Last year (2019), one of the Frisian bastards hiked the Pembrokeshire Coast Path in southwestern Wales (Cymru), a 290-kilometre-long trail. As every walker knows, hiking, pilgrimage, and spiritual peace are one and the same thing. After nine days of walking, the coast path takes you to the homeland of Saint David, Wales’s patron saint. Saint David is buried in the cathedral of the town of Saint Davids—or in the Welsh language Tyddewi, meaning 'David’s house'—the religious capital of Wales. The town lies on a peninsula that the coast path encircles along its cliffs. It was here, not without reason, that the bastard had an encounter with one of those few thru-hikers who are 'freed from the flesh.'

Cymru, an ancient Celtic land whose people speak the Brittonic language y Cymraeg—that is, Welsh. According to UNESCO, it is classified as a 'vulnerable' language, although it has been slowly but steadily growing over the past ten years. By the end of 2018, nearly 900,000 people were able to speak Welsh, according to the Welsh Government—not counting the few thousand Welsh-speaking emigrants in the region of Patagonia, Argentina. These are better results than those of the various Frisian languages, which, sadly, are slowly but steadily moving toward extinction.

Now, let’s take the reader to one of the fourteen days of hiking along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path—to give a sense of how religion, myth, weather, history, and landscape are all intertwined and deeply woven into Welsh culture. On top of that, at the end of this day’s walk, there was an encounter with a 'fleshless hiker.'

It was 7 June 2019 when the bastard set out for the day’s stretch, from the little harbour village of Solva (Solfach) to Whitesands Bay—a hike of about twenty kilometres. The weather was typically Welsh: rain, strong westerly winds straight from the ocean, and more rain. No sun. Solva is a small fishing port whose name derives from the Scandinavian word for samphire, hinting that Norsemen once frequented these coasts long ago. There is, therefore, no connection to the song Salva Mea by Faithless, although the title 'save me' is appropriate in the context of this blog post. From the village, the path—as always along the Pembrokeshire Coast—follows the beautiful, endless cliffs westward. “Keep the sea to your left, and you cannot get lost!” as the walkers’ saying goes.

First, you pass the beautiful bays of Caerfai and Saint Non’s. At Saint Non’s Bay, you can see the remains of a chapel dedicated to Saint David’s mother, beside stones that once formed part of a Bronze Age circle—an ancient sacred site in every sense. Tradition holds that Saint Non’s Bay is the birthplace of Saint David, around the year AD 462. When he was born, a freshwater spring is said to have burst forth—a fountain that still exists today and remains holy.

The next stop was Porth Clais—the place where Saint David was baptized by the Irish Bishop Elvis. Remarkably, someone was selling excellent coffee and cake from a tiny, wind-battered shack. The bastard sat beneath a tent that kept lifting in the strong gusts that day. The friendly barista looked uncannily like a young George Clooney—a modern-day Siren, not luring sailors with song but with good espresso instead. Whether by design or not, he had managed to attract a Frisian bastard this time.

His long-haired, bearded companion, however, was the spitting image of Chief Vitalstatistix from Asterix the Gaul—big belly and all. No exaggeration. The English accent of 'Boss Vitalstatistix' was utterly indecipherable, so the bastard's only reasonable tactic was, as penguin Kowalski would advise, to “smile and wave.” Both men wore heavy woollen sweaters and raincoats—the kind of men, it seemed, who might start their day with a dram of Penderyn single malt.

After Porth Clais, the path follows the Ramsey Sound—a narrow, turbulent strait separating the peninsula from the island of Ramsey. It is a desolate place on the far western edge of Wales, especially when the rain lashes down and the wind howls straight off the Atlantic. You know you have reached the edge of the world when you stand there—and the bastard loved every moment of it. The name Ramsey comes from the Old Norse Rams-øy, meaning 'island of the ram,' another clear trace of the Norsemen who once roamed these coasts. The stark, windswept island was once the hermitage of Saint Justinian, a close companion of Saint David.

The Ramsey Sound has been feared by sailors for centuries, not only because of the extremely strong currents—which can reach up to eight knots with the tides—but also because of the Bitches. What? Yes, the Bitches. A cluster of rocks jutting at a right angle from the island, just below or just above the waterline depending on the tide, resembling sharp shark teeth. At the other end of the sound lies another treacherous group of rocks and islets, feared equally by sailors, known as the Bishops and Clerks. Bitches, Bishops, Clerks—Wales certainly has a way with names.

By the way, the Bitches and the Bishops bring to mind the Dry Salvages, a small group of rocks off the coast of the state of Massachusetts in the United States, immortalized in T.S. Eliot’s famous 1941 poem, symbolizing the raw power and peril of the sea. And the spiritual salvation, we add.

Around halfway through the afternoon, the bastard reached Whitesands Bay. In Welsh, this broad sandy beach is called Porth Mawr, meaning “great gateway.” Among the dunes adjacent to the beach, atop an old cemetery, lie the sixth-century remains of a chapel built to mark the spot where Saint Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, set out for his mission among the Irish. When the bastard visited Whitesands, the chapel and cemetery were being excavated by the Dyfed Archaeological Trust.

Aside from the windy shack at Porth Clais, there had been nowhere along the entire trail to grab a drink or a bite, nor any shelter from the relentless rain and fierce winds. But at Whitesands Bay, there was finally relief: the Whitesands Beach House! A sign at the door read Croeso Gerddwyr—'welcoming walkers.' That felt good.

Soaked and chilled to the bone, the bastard settled at a table near the door and large windows. He ordered a pint of beer, a coffee, a hot soup, and 'dirty fries'—French fries piled high with melted cheese, meat, bits of salad mixed in, and buried under countless sauces. A similar dish, known in the Netherlands as kapsalon (literally 'hairdresser'), comes to mind. Delicious! After finishing the meal, the bastard had another beer. Amazing how happy one can feel with such simple comforts.

While enjoying the food and warmth, a skinny hiker entered the Beach House. At first glance, the bastard guessed he was in his mid‑60s. Like the bastard, he wore a leather cowboy hat—the best protection against rain, sun, and thorny shrubs. The man, however, had long, wild hair and a matching beard, and carried a wooden stick—no fancy lightweight walking poles like the bastard’s. On his back was a small backpack, and, of course, he wore a raincoat.

For pants, he had black leggings topped with shorts. On his feet, woollen, sloppy socks and worn-out sneakers. At first, he kept standing, sighing “aah, aaah” repeatedly. With somewhat stiff movements, he finally sat at the table next to the bastard and ordered a soup as well.

After he ordered a second bowl of soup—“it was— aaah—excellent,” he told the waitress—the bastard and the bony hiker fell into conversation. The hiker was from the state of California in the United States and, to the bastard’s surprise, well over eighty years old. They agreed that, with the wind and rain, the only sensible thing was to keep moving: stopping would only increase the risk of hypothermia.

When the bastard asked why the hack he was walking in Europe rather than at home, with all the stunning wilderness in the States, the old man shrugged: “Well, I’ve hiked pretty much everything there,” he said without a hint of boastfulness—simply stating the truth. Throughout their talk he was friendly, respectful and grateful. The bastard could not help thinking, “The day this man stops walking will be the day he dies.” A thru‑hiker—freed from the flesh.

After finishing his food and beer, the bastard gathered his belongings and said goodbye. The bony hiker continued south, while the bastard headed north—a short walk to the youth hostel perched beautifully on the lower slopes of Carn Llidi, where he had made reservations. He was glad not to have to pitch his tent in such wet and ungodly weather. No sign of the archaeologists either in these conditions.

While sitting at the reception of the youth hostel, one of the other guests entered the room and took a seat. “You’re quiet, Peter?” the office manager asked him. Peter was a tall, heavyset man, dressed like a Russian Orthodox priest in long robes—but entirely in purple—with a large copper sickle hanging from his chest. Or perhaps it was a crescent moon, a Muslim symbol. On his head rested a Jewish kippah. Like the bony hiker from California, he had long hair and a massive beard. Yet, unlike the bony hiker, he was clearly not freed from the flesh—at least, not yet. Peter answered the office manager in a low, serious voice, his words marked by a distinct German-Austrian accent:

The bastard muttered a small prayer to Saint David, hoping that this purple, syncretic priest would not be his roommate that night. His prayers were answered—he had a room to himself.

Only a few kilometres from Whitesands Bay lies the town of Saint Davids, as mentioned, home to about 2,000 inhabitants. In the High Middle Ages, it was, along with Jerusalem and Rome, an important pilgrimage site. In the twelfth century, Pope Calixtus II declared Roma semel quantum dat, bis Menevia tantum—meaning that two pilgrimages to Saint Davids counted the same as one pilgrimage to Rome, a rather reasonable exchange rate. The cathedral itself is well worth a visit and is more than twice as quiet as Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican—again, an excellent exchange. Inside, all the traditional symbols of spirit over matter are present.

Surrounded by all this divine, spiritual, and heavenly ambiance, the bastard wondered how many more kilometres and paths he would have to walk to achieve what the Californian drifter had achieved—to be truly freed from the flesh. The bastard knew the answer immediately:

An Entire Continent...

Note 1 — If interested in spiritual hikes and pilgrimages, see also our blog post One of History's Enlightening Hikes, That of Bernlef and Ludger, or A Wadden Sea Guide and His Twelve Disciples — Hiking on the Sea.

This hike fits a series of semi long-distance walks in the territories of Europe’s autochthonous minorities in an effort to experience, understand their landscape and culture. Exactly where the Frisia Coast Trail is all about. For this reason the bastard hiked the Cape Wrath Trail in northern Scotland (check out our blog post “My God, the Germans bought all the bread!” cried Moira) and the GR20, dissecting on altitude the island of Corsica (read our blog post Support for the Corsican Cause in jeopardy—hiking the GR20).

Note 2 — The phrase “Croeso Gerddwyr” in the title of this blog post is actually written slightly differently from correct Welsh. In February 2020, the organization walkersarewelcome.org.uk instructed the Frisia Coast Trail to remove the phrase, citing copyright—yes, copyright on a standard greeting. Imagine that! Our suggestions to reference their organization were, alas, not considered. Check their website to see the original, “forbidden” Welsh words for yourself. Be careful how you greet someone on the trail from now on—before you know it, you might have violated someone’s copyright and end up being sued. Knights who say “Ni!”

Note 3 — For pictures of the bastard’s hike of the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, check out this Google link.

Further reading

Elliot, T.S., The Dry Salvages (1941)

Gros, F., Marcher, une philosophie (2013)

Kagge, E., Walking. One step at the time (2018)

Kelsall, D. & Kelsall, J., Walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path (2016)

Manthorpe J. & McCrohan, D., Pembrokeshire Coast Path. Amroth to Cardigan (2017)

Strayed, C., Wild. From lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail (2012)