Blood this morning – 5.2. Still felt like a terducken – or, I suppose, a ToToTo – like a Tony, stuffed inside a Tony, sewn inside a Tony, after last night’s munchathon. The folks drove us to Saundersfoot – a bunch of miles away (you’re lovin’ the scientific precision, aren’tcha?), and then they drove to see friends...annnnd then they drove home, leaving West Wales to us and our machinations.
Erm...
We’re not big on machinations. I tried giving a bit of an evil laugh, but it came out more like an “I’m on vacation” chortle. If I’d been wearing beach shorts and flip-flops, I could have been Homer Simpson.
In a fairly desperate machination-search, we went for a coffee. Pondered our lot. It’s Sunday, so the idea of having a Sunday Roast wormed its way through our brains. We popped to the new Tesco Metro store (Tesco, for the non-Brits, is like Wal-Mart, but a direct competitor. It’s slowly taking over the world), but couldn’t find a roasting joint. We picked up a moderately odd assortment of items – olive oil, sugar, and prunes – and then decided “Let’s walk back to Amroth.”
Now, normally, if we try and do something like this, we do it along the beach, because when the tide is out, it’s relatively easy – halfway to Wiseman’s Bridge for a beverage, then the other half back to Amroth. Couple of miles, max. Today though, notsomuch without getting soggy knees, as the tide was in. So we followed a cliff path to Wiseman’s Bridge through tunnels. We’d checked in advance, and the next bus wasn’t for about an hour and a half. So there was no realistic alternative but to push on.
“Scuse me,” we asked a waitress at the pub at Wiseman’s Bridge. “The coastal path to Amroth...?”
“Just up the hill till you come to Cliff Road, then follow that road,” she said.
Sounds straightforward, right?
Lying bitch.
Up the hill...sounds like a single thing. Nnnnnnnotsomuch.
There was up. Then there was more up. And then more up. And then, just when you thought there had to be some down to counteract all the up....there was more up.
“Oh look honey, Cliff Road,” I said.
“So...lucky...I can’t...breatherightnow,” panted d, “cosI’dkillya...killyastonedead...”
“I’d go back to Wiseman’s Bridge and kill that bitch,” I mused, discovering a bend in the road, and more up.
Cliff Road, as she’d described it, was the second bit of the journey, after the “up the hill” bit. Having gone up further and steeper than we’d imagined was possible without the aid of a jet plane, we were within our right to expect a certain amount of ‘down’ now...right?
Fucking WRONG.
More up, even more up...up up and more fucking up. Slathering fake smiles on our face whenever we met other damned souls on the wall of never-ending up and trying to give a cheery “Morning!”, so as not to look like wusses.
Finally, long after we’d given up hope, there was a dip. A smattering of precious down.
“Yay,” I groaned. “Down...nearly there now baby...”
D waved at me, the power of speech gone.
“Oh...holy...crap,” I said. The dip had been a bluff; it was a taste of down, luring you into a shhhhhitload more up.
A tiny whimper escaped my throat.
And on we went.
I’ll be honest here – by the time we finally found the down, we were past caring. But I think, having survived it, it’s a lesson – never underestimate the power of down. Down is a thing of genuine beauty. Go down, any time you get the chance.
Down is gooooood.
Oh yeah – and I really do intend to go back to Wiseman’s Bridge one day this week and punch that waitress in the throat...cos, damn!
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