My son started coughing on Wednesday night, and my daughter joined him on Thursday morning. I've taken everybody's temperature about fifty times since then, and none of us have had a fever. As of Friday evening, the cough seems to have disappeared, but regardless, we're quarantined for two weeks. No more going out, except in our garden. (Thank god we have a garden.)
As a family, we're pretty susceptible to coughs, so I'll wait and see rather than worry about Covid-19. My immediate concern was the food situation. It's all but impossible to get a Tesco delivery slot these days and the only one we have is for next Saturday. Like the rest of the country, I've been trying to buy a little extra and build up a two week supply of food, but (again, like the rest of the country) I've not been able to do that for everything.
So my brain spent most of yesterday ruminating on how much food is in the pantry and freaking out over how often the kids eat. My son is eleven and a bottomless pit. My nine year old daughter is only marginally better. Our most common conversation yesterday was:
"Mum, can I have a snack?"
"Are you sure?"
Aside from starting the kids on the path to an eating disorder, I worked out a list of potential meals we could make with what we had in and another list of the most useful foods we needed more of. Today, one of the village volunteers picked up what she could during her own Tesco trip and dropped it off on our doorstep. Kindness of strangers! I've only got to know a handful of people in the village, but I think this experience is going to introduce me to many more.
The kids and I may need to get flexible about what constitutes a meal, but thanks to our new friend, we're not going to starve between now and the next food delivery. In that vein, dinner tonight was apple crumble, to celebrate the start of the Easter Holidays. No more school work! Woo! Spring break! Wooo! Quarantine for 90% of it! ... woo?
As I understand the rules, anybody displaying symptoms has to self-isolate for seven days or until their symptoms clear up. Anybody in their household needs to be quarantined for two weeks to be sure they also don't develop symptoms. Ironically, this means the kids will be free to leave the house next weekend, while I'll have to wait another week.
Yet we're upbeat. The cough was never bad enough to slow them down, and we spent a good chunk of the past two afternoons outside, gardening and playing . A good chunk of the morning and evening has been spent playing with Animal Crossing, working together to develop our island.
There have certainly been arguments along the way, but what I'm really noticing and appreciating is just how ready we are to play with each other. My daughter's been playing the Duck Song on Alexa almost non-stop: Yesterday, she began it for the hundredth time, we all groaned... then launched into a dance and sing-along, right the way through.
Despite the ongoing restrictions, it hasn't been this easy to be happy for a long time.
Happiness in the moment is only our sliver of perspective in this crisis, and we're privileged to have that perspective. There are a million different pandemic stories going on around the world, and the overall story is a lot scarier and more painful than our individual thread. But there are happy moments out there for us all. If I can make a wish for the rest of the world, it's that you find your own small joys in the near future. If I can make a suggestion for the rest of the world, it's that you don't look for it by asking Alexa to play the Duck Song.
Friday, 27 March 2020
Wednesday, 25 March 2020
Locked down but not out
It's the fifth day of "just the three of us." Five days since the schools closed. The second day since the government locked down on people gathering and travelling.
I'm relieved by the restrictions since hopefully that will forestall most of the holiday-makers coming to Cornwall and reduce pressure on the very limited health service here. We still feel distant from the virus, but we're now in a stage where I know someone who knows someone who died. It's getting closer.
The Weekend before Lockdown
To replace the more traditional mother's day celebration, I bought my mother a puzzle box from Boxed Locks. We went round on Saturday to drop it off and did a doorstep exchange: we left the puzzle on the doorstep; they sent their dog out so we could take him for a short walk. (They're walking the dog themselves, this was just a little bonus.) We wiped the lead and the dog down with antibacterial wipes when we got back.
On Sunday, Mother's Day, the kids made me breakfast in bed: scrambled eggs and tomato with a cup of tea. With all the Pandemic goings on, their class had abandoned mother's day crafts, but their Dad had ordered some cards online for them to give me, so I didn't miss out!
After months of rain, the weather had finally turned sunny, so we went to the beach as a safe Mother's Day outing—if, by some miracle, we were the only ones with this idea. We weren't. But we went at low tide was so that we could scramble over the rocks to the next cove. Core muscle-exercise, science/geography exploration, teamwork and problem-solving! And most importantly, fun, with at least one little nook noted down for when the weather's warmer.
The beach cafés had adapted to takeaway, which took care of our lunch plans. A menu was blu-tacked onto the glass doors along with a sign directing customers to the takeout window. At the takeout window was another sign asking people to queue responsibly. When we joined, everybody was keeping 2m distance from the next person in line... but then somebody jumped in front of me, not realising there was a queue, while the next people joined right behind us, leaving no gap at all.
The Great British Public are renowned for their queuing abilities, but we have much to learn when it comes to pandemic etiquette.
The cafe had taped up its picnic tables to stop people using them, but there were some public ones on the boardwalk which were heavily trafficked. I warned the children not to use them, but one came free as we got our food, and they stubbornly sat down, my son insisting he wanted a table.
It was a 'pick your battles' moment of parenting and I caved. I regretted it almost instantly, because it was such a reckless thing to do under the circumstances. We didn't have a way of cleaning the table nor any handgel.
On the way home, we discussed it. I explained that if somebody with the coronavirus had used that table in the past couple of hours, we had almost certainly just infected ourselves. Like the rest of the world, I'm fuzzy on how long the virus lasts on surfaces and how easy it is to transmit from one, but when you're sitting and eating in that space for 15 minutes, you're really giving the virus every opportunity to spread.
To an extent, we take that risk every time we go out in public. We weren't the only people rock climbing, for example. However, there were far fewer people on the rocks and a much broader space to navigate with hundreds of different routes across; transmission would require an infected person to touch the same hold we did since last the tide came through. We'll go rock climbing again, but we won't eat at another picnic table.
While we've still got a few days before we know if we got away with it or not, it was easy to see why the government put us on stricter measures Monday evening. We watched that announcement live. Nothing in it was a surprise.
My son asked: "Have you ever known anything like this before."
I replied: "No. Your grandchildren are going to ask you to tell them your memories of this for their school project one day."
He's a history buff. As much as he's taking on board how serious this is, he also loves the experiencing-history-firsthand side of it.
My daughter is less concerned all round. She's more inclined to worry than my son, but she's also less interested in the details of what's going on. Of the three of us, she's going to suffer the most from the lack of social interaction, but so far the sunshine is making up for that.
HomeschoolingSo far, the daily schedule I worked out is holding up. An hour of English activities at 9am, an hour of Maths activities at 11am and an hour of 'topic work' (i.e. something vaguely educational of our choice) in the afternoon. By the end of Monday though, I was starting to feel the lack of alone time.
It's an odd thing to complain about in self-isolation, especially since I'm so grateful I do live with other people and I'm not totally alone. I'm an introvert, but I need low-key company. On the other hand, I also need my solitude, and it's so damned hard to get that with the kids at home.
Finally, the parent-child dynamic means that I have to be "on" in all social interactions. I can't sit there and just be on the fringes (well, sometimes I do, but that's not an effective situation since it's usually me snapping at them that I need space.) I'm also terrible at multi-tasking, so my own work (mostly paperwork and the inbox) was not getting done.
So today I told the children that they would have to work independently and leave me alone to get on with my own work in another room. This needs practice (they kept coming in to talk to me), but we're going to do this periodically so I don't burn out. We're otherwise enjoying homeschooling and distance-learning... It's actually a really good opportunity to do one-on-one with them that I don't otherwise make use of.
The weather's remained glorious, so we've been outside a lot. After Monday's announcement, we cancelled our trip to Dartmoor (no more seeing my boyfriend, even at a safe social distance), but we biked down to the local woods, built an aqueduct with a stream, rocks and some hot wheels track, and then nearly killed ourselves biking back up. Today, the kids had a water fight with the boy next door while I weeded the garden. We weren't wearing coats and we got hot! It's really impossible to describe just how much of a morale boost it is to be outside and enjoying it.
On the flipside, I bought the new Animal Crossing game on the Switch, so we've been spending a lot of time sat on our sofa exploring a virtual island. We all have characters, we work together to achieve various goals and today we managed to get the museum open so we did a family 'tour' of that.
There's responsible parenting and then there's geek parenting. In isolation, we can make time for both.
I'm relieved by the restrictions since hopefully that will forestall most of the holiday-makers coming to Cornwall and reduce pressure on the very limited health service here. We still feel distant from the virus, but we're now in a stage where I know someone who knows someone who died. It's getting closer.
The Weekend before Lockdown
To replace the more traditional mother's day celebration, I bought my mother a puzzle box from Boxed Locks. We went round on Saturday to drop it off and did a doorstep exchange: we left the puzzle on the doorstep; they sent their dog out so we could take him for a short walk. (They're walking the dog themselves, this was just a little bonus.) We wiped the lead and the dog down with antibacterial wipes when we got back.
On Sunday, Mother's Day, the kids made me breakfast in bed: scrambled eggs and tomato with a cup of tea. With all the Pandemic goings on, their class had abandoned mother's day crafts, but their Dad had ordered some cards online for them to give me, so I didn't miss out!
After months of rain, the weather had finally turned sunny, so we went to the beach as a safe Mother's Day outing—if, by some miracle, we were the only ones with this idea. We weren't. But we went at low tide was so that we could scramble over the rocks to the next cove. Core muscle-exercise, science/geography exploration, teamwork and problem-solving! And most importantly, fun, with at least one little nook noted down for when the weather's warmer.
The beach cafés had adapted to takeaway, which took care of our lunch plans. A menu was blu-tacked onto the glass doors along with a sign directing customers to the takeout window. At the takeout window was another sign asking people to queue responsibly. When we joined, everybody was keeping 2m distance from the next person in line... but then somebody jumped in front of me, not realising there was a queue, while the next people joined right behind us, leaving no gap at all.
The Great British Public are renowned for their queuing abilities, but we have much to learn when it comes to pandemic etiquette.
The cafe had taped up its picnic tables to stop people using them, but there were some public ones on the boardwalk which were heavily trafficked. I warned the children not to use them, but one came free as we got our food, and they stubbornly sat down, my son insisting he wanted a table.
It was a 'pick your battles' moment of parenting and I caved. I regretted it almost instantly, because it was such a reckless thing to do under the circumstances. We didn't have a way of cleaning the table nor any handgel.
On the way home, we discussed it. I explained that if somebody with the coronavirus had used that table in the past couple of hours, we had almost certainly just infected ourselves. Like the rest of the world, I'm fuzzy on how long the virus lasts on surfaces and how easy it is to transmit from one, but when you're sitting and eating in that space for 15 minutes, you're really giving the virus every opportunity to spread.
To an extent, we take that risk every time we go out in public. We weren't the only people rock climbing, for example. However, there were far fewer people on the rocks and a much broader space to navigate with hundreds of different routes across; transmission would require an infected person to touch the same hold we did since last the tide came through. We'll go rock climbing again, but we won't eat at another picnic table.
While we've still got a few days before we know if we got away with it or not, it was easy to see why the government put us on stricter measures Monday evening. We watched that announcement live. Nothing in it was a surprise.
My son asked: "Have you ever known anything like this before."
I replied: "No. Your grandchildren are going to ask you to tell them your memories of this for their school project one day."
He's a history buff. As much as he's taking on board how serious this is, he also loves the experiencing-history-firsthand side of it.
My daughter is less concerned all round. She's more inclined to worry than my son, but she's also less interested in the details of what's going on. Of the three of us, she's going to suffer the most from the lack of social interaction, but so far the sunshine is making up for that.
HomeschoolingSo far, the daily schedule I worked out is holding up. An hour of English activities at 9am, an hour of Maths activities at 11am and an hour of 'topic work' (i.e. something vaguely educational of our choice) in the afternoon. By the end of Monday though, I was starting to feel the lack of alone time.
It's an odd thing to complain about in self-isolation, especially since I'm so grateful I do live with other people and I'm not totally alone. I'm an introvert, but I need low-key company. On the other hand, I also need my solitude, and it's so damned hard to get that with the kids at home.
Finally, the parent-child dynamic means that I have to be "on" in all social interactions. I can't sit there and just be on the fringes (well, sometimes I do, but that's not an effective situation since it's usually me snapping at them that I need space.) I'm also terrible at multi-tasking, so my own work (mostly paperwork and the inbox) was not getting done.
So today I told the children that they would have to work independently and leave me alone to get on with my own work in another room. This needs practice (they kept coming in to talk to me), but we're going to do this periodically so I don't burn out. We're otherwise enjoying homeschooling and distance-learning... It's actually a really good opportunity to do one-on-one with them that I don't otherwise make use of.
The weather's remained glorious, so we've been outside a lot. After Monday's announcement, we cancelled our trip to Dartmoor (no more seeing my boyfriend, even at a safe social distance), but we biked down to the local woods, built an aqueduct with a stream, rocks and some hot wheels track, and then nearly killed ourselves biking back up. Today, the kids had a water fight with the boy next door while I weeded the garden. We weren't wearing coats and we got hot! It's really impossible to describe just how much of a morale boost it is to be outside and enjoying it.
On the flipside, I bought the new Animal Crossing game on the Switch, so we've been spending a lot of time sat on our sofa exploring a virtual island. We all have characters, we work together to achieve various goals and today we managed to get the museum open so we did a family 'tour' of that.
There's responsible parenting and then there's geek parenting. In isolation, we can make time for both.
Friday, 20 March 2020
Changes begin
To paraphrase Neil Armstrong, we've had some giant leaps for the country and some small steps for our household.
On Monday, we set off to have dinner with my parents, but by the time we got there, the prime minister had decreed that all unnecessary social contact should cease. We did stay and eat dinner, but we have no idea when we'll see each other again. Possibly I'll do some doorstep deliveries. My parents are both over 70 and I don't want them shopping.
On Tuesday, I was supposed to see an old school friend and meet her husband and baby, on their way down to Cornwall to visit her parents. We decided best to call that off.
On Wednesday, we finally got a much anticipated announcement: schools would close at the end of the week. We held a family meeting that night and worked out a homeschool timetable to keep up with lessons.
My social media has been filled with lockdown posts for weeks... Wednesday was the first day somebody posted that they were sick, with the fever and cough that fit Covid-19. Even the weather was wet and gloomy and the fog closing in felt like a metaphor for all the unknown quantities of our life right now.
On Thursday, I had what was probably my last day of work as a supply teacher, in the special needs department of the local secondary. I wasn't strictly needed, as so many kids were out, we ended up with five staff to three pupils. However, the usual staff were busy making preparations for the closure, so I became the extra body who could sit with the three girls as they did their set work. I spent the day colouring in a dragon, testing times tables, suggesting things to write for their mothers' day project, sewing (horrifically badly) a cloak and playing BINGO. We laughed, sang Lion King songs, and somebody made me a cup of tea.
I'll miss working.
Today, Friday, as the kids finished up their last day of school, I had to make a quick run to the doctor's with my son. We were triaged over the phone: "Do you have a fever? Do you have a cough? Have you been in contact with anybody abroad?" As the answer was "no" to all three, we were allowed to come in for an appointment. When we entered, we found traffic cones to enforce distance from the reception desk as you checked in. A sign requested that only the patient enter, although this was waived in view of my son's age. In the waiting room, the chairs were spread two feet apart. (Not the requisite 2 metres for social distancing, but there were only four other people in there and none of us sat anywhere near each other.)
Planning, Always Planning
I'm not sick, but at this point I have Covid-19 Brain. In its ADD fashion, my brain latched onto the plague about three weeks ago and has spent every waking hour since running through the what-ifs. It's not anxiety, fortunately—I'm not scared—but the constant mental processing has left me exhausted. On the plus side, I've felt prepared throughout this week of news and updates. I'd already thought through everything.
I wasn't as sure how the children would react... I figured their interpretation of the schools closing would be: "Weekend Every Day!" But when I informed them that we would be creating a homeschooling timetable for every day, they were surprisingly into it—once we established they would definitely be getting an Easter Holiday. My son says he's always wanted to be homeschooled.
Technically, it's supposed to be distance-learning. The school has spent the past couple of weeks getting the children set up on an online learning app called Class Dojo. The theory was that they would receive and submit their work through that. The reality is that not all the parents have set that up their accounts yet, so we've been started off with a pack of lesson suggestions and links to online resources. I'm grateful I have the time and experience to do this... I pity the parents who have to plan and give lessons while working from home!
We found it really odd walking home from school for the last time today. My son, who starts secondary school in September, may never go back to the village school. Their June field trip to the Isles of Scilly seems unlikely to happen now. An hour after we got back, my daughter sort of deflated on the sofa. At my suggestion, she took herself for a short walk to regroup. When she came back, she had a tiny posy of spring flowers for me: daffodil, primrose, dandelion and periwinkle.
Waiting, Ever Waiting
My relationship with my boyfriend is effectively on hold, due to pandemic etiquette: Firstly, babysitting isn't quite in the spirit of social distancing. Secondly, he lives on the other side of Dartmoor and it doesn't seem terribly responsible for us to create a jumping point for the virus.
On the other hand, most of our relationship involves us hiking wide open spaces, so we can continue that... It's just not exactly a date when we're keeping 2m apart and being chaperoned by my children. Still, he works in a hospital; boosting his morale is my patriotic duty!
The pandemic is also throwing a spanner into the works of getting a UK driving licence and enrolling on my EYITT course. Waiting to hear on the latter, but my driving theory test was cancelled yesterday with instructions not to rebook until further notice. I need to get my licence by June or I'll have to stop driving.
But that's a worry for later. In the meantime, I've joined a volunteer group that's emerged in the village to help self-isolating, quarantined and vulnerable people. Since my last blog, a family friend has volunteered to have the kids in the event that I am hospitalised. Even at 2m of social distancing, people are coming together and that's lovely to see.
Cornwall remains quiet with only 10 confirmed cases of Covid-19. What we worry about are people coming to Cornwall either because they have a second home there and would rather ride out the pandemic somewhere more rural, or because they want to have a break, take their Easter Holiday and pretend life is normal. The trouble is, Cornwall's going to be a lovely place to self-isolate... and a terrible place to be sick. We only have one hospital. If we get an influx of visitors bringing the virus with them, we're going to overwhelm the local resources very very quickly.
Again, no point worrying about what we can't control especially when it hasn't happened yet. In the meantime, this spring is going to be received very well by two members of our household: the cats. Long, sunny days lie ahead with laps aplenty, all day long.
On Monday, we set off to have dinner with my parents, but by the time we got there, the prime minister had decreed that all unnecessary social contact should cease. We did stay and eat dinner, but we have no idea when we'll see each other again. Possibly I'll do some doorstep deliveries. My parents are both over 70 and I don't want them shopping.
On Tuesday, I was supposed to see an old school friend and meet her husband and baby, on their way down to Cornwall to visit her parents. We decided best to call that off.
On Wednesday, we finally got a much anticipated announcement: schools would close at the end of the week. We held a family meeting that night and worked out a homeschool timetable to keep up with lessons.
My social media has been filled with lockdown posts for weeks... Wednesday was the first day somebody posted that they were sick, with the fever and cough that fit Covid-19. Even the weather was wet and gloomy and the fog closing in felt like a metaphor for all the unknown quantities of our life right now.
On Thursday, I had what was probably my last day of work as a supply teacher, in the special needs department of the local secondary. I wasn't strictly needed, as so many kids were out, we ended up with five staff to three pupils. However, the usual staff were busy making preparations for the closure, so I became the extra body who could sit with the three girls as they did their set work. I spent the day colouring in a dragon, testing times tables, suggesting things to write for their mothers' day project, sewing (horrifically badly) a cloak and playing BINGO. We laughed, sang Lion King songs, and somebody made me a cup of tea.
I'll miss working.
Today, Friday, as the kids finished up their last day of school, I had to make a quick run to the doctor's with my son. We were triaged over the phone: "Do you have a fever? Do you have a cough? Have you been in contact with anybody abroad?" As the answer was "no" to all three, we were allowed to come in for an appointment. When we entered, we found traffic cones to enforce distance from the reception desk as you checked in. A sign requested that only the patient enter, although this was waived in view of my son's age. In the waiting room, the chairs were spread two feet apart. (Not the requisite 2 metres for social distancing, but there were only four other people in there and none of us sat anywhere near each other.)
Planning, Always Planning
I'm not sick, but at this point I have Covid-19 Brain. In its ADD fashion, my brain latched onto the plague about three weeks ago and has spent every waking hour since running through the what-ifs. It's not anxiety, fortunately—I'm not scared—but the constant mental processing has left me exhausted. On the plus side, I've felt prepared throughout this week of news and updates. I'd already thought through everything.
I wasn't as sure how the children would react... I figured their interpretation of the schools closing would be: "Weekend Every Day!" But when I informed them that we would be creating a homeschooling timetable for every day, they were surprisingly into it—once we established they would definitely be getting an Easter Holiday. My son says he's always wanted to be homeschooled.
Technically, it's supposed to be distance-learning. The school has spent the past couple of weeks getting the children set up on an online learning app called Class Dojo. The theory was that they would receive and submit their work through that. The reality is that not all the parents have set that up their accounts yet, so we've been started off with a pack of lesson suggestions and links to online resources. I'm grateful I have the time and experience to do this... I pity the parents who have to plan and give lessons while working from home!
We found it really odd walking home from school for the last time today. My son, who starts secondary school in September, may never go back to the village school. Their June field trip to the Isles of Scilly seems unlikely to happen now. An hour after we got back, my daughter sort of deflated on the sofa. At my suggestion, she took herself for a short walk to regroup. When she came back, she had a tiny posy of spring flowers for me: daffodil, primrose, dandelion and periwinkle.
Waiting, Ever Waiting
My relationship with my boyfriend is effectively on hold, due to pandemic etiquette: Firstly, babysitting isn't quite in the spirit of social distancing. Secondly, he lives on the other side of Dartmoor and it doesn't seem terribly responsible for us to create a jumping point for the virus.
On the other hand, most of our relationship involves us hiking wide open spaces, so we can continue that... It's just not exactly a date when we're keeping 2m apart and being chaperoned by my children. Still, he works in a hospital; boosting his morale is my patriotic duty!
The pandemic is also throwing a spanner into the works of getting a UK driving licence and enrolling on my EYITT course. Waiting to hear on the latter, but my driving theory test was cancelled yesterday with instructions not to rebook until further notice. I need to get my licence by June or I'll have to stop driving.
But that's a worry for later. In the meantime, I've joined a volunteer group that's emerged in the village to help self-isolating, quarantined and vulnerable people. Since my last blog, a family friend has volunteered to have the kids in the event that I am hospitalised. Even at 2m of social distancing, people are coming together and that's lovely to see.
Cornwall remains quiet with only 10 confirmed cases of Covid-19. What we worry about are people coming to Cornwall either because they have a second home there and would rather ride out the pandemic somewhere more rural, or because they want to have a break, take their Easter Holiday and pretend life is normal. The trouble is, Cornwall's going to be a lovely place to self-isolate... and a terrible place to be sick. We only have one hospital. If we get an influx of visitors bringing the virus with them, we're going to overwhelm the local resources very very quickly.
Again, no point worrying about what we can't control especially when it hasn't happened yet. In the meantime, this spring is going to be received very well by two members of our household: the cats. Long, sunny days lie ahead with laps aplenty, all day long.
Saturday, 14 March 2020
Keep Calm and Carry On: Covid-19 Edition
There's a pandemic going on. You may have heard about it.
The UK announced delay measures on Thursday, and I sat the kids down after dinner for a family meeting. Handily, they've been studying World War II at school, so we did a light comparison of how the entire country had to make major lifestyle changes at that time: blackouts at night, hosting evacuees, etc.
Fortunately, the pandemic shouldn't last for years, but we are in a part of the world which is having to recognise that their governments don't have the resources to handle this without lasting impact.
I'm not interested in political nitpicking here: let's skip to the general scientific consensus:
My view is that government mandates are inevitably a generalisation: i.e. the minimum precautions we should all be taking. It's up to each of us to come up with a personalised plan that accounts for our individual situation.
Imminent Risk
Our situation is extremely rural, luckily, and as far as I know, there are only five confirmed Covid-19 cases in Cornwall (I assume that the actual number is closer to 100, but that's out of almost 600,000 people.) Chances are high that we haven't been exposed yet. We might get lucky enough that it never really takes hold in Cornwall, but I'm working on the assumption that we'll just get hit later than most of the country.
We were supposed to be running an inflatable race in Exeter today but that was called off, much to my relief. While mass gatherings haven't officially been cancelled, I'm OK avoiding them and urban areas in general where there's no inconvenience to myself or others. With lots of beaches and outdoor walks around, it's not particularly difficult for us to practice social distancing in our leisure time.
But this isn't a totality yet: I'll save that for when the risk is higher, though I don't know if that's in two weeks or tomorrow. My son's hair was not-quite-due for a haircut, so we went into town today to get it done. My daughter had a coughing fit in the barber's, and although everybody was very nice about it, I took her outside so neither of us felt so self-conscious. She cleared up almost immediately... it was possibly embarrassment setting her off.
Who's Vulnerable?
It's a massive relief to know that children usually aren't badly affected when they get sick, both on a purely selfish level and because that's the demographic we have the most interactions with on a day to day basis. The kids will stay in school as long as it's open, and I'll continue as a supply teaching assistant when offered work.
The only vulnerable people we do come into regular contact with is my parents, and up until now, I haven't had to worry about them for the ironic reason that they've been on a two week cruise. They got back today. Again, it's unlikely we're carrying the virus, so my parents have assured us the pandemic is not an excuse to get out of seeing their holiday pictures. We'll decide together at what point our visits should stop.
Planning for Isolation
My most pressing concern is the UK mandate that anybody with a (new) cough or fever should self-isolate for seven days. My kids were home sick with a cough this week. At this time of year, that's par for the course. I might come down with the same cold in the next couple of days, and if I don't, another will probably come around. Basically, we're almost guaranteed to have to self-isolate in the next few weeks.
This was the main thrust of our family meeting on Thursday. I'm the only adult in the household and we all tend to be on top of each other most of the time in our flat. My bedroom has an en suite, so we could isolate up to two people in there, with a healthy member of the family bringing in food and drink if necessary. If I'm sick, that means we subsist on a diet of beans on toast, instant noodles and similar things the kids can cook. If I'm not sick, I get to bunk in one of the kids' loft-beds for the duration!
In discussion, we agreed that if one of us has to self-isolate, all of us should self-isolate and we won't fully separate the household. However if one of us appears to have Covid-19, the sick person will move into my room for the fourteen days of quarantine... Or until we all come down with it.
Managing the cats is TBD. Still reading up on that one. I also only have contact details for two of my neighbours (we're in one of five flats), and I want to get the others so we can help each other in the event of an emergency.
My biggest fear is what will happen to the kids if I'm one of the unlucky cases that needs hospitalisation. I don't want to send them to my parents who are much more vulnerable. I have no other family close by and their father is in the States. We have friends here, but asking another family to take in two potentially infectious minors is a big ask. This is not a "let's cross that bridge when we come to it," sort of thing, but I think I am going to have to wait a bit longer to find out what resources I have for this one.
This year is not going to go how we planned
When we left the States last year, the kids were promised that they would return for a visit at Easter. That's been a beacon for them this whole time, and they've been increasingly excited for as the time drew closer. We had booked their flight and made plans... today the US banned flights from Europe.
We had anticipated that this would happen and we'd already told the kids that they should expect for the trip to be rescheduled for half term at the end of May. It's very possible though that we still won't be able to travel then. They've been amazing about it. They're crushed, but there were no tears at the time. (My daughter and I had a little cuddle and a quiet moment later.)
This is just the start of a lot of sacrifices. Yet I've got a good feeling about my team.
The UK announced delay measures on Thursday, and I sat the kids down after dinner for a family meeting. Handily, they've been studying World War II at school, so we did a light comparison of how the entire country had to make major lifestyle changes at that time: blackouts at night, hosting evacuees, etc.
Fortunately, the pandemic shouldn't last for years, but we are in a part of the world which is having to recognise that their governments don't have the resources to handle this without lasting impact.
I'm not interested in political nitpicking here: let's skip to the general scientific consensus:
- Most of us will catch covid-19.
- Most of us will recover.
- All of us will be dealing with this situation for weeks if not months.
My view is that government mandates are inevitably a generalisation: i.e. the minimum precautions we should all be taking. It's up to each of us to come up with a personalised plan that accounts for our individual situation.
Imminent Risk
Our situation is extremely rural, luckily, and as far as I know, there are only five confirmed Covid-19 cases in Cornwall (I assume that the actual number is closer to 100, but that's out of almost 600,000 people.) Chances are high that we haven't been exposed yet. We might get lucky enough that it never really takes hold in Cornwall, but I'm working on the assumption that we'll just get hit later than most of the country.
We were supposed to be running an inflatable race in Exeter today but that was called off, much to my relief. While mass gatherings haven't officially been cancelled, I'm OK avoiding them and urban areas in general where there's no inconvenience to myself or others. With lots of beaches and outdoor walks around, it's not particularly difficult for us to practice social distancing in our leisure time.
But this isn't a totality yet: I'll save that for when the risk is higher, though I don't know if that's in two weeks or tomorrow. My son's hair was not-quite-due for a haircut, so we went into town today to get it done. My daughter had a coughing fit in the barber's, and although everybody was very nice about it, I took her outside so neither of us felt so self-conscious. She cleared up almost immediately... it was possibly embarrassment setting her off.
Who's Vulnerable?
It's a massive relief to know that children usually aren't badly affected when they get sick, both on a purely selfish level and because that's the demographic we have the most interactions with on a day to day basis. The kids will stay in school as long as it's open, and I'll continue as a supply teaching assistant when offered work.
The only vulnerable people we do come into regular contact with is my parents, and up until now, I haven't had to worry about them for the ironic reason that they've been on a two week cruise. They got back today. Again, it's unlikely we're carrying the virus, so my parents have assured us the pandemic is not an excuse to get out of seeing their holiday pictures. We'll decide together at what point our visits should stop.
Planning for Isolation
My most pressing concern is the UK mandate that anybody with a (new) cough or fever should self-isolate for seven days. My kids were home sick with a cough this week. At this time of year, that's par for the course. I might come down with the same cold in the next couple of days, and if I don't, another will probably come around. Basically, we're almost guaranteed to have to self-isolate in the next few weeks.
This was the main thrust of our family meeting on Thursday. I'm the only adult in the household and we all tend to be on top of each other most of the time in our flat. My bedroom has an en suite, so we could isolate up to two people in there, with a healthy member of the family bringing in food and drink if necessary. If I'm sick, that means we subsist on a diet of beans on toast, instant noodles and similar things the kids can cook. If I'm not sick, I get to bunk in one of the kids' loft-beds for the duration!
In discussion, we agreed that if one of us has to self-isolate, all of us should self-isolate and we won't fully separate the household. However if one of us appears to have Covid-19, the sick person will move into my room for the fourteen days of quarantine... Or until we all come down with it.
Managing the cats is TBD. Still reading up on that one. I also only have contact details for two of my neighbours (we're in one of five flats), and I want to get the others so we can help each other in the event of an emergency.
My biggest fear is what will happen to the kids if I'm one of the unlucky cases that needs hospitalisation. I don't want to send them to my parents who are much more vulnerable. I have no other family close by and their father is in the States. We have friends here, but asking another family to take in two potentially infectious minors is a big ask. This is not a "let's cross that bridge when we come to it," sort of thing, but I think I am going to have to wait a bit longer to find out what resources I have for this one.
This year is not going to go how we planned
When we left the States last year, the kids were promised that they would return for a visit at Easter. That's been a beacon for them this whole time, and they've been increasingly excited for as the time drew closer. We had booked their flight and made plans... today the US banned flights from Europe.
We had anticipated that this would happen and we'd already told the kids that they should expect for the trip to be rescheduled for half term at the end of May. It's very possible though that we still won't be able to travel then. They've been amazing about it. They're crushed, but there were no tears at the time. (My daughter and I had a little cuddle and a quiet moment later.)
This is just the start of a lot of sacrifices. Yet I've got a good feeling about my team.
Monday, 2 March 2020
Choose Your Own Adventure
Part 2 of my Welsh holiday. First part is here.
On the Monday, we were supposed to go canyoning in the Brecon Beacons. The roads were now passable, but after all the rain, canyoning was off until the company could check the entire route for flood debris. All they could do was offer us a refund.
We were disappointed but we had seen this coming. The obvious replacement was to continue our Rhossili explorations. We had ventured north on Sunday; today we looked east.
We wanted to pick up a few things, so we decided to walk along the road as far as a camp shop at Pitton Cross and then back along the cliffs. After the practicalities of shopping were done, we weren't entirely sure what there would be to see along this walk: the internet vaguely mentioned a few landmarks and the promise of beaches that were interesting at low tide... which would be about 7pm.
Venturing through a lot of fields and disgruntled sheep, we came upon the coastal path close to the Paviland Cave (also marked as Red Lady Cave on Google maps). I looked it up later and discovered that at low tide, you can scramble along the beach to the front of the promontory and then climb up above the waveline to a cave where a stone age skeleton was once found.
This would never have been on the cards for us, but we followed the path into a steeply funnel-shaped cove and found the result of the storm's gales: foam. The waves churned into the bay like so much ice cream, and the wind whipped the foam up the sides of the cove and sent it airborne in a blizzard.
Even more surreal, across the cove from us, there appeared to be a steam train moving through solid rock, sending up white puffs from its unseen funnel. There must have been a cave in the cliff and as the waves surged into it, they sent their spray up through a series of blowholes.
We would find no better viewing for our picnic, and we immediately dropped our backpacks. As my boyfriend took pictures, I pointed out the slender line of a path running around the cove to the blowholes. He told me later that he assumed we obviously weren't going to take anything so suicidal, but moments later he looked back up to see me making my way along it.
The path was narrow—there wasn't space for my feet to be side by side—and the grassy sides were steep enough to induce vertigo if I looked down. However, it wasn't a sheer drop, and the dirt path was level and stable. The last stretch, descending down wet rocks and dirt to the blowholes was more of a slither, but it still felt well within safe limits.
My boyfriend joined me, and we sat as close as we dared to the nearest blowhole, waiting for the waves strong enough to go through the full series. It was February, but we reveled in getting soaked. (It helped that we'd come out with a good set of waterproofs.)
When we finally tired of water play, we ate our lunch, trying to catch foam from the flurries sent up to us, before choosing our own path back up to the clifftops.
There's a well-marked coastal path, but there are also any number of smaller trails that wind about the ridges and bluffs of the coastline. Some dead-end at spectacular views, others take their own fanciful route back to the main path. We followed them at our whim, climbing and exploring landmarks on impulse. As long as the sea was to our left, we couldn't get lost and the distant Worm's Head acted as our guide, calling us ever back to Rhossili.
The tide retreated throughout our journey and we planned to come down from the cliffs at Mewslade Bay and finish our hike along the beach. Yet Mewslade Bay was as narrow as the cove at Paviland Cave and when we got there, we found it was also covered in foam, gently quivering beneath the rocks we stood on.
We debated whether or not there was water beneath, until my boyfriend (who was anti-water) decided to settle this by climbing down to a shelf of rock on a level with the foam's surface and testing it for himself. He dipped his foot in but found nothing. He turned around, clinging to the rock while plunging his entire leg into the expanse of white. Still, he found nothing.
Fascinated, I came down to try. I lowered myself waist deep into foamy nothingness: the rock shelf dropped away past the surface, and I could find no purchase and no bottom to this uncanny sea. If this had been science fiction, something unseen would have pulled us in and devoured us.
We were both seized with the wild urge to simply leap into the foam—and with a dread conviction that there was no bottom, just endless white. (As well, there was the practical voice that said we could hardly leap blindly into what, for all we knew, could be a 15 foot drop onto jagged rocks.)
The clear solution was to go back to the path and walk into the foam. Here, we could hold onto the rocky sides of the cove for balance while our feet felt out a secure footing over the stones beneath us. Minor details: the last stretch of path dropped off steadily in irregular steps, and the foam drifted higher on the narrow path than the beach. In a few steps, knee-deep foam became waist-deep became over-my-head.
Walking into your full-body-length of bubbles, you can feel the weight of them. Once they cover your face, you're blind and spluttering. Attempts to wipe them away spreads the lather around while more foam sticks to your hand. It takes effort and determination to clear enough space to see and breathe.
Never better have I understood the panic of being buried alive.
I did hold my nerve to break through this wall and found myself in the less terrifying chest-depth of the beach. A few feet ahead of me a boulder-island broke through the foam. I pushed my way to this haven of visible ground and clambered to a seat followed by my boyfriend.
After a rest, I attempted to go further, but I gave up after one foot slipped into a rock pool. I was afraid of sliding into a hidden depression, and finding myself stuck beneath the surface of the foam. (For reference, I'm 5'2". Most of the beach was under at least 4 feet of foam. Some drifts could conceivably have been over 6 feet.)
My boyfriend had a few extra inches of confidence to work with, so he struck out for the rocks where we'd made first contact with the foam, determined to finally discover what lay down there. As I watched, he walked deeper and deeper into the white, until—just a few feet from the rocks—he lost himself beneath the surface.
For a moment there was just wind and foam. Then! A lone hand emerged to grip the rock! The explorer pulled himself from his sea, lathered but triumphant.
(Sometimes reality likes a cliché.)
Sea foam is not the cleanest bath. It smeared us with white from head to foot, and when that eventually dried away, we were encrusted with sand and dirt. We didn't care, giddy with childish accomplishment as we regained the clifftops. Hail struck us, followed by a rainbow, and our spirits only rose higher.
At last we reached the tip of the peninsula and looked down on the Worm's Head. The tide had just retreated enough to make the crossing feasible, although we had to find a way along a maze of rock ridges above the water, many of which dead ended in small lakes.
It was 5pm when we began our crossing. Only one other attempted it and he merely stood for a moment on the Inner Head before returning. Our goal was to reach the Outer Head this time, but the light was already failing. Our return would be at dusk if not darker...
Aware that time was against us, we made no attempt to climb the ridge of the Inner Head, instead making as good a pace as possible along the muddy shoreline path. The wind was significantly lower than two days ago and now the sheep were grazing on this side. Of all the sheep we saw on the Gower Peninsula, these were the least aggrieved to see us on the path. They simply gave us an "Oh, it must be low tide again," glance and resumed their grazing.
The crossing to the Outer Head is shorter and on higher ground than the first crossing, yet it's more ominous. The rocks are black and taper upwards leaving small chasms between them, just large enough to create problems as you scramble across. We had walked about ten miles at this point, and here I realised how tired I was. Rocks I would have walked across that morning, I was now reduced to clambering over on all fours. It must have taken less than ten minutes to make the crossing but it felt like an eternity before we reached the welcome grass of the Outer Head.
If you were going to strand yourself on Worm's Head between low tides, the Outer Head would be the one I'd recommend. It's just large enough with enough features to properly explore and play around. The Devil's Bridge is a natural arch to cross from one part of the island to another. I don't think I'd like to cross it in strong winds, but even as tired as I was, I had no difficulty walking over the ridged ground.
It was getting steadily darker but the highest point, the true head of the wyrm, was still ahead of us. We pressed on while the colours slowly faded into twilight. We had to cross more rocks, and I was stumbling more and more, slowing us down further. The path ended at the base of the final climb, and here I decided I could go no further.
My boyfriend wanted to push on to the top, so I urged him to finish it. He scrambled upwards, disappeared for a few minutes and then came back down.
"I really think you should go up there."
Sometimes, the journey needs to be defined by the most fearful member of the party. Sometimes it's defined by the bravest. I listened to the conviction in his voice and climbed up the rocks until I pulled myself over the edge, onto grass, into wind and at the very top of the Worm's Head.
Ahead of us was the sunset, behind us stretched the wyrm and further back still, the whole Gower Peninsula. Our outward journey was officially and spectacularly done.
Of course, we still had the return journey to consider. Tidewise, we were still more than an hour from low tide. Lightwise, we were well into dusk. It was 6pm and this was the time I would have liked to begin across the causeway. Instead, we had to traverse the entire wyrm.
Everything being twilight grey does funny things to your depth perception. We had one head torch between us: my boyfriend's, but he put it on me so that I could have more confidence in my own footing. We didn't loiter on our way back, but we knew that we couldn't win the race against the light, so we didn't rush either.
We reached the end of the Outer Head with no real problems and the crossing to the Inner Head was somehow less ominous now that it was shadowy rather than starkly black. It was harder to pick out a path though and we slowed down dramatically as we found our way through, occasionally switching on the second torch to scout it out. I was feeling oddly calm now that we were dealing with the dark rather than worrying about it. My boyfriend was also staying calm which gave me faith that he was utterly capable of dealing with a night-time climb. It wasn't until we reached the grass, and he exclaimed his relief that I realised he was also feeling the fear of night setting in.
However, in this environment, Not Panicking was the main hurdle. Physically, nothing we were doing was very difficult nor dangerous. The closest I came to actual harm was on the level path on the Inner Head when I slipped on some mud and lurched towards the cliff edge. (A very low cliff but some nasty rocks beneath.) But I recovered and walked with due care for mud—I still slipped again, but I was ready to throw myself forward instead of wobbling over.
It was most definitely dark when we got back to the causeway, and my biggest fear had been that we wouldn't be able to see the land we were heading for. Thankfully, while the lights of Rhossili were hidden by the headland, their orange glow outlined it for us, the tide was at its lowest and we were familiar with the crossing by now. We just kept the sea louder in our left ears than our right, in order to account for the curve of the causeway.
Right at the end, we couldn't find the sign that marked the point where the footpath reached the causeway. We simply climbed up onto land where we reached it and scouted the bank for a few minutes until we found the path to take us upwards. It was now 7:15pm.
Back on top of the cliffs, we laid back on the grass, pulled out our flask of cider and gazed up at a clear sky full of stars.
(This was the one day we considered eating at the pub instead of going home to make dinner. Ultimately though, we were wet and dirty as well as tired, and getting out of our clothes and shoes was the far bigger appeal, even if it was almost ten o'clock before we finally ate. Shout out to my boyfriend, as I spent most of that time in quiet agony over my legs, while he stayed mobile enough to cook.)
So ended our Rhossili adventure, but we still had all of Tuesday between checking out of the AirBnB in the morning and picking my kids up in Bristol in the evening. So we returned via the Brecon Beacons with a view towards doing some canyoning of our own! (... minus the jumping into rivers bits. Hopefully.)
We planned to do the Four Falls Trail, which included one waterfall that would have been on our canyoning route. We had done enough googling to discover that there's a current trail and an original trail. The current trail has been put in since the walk got so popular and keeps away from steep drops, although it involves quite a bit of backtracking in the walk to and from the second and third falls. The original trail is a single loop, but it requires better mobility and a decent head for heights!
Clearly, the original trail was more our style. At the viewing platform for the first fall, we went through the gap in the fencing, forded a small stream and found the trail running parallel to and above the river.
Fortunately, we were able to avoid any plunges into the river below us. After all the rain we'd had, each and every waterfall was in full force.
.
The final Falls, Sgwd Yr Eira, were the ones we would have visited while canyoning, as it is possible to walk behind them. As I understand it, Sgwd Yr Eira is usually three separate falls that you can pass behind. On the day we visited, they were one massive sheet of water.
Undaunted, we trekked behind them to be deafened by the thunder and soaked by the spray. It was anything but a peaceful way to commune with nature. Yet it was irresistible. We passed back and forth along the shelves behind the Falls and left it only when some tour group with hard hats and ponchos came along.
We ate our last picnic on some riverbound boulders, still gazing at the waterfall. But that was as far as we could stretch our Wales adventuring. All that was left to us was the lengthy walk out of the valley and my waiting car.
On the Monday, we were supposed to go canyoning in the Brecon Beacons. The roads were now passable, but after all the rain, canyoning was off until the company could check the entire route for flood debris. All they could do was offer us a refund.
We were disappointed but we had seen this coming. The obvious replacement was to continue our Rhossili explorations. We had ventured north on Sunday; today we looked east.
We wanted to pick up a few things, so we decided to walk along the road as far as a camp shop at Pitton Cross and then back along the cliffs. After the practicalities of shopping were done, we weren't entirely sure what there would be to see along this walk: the internet vaguely mentioned a few landmarks and the promise of beaches that were interesting at low tide... which would be about 7pm.
Venturing through a lot of fields and disgruntled sheep, we came upon the coastal path close to the Paviland Cave (also marked as Red Lady Cave on Google maps). I looked it up later and discovered that at low tide, you can scramble along the beach to the front of the promontory and then climb up above the waveline to a cave where a stone age skeleton was once found.
Even more surreal, across the cove from us, there appeared to be a steam train moving through solid rock, sending up white puffs from its unseen funnel. There must have been a cave in the cliff and as the waves surged into it, they sent their spray up through a series of blowholes.
We would find no better viewing for our picnic, and we immediately dropped our backpacks. As my boyfriend took pictures, I pointed out the slender line of a path running around the cove to the blowholes. He told me later that he assumed we obviously weren't going to take anything so suicidal, but moments later he looked back up to see me making my way along it.
The path was narrow—there wasn't space for my feet to be side by side—and the grassy sides were steep enough to induce vertigo if I looked down. However, it wasn't a sheer drop, and the dirt path was level and stable. The last stretch, descending down wet rocks and dirt to the blowholes was more of a slither, but it still felt well within safe limits.
My boyfriend joined me, and we sat as close as we dared to the nearest blowhole, waiting for the waves strong enough to go through the full series. It was February, but we reveled in getting soaked. (It helped that we'd come out with a good set of waterproofs.)
There's a well-marked coastal path, but there are also any number of smaller trails that wind about the ridges and bluffs of the coastline. Some dead-end at spectacular views, others take their own fanciful route back to the main path. We followed them at our whim, climbing and exploring landmarks on impulse. As long as the sea was to our left, we couldn't get lost and the distant Worm's Head acted as our guide, calling us ever back to Rhossili.
The tide retreated throughout our journey and we planned to come down from the cliffs at Mewslade Bay and finish our hike along the beach. Yet Mewslade Bay was as narrow as the cove at Paviland Cave and when we got there, we found it was also covered in foam, gently quivering beneath the rocks we stood on.
We debated whether or not there was water beneath, until my boyfriend (who was anti-water) decided to settle this by climbing down to a shelf of rock on a level with the foam's surface and testing it for himself. He dipped his foot in but found nothing. He turned around, clinging to the rock while plunging his entire leg into the expanse of white. Still, he found nothing.
Fascinated, I came down to try. I lowered myself waist deep into foamy nothingness: the rock shelf dropped away past the surface, and I could find no purchase and no bottom to this uncanny sea. If this had been science fiction, something unseen would have pulled us in and devoured us.
We were both seized with the wild urge to simply leap into the foam—and with a dread conviction that there was no bottom, just endless white. (As well, there was the practical voice that said we could hardly leap blindly into what, for all we knew, could be a 15 foot drop onto jagged rocks.)
The clear solution was to go back to the path and walk into the foam. Here, we could hold onto the rocky sides of the cove for balance while our feet felt out a secure footing over the stones beneath us. Minor details: the last stretch of path dropped off steadily in irregular steps, and the foam drifted higher on the narrow path than the beach. In a few steps, knee-deep foam became waist-deep became over-my-head.
Walking into your full-body-length of bubbles, you can feel the weight of them. Once they cover your face, you're blind and spluttering. Attempts to wipe them away spreads the lather around while more foam sticks to your hand. It takes effort and determination to clear enough space to see and breathe.
Never better have I understood the panic of being buried alive.
I did hold my nerve to break through this wall and found myself in the less terrifying chest-depth of the beach. A few feet ahead of me a boulder-island broke through the foam. I pushed my way to this haven of visible ground and clambered to a seat followed by my boyfriend.
My boyfriend had a few extra inches of confidence to work with, so he struck out for the rocks where we'd made first contact with the foam, determined to finally discover what lay down there. As I watched, he walked deeper and deeper into the white, until—just a few feet from the rocks—he lost himself beneath the surface.
For a moment there was just wind and foam. Then! A lone hand emerged to grip the rock! The explorer pulled himself from his sea, lathered but triumphant.
(Sometimes reality likes a cliché.)
Sea foam is not the cleanest bath. It smeared us with white from head to foot, and when that eventually dried away, we were encrusted with sand and dirt. We didn't care, giddy with childish accomplishment as we regained the clifftops. Hail struck us, followed by a rainbow, and our spirits only rose higher.
At last we reached the tip of the peninsula and looked down on the Worm's Head. The tide had just retreated enough to make the crossing feasible, although we had to find a way along a maze of rock ridges above the water, many of which dead ended in small lakes.
It was 5pm when we began our crossing. Only one other attempted it and he merely stood for a moment on the Inner Head before returning. Our goal was to reach the Outer Head this time, but the light was already failing. Our return would be at dusk if not darker...
Aware that time was against us, we made no attempt to climb the ridge of the Inner Head, instead making as good a pace as possible along the muddy shoreline path. The wind was significantly lower than two days ago and now the sheep were grazing on this side. Of all the sheep we saw on the Gower Peninsula, these were the least aggrieved to see us on the path. They simply gave us an "Oh, it must be low tide again," glance and resumed their grazing.
The crossing to the Outer Head is shorter and on higher ground than the first crossing, yet it's more ominous. The rocks are black and taper upwards leaving small chasms between them, just large enough to create problems as you scramble across. We had walked about ten miles at this point, and here I realised how tired I was. Rocks I would have walked across that morning, I was now reduced to clambering over on all fours. It must have taken less than ten minutes to make the crossing but it felt like an eternity before we reached the welcome grass of the Outer Head.
If you were going to strand yourself on Worm's Head between low tides, the Outer Head would be the one I'd recommend. It's just large enough with enough features to properly explore and play around. The Devil's Bridge is a natural arch to cross from one part of the island to another. I don't think I'd like to cross it in strong winds, but even as tired as I was, I had no difficulty walking over the ridged ground.
It was getting steadily darker but the highest point, the true head of the wyrm, was still ahead of us. We pressed on while the colours slowly faded into twilight. We had to cross more rocks, and I was stumbling more and more, slowing us down further. The path ended at the base of the final climb, and here I decided I could go no further.
My boyfriend wanted to push on to the top, so I urged him to finish it. He scrambled upwards, disappeared for a few minutes and then came back down.
"I really think you should go up there."
Sometimes, the journey needs to be defined by the most fearful member of the party. Sometimes it's defined by the bravest. I listened to the conviction in his voice and climbed up the rocks until I pulled myself over the edge, onto grass, into wind and at the very top of the Worm's Head.
Ahead of us was the sunset, behind us stretched the wyrm and further back still, the whole Gower Peninsula. Our outward journey was officially and spectacularly done.
Everything being twilight grey does funny things to your depth perception. We had one head torch between us: my boyfriend's, but he put it on me so that I could have more confidence in my own footing. We didn't loiter on our way back, but we knew that we couldn't win the race against the light, so we didn't rush either.
We reached the end of the Outer Head with no real problems and the crossing to the Inner Head was somehow less ominous now that it was shadowy rather than starkly black. It was harder to pick out a path though and we slowed down dramatically as we found our way through, occasionally switching on the second torch to scout it out. I was feeling oddly calm now that we were dealing with the dark rather than worrying about it. My boyfriend was also staying calm which gave me faith that he was utterly capable of dealing with a night-time climb. It wasn't until we reached the grass, and he exclaimed his relief that I realised he was also feeling the fear of night setting in.
However, in this environment, Not Panicking was the main hurdle. Physically, nothing we were doing was very difficult nor dangerous. The closest I came to actual harm was on the level path on the Inner Head when I slipped on some mud and lurched towards the cliff edge. (A very low cliff but some nasty rocks beneath.) But I recovered and walked with due care for mud—I still slipped again, but I was ready to throw myself forward instead of wobbling over.
It was most definitely dark when we got back to the causeway, and my biggest fear had been that we wouldn't be able to see the land we were heading for. Thankfully, while the lights of Rhossili were hidden by the headland, their orange glow outlined it for us, the tide was at its lowest and we were familiar with the crossing by now. We just kept the sea louder in our left ears than our right, in order to account for the curve of the causeway.
Right at the end, we couldn't find the sign that marked the point where the footpath reached the causeway. We simply climbed up onto land where we reached it and scouted the bank for a few minutes until we found the path to take us upwards. It was now 7:15pm.
(This was the one day we considered eating at the pub instead of going home to make dinner. Ultimately though, we were wet and dirty as well as tired, and getting out of our clothes and shoes was the far bigger appeal, even if it was almost ten o'clock before we finally ate. Shout out to my boyfriend, as I spent most of that time in quiet agony over my legs, while he stayed mobile enough to cook.)
So ended our Rhossili adventure, but we still had all of Tuesday between checking out of the AirBnB in the morning and picking my kids up in Bristol in the evening. So we returned via the Brecon Beacons with a view towards doing some canyoning of our own! (... minus the jumping into rivers bits. Hopefully.)
We planned to do the Four Falls Trail, which included one waterfall that would have been on our canyoning route. We had done enough googling to discover that there's a current trail and an original trail. The current trail has been put in since the walk got so popular and keeps away from steep drops, although it involves quite a bit of backtracking in the walk to and from the second and third falls. The original trail is a single loop, but it requires better mobility and a decent head for heights!
Clearly, the original trail was more our style. At the viewing platform for the first fall, we went through the gap in the fencing, forded a small stream and found the trail running parallel to and above the river.
Fortunately, we were able to avoid any plunges into the river below us. After all the rain we'd had, each and every waterfall was in full force.
 |
| Sgwd Clun-Gwyn |
 |
| Sgwd Isaf Clun-Gwyn |
 |
| Sgwd y Pannwr |
 |
| Sgwd Yr Eira |
Undaunted, we trekked behind them to be deafened by the thunder and soaked by the spray. It was anything but a peaceful way to commune with nature. Yet it was irresistible. We passed back and forth along the shelves behind the Falls and left it only when some tour group with hard hats and ponchos came along.
We ate our last picnic on some riverbound boulders, still gazing at the waterfall. But that was as far as we could stretch our Wales adventuring. All that was left to us was the lengthy walk out of the valley and my waiting car.
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