Not just in Trevor, relaxing in Trevor. S'ok though; Trevor is not a specific person, Trevor is an arm. So I am in fact relaxing in the arm of Trevor. And before you ask about his other arm let me clarify: I refer not to the arm of a man, a man called Trevor, but of a canal, the Llangollen canal (best pronounced with a modicum of catarrh, or failing that soothing whiskey, in the back of the throat.). Trevor is a little touristy. Trevor brought us summer sun (at last). Trevor inspired me to weild the Brasso and get me brasses done. (The brasses are a chore any self respecting water gypo relishes on a sunny day..oh how they sparkle). As I write Alan is trying to turn round in Trevor (steady now) so that we can get out. Not that we are desperate to go because Trevor is also a very cute, sunny little marina that glows like newly Brasso'd brass when the long-awaited sun hits it. Add to this the fact that my sunglasses turn everything the burnished orange colour of a faded 1970s photograph and you've got a recipe for lounging happily around listening to Neil Young and being all nostalgic. Which is what we did after crossing the splendiferous Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, the biggest one in Britain - tonnes of steel hurled arching improbably into the sky above a giant valley, towering above the river Dee which spurts and swishes belligerently a head spinning 126 feet below. There is no barrier between you and the sheer vertiginous drop off the side of your boat and the temptation to chuck yourself freely into the wide open arms of the valley, though only momentary, is delicious and huge. The sunlight scrubbed everything clean as bleached bone as we passed over this mammoth thing into the soft, leafy Vale of Llangollen. It was all a bit much really. So we stopped in Trevor to make a sandwich.
Sorry not to've written in a while, but I have been away. We spent 10 days in south Wales going to two music festivals; Tapestry – a medieval themed rock festival (think Spinal Tap in wimples and you've got the idea) and Green Man Folk Festival. Tapestry was held in a beautiful wooded park within view of the sea near Port Talbot. Unfortunately it was also in view of a huge steel works on the beach, though that was merely one of a litany of incongruous sights thoughtfully provided by the festival which included a busty Man-Wench dancing with a Beardy Apothecary, a man who spent the entire weekend with a cardboard box on his head and Ant dressed as a monk, but with a long 70s 'tache and aviator shades. When he put his brown Hutch-from-Starsky-and-Hutch leather jacket on, he had the complete “Medieval Monksploitation” look pinned down. Rob deserves the prize for best costume – especially fo his fantastic medieval-louche purple hat-thing. He also had a leather drinking bladder filled with cider. As Roy Castle used to sing, Dedication's What You Need. Green Man was a lovely way to catch up with a festival cocktail of lovely friends but I could have done without the biblical plague of rain and mud. I got so excited during Robert Plant's set that I dropped my waterproof into the brown gloop and had jumped joyously up and down on it several times with a fiercely air-guitaring Irishman before I realised. I had, effectively, soiled myself.
We were supposed to walk between the two festivals; me, Al, Jess and Matthew; a jaunty 50 miles we thought. We did not however think at all about the big fuck off hills you get in Wales. Hmm. And how much heavier a pack is when you've got a tent and four days food in it. The first day we did 14 miles. A distance, I will humbly state, that we have covered many times before without a problem – even over a few big hills. The pack, though, with its extra weight made us all want it to be over by about two hours after we started, so when we got to our camp-site 9 hours later to be greeted by two young valley lads “Wha yew wana walk fer – are ye mental or summet?” and a cloud of hyperactive hunger-crazed midges, the thought of getting up and doing it all over again, and again and again for five more days was enough to make me want to stick my head in a pig. So we did the smart thing and got a taxi to Crickhowell only to be royally pissed on from above for five consecutive days. Walkers Karma.
It is much later now as I fnish off and after passing lots of nonplussed sheep, running aground, navigating through a myriad of tunnels and bridges – some of them Tim Burtonish in their vaguely threatening cartoon misshapenness - and seeing some of the most wonderful scenery falling away from the ridge line like slices of knobbly green Stilton, we arrived in my oldest and dearest friend Dawn's home – Llangollen - a few hours ago. And I have just come back from a folk night in a pub that belongs firmly in a David Lynch film. But it is late and I am too agreeably full of wine and whiskey to do it justice now, so I will have to tell you about it tomorrow.
Gerrnight.
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