is released by the currents and shoots forward.

At one point, just ahead of us we saw somebody take a tumble. Rushing to their aid we discovered an old lady half lying, half sitting uncomfortably among the rocks. I think what had happened was that she looked up when she saw us and lost her footing. Although she had not broken the skin she had raked her shin over a rock and her knees were also showing signs of bruising. Sending the rest of the group ahead to wait for us, David and I patched her up, made sure she had food and drink, and that she was not suffering from shock. She was very chatty and as I eventually helped her up to negotiate the rest of the rocky slope I asked her how old she was. Pauline was 81 and was on holiday from Leeds, walking the coast path and staying at youth hostels. What a game old bird. We watched her as she continued in her sprightly manner and then spoke to another female walker going in her direction to just keep an eye on her.

It had been the tendency throughout this walking week to have two lunch stops. Today was no exception and as we sat on a grassy bank at the side of the path, enjoying the sunshine and the opportunity to rest, we were joined, at first by one gull, waiting in the hope that we might throw it some scraps. Doing so, we were then joined by several other gulls who then proceeded to give us a fantastic aerial display as they jostled for food and position. It gave us an opportunity for some great action photos.

This southern section of the headland was again more indented, not with wide sweeping bays but with narrow inlets. It was to the largest of these inlets that we were heading for at Solva, a quaint village at the top of the inlet. Here, as it was my birthday, we relaxed at the pub, sitting in the sunshine, while waiting for our lifts to materialise. There was no rush, we had made reasonably good time and we had a good reason to stay for a drink or two.

Me and my cockerel!

In the evening I was presented with my rucksack with a rear view mirror attached so that I could keep an eye on the group behind me, and a horn! I later found a former shop display cockerel in my sleeping bag, which I was instructed to wear on my shoulder for the next day’s walk. This created some fun on the walk as we would meet people who would look at me and not notice the cockerel. David would ask people who had just passed me if they had seen a man with a cockerel on his shoulder. They would look blankly and say ‘no’ to then have me pointed out. One man did say that he hadn’t seen a man with a cockerel on his shoulder but seen a cockerel with a man up its arse! When people did notice, they demanded an explanation.

Stonechat

It was quite a long walk today all along the edge of St Bride’s Bay from Solva to St Brides. It was also a varied walk with fantastic clifftop stretches, long beaches at Newgale and Broadhaven. Throughout the walk we had been attracted to the wildlife, the occasional sightings of seals, the gulls soaring on thermal currents of air, the dogfights between peregrine falcons and gulls, kestrels, once so very common but now a rarity, the beautiful, vividly coloured flowers that attracted so many insects, butterflies in their thousands and the constant song of the stonechat, perched on the highest twig above the bracken, singing his heart out while he flitted from high twig to high twig to follow us for a while.

Monster!

On reaching Little Haven, we met up with Angela, which gave those who had had enough a get out for the last five miles to St Brides. My cockerel had had enough so I detached him from my rucksack for the remainder of the walk. This just left four of us for this final stretch, through more varied terrain. We were again on a stretch of coast sheltered from the westerlies. Here trees grew and we walked for a while through mature, broad-leafed trees. Among them it was hot and humid and we were constantly pestered by flies wishing to drink our sweat. Eventually we emerged onto the fresher treeless cliff path. Out in the bay were some rocks with a natural arch passing through them. They gave the appearance of a sea monster wriggling its way through the water.

Dramatic coastline and waters

The final day saw us walking from St Brides round the peninsula to Martin’s Haven and then along the cliffs above the inaccessible Marloes Sands and then around the peninsula that is St Ann’s Head before finishing at Dale. There was more wind today and the sea on exposed coasts crashed over the rocks on the shore. A few large tankers were anchored off shore awaiting their opportunity to birth at nearby Milford Haven. The chimneys of Milford Haven could be seen for most of the day but despite it being Europe’s largest oil and gas terminal it does not seem to encroach too much on the rest of the beauty of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path. Obviously you cannot avoid seeing it but it did not, as far as we were concerned, detract from the beauty or enjoyment of the walk.

Cobbler’s Hole

While some of the old lighthouse properties are now abandoned, the lighthouse itself has been turned into residences with outstanding views across the water. Rounding St Anne’s Head we detoured slightly to have a look at Cobbler’s Hole, a small inlet that displays the pressures forced upon rock way back in geological time and how it has been shaped.

We now only had a couple of bays to walk around before heading for Dale Point and then into Dale. There was a Pirate’s party taking place to raise money for children’s play equipment. There was a lively atmosphere, added to which were numerous sailors visiting for the weekend. The bay was littered with anchored yatchs and the Griffin, the pub we veered towards was busy. We sat on a balcony overlooking the activities and enjoyed a few beers in the sunshine.

In the evening we returned to the Griffin for a celebratory meal. It was not disappointing at all, but extremely good. We had had a good week with good walking, good weather, good company and good food. What more could you ask for in life? Oh yes, not to rain heavily when we struck camp the next morning!

Last weekend had a strong emphasis on charity. On Friday 19th I found myself walking the length of the Worcestershire Way (officially 31 miles of undulating Worcestershire countryside, but proved to be a mile longer according to GPS) for the annual St Richard’s Hospice challenge walk. John Woodcock had enticed me to join him in return for him coming to a dinner I was organising for the Nepal Earthquake Appeal. Thinking about it, I seem to have picked the short straw in this deal. Where is the hardship in eating a meal? Nevertheless, I agreed, on the understanding that I would not be seeking sponsorship at a time when I was wanting to encourage people to support the earthquake appeal; I would simply make a donation to St Richard’s.

I have often walked the Worcestershire Way, but over two days finishing the end of the first day at the Admiral Rodney pub in Berrow Green. Doing it in a day would seriously challenge my ability to walk past the Admiral Rodney and not go in to rehydrate on Butty Bach.

Gathering at St Richard’s at 4.45am in order to catch the bus provided to take us to Bewdley. Conversation, for the most part, was muted but there were one or two who were clearly more ‘morning’ people than others. It was quite a bright morning but there was a promise of heavy cloud developing in the morning, keeping temperatures down but without the chance of rain. Perfect conditions. The fact that it remained sunny all day, that it was quite warm and I was grateful to long stretches of walking in the shade and a hat when I wasn’t, goes to show that the forecasters for the 19th June got it very wrong.

There were 82 walkers in total. John and I had David Woodcock and Mike Brennen walking with us. We started walking at 5.45am and set ourselves a good pace. Navigation was never an issue, for not only is the route well waymarked, I have walked it so many times I know it with my eyes closed. Every so often a female voice emanated from John’s pocket telling us how far we had walked, our pace, the number of calories we had burned and the number of steps we had taken. This was encouraging, particularly as we seemed to be setting a pace of 17 minutes per mile. Even a few ups did not seem to diminish the pace that much. Hang on though, this was not a race. It is supposed to be a lovely country walk. So why did four people just run past us?

Abberley clock tower

The climb up Abberley Hill, quite steep at times, slowed us down. It was from here that we had our first view of the finish, Malvern, the hills being a hazy lump in the distance. Then we had the mile undulating along the ridge, not making any forward progress but walking across our route rather than along it. At Abberley we were a third of the way. This was our first opportunity to take a break as the Abberley WI were providing tea and cakes in the Abberley School cricket pavilion. It was still only 9.00am and I was eating cake! While some sat down and took the weight off their feet I was reluctant to do so, knowing that it would make it much harder to get going again. There was a great atmosphere of being in this together. People were easy to talk to, the most often asked question being, “Have you done this before?” While there were some Worcestershire Way virgins, like myself, there were many who were repeaters, people dedicated to supporting St Richard’s.

Not over full with cake we started the second third with the steep pull up Sheep Hill. This led to one of the most beautiful sections of the walk, along the ridge overlooking the Teme Valley. In these conditions it was perfect. Once up the hill we were able to pick up the pace again and, although 17 minute miles were a thing of the past we were still managing sub 20 minute miles.

On the ridge there is a seat dedicated to the Martley Path-or-Nones, a fabulous resting point with stunning views across the Teme to Shelsley and Clifton. Two walkers were resting when we arrived; two walkers I had never met before. That did not stop me from telling them that their time was up and that they should bugger off. They did! After a short rest, a bite to eat, a drink and an appreciation of the view, we were off again. As we descended steeply to the river the knees began to feel the pain but, as with all the hills on this route, they are short lived and so is the pain.

Soon we were passing the Admiral Rodney and I wondered if this might not be a psychological hurdle for me. It proved not to be. I was feeling generally good and wanted to see this through to the end.

Lunch was at the Talbot at Knightwick, 21 miles into the walk. Two thirds completed. John and Mike’s wives, Chris and Geraldine, were there to meet us with a clean shirt for John and a selection of boots for them to change into if they so needed. It was also an opportunity to offload any unwanted kit we were carrying to lighten our loads.  A large buffet spread was set out for us but I was more interested in fluid, water, orange squash, anything to rehydrate. Beer was not a temptation at this stage. A massage service was available and David took advantage to have his legs pummeled ready for the final third. I changed my socks and the inner soles of my boots. While I was doing this a thought occurred to me. Why am I doing this? I don’t have any sponsors. Nobody is relying on me completing this walk in order to give me money. I am making a donation. If I am doing that I could sit at home all day and send a cheque. I must be mad. With those thoughts we set off for the last ten miles or so to Malvern.

The pace had slowed, not hugely, but sufficiently for me to notice that the voice from John’s pocket was not as encouraging as it might be. Before we reached Longley Green I began to visualise the village shop and its supply of Magnums. Meeting up with a fellow walker, I warned him that if he was planning to visit the shop for a Magnum, and it was the last one in the shop, I would have to kill him. The threat was enough to deter him from doing so. As it happened, there were plenty in stock and we allowed ourselves a brief rest while we savoured our Magnums!

Mike, John & David

The lump that is North Hill began to loom over us and the end was clearly in sight. We just had to climb over the Malverns and drop down into the town and, more particularly, the Red Lion. This was the hardest bit at the end of a long day. I took my sticks out ready. The flight of steps from lower West Malvern to upper West Malvern are a real killer and they are followed by a steep climb past the now closed Lamb Inn. It was here that I hit a wall. My pace slowed significantly. I had led all the way but now I was at the back, struggling to find the energy for the climb to the top of the ridge. As the path became less steep and eventually levelled out, I found my energy again and enjoyed the circumnavigation of North Hill. Here we paused for photos.

John & I with Mike behind

Finally we reached the point of descent, the knee jarring route down to the pub. It hurt but we knew that soon the pain would end, John’s blisters could have the pressure taken off them, David’s saw bits would no longer chafe. If Mike had any problems he kept them to himself. Our wives would be there at the end waiting to mop our brows, pat us on the back, fetch us pints, massage our sore bits. They would be there at our beck and call. And so they were, all except Chris, who was caught up in watching Andy Murray, much more important than seeing her husband and eldest son finish a 32.11 mile walk in twelve and half hours.

Having sat at the pub for an hour, getting up to go to the car was painful, not only to achieve but also to watch. And so it was for the next twenty four hours until my became accustomed to moving. They felt as though somebody had stamped on them. Despite the aches and pains, it was a great day out in perfect conditions. I don’t need to do it again, I have done it. Would I do it again, if asked? Probably, yes!

Still aching a little from Friday’s exertions, I organised a fundraising meal at Cromwells, a Nepali/Indian restaurant at Powick, just outside Worcester. I arrived an hour before the main body of guest in order to set things up to find a number of table occupied by people I didn’t know. While I was setting up other came in looking for a meal, and were accepted by the Nepali staff. There were still a few tables occupied when the main thrust of of my booking arrived between 7.00 and 7.30pm. It did not matter, as the sixty four people who came all knew each other but had not necessarily seen each other for a while. They were happy to crowd around the bar, and it was an impenetrable crowd for a while, have a drink or two and chat. Anna, my daughter, got trapped and could not easily move around the room to sell raffle tickets.

Satisfied diners

Eventually the tables all cleared and we were able to release the pressure around the bar as people sat down and Anna could move freely, making the most of the selling opportunity. It still took a while for the food to be brought to the buffet table. I was concerned that people would be feeling hungry but nobody seemed to mind and once the food did arrive and people began to taste its delights, any negative feelings I might have had soon disappeared. The food was stunning. So much so that Pradip declared it was the best authentic Nepali food he had tasted outside Nepal. High praise indeed. Nobody had a bad word to say about the food and when I offered the chance for people to return to the buffet table for more, many did.

Before we got down to the serious business of the evening we played the birthday game, which, if it had worked out properly would have had one winner. As it happened we ended up with four, who shared the massive box of Swiss chocolates with the whole room, although I think it bypassed me. The aim of this game was to raise some quick cash to give to Gill and Pradip for all the fabulous work they do with their charity, Jamarko.

More happy diners

I spoke briefly about the trust and showed the assembled crowd two short films of the trust’s day to day work in education and health. Gill Spilsbury, a good friend, spoke for a few minutes about her experiences of the earthquake and the impact it has had on peoples’ lives. I then showed a short, graphic film of the quake and some of the images that have since come out of Nepal. This was designed to be emotive just before I held an auction. I have seen the film many times but it never fails to draw upon my emotions.

The auction was approached light heartedly and we even got £50 for Kevin Poole’s flat cap that he bought on the Dales Way and that we pinched. We did have some special items, the best of which was a summer print by the Sherpa deaf and dumb artist Temba that had been signed by Ed Hillary, George Lowe, George Band, Mike Westmacott, Doug Scott, Stephen Venables, Chris Bonington and Rebecca Stephens, a venerable collection of Everest achievers.

We concluded the evening with a game of Heads and Tails for a bottle of wine, the proceeds of which also went to Jamarko before drawing the raffle with its wide selection of prizes.

Afterwards many people stood talking, reluctant to leave, but gradually the numbers thinned out. It was great seeing so many good friends in such a convivial atmosphere. While the shape of the room was not perfect for such an event, it was cosy and the food was truly exceptional. Financially, it was a huge success, raising approximately £4500 for the Himalayan Trust UK Earthquake Appeal. Thank you to all my friends who contributed in such a positive way.

Ann not enjoying a ‘hands free’ experience on a suspension bridge with Dodja.

Ann not enjoying a ‘hands free’ experience on a suspension bridge with Dodja.

Over the years Ann has become Adventure Guide’s poet laureate. We have become accustomed to a last night rendition of her latest poetic offering , not only displaying exceptional talent but also humourous observation.

                 The Dales Way

There’s a famous explorer called Walton

(www.adventureguide.org.uk)

Who….. looking for further amusement

Decided to walk the Dales Way.

He got all his clients around him

And said “Eee, I’ve got an idea

I’m off to put wind up them Yorkshire folk

And need someone to bring up the rear.”

So 14 old codgers and Dodja

Looking for fresh air and fun

Set off in a bus up to Yorkshire

Wondering “what the hell have I done?”

The campsite itself was quite lovely

And soon pulses started to race

But Yorkshire put wind up the clients

Blowing tents all over the place.

The gale showed no sign of abating

And our tents were beginning to shake

But the Staff weighed them down quite firmly

As luckily…. Ann had brought cake!

Eventually the sun decided to shine

And the walk finally got underway

80 miles in total they said

If you believed what our leader did say.

The Staff looked after the Clients

The Clients made fun of the staff

But we got on so well together

We did nowt but walk and laugh.

The food it was tasty and filling

with fry-ups, packed lunches and occasional chips

But some survived on lattes and seeds

And liquorice to give them the sh*ts.

The Clients got on well together

But if anyone made a faux-pas

A cloth cap was produced for the culprit

Tho’ Steve reckoned the joke went too far.

We had bridges and stiles, going on for miles

Dead birds, trapped lambs and wild flowers.

It was too cold to sleep and too hot to walk

And my sister moaned on for hours.

So sadly we’ve had our final day

It’s our very last night in the camp

The Yorkshire dream is finally over

And now, back home we must tramp.

I hope the Dales enjoyed having us

With our loud voices, laughter and flat caps

Tho’ the local papers headline tonight is….

ILKLEY MOOR BARS TWATS!