Small towns are beautiful. Just a hop skip and a jump to the countryside. From St James Terrace to the Dukes Meadow was a short walk. Here the dog walkers enjoyed the heavenly Wye. A powerful vein of clear water through the green pastures. Each morning I made my devotion. Now it was time to head west.
In the small front yard I prepared ye old mountain bike. Two bright blue square vinyl water butts with a piece of dowling jammed through the handles slotted over the back rack to form panniers. With a Stanley knife I sliced openings in their sides. I was pleased with my neo-ethnic styling. I squeezed through the garden gate and pedaled down the road.
Imbolc was a good time to set forth. The days were a cock stride longer and hope was on the horizon. I moved down the A465. A restless soul in search of adventure. Through the rolling countryside I reached a high hillside with a view over the beckoning Welsh landscape. I pulled into a gateway, perched my bicycle and clambered into a field where a grand old oak awaited my arrival. I sat beneath his stately bows and leaned upon his handsome trunk. A last blim filled my pipe and I smoked it up and gazed across the border. All this could be mine!
I zoomed on down the hill. Snowdrops flowered on the verge. Freedom is a beautiful illusion. My bicycle whistled a soulful tune and time made distance. The landscape embraced me. As evening approached I steered into a picturesque churchyard. I perched my bicycle by the porch and took a stroll up to a local shop. A pleasantly higgledy-piggledy rural business. The strange old proprietress eyed me with suspicion as I perused the goods. Circling through the narrow passages between the shelves I at last gathered together cheese, a round lettuce, tomatoes and a small loaf. I payed up and departed, followed by her scrutinous gaze.
Back to my lonesome spot. The last rays of sun warmed me as I lent against the church wall. The place of worship was closed but the ample porch had no door. I slowly layed out my sleeping bag on my carry mat and sat down. Here in my shady spot it was already dark. I took two slices of bread and broke off a piece of cheese and a hunk of lettuce and fashioned a primitive sandwich. I bit into the bundle and enjoyed the chunky snack. After a slow mastication and an eventual swallow I took another mouthful and began to chew. Hoping for a similarly nutritious morsel I was unpleasantly surprised. This time the succulent texture was interrupted by a cloyingly sticky substance. I at once began to expunge the offensive mouthful but the slug was now smeared on my palette and refused to leave. By rubbing my fingers around my mouth I managed to extract the thick of it but residue remained. I repeatedly rinsed my mouth with water but my eating for the night was over and I lay down to compose myself and eventually drifted off to sleep.
By the morning my mouth felt human again. The memory of the night before encouraged me to rinse it. I loaded up my butts and eased into action. The thorny hedges whispered their story and the passerines darted in and out of their twisted branches. Soon I arrived at the famous church of Kilpeck. A well preserved 12th century classic that has escaped the ravages of modern religion. Medieval carvings abound. Strange charicatures of all manner of animals and the famous Sheela na Gig. A small crouched figure with a comical face pulls open her ample vagina. I marveled at the pagan pageant that had escaped the 17th century purge of the puritans. Here would have been a fine place to make my camp but it was early in the day. Elated, I traveled on. Past the large sawmill at Pontrilas my wheels kept on turning. By early afternoon I arrived at Abergavenny.
Time for a busk in this pleasant town with hilly roads. Reluctantly I pitched on a slope and hoped my money would not roll away. The public approved and coins were carefully placed in my case. Some Canadians invited me to come and play in their bar in Vancouver. It was a nice idea. Takings were good. I shopped for food supplies and carried on down the road. Where would I make my home tonight? I eyed the waysides for refuge.
After a gentle decline the road leveled by a tranquil woodland. Young evenly spaced sweet chestnuts coloured a welcoming scene. In I went. The calm evening air held no portent of rain and the gentle boughs separated the sky. Here I felt a sublime calm of contemplation. My thoughts moved from human banality to natural equanimity. Timeless time layed out my comforts. I ate and relaxed. People were far away.
Slowly the long night descended. I awoke to the scuffling of wildlife. Who was this interloper in their woods? A strange smelling bi-ped and his collection of clutter. Hopefully he would be gone in the morning. A one night stand with eternity. To sleep perchance to dream. Away from the oppressor's wrong. With a bare bodkin, who would fardels bear?
I awoke to grunt and sweat once more, packed up and wound my way. I was on the road to Brecon. It would be a picturesque climb. A slow rise gradually increased into a steep ascent into the beacons. Up hill and down dale I laboured. At last I stepped off and pushed my steed. The heavy load swung from side to side as I went. The rickety rack creaked and broke away from its central attachment. The load took a ninety degrees plunge to the ground behind the wheel. Still intact and attached to the supports from the axel it dragged along. The rusty bolt had sheared. I contemplated my crisis. I had no spare bolt. I knitted my brow and searched my grey matter for a solution.
Two old innertubes secured my pack above the water-butt panniers on the rack. I released one and adjusted the other to keep the bag secure. I cut a section and bound the bracket back into place. I pushed on with a wobble. Another slope up and another slope down.The day warmed and I shed a layer. Through the majestic landscape and the final ascent to Brecon. I found the precinct and perched my velocipede. Between the optician and the stationers I made my pitch. The acoustics were good and the melody resounded. A coin was thrown into my case. From the shiny opticians shop appeared a well dressed lady. She stood close and gave me the evil eye. I paused for her address. She struggled to articulate her distaste.
-You cannot … do this here!- She blurted out. I stood in silence and considered how to escape her hysteria. My presence provoked her perturbation. How could I disentangle now? As I pondered her anger increased.
-Right, I'm calling the police!- she insisted. She turned and departed. I let her hot heel away and believed she was quite serious in her resolve. I decided it would be wise to leave. Slowly I packed up and wheeled my bicycle out of the precinct. As I looked back I saw the enthusiastic keystone cop arriving on the scene. He looked around at the lack of evidence as I began to cycle away. Quite a storm in a teacup.
I returned to the A40 and steered West. Along the head of the valleys towards Llandovery was a slow but steady ten mile climb to Trecastle and slowly down again to the quiet town. I played my inconsequential music to the inconsequential audience. The few pounds added up to a respectable amount. Twenty pounds would keep the wolf from the door. I bought my supplies and turned to the narrow road over the mountain to Tipi Valley. Here I had to push with my arms outstretched, leaning into the hill. Down the other side I dared not take my hands off the brakes. Then at last up the dirt track through the pines. I stopped by the babbling brook. A conversation seemed to flow through the ripples. The spirits guided me in. This was not the main gate but a small path into the back garden. A tipi was pitched either side of the path. A lady gathered kindling by her lodge.
-Just arrived?
-Yeah.
-Heading for the big lodge?
-Yeah.
-Or you could ask the guy in that tipi if you can share with him.
-Ok
I knocked on a pole and the dweller popped his head out. I explained the neighbour's suggestion and he agreed. He was a genuine searcher and embraced the spiritual path. Simon had worked on cruise ships and now left the mainstream to lead a simple life. My subtle entrance had furbished me with an equitable companion. Generally newcomers or occasional visitors stayed in the big lodge where all sorts of characters would appear. We shared stories and cooked on the open fire. The 11 foot tipi made a comfortable abode for two. He had already been there for three months and was ingraciated into the scene. The next morning brought other youngsters to visit. He introduced me as an old friend and I was cordially accepted into the crowd. Such fortunes can shine upon the lonesome traveller.
Burnable wood was scarce in the locality as the area had been well foraged. In the afternoon we made a long trek over the hill to find a fallen beech. We sawed some tidy limbs and hauled them home. A sedate evening ensued. On the morrow we headed to a meeting at the big lodge. Simon and I sat quietly as young idealists quibbled for supremacy. The egomaniacal power wielders of the festival scene were in the making. Content with our silence we retreated for a composed lunch. Once again we went in search of wood to a steep hillside where ragged overgrown larch trees toppled over. This inferior fire wood supplemented our choice gains from yesterday. We cooked our simple fare and told our humble tales.
The sprawling habitation of the South side of the valley encompassed various zones. Here at the bottom meadow were Tipis, yurts and domes. Higher up where a road was accessible Trucks, Caravans and shacks lined the way. Some houses at the edges were now owned by members of the community. We were invited to a book reading group. Mao Zedong’s little red book seemed like an odd choice but it was pleasant to be in a comfortable living room and the more poetic of Mao’s musings seemed to be the focus. From civilization we returned to our humble tipi. Our frugal rhythm continued.
Friday was full moon and a sweat lodge would take place amongst the tipis. We contributed to the wood pile. As evening descended Luna rose to whoops of enthusiasm. A large roaring fire was ablaze. Out of the twilight the crowd gathered. Stones were placed in the flames to heat. A large pipe of cannabis was passed around. I imagined such a capacious bowl would contain only a mild strength of weed like a pint pot containing beer. I took a big toke. I was mistaken. Having stayed with my abstemious companion for a week I had forgotten that many of the tipi dwellers were regularly smoking the sinsemilla.
The personnel disrobed and held hands around the fire and began to circle the flames. We joined the group. The hot rocks were carried on pitch forks into the lodge. A small structure of thin bent hazel poles covered in tarpaulins. The circle broke and a long haired lady led us under the dark canvas cover. When about twenty people were huddled inside the warm space water was ladled onto the rocks and a shocking wave of steam enveloped us. Hypnotic songs were sung and another bout of intense steam rolled. It was a great feeling. As the heat intensified it became overwhelming. Someone called to be let out and the door was opened. Cool air rushed in but as it closed the heat rose again. The chants continued. Thoughts dissolved in the ether. I was stoned out of my mind and began to feel paranoid. I made my way out into the fresh air. My fellow tipi dweller asked if I was ok. I retreated to our tipi to space out.
My spiritual bubble had popped and the weight of intoxication was upon me. I lay down confused. Tomorrow I would travel on. Away from the congregation.
I loaded up my panniers and bid farewell to my comrade. Down the road and a turn left took me up a steep hill. Onward and upward (ymladd ymlaen) I advanced. Northwards to Llanidloes kept me walking my bicycle for miles. I retreated into the pine forest for a break. Human interaction was such a difficult business. The gentle sway of the trees was easy on my mind. Why not stay here? Had I nothing better to do? Time disintegrated into space and mere perceptions filled me. I was intentionally homeless. I would stay the night in this delightful spot! The day began to grey. I decided to craft a shelter. I wedged fronds of pine between the narrow trees. My primitive soul found solace in creation. Like a bird building a nest I followed my instincts. At last I had a home. A wondrous home. A delight to behold! I glugged down some water as the day sailed away. Before the night fell I climbed into my bag. A heavy mist hung in the air. As the dark curled through the trees the moisture began to descend. Slowly seeping through the leaves the drops tip tapped on my bag. I hoped it would stop but the rain began to fall. In the deep darkness of the night I felt the damp soak through. I slept on into wetness. At daybreak I roused my cool countenance to the world. With a feeble shiver I packed up and travelled on. I warmed as I cycled.
I reached the small town of Rhayader and found the launderette. At this early opening hour I loaded my sleeping bag into the dryer. I still had change to spare. I watched the tumbling bag with satisfaction. I would find more substantial cover tonight. My clothes were drying with my body warmth and the comfortably ambient temperature of the quiet establishment. Forever I swung from one tenuous limb to another. Like a monkey I was dancing my whole life. My coins ran out and the bag was dry. I packed it up and went for breakfast. A pot of yogurt and fruit was delicious. The rain had stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. I relaxed on a bench and listened to an unknown bird. A gentle breeze urged me on my way in the morning sunshine. Up and down hill I trapsed. The sun dryed me out and I paused to admire the landscape. I moved slowly, considering carefully my options for the evening. I did not want a repeat of last night's unfortunate outcome.The afternoon clouded over. Down a small side road I could see a group of large farm buildings. I motivated towards them and parked my bicycle down a discreet bridleway into the woods. Daintily I traversed the edge of the concrete yard and eased open a large sliding door. Counterweights rolled it along and I caught hold of it and pulled it closed. Now inside the cavernous prefabricated building my eyes adjusted to the darkness and among varied farm machinery was parked an old double decker bus. I peeked out into the yard to check no-one was around and made my way to the bus.The doors folded open and under a layer of dust everything was as if it was still in service. I climbed the stairs and found myself a seat. What an ideal shelter. I imagined the miles travelled and the passengers in and out before its rural retirement. After my initial excitement I considered the possibility of being observed. I contemplated in silence and heard nothing. Slowly and carefully I made my way out once again. I would return at dusk to make my bed. I chilled in the woodland for the afternoon before making my way back to the bus as the darkness descended. After last night's escapade I was blessed in my comfort. I rolled out my mat before the upstairs back seat and lay down to extenuate my meandering mind. I dreamed of distant deserts travelled by foot in a bedouin shroud. I awoke and savoured the musty atmosphere. After rolling up my bed I secreted it below the seat and tiptoed out of the autobus. Quietly I nipped across the yard and over the lane into the trees. My bicycled lazed by the path, waiting for a return to action. I fought the furrows up to the tarmac and with a little less weight than usual turned my wheels towards Llanidloes. A slightly longer few miles than I had anticipated brought me close to the equanimous town. A small Co-op indicated the beginning of the settlement. I continued into the pleasantly kept old fashioned town. I wandered up and down the high street and perused the butchers, bakers and candlestick makers. Even a book shop found a spot. I entered and was surprised to find a section of sheet music. A collection of O'Malley's traditional Irish tunes was a classic. Priced at £5.95 it had to be purchased. I counted up my shrapnel and payed the elegant shop keeper. The purple cover had a simple white sketch of a couple of old men playing a fiddle and the uilleann pipes. That was the life!
I figured the Co-op would be a good spot to busk. I edged out of town, parked my bicycle out of the way and perched under the canopy by the entrance. Old ladies smiled their approval and youngsters nodded. Here in the small rural towns folk were always courteous. As they entered the shrine they made their offerings to my humble sideshow. When I had enough coins I too entered. Ham, cheese, bread and tomato and a can of bitter would make a fine lunch!
I pedaled back towards my refuge and stopped in a sunny field to aliment. I opened my can and took a swig. I placed it by me in the grass and prepared an appetising sandwich. I munched my way through it with gusto. I looked to my can of beer but it had tumbled over on the soft ground. The beer was all drained away. For a moment I fumed at my foolishness but soon reconciled myself to fate. With no liquid to swill down my food I decided to content myself with the single sandwich. The sunshine made me sleepy and I dozed off. I awoke to the heavy breathing of cows as they edged their way towards me. As I sat up they jumped back away from me. I feared for my bicycle as they clumsily plodded around. I stood up and they scattered. I edged out of the field and continued to my wood. The rays of sun patterned the trees as they swayed in the gentle breeze. I rooted out a book from my baggage. “ On The Road” was not what I expected. Hoping for a story like my own I was disillusioned by the privileged protagonist receiving handouts from his aunty. His hedonistic journey was far removed from my solitary cycling. Though I shared his love of music my voyage led me a lonely road. Like jazz improvisations the empty space cleared the air for close harmony to come.
In the late afternoon I made my way back to the bus. Another early night and an early awakening. As I lay in my morning slumber contemplating Life, the Universe and everything I heard the large barn door roll back along its rails. I pinned up my ears and kept as still as a mouse. Heavy boots paced the concrete floor. After a general ramble around the shed they neared the bus. A moment of pause and the doors were slowly opened. My heart began to pace. The boots stepped inside. What grizzly creature could be approaching?I threw my metaphorical monkey's paw into the fire. The monster retreated and closed the door. The footsteps left the shed and the door was rolled back to a close.
I waited a good while and then slowly tidied up my kit. I made my way out with all my belongings and returned to my bicycle. I was ready to continue my voyage. At Llangurig I took the A44 to Aberystwyth. A few miles up and a few miles down. A last little climb before the great descent to the sea. A joyous tune whistled through my handlebars as I coasted the distance. I stopped only for water and reached the former capital of Wales by mid-afternoon. The sun blessed my arrival and I found a spot on the beach. With crackers and cheese I lazed away the day.
As the twilight descended a couple of likely lads sparked up a fire. They rambled around the beach collecting driftwood and piled it onto the crackling logs. One was thin and wiry and wore his hair long and scraggly. Absorbed in his task with a concentrated expression he looked serious. The other had a crew cut and a jovial air. He smiled and nodded a greeting in my direction. The sun set slowly and the air chilled. The last speck of red disappeared below the sea and the fire claimed the glow. I wandered over to say hello. They were happy to have escaped the drudgery of MIlford Haven and liked the lively student vibe of Aberystwyth. A guitar was perched by a nearby boulder. The breeze played a melody on the metal strings. An infinite variety of notes danced in the air. Short haired Tommy praised its magic. Long haired Steve agreed that it was an incredible physical phenomenon. I marveled at the orchestration. I walked to the local Spar and bought a few strong ales. Appreciative of my offering Steve rolled up reefer. Tommy kept active in his search for wood and the pyre blazed. In the late evening a crowd gathered after exiting the pubs. As we bedded down by the sea wall the revelry continued. I slept fitfully and awoke in the shade of a chill morning. Tommy was up and about and returned with coffee and cakes. Steve rolled the reefer and we blessed the day.
The rhythm of the waves marked time and the day warmed a blue sky. I made my way into town and looked for a pitch. A large pavement lay before the post office but the traffic passed noisily through the town. I played my tunes and the aerobic exercise cleared my head. My selection of polkas cheered the public and my case collected their coins. Once again I visited the Spar shop for cold collation. I seated myself on a bench and alimented. I would not return to the festive beach. A quieter retreat was needed. I followed the coastal road South of town. The medium town soon disintegrated into the hillside. A small track struggled up a hill. I followed its indecision to a fork in the road where an opportunistic shed had found its spot. The ramshackle doors held no security. I peered in to see a cobwebbed small trotting cart occupying the space. Between the shafts was room for me to lay down with my feet beneath the wheels. I unloaded my kit and stashed it under the dray. Free from my load I cycled back into town and locked up my bicycle.On the noticeboard outside the Spar I read a small poster for a band called "CiderSpace" who were playing upstairs in the Red Lion. They looked like a folky combo posing with a violin, bodhran and guitar and the girl with no instrument I imagined was the lead singer. I decided to go. I played some more tunes to while away the day.
I arrived early at the pub and had a pint downstairs. I saw the friendly faced band trundle up the stairs with their gear. Simon smiled as he lugged his guitar and amp through the narrow entrance door. A dark swarthy character wearing an oversized jacket. His hair was short and he sported a small plaited beard. Tony followed with a bodhran and microphone stands. A lithe mixed race cockney with a shaved head and a bigger smile. Then came Daffyd with short blonde hair. Dressed casually in t-shirt and jeans with a quieter demeanor, he smiled a little less as he carried his violin. Lastly came Dreena. Carrying nothing but a thick crop of dark hair and a loose black cotton dress. She glanced my way.
Safely seated on my bar stool I sipped my steady pint. As the eight oclock hour of commencement approached a crowd gathered. I ordered another pint and climbed the stairs. They played a few strident folk songs and Simon cracked a few corny jokes. Dreena sang some soulful covers. Her deep voice crept into the high notes with a biting edge. The crowd jigged about and a convivial atmosphere ensued. The personnel wore casually scruffy attire and I blended in naturally. I hung around to chat to the gregarious band and talked of my flute playing travels which seemed concurrent with their philosophy and I was invited into the circle. Tomorrow night there would be a gathering on the beach at Borth where a few of the band members lived. Content with my insider knowledge I finished my pint and wished the crew fairwell and headed back to my new retreat beneath the cart. All was well and I dreamed of racing over the beach in the sulky spider. I awoke early with an enthusiasm to organise my day. I left my kit beneath the racebike and headed into town. I shopped at Spar for fruit and yoghurt and a large bottle of water. I surmised that there was sufficient space to busk beside the entrance. I would return. I breakfasted on the beach and let the waves pattern my thoughts. Back to Spar for a couple of hours of pleasuring the public to fill my coffers and I took the road north to Borth. Steep hills through the villages of Bow Street and Llandre took 45 minutes to traverse. The tide was out and fossilized tree stumps dotted the calm beach. Morfa borth was a sheltered cove where herring fisherman had landed. The linear settlement faced its row of houses directly onto the beach. I settled down to appreciate the calm.
The night before I had chatted to cheerful Tony of my refuge beneath the cart. He had told me he lived in an old farmhouse in the hills close to the village of Llandre. From Borth there was an old track that wound through the woods and hillocks and passed by various wooden cabins. I locked up my bicycle and found the track. A twenty minute walk took me deep into the gnarly landscape. Beautifully secreted by the way was my ideal home. I entered the ramshackle shed. Some of the roof was missing and the floor was a foot deep in leaves. Old horse tack hung on the walls. I lay down in the corner where the roof still held. A pleasant spot with the inside out feel. I found another way down to the road and returned to Borth. There was not a great selection of shops and I payed over the odds for bread, cheese, tomatoes and beers. I snacked and had one beer and saved three for later.
Sufficiently mellow I let the afternoon pass me by. In the early evening I looked along the beach to see the figures of Dav and Simon gathering driftwood into a pile. They seemed content in their joint mission. I continued in my solitary bubble. Was every seventh wave bigger? I was undecided. The sun set with a flicker of red and the fire was lit. Still I mused. As the flames grew the crowd gathered. I wandered over to join the fray. Tony beamed a smile. Reefers were rolled. Music was played. I harmonised with Dreena's searing vocals. I drank my beers and a bottle of rum was passed around. I decided to make an early retreat to my carthouse. Tomorrow I would make the move to the leafy cabin.
A starry night guided me to the road. After a climb I sped along a steep downhill stretch. The oncoming cars illuminated the mist with their intensely bright headlights. My route was difficult to see. I gripped my handlebars as they refused to dim. The incline eased and a lull in the traffic allowed me to get my bearings. I passed through Aberystwyth and left the road to find the track to my abode. All was well between the shafts and I settled down for a good night's sleep.
A clear morning boded well for my house move. I packed up my load and trundled into town. My pitch outside the Spar was a quaint scene in the sunshine. The public warmed to my performance and showed their gratitude. A brunch on the pebbly shore set me up for my trek to the gnarl. Up and down the hilly road in the daytime was a pleasanter ride. A left before Borth took me up my hill. I parked my bicycle and walked up the path. With joy I settled in as the rays of sun beamed through the empty roof. My newly improvised home dependent on the derelict manmade structure would prove more reliable than my shelter purely manufactured from branches. I secreted my belongings and took a walk down to Borth. As I gazed at the munificent ocean I was surprised to be greeted by a Ruth who I had met at the gathering the previous evening.
Did you sleep here?- She mused.
No.- I replied.
Her little dog sniffed around me and concluded I was harmless.
I live just there- She pointed out her yellow house. Still surfacing from my reverie I considered my reply.
Would you like to come and have a cup of tea?
We wandered over the damp pebbles and entered her pleasant home. I sat on a pine chair while she prepared the refreshment. She placed two cups of warm hospitality on the table and seated herself on the other chair. Like a benevolent cousellor she asked about my travels. She told me that this evening was the weekly folk session in the Ship in Aber. She was not a musician and wouldnt be going but Tony and others would be there. Her guidance set my timetable. We chatted a little more and I thanked her and took my leave. I wandered back to my cosy cabin and paused in my leafy corner. All was well and I gathered my flute and hat and descended to my push iron. Into Aber with plenty of time to spare I took a portion of chips down to the shore. Steve and Tommy collected wood. Tommy paused to say hello and I told him of my travels to Borth. He was happy I was getting to know folk and continued cheerily gathering. I digested my chips and set off to localise the Ship. Up the narrow lanes by the top of the hill on a breezy corner stood the old white painted public house. Not quite as I imagined I enquired within. This was the place and the music would start at eight. With time to spare I found a bench with a view over the bay. I watched the tide roll away.
At eight I entered. A tall dark man seated himself at the table and eased his fiddle out of its case. The barman placed a small pile of plastic beer vouchers on the table and Colin smiled. I sat a little distance away on the velvet bench. He took a voucher and ordered himself a pint of lager. After a healthy slug of the sparkling refreshment he struck up a feisty strathspey. I gently assembled my wooden flute and perched it on the table.
-Here for the session?- He postulated. I answered in the affirmative and he nodded towards the beer tokens. I ordered a pint of ale as Colin launched into another Scottish tune. A short Englishman with a melodeon joined the circle and picked up a beer token. He too claimed the name Colin but was quite a different embodiment. Whistles,bodhrans and more fiddles arrived. Little Colin launched into a polka and I joined the melody. Elsa from the Isle of Lewes sat down beside me and smiled a lilting hello. She played her violin with a beautifully simple touch. When all the beer tokens were gone another pile was laid on the table and a polite reserve slowed their depletion. A young lady wheeled in her full size harp and the crowd parted to capacitate her installation. She played a slow Irish reel and the chorus entered the second time around. The beer tokens were once again replenished and I allowed myself another pint. I chatted to Elsa about my cycling odyssey and her christian virtue inspired her to invite me to stay in her student accommodation. We played on till closing time and I retrieved my bicycle and walked up the steep hill with Elsa. She talked of the wonderful Isle of Lewes and her faith in God. I was blessed with her company. We arrived at the crisply clean halls of residence and I felt musty beneath the fluorescent lights. I took a shower and her flatmate seemed surprised by Elsa’s new found friend. I bedded down on the couch. She smiled as she wished me good night and I pondered my good fortune as I drifted off to sleep.
I awoke early and contemplated my surroundings. The clean perfection contrasted my usually dusty arousal. Elsa made porridge for breakfast and zoomed off to study. I rambled down the hill and placed myself by the Spar. A five pound note fell from a man's pocket. He rushed down the street with no time to lose. I cleared the distraction from the sidewalk and piped up another jig. I clocked up three hours and a pocketful of change. A quick shop for supplies and I headed for Borth.
I combed the beach and veered towards the yellow house of Ruth. She put the kettle on and asked how things were going. I told her of the session and who was there. She told me there would be a fire on the beach on Friday. Dreena would be coming. My timetable was set. The tea was delicious. I decided to retreat to my cabin. My solitude was exemplary. The spider made a web in the thick leather horse collar hanging on the wooden wall. The flies danced in the middle of the room.
Lost in peace I dreamed of a cable car descending a snowy mountain. What would I do with the rest of my day? I allowed an hour to pass and continued along my path. Late afternoon was approaching. Maybe Tony would be at home. Not far along I passed the farmer. He smiled a demure hello. Tony was arriving on his tidy mountain bike. Time for another cup of tea and a reefer. Now the day was brightening up. He enquired about my new accomodation and I told him of my cosy cabin. Tony declared that the doobie hadn't even touched the sides and rolled another. Time slipped by. Tony told me about the beach gathering and I felt doubly invited. He had a gentle Southend accent.
-Bit of a draft coming from under that door- He stated as the evening air chilled. In my very stoned state I wondered which bit of a giraffe may make its way under the door. Presumably its head followed by its long neck would allow it to have a good look around. It was a beautifully cartoon image. I looked at Tony's bright face and he seemed to recognise that my mind was now wandering at an obscure tangent. - That one did the trick!- Again I pondered what he may be referring to. -Another cup of tea?- Still I took some time to comprehend what he meant. I looked at him in wonder. -That one hit the spot!.... I'll put the kettle on.-
Next door to Tony lived another Tony in the other half of the now divided old farmhouse. He popped in to say Hello and rolled another. They seemed happy to have a visiting rogue traveller. We talked of music and the insanity of the human race. In the darkness I wound my way back to my cabin. I awoke to my isolated calm. Down to Aberystwyth for a morning busk I went. After a snack I decided to find the library. A fine romano-greek portico welcomed me in. I perused the shelves and picked a random book.-How to become a spy - was an interesting proposition. I read a little and decided it was not the job for me. A collection of short stories by Milan Kundera was a more appealing option. The first tale told of a couple play acting themselves into a distressing situation. The girl had to pick up some goods from a shop and when the boyfriend drove around the corner to collect her she pretended to be hitch-hiking. They continued the charade and their new found relationship led them to uncomfortable discoveries about their alter-egos. These “Laughable Loves” proved to be a most entertaining read. I whiled away the afternoon reading the book then took another look at the sea. Tommy and Steve were occupied with their usual collection. Tommy glanced my way but seemed too tied to Steve’s intensity to stray far from his side on this cloudy day. I was happy to contemplate my evening trip to Borth.
Slowly I meandered back into town for a shop and set off for Borth. I wheeled my bicycle up the steep slope to avoid breaking a sweat. I coasted down the other side and walked again. The cars marched on at their relentless pace. Over the last hill and back to the safe haven. The tide was low and I walked out to inspect the fossilized tree trunks, preserved by the acid anaerobic conditions in the peat.
I walked to Inyslas and entered the dunes. A quietness like no other pervaded. My thoughts drifted over the sandscape and rested in the lull. Another daydream. Facts and figures disappeared. I felt part of the scenery. Time condescended and the afternoon passed.
Back to the beach where a small pile of wood had appeared. I decided to do my bit and dragged over a chunk of driftwood. Maybe another one. I didn't want to overdo it. A friendly little dog spiraled the potential fire and made a friendly foray. Ruth approached. She smiled hello. There was time for a cup of tea. Delicious. We chatted and returned to the beach as the light faded. David and Tony arrived. David nodded a quiet hello and Tony beamed his irresistible smile. From the house inline with the fire came hairy Bob. An old time Borthian who welcomed the youth. He exchanged gossip with Dav and Tony. His new lodger was a fine fellow and payed his rent on time. Beer cans hissed open and the smoking began. Bundled up in a cosy black overcoat arrived Dreena. Simon was busy at home with his studies. Dav relinquished his violin to take up the guitar. Tony played the drum and Dreena launched into a song. I was the instrumentalist. After following the melody I veered off into undulating variation. As I arrived back at the tonic Dreena rewarded me with another verse. A crowd gathered around the glow. She shook her locks and opened the heavy lapels to reveal her silver top. The jam continued. The waves breathed a rhythm. More songs,more ale, more weed. After a few sallys to grace the sea with my urinary participation I found myself close by Dreena as we melded mellifluous melodies. As we cosied up she smiled-
-How’s the shed?-
-Ok.-
-We can stay at Bob’s-
I realised we may share more than just our music. As the crowd began to disperse she smiled our departure. We strolled up to the house and through the unlocked door and up the stairs into a clean and tidy room with a capacious double bed. We submerged ourselves beneath the covers.
-Do you think I'm beautiful?- she asked. She was. I was too vain to reply.We slept well. Early in the morning Simon called round. Dreena hopped out of bed and went to the door. They had arrangements. We lay in bed a little longer and then walked over the cliffs to Aberystwyth. She ascended the steep hill to college and I found my way to the Spar shop. I gathered my thoughts as the coins collected.
I returned to my shed and decided to pack up my belongings. I trundled down the hill and loaded my bicycle. The dark green forests were calling and I put my legs into motion. The A44 carried me out of town. My chain needed some oil. I was hungry and had not shopped for food. The road was my sustenance. The trees crawled over the horizon and crept towards me. Closer they came until they towered above. I entered their palace and sat beneath their senior member.
-What should I do?- i asked. He did not reply. He needed time to think. I could wait. Like my old companion I drank only water. I would understand him better this way. For years he had lived like this. Stronger than the mightiest man on his diet of H20. The birds fluttered through his boughs. We listened to their gentle voice. We were not alone. How many other miniscule lifeforms were beavering away in his bosom? I leant on his secure trunk and watched a firecrest forage amongst small pines that sprang up at the feet of the mighty oak. I may sing a song. I had all day. The rain would not fall and the darkness would keep me. Slowly I breathed. The answer was evolving. Silence was talking. But not yet. Not too soon. Let my stomach contract and the water taste sweet. Midday passed and time travelled downhill. No-one came and no-one went. Eventually the beautiful green began to fade. The clear lines diffused and I rolled out my early bed. I relaxed on my soft bag and released my socks and shoes. The world turned monochrome as I climbed inside my cocoon. The peace of the night allowed my mind to ferment. Rapturous colour carried me up the holy mountain and exalted the summit. I dreamed into the morning and awoke refreshed. Sustenance was required.
I loaded up and put the wheels in motion. Not far along the road I arrived at Ponterwyd and availed myself of the local Premier shop. A pleasant smile encouraged my selection. Yoghurt, grapes and mineral water would break my fast. I feasted on a bench. I was ready to ride. Along the riverside the road carried me. A day pedalling and I was returned to Rhayader. A fair evening to bed down by the river. I shopped at the co-op and found a spot. Like an eternal washing machine the river ran. Following my cycle I went for an early busk outside the supermarket. Friendly faces recalled me. They were happy to sow their seeds. I collected my gains and dared to enter the shop. The cashier liked my music and gave me a twenty percent discount. I took my sustenance and moved along. Not far to Llandrindod Wells. Now I was back in my comfort zone. I remembered a pleasant pitch beneath a covered walkway to Sainsburys. Often an Australian guitarist hogged the spot. With his cheerful, relaxed demeanour, a silly hat and banter with the public he coasted through the day. This was a profitable approach but I liked to conscientiously thrash out my tunes. Luckily he wasn’t there. I settled into my practice. A set of reels and then my jigs and finally the cheerful polkas. Tomorrow I would return to Hereford. I found a lonesome Sycamore tree to shelter me. The wind picked up and I hoped no branches would fall. I pulled my bag up around my head and let the air whistle by. The morning was fresh and I cycled into the wind. A challenging return to the Hergest Ridge before Kington and the last climbs and falls to Hereford. I returned my bicycle to the front yard and strolled to my familiar pitch down church walk. Above the health food shop lived my old friend Gethan. He invited me up for a smoke and we whiled away the afternoon. In the evening I took my flute to the Volunteer pub where the old accordion player hosted a session. I settled myself down and picked up the melody. I was almost home.