Pop goes the ankle

I have been wearing borrowed walking shoes as my boots are 10,000 kilometres away in Mozambique, and I’ve nearly gone over a few times. Yesterday when scurrying off Worm’s Head I popped my ankle audibly and now am what my sister is correctly labelling as ‘lame’; similar to some of the sheep that roam upland areas of the Gower.

The weather was a bit wet this morning so we started more slowly, especially as I was moving like a geriatric. We ate breakfast delivered to the room due to closure of the communal areas, and I lost brain cells watching Lorraine. Today’s fashion segment was Lorraine Kelly cooing over 750-quid designer Covid visors, far out of the reach of the average person and a missed opportunity to transmit something useful and educational. It was also a prime example of the ubiquitous aspirational commercial crud that fills our brainspaces and ironically makes us as a society less capable of acting collectively on important things like a consistent and effective coronavirus response.

At one of the Gower’s scenically located villages, Port Eynon, there was a cold wind and I sat on a bench while sister and dog meandered on the beach. There are some interesting historical sites such as the ruins of an old salting house, but as I am walking lopsidedly I couldn’t partake in any scrambling over rocks. There was another chance meeting with a person from Stoke when a woman needed help navigating a parking meter. The Gower is seemingly popular with those from my homeland. After Port Eynon we procured an ankle strap from a pharmacy, which was expensive, but one can’t put a price on one’s health and mobility.

At the next scenic spot of Oxwich Bay I read with my foot on a boulder whilst the other two went down the beach. After swimming Chester the dog (the Ginger Prince) sat shivering under blankets and I was discouraged from being a bookworm so that we could leave and warm him up from his perishing state. It was a good move as we skedaddled to a country pub in the village of Llanrhidian where we gorged on classic Welsh fare: burgers, lasagne and fried halloumi sticks. Sated, my sister had to navigate tight pub car parks and narrow lanes in countryside with not much scope for flat expansive surfaces. I admire that she’s not a meek driver as too much meekness on the Gower’s lanes may result in some sticky situations and angering of other motorists.

The final notable stop of the day was on Cefn Bryn, one of the highest ridges in the Gower, where there’s a huge boulder known as Maen Ceti, Arthur’s Stone. Legend states that King Arthur threw a stone on this spot from Llanelli, when presumably Llanelli held more significance than being an unremarkable post-industrial town.