Is Your Journey Really Necessary?

I was in Cardiff the weekend before last, and while I was walking through St David's Centre I saw a large group of students studying a large mural. I wondered what was causing so much excitement, so I decided to check it out for myself. This is what I found. (I know the photo isn't great, because I took it with my phone, but there's a reason for that.) It's a clever idea, isn't it? Grafting Cardiff and the suburbs onto the Tube map – that iconic piece of design which evolves as the network grows and changes – proves that someone at the South Wales Echo (where it originally appeared) has a sense of humour. Unfortunately, it had totally confused the youngsters. A couple of Chinese students were having a very animated discussion about it; a few West African girls were equally enthralled by the idea of the Barry John Line, the John Charles Line, and the Cardiff Arms Dart. I looked at it with them for a few minutes, took a couple of photos, and then turned to them and s...

In 'What Do You Want?' – 'Information!' , I told you about the getting-blood-from-a-stone-like process of trying to find out details of bus services in England when I was phoning from Wales. That was nearly six years ago. I've no idea whether things have improved since. I might give them a call when I can face another uphill struggle. Subsequently I've highlighted the inadequacies of the Traveline Cymru website, and the paucity of information on bus company websites. The situation is exactly the same once you log off and return to the Real World. In my local area (Aberdare), Stagecoach drivers occasionally have timetable booklets which passengers can pick up. Occasionally… However, these – by definition – list only the Stagecoach services. The various buses operated by Globe Coaches, N.A.T. Group, First Call and other local companies don't merit a mention. In fact, unless you happen to see one of these buses while you're out and about, you probably won...

I've never been a 'city' person as such, in spite of living, studying and/or working within fairly easy reach of Cardiff and London during my life. When I was growing up, getting to Cardiff was a long and very complicated expedition by bus (there were no trains from Aberdare until 1988.) Mother always hated the drive into the city centre, so we used to visit Swansea out of preference. That was where we did our Xmas shopping every year. Cardiff was an occasional necessary evil, best avoided if we had the choice. Now, in 2013, the train to Cardiff takes about an hour. On the other hand, you can get to Swansea from Aberdare, but it takes ages, involves two different companies and at least one change of buses. There's no possibility of getting there by public transport if you're working normal office hours, and you can forget any idea of getting home after the shops close. (See A Letter to the Editor 6 .) So it goes… Even when I was at university only an hour away from...

I was awake early again on the Monday morning, after my rather haphazard exploration the day before (see  …And Also The Trees .) When I looked out, a good number of the other tents had gone, and my own looked rather sad and lonely in the field. I gathered a few things together and walked down to the farmhouse for a nice hot shower. There were a couple of children playing in the next field, and there were signs of life in a caravan parked next to the fence. The chickens were roaming around in the yard, and I muttered a quiet curse towards the cockerel, who had woken me for the second day running. I emerged from the shower room refreshed and ready to face the world. It was only about eight o'clock. I decided to hit the road early and aim for the 0925 bus to Monmouth. Even though I wasn't in a great hurry to get back to Aberdare, I could feel the usual post-trip-away-comedown coming on. I wasn't looking forward to the next job of the day – dismantling the bloody tent. It was s...

Having breakfasted in fine fashion at the Log Cabin near Symonds Yat Rock (see Rocking Around the Forest ), I retraced my steps through the trees and eventually emerged onto the minor road to Coleford. It didn't take me long before I found a signpost. It wasn't a great deal of use, to be honest – I already knew where I was, and travellers wouldn't exactly be spoilt for choice. To the north lies the village of Symonds Yat; to the south lies Coleford. There's not much in between, unless you count Berry Hill/Christchurch. But it confirmed that the strange twisting path through the forest hadn't totally confused my sense of direction. I was heading south, exactly as planned. The signpost also advised me that Coleford was two miles away. Once again I found myself in the unenviable position that Achilles had been in when racing the Tortoise. I was pretty sure that I'd walked a lot further than two miles to get to Symonds Yat in the first place. I looked at my phone an...