I AWOKE last Sunday to the sound of rain and headed out into the almost-darkness of early twilight. I figured that where I had left the coast path at the southern edge of St Clears (Sanclêr) was about a mile away and so it should be just before sunrise when I actually resumed walking that path.
And it probably was. But the sun was nowhere in sight.
THIS weekend’s walking adventure was something of a triumph. Not a triumph in the Roman sense, nor even remotely like it unless the victorious general’s processional route was first inundated by the Tiber. Nor in the sense of an old British motor marque, now owned by BMW, whose vehicles would quickly have been mired.
What I’m trying to say here is that it was successful despite being ever so slightly muddy.
ONE week ago (as I write this), I awoke sprawled across a bed in the descriptively named Kidwelly B&B to realise that the previous evening I had just sat down for five minutes, ahead of getting food, and accidentally slept for twelve hours. I guess I was running a bit of a sleep deficit; too many late nights and early mornings will do that for you.
I WAS aware that Britain was expecting snow when I made the arrangements for my latest jaunt around Wales. At that point, however, the Met Office were mostly predicting that the snow would fall on the eastern half of the island and that Wales would be largely untouched. As the weekend drew closer, however, the forecast shifted until South Wales was given the first severe weather warning (‘red: take action’, as opposed to ‘amber: be prepared’) in two years. Obviously, the only thing I could do at that point was cancel. Obviously.
HAVING had a three-month break in my coastal perambulation forced upon me by various factors including but not limited to biting financial constraints and, thanks to the wettest summer in a hundred years, much of the country being inconveniently underwater, I firmly resolved to begin walking again as soon as was feasibly possible.