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.

A Quick Sitrep

In which The Author does some calculations

At long last we've sorted out the money from the sponsored walk in aid of Anthony Nolan, which five of us did at the end of September.

You won't be surprised to learn that there was a slight miscalculation. What will surprise you is that we actually miscounted the number of people who took part. (I'm not counting Betty Boop, the mini whippet, who very sensibly baled out before the assault on Cefnpennar Road.)

How can that have happened? I hear you ask. After all, I've got the photographic evidence. There were definitely five of us at the start of the walk (Penderyn, at just after 9.00), at roughly the halfway point (the Ynyscynon Inn, Cwmbach, just after midday), and at the end (the Navigation Hotel, Abercynon, just after 5.00 p.m.). In case you missed them the first time, here they are again:

At the starting point: me, Rhian, Paul, Liam, Kate and the mini whippet

Lunchtime at the Ynyscynon Inn

At the finish line

The miscalculation only came to light about six weeks ago, when Kate realised that she'd fallen pregnant just before the walk took place. Technically speaking, there were six of us (plus a mini whippet) on the day. Naturally she and Gavin are over the moon, but it means Kate's unlikely to be taking part in next year's event. If you'd like to take her place, we'd be glad to have you on board.

Anyway, nearly all the money is in, so I thought I'd give you a quick update. The total we raised the old-school way, using pen and paper, came to an impressive £433. The total via our Just Giving page was £229.61. The odd figures are down to the exchange rate between sterling and the Canadian dollar, which came from an 'anonymous' donor. (But I know who he is.) That makes our grand total £662.61. Not bad going, is it?

That was the most exhausting part of over four years of fundraising for Anthony Nolan.

The most stressful part, undoubtedly, was organising the gig in Jacs. I was starting to tear my hair out when Cripplecreek announced that half the band were double-booked with outside projects. I need to thank my good friend Mitch for saving the day. He was able to call in some favours from his wide network of musical contacts to make the line-up varied and interesting. Meanwhile, I was able to call in a favour from a couple of well-known authors I virtually while I was working on their manuscript this time last year. Rob Grant and Andrew Marshall very generously donated a signed copy of their crazy SF romp The Quanderhorn Xperimentations as a raffle prize. The total we raised from the raffle and donations on the night came to £142. Mitch and I are going to sit down in January and start putting a line-up together for the 2019 gig. Will my nerves hold up? Watch this space …

That leaves the collection boxes, which are ticking over nicely for the most part. I had to retrieve the one from the Brunel Arms in Pontyclun a few weeks ago. The new landlady has decided she'd rather concentrate on a local charity, so she isn't doing bar collections any more. Still, in the time it's been there it's managed to reap an impressive £210.35. Paul and Gavin kindly let me relocate it to the function room in Jacs, which is increasingly busy with private parties. There's a rave party there on New Year's Day, so that might give it a boost as well. The rest are doing nicely, but the runaway leader is still in the Glosters. In fairness, it's been in place longer than any of the others, but even so it seems to be much more productive than the others. (It's also responsible for a fair number of the foreign coins in my collection.) I paid it in last Friday, as it probably wouldn't have lasted through the Xmas and New Year shutdown without filling to bursting point. After finally getting rid of the odd pennies on the spreadsheet (and the certificate) which had been annoying me for months, I can announce that the regular customers and casual drinkers have raised a fantastic £565 for the charity.

I've just been updating my spreadsheet to take account of these three separate strands of fundraising activity. I've checked the totals twice, and I need to share the grand total with you.

£2,056.56.

I can't quite believe it myself. It means that the good people of South Wales (and a few from further afield) who've got behind our efforts have raised enough money to put a further fifty-one people on the UK Tissue Register. That's fifty-one potential lifesavers.

I know I tend to be on a bit of a downward trajectory at this time of year, but that's really boosted my mood today. So huge thanks to everyone who's chucked some odd change into a collection box, or bought a ticket for the raffle, or came to our gig, or sponsored our mini-marathon in September. I wish I could give you a hug and say thanks in person. I guess this will have to do as an alternative.

Seventeen Miles Later ...

In which The Author and his friends go up a hill and come down a mountain

Saturday morning dawned cold and misty, and for a few moments I wondered whether I'd be taking part in the sponsored walk after all.

The night before I'd slipped at home and stubbed my right big toe hard. Very hard. In fact, it was so painful that I feared I might have broken it. Then I remembered a pub chat with Martyn E. last week. He's currently nursing a broken toe and a cracked rib – the second is the direct result of the first, which he managed to incur in work. The doctor who treated him had told him that if it had been his big toe, he wouldn't have been able to walk as his balance would have been affected. Well, I was able to walk (after a fashion), so that was a decent start.

I made my way (on foot) to Aberdare and bumped into Liam as he was coming out of the newsagent's. We made our way to the cafe near the bus station to wait for the others and had a good chat until Rhian arrived. Kate was next on the scene, with her miniature whippet Betty Boop in tow. Paul rolled up a few minutes later, and the team was complete.

Originally a few more people had expressed an interest in joining us. But Liam's parents had been doubtful from the start, as Jude injured her Achilles tendon a while ago and is recovering slowly. As they had prior commitments on Saturday, they were out anyway. Similarly, Eggy and Geraint were booked (separately) at Cwmfest, a music festival a couple of miles away in Phonicsland Cwmaman. Jason W. has had to spend the last few weekends shopping around for a new car. Alexis had something on which meant that she couldn't make it either. Anne-Marie had apparently twisted James's arm to spend the weekend in Tenby, which seemed a good call given the glorious weather. But five (plus a dog) is a nice manageable number for a first attempt like this. We were the ones who'd started Just Giving pages and collecting sponsors, after all. We boarded the 8.30 bus to Penderyn and the game was afoot.

When we arrived at the Lamb Hotel, the road was full of farm vehicles. I knew there were occasional livestock sales in the village, but I've never been to one. I must find out when the next one is happening and check it out for myself. We waited until the bus had turned around and jumped off on the return leg. It's a short walk from there to the world-renowned Penderyn Distillery, and the start of the Cynon Trail proper. I took the photos with my phone and a miniature tripod, so they aren't great, but they'll give you an idea of the sort of day we had.

Me, Rhian, Paul, Liam, Kate, Betty Boop (being carried)

The path was, until relatively recently, a freight line from the quarry opposite the Lamb to the old Hirwaun Station, and thence to the national rail network. Now it's been converted into a well-made off-road path, popular with dog walkers and horse riders as well as walkers and cyclists. It runs more or less parallel to the road, but it's far enough away that you forget about the village and just lose yourself in your surroundings. My original plan had been to lay a breadcrumb trail with Anthony Nolan stickers every so often. We had hoped for a larger number of people, of course, and I anticipated us breaking up into smaller groups as time wore on. In the event we didn't really need to place the stickers, but each one has the website address and the Walking Together logo. They might encourage casual walkers and cyclists to check out the link for themselves.

About twenty minutes into the walk, Paul commented – not for the first time – that you don't notice the distance when there aren't any landmarks. If we'd on the main road we'd have been constantly saying 'We're only as far as so-and-so', and that can get a bit disheartening.

This part of the Cynon Trail is right on the fault line between the countryside and the industrial landscape. If you look to the right as you approach Hirwaun, you can see the large opencast workings just north of the village centre. Between you and the workings there's farmland. It's an odd juxtaposition, really.

At Hirwaun we took a small detour along Elm Grove and into Station Road. Paul wanted to see the site of the old Hirwaun Football Club and the Bodwigiad Inn, which features in A Pub Crawl to Die For (Part 1). Neither of these watering holes are open for business. We followed Station Road into the centre of the village, and then our cunning plan came unstuck. We had pencilled in breakfast in the cafe, but of course Betty Boop wasn't allowed on the premises. Paul compromised by buying us all bacon rolls, which we ate on the way to the next stage of the off-road walk.

Tramway in Hirwaun is aptly named. The village plan reflects the early development of the rail network which linked the industrial centres of the Cynon Valley. There's a great old photograph showing the tramlines running along what is now a minor road through the village. When we reached the southern end of Tramway, we were off the road network again and on the route of another former tramway. This one runs behind the housing estate at Trenant, skirts the school at Rhydywaun, runs behind the huge Penywaun estate, and emerges in Trecynon. It passes some industrial archaeological sites, including the stone supports of the former Gamlyn Viaduct, the stone tramroad bridge near Gelli Isaf, and the quaint cottages at Arthurs Place. It follows the river Cynon pretty closely, and it's a beautiful sheltered stretch of the Cynon Trail. This photo in particular makes it look like an illustration from a Tolkien novel.

We hit our first problem in Penywaun. A very handsome Staffordshire bull terrier had obviously sniffed out Betty Boop's presence, as he made a beeline for her and wouldn't be dissuaded. The girls were quite shocked when I – an animal lover – suggested kicking him in the bollocks to dampen his ardour. Rhian was even more amused when I clouted him on the nose with a stick. He sprinted off in the direction he'd come from, only to catch us up a few minutes later. Kate was carrying her dog by now, but the little fellow was quite determined to follow his instincts. Eventually Paul managed to send him packing, but we kept our eyes open in case he popped up again.

We arrived at Gelli Isaf, a quaint row of cottages perched on the river's edge, and from there it's a short walk to Trecynon itself. We crossed the road and picked up the tramroad again, stopping for another photo at the historic Iron Bridge.

We continued as far as Tesco, where we took turns to look after Betty Boop while visiting the toilets. Then we were back on track, crossing the railway line into Robertstown, then crossing the Cynon near the Gadlys Arms and picking up the trail on the north side of the river. This is another well-made stretch of off-road path, emerging near the new Aberdare College building. We decided to cut out the stretch through the Ynys, and made our way past Plasdraw to the start of the Aberdare Canal nature reserve.

This isn't as grand as the name suggests, but it's a lovely stretch of the Cynon Trail, following the surviving portion of the Aberdare Canal to its end just north of Cwmbach. The flowers were still in bloom and bees and butterflies were active among the hedgerow. It was the last weekend in September, remember.

We crossed the main road and decided to wet our whistles at the Ynyscynon Inn (formerly the Golden Post). I've only been there twice in the last ten years: the first time was in December 2009, when Jenny and I went on one of our very rare dates (see A Minor Miracle); the second was with some of the Plaid Cymru Cwm Cynon gang when we leafleted the whole of Cwmbach in one day. It's not a pub that regularly features on my radar because it's on the wrong side of Aberdare. But the sun was over the yardarm and it seemed rude to just walk past without calling in.

It was obvious that our little dog was running out of steam, and Kate came up with a good idea. If we took the short cut from the new housing estate to Pant Farm, we could follow the old Vale of Neath line to Blaennantygroes, drop Betty Boop off at Kate's grandmother's house, and then drop down to the village shop. It would cut out the gradual (but very exposed) climb through Cwmbach and give us a nice shady alternative. So that was what we did.

I don't know the new part of Cwmbach very well, but Kate used to have a paper round in the village. That sort of local knowledge can't be beaten when it comes to finding short cuts and alternative routes on the fly. We slipped through a small alleyway between two houses, made our way uphill through Pant Farm, and climbed the embankment leading to the old railway line. There's a stunning old tunnel there, which I need to photograph properly when I get the chance. And then we were on the Vale of Neath path. The footpath leads to the former Merthyr Tunnel, but it also forks and drops down to the top of Blaennantygroes.

Liam was definitely setting the pace, with the girls following on and Paul and I bringing up the rear. We had a good laugh when we encountered another fallen tree, which would have probably rendered the path 'impassable' on health and safety grounds if the little dog hadn't been able to just spring over it.

We branched off into Blaennantygroes, dropped Betty Boop off, and continued downhill to the shop. It's a short walk uphill to the Royal Oak, which had crossed our minds for another stop. But I wasn't sure whether the Cefnpennar Inn would be open, so I'd persuaded the gang to push on as far as that. We made our way up the tarmac part of Cefnpennar Road, where I think Paul was starting to struggle a bit. We made it as far as the entrance to Llettyshenkin House, and then hit the most challenging part of the route so far.

I've already shown you what Cefnpennar Road is like, but here's a photo I took on Friday morning. It's a road in the very loosest sense of the word. Some of my older friends have called it 'the parish road', which suggests that it was a main thoroughfare in bygone days. It certainly isn't one now.

Paul and I made it to the top a few minutes after the others, and we all decided to have a breather in the field. The views from here made the whole ascent worthwhile, but by now my battery was running low. I took one photo of us and we continued on our way.

The descent into Cefnpennar village was fairly uneventful, with Liam continuing to set the pace. As such he reached the pub before the rest of us – and it was closed. I'd had a feeling that that would be the case, so I wasn't all that surprised. But we were a bit disappointed all the same. We continued downhill through the village, with Liam charging ahead of us. We weren't sure if he was setting the pace, or simply being carried forward by the weight of his backpack. By the time we passed the entrance to the golf course he was way in front and picking up speed on the descent into Cwmpennar.

I turned to the others and said, 'Liam's broken into a sprint. Or else he's just broken.'

When we got to Cwmpennar we found out why he'd had that burst of energy. There's a bench at the side of the road. We had a little breather there, then continued to Duffryn Woods and spent a few minutes admiring Prof. James Havard Thomas's magnificent war memorial, which stands in a little clearing surrounded by trees on all sides. You can almost picture yourself in Flanders when you see it from this angle.

We stopped at the indoor bowls centre to use the toilets, then continued past the Aberdare Hotel and Mountain Ash Town Hall to pick up the Cynon Trail beside Nazareth Baptist Church. After following the river for five minutes or so, we arrived opposite our next scheduled stop: the George.

This is a rather odd little pub in Newtown, Mountain Ash. I've been there a few times and the people at the bar have always made it perfectly clear that it's a local pub for local people. But Paul knows everyone, and one of his pals was sitting outside when we arrived. We ordered our drinks and waited while the landlord set up a table and chairs outside for us. There was a diversion in effect on that stretch of the Cynon Trail, so we knew we'd have to continue along Old Cardiff Road and past Usk Villas to pick it up further south. By now the effects of the long slog over Cefnpennar Road were taking their toll. I think a couple of us were tempted to call it a day and catch the first bus back to Aberdare. But Paul, in fairness, was committed to walking the entire distance. I was still raring to go, so we talked about it over our drinks and decided to push on.

There's a new road being built across the valley just south of Mountain Ash, which accounted for the closure of the Cynon Trail. It was one of the main reasons why I abandoned our Arthur Linton Challenge cycling project for this year. It made for an 'interesting' diversion from the route I'd originally drawn up. There's a flight of steps up to the new road from Usk Villas, and Rhian was really starting to struggle during the ascent. Liam, as usual, was powering ahead of the rest of us. Paul and Kate were going to follow the A4059 to begin with until I called them back. It could have all gone wrong at this point. Can you imagine trying to co-ordinate a large number of cyclists around this section? I certainly can't. With any luck it'll be finished by next summer and I can have a second attempt at making the project come to fruition.

There isn't a great deal left of the industrial sites south of Mountain Ash. The pits were pulled down once they closed, and the railway sidings have vanished as well. The Cynon Trail winds along parallel to the river, sheltered by trees for most of its length, and without any real landmarks to tell you how far you've walked. I've walked this part at least four times in the last year while drawing up the Arthur Linton Challenge so I knew where we were, but it didn't really matter. Once we reached the Pontcynon Industrial Estate, my plans to lay a breadcrumb trail fell apart.

Rhian was lagging behind us. Kate was charging ahead to use the toilet at Abercynon Sports Centre. Paul, Liam and I got as far the sports centre, sat down to wait for Kate, and then waited ages for Rhian to come into view. It did cross our minds that she might have stopped at Abercynon Rugby Club, just off the Quarter Mile Bridge. I rang her, only to find that she'd crossed the bridge and was walking along the Old Road. In fact, she'd overtaken us and was passing Abercynon Library at the time. We grabbed our gear and set off along the final section of the route. We came out into River Row, crossed the Cynon and followed the road towards the fire station.

There's a signpost at the end of Greenfield Terrace advising you that it's 14.5 miles to Cardiff.

I pointed at it and said, 'Who's up for pushing on to Pontypridd?'

(That's the furthest point at which our Day Rider tickets would still have been valid.)

Liam gave me a murderous look, so I scrapped that idea and we headed for the Navigation Hotel, our original finishing point. Rhian was emerging with a pint when we arrived, so we grabbed a table outside and settled down to wait for the bus home. The whole adventure had taken us just over eight hours, and by that time we were all ready for a sit down and a nice cold drink.

Kate's expression might be the laughter of hysterical madness. Liam is definitely not amused. The rest of are putting on brave faces.

We caught a bus back to Aberdare at just before 6.00. Paul jumped off at Asda, from where he could cross into Aberaman near his house. Liam crawled off to get a taxi home, which is almost unheard of. Kate had to run home to change for her evening shift in Jacs. Rhian hobbled as far as the Lucky Star with me, and then hobbled up the hill to Jacs with me. For some bizarre reason I was still feeling fine. Maybe it's because I'd walked about half of the route in the previous week, scoping out the extent of the storm damage. Maybe I'm fitter than I thought. Kate seemed to have got her second wind, but I decided to bale out on the 10.30 bus. The walk up to Trecynon could have been the last straw for me.

In spite of the aches, pains, diversions, horny dogs, cock-ups, and assorted niggles en route, we all had a brilliant time. We couldn't have had a better day weather-wise, and of course it's a fantastic way to raise money for Anthony Nolan. We've all decided that Walking Together from Jacs should definitely become an annual event. Every year it'll be a different route, always ending at a convivial pub for a bite to eat. We'll know the potential pitfalls next time, and can plan around them.

For my part, I've hit my £250 fundraising target. Some very generous online donations took my Just Giving total over the halfway point on Thursday. I've got to catch up with a few people who sponsored me the old-fashioned way, but I'm well pleased with the result. I don't how the others have done, as they were mostly collecting sponsors on paper as well. I'll let you the full amount when it's all paid in. In the meantime we're going to leave the Just Giving page open for a couple of weeks, in case anyone wants to chip in retrospectively. All in all it was a great way to round off a summer of friendship and fun in Jacs, and the perfect taster session for the regular event starting next year. Why not join us next time?

You Don't Need a Weatherman ...

In which The Author and his friends are redrawing their plans

I told you a few weeks ago that a gang of us from Jacs were planning a sponsored walk in aid of the excellent Anthony Nolan charity. Well, believe it or not, we still are planning it.

By now, if everything had gone in our favour, we'd be on the way to Penderyn by bus. From there, we were going to strike out on the Cynon Trail to Hirwaun, down the Old Mineral Line. From Hirwaun to Trecynon we were going to follow the tramroad, behind Penywaun and past Gelli Isaf. Passing the Iron Bridge en route, we'd go along the Feeder (an old canal path, hence the name), cross the railway into Robertstown, and arrive at the Gadlys Arms in time for a livener. The Cynon Trail continues across the river, follows the east bank into Aberdare, and emerges just behind the college. We were going to cross the road and head through the Ynys, past the new school and the playing fields, to emerge near the head of the Aberdare Canal. The canal path would take us to the top end of Cwmbach, where we were going to leave the Cynon Trail and walk to the high point of the village. From there, we'd take the 'parish road' over the top into Cefnpennar, drop down through the village into Mountain Ash, and pick up the Cynon Trail near the indoor bowls centre. From there, it's an easy stroll down the Cynon Trail to the Pontcynon Industrial Estate, passing below Penrhiwceiber and Ynysboeth on the way. A slight wiggle takes us to Abercynon Sports Centre, where it's a straight walk through to River Row. From there, it's only a short distance to the Navigation pub. It's about 200 m short of 25 km, and shouldn't present any great challenges (apart from the climb to Cefnpennar, which isn't for the faint-hearted).

Well, that was the plan.

Needless to say, the Goddess of Chaos had her own opinion on matters.

On Thursday the heavens opened as the tail end of the Atlantic weather system battered the western part of the British Isles. Which is where we are, needless to say. I spent Thursday evening in the Cross Inn, drawing up an alternative route to take account of the downpour. The canal path will probably be underwater until at least Easter, so I ruled that out straight away. Meanwhile, Cefnpennar Road (someone in the past generously described it as 'a road' and the name stuck) would be little more than a sloping riverbed. I ruled those out immediately, and sketched a new itinerary taking us down the B4275 ('the old road') from Aberdare to Mountain Ash, passing through Aberaman and Abercwmboi. I also trimmed off the part between Penderyn and Hirwaun. I was reluctant to do that, because it's a beautiful walk through woodland and with farm fields dotted throughout. Unfortunately, there's one part that never seems to dry out properly, no matter how much or how little rain we've had. After Thursday night we'd have been calf-deep in heavy mud, so it was a non-starter. That took us down to 20 km, which is still a fair walk.

I was able to do this without much effort, because in the last decade or so I've walked pretty much every highway, byway, backstreet, country lane, dedicated footpath and blind alley in the Cynon Valley. Initially my explorations gave rise to the first batch of the Vanishing Valleys photographic archive. More recently I was scoping out possible routes for the Arthur Linton commemorative cycling event. I think I've found parts of the valley some people don't even know exist. So my alternative route was easy to sketch out on paper, and then flesh out with Mapometer on Friday.

My boots had left it until then to start shipping water, which is why you'd have found me in Lidl at 10.00, sifting through their walking boots until I found a pair in my size. (They were a real bargain at £16.99, and well worth the money.) Yesterday we had blue sky all day, which gave me an excuse to try out my new boots on part of the Cynon Trail. Eggy had messaged me to say that the Cynon Trail was 'impassable' because a tree had fallen across the path at Penywaun. I decided to investigate it for myself.

The river was still running fast, but it wasn't as high as I'd expected. Even so, you can get an idea of how fierce it had been on Thursday when you see the flattened vegetation in this photo.

A couple of cyclists passed me, heading the other way, so the path obviously wasn't 'impassable' to bicycles. I kept walking, stopping every so often to check out the river some distance below me. The road isn't a through road, but you can drive as far as Riverside, a large detached house which used to be a boarding kennels. It's well made and drains efficiently, so I didn't encounter any large puddles on the way. I passed Gamlyn Farm, and then started walking behind the Penywaun estate. It didn't take me long to find the fallen tree Eggy had told me about.

I was able to duck under the tree quite easily. You could probably wheel your bike underneath it and get through that way. But cars were clearly not going to be able to pass it. (On the approach to Hirwaun I met a middle-aged couple with a disabled young lady in a wheelchair. I asked them how far they were planning to go, as they'd have been up against a serious obstacle.)

In Hirwaun itself I made my way to the old station and walked along the Old Mineral Line as far as the swamp. There was no way anyone was going to get through it on foot. On horseback, maybe. But it seemed as though trimming that part off the walk was a sensible idea.

I returned to Aberdare (by bus) and went to Jacs to report my findings. Paul had seen the weather forecast in the meantime. In brief, we could look forward to a repeat of Thursday, starting earlier in the day. Consider that we'd had blue sky all day yesterday, and you'll see why planning any outdoor activity in Wales is such a fucking gamble. I'm in Aberdare Library at the moment, listening to the rain bouncing off the roof, and reflecting that we did the sensible thing.

Which leaves us with next weekend. Eggy can't make it because he'll be at a wedding. Jude is doubtful because she's injured at the moment. Liam should be up for it whatever happens. It's Rhian's weekend off, so she should be in as well. The rest of the Jacs gang will be available on Saturday. And that brings us to James's brilliant suggestion, which Paul relayed to me last night.

Instead of setting off at lunchtime, James asked, why don't we set off at about 8.00 a.m.? It'll give us a good start in the morning, and by the time the pubs open we'll be ready for a breather and some liquid refreshment. It also means that we'll be finished by mid-afternoon, thus freeing up the rest of the day.

I think it's a great idea.

We can get to Penderyn by 9.00, certainly, as the buses don't run up much earlier than that. Three hours into the walk, we should be well on the way to Aberaman, if not further on. It's anyone's guess whether the quagmire on the Old Mineral Line will have dried out by next weekend. I can always scope it out again on Friday if the weather has improved by then. Judith in the library says the forecast for next week isn't too bad. However, I've checked the weather forecast for our area online every day this week and it's changed pretty much every day. On Wednesday it was for 'sunny intervals and showers'. Yesterday the End of the World was nigh. Again.

The really frustrating part is that an event like this is best done on a Sunday anyway, when most people aren't working and the day is our own. But public transport around the Cynon Valley is more or less non-existent until mid-morning on a Sunday, and it nearly vanishes after about 4.00 p.m. And you can forget all about getting to Penderyn – like most of the outlying settlements, it's completely cut off in the evenings and on Sundays. Ian R., our doorman in Jacs, asked me last week why we weren't doing the route in the opposite direction, from Abercynon to Penderyn. I told him the reason: that if we weren't in Penderyn on the stroke of 6.00 p.m., we wouldn't be getting home again. It's as simple as that.

In the worst case scenario, we postpone the walk until next month. In recent years we've tended to have a decent spell of weather towards the middle of October. I know Blood Cancer Awareness Month will be over by then, but at least we'll have taken part in Walking Together and raised some valuable funding for Anthony Nolan.

Which reminds me – the delay in implementing the plans gives us another week to raise some more sponsorship. If you'd like to support us, here's the link to our Just Giving Team Page. And if you seen us on our travels, why not stop and say hi? You'll know it's us because we'll probably be heading towards the nearest pub.

Notes Towards a Venn Diagram of Music Concert Attendees

In which The Author tries a scientific exercise

I've been going to Jacs Music Venue in Aberdare for about a year now, and to gigs for a lot longer than that. I've been able to spot several types of concert goers, but there are overlaps between the different groups. The idea was to try and draw up a proper classification scheme, but it's turned into more of a Venn diagram. I'll outline the ones I've identified here, and invite you to contribute any other subspecies you might have discovered during your own research.

1. The Hardcore Fan. This doesn't really apply to Jacs, but we all know someone who is completely devoted to a band. He/she has all the LPs, all the singles, every book ever written, scrapbooks full of newspaper interviews and cuttings from the music press (remember them?), framed posters on the living room wall, ticket stubs from every concert he/she has ever attended … If he/she was challenged to karaoke, there's no doubt that the first choice would be something from their back catalogue. I didn't quite go to this extent with Pink Floyd as I never saw them live, but I suppose that's the nearest I'll ever get to hardcore fandom.
   
   
2. I Know What I Like. This is the person whose musical taste was set in stone, probably during his/her early teens, and who never explores anything outside the narrow confines of the genre. And those confines can be extremely narrow indeed.
   For instance, a good friend of mine claims to 'love' Country & Western. But her favourites are restricted to the safe, anodyne C&W records that used to feature on the Radio 2 playlist when we were growing up: Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Dr Hook, Tammy Wynette … Neil Diamond might sometimes get a mention, but that's the furthest Susanne ventures from her comfy trailer. You'll never find her listening to Jimmy Buffett, Alan Jackson, Garth Brooks, or the Country Pop artists who routinely sell out stadiums across the English-speaking world. The Country Rock bands who flourished during the hippy era are off limits as well. Her ideal home is Hicksville, Tennessee, where the local FM station plays this drivel 24/7 and nothing else gets a look in. Not even Taylor Swift. The only time you'll see her in the music room is when she's on her way to the ladies'.
   I've got another pal who loves Heavy Rock/Heavy Metal. And that's it. Dai pops into the music room every Friday, buys a beer, checks out the band, and then buggers off into town. If it's a decent rock band, he'll buy another beer and stay for a bit longer. Like using the Mohs Scale to measure the hardness of minerals, you can use the Dai Scale to measure the heaviness of the music. Three bottles of Bud means the band is pretty much to his taste. Four bottles indicates that he's well and truly impressed. The recent Young Promoters Network showcase hit an unprecedented five on the Dai Scale, which must augur well for the bands in question.
   Dai doesn't even look like a rocker, which is the oddest aspect of the whole thing. In his open-necked shirt, smart jeans, comfy shoes, and with his hair neatly trimmed in the same style for the last twenty years, he looks as though he's just wandered in for a beer and accidentally found himself at a gig. Still waters and all that.
   
3. The Nostalgia Crowd. This largely female subgroup also had their musical tastes imprinted during their schooldays or early teens. It's because of them that the likes of the Bay City Rollers and Showaddywaddy are still able to pull respectable crowds in the Coliseum and elsewhere. Of course, they didn't know during their adolescent crushes that Derek Longmuir, the Rollers' 24-year-old drummer, was pretending to be only 21. Nor were they aware that the band and their manager would later be involved in 'accusations of involvement in murders, child rapes and arson attacks, bankruptcies, corruption, prison sentences, breakdowns, pub fights, drug dealing, addiction and arrests, alcoholism, organised child abuse circles, child pornography …' (the words of music journalist Simon Spence).
   Not all the Nostalgia Crowd are my age or thereabouts, of course. There are plenty of women in their early forties who'll be wetting themselves at the thought of a Take That tour next year.
   Every so often St David's Hall in Cardiff hosts a nostalgia package, with (say) the Four Tops headlining a Motown evening. The only original member of the Four Tops is Abdul Fakir, who's been performing with the band since 1953. My mother was ten years old when they got together, in other words. I missed King Crimson at St David's Hall earlier this year, and 10cc were there last year. It would have great to see either of them, regardless of their numerous personnel changes over the decades. There are undoubtedly people who say that 'it's not the same line-up' and refuse to go on that basis. But has anyone ever turned down a season ticket for Old Trafford because they won't be seeing the original Newton Heath Y&L FC? Time moves on and so do musicians. It's hard to believe that 'Love Me Do' and 'The Long and Winding Road' were even written by the same people. Gary Barlow, of the aforementioned Take That, is one of the UK's leading songwriters on the scene today. But if Take That were still doing their teen pop songs at the age they are now, you'd be straight on the phone to social services.
   The Nostalgia Crowd is, of course, the ideal audience for the growing number of tribute acts. I think the whole industry started in the USA, with a plethora of Elvis tribute acts (or ETAs, as they're known in the business) springing up even before the King was dead. There's an apocryphal story that Mr Presley himself entered an Elvis lookalike contest and came second. They definitely have their place in the nostalgia market. I thoroughly enjoyed Think Floyd in the Coliseum some years ago. I'd have liked to have seen the Bootleg Beatles in Caerphilly, but public transport made it impossible. I'm never going to see the real things, so tribute acts like these are the next best option.
   However, there are tribute acts and tribute acts. A few months ago I went to Caerphilly with my pals the Spectrums, who were supporting an excellent Talking Heads tribute in the town's Workmen's Hall. Their singer really looked the part in his Big Suit and David Byrne haircut. Not long before that we'd had a Jam tribute band in Jacs for the second time. They took to the stage in the same jeans and T-shirts that they'd worn on the drive up from Weston-super-Mare. Hang on a minute, though – wasn't the whole Mod scene as much about the fashion as it was about the music? If Colin and the lads had worn smart blazers and button-down shirts, or even Fred Perry shirts and Staprest trousers, I'd consider them more of a tribute act and less a band that's just learned to play all the best Jam songs.
   Can you imagine an ETA taking to the stage in ordinary street clothes? Or a Bowie tribute act setting up without any thought to the costume changes. Think Floyd didn't need to look like the real Pink Floyd. After 1971 the band's photos didn't appear on their LPs, so nobody knew (or cared) what they looked like. But Inner City looked less at home in Jacs than half of the audience, who had at least dressed for the occasion.
   I admit to having mixed feelings about tribute acts. In the absence of the real thing through retirement or death, they definitely fill a gap in the market. I never saw the Sex Pistols live, so the Sex Pistols Experience were the next best thing for me.
   But when the Coliseum hosts a Little Mix tribute (as they did last year), the situation is verging on farce. Aren't Little Mix (at best) a cut-price version of the Pussycat Dolls, who themselves were America's answer to British acts like the Spice Girls and Sugababes. It's a tribute act to a tribute act. It's a throwback to the ludicrous situation when the British synthpop duo Erasure released an EP of ABBA covers, and the ABBA tribute act Björn Again retaliated with a single of Erasure covers. Pop really is starting to eat itself.
   
   
4. The Gig Whore. While I was drafting this entry I was reading Stuart Maconie's entertaining and incisive social history-cum-travelogue Hope and Glory (Ebury Press, 2011). In his chapter on Band Aid/Live Aid, he hit the nail on the head when he described the throng charging into Wembley Stadium on 13 July 1985. They were well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed teenagers and adults, piling in to see well-dressed, well-scrubbed, well-fed pop stars (drawn from a fairly shallow pool of talent). Mr Maconie rightly points out that they weren't your typical rock festival crowd.
   With the possible exception of Download (formerly the Monsters of Rock all-dayer), your typical rock festival crowd has changed beyond recognition in the past couple of decades. Back in the day, the highlight of the year was a weekend's camping in a muddy field outside Midsomer Norton, Ashby de la Zouch or Reading, watching the Groundhogs and Caravan on Saturday afternoon while stoned off your chops. Now it seems that every weekend from Easter to the end of August – and a bit further on – offers something: the (revived) Isle of Wight Festival, BoomTown, Bestival, RiZE, Beautiful Days, Green Man, Latitude, Boardmasters, Great Escape, TRNSMT, Rebellion, Wilderness, Wireless, Summer's End, Festival No. 6 … I'll freely admit that I've found most of these on a website listing the Top 20 UK Festivals for 2018. With a couple of exceptions, I'm none the wiser. There's even our very own festival in and around Cwmaman. Oddly enough, the biggest band to come out of Cwmaman have yet to grace the stage, over ten years after the inaugural Cwmfest. You could have caught them at TRNSMT, though, so all is not lost.
   Going to one of these weekends has become a rite of passage for today's teenagers. My honorary niece Emma was posting pictures of her adventures at Creamfields on Facebook on Wednesday. The funny thing is that I thought Emma was a rock chick, like her sister Rebecca. Creamfields is a dance event. I wasn't surprised to learn that my honorary nephew Dylan was going to celebrate his A level results at Reading. That's more where I'd have imagined Emma, to be honest. As I pointed out in Pick 'n' (Re)mix, you can't tell what style of music most youngsters are into these days. I don't think they themselves really know.
   I've only ever been to two festivals: Cropredy, the Fairport Convention get-together a few miles from Banbury, in 1997; and Ashton Court in Bristol, in about 1990. But I know people who seem to notch up festivals in the way that pilots recorded 'kills' on the fuselages of their Spitfires. It seems that simply being at a festival is more important than who's actually playing. They've literally been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.
   And there are some people I know who turn up regularly at the Tramshed or the Globe in Cardiff for much the same reason: they can't miss a gig, because it'll mean a gap in their collection. It's become the 21st Century equivalent of trainspotting, or going to every league match in a football season. We get a few people like that in Jacs, but when we start charging for every gig that'll sort the sheep from the goats.
   
   
5. Ffrindiau'r Band. Back in 1986 the Rex Cinema in Aberdare was the focal point of a Welsh-language comedy film called Rhosyn a Rhith (Coming Up Roses). It's a rather charming piece of nonsense set in a disused Valleys cinema, and we had the perfect location. As a matter of fact, most Valleys towns had a location that would have worked okay. However, Stephen Bayly, the director, must have decided that the Rex (complete with the poster for an Indiana Jones film) was ideal. And if you're wondering where the Rex is, well, that's easy. Stand in front of Thereisnospoon and look directly at the car park. You've got it …
   I mention this because two friends of mine featured in the film. Debbie and Mandy were the punkiest of all the punkettes in Aberdare at the time. And there's at least one scene where they are hanging around with a bad rock band. I can't remember if either of them had to deliver a line, but that's by the by. The point is that they were credited in the closing titles as Ffrindiau'r band. (I'm not going to translate that for non-Welsh speakers. It isn't too hard to work it out for yourselves, is it?)
   The friends of the band are the worst sort of punters, in my opinion. They really really love live music – but only if their mates are involved. Otherwise you won't see them. I know one person who's a perfect example of this. She thinks Jacs is the best thing that's happened to Aberdare in two decades. (So do I, as it happens.) To hear her raving about the place, you'd think she'd be there every weekend. But no – she only turns up when Skacasm are playing, because she and Gavin (the singer) are friends.
   There's nothing wrong with that, of course. Every band starts out playing to their mates. It might be in the church hall, or the scout hut, or the youth club, or in the local pub (until the regulars complain). And most bands don't progress much further than that. But relying purely on your mates for support isn't a great career path. On a typically wet and windy winter Friday night over twenty years ago, I cadged a lift to Ebbw Vale – in the back of the drummer's van, along with his kit and half a PA – to see three mates who were playing over there. If I hadn't gone, I don't think the crowd would have made it into double figures. The lads played a great set to a virtually empty pub. Not long after that they signed to Richard Branson's new record label and the rest, as they say, is history.
   Where would Stereophonics be now if they'd relied solely on their mates for support? (Answer: in the beer garden of the Globe on Bank Holiday Sunday – just like they were nearly three decades ago.) Conversely, what is my friend missing because she only comes to Jacs when Skacasm are playing? (Answer: John Otway, Space, Electric Six …)
   
   
6. The Chicken Tikka Masala Eater. A Bangladeshi Facebook friend of mine named Shah Lalon Amin is about to open a new 'Indian' restaurant in South Shields. A couple of weeks ago he posted the Delhi 6 menu. I'm not a connoisseur of South Asian food, so there are many dishes I've never heard of: Shahi Lamb Handi; Bhel Puri; Chandni Chowk; Aloo Tuk Tuk … I don't doubt that Shanara the Dippy Bint would be able to guide me through the mysteries. I'm fairly sure that we could have a good evening out if we were to find ourselves on Tyneside for some unexplained reason. Similarly, there are many restaurants in London (especially around Brick Lane) where curry addicts would find themselves more than adequately catered for.
   But I bet you I could take a decent gang of friends from Aberdare – all of whom profess to 'love' Indian food – to Delhi 6, or Preem, or Eastern Eye, or Shampan, and at least one of them would order chicken tikka masala. Even if I told them that I'd pay for anything they fancied off the menu, and that they were missing out on some fantastic taste experiences, they'd choose to play it safe.
   I knew a bloke named Paul, a couple of years older than me, who used to call into the Glosters every Sunday lunchtime, to have a pint and put money in the jukebox. And this is where the story gets weird. He'd put a quid in the slot, select the same two songs every time, and leave the remaining credit(s) for someone who knew music (usually me or Rebecca).
   It's not as though the Glosters' jukebox is the old unpredictable singles-only machine that we used to play fuck with when we started drinking there thirty-odd years ago. It's a digital job, with a couple of hundred thousand songs available on request. I don't know if it's connected to the internet, like the ones in the Cambrian and the Prince of Wales. If it is, then we can increase the menu by an order of magnitude. If you gave me £50 in readies this afternoon, I could go to Jacs and spend the lot in their jukebox without duplicating anything. And still Paul would only know two songs.
   But if you asked him, he'd tell you that he really loves music.
   The aforementioned female friend arguably fits into this category as well. I've lost count of the times I've seen her stand at a jukebox with (apparently) two million songs available, and play the same pound's worth of music every time. Some jukeboxes offer five songs for a pound, others four, and some a measly three, but as long as my friend gets her quid's worth she's happy: 'The Sound of the Suburbs' by the Members; 'My Way' by Sid Vicious; 'Pretty Vacant' and/or 'God Save the Queen' by You Know Who. So, I hear you say, surely she loved the Sex Pistols Experience when they played in Jacs. Yeah, she almost certainly would have. If only Gavin from Skacasm had been their lead singer, eh?
   
   
7. The Casual Observer. This is an odd sort of gig goer, because (like Dai) he/she gives the impression of just having wandered in off the street. There's no discernible subculture, so you can't tell whether you're dealing with an ageing rocker, an ex-punk, a superannuated Mod revivalist (or a retired first-time Mod), a dance kid, or someone who just sticks Heart FM from habit and happily drifts through their limited playlist all day. There'll be little or no interaction with the band, the other punters, or the bar staff. He/she might stick around for the whole gig, or wander off halfway through. In fact, if music venues had Mystery Customers, this sort of person would be the perfect candidate.
    
8. The Show Lover. This is the worst sort of person to have in a music venue. They don't really care about music at all, in fact. The fact that there's a band on is simply an excuse for them to get pissed. They don't even know the correct terminology. It isn't a gig – it's a show. That gives the game away. They'd be equally happy with an Elvis tribute act or a Vic Damone impersonator at the end of the 'function room' in the local workmen's institute, with a game of bingo during the interval.
   And this, of course, is the ideal audience for the host of cover bands who churn endlessly around the pubs and clubs of South Wales, working their way slavishly through the current edition of The Great Valleys Songbook. One such band messaged Jacs last week, asking if we had any dates available. Then they added their set list. Here it is, in all its manifold versatility:
   
   'Brown Sugar' by the Rolling Stones; 'Superstition' by Stevie Wonder; 'Livin' on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi; 'Town Called Malice' by the Jam; 'Free Falling' by Tom Petty; 'She Sells Sanctuary' by the Cult; 'Plug in Baby' by Muse; 'Come Up And See Me' by Steve Harley; 'Have a Nice Day' by Stereophonics; 'Don't You Forget About Me' by Simple Minds; 'Sex On Fire' by Kings Of Leon; 'Shake Your Tailfeather' by Blues Bros [sic]; 'Hard to Handle' by Black Crowes [sic]; 'With or Without You' by U2; 'Stir it up' by Bob Marley; 'Crossroads' by Cream; 'Rock and Roll' by Led Zeppelin; 'Wishing Well' by Free; 'Summer of 69' by Bryan Adams; 'Dakota' by Stereophonics; 'Mr Brightside' by the Killers; 'Too Much, Too Young' by the Specials; 'Mustang Sally' by Wilson Pickett; 'You're All I Have' by Snow Patrol; 'Creep' by Radiohead; 'Rebel Rebel' by David Bowie; 'Sweet Home Alabama' by Lynyrd Skynyrd; 'Gangsters' by the Specials; 'Valerie' by the Zutons; 'Delilah' by Tom Jones; 'Further on up the Road' by Gary Moore; 'Heroes' by David Bowie; 'Feels Like Heaven' by Fiction Factory; 'Roadhouse Blues' by the Doors; 'Moondance' by Van Morrison; 'Tush' by ZZ Top; 'Johnny B Goode' by Chuck Berry; 'I Saw Her Standing There' by the Beatles; 'Brown Eyed Girl' by Van Morrison; 'I'm A Believer' by the Monkees; 'Gimme Some Lovin'' by the Spencer Davis Group'; 'Rockin' in the Free World' by Neil Young; 'Hollywood Nights' by Bob Seger; 'Get Ready' by Slade; 'Stuck in the Middle' by Stealers Wheel; 'Can't Get Enough' by Bad Company; '20th Century Boy' by T Rex; 'River Deep' by Ike & Tina Turner.
   
   So, in short, with the exception of a couple of wildcards (Fiction Factory, ZZ Top), they're not playing anything that we wouldn't have heard on a Sunday afternoon in the White Lion about ten years ago. To adapt a great line from The Prestige: they're complacent, they're predictable, they're boring!
   Which is fine, because the sort of people who go to see bands in the White Lion don't really give a fuck about who's playing, or what they're playing. What they're getting is simply background noise to their conversations. If we were to borrow some mannequins from Burton, dress them in scruffy jeans and band logo T-shirts, sling toy guitars around their necks, and stand them on the stage while we played the above songs on the jukebox, nobody would notice the difference. Let me explain:
   A few weeks ago Dave Riley and Route 66 played a storming set of old-school rock'n'roll on a Sunday afternoon. There were about a dozen people in the music room. I posted a live video on Facebook, concentrating entirely on Darren's incredible guitar playing during one song. A dozen or so people watched my feed, including three whom I know for a fact would have been in the White Lion at the time. I was expecting the whole gang to up sticks and charge down to town to catch the rest of the set. No such luck.
   On the bus home from town, I saw one of the gang. The ensuing conversation went like this:
   'All right, Steve? Where've you been?'
   'In Jacs – you missed a great band this evening.'
   'I was in the White, mun.'
   'Oh, right. Who was up there then?'
   'No one.'
   * faceplant *
   I'm not making this up! Even when there's nothing happening in the other pub, making their way to town to see real musicians doing their stuff is too much effort. Maybe if Dave and the lads had stopped for bingo halfway through the gig they'd have been on a winner.

I think that's a fairly comprehensive list, but you might know some other types I've forgotten. Please feel free to add them.

Get on Your Boots

In which The Author is planning a sponsored walk

I can't believe it's been nearly four months since I last posted anything. There are a couple of reasons for that, and neither of them are any cause for concern.

Primarily, I've been copy-editing and/or proofreading pretty much non-stop since the middle of November. The first half of the year saw me go from book to book with hardly a break, and things only slowed down because it was the start of everyone's holidays. They're obviously over, because in the past month I've proofread two historical novels, copy-edited a novella by Ben Aaronovitch, and I've just sent Peter Higgins' new fantasy novel back to Gollancz.

The other reason is that I've become more involved with Jacs Music Venue here in Aberdare. Between helping with the publicity side of things, writing content for their new website, and researching the history of Bryngolwg House in my rare periods of down time, it's become my second home at weekends.

The Blowout boys (Mitch and Connor) have done us proud in the last few months, bringing the lunacy of John Otway and the brilliance of Space to our little town. We've got Electric Six – an actual American touring band – headlining next Friday night. (Don't bother looking for the ticket link; it sold out within a couple of days.) In October, the wonderful Neil Innes is paying us a visit. I'm selling tickets for that one, if anyone is interested.

As well as the Blowout gigs, we're going from strength to strength in our own right. Despite my best efforts I wasn't able to persuade Caravan to take a punt on a Welsh gig, unfortunately. On the other hand, Fairport Convention are definitely interested. So is Mike Peters, the driving force behind the Welsh post-punk legends the Alarm. And the blue-eyed boys of Scottish soul, Hue and Cry, are visiting us in February. (That isn't one of mine, but I'll plug it anyway.)

My own Anthony Nolan fundraising gig at Jacs fell foul of double-bookings, festivals, and – the bane of every rock promoter – general Aberdare apathy. However, the comedy writers Rob Grant and Andrew Marshall very generously signed a brand new copy of their novel The Quanderhorn Xperimentations, which we raffled during the gig. That, along with donations on the night and in the ensuing couple of days, took our total to £142. Many thanks to Lazarus Moon, Windshake, Adelade, Black Aurora and Chris Noir for coming along and showcasing their fine music – even if it was pretty much to each other. We'll be doing another next year, and this time it'll all go according to plan.

We had a very successful gig last Saturday, when Steve Ignorant's Slice of Life headlined an evening of post-punk political music. Steve's previous visit to Aberdare (11 July 1984) was the last time the full Crass line-up shared a stage, at a miners' benefit gig in the Coliseum. He'd gone on record a while back saying that he'd love to return to the town where Crass ended their days as a performing outfit. A few of us cast the bait in his direction, and after a flurry of emails, he and I we able to sort out a date.

It was a pretty emotional evening for us all, but nobody more so than the man himself. We had a chat over a pint before the rest of the band arrived, and he was really thrilled to be playing here after all that time. In fact, he's asked if he can come back next year. Well, we're hardly likely to say no, are we?

I also managed to cast the bait out to Doctor and the Medics a couple of months ago, when I messaged the Doctor himself on Twitter. They're coming here in October, as part of our pre-Halloween fancy dress extravaganza. I've got a couple more irons in the fire as well, but more on that story later.

The sad news is that the Arthur Linton Challenge isn't going ahead this year, in spite of all my planning. The construction of the new road in Mountain Ash is causing so much disruption that it seems hardly worth trying to pin down a route. But in the absence of a cycling marathon (a velothon, in fact) some of us are planning a rather more sedate way to explore the valley.

September is Walking Together month for Anthony Nolan. As a result of exploring pretty much every footpath in the Cynon Valley while drawing up the Arthur Linton Challenge, I've been able to come up with the perfect way to get from Penderyn to Abercynon and fall a whisker short of 25 km. For the most part we're going to utilise the Cynon Trail, route 478 of the National Cycle Network. Because it's largely made up of disused railway lines and dedicated traffic-free rights of way, we'll be on the level for most of the distance. It'll cost each of us £5.20 for a Day Rider ticket on Stagecoach, which will get us to Penderyn for the start, and back from Abercynon at the end. If anyone feels that they can't manage the whole distance, the same ticket will get them safely home again. It sounds like a decent plan, doesn't it?

Starting from the Lamb Hotel at the southern edge of the Brecon Beacons, we'll take the old Mineral Line (a disused freight railway) into Hirwaun. From there we'll pick up the old tramway, which runs more or less alongside the river Cynon. After passing the historic iron bridge in Trecynon, we'll cross into Robertstown. I think there might be a refreshment stop at the Gadlys Arms, but that'll depend on how everyone's feeling.

We'll pick up the Cynon Trail on the other side of the river, and continue along the river to the new college. From there we'll cut across into the Ynys, and walk around the playing fields before arriving at the remaining stretch of the Aberdare Canal. This takes us to the A4059 at Cwmbach, where we'll leave the Cynon Trail for a little while.

The Cynon Trail proper follows the A4059 past Ysbyty Cwm Cynon, Mountain Ash School and the indoor bowls centre before reaching Mountain Ash itself. It's a horrible stretch of fast road, with heavy traffic, nothing exciting to see, and at best it's a necessary evil on a bike. We'll be on foot. It's no fun at all on foot.

While I was scoping out alternatives to this section for the Arthur Linton Challenge, I came up with a cunning plan. And that, slightly altered and reversed, is where we are going to go next.

From the Ynyscynon Inn (another possible refreshment stop) we'll head into the village of Cwmbach. It's a steady gentle ascent to the post office, where we'll veer off into Cefnpennar Road. Then the fun really starts.

I wasn't sure if the eastern section of Cefnpennar Road even was a right of way until I consulted some old friends. Geoff told me that he used to walk that footpath regularly when he was younger, but he hadn't been there for a long time. Luckily Mark W. lives in Cwmbach and spends a lot of time walking the hillsides around the village. He told me that it was possible to go over the top into Cefnpennar, but it wasn't a journey for the faint-hearted. On 1 September last year I caught a bus to Cwmbach, jumped off by the post office, and went on what councillors call a 'site visit'.

Have a look and tell me what you think of this right of way.

Intriguing, isn't it?

Anyway, that's the start of the ascent from Cwmbach to Cefnpennar. It's what you'll find if you continue past the Cottage Homes and the pedestrian lane into Bryn Hir. It's actually got a name (Cefnpennar Road), and it's marked on the Ordnance Survey maps and the Philip's Street Atlas as a right of way. As you can see from the sign, it isn't open to traffic. It's probably a good thing.

Who on earth would want to drive along here?

I came to this point and wondered if Mark had been pulling my leg. There was no sign of life, no 'right of way' markers, and the upward path seemed fairly rudimentary. But I started walking, wondering if anyone would be crazy enough to risk cycling this way. At least they'd be going downhill, if my plan went ahead. But would you want to cycle on terrain like this?

That's about as good as it gets, in fact. Further up it was like a river bed on an incline, with quite a bit of water running downhill. I'd been wondering if I really was going the right way when I saw a lady with two dogs coming towards me. She told me that the path levels out a little further on, and then cuts across a field to emerge at the top of Cefnpennar. I carried on for another couple of minutes, found the gate to the field, and then knew that the whole mission had been worthwhile. Look at the view from the top.

Aberdare Community School is more or less in the centre

Looking back towards Cwmbach and Aberdare

Looking across towards Mountain Ash

It's well worth making the effort, isn't it?

My friend Lee J. lived in Bryn Hir when we were in school, and he often used to tell me how he and his pals would go exploring by 'the mast' in Cwmbach. It's clearly visible from the northern half of the valley, but I was surprised to learn that Cefnpennar Road skirts right past it.

From here, it's a fairly steady descent into Cefnpennar itself. It was surprisingly mild for the time of year, and I fancied a pint when I arrived at the centre of the village. No such luck; the pub was closed, and there was no sign of its being open during the evenings either. But it did provide me with yet another photo for my collection of the old Aberdare Local Board of Health street name plates. I'd always assumed that Cefnpennar would have been in Mountain Ash, but apparently not.

The main street itself feels as though it belongs in the Yorkshire Dales, rather than above a former mining valley in South Wales. It's a rather odd little settlement, all told.

I walked to Cwmpennar, a little further down the hill, and then a bus came along. I decided to jump on, and we went on a magical mystery tour of Caegarw and Newtown before eventually arriving in Mountain Ash itself.

We'll be on foot, of course. If the Cefnpennar Inn isn't open we can walk down into Caegarw and have a cheeky livener at the indoor bowls centre. The Cynon Trail goes off-road again opposite the centre, so it's the ideal place to rejoin the path.

It passes underneath Mountain Ash Bridge, skirts the river as far as the George Hotel (another possible refreshment stop), and then weaves its way between the A4059 and the river Cynon as far as Pontcynon Industrial Estate. We'll be back on the road briefly, as far as the Quarter Mile Bridge, then the path drops past Abercynon Sports Centre and follows the railway line south, emerging at the end of River Row. It's a short walk from there to the Navigation Inn, and the end of our journey.

I've used the plural pronoun throughout because it's called 'Walking Together' for a reason. The whole idea behind the fundraising project is to get people out in groups, so I've been putting some feelers out. So far I've managed to recruit Rhian, Geraint and Jonathan from Dapper FM, Clint and Ros (our resident gig photographers), Gavin and Kate from Jacs, and Jude, Andrew and Liam, who are all keen walkers as a family. Jason W. said he was interested, depending on the date; Rebecca and Lee might come if they haven't got a gig; Alexis and Kevin are checking their diaries as well.

The last weekend in September is Cwmfest, so that's out for starters. We've got a big charity gig in Jacs on 1 September, so we can rule that out as well. It looks as though the optimum date for everyone is 22 September. We'll be looking for sponsors in the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper, but we're also doing the high-tech alternative via JustGiving. We'll each have our own page linked to the Walking Together event. Here's mine, if you fancy chipping for a very worthwhile cause.

If you live too far afield to join us on the day, why not round up some friends and organise something similar in your own area? Go to the Anthony Nolan website and you can sign up for a fundraising pack. It's going to be a great way to get some exercise and fresh air, make new friends, and explore your community in more detail. Go on, you know you want to!