Category: women

Ar y Bysiau (Welsh: on the buses)

I’m someone who can drive but doesn’t currently have a car. I rely on public transport and good old walking wherever I go. When I go on hiking trips to the Lake District or my homeland, North Wales, I use the public buses to get everywhere. If you’re a car owner you’re probably recoiling in horror right now, but let me tell you about the joy of bysiau.

Travelling on foot or by bus means that you are forced to really look around where you’re based, to see how it’s connected with everything around it, where the little paths and streams are, the small bridges and stepping stones that connect fields, the backroads to the path up the local hill. If you have a car you spend your time leaving the place you’re in to find something better on the map. You’ll never see those tiny streams and paths or notice that the old railway line has been turned into a leafy walk to the next village.

I have just spent a few days in a North Welsh hamlet with only two bysiau a day, but with the Lôn Las Ogwen railway track footpath on its doorstep. Everyone in the accommodation around me was offering me lifts to towns and attractions around us, but not one of them climbed the local hill, walked through the local forest or used the Lôn Las Ogwen to get to the next village. They never found the Blas Lôn Las farm cafe and shop en route, or the path that links it to the local Moelyci mountain in the Carneddau.

They never worked out that they could catch a bus from the next town (Tregarth) to the Ogwen Valley, where a volunteer-run bus (Bws Ogwen) would carry them to the start of all the great mountain hikes in the Glyderau and Carneddau. They didn’t chat to the two drivers who run it because they were the only ones on board and found out where the best pub was in Bethesda. They never found the Pant-yr-Ardd pub in Tregarth which is hosting a rodeo tonight (so sad not to be there) or met any of the funny, welcoming, wry locals who would tell them why the local shop closed or why they were struggling to get on the property ladder.

Now on the island of Anglesey, or Ynys Môn in Welsh, I’m restricted to bysiau but there is one bus, the 62, that stops everywhere along the east coast so you can make up your own hikes between stretches of the coast path. I make the most of my waiting time for the 62 by going for coffee or ice-cream at Amlwch harbour or Moelfre village, chatting to people at the table or bench next to me because that’s what people do here.

This trip has reminded me of the girl I was in my teens, sometimes with my mum but mostly alone, travelling by bus around my homeland, chatting to people and knowing the tracks and trails of the land like the back of my hand because I’ve walked them over and over again. Being so-called ‘restricted’ by bysiau means I return again and again to well-worn paths, like the one I’ve just done between Amlwch and Point Lynas. I like finding the small landmarks again – the tiny bridges over streams, the sea-wall paths around bays – and walking them again and again until I’m part of them. Once again, I was the only one on the bus, and the driver said, in that wave-like North Welsh accent I know so well, “You might struggle to find a seat…” as I boarded. He drove into village after village, having to turn around and come back on himself in each one, because that’s what the service does – drives into a village and out again like a bee finding nectar in a row of flowers.

I have come full circle to my teenage self, walking the land alone and relying on bysiau to get around. Wales is full of girls like I was – I can see them now, out with their mums and grandmothers, hoping for something dramatic to happen, not realising that their solo roaming on the coast path will come to define who they are in the future. Their hair blows in the wind and their pale, freckled faces turn to the sun as they wait at the bus stop, watchful and expectant.

It’ll come, girls, it’ll come.

A Beach of One’s Own

I’ve just had my very first chat with a woman I see every morning and evening, walking on the beach. We’ve passed each other for two or three months now, nodding and smiling and silently acknowledging the need for our alone time. It turns out we’re both Piscean introverts, so that explains a lot.

Her husband is here, she said, but he can’t stop talking. She remarked on two women we’ve both seen walking up and down, who can’t stop talking either. It was so nice to have a brief chat with someone who feels the same about non-stop talking – I actually find it stressful even to hear it (worse if it’s on the phone) and if people are walking behind me doing it, I stop to let them pass so I can’t hear them.

While I’ve been here, I’ve had around six attempts by people to join me on my morning walks, all of which I’ve declined, saying I want to walk alone. Mostly people take it well, but I can see a few, “Well, that’s rude” expressions. It’s just a boundary I have and I have no problem stating it.

The same goes for my trips to different places in India. The minute I say I’m going anywhere alone I get the incredulous, “On your own?” response and then later, “I’m thinking of going to the same place!” I then have to find a way of extracting myself from their plan of joining me. I know they think I’d love some company but solo travel is a joy to me. Ironically I meet more people when I’m on my own, but the difference is I’m not attached to them for the whole trip. (This scenario has literally just happened to me on the beach when I mentioned my forthcoming trip to Nepal – “I will get the same flight!”.)

On International Women’s Day, I want to celebrate the right of all women to travel solo without fixed companionship. I want to celebrate the right of introverts to not speak, and to not need a wingperson. I want to celebrate the right of Pisceans to walk by water every day because they need it to survive.

A beach of one’s own.

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Misty

White horses appear to be a theme in my life, so when I sat down to eat my lunch during yesterday’s hike, I wasn’t surprised to find one munching some grass right next to me.

Misty’s owner told me that she is 15 (about 45 in human years) and that she was rescued from a bad life in Ireland where she’d been forced to have lots of foals and been in a road accident.

Now she lives a peaceful existence on the South Downs, but is still afraid of fast-moving bikes and cars.

What I didn’t know is that the grass that surges after summer rains is like crack for horses. It’s full of sugar and they go crazy for it, hence the munching. Misty’s owner said they’d ‘work it off’ by having a quick trot after lunch.

After she left, her soulful eyes looking at me sideways under long lashes, I thought about Misty in her midlife prime, having lived a difficult life but finding peace (and sweet grass) on the South Downs and realised we had a lot in common.

If you’ve read Cheat Play Live you’ll know how White Horse in Agonda was my spirit animal, showing me what a free and independent life could be like, by the sea. Misty, although not completely free, reminded me that the next move I make needs to be where the grass is sweet and the humans are kind. I think I know where that is.

The Ultimate Freedom

On today’s hike I saw a young woman carrying her paddleboard out of the sea, barefooted, about to cross the road back to her home. I told her that it looked like she was living the dream, and she said it was only the second time she’d been out on the water. She pointed to a distant structure in the sea and told me she’d got out as far as that and it felt really far away and she got scared, but she made it back. She had that look of wild elation.

She asked me where I was going and I told her about my solo hike. I told her how I loved the freedom to choose where I was going and sometimes I felt scared but it made me feel alive. I told her how good it was to see a solo woman coming out of the sea with her board tucked under her arm, the ultimate freedom.

I’m about to complete my final refresher driving lesson before my road trip in a campervan in September. I know I’ll feel scared, not having driven for over ten years, but I know I’ll feel free and alive. I’ll be announcing more details in my next newsletter (link on page).

For better or worse

I’ve had something in my mind for a while now, helping me navigate each day.

It was something Brené Brown said in her Power of Vulnerability audiobook, and it was basically this: “Are you trying to make the world better or worse? There is no in between – it’s binary.”

Sometimes the simplest of lines hits home hardest. It’s made me reassess every action or word since I heard it. Perhaps in my previous life I would’ve been sharp with someone on the end of a phone who is trying to sort out a problem for me. Now I think, “Perhaps they get angry people all the time and would appreciate a kind word.” Perhaps before I might’ve stood steadfastly in a queue for the checkout because it was ‘my turn’, but now I check behind me to see if the person there is only carrying a carton of milk. I let them go first.

It’s all those small actions that add up to a whole day of making things better or worse.

On yesterday’s solo hike, I sat outside a café in a small village and watched a woman in her eighties helping people. She appeared to be a community volunteer wearing hi-vis armbands.

If someone looked lost or confused, she got up out of her deck chair in the shade, put her hand on their arm and asked, “Can I help you?” Even if she couldn’t, I noticed that each person she approached looked so happy after the encounter.

That lady. That’s who I want to be.

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Herd community

One of the best things about solo hiking for me is not knowing who I’m going to meet along the way. I often end up chatting to someone, briefly, and there is something special about meeting them on the open road, away from any distractions.

Last weekend I met a woman with a dog called Bonnie (sadly I’d didn’t get a picture of her but I feel awkward asking someone for a pic in the moment).

Bonnie was a sheepdog – a border collie. Normally these dogs are too intent on herding some unseen sheep to pay attention to humans but Bonnie came up and pressed her head against my leg.

I got chatting to her owner who said Bonnie has a gift for seeking out people who need a dog hug. In the woods near where they live, she told me, Bonnie has twice tracked down people who are crying and feeling lost and stayed with them. Perhaps she is using her herding instinct to look for humans who need contact with other beings to feel good about themselves. That certainly applies to me.

I love to walk alone but I love the people and dogs I meet even more.

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It’s launch day!

Dark Horses Ride is a story of midlife reinvention, of friendships, relationships and a working life all put to the test by the seismic effects of menopause. 

​​​​​​​But it is also a story of love and homecoming. It is about the healing power of walking and meditation, the therapeutic process of writing and one woman’s determination to redefine what success and happiness look like.

Living the dream isn’t all she hoped it would be when Lisa swaps a high-flying job in London for a freelance life as a writer, editor and yoga teacher by the sea in India. She struggles to control the tide of emotions that hit her as the red mists of menopause descend and she begins to question whether her new life – and her relationship with a much younger man – are all she hoped they would be.

When the pandemic hits, Lisa decides that the universe has made the decision for her and back in England, she falls for the charms of a man her own age. However, he is not who he appears to be. Neither are the friends she’d hoped would support her when she publishes her first book and releases her ‘dark horses’ for all the world to see. 

After travelling back to her homeland in Wales and reconnecting with ‘The Most Handsome Man in Goa’ in India, Lisa is forced to confront her dark horses alone when her health and hormones threaten to derail the happiness she’s learned to live for.

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Wholehearted

This past week I have been listening to Brene Brown talking about the Power of Vulnerability. She is a researcher who has found that people who live ‘wholehearted’ happy lives have several things in common, many of which relate back to the yoga lifestyle. Her data shows that these people are spiritual in one way or another, that they believe that we are all connected by something bigger than ourselves. It also shows that wholehearted people engage in creative pursuits and practice gratitude.

Santosha is a 5,000 year old Sanskrit word for ‘contentment’ – being happy with whatever you have. As a yoga practice, it’s being grateful for specific things in your life. On my morning walks I find it improves my emotional state so much if I list these things in my mind. They can be as simple as finding a new path to walk on or having a chat as I buy a coffee.

Today I met Valerie, a lady who told me she’d been evacuated during the war to Shropshire, near the Welsh border. We talked about how much we liked wildflowers and the tamarisk bushes by the sea, even though they’re overgrown. Each person who walked past us said, “Ooh they need to be cut back, don’t they?” but we grinned at each other and said the bushes were lovely, filled with bees on the tiny flowers.

Thank you, Valerie, for reminding me that the obstacles in our path are sometimes worthy of the space they take up in our lives – we can simply walk around them, gazing in awe at the sight, rather than raze them to the ground.

Mountain mantras

I tackled a mountain horseshoe hike this week on my own and I’m so proud of myself. I hike solo a lot but there’s a big difference between the South Downs or a coastal path and the big Lakeland fells. There are steep drops, which I’m really afraid of, and some scrambling (meaning you have to use your hands). Scrambling at the top of a fell with a steep drop to one side had me chanting mantras and practicing my yoga breathing.

The thing is, you’re never alone up there. I met and chatted to lots of people and there is an exchange of information that really helps you make the right decisions for your walk. It’s all too easy to find yourself in difficulty on the side of a fell if you pick the wrong path.

I completely forgot about everything that’s been plaguing me recently – I focused on my map and how to place my feet on the rocks and I feel like my brain has been replaced with a new one.

I use an app to navigate – Outdoor Adventure – and today I had a paper map as back up, which I had to use. But it was the human input that really helped me that day – people here really know these fells and they’re keen to help other people enjoy them too.

I met two Yorkshire women who were doing the same route and we compared maps to check we were on the right path. I met them at the end in a sunny pub garden for a pot of tea and they gave me a lift back to my B&B.

Yesterday I had pain in my knee going downhill – after the strenuous horseshoe hike – and was really struggling to get down a fairly easy descent. Two men who were putting out flags for a fell race immediately said, “IT band. Get a roller on it when you can.”

I’ve had this issue before – when the side of your thigh tightens up and pulls on your hip and knee and knew exactly what I needed to do. It used to happen when I ran a lot and pushed myself too hard.

“Extend your poles going downhill – it’ll give you more to lean into.”

Instant relief.

“We can give you a lift back into Keswick if we see you at the bottom,” they said. But I declined – there was a tearoom waiting for me and a regular bus schedule.

Think you can’t hike on your own? Wondering what the point is? I’ll say this – you’ll talk to more people when you’re on your own than you would with a sidekick.

Because you can.