Month: April 2017

13th June
As I sit in my top room of the house in the heart of Llanrindod Wells perusing a fascinating hardback volume from 1931 “tramping through Wales in search of the red dragon” by John C Moore, I consider myself very lucky indeed. Less than 100 years ago this walking writer was refused hospitality even though he had a sprained ankle not once but three times, eventually having to creep into a hay barn and climb atop a haystack for a nights shelter.
When I read of the journey between Builth and Rhayder, my journey too, the directions he is given are
You’ll be a muddied oaf if you go by the river
He went by road, as I am, he says
“It was a happy walk,in spite of the customary drizzle, there were dog roses in the hedgerows…”
He walked in June, as I am, it is a lovely thing to know that some things have not changed a bit, not the things that really matter.
Moore seemed not though on the whole to think terribly well of the reception he received from the Welsh, and his walk along the Wye. He did find his red dragon though, in the skies on his final night:
“The sunset flushed with its last glow, the red dragon which Merlin saw springing out of the hills .”
The red dragon represents the Britons and was seen fighting with the white dragon, the invading tribes, by Merlin in his prophecy of Vortigen’s fall. Curious, I wonder about these two battling forces, no doubt they too represent something deep within each of us.
I cast my mind back to the previous evenings storytelling with the goodly folk of transition Llandrindid Wells. I feel sad I didn’t get to hear the tale of the birth of Talesin told by Jess. We have spoken earlier and been inspired. We are working towards the same vision:; to open up the old pilgrims ways and connect up all the centres of inspiration. She is soon to walk from St David’s to Bardsey island. It feels to me we could talk for a year and a day but we don’t get the opportunity to talk more for the tales of transition in these parts they are many and the folk enthusiastic and keen. It is mid night before we leave the famed herb garden where we have eaten well of the curries made for us and heard a whole treasure trove of positive tales.
Where to start with the tales of Llanrindod?
Could it be the annual May fair where likeminded projects can showcase their work, or the very popular repair cafe that takes place in the old pavilions once a month during the summer, or maybe the new Soup project, modelled on a Detroit scheme, where 4 local projects a month get to talk of their work at an evening where soup has been donated and all the comers pay £3 a head and get to vote for the most inspiring project who take home all of the proceeds to put into their venture?
All of these projects are dear to the heart of the founding team but perhaps the one that is dearest to the hearts of my hosts palaentologists Joe and Lucy, is the repair cafe.

I arrive in Llanrindod in time to enjoy the last hour of this months. I am taken to meet the group one by one on their stalls where they are busy at work sharpening shears, mending old bits of machinery, sewing on a shirt cuff button, and Di, founding member of transition Llandrindod, is doing a raffle from her freegle stall where plenty of new people have signed up. This scheme has been going ten years up. I pick up an extraordinarily light packet of paper sweet cases, with making the Brazilian sweetmeat brigadeiros in mind. They are a national favourite and very easily made for parties and get togethers.

spring in Llandridod Wells gardens

Over a delicious curry supper provided by founding member Sally of the hugely acclaimed Herb Garden cafe who I have been hearing tales about all the way from Hereford, I hear more tales including the Powys Alliance which is the local version of what I saw in Hereford, bringing together all the different inspirational projects of the region to get together and support one another. This is clearly the way forward allowing for more things to happen and less people to suffer from burn out.
I hear too of the community garden running alongside the paved walkway outside the herb garden cafe and other businesses now planted up with edible plants. There wasnt a lot of light getting in so a local artist carved a willow tree there into a green man cutting back some of the growth that was preventing light reaching the garden prompting the goodly folk to want to name the walkway Green man lane but this has caused no end of resistance. From whence came this fear of the old things from our heritage?
I want to hear more from my hosts Lucy and Joe too. They are palaentologists and Llanrindod Wells the best place in the world for fossils. I hear that Wales used to be a series of volcanic islands and Llanrindod once an ocean. Hence the medicinal waters the Victorians built their spa for. I drink from the last remaining spring. The water tastes of iron and salts very strong. Volcanic eruption moved plates around trapping layers and the water escapes from fault lines.
Modern Llanrindrod, I hear, is a centre to which people with mental health problems and drug abusers are sent. As usual short sighted money driven decisions create a bigger problem than ever. These folk are now ghettoised in the fairytale turreted castle houses of the Victorians.
I cast my mind back to Builth and the scenes from legend painted on a house wall by the river bridge. A warrior for sure, perhaps the prince the town is said to have betrayed, the last welsh prince. The arts are strong in Builth. My host Alun started the what’s on wales website and he and partner Steph enjoy the famed arts centre just across the road from the mural painted house.
I hear from the transition group here that Builth are to become a transition town too and feel happy that this is so and look forward to the art that come from this.
When I remember the stories of the night I think of what I have been talking to my hosts about; how to support the vulnerable by story. I have learnt over the years I have been involved with community in various ways that a person is not emotionally available to see the bigger picture no matter the context if their personal story has not been heard.
I start to wonder if there were regular storytelling events that allowed for a lot of listening to one another’s stories it might begin to open up opportunities for new connections to be made.
By the time I settle down to sleep my head is buzzing with all the tales I have heard and just how much can be achieved by one small 4000 strong town.
I remember my new Welsh word of the day. As I walked into town I met a lady on a bike just beyond Diserth, an ancient chapel dating back to Arthurian times, but built on a far older site, in a round churchyard surrounded by ancient yews. The chapel is dedicated to St Cewydd patron saint of rain and i suspect with a far older past. Jan, as she introduces herself, stopped to talk and we soon found out we had transition in common. She had stopped going to meetings for a while because she found that many of the awareness raising activities were focusing on the challenges more than the positive stories that fill people with enthusiasm and needed to take a break to reconnect with what was important to her; connection to the nature around us. We exchange many tales including a love of learning the languages of the places where we are and I learn how to say thank you in Welsh:

Diolch yn fawr
Now, after this inspiring evening of hearing all the things that are happening in the town it is clear things are moving forwards rapidly in Llanrindod and the best word to say for it all is;
Diolch yn fawr
Thank you Transition Llanrindod.

16th June
Up until a few minutes ago,when I arrived at Cwmbiga Eco bed and breakfast, my day today has been just perfect.
I was awake bright and early at 5.30 to catch up with my blog and breakfasted and out of the very friendly and excellent value for money Bluebell inn by 9.
In the village store and post office Mary the post mistress makes me a sandwich and helps me finally make a decision about the best way to go up to Cwmbiga, through Hafren forest or past the Clywedog reservoir.It’s 14 miles which ever way I choose. I have been puzzling about it for days; I have decided not to attempt the path to the source of the Wye as I am alone and have no compass but rather to follow back lanes to the bed n breakfast which is as close as you can get to the source by lane and very near to the source of the Severn. I have been told the forest way is better for walkers as it is not so hilly but I am a little apprehensive about more than three miles of walking through dense pine forest in a steep ravine. Mary tells me the views over the reservoir are well worth the extra climb. She, like me, feels that evergreen forests exude a sense of the land being dead. Today is also the first day that the sun is fully out and there is no wind; it promises to be a beautiful day, a shame to spend it in shade.
I am easily persuaded to brave the ups and downs of the reservoir way. Mary asks me to phone her when I reach Cwmbiga to tell her what I thought of her suggestion. She always recommends it and wants some feedback.
I set out from Llangurig at 10 and make swift progress. I am at the turn off for the lane to the reservoir, 5 miles from Llangurig, just outside Llandielos by 11.20. It’s the fastest I have walked in a long time. I have barely noticed the gradually steepening lane just the warm sun on my skin. I have yet another choice after a mile or two. I can already have views of the reservoir or I can walk west a couple more miles and come out close to the waters edge. I am nervous about open countryside on maps as cattle are not marked and I still haven’t got over my fear of being chased after several scary episodes on my walk around England when I was still not afraid to use public footpath. Still in the end I go for the western path and am rewarded by a totally empty lane just for me with well fenced in sheep at both sides of me, apart from the odd terrified escapee who run from me as though I were a killer though I speak softly to them.Its rather disconcerting. I walk for 11 miles without a single car passing me and not a dog or cow in sight. I fully appreciate how good life is in the absence of cars, cows and dogs. I spend a completely happy stress free 3 hours.
I get a little lost and head too far west too early when I come to a junction of lane track bridle path and footpaths. I am a mile along a bridle path I have mistaken for the lane due the the presence of a clump of pine that are not marked on the map and do not realise till I look to my right and identify the lane headed north that I should be on.
Even this doesn’t fase me this sunny afternoon. I muse as I return to the crossroads on how this might be a metaphor for life’s decisions, how we must sometimes head off in the wrong direction to become really sure, given the perspective from that angle, of the way we actually want to go. Sometimes we need that perspective to enable us to see clearly.
Once back on track I haven’t gone very far when some cattle in a field below me, separated by a fence and a stream from me gaze up at me in horror, dispelling the myth I have been believing that cows only see you if you are wearing red, before haring off at full speed as fast they can away from me! It is fascinating to be in the other position. Now it is cows who are afraid of me.
I remember that I need to check in with a host for a later night and take out my mobile but there is no signal. An email has come in though at some point since I last looked and I see to my delight that Ling, my lovely Chinese friend has published her book, she says, on my reccommendation. It is a special moment to be halfway up a Welsh mountainside and discover that the things we say to people really do have an impact.
Soon I join the reservoir lane. I have been climbing steeply and descending rapidly for the last couple of miles and now I meet a handful of cars on their way to or from the reservoir. The glimpses I get of the llyn are pretty spec ta cular but it isn’t until I reach the shore that I breathe in its full beauty. I am at first slightly disgruntled that two cars are parked on the headland. Soon however I can see why they picked this spot and find a patch of grass a little down from them where they are out of my line of vision and gaze out in delight at the panorama. Mary was right. This was a view not to be missed.
I eat my lunch. It is 2:30. I am almost there already. I spend a pleasant hour simply sitting in the warm sun as memories of my dad come in, he would have loved to have fished here, then of my partner, Ben, who would love to fish here too, and then of the other men I have loved, not with any sense of wanting any of them to be here, just a recognition that I am slowly integrating the best of each of them into my psyche, growing to understand the masculine aspects of myself, the parts I admire and like, no longer trying to find this quality on the outside but knowing that I have all I need within. The sense of deep peace I feel as I sit looking out at the few anglers in boats and one man fishing from the shore is just as I imagine men feel when they go off to a quiet place in nature to fish and be at one with the great outdoors. I stop even thinking and enjoy where I am for maybe the first time in this way since this journey began. There is something reassuring about being in the middle of nowhere by a large expanse of water yet not totally alone, with a handful of others equally content to be alone.
When I eventually walk on I find an information board that tells me that the reservoir is six miles long and 216 feet deep in places. It is the drowned river Cewydog mixed in with the river Severn, or Sabrina as she is known in legend. The information board suggests her gentle friendly presence can be felt here and I would have to agree.
I last met Sabrina on my 2010 storywalk as I walked south through Bridgnorth and Worcester and learnt of her myth from my host in Bewdley. I enjoy the weaving together of my two walks by the feminine river goddess. I have set out to walk the Wye and finished up closer to the source of the Severn.
I feel happy to have renewed my acquaintance with Sabrina and take my time to walk the last stretch of llyn before it dwindles into the ribbon like Avon Biga. I spot bilberries growing in the verge and for a moment wish it were later in the season so I could pick my favourite fruit.
I walk on and quickly gain what used to be the beginning of Hafren forest. Hafren is the Welsh for Sabrina’s river. I am both relieved and dismayed in equal measure by the bare topped hills. The forestry commission took on these poorly fertile hilltops midway through the last century. The climate in Wales in the bronze age had been such that the growing season lasted six weeks longer than it does now, but little by little over use over grazing and climate change had reduced this land to the sort that folk didn’t want anymore and the commission got it cheap. Now though the Welsh government, as the End!ish, are starting to see that huge plantations of pine are not much better for the land, and to cut them down and not replant.
The bare headed hills look worse than the areas that are still planted. I am reminded of what Eddie told me about the Romans throwing salt down over lands where they had routed the native tribes. It scorched the earth so that nothing would grow so that the people would not go back. I felt the pain of this viscerally when I heard it.
I find it hard to bear when I hear tales of how one people could so disregard the needs of another. All day I have wondered at the huge expanse of land where only sheep graze and images of the refugee children who have been drowning out of over crowded boats trying to come to Europe to beg for sanctuary. A part of me screams in horror at the injustices that the human race inflict on one another.
When I reach Cwmbiga, my home for Two nights, the sanctuary I have been looking forward to, the only two night stop in the journey till I reach Bardsey island I am shocked at the cold reception I receive. I can’t think what I have done to deserve it. I am asked to sit in the lounge and given a drink and some bara brith, Welsh cake,but the way in which my host doesn’t meet my gaze or welcome me is shocking to my system.
Eventually he returns and says he has to see to the other guests who have just arrived and then he’ll make up my room. When he finally does show me up to my room, that I have paid for in advance and ask for WiFi he says its not for guests use and when I say I had planned to stay in and write he says he is going to be out tomorrow.
When I come down for dinner he says I had better move on as this is clearly not the right place for me and that he’ll reimburse me the second night.
The other guests are lively and chummy with their host and he warms to them whilst continuing to treat me like I shouldn’t be there. It is the strangest feeling. I havent felt so rejected for who I am since I was at school. I continue to be polite and friendly to him and the other guests, who are interesting. They come from Macclesfield and talk of the community groups efforts there to make a difference. Our host serves up an excellent meal and allows me to use his laptop for 15minutes to try and contact my next host and the pub some six miles away where I might wait till my next host can pick me up. After a perfect day I feel like I have been slapped in the face and I still don’t know why my reception has been so cold. In the bed and breakfast folder I read that Peter is an ex police officer, and his wife, who I do not see, an ex tax inspector.
Cwmbiga is full of solar panels, the largest private array in Wales, I read, and wonder why that should be a good thing. It only suggests to me that here is someone with en ough land and money to have them. Clearly the ex farm has been retrofitted to the highest of specs but in terms of the real warm hospitality one expects from someone in this trade I have to say that unless you come from a certain class and income bracket; don’t bother.
The irony of the situation hits home when I notice that my bedroom has a name: Sabrina.

17th June
I awake at my usual walking rhythm time at dawn and am immediately aware of how uncomfortable I feel. My heart beats out the pattern of adrenalin that I associate with fear. I have finished my blog already so know I can sleep till 8 a luxury I haven’t had this trip. I doze fitfully waking every half hour, each time noticing the presence of adrenalin each time. I feel unwanted here, it gives me a flavour of how it must be to be rejected for your race – somehow I gave breached unbreakable rules.
Though on the surface everything is perfect; spotlessly clean room and en suite bathroom, delicious food, and silent surroundings, the atmosphere is not pleasant. Over breakfast the foursome on the other table talk politics, clearly Green in their outlook, it is encouraging to have a sense that our current government seem to have upset even those who in other respects might seem to be of their persuasion.
They describe a business which, out of a hundred employees above 80% are dishonest in some way and ask would anyone use the services of such a company. They are talking about our current government.
I like my companions, all but one of the men, who seems not to like that I have walked through Wales in my flip flops and keeps trying to make sarcastic comments. I hazard a guess that he feels somehow threatened by a woman undertaking such an endeavour in such a fashion, and don’t rise to the bait, but feel sad that if it weren’t for him I might have got to talk to the others more.
The women ask where I am headed today and when I explain my dilemma, that I had planned to stay here today, haven’t heard from my next host as there is no mobile signal, and may need to catch a bus into Machynlleth, she suggests the man might take me as he is going to CAT today. He immediately says he isn’t going for hours yet and makes it quite clear this is not what he wants. Peter offers to get me the phone to see if the nearest pub, some 7 miles away, might put me up tonight.
Outside it is raining and the mist has come down. I can sense he is feeling a little bad now that what was to have been my rest day is now a walk in the rain, destination uncertain.
I refuse the phone, saying I will ask when I get there. I have already phoned ahead the previous night to check I can go there to write during the day when I was told I couldn’t stay here.
As I get ready to leave the light and airy breakfast conservatory room the talk amongst the others is an all boys together camaraderie concerning the rights to information about good management of wood that Peter has written and retained the rights too. There is laughter that he has been canny enough to keep on earning from a document he wrote for his own use and allows others to use.
I pack ready to leave and Peter pays me cash back for the second night I had paid for in advance to ensure a peaceful rest day having finished the first stage of my journey. I had hoped to wash clothes here, catch up on correspondence, and allow the learnings from the walk up the Wye to soak in.
Now I am ready to leave this ancient farm that has been retrofitted to the highest standards, and am able to recognise the good that is being done whilst at the same time and even more strongly aware that it is inner transition that really counts. A warm friendly empathic welcome would have made all the difference between me recommending this place as a first class eco establishment and deciding that it really cannot be included in my warriors way walk to recommend to others. It is rather a reminder that outer transition alone can never make a difference. It is however, a sign that times have turned. Those with money and land are insuring that their actions are those of protecting the environment and our heritage. Just a few years ago this might not have been the case. I have mentioned peak oil and heard the men explain to their womenfolk what this means.
As I leave Peter holds the door for me and beneath his policeman’s old school demeanour I sense that there really is a sense of responsibility that is not altogether comfortable with me walking off into the rain and the mist.
I set off. It is not cold in spite of the inclement looking weather. It is an easy walk to Stay little through the remains of a once dense forest that now has native woodland growing up out of the scrubland left behind after clearing. I am still uncertain what to do beyond to head for the pub at Dylife. Perhaps I can walk to Machynlleth over the mountain road. At the turn off, a couple of miles from Dylife, the signpost says its 11 miles. I have walked 6 already, the mist if anything is lower, and there is a wind getting up.
I resolve to get to Dylife and then take it from there. A mile along the road a viewpoint is marked and an amazing information board proclaims a spectacular gorge, the map says waterfall, the view I have, is of nothing, absolutely nothing. The mists shroud the whole valley and have begun to sweep over the road now too. Still a mile to go and the wind is pushing at me and I am glad not to be close to a precipice.
The rain has stopped, it never really did much more than mizzle since I set off but the mist is my concern. I have climbed 100 feet already and will climb more before I make it over the tops to Machynlleth. It doesn’t seem sensible to go on another 9 miles in these conditions.
When I see the turn off for the Star inn and turn off the road the wind is gusty and the road behind me obscured in whiteness.
With relief I see the inn with its bright yellow door is a minute from the road end. I knock at the door, I have been told they don’t keep regular hours and that they will let me in when I arrive. No one hears me knock so I go around the side of the building to try again, noticing that the wind cannot be felt here and that I could shelter here for a while anyway.
But Louise sees me and beckons me back round the front and opens up.
From here on my day becomes magical and I feel I am back in the world I know. It is as though I strayed off the path and entered a parallel universe when I went to Cwmbiga but now I am amongst like minded folk once more.
Louise, who has said I can come as long as I don’t want to talk, and is happy that I am a writer and just want a quiet space and some lunch, and I chat away nineteen to the dozen. It is great to hear her story and of how an old drovers pub in the middle of nowhere has become a residential centre for transformation.
The Star inn, as well as offering bed and breakfast for walkers and cyclists, is also Serendipity, where you can come and learn how to free yourself from the childhood belief systems that block your creativity and capacity for achieving the things you want to succeed in in life.
It is an amazing mixture, down to earth and normal enough for the most mainstream of customers to feel at home, yet at the same time offering the most transformational work. Flyers for up and coming workshops are laid out on the bar. Louise teaches the work of Louise Hay, the American Heal Your Life teacher who advocates that every physical malady is an indication of unhealthy thoughts that are often not conscious but rule the way we live.
The Star is the perfect place for me to have ended up sheltering at. A place of inner work just sitting by the roadside in the middle of rural Wales halfway up a moutainside deep in the Cambrian mountains at 400feet. As we talk of the purpose of this warriors way walk, to join up places offering guidance for those who want to embark on a journey to know themselves better, I remember Jess from Llanrindod and Pete in Penault on the northern pilgrims route to Bardsey who i havent met yet, and the plan to reopen the old pilgrims routes in Wales and to link centres of inspiration and inner guidance.
Louise’s inner voice had been telling her to come to Wales for several years before she heeded it and found the old pub in great need of repair but within her price range. Within a short time the roof blew off, but the insurance company helped with that and the upstairs rooms were renovated with the rest of the money she had. I tell of my inner voice which is telling me to seek out a place where I can offer refuge, here in Wales. I realise that something’s exciting is happening. The call I have heard has been heard by others too and the network of centres of refuge where people can begin to know themselves better from the inside has already begun. I feel the importance of my story book guide to these places.
I eat homemade curried parsnip soup, banana loaf and peppermint tea and a little dog sits close by me and I feel his companionship.
Then Shivam, from the nearby Spirithorse who I have hoped to stay with replies to my email. He will to collect me on his way back. He is away from home further south in the lovely Rhayader, where the charity shop is a community shop and the charity in question the local community itself, it all feels very synchronous. Louise has not met the Spirithorse people yet, but would like to. I find it interesting that in this tiny place smaller than a hamlet by English standards, and yet not by the Welsh, who have always lived in spread out homesteads and smallholders, there should be not one, but two places where folk can come and do an inner journey.
My own journey begins to take on a magic again, the flow of the first intention I put out is guiding me to the right people and places. I feel thankful to Peter at Cwmbiga for his role in ensuring I ended up at Serendipity.
Seren, I learn, as I recall I have been taught once before, by Naomi from transition Wolverhampton who called her daughter by this most auspicious name, means Star in Welsh. It certainly is a shining star in this bleak misty day for me.
I get an email from Perry my host from transition Hereford, to send me the link to the eco housing co-op in Kingstone which is actively seeking members to buy in and build a passiv haus.
http://amandorlacoho.co.uk
I remember I am not alone. The fearfulness of the bleak walk through the mist from Cwmbiga dissipates. Friends old and new surround me, virtually and actually.
Contact Serendipity here:
Www.StarInnDylife.co.uk/Serendipity
Www.FaceBook.com/LouiseSSalmon