Day 13: Aberffraw to Four Mile Bridge
walking alone
I’m learning to be flexible with itineraries. I’m not there yet, but I’m learning.
Let me back up a second. A friend recently asked me how I convinced my wife to go on 300+ mile hikes. That’s easy. I didn’t do it. These coastal walks from inn to inn were his idea. She wants this. It’s her thing. And I’m more than happy that we made it our own thing.
But ever since our first long walk together, he’s worried that he won’t be able to keep up with me or the itinerary. To approach the first, I always make sure she walks in front and sets the pace. Regarding the latter, I assured him that any day he’s not feeling the hike, he can take a bus or taxi to cover all or part of the hike scheduled for that day.
Today was one of those days. Kate didn’t think she had a 14-mile run, especially after the mileage of the last two days. I looked at today’s route and realized that our B&B was located in Rhosneigr, about halfway there. My morning taxi ride would take me back along the trail to the starting point in Aberffraw.
So Kate decided to stay in our room until 11:00 check-out time and then go to the front porch of the motel until I entered. Then we would finish the last six or seven miles together to the Four Mile Bridge. Look at me being flexible.
High tide at Aberffraw
My taxi driver dropped me off at Aberffraw Stone Bridge shortly after 9am, about half an hour earlier than usual. I went down the estuary under a gray sky and a strong wind, but no rain in the forecast. The tide was high, flooding the sand-blocked estuary as well as parts of the trail.
As I walked around some tide pools lining the trail, I saw another hiker up ahead. It looked like they had a backpack and… trekking poles! My first thought was, «That’s another American walking the coast path!» So, I changed gears and began the chase.
Another hiker on the coastal path
I caught up with her in the next flooded section, when she stopped to devise a Plan B route to avoid the tide. We exchanged greetings, her a little more cautious than mine. Clearly a Brit, from her accent, and a long-distance hiker, from her choice of backpack, leather boots and other gear.
I tried to chat while we found a route to avoid the tide, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Are you walking the coast path?” That got me a «Yes,» but nothing more. «You’re the first hiker I’ve seen with trekking poles. I love mine. You?» No comments.
«My wife and I are walking around Anglesey. How far are you going?» She gave me a disapproving look: «you Yanks are so nosy» (we are) and said, «Yes, I’m going on a hike to Anglesey, but I’m using PUBLIC TRANSPORT.» He put too much emphasis on “public transportation.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Did you see me pull up in a taxi? Aren’t taxis public? Was I worried about my carbon footprint because I flew to the UK on a plane? I had no idea, but it was pretty clear that she didn’t want a nosy American disturbing her peaceful walk. So I responded, “That sounds great!” and I kept walking.
kissing doors
She beat me to it as I stopped to take pictures of the spectacular sky, but I caught up with her again at the next kissing gate, where she held the swinging gate open for me as she left. I thought about telling her that there would be no kisses for her, but she had already shown her sense of humor. None, or more generously, different from mine.
My American readers may not know what a kissing gate is. Basically, it is a swinging gate that separates adjacent fields. People can pass, but not livestock. You enter a triangular or circular pen, turn the door and come out the other side. If you’re hiking with your romantic partner, getting into the corral together is a perfect opportunity to share a kiss.
Kate and I decided on our first walk that we would make it a habit. There have been many kissing doors on this walk. A lot.
tentative friends
I went ahead again until the high tide completely cut off the beach route, and I had to improvise. As I struggled to open my app and search for alternatives, she came over and said she thought the lane in front of me was the correct path and headed in that direction. The road headed inland, but I knew the road followed the coast. So when I discovered a route that would reconnect us to the trail in a few hundred yards, I called her.
We were friends now. More or less. Unfriendly friends. Just walking close to each other friends. For a while. She disappeared behind me sometime during the next mile and I never saw her again. I lost track of it because the coast demanded all my attention.
The incredible desolate coast
That’s not quite right. The Coast did not demand my attention. I gave it freely.
After three days around the Menai Strait, hiking inland around huge estates and squeezing along paths between walled pastures, I suddenly found myself alone on the coast.
The rugged coast. The cliff coast. The deep sea coast, crashing waves, crying seagulls, secret coves and long views of blue water merging with crystal skies somewhere beyond eternity.
Stone castles, ancient estates, ivy-covered walls and green pastures were relegated to secondary roles. The coast was the star. It could even have been a one-man show. Every view was the best yet and worth stopping to frame a potential screensaver photo.
This was the coast I came to see. Perfection.
Church on an island
I walked along a beach of rocks and sand around a bay, testing the tide with my still dry socks. In the middle of the bay, a small church stood alone on a tidal island. I sent a photo to our assistant pastor Erik and told him I heard there was a vacancy. He responded, «For a pastor or parishioners?» Both, I assumed. I imagined the parishioners growing increasingly nervous as the tide rose and the pastor’s sermon dragged on.
Then came another long trip inland, this time around a huge motor racing circuit. I could only glimpse the race cars, but I could hear their engines all over the track. And once or twice, the tires screeched when someone turned, but no metal-on-metal crash.
After the detour, I was happy to see seagulls screeching again, waves crashing, and more cliffs, coves, and ocean views.
The mound below
During our journey to Aberffraw this morning, my taxi driver pointed out an ancient burial mound on the top of a hill and told me he would pass by. The crypt dates back to 2500 BC. C., a testimony to the long history of human occupation of Wales. I looked through the excavated entrance, but couldn’t make out any of the patterned stone art displayed on the interpretive panels.
Unlike the last old cemetery we passed, this one had no creepy, dead-eyed old women with drums telling us they were «beating the spirits.» That was really strange.
Then came a long walk along the beach on wet sand, until we reached Rhosneigr, where Kate was waiting with lunch.
Hiking outside Rhosneigr
After a long lunch, Kate and I headed out of town together. My feet hurt a little. Kate was eager to go. Our path out of Rhosneigr took us along a wooden walkway through a tidal channel and a swamp until we reached some grassy sand dunes. Kate found a swampy spot and gave it a “hot foot” (wet socks). I walked through the swamp and I had sand in my shoes.
Then came another long walk along the beach passing Anglesey Airport, a former RAF base. At the end of the beach, as we turned inland along the tidal channel that separates Holy Island from the mainland, an elderly woman taking a break on a concrete barrier stared at us as we passed. We had just been talking about the drummers in the crypt, so we quickly looked away. As we hurried along, Kate asked us if we had met her before. I don’t think so, but Kate thought she said hello to us.
A mile further along the inland route, I started to feel a hot spot on my big toe, probably from the sand in my shoe, so we stopped for first aid. I was also feeling the miles and needed a break. As I struggled to put my socks back on without rolling up the moleskin patch I had placed over my blister, the old lady from the beach walked past us.
Kate asked me if that was the hiker (she actually said «your little friend») she had met this morning. «No,» I replied, «that lady had a green backpack, a hat, long pants, and old-school leather hiking boots. This was the same lady who was watching us on the beach.»
Kate said she thought this lady had smiled and waved. I looked up and recognized his boots, his backpack, and his trekking poles. She had taken off her raincoat, so I didn’t recognize her on the beach or when she passed by.
But she was too far away to call again. If we ever catch her again, I’ll have to apologize for seemingly ignoring our little friend.
More flex
Our long breaks left us pushing our designated time to meet our taxi. During our break, I noticed a couple of shortcuts we could use to avoid two useless detours around two farms. Instead of following the official trail, we could take the small one-lane road that we had been following along the estuary. We did, and shaved off a half mile which got us back on schedule.
We will have to think of a name for these useless deviations. On the AT, mountain climbs that don’t reach the top or have a view are called “PUDs,” short for meaningless climbs and descents. Maybe PAF. Useless on farms.
Trip over the Four Mile Bridge
The last half mile to the town of Four-Mile Bridge was a muddy cowfest. We dodged what we could, making our way through cow pies, spongy grass, and deep mud. Then Kate made a bad decision and her poles and feet got stuck in the mud. He fell sideways into the mud and crashed without touching a rock. Dirty, but safe.
Then came an even muddier section that had been abused by a herd of cows. I went first, moving from one grass pod to another, trying to move fast enough not to sink. Until I stepped on a gray rock. No, not a gray rock. A big, crispy cow pie.
My foot sank in and covered my shoes, socks, legs and pants with noxious green manure. I jumped, missed the next step, and buried my other leg in the mud. I looked back and Kate was shin deep in mud, trying to get her foot out without losing her shoe. And laughing hysterically.
I was angry. I was entertained. She won that round.
A cleansing plunge
As we and our shoes escaped the mud, we left a trail of green slime down the sidewalk as we searched in vain for a hose. Instead, when we reached the city’s namesake bridge, we took a path that went down to the canal and entered. Vigorous scrubbing was required to get our shoes clean enough to ride in a taxi.
Kate laughed all the way to our motel. And he also had to wash his socks, pants and shirt in the motel sink. Four rinses and it was still squeezing out the dirt. We’re not sure those socks can be saved.
