Well yesterday started brilliantly with my nice cooked breakfast in the Brynamman Community Centre but went downhill from there.  I aimed to stay in the Llanddeusant Youth Hostel, I'd had two nights camping, in freezing or near zero conditions, it was time for a bed.  I'd have to push it a bit but I could do it I reckoned.  Fifteen miles is a bit more than  I can usually manage, throbbing foot pain usually setting in after about 13 miles but the thought of a bed and a shower drove me to try it.  It was a solid tarmac trudge up and over the Black Mountain pass, seeing as I was missing the map which would allow me to cross the mountain itself.  After the cooked breakfast distraction I set off, leaving the centre at about 11.30.  It was a tough day, I kept pushing and pushing onwards, up into the clouds and down around the bends of the mountain road into the wet farmlands on the other side.  I kept checking my maps, 7 miles to go and it was 3pm, two hours until sunset.  My feet started to seriously hurt at one point, I had to sit down and take my boots off, the wet concrete soaking my legs.  Adrenalin kicked in and I strode on, still a few miles to go as  darkness fell but I strapped my torch into my belt and carried on, willing myself towards the bed waiting for me.  Pitch black for the last hour and I was sweating up the last steep hill, pushing myself forward.  I found myself focusing on a light ahead in the darkness and chanting to myself in a whisper "That. Is where. I'm going." over and over again, I was on auto pilot, just keeping myself going until I could reach the hostel and relax.  Seven hours of near constant walking, fighting foot pain, just keeping myself going and going.
I reached the hostel.  It was closed.
The doors locked, the lights off, just a single light on in a bedroom above the central door.  Oh no way.  I rattled the doors, I knocked, I chucked gravel up at the lit window, I shouted out.  Nothing.
@#!&@!##$$!
I looked at my phone, 4% battery.  I still had the webpage for the hostel open.
"Is the hostel open all year? Yes" it said.  I rang the number it gave, it was diverted to another hostel, and went to answermachine.  I rang three more times, battery 1%, phone went dead.
Oh God dammit, I was going to have to sleep in the wet tent again.  It's a great tent, except for one problem.  In the mornings, there is condensation inside and outside, so when I put the tent down, it all soaks together and everything gets wet.  All day, rolled up and strapped to my rucksack and I put up a wet tent to sleep in.  Third day running and I felt fed up.  It's not so bad, as long as you don't touch the sides.
It took a good hour for my feet to stop throbbing, in all the many ways in which they do.  In the bones, in the ankles, in the tendons underneath.  I rubbed them and stretched and rubbed them and stretched until finally they felt better.  I'd gone too far and, in the end, for nothing.
I got up this morning feeling rubbish, grumpy about the hostel and my feet sending stabs of pain into my ankles.  Too far yesterday means I need to take it easy today, it's a precarious balance, if I push myself too hard I'll have to stop, I can feel that my feet can't take it.  I walked until Myddfai where I found a visitor centre with lots of polite and interested people who donated loads of money - that made me feel better.  They also mentioned a bunkhouse in Llandovery, I felt like I was owed a bed. Bish bash bosh, I made it to The Level Crossing Bunkhouse and stopped.  So it's been a kind of half day, even though I walked 8 miles.  But I think I needed it. 
It's another 30+ miles over the green desert, through the Elan Valley and around the reservoirs to Elan Village, my next chance of a shower.

In order to balance out the grumpy hostel complaining I will also mention four beautiful things I saw today -
1.
The early morning fog lying low in the valleys down the hill from the hostel.
2.
The sun suddenly shining over the hill as I sat outside the Red Kite Pub eating breakfast, lighting the remaining leaves on the trees with a pure yellow light.
3.
Pausing my stride as I came down the hill into a silent, peaceful wooded valley and seeing a heron glide below me around the curve of a small river.
4.
Helping tired, stranded worms to cross safely to the other side of the road.

I've started again, it was only a three week break but oh my goodness things have changed.  When I stopped I could kid myself that it might even be a late summer but it's definitely autumn now, there's no going back.

The clocks have changed, sun down at half past four and total darkness by  5.30 so I must be stopped, camp made by a terribly early hour.  There are gales this week, the wind blowing against me as I walk on the clifftops, the crumbled edges scattering drops of earth even as I watch them.  There is mud, rain, cold.  It's all a bit of a shock really, not that I didn't know it was coming but it's still pretty difficult to cope with now I'm here.

That's the difference, I can still do this but I need to be more regimented about it.  It's a matter of definite steps to get into bed warmly and cleanly.  Before I could stop anywhere, slump for a while, scatter my belongings, safe in the knowledge that no rain would come overnight.  Now I must clamber into the tent, keeping muddy things away from tent walls, leave wet trousers and jacket in the tiny entrance, climb into bed, make sure I'm warm, no skin left uncovered, tucked up by 7pm.

I've been used to nice lazy mornings, a wake up, gentle sit and stare for a while before lumbering off, as long as it's by 10am I didn't mind.  Now I must value my daylight hours, there are only 10 of them and I'm used to walking for ten hours a day.  So I'm setting my alarm for 6am and getting walking by 7.30; it's quite nice, in a way, once I get past the pain of the first alarm.
I'm rediscovering the pains from before, my foot pain, which disappeared while I stopped, is glimmering into being.  I must stretch, religiously.  It's the only thing that makes it bearable.

I set off from Barry, three days ago.  I've walked along the coast, reaching Porthcawl today, I've slept under the overhanging roof of a forestry lodge, in my tent on the edge of a ploughed field and, last night, in the ruins of a castle.  I'm still resisting sleeping in a tent at nights, I don't know why.  I think I might be slightly claustrophobic in there, plus I hate the idea of putting up a wet tent.  I've been discovered twice in my sleeping spots, something I normally try and avoid at all costs.  It's been a scary experience both times, mainly becuase of my fear; both times the young men who disturbed me, spliff smoking, skulking around in the early hours of the morning are people we are scared of.  But they backed away both times, leaving me to my sleep.
Last night I was woken out of my moonlit sleep by people talking, coming up the stairs into the floor of the ruined castle where I'd made my bed.  I sat up, fumbled my glasses on in time for their bright torch to sweep over me, bringing them to a halt.  We paused, something swinging from the boy's hand and two or three dogs flickering in and out of the torchlight.  One came up and licked the hand I was holding up against the light and this broke the spell, the boys backed away down the stairs.  "Dyou want a fag?" one of them called out.  I didn't answer, waiting for them to leave; as their lights swept away amongst the trees, I found my hands were trembling.
It's not an easy time, this return to walking, will it get easier?  I'm not sure.  It's just happened that I'm walking in a week of gales and rain.  But this is winter, maybe I just need to get used to it, learn my new routine.

This sounds like a list of negative things, it's not, not really.  I think it's just the shock of the change, this is definitely going to be hard but it doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it.  The way the wind blows the trees back from the coast, the rush of water towards the sea, the hoots of owls waking up at dusk, the heart melting generosity of strangers, a surprise every time.
It forces me to be mindful at least, to take each day individually....because if I think of the enormity of what's to come I'll bloody well give up!!  Wouldn't you??

I pushed through the Black Mountains, rain stinging my face and wind knocking me sideways, walking a colossal, for me, 16 miles in a single day.  It was either walk that far and risk the incapacitating pain or be forced to camp up on a high hill ridge, no shelter from the winds ripping at my tent.  I knew there was a barn ahead, tucked down into the cleft of the beginning of the valley and I strode ahead, picking through paths running with water, only arriving at the sweet smelling quiet of the barn after darkness fell.
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I arrived at the summit of the first peak after a few hours of slow stepping, pulling up a steep grassy slope, the rocky clambers of North Wales a dream away.  Needing a rest, I ducked down into a rocky nest, an almost complete circle of stones, built up by fellow Gortexed adventurers to shelter from the wind.  "It's you!" said a tall, grizzled man in a blue anorak.  It turned out we'd been overtaking each other for almost a week; he'd greatly enjoyed a tin of gin & tonic I'd left in the Claerddu bothy and then heard my story from the woman in Strata Florida.  The warden in Tyn Cornel had told me about a man walking the Cambrian Way ahead of me.  It seemed natural that we would walk together and we strolled away, talking.  He was searching; I recognise that in people sometimes.  There is a sense I have of people who need to unburden themselves, who carry hidden pain that can be brought out, flooding from within.
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I came over the first of the southern mountains following a windy night in a rescue shelter, curled into the shoulder of a mountain alongside a dingy lake, tainted by rusting, disused machinery.  Three sheep munched disconsolately at the greening edges of the low water, I kept peeping out at them from my stone shelter, the wind booming at the roof.  I expected expressions of discomfort, half shut eyes perhaps or bodies huddling together, leaning against walls.  There was nothing, these steadfast animals lay relaxed on the cropped grass, streaks of mist blowing between them, content, as if the sun was shining.
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It's hard to say how this walk is changing me, I don't always know that I feel different.
As I come down from the hills, where I have spent all day among the sky and the waving yellow grasses, it's difficult to pack myself back into my body. When I join a group of people and am required to talk in turn as part of the interaction called conversation, what to do doesn't come naturally, I have to think about being appropriate, taking turns, not interrupting. It's as if I have to stop the spontaneity of being outside, the feeling that I can sit wherever I want, at any time, do whatever I want, go wherever. I spend all day not thinking about anyone but myself.
It's also more than that, it's as if my spirit is taking up too much space.
I spend so much time walking alone in wild places it is as if I become part of it. I say hello to the sheep to warn them of my presence, I don't want to startle them at the last minute, causing them to run headlong, as fast as possible, even crashing into bushes or clumps of grass in their fear to get away. When I spend all day with the sky, the hills and the grasses my Self grows to the size of the landscape. The wind blows through me, taking my senses with it, whirling my mind outwards until I am bigger than my body, breathless.

There is the happiness of knowing that I'm half-way through, that I, with my plump little legs that turn in at the ankles, have managed to stride, plod, climb, drag and stumble my way through almost 1700 miles.  If I can do this I can do anything.....or another 1600 miles at least.  Once I reached 1000 miles, I knew I could make the full 3000, it's a good feeling, satisfying.

There is also the apprehension of only being half-way through; half-way through the effort, the grime, the sleepless nights trying to curl my body around the unyielding ground.  There's the same again coming; all the high hills rising in front of me, all the muddy patches, all the gleefully saturating bog, all the pain.  All the foot pain, back pain, neck pain, ankle pain.  All the evenings spent hobbling, unable to put feet to the ground.  All the foot rubs, calf stretches, sun salutes. All the shooting kicks and twitches, all the cramps.  All the outdoor shitting.
I have to do the same again.  Except this time in the Winter.  It's a sinking feeling, of fear.

There's the anticipation of being half-way through.  I get to walk another 1600 miles before I have to go back to work, back to a normal life.  I have another eight months of freedom, of the wild wind blowing my hair, of hard won mountains, of turning to look back at the view, of dreamy hours in cafes, of conversations and connections with strangers, of wild flowers and bird calls, talking to animals, waking up at night and watching the moon sail above me.  The wind can blow my senses out to the horizon for another 1600 miles.  There will be rain in my face, there will be frozen, red hands, there will be deep deep exhaustion and I will savour it all because it makes me deeply, deeply happy.

There is only blankness.

When I stop, which is often, I slump against something, a tree, a pile of rocks, a stone wall.  I stare around me at the wild, windy nature, palming handfuls of trail mix into my mouth, gulping and swilling cold wild water from my shiny blue bottle.  I have taken water from streams, from springs, from lakes, even, in dry mouthed desperation, from puddles of brown oozing bog.  Only at the tops of the mountains though, before the humans can drag their polluting machinery up so high or the sheep splash, piss and taint the peaceful flow.  Just the algae, the fish and the small water creatures, shelled and jointed, swim in my waterbottle, you'd never know though, it's clear when I hold it to the light.

It's not that the walking has become harder, it's that the breaks have become longer, come more often.  I must stop, stare, sit, put my feet in the air, eat some sugar.  It doesn't leave time for other things, like writing, like responding to emails, like remembering my brother's birthday.

I suppose I'm explaining why it's been so long, why I've stopped updating for a while.  It's not that there's other stuff to do, it's that there's other nothing to do.  I need blankness, I need rest.  In the end, a conspiracy of circumstances has granted it to me - an unexpected call back to work, followed by a lost purse.  I've had the two weeks of working to allow my leg muscles to relax, kicking and twiching at night, shooting pains running randomly through my bones, stretching out in the swimming pool.  They still hurt, in strange ways, a very small bone in my ankle will suddenly start to throb, spending an evening shouting at me and then returning to silence and obscurity overnight.

I still feel blank in some ways, I'm finding it very hard to write even this, sitting in a bland cafe, counting out my remaining coins, waiting for a bus. 
I'm still in the pause before my bankcard arrives, the walk feels very far away, as if I couldn't possibly heave a rucksack onto my shoulders and walk with it, for months, over hills and mountains, down to the sea and around the coast, the icy wind stinging gritty droplets across my face, blowing my senses out to sea, the salt and grime tainting my sleeping bag until everything stinks and I am a wild eyed mad woman, staggering into pubs and getting stared at by the normal people who cower behind their safety barriers of just-in-case and what-if, fearing discomfort and the unknown.  No no, that can't be me, I couldn't be that person, ending up like that.  Right now I'm showered and clean, my nice smelling hair waving long across my shoulders.

Some people, people who I care about and who care about me, say I should stop for the winter.  I can't.  It wouldn't be a challenge if I did that, where's the story?  What makes it worth giving money to charity in my name if I go home and put my feet up before things get difficult.  Also, and more importantly, I don't think this will get so difficult that it becomes impossible.  I think I can do this, walk through the winter.  I feel rested, my feet hurt less, I'm going to go for it.