Our ney ost
magined when signing up. Parrly the second day, a 12-hour,
epic of icy mountain ascent descent, rocky-valley trekking,
forest traversing, muddy slippery logs and freezing river
All of this after a 6am start mountain hut with no elecy, sleeping three to a mattress night of extreme pelvic floor avoid a trip to the only toiup a snowy hill. asn’t so much out of my comone as on a different planet
little of the trek seemed to well, actual walking. Every had to be focused on. There climbing and scrambling, balg on slimy rocks and greasy knee-crunching descents and busting ascents. My backside ienced almost as much varied
my feet – sliding on snow, rocks and bamboo spikes. racked my left knee twice. The octor administered sound meddvice on the second bump. “Just and carry on,” he said. It
treat. Because, with the raderie of the group, you do just
On the night before the secMonster Day we were all given ption to drop out if we thought eren’t up to it. Nobody did.
concept of mind over muscle wonderful thing. When it got thought about the people on who were so much more essive than me. There was
from Kidwelly, who at 67 was ldest trekker. She had lost her
suddenly to cancer just after his diagnosis and had walking as a way of dealing grief. Alongside Denise, a bubbly, newly-retired teacher, from Neath, she formed a Thelma & Louise-like partnership of inspiration, never whinging or faltering. Her rendition of You Stole The Sun From My Heart to our fellow trekker and Manics frontman James Dean Bradfield was a particular highlight.
Then there was Josie, who lost her footing in the bamboo jungle and sustained what turned out to be a fractured ankle. She had no choice but to take painkillers, have it strapped and carry on. She didn’t complain once.
And there were Emma and Rachel, who had both been through the darkest of times with breast cancer and who embraced the challenge with fun-loving fervour, singing their way across the relentless rainforest tracks.
I thought about my mother, too. She was the reason I became an Ambassador for Velindre in the first place. Just a fraction of the bravery she showed facing terminal illness would see me through. I carried her picture in my rucksack and, on the final day, as I trudged hot, aching and shattered, it felt as if she was there waiting for me at the end of the trek.
My mother was a Catholic convert. It was an affectionate family joke that she would apply a Hail Mary to any problem – from our O-level anxieties to job interview nerves. So when I saw that the official journey’s end was marked by a shrine to Our Lady I smiled and then shed a few tears. No wonder I got through it – Mam was there all along.
That night there were more tears from our group as Velindre’s head of fundraising Andrew Morris announced that our trek had raised more than half a million pounds for Welsh cancer patients.
Patagonia is an experience none of us will ever forget. I’ve gained so much from those three journeys.
After that physical trek, I will never now be afraid of a Brecon Beacon (nor an al fresco toilet) trip.
Following that cultural voyage, I want to learn Welsh – for how can we be so complacent here when people still champion the language after 150 years and 8,000 miles away?
And, after undertaking that emotional Patagonian journey for Velindre, all of us who have lost a loved one to cancer know that though sadness brought us together in the first place, honouring their memory in this way has brought us joy, too.