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. 

Vow of Silence

Call me anti-social, but for me, part of the appeal of travelling is the time you get to spend alone. Even if I'm on just a day trip, I enjoy spending time in my own company. Especially if I'm out in the countryside with an expanse of blue and white above me.

Last week, I packed my sandwiches, pulled on my boots and headed into a field somewhere just inside Wales. I was to spend a day mooching around Tintern Abbey.

First, I wanted to see it from up on high so I found a path that would lead to what is known as Devil's Pulpit, an overlooking point from where the devil is alleged to have preached to the monks in the valley below displaying a particularly devil may care attitude, even for Lucifer himself. To get to the viewpoint, I had a journey through several landscapes: a forest heathland, rolling grass fields and ancient woodland. And the best thing was that I didn't see another living soul (save a few birds) for close to an hour on the walk. It was bliss.

I passed through gates, followed the signposts and tramped my route with the sun getting ever stronger in the midday sky. My surroundings were so peaceful and so quiet I even felt slightly unnerved at one point. It's not often that you get to feel such solitude. The unnerving moment passed and I continued on, happy in my temporary, open-air hermitage.

The walk was very much worth the effort. By the time I wondered if I'd taken a wrong path or had missed a sign, the latest copse of trees led me up a slight incline to open up to gap in the undergrowth that looked out over a cliff edge and down into the valley below. I was blessed to share the same view that once belonged to the devil. An actual "wow" escaped my lips as my eyes fluttered in panic to take in all the sights of the winding river, the green hills and the ancient ruins, all framed by nature.

I don't think I've ever before eaten my sandwiches with a better view. 

But I couldn't stay there all day. I had other ground to cover. 

I retraced my steps across the various terrains. I was soon back down in the valley, ready to explore a little closer. There were slightly more people here that the none I had encountered on my walk, but I was still enjoying the relative isolation. 

Sure, I looked around the outside of the abbey. It's very grand and architecturally beautiful. But did I pay to go in and read a lot of signs? No, I did not. I don't think the medieval monks would've wanted me to do that. I read up about the former inhabitants of the site. These Cistercian monks took pledges of austerity and silence. I liked their chutzpah. 

They endeared themselves to me further when I discovered their planning requirements: "None of our houses is to be built in cities, in castles or villages; but in places remote from the conversation of men." Amen to that I say. We are often better off without the conversation of men. And when the scenery is as breathtakingly, naturally magnificent as the Wye Valley, what else is left to say? 

Puffin Quest

We had a quest. A puffin quest to be exact.

We were bound for West Wales to see the beautiful coast, the tranquil countryside but most importantly, puffins. A magical place called Skomer Island is where these black and white creatures prefer to hang out and so we were aiming our sights there.

Getting to Skomer Island is a test of will and commitment. In this day and age, where you can obtain almost anything at the click of a button - concert tickets, holiday flights, clothes to be delivered by 8pm - the method for buying boat tickets to Skomer is refreshingly old-fashioned. But not particularly conducive to lowering the stress levels of a pessimist worrier like me.

To get boat tickets, you have to heave yourself out of bed (or out of a rain-drizzled tent in my case) and get yourself in an actual queue by about seven in the morning. Bearing in mind that the office doesn't open til eight and the boats don't start sailing until 10am, this is quite the effort.

Even once you're in the queue, there's no guarantee that you'll have the opportunity to buy tickets for the day. Firstly, they make a call about 8am as to whether or not the boats will actually run that day. We chose a day in late Spring for optimum Puffin sightings and thought the weather would be pleasant. Wrong. I forgot it was Wales we are talking about and so the wind and rain descended on what could've been a beautiful Spring day.

Nonetheless, we waited in the queue with waterproofs protecting us from the elements and willing the weather app on our phones that showed the rain clearing to be true. It was a nice queue. People were chatty and swapped stories and hopes. We were amongst similar personalities bubbling with excitement to get the chance to buy a Golden Ticket. Only 250 people are allowed to venture onto the island on any one day and so you had to hope that there were still tickets left by the time you got to the till-point. The nerves were palpable in the drizzle-soaked coastal air.

As the rain stopped, we got to the front of the queue and bought our tickets! It was happening!

My pessimism still raged through my mind though. I still felt as though all the puffins would hide as soon as we neared the island. I needn't have worried though. Skomer does not have the reputation for a puffin paradise for nothing.

Even before we stepped onto the island, they were everywhere. The boat, laden with excited twitchers, danced across the white-crested waves and we were joined in the air by swooping puffins. The little black and white bullets were sailing past us to land on the water or head back home to the island. I have to admit that I squeaked with excitement the first few (hundred) times I saw one.

Have you ever seen a puffin? Not in a book or on television. A real life bird. Sitting there in all its painted face glory. No? Well you need to. Yes? Me, too - but let's go see them again! They are incredibly delicate and bold at the same time. They literally look like plastic models sat on a cliff. They are my favourite birds. There I said it. Sorry all you other guys.

One of my main reason for this favouritism is their approach to landing. They look graceful enough whilst flying yet when they land they look like they've forgotten all their training and just go for broke and hope to hit the ground in some fashion. It's that "gotta do it so let's see what happens" aura that they emit that has won my heart. Every time I saw one land I had an involuntary giggle. They bring joy and enthusiasm wherever they are.

I'd better point out here that all my worrying about trying to see a puffin was unnecessary. I though I might be able to see one or two, maybe a couple from afar. I had no idea that they would be everywhere. EVERYWHERE.

We stayed at one edge of a cliff for quite a while as we found a group of about ten or so. They were hanging about, flying off, landing, just generally puffining. It was amazing. Eventually, we continued on our path to a place called The Wick. It was like Grand Central for the puffin colony. Every part of the cliff was covered in puffins or their burrows. They walked across the path like pigeons in a park. I literally didn't know where to look. Every time I looked at one, another landed. And they kept arriving with mouthfuls of sand eels in their beaks. It was astounding. I couldn't keep the smile off my face. The face ache was worth it.

All this talk about puffins and I haven't even talked about the island itself yet. It is ridiculously beautiful. You may have heard me say before that I love an island. Skomer is one of the best. Top five for sure. We picked a great time to go. The ferns were a green that recalled memories of tropical jungles. The bluebells still had life in them and were gradually giving way to Pink Campion, so everywhere you looked was colour.

I cannot begin to put into words how bright and powerful and altogether life-affirming the colours were. They were just so... there. I've never been somewhere so real where I had to strain to keep my eyes open to soak up every single bit of the surroundings.

We walked round the whole island and I would have loved to have done it again. Or at least sat somewhere to watch more of the life of the island. On our final stretch back towards the landing point where the boat was waiting to take us back to reality, we were lucky enough to see an owl hunting in the meadow. It was incredible to watch him gliding not ten feet above the bountiful wild flowers.

He was amazing, but it was not enough to claim my heart. That had already been won by the hundreds of little black and white guys. Yes there were thousands there, and yes it would be difficult to not see one, but every time I saw one, it made my stomach flip in that little way like when you see a dog in a hat or a sign for free cake. Puffins = smiles = happiness. And on Skomer Island, there was happiness everywhere.

Puffin Quest complete.