I am walking while wanting to hide.  I am hiding while wanting to walk.  It's been a strange week, this time of return, of spring, of newness, re-beginnings.  I felt immediately happier on my return to Wales, the warmth of the colours, the sharp increase in the dimensions of my horizons.  No more being hemmed in by grey buildings, exhaust smoke hanging in a flat landscape, so flat that canals provided most of the nature walking, no.  Here was blue sea, sun sparkling on lakes, heather lined paths, Anglesey in the distance, patches of snow on high mountains as the sun coloured my face down by the flat marshes.  Instead of a walk to hospital, always thinking of timings, the beginnings and ends of visits, now I had entire days and open landscapes, grass springing under my feet as sheep raised their heads to watch me pass, noses flaring after a trace of my scent.

This made me happy, the daffodils, the dawn chorus, the rain falling wet outside as I lay dry on a dusting of dead leaves and bat shit in a quiet, long forgotten building.  Deep swellings of joy came with the rediscovery of positive sensation, that a beautiful world still existed away from suburbs and hospitals.

My feet felt better, the pain of long overuse dimmed by inactivity so that I could feel the gentler sensations of the stretching and strength of my leg muscles.

I've enjoyed it, lots of this week.  But I've also felt deeply sad, there's a lot of shock that needs to trickle out of me.  Normally I'd hide, hibernate.  I'm 35 years old and I know my ways by now, the ways I deal with stress and they are - solitude and unhealthy food.  You may think that an extended daily walk would provide the solitude I need but it doesn't somehow.  I need to hibernate, not sit alone on a rock in an open landscape with a farmer on a quad bike ready to come buzzing over the horizon or fellow sensibly clad walker nearby, I need undisturbed alone.

So I've done my best with what I've got.  First it was a caravan in the garden of Dianna, Dyffryn Ardudwy.  I made my excuses as soon as I was able, escaping to the caravan sofa balancing a tray containing teabags, a jug of milk.  I stayed with her for three nights, eating chocolate cake and drinking blackcurrant whisky as I walked down from Maentwrog to Llwyngwyril, Dianna very kindly ferrying me daily between pick up and drop off points.

Then I went straight to Abergynolwen, a full day of road walking, turning inland from the coastal path towards Llanfihangel-y-pennant, the beginning of the Mary Jones Walk, a 56 mile detour to Bala and back.  "My house is empty" said Sarah, another lovely woman that I'd previously stayed with on the Coast to Coast walk, on my way between Swansea and Conwy, "I could leave the key under a rock by the front door".
What I meant to do was arrive Saturday afternoon and leave the next morning, walk along the route, probably to Bala before hitching to Bristol on Wednesday morning to arrive for a hospital check-up, 2.45pm.
What I've actually done is stay there until now, today, Tuesday.  Sleeping until ten every morning, walking around six miles on Sunday, around to the next valley and back again, visiting the house of Mary Jones, staying in the house all day Monday, trying to write, mostly succeeding.
I've felt bad about this at many points during the weekend.  I'm here to walk, I should be walking.  My limited budget is stretched to breaking point, there is no time to hang around, I need to keep going, keep pushing onwards, keep bloody walking....I am on a long distance walk after all.  But the other side of me says Calm down, you can take as long about this as you need, it's been an intense two months, take the time alone to do nothing that you clearly need. 
It's hard.  I guess is the shortened version of this entire post.  Now I'm in Cardiff, having successfully hitched down here with a nice elderly couple from Abergynolwen and a nice lorry driver from Senghenydd (hi Trevor and Jane, hi Tucker).  Next thing I'll do is get a train to Bristol, tomorrow I'll go to hospital to check to see if my cancer has come back (prediction in advance - probably not) and then I'll hitch to Nottingham to see my brother for the weekend. 
Then, next Monday I'll head back to Abergynolwen to continue walking.  Perhaps I was right to take that break where I could.  Now I write it all down it seems pretty hectic, actually.

Life has changed again.  I left the walk on the 1st of February, a brother in a car accident, said the policeman on the phone, serious condition.  The only train that day took me away from Porthmadog, winding its way around the coast and estuary into farmland then towns then Birmingham, the midlands, no distance to the horizon, buildings as far as the eye could see, and into the heart of Nottingham where, waiting for me, lay a brother, prone, the wise nurse at the end of the bed guiding him through his coma, machines beeping a jagged lullaby.

I've been there, waiting and watching as he moved again, as he talked again and as he walked again. 

Before this, before the 1st of Febuary, my life was fixed and focused on one thing, completing the walk of thousands of miles I'd set myself.  I walked through pain, through bad weather, up and over hundreds of hills, down into sheep lined valleys.  My heart flew free above me, despite pain and privation I was happier than I could ever been in a job, in a house, in the snarings of a civilised life.
Now I'm torn, my focus ripped away from the walk and targeted on my brothers life, first his survival and then his achievements, his long term future.

I don't know where I am, coming back here, only that it's the only thing left to do.  It feels like Rumplestiltskin in reverse.  I'm returning from a dream to the same life, same mountains, same sea, same gossips in village shops, same ovarian cancer, same boots, same rucksack.  It's only me that's changed; I've been to death and back again and now I'm different.

It all feels a bit futile now, this walk, this sunshine, these cancer charities.  I'm sure it will change, I'll feel a bit different.  I just need to keep acting as if this is normal and the jumble inside me will slowly unravel, leaving me free to enjoy the final thousand miles.  Months of Welsh coastline still to come, another six rivers to follow and a target of ten thousand pounds to raise for charity.  I'll do it because it's all there is.

I haven't walked for more than seven weeks.  Another huge break, another delay added on to this target time that is fast becoming farcial.  Eight months this was supposed to take me, eight months has become almost thirteen and I'm only two thirds of the way through, over 1000 miles still to go.

I've still got my kit, I have the framework of what I'm supposed to do, I'm supposed to walk every day, camp at night, tell people about the journey, raise money for charity, it's all there ready for me to step into.

My feet feel better, it's great to have almost two months of not walking, the muscles have relaxed in my legs, the tendons healed, much less pain and tenderness.

I took a break because my brother had a car accident, almost died and suffered a brain injury.  I've been away for almost two months visiting him in the hospital, taking care of his life, supporting him as he recovered. 
He's not better yet, I'll be taking regular breaks from walking every week or so to go back and visit him.

I've come back to this because it's the only thing I was doing, there's no point in going back to Mach, leaving the journey unfinished.  I need to come back to the walk and pick up the strings of what I put down on the 1st of Feb, follow the trail I've left for myself all the way down to Cardiff then Bristol then back home to Machynlleth.  I'll do it because it's all there is.