Bog Snorkelling

The World Bog Snorkelling Championships

After the cut and thrust of the speed shearing on Friday we were due to head to Llanwyrtd Wells for the annual “World Bog Snorkelling Championships”. I had been aware of the event for several years and had even mentioned it in one of my previous blogs when on holiday back in 2018. But, I hadn’t actually seen the event live, so we were quite excited to visit this iconic event; listed by Lonely Planet as one of the must do 50 things around the world.

Llanwyrtd Wells isn’t only famous for Bog Snorkelling, it is officially the UK’s smallest town, and holds a “Man versus Horse Race” as well as a “Real Ale Wobble”, the “Mari Lwyd Walk” and “Bogathlon”. The “Summer Cider Cycle” and “Mountain Bike Chariot racing” events were both cancelled apparently. Perhaps the health and safety spoilsports got wind of things and put the mockers on it. But this was Bog Snorkelling day and we were up early to prepare, not that we planned participating, but we do like to have our sandwiches and coffee at hand when we head out.

So having packed scones, jam and cream and some tasty bacon and egg sandwiches, we filled the Stanley with hot water and packed cappuccino coffee sachets in our back packs all ready for our adventure.

With our picnic all packed we thought we were well prepared, apparently NOT!

Given the old adage that “if you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail”, we thought we had got all of our ducks in a row. But, and it is a pretty seriously big BUT, we didn’t take too much cognisance of the weather. The forecast was for light showers and a maximum temperature of 16°C. That didn’t sound too bad. I mean we are accomplished walkers and supposedly, after more than a year resident in rural Wales, we consider ourselves well versed in the art of outdoor pursuit.  

What wasn’t quite apparent at the outset was that we had been lulled into a false sense of optimism, brought on by several rather dry weeks of late summer weather. Forgetting that in Wales, there are only three predominant weather conditions. “It has been raining”, “It is raining” or “It is going to rain”, and that the term “showers” might mean anything from a light mist to a raging downpour.

Bog snorkelling, requires “racing” up and down a man made ditch in a peat bog, with flippers and a snorkel.

As we left the cottage there was the odd spot of precipitation on the windscreen, sufficient warning for us to check that we had packed the rain jackets. The light jackets that easily fit beside the sandwich box in the back pack. We didn’t consider that we might perhaps require the bullet proof, industrial, maritime outer layers reserved for walking the dogs in the midst of hurricane Hilda.

Things certainly didn’t seem bad enough to warrant the waterproof leggings and wellies.

The drive to Llanwyrtd, along the B4358 can be treacherous at times. The road winds around sharp bends and up and down hills that would have the average roller coaster suffering from inadequacy anxiety. In fact, the previous New Year saw us battling along the road in the pitch dark during a fearsome downpour. It was sufficiently frightening to have me upgrade the headlights on our ancient Jimny, but at least today we were commuting in daylight and only (at this point) a light drizzle.

Despite some effort put into our pre-event research, the primary website for Green Events, the hosts of all of these alternative sporting activities, fails to provide anything remotely resembling a map. So we were unsure as to exactly where the bog was located. In fact it was something of a struggle to find out when the snorkelling was due to commence for that matter. But we headed down the road, sure that we would be directed at some point. We had also managed to find some reference to the existence of a “Bog Bus” transporting spectators from the town to the event site, to reduce traffic congestion at the bog itself.

The Bog Bus provides transport from town to the venue for the price of a donation to charity.

On entering the town we were greeted by posters suggesting that we “follow the frog to the bog” and then brighter yellow signs of “Bog Bus Stop”.  Without much of a clue as to how to progress further we parked the Jimny in town, and joined a large group of spectators and participants standing next to one of the bright yellow signs.

At least we could be sure we were heading in the right direction, with participants dressed up like Elvis, Abba, Fish, Bananas, and even Toilets, queuing for the bus, it wasn’t likely that we had linked up with a Women’s Institute Sunday outing by accident.

Attire appears to be viewed as more important than aquatic ability.

As the bus arrived the heavens opened, and it was immediately apparent that we hadn’t done a good job on the wardrobe front. I was ruing the absence of my leggings, Lennie was already complaining that the water was penetrating her outerwear, and Buddy, the dog, was looking a lot less enthusiastic than normal. (We had failed to bring him any sort of jacket, and he wasn’t well pleased).

The “Bog Bus” turned out to be a solitary minibus with a maximum capacity of no more than twenty, which meant that we missed the cut on the first departure and had to wait in the downpour. In fact it was only after the miserable wait in the pouring rain that we realised that the Bog Bus was indeed the solitary conveyance on offer. It was already obvious that it provided staggeringly insufficient capacity to cope with the crowds, and that we would likely have to resort to Shank’s Pony on our return trip.

The delay wasn’t without it’s upside, and we chatted to some American tourists who were visiting Wales. Obviously now all the more convinced than ever that the British are quite mad, and that the stories they had been told by their mates back in Missouri were more accurate than they had imagined. It wasn’t just the propensity for anglophiles to enjoy being soaking wet and participate in crazy sports. But that we drive at such speeds on these tiny roads, although, we did note that at least we don’t have to deal with Winnebagos , if for no other reason than they would never fit down the average Welsh B-road. It was also worthy of note that whilst the US “World Series Baseball Competition” is limited to Yank participation, the “World Bog Snorkelling Chamionships” is genuinely an international affair with participants from all over the world.

Some participants even brought their own bogs to the bog. Many of the costumes must have taken hours of effort to manufacture.

On the return of the bus, the taciturn driver seemed displeased with our enquiry about bringing the dog. Suggesting that “we are a big pressed for space”, despite the bus being empty and the queue seriously diminished. I did point out that Buddy wasn’t going to require a seat, and we boarded without further incident. It is a little unusual, the UK is a country of dog lovers and canines are welcomed almost everywhere. Given that the driver was possibly the only person in view who wasn’t soaked through, one might have expected him to be a tad more cheerful. But then again, driving to and fro the same lanes over and over again could perhaps be expected to dampen anyone’s level of enthusiasm. He was bloody lucky that it was only his enthusiasm dampened, I was already soaked to my undies.

We arrived at the bog, to be greeted by a queue of participants registering at one of the wind battered tents. Most dressed up in spectacularly ornate and well thought out costumes.  There were even “Themed Teams” all sporting the same fish shaped hats and fish scaled swimming cossies. No doubt, somewhere there was a neoprene clad muscled Adonis, taking the goal of a potential world record seriously, but for the rest it was just laugh. We weren’t laughing much, we were already soaking wet and getting chillier by the moment. There seemed little hope that these predicted “showers” were going to abate as the rain lashed in at the horizontal and the cake stand and ice-cream truck swayed in the gale.

We hiked the short distance to the “track” a dual carriage way of trenches, hewn from the wet peat bog and demarcated with colourful bunting, meant no doubt to be cheerful, but looking rather damp and forlorn in the atrocious conditions. Each trench is 60 metres long and the contestants are required to snorkel (only using doggie paddle and their flippers) to one end, turn around, and make the return journey; in the shortest time possible. That most were not aiming for Olympic gold, but rather simply hoping to survive the claustrophobic chill was quite obvious from the get go. There was none of the urgency we had seen at the sheep shearing. In fact, compared to that, the bog snorkelling runs at a pace more akin to a five day cricket test match. Urgency seems to be very low on the agenda.

Age, infirmity, even crutches, can’t keep a good bog snorkeller at bay it would seem.

Each participant was cheered on enthusiastically by the crowds, although the level of that enthusiasm was clearly highest from those spectators who had had the foresight to bring umbrellas.

We watched a few of the contestants make their run for glory. The first, eschewing the relative comfort of a wetsuit, for the macho look of naked nonchalance. Mind you, he was looking a lot less nonchalant when his mono mask kept filling with vile bog water and he had to stop numerous times to regain his bearings. Coughing and spluttering in hypothermic panic, several onlookers were getting seriously concerned for his well-being. It is obviously impossible to see where you are going and you have the choice of simply bumping off the sides of the muddy trench or looking up on a regular basis in the hope of gaining some sense of direction. Anyway our pale blue warrior did eventually complete his 120 meters of suffering and emerged, cold and dirty but alive.

By this time we were about as wet and chilly as the participants, in fact I might as well have entered the competition and dived in with my clothes on for all the difference it would have made.

We watched several more participants endure the struggles of their personal attempts at bog snorkelling glory. But we were rapidly getting as chilled as the swimmers and it was approaching the point where we knew that we would have to hike our way back to town in the frigid downpour pretty shortly.

We trekked back across the muddy fields, passing the wind torn flaps of the unattended cake stand, and the rain splattered open window of the forlorn looking ice cream truck.  My soaked jeans sticking to my legs and resisting all attempts to bend at the knee. All the contestants had by this time completed registration and the only queue was at the coffee van. The coffee offering the only source of warmth for miles. “ Americano or Cappuccino?”… “It doesn’t matter, I just want to pour it over my feet”.. Actually, I didn’t overhear that, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if I had.

I have to admit that we felt a little guilty, quitting our support in favour of a quick return to the limited luxury of the inside of the car. But with a mile and a half hike back to town, and the rain not easing, it was time to pull the plug and head home. Buddy was by now soaked through and was attempting to persuade every vehicle stopped in the traffic to allow him to climb in. He looked as disconsolate as I felt, and head down into the wind together we made our solemn and miserable way into town.

The heartbreakingly poignant sight of the ice cream van passing us on the road on his way home ahead of schedule, really summed up the morning. Obviously, having not shifted so much as a choc ice and with no hope of anyone deciding they wanted to watch their 99 turn soggy in the downpour, I suspect that the driver was considering a change of career. Perhaps selling night storage heaters in Dubai, or Flip Flops to Inuit tribesmen.

We ate our lovingly prepared picnic on the coffee table at home after first enjoying a hot shower and the luxury of new, and more to the point dry, clothing. Reminding ourselves, that here in Wales, you head out without military grade rain gear at your peril. For all of that, it was yet another adventure, in our newly adopted country of residence. We didn’t die and will hopefully be better prepared for the next outing. I might even buy myself a snorkel and flippers, but it isn’t likely that I am going to invest in an ice cream truck unless we relocate to the Algarve.

Speed Shearing

Yes we are adapting to rural life and enjoying the changing of the seasons, learning that here in Mid-Wales, pretty much everything has a time and a place. Nothing actually happens by chance around these parts. You “Make hay whilst the sun shines” in the most literal sense. The hedges are trimmed at the right time of year, the Tups are put with the ewes so as to plan the births of their lambs around March, when hopefully the weather is improving. Almost everything is linked to the seasons and the weather. Four dry days in a row and the lanes are filled with tractors towing mowers and motorised rakes, all geared to bringing in the hay whilst the going is good.

Those planned parenthood lambs of this past March are now grown sufficiently to be shorn for the first time. With something in the region of 10 Million sheep and lambs in Wales, all of them requiring at least an annual haircut; being able to remove their fleeces quickly and efficiently is an essential skill. A skill held in high esteem for good reason.

With that in mind, most of the agricultural shows have sheep shearing competitions and the winners are local superstars. Here in Newbridge on Wye, the annual Speed Shearing Competition at the New Inn is not only a way to raise funds for charity, (This year Cystic Fibrosis). But equally an opportunity for the young bucks of the local YFCs to show off their prowess. This is serious stuff, it isn’t just the prize money, but the status that goes with it. In these parts winning the speed shearing competition has similar importance to perhaps scoring the winning goal in the FA cup final.

The New Inn is our local hostelry and a short walk from the cottage.

Farming here is mostly about mating sheep and raising lambs, sex is rarely far from the conversation and the winning tanned and muscled shearer who raises the trophy likely gets the pick of the girls. That the girls play along is evidenced by the tanned legs, minuscule cut off denim shorts and skin tight blouses of the enthusiastic female spectators. Even the cool damp of an autumnal evening doesn’t put them off. As my mother might suggest, “I expect pride keeps them warm”.

In the darkened pub car park, with its especially laid on burger stand and open air bar, the girls flaunt their stuff in groups, keeping an eye on the young male warriors. The boys are equally grouped together with one eye on the shearing and the other on the girls. It isn’t exactly a Taylor Swift concert, but even so, the uniforms of the spectators indicates a level of adoration and admiration.

With so many Jones’ and Evans’, and a plethora of Rhys’s, Gwyns, Dylans and Aleds, clarity is maintained through the use of nick names, such that we are introduced to the contestants as the “Rhayader Ripper” and “Will the ferret”. Mind you with a nickname like Will the Ferret, I am not sure that even with a trophy in hand you are going to impress any of the maidens watching on from the car park.

The MC keeps us entertained with stroke by stroke commentary on the progress of the three contestants on the stand. Battling to be the first to pull the cord indicating that they have finished with shearing their lamb.  The MC kicks things off….“ Tricky Dicky, you’re on stand one, Ripper you are on stand two and Westie is on three. Are you ready? Are the time keepers ready? …….Aaaaand here we go, Tricky Dicky is off to a good start but the Ripper is right on his tail. Sticking to him like glue, who’s going to be in the lead as they come to the all-important turn? It’s down the last side that they go, it’s Tricky Dicky in front, two more blows and a flick around the tail.. Hooo Hooo out goes Westie… give him a big round of applause ladies and gentlemen”.

It all sounds more like Formula One Racing or commentary from the Grand National, but it is Newbridge Speed Shearing and it is a fun as hell. It is a fast and furious knock out competition, a heated battle, with the contestants turning a fluffy “Lamb Chop” into an ovine Kojak in about 19 seconds.

At that pace, a single shearer, working none stop day and night would require approximately six years of effort to de-fleece all the sheep and lambs in Wales. By the time they finished there would then be a queue of another 60 million customers waiting outside. It is a daunting prospect. Clearly illustrating why, in these parts, fast accurate sheep shearing is actually pretty big news.

It is all spectacularly good fun, and we stayed on late into the night to watch the various qualifying rounds. Falling short of the actual final due to abject tiredness after a day’s hard labour at home. Ripping out more damaged lath and plaster walls in the stairwell of the cottage, and creating dust at a level, that even now in August will guarantee us a white Christmas, if I don’t put in some serious effort with the vacuum.

Some silly sod had previously repaired the lath and plaster with cement, causing it to pop and requiring and angle grinder to cut out the damage. Very messy.

It isn’t clear exactly when I will get to cleaning up though, tomorrow we are off to the “World Bog Snorkelling Championships” in Llanwrtyd Wells. We have visited Llanwrtyd previously, as New Years Eve saw me following the Marie Lwyd, a horse’s skull on a stick, wassailing around the town in celebration of the start of another year. I probably should have entered the bog snorkelling, at least I might wash away some of the bloody dust that currently covers everything in the cottage.

The bog snorkelling World Championships in Llanwyrtd Wells, considered by Lonely Planet as one of the top 50 things to do around the World.

You can say what you like about rural living, but you couldn’t suggest for a moment that it is dull.

The Myth of Sisyphus

According to Greek mythology, Sisyphus was king of Ephyra and a pretty unpleasant host, regularly killing visitors to show off his power. Such behaviour violated the sacred traditions of hospitality of the time and angered the Gods. As punishment, the Gods forced Sisyphus to roll a large rock uphill, only for it to roll back down the hill when nearing the top. This sentence of futile work was due to continue for eternity. What most people don’t know, is that the Gods actually offered Sisyphus a choice, to roll the rock uphill forever or to paint my bloody dressing room cupboards. Sisyphus might have been a tyrant, but he wasn’t stupid enough to choose the cupboards.

Building the cupboards was time consuming enough, but now I have to paint them.

In short this dressing room project has been dragging on, the Witch’s stairs were completed some time back. Insulation was installed in the external and party walls, plasterboard was fitted and plastered and the cupboards manufactured, closely followed by making up the shelves and the doors. But the painting, OH MY!, that just goes on and on and on and with so little floor space left in the dressing room it is even more taxing that it might have otherwise proven.

Hopefully somewhere past half way with all the painting..

The dressing room cupboards consist of a large double hanging space, under the stairs, four more cupboards with shelves also under the staircase, and a block of an additional seven cupboards with shelving on the adjacent wall, and some open shelving at the base of the stairs.

The trouble is, that unlike painting a room or a wall; with cupboards you have to paint every surface, the tops and bottoms of the shelves, the inside and outside of the doors, the floors, walls, backing, sides etc and it must add up to dozens if not hundreds of square metres.  As you might well deduce, I am getting pretty sick of doing it, not least because I dislike painting at the best of times. But, and I suppose that it is a significant “but”, when it is all done we will have a lot of storage space in a small cottage that currently almost entirely lacks such. The hope is that once done we can finally pack away clothing in a logical manner and, more importantly be able to find it again when required. It is a big job but the rewards should prove to be equally large, if I can finally get it done.



On a more, or at least additionally positive point, spring is showing signs of arrival, the snowdrops have been out in the hedgerows for some time and the magnificent floral display of hundreds of daffodils along the roadsides is beginning to kick off. The still mostly barren trees are, on close inspection, showing small but verdant buds, whilst the catkins and their minute red flowers add additional texture to the view.

Technically this is a hazel male catkin and a tiny red female inflorescence.

It still fascinates how changeable things are, it seems that every week there are new developments, and different flowers. It won’t be long before the lambs start arriving, although on a trip to Hereford we did spot our first newborns. We are likely going to be knee deep in cute and fluffy babies pretty soon.

The trout fishing season is but weeks away, and I have organised my license and various permits to allow me to fish a variety of venues, that is if the river ever drops to fishable levels. It has been in flood for much of the winter and the occasional chance to target grayling has turned out to be more occasional that I should have liked.

Not long before I can get out there and chase some trout, if I finish the bloody painting.

Mind you winter wasn’t wasted sitting about in front of the fire, we have been out to the BFFI (British Fly Fishing International Show) in Stafford. A long drive, made longer by errant information from a seriously psychotic SAT NAV, but it was worth the trip. Lots to see and lots of people of like mind, rather like rejoining your lost tribe in some ways. I had a rather half-hearted go at the casting competition (accuracy and speed), in aid of the British Youth Fishing Team, and it turned out that I came third, winning a fly rod in the process. Mother always said that if you leave with more than you “brung” it is a good day.
On top of that, certain chores have been dealt with over the dark days of winter, I got my Covid vaccination boosted and an additional jab to ward off flu, courtesy of the NHS. I also had my intraocular lens transplant YAG lasered, clearing the opacity which was becoming more than annoying, this time not courtesy of the NHS but I can’t complain about that. My brand new Vision Nymphmaniac rod, which broke on only its second trip to the river, has had the snapped section replaced and is ready for action again should the water levels drop. (That was courtesy of Gamefish in Edinburgh, prompt and efficient service from them, thanks).

So the final hurdle to settling down and being ready for the fishing season, being able to find my fishing gear and clothes, and finally getting rid of all the dust and paint splotches is to complete the dressing room. Apart from the painting, there is still cornice (coving), to be fitted, the walls require painting and I need to do something about flooring once the rest is complete. It strikes me that I still have to paint the witch’s staircase too and as I type I can feel that bloody rock rolling back down the hill, but I will get it done, hopefully sooner rather than later.

Waterfalls and Red Kites

Lennie and I have been enjoying something of a break over the festive season, with her work on hold and me packing away all the tools and timber to make the house more inhabitable for the winter break.

We enjoyed a visit from my lovely friend Chrissie and her daughter Chelsea and it was wonderful to see them after over a year away from Cape Town. Christmas came and went and the weather continued to be wetter than an otter’s pocket. But then a moderately clear day and we headed off to the “Devils Bridge” famed for both the strange three bridge structure across the gorge and the numerous waterfalls that plunge down the mountain.

The strange layout of three bridges, one atop the next.

I suppose that if you are going to go out chasing waterfalls, the first clear day after a month of rain is the right time to do so.

Driving during winter is quite a different experience, with all or most, of the foliage gone from the trees and hedgerows, one sees much more than is visible during the summer months. Cottages that had previously remained unnoticed and even entire villages, now visible on the hillsides, no longer hidden behind the verdant curtains of summer growth.

We headed out along the A470, through Rhayader, Llangurig, Pant Mawr, turning off at Ponterwyd to head towards Pontarfynach and the Rheidol Gorge. It was a chill but clear day and I suspect all the better for that; in summer the place would be knee deep in tourists and I far prefer to sight see without the distractions of screaming children and dropped ice creams.  

There are two “routes” on can take to view the gorge, the long route takes one up and down some 675 steps, before bringing one back up to rejoin the main road. The shorter route “The Punchbowl” is only about 15 minutes long and not nearly as steep. It was decided that I should tackle the longer route and Lennie would enjoy the less strenuous Punchbowl route.

Steep and slippery steps heading down to the bottom of the gorge on the longer route.

The system in place is really rather smart and efficient, paying a modest fee either with cash or card, the turnstile then allows one entry to the start of the route. So there is no need for staff or attendants during the slower winter months. The only disadvantage is that the brochures which highlight sections of interest are unavailable when there are no staff, not that that mattered too much to either of us.

The Punchbowl Route seen from the top of the bridge.

The longer route is supposed to take about 45 minutes, although I think I completed it a little faster than that, even taking into account time spent taking video of the various raging waterfalls.

The legend ( http://devilsbridgefalls.co.uk/the-legend/) of the lower bridge suggests that an old lady from the village tricked the devil so as to retrieve her cow which had become stuck on the wrong side of the river. The stranger thing, and not directly related to the legend, is that there are in fact three bridges simply built on top of one another. Each a more modern structure spanning the same spot on the gorge. Unfortunately the view of the three bridges isn’t as clear on the long walk, but the punchbowl route gives a far better view.

Having managed some small amount of exercise and wonderful views of the bridge and all the waterfalls we headed for home, but this time taking “The Mountain Road” which leads up to the top of the Elan Valley and thence on to Rhayader and Newbridge. The plan was to find a nice spot to enjoy our packed lunch and a welcome cup of coffee. The ideal spot was located at the Hafod Arch, an ancient natural stone arch which in a bygone era was the gateway to the Hafod Estate. Today it is something of a tourist spot, with short walks mapped out in the nearby Beech forest and tables and benches laid out, perfect for a coffee and lunch stop. The location offering up spectacular views across the landscape in all directions.

Lennie standing under The Hafod Arch

This route takes one over steep hills and provides exquisite views of various quaint farms and valleys. At the very apex of the route one is driving past something of an oddity, a wetland which in effect is the source of both the Rivers Elan and Ystwyth which flow in completely opposite directions. It was interesting to be looking at the small streams and the boggy wetland only to see that at some point the water is flowing in the opposite direction to that which it had previously taken. A giant sponge, soaked through from all the winter rain, giving birth to two rivers.

I am sure that come summer it might well be worth a little bit of exploring up here with a fly rod. The Elan River flows into Craig Goch dam, the uppermost of the major impoundments in the Elan Valley and they all contain wild brown trout, so I imagine that one could find some surprises in the river at the top of the valley, something to explore when the trout season opens and the weather warms a little.

With still better weather we decided to add another exploratory trip as a final blast to our vacation time and headed out to Bwlch Nant yr Arian, a red kite feeding centre close to Aberystwyth. The location, high atop the Cambrian mountains, boasts numerous hiking, running and mountain bike trails as well as a visitors centre. One of the major attractions however is the regular red kite feeding which takes place each afternoon. The program is part of a long standing intervention to assist with the comeback of the red kite population which was decimated years back when these majestic birds were given vermin status.

Lennie next to a giant bronze of a Red Kite at the Bwlch Nant yr Arian visitor’s centre.

Today one can see up to 200 kites gather in the skies during feeding times. They are truly spectacular creatures, with gorgeous rufous coloration and distinct deeply forked tails. They can attain a wingspan of some 6ft and are acrobatic fliers. Actually the programs to reintroduce them have been so successful that today it is hard to go out without seeing a kite somewhere above ones head.

Hundreds of Red Kites turn up for an easy supper.

I did the longest of the hiking routes, “The Ridge Trail” an approximately two hour trek along the very top of the ridge with views down into Cardigan Bay some ten miles to the East. A wonderful walk both along an open ridge trail and then through dense forest growth. Lennie opted for a less energetic ramble around the lakes near to the visitors centre and we joined up in time to view the kite feeding together, again with our packed lunch and thermos coffee to keep us company.

Heading out for my daily exercise on The Ridge Trail.

We keep saying the same thing, one might well imagine that rural living is a rather quiet, even boring affair, but to date we have been hard pressed to fit everything in. There seems so much to do and there are so many new places to visit, hikes to enjoy and that is still waiting for the summer shows and the start of the fishing season. I do need to get back to my renovations shortly, but needed to take some time to update the blog and sort through images of all the various things we have enjoyed doing during our break.

The moss carpeted forest section of The Ridgetop Trail

New Year

A new year.

I have been back in the UK for approximately thirteen months now and resident in our new home in Newbridge on Wye since April this year. So today will be the first New Year’s Eve celebrated in our cottage and back together as a couple. Last year was a bit of a let-down, although entirely expected, and a somewhat unenthusiastic walk to the pub in Bude over iced up paths didn’t do much to increase my enthusiasm. As I recall, I didn’t actually manage to stay up until Midnight.

Since then of course a great deal has happened, we have bought our cottage and I have made good progress with the renovations, completing the bedroom, most of the work on the loft space and now merrily getting stuck into what is due to become the dressing room.

The Loft Space has been nearly completed.
A before and after view of what has been achieved in the loft space.

You can see a lot of video footage of many aspects of the project on my YouTube Channel https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHaE2nJjSCj_Oy-KMZb1Aww

One of the, perhaps somewhat surprising, aspects of this rural lifestyle is that there seems to be always something going on. But we have a new experience in store for ourselves this evening as we intend to head out to Llanwyrtd Wells for the New Year celebrations.
Llanwyrtd Wells is best known for its annual “Bog Snorkelling championships” and for its equally bizarre “Man versus Horse Race”. It has in fact put itself on the map, or more fairly back on the map, with an affection for staging odd events. This evening we are due to follow the “Mari”, as part of a re-enactment of an ancient Welsh Tradition of Mari Lwyd.

Mari Lwyd, is part of a wassailing tradition, where the Mari, a horse’s skull on a pole, and manipulated by a person hidden from view under a cloak, would request entry into a household whilst the occupants initially deny it. Through a bantering argument in song and verse the occupants eventually relent and the party outside are invited in to enjoy ale and food.  This should be the point where we can gain access to the pub, perhaps I should take a beer along just in case the occupants are not persuaded to afford us ingress.

Apparently the origins are unclear, and even the name Mari Lwyd is open to interpretation, some believing it to be a reference to a Gray Mare and others linking it to Mary and Jesus Christ. The tradition died out almost entirely but has been reinvigorated in a variety of locations in Wales over the years.

The one issue for us however was a little more pragmatic, in that we are supposed to carry burning torches apparently and so I have had to take a portion of my morning manufacturing some for us to carry. Hopefully we won’t end up setting fire to ourselves or others later this evening.

Preparing for our torch lit walk as part of the Mari Lwyd celebrations.

As I will be driving, I shan’t be drinking heavily, the prospects of either driving through pitch dark country lanes and / or carrying a flaming torch pre-empt an notions of serious inebriation. I suspect I will be ready for a stiff Scotch when we finally return from our evenings ramblings.

No matter what happens, let me take this opportunity to wish all of you a wonderful, prosperous and adventurous 2024. Certainly Lennie and I both have a great deal to look forward to. Lennie starts a new job here in March, the trout fishing season is on the distant horizon and we still have renovations and a court case to look forward to. Life here may appear quiet on the outside, but it is rarely dull.

Halloween and Guy Fawkes

We have been resident in our little cottage for several months now and we are quietly getting in tune with things, trying to fit into a rural community; which to be fair isn’t hard. Everyone seems so friendly, morning and afternoon walks are punctuated with “hello’s”, “are you well’s”, “good morning’s, and myriad other greetings. There always seems to be something or other going on, carnivals, agricultural shows, dog shows, show jumping, and shortly we will be attending an “entertaining history evening at the New Inn”; but for the present the latest “events” on the calendar were Halloween and Guy Fawkes.

Now I would have to confess that I understand very little about Halloween and its “Trick or Treating”. I have always derided it as an, overly commercial, American import, although a tad of research suggests that it has its origins in a Celtic festival Samhain (pronounced SAH-win). It seems to me that the evening consists of a good deal of “treating” and a spectacular dearth or any form of “tricking”. Although again, a quick check, suggests that it would be me tricked, if I don’t cough up. I could be facing any number of transgressions or inconveniences if I don’t cave in to the mini-mafia. It is in fact, as best I can see, a form of intimidation and bribery, a protection racket, manifested by underaged criminals, threatening harm if the poor home owner is unwilling to participate in the confectionary economy of the evening. Effectively juvenile organised crime, when you get right down to it.

Worse than that, the major retail chains support this criminal enterprise. They deck out their stores with all manner of sweet goods with the implied threat that you need to buy these things so as to feed the nation’s youngsters with bags full of diabetes inducing goodies so as to avoid being terrorised. No doubt it equally helps in further enriching the shareholders of at Tesco (or Aldi, Morrisons or any number of other retail outlets).

All of that said, we figured that we shouldn’t be the “newbies” in town without making some attempt to participate if necessary, not so much out of fear of threat, but rather wishing to be seen to participate within the local community. I was all good with that and purchased, not only some sweets, but equally a pumpkin. As said, I am not sure how these things are supposed to work, but I figure that one is supposed to display some sort of indication that one is participating, by for example having a pumpkin lantern in the window. More than a few homes had massive spider webs, crime tape, pumpkins in abundance and a plethora of “Keep Out” signs around their doors. Our offering of a pumpkin lamp in the window was pretty low brow by comparison.

My first attempt at pumpkin carving, supposedly an invitation to Halloween revelers.

So at home I carved the pumpkin, into what was hopefully an, at least moderately scary vision, and put it in the window with a candle. That wasn’t overly successful, as the candle had already started cooking the pumpkin by the end of day one. So the light source was changed over to one of the dog’s flashing walking lights and the horrific vision could now be seen through the window in an ever changed rainbow of colour.

Come Halloween evening the  lights newly recharged, the pumpkin was lit up once again, the sweets were in a tub at the ready and NOTHING happened, NOTHING. Eventually, at about nine at night, in the pitch dark, the doorbell rang and outside a small apparition, waving a light sabre and hidden behind sufficient glow sticks to render age, gender or identity indeterminable. The lit up midget helped themselves to some sweets, modestly taking only a couple until I urged them to dig in deeper and then disappeared to what was apparently mother’s car, parked a short way down the road. ( I had to wonder if mother was “The Don” or merely “The Getaway Driver”)

That was the end of Halloween, I still have no idea who came by, perhaps that is part of the point, but we did at least feel that we had made an effort, more to the point, I now have a box full of “sweetshop favourites” to tempt me for the next few months.

Having been hidden fearfully behind locked doors in anticipation of an onslaught by threatening underaged organised criminal elements, the whole affair turned out to be something of a damp squib. But then, the epithet of “Damp Squib”, (the term originates from a notional firework or explosive which fails to go off on account of it being wet), brings me to the next great British tradition on the November Calendar.

Guy Fawkes; Lennie, having never attended a proper bonfire and fireworks display was excited to go and see what it was all about.  This is another apparently tremendously popular event on the British social scene, particularly for the kids, and there were more than a few such events advertised.

We elected to go to one at the Builth Wells Golf Club, not least because it was close and only three quid to gain entry. The weather cleared just in time, the clouds disappeared and the night was black as pitch, ideal for fireworks one might well imagine.

We arrived in good time, organised a drink each at the bar, favouring alcohol over the proffered hot chocolate, with whipped cream, marshmallows and chocolate sauce. This turned out to be something of an amateur  error of judgement. The obviously more experienced couple behind us, ordered the hot chocolate but added a shot of some fiery spirit to provide some kick, (I hadn’t thought of that; no doubt still traumatised by the criminal potential of Halloween). Next up a snack, in our case scampi and potato wedges, before heading out into the blackness. In that short time the crowds had expanded tremendously, certainly hundreds of people and perhaps more.

We  were stunned to see so many people and no evidence of any level of discontent; there were no drunken fathers staggering about and falling over the ropes around the putting green. Not even ones clutching mugs of illicitly alcoholic hot chocolate. No indigent yobs throwing crackers, not so much as a kid waiving a sparkler. All was peace and harmony. The fireworks went off on schedule, although with the gaps between them it was impossible to tell exactly when the display came to an end, such that most people stood staring into the skies for a considerable time after the final crescendo, just in case there might be yet another multi-coloured explosion. .

Only then did we realise that there a lot more people who had been standing behind the bonfire some way off, and as they returned to their cars it was apparent that our estimates of the crowd were woefully inadequate.

Of course on exit everyone was once again, quiet, polite and helpful; the crowded road, cluttered with parked cars and homeward bound vehicles and yet drivers allowed space for others to join the queue.

The fireworks display had been very good, the conditions of little wind, freezing temperatures and a pitch black sky all ideal for a good bonfire night. Heading home we thought that it was one of the best “three quids” we had spent since our arrival.

Coming from South Africa, it seems just amazing that such an event, with so many visitors, can go so smoothly, with little evidence of any security controls. Even perhaps more amazing, the number of people walking the streets on the way home, women and small children, all wrapped up against the chill, quietly heading homewards on the dark streets without a worry about doing so.

This is our new reality, and for the most part we are already used to it, but sometimes, like on this occasion, it simply reminds us of how totally abnormal our lives were back in SA. There, few would walk a lit street at night, never mind a pitch black alleyway.

Back in SA one would expect to see hoards of “car guards”, some broken windows and police ticketing those parked partly on the paving; here peace and quiet reigned.

I might not understand Halloween, but I do understand how very nice it is to live in such a civilised place, where events are organised for the greater good (in this case raising funds towards the Builth Wells Carnival, set for next summer), and where just about everyone participates without rancour or trouble. We are enjoying it all immensely, I think that this is what freedom feels like, freedom to be oneself, to walk when and where you decide, and to participate in community based activities where just about everyone seems to join in.

On this Remembrance Weekend, perhaps also a moment to pause and consider, that without the sacrifice of too many young men in the past, these freedoms might have been denied us all.

Fat Bottomed Girls

I am sitting in our cottage in Wales and realising that I haven’t found time to write anywhere near as much as I might have hoped. But Autumn if not winter is already here, we have enjoyed/endured the first hard frost and the trees are changing colour and losing leaves.

If the wind blows a little the conservatory explodes with the sounds of falling acorns hitting the roof and there are hazelnuts to be found in the hedgerows if one is mindful enough to look for them

The blackberries appeared and disappeared with haste, burnt off the vine by an unseasonal heatwave in October and the dropping maximum temperatures are now harbingers of the winter to come. The new log burner has been fitted in the lounge and the chimney re-sleeved in preparation for chilly days.

Our humble cottage

The trout season has come to an end, but there is still the promise of winter grayling, if I can manage to cope with the chill, and the river stops flooding for a few days. All of which hopefully might mean that, should I be forced to stay indoors, I might find a bit more time to write.

The trout season is past for another year, but there is still some hope of targeting winter grayling.

We are already becoming somewhat attuned to the seasons, and enjoying every moment, because things change on a weekly if not a daily basis. Daffodils of past walks were replaced with fox gloves, then spectacular blooms of hawthorn, then dog roses and crab apples, it is a scene of ever changing mystery and fascination. You never really know quite what you are going to find when you head out. Lennie has been fortunate enough to spot foxes on more than one early morning walk, sadly a sighting has so far eluded me. But there are always rabbits and red kites to be seen at some point during almost any outdoor excursion.

Nature’s floral display changes constantly along the country lanes.

It is obvious already, that in a rural environment, everyone and everything, is in tune with the seasons. When I arrived in April the lambs were just newly born, the trees were filling out with new summer foliage, there were still ice puddles along the road and even a snow flurry or two driving over the high ground to Brecon on one occasion. During summer the floral display varied endlessly. Then it was time for the agricultural shows, both big and small, which revealed a massive degree of variation in the types of animals, in these parts particularly sheep, but so many different breeds. I rather like the Texels, they have broader faces and, to my urban eye, appear a little more happy and friendly than some of the others, but of course that is just my own human projection.

Come the end of summer the farmers busy themselves trying to cut, dry and bring in hay before the rains set in. Our quiet road became a thundering course of tractors, trailers, bailers and more, as the race was on. All of a sudden the distant hills changed tone as the grass was cut, dried and bailed, and many of the fields were filled huge coloured plastic balls of silage. Lennie’s nephew and niece call them “Marshmallow fields”, because they look as though the farmer is growing giant marshmallows.

A rare image of secret Welsh marshmallow fields.

Now entering into late Autumn, it is breeding time, it means that if you are prepared to do your lambing early and in less than ideal weather, the lambs will have excellent grass on which to grow come spring and early lambs are likely to command a better price at market too. (at least that is what I understand to be the case).

So outside the window, “our sheep”, which are of course not ours; but entertain us with a view most of the time, have apparently become “punk” sheep. They are covered with various coloured markers, dashes of non-toxic paint and wax which one assumes confirms that they have been treated, dewormed, or whatever. The colour code is really only known to the farmer, although one has to wonder if other animals don’t perhaps see them as belonging to some sort of extremist cult.

The most important mark however is, in this case, an orange one. The rams have had their chests marked up with orange wax so that the farmers can tell which ewes have been covered. (it does apparently also indicate if the rams are lazy or perhaps considering some type of ovine gender reassignment).

“Dolly” has apparently gone punk, but she was shy about revealing if she had enjoyed a night of passion.

No doubt, not enough orange marks on your designated partners and you are likely heading for a career in Shephard’s Pie production. So each day a few more of the ewes sport orange dyed bums after their moment of passion. (It is apparently a moment; not a lot of foreplay, and it would seem spectacularly brief to even the most unromantic of souls). I don’t think that I would much fancy returning from the afterlife as a sheep. A life of eating only grass, being wet all the time, standing in mud, ice and snow for the questionable pleasure of a quick (very quick) shag, once a year.

I have to consider though that it is perhaps a tad embarrassing for the “girls”; I mean we look out on the sheep when we go to bed and then come morning you know just who has been having a good time. I am not sure that anyone I know would like to be stuck in a field with a badge on their bum saying “I got laid last night”.. it seems that rural communities don’t consider such sensibilities; mating, like just about everything else is simply a function of the natural world, in sync with the changing of the seasons.

With a gestation period averaging 150 days, the orange bottomed girls outside the window, should , if all goes well, be providing new born lambs to entertain us further come March. I have already volunteered to the farmer down the road that I am willing to assist with the lambing. I have, would you believe, never actually been present at the birth of any living thing, so I figure it might be an interesting thing to be doing. I might regret that decision later, on a cold March night, kneeling in slush, up to the elbow in pregnant ewe. Only time will tell.

Hopefully, come spring, the fields will be filled with newborn lambs

I suspect that perhaps dyed in the wool urbanites might imagine country living to be a bit slow and boring, but truth be told we have rarely been want for some form of entertainment. Agricultural shows, horse shows, dog shows, fairs and carnivals in abundance, and of course no end of country lanes, bridleways, public footpaths and more to explore. Shortly will be Halloween, directly after that “Guy Fawkes Night”, with a fireworks display at the local golf course, and already the shops are awash with festive décor in preparation for Christmas.

On top of all of that, I am still busy with my renovations and the loft space; previously little more than a tip of cobwebs and discarded minutiae from some previous occupant’s life, has almost completed its transformation into an actual functional room.


Before and after images of almost completed loft space.

Of course, it is raining again and quite chilly, so best I get back up there in the loft and carry on finishing off the skirtings..

Welcome to Wales

It has been a long time since I posted anything on this blog, moving home is a rather time consuming enterprise, moving countries all the more so, and I have had to deal with a LOT of stuff.

Trying to find a new home, organising moving my life and its contents, getting my lovely wife Lennie on a plane with her dogs, renovations and adjustments. The effort has been all consuming, leaving little time for writing.

So, for those following this, admittedly rather less than dynamic blog, you might find that it seems there has been a dramatic jump forward in terms of both progress in time. You would be right, a lot has happened and I am not sure that I can even put it all into words.

I shall try.

I was finally able to find a small cottage in the countryside, no doubt still on the market and at an affordable price because others didn’t wish to take it on. That means that the neighbours are perhaps a little odd, their gardens are filled with junk; hoarding seems to be a national pastime in Wales. The hoarding issue is no doubt complicated or encouraged by onerous regulations in terms of disposal of stuff and rigorous and confusing recycling regulations. Simply put, getting rid of stuff here is more than a little troublesome and frequently expensive. I am sure that it will soon become apparent in further posts, that having ripped a room to pieces, including the ceiling and clearing out rubbish from an attic which looked like the town tip, I am going to be facing some considerable challenges in terms of ridding our property of rubbish too.

Equally, whilst the property is entirely habitable, it lacks important amenities such as  basic insulation, and is in need of work, quite a lot of work I would venture.

Our cottage is #3 Woodlands, small, old and in the most gorgeous of locations.

The cottage is one of four in a small terrace complex, originally built in the early 1900’s and even then modified. The presence of what appears to be a blocked off window in the one bedroom suggests that there was a time when it was the last property in the row. Further that now means that there is little more than a sheet of cardboard separating me from the one neighbour, whose home, whilst it might well be a castle in terms of common folklore, is falling to pieces and in danger of dragging my property with it. All that said, Jim the neighbour has a heart of gold and has done us a favour in scaring off any potential property developers who might have gazumped our meager offer. (Gazumping, is a real word, and refers to making a higher offer on a property after someone else has already made an offer, it is apparently quite common practice here).

Whilst waiting for Lennie to join me I had the opportunity to start renovating at least part of the property, (to be honest, I hadn’t even unpacked before I started ripping down wall paper and plaster.) The first goal was to have, at least one room, comfortably habitable prior to Lennie’s arrival.

Part of the renovation of the main bedroom eventually resulted in ripping down the ceiling.

I removed some of the lathe and plaster walls, re-plastered and boarded up the failing structures and added, at least some additional insulation in the form of thick insulating wall paper, foam slabs where the old windows where and adding new electrics, the original idea was that this might become the office, but currently at least it is the “master bedroom”. It has become an oasis of peace in an ocean of building mayhem, which was pretty much the point.

The renovated bedroom at least provides us both with an oasis of calm in a sea of uncertainty and building mess.

Only part way through the project did I realise that the ceiling had to come down, or it might well do the same of it’s own accord. The old hand cut joists were sagging dramatically and I made the decision to rip it all out and start again.

Ripping out a lathe and plaster ceiling produces a similar effect to having a nuclear missile land directly on one’s home and there has been much cleaning and struggle to sort things out. I am still in something of a quandary as to what to do with the piles of waste generated.

However, I did at least manage to put in new joists, plasterboard and finally plaster the ceiling as well as one of the walls, and JUST before the arrival of my spouse, I had a serviceable bedroom nicely turned out and ready for occupation. One notable and unexpected complication was that it is impossible to carry a reasonable size piece of plaster board up the stairs, and as such I was forced to manufacture the new ceiling out of lots of little tiny pieces, but the end result was still pleasing. It equally was my first ever attempt at plastering a ceiling, and I think that for a complete novice the results were well beyond expectations.

New joists in the ceiling will at least provide a flat base for plastering and additional support in the floor for what is to become renovated loft space in time.

I hate to admit it, but it has been more than a wonderful adventure, I love having a project and right now I have a fairly serious one to deal with, but it has all been for the good.

Lennie arrived at Manchester Airport less than three weeks ago and I hired a van to go and collect her and the animals. We have been apart for over six months and it was a reunion I was greatly looking forward to.

The trials were not insubstantial, the hire company with whom I had booked a van let me down at the last minute, (apparently they are renowned for this ) but I was able to make arrangements at the eleventh hour, found my way to Manchester airport and was able to locate Lennie within this massive complex by simply looking for the largest pile of PEP bags in the coffee shop.

Lennie’s much anticipated arrival, the luggage is ALL here, now to go and find the dogs.

I love my wife dearly, but she can’t pack; her mantra is “don’t take one when three will do” and I spotted the pile of luggage well before locating her. She was huddled behind piles of PEP bags in a fair approximation of tribal highlanders ducking down behind Hadrian’s wall, but for the fact that Hadrian’s wall might appear insubstantial compared to the pile of plastic wrapped bags. How it was all going to fit into the diminutive cottage was, and still is, something of a mysterious challenge, we are in the process of practicing “Welsh Cottage Tetris”, and all of that amidst what is better seen as a building site than a home.

A further detour to collect the dogs; the most expensive and pampered “Canis Africanus” in history was finally reunited with his family. Both Buddy and Harry seemed to have coped with the journey very well and arrived both good health and spirits.

A long drive back to Wales and finally a chance to settle down in our new home as a couple, or if you include the pampered pets, a “family”.

Prior to this, I had worked weeks on renovations, taking rarely a day’s break, but for the arrival of my very best of friends, Peter, who encouraged me to take a day or two to go fishing and rest from my labours. The fishing has been wonderful and now all the various struggles seem more than worthwhile. Lennie and I are together again in the most gorgeous of locations, fishing and dog walking on the door step, and every interaction with others seems just remarkably easy and friendly.

Wales is such a special place, we have a tiny cottage in need of some considerable loving renovation, a view, which doesn’t include a single building, but rather green fields, sheep and cows. The Post Office and “corner shop” is a short walk up the road and there is a pub in crawling distance, not that we have visited or crawled home quite yet, give it time.

The “office/bedroom” boasts a brand new IKEA bed and mattress, we are awoken by bird song every morning if we leave the double glazed windows open. Occasionally a car traverses the road on the front of the house, but I am having to be careful on exiting, things are so quiet that I frequently forget to look out for cars, it is likely that my demise is imminent should a silent and electric Tesla venture down the road in unison with my egress.

I have fishing just down the road and a LOT more options a little further afield, I have caught Trout, Graying, Chubb and Shad during my rest periods. They are not rest days, I haven’t taken an entire day away from things so far.

Cracking fishing just down the road, I am surrounded by opportunity.

What I will say is that we are both ABSOLUTELY LOVING IT!!, the people are friendly, the scenery is amazing, the fishing beyond expectations and the dog walking for Lennie out of this world.

I even discovered that Newbridge on Wye has its own fishing club and fishing waters, ONLY available to residents of the town, which means I am in competition for water with 15 other members, I have yet to see one.

Yes it is summer, I am happily busy with renovations, I am sure that there will be challenges but for the present we couldn’t be happier with our decision to move.

The next project is to make better use of an entirely neglected roof space..

Friday we made our third hour long commute to Aberystwyth to try to collect Lennie’s BRP, one is supposed to collect this within ten days, but we had to move the location to Aber’ on account of no longer being resident in the South. One visit to make the arrangements and two further ones only to find that it wasn’t there. In a country were much, if not most things function like clockwork, it is an annoyance rapidly becoming a worry. Hopefully we will find resolution soon, the wasted time and fuel costs are becoming onerous.

Saturday we hiked a short circular route through the village and around glorious countryside which is part of the “Wye Valley Walk”. Sadly, and we have had similar problems on similar walks, even as an experienced hiker the way markers are woeful, but the countryside and the views sort of make up for that and we will, in time, find our way around.

Life is good and we are enjoying a relaxed weekend, I will be back in the roof space on Monday, with further renovation and hopefully will shortly receive some response from the building control officer who visited briefly but has since then disappeared..

I have now been in the UK some nine months and feel happy that I have managed to achieve a good deal in that time, although there is much more to do. But it is simply lovely here, this morning, on an early walk I came across a local who was picking up litter, not that there is much of that. He has apparently taken it upon himself to do this on a regular basis for years, it is the sort of community spirit which warms one’s heart.

Visas and Atrial Fibrillation

What a glorious spring day today! The sun is shining the sky is clear blue and there is no breeze to speak of. The forecast on awakening was 3°C, which might sound horrific but it is generally a harbinger of clear conditions, little or no cloud cover and a rapidly warming day.

The Clocks went forward on Saturday evening here in the UK; if you are not familiar with the process, at midnight you simply tell your clocks that is one in the morning and get an hour’s less sleep than usual, officially the change happens at one but there is no need to stay awake.  (Most electronic devices properly set to the time zone will do this automatically anyway). What that equally means is that you end up with more daylight during your working or relaxing time awake, make use of the early morning sun and enjoy it lingering longer in the sky when you finish work.

The seasons are not universally lovely, but the floral reminders that spring is on the doorstep brighten the mood and lift the heart.

The reverse will happen in Autumn, and as a child I was taught “Spring forward and Fall back” as a simple means or keeping to mind the direction of the movement of the clock. It is somewhat counterintuitive, because you put the clocks forward and lose and hour, but effectively then gain an hour of extra daylight from there on in. We are just past the spring equinox (where the day and night time hours are equivalent) and all indicators, from the clocks, to the myriad spring flowers, are that we are well and truly into spring and heading to summer.

In essence the changing of the clocks makes the most of daylight, providing light mornings and gloriously late evenings in summer.

After ice on the road and on the windscreens, the change seems near miraculous, and today the celebration was in full swing. A long walk through the country lanes from Bude to Marhamchurch, Cann Orchard, Stratton, and home in warm spring sunshine, watching  buzzards soar in the blue sky and herons stalk along the edges of the various waterways as I hiked in shorts and T shirt.

However, before I was able to head out, I had one commitment; I have been experiencing increasingly frequent bouts of “atrial fibrillation”, a not uncommon but equally not entirely pleasant “fluttering” of one’s heart. The first major episode was in SA when I was about to have eye surgery and as a result the process was delayed, although thankfully fulfilled with great results not long after. Since then, and after arriving in the UK it seems to have become far more frequent and I sought medical advice.

It is really rather unpleasant and feels like one has a wet fish fluttering in one’s chest, the risks are not that high but there is increased likelihood of stroke due to stasis of one’s blood washing about one’s atria (the smaller chambers of the heart).

Anyway, after a telephonic consultation, I went in for an ECG and today was due to be fitted with a monitor to provide a 24 record of my heart’s behaviour, wayward or otherwise, and so it was that I went to Neetside surgery to be “fitted” with the device. It is pretty much the size of a Sony Walkman (sorry for the millennials, you will have to look that up). It took a matter of minutes and on returning home I was determined to hike and make the most of the day.

Life has been revolving around a lot of waiting, waiting for the confirmation of house sale, waiting for an appointment at the doctors, waiting to move to Wales and waiting for Lennie’s visa to come through. Added to that I am now waiting for my car to be fixed, as it has a completely fractured main coil spring in the suspension, so it is waiting, waiting, waiting, stress, stress, stress.

Apparently, AF (atrial fibrillation) can be triggered by smoking, alcohol use, coffee and stress amongst other things, and it would be dishonest of me to suggest that I have avoided, or deny that I more likely actively embraced, most of the above. Stress levels have been high, as one might imagine, despite all the idyllic hikes in rural Cornwall.

So now “wired up” I made a sandwich for lunch, a flask of coffee and set off along the canal tow path, the idea to replicate pretty much my “normal days” of late, and equally, to my mind, to stress the system a tad to insure that whatever readings were to be interpreted later would be a fair reflection of a normal day.

I couldn’t have been more wrong, at least in terms of the normal day, it turned out to be entirely, if not abnormal, at least spectacularly special. Not ten minutes into my hike I got a message on the phone. Confirmation that Lennie’s visa application to join me in the UK had been successfully confirmed, and in that moment my heart skipped a beat (perhaps a few).

Pretty much the final hurdle of our move has been overcome, I have a car (albeit currently broken), a house (days away from completion of contract), and my gorgeous and much missed spouse, from whom I have been separated since November, now has a visa.

That lovely lady in the red dress, now has a visa, my heart skips a beat when I see her, but more so now that almost the final hurdle has been overcome.

I find it amusing, that after download in a day or two’s time, somewhere, in my NHS medical files, will be an indelible electronic record of my upset “P” wave and disturbed “QRS” complex; not as a result of imminent cardiac arrest, but rather because my spouse has confirmation of her visa application. To be honest, had the message stated that the application had been declined, most likely the “heart monitor” would have been located on my deceased body, somewhere in a cow pat covered country lane. And on analysis, nobody would have been able to understand the sudden fatal change in heart rate.

This is fiction, but my heart will skip at least another beat when Lennie gets of that plane.


So all is well that ends well, Lennie has her visa, and I hope will be able to join me very shortly, if we are fortunate, shortly enough for us to celebrate at least on of our birthdays together.

All going well, I shall be in my “new” cottage in Mid Wales in a little over a week, my heart will keep beating (I hope) and I shall be looking forward to a reunion with my much missed spouse in the very near future.

Spring is here and life is good.

Muddy and not entirely legal

Having returned from East Devon and all the hard work there, I had, once again, succumbed to a level of boredom and inactivity and was looking for somewhere to to do, perhaps another hike. It turned out that during my various forays I had found a hiking trail labelled next to a small stream I used to fish as a youngster.


The “Plane Keepers Path” said the small label affixed to one of the signposts and I figured that it sounded quite interesting. Little did I know at that point that the path , (the sign I suspect was to small to write route march onto it) is actually quite some undertaking, a circular route of over 10 miles (16 Kilometers) much of it pretty rough going.

An approximation of the route, Google just doesn’t recognise many of the tiny paths and fields encountered.


Disappointingly, some on-line research and a visit to Bude Tourist Information confirmed that the trail booklet was no longer available as the circular route had been closed. Apparently part of the route was a “permissive path”, which means that landowners have allowed people to make use of it, but at no point give up the right to control it, and equally that no amount of foot traffic can be used to make claim that it is a public right of way.

There are thankfully a massive amount of public right’s of way in the UK, and with regular use they cannot be closed off. There are “footpaths”, along which one has the right to walk, and “bridleways” along which you might walk, cycle or even ride your horse should you have one.

Permissive paths are not the same, and there is no right to use them or compunction on the part of the landowner to allow access. Apparently, the permissive section of this route had been closed for some time, but I figured that I could make alternative arrangements to find my way home and skip the permissive section.

Heading out mid-morning I started off, up the now familiar and much walked canal footpath to Helebridge and then carried along the upper section of the canal to the first “Incline Plane” just short of the village of Marhamchurch. These incline planes were places where barge boats on the canal would be hauled up a slope using a variety of different mechanisms and then set back in the water on the next level.

Generally in the UK canal system this change of level is accomplished using lock gates, but on this system the barges would be actually dragged along rail lines to gain elevation. The barges themselves already fitted with wheels below their keels to interlock with the rails.

Generally the change of levels on a canal system is engineered using lock gates where boats are floated up or down to the next level trapped inside two locks, like this set up.

To this point the going had been relatively easy, canals by their very nature are level and thus serious uphill struggle for the hiker is avoided. The Marhamchurch incline plane was the first moderate climb I had to deal with, followed by a little more uphill struggle to reach the village.

Rather pleased with my progress I stopped for a coffee and a pasty from the local shop, and OH!… goodness how lovely it is to visit these places. Cheerful ladies, wearing aprons behind the counter, enquiring as to your wellbeing and plans for your journey. All so civilised and pleasant. Remarkably, even in this lovely rural backwater, the coffee was made with fresh ground beans and sitting outside on a bench, I greatly enjoyed my rather premature lunch.

From there I headed on towards Cann Orchard, where the permissive path was supposed to depart the roadways, and as fortune would have it, I was able to locate the path. The signage telling one it was part of the trail was still there, on a broken pole lying next to the gate, but there was no sign saying that it was closed and the path itself looked still well trodden. Taking the South African view that it is better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, and in the knowledge that I was unlikely to be shot at, I decided to try to follow the trail proper. I did have some, what turned out to be rather lacking route information on my phone.

The pathway, and indeed most of my journey, was a picture of spring flowers.

The pathway was an absolute picture, the verge of the muddy path lined with hundreds of bright yellow daffodils. The trail was easy to follow at this point but then next section was poorly described with vague instructions to “bear right across the field” and at some point I must have ended up “off piste”.

What was apparent was that I must be close to the Thurlibeer incline plane, as the remnants of the canal disappeared and I was faced with a rather fearsome looking climb in front of me. I puffed and panted my way up the slope, winding my way through the gorse bushes now in glorious yellow flower. Eventually nearing the top and looking for some reference point to perhaps relocate the path I was rewarded with the most wonderful view of rolling countryside and Marhamchurch away in the distance.

A gorgeous view back towards Marhamchurch after a strenuous climb

Forced to circuit some fields in search of a gate to exit, I did eventually find my way to the A3072, I had gone wrong somewhere, but not by much and was able to pick up the route again heading for Launcels Church. From here the route followed a path up through the church graveyards to an even more muddy pathway that would take me to Diddies Lane and hopefully eventually on to the riverside path which had provided the initial motivation to find this this hike in the first place.

I was back on public footpaths now, but sadly it is often the case that landowners will change gates or in some way remove signs such that whilst I picked up route markers at some points at others they were lacking and I was operating partly on educated guess work.

Eventually though, I did find the riverside path, where wooden bridges crossed and recrossed the River Strat,  and I found myself in Stratton.

Wooden bridges crossed and re-crossed the River Strat on my way to Stratton

From here I followed a circuitous route through the village, along cobbled streets and through archways which I never knew existed, despite that I had grown up close by. The churchyard here was awash with spring flowers and pretty as a picture, all the more lovely in the now bright sunshine as the clouds moved of for a short while.

A quaint archway leading between cottages in Stratton

Walking out of the village along Cott Hill I recognised that the only other time I had previously walked this route was back in the 70’s when we participated in a charity 50 mile road walk, which saw us hike through the night. I must have been a lot fitter then, because the way my legs were feeling after only about 8 miles didn’t suggest that I would manage a further 42. Distant memory suggests that motivation was most likely gained by illicit alcohol and tobacco more than some charitable initiative, but I can still claim to have completed the course, I don’t think that I would manage that today.

From here the path crosses another major road before heading up Stamford Hill, the site of a famous battle in May 1643 during the first English civil war. The battle saw the demise of some 300 of the “parliamentarian forces” and a further 90 royalists. Without worry of pikemen or musketeers I still had my own battle to reach the top of this steep incline, and was more than happy when eventually the path led me downwards again towards Bromhill Manor and the final push to reach home back in Bude.

The Battle of Stamford Hill is a famous battle from the British Civil War, also known as The Battle of Stratton

From the top of Stanford Hill one can just make out the sea in the distance and although still someway off, most of the route would be downhill from now on, my legs were thankful of that encouragement.

Finally, I emerged onto the local golf course, where public paths cross the fairways; although they are not clearly indicated and one always feels some level of concern that one might be taken out by an errant golf ball, sliced wildly from the 11th tee. Fortunately, there was no such mishap and I finally walked through the tarred streets of town, in receipt of more than a few odd looks from passers-by no doubt shocked by my overly muddy appearance.

Much of the trail was spectacularly muddy after all the winter rains and I must have looked quite a site on my return to “civilisation” and the tarmac streets of Bude

It had been a most interesting and enjoyable hike, although I confess perhaps a smidgen harder than I had planned for. But such outings merely go to confirm how fortunate one is to have access to all these paths. To be able to walk through history with it’s tales of cavaliers, pikemen, incline planes and canal boats and all the while not feel the slightest concern for one’s well-being, other than perhaps the risk of encountering an annoyed land owner or an amateur golfer.

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