The Beasts of the Brecon Beacons - Geoffrey Peyton (ereader for comics TXT) 📗

do they come from?" he asked.

 

“My grandfather was born next to the old Vetch Field Stadium.”

 

“Okay, we’ll accept you then.” He said, sarcastically.

 

“My grandfather was Tom Jones.” I continued. “But not that one.”

 

I’m sure that I was really impressing him with my Welsh background - as he moved away to continue his conversation with the barmaid who had the name of Elizabeth James, according to the badge resting upon her left breast. The barman was Keith Forbes, which don’t sound welsh to me. Perhaps he’s less Welsh than I am.

 

I left the Pump house at 8.00pm and then went for a walk to find an off license for my compulsory nightcap drink. Fortunately, there was one in the city that happened to have a chip shop next to it, and so I bought four pieces of southern fried chicken for my supper.

 

With the light disappearing quickly I returned to the shore and walked along the sand dunes. Earlier on, while I was observing a few people fishing off the harbour pier, I noticed a few alcoves in the dunes that may create decent windbreaks. The drizzle had stopped a good while back, and hopefully the sun dried the sand enough for me to set up my small camp. I had my water bottle with me this time, even though it wasn’t that cold. Mind you, it wasn’t that warm either. Nevertheless, it’s rather doubtful that I will be overcome from hypothermia tonight.

 

There were a few tall apartment towers next to where I intended to rest for the evening, and these were a godsend for a little needed light. The sun had disappeared beyond the hills to the west and now it was almost completely dark. Due to my heavy travelling duties today I was overcome with real tiredness, and so after a can of lager, followed by my chicken pieces, I was out for the count shortly after 9.30pm.

 

Little droplets of rain soon became heavier by the second when I awoke sometime between 3.00am and 4.00am. The batteries in my radio had burned out, and not having any in my pack I was unable to find out the exact time. This forced me to retrieve my mobile phone from my holdall which I was trying to avoid, due to the light it would dish out on what was a reasonably dark morning, and therefore I would stick out like a sore thumb, thus I would be detected by anyone who happened to be within viewing distance.

 

What I did need right now was shelter, and that £1 tarpaulin sheet seemed to be a good purchase after all. But because of its small size I was unable to keep my entire self and my small amount of belongings completely dry. This forced me to pack up my gear and head inland and try to seek shelter elsewhere. Although it was obviously overcast, there was sufficient light developing to navigate comfortably, hence why I gathered the time was around the 4.00am mark. Another big concern was the need for a toilet, as I was dying for a pee. I cursed myself for not doing the needs when I was on the beach, but I left in such a hurry that I forgot all about it.

 

I was now deep inside the city itself, and because of the area being all built up I couldn’t find anywhere convenient enough to pee. Eventually I came across a massive billboard that was advertising some ‘Sky Sports packages and so on. I moved to the rear of the board and simply pissed for England, or should I say Wales. Why am I telling you all this? Do you really want to hear about me having a pee behind a billboard? Well, the reason is, is that I was spotted by the local Heddlu De Cymru (South Wales Police). I hadn’t spotted the vehicle that was well camouflaged in plain sight. As if I was some kind of terrorist, the cop car sped towards me with flashing blue lights. Both the driver and co-driver jumped out of the vehicle like Starsky and Hutch. They kind of cornered me so I couldn’t make a dash for it.

 

“Hello” said a rather large bearded specimen of a copper, no doubt a rugby union forward for the local constabulary XV. “Can’t you wait until you get home of you need to take a leak?”

 

“I live in Birmingham.”

 

“Oh, funny fucker, hey"

 

His sidekick, a much smaller specimen, decided to have a giggle at my expense, but little did they realise it at the time, but I was to have the last laugh.

 

“I’m allowed to wee anywhere, as long as it isn’t directly in public view,” I told PC Hooper (bearded one).

 

With a look of bewilderment, he asked, “And how does that one work then?”

 

I took out a card from my wallet that I received from the cancer department, which actually states that I indeed can take a leak almost anywhere I like, due to problems in my urinal tract. That problem has since been cured, but they weren’t to know this and I still had the card. I then informed them of my cancer treatment, which in itself should boost my chances of getting out of this without needing to pay a hefty fine. PC Hooker showed the card to his hoppo, and between them they just stared at it like two gormless Welsh coppers.

 

PC Hooker handed the card back to me.

 

“Okay mate. Sorry about your cancer and all of that. What are you doing here in Swansea anyway?”

 

I explained as best I could so as I could get on my way, and eventually everything was sorted out.

 

I don’t know what it is about the fact that I so often bump into the local law enforcement nearly every time I go on these hikes. If I was an escaped convict on the run from the authorities it’s very likely that I would be back behind bars before one could shout “nos da”(goodnight in Welsh).

 

While digging into a hearty Welsh breakfast (minus the seaweed) in a delightful old café near the marine I got chatting to Lewis, a local chap who works a few miles down the road at Port Talbot. He looked like one of those good looking surfing kind of dudes, and when I told him so he told me that he was in fact - a surfing dude. I asked him if there was any waterfalls near Swansea, and he, being born in Neath, knew not only of an ideal spot, but also which bus to catch there.

 

“you can catch the X55 from the bus station; they run every ninety minutes, or something like that.”

 

I thanked Lewis for his kind help before I left with a full stomach and a takeaway sandwich, plus a couple of cans of pop for later, just in case I get caught short.

 

A single decker bus with the number X55 stood silent at the appropriate stop when I reached the coach station at 8.00am. I had been walking the streets of Swansea for about four hours and was really knackered, plus I really wanted to get on this bus and have a much needed rest. Four other passengers were already queuing and waiting for the driver to arrive. Eventually a man in a grey uniform and wearing a turban greeted us waiting patrons with a smile.

 

“Good morning everyone? Lovely morning, izznit?”

 

It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Mr Singh was fluent in the Welsh language as well as English and his natural Punjabi tongue. I waited until all before me boarded the bus before I myself jumped on.

 

“I believe you go to a place called The Waterfall Centre?” I asked the driver.

 

“Oh yes, and how lovely it-izz” he replied.

 

“Oh good. How much is the fare?”

 

While tapping a few digits, he asked me if I was returning to Swansea.

 

“Err, I don’t actually know" I answered, before eventually replying “okay yes.”

 

The fare was a startling £6.50p, considering that it was just down the road. But after nearly ninety minutes of dodging through nearly every hamlet in South Wales the fare worked out to be a bargain. The views from the bus ride delivered spectacular (and free) views from every mountain range that was possible to see on the south coast of this most divine country.

 

“The Waterfall Centre, my friend” called out Mr Singh.

 

“Dhanwad bharrjee,” I replied. “Changa hai.”

 

“You speak Punjabi and you didn’t tell me” said Mr Singh, as I walked away from the bus.

 

I turned and smiled at my Punjabi friend before continuing on my merry way towards the waterfalls.

 

Just in case you were wondering if I do speak Punjabi, the answer is actually yes. I began teaching myself the fine tongue for a couple of reasons. One, I always wanted to know what our Asian friends were speaking about when I was kind of involved in a conversation that was taking place in my company. The other was down to the fact that I worked for a Sikh for many years and most of the time my helpers were from the Punjabi area and spoke little or no English. I picked up a book on common Punjabi phrases from Waterstone’s, plus I downloaded an app from the Google Play Store. And due to the fact that I worked six and a half days a week with some young Punjabi lads I ended up learning even more of the language from them. Okay, I may not be fluent in the tongue but I can get by pretty well when asking for materials at work, plus it’s good to show off in front of my friends and family when in conversation with the good and kind Sikh folk.

 

I was surprised with the lack of tourists at the Waterfall Centre at a place called, according to my Google location, Pontneddfechan. The pubs, however, both seemed to be doing rather decent trade. I actually forget the name of one of the inns, as I wasn’t here for the beer I was strictly on an adventurous mission. Nevertheless, a pint or two later may perk me up. But the other inn I did acquaint my backside with a comfy seat for a meal latter on.

 

Walking along a trodden path of many centuries of folks gone by I felt once again the freedom of being alone and doing what I loved best. It was a pleasant day with decent sunshine and a moderate temperature of around 18 degrees celcius and with zero wind. There was an ambush of trees (a collective noun I just made up) and undergrowth to my left, which also made up a high hillside. And down to my right ran the River Mellte, which bed had a copper colour. Whether this corroded colour was caused by the silica (Silicon dioxide) mines from the manufacture of firebricks from 1822 onwards, I am not sure. And although it looks very poisonous I believe the water is perfectly safe to consume as the copper tint is firmly resting on the river bed for the rest of time and a day.

 

In 1857 the Vale of Neath Powder Company built a ‘gunpowder manufactory’ after it obtained a licence from the local authority to erect several mills along the river. This area was also perfect for timber to build the mills, and many of the surrounding trees came in very handy indeed. Despite the constant felling of lumber there are still an abundance of them here to build umpteen more. The mills that were built are no longer upstanding. In fact, there is zero sign of them ever being there in the first place.

 

Th firebrick, or refractory brick, is a block of ceramic material that was invented here by the Quaker Entrepreneur of Bristol and Glamorgan, William Weston Young, who was an artist, botanist, wreck-raiser, surveyor, potter and inventor, and probably had a cuddly toy. The firebrick was built primarily to withstand very high temperatures. They are today used for the likes of kilns