When I set out to walk three and a half thousand miles I set out to camp.  I didn't have a tent on my back but the next best thing, a bivvy bag and a piece of tarpaulin for rigging shelters in times of bad weather.  I didn't know what was going to happen, only that I didn't have enough budget to pay to sleep anywhere so I expected plenty of wild camping, curling up in wherever safe spot I could find.  I've lived in Wales for almost sixteen years, in three different towns, long enough to have a network of different friends who were offering me places to stay when I reached their area.  I'm not a hugely social person but it was enough of a network that I'd have a friend to visit every few weeks or so, every month at least.
I can't remember how long it took before the first message came, I'd have to go back and look again and I'm not ready to delve into those memories yet.  I'm keeping this trip rolled up like a tangled ball of wool in my mind and only when I come to write it all down will I separate out these glowing strands into a distinct string of story.  No, the first message was soon but I don't remember how soon but it was a surprise - someone, a complete stranger, more than a friend of a friend but someone who my journey had reached over the myraid connections and sharings of the internet had reached out in return and invited me into their home.  "Hi, when you get to _______, you can come and stay with me".  The list grew and grew, I started to make a map, a star for each person, for each place I could stay.  It meant more than just a bed, it meant a shower, the washing of my clothes, a safe place to close my eyes.  I wouldn't say I was an untrusting person but it just never occurred to me that so many people would open their homes to me.
I've done plenty of camping on this journey, showering in leisure centres, washing my socks in bathroom sinks, but it's never been more than a week without a bed, mostly about three nights.
Pembrokeshire in particular was brilliant; a combination of three people who hosted me for more than one night, plus another five who had me for one night meant that I didn't camp for the entire county.  Just strangers, with a variety of ways of finding me, who'd decided to help me out.

The last four days -
I left Lorna and Gez in Laugharne, saying goodbye to their cute children, all eager eyes and playthings and headed out towards Carmarthen, all my contacts had finished and I was going to wild camp that night, first time in ages.  Lorna offered to take my bag ahead to a pub in Llangain and I eagerly agreed, welcoming any chance to walk without the usual 14 kilos on my back.  Steady trudge all day in the hot sunshine, up and over Lord's Park, with a view across the tidal estuary back to Laugharne and Pendine and ahead to Cefn Sidan and Gower.  Eventually I reached the pub at 5pm, not too tired after fifteen miles but ready to search for a place to sleep.  The barman hauled my bag out from behind the bar and said "There was a man in at lunchtime, said you could stay at his campsite?"  I looked and there was a piece of paper sticking out of my donation tin with a letter, inviting me to stay and a map.  "You gonna go there or what."  said the barman "I don't know where you were thinking of camping up otherwise"  "Yeah, I'll go there" I said, "that'll do", not thinking how strange it might seem for me to be so relaxed about potential sleeping places.  I followed the map through the back village roads and found Ian and Angela at the end of it, running a campsite and offering free nights to anyone walking for charity.  Ian talked a lot, I'll be honest, but they showed me where to pitch up on the lovely flat, short grass, invited me in for dinner and even opened a couple of bottles of Prosecco in my honour.  A lovely, lovely couple, just doing their thing very well in a quiet village of Carmarthenshire.  I drank the Prosecco, felt tipsy and headed off to bed as the sun was setting.  Next morning, up to say goodbye, left them a card and off.  I was definitely going to wild camp that night, somewhere near Ferryside.  First, up to Carmarthen where I sat mindlessly in a cafe for a couple of hours (a neccessary part of my journey) and received a message.  It was from Helen, the person who'd offered me a place to stay in Llanelli - "I've got friends in Kidwelly who can have you to stay, they'll come and pick you up from Ferryside.  Peter and Frances, here's their phone numbers"  Peter was very efficient, texting me the car details and an identifying photograph.  I just had to get to Ferryside by 6; it was a bit of a struggle and I made it by 7 instead - getting lost in a derelict farm, no sign posts to show me the way out.  Eventually Ferryside came into view, just a mile across the water from Llansteffan but a two day walk for me, up to Carmarthen and back again.  There she was, as described, Frances, come to pick me up.  "So how do you know Helen?"  Frances asked.  I had to admit that I didn't, not at all.  She was just a name on a Facebook message and an offer of help.  I was a stranger to her and therefore to Frances, just putting my trust in what was coming forward.  Frances and Peter were very nice, sharing stories of their Christian faith but I was tired, so tired.  I'd been walking for two weeks straight and I needed a day off.  I planned to have one on the Gower, just find a place to put my tent and lie quietly for a day, letting my feet rest.  They were starting to throb painfully again, as they did for most of last year, the tendons strained beyond stretching and starting to pull at their connection to my heel bone.  I needed to stop, rest, give them a chance to heal.  I went to bed early after doing some stretching.
The next day I had to walk to Llanelli - 19 miles.  It was more than I can usually manage with a rucksack but I plugged away, through fields and hillsides at first, over to Kidwelly but then came a tough stretch.  The path took me for three miles alongside Pembrey airfield, heading towards a section of forestry and then a two mile beach walk before I could turn inland and find a cycle path.  The gritty road seemed to last for hours, every time I came to a corner I'd think, this is it, now I'll see the beach ahead, but no, there would always be another section of road, stretching away into the distance.  Finally I came to the beach but that was even worse, a long straight piece of sand, kite buggies rattling along it but not another person to be seen.  I was looking for a cafe which would mark the place to turn inland.  Far away in the distance were some dark posts sticking out of the sand.  I walked, finding a place on the sand where my feet didn't sink into it and sap valuable energy.  The dark objects came closer, it was the skeleton of a huge fishing boat, left there to rot.  Far far away in the distance there was a line of rocks, built to break the force of the waves.  I trudged towards it.  When I reached the rocks, far far away in the distance there was a van parked on the sands, people were milling around it, small sticks flying kites.  I trudged towards it.  When I reached the van, far far away in the distance there were some flags, the RNLI stand.  That was where the cafe was.  I trudged towards it, raising a grudging hand when the kite buggies waved at me.  I reached the cafe and collapsed on a bench.  Today was not pleasant.  Boots off, lie back, cup of tea, check the internet.  Oh damm, rain on Sunday, the day I was hoping to camp on Gower.  Oh that would mean a truly unpleasant day off, trying to relax in a wet tent.  Perhaps I could ask Helen if I could have a day off in her house; it's not something I like to do though, what if she's not comfortable with it, I don't like to ask for more than people are willing to give and would hate to make her feel embarrassed.  She's going away for the night though, it would be really nice.  Argh, I'll have to at least ask.
But first, more walking.  I found the beginning of the cycle path and trudged on, resorting to music to help me move my feet.  Getting lost in the rhythym of my friends mixes helped me with the final five miles.  I wasn't going to make it to Llanelli, my feet were too painful for that but I could at least get to Pwll - a respectable 17 miles.
Helen and her friend Penny came out to pick me up; I was tired, as usual, not able to do much in the way of conversation but just about able to hold my end up.  I went to Penny's house for a shower (Helen's out of order) and Helen's for tea.  She regaled me with travelling tales and I felt a funny, relaxed spirit within her.  "Could I stay here tomorrow night, while you go off to St David's?"  "Of course!  Make the house your own!  Here's a key, I'll be back on Sunday afternoon".  I cannot describe the bliss of a space of ones own when those spaces are in short supply.  What's even better, Helen's house comes with a hammock, in which I have spent most of the day.  I've stretched, I've washed my clothes, I've had a good session with the tennis ball (my favourite bit of kit, you roll around on it to give something like deep tissue massage) and most of all I have slept.
I am restored - not fully, for that will come at the end - but enough to keep injury at bay and allow me to walk a little further.  The more relaxed my muscles the better they can do their work and keep the strain of my movements away from my tendons.  It's been a lovely, unexpected, unplanned day off - all thanks to help from strangers.

Reached Carmarthen, only thirteen miles to walk today so I'm taking a little time for myself in a cafe.

I've made it through Pembrokeshire with an incredible amount of help, being passed, basically, from person to person, just walking the miles between houses.  It's not that my life has been easy; but it could be much much harder.  I'm already thinking ahead to future walking challenges abroad and knowing that I'm having a relatively gentle time of it on this one, home turf.
I only have one tiny drawback to all this lovely help - no time to myself.  No time in the evenings to sit and stare, to think, to process and no time to write.

It's a worthwhile exchange, swapping comfort for the lack of writing time - I camped last night for the first time in a month and had the usual return to uncomfortable sleep, waking up over and over again, hips aching, condensation dripping on me from the inside of the tent.  I just feel like my experiences are slipping away - days pass where I walk, I look at the scenery, I meet new people.  They're all the same, nothing to report.

It's hard to keep a record of what I do every day.  There's never enough time to sit and write it all down, especially when I'm spending so much time with other people in the evenings.  The days pass, I walk, I rest, I meet new people and somehow, when I come to look back on it the minutiae have slipped away.  Does it matter where I sat to rub my feet?  Or the ten minutes I spent watching seagulls curve upwards on clifftop wind currents, swooping and jockeying for territory.  Or the packet of sandwiches wrapped in paper, secured with a rubber band that I opened under the table in a cafe, only drinking tea because it was too wet to sit outside for free.  All these small details of every day, wet grass shedding water into my boots, a line of sheep standing patiently with their backs to the wind, the heavy ache of my tired thighs as I pull up onto another stile, a line of steps stretching up into the side of yet another hill; they are indistinguishable, undescribable.  Have I been doing this too long?  Am I no longer able to document it?  I eat my breakfast in a field, finding a suitable flat rock to sit on, swilling out the bowl from my water bottle, drying it on my knee, repacking it as I have done hundreds of times over.  The extraordinary has become mundane.

I've had a good few days making 20+ miles in Pembrokeshire, something that, for my body and level of fitness is brilliant.  Walking 21 miles in a day is, for me, a case of keeping up a steady rhythym, watching my rest breaks, timing myself on my hourly mileage, keeping it going , rarely stopping.  It's not that it isn't fun - the sense of achievement at pushing my body to this sort of mileage is high but it's not relaxing.  I spend much of the time watching the ground under my feet, especially on a cliffside path it can be rocky, unsteady, with unexpected animal burrows and when I'm walking at speed there's little time for changing footsteps.  So my eyes remain downwards, rarely looking up to feast on the fantastic coastal surroundings.  Do I miss out?  I'm not sure.  I get what I want which is to walk miles and miles every day; this isn't a holiday after all.

I suppose it's another stage, another state to experience.  Gone is the euphoria, gone is the struggle, gone too is the majority of the pain.  I'm hardened, deadened in a way.  A machine, just making its way towards the predetermined destination.
A happy machine.  Satisfied with its simple, mechanical life.

I went to Glastonbury Festival, for the second time during this now sixteen month journey.  I would never have guessed it would take this long when I started out, would I even have started at all if I'd known how long I'd be committing for?  This is an awful lot of pain and discomfort for one body.

Glastonbury is wonderful, I have a lot of fun, see incredible pieces of theatre, comedy and cabaret during the day and at night I put on my apron and talk a lot of rubbish in an entertaining manner to the various people who come to order our delicious pizza.  It provides money for my charities, thanks to my employers donating a portion of their income.  It also provides money for me, topping up my dwindling resources and allowing me to eat for the final two months of this journey.  It's also incredibly physically difficult.  I must reverse my sleep cycle; starting work at 8pm when normally I'd be readying myself for bed.  Finish work 3 or 4am, try to sleep in a tent that slowly heats as soon as the sun rises.  Sauna conditions are normally reached by about 8 or 9 am and I can stand no more, scrambling out of bed for fresh air.  Glastonbury this year has shown me how shallow a reserve of strength I have remaining; it doesn't take much to exhaust me completely.  I can walk, I do it for hours every day, but take me into something different and I flop.

I'm also tired in a different way.  I'm tired of travelling, I'm tired of always moving.  I want a place to live, where I can shut the door and not have to leave again.  I want to go to bed for a week and not have to explain that to anyone.  It's a suprise, this longing for a place, I thought I was a traveller, I thought I didn't have homely feelings.  But I guess I do.  Everyone needs a base, somewhere in the world to return to and although I have a town, I don't have much else.  Normally I'm fine with that but I guess, after sixteen months of almost constant movement, hundreds of different beds, I want the change to stop.  I want some surety and certainty, just for a while.
Nothing doing though, I'm not going to get it yet....

I need to pull myself together, find the energy and keep on going.  Another 600 miles and, step by step, I'll complete them.  I have to.  It would impossible to give up now, so close to the end.  When there are no other options, I'll keep walking.  September, I'll be done by September.

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.

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.

I do not have adequate words to describe just how stunning Pembrokeshire is. Around every corner is a brand new bay, turquoise sea lapping at the rocks.
It's too big to photograph, too beautiful, the sun will burn away the detail from my camera lens.
Wildflowers grow profusely, thick clumps of them everywhere, the air is thick with fragrance.
Speedboats loop circles in the bays below me as I walk high on cliff edges, my feet following the beaten dirt path.
The sun beats down on me, unrelenting. I am wearing factor 30 and my skin is still burning, so many hours outside, it's unavoidable.
I see cormorants, gannets, gulls, a myriad of small brown birds, perching by my sleeping spot, fluttering above me with beaks full of caterpillars.
The caterpillars! Tiny black ones, tiger striped ones, porcupine quilled orange monsters, I put my boot down to the stranded ones, they climb up and I can hobble to the edge of the path and flick them into the long grass.
I walk, I rest, I wave my flags, I eat food, I met friendly people, I give out symptoms cards, I collect donations, pound by pound they trickle into my tin. I keep going.

I'm overdue a blog post, overdue an update to this lengthy journey's diary and yet there's nothing to report, just that I continue to walk.

The days have grown longer, the temperature rises.  I can now luxuriate in daylight, take breaks without fear of losing temperature or walking time, sleep outside without a tent, plonk myself anywhere in green grassed solitude, no longer having to stop at a 5pm twilight, shrugging myself immediately into my featherlined cocoon, maintaining core temperature, keeping my skin covered. 
Summer days means carelessness, stretching out on my back, wriggling into last years dry bracken for a post lunch cat nap.
Summer means smells; hot coconutty gorse, fresh pine fronds, thick bluebells, grass, greenery, growth.

There are no stories to tell, I just keep walking.  My sister came for five days, we walked together.  I traversed the short 70 miles of the Ceredigion Coastal Path, started along the Pembrokeshire section for the first of two times I'll walk this.  I've seen a grey seal, thousands of bluebells, stuck my feet in streams, climbed endless steep cliffs, slept in fields, been sniffed by ponies.  These things are just small highlights in a day of steady steps, hours outside, hauling myself up slopes or along cliff edges. Hair blowing in the wind, I just keep walking.

There are no peaks of excitement any more; I'm surrounded by beautiful things and kind people every day and instead of the jumpy, flushed peaks of joy there is simply a deep satisfaction of life as it should be.  I walk, I manage my pain and discomfort, I cover the miles, there is nothing more.

It's simply a matter of mileage. I've come 2600 miles, I've struggled through pain, winter, mountains and just kept going, turning my legs to steely trunks. It's impossible that I would stop now.

There is nothing left for me to do but finish this; another 700 miles, more or less, give or take.  I just need to put one foot in front of the other until it's done.  No joy, no peaks, no expectations, just a steady parade of beauty and sunlight and pain and discomfort, delicious foods and friendly people, greenery, surprising birds and hidden sleeping places.  It will continue until it's over, I just need to keep walking.

To go forwards, first I had to go backwards, retrace the two day walk from Aberdyfi to Borth.....all the way back to Aberdyfi.  Following the panorama walk, along the hillsides between the Dyfi estuary and Happy Valley, the names' origin long lost but the valley no more beautiful than any other in Wales, that is to say I'd be happy to live there for the rest of my days.  I came to know this route pretty well as I'd actually walk it three times.  Once to Borth, once in reverse to Aberdyfi again and then a third time under a different name - no longer the Welsh Coastal Path, this time the Dyfi Valley Way. 
Here's the farm where I cut through a field to the road, here's the house where the road runs out, here's the horseshoe mark cut deep into the boulder, here's the double locked gate, here's where that dog barked at me, here's where the beautiful flowers are, here's where I cut through the woodland; on again, for the third time, all the way to Pennal and that's where the Dyfi Valley Way took a left, heading up the valley away from the coast and through the forest, down to Pantperthog. 
I gave Polly a ring and stayed with her family for one last night; I'd had three nights in a bell tent as she ferried me between my treking points, gave me the rest I needed and generally mixed me into the chaos of a house containing young, adorable children. 
Pantperthog to Dinas Mawddwy.  I'd been picked up by Matt, on his way to a decorating job in Corris, he dropped my bag at the hospital and dropped me by the side of the road.  I'd walk to Dinas Mawddwy and my bag would join me the next morning, coming home with Jackie from her night shift.  It was a peaceful day heading up into the Dyfi forest, padding along through closely planted pine trees, along dry dusty packed rock roads, finding a path between the isolated farms and houses which had survived the compulsory land purchases that led to create these huge areas of forest.  I passed Capel Soar, slate slabs slowly being pushed from the roofless walls by the trees now growing there in place of congregation.  Once this valley would have held farms, workers huts, a school, now just silent, peaceful ranks of pine, bird calls echoing through the trees. 
I can't remember the time I reached Dinas, just a few more miles along the side of a valley, the main road winding below me, I got frustrated, the unwalked path running out in a sea of brambles, impossible to push through, I had to retrace my steps and cut along the side of the pine forest, stopping every so often to watch the fighter jets flit alongside me, their shadows racing to catch them up the steep hillsides.
I didn't last long in the company of kindly Kim and his two friendly dogs.  Despite the dogs insistently pushing their noses into the crook of my elbow, I fell asleep on the sofa by 8, sun blasted, mile weakened.
The next day I set out to walk across a mountain; the route took me to Llanwchllyn and back again, first up and over Aran Fawddwy and then around the base of it from the opposite side of the river, coming around Creiglyn Dyfi lake where it curled into the craterside of the mountain.  Thirty miles in two days, a tough journey, my feet normally don't let me walk so far. 
Oh, the bed was so comfortable, some kind of mattress covering I could just sink into and spend the day with but no, not yet.  I got up, met Jackie as she came home, bleary eyed from the night shift, saw her off to bed and set out, my rucksack carrying the bare minimum for an overnight camp. 
I met Clara at first, she came to accompany me for the first few miles towards the base of the hillclimb.  We walked in the sunshine, promising a hot day ahead up the back roads, passing small farms, sheep roaming, lambs calling for their mothers.  Clara turned back eventually, going to pick her daughter up from nursery and I climbed on, coming to the steep beginning of the mountain, up a few hundred metres, stopping at a water trickle to wash off my sweat and suncream, applying again, how grown up I am these days.  I climbed and climbed, frequent pauses, excuses to admire the view, tracing back how far I'd come.  Eventually I was at the cairn marking the top, there was a white heat haze covering the far distance but I could make out the distinctive lumps of the Rhinog range, tracing in my mind my couple of days climbing up and down them with Stu; closer to Aran Fawddwy there was Dduallt, the mountain I'd walked to in search of the source of the river Wye and away down to Chester; there were the Arenigs, I'd chosen to walk around them, dropped off near Llyn Conwy by Alun, the friendly farmer; then coming down to Bala there was the blue puddle of Llyn Tegid, I'd walked around this lake twice; below me was the valley I'd walked alongside last week, tracing the path of Mary Jones.  So many paths I've taken across this landscape, tracing my footsteps back in time, back across the 2500 miles I've walked through Wales, criss crossing, tiny steps.
I walked slowly down the ridges towards Llanuwchllyn, my knees aching on the downhills, getting overtaken by a friendly set of blokes on their regular walking holiday, discussing the benefits of retirement.  I tried to estimate the time I would arrive there; 7pm I wanted.  Enough time to rest a bit and then try for another few miles before sunset, the next day would be an eighteen miler unless I knocked another couple off tonight.  It was 7.10pm when I staggered towards the carpark by the bridge, too tired to walk the extra quarter mile towards the pub, no time anyway.  Enough time to take off my shoes, sit on a rock, make my evening meal and wiggle my toes.  Then, it was time.  Shoulder my bag once again and walk slowly, aching feet towards the valley at the base of the Aran ridge, looking for a place to sleep.
I found it after a couple of miles, a perfect piece of old, ungrazed land, crumbled stone wall near a stream, oak tree canopy and a flat piece of ground.  I kicked the small branches to the side and settled to rest, watching the stars come out between the tree branches.
Early start the next morning, a good idea anyway when wild camping but essential when there are sixteen miles to walk that day.  I paused for breakfast once my stomach started rumbling and looked up at the ridgeline of the Arans above me.  The outline was familiar and I realised that I was heading towards Nant-Y-Barcut, the farm I'd been taken to when I was offered a bed in Llanuwchllyn by Heledd, the sister of Non, married to Gareth who farmed the land around the house I used to live in (and that glorious set of connections is Wales all over).  She called the outline of Aran Benllyn above the farm the old man, saying he had his hat on when the clouds covered the peak.  Should I say hello?  My path would take me right past her front door.  I thought it over as I walked up the lane towards the farm.  Perhaps she wouldn't remember me, it had been almost a year, perhaps she'd think I was crazy, some smelly hobo with an equally odorous rucksack turning up again like a bad penny.  Maybe she'd think I was ridiculous for still walking, plodding on like Don Quixote, endlessly in search of this 3000 miles.  I came closer and decided to put these foolish thoughts to one side. I had to knock, just to say hello at least.  Of course Heledd recognised me, she was following me on Facebook!  It all worked out, nice cup of tea and a chat and I was on my way - without rucksack!  Heledd offered to take it to the other side of the hill, a steep climb for me, a detour around the mountain pass for her.  She kept asking me if I wanted a sandwich; I kept saying no, being proud, being independent but at the last minute I relented, said yes.  It would be nice, I only had sugary treats to last me until i reached Dinas and a solid meal that night.
It took three hours to reach the church porch where Heledd agreed to drop my bag.  I passed Cwm-fynnon at the head of Cwm Croes, a small, low farmworkers cottage, the shabby door held closed with orange twine.  Three butterflies battered desperately at the cobwebbed window, their wings worn thin in their torment.  I tried to open the window and help them but it was no good, I unwound the door handle and went inside.  Broken red rose china on a table, ancient ashes in an open grate, a wooden pew against the wall, the fluttering of the butterflies against the window was loud in the sleeping cottage.  I closed my hands around each butterfly in turn, raising them to the open window and freedom, then left the cottage, rewinding the twine around the doorknob, looking around furtively as I walked away.
I walked crabwise up the steep valley head and down the other side, joining the small Dyfi stream where it wound and tumbled down from the Creiglyn Dyfi lake.  Eventually, after a steep descent and a road walk in burning sunshine I reached the shade of the church porch, my rucksack and the packed lunch Heledd had left for me.  Deep delight as I lowered myself onto the cool stone seat to enjoy this unexpected feast.  Such a small thing for her, such a joy for me.
Just another six miles, up, over and around a few hills.  An old barn caught my eye, open to the side of the road it was full to the brim with discarded plastic, car tyres and at the bottom of the pile sat a wooden wheel.  I moved closer. The wheel was attached to a cart, metal rims on large wooden spokes, paint flecked and faded, a metal plate with the name and village still screwed to the side.  All directly there as put away when.....40, 50, 60 years ago?  When was the last time this man harnessed his pony to take this sturdy cart to market? 
I walked on, just a few miles more.  I could see the valley split where I'd walked with Clara the previous day, I could see the head of Aran Fawddwy receding behind me, I could see the conjoining of valleys ahead of me where Dinas Mawddwy would nestle into the dip, the settlement at the crossing of routes. 
Made it.  7pm, just in time to see Jackie before she disappeared for the night shift, inhale a big plate of spaghetti and salad, stroke the dogs for a while, chat to Kim, shower, bed.

I've finished the Mary Jones Walk!
A really nice experience, the route follows ancient trackways and drovers roads, mostly high above the valley bottoms where the marshes or toll roads would have been, many years ago.  I followed the path of Mary Jones, the girl who saved for six years to buy a book and walked 28 barefoot miles to the seller.  Thinking about her life back then, her experiences, the most I could do was stare at the view and imagine what wasn't there.

I've done well with my own body too, not the level of Mary herself, 28 barefoot miles overnight.  No, it took me three days.  But that's good, for me.  I've managed sixty miles in the last five days, av 12 miles a day which, for me, is flying.  My body feels full of power, my legs are strong with muscle, it's just my feet that hold me back, my poor strained plantar tendons, so overstretched they're ripping away from the bone.  I do what I can, I have a rhythym, walk, rest, walk, rest, boots off, rub feet, walk, rest, walk, rest, boots off, rub feet, sleep.  That's pretty much my day, every day I'm walking.

I arrived in Bryncrug yesterday, soaking wet, sodden from a surprise rain storm.  It wasn't really a surprise, I was just too lazy to put my waterprooof trousers on, as usual, so got soaking wet, as usual.  I'm no kind of survivalist.  I'd spent the previous night in a barn, no shelter out on the open moorland and I didn't fancy crawling into a soggy, windblown tent so I found the shelter of a wooden bench in a quiet barn.  Remove the sack of lime and the empty sheep drench tin and bingo, there's my bed for the night.  The farmer came in at dusk.  "I'm sorry", I said.  "No problem", he said, more concerned about the dead lamb in the pen in the corner.  The mother ran out, I saw her the next morning, head drooping, limping.  Do sheep grieve?

I meant to camp, in the wet again but there was Sarah again, five miles away, over the hill.  "I'll pick you up", she said, like the big hearted nurturer she is.  No signal until Bryncrug but there she was, "yeah, no worries love, I'll be there in half an hour".  I had a bath, rubbed my feet, bedded down on her sofa.

Today, Aberdyfi.  Sarah took my bag ahead so I could walk freely, down along the beach, sun reddening my face, sand soft under my boots, treating myself to a cream tea when I reached my destination.  Now I'm in a holiday apartment, thanks to Paul at The Old Stables.  It's lush, it's luxurious and it's all mine for the night.  What generosity, from so many people I meet.

I'll have a couple of days of beaches, walking to Borth and then it's back to Aberdyfi again to start the Dyfi Valley Way - up one side of the Dyfi valley to the source of the river north of Dinas Mawddwy and back the other side.  This is my home valley so I'm looking forward to bettering the knowledge of my own land, plus the chance to catch up with long neglected friendships.