Only guess what?  It had as many exits as the road had directions.

Lots of the scenery was like this, only with more cars:

But there is a place for everybody:

And sometimes signs help you cross big roads:

There was a not very pretty canal, along which the blackberries did not taste very good.  Thinking maybe a little pollution:

Swing bridge leading to Swansea:

There was a water park:

Approaching Mumbles, whom should I bump into but the one person I know in the entire town:  David, one of the owners of Langland Road B and B where I was staying.  He was on his way to the gym.  It was such fun to stop and chat for a couple of minutes.  Then, arrived in Mumbles, I washed my hair, which actually looked OK for about 20 minutes, changed into my “going out clothes,” and headed straight for Joe’s, the famed ice cream shop, where I had the best ice cream I ever tasted en ¡toda mi vida!

Today’s drama began before I left.  All set to head out to catch the bus back to Penmaen whence to begin walking to Mumbles (isn’t that the cutest name for a place?), I reached to open the exterior door to the B and B, the one I had been told was never locked, and, to my horror, saw that, not only was it locked, it had no handle.  It could only be opened with a key.  Having dutifully left my key in the room, I found myself in the little vestibule between two locked doors. (You can guess what I said to myself.)  What to do! I banged on the inner glass door.  I did this many times, and not timidly, may I add, not caring if I woke up the entire world.  Finally, the half-asleep owner appeared with a set of keys and let me out.  The nature of our conversation was idiotic, but the important thing here is that always wanting to leave more than enough time to get places and such, I did not miss the bus!

The bus stop is located next to a, yes, telephone booth, inside of which were these warnings:

The walk started out beautifully, another day of stunning scenery and no rain.  I mean no rain in that it did not even threaten rain.  What a mechaiah!  Came to this gorgeous dune, estuary, cliff kind of area:

where, fortunately, heading in the opposite direction, the Clemments (sp.?) clan, as they referred to themselves, were crossing the river on submerged stepping stones.  Had they not been so doing, I would have had a) a hard time noticing these stones and b) if I had, would have wondered if it was dangerous to cross at such high tide.  The mom, familiar with the area, said that the water was just going to get higher, so, off came the boots and socks and onward I went.  It was quite refreshing, really, yet the current in the middle of the river had quite some pull, but off the stones I did not fall, and, relieved not to have slipped, reached the other side.  But let us cheer instead for that little girl! She did it without poles! (I have learned to much admire the scamperings of children!!)

When you are right near them, the stepping stones are obvious:

Then the GPS and the OS map clearly indicated that one was to ascend a S T E E P cliff and proceed around a peninsula.  The signage, however, pointed in quite another direction.  So dependent am I on my devices, that I tried the cliff, trudging up a very narrow path through very deep soft sand and then along a much too narrow cliff edge.  Scared, I thought, “I have done this before on the South West Coast Path, I can do it now.”  Slowly I inched along the cliff until, just at the turn, there was NO PLACE to put your foot, and it was a sheer drop down.  If one could get around that turn, the rest would probably be OK, but this one could not and would not.  Honestly, I don’t know if anyone could.  Back I centimetered my way along the cliff—it seemed to take forever—until, at the steep deep sand, I got on my hands and knees, and crawled backwards to safety, and obediently followed the signage, which pointed to a new, sane route, but not marked as such.  Harrowing is what this was and a waste of time!

I learned something today:  a shower cap is not a good wrapping for your snack of grapes. You can guess what I said to myself when the grapes hit the sand and dirt.

Oh, another thing I learned on this walk: If there is the slightest chance of rain, do not put your suitcase near an open window.

Things went well for a while until, taking a high tide diversion, I heard a thwack and found myself on my rear.  A low tree bough had knocked me to the ground.  Three thoughts about this:  in movies  of the goode olde dayes in Merrie Olde England, in which there is a plot to kill someone, just this sort of arrangement is contrived so that “someone” gets knocked off his horse, is stunned silly, and if things go as planned, dies.  The second was about my annoying HAT, which unlike lost HAT, has a too big floppy brim preventing proper vision at critical moments.  The third was whether I would be catapulted toward dementia or suffer loss of brain function.

Not that I am competitive or anything, but, passing a well-heeled pater familias, local to the area, who was walking with visitors, I asked him how long it would take to get to Mumbles.  “Oh, four or five hours,” volunteered Gramps in a somewhat condescending way.  Three hours later I rang the bell to the B and B.

Oh, sweet memories!

Definitely worth a trip!

To get to Worm’s Head, you have to cross a very wide causeway that has no paths or indicators, you just make your way while thinking that this may be like walking on the moon:

At 12:20, with backpack and all, I headed out out over sharp rocks interlaced with pools of water. You did not know where to put your foot next.  After about fifteen minutes of trying one thing and another, I decided I AM NOT GOING TO TO THIS! Bought a drink and walked on dry land until, at 2:00 I could go to the B and B, where Alison, the owner, encouraged me to try again.  So after a cup of tea and a banana with peanut butter, and after changing into the lightweight boots and leaving the pack behind, I raced the mile to the causeway to begin the trek again. I must have been in a different spot because it was much easier:

Coming to those pebbly places is like finding oases in a desert. By the way, the water in those pools is often quite deep:

After reaching the first BIG HILL and climbing it, I looked down and thought, for the second time, “No, I am not going to do this.”  It looked treacherous, and besides I knew there was not enough time before one had to be off The Worm, and back on shore.  The return crossing was quite easy.  Just luck, not doubt, happening on a certain swath to walk through.

But I had a plan, as I often do.  Would do the next day’s walk to Penmaen REALLY FAST, catch a bus back to Rossili and be ready for the day’s later tide time and a third attempt.  Oh…the walk to Penmaen was the best section of the Coast Path to date.  A splendid mixture of cliffs, dunes, woods, and, although a few drops of rain did fall, it was, essentially, a rainless day.

The third crossing started out very easily, but then somehow reached some horrendous rocks.  Once there, there was no alternate route.  The rocks below are not the horrendous rocks because I would never have stopped to take a picture of them.  In fact, I was scared to death.  Other people were crossing there, too, but for me, it was daunting.  I really thought I might have to be rescued.  But after about a half hour of terror, the section came to an end.

Not THE horrible rocks.  Just normal rocks though which you have to find your way:

I will cease describing the literal ups and downs, the scariness, and all this after a thirteen mile race completed in five hours so that I could experience this experience, but I will confess that I did turn back at the final section, which is usually closed until the end of August because of nesting birds, but had opened August 15, because it contained yet more treachery and I feared that that awful section from hell might need repeating.

Good fortune was with me.  I saw a man looking out over a fearsome section that links two parts of Worm’s Head—it is not called The Devil’s Bridge for nothing– in a figuring-it-out sort of way; I said to the man, “I am going to follow you.”  Turns out he was very nice, and he, too, had turned back from the final section. (This made me feel so much better!) Not only did I follow him across The Devil’s Bridge, but he took a way back—knowingly or unknowingly—that held none of the terrors of the way out route.  It was, in fact, an enjoyable crossing.  By the way, I don’t know about Suzie, but I do think that Jay, Ellie and Max, and in a couple of years, Stella, would LOVE the Worm’s Head experience!

Barnacled covered rocks:

If it is not one thing it is another.  Today’s challenge was high tides when, for my purposes, they needed them to be low! The path was flooded, necessitating a detour, then the path was flooded further on. Took off boots and socks and waded—having successfully tried that technique once before, so why not, but finally came to a flooded area too broad and deep to be waded, so through the woods it was.

Sometimes a day’s walk is like navigating a maze, which is what that day’s was, and since I am writing this a few days later and am kind of wiped out from about 20 miles of walking, there will be a brief photo show and that is all!

Driftwood on the biggest expanse of sand one can imagine.  It was the only thing that interrupted the nothingness (except for sand and things that live in the sand, of course) as far as the eye could see:

Looking down from the top of the dunes:

Just a bit of prettiness:

The things one finds on the path!

I stopped at the Llanelli Wetlands Center:

Facts: These Carribean flamingos are the largest of the six species of flamingos.  Adults eat 50,000 brine-fly larvae a day plus other invertebrates, seeds, and algae.  They live in saline lagoons with twice the saltiness of sea water, and, get this, they have a salt excreting gland above the eye.  Wish I could have gotten closer!

Black swans:

Pretty black feet to match the pretty black bill:

Where is that tasty morsel?

Yellow eyes and a nice “hairdo:”

Really?

Sights of the day on a flat, mostly easy path except for the mud that almost pulled a boot off.  Fortunately, I tie my laces very well.  I actually saw a cow, not the one below, sink into the mud to above its left hind knee.  Remarkably, she pulled herself out.

What this random collection of shells was doing in a heap not near a beach, who knows. Oh, I do!  Someone gathered them to take them home, then wondered, “Why am I shlepping these shells home? I’ll just toss them right over here, then people can forever wonder what this random collection of shells is doing not near a beach.”

Part of the walk was on a long beach.  Due to the weather, said beach was not populated:

Like UFOs maybe?

Poor little lost yellow snail:

Many little snails also climbing blades of grass:

This one won the prize!  Fine dining at the lush restaurant at the top, right in the middle of the seed head.  Oh, yum!

Had I realized what was waiting for me on the other side, I night not have paused to take a photo.

But here is the story.  I think the cows were pressed against the gate because their young (the ones just above) had been separate from them, so they were visiting, you might say.  But then again, maybe not since the coloration of the moms did not match that of the young ‘uns.

Signs of fall even though there has been no summer:

Walk to Carmarthen was only ten miles—would have been nine, but lack of signage made it ten, if you get my drift—and there was a patch of thick, thorny, brambly overgrowth to walk through, which kind of tore up my arms.  A ton of bites, probably from disturbing the little critters that live in that mess of growth, was the consequence.  Oh, friends of the Carmarthenshire Path, where are you?  Anyway, at hotel, changed shoes and pants, and lady at desk suggested I look about the town, though I was prepared to go to the botanical gardens.  The weather was iffy (it poured several times during the afternoon), so I took her advice and had the best time visiting some galleries.  I must say I have met wonderful people on this walk:  B and B owners, shop keepers, gallery owners and artists.  Today, for example, lady at a gallery sent me across the street to the local herbalist to get a potion for my bitten arms.  For a few dollars, I got instant relief. Then herbalist sent me to the best local ice creamery where I did get a delicious chocolate chunk cone.

Next morning, I did visit the botanical gardens.  Not wowed by any means, but there were some highlights. In the apothecary section were walls covered with exquisite embroideries of plants used for medicinal purposes.

The materials used in each piece are different, one from another, but every one is detailed and delicate:

In this one, the petals are fabric and the berries are beads:

There were growing flowers as well, of course;

The best exhibit was the butterfly house:

Isn’t it pretty?

This big specimen is a male moth.  This is day five of its seven day life in its moth stage:

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Marjorie would love this so much!

The shires may change from Pembroke to Carmarthen, but hillage, beaches, fields and towns are similar.  The dramatic heavy, rocky coastline of Pembrokeshire was not evident today, but more mileage needed to verify that observation.

A disappointment occurred at Pendine Sands.  There, up on a high cliff, I gazed with happiness at a L O N G  stretch of beach at low tide.  Oh joy, I thought, what a delight that will be to walk along.  Desafortunadamente, almost the entire beach is a military site, so no can go, or, in guide book speak, ‘The walker is forced inland.”  Several miles of road and field substituted as the alluring sands remained out of sight.

There were other sights on the way, however, like this grassy waterfall:

And some important signage;

No place for fish and chips wrappers;

Arrived at Laugharne, I sought out my hostess in the parking lot to the castle where, she had told me, she sells cakes every Wednesday.  Our plan was that I would leave my backpack in her car  before visiting the few attractions of the town.  Instead, I bought a cake, she gave me the key to the B and B, I plodded a mile or so uphill, let myself in, took a plate and fork from the dining room (shhh), made tea, and ate that lovely variant of a Victoria Sponge.  How delicious it was!

Turns out that the places I wanted to visit did not take much time, which was a good thing, because it did start to rain—and hours later has not stopped—so it was nice to get back inside again.

There was ye olde castle:

in a setting strange for such a ruin:

And of course, a hero praised by Dylan Thomas who lived here and is beloved and much esteemed by the town:

Then there was a museum of sorts called The Tin Shed Experience, but when the guide spoke a few words of Welsh to demonstrate to the visitors what it is like to hear a language you don’t understand, I fled.  I’m thinking that many guides specialize in speaking to groups of (very) young school children.