Day Two of Glyndwr's Way: Felindre to Abbeycwmhir

I've got bats in my belfry. Well, one bat. A Pipistrelle bat to be precise. I wake up enough to realize that it's not in my belfry but in my bedroom. Earlier in the evening, a corner of my eye saw something fly in through the window and knock into the furniture. When I investigated (worried that it was a giant bug), I couldn't find it. I convinced myself that I had imagined it and went to sleep, but now I've been woken up by a creature circling the center of the room in what is unmistakeably a bat flutter.

I think bats are super cool, but I'm always wary when outdoor critters come inside. I pull my feet back under the duvet, not wanting it to land on my toes and take a nibble. I don't think Britain has vampire bats, but the little guy seems so disoriented that he might mistake my toes for a kumquat or whatever his favorite fruit is. I also don't think that Britain has a big rabies population, but I'm not planning to risk it by reaching out to a confused bat.

Johnny Bamamfa, groggy with sleep, finally speaks: "I think there's something in here." Thank you, Lonnie Darnell. I'm glad I'm already awake and on bat-watch, because, otherwise, that could come across as a pretty freaky statement. My main man does get out of bed and open the door, however, so I can't complain. The bat flies to freedom, and I get a few more hours sleep.

In the morning, Richard cooks us a delicious traditional breakfast. I really enjoy the chipolata sausages, although the bacon really is a bit too much like ham for my taste. I've never been a ham fan. I am eating more meat on this holiday than I am accustomed to, but I suppose it's good energy food (and the sausages are tasty).

Besides the food, Richard provides us with answers to our questions about the area and tells us a bit about how Glyndwr's Way came to be a national trail. I think the public right-of-way through private land is a great idea, but it probably would never fly in the States. Richard is cheerful and friendly, giving us lots of thumbs-ups and saying "sorted" when details are arranged. I'm going to steal that.

We are energized for a second day of walking. We head out into another sunny morning and soon leave Felindre behind. We've only gone a couple of miles when we make our blunder. The trail guide is very detailed, but tends to use vague language such as "soon" and "not far" instead of giving precise distances. We read, "when the track bends to the right, go straight ahead through a gate," and misinterpret both the track bend and what the writer means by "straight". We walk almost a half a mile before we realize that things don't look right. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get the landscape to match the trail guide instructions, so we retrace our steps and find the little dragon symbol on a fencepost we had overlooked. Oops.

Back on track, we walk through a forested area where a tree has fallen across the trail. I duck under it, only to emerge on the other side directly underneath a thick branch. Conk. I'm on the ground. Johnny Bamamfa goes around the tree rather than under. That guy's wise.

Given these minor mishaps, we are pleased to approach the village of Llanbadarn Fynydd. Not only are we now certain that we are going the right way, but we are also hopeful to find the pub open. The front doors are locked. Blast. But as we continue down the street, we see the side door next to a little garden standing open. The place is empty except for a young woman who looks at our packs and seems a bit tentative to tell us that they aren't serving food. We have our own sandwiches, so this isn't a problem, and she happily pours us refreshing Magners ciders. The pub is cool and dark after the morning sunshine and the cold cider tastes better than I can describe.

As we start getting ready to leave--after all, we have nine or so more miles to go--a queue starts forming at the bar. It is one o'clock, opening time as it turns out. We were served early, and if we hadn't taken our wrong turn, we would have arrived in town to find the pub door closed. The extra mile was definitely worth it.

Llanbadarn Fynydd seems like a nice little village, but I am puzzled by their historical marker which almost reads like an inside joke.
We climb to higher country with pleasant views and lots of ups and downs and, of course, sheep. We vigilantly check the map and trail guide to avoid any more mistakes because our feet are getting hot and tired. After hiking down into a valley, we come to a welcome stream and stop to put our feet in. I have a blister on the bottom of my heel, and the cold water feels marvelous.

With feet refreshed, we march off down a country lane that leads to our destination for the evening, Abbeycwmhir. Our travel packet states that we need only follow the trail until we see signs directing us to our B&B. We pass the ruins of the Abbey without seeing any signs. We enter the village without seeing any signs. "Do not head for the village," says the instructions. Hmmmm. My pedometer says seventeen miles. We are tired. We ask for directions and are sent back the way we came. There are no signs.

After about half a mile we come to a group of three cottages as directed by the helpful stranger. A tiny piece of slate rests on the ground outside the center house, with the name written crookedly in chalk. Since there's no bell, I open the door to find a foyer with two other closed doors. One leads to a bathroom. The other leads to an old-fashioned living room containing a shirtless old guy with a bit of a paunch. "Is this the right place?" I ask. He laughs at my confusion. I state my name because it's on the reservation. "I'm Brian," he says. "How are you, Debbie?" My name, which I have just stated, is nothing like Debbie, so I am even more confused and unsure whether this antiquey place is even where I'm supposed to be.

At this point, a woman comes around the corner and introduces herself as Nita, which is the name on my travel packet. "I've just been talking to Knut," she says. Okay. I mention the lack of signs. "Oh, there are no signs," she says. She shows us to our room, which is also old-fashioned and strange. I feel like I am staying in a great aunt's house, one that I don't know very well, but have to be polite to. "I make no apologies about the bathroom floor, because Brian hasn't finished it yet," she says, pointing to a stack of wood. O-kay.

Nita keeps asking us if we are bothered about things, as if daring us to say 'yes' so that she can tell us off. I can't help but think of Catherine Tate's Lauren and try not to laugh. She complains about the neighbors, especially Mrs. Next Door who has four cats. "That's a lot," I say, which is the right answer. Nita likes birds--there's a woodpecker in the garden--and the cats also like the birds.

Nita makes us a dinner which is about as different from Richard's great meals as one can get. We have ham and tomato sauce, some frozen vegetable concoction and potatoes. I scarf it down, because I'm famished, but it is by far the least enjoyable repast of the trip. Ham is bad enough, but with tomato sauce? I try to eat at least a few bits of the weird fruit on meringue dessert because I feel like Nita might yell at me if I don't.