The Beasts of the Brecon Beacons, Geoffrey Peyton [best novels in english txt] 📗

lager and chased it down with the rest of my whiskey. After I had barbecued my leftover steak and puffed on my E-cigarette, I was out for the count. I placed a few more logs on the fire and then collapsed in a heap on top of my sleeping bag. By 11.00pm, I was out for the count.

 

I must have slept for all of three hours when I was awoken by umpteen noises about me. The fire was smouldering gently next to me and still keeping me warm. But it needed more fuel, as I needed to see what was going on around Now that I was basically sober, I was actually shaking with fear at what could be making all those noises. And moments later my worries were conformed when two foxes glared at me before producing a mighty howling noise that I had never heard before. I screamed out loudly.

 

“Get out of her you bastards.”

 

They both shot off through the woods as I threw a few small pieces of burning embers at them, scolding my palms in the process.

 

“Shit,” I yelled. “What the fuck did I do that for?”

 

Apart from the water in my water-bottle, I hadn’t any do douse my hands with. All I could do was let time heal my burnt wound. To be honest, it wasn’t all that bad, as the shock of being temporarily cornered by those two foxes had pumped my adrenalin up so much, pain was the least of my worries.

 

Getting back to sleep was, by now, impossible. The only saving grace that I had was the fact that it was 2.00am and in a few hours it would be light. My decision to sleep in the middle of the Brecon Beacon was a stupid mistake. The radio did give me a little solace from the fact that I was alone in a place that was incredibly pitch black. And if it wasn’t for the fire I would be able to see absolutely nothing in front of me. It really was the blackest moment that I had ever experienced, especially as there was no stars or moon to help towards a lit up night.

 

By 4.00am the first few choral of birdsong gave me a sense of calmness. And within the hour I could see shadows forming in the woods where I lay motionless against a pine tree. I would really love a cup of tea right now but I neglected to bring those sort of supplies with me. All I could do, and did, was to empty the water from the water-bottle and add pine needles to the saucepan, just as Bear Grylls had done on one of his survival episodes. When I sipped at the pine tea I spat it out immediately, cursing Mr. Grylls as I did so. But what I did have in my holdall was two cans of pop, and I found that a cherry coke was far more refreshing than natural hot vegetation in a cup. After a few belches from the fizzy drink it was time to move out of this small coppice and get back on the road and make my way to my next destination, of which I hadn’t yet made up my mind up on whereabouts that was going to be.

 

I trampled on the fire embers to make sure that there wasn’t going to be any bush fire and headed out into the open fields. As I was just about to exit into what looks like being another lovely day, I came face to face with a rather large and stupidly tame beast. Not more than five yards from where I stood frigid and terrified, a stag with prehistoric antlers stood also motionless, and possibly as shit scared as I was, looking pretty hostile and ready to charge and stab me to death. My knees began to tremble, and I was stuck in limbo, totally unprepared for the attack that would surely kill me off. And what’s more - and worse, is that I would then be eaten by those two foxes that I abused with unnecessary foul expletives four hours ago. I would never be found, unless someone decides to take a few DNA samples of animal faeces, which id rather unlikely.

 

Still trying to stare one and other out, the deer made a splattering noise with its mouth before darting off into the woods that I had just left behind.

 

“Holy shit,” was all I could muster from my drooling and trembling lips, followed by a “phew.”

 

All of the prior moments suddenly hit me before I fell almost to my knees in hysterical laughter. I loved being here with the wildlife; my friends; my buddies. This kind of life is the kind of life that I loved and missed over the passed plenty of years. Oh the utter sublime and beautiful country of Wales. Long live the dragon.

 

Coincidence was just about to change the course of my destination for what would probably be for the best. Just as I had finally negotiated a horrible dirt track that eventually led me to the main A465 to Swansea, my phone rang and then the battery died in the process. I connected one of my portable chargers to it (I had four fully charged USB chargers with me) and waited ten minutes before turning my mobile back on. The one missed call was from Mike, who, if you have read any of my other rubbish, was a good friend who has travelled with me on one or two of my previous excursions. I called him back whilst drinking a welcomed cup of sweet tea that I grabbed from a stationary mobile café in a lay-by.

 

“Hello Geoffrey. How’s it going?”

 

“Hi Mike. You’re not going to believe where I am?”

 

“Where?”

 

“Up the Brecon ‘f*****g’ Beacon’s.”

 

“That’s interesting. I was just about to ask if you wanted to go to Ponty. (Pontardawe)”

 

After a twenty minute natter it was decided that I would meet Mike when he arrived in Ponty at midnight. During the waiting time for his arrival I would walk about and have a few cocktails in the local pub until he arrives. This was actually good news for me as I didn’t fancy another kip in the woods again tonight. Well not alone anyway. As l have already stated, when I was young and scare-free, living alone in a rural world never bothered me in the least. But as one gets older and wiser your fading days on this planet become more precious.

 

I decided to walk the 15 miles to Pontardawe via the A4109/A4221 and the A4067, with the first two running parallel with the southern edge of the Brecon Beacons National Park. A lot of the roads at times were without paths. This was most discomforting when I had to take on a hairpin of a bend, which can cause a serious accident when you have two nutcases coming from either direction. But I am pretty sensible in these situations and I am always alert and extremely careful when I come across this hazard.

 

Sightseeing this beautiful country took a lot off my mind whilst challenging this mammoth walk, and it seemed that the first eight miles had flown by. Eventually I took refuge at another lay-by café at a town called Ystradgynlais, where I ate a bacon, sausage and egg sandwich with another well needed mug of sweet tea. The Sun began to finally make its acquaintance and when I continued my walk the heat started to get to me somewhat. I was determined not to indulge in any alcohol until I reached Pontardawe, which by my calculation should be around 4.00pm. The problem therefore would be what would I do for a further eight hours. I couldn’t start drinking that early as I would be totally paralytic by the time Mike arrives from Birmingham. And although I may seem like a heavy drinker to you, I am in fact a rare drinker of alcohol. I only drink when I am out in the sticks to give myself a little bit of Dutch courage when I need to park my anatomy on some derelict land during the night time. I wouldn’t have the bottle to kip out in some woodland area these days - maybe in older times in my youth - but not now that I am older and sensibly wiser.

 

Worrying about being drunk later on was soon a problem solved. After walking for another hour I decided to take a rest about three miles from Pontardawe. I lay on a hill top that overlooked some rather gorgeous fields that where full of grazing sheep. The weather was kind, with plenty of sunshine to help keep me warm. Whilst listening to the quiet sounds of nature and seated comfortably under the welcomed shade of an old oak tree, I fell asleep. I was wearing only a t-shirt that boasted the name of the legendary Motörhead front man ‘Lemmy. And with it being a few minutes after 8.30pm the wind chill got the better of my cooling body. I was also quite hungry and had nothing in the way of food in my holdall. I had no alternative but to wait until I reached Pontardawe Town Centre and indulge in a nice piece of fish, of which I duly obliged when I finally reached the wretched place. I then did a spot of walking along part of a narrow river in the centre of town which was blessed with more waterfalls. Feeling that I had had enough of waterfalls for a the time being I finally gave in and entered the ‘Pontardawe Inn for a much needed pint of lager. A young slim, bleach blonde haired girl of about twenty years old, and also boasting a plethora of wonderful tattoos on every part of her body that was visible, sang to the accompaniment of a guitar that was being pleasantly strummed by a fellow of about her age. He had long dark hair and had a canny resemblance to the Godfather of Rock himself: the legendary Ian Fraser Kilmister (Lemmy). He too was covered in physical graffiti but still nowhere near the amount of his female companion. The Lemmy lookalike quickly took his strumming fingers away from his guitar to give me a thumbs up while also pointing at my T-shirt; the Lemmy t-shirt. I nodded my approval to his approval and then sat down at a vacant corner and listened to the duet playing a couple of ‘Fleetwood Mac numbers from the legendary ‘Rumours album. A few more cover versions of various classics and it was time for a break from them. The performers audience comprised of only six people in the bar, and that included the barman. But it was early evening, and I guess that the bar will be crowded a little later where the two will be inundated with requests for a few 60’s and 70’s classics.

 

I was a bit annoyed when I was joined by the singing duet who immediately, and once again, admired my heavy metal t-shirt.

 

“Seen em have ya?” said Lemmy II, referring, I guess, to Motörhead.

 

“Yes” I replied. “About twenty two times.”

 

“Yeh, me too” he said.

 

The two introduced themselves as Vicky and Crapps. I don’t know if Crapps got his name from an unfortunate medical bowel problem or it was an Hells Angel induction title. I never bothered asking. He was, however, a member of the ‘Hells Angels Wales -est. 1999, at least that was what his leather jacket said. Vicky was too a member of the same motorbike outfit, and I at last felt amongst friends. During the late 70’s, and well into the 80’s, I was more than befriended by bikers and other heavy metal bangers. I was in fact a punk come rocker myself, and had more than often attended punk and heavy metal gigs, some of them massive open air concerts. It felt nostalgic, and I liked it.

 

I offered Vicky and Crapps a beer, of which