Walking and Talking

 

Carol, Caroline, Diane and I have a core purpose. It is walking and talking. Coffee might happen but what we most want to do, for the last fifteen years, is go for a walk together.

Yet for a long time we've had to compromise. Each of us in turn has had a foot/ankle injury, some more long-lasting than others.

In hopes all would be well, we'd booked a walking weekend to the Gower Peninsula in August. There was not much else to do there so we fretted we'd not be up to walking.

Carol, undisputed Mistress of the Map, planned a walk of seven miles along the ridge above Rhossili Bay, out to the island and back along the beach. 

In the morning, we creaked into our boots and hitched on our rucksacks apprehensively. Would our dodgy feet stagger that far?

We flapped along the breezy ridge, crowned with a haze of heather and gorse.  Down through dunes, past blue sea holly and a thousand bees. Then on to Burry Holms Island where we watched the invasion of hundreds of painted lady butterflies and devoured our sandwiches. 

The march back took us along the beach studded with razor shells and with surfers providing the entertainment. The steep haul back up the cliff to the Worm's Head Hotel nearly killed us. 

But we'd achieved it -  a long walk.

Better still, next day we got up and did another one.

Welsh Wine Lake

Going off with my mates for a walking weekend to the Gower. I tried to disguise the fact that I'd brought too much stuff by keeping my main suitcase small but putting walking gear and provisions in several carriers that clustered round my suitcase like satellites round the mother ship.

This meant that when Carol and Caroline came to pick me up I had to make two trips between my front door and Caroline's car boot. 

It was in between the first and second trips that The Incident occurred. 

I returned to see a pool of red wine seeping out of one of my bags onto the road. 

At nine in the morning my cul-de-sac was heavy with the scent of fair-trade merlot while a stain reminiscent of Silent Witness spread a surprisingly long way across the road.

None of us recalled clacking the bottle so there may have been a weakness in the glass. 

Being practised domestic goddesses we sprang into action and had the puddle cleaned up in no time. Before my neighbours confirmed their worst suspicions about me.

And would the loss of the merlot ruin our weekend? 

Not a chance. I had a second bottle in one of my other bags.