I awoke to the sound of a crackling fire outside the tent. My head was swimming as I gathered my senses. Where was I again? Ah, Wales. The memories from the night before came spilling back; playing guitar around the fire, singing songs, and a fair amount of wrestling. I sat up, and experienced a sharp pain in the ribs. I spared a brief moment wondering how I had been stricken with such an injury, before scrambling out of the tent. The sky was grey, and there was a mist clinging to the surrounding treetops. Still, it felt good to wake up to the fresh air of the country. Just yesterday, I managed to speed out by train from London Paddington to a small town called Abergavenny at the foot of the Brecon Beacons mountain range (to meet the boys who had decided to spend the weekend in Wales). From there, I took my chances and grabbed two rides to take me the 20 miles north to another town called Brecon. The first was with a young man on his way to Aberystwyth. He had been around, as a documentary maker, and had even rubbed shoulders with the guerilla fighters of Kurdistan. The second was with a pair of stout young Welsh lads, who seemed confused as to why I was wanting to come all the way out to Wales in the first place. They were simple, and we got to chatting. When the subject turned to politics, they both said they would not vote at the next election. And if they did, it would be for the BNP. They were both pretty racist; not surprising for this part of the country I suppose. I dared not contest them on this issue, as after all, they were the ones kindly giving me the lift! They were friendly though, and wished me luck as I scrambled out of their car. From Brecon, I was picked up by the boys who drove me to their camp site in the hills. They had found a clearing by a river hidden in some woods, and were already commencing the festivities.
Anyway, the next morning was grey and miserable, but the fire that Ilsung had brought back to life was crackling merrily. I sat on a log and took a swig from the nearest bottle of water. My head was still swimming. Not a good feeling. We were soon joined by the others, and before long we had sausages sizzling over the fire for breakfast. After much procrastination, we cleared the camp and set off. It soon became clear that the weather was rubbish, and the boys were obviously not keen on conquering any mountains. But I had dragged myself out of London to do precisely that, so I insisted we all go out and get a little fresh air. After all, we were at the foot of Pen y Fan, the second largest mountain in Wales after Mount Snowdon. And with clear views, it is said the scenery is epic. We found a car park, and set off up a rough path. The mist was stubborn though and it decided to stay. It even started raining. With enthusiasm already low, it was decided we should head back to the car. But I had other plans. I wanted the exercise, and the Brecon Beacons were mountains I couldn't miss. I parted ways with the boys at the car, not really knowing how I would get all the way back to Abergavenny which was a frightening 25 miles away or so on the other side of the Brecon Beacons. It was then that I also realised I only had a small bottle of water in my ruck sack, and I was on pretty much an empty stomach! With only my sense of direction and a rough map of the area, I set off up the green slopes of Pen y Fan. It was nice to be alone with my thoughts and the bleak wilderness of the Brecon Beacons around me. I would find my way, that's all I knew.
Around an hour later, I was standing on the summit of Pen y Fan. A couple of Eastern European took a picture for me to capture the moment. It was grey all around and I could see nothing, but I was happy. But the journey had just begun. There were two more peaks to climb, more ridges and valleys, and plenty of Welsh farmland to walk through before finally reaching the A40 road which I knew was somewhere in the distance. As I descended the other side of Pen y Fan, the mist began to clear and the sun would often peer through casting its glow over the surrounding hillside. My stomach grumbled though and I had already finished just over half of my water bottle. I scrambled up the second peak called Crybn, and walked along some of the most epic ridges I had ever seen. I was walking high above valleys that were carved thousands of years earlier by ice age glaciers. The clouds were now clearing, and the landscape unveiled itself before me. I could see far into the farmland to the north and could just see the town of Brecon. This became the landmark from which I judged the direction I had to walk in. I sat down on a cliff at the head of one of these valleys and took in the sight. Miraculously, there was no wind, and there was only silence. It was beautiful. This was something else, as I was so used to the wind screaming around me when I had climbed mountains. The sun warmed me as I took in the moment that seemed to have presented itself just for me.
I tore my eyes away from the scene before me, and climbed up the third peak. On the other side, was another ridge and spectacular glacial valley. I continued along this ridge until it began to slop down towards rolling farmland. By now, my water bottle was empty, and my throat was parched. It was close to 5pm, and I was well and truly exhausted. I had eaten almost nothing all day, and was beginning to feel a little dizzy. But miraculously, the bubbling sound of water greeted my ears. I followed the sound until I reached the smallest of springs pouring out of the ground. I crouched and pressed my water bottle to the dripping water emerging from the ground. After around 5 minutes, it was half full and I drank greedily.
This refreshed me and I made my final descent out of the Brecon Beacons and into the farmland. I could see a small pocket of houses in the distance. Soon I was walking down a narrow country road that eventually reached a small village. I never thought I would be so happy to see civilisation again. I knocked on a farm house door to ask for directions to the A40, and secretly hoped I would be invited in for some food. An old lady answered the door, I asked for directions and a smile broke across her face. She asked me in for some tea. Nice!
A moment later, I was sat at a large wooden Kitchen table devouring toast and scones with jam and marmalade. This was probably the best toast and scones I had ever eaten. "Well, I was supposed to go to church at 5pm but I decided to stay at home this time. I suppose there was a good reason I stayed." she said. We started talking and I asked her questions about the farm. She had basically lived there all her life, and her two sons were looking after the farm. Things were tough though for farmers in the area, and it made me appreciate her hospitality a whole load more. I couldn't stick around though as I had to make it to the A40 before nightfall to ever stand a chance of grabbing a ride back to Abergavenny and the train station.
With my spirits up and a spring in my step, I made my way through more farmland and walked alongside a canal for around 40 minutes until I finally reached the A40. I had made it! It was long and tiring, but worth it. The sun was now setting over the Brecon Beacons that were now pretty far in the distance as I stood by the side of the road signalling at the passing cars. After a minute or two, an old white van pulled up beside me. It was an old looking man who kindly agreed to drive me the entire 15 miles or so to Abergavenny. With a sigh of relief I collapsed into the seat next to him. We started talking, and he asked me what I had studied at university. It didn't take long for him to start talking. His brother who was around 50 had died recently in Afghanistan, when the humvee he was driving on patrol was hit by a road side bomb. Everyone in the vehicle died with the exception of his son in law, who was also inside but escaped unharmed. This was the first time that I had really been confronted by the results of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The loss of human life. He was obviously angry about a lot of things, not just the war and the death of his brother. He was also struggling looking for work. Being in the trade of welding, there was not much business left for people like him. We drove by some Liberal Democrat campaign posters for the local MP Roger Williams, and the old man complained that politicians could no longer be trusted. I never mentioned that I had actually sat in meetings during my internship in parliament with Roger Williams MP when working on the Marine and Coastal Access Bill. He was actually a nice guy ...
We continued talking, and soon reached Abergavenny. I said my thanks, and headed to the train station. It was a good day, and I sat on the empty platform waiting for the last train that would take me to Cardiff, and then to London. The sky was blue, and the sun was just about disappearing behind the distant hills. I sat there hoping that the countryside would always be there for people who needed to get away from the madness of the city ...
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