Things are moving fast out here, in some ways. In other ways, not so much. Fortified by a little wine I finally worked out the miles-to-time ratio this evening and discovered that if I keep on at this rate we’ll be back in Aberystwyth in fifty weeks. Pretty much a year then, if we take a little time off for Christmas. Ha!

But in the ways that matter things really are moving on. There have been low points in the last two weeks, three lots of tears (all mine), one day of really bad behaviour (Chico’s), one telling-off (warranted) from Tamlin, several scary cow, horse, and mountain incidents, some sleepless nights, and several days spent eating pretty much only salted peanuts and toffee waffles. It has, at least, been extremely sunny.

Clutching a bottle of beer after Naughty Sunday

Chico used to jump out of his skin if anything brushed against a saddle-bag (as an aside, the bags are now named Don and Sancho after Señors Quixote and Panza, the tale of whom I hope to read on the way sometime. Don sits on Chico’s left, Sancho on his right. In theory naming the bags would make finding things easier, but it’s yet to actually happen, and still everything is pulled out every time anything is sought. Items that are most often looked for include horse nuts, bailer twine, the donkey-rubbing glove, some apple or carrot to cheer Chico up, the electric fence voltage tester, and peanuts or waffles to cheer me up) and I used to jump too. Now the world is a different place.

There was a particularly naughty donkey day, followed by me being a bad donkey mama and eating a takeaway curry on the beach before walking into the dunes to settle Chico into an evening corral. Then my water bottle leaked through my backpack and down my back, and I had a sleepless night of great uncertainty about whether he’d stay in a sand dune corral in that sort of uppity mood, made worse as he noisily ate driftwood in the small hours. (I learned then that we need to get somewhere and get him unpacked, settled, fed and brushed – then he knows he is off-duty and in his own resting and rolling space. He gets cross if he knows we’re nearly done for the evening, but I’m holding things up.) The next morning I made us walk a tricky route through rollercoaster dunes – narrow scrubby tracks with thick soft sand drop-offs, amazing hot fragrances and wild flowers, marram grass spiking us in the legs, and all of it undertaken at stroppy-speed-donkey pace, dragging me up and down the soft mini-mountains, barging me off the path into spiked hummocks, nosing about the place with no respect for his feckless muleteer.

I know, and I knew then too, that I had no right to expect respect. What kind of leader was I? Tamlin says he is a donkey who craves clear leadership – he doesn’t want to feel he needs to take it on himself. That thought didn’t make anything better. Man, it was tough. That next day I saw a man on a tricycle, and then a mother and daughter on a quadracycle (?!) and both hailed the donkey in friendly terms. I would happily have swapped him for either silly vehicle. I felt jealous of passing cats, just for being cats and not feeling compelled to do something idiotic like walking around a really pretty big country with a really quite strong, cross and baffled animal. I felt jealous of farmers, and in fact anyone, who knew how to do their jobs. I felt jealous of the people on the train that passed, two carriages going each way every two hours, for having other things to go to, and for being carried away from here – this hot, difficult here.

Seaside donkey getting into his stride

Apart from the emotional toughness of being tied to an irritated donkey, it’s physically sore. He twists and lunges, and with his saddle on there are corners to be hit by and shoulders to wrench. And then, some relief. We took two rest days at a wonderful haven called Chicken Shack, a cooperative housing community near Tywyn. Chico had the perfect combo – a small corral in a lush and perfect meadow, plenty to eat but not too much, little enough space to be a bit bored. And the tent was right next door, so we really began to spend time together. Something changed, and suddenly Chico began to be friendly and much more relaxed. He drank water out of his collapsible water bowl while I held it, he came over for nose-strokes or a sniff every time I passed, he lay down and rolled a lot despite me being nearby, and we both began to get the hang of me picking up his hooves. He even yawned, and his, er, little fellow began to put in frequent and alarming appearances despite his gelding status.

And then things went from strength to strength. I like him now. And with that breakthrough I am a nicer person. I am genuinely bothered about his wellbeing rather than just knowing I have to be. I began to sing little songs to him (‘The hills are alive with the sound of Chico’, ‘It takes two’, ‘Walk on, walk on’, ‘Little donkey’, etc) and enjoy his company; I even kissed him once or twice. His moods are valid now, and I am getting better at figuring out their causes. And from there, everything is smoother, and the whole shebang seems almost possible. Albeit in only just under a year…