How I Discovered My Spirit Animal is a Welsh Pensioner
When I woke up at 3 a.m. to a cancellation email from British Airways one and a half days before my departure, I almost dropped my plans. Hours of searching culminated in an alternative booking by the time the early sun was up on the other side of my bedroom window. But the effort of rushing all the way to Geneva was wasted on my delayed Plan B flight to Bristol. Once there, I tried to compensate for the lost time by hurrying to Temple Meads, only to find that my train to Cardiff had been canceled, too.
Just as I was starting to look at this mess as my skeptical physiotherapist's curse upon my hiking, and wondering how on Earth the British railway system was beating the Deutsche Bahn in terms of disastrous unreliability, an absolute heartthrob in cycling jersey appeared out of nowhere, crossing my field of view while pushing a beautiful red Specialized along. The cheeky grin he flashed in my direction instantly jolted me back to reality, making my heart pound like a teen girl. 20 minutes of playful side glances at platform 3 streched like hours, until, while getting on the train, I actually struck up a conversation with Jon.
Unfortunately, when asked to take a later connection to spend more time with him in Cardiff, I had to decline. No cute Welshman is cute enough to make me want to risk arriving at an unknown destination after dark. Even if the way he is scolded by the ticket inspector for blocking the fire escape with his bike is endearing beyond words. Even if he plants a kiss on my cheek, whispering “It was lovely meeting you” with the sweetest of British accents, sending me smiling like an idiot all the way to the very end of the country.
Little Haven, Pembrokeshire
Still feeling like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday, I finally arrived at Haverfordwest station, where Ali Boom Boom Taxis (yes, you read that right) picked me up to take me to my final and very remote destination, Little Haven, a tiny village with a population of around 1000, sitting at the southeast corner of St Bride's Bay. After 15 hours of travel, just as the street lights were coming on, I was warmly welcomed by the inn’s owner, Paul. He showed me to a private room as cozy and lovely as the rest of his home, a Victorian house with over 150 years of history.
With the very last few sunhine rays I could make out the pintouresque little port and beach from my window. After settling in and delivering the shocking news of my whereabouts to my unsuspecting parents, I had dinner for one at "The Castle," one of the three pubs in town.
I chatted a bit with some locals and met Poppy, a black Labrador just as fat as she was friendly, who didn’t hesitate to hurl her 40 kilos of canine sweetness onto my lap as soon as I smiled at her.
The real adventure started the next morning. After a delicious home-cooked full Welsh breakfast courtesy of the lovely Jo, Paul’s wife, in the company of a young Austrian couple, I was picked up by a former civil engineer from Liverpool, wielding the respective accent, who didn’t hesitate to share loads of enlightening information about the area during our drive to Martin’s Haven. “Just keep the ocean on your left and you’ll be alright!”, he suggested, just before driving away.
Once completely on my own, facing East with my virgin hiking gear in place, I felt invigorated. The initial 20 km back to Little Haven felt magical from step one, making me smile like an idiot for the second time in two consecutive days.
I couldn’t believe my eyes at the landscapes unfolding before me. Rugged coastal sides and dramatic cliffs furiously tackled by mighty waves on my left, and on my right, nothing but green vastness expanding all the way to the horizon and beyond. After a few hours, the initial lingering clouds hesitantly gave way to an unapologetically sunny day, gifting the ocean ahead with very bright shades of blue.
I heard nothing but the sound of seagulls, some cows, the wind, my walking poles, and my own gasps and sighs at the beauty surrounding me. I only came across the occasional couple of pensioners with their oftentimes equally elderly dog(s), crossing ways with a bright smile and a “Hello,” “Good Day,” or “Hi, you alright?”. My head felt empty, my soul felt full, and for being completely alone, not for one second did I feel lonely.
I had lunch on my feet, and spent the second half of the day doing my best to identify and name several plants and berries with the help of my book.
Broad Haven Beach
To provide me with some consolation for the fact that my first long-distance hike was coming to an end, my feet started to hurt just as I was able to finally spot Little Haven in the distance. At a very low tide, I was able to cross to neighbouring Broad Haven on the beach, scorted by the setting sun. I enjoyed take-out fish and chips sitting on a semi-dry rock while watching the waves, which magically numbed my foot pain down to an imperceptible degree.
Once back at the inn, I ran into Paul, with whom I shared another enriching conversation. At this point, I was starting to marvel at the heartwarming genuine friendliness and openness of the Welsh. His own overweight black dog whose name I sadly can’t remember, made an appearance mid-conversation, honoring my tired feet by sitting her huge but lovely wiggling butt on them.
Somewhere between Newgale and Solva
The 20 km from Little Haven to Solva were not as enjoyable. The difficult terrain, combined with the dropping temperature, fierce eastbound winds, and torrential rainfall, was challenging both for my mind and body. I had to make it my goal to reach my destination as quickly as possible, hindered by the unprecedented steepness and irregularity of that section of the coast, adding up to a total elevation gain of over 1000 meters. But I do have my reckless side that enjoyed the battle against the elements, getting absolutely drenched in the rain, and mercilessly pushed around by the gale. It all made the prospect of finally hitting a hot shower even more enticing and pleasurable.
Once in St David’s, soaked to the bone, smudged make-up and crazy wet hair stuck to my face, I was met by Steve at my new accomodation, another heartwarming encounter that solidified my increasingly favorable perception of the locals. “You’re a bit wet, aren’t ya?”. After detailed explanations and suggestions regarding my upcoming plans, some reminiscing about his brief life in Tenerife many years ago, and inquiries about my own, I changed into dry clothes and headed back out to a newly appearing sun, blessing me with a beautiful view of the ancient St David’s Cathedral.
Somewhere between Solva and St Justinian’s
The final 20k to St Justinian's were my favorite without a doubt. Not only did the radiant mid-September sun return to brighten the day, but the landscapes ahead were the most vibrant and varied yet.
Once again, I cannot put into words the sheer pleasure of finding oneself surrounded by immense yet kind wilderness, with empty vastness in every direction. The combination of warming sunshine and a cool breeze created a perfect sensation on every bit of exposed skin. The wind insisted on freeing long locks of hair from my ponytail, playfully brushing them against my face as if to add to the all-encompassing sensation of nature's embrace.
At this point, I was fairly familiar with most plant species along the way, recognizing some of them by name. Even butterflies, beetles, bees, and other insects remained consistent in their appearance, adding to an increasing sense of familiarity in my surroundings. I was determined not to let any of that beauty escape the capturing power of my camera lens, and so the hike stretched for hours on end, with no other company but more elderly folks occasionally crossing paths and exchanging friendly looks with me. This day was special —we all sensed it— and so we greeted each other in that knowing way of friends who share a secret. Proving my point, after miles of unsuccessfully scrutinizing rocky beaches, secluded cliffs and sunny bays, I finally spotted a colony of grey seals at the bottom of a shady cliff.
Just when I thought the afternoon couldn’t get any better, a soft drizzle began just as I set foot in St Justinian’s, invoking a beautiful double rainbow that provided amusement during my 10-minute wait for the Celtic Coaster back to St David’s, in the company of an elderly white-haired English lady and an older Welsh gentleman. Once again, I found a sense of delight in exchanging lighthearted pleasantries with them and eavesdropping on their casual conversation, appreciating the nuanced cultural differences between the Brits and the Germanic cultures I’m more familiar with, while being captivated by their demeanors and humor.
My exhausted legs betrayed me as soon as I hopped on the bus—I stumbled over my own feet, almost falling onto one of my fellow pensioner passengers. “Oh my God, I am so, so sorry.” As I made my way to an empty seat, as embarrassed as one can be, I overheard the amused white-haired lady's remark, “That’s the most fun he’s had all week. Oh, I hope he didn’t hear that.” Mortified, I stared out the window. “Yeah, look at him. He’s still smiling,” someone else added.
And just like that, it was departure day.
The kindness of my hosts was further demonstrated in the kitchen the next morning, as I found a set table at the spot I’d occupied the day before, accompanied by a lovely postcard. I rushed to catch another early cab at 6:30 am, this time finally headed back to London.
Somewhere between Solva and St Justinian’s
Tudor was my favorite driver yet. As a former professional rugby player who’d traveled all over the world, he was an excellent conversationalist and storyteller, and very curious. Being the only man in town willing to drive me to Haverfordwest that early increased my sympathy for him, which seemed to be reciprocated. I voiced my concern about the possibility of my 7 a.m. train being delayed in the usual British fashion. “Nah, you’ll be fine. It’s the first train of the day; there’s no reason it should have a problem.” Ah, Tudor, if only I could tell you how wrong you were.
Mine and three other upcoming trains were canceled that morning. This led to meeting even more friendly (and charmingly distraught) locals while waiting on the platform. A railway worker finally appeared with his half-reassuring announcement: “There will be a replacement bus, I just don’t know when.” Calling the minivan that came to our rescue a bus was a bit of a stretch. With only five of us fitting inside, squeezed in like my feet under Paul’s overweight dog, we made our way to Carmarthen.
At this point, the amusement at the absurdity of these circumstances added to my appreciation for everything and everyone around me, and it was official in the strangest of moments: I was in love with Wales.
Once in Cardiff, Jon appeared wearing normal clothes this time. While waiting for him outside Cardiff Central, I couldn’t help but notice the dropping temperatures, hinting that it was a good time to head back home. Once at the practically empty coffee shop, it took me several long minutes, holding my cinnamon chai latte with both hands, to stop shivering. From that moment on, the conversation flowed easily, and I soon realized one hour would be too short. He was enthusiastic, confident, and warm, and his easy laughter was contagious. While his outgoing and strong-willed nature was obvious, I remember catching glimpses of something profound and honorable in him as well. And while I will no doubt forget the specific details of our conversation over time, my memory will retain how our casual but also more meaningful commonalities sparked an earnest curiosity in me, making me want to dive deeper into the first stranger I ever met in Wales.
Losing track of time meant heading out in a rush, frantically dodging a truck suddently blocking the way. But the fear of missing my train wasn’t distracting enough for me to miss Jon’s chewing gum being thrown away in the bin with calculated anticipation. At goodbye, barely one minute shy of being stranded in Cardiff for another hour, his lips landed on mine.
I could sit here and say no cute Welshman is cute enough to make me want to risk missing a flight. But the fact that I smiled like an idiot all the way to Switzerland means that a tiny part of me wished that lory had stopped us for just three more seconds.
And this is how my first truly solo overseas adventure concluded. Wanting to clear my head and regain a sense peace and grounded autonomy, my expectations were exceeded in ways I did not anticipate. From the charming small towns I visited, to the breathtaking remote natural sights I explored, and the warm, wholesome people I met every single day, this experience cast a beautiful light on my perception of the world, others, and myself.
As a finishing touch, I absolutely love the UK.
I might be biased, and I might not have spent enough time there to make an accurate, representative assessment. Yes, the British railway system is even more terrible than the German one. Yes, it rains all the time. But let’s be real: I would trade the British rain for your average grumpy, middle-aged German with public scolding entitlement any day.
