Wednesday 8th
I set off from Abergynolwen at 11am, spinning out the last few moments of chat at Sarah's breakfast table before I put my boots on and headed out to walk.  Again.  Across the valley and up to a back road that led into the forestry and high up to the farms that border Tal-y-Llyn.  I'd not seen this side of the lake before, the road I'd normally drive curls alongside it, low down on the opposite side.  I walked along, enjoying the sunshine and fresh green countryside.  Just half an hours walk and I was already far away from roads and buildings, high up on the side of a hill.  Away from everything except nature.  Perfect.

The path wriggled up and down above the lake, descending into small gorges to cross streams and crossing ancient abandoned farmyards, trees growing out of crumbled ruins.  I walked through fields full of brand new lambs, napping in the sun, struggling to co-ordinate legs and brain.  One particularly brave lamb didn't run away with its mother, stood, stared, came over and smelt my legs then curled up beside my foot.  I couldn't resist crouching down and taking a few photos.  A lamb close up!

I dropped down at the end of the lake to the road and passed the foot of Cader Idris.  There came a short period of road walking, pretty dangerous on this busy A road but finally I reached the peak of the mountain pass, the road opened up into the wide valley and I could head left to walk over the reedy moorlands before Cross Foxes.  A short stop at some sheep pens to rescue some stranded tadpoles in a fast drying puddle (save the tads!) but eventually I reached Cross Foxes.  There was time for a quick pint at the hotel, put my feet up on the sofa before I was ready to walk around the small hill before Brithdir and look for somewhere to sleep.  I got distracted by an old barn, walking into the field, entranced by the view of Cader Idris to the left and layers of blueing hills but couldn't find anywhere that felt right.  Ground too lumpy, stones scattered near to the barn walls.  I get really picky about where I sleep, it needs to feel right and so I end up walking on and on when I'm tired, looking for the right spot.

Eventually I left the road, came to a cycle track that led over open farmland, sheep grazing the grass close cropped, the track led over the hill and down to Brithdir, here was my last chance.  The flattest spot was on the path itself, another place I wouldn't normally sleep but I decided to chance it.  Laid out my bed, ate my evening meal (flavoured couscous, mackerel, grated carrot, mayonaise, loads better than it sounds!!), read a book until it got too dark then laid down.  I love sleeping without a tent, no barriers between you and the world.  It was cold, I had to put a scarf over my head and face and my nose was definitely freezing but when your eyes flicker open as you turn over to catch sight of the moon rising silently over the hillside, it's all worth it.

Thursday 9th April
Another thing about sleeping outside, you wake up early.  As the sun lightens the sky, so do your eyes flicker open.  I sat up to watch the pre dawn light flood the view below me, eyes taking a while to focus, gluey from the cold night air.  Around me the dew beaded every grass blade, a fresh morning, just a little bit too cold for me to jump out of bed.  I should have done though, about half an hour later came the buzz of a farmer's golf buggy.  Oops!  I wrestled out of the sleeping bag and quickly packed it away before he came into view.  He had to make a detour around my patch but just nodded to me.  Morning.  Morning.

Phew!  I made a quick move, heading down the hill to Brithdir and then along the valley side towards Bala.  It was ten miles to Llanuwchllyn and another beautiful warm day.  Summer warm, too early for me still with my white winter skin and thick clothing.  I went a few miles to the edge of a forest, stopping for breakfast on some tussocky tree roots, sitting and admiring the thick mosses and fallen leaves, so comfortable.  But I must continue, I must always continue.  The path took me along quiet tracks, above the modern road down in the valley bottom, it would have been a toll road two hundred years ago, Mary Jones couldn't afford that.  So instead I experienced old tracks, tree lined, winding, the ways to travel before tarmac and engines came into being.  Up and down went the day, from farm to farm towards Llanuwchllyn.  I stopped for lunch,  a carrot and a stray chocolate bar from the bottom of my rucksack, I'd run out of real food. I trudged on, feeling suprisingly tired and rubbish.  A row of four excited pensioners perked me up; sitting outside their caravans enjoying the sunshine, they gave me a fillip of validation, a water top up and 30 pounds for my donation tin.  I'll probably see them on my way back to the coast, in exactly the same place.  I went on a bit further but was struggling and it wasn't long before I gave up, at a flat patch of grass beside a stream.  Boots off, feet propped up in the air, scoured my rucksack for remaining scraps of food, read my book and tried not to fall asleep....even though I really wanted to.  Eventually I felt good enough to carry on, although my head started to hurt.  If I could get past Llanuwchllyn there was a woman living near Bala who would come and pick me up.  But as I carried on my head ached more and more; I think it was the hazy light.  My feet hurt, as they always do.  I know that my feet will continue to cause me significant pain until the end of the walk (another thousand miles), it's a question of managing it in order to carry on walking without long term injury, which is why I stick to about ten or twelve miles a day. I phoned Fiona to see if she'd pick me up, pressing a little upon her good nature but I felt pretty rubbish, sitting in the Eagle Inn with my head in my hands.  She took me home and made me comfortable in the caravan.  I tucked up with a meat pie, woolly blankets and the radio, bed by nine thirty.

Friday
Today I feel better.  Washed, rested.  I'm in a cafe in Bala now, having walked the final five miles around the lake.  It's a beautiful beautiful day, I'm so glad I'm here doing this, it's a fantastic experience, even though I'm skint, achy and tired.  I've reached Bala, following the likely path that Mary Jones came to buy a bible, two hundred years ago.  How different my life is to hers, my needs fulfilled with a press of a button.  What kind of money would I raise if I saved for six years?  How many books could I buy?  She bought one.
My only job today is to walk to Bala and back again and I'm halfway through already.  This meant I could pop into the Eagles in Llanuwchllyn and ask to leave my bag there, I'll return later in time for an afternoon pint before I head away to find somewhere to camp. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming down a short slope to cross a small stream, waves whitening against the narrow Anglesey bay I suddenly thought. My friends have walked here.
Will and Ed with their tall bikes (www.tallbiketourbritain.com). Hannah with her donkey (www.seasidedonkey.co.uk). Rebecca Morris, a thousand miles around the Welsh outline.
Then there's others, walkers, authors, inspirations.  Christian around Britain. John Merrill 'Turn right at Land's End', Shally Hunt and her husband 'The sea on our left',  Spud Taylor-Ponsonby and her dog Tess 'Two feet, four paws'.
I pushed up the hill, leaning forward to take the weight of my rucksack more fully against my shoulders, placing my feet carefully to dig against the slope and I thought of others who had done the same.
All had trodden in these steps, fought the wind or basked in the sun. All had made the effort, step after step for hour after hour in pursuit of their own, personal challenge, borne from the joy of walking or the unexpected obstacles that living brings.  My effort was just the latest of the many who had gone this way before.

I came to the burial mound about thirty minutes later. The mark of those who went before, this time thousands of years ago.   I read the sign, detailing the known rites and customs of those long dead people, details scratched together from patient collectors and chemical analysis, marks scored into stones, bubbling brews poured onto embers.  Frog, toad, eel, limpet, grass.  Incantations muttered, putting the dead to rest in this circle of stones, inside a heap of earth on a headland above the sea, thousands of years ago when the limits of the known world were far smaller than ours.  I walked down a short corridor, into the mound to see the covered circle of stones within.  As I came near the gateway I started to breathe heavily with a sense of a deep movement of power emanating from the inside of the dark space.  It's as if I was caught in the current of a whirlwind of energy but barely attuned to it enough to sense more than the ripples at the edges, like a child playing on the carpet as the adults discuss politics or divorce.  I stood at the metal barring the inside of the space and breathed, trying to feel what was coming from in there.  Like a bird hopping at the corner of my vision that would disappear if I looked directly at it I could only try and feel, holding my senses out like fingers in the current, trying to feel something trailing through them.  Tears fell down my face as I shakily breathed in and out, thinking of the people here, pouring their ritual into the earth, creating their sacred space.
I may know the mechanics of cell division, or why we get rainbows, or where the sun goes when it disappears. I may be able to live without daily foraging for food or talk to my sister in Mexico without seeing her face.  But what do they know that I don't?  What beliefs do they have that I have long forgotten? I truly cannot imagine.
I came out, unsteadily, back into the crashing unrelenting wind and continued on under the bright sky, wondering whether life really is better these days, with animals in cages, food made of emulsifiers and additives and humans scraping and squeezing the last of the earth's resources into their greedy mouths.  Do we live in harmony and die in peace?  Did they?
Later on I came to another sacred space, the church in the sea, St Cwyfans, walled up, protected, saved from the hungry water, crashing against the rocks, eating buildings from the foundations up.  It stood high on an island of grass, protected by a sea wall, a collection of rocks saved by humans, caring for their sacred spaces.

Strangely that day, unusual in all the days I've been walking, was where I found traces of the walkers who'd gone before.  I came to Aberffraw and went to a cafe where Rebecca Morris had told me to stop.  She'd walked in there and made friends with the owner, had tea, cakes, dinner and been invited to stay the night.  I told the owner who I was, and we sat for a while, talking about her experience of Rebecca, the quiet, unobtrusive woman tanned brown as a nut, who was steadily walking the Welsh coastline.  "She sat over there" said Linda the cafe owner, "that's her seat." And so we sat there again in honour of Rebecca, to have our photo taken.  One walker sitting in place of another, remembering her journey months earlier.
I said goodbye and walked away, it wasn't until I was almost at the gate that a man called after me.  It was Richard, the craftsman from the workshop opposite and a friend of the woman I was due to stay with that night.  He invited me into his space and I found myself having a conversation with another cancer sufferer, a coper, in his case, using work and deliberate cheerfulness as his distraction from the fear that cancer can bring. We had a brilliant conversation about all kinds of things, he gave me a book, I met another friend of his, all wonderful. It was almost at the end, as I was preparing to leave that he mentioned he'd met an inspiration of mine.  Christian around Britain, the man who walked the entire British coastline as I was in preparation for my own challenge, finishing just a few weeks after I started.  Not only did he walk 7000+ miles, he slept rough the entire time, trying to get people to talk about the problems of homelessness in ex-servicemen.  Not once did this man crawl into a bed to ease the aches in his bones.  He showed me a picture of Christian standing outside his shop - and then we went and took the same photo with me.
There is no end to this story, it's just me walking away again, continuing on my path around the country.  I haven't thought much since about those who went before, it just seemed to be that day of realisation of the many people in whose footsteps I tread.

This time three years ago I went to the doctor about a strange feeling in my abdomen.

This time three years ago I started the process that led to major surgery and an ovarian cancer diagnosis.

This time three years ago my life changed.  Suddenly I was vulnerable.  Suddenly I felt mortal.

Three years ago, I'd spent the previous six months on a kayak journey, paddling the length of the Danube before settling for the winter in a small ramshackle house in Bulgaria.  I was in the best physical shape of my life - while unknowingly growing a huge tumour.
It was an incredible shock to come to the UK for a Christmas visit and not go home again; because I had cancer.

I'm far away now from all the fear, from the physical pain of treatment and from the pure uncertainty of illness.  Cancer hovered in front of my face for months, blocking my vision, my thoughts, my feelings about anything else.  My thoughts focused inwards, down into my pelvis, thinking about growths, about jostling of organs, blood supplies, cell division.

I remember going for a walk one day, the sun of May was starting to warm the fields and I could appreciate the beautiful surroundings of my new home, my new beginning post illness.  I came through a small piece of forestry, just a thin track winding through the trees and out into a field of long grass where I lay down under the blue sky.  I rolled up my top to allow the sun across my scar in a gesture of healing and positivity but soon found my hands running across my belly and my thoughts disappearing into the worry within and realised that that was where I'd been for months, the cloud of fear surrounding me, living with my thoughts turned inwards, the sun just bringing me out of it for a short time and showing me another, lighter way of being.

I was very lucky, in a cancer way of speaking.  Just one tumour, encapsulated, three months of illness and a quick recovery.  Not the dragging slow poison of chemotherapy but a quick sharp slash of a wound to recover from.

It feels a long way away now, the way trauma fades in the passage of time.  I'm strong now, physically and mentally.  Not only has my body healed but I know I can push it again, I know I can use it to take me out into the world, to survive in tough condidtions, to walk over mountains in wind and rain.
When it aches and stiffens, when I collapse and groan at the end of a day it's because I've walked miles, with only a rucksack and a map for company.  I can make a tent in a field and not feel vulnerable.  I can walk thousands of miles. 

I'm not sure what I want to say about this.  Am I telling you about the experience to warn you about ovarian cancer or just marking how far I've come.
Maybe I'm just marking how far I've come.  A year of illness, a year of working, a year of walking and here I am, out the other side, myself again.  How neat.

I'm coming to the end of ten days of walking, a return to it after the Christmas break.  I've walked 87 miles in the last ten days, not enough really.  Not as much as I want to be walking.
I've been walking through Anglesey, there have been half days, there has been time spent waiting in barns for the worst of the rain to stop, spent dozing in caravans, spent dripping in pubs thinking about where I could sleep that night.  I'm not sure how I've managed to walk so little though.  Maybe it's because I haven't been very good at early mornings; this time of year there's so little light that I need to get up early in order to get a decent mileage in before dark and most mornings, eszpecially when I'm staying woith someone, I don't get going until ten.
Anglesey is pretty amazing though, gorgeous craggy cliffs and small bays with crashing waves.  It's a new experience compared to the relatively unchanging countryside vistas I'm used to after almost two thousand miles of inland walking.
I've been filmed for ITV news, that was pretty cool.  A really nice morning trying to enumerate my feelings in a calm yet interesting way without repeating myself, touching my hair or saying erm too much.  I felt good about it as I walked into Holyhead that afternoon.  It was different that night as I freaked out a bit when it was shown, the stark reflection of my physicality on screen a little unwelcome.
I'm having my day off in a holiday let, five bedrooms, just as many bathrooms, a sea view and huge tv, just for me.  I can sit here and watch the excerable weather outside, feeling very glad I'm not out there battling it.
I'm glueing my boots today, they're slpit at the sides and I'm not quite ready to buy another pair yet.  I'm also sewing various holes that have appeared in various pieces of clothing, detangling hair whipped into tangles by 40mph winds and rubbing muscle oil into my legs.  Oh and eating cereal and crisps.  It's a pretty normal day off really.
Not sure what else to say, I spend my days crafting beautiful words and insights as I walk with the wind and hillsides but somehow, when I come to rest, I just want to sit and not do anything at all, my brain is resting too I suppose.

There have been a lot of kind and friendly people crammed into this last week.

Just this minute, as I'm typing this sentence, the people at the table across from me in this cafe in Amlwch Port have offered me a place to stay when I reach Llanfachraeth, two days ahead.

The cafe owner has dropped a couple of pounds into my tin and probably won't charge me for the tea.

This morning the bus driver taking me from Penraeth back to my starting place at the Pilot Boat paid for my ticket and gave me twenty pounds, with the strict stipulation that ten pounds was for me and ten for charity.  "People matter" he said.  "You're doing a great thing and you need to take care of yourself".

Last night I was hosted by Kate, Simon and their two bright, interested children.  They provided a bath, good food, drawings, chat about potatoes and other things and got me nicely drunk.

When I arrived at the Pilot Boat, my place to stop walking for the day and meet Kate I had a couple of pints.  The women behind the bar wouldn't let me pay for the drinks, one of them telling me about her epic feats - Anglesey in four days! Great Wall of China!  Kickboxing!  Dryathalon!  She was doing a lot of fundraising for her charity but still, when I gave her my card, handed me fifty pounds for my tin.

The ladies in the bar knew I was coming because Steph Scott had taken my bag ahead for me.  She'd contacted me at half seven that morning "Can I come and walk with you today?" "Sure, Ship Inn at tenish" "Great, do you need anything?"  Steph lives in Shrewsbury and when I passed through there on the river Severn, all the way back in March she came out and walked with me for a few hours, carrying her 9 month old daughter on her back.  This time she brought the rest of her family, they'd come to Caernarfon for a New Year break and to walk with me again.  Five year old Ben and husband Pete all accompanied me for a lovely few hours tramping up and down the headlands of Moelfre, catching up on all that had passed for us both, it felt like minutes had passed when we arrived at their car.  They took my rucksack ahead for the days remaining miles and promised to come out and meet me again in the Spring.

I'd received Steph's text while I was still in bed at Sharman and Gareth's house. Sharman is the manager of the Ship Inn at Red Wharf Bay where I'd blown in on New Year's Day, windshocked and dripping wet.  It was stormy outside and I'd asked if I could camp in the pub garden, it looked to be curled round against the wind.  It wasn't really, and when I'd gone out there later to look for a place to camp I'd decided against the garden in favour of a dry doorway behind the yacht club further down the promenade, the only truly sheltered place I'd found that day.  When I got back inside the pub the manager came over, slipping a fiver into the tin and offered me a bed at her place.  One of the most needed and most unexpected beds I've had in this journey.

People have been friendly on Anglesey, recognising me, saying hello.  It's a nice place and, when the rain isn't coming sheeting like silver fish scales, it's a very beautiful place.
I expected a quite isolated and tough journey around the island, with only one bed offer in advance I thought I'd be camping lots, hardly seeing or speaking to anyone.  I've received a lot in just these four days, it's kind of wonderful really.

I can't plan for any of these things to happen to me; I can only walk and because I am walking these things will come.

Tonight I'll camp. I'm already in the tent, in a quiet field under a glowing moon and tomorrow I'm going to arrive at a cousin of Steph's who owns the most northerly point in Wales.  Will I be able to set foot on it?  I do hope so.....

I'm spun out today; feelings blurred, body aching.  It's been a solid week of daily drinking, mince pie stuffing and cold lamb leftovers.  My muscles hurt; am I slowly relaxing after a week without walking or building up a layer of achohol toxins in my body.  Who knows, I just know that I'm going ahead to carry on.  Tomorrow.
I seem to have stopped being able to write this journey down, it's all becoing a blur.  One day I look up to the sky and there's a full moon, the next time I look the moon has all but disappeared, just a thin bright sliver decorating the horizon.  Time, days, miles are passing and they're indiscriminate from each other.  I can only let them pass, not trying to hold onto each one, there are too many now, ten months of memorable days have bulged and breached my memory banks.  It's all the same.  It's all amazing but it's also all the same.

I'm heading for Anglesey, that wonderous flat island.  Flat and frost free.  It should be a breeze; the wind being the only problem.  I'll press ahead, just 1300 miles to go, it feels like nothing, I'm sure I won't feel like that in time.  There's still months ahead.  Months more walking and my boots leak.  I'm searching for superglue in Bangor.
Superglue and sardines. and sugar. What I'll need for Anglesey.

It's a windy day outside and I have taken a sneaky half day after walking over Cader Idris yesterday.  I really didn't want to, stay here in someone's house eating bowls of chocolately cereal, drinking tea and watching cookery programmes.  I really don't want to be here, honestly I don't.  I want to be out there in the gale force winds, trussed up in my waterproof trousers and rucksack, fighting to see out of my tear spattered glasses, wiping the liquid that drips from my nose, shoulders hurting from my rucksack, pain striking into my heels every time my feet hit the ground.  Yeah, I really should be out there.
But Dianna, my host, said those magic words last night.  "You're welcome to stay as long as you want, just make yourself comfortable"  I'd come down off Cader Idris, an 11 hour walk through high winds and hail, battering myself up the mountain and down again.  I came down off the mountain at three pm, could have camped but there was the invitation to stay in Barmouth, just five miles on road.  I could do it.  So I walked in the pitch dark, down the steep steep hill and across the railway bridge.  The bridge seemed endless in the darkness, just the small circle of my torchlight highlighting the planks under my feet, the wind whistled through the wires separating me from the trainline.  My feet were stones by this point, just thudding down to the ground, over and over.  I shone the torch down to the water and felt dizzy as soon as I saw it, the sea rushing inland, stirred by the wind.
I arrived, windshocked, in the Mermaid chippy.  Dianna had phoned ahead, I could have whatever I wanted while I waited for her to finish her spinning class.  The lady behind the counter couldn't hear me, I talk quietly when I'm tired but I managed to repeat myself a few times and make my request understood.  Large chips, peas, gravy, mayonnaise, cup of tea and a can of coke.  I ate, slowly, and felt restored.
When I woke up this morning, rain battering against the windows, all I could think of was staying here for the day.  I can't really stop, I only had a day off a couple of days ago, it's not time.  But my feet hurt, my back aches, all the usual stuff but the weather outside is horrible and that gave the excuse I needed to be slow, to have a shower, eat cereal.
Now it's half 11, I've rubbed muscle oil into my legs, written a blog, I've even plucked my eyebrows.  There is nothing else I can do here.  I must leave.
I'll enjoy it once I get out there, the wind whirling my senses out to the horizons, the sight of the hills calling out to the sky.  It's just so hard to start sometimes.