At the age of 41 I didn’t expect to start a new hobby. In my time I have had enough, both sporting and more craft orientated. I love reading, funnily enough writing and so when someone suggested I take up walking I actually thought they were quite mad.
Of course I know the health benefits but frankly I couldn’t think of anything more boring. Why walk when you can take the car, or at worst, the bus? Apart from the ignominy that you may be mistaken for a rambler or tree hugging naturalist, the time involved would be off putting enough. Where would I find the time even if I could conjure up the inclination? I was a busy man after all. I had no job, I had at least four Xbox 360 games that needed finishing, three books on the go and I was painting toy boxes. I was a very busy man indeed.
A friend of mine was a very keen walker however, and under persistent pressure to do something different, I had a moment of madness and agreed to walk up the nearest mountain, The Garth, with her. Anyone familiar with the South Wales area will know that The Garth is only just a mountain. It qualifies by a matter of only eight feet and for serious hill walkers is probably not even considered a hillock, let alone a mountain. For me though, it may as well have been Everest. My fitness levels had become so bad that a lap of the local Caedelyn Park only two months previously had seen me nursing sore hamstrings for a week. Why, other than in some vain attempt to impress my friend, would I want to walk up a bloody mountain?
In the weeks previous to June 27th 2014, I had made numerous excuses to avoid the trek. Most were valid but some may have been extenuated for no other reason than I was terrified. I was mostly scared of actually dying on the hillside. I’m not joking. When your hamstrings can’t handle a gentle stroll around a flat park, what chance did my heart have of surviving an all-out stomp up the Garth? Secondly, I was afraid of being found out, of lowering the esteem my friend held me in should I fail to complete the walk/hike death march. Thirdly, I am terrified of heights and I was afraid, having never been there before, of hurtling to my death. Fourthly, I didn’t really have any walking kit as such and I was just trying my hardest, absolute hardest to think of a fifth. Unbeknownst to my walking guru to be, I didn’t sleep the night before. I was genuinely that anxious.
So when the time arrived for us to embark, my heart was racing and my legs were already heavy. This was not my idea of fun. Armed only with a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of walking boots I had received as a birthday present, we set off. Within a minute it was clear this was a wrong move. My lungs were struggling at the first sign of an incline and my calves and quadriceps were screaming at me to stop. I didn’t know the route so was tactically stopping every few yards to uh, ‘admire the view’. I didn’t want to start crying but I really didn’t want to continue either. Torn between the idea of walking up a hill that I couldn’t see the top of and feigning injury and agreeing to meet back at the car, the angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other argued continuously. The angel won. I carried on.
After the first assault on what I thought was a steep gradient, I was in for a shock. It hadn’t been. Not compared with the goat trail I now encountered, littered with rocks and mud, gravel and horse manure. What should have been a five minute gentle hike, and was for my now frustrated partner, was for me an Orwellian hell. The lactic acid building up in my leg was hideously tortuous and the sharp shooting pains in my calves and my Achilles a reminder that I was more suited for gentler pursuits, such as laying on the floor looking at the stars, rather than trying to climb amongst them.
We then hit a piece of level ground. Not too far now I thought. I should have hung myself from the nearest tree. I couldn’t have been more wrong, not only was the journey not even half complete, the tougher, much tougher, second half was to follow. My partner, who with credit to her, was keeping her cool with me had decided to slow her pace down. She could claim a personal best time, bottom to top, of fourteen minutes. We were already double that and more.
We cut back on ourselves and for the next minute I felt great. We were walking along a track now, a mud track, but it was undulating only slightly and was not too strenuous. Then it happened. The gradient picked up and within seconds I was now in agony, an incline that I had to not only overcome physically, which was hard enough, but mentally as well. I like clear defined objectives, I like to face my obstacles head on. This track was crowded in with tress and bracken like bushes. I had long since given up asking ‘How far to go’ as my partner deserved better. So I struggled, with no sight of the top. I stopped repeatedly for thirty second breathers and to try and massage some life into my legs that felt not just elephantine but alien in the sense I had lost all feeling in them other than occasional spasms, muscles protesting at their strongest workout for two decades. It took fifteen minutes, it felt like a day, in hell, a hot day in hell.
Miraculously, the trees parted, and for the first time I thought I could see the end. I would have said the light at the end of the tunnel but this would have been too cocky, the way I felt it could all too easily have been the ‘THE LIGHT’ that dying people head for. We sat down with our backs against a wooden stile, and for the first time I had a proper look at the valley beneath me. It was stunning, you could see Taffs Well so far below, with its little football pitch and goalposts that served as part time toilets for small boys, you could see across to Nantgarw, snaking towards Caerphilly in the distance. You could see the A470 trundling its concrete path that connects the Rhondda Valleys to their capital, Cardiff. You could see so much and for the first time I felt encouraged, invigorated and raring to go.
That feeling was soon to pass. Beyond the stile it seemed like just a gentle grassy slope to the summit. This is a classic case of never judging by a book by its cover, or the hill by the grass. This final stretch probably hurt me more than any other part. Yes, there was a sense of freedom with grass underneath your feet as opposed to mud and stone, and the walk, for all its pain was far more pleasurable on the eye than previously but the short 400 metre ascent, in length not height, was no fun. Stopping every ten steps as the muscles in my leg screamed their disgust at me; this was more like the final assault on K2 as opposed to a pleasurable stroll up a little hill. I actually sat down at one point, refusing to believe I could make it but then a strange thing happened. My partner’s dog was tearing back and for between me and what I assumed to be the peak. I figured if this bundle of fur and bones could make such short work of this I simply had to. So I got up and quite literally dragged one foot after the other to what I perceived as the final few steps.
I was wrong, and my partner admitted she may have been a little misleading in her appraisal of our progress. I wanted to kill her at this point, only half said in jest, but what could I do. I swore, I muttered something unwholesome under my breath but I cracked on. Five minutes later I crested a brow and saw that from this point on the ground was flat. I had arrived. I threw myself on the floor and took a huge swig of water, whilst we sat hand in hand. She told me how proud she was of me, how I should take such strength from my achievement. It was like the melodic whispering of a harpy, as all I could do was try and draw breath. If she really didn’t want to be with me surely there was the option of just leaving me, she needn’t have tried killing me.
But after five minutes I felt an old friend enter the scenario, endorphines. That little hormone that makes you feel on top of the world, the natural high that follows strenuous exertion and makes you think that perhaps this was all worth it. If you believe in pleasure and pain ethos, the pain certainly came first in this example. However, should you believe in the old training mantra, ‘No pain no gain’, I was about to appreciate what exactly I had gained. The view was incredible. This was a crystal clear day and wherever you looked, in whichever direction, there was something to excite the eyes. To the north you could see the silhouette of Pen Y Fan, a beacon amongst Beacons. To the north west you could see the artificial tump that shadows Llanwerno, shadowing the upper part of the Rhondda villages of Ferndale and Tylorstown.
You turned towards the south and you saw the toothfairy’s summer home hiding in the hills, disguised as a castle. Further south another fort stood, the foundation stones upon which capital cities had been built, home now to only tourists and gargoyles. The hustle bustle of the grey clogged colour palette of central Cardiff melting into greens and burnt oranges of the picturesque vale of Glamorgan, before collapsing into the azure embrace of the British Channel. The only eyesore on this vista was the horizon blocking bluffs and cliffs of far flung Devon and Somerset, the ever present threatening shadow of England, a blot on a Nationalist’s dreamscape. If you followed this alien presence to its destination in the east, on a day as clear as today, you could see the Severn Bridge, linking two countries and severing a language.
In Russian there is a word, phonetically spelt ‘dostaprumarchetelnostay’, that has no direct equivalent translation in English. It simply means ‘a sight worth seeing’. Should the summit of the Garth ever be renamed, this would be a perfect moniker. From this vantage point there are so many sights worth seeing, so many spectacular visual treats, that it both draws your breath away and fills your imagination. Atop the flattened plateau of the Garth sits a stone, a stone that has given birth to legend. Some say it is merely a milestone, others that it marks the spot where a poor woman now lays, a century and a half dead, others that it is simply engraved nonsense to trick a feeble mind. Whatever the reason for this stone, to be buried here would be as rich a burial site as any could imagine, no Pharaohs’ tomb or warrior kings mausoleum, but something simpler by far and better by equal measure. To lay your last glance across these lands would be a final blessing, a final view reserved for only the luckiest of people.
The time passed on top of this mountain, as magical as it was, also only served as a half way point. In keeping with the scientific findings of Mr Newton, what goes up must come down, and with a final sweep of my head to take in this panoramic masterpiece, we set off on the homeward leg. This in itself was an experience. I passed over a few tiny mounds and then saw the thing that scared me the most, a sheer drop. I struggled to approach the edge of this interminable abyss and on seeing our four legged companion hurtle out of sight immediately feared the worst. Of course, my fear of heights can exacerbate any situation, this was no different. There was no sheer drop at all, rather a very sharp fall in the path with huge footholds carved out by hundreds of thousands of feet over the years. There was a new pain to deal with now as muscles that had been dormant in the ascent now became key players on the journey downwards. I was contemplating which was worse, the pain of the ascent or the descent, when the sudden decrease in altitude led to yet another view that made all this worthwhile, looking down towards Gwaelod Y Garth and the woods that surrounded it. To be this high above the tree line made it feel Alpic in nature, you could almost taste the Toblerone and smell the pine cones. Roath Park in the far flung distance was no Lake Geneva but the overall ambience was not diminished for this view.
The sharpness of the incline gave way to a lovely baked earth path, and wound slowly downhill through bracken. This was more like it. Carved steps in the path offered a balance challenge for weary legs but it was the easiest stretch by a long way, and the joy of wading through a fresh mountain stream, however small, was a definite fillip. Below us the path joined on to the old track road that linked the hill village of Pentyrch with Gwaelod Y Garth. All downhill now but at a very sedate pace. Looking to the left you could see how steep the traversed paths had been and in the hillside were the remains of old cottages, ruined with time and neglect as their adversary, but showing enough skeletal evidence of where fireplaces and staircases once stood. To the right you could see rolling fields and as we progressed the sound and smells of civilisation returned with chalet styled homes that spoke of wealth and unpretentiousness amongst the tranquil surroundings. The only painful part left for me was the final hairpin bend around to where the car was parked. Muscles by now getting complacent, they had not loosened enough to allow a final twenty yard dip in the road to pass without a hint of torture. It was done though. I had scaled my Everest, and rather more importantly I had actually enjoyed it.
On the journey home I must have been unbearable to listen to. I was bitten by the bug, and in a big way. My legs hurt beyond reasonable levels but then I had expected that. I knew that after twenty years of no exercise of any real note, especially recently and with the weight I had packed on there would be inevitable objections from flaccid musculature and an untrained mind. What I had never expected, not for one moment, was the exhilaration I had felt at the top of the mountain. I had a text that night telling me that I was amazing and that I should be proud of my achievement. What utter tosh!! Proud perhaps, that I had achieved something that I had avoided but had the guts to face up to, but amazing no. I felt nothing of the sort, in fact the opposite held true. I had taken an hour to progress from bottom to top, which was poor. Inside me the competitor always exists and my biggest foe, my toughest adversary was myself.
The next day I eased myself in and out of the bath, only too aware of my efforts from the day before, but the following day I was there again, at the start of the climb, and this time by myself. I took twenty minutes off my previous time and when I walked the route a couple of days later, shaved another five minutes off that time. I would take my friend’s dog with me and we would sit on top of the Garth for up to half an hour both enjoying the breeze and the openness that the peak allows. I would have a cigar at the top, a way of celebrating and I continued to set a new personal best every time I traipsed up the paths. It was fair to say I was addicted.
Then the most curious of circumstances arose. My car broke. It was off the road and there was no way I could afford to pay for the repairs. I was now dependant on lifts from my partner. One day we went out to eat and she dropped me home, stating that she would see me the following day. I could sense there was an unease about the current arrangement of taxiing to and fro so said I would walk over to see her that very evening. It was three and a half miles. It was simply a statement of intent that I was not going to allow a lack of motorised transport stop me from seeing her.
I strapped on my trusted walking shoes and set off. The walk itself was easy enough, Rhiwbina to Radyr. A walk through a little know field behind the Hollybush estate a real hidden gem, an idyllic gem amongst the hubbub of north Cardiff. From this field you then had a half mile stroll along the banks of the Taff before crossing over via footbridge into the lowest part of Radyr. Now things got tough and my earlier bravado dissipated into despair. To reach my partners house meant a trek from river level to the clouds, or at least it seemed that way. The simple fact was though, despite the fact I had to stop on several occasions, I was enjoying the pain this exercise brought. When I arrived I was greeted with such an embrace, such a warm welcome that the hour and a half walk seemed completely worthwhile.
Over the next few months I would make this journey, and the reverse route on many occasions, too many to count, and half an hour was knocked off the personal best. Perhaps more importantly, my fitness was rapidly improving and my legs were beginning to feel good, a throwback to my footballing days. I would now look for excuses to walk, look for a reason to make a trek anywhere. In late October everything changed again, from a personal viewpoint for the worse, from a fitness stand, for the better.
I was still unable to find a job, and my partner and I were the victims of interference that had placed our relationship very much on the rocks. All I had now was my walking and I made the very most of it. I downloaded an app onto my phone, a pedometer. I set the daily tally to 10,000 steps, as a target. I was smashing this now on a daily basis. As walking to Radyr was now not needed, I had to find other routes to sate my lust. I found one. The Taff Trail. I would set off from Rhiwbina and walk through Caedelyn Park and into Whitchurch before heading through Llandaff North and then joining the Taff Trail by Glantaff High School. From here I would follow the path through all the way into Blackweir Park and then into Bute Park and alongside the castle in the centre of Cardiff. A quick sortie over the Millennium Bridge and the return leg was on, passing Sophia Gardens and then Pontcanna, before taking your life into your hands by crossing the bouncy bridge at Blackweir before retracing my steps on the journey home. About thirteen miles in total. Around 21 to 22 thousand steps. I would drink only water, eat a Freddie Frog chocolate bar and a banana. All this with the rucksack my partner had bought me strapped firmly on my back.
I would never stop, the walking was flat and the scenery, once on the Taff Trail at least, was pleasing enough. As I walked more often, I would notice more and more, nesting birds, the herons atop the highest branches of oaks overhanging the river, the swans, the rustle in the undergrowth as footsteps startled voles and shrews. Emotionally I was wrecked at this point in my life but these moments of solitude, these rare lapses where my mind would focus on the beauty all around me, were worth every last step. I had the opportunity to reflect not inwardly on where I had gone wrong, the things that I should have and could have done, but rather the simplest things in life. I was beginning to take delight in seeing the changes take place as Autumn faded into Winter. It did not matter whether it rained, snowed or hailed. I was walking every day. In fact I was walking so much that it simply was becoming too easy. I was getting annoyed if I couldn’t surpass my previous days step total, the competitor telling me that regardless of having walked 25,000 steps, it was three hundred less than the day before and therefore I was letting myself down.
I would deliberately find ways to increase my step total, looking to add extra miles by walking through Whitchurch on the way home and then carrying on to the Hollybush before heading home up Pantmawr Road. It only added a couple of thousand steps though, not enough. At the end of November last year I devised a new route. I wanted to walk a marathon. I headed up Rhiwbina Hill and down towards the Hollybush. I turned right and then walked up towards Asda before looping back on myself via the A470 and back to the Hollybush. This was a mile extension. I walked it five times. I then set off for Caedelyn Park and walked around that five times before proeceeding on my usual route. After seven hours of walking I achieved my aim. As I sat in the bath that evening I had a text asking to see me, from my estranged partner. I walked over to her new home, a further three and a half miles. In total I covered 31 miles and walked just shy of 55,000 steps. I wasn’t even tired.
I had to up my game. I now wanted to increase the challenge, neither distance nor time were realistic parameters to measure myself against. I could quite literally walk all day and the mileage was now irrelevant. I felt I could walk forever. I decided, with prompting to vary the routes I was walking. Now I would walk back into the hills I had trained on as an aspiring footballer. I walked over the Wenallt, I walked around the Wenallt, I walked into Caerphilly and I walked home. I was burning far more calories than I was taking in and my legs were in the best condition they had been in for far too long, possibly forever. My calves, so often a source of pain were now cut into a defined shape a bodybuilder would pay serious money for. Even my shins were defined, a ridge of muscle running down the front that was both sharp and extremely solid.
When my mind is resolute to achieving an aim, there is nothing that will prevent me from gaining the required result. Halfway through this assault on the Taff Trail I encountered a bad injury. A stress fracture of my foot. It stopped me for two days. That was all. I couldn’t stand to not walk and I couldn’t stand to be inactive.
Following on from a Xmas Eve ending to my estrangement, on a more permanent basis, my will dissipated somewhat and with a new job beckoning opportunities to walk were now extremely limited. Six months on I have felt so much of the hard earned fitness escape, but the competitor is still raging inside me and I walked again just yesterday. I’ve done it before, and I will do it again for sure, raising a tired body into a machine that will just keep walking. The Forrest Gump of North Cardiff or Stig of the Dump, the choice is mine and there really is no choice to make.
I have so many walks I want to complete in the coming years. Yes, there are obvious ones, the Kilimanjaro’s and the Snowdon’s. Those are the obvious ones of course, the boxes you feel you must tick. I want to do things differently though. I will walk the Taff Trail, all 55 miles in a 24 hour period. Had I not allowed myself to become complacent, I would have completed that last month. Instead I am planning a 2016 assault on it. Brecon to Cardiff Bay.
By 2020 I want to walk John O’Groats to Lands’ End. It can be done and I will do it in less than thirty one days. A dream of mine was to walk the Samaria Gorge in Crete, but I can only walk this with one person, as the sentiment involved in this trek cannot be transferred onto somebody else, no matter how I may try. As a child I read a book called ‘500 Mile Walkies’ by Mark Wallington and I will retrace those steps, probably minus the dog, though a dog called Susan would be perfect for this jaunt.
I will walk in Kefalonia and Corsica too. I will walk the Pilgrims Trail in Spain and with luck will one day scale Macchu Pichu. I want to bag Monroes, all of them, and I can, the only thing that can stop me is me, and I simply will not allow that to happen.
A love for walking is truly a gift. It isn’t boring. You are not driving passed everything at 60 mph, the view a smudged mish mash of green and grey. You have the time to smell the flowers, literally. You have time to marvel at the nature laid out before you, whether it is the swooping of a kite about to capture its lunch, or the striations on a rock face carved by a glacier half a million years ago. You can feel the breeze, you can taste the salt of the sea air and you can do it all at your own pace. You can stand mouth agape at the views and take the time to let them sink in, to stain your minds canvas indelibly.
It is not going too far to declare that a love for walking has enriched me as a person, has made me appreciate that I am so fortunate to understand now what my partner already knew, and knowing me intimately, knew that I would connect with at the very basest of levels. People are in such a rush these days, we wish our lives away, but sometimes there is an answer. It is to be found in doing nothing other than taking a stroll away from the bedlam, the manic nature of our lives being left at the door of the nearest country pub you happen upon. So many people insist they have a desire to sleep under the stars, I don’t, I want to walk amongst them, away from the light pollution of the cities and towns.
I want to drink from a mountain brook, smell the wild garlic and write with nature’s inspiration all around me. I want to wonder at the constellations and feel the grass under my feet, above all else, I want to learn. I want to identify a tree by the shape of its leaves, to know the difference between the tracks of the nocturnal predators that we so seldom see. I want to know that there is an intrinsically simple connection between the morning birdsong and the mood in my heart. I want to feel the rain and embrace the cold, revel in the heat of the sun and breathe in the very freedom that lies all around us but so few can see. There will be a day when I my body must return to whence it came, but until that moment arrives, I want to dance across my own grave safe in the knowledge I knew what it was to be alive.
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