I met a woman in a pub last night.  It was a small pub that wasn't even mentioned on the OS map; I walked through the quiet village planning to knock on the door of a house to ask for water, making a U-turn as I spotted the pub sign.  It was the kind of rural place where the conversation of about ten people stopped completely as I walked through the door, not in a hostile way but just to see what the hell was going on with the flags, the sweat, the big rucksack.  I sat down, puffed a bit and explained what I was doing.  They were all very nice, if slightly bemused at this alien presence and I handed a few symptom cards out and received about 20 pounds in donations.  One woman was really impressed, "That's a cause very close to my heart" she said, "and other parts of my body."  She was coming back into the pub as I left, having been for a cigarette; she gave me a piece of paper with the address of the cafe she worked in and invited me for breakfast the next morning.  "What you're doing is brilliant" she said, touching my arm, and suddenly tears were in her eyes and I realised that this was a woman hiding pain beneath a layer of bustle and joviality.
I walked away from the village, up a bridleway to a field full of sheep where I lay down to sleep and thought about this journey and all the tales of ovarian cancer I've heard, other cancers too.  Somehow it seems that by my standing up to say "I have had this cancer" it draws other people to tell me their stories in return.
There's the man, dealing with me in his professional capacity who leant forward and said in a low voice, "My mother has it." We exchanged a glance and no more words, it wasn't his time to speak about it.
There's the woman who recognised me in the hospital, her head wrapped in a colourful scarf.  Her cancer was advanced, she was seeing the doctor to decide on a second course of chemotherapy.
A woman at the next table to me in a cafe suddenly started telling me about how she was waiting for the results of her genetic testing, how her mother had died of ovarian cancer and she was being tested for the BRAC1 (I think) gene.  She'd been waiting for her results for eight weeks.
The electrician who'd just taken his wife for tests that day, suspected ovarian tumour.
The woman in Lidl who asked me "What are you doing?" as I lent my flags against the fruit display to put some bananas in a plastic bag.  "I was meant to meet you today.  My sister in law has just been diagnosed and she's waiting for surgery", we talked for a while about encapsulated tumours.
There's the woman in the beer tent at a festival who called me back to the table after I put some symptoms cards into the centre, her eyes large.  She only said that she'd had recent abdominal surgery and we talked and talked and talked in whispers about the ways we'd found to recover from pain and trauma.
In a cafe in the Rhondda valley and in a pub in Connahs quay they said "Someone died of that quite recently"
I was helped a great deal by a woman whose mother and best friend had died of the same illness, who had driven her friend to all her chemotherapy sessions.
I was met by a woman in Welshpool whose mother died of ovarian cancer and now speaks for the charity Ovarian Cancer Action in Wales, trying to do the same thing I'm doing - raise awareness, raise awareness.
It's not just ovarian cancer I get to hear about.
There's the truck that stopped on the quiet mountain road the other day to see what I was doing.  "My dad died of cancer" said the Merthyr Tydfil man driving, and gave me 20 pounds.
There's the woman in a remote area of mid-Wales who froze when I said the words Penny Brohn.  She'd had breast cancer fifteen years previously and still followed their diet guidelines. 
There are so so many more than this, my memories are becoming too full to hold all the people that I meet.
They're all so hidden, these personal stories, until the moment when a person walks up to me and says one sentence. The woman who approaches me in a city cafe - "I have womb cancer."
It gives me a sense of the multitudes of people carrying pain or fear or trauma, past and present. I don't mean this in a negative, depressing way but in the way that this forms a part of what life is; that an inescapable part of this glorious, incredible life is dealing with illness and death and that is ok.
I do what I can in these moments, I say "That sounds hard" or "Are you ok now?" and I listen to as much of their story as they want to tell me.  I try and hold even a little of bit of their troubles for them, just by being a person who listens.

Some 430 women are diagnosed with ovarian cancer each year in Wales.
Some 250 women will lose their lives to ovarian cancer each year in Wales.
Together, these women have partners, children, grandchildren, friends, family, neighbours getting into the tens of thousands.  That's a lot of stories.

Since I finished the festival, here's a list of what I've been doing........
Day One
Woke up refreshed in Knighton, ready for the drive down to Cwmbran with Rebecca and Phil, my mid-Wales walking supporters.  The main and most upsetting thing that happened, immediately upon my arrival in Cwmbran was the idiotic leaving of my phone on the bonnet of their van.  I put my rucksack on, we said our goodbyes, I waved them off, walked away.....and ten minutes later searched for my phone.  It was a horrible feeling, I knew straight away it was gone, I'd left it on the bonnet, they'd driven away.  I walked back and searched the ground around the dropping point.  Nothing.  I walked into the shopping centre that makes up the centre of Cwmbran, found a phone shop, demanded that they let me use their phone and internet, phoned Rebecca.  There was nothing on the bonnet of the van, they pulled over, searched the engine, there was no phone there.  Tears were streaming from me, I was closing my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose, trying not to break down in the middle of the shop.  I've been talking to people over the last few weeks, or rather, they've been talking to me, telling me I should secure the phone, be careful not to lose it, back up my photos.  I did none of these things.  All my photos from the first four months of the walk are gone.  All those memories of little corners, rest breaks on the sides of hills, stiles filled with nettles, inscrutable looks from curious animals, all the silly little things that weren't worth uploading for other people.  Gone.  It was a real real blow. It was so hard, but I also knew I had to swallow it - I don't believe in feeling sad about things you can't affect.  The phone was gone, get over it.  It took me all day mind you, I had a little cry, a little mourn, a little sob on the phone to my brother.  I sorted out a temporary number, did my admin things in the town, new maps, post office and carried on.  Nothing to do but walk.
It wasn't much of a distance that day, only down the canal, across a hill to Risca and then another hillside and down to Machen where a woman called Samantha Minas had offered me a bed.  I walked it slowly and steadily, taking a short nap by the side of the road until I was rudely awoken by a shouting motorist.  I stopped in at a pub on the way for some water, it was hot and sunny, as it has been all week and I need to keep topping up.  I met the woman behind the bar, early 60s with beautiful big eyes and nicely cut blonde hair. She gave me a jug of water to guzzle and somehow we started talking about good and evil; she told me what she felt about the different facets of evil and how it can be hidden behind beautiful faces.  I suddenly felt that she was a witch - in the traditional wise woman sense. It was a real surprise to meet her behind a bar in a rural pub; but then all ordinary people have sparks of greatness within them, it just flashes more brightly in certain people.

Anyway, I walked on, up the final steep climb and down past the quarry into Machen.  A man stopped me on the road and asked to take my picture, turned out he was the photographer for the South Wales Argus, the Newport area paper.  He showed me the way to Samantha's house and we had a short chat - he told me about the man he'd met a few months back, 67 years old and walking around the world, pushing his belongings in a buggy in front of him.  Slow but steady, slow but steady.

Samantha was lovely, a very calm, beautiful woman, riding the waves of her particular life with a trancendent strength and spirit.  She provided good food, a shower, a washing machine, a comfy bed,  a packed lunch and a small glimpse into her life.  Just another example of the multitude of amazing strangers I've met during this tangled journey.

Day Two
I had the idea, as we were having breakfast, that I should phone the Argus and ask if they wanted to do a story about me.  I did and they did.  They wanted to send a photographer to meet me at Caerphilly Castle, another 5 miles along the road.  What time?  they said.  I, in my eager to please manner, named a time that was just a bit too early.  Damm, now I would have to rush.  I gulped my coffee, hugged Samantha (no camera for a photo, dammit but I hope to meet her again in Pembrokeshire) and set off along the long straight main road to Caerphilly.  I'd have to walk fast, I was almost definitely going to be late.  Well, things happened, I stopped to pat a dog, cars beeped and waved at me (the flags were a great decision by the way) and finally, a silver car pulled up beside me. "I own an ice cream parlour about 100 yards down the road, go in there and tell them that Richard said you could have a free icecream."
When, in life, did you ever dream that such a thing would happen????
I rushed into the parlour, ran through my story to the giggling girls behind the counter, met Richard's wife, had my photo taken, gave out some cards and rushed out again....no time to stop properly.  The icecream was bloody lovely too.
The phone rang as I was on the outskirts of Caerphilly - the photographer.  I jumped on a bus, met him at the castle, had a few photos taken and got him to drop me back at the same bus stop on his way back to Newport so I could finish the walk into Caerphilly.  An hour at a cafe (it was a fast walk and I needed a rest!), an hour in the library and I was ready to head on.  All I had to do for the rest of the day was walk up to the high hills to the north west and curl around on a long road towards Pontypridd.  There was no point walking all the way down into Ponty as it would be getting towards bedtime and would be too late to find a nice, safe, quiet bed on the other side of town.  Better to walk a slightly shorter day and make myself a nice bed somewhere up in the hills. 

I walked along a quiet country road, waving my flag at cars as they came around corners to make sure they slowed down for me in plenty of time.  There were two pubs on the way, I called in at both of them of course.  The first one just for water and a nice chat with the locals; it was obviously a very friendly, well loved kind of pub where everyone knows each other, the kind of pub I really enjoy finding in quiet country places.  I chatted a bit, filled my water bottle up, received a few donations, set off again.  Another hour or so brought me to the common land where sheep were wandering across the roads. I made it to another pub, a pint this time and another chat with the locals and the landlord, more donations, more good wishes.

I left close to sundown, only wanting to find a bed.  Unfortunately it seemed that I was wandering into the Pontypridd young couple's prime sunset watching spot.  There were cars every quarter of a mile or so and litter covered the cropped grass.  I carefully avoided looking too closely at any of the parked vehicles and carried on, hoping to find somewhere quieter. The road started to curve down towards the town and I started to worry.  There would have been a good spot in the woods but first there were fences and then there was another family camping in the woods, children's shouting filled the air and i moved on.  Finally I discovered a gap in the fence and found myself on the edge of the Pontypridd golf course; perfect.  I wasn't on the course itself but at the edge of an adjacent field, the grass had been cropped for silage and I found a level, sheltered spot.  A few drops of rain and some threatening murky clouds made me experiement with putting my shelter up; I'm still trying to find a good design that I can put up alone without struggling as one pole falls over before I can get the other one taught enough.  If only I was friends with Ray Mears....

Day Three
Woken by people walking their dogs and it wasn't even 6am....what??  I rolled over and slept again until 7 then packed up and walked down the hill to breakfast on a park bench in Pontypridd.  It sounds silly and very obvious but the big difference between this part of Wales and the rest of the country is the number of people tucked down in the valleys.  As I walked across the hill tops I could see the Wales I was familiar with, miles of hills, sheep, wind turbines, beautiful views.  But the valley bottoms were different; instead of scattered farmhouses, maybe a small village they were full with rows of houses, terraced houses all looking the same and creeping in lines, high up the sides of the valley, each settlement with a fast, dual carriageway splitting it in two, filling the air with the noise of traffic.  It was a real shock to see how heavily populated each valley was, all the towns running into one another along the long, thin valley floors. 

It was meant to be a short forest walk over the hill to Ynysybwl but somehow what started as a path turned into a steep sided river bed and I found myself crawling under fallen trees and scrambling through brambles.  I've followed many paths on this journey, human paths, sheep tracks, badger paths through steep woods and now the paths that water makes across a landscape.  I found a human path again and set to following the right direction over to the next town, the woods were crisscrossed with options and I kept randomly choosing left or right, just trying to head in the right direction.  Eventually I came to a thin trail between fences which came out at a layby.  The shocking thing about this layby was that there was a bed in it.  The bed was on fire.

It was a fresh fire, licking over the surface of the plastic based fabrics covering the bed base; the bed had been carefully piled up, the drawers pulled out and placed on top, along with some empty beer cans.  The fire wasn't really catching, probably thanks to modern fire restistant fabrics but just licked along the surfaces of the bed, it was a slow trickle of burning rather than a blaze.  I watched the fire and thought about the person, there so recently, who had pulled up, unloaded a bed by the side of the road in the countryside, set fire to it, imagining that this was a great way to destroy what you didn't want and just driven away.  So much ugliness and stupidity, it was shocking to see such an aberation in the peace of the quietly growing countryside.  The plastics of the bed dripped fire onto the ground, it wasn't hot enough for the wood to catch fire so I just let it smoulder away.  It's also a surprise, in our carefully controlled country to come across an unsupervised fire.  It felt dangerous.

I carried on into Ynysybwl, a woman called to me from her front garden "What are you doing?  Do you need anything?"  Yes!  I grabbed the chance to refill my water bottle and have a wee!  We had a nice little chat and I moved on again, through the village.  I stopped at the furthest edge, a short rest before moving up into the forestry.  It's been so hot all week, I'm sweating and sweating and need to stop to keep drinking water.  My feet are also unused to walking; just a week's break means I need to break them in all over again.  It's a certain kind of pain, the tendons and ligaments are complaining as I force them to stretch out again in a regular walking motion - they forgot what this was like, life at full stretch and have creased and cramped back into their usual, strolling positions.
People kept getting off the bus at the stop nearby and enquiring about what I was doing; they'd all seen me walking through the village and were curious about me.  I gave out more cards, received more donations. 

Up into the forestry of St Gwynno Forest where I rescued another sheep - this time with its head stuck in the entrance to a water trough which makes a total of three sheep rescued from getting stuck somewhere, I'm starting to think they might be stupid - I also got told off, mildly, by a farmer for going through the wrong field.  He was young, about 17 and looked incredibly pleased with himself as he showily pulled up beside me on his massive shiny red steed, I mean, quad bike.  Direction corrected, I proceeded into the forest where there is, surrounded by trees, where two roads meet, a small collection of five houses, a church and a thriving pub called the Brynffynon Hotel. I spent a happy hour there filling up on water and beer, I was bought a dangerous (for 3pm) second pint by the owner and received a lovely 20 pound donation from the same.  I left, slightly slurry, met more friendly people outside and headed out of the forest and down towards Tylorstown.

It was....still hot, the sun beating down endlessly.  It makes me tired very quickly in the heat, I sweat buckets and keep wanting to stop for rests.  I got lost on the way down the steep hillside and found myself on the wrong side of a spur, almost in Wattstown, another clinging, hillside estate.  I would have gone along the road but was directed back up the hill by a friendly farm worker.  He, Jeff, also invited me to stay at his house, because of all the hospitality he received when he was travelling in New Zealand but I had another couple of miles I wanted to do that day so it was too soon to stop.  I came down into Tylorstown, stopped to pick up some food and icecream and headed out again, up yet another steep valleyside towards Penrhys.  Now, since I met a biker couple from the Rhondda over in Monmouth, people had been warning me about the Penrhys estate - apparently a notorious place about 20 years ago people didn't have much good to say about it.  "If you want to buy drugs, just ask any 8 year old."  "Don't take your donation tin in there, it'll get ripped off in minutes." "It'll be alright during the day but don't go in there after dark."  Well, guess what.  I emptied the notes out of the tin, shoved them in my bra, headed on up the steep steep hill into the estate and around the edge.....and was totally ignored.  Well that's not even true actually, I paused for a rest half way up, it really was a very steep road running round the edge of the estate, turned round to look behind at the view of the two valleys running either side of the Mynydd Troed-Y-Rhiw dead ahead and noticed a group of people sitting in their back garden staring at me, about 50m away.  I temporarily forgot that I was in the deadliest, most drug ridden and violent estate ever in the whole of Wales, lifted my flag and waved at them.  They waved back.  I carried on, unmolested.

I came up out of the back of the settlement, past a small pine plantation and out into the long grass of the open, high hillside.  The sun was starting to set far away and nearby, tall wind turbines continued their slow powerful circuits.  I walked about a half mile away from the houses, turned away from the path carved by motorbikes, people and vehicles and into the long grass to find a bed.  The grass waved gently in the wind and the sky turned slowly into the pale gold and lilac of a summer evening.  I heard voices behind me and realised that a family were making their way home after a walk.  Would they see me?  I really hoped they wouldn't, if anyone sees where I'm camping I have to move; if they were going to come back and bother me later on they'd only find a flattened patch of grass.  I lay flat, with my head turned towards the path.  First came the sound of the dog, hurrying and panting, then the high calls of the son, excited.  Then came the father, I could just see his head and shoulders, slow and ponderous.  Then came two women talking together in their singsong south Wales accents.  None of them turned their heads or saw me and their voices faded away down the hillside towards home. 
Much later, when the sky was a deep dark blue, a jeep came roaring up through the grass and I lay flat again, hoping they wouldn't turn their heads.  They didn't, each way and I nestled down into my comfortable sleeping spot.  It was a beautiful night, I remember waking up as I turned over and deciding to lie on my back for a while and look at the stars.  It only lasted a few seconds before I faded down into the darkness again but I remember thinking about the deep peace of simply being a body lying on the earth.  The grass waved over me, rustling quietly, all night.

Day Four
I had a big day that day, my brother was coming to meet me, park his car and walk with me for a few days.  Maesteg would be the best place to park up so I had to walk right over there to meet him by 5pm.  So, down into Pentre in the Rhondda Valley, into a cafe for a breakfast cup of tea that turned into half an hour of chats and donations with the owner and the customers, people kept coming in and being told about me and they kept giving money.  Just a few coins or even the occasional fiver but it all adds up, and it means a lot, when you're in one of the poorer areas of the country.  A pot of tea was 80p in that cafe and was bigger than the $2.50 mug I got served in an unfriendly upmarket gastropub near Chester where everyone ignored me.  It's a small thing perhaps but, to me, meant a great deal.
I hurried on through the town; only waylaid by one man who wanted to tell me how much he loved the Rhondda - he'd been working away for years, no jobs here, forced to go over the bridge but finally, at the age of 50 he'd gone self employed and was finding work in the valley, being recommended to people, installing windows.  He felt great about it and seeing as I wasn't from round here he thought he'd stop and ask what I was doing.  I crossed the railway into Ton Pentre and set off up the steep hillside, headed for a bridleway which would take me over the Mynydd Mendy and across the Bwlch.  It was hot, so hot and my steps slowed up the steep pavement.  It wa a relief when someone called over to me - "What are you doing?  Do you want a cup of tea?"  It was the Cherry's; Mr, Mrs and two daughter Cherrys.  I went inside for a quick glass of squash and a chat; they were lovely, trying to force more water or snack bars into my rucksack.  I had to force myself to leave but I had to get on, somehow it had become half eleven already.  I trudged up the steep hillside, onto the tops, I could see for miles across the hill tops, turbines waving in the distance, just pine plantations and sheep covering the land, with houses nestled into the crevices of the land below - the opposite of how we used to live, no longer do we need lookouts or the safety of the height advantage.  I walked a few miles over to where the mountain road from the Rhondda came up and met up with the Bridgend county boundary.  The views were spectacular, I had no idea that what I thought was such a downtrodden, post-industrial area was so gorgeous.  I had a great chat with the jolly man running the icecream van at the top - he used to inspect sewers, now he sells icecream and couldn't be happier.  Hah.
On I went, across the road and up another sharp climb to walk along a cliff edge, the land dropping away down to the Ogmore valley below, the road winding in Alpine curves below me.  I was making good time, another couple of miles along a stony track brought me past a collection of radio masts and over to the head of the Pontycymer valley.  The land swelled gently downwards and there ahead was another set of cliffs, I had to climb up the side of them at a really steep angle and walk along the top into a forestry plantation - this day was really taking it out of me and I was only about two thirds of the way through it.  Coming down through the forestry I got lost, the trees had been felled, leaving a confusing and difficult mess of stumps, branches, ankle rolling dips and baby brambles; there was supposed to be a footpath winding its way through this but I couldn't find it.  I looped around on the forestry roads, always making my way downwards and trying to orientate myself with the houses I could see in the farmland just below me.  My brother called, he'd arrived at the village of Llangynwyd where I'd suggested he park the car and would come walking towards me.  "Slowly" I said, knowing it would take me a while to get to the road where we could easily find each other.  I came down through the bracken to the highest farm on the hillside, now there was just a funny little trapezoid of footpaths before I could get to the straight road and the final 3 miles to Llangynwyd.  I came down across a stony, somehow industrial clearing and down to the corner of a field.  The map said there should be a path there but all I could see was a rusty gate and on the other side of it, head high brambles.  No Way.  I searched around for another way through, on one side there was a stream, on the other a high barbed wire fence, the land rising so I'd have to climb a bank before starting on the fence.  I decided to cross the stream, maybe the path was on the other side.  The steep bank started out being covered by Himalayan Balsam, not too bad but eventually, as I climbed higher, thrashing my way forward, the brambles came creeping in until I was struggling in a morass of thorns and scratches.  "I'm going back!" I suddenly shouted, at the end of my tether and started crying as I picked my way back down the bank.  "This is stupid!  I hate everything!" I blubbered like a child having a tantrum.  I was back at the gate again, there was no way I could cross it, it was pure brambles on the other side.  I fought through the trees, branches catching my hair and realised I could pull my way up the bank and climb onto a cleared patch, leading to barns and a house.  "You're going the wrong way" a woman called to me.  "I know, I'm sorry" I called as I came closer.  If you're trespassing, always apologise, even if it was the stupid brambles fault.  I wiped away the tears as I came closer but the couple sitting outside having an evening drink could still tell I was in a bit of a state - sweaty, wild hair, scratches all over my hands and arms.
I'd started the day at 400m altitude, dropped to 150, climbed again to 500, another few drops and climbs of 100 metres meant I'd climbed a bloody mountain that day, as well as walking 17 miles in the high summer sun and getting caught in a nest of brambles.
"Let me get you a drink" she said and I had a quick glass of squash and a chat, mostly about footpath permissions and angry farmers.  I hurried on, just a half mile away from my brother.  Finally I came to the road and there he was, my bro.  Come to meet me in his summer holidays, complete with new phone and a great fund of stupid jokes.  We covered the last few miles to Llangynwyd, I was really tired by that point; if I hadn't been coming to meet him I would have camped up on the hills.  The pub more than made up for all the effort though.  The oldest pub in Wales!  There's been a pub on that site in Llangynwyd since 1147.  "Who's this now with the flags?" they were saying as I walked in.  "Long distance walk for charity!" I carolled, my magic words.  "I've walked over from Penrhys and I've been thinking about drinking a pint in this pub for hours!" I really had, the hot sun drying out my mouth and I imagined that first sip of cold lager, sitting down with my feet up. Oh yeah.
Well, within 2 minutes came a wonderful wave of friendship and generosity.  Have a drink, on my tab, said Lee.  Have a shower at my house across the road, said Karen.  There's a caravan in the garden, you can sleep in it if you want, said the landlord.  I sat there a bit stunned, trying to keep up with all the quips and conversation coming my way.  There was a really funny man in the corner who just got it; when I explained what I was doing and how I was travelling.  "Freedom!" he said.  "Exactly mate" and I toasted him.
"Is it always like this?" said my brother.  "Of course!" I lied, "all the time!"
It is, in a way, just not as concentrated as in that particular pub on that particular night.
I had my shower, we had our pints, Karen and Lee invited us over for breakfast the following morning and we were the last to leave the pub, the poor barmaids sitting and texting as we chatted unthinkingly, not realising that everyone else had gone home.

Day Five
Fuzzy headed, we dragged ourselves out of bed early, popped in for a quick cuppa and headed out.  We only had to go down to Margam Park, see the abbey and stately home before almost turning back on ourselves to head up into the forestry to the west of Maesteg and over towards Neath.  We were sorry and slow, heads throbbing a little, at least mine was anyway.  We came over the hill and found a glorious view of the Bristol Channel and the Port Talbot steelworks, smoke and fire belching into the air. Unfortunately, Margam Park turned out to be a bit frustrating, we'd come into it through the back way and couldn't find the way out!  There were only paths and gardens, an ornamental fishpond and a fairytale children's enclosure.  We wondered aimlessly, not really able to reach a decision about which direction to go in, surrounded by families on nice days out, staring at the travellers in their midst. Eventually we escaped into a car park, at least half a mile away from where we wanted to be.  It was a long, slow walk back to the path and unfortunately the next bit of the path was a steep climb through difficult, tiring long reeds and grass at the end of a farm track, up to the forestry above Margam.  The path disappeared and we fought through long bracken before collapsing in the welcome shade of the pine trees to have lunch.
There followed a trek through the forestry until about 5pm.  We could have continued up and over one more hill and further north but decided to cut left and down to the ex-colliery village of Bryn.  There was one pub, full of about 10 older gentlemen who had clearly been coming and sitting in the same seats for years upon years.  The pub didn't do food but were preparing a meal for the cricket team who'd been playing away and the barman took pity on us and bought a very welcome bowl of chips into the back room for us.  Another few hours passed, feet up, comparing aches and pains, Owen had a blister coming and I have a small hole in the side of my foot where a thorn got into my shoe.  We came out of the pub earlier that night and walked up into a nature reserve, fresh grown grass covering over the old slag heaps, the faded remnants of the mining industry that used to employ all the men sitting up in the pub on the hillside.  We bedded down in the heather as a mist came over the valley.  The air was still hot and close but it was good to get some water into the ground.

Day Six
A frustrating morning.  Another day of disappearing paths and bramble fighting.  We were trying to cut around the hillside to join the other side of the forestry at Afan Argoed but the paths were non-existent.  I wanted to give up and go around, finding myself sick and tired of energy sapping undergrowth thrashing but my brother was fresh to the fight and we tried to find pathways, my bro forging ahead through brambles and bracken.  Eventually we found our way to a bridleway and a route between the hills to the next valley, Cwm Afan.  There was a choice between another hillside thrash or a road walk.  We chose the road walk, both of us a bit knackered.  Me from the unexpected extra booze and my bro from the unexpected toll that long distance walking takes on your feet.

I've been writing this for hours now and can't keep staring at this tiny screen.  I'll only say that.....Neath is a bit smelly and lots of men keep staring at my chest.  But, the cafe this morning was lovely, the Tea Cosy, where I was met by a photographer from the local paper.  He had me posing for a photo pretending to walk away, holding a cup that the cafe owner was pouring tea into.  My bro has gone back to Derbyshire, I've had a great couple of days with him; he's sorted me out with another phone so I can carry on taking photos and............my body feels.....knackered but ok.  My feet ache a bit, my back feels fine, my rucksack is too heavy, as ever and it really bloody smells.  Honestly, the next time I find myself in a house with a bath I MUST, I really must soak it with a tub of bicarbonate of soda.  Seriously.

I've walked a thousand miles; it's taken me four months to do this.  The time has come now, when I meet people on my journey and tell them these two facts, their eyes widen and they look at me with a slight, I don't know.  Amazement, wonder.  Basically the question on their faces is WHAT?

So it gets me thinking; why am I doing this thing that people find so strange?  What is driving me to walk every day for a year, to sleep outside, to push myself physically beyond what people feel is normal.

I had an ovarian tumour removed two years ago; I'm not in the mood to tell my cancer story right now, let it merely be said that I had what the doctors have told me is a removable cancer but, understandably it was still a massively traumatic thing to happen.

Before cancer I was travelling, I'd just finished a kayak journey following the length of the Danube and was planning to live in Bulgaria for the winter and make my way back to Britain on foot.  Cancer cut my life in half, or it forced a sudden and immediate change of direction.  Whereas before my illness I was deliberately without timings, schedules and plans, living as far as possible a free and spontaneous life and completely secure in my abilities to do whatever I wanted; now I found myself constrained, constricted.  My -physical body was hurt and couldn't function as it wanted and suddenly I had a timetable, appointments stretching out five years into the future.  Five years!  For me, accustomed to having a six month plan, at the end of which I could be living in any European country, doing any job I set my mind to, to be forced to a timetable like this was awful.

About six months after the worst period I looked at a map and realised the mountain behind my house, Plynlimon birthed two rivers which ran past Bristol, the river Severn and the river Wye.  I could walk to my hospital appointment in Bristol down one of them and walk home up another.  So I did.  380 miles.  It was to test myself, to see if I could handle the outdoor life again, to see how much my illness had changed me.

Not as much as it seemed, was the answer.  I was whole again, tender, newly healed but whole.

I looked ahead to the next few years and a plan formed.  I would walk to hospital again and in the six months before the next appointment I wouldn't go home, I'd walk around Wales until I came back to Bristol again, hospital again and home.  The first and final legs of the journey would be the two Plynlimon rivers.

Other things were still resonating from my ovarian cancer experience.  My complete lack of knowledge of the symptoms, my inability to recognise what was happening in my body.

Then there was the shock of finding out how fatal ovarian cancer can be, just 35% of women are still alive five years after diagnosis.

There was also the shock of finding out that the survival rate in Wales is lower than in England, 3% lower after the first year.  The ovarian cancer charity told me it was a sign of late diagnosis.

I felt that I could do something, to raise money for charity and to tell women in Wales about the symptoms, it fitted in perfectly with my self-centred need to travel.  I could make a big journey, enjoy myself, raise money for charity and hopefully make women in Wales (and beyond) just a little more aware of the symptoms.

I had help from Target Ovarian Cancer during my illness, not much, just an information pack in the post and a poster in the hospital but I felt I had to choose them over the other ovarian cancer charity operating in the UK.
I visited the Penny Brohn Cancer Care centre twice during my illness; they were an incredible source of help, advice and support.  It's where I learnt how to begin to cope with a cancer diagnosis and I received two residential courses from them for free.  I had to support them in return.

All these things are true; I am walking to have fun, I am walking to raise money for charity and I am walking to tell women about the symptoms of ovarian cancer.  But three, four, almost five months after I started, when I wake up aching, stinking, vaguely dehydrated and think what am I doing today there is a part of me that goes what?  Walking again?

When, for the one hundredth day in a row I sit down for a rest at midday that can't last longer than 45 minutes before I must push myself up off the ground, shoulder my heavy, smelly rucksack and walk on I think - this is seriously huge, did I really think this through?  Did I really realise what my plan entailed?  When I thought, oh yes, I'll walk the length of nine rivers and five long distance trails in one continuous journey, I must be honest, I really didn't consider the amount of steps, the sheer time, effort and strain involved.

And finally, when someone is staring at me as if they have never seen a sweaty woman wearing a gigantic rucksack before, as if the idea of someone walking thousands of miles for charity is so alien to them they need to step backwards in case I'm dangerous it does make me think, why Am I doing this, if everyone thinks I'm so wierd.
All the reasons are there and they're good ones, I just forget them in the heat, exhaustion and map reading I have to do.

It's a hot Friday afternoon and the sun is shining upon Much Wenlock.  I've spent the week helping to set up a storytelling festival; wandering round a field carrying road pins, bins, sinks, boxes of fabric.  You name it, I have carried it up and down the festival field to where it should be.

I've taken a week away from walking, it's a festival I've been to for three years now, my mum is very involved in the storytelling world and I didn't want to miss it.  In the planning of the walk I felt it would be a good idea to go to a few festivals over the summer, about one a month would be a good break from the walk, help me to maintain a somewhat normal life throughout the madness of the daily mileage.
I've got to the breaks now and they feel wrong somehow.  It's been two weeks walking since Glastonbury.  It came to the time for me to break for Festival at the Edge, I was dirty, I was aching, I was tired and yet somehow it still felt wrong.  I still felt as if I should be carrying on.

Carrot Quinn, one of my long distance walking gurus says "Do whatever you want on a long distance walk, as long as you keep walking".  That's the thing, whatever you feel, don't break the walk, whether you drag yourself seven miles or fly, striding for 20.  If you spend all morning in a cafe or all evening in a pub, walk a bit more that day, just don't stop walking.  That's the only way to complete this.

But I didn't do that this week, I'm writing this from a festival.  I have walked away and it feels like a bit of a cop out.  I will surely regret this week when it comes to the end of October, the wind is blowing rain into my face and I still have 1000 miles to go, I surely will regret this week in the sunshine and think back longingly to strawberries and rose wine, ice cream and stories and sweat dripping down comfortably into the base of my spine.

As far as the walk goes.....well, I'm in South Wales for the first time.  I've made it down to Tintern and turned right, to run a line across the south of the country, between the coast and the Brecon Beacons, all the way over to the monastery near Tenby.  I'm not quite able to judge it so far, it's only been two days - but let me tell you that in this time I've seen more burnt out cars (and caravans) than in four months in the rest of the country.  As for the people?  It's too soon to feel the differences, let me hold this thought and tell you again in a few weeks.  Or maybe I won't tell you at all, maybe my ideas about Wales are not of public interest.

I only know that I'll carry on; I'll keep trying to walk and I'll keep trying to take care of myself.  The thing that is equally as hard as the walking is the self motivation and the self care.  I may have strength in my legs but I need to have strength of mind too and the ability to push myself until I'm exhausted....but then to make sure I'm fed and washed and rested too.  It's hard, is what it is. 

There's plenty to work on, that's for sure.  For now I will enjoy my weekend, hand out plenty of cards, hopefully collect plenty of donations and go back to work on Tuesday

I knew, for a too brief overnight stay, what it felt like to do a supported walk.  I came up onto the high land out of Hay-On-Wye, following the Offa's Dyke Path again, it was coming to sundown and I wanted to get a few miles done before then.  I came to the long flat plateau overlooking the Wye Valley, the Black Mountains towering behind me.  A van overtook me, pulled in to park and a woman got out to offer me a cup of tea.  I ended up in the van for the evening, listening to her life story, an amazing tale of psychosis, gardens and a broken relationship.  I could certainly have stayed talking to her all night but tore myself away to go to bed.  If I can be left to my own devices, I'm generally in bed by 9pm  at the moment.  That night was late late late, almost 11 before I curled up on one of her sofa cushions outside the van, a beautiful late night velvet horizon beside me.  I had to tuck down inside the sleeping bag to get my head out of the brisk wind that came off the wide landscape.

The next morning I was up by 7, the lovely lady made me chapatis and coffee and we talked some more philosphy about the nature of love.  All love involves need, we decided.  What if love could be given freely, without leaving you wanting something in return.  Is that possible?

It was a lovely evening, just being able to walk up to a van, sit and talk and receive food and hot drinks.  I realised that this happens every day to someone being supported.  It was wonderful!  And also made me realise that what I'm doing, the way I'm doing it is REALLY BLOODY HARD!!

My route that day lay over the Black Mountains, a steep climb up to the west of Lord Hereford's Knob then down the valley and along into Capel-y-Ffin and down the valley towards Llantony Priory.  I revelled in the wilderness of the high hills, the long views out behind me and the easy to follow path, leading down into the valley.  Fortunately the sun stayed out and I managed to get down into Llantony by 3.30pm.  I managed a quick couple of pints in the Half Moon, even though I got chucked out at 4 because they wanted to close for a couple of hours.  I took my final pint outside, just as it started to rain and sat under a Stella Artois umbrella eating a gigantic packet of cheese savouries.  A thin black cat came over to me and jumped onto my lap, I rubbed it slowly around the ears and under its chin, savouring the pleasure of the touch of its fur.  It's one of the things I miss about being away from home, the regular stroking of a cat; you can entice strange dogs to come over when you're on the road but strange cats usually see me and run a mile.

The rain eased off and the sun came out so I walked up again, looking for a place to sleep.  I knew it would rain again later so I needed to find somewhere undercover.  I'm realising as this journey goes on that I really don't like making camp in the rain.  It's annoying to set up a shelter, it's annoying when the shelter doesn't work and my kit gets wet and it's annoying to pack away wet kit in the rain.  I'd just rather avoid the whole thing.  So I set off, past the incredible priory ruins and up the hill.  Up the hill and into a small copse.  Looking at the ground, see if it's level, could I string up a shelter there?  Somehow nothing felt right, I kept going.  I came to the edge of the woods, looking for a path ahead around the contour of the hill.  It started to rain again and I cursed my indecision, I should be under a shelter and safe by now, not getting caught in showers.  I stood at the edge of the trees, my hair catching in a holly bush, my feet slipping on mossy logs, waiting for the soft rain to stop again. 
I carried on, towards a farm.  I could see an barn at the edge of the cluster of buildings, the open door faced away from the rest of the farm and I longed to have the guts to sneak in there and make a cosy nest in the hay, listening to the rain falling outside.  I walked around the buildings, the path crossed the road and went off to the south but I turned and looked at the haybarn longingly.  A horse swished its tail in the rays of setting sun and I just couldn't do it.  I turned and walked on, starting to feel pretty annoyed about where I might sleep that night.  I passed into a field of long grass, the recent rain had left it covered in water and I had to push through it, soaking my legs.  I cursed the path, I cursed the wet grass, I cursed the rain and there was nothing I could do but walk on.  Eventually, after passing through sloping fields and fields with long wet grass and fields full of curious horses I came to a ruined house and round the corner a flat piece of ground.  That was it, my bed for the night.  A final grey cloud passed overhead and the skies cleared.  I laid out my bed roll and went to sleep.

I paid for the annoyance the next day; waking up at 6am, sitting, slowly coming back to life.  I ate breakfast and set off, following the contour line around the hillside down to Cwmyoy.  There was a fantastic church on the path, the ground settling underneath it over the centuries, leaving it leaning south at one end and north at the other.  It was incredibly beautiful and I sat inside.  Soon however, things started to spin and I realised I had a banging headache and felt sick.  The longer I sat there the less I felt like walking, I slumped over in one of the pews and went to sleep for an hour.  It's very hard being vulnerable in public, with nowhere safe to go when you feel rough.  When I woke up I felt better, the painkillers had kicked in and I realised I hadn't eaten very much the previous day and had drunk just a single litre of water.  I had a big meal of couscous and beetroot and felt much better.  I went to see the woman in the house next door to ask for water, she invited me in for a cup of tea and made me some sandwiches.  Just another example of the massive generosity I receive from strangers all the time.  It was lovely talking to her and playing with her dogs; fortunately the meeting took place just as a heavy shower of rain passed over and I could carry on in the sunshine.

I carried on out of the valley, coming out of the Black Mountains and out onto the Offa's Dyke Path again; I'll follow this familiar route all the way down to Monmouth.  It was 4pm and I'd walked maybe 6 miles so far - spending about 3 hours feeling ill in the church.  I came down into Pandy where I knew there was a pub and a campsite.  The pub was closed, very irritating, so I sneaked into the showers and had my first one for three days.  I was very sweaty, dirty and irritated but came out feeling cleansed and refreshed, amazing what a difference it made.  I washed my clothes in the sink, brushed my hair.  Wonderful. 

I decided to walk the final two miles to the next village where I found a sweet little pub full of people interested in my walk.  I sat and chatted, got given plenty of donations and even a free meal and a couple of beers.  The owners were interesting; a pair of brothers who had clearly done a lot of travelling and wild living over the years.  Later that night I found myself at the kitchen table of one of them, getting immensely drunk and swapping life stories.  We were unafraid to get down to the bare bones of our experiences, with the freedom of expression that comes from knowing the person you're talking to will never be part of your daily life again.

So that's how I came to be here, on a zebra print sofa, extremely hungover, watching bad TV and with an unexpected day off to enjoy.  I wasn't planning on a day off but I was far too rough for walking.

I'll get down to Monmouth tomorrow and then turn to walk along the bottom of Wales, above the coast but below the Brecon Beacons, it should be interesting.  I'd like to see what's happening in the South Wales valleys; how friendly will people be?  How easy will it be to find places to sleep?  Let's find out!!

Yesterday I walked over the hills, near Gwaunceste Hill, south of Llanfihangel Nant Melan.  I got up early, unpacked my rucksack and packed it agin - trying, as always to find something I could take out to lighten the weight a bit more.  I took it downstairs to where Rebecca and Phil were babysitting a neighbour's boy, entertaining him with peanut spilling and wooden trains - they weighed my rucksack and it came out at a stonking 17 kilos.  I am constantly carrying too much in my pack; I seem to stockpile food as if I'm not within reach of a shop at all times.  We took some out and got it down to a manageable 15.  With the packing and the arranging and the discussing and then some photos to take it was gone 10 before we got in the car to go to the drop off; pretty typical for most days I spend being hosted.  I usually have great intentions to set out early but stuff happens, conversations over breakfast and I never make it before 10.
I set off across the hills from Llanfihangel Nant Melan over towards Hay-on -Wye.  A high steep climb behind some farm buildings over to a mix of moorland and forestry.  I got lost within half a mile and it started to rain, not a great beginning to the day.  I decided to stop for lunch (cunningly lightening the load still further); oily potatoes and bacon out of a vaccum packed silver bag, sitting on moss with pine fronds tickling my neck and the rain drizzling onto the path.  I wiped my fork on the moss, then on my leggings and cracked on in the rain.  It would have been a glorious landscape to walk through, high pasture and moorland, with lakes and sheep and tiny isolated houses, small wind turbines whirling.  As it was I only saw glimpses of this through rain studded spectacles as I walked as fast as I could, the bridleway stretching out ahead of me, curling around a hillside.  I passed another derelict farmhouse, this one a three storey Victorian building with a huge elder bush flooding the front of the house, reaching almost to the roof - so many options for places to dream about my lottery funded future life.  Once again, as usual on the route I'm following, I saw almost no-one all day.  Just a family of farmers, shearing in a barn.  I came off the hillside and down onto a backroad.  I needed to get out of the rain for a bit so I decided to stop in the next barn for half an hour; just my luck it had people in it!  I asked if I could shelter for a bit and they didn't mind, even made me a cup of tea!  We didn't talk much as they were busy.
I came down into Newchurch at about 5pm, a place I remember from the Offa's Dyke, it has about 15 houses and a small church where they lay out drinks and biscuits for walkers, according to a tradition started in the time of Charles II.  I sat there for several hours, drying out and rehydrating, as the rain fell outside.  7pm came and went, nobody came to lock up the church.  8pm passed and I hadn't seen anyone.  I might sleep in here, I thought, not looking forward to the thought of a soggy bed outside. 9pm passed, still no-one.  So I made my bed in the aisle.  I felt slightly nervous until I laid down and sleepy feelings took over.  I looked at the ceiling and thought about the size of the building, all this space so underused.  So many wishes spiraling up into the rafters every week.

Today I absolutely stormed the 7 miles into Hay-on-Wye.  A nice lady came in to clean the church at 7.30am, making me very glad I was already up and packed!  I don't think she would have minded anyway but it was good to get out walking by 8.  I made it to Hay by 11, brilliant.  The Offa's Dyke Path is great for fast walking - I saw plenty of other walkers coming my way too.
I saw the Black Mountains again, where I'm heading over this afternoon.  It feels slightly less awesome to look across the landscape and think that I walked that 3 months ago, is this becoming mundane?  Is everything finally blurring into one long walk?  I accidentally deleted about 200 photos last night, trying to make space on my phone.  I'm trying not to be disappointeed about it but I do worry, when this is over, will I remember anything?  Or will it just be a long year of walking, like days in an office that all become the same.

I'm in a cafe for now, doing a bit of internet.  I've washed my socks in the sink, blagged a free bit of cheesecake and my shoes are on the windowsill drying out.  One bit of bad news is that the shoe shop has run out of the shoes I'm using, something to do with a change of seasons.  It means I'll have to buy them online, meaning an annoying bit of organisation to work out where I can get them sent ahead.  In the meantime the soles are coming off my existing pair.  I really should have a new pair already and would have done if the shoe shop hadn't run out.  So I've bought some glue and I'm going to go for a temporary fix while I try and sort out a delivery address.  The shoes haven't done badly, almost 800 miles walked so far.

The final bit of news is that my counter has ticked over to.........1000 miles!!!!!!!!!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!

It feels good, it feels official.  As if I am definitely doing a long distance walk now.  Even though I'm overweight, even though I didn't train, even though I'm carrying too much in my pack, even though I hurt my foot, I can still walk 1000 miles....just because I'm stubborn and determined.  It's feels fucking great.  I am definitely doing this, if it all goes wrong next week I'll still have walked 1000 miles and that is enough to be proud of.  I may be walking an entire year but I am going to walk 3000 miles.  Fuck.  Yeah.

Since I last wrote, I finished the river Dee, the final few miles of England, struggling through long grass and winding roads.
I walked up the coast to Holywell over a couple of hot days, burning my shoulders as I tentatively moved to vests.  Brilliant for keeping cool, not so good for sunburn.  My shoulders have burnt and peeled and burned again, causing me to be patchy, like a giraffe.
I've changed from the river Dee to a brief few miles of the Coastal Path to the Cistercian Way.  Now there aren't any guidebooks; I'm in the realm of OS maps and a written description from the internet, last updated in 2006.  The paths it uses are underwalked and overgrown.  I'm fighting through brambles, over fences and occasionally losing the path altogether and resorting to road walking.  It's slow and sometimes frustrating, although the deeper satisfaction of tracing a 602 mile round through inland Wales is sustaining me.
I came over the Clwydian range to Denbigh where I slept my most homeless sleep so far - in the doorway of the Denbigh ex-servicemans club.  I bought a takeaway and didn't want to walk too far to eat it, then the skies promised rain and at 9pm already it was too late to go searching for a more salubrious resting place outside the town.  I felt pretty safe there, plenty of passers by but only one saw me. It's amazing how invisible you can make youself in a public space, just by tucking in and staying still.
I felt bored for the few days it took me to walk down the Vale of Clwyd, it all seemed very samey somehow.  Just a long flat valley and field upon field upon field.  It all changed when I started the long climb up to pass over the Llantysilio mountains.  Suddenly I was back in more dramatic scenery and I revelled in my surroundings again.  I could see the Clwydian range and over towards Snowdonia, tracing the paths I'd walked. I turned round to see the way I'd come and to my right came racing the invisible line of the Offa's Dyke, rising and falling with the Clwydian hills, ahead lay the sea and my path from Prestatyn along the coast; somewhere in the mass of rising mountains of Snowdonia to my left lay the beautiful Conwy valley and behind me, over the Llantysilio range lay the Dee valley.  All my paths over the landscapes, an invisible line of footsteps lay before me, my journey made visible. to my minds eye.

I came from Llangollen to Welshpool to Llanfair Caereinion to Caersws, meeting plenty of good people along the way.  There was Sarah in Langollen, Lou and Jen in Welshpool, helping me through my monster 20 mile day, Claire the couchsurfer who is becoming a friend, Pauline, Clive and Keri in Llanfair and Rebecca the walker to host me near Knighton.
I feel as if the theme of this journey is strong women - they're the kind I seem to meet.  Women who are facing down an impending cervical cancer diagnosis (that turned out to be false), the recent deaths of mothers, of caregivers, of relationships, of self.  Going solo, running businesses, renewing themselves after redundancy.  Walking 1000 miles around the edge of Wales.  These are the women of just the last few weeks.

Maybe it's the function of walking as a single woman.  Partnered men can't invite me into their homes, it's not the done thing.  So it's up to the women to do it.  Or the whole ovarian cancer thing creates female solidarity.  I don't know.  I just see that I'm meeting plenty of women getting out there.  And some are not.  Some who are scared of cats.  Or strangers.  Or being alone.  It's the brave ones that make the greatest mark on me though.

You know those things that would definitely be a fantastic idea but somehow you never quite get around to doing them.  The organisation involved is just a bit too much or the first thing on the list is the most complicated and difficult.  The glorious idea remains in the planning stages and you always have the promise ahead but no actuality, just a wonderful dream.

Well, dressing up as Wonderwoman was one of those things. I could do it to mark World Ovarian Cancer Day, turn myself from One Woman walking into Wonderwoman walking. Geddit?  It would be funny, I thought.  It would attract attention, people would shove fistfuls of money into my donation tin, attracted by my cheery grin and dashing bravery. I'd manage another first for this journey; in addition to going home with people I met in pubs or knocking on doors to ask strangers for hospitality, this time I'd wilfully embarrass myself.  Everyone wins.  But somehow, while carrying the outfit in my rucksack, I never managed to sit up in the morning and think "Today is the day I will dress as Wonderwoman."

So I put the question to Facebook.  A helpful nudge in the right direction; I work well to deadlines.  The people voted that Chester would be the day; great, I thought. More people means more donations, right?  I'll attract crowds!  All dying to know what I'm doing!  Symptoms awareness!  Money for charity!

I woke up that morning on the verandah of a closed up holiday chalet.  I knew that bad weather was on the way so I dressed quickly and was off before 7am, managing about 45 minutes of walking before a rumble of thunder passed overhead, suddenly there was a flutter of rain and then hail!  In June!  I got soaked, kept on for the six miles into Chester and then......anticlimax.
It didn't happen.  People ignored me.  Somehow I had crossed the line from 'different and interesting' to 'wierd and must ignore'.  Nobody asked what I was doing, much less put any donations in the tin.  I felt deflated and silly after about an hour in the centre of town I gave up, walked into a pub toilet and got changed.  It made a good story anyway.
I'll do it again I think; because I like being an idiot.  But maybe not in an English city.  And hopefully I'll have someone walking with me that day.  It's always easier to be a fool when someone's laughing with you.
Donations are up to about 4000 pounds so I reckon when I hit 5000 Wonderwoman will be GO!