Last year (2019), one of the bastards hiked the Pembrokeshire Coast Path in southwestern Wales (Cymru). A 290 kilometres long trail. As every walker knows, hiking, pilgrimage and spiritual peace are one and the same thing. The coast path takes you after nine days of walking to the homeland of Saint David, Wales’ patron saint. Saint David is buried in the cathedral of the town of Saint Davids, or in Welsh Tyddewi meaning David’s house, the religious capital of Wales. A town located on a peninsula which the coast path encircles along its cliffs. Not without reason, it was here that the bastard had an encounter with one of those few thru-hikers who is ‘freed from the flesh’.

This hike fits a series of semi long-distance walks in the territories of Europe’s autochthonous minorities in an effort to experience, understand their landscape and culture. Exactly where the Frisia Coast Trail is all about. For this reason the bastard hiked the Cape Wrath Trail in northern Scotland (check out our post “My God, the Germans bought all the bread!” cried Moira) and the GR20, dissecting on altitude the island of Corsica (read our post Support for the Corsican Cause in jeopardy).

Cymru, an ancient Celtic culture, whose people speak the Brittonic language y Cymraeg (i.e. Welsh). According to UNESCO, it is a so-called vulnerable language, although slowly but steadily on the rise over the last ten years. At the end of 2018, almost 900,000 people were able to speak the Welsh language, according to the Welsh Government. This is without the few thousand Welsh emigrant speakers in the region of Patagonia in Argentina. These are better results than the different Frisian languages, which are slowly but steadily heading toward extinction.

Now, let's take the reader to one of the fourteen days of hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path. To give you a sense of how religion, myths, weather, history, and landscape are intertwined and part of Welsh culture. On top of that, at the end of the day's walk, an encounter took place with a 'fleshless hiker'.

It was 7 June 2019, when the bastard started his stretch for the day. From the little harbour village of Solva (Solfach) to Whitesands Bay. A hike of about twenty kilometers. It was typical Welsh weather that day: rain and strong winds from the west, straight from the ocean, and more rain. No sun. Solva is a small fishing port. Its name derives from the Scandinavian word for samphire, indicating that Norsemen frequented these coasts long ago. There is no relation, therefore, to the song "Solva Mae" by Faithless. From the village of Solva, you, as always during the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, skirt the beautiful and endless cliffs in a western direction. “Keep the sea to your left, and you cannot get lost!” as the joke goes among walkers along the path.

Firstly, you pass the beautiful bay of Caerfai and Saint Non’s Bay. At Saint Non's Bay, you can see the remains of a chapel dedicated to the mother of Saint David, next to stones that are part of a Bronze Age circle. An antique religious spot, all in all. Tradition holds Saint Non's Bay as the birthplace of Saint David in the year AD 462. When David was born, a freshwater well sprang up. This fountain is still there, and it is still holy.

The next point was Porth Clais. It is the spot where Saint David was baptized by the Irish Bishop Elvis. Amazingly, someone sold excellent coffee and cake in a very little, windy shack. Sitting under a tent that was lifted all the time by the strong winds that day. The friendly guy looked like a young George Clooney. Your typical modern male Siren. He was not luring seafarers with singing, though, but pouring out espressos instead. Do not know whether he aimed for it, but he had attracted a Frisian bastard this time. His long blond-haired and bearded comrade, however, looked like Chief Vitalstatistix from the comic Asterix the Gaul, with big belly and all. No exaggeration. It was impossible to understand the English accent of Boss Vitalstatistix. “Smile and wave” – penguin Kowalski’s strategy in such awkward situations. Both men dressed in sturdy, woollen sweaters and raincoats. Probably having a Penderyn single malt for breakfast.

After Porth Clais, you walk along the Ramsey Sound, a narrow strait between the peninsula and the island of Ramsey. It is a desolate spot on the very western edge of Wales, especially during rainy and windy weather conditions. You know you are at the edge of the world when you see it. The bastard loved it! Ramsey is derived from the Norse Rams-Oy, ‘island of Ram,’ again giving away Norsemen history. The barren island was once the retreat of hermit Saint Justinian, a good friend of Saint David.

The Ramsey Sound has been feared by sailors for centuries. Not only because of the very strong currents which can reach eight knots due to the strong tides, but also because of The Bitches. Wut? Yes, the Bitches. A group of rocks oriented at a right angle with the island, just below or just above the water line, depending on the tide, that look like sharp shark teeth. At the other end of the sound, again a killing group of rocks and islets feared by sailors, named the Bishops and Clerks. Bitches, Bishops, Clerks. Interesting names they come up with in Wales.

Around halfway through the afternoon, the bastard arrived at Whitesands Bay. In the Welsh language, this broad sandy beach is named Porth Mawr, meaning ‘great gateway’. In the dunes adjacent to the beach, on top of an old cemetery, are the sixth-century remains of the chapel built to commemorate the spot where Saint Patrick, patron saint of Ireland, set off for Ireland to undertake ministry among the Irish. The chapel and cemetery were being excavated by the Dyfed Archaeological Trust when the bastard frequented Whitesands.

Besides Porth Clais, during the whole track, there was nowhere to have a drink or a bite, nor a spot to shelter from the continuous rain and strong winds. But in Whitesands Bay, there finally was: the Whitesands Beach House! At the door, a sign saying Croeso Gerddwyr ‘welcoming walkers’. That felt good. Soaked and chilled to the bone, the bastard sat down at a table near the door and big windows. He ordered a pint of beer, a coffee, a hot soup, and ‘dirty fries’. These were French fries loaded with melted cheese, meat, some salad mixed through it, and buried in uncountable different sauces. A similar dish known as kapsalon exists in the Netherlands and translates as 'hairdressers'. Yummy! After finishing the food, the bastard had another beer. Amazing how happy one can be with basic services.

While enjoying the food and warmth, a skinny hiker entered the premises, too. At first glance, the bastard guessed his age was around mid-'60s. Just like the bastard, he wore a leather cowboy hat — the best protection against rain, sun, and thorny shrubs. The man, however, had a long, wild beard and ditto hair, and he carried a wooden stick. No fancy light-weight walking poles, like the bastard had. On his back, he had a small backpack. Furthermore, he was dressed in a raincoat, of course. As pants, he wore black leggings. Over the leggings, he wore shorts. On his feet, woollen, sloppy socks and worn-out sneakers. He kept standing and sighing “aah, aaah” all the time, at first. With somewhat stiff movements, he placed himself at the table next to the bastard and ordered a soup as well.

After he had ordered his second soup, because "it was – aaah – excellent," as he complimented the waitress, the bastard and the bony hiker entered into a conversation. He came from the United States, the state of California, and was well over eighty years old! Both exchanged that they had to keep walking that day with all the wind and rain, because pausing would have increased the risk of hypothermia. The bastard asked why the heck he was walking here in Europe and not in the States, with such stunning nature and true wilderness over there? “Well, I hiked about everything there,” he said without a trace of bragging. He was simply telling the truth. In everything, he was friendly, respectful, and thankful. The thing the bastard could not help thinking was: “The day this man stops walking is the day he dies.” A thru-hiker. Freed from the flesh.

After the food and beer was finished, the bastard grabbed his stuff and said goodbye. The bony hiker continued south. The bastard continued north. A short walk to the beautifully located youth hostel at the lower slope of the Carn Llidi mountain, where the bastard had made reservations. Happy not to have to pitch his tent in this wet and ungodly weather. No sight of archaeologists either, with this weather.

While sitting at the reception of the youth hostel, one of the other guests entered the room. He sat down. “You’re quiet, Peter?” said the office manager to him. Peter was a tall and obese man, dressed like a Russian Orthodox priest in long robes, but completely in purple and with a big copper sickle hanging around his neck on his chest. Or maybe it was a crescent moon, a Muslim symbol perhaps. On his head was a Jewish kippah. Again, just like the bony hiker from California, he had long hair and a huge beard. But, in contrast to the bony hiker, he was clearly not freed from the flesh, yet. Peter answered the office manager in a low serious voice, with a distinct German-Austrian accent:

The bastard prayed to Saint David the purple priest would not be his roomy tonight. His prayers were being answered.

Only a few kilometres from Whitesands Bay lies the town of Saint Davids, as mentioned. About 2,000 inhabitants live there. It used to be, together with Jerusalem and Rome, an important place of pilgrimage in the High Middle Ages. Pope Calixtus II declared in the twelfth century that Roma semel quantum dat bis Menevia tantum, meaning that two pilgrimages to Saint Davids had the same value as one pilgrimage to Rome — a reasonable exchange rate. In addition, the cathedral is really worth a visit and is more than twice as quiet as Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican. Again, an excellent exchange rate. Inside the cathedral, all the traditional symbols of spirit above matter are present.

Surrounded by all this divine, spiritual, and heavenly stuff, the bastard wondered how many more kilometers and roads he must walk down to achieve what the Californian drifter had achieved and be freed from the flesh. The bastard knew immediately the answer:

An Entire Continent

Note 1 – Read also our blog post One of history’s enlightening hikes, that of Bernlef, or A Wadden Sea Guide and His Twelve Disciples – hiking on the sea if interested in spiritual hikes and pilgrimages.

Note 2 – The phrase ‘Croeso Gerddwyr‘ is actually written a bit different but February 2020 the organization walkersarewelcome.org.uk demanded to remove the phrase since there was a copyright on it. Copyright on a standard greeting. Imagine that! Suggestions from our side to make a reference to their organization were not considered, alas. Check their website to see what the original Welsh forbidden written words are for yourself. Be careful how you greet someone, from now on. Knights who say "Ni!"

Note 3 – For pictures of the bastard’s hike of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, check out this Google link.

Further reading

Gros, F., Marcher, une philosophie (2013)

Kagge, E., Walking. One step at the time (2018)

Kelsall, D. & Kelsall, J., Walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path (2016)

Manthorpe J. & McCrohan, D., Pembrokeshire Coast Path. Amroth to Cardigan (2017)

Strayed, C., Wild. From lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail (2012)