Bi Bi, Baby

In which The Author gets his fingers burned yet again

Where to even start with this one?

Let's begin at the beginning, which seems logical enough in the circumstances.

About a year ago my good friend Vickie B. got in touch with me. She was running a very pleasant cafe in Mountain Ash, a few miles away from where we live, and was brainstorming ideas to make it into a real creative space. One of her suggestions was a writing group. Knowing that I'd done a couple of creative writing modules at university, Vickie thought I might be a good person to help get it off the ground. I called down for a hot chocolate one day and things didn't really go from there.

There is a flourishing creative writing group in the Cynon Valley already, you see. They're based in Aberdare Library, where they make a hell of a lot of noise in the 'meeting room' (which nobody thought to soundproof while they were partitioning off at least ten square metres of usable shelf space). As far as I can tell from my involuntary eavesdropping before I invested in some decent cans, it's a bunch of retired people churning out tired Valleys cliches about coal mines and fucking daffodils week in and week out. Not the sort of thing any real creative writer of my acquaintance would want to be involved with. So it seemed as though Vickie might have hit on a plan.

Unfortunately, Mountain Ash isn't exactly accessible by public transport after 6.00 p.m. It's a slight improvement on the rest of the area, but only insofar as they have buses at all. The idea ran into the sand and we didn't take it any further.

But I did meet one of Vickie's friends, who was interested in the idea as well. Her name is Hannah. Or, quite possibly, depending on what mood she's in, Katie.

That's a hint, boys and girls, that what follows is going to be a tale of yet another fucked-up bint. Skip to the next chapter if you like.

Anyway, Hannah (for convenience) was short, pretty, not far off twenty years younger than me, very talkative, obviously extremely enthusiastic about books and music, and not especially my type. She was studying with the Open University while working part-time as a carer and looking after her young son around his time in school. But we got on well, and we agreed that our subversive little group would be a good excuse to meet up again. And, like most creative ideas I get involved with, it crashed and burned before take-off. It could be that South Wales isn't ready for anything truly innovative and original. Or it could be that I'm the kiss of death. You decide.

Fast forward to the first weekend of December, when Jacs hosted one of its family-friendly Sunday afternoon gigs. They were all local performers – including someone billed simply as 'Hannah' – and I didn't recognise any of them from the photos on the poster. I couldn't have recognised the one girl anyway, as she was playing guitar while wearing a hat which effectively hid her face. Anyway, I was in the lounge when a short, pretty girl wearing a hat strolled in, said hello, and asked me where Gavin was. I asked her if he was expecting her, and she said 'I'm Hannah.'

The penny dropped. Her hairstyle had changed and she was wearing a hat, but it was the same young woman I'd met in Vickie's cafe. She bought a drink and we went into the music room, where she was first on stage. Her young son was there to watch the show as well, and I got roped into the family gathering.

Hannah's appearance in Jacs was the reason Gavin and I had to drive to Leeds and back twice in a week back in February. (And that's another story entirely.) Halfway through her set, the mixing desk died. Hannah clearly has the ability to channel the Ghost of Dr David Davies, who seems determined to put the mockers on us at every opportunity. She stood awkwardly on the stage for twenty minutes or so while we took the piss out of her. Eventually we managed to rig up a replacement desk for the rest of the gig. After her set, we had a couple of drinks together and added each other on Facebook.

We messaged each other a couple of times subsequently, but she isn't a Jacs regular so I didn't see her for ages. She would 'like' things I posted, and she'd occasionally post something for me to 'like', but we certainly weren't best cyberfriends. I didn't even know if she lived in Aberdare, as she didn't come out to pubs or gigs.

Things changed abruptly on the Friday evening after my birthday.

I was in the lounge with Gavin, competing with him head-to-head on artistic inability while we put the April posters together. About five o'clock I had a message on my phone. It was Hannah, asking if I was going to be in Jacs for the gig that night. I replied that I was already in the building, and she said she fancied an early evening pint. It wasn't long before she strolled in, accidentally crashing an EGM of the Media Team. She lurked at the bar with her pint until we wound things up, and then joined me and Ros (one of our resident photographers) for a chat in the lounge.

We made our way into the music room, bought another drink and settled in to watch the gig. Soon after that Hannah's sister joined us, and we had a good chat between the bands. A large amount of beer was consumed (with Hannah matching me pint for pint), and at the end of the gig we went back into the lounge for a last one while Gavin prepared to close up for the night.

Hannah went to the toilet and Gavin and Ian (our door supervisor and resident jack-of-all-trades) immediately pointed out something which – in retrospect – I probably wouldn't have spotted anyway. She was making a play for me.

I told them that I wasn't interested. Not only was Hannah not my usual type; it had been so long since there'd been a bint in my bed I really didn't know if I'd be up to the task. But the lads said that I might not get another chance, so I played my hand when she came back into the room.

To cut a long story short, I was doing the walk of shame through Aberdare Park at 7.00 on Saturday morning. Hannah had to drive to see her first client of the day, and dropped me off at the entrance to the park.

Needless to say, it had been a slow news week in Jacs, because on Saturday and Sunday my accidental hook-up was the talk of the place. Apparently Gavin had rushed home and woken Kate up to tell her the exciting scandal. Kate, in turn, couldn't wait to tell Rhian what had happened when she called in for a pint on the Sunday evening.

Ah yes … Rhian.

This is where things started to go wrong.

After she'd nagged me for ages, I showed her Hannah's profile photos on Facebook.

'Oh, I know her,' Rhian said. 'She used to work in the Black Lion.'

An alarm bell started to ring in my mind. You see, the Black Lion was Aberdare's semi-official lesbian bar back in the day. Not only were a fair proportion of the punters of the Sapphic persuasion, but pretty much everyone behind the bar (Rhian included, of course) was as well. Hannah would have been very young, so we wouldn't have remembered each other anyway. Even so, it wasn't the sort of thing I wanted to hear.

Hannah and I met up in the week for a late afternoon pint and pizza in Thereisnospoon, and we were joined by Dylan, her son. He's six years old and on the autistic spectrum. I did my best to engage his attention, but he's understandably reticent around new people. Hannah had signed up with an agency to work as a Learning Support Assistant in schools around the area, and had done her first shift that day. I think she wanted someone to chat to as much as anything. We had a nice time, and among other things we talked about the possibility of a mini-break in London during the Whitsun half term. For the first time since the summer of 2001 it seemed as if I'd met someone who was as keen on me as I was on her. Even though she'd said initially that she wasn't looking for a proper relationship (and neither was I), it looked as though we were heading in that direction.

We messaged each other several times every day (and often into the evenings), and met up for the gig in Jacs on the Saturday night. I bought her a T-shirt during my trip to London on 1 April (booked before we got together), which I forgot to bring into town when we took Dylan into Servini's on the Wednesday afternoon. We sang some very drunk karaoke in the Bush the following night (and Hannah changed her T-shirt in full view of everyone), after which I ended up at her place again. This was turning into the wildest involvement I'd had with a woman since Gema.

It all went to shit the following week.

Hannah messaged me on the Wednesday morning to see what I was up to. She'd had to request a deferral of her OU course because she was finding it difficult to do the assignments around her work and family responsibilities. She was off work and feeling a bit down. I could relate to that after what happened to my own university career in 2011. To cheer herself up, she'd had her hair cut. She sent me a selfie, and what I saw frightened me a bit – it was short, spiky, bleached, and definitely dykey. In fact, I teased her about it when she called into the library soon afterwards. We ended up having a cheeky pint in Thereisnospoon before she picked Dylan up from school. She dropped him into her parents' house in Aberaman before making her way back to town.

As soon as she'd gone, I got the proof of the new Wilbur Smith novel out, thinking that I might as well do some work on that in the meantime. I'd picked it up from the sorting office in Aberaman as soon as it opened on Wednesday morning, because I was out when the postman tried to deliver it on Tuesday. No sooner had I spread it out on the table than Rhian texted me her familiar message: Fancy a pint?

I told her I'd literally just got one in, so she made her way to Thereisnospoon and we chatted until Hannah returned. Almost the first thing she said was 'it wasn't fair' that I was having sex and she wasn't. (This from a girl who's not long come out of a fairly unstable relationship exacerbated by her ex's delinquent son.) I laughed it off, saying I'd waited long enough. Anyway, when Hannah returned Rhian immediately told her that she remembered her from the Black Lion. My mental alarm bell started to clang more loudly when they compared notes on people they'd known, and recounted pissed adventures they'd had after closing time. I did notice that Hannah was smoking a lot more than usual, and seemed to grab every opportunity to go outside with Rhian. I'm a non-smoker, so I was left in charge of the phones and their paraphernalia while they gossiped in the beer garden. Hannah's new hairstyle really wasn't doing anything to quieten my misgivings.

On the Thursday Hannah and I met up for a quick lunchtime pint in the Conway with Rhian and her grandfather. We'd told her tales about John, the living legend, and she wanted to see if he was as eccentric as we'd painted him. Once again, Hannah and Rhian seemed to spend almost as much time outside the pub as they did inside. We had a couple of drinks there before Hannah went to pick Dylan up, then she and I met in Thereisnospoon for a bite to eat before heading to Jacs. In the meantime, Rhian stayed in the Conway and got involved in the usual Thursday Club shenanigans.

By the time we got to Jacs, we'd had a decent drink all round. It wasn't enough to make us rowdy or disruptive – in fact, it got us nicely warmed up for the inaugural comedy night. It was lovely to catch up with my old friend Lorna, who's now on the stand-up circuit and who had put the event together. Phil came down and thoroughly enjoyed himself. We had a good crowd of friends, a superb atmosphere, and everyone had a great time.

But the constant visits to the smoking area continued unabated. Caitlan told me afterwards that she'd had her suspicions about the situation as well. Gavin, Ian and Nathan had also started to smell a rat.

Anyway, we repaired to the lounge for a last drink after the show ended, and then drifted away along Wind Street towards (ironically) the shell of the Black Lion. Nathan and Caitlan were heading to the Bush for a last one, so they were a little way away from us. Rhian told us she was going for chips, so she went on ahead. When Hannah and I got to the collapsed chapel, she asked me where I was going next.

I just said, 'Home.' I showed her my bag with the half-completed Wilbur Smith proof still in it.

Hannah looked a bit crestfallen and said she'd assumed I'd be going back to her place (at the top of Monk Street, about five minutes' walk from the town centre).

I said, 'I've got an early start in the morning. Anyway, I think the person you'd really like to go home with has gone to the kebab shop.'

We argued for a couple of minutes. I told Hannah that she hadn't been able to shake my hand off fast enough during the gig. She objected, but I knew what I'd experienced. At the end of the argument, she said possibly the strangest thing she could have said in the circumstances: 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

Please note: she didn't say 'I'm not gay' or 'I'm just bi-curious' or even 'It's you I want tonight.' She just said, 'I don't know if I'm gay.'

I looked her in the eyes and said 'I do.'

Then I walked away. As I was passing Thereisnospoon I spotted my friend Adrian's taxi parked up by the library. He knows my regular routine, so he tends to wait around in case I need a lift home. That night I certainly did.

When I got home, Hannah had messaged me on Facebook – something about me 'showing my true colours'. I replied that, on the contrary, she was the one who'd revealed her true colours. A minute later she messaged me back, saying that she never wanted to have anything more to do with me.

I replied 'Deal'.

Within thirty seconds she was unfriended and blocked on all fronts. It took me the same amount of time to do the same with Rhian.

On the Friday evening I told the gang in Jacs what had happened after we left the comedy night. That was when Caitlan and the others told me they'd had their suspicions about the whole situation. I obviously wasn't making it up, then.

Naturally, nothing happened the following week. It was the build-up to the Easter weekend, and I needed to get Wilbur Smith in the post before the bank holiday shutdown. That went in the post on the Wednesday lunchtime. Some time during the morning, I missed a call from an unlisted mobile number. (I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb mode when I'm in the library in a vain attempt to set a good example to everyone else who comes in.) The caller had rung off without leaving a voicemail. It could have been anyone, so I didn't bother ringing it back. If it had been important, they would have rung again.

I relaxed for the rest of the day, as I had an early start on the Thursday. My friends Liam and Lamby were in a new play in Maesteg, and I'd promised them I'd go along and support them. I didn't get back to Aberdare until early evening, so I went to the Glosters for a few well-deserved pints with Rebecca. I told her about the events of the previous week. She told me Rhian has earned something of a reputation for getting pissed and trying to get off with other people's girlfriends (even with her own cousins, on occasions).

I told Rebecca that, if that's the way they wanted to play it, they were welcome to each other.

Liam came down for a drink once he'd dropped his stuff off, and we stayed in Thereisnospoon until closing time before walking home together. It was a good way to forget about what had happened the previous week.

On Good Friday I went for a very long walk around Waterfall Country, just to try and get the whole situation into perspective. The more I thought about what had happened, and the feedback I'd had from my friends who also thought something didn't ring true, the more convinced I was that I hadn't misread the signs.

I got drunk watching a superb Led Zeppelin tribute in the night, woke up late, and came into town in time for a couple of pints before my friends the Spectrums started setting up for the Saturday night gig.

Phil and Susan (his girlfriend) came down for the gig, so I met them in the music room and we had a chat before the support band started. I went to get another pint and when I looked along the bar, Hannah was standing at the other end. I stood in my usual spot near the glass collection point, watching the support band. Hannah didn't make any attempt to catch my eye, and I certainly wasn't going to make any moves in that direction. After all, 'never' means never – it describes an event with a probability so vanishingly small as to be virtually impossible.

I was just giving her exactly what she'd wanted after the comedy night.

When I fancied another pint, the bar was thronged with people who'd had the same idea. I decided it would be quicker to go into the lounge and catch someone's eye from that side. As it happened, Lamby and some of the lads from Showcase were having a pint in there, and they invited me to join them.

I'd only been in there for a minute or so when Hannah came in and made a beeline for me. I just glared and her and said, 'Fuck off.' And, in fairness to her, off she fucked.

I was glad of an excuse to stay in the lounge, so I chatted to the lads for a while until Gavin popped his head in and asked me if he could have a word. I was expecting him to ask me if I could go glass collecting, which I usually do on busy nights.

Instead, he said, 'Hannah really wants to talk to you.'

I replied, 'I really don't want to talk to her.'

And I went back to chat to the lads.

After the gig wound up, Phil and Susan joined me and the regulars (Nathan, Caitlan and the rest of the pool team) in the lounge. And Hannah came in as well. She did her best to infiltrate our conversation while playing pool, but we studiously ignored her. After a while she got bored and gave up trying.

Gavin told me over the weekend that she'd called in on Easter Sunday, primarily to pick up her coat, but also to find out why everyone had been so 'funny' towards her the previous night. Well, if she can't work that out for herself, maybe she isn't as intelligent as I'd thought.

And as for Rhian …

I had a text from her one evening last week – her standard Fancy a pint?. Even though her number is no longer in my phone, her style is unmistakable. As it happened, I was on my way to the Welsh Harp at that very moment. But there was no reason to tell her that, was there? I didn't reply and deleted it immediately, in case I was tempted to tell her exactly what I thought of her after a few beers.

She did the same at the weekend. Same answer.

Yesterday afternoon I was coming out of Wilko in Aberdare and Rhian was in the Conway. She must have spotted me through the window, because when I crossed the road she shouted across at me. I just said, 'All right, Rhi?' and kept walking towards the Glosters. In fact, I changed course and went to Thereisnospoon, because I had a copy-edit to finish off and I thought I might as well do it when there wasn't an afternoon gig. She texted me a few minutes later, 'Are you ok?', but I deleted it immediately.

I emailed the book back to the publishers, and called into Jacs for a pint when the professional wrestling bout upstairs (I'm not making this up) was in full swing. That was when Gavin told me about Hannah's bemusement at getting the cold shoulder. I hadn't been in there long when Rhian tried messaging me on Facebook. I'd forgotten that you have to block people on both apps. Still, that's sorted out now.

So, what have we learned from this, boys and girls?

I've learned that any young woman who gets a job in a lesbian bar probably isn't just there for the cash-in-hand pay.

I've learned that a sexually frustrated lesbian can't be trusted around other people's girlfriends – even if the other person has been one of her best friends for over twenty years.

I've learned to keep away from bi-curious bints (as most women under the age of about forty seem to be these days) because they don't care who they sleep with as long as they're sleeping with someone.

And I've learned that when that alarm bell starts ringing in my head, I shouldn't do what we do with the fire alarm in Jacs every time it goes off for no apparent reason. One day we're going to reset it, thinking it's malfunctioning as usual, and the Fire and Rescue Service will have to disinter our charred remains from the smoking ashes of Bryngolwg.

And I hope at least one young lady has learned to be careful what she wishes for. She might just get it.

All is not lost, however. This recent escapade has given me an excellent idea for a business. It's a cafe-cum-meeting space aimed at sexually confused teenagers, who can discuss their feelings in a safe, non-threatening and non-judgemental environment. It's going to be called Try Before You Bi.

I'm a Non-entity ...

In which The Author pitches another new TV show

I had another idea for a TV programme a few weeks ago, following the phenomenal success of my karaoke and shots idea in the Philippines and Vietnam. (See Calling the Shots.) I always knew it was too extreme for Western wimps, but the Asian markets would lap it up. I'm still waiting to sign the contract with NHK in Japan, and when North Korea gets wind of it … Well, you can guess the rest.

This is also a reality show adapted from a successful existing format. (As a wise man once sang: 'There's nothing new under the sun, everything you think of has been done.') It's a simple enough idea, although it would be quite expensive to implement at first. That's where the advertisers and sponsors come in, to help fund the development stages and keep the programme on the air. As always, the public get to vote via email and phone, and the direction of each series will be determined by this democratic process.

The first step is to locate the agents or management companies for every so-called 'celebrity' photographed in the current edition of Heat magazine.* Then we write to them, inviting their clients to take part in a new prime-time TV show to be syndicated to networks right across the English-speaking world. Depending on how many of these Z-listers agree to come on board, we charter a suitable aircraft and fly them to an uninhabited island in the South Pacific. We tell them that hundreds of hidden cameras will be transmitting live feeds 24/7, and that the course of the show will depend on the public reaction to these people left to fend for themselves.

And I mean literally fend for themselves. We won't be sending a ship to replenish their supplies; there'll be no airlift of essential gear; Ant and Dec won't be sitting in a comfortable studio a short walk away from the 'jungle' in which our volunteers have found themselves. This shit will get very real very quickly. The guests will be left to their own devices. After a few days it will begin to dawn on them that they have no hope of rescue. It's sink or swim.

Thus the public themselves will decide whether this latest bunch of WAGS, soap actors, pop singers, amateur cooks and professional clothes horses are worth watching or not. If the viewers vote to discontinue the experiment, we respect their wishes. We switch off the live feed and bring the series to a close. No winners: just an essential service to improve the quality of the public discourse in the UK. In a couple of years' time everyone will have forgotten about the castaways anyway. By then we'll have found a new set of participants, a new island, and a whole publicity machine will be in place to drive market share for Season 2.

On the other hand, the personality clashes and conflicts which keep mass audiences focused on low-budget televisual garbage might be worth monitoring. In that case, the cameras will keep rolling. The world can watch and salivate as the latest overpaid wastes of DNA descend into Lord of the Flies-style savagery.

I still don't have a working title, but I'm sure I can come up with something in due course. If you'd like to help crowdfund the pilot show in the meantime, drop me a line.

* Other pointless gossip-filled shite publications are available

The Seven Waterfalls Walk

In which The Author goes exploring again

It's only the first week of April, but I'm already planning this September's Walking Together event in aid of Anthony Nolan. After the success of the 2018 walk (see Seventeen Miles Later), in which the team from Jacs Music Venue (Paul, Rhian, Liam, Kate, Betty Boop the mini whippet – who sensibly baled out halfway through – and I) raised a staggering £660.61, I thought we'd try and keep the momentum going.

With this in mind I set out on the mid-morning bus to Penderyn on Wednesday. It's the furthest north you can get from Aberdare by bus, just inside the southern boundary of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The Lamb Hotel in the village was the starting point for last year's walk along the Cynon Trail. It's also a good location to set out for Waterfall Country.

I've blogged a few times about the spectacular and sometimes challenging scenery of the upper Vale of Neath, and in particular the river system that converges a little way east of Glynneath. (For instance, see Further Up the River.)

I say 'river system' because, hydrologically speaking, it's a complicated little area. The river Nedd (or 'Neath', for English speakers) rises in the foothills of the Brecon Beacons, about five kilometres north-west of Ystradfellte, and flows pretty much southwards to the pretty tourist village of Pontneddfechan. A couple of kilometres north of the village, it's augmented by the river Pyrddin, which flows in from the north-west. Meanwhile, the rivers Llia and Mellte flow more or less parallel to the Nedd before converging a short distance north of Ystradfellte. (Ignore the screaming in the background – it's just the Firefox spell checker begging for mercy.) Further east again, the river Hepste flows south-west to meet the enlarged Mellte a few kilometres south of Ystradfellte. The ever-growing Mellte hits the river Nedd at Pontneddfechan, as does the river Sychryd, which flows in from the south. From here the Nedd flows south-west towards the town of Neath (or Castell Nedd). You can trace many of these rivers on the satellite image, and it gives you an idea of the topography.

What the satellite image doesn't show you is the plethora of waterfalls in the area. Probably the most famous of these is Sgwd yr Eira, a couple of kilometres north-west of Penderyn and a fairly easy walk from the Lamb Hotel. Follow the side roads through the village, go through a metal gate and follow the gravel path around to the right until you see two wooden posts pointing you towards the waterfalls. The path leads uphill across farmland, then over open moors before dropping to the gorge of the Hepste. There's a flight of steps built into the side of the gorge, so follow them down to a rocky path just above the river.

Sgwd yr Eira is famous because the only way to get from one bank of the river to the other (unless you wade across) is to walk behind the curtain of water. I've done this numerous times, including once with a mad Labrador in tow, and I managed to kill a camera by trying to photograph the fall from within the spray. But I took a chance on Wednesday and got a couple of decent photos.

Sgwd yr Eira from the southern approach

Sgwd yr Eira

This wasn't my first visit to the waterfall this year. I was there on Saturday morning as well, along with about twenty or thirty people taking advantage of blue skies and warm weather. But on Wednesday I had the place to myself for once. I always feel as if I've joined Faramir and the Rangers of Gondor when I'm behind the waterfall, as I was on Saturday morning.

The view from behind Sgwd yr Eira

The Hepste joins the Mellte about half a kilometre west of the waterfall, but there's no riverbank or footpath to take you to the confluence. Instead, there's another flight of steps which zig-zags up the slope to more open moorland. From here, I went west on well-made paths until I reached a downhill slope to Swgd y Pannwr, on the Mellte. I missed this out on Saturday as there were simply too many people enjoying the weather and the path was very crowded. But on Wednesday I had the place more or less to myself.

Sgwd y Pannwr

From here I followed the river upstream to Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf. (Or Sgwd Isaf Clun Gwyn, depending on which source you're looking at.) It's not easy to get to, and I didn't venture right up to the fall as the rocks were quite slippery. But it's an impressive multi-layered fall, as you can see.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn Isaf

Unfortunately, there isn't a direct route uphill from here, so I had to retrace my steps and climb back to the main path. It's a fairly convoluted trek along the course of the river to the final noteworthy waterfall on the Mellte, Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

As with all the falls in this area, what you'll see will depend on how much rain there's been in the previous couple of days. It's been a fairly dry March, so on Saturday the lip of the fall wasn't as wide as I've seen it on other occasions. But there were some people on the top of the drop, so you'll get an idea of the scale of the place.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the west

If you continue along the river path for another kilometre or so, you'll arrive at the 'Blue Pool' and the celebrated cave at Porth yr Ogof. But if you cross the Mellte at the footbridge, you can follow it downstream on the other bank and arrive at the other side of Sgwd Clun Gwyn.

Sgwd Clun Gwyn from the east

The path curves to the right and climbs to a gate near a farm lane. It's a short walk from here to the road from Ystradfellte to Pontneddfechan. I've walked this stretch of road several times (most recently on Saturday), but on Wednesday I tried something new. My friend Jonathan E. spends a lot of time in this area, and the last time I blogged about it he asked me if I'd ever been to Pont Melin-fach. I'd seen it signposted from various points in the Waterfall Country, but I don't think I'd ever been there before. So on Wednesday I decided to take the road less travelled. Or hardly travelled, to be more exact.

In fact, the only vehicles I saw while walking along the narrow road from Comin y Rhos were a quad bike driven by a farmer, and a Post Office van presumably delivering to the isolated farms scattered across this part of the national park. I didn't meet any other walkers either, which was a change from Saturday's hordes of visitors. After five minutes or so I passed the entrance to a farm. A short while later the winding lane crosses the bridge which gives Pont Melin-fach its name. (Pont is 'bridge' in Welsh.)

I'd arrived at the river Nedd, from where I had a rough idea where to go next. I can't be sure, but I think Mother and I have probably walked some of this stretch before. (We've explored Pontneddfechan and its surrounding area pretty thoroughly over the years.) Even so, I couldn't remember much of what I came across as I followed the Eilidr Trail downstream.

There are numerous small waterfalls on the Nedd, but the first impressive 'named' fall you come to is Swgd Ddwli Uchaf. I wasn't able to get very close to the falls on this stretch as the ground was quite treacherous in places, so I had to make the camera do the donkey work for once.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

I continued to follow the river until I came to Sgwd Ddwli Isaf, a short distance downstream.

Sgwd Ddwli Isaf

There were a few people about by now (it was early afternoon), and the Welsh weather had lived up to the old Crowded House song: Four Seasons in One Day. You might remember that we were forced to postpone last year's sponsored walk because we'd been hit by a named storm a couple of days earlier. Well, that's par for the course in this country. When I'd set off from Penderyn it was drizzling steadily. By the time I'd reached Sgwd y Pannwr we'd had a flurry of sleet; by Swgd Clun Gwyn the sun was out; when I was on the minor road the sky had definitely looked ominous, and now it was starting to rain again.

Just an average Welsh day in April

I had no alternative but to push on to the village, but luckily it was just a heavy shower. Naturally enough, within a couple of minutes the sun was out again. I continued downstream to Sgwd y Bedol, which is in fact a rather dramatic series of waterfalls in quick succession. I'm fairly sure Mother and I had been this far, at least, as it did look very familiar.

Sgwd y Bedol

The Nedd meets the Pyrddin soon after you pass Sgwd y Bedol (or shortly before it, depending on which direction you're walking). I crossed the Pyrddin using the footbridge and turned right, heading north-west to the final waterfall of the day: Sgwd Gwladus.

I have seen the curtain of water extending almost the full width of the shelf. But it's been oddly dry for a Welsh spring, so it was a bit of an anticlimax.

Sgwd Gwladus

From here, you just follow the river downstream on well-made paths to arrive at Pontneddfechan. On most of my previous visits to the village I've had lunch in the Angel Inn, adjacent to the gate leading to the waterfalls. But on Saturday the place was packed, and I know their last orders for food are at 2.30. I had a couple of minutes to spare, and a board inside the door announced an hour and a half wait for meals. Instead I headed to the Old White Horse Inn, just across the river. I must say that it's going to be my regular port of call from now on. I found the staff friendlier and more welcoming than the other pub's, and the menu was about on a par. I had lunch there on Saturday, and again on Wednesday. If our sponsored walk does take us to Pontneddfechan, I'm going to suggest to the others that we make the Old White Horse our penultimate destination.

I say penultimate, because I still had to walk the kilometre or so to Pont Walby, at the bottom of the Glynneath Bank, to catch the bus back to Aberdare. But that's a small price to pay for a fourteen-kilometre walk through stunning scenery. If we can raise some cash for Anthony Nolan by retracing my journey in September, then it's definitely worth making the effort. It's an excellent walk through interesting, varied and challenging terrain and with photo opportunities galore. As John Major used to say, I commend it to the house!