Laugharne

My night wardrobe adjustment – merino trousers on top of thermal longs – saves the day, and I am toasty warm. But it has also taken a thermal upper + wool gilet + thick angora hoody + puffa jacket to be comfortable. And conditions aren’t exactly Everest. So I may have to concede that Easter camping in the UK is no-go, and perhaps there was a reason why – as a family – we tended to only camp in the summer.
I am up shortly after dawn, and the sun’s rays are weakly warming. But the wind is cutting and I quickly pile back on my day layers.

 
Michael is doing compost-toilet patrol and I ask him what takes most of his time. Apart from the field where I am camping, he has a number of glamping pods and huts that need servicing and linen changing. Then the pigs need to be fed twice a day, and the sheep – a herd of Herdwicks – attended to. Until now, they have been a hobby, but some are approaching market size. Michael hasn’t yet crossed the bridge of letting go of his darlings – and he’s dreading that day. Especially when he relates how trying he finds aspects of camper management (it’s not all plain sailing with the compost toilets!), and how – because he’s on his own – he hasn’t been able to take a day off in seven years, I wonder whether he is in the right job.

Today, I am determined to rest, and stay close to Laugharne. I have only just clocked the significance of the place – it provided the inspiration for Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood. The boathouse where he lived in the 40s is now a celebration of his life and work, with the garage – his writing space – left exactly as it would have been at the time. But I am a little early so do a short walk along the estuary – to check I still have the use of my legs.

An  informative video gives a helpful overview and I find I am totally absorbed. Today’s coffee stop (I have decided coffee out every day is one definition of being on holiday) in what in Thomas’ time would have been the garden overlooking the harbour, is lengthy.

Next stop Laugharne castle. Its history consists – as you might expect – in power struggles between Normans and Welsh, Welsh and English, and English and English. After a period of high living and fine dining in Tudor times, it finally came to grief when the Parliamentarians trashed it during the Civil War. Now the north tower gives great views over the estuary and town.

I am intrigued by the area to the south of Laugharne, where the cliffs suddenly join salt marshes, which then become dunes and vast sand flats. But I hadn’t factored in the MOD presence and cycled in circles before someone directed me to the access road.

At the end of the road is an impossibly large stretch of sand extending in all directions, with Grist Point the official apex, but goodness knows exactly where that would actually be. From where I stand I can see all the places I have visited this trip: in a haze far away is Worm Head; then the Gower coast; and finally, Ferryside. It is low tide, and I have the illusion that I could walk to any of these places without needing to cross water.

On my own, and a bit freaked by the MOD signage, and the distinct possibility of getting completely lost, I only do a short circuit before rejoining my bike. 

Shortly after arriving back at the campsite, the weather closes in. I take refuge in the barn, where the charge points and showers are. Looking at the forecast I see there may be a rain-free window between 4 am and 6 am when I can pack up. Ugh. It will then be a 40-minute cycle to Whitland station – with much crossing of fingers that the service runs, that I am allowed on the train without a bike reservation, that the crowds of bank holiday passengers aren’t too horrendous. So yes, pre-travel anxiety and business as usual!

Laugharne – Tenby

The less said about last night the better. Let’s just say I was almost warm enough (disappointingly, my recent sleeping-bag refurbishment hasn’t achieved its objective), and I almost slept. My camping neighbour said there was a crunch in the grass when he got up, so it can’t have been much about zero. That makes me feel better. Anyway, fuelled by three bowls of muesli, and the energy of adventuring, I hit the road in good spirits.

I choose Tenby as a manageable day trip, hooking in the NT woodland gardens at Colby on the way. Good old Komoot (app) routes me SW along empty lanes. Occasional wind turbines loom, majestic white forests. If wind is truly the way forward I think I could embrace these awesome monsters.

The most impressive thing about National Trust Colby is the range of cakes. I eat the biggest piece (of supposed to be apple) cake I can see, with an A1 coffee. (It keeps me going for most of the rest of the day.) However, I can’t be persuaded to sign up for the Easter-egg hunt in which everyone else is participating – adults and children alike – all wearing Easter bunny headbands.

I find that on this occasion, I can’t relate to NT’s main offering – the extensive natural woodland and “hidden” valley. I am riding all day through such places, past displays of laneside spring flowers. And the Colby “wildflower meadow”, with fritillaries obviously just out of their nursery pots, seems more botanic zoo than authentic natural space. (Does Carmarthenshire even have meadows? I know we have to start somewhere, but the more I think about it the more nonsensical it looks.)

I descend to the coastal road at Wiseman’s Bridge and the density of holiday makers at the pub is hallucinatory. 

From here on, and including the wonderful tunnels into Saundersfoot, it is a bit intense – walls of shuffling families with no concept of shared right of way. At Saundersfoot I lower my eyes and peddle swiftly on. 

Tenby, on the other hand, a few miles on, is a delight. I thought I had visited it once before but it is very unfamiliar. 

Once again, it is a bit of a fight to get along the narrow streets. Leaving the bike alone for any of the time doesn’t seem wise, but I find a small garden overlooking the harbour, described as “a quiet space for use by the public”. Perfect. I sit with eyes closed for 20 minutes.

Caldey Island will have to be for another time. It’s mid afternoon and I need to start thinking about getting back to base. How to make that as easy as possible… And then I remember that there is a station. Cutting a corner is an attractive option – I haven’t recovered from yesterday’s ride and feel quite tired. At the station a 2-carriage train heading east is poised to depart. Happy days. I’m on it, and speeding through darkest Carmarthenshire to Whitland, 7 hilly miles from camp.

Back at the barn, after a beautiful ride looking across to the Prescelli Hills on the horizon, a dad is investigating his malfunctioning air mattress. I feel bad for him – I have been there. And I hate to break the news to his lovely lady that no, there is no Argos in this neck of the woods.

I head down to Laugharne, returning to “Poon’s Thai street food” restaurant. Not-so-cheap, but comfort, nosh, and a friendly vibe. I have a starter and main course. But, even after a follow-up coffee-and-walnut cake, I don’t feel full. Calorie deficit, or what?

Tomorrow’s forecast looks reasonable. I will have to decide whether to turn east…

Port Eynon – Laugharne

A soft peach sky heralds another sunny day. Two in a row. How special is that. The sea is almost invisible – a shimmering haze. I feel a twinge – it’s too soon to be leaving for the hinterland. But the plan is to cycle to Gowerton and get the train north to Llandridno, in the centre of the country. I just need to check the train departure time. Hang on a minute – cancelled? No service at all today? No trip to Belan Bluebell Wood campsite, at Llan-unpronounceable, and two nights accommodation down the plughole? 

My brain jumps into gear: whither now? It’s a no-brainer: cross the Gower, as planned, and then peddle west round the coast until I run out of steam. I cycle up the hill, leaving Port Eynon behind me, wondering idly where I will be putting up my tent in the evening. Tent? Tent! Where is it?! Shoot. I picture it in the corner of the bike shed at the youth hostel. Back down the hill I go, happy to encounter the warden and tell him what a good stay I have had. And hoping that this is the last psychological jolt I receive today.

Even at 8 in the morning the roads are uncomfortably busy. But turning away from the coast they quieten down. My route hugs the edge of an extensive area of marshland on the north of the peninsula. Once again I enjoy the views of grazing equines. 

A little further along, at Crofty, I scoff half a 6-pack of Welshcakes. Outside the grocer, a well worn gent looks admiringly at my bike. We discuss the pros and cons of cycling and motorbiking and swap finger-arthritis stories. 

I have a second pit stop at Pen-clawd and then pick up Sustrans route 4 to cross the River Loughor. From there the fabulous Millennium Coastal Path takes me along the north shore of the R. Loughor, past post-industrial Machnys.

Carmarthenshire has a peculiar atmosphere. I’ve only been here a couple of times but, each trip, I am struck by how depressed it is. Farm buildings are semi-derelict, and – for the most part – the villages lack charm. There’s a “take me or leave me” vibe that speeds me onward. But what a pleasure to be cycling on quiet roads. 

The south Carmarthenshire coastline is incredibly indented, a series of river estuaries extending the coastal footpath, and roads, inland by many miles. By mid afternoon I am feeling the need of a leg up. Happily, there is a train from Ferryside to Carmarthen, which sits at the crossing point of the River Towy. Its two carriages are rammed full. 

At Carmarthen I have a choice: make a bid for the Pembroke train these folk are changing to, or go into uncharted territory – cycle to a campsite that I researched a couple of weeks ago, 17 miles south-west of Carmarthen. I opt for the latter and cross my fingers that there will be space. 

I have to say – those 17 miles are a slog. But hallelujah – the site is virtually empty. It is part of the Greener Camping Club, whose rules include having a maximum of 10 pitches. Nice. And – of course – it’s compost toilets, and solar-powered showers. And (checked in advance) the possibility of charging the bike. I am only pretending to be spontaneous. Sadly, this mode of travelling – an e-bike, satnav and route planning – means that I am completely technology dependent. 

The site is run by Michael who, until seven years ago, had a high-pressure job in Canary Wharf. He seems very comfortable with his huge lifestyle change.

It is satisfying to be putting up my tent after three days of wheeling it around. But I find I am not rushing to dive into it. And, after 53 miles of peddling it’s an effort to get on my bike again to forage for supper. So is cycle camping the way forward or is it just too hard? Hmm… 

And tomorrow? No plans! 

Port Eynon – Rhossili – Port Eynon

The dawn chorus wakes me up – two hours before dawn. It has been a hard day’s night in terms of lumpy bumpy noise. Grappling with my alarm app – which forces me to do a couple of rounds of a memory activity, presumably to kickstart my brain – my bleary eyes and sausage fingers force me to retry, no less than four times. What the ****. I’m glad no one can see me. 

Through the window I can see a hint of good weather, exciting in the extreme. Now, if you were to say to me: today, you are going to cycle for half an hour, have breakfast, discover a bus is running back to Port Eynon in four minutes, hastily park and lock the bike (in such a way that anyone could remove the saddle and pinch the bike), jump on the bus, walk 7 miles of coastal footpath from Port Eynon to Rhossili, sprint across to Worm Head, and then cycle back to Port Eynon – I would say, “Uf, sounds a bit complicated and exhausting.” And so it was, but I had a blast.

A bit more flesh on the narrative… I arrive at Rhossili with the early morning shadows long. I seem to be the only tourist in the village. Two of the three cafés haven’t yet opened. But the third one serves up a fine poached egg with avocado mash and feta. It is while I’m eating it that I realise there is the possibility of a linear coastal walk – if I can get the bus back to Port Eynon. The bus is already approaching and I haven’t managed to secure my bike properly. I do a quick risk assessment and decide surely the south Wales bike-thieving mafia wouldn’t be bothered to come this far from home. I get the bus.

Setting off from Port Eynon it is a fabulous stretch of coast: craggy, full of contorted geology; vast, sandy beaches; swathes of gorse. And… stretches where cattle have hideously churned up the turf, leaving no way through for walkers. I remember why I avoid winter walking – though, to be fair, this mess caused by animals could happen at any time of year.

My thoughts swirl around – snatches of my choir repertoire becoming annoying earworms; mulling over some Buddhist teachings, and what I will say next time I message my friend Sally; sadness, when the rock formations make me think of Dad, and his previous interest in geology – one of so many things he has had to let go of; more sadness, because it was at this time of year, in this part of the world, that Juan and I decided to get married in 1998. And at other times I am concentrating 100% to avoid falling over in the mud, or I am marvelling as view after view makes me reach for my iPhone camera. I know that I am grabbing at transient moments, and in a few years time these photos may not mean much, but I’m greedy and I want to hold onto all of this beauty. 

As I walk, I watch low-level anxiety regarding my bike come and go. It would be better not to make any map-reading errors, in the situation, but I find myself drifting away from Rhossili at one point. And then, suddenly, I want to know if I’m going to have to cope with the loss of my bike, in circumstances that the insurance would not pay out for. My pace gets ever brisker. Another five minutes and I will find out. And the answer? I get lucky. The bike and it’s open pannier are intact. Yay!

Rhossili is unrecognisable in comparison to the morning. Hundreds of tourists are walking up and down the track in order to walk the tidal crossing to Worm Head. Fortuitously, I am at the right place at the right time. And there is a fantastic bridleway down to the lifeguard station that overlooks the tidal strait – I sail down on the bike, gleefully swooping over the pony-nibbled turf. It’s best part of this trip so far. So it’s curious that I’m the only cyclist.

When I get to the tidal strait I can see why 2 1/2 hours is recommended to get to the Worm (called so, because initially named by Scandinavians – “worm” meaning “dragon”) and back – it’s a bit of a scramble in places. I’m a little short of time on that basis, but I manage not to break my ankle and enjoy the view back to the mainland.

An unexpected feature of the walk is the population of ponies – which look like miniature shires, with their hairy fetlocks. They are ridiculously photogenic.

I return to the youth hostel and find a father and son sluicing off the mud from their bikes with a hose. Incredibly, they have completed the same section of footpath as me – on bikes. Silly billies. And naughty – it wasn’t a bridleway. But kind – they wash my bike for me.

I join the long queue of customers waiting for fish and chips down by the beach. The sudden carb and cholesterol hit is mitigated by a stroll along the beach in gorgeous evening light. I have a little chat with a group of bathing ladies of a certain age, who look a strange shade of salmon, coming out of the sea. They apparently swim year round, no wetsuits. Respect.

A greater contrast with yesterday’s weather could not be imagined. Top day.