A Day of Brilliance around Barmouth

Peace and quiet. Sanctity and solitude. 

Not the things you associate with 150 drummers, so after a weekend of being part of this tribe, it was time to walk the less-trodden path for a day. Don't get me wrong, I adored being part of the Batala takeover of little old Barmouth: I drummed until my ears rang, I hugged more people than I thought I knew, I smiled until my cheeks hurt (despite the photos never capturing it) and I loved every second. 

But the drumming ying needs a yang to balance me out. 

Mild adventure and some time away in nature was much needed. What I didn't realise was how many layers of brilliance the day would keep offering. 

The lovely lady in the gift shop/train station convinced me to buy a return for 10p extra "as an insurance policy" and I couldn't argue with that logic. I'd walked the bridge previously (how could I ignore such a beauty) but was excited to cross it by rail. 

This was brilliant. I couldn't decide which window to watch: the estuary and mountains one side or the beach and sea the other. I endured tennis neck attempting to catch both views. 

The journey across was too short and soon I had to disembark at Fairbourne. On inspection of a helpful noticeboard, I discovered a map indicating the Blue Lake. Can you even call yourself an explorer if this information is presented and you do nothing? 

This was brilliant. An ad hoc side quest steered my boots inland. 

Up and up I walked. Up winding hills, past streams and gardens, alongside fields and gorges. I wasn't scaling the Snowden super-highway like some of my compadres, but I was definitely moving up in the world. 

This was brilliant. Sweating in the spring sunshine as my already tired thighs took me higher up the Welsh hills. At every turn I had to pause to admire the view - absolutely not just to catch my breath. 

The scenery was ridiculous. Sea and sand meeting mountains and forests. And no one to spoil the views. I met exactly four people. Two lovely young people who guided this old biddy with their smartphone skills, a twitcher with whom we shared bird sightings and a long-haired older Brummie discussing her morning gardening and admiration of Freddie Mercury. 

This was brilliant. Saying "Good morning!" to everyone on their own journeys. 

On the way to the lake, craggy cliffs and trees adorned with miniature fir cones guide the route. Abandoned machinery loitered by the stream and signposted the steep drop to the lake. No longer accessible, I had to make do with staring down at the mineral blue water and hoping my dizziness didn't drop me down the chasm. 

This was brilliant. A secret sight shared only by the sheep and singing birds. 

Stumbling back down the hill was easier but no less beautiful. I was soon back in Fairbourne and diverted into the local bakery for supplies. 

This was brilliant. Sticky toffee cake to power me on. 

Train tracks run alongside the road to the beach. Steam was in the air and the miniature railway was full of passengers. 

This was brilliant. Waving and smiling at the kids, big and small, aboard the train as it puffed and tooted towards the shore. 

Crossing the tracks and the sea wall, I was on the beach. Just me. Two specks in the distance were a man and his dog, but otherwise I had the whole expanse of sand and stone to myself. Striding down the shifting shingle, sloshing through the waves. It was glorious. Sheltered by the wind, I settled myself into some pebbles for a brief break and to apricate accordingly. 

As much as I'd have liked to, I couldn't stop forever. I had a beach to walk. Stomping alongside the sand dunes, I headed towards the mouth of Afon Mawddach. Then things got even more brilliant. 

My plan was to loop round the station and walk the return leg. But what spectacular sight greeted me? Only the blooming Barmouth ferry on its maiden voyage of the season. 

This was brilliant. I was getting a boat trip too! 

But no rush. Time for a swift ice cream and to savour the views up the estuary via the bridge. Then my peace was disturbed by the roar of some very noisy planes dicking about overhead and barrelling through the landscape.

This was brilliant. Planes, trains and ferry-mobiles. 

I walked the gangplank (GANGPLANK!) to board the ferry and cross back into town. Then it was more walking uphill to find the panorama walk. My instructions were slightly sketchy but I followed the road and my instincts. 

The route led through ancient walls, antique gates and moss-upholstered steps. Eventually I stumbled out onto a lookout that was the definition of breathtaking. One of the greatest positioned benches ever tempted me in for a rest and another cake break. 

This was brilliant. A perfectly framed postcard view with colours so vivid they made my eyes leak. 

Once I could drag myself away, the route back was shorter but a stray signpost led me down an alternative path, through the landscaped waterfalls and hills of Orielton Woods. 

My return train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I had to keep walking. I was called back to the bridge as the sun was setting. Dropping my toll to the troll, my feet slapped the boards again as I gazed through the iron girders across the bay. 

This was brilliant. A perfect way to end my (first?) visit to Barmouth with a bridge sunset. 

The next station is a request stop so I got there just in time, sticking my arm out and flagging down the train to deliver me back into town via a longing gaze across the blazing water. 

This was brilliant. Sometimes I'm scared of the brilliant. Whenever brilliant things happen, they seem to be evened out by something not so brilliant that creeps up on me unexpectedly. But not this time. This was the kind of day that made my feet ache with miles covered and my heart ache with contentment. And I'll take that, thank you. Bloody brilliant.