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Following Rivers

6/15/2015

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Following a river is a wonderful experience.  To witness the birthing; a sloping hollow of hillsides, the ground fecund with water, saturated, it's trickling down through peat and mosses, gurgling, until it coalesces, the water becoming greater than the ground surrounding it and a pool is born, the pool overflows, water running down the side of the hill, finding a way around stones, pushing away flecks of earth, carrying them with it until it finds a grounding of stones to run over, always downhill, meeting other trickles until a stream becomes.  This is the birth of many a Welsh river, no surprise spout from the ground, no fountain of clear underground water but a draining of the water heavy hills, a gravity born collection of rain drainage.
And so the river begins its run to the sea and I will follow it, through all its many faces; of small trickling, mist laden moorland stream; to shaded pools, trees drooping their branches down into the water; branch choked, weed filled country river, fish chasing in and out of shadows; deep cool water, cows coming, lowing to drink; wide curves and loops culling and spitting the earth to shape ribbons through flood flattened valley, to white water, falling into gorges, rushing, pushing around boulders, grain by grain the water will carve holes in stone, shaping the land with its transient, unyielding force.  Finally the river will widen, become a great, unknowable mass, growing away from me, becoming sea.
These are the rivers of Wales, we fish in them, trade on them, drink from them, grow towns around them.  Around us they move, silently slipping from land to ocean.
First we followed the Tywi, my sister and I.  No planned route, just maps and a will to follow the river as closely as possible.  Away from the sea at Carmarthen, unfortunately it seemed that many people throughout history had already had the same idea and so there were roads on either side of the water, no footpaths just yet.  We had a couple of long days of road walking; hot, sticky, boring, faintly dangerous, looking out for cars, making sure they saw us as they rushed, sometimes too fast, towards their important destinations.  We walked, we drank water, we paused at bridges, in the welcome shade of tree lined gardens.  Sometimes the river came into view, shrinking incrementally as we passed the small streams flowing into it; we said hello, we paused to admire.  A nights camping in a field next to six small black ponies, woken early next morning by the confused owner; a night in a field high above the river valley, eating the usual couscous and mackerel, watching the sunset colours fade from the sky, peeped at by sheep and we reached Llandovery.  The river changed from there, smaller, straighter, no wide valley to twist around in, it was coming from the hills and we followed it up towards them.  The farms got bigger, the soil thinner, mountain sheep ranging wider for nibbles of juicy grass.  We came to the change that humans had wrought to this river, damming and trapping it, filling valleys, drowning habitat until the river rose to the hilltops and became Llyn Brianne, a jagged, stretched reservoir, five distinct corners where water drained into the pool from separate valleys.  We walked six miles around the curving sides, cars appearing far away and arriving to pass us minutes later.  Stopping for lunch in the roadside ditch, dry and grassy, feet and head sloping up to either side, perfect for resting, fighting sleep.  Out to the bridge on the other side and we were in the mid-Wales highlands, pine forests and wet moorlands, the river less now, running white around boulders, blurring at boggy edges.  We stopped overnight in Dolgoch hostel, a strange dark building, still with its feeling of a scratched survival in the harsh landscape, huge stone flagged floors, gas lighting running pipes along the walls, no electricity, solar showers, boil the water before drinking.  We meant to make it to the bothy but it was too far, we collapsed grateful into the soft sponge beds of Dolgoch and slept thick dark sleep in the silence of the valley.  Rain came overnight and hung around the next morning, mist whitening the hilltops and hanging thick in the trees.  We suited and booted up and pressed on - to the source!  Fording the river, ankle deep, a friendly brown stream, cold water tingling my tender feet leaving them freshened.  The next ford was not so friendly, knee deep and wide.  Luckily, just as we reached it, four Landrovers came along behind us; we stuck our thumbs out and grinned, they took us as passengers through the next three river crossings.  I felt bad about cheating.....but only a tiny bit.  It was worth the time and effort.  We got out where the river, a stream by now, split in two.  The Tywi disappeared into pine forest where it would slowly melt away into bog, no track to follow any more and just a reedy, boggy mess of land to cross.  We said goodbye and took the track curving around the side of the hill that birthed the river, watching the sides where the water drained down and formed the trickle that became the torrent that became the path we'd just followed, all the way from the sea at Carmarthen.
Less than three miles away, over the rolling, smooth hills, lay Llyn Teifi, source of another river, another birthing that would, again, trickle down, gathering strength, pushing earth away, carving a path to the sea.
The clouds thickened, tiny drizzling rain gathering around us.  The decision had to be made; over the hills or follow a path down into the valley and back up again, more safe, less bog.  No compass means we chose safety, not wanting to get lost in disorientating cloud.  So we walked, following the bridleways, through the dank and dripping forest, tree roots holding peat sludge, leather boots long since saturated, wet feet, socks, ankles, legs.  We walked into mist, following sheep tracks over hillsides, the maps showing a dropping down of the ground, the beginning of another draining, the water sitting in the ground until overflowing down the slope.  We followed down to a farm, then a track then a road before branching up to another farmhouse, abandoned this time, rabbits scurrying away from the front garden, wallpaper hanging ripped from the ceiling.  We peeked through the windows, the remnants of an elderly life still inside the house, wooden chairs and a worn laminated tablecloth, no frills washing powder and rusting tins of custard.
Dumped the bags and it was upwards, into Cwm Teifi and towards the lake, water rushing downwards past us and the mist clouding, confusing the path.  A red kite slammed past my sister, falling into the stream and then crawling out, head pushed into the bracken.  We watched, waiting for it to move before deciding that this was the bird's death and we had no power to interfere.  Upwards to the dam, climbing the side to the silent stretch of Llyn Teifi, a lake, sitting quietly with itself.
We took a ceremonial mouthful of the Dolgoch-boiled river Tywi water and spat it into Llyn Teifi.  The two rivers mingled and ran away from us as we followed them down the hillside, back towards the sea.
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Push

6/8/2015

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Walking all day and not stopping.  My legs power forward, my thighs taking the force of each booted step striking the ground, my calves springing me forward for the next plunge to earth.
I push I push I push, twisting with the small path, in the groove that other walkers have made before me, grasses brushing my ankles, nipping the bud growths from fresh green brambles that attempt to hang across my way. Most of the time the cliff falls away to my right side, down to jagged rocks submitting to the wash of the turquoise water.  The sun beats down, I walk on, sweating, push forward, don't stop.
I have no bag today, this is my chance to make good mileage, hours ahead of me and all I have to fill them is step upon step.  I pick a spot on the map, St Martins Haven, Freshwater East, Amroth and set myself the task of reaching it before the days end, before sun down, before my friendly host comes to pick me up.  It means walking fast, for hours without stopping - twisting my hips from side to side to bend around people, slower walkers without missions, curves in the path, bending forward to ascend slopes without slowing my pace, pushing up on strong thighs to climb the steps out of yet another idyllic small harbour. 
I pass the beaches, look down at the small coves with solitary trails of footsteps, inviting hours to be slept away or spent exploring, meandering over smooth sands, staring into rockpools, teasing your fingers over the pull of tiny tentacles.  I see all that, the leisurely hours I could spend, and I pass by, no time for detours.
I smear suncream onto reddening skin, a fruitless labour, it will sweat away again, leaving me burning, blistered.
I walk past small cafes, past wind shelters, sandcastles, dogs racing over tennis balls, shaded walkways and crowded caravan parks.  Past headlands, sediment layers jutting and folding into the sea.  Past islands, past jettys, past speedboats and tinkling boatyards, jovial boatowners, pensioners clipping flowers in quiet suburbs, lawn strimming, boat scraping, bringing shopping in from the car.  Crying children, sunburnt children, children running scampering into the sea, an entire family wearing jeans and hoodies wade into the water, one rounded mother, arms crossed, waits at the waters edge.
A wrinkled woman in a headscarf sits at the beach edge and watches her children's children finding special rocks to show her.  Flecked rocks, marbled rocks, heart shaped ones, drift wood, beach glass.
I pass in the background of every tableau, a fat woman, in black, walking quickly on my own quiet mission.
I breathe, I sweat, I swing my legs, I don't stop, today is a 19 mile day.
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The other side of cancer

6/7/2015

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Last week I met Sarah, another woman who is making her way through to the other side of ovarian cancer.  She messaged me to see if we could meet, another woman post-diagnosis, who’s made use of the same charities I did.

I felt nervous as I approached our meeting point, the road bridge crossing into Pembroke Dock, high above the river Cleddau.  We walked towards each other, small figures coming far from either end of the mile long bridge, growing closer until we embraced, wind blowing hair into our faces.

There was small talk until we reached the pub and could embark on the real thing – the exchange of cancer stories.  Gary, her partner, smiled quietly, familiar with this relaying of history.  We shared our diagnoses; holding up fists to describe the size of tumours, describing the unfolding, the progression of a cancer diagnosis, the details of the gradual discovery that all was not well, in fact, something was truly terrible.  The ovary that burst in the body before the surgeon touched it.  The mystery fluid that filled lungs, disappearing as the doctor stood poised with exploratory needle.  Naked, hurt bodies, exposed and quivering.   Each nugget of detail assumes mighty importance in the traumatised teller; we knew how it is when your mortality is in question and all you can do is wait, small scraps of information giving definition, giving hope.

We shared the before and after of cancer, of finding your way in a new and uncertain world, post upheaval, everything has changed, newly unreliable and you must navigate your way in this new landscape, return to yourself again.  She understood the upheaval of cancer, the loss of safety, of a known world where your body works as expected, as it should.

We shared our shock at diagnosis, our ignorance of the symptoms and our common desire to take action.  Action as healing, action as strength, action to seek to change things, to make other women more aware, more protected.  To make the experience of others better than our own, to give women the power we didn’t have back then, before everything collapsed – knowledge of their own bodies.

It was a short meeting, they had to get back home after a short holiday and I walked on, towards the house where I could stay that night.  Hugs outside the pub, a quick photo and they were gone.  I felt a bit stunned when I left Sarah, reeling from the quick dip into another’s cancer story, and later in the evening I realised how much I’ve come away from that world – the chaos of medical treatment. 

It’s three years later and I trust my body again; this time to carry me for miles every day and not collapse.  I’ve walked back to normality over thousands of miles, nights of camping, days of sunlight, of soft grass, of beautiful views and contemplative solitude.  I’ve walked my way to health; my body is strong, solid with muscle, resilient, tough.  My body is capable.

The challenge I’ve set myself is so big it’s eclipsed cancer, it takes such total focus to walk 3500 miles, such concerted effort that I’ve burnt the fear of illness out of myself.  I’ve walked 2700 miles; I’m strong and healthy; cancer is behind me.  I may be talking about ovarian cancer, handing out symptoms cards, raising money for two cancer charities but this is all for others.  My own cancer story is almost finished; I’ve come through to the other side.  Two more years of check ups before I get the all clear but I already feel free.

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    Walking round Wales, for charity....have I mentioned that anywhere else?

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