The Beasts of the Brecon Beacons by Geoffrey Peyton (good books for high schoolers TXT) 📖

After been told by an NHS employee that any upcoming surgery to remove a very uncomfortable alien object from my stomach had not yet had a date set, I immediately went into a silent depression. Because of an operation in September 2015 to remove a cancerous tumour from my bowel, going away on any customary excursions to the wonderful countryside of my native pastures had had to be put on hold for, what I was told, at least four months. But ten months later no letter has dropped on the inner porch floor to indicate that I would be under the knife any time soon. And when I visited the Cancer Clinic at the QEHB (Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham) on the morning of Monday 4th July 2016 to see if there was any news about my operation I was informed by the head nurse, Linda, that there was no G.D. Peyton on any surgery list to remove any godforsaken object from his wretched stomach.

“Leave it to me Geoffrey. I’ll try and sort it out for you,” she told me.

Totally pissed off by now I made up my mind, there and then, that I was going to do a spot of camping on my own in Wales. Why Wales? - you ask. Well, Wales football team were in the semi-final of the EURO Championships and I wanted to indulge in the celebrations, because England had been knocked out by the mighty nation of Iceland. Yes, fucking Iceland.

Now, you may have noticed that my language has, up to now, been a little fruitful to say the least. Well, I am really fed up and utterly depressed. So if you are easily offended by the numerous amounts of my filthy tongue being printed, I suggest that you give this read a miss. I am not usually so expletive with the old English aggressive verse, but as I have just explained, I’m in a mood, and I will be in a mood all the way through this journey, although I will try and calm down as I go further on with this adventure trek. In fact, I have calmed down a little now.

As I have just said, England were beaten by f***ing Iceland (is that better), but the Welsh were still in. In fact, they had just beaten Northern Ireland, the birth country of my grandfather and grandmother on my father’s side. But my grandfather on my mother’s side was born in Swansea, which, in my estimation, makes me part Welsh. About 25% I’d say. But can I up the ante? I think I could. If I eff off to Wales and find a pub to watch the game in on Wednesday I know that the welsh fans will sing the nation anthem because they are a very patriotic nation. And when they see and hear me singing ‘Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’ (Old Land of My Fathers) that should get me a wholehearted Taffy welcome. Because how many Englishmen can sing the Welsh national anthem in a perfect Brythonic tone? Not many – but I can. In fact, I love national anthems, except ours. When ‘God Save the Queen’ is played on the TV, or whatever, I truly turn the sound down. This is nothing to do with me being less patriotic, it’s just that it lacks passion, the passion that the Irish, Scottish and of course the Welsh anthem has. I also know the whole of ‘The Flower of Scotland’ and the English bit of Amhrán nabbFiann’ the Irish anthem. In fact, all of the anthems around the world are a delight to listen to, but not ours – ours is shit (but I do like the Sex Pistols version).

Okay, let’s get back to my five-day journey around South Wales.

I returned home from the hospital at around 11.00am on the Monday. Pam asked how I had gotten on, and so I told her the bad news. She almost demanded that I get in touch with them again and plea for my operation, of which I am desperate for. But I had had enough of the bullshit that I was being fed by the staff at the QEHB, and so I told Pam there and then that I was going camping rough around South Wales, and on my own.

“You must be mad” she moaned. “it’s too dangerous living out in woods and things like that.”

“Why is it?” I answered. “There’s no animals in Britain that attack and kill you here. Not intentionally anyway.”

"Well, Be careful.”

There was no more deterring me from going to Wales from Pam, and to be honest, there was no stopping me from going anywhere. I was off.

It has been eleven years since I had had a few days sleeping rough in the woodlands of our nation, and that was when I attempted and failed to walk the Cumbrian coastline in 2005. But I only failed to finish that target because I was out of time, but I did finish off the trail six weeks later when I had another week to spare. But I had no target to complete here, as all I wanted was to get away from the headache that lay in Birmingham. Pam was probably pleased to see the back of me for a few days anyway, as I was pretty moody from day to day and she knew that I was missing my annual vacations immensely.

Although I had been out of work for almost a year now, due to my cancer recovery program, I still managed my finances with care. I was currently being fed by the state, and was getting a reasonable amount to live on - and to be honest, more than enough for my needs. I was even offered a further £60 per week, of which I refused, as greed is certainly something that irritates me immensely. So I had plenty to pay for my own fare to Swansea, which was only £30 return. I paid the fare and eventually boarded a train at around 2.00pm to Bristol, and from there I would jump on sprinter to Swansea.

While I was at New Street Station drinking a latté before my train was due in, a young female beggar with the most grotesque rotting teeth, asked me to spare, not some lose change, but five quid.

“Are you serious?” I told her.

“You can afford it. You’ve got plenty of money.”

Looking at this pathetic poor soul, who, despite her gangrenous looking teeth, I saw a pretty young girl who could not have been more than twenty years old. I wondered how on earth she had become a homeless drug addict. I do take pity on these unfortunate people, as I have been in their shoes myself at some point in my younger days, although I had mostly left the drug side at bay.

“I’m not giving you any money towards your inevitable demise.” I told her.

“Fuck you then,“ she said, as she continued on her merry way.

I watched as she moved away to attempt to trap someone more vulnerable than myself. I couldn’t help but notice her pristine slim figure that she boasted, which I doubt was by design. After I had finished my latté and disposed of my paper cup I walked towards the ticket barrier for my train to Bristol. Walking parallel with me was the very girl who had tried to collar me for a fiver, but she wasn’t alone. She had a male subject with her who was roughly my age. He must have offered her something more than a five-pound note. What a blow!

Before I left the house this morning I decided against the big backpack. All I had was an average size holdall that had very little in the way of survival materials. I did have a sleeping bag, a mini water-bottle, a small saucepan and a mini stove that I purchased last year but never got round to using until now. My plan was to live from day to day and buy requirements when they are needed. This ploy was down to the fact that I was still in rehabilitative mode and carrying 40lbs of goods up and down hills and valleys wouldn’t do me much good.

It didn’t take too long before the train pulled in Bristol Temple Meads on a warm midday Monday afternoon. When I looked at the timetable for trains to Swansea I had to rush to another platform where my 3.58pm ride was awaiting departure. I had to change at Bristol Parkway, and then again at Cardiff Central. This whole route I had to take because a direct train to Swansea would have cost twenty pounds more.

The train chugged into Swansea fifteen-minutes shy of 6.00pm. The first thing I did was to eat fish and chips, as I was incredibly hungry. I ate the lot in student style before taking a walk down to the harbour. An unpleasant drizzle spoilt the walk a tad, which could also spoil my sleeping needs later on. Not having a tent could be a problem too, especially as I am in the wettest city in the whole of the UK. With the drizzle and a sharp wind coming up the Bristol Channel I was forced to retreat back into the city centre. A lot of the shops were open and so I took advantage of the nice offers at Poundland. What caught my eye was a green 4x4 tarpaulin sheet. If I am going to rough it out in the wild, then this bargain would be very handy indeed. I also purchased a few food items and a cigarette lighter in case I need to start a fire. I had given up smoking recently and threw, or gave away, most of the lighters that I had, not realising that they have other useful purposes.

After a two hour ‘tour de Abertawe’ my legs were beginning to give up on me. This forced me to take refuge in a pub. The Pump House was right next to the waterfront, and as the name suggests, it was an old pump house which was used to house the hydraulic pump for Swansea’s south and north docks from 1900 until early 1971. The pump’s high pressure was used for many high performance machinery, such as the swing bridge, cranes, lock gates and hoists to load coal onto ships and boats. After the redevelopment of the marina here in the 1980’s, the pump house was converted into the pub where I am supping a pint of expensive lager right now. I selected a comfortable seat by the window that overlooked the marina and drank my needed beer greedily. When I returned to the bar for a second helping of toxic waste, the young barmaid and an equally young barman were in conversation in fluent Welsh. This is nothing new, as I come across this situation quite often. In fact, over 750,000 people speak it as their natural tongue here. The language is a compulsory lesson in Welsh schools, and people even believe that the English language will all but disappear within the next 100 years. Unlikely. And here’s another useless fact. Wales is not the only country in the world that speak this Celtic tongue. The Patagonian region in Argentina has more than 10,000 of their citizens speaking Welsh as the first language. Honestly. Google it, because I’m not explaining the reason why.

“A pint of lager please mate.” I asked the young chap.

As he poured my beer slowly, he asked if I was here on holiday.

“Kind of,” I replied. “I wanted to come to a country that had a decent football team.”

“Ah, jumping on the Welsh Bandwagon, are we?”

“I am.” I replied. “I’m using my 25 per cent of Welsh ancestry while Wales are still in the Euro’s.”

“What part of Wales