Romancing the...urge to face our fears

I HAVE quite often reimagined myself as Kathleen Turner. Not in her Jessica Rabbit guise, I promise I don’t pout before the mirror, flicking my hair at imaginary rabbits – no it is Kathleen Turner aka The Joan Wilder from 1984s Romancing the Stone that I've daydreamed myself as.

I’m quite swept away with the idea of tapping out novels in my New York apartment and leaving only to have adventures in sultry climates with a young and handsome Michael Douglas. Indeed, she came to mind more recently as I cried typing out the whole of the final chapter of my first novel, both from the story and the unfettered joy and pride that accompanied the fact that I had battered out more than 95,000 words.

I had my own ‘city girl in the wilderness’ moment recently when we decided to explore the waterfalls in the Brecon Beacons. The journey along the A470 was less like the bus ride through the Columbian forest of the film and we parked safely at Gwaun Hepste near Ystradfellte.

Setting off along the rocky trail, I departed again from my heroine in the footwear sphere, suspecting that no Jack T Colton lookalike was going to strut along and lob the heels off my shoes I wore my sturdy walking shoes.

The lane turned downward, became increasingly rocky then muddy. It felt more ‘Going on a Bear Hunt’ and less 1980s film classic as we slipped, slid and scrabbled.

But trudge on we did as the midday sun beat down. Tree roots were navigated, stepping stones were tackled and we forged on across a bridge that was fully intact and fortunately didn’t give me any gorge swinging moments and as more wet grassy paths were traipsed along, we eventually reached Sgwd-y-Eira a stunning tumble of water that you can walk behind. Or at least you can if you’re not cowardly custard like me.

I am too cautious, too careful. I worry that I will slip and bash my head on a jut of stone and tumble into the river, be carried away downstream, being battered incessantly before meeting my death, to be discovered by a family who’ve settled on the river bank to unwrap their cheese sandwiches.

My children looked at me hopefully and I channelled all of my inner The Joan Wilder and took my first skiddy step. I slipped but recovered.

You must walk a narrow ledge cut into the rock and I cursed when my obsession with looking ahead not down, meant that I cracked my head on stone above. But, I didn’t plunge to my death and instead emerged behind the sheet of water.

My hair frizzed, my heart raced but I looked from smiling faces to the beauty and surprising calm that can be found behind a torrent of water careering down from above your head and before your eyes. So I write and I face my fears and I salute The Joan Wilder, aka the marvellous Kathleen Turner, for her inspiration.