Life goes on?

As I write, Baghdad and Basra are being bombarded by alliance forces and we are being bombarded by the media images of the war.  Ironically, while there seem to be more and more news bulletins there is less and less each time that is actually new.

In contrast to the bombers, heavy artillery, massing troops and ground-shaking explosions it’s almost surreal to get glimpses via live cameras into the heart of the Iraqi capital and to realise that despite everything there are ordinary people for whom life goes on as best it can.

Life goes on.  Despite death and destruction, through despair and anger, life goes on.  And at other times through new birth and happiness, in success and flourishing, life goes on.

It is a testimony to the power of life that the mass of ordinary people will regroup, earth themselves once again and, whether circumstances are better, worse, or much the same, they will continue the struggle to make life as secure and worthwhile as possible for themselves and their families.

This could begin to sound like an argument for fatalism – “Whatever will be will be.  Leave power to the people who have got it and make the best of things that you can.”  If only it could actually be a summons for the world to come to its senses and realise the simple things that are really important – giving everyone the opportunity to live with good food, clean water, a sustainable environment and security and peace.  Surely that is possible – or it would be if it wasn’t for the grasping greedy evil which is so inherent to humanity and which spoils everything.

With Easter just around the corner it might be tempting to say that there is an answer to all this.  But what good is an answer that obviously isn’t in actual fact going to change the real world?  As long as there are people there will be injustice and evil.  And no place is as dangerous as the moral high ground.  But life will go on.  Perhaps Easter simply reminds us that we can’t help it, we cannot resist life.  Time and time again, we get up again, we renew our dreams and we don’t give up struggling for something better.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 6

Go to Part 1

Having pitched my tent on the dunes just behind Barafundle Bay, I settle down to calculate exactly how many miles I’ve walked each day so far (not including detours and diversions) – 14, 17, 24, 18, 16, 15, 19, 12, & 18 miles respectively.  Now there are about 25 miles remaining.  My feet are no longer troubling me like they were and I decide to try and finish on a high note by completing the walk tomorrow.  I have enjoyed planning and reviewing my progress along the way.  I also realise now how obsessive I am about ordering my campsite, keeping things tidy and efficient.  I take great delight in making a cup of tea – using my petrol stove to boil just the right amount of water in the billy can which fits snugly back into its nest between frying pan and saucepan.  Finally, I make my way back down onto the beach and make a good bonfire but before long it starts to rain so I kick sand over it and go to bed.

Later, in a state of semi-consciousness I hear the breathing of a great creature just outside the skin of my tent.  Its huge deep measure sounds like that of a giant and my body tenses for the inevitable ….  As I emerge more fully from my sleep I recognise the muffled steady grating roar of the waves curling over and running up the beach before drawing back against the pebbles.  No giant after all, but my thoughts turn back to the unsolved murder and I feel vulnerable again.  I repeat my night prayer,  “I will lie down and sleep in peace …” and try to lull myself with the rhythm of the waves but every time I’m about to drop off “Fee Fie Foe Fum …” runs through my mind instead. Eventually I sleep fitfully between heavy showers. 

I wake to more showers but they soon pass and at 6 am I get up to blue skies with scattered clouds.  I am ready to go at 7.15, and with a last look back at the beguiling beauty of Barafundle, I set off into what is promising to be a perfect day.  The cliffs are as dramatic as ever and topped by limestone grassland like a sweet green carpet woven with the blue, pink and white of wild flowers.  Using an identification guide I’ve managed to learn some of the different species along the way.  The names are poetry enough in themselves: wild thyme, common storksbill, rock sea-spurrey, thrift, sea campion, bird’s foot trefoil, common centaury, sea mayweed, viper’s bugloss, heath spotted orchid and scurvygrass.  I stop and chat for a while to a widower.  He’s very friendly and loves being out on the cliffs – but I rather sense that the beauty can’t quite fill the emptiness.

Will I manage to finish today?  I don’t know.  I’ll have to see.  The thought of it feels a bit like the end of life after all that I’ve been through.  What will it feel like when I do finish …?  I turn my attention from such questions to the hot pasty and cup of tea that I have just bought at Freshwater East.  When I get to Swanlake Bay, I am almost tempted to stop and camp.  My guide book is accurate in describing it as one of the most secluded and least visited bays in Pembrokeshire.  There is plenty of driftwood for a good bonfire too but the day is still young and I press on to Manorbier.  As I approach I pass a magnificent house which is being extended to provide yet more opportunity to sit and enjoy the already panoramic views of the bay and the cliffs.  I am envious.  I think about the effect it must have on someone who is lucky enough to live with such a view.  I think of the little flat I’ll be going back to. Its views aren’t too bad actually.   To the east I can see the crematorium and to the west glimpses of road, railway, river and canal, a steelworks, a retail park, cleared industrial land, and residential areas – certainly interesting.  There are flats not far from it, however, which look straight out onto a brick wall and hardly get any light – soul destroying, I should think.

In Manorbier, which is dominated by its mediaeval castle, I make a diversion to the Church.  It is full of interesting features, strange angles, and enticing views, which draw you to go in further.  Continuing on the path again there is a sudden spectacular view of Lydstep Head.  I go back up the way I’ve come to take a detour around it.  Then I go on round Giltar peninsular with spectacular views over Caldey Island with its living monastery.  Once again I am overwhelmed by wind, sea and clear sky and I honestly feel that if I jumped off the cliffs I could fly – though I decide not to for now.  Rounding the point, I get a new view and suddenly feel a lump in my throat.  For the first time, as I look at the distant coast, I can’t say “That’s where I’ll be walking tomorrow”.  I can see beyond Amroth and know that the end is nigh.  However, there are still plenty of miles to cover today and I push on towards Tenby, making an entry by way of the beach, where they seem to be filming some kind of period drama on the sand around St Catherine’s Island.

I pass the very quaint harbour, devour a cream tea and visit the Tourist Information Centre.  Then I push on again.  Tired now I pass along in a bit of a dream through the pinewoods towards Saundersfoot and on.  My right heel is beginning to seize up.  It’ll all be over today whatever happens.  Just after Saundersfoot the path plunges into a tunnel – once the route of a narrow gauge railway that connected coal workings to the harbour.  The exit is partially obscured and it is so dark I can’t see the sides.  The roof drips with cold solemnity.  There are hidden alcoves that recede further into darkness and the metaphor of death seems to become more powerful.  More so again when I emerge from the gloom into what feels like the last judgement.  The old railway course is just above the sea at its high tide and the waves come crashing in between the groins, tearing at the rocks on the beach so that they roar like lions waiting to pounce. The heavens above open for a while in a solid downpour.  Then the sun breaches the clouds and a full rainbow arches over the path.  What more can there be?  I can almost believe I have entered a new state of being with a weight of glory founded partly on the suffering it has taken to get here and partly on the sheer beauty of Life.

Then suddenly it is over.  No lights, no cheers, no welcome party.  Nothing much at all really.  Just a modest sign by the sea wall where I pause for a time before making my way into the welcoming warmth of the pub.

I sign the visitors’ book.  They are very friendly and quite impressed by my ten-day effort especially as I was carrying all my gear.  According to them about 25 people complete the full walk each year.  Some do it unencumbered by baggage and with full backup – the record is 2½ days.

(The end)

A Seaside Blessing

May the salt of the spray cleanse you;

The glistening of the waves lighten your heart;
The touch of the breeze refresh you;
The fire of the sunset calm your fears.
And may the ocean of God’s love
carry you gently till you reach
His haven of peace and rest forever.

© Blackpool Parish Church

Time flies and it’s a couple of weeks already since I got back from the Diocesan Conference – 3 days in sunny Blackpool.  The conference was not without its moments – not surprisingly maybe, given the challenging times the Church faces for various reasons.  But it had its highlights as well.  The North-Pier-and-sea view from my (otherwise basic) room at the Grand Metropole, being one of them, and another being the Tuesday evening Speaker John Bell.  He is the genius behind much of the Iona Community worship material, which I often use especially on Thursday evenings.  He is also a Scot who bears a passing resemblance to Billy Connolly, in humour as much as in looks.

Amongst many other things, he spoke about the early Celtic Christians on Iona.  The beautiful abbey wasn’t built until many years later.  At first they built simple little cells and the faith they communicated was lived very much in the midst of everyday life – not within the confines of a religious building.  Our heritage can easily obscure our faith if we are not careful.

In the Parish statistics last month I forgot to mention one new initiative that has been very encouraging – the monthly service in the community room at Maltas Court.  We were there yesterday with 26 attending and 18 receiving communion.

Another example of the Church moving beyond its walls was at Christmas when the choir went carolling round the pubs.  Not a new idea by any means but a good one nevertheless and part of the kind of approach we should take more often.

Incidentally, in a similar vein it has been mentioned that we should get a trip up later in the year to see the lights at Blackpool – watch this space.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 5

Go to Part 1

I am now travelling west along the southern coast of the estuary and can see places I passed through yesterday over on the other side.    By getting into the right frame of mind I find that I can enjoy the rain.  It’s still torrential but my gear is good enough to keep the worst of it out.  The last mile-and-a-half is along the beach with no defined route.  I strike out across the mud where it’s less rocky but risk going in up to the eyeballs.  Arriving in Angle I lunch in a welcoming pub and consider pitching my tent but, as it’s still pouring, I opt for a second night in B&B.  The house is lovely and clean so I feel a bit awful when I trudge in, soaking wet and plastered (with mud).  I have a delicious bath and watch ‘For the love of Ada’ and a bit of ‘Oprah’.  Feet are sore but nothing like yesterday.

I wake early having agreed to breakfast at 8 am.  It doesn’t look bad out and I’m itching to get going, feeling really guilty that I didn’t camp.  I sort my kit out and make a work of art out of patching my feet again.  When I go down it’s still only 7.30 but the breakfast is all laid out so I eat and set off at ten past eight.  The weather is dry but the undergrowth is sopping, so I wear plastic bags between sandals and socks to keep my foot-art intact.  I pass the little fisherman’s chapel, which I visited last night.  The stained glass sets bible stories in the context of the village and its life – Jesus asleep in the boat in the storm, Jesus calling Peter out of the boat to tread the waves, being two of them. 

I continue on along the headland, feeling good.  Rounding the point, I leave the Milford Haven estuary behind, at last, and coming over the top, I am back to what I love best about this walk.  The sea looks somehow colder and clearer with a savage beauty which makes it seem utterly detached from all other existence.  The wind is freer and carrying in its saltiness a memory of its long journey across the ocean.  Here, I could contemplate for hours, but without reaching any conclusions.

Then all of a sudden it is snowing, except this snow is a dirty grey.  In fact it is foam, collecting in a gully, whipped up by the wind and then falling over the cliff top.  I seem to walk on through an elemental drama  and when I reach a ruined watchtower, I climb in to eat my lunch, except that I have to keep stopping to watch mid-munch as wave explodes itself on rock.  Before continuing, I remove the bags (which are now just tattered shreds) from my feet.  It was comfy at first but eventually became sweaty until thorns and brambles did their worst.

Later on, I reach the vast expanse of beach at Freshwater West.  I stop to snack again, this time in a hut used for drying seaweed.  Beyond this point the cliffs continue, as spectacular as ever.  Unfortunately, thanks to the MOD, the route has to detour inland and I am back to the pains of road marching.  A dream is keeping me going now.  If the army aren’t on exercise there is a road that will take me back to the cliffs sooner rather than later and I will be able to get to Stack Rocks and Govan’s Chapel.  My dream is that if I get there late enough and no one else is about I might be able to spend the night in the chapel itself, which nestles remotely in the wild cliffs.  I get to the crossroads and approach the security point.  The barrier is down and a sullen and uncommunicative official eventually tells me the whole area is shut for the foreseeable future.  Oh well!  More road slog all the way to Bosherton.  Here I have beans on toast and a cream tea in a little café next to the Church.  The Church is locked – much to the chagrin of a coach load that turns up to visit it.  The route continues, through a system of delightful freshwater lakes (part of the Stackpole estate) back to the coast at Broad Haven.  Now the drama begins again making this morning seem tame by comparison.  My feet and legs had been griping along the long road stretch but now they go quiet, or at least I cease to notice them.  This is pure exhilaration.  The sea a boiling cauldron, throwing waves like mountains onto the cliffs then erupting into the air.  Choughs soar above me and Razorbills and Guillemots, here in their hundreds, labour into the gale before turning suddenly to be hurled back towards land.  In that moment they seem completely out of control and I’m amazed that not one of them gets splattered onto the sheer face of the cliff.  Church rock stands out some way from the cliff.  It is the size of a small Church with a roof and steeple but the waves, with all the fury of the forces of hell, crash right over the top of it.  They don’t prevail and the little ‘building’ always emerges ready to take another battering.  Further on, there is a collapsed cave into which the sea surges only to be forced out again at high pressure.  And later a finger of cliff points out into the swell.  I take my pack off and crawl out along it, peering over the edge to see down onto the seabirds and through tide worn arches of rock.  Everything is awesome – built of sheer power and illuminated now by glorious sunshine. 

Finally, with the approach of evening, I make my way down into the intimate calm of Barafundle bay.  It’s National Trust land so really there’s no camping allowed.  However, I can’t resist it and settle down to wait till everyone else has gone home.

There are not many people around but having said that those that are provide plenty of amusement for a quiet onlooker.  First there is the little family building a sandcastle against the tide.  It’s an interesting and challenging spot for them next to a small rock face on the shelving sand.  Before long a wave comes round the rock and rises up quickly to soak their clothes.  Mum decides to stop but Dad and boy continue.  Dad keeps shouting “14 years!” repeating it every time he pauses.  (What can it mean?  He’s shouting it defiantly, almost angrily now, at his wife.  As though he means they’ve shared 14 years of misery or it’s 14 years till the son grows up and leaves home and he can finally divorce her!)   They are on the brink now – but perhaps the tide is at its full flow already and their castle will just survive … No!  Another wave comes over.  They leap back … but then return, frantically rebuilding and repairing and prevailing again for precious minutes … Surely they are safe now … Then a huge wave comes in, twice as big as even that last one.  In an instant, man and boy are soaked and the sand obliterated beyond recognition.  They jump out and run back to mum.  Dad’s emotion seems released now and he explains all, “14 years we’ve been building that castle!”  He is obviously completely cuckoo, but it was a great castle and they’ll sleep well tonight.

As that family leaves another one makes a late arrival.  A couple in their seventies and a woman I presume to be their daughter.  When they reach the middle of the beach, Father ‘plants’ his two walking sticks, takes off shoes and socks and (obviously a well used system) plugs one set onto the top of each stick.  Mother and daughter leave their footwear on the sand nearby.  The waves are still rolling in so I’m surprised when the three of them saunter down into the water.  I’m thinking, “Another of those unusually big ones and they’ve had it – how could I possibly rescue all three of them?”  But age breeds experience and the old man, who has casually gone in furthest, performs dainty ballet steps that keep his neatly rolled trousers just clear of the water.  They haven’t reckoned on the tides continued stealth though and only a last minute sprint by the daughter saves the non-elevated shoes from a soaking.  The next bit is incredible.  The old man crouches forward and shakes his fist over the oncoming waves.  He then shouts something I can’t quite make out, but which I’m sure is the 1930’s version of “Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough!” I think I’ve seen it all.

At last they depart and so do the people who were fishing and the two women who sat in matching deck chairs with matching dogs on matching leads. Now I have my own private beach and I pitch my tent secretly among the sand dunes.

Next Episode

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 4

Go to Part 1

I wake at 1 am because of the throbbing pain in my feet.  Turning round in the tent I stick them out into the cool air to soothe them.  Later I move back to ‘position A’ as it starts raining hard with a thunder storm close overhead.  I snuggle into my bag and edge away from the tent-pole: I had chosen a high and exposed pitch to make the most of the view.  When I wake again the sound of incessant rain has been joined by that of a foghorn.  I pack carefully and set off in the rain at 8.15 am. 

I have decided to go for it and aim to walk around the Dale peninsular in time to reach and cross The Gann while it is still possible with the tide.  This is a real test of motivation: cutting across the neck of the peninsular would have saved 5 miles from the walk, and they were to be miles without views because of the fog; and they crossed boggy pastures covered in sheep manure, which didn’t make for pleasurable walking in sandals! There were redeeming moments, however: the sands at Marloes, the harbour at Martin Haven, the Old Lighthouse at the point (where a friendly chap signed my card for me), and the sudden revelation through the fog of a yacht resting serenely at anchor.  I meet some Americans in pristine boots looking for a “well marked path”.  I explain the discrete ‘acorn’ marker posts to them and wish them well on their first walk in Wales. 

I press on into Dale itself.  It seems pleasant but I now find it takes more effort to walk slowly and anyway I’m worried about the tide, so I pass through in a hurry.  As it happens I cross The Gann quite easily.  Now the sun suddenly appears and full waterproofs and thermal shirt are immediately stripped down to shorts only.  I continue to Monk’s Haven – a lovely valley and a church with real character – a bit like St Non’s, “I can pray here.”  It is dedicated to St Ishmael, a contemporary of St David, St Patrick, et al, but not one I had heard of before.  It’s only early afternoon but I’m feeling the pain again now, so it’s a slog up the hill, down to the village and up again to the cricket ground where I can camp.  It pours with rain for two hours during which time I put my tent up, have a drink in the clubhouse (“You can have a good session – no need to drive” – but I have enough problems just walking already!) then take a delicious shower in the changing rooms.  They invite me to play cricket tomorrow – a cup match – I laugh.  I sleep for two hours then go back down to the village pub for fresh mackerel and chips followed by a sickly pudding and pots of tea.  This is a very close-knit village, but very friendly too.  Romantic hits from the 80’s are playing as I eat – reminding me of my school days!  Two new blisters on my left little toe.  They’ll need bursting later tonight.

There are showers during the night.  When I get up at 6 am on Trinity Sunday the skies are blue but it soon clouds over again with just the occasional glimpses of sun during the day.  I feel surprisingly good – legs slightly fatigued but feet okay.  The half-day rest has done me good.  I set off at 7 am and get to Sandy Haven at 8 am.  At this point there is another tidal river crossing to make and I have to wait half-an-hour until the causeway and stepping-stones become visible.  Patience isn’t always my best virtue so I take my sandals off and cross while there’s still 6 inches of water – well, it’s more fun like that anyway.  I push on alongside the Milford Haven waterway, with its recently redundant oil refinery workings, not wanting to stop in case I seize up.  Milford Haven is the first really built up section of the path.  Not much of note to rave about, just lots of road walking to punish feet and legs.  At Neyland it’s up onto the A477 for a high level and very windy crossing over the estuary.  For now it’s simply a slog and the lack of interest adds to the demoralising effect.  However, my sights are set on Old Pembroke and after limping through the dock I finally arrive at the Tourist Information office at 2 pm – a hard and punishing 20 miles completed. 

I enquire about campsites but the nearest is 1 mile out of town in the wrong direction.  Immediately I am aware that my legs and feet are totally crippled and there is a swelling on one of my thighs.  I opt for a nearby B&B with no feelings of guilt whatsoever.  Just getting there is a struggle and despite the relief of being without my pack, the short distance back into town to find food is even worse.  All the cafés are shut. **##!!X#X#** - pardon my French.

I park myself on a bench on the corner of the main road and take my feet out to let them breathe (a few funny looks).  Then I go into a miserable pub and consume one and a half pints of Guinness and a packet of pork scratchings.  “I really am going to give up now.  It’s not as though I’ve even got any choice any more.  Have I? Yes.  No.  Well?  I can wait and decide in the morning, can’t I?”

The Anglican Church is nearby and I decide to go to Evening Prayer.  There are seven of us in the congregation plus organist, lay reader and vicar.  The service is depressingly depressing but the people are friendly.  One of them gives me a lift to a recommended Chinese restaurant where I treat myself.  I also ponder the conversations I had in Church after the service.  Most of the folk had encouraged me to continue walking – easy for them.  But one woman had advised the contrary.  “It’s dangerous on the Coast Path, you know”.  I think she means the cliffs – where the path is crumbling it can be a bit hairy, especially if the wind is up – that doesn’t bother me.  “Yes,” she went on, “They never did solve that murder.”  My eyebrows say “!!??”

“A couple were walking near St David’s.  No one was about at the time.  But later they were found, having been tied together and shot.  That was four years ago and the mystery has never been solved, the murderer never caught.”  She then went on to discuss the organist and choir but my thoughts had become somewhat distrait.

After the meal I walk back to the guesthouse and pamper, pamper, pamper my feet.  The newest blister has 3 heads and breathes a combination of fire and ice or am I hallucinating?

I wake up on Monday morning, after a good sleep, to the firm and level-headed decision to have a day off.  There are still some 55 miles remaining and I have 2 days left after today so I’ll just have to make the best of what I can do.  Having decided, I go down to breakfast and discover there are no rooms available for tonight – so I’ll probably set off after all.  Angle is only 12 miles away, so that won’t be so bad.  I had been looking forward to exploring Pembroke Castle but then again, knowing me, I would only have got restless.  There are a group of 4 at the next breakfast table to mine – an old couple and two younger men.  They can be best described as Van Gogh’s ‘Potato Eaters’ gone senile and impersonating The Goons – quite incredible.  Now I can place the strained querulous voice from the corridor last night: “You’re always getting at me.”

I eventually leave the B&B at 10 am in pouring rain.  It soon gets harder and becomes torrential in the strong wind.  The ground is very muddy in places and there are no other walkers about!  Physically, I feel reasonable at first, with my toes vaselined and taped up or taped together as appropriate.  However, sandals-and-socks is no great weather protection and before long all the careful taping simply disintegrates.  I think about my motivation for doing all this: whenever I’ve been for a day’s walking I’ve always wished it didn’t have to end – that I could just walk on into the sunset, but was this the reality I had in mind? I can’t believe I am still walking after my thoughts last evening.  No matter what I think though, the will to continue is simply there pushing me on.  Despite everything, it would in some strange sense be harder to stop than to carry on … I think about those back home who love me and for a moment salt mingles with the rain on my cheeks. I think about my Grandfather, another Geoff Holmes, who died before I was born.  He was lost for three months crossing the Congo on his own – I don’t think he’d even told anyone that he was setting off.  At least I have got some sense.  I pass a derelict church and am surprised to see one fresh grave in the graveyard.  Two men watch me from a white van.   I remember the story of the coast path murder but I am not anxious –  “No murderer in his right mind would be out in this weather.”  

Next Episode

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 3

Go to Part 1
"I arise today through a mighty strength
the strong name of the Trinity
through belief in the threeness
through the confession of the oneness
of the creator of creation.”

This prayer from the Hymn of St Patrick has given me courage on many mornings when I’ve felt a bit overwhelmed by particular challenges ahead of me.  I have decided to make it my morning prayer each day that I am able to walk.  Trinity Sunday is approaching and I find myself at this magical interface between Sea, Land and Sky where so much lives and moves and has its being.  I love the smell of the sea, I love the flight and cry of the sea birds, the feel of the wind, sun, rain, the soft grass and hard rocks beneath my feet, the delicate colours and shapes of the cliff top flowers.  Ramsey Island looks majestic and in the Sound the currents are racing and roaring through ‘The Bitches’.

I also adopt a through-the-day prayer:

“Be thou my vision O Lord of my heart
Naught be all else to me save that thou art
Thou my best thought in the day and the night
Both waking and sleeping, Thy presence my light.”

A vision of beauty and strength, and so easy to believe in, being where I find myself now.

My feet are now dully painful and I am walking fast.  It’s time to make a decision: do I take an easy day today by stopping at St David’s, giving myself time to look around and time to recover?  I defer the decision because I now reach the spot where “the Age of the Saints” begins to leave its evidence.  St Non was the mother of St David and he was born nearby during a great storm in AD 462.  The present Chapel of St Non was built in 1934 near the site of the original one, which in turn was near a holy well.  This well was renowned for its healing properties, especially for eye diseases.  The little chapel, built in the Celtic style, is cool and peaceful.  I light a candle and say prayers musing on the fact that the God I meet in here is the same God of the cliffs, the winds and the seas.  Later, I decide that I prefer that little building to St David’s Cathedral which is nice but full of tourists and tour parties.  In the Cathedral I don’t seem to find that ‘heart’ that I did with my little candle in St Non’s – but it’s a lovely building nonetheless and the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace are even grander!  I shop and picnic in a little park.  In the chemists I discover some ‘miracle’ blister plasters, which is just as well as the little devils are worse than ever after my rest.  I continue on to the delightful port of Solva and a delicious cream tea.  Suddenly I think to myself, “I could have spent two weeks just doing this – lazing in the sun and feeding my face – why am I not normal?”  But even the idea of the (relatively) easy day has gone out the window as I feel myself driven onwards.  I wash my feet in the sink in the café toilet and apply the plasters – no difference at all – what did I expect? I suppose there are miracles and then there are MIRACLES. 

Now the path becomes really cruel: up and down and up and down.  I am doing my exaggerated limp again but it’s still agony and putting a strain on my right thigh.  I confide in an elderly couple coming the other way.  “I swear by Vaseline,” said the man, “rub some Vaseline on them by all means.”  The wind is really blowing up now.  Eventually I flop down on the campsite behind the storm beach at Newgale.  I hobble to the shop to see if they sell alternative footwear.  I’m beginning to dream about a pair of sandals.  I make some supper and a wonderful woman from a neighbouring caravan brings me a cup of tea in a 50’s cup.

Facing up to my feelings: I am still enjoying the scenery and the variety of the weather and the challenge.  Its ironic: in a sense blisters are so superficial and trivial – the rest of me is slightly fatigued but fine really, considering the distance and terrain covered – and yet they are so awful and insidious.  I desperately want to complete this walk and I’m annoyed.  I’ve met other walkers and they haven’t had blisters.  If only my other boots had been all right.  The pain is always there and makes everything difficult but at the same time I’m not beaten and my spirits are constantly being raised.  Today I have eaten: beans & sausage, orange, banana, the rest of the hobnobs, a loaf of bread with ham, yoghurt, apple, cream tea, tomato soup, spaghetti & coronation chicken.

I had gone to bed at 10 pm but now wake at 1 am because my blisters are fighting back in angry mood.  In the dark I search my pack for penknife and disinfectant swabs.  Piercing them and releasing the pressure eases the pain slightly.  I’m going to have to pack it in.  No doubt I could carry on in the morning but I’ll only pay for it in increasing measure at night and this is no fun.  In neighbouring tents there are five fresh and fit looking men, who are doing a small part of the walk over three days.  In the morning I tell them that I’m going to take it easy.  (“Shall I give up?  Take a day or two off to recover and not worry if I don’t have time to finish?  I might as well enjoy myself!”)  I clean and treat my feet with all bar one of the ‘miracle’ plasters, then sit around and quickly get bored.  “This is not a good place for a day off.”  I buy some Vaseline and cover the friction points of my feet and then try my boots on laced very loose now.  “Not too bad – I’ll go for it, a little way at least.”  I set off from Newgale along the beach.  There are the Scousers again, very friendly, but then it’s their last day so they can afford to feel elated.  One of them has blisters too.  At the end of the beach I scramble up to regain the cliff top path.  It’s cloudy and cool but pleasant.  Amazingly my feet seem to have found a new lease of life. 

At Norton Haven I pass my neighbours of last night – all five of them chatting up an attractive blonde woman – like bees round a honey pot.  They look surprised to see me and I fancy the blonde casts me a wistful look as I stride past.  (I hope they tell her of my earlier pain and I imagine her secret admiration of a real man!).  I stride boldly to the top of the headland where all of a sudden a new blister bursts.  I just can’t believe it.  I really could cry like a baby.  However, I use my last futile ‘miracle’ patch and continue to Broad Haven.  Here I walk straight into a surf shop and lash out £50 on a pair of ‘Reef’ hi-performance sandals, not counting the cost.  Immediately I find another new lease of life and relish walking with the fresh air blowing on my toes.  My boots are heavy and I feel it in the increased weight of my pack but that means nothing to me – I can cope with everything as long as the little demons down at ground level stay asleep.  I picnic at Little Haven – one time coal port, now picturesque holiday village – then on through a change in scenery: the path along the cliff top is wooded, the ground is level and follows the contour, the undergrowth has recently been cut.  Everything seems suddenly to be in my favour.  As I had descended into Broad Haven I had prayed for the ‘exorcism’ of my blisters.  Was all this an answer?

It’s a good push on to St Brides along a lovely coastline.  By the time I get there and visit the little church my feet are complaining again somewhat.  I push myself on a bit further, pausing to watch the gannets give a fine display of diving and fishing skills over Musslewick bay, before eventually stopping to camp at East Hook Farm.  I feel very proud of myself but still wonder how much longer I can go on.

Next Episode

Inside Story

“Do you believe in Father Christmas?”  I thought I had settled that one long ago – but now I’m not so sure!

Christmas has been a long time coming in our house.  Or, looking at it another way, I’m not sure Christmas ever really finished last time.  ‘The Snowman’ was weaving his magic amongst us every day for the first half of the year.  In the height of summer ‘Wow – that’s what I call Christmas’ took over – ever smiling presenters Carl and Katie (aided by Bump and Super Ted) reeling off a string of Christmas Favourites – first thing every morning.  The Christmas Tree has been out of sight but never really out of mind, and we eventually gave in to repeated requests and got it out a couple of weeks ago.  Strangely, that prompted a dramatic loss of festive interest (sudden arrival giving the lie to expectation, I suppose) but things are picking up again now.  Imogen is waiting for it to snow so that she too can go ‘walking in the air’ and she is always on the look out for Santa.

Not that she has to look too far.  She has her very own Santa outfit and, even when she’s not wearing it, the correct answer to ‘What’s Father Christmas doing?’ is to state exactly what Imogen is doing at that moment, “Eating his breakfast” or “Sitting on his potty”!

It’s not that a child of nearly 3 does not have some grasp on reality, but it’s fair to say that imagination and ‘reality’ have, as yet, no clearly defined boundary.  FC is a great character and part of a wonderful story and I suppose he offers a role that anyone can ‘inhabit’, if they wish.

I’ve even quite enjoyed accompanying Imogen and Jemima into Santa’s grotto – you could actually see the half-made toys on his workbench – but there was something I found disconcerting and eventually I worked out what it was.  It was the attempt to go beyond an understated enactment of the story.  The attempt to impress on the children that this particular ‘Santa’ was watching them, that their presents were in his keeping and if they were good he would visit the house and deliver them to the waiting stockings.  I don’t know if I can get my feeling across, but there was an attempt to literalise the story, which threatened to undercut its real nature as a story.  The only (eventual) outcome is for the beauty of the myth and such truth as it possesses to sink in the cold grey waters of hard and disappointing fact.

For me this raises questions about the other Christmas Story – what we often call the ‘true meaning’ of Christmas.  Is that one (just) for the children?  Within it, where does the boundary between imagination and ‘reality’ lie and in what sense is the relationship between the two an important one?  Are they correct who would strenuously assert it all as historical fact or is that just to deny many people the power of the story, which, as inspiring story, can perhaps change the facts of our lives?

Then again there’s the third Christmas Story – the story in the ads.  It says “Spend your money like this, buy into this image and your home will be full of all the happiness and harmony that you could wish for.”

I said that Santa is part of a wonderful story – it is rather a simplistic one though – be good and be rewarded, be naughty and you won’t.  The ‘real’ Christmas story has far more in it, enough to make us question and ponder for a lifetime.

Facts are important, sometimes they are vital.  But I don’t think the human spirit is sustained by fact.  What we need is poetry, imagination and good role models – no, that sounds too mundane – we need to have our imaginations fired up with a vision of the shape our lives could take, if we are to live fully in response to the grace of God.