Day Five of Glyndwr's Way: Dylife to Machynlleth

The last day of the trek provides the most dramatic scenery. After a scheduled taxi lift back to Dylife, we climb back to Glyndwr's Way and spend the morning walking the beautiful moorland. With not a soul in sight, we approach the highest spot of the walk, Foel Fadian, and revel in the silence and the fresh, cold breeze.

As we take a snack break on the slopes of the mountain, a cyclist glides past - the first person we have seen upon Glyndwr's Way. He's picked a challenging spot to mountain bike, which is probably why he's here.

As we round the corner of Foel Fadian, we see the lovely valley stretched out in front of us, and, beyond that, the sea. We are nearly there!


The trek down into the valley is picturesque and we try to soak up every bit of the scenery. It is a cheerful final day, and nothing makes the two of us laugh more than this cow (with hairstyle) who seems to be saying hello. As the afternoon passes, we start to see other walkers and know that we must be getting close to Machynlleth.

Owain Glyndwr may not be there, but his monument is. I feel a sense of closure and take off my hiking boots.

Day Four of Glyndwr's Way: Llanidloes to Dylife

Roy didn't have much time to rest after preparing last night's gourmet meal; all of us demanding guests still require breakfast. He is up to the task, and I appreciate another tasty full meal with egg and sausage 'bombs' and mushrooms and toast and excellent coffee. I'm surprised at my appetite, given that I enjoyed a five course meal only a night's sleep ago. I guess all this walking is good for me.

Today's routine will be slightly different, for, though we are continuing on Glyndwr's Way to Dylife, we will be spending another night here in Llanidloes. The inn at Dylife has apparently fallen below the minimum standards for the walking tour, so we will leave the trail above Dylife, hike down into the village and be driven back to Llanidloes by taxi service. I have no complaints whatsoever about staying another night at this great hotel.

Llanidloes is a charming town with this unique half-timbered market hall as the focal point. We pop into a shop for lunch supplies and emerge with some local Welsh cheddar. In the nearby bakery, the breads smell delicious. We buy a round loaf of whole-grained goodness of the sort that would cost almost five dollars in an American store like Whole Foods. The cost? 90p. And the patroness is a sweet old lady to boot.

We start our walk, climbing out of the town past farms and houses and a golf course with signs warning of potential golf balls flying from the left. It is early yet, and no one seems to be playing, so our braincases are safe from coshing. We walk through beautiful trees and continue westward.

We soon come to an enormous dam on the river Severn that was once the tallest in Europe and remains the tallest in Britain. We climb from the valley up to the dam itself, which has a parking lot with interpretive signs. An older German couple in a teeny (and cosy-looking) camper are the only other tourists at the dam. More people are interested in the reservoir, and we pass boats and picnickers. It is quite a pretty reservoir, reminding me of a Scottish loch, and our bread and cheese tastes great as we admire the view.

The trail winds up and down, now skirting along the shores of the man-made lake, now climbing away to old ruined buildings and country lanes. We round a corner to find an idyllic scene of ewe and lamb laying in a field of bluebells. I feel bad when they get up and leave.

Once we leave the reservoir behind and cross the Afon Biga (Afon meaning river, but Biga does not mean big), our map and guide show that we are heading for evergreen forests. It is not to be. The plantations have been harvested and we must walk through scenes of desolation. Clear cuts are not nice in any country.

But the stumps and devastation are soon forgotten as we climb up into the high heathland. The clouds are low over the moors and my mood should be melancholic, but I am happy. I lay on the heather and revel in the sponginess of the turf. It is dry and springy and wonderful. I am again grateful for the recent good weather, because I know this could easily have been one boggy, squelchy, endless stretch of trail.

Sooner than expected, we reach the overlook of Dylife and leave the trail to descend steeply into the tiny hamlet. We suspect that the mileage of today's walk was shorter than the other days, since we have over an hour to wait for our ride. We trek over to the inn and pub to pass the time with refreshments. The doors are locked.

We retrace our steps to a public telephone box near the main road. Despite having a pre-paid phone card (for emergencies), the phone will not work. As we fiddle with the phone, a car with a large learner's sign drives up the lane to the inn. A few minutes later, it returns, stopping in front of us. The driver asks, "Do you need any help?"

We explain our non-dire circumstances. The driver is on his way to Llanidloes and offers us a lift. He is the son of the proprietors of the closed pub (which won't open for another few hours) and runs the driving school advertised on the car's sign, so it doesn't feel like hitchhiking.

Dan the Driving Instructor returns us to Llanidloes in about ten minutes, which is a little discouraging. It has, after all, taken us all day to walk to Dylife. But, I comfort myself with the thought that the road takes a much less scenic and more direct route. And Dan zips down the road at such a speed that, if his pupils attempted to mirror his driving would undoubtedly cause them to fail their driving tests.

We arrive in plenty of time to phone and cancel our taxi.

Llanidloes seems like such a neat little town, and I am glad to have another evening to explore it. We stop in a old pub, which is happily open and holds locals who don't mind our intrusion. An elderly Westie shuffles over to greet me. Outside, kitties say hello. Our comfy hotel awaits. This is the kind of town I would recommend that anyone go out of their way to visit. Even though it's not on the rail line, you can always hitch.

Day Three of Glyndwr's Way: Abbeycwmhir to Llanidloes

I am ready for another day of walking the countryside. I have slept well, despite the odd environs and the over-eager neighborhood rooster who wants everyone to wake up at 4:50am. Nita does make us scrambled eggs on toast (no ham), but anyone's mother would be appalled at the lack of presentation associated with the Costco-sized box of corn flakes. I accidentally use the wrong bowl for my cereal and am glad to escape unscathed.

Today, the weather is more like what I picture for Wales: cool with low clouds and mist over the hills. The landscape is just as beautiful as in the sunshine, and much more literary. I can easily picture Mr. Rochester or Mr. Darcy riding though this kind of scene, though, of course, they aren't Welsh. I am thankful for my warm fleece.

We pass through forests with official signs that forbid the use of motorbikes and other off-road vehicles and suggest reporting any flouting of these rules. I don't see any motorcycles, but nearing a private lane to a house, I do see a hand-made sign saying, "Not Tom's 4x4 Farm". They have not posted a sign saying what they might be instead. We do not find Tom's 4x4 Farm, and I am not sorry.

Whether because this is the third straight day of walking or because of the weird vibes of last night's B&B, my feet feel more tired today. I happily take my boots off at another stream and refresh my toes, even though we haven't walked all that far yet.
We soon head into a farm ghost town, past numerous tumbled down buildings and mysterious old farm equipment. Not a soul is in sight. As I walk along old farm lanes passing some not-quite-ancient barn ruins, I suddenly feel myself being watched. The place could conceivably be haunted, if I believed in that kind of thing. The ghost is only a sheep with her own window in the corrugated steel.

We have lunch under a tree in a picturesque and oddly livestock-free meadow. After my sandwich, I take advantage of the lack of sheep poo and walk barefoot through the field, enjoying the feel of the damp grass under my toes. Boots back on, my feet are once again incredibly refreshed. After all this walking, I am finding that my abused feet appreciate any change from the hiking boots.

As we get closer to Llanidloes, the largest town we will pass through on the walk, we encounter many attractive horses and cute foals in what seems to be a slightly less sheep-centric zone. We also start to pass more houses as the trail follows a small road. The sun comes out again, the temperature warms, and I have no more need of my fleece. A suitably Welsh terrier emerges from the grounds of a B&B to have his ears rubbed. A church takes historical accuracy to the limit with its overly precise sign.

We see our hotel soon after reaching Llanidloes, since it is right on Glyndwr's Way (and has a sign, which I take as a good omen). One of the owners, Roy, fully-clothed (another good omen!), welcomes us kindly. He also wears an apron, since he is in the midst of preparation for our meal this evening. Roy's speciality is a never-repeated, set-menu, five course meal using local ingredients. He takes into account any dislikes or allergies of the guests ahead of time (I requested no bell peppers), but otherwise the meal is a surprise and an event. I am looking forward to it.

Roy leads us up a few flights of stairs through a narrow hall to our room. The bedroom is cosy and comfortable with windows overlooking the roofs of town and a pleasant garden square. The bathroom is enormous, and I have eyes only for the gigantic tub. A soak will feel so good after all this walking.

Despite being busy prepping a gourmet meal, Roy brings us a tray with hot tea. After a relaxing cuppa and a soak in the juniper bubbles, I am starving. We go downstairs to the sitting room to await the revealing of the menu. Two pleasant and friendly guests are already there: Alfred from Brighton and Antony from London, who are old friends of the hotel owners. All I know about Brighton is from literature like Jane Austen, in which it sounds tacky, so I don't mention that. Antony reminds me of a vicar; I never find out whether or not he is one (I don't ask) since we talk about birds instead of jobs. We are both especially interested in the red kites I have occasionally seen flying overhead during the walk, which have been rescued from near extinction.

Tom, the other owner, comes in to play the role of jovial host. He announces that we are waiting for the arrival of a party of four who are not guests of the hotel but live in the area. Little did I know that I would soon be in the august presence of the oldest woman ever to win Britain's Rear of the Year.

The four new arrivals are obviously quite wealthy, referencing recent time spent in Greece and Paris and Fiji and aboard some cruise ship that the Queen once used that employs seven servants for every passenger. I feel a bit self-conscious in my casual dress (I packed for walking, not fine dining), but I think that as an American I might just get a pass. They are quite different from the rest of us, but friendly enough in their own way and quite entertaining to listen to. One man says, "I'm off Beaujolais," which I didn't know was possible. Another refers to his property in Kensington, and even I know that that's a 90210 kind of address. When talk turns to the wonderfully sunny weather and I ask whether it is supposed to continue, they all turn to the blond woman. "She reads the weather on the news," explains the brunette woman. The weather lady amusingly doesn't know the forecast.

I later discover that the weather reader is actually semi-famous throughout Britain. Not only did she win the Rear of the Year for her shapeliness, she also participated in celebrity reality shows and was on the cover of Hello magazine. Her millionaire husband's daughter dated Tony Blair's son. I never knew we would be dining at such a posh place. I think this evening might just top my celebrity sighting of the Olsen Twins. Or at least Richard Simmons.

The five course meal unfolds over about three hours, and I enjoy it all, from the pear that had been marinated in red wine as the base for the salad to the fabulous cheese souffle. Roy has likely been having fun with a new kitchen gadget, since he garnishes the various plates with crisps made from apples, carrots, tomatoes and beets, to name a few. We chat across the aisle with Alfred and Antony about traveling and the established perceptions of different parts of Britain and the States. We have not ordered wine, since it is only available by the bottle and drinking half a bottle of wine hardly seems like suitable preparation for another day of walking. After a while, Alfred offers us some of his red wine to toast our holiday. The main dish is rack of lamb accompanied with potatoes and various vegetables including broad beans (British fava beans) and a great breaded zucchini. I feel a little guilty eating the lamb since I have been spending my days with sheep, but I have to admit that meat couldn't get much more local and fresh. It tastes excellent, and goes very nicely with the kindly shared shiraz.

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.

Day One of Glyndwr's Way: Knighton to Felindre

"It's no fair putting a camera on the cat's collar and invading his privacy," says Dana after our satisfying Welsh breakfast. And with that, it is time to start our trek. We bid Dana and Nigel (but not the cat, who is out who-knows-where doing something private) a friendly farewell. I even get hugs and cheek kisses. Our hosts will drive our luggage to our next B&B in Felindre, so we only have to carry daypacks. We stop by the local shop for some essential supplies (bread, cheese, custard cremes...) and are ready to go.

We are off to find Owain Glyndwr. His Way officially starts at the Knighton clocktower and climbs quickly out of the village. Equipped with both Ordnance Survey topomaps and a detailed trail guide, we shouldn't get lost, especially since there also seem to be plenty of signposts to follow. The acorn designates a national trail, and the red dragon indicates Glyndwr's way. At times it will become almost a treasure hunt to find the little symbols on the appropriate gate or stile across a pasture full of sheep, but the first few miles out of Knighton are well-traveled and well-signed.

At nine-ish, the day is already hot. For hikes in the States, I am used to starting as close to dawn as possible to avoid both crowds and the heat. Staying in B&Bs prevent such an early start because of the wait for an appropriate breakfast time (usually around eight o'clock, it seems). So, while I am happy to have a full belly and lots of energy for the walk, I am quite warm.
Not that I'm complaining! I brought my waterproofs because I expected wet Welsh weather, and the sky is perfectly blue. The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing and everything is green. I have sunscreen and my wide-brimmed hat and a moisture wicking t-shirt, so I am prepared to enjoy the unexpected sunshine.

As we walk, we see very few people. Occasionally, someone waves from their garden or a farmer rides a tractor in the distance. We pass one old couple out for a stroll on a country lane. Other than that, our company consists of sheep, cattle, horses and the odd farm dog. Many of the dogs seem absolutely ecstatic to see us. Some like this little black pup, want to be petted. Others, like a tail-wagging golden retriever, run full throttle out to greet us only to veer off to pursue some more interesting smell. Once in a while, a border collie type will come to our heels to herd us along until we are safely out of their territory. I am not brave enough to see what happens if I don't allow myself to be herded like a sheep.

And speaking of sheep, I see ones that are all white, some that are brown or black, and a few with spotted legs and faces. Some have long tails that become very noticeable when the lambs are nursing, as they invariably jab their poor mothers in the udder roughly with their whole heads and wag their tails spastically. Others have very short tails and I wonder if they have been docked. Many sheep are marked with letters or numbers in red or blue or green paint, and I wonder where one goes to buy sheep paint. Later internet research will show that there are certain paints designed just for sheep http://www.premier1supplies.com/detail.php?prod_id=44&cat_id=14. I am happy to learn that these paints are non-flammable and can be applied to either a wet or dry sheep.

Most of the sheep have not yet been shorn for the summer and most have one or two lambs following behind. Many are quite dirty, especially around the rear, and it's only the lambs that really look fuzzy and huggable. They tend to think we plan to eat them right then and there, though, so despite my desire to hug a fuzzy lamb, they all run away.

I have often read that sheep are considered the stupidest farm animals, and I see lots of evidence confirming this view. Lambs scoot under gaps in the fence without noticing it and end up fenced off from their mothers. They only realize their separation when our approach makes them nervous, and they are inevitably unable to easily find their way back. Lots of baa-ing ensues, but they don't ever seem to be able to consider the fence logically. I soon encounter a very stupid lamb who has gotten his head stuck in a wire fence. I worry whether my presence will make him panic enough to possibly strangle himself or break his neck, but I'm hesitant to leave him in case he really is stuck (and not just stupid) and might starve to death. We've already passed the odd sheep bone or skull that make it obvious that a farmer doesn't necessarily check his pastures every day. I decide to pull him out, but as I approach closer he manages to break free and run bleating back to his herd. Foiled again in my attempt for a wooly hug.

I still think the lambs are cute, and take lots of pictures of them. This handsome one photo bombs from behind a tree as I try to take a picture of his friends.

The cattle are almost as wary as the sheep. None want me to pet them. Johnny Bamamfa thinks that some of the cows are sporting hairstyles. He finds this hilarious. They just look like cows to me, but I cut him some slack because cows are silly-looking anyway. And some do seem to have bouffants going on. Check out the one lying down in the picture (with hairstyle) as opposed to the standing cow (sans bouffant).

After six miles or so we arrive in the village of Llangunllo, which doesn't seem to have any stores, but does have a red British public telephone box. We don't need to ring anyone up, but it's nice to know that there are still pay phones around, since our ridiculous American mobile phone does not work in Europe. Llangunllo also has a pub, The Greyhound, which, alas, is closed and undergoing construction. We will have to make do with water.

As we leave the village, we pass a lady in shorts and wellies washing her pig in a kiddie pool. The fence has a sign saying, "Please do not feed the pig. She is on a strict diet." She is identified as a Kune Kune pig from New Zealand. Her name is "Pig". I do not get to pet her, either, but I do think it's kind of funny to watch a pig get a bath. The woman gives Pig treats for being a good pig. I'm not sure what a bad pig would do if you tried to bathe it.

Seeing the pig get her yummy pig treats makes me want some tasty treats of my own. We decide to have lunch perched on some twisted trees on a hill about the town. Our Welsh cheddar tastes quite nice. As we climb up into the moors, I keep looking for Owain Glyndwr, but I don't find him. Perhaps he knows how to hide in the midst of a herd of sheep.

We keep climbing up and down hills until finally, after over fifteen miles, we see the village of Felindre below us in a valley. It has been a lovely walk, but it's after five and my feet are tired. I am looking forward to a hot meal and a comfy bed.Our B&B looks like it will provide both. It is a very charming old farm, with a cheerful and welcoming English host. Although we've walked the whole day, we are still quite close to the English border. Richard kindly directs us to our room, which looks very comfortable, even without a pink heart in sight. Our luggage is magically there already. Richard offers us tea on the patio after we've had a little time to wash up, which sounds lovely (the only word allowed to describe tea in Britain).

Sitting in the afternoon sun with a refreshing cup of hot tea and some delicious cake feels wonderful. Marmaduke the cat tries to steal our milk. A hen tries to persuade us to drop a few crumbs. Lambs and their misplaced mothers are still baa-ing in the distance. We are the only guests, and everything is peaceful. Since Felindre's pub is closed for meals on Sundays (because the publican has to write up the local fish reports), Richard will be cooking dinner. Lovely.

On the Welsh Border

From Shrewsbury, we take the train to Knighton, the starting point of our walk across Wales on Glyndwr's Way. Knighton, Wales is so close to the border that, while the town is in Wales, the train station is still in England. We will have the entire sunny afternoon to explore the village and its environs, since our long trek doesn't start until tomorrow.

At the Knighton station, I spot a map of the town posted near the entrance. As I approach it to figure out the best way to walk to the B&B, a man calls my name. It is Nigel, an Englishman from the B&B, come to drive us up the hill and across the little town to our lodgings. I wonder if he always knows his guests from the uncertain way they approached the map, or whether our backpacks give us away (not that there is a huge crowd disembarking at this little village platform). Johnny Bamamfa and I thank him for the unexpected ride, to which he replies, "You'll be walking enough tomorrow." It's true; our agenda for tomorrow is anywhere from fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on what book, map or website you ask.

The B&B is a well-kept, old building, painted white with blue accents. Dana, a motherly Polish woman, gives us a friendly welcome and shows us to our room. I step over the threshold and my eyes are instantly overwhelmed. The room is entirely pink. It's covered with hearts and lace and any type of frill that a six-year-old girl might wish for.
Dana is obviously expecting a response. I murmur, "How lovely," or something suitable and examine the tea tray to give my eyes a rest from the pink explosion. The room (in spite of the color scheme) is lovely and comfortable. Besides the stocked tea tray with an electric pot, there is a cushy futon/sofa and even an extra fleecy wrap in the wardrobe in case of chills. The en suite bathroom is huge and filled with every possible selection of toiletry that any high-maintenance woman could ever need.

Dana gives us a map of the town and very maternal advice on what we should see, where we should walk, and what supplies we should be sure to procure for our long walk tomorrow. Her thorough recommendations sound perfect, and, after a cuppa, we head out to explore.

Tomorrow, our east to west walk across Wales will follow Glyndwr's way, which begins in Knighton, but a north-south trail also passes through the town. This trail, Offa's Dyke, follows an eighth century earthwork barrier that once marked the boundary between Powys and Mercia and still closely follows the border of present day Wales and England.

We follow the path north and quickly leave the buildings of the village behind. We take pictures of signs welcoming us to Wales at the border (and to Shropshire, England the other way) and pass some young people and families relaxing along the River Teme in the sunshine of the warmest day of the year so far. I notice some very red shoulders and legs and reapply my sunscreen. We cross a bridge over the river, and begin a relatively steep climb up Panpunton Hill.
As we climb, we begin to encounter sheep, which we find charming and worthy of numerous snapshots. Little do we know that these sheep and lambs and their incessant bleating to each other (all their "baas" sounding a little different, some harsh and gravelly, others nasally, others that Simon Cowell might describe as 'a little pitchy'...) will be our almost constant companion for the next five days. I will learn to distinguish the different Welsh breeds of sheep and I will witness first hand why sheep are generally considered wretchedly stupid animals. My boots will smell of sheep poo even when I get home. But, hey, the lambs are super cute.

After our introduction to British hill walking, we retrace our steps back down into Knighton. Johnny B. does his good deed for the day by finding a wallet on a bench (with money in it with the ID of a young chap) and giving it to some teenagers who swear they are friends with the owner and promise to return it without pilferage. As it is a small town, and there are some girls in the group, we believe them.

We have dinner at the Horse and Jockey Inn, where, though I am seated with my back exposed to the wait staff and other patrons, no one sneaks up on me with a knife to the back. I also have some very tasty (but perhaps not so Welsh) lasagna to power my fuel cells for a big day of walking (and to re-energize; despite our lift from the station, we have still walked thirteen miles today).

It feels weird to sleep in a twin bed (I wave across the aisle to my main man), but it is comfortable. The weather has been so warm and pleasant, I leave the window open, and I sleep well, except for a interlude or two of raucous Saturday night noise from the nearest pub.

Breakfast in the morning is fabulous. The first course consists of cereals and fruit served from the sidebar. I have a bowl of granola-y cereal with lovely Greek yogurt and various toppings of berries and seeds.

Then Dana brings out the hot breakfast. A delicately poached egg sits between a small pile of cooked mushrooms and another of stewed tomatoes. A breakfast sausage and rasher of bacon (not crispy like American bacon, but more like ham) complete the plate, accompanied by triangles of toast on their own little rack and coffee fresh from the press. It's an excellent meal. There's none of the grease that I remember from the breakfasts during my term in Scotland, but, of course, that was in a dorm dining hall, so it's hardly a fair comparison. I try never to think about the food from the dining hall I endured back in the States.

I think the full breakfast should give me plenty of energy to walk a mile or two. Or seventeen.

Shrewsbury: The Coolest Town I'd Never Heard Of

After a morning cappuccino and a pain au chocolat (I could get used to these types of breakfasts), T, who requests to be referred to in my posts from now on as "Johnny Bamamfa", and I check out of our Dublin hotel and walk to the nearest light rail station. We are heading for the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire, 12 km south of Dublin. Thanks to a helpful Rick Steves, we know that the town is pronounced "Dun Leary" and don't embarrass ourselves while buying our tickets.

Dun Laoghaire is a charming, seaside town, and I am glad to have a few hours to walk around before the ferry leaves. We stow our luggage in lockers at the ferry terminal, and head out onto the promenade.

After walking along the coast, enjoying the sea air and a couple of pleasant, flowery parks, we stop into a busy place on the old main street for a tasty lunch and tea for two. My deliciously fresh tomatoes with mozzarella and fresh bread remind me yet again how much I miss fresh fruits and vegetables (as well as the altitude-challenged baked goods) in short-growing-season-Wyoming.

We return to the ferry terminal and go through a security checkpoint similar to that of an airport except that I'm not limited to 3 oz. liquids and I don't have to take off my shoes. The ferry is difficult to see out of the terminal windows, so I board the boat without a clear impression of what it looks like. Big and white, mostly. The passenger parts of the ship are almost entirely enclosed, but we manage to find a spot outside at the rear (aft?) to watch the cars drive on and wave our handkerchiefs at Ireland.
The "superfast ferry" doesn't seem all that fast to me as its diesel fuel smell and shrieking children start to give me a headache, but its advertised 99 minute ride sounds much better than the 3 hours and 45 minutes of the not-so-fast-ferry. Even though the Irish Sea breeze is closer to a gale, I spend much of the journey outside. The stifling atmosphere of most of the boat makes the movement of the waves and vibrations of the motors just a tad bit too noticeable.

Holyhead, Wales looks uninspiring. We disembark at a dingy pier to load onto a bus for the dull (except for a stray oystercatcher) drive to the terminal. We explore the town for the forty minutes before our train departs and find a few things to appreciate. There is a cool, new pedestrian bridge with a spiral ramp that leads to the old main street and a local pub that sells me a Strongbow that does wonders to settle my stomach (and tastes good, too).

The train skirts the north coast of Wales, and I find the scenery and the conversations of other passengers suitably entertaining. One bloke bonds with the couple across from him when they all break out beers to drink. Two Spanish girls sit across from us and spend lots of time on their mobiles. The landscape is pastoral and soothing; I see lots of sheep and bunnies, with mountains in the background.

After the train goes from Wales to England to Wales again and back into England, Johnny Bamamfa and I exit the Shrewsbury station (a cool building in itself), take our first look at the town, and say, "Wow." From my internet research, I was expecting a few preserved Tudor-style buildings, but the whole town is full of them. Crooked old buildings surround crooked little lanes, and I love it instantly. Even the TopShop, WH Smith and McDonalds on the main pedestrian shopping street fit with the theme. "Unspoilt by Progress" reads a sign on one pub, and I have to admit that they have a point. Our hotel is similarly Tudor, and very quaint. We are assigned the Prince Philip Suite, and the only Prince Philip I can think of is the ninety-year-old-or-so one currently married to the Queen, which doesn't seem to be a very romantic name for a suite, I have to admit. The room is great, though. From the front door, we walk down a few steps to the bedroom, and down a few more to an area containing a desk, wardrobe and the door to the bathroom. Exposed wood beams and funky angles add lots of charm.

I enjoy a great meal of Welsh rarebit (I've been waiting to try this because of the name; excellent with local cheese) and smoked haddock in a funky little restaurant that I worried might be too posh until I noticed details like the leopard-skinned table cloth in the corner, the purple feather boa drapery bunting and the deer head peeping through a red sequined mask. Back at the hotel, my sleep is disturbed only by the rowdy Friday night revelers at the Loggerheads pub across the alley.

My goal in the morning is to find The Dingle, a beautiful garden I saw on the internet, and, yes, I also want to find it because the name makes me laugh. En route, we see a coffee place with big windows looking out on an interesting street and an ad for coffee and cake. Tomorrow we will start our stay in bed & breakfast spots. If the Welsh breakfast is anything like the English or Scottish ones, it will include lots of fried meat, potatoes and eggs and maybe even blood pudding. I savour my cake.
The Dingle is a fantastic garden. Johnny Bamamfa and I wander through it and the larger Quarry Park surrounding it and end up walking quite a long way along a path near the lovely, meandering River Severn. We have long since burned off our cake breakfast and are more than eager for lunch. The Three Fishes pub doesn't disappoint. In another old Tudor building, we eat fish and chips and mushy peas that taste absolutely wonderful. Several old gents at the bar, who seems to be passing the time with pints while their wives and daughters are shopping, give us friendly advice about our upcoming walk across Wales. One has hiked the trail, others have been to some of the villages, they all cheerfully argue about distances and difficulties and where the loveliest spots lay.

We tour all of Shrewsbury that we can cover on foot. The only thing left is to find the statue of Darwin, the town's most famous son. We do find him, as well as his indoor mall. I chuckle and wonder what he would possibly think of his most prominent legacy, complete with The Body Shop.

Dublin through a Sleepless Fog

The first time I went to Ireland, I was sixteen years old. I remember lots of rolling green countryside, kissing the Blarney Stone, and crossing a scary, cool suspension bridge near the fantastic Devil's Causeway. I also remember the Irish Immigration Officer gleefully mocking the birth state listed in my passport.

Sixteen years later, as I tentatively approach the Dublin Airport Passport Control Booth, I wonder what taunts may be forthcoming. But the guard simply inquires about my travel plans and exhorts me to spend more money in Ireland than in the UK. It is five in the morning.

The bus to downtown is even easier to find than the Internet suggested. The early-morning city seems quiet and shuttered, but it's still fun to look around. I never get over that joyful feeling of being able to emerge from an airplane into a completely different environment. The bus already passes buildings that look older than anything in the States. The cars are driving on the left. According to posters, there's a Tom Stoppard play on, and Stockard Channing is starring in The Importance of Being Earnest. A most suitable play for Dublin, I think. I look forward to finding Oscar Wilde's statue later in the day.

The bus driver seems to be making his route up as he goes along. Halfway down O'Connell Street he tells us that he is no longer planning to go to the main bus station (the destination we had specified when boarding). He drops us off at the closest parallel point. No matter, we weren't interested in the bus terminal, anyway; I had just chosen it as a reasonable starting point from which to walk to our hotel.

So my man and I begin to walk what will be the first of seventeen miles for the day. We have packed lightly, for just this occasion, but it will still be nice to drop the luggage off at the hotel. It is still super-early in the morning, but the hotel staff is obviously used to these insane transatlantic flights and have an efficient luggage storage system. I ask what time check-in begins. "Two o'clock." The desk clerk looks at our jet lagged faces and tells us that if we come back around lunchtime our room should be ready.

Unladen, my main man and I emerge from the hotel in search of coffee and something freshly baked. Living in Laramie has left me with a permanent craving for baked goods, since breads and cakes don't tend to work as well at high altitude. After a two hour drive, a four hour flight to Boston, a mad dash through ancient Logan airport (down administrative hallways, past areas that look like construction sights with no construction, until finally "We're outside!? They make you go outside to get to the International Terminal?", rushing through security again...), and a five and a half hour flight with very little sleep (they barely even dimmed the lights) to Dublin, I was at sea level again. Well, I guess I was at sea level in Boston, but I was too harried to notice. Seriously, when even Philadelphia has a nicer, easier to navigate airport, you know there's a problem.

Anyway, coffee. The hotel is by the Liffey, slightly east of the main part of town. We wander in the general direction of Merrion Square and find a little shop with pastries in the window. Sold. I start my vacation out right with a Napoleon and a cappuccino. Yum.

We amble towards Grafton Street, where things are starting to wake up. Later in the day, the stores and pubs will be mobbed, but for now, people are wearing their early morning, got-to-get-to-work faces. We look, we stroll, we check out Ha'Penny Bridge and Temple Bar and try to decide where we might want to sample the first pint of the holiday later in the afternoon. We visit St. Patrick's Cathedral, which has a pretty park with flowers and fountains on one side. A bench calls our name. The coffee and sugar have worn off.

After a comfortable rest in the park, we amble towards Christ Church Cathedral. T risks his neck jaywalking across a particularly complex intersection. I wait at no fewer than four crosswalks to meet him, wondering if this only seems complicated because of my travel fatigue.

We walk. We circle back to St. Stephen's Green, which is indeed green. The tulips are huge, even taller than those I remember from the Netherlands. Another bench welcomes us until I declare that I either need more caffeine or a nap.

We head to Bewley's on Grafton Street, the oldest coffee place in Dublin. It is a happening joint, with antique touches and dark wood. I settle onto a plush, red velvety bench and enjoy a very fine cappuccino. We watch the locals and the tourists for awhile.

After an enjoyable light lunch at a tiny basement eatery, we check into the hotel for a siesta. At this point, I am so punchy that the vending machine snacks have me doubled over in laughter. The potato chips (crisps) are called "Tay-tos" and have a happy little potato man on the packet. http://www.taytocrisps.ie/ T thinks I am insane.

The room is comfortable and after a quick shower, I set my alarm to go off in a couple of hours and fall right asleep. The alarm rings, and I jump. "Oh no, we've slept all night!" I cry. T laughs. I admit to being disoriented, but I feel so much better.

We take another pleasant walk around the much busier city. We have our first Guinness in a classic pub, toast Fem Chick and her main man for their well-wishes, and discuss all the things we are looking forward to on this vacation.

We have Irish Stew in a pub called the Hairy Lemon. I couldn't resist the name, and it was a very good choice.

We find Oscar Wilde. It is a successful day.

We'll be back again in ten days to catch our flight back to the States. After that, I hope I don't have to wait another sixteen years to return to Ireland again.

The Exit Not Taken

Happy Ski Day

I recently celebrated my birthday by going downhill skiing in Wyoming. My new helmet served as a good luck charm, for, not only did I not fall down, I was also not slammed into by any snowboarders. Wicked.

Two days later, I helped celebrate my main man's birthday by going downhill skiing again, this time in Colorado. Again, no spills, wipeouts or collisions. I should have bought a helmet years ago.

Two birthdays are definitely better than one, and any day in the mountains beats a day at work. Not that I was playing hookey or anything.

This year I wasn't feeling too bothered with getting older. I figure if I can still backpack and ski without too much trouble, I haven't gotten old yet. At one point, I rode up on a lift with a seventy-plus-year old man who said his ski poles were older than me. That didn't hurt.

I usually don't put photos of myself on the internet. But I think I can make an exception just once. There I go, shredding the slope....and my chosen slope wasn't even Wyoming crowded!

Iced In

When the temperatures dip below zero, and it's too cold for skiing, and the streets become so icy that everyone's developed a ridiculous shuffling walk, and my fingers turn red and my hair fills with static from the dry air, and the cats look at me reproachfully for ever bringing them to this place and step on me with their chilly paws, and I cannot walk to work without risking frostbite ... at least the windows are pretty.

Please Don't Spear That Poor Buffalo

The other night I dreamed I was feeding pickle spears to a baby buffalo. They were the kind of pickles that often accompany a sandwich and chips at a restaurant. It was the kind of buffalo that one might encounter on a South Dakota prairie, shortly before its mother charged and trampled one for messing with her young one.

I'm not even a huge fan of pickle spears. I only like dill pickles, and sometimes a spear-shaped pickle is merely a sweet pickle masquerading as an edible one. I also prefer my dill pickles whole, so that I can bite a chunk off with a satisfying crunch. Pickle spears tend to be a little lacking in the crunch department.

Don't these poor beasties look like they could use a few good pickles?

The dream bison baby certainly seemed to enjoy the pickles. I was in a kitchen with him, and I had prepared a whole smorgasbord of items to tempt his palate. I was quite concerned that he would be hungry, since his stampeding mother seemed absent.

The dream baby buffalo also wasn't the lighter, tannish color of this photo. He was the dark brown that one usually associates with bison coloring. My subconscious brain must have forgotten the detail that baby buffalo have lighter fur. It just shows that you can't trust anything in dreams.

Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of pickles. Or smorgasbords. I would take a photo of the kind of pickles that I like if there were any in my fridge, but there are not. The last time I went grocery shopping and thought about pickles, the store did not have the good ones.