Weathering the Weather in Wales

Wales beckoned this weekend - not entirely sure why as with autumn nearing its end and winter fast approaching we managed to get all seasons in one weekend - sunshine, rain, wind and hail - where was the snow? Laugharne was a cute little town on the East Coast, home to Caitlin and Dylan Thomas and their three children in the 1930's and 40's and the town which inspired such stories as 'Under Milkwood' and many of his poems (such as the one below from 'Quite early one morning').

'Off and on, up and down, high and dry, man and boy, I've been living now for fifteen years, or centuries, in this timeless, beautiful, barmy town, in this far, forgetful, important place of herons, cormorants (known here as billy duckers), castle, churchyard, gulls, ghosts, geese, feuds, scares, scandals, cherry trees, mysteries, jackdaws in the chimneys, bats in the bellfry, skeletons in the cupboards, pubs, mud, cockles, flatfish, curlews, rain, and human, often all too human, beings; and, though, still very much a foreigner, I am hardly ever stoned in the streets any more, and can claim to be able to call several of the inhabitants, and a few of the herons, by their Christian names. Now, some people live in Laugharne because they were born in Laugharne and saw no good reason to move; others migrated here, for a number of curious reasons, from places as distant and improbable as Tonypandy or even England, and have now been absorbed by the natives; some entered the town in the dark and immediately disappeared, and can sometimes be heard, on hushed black nights, making noises in ruined houses, or perhaps it is the white owls breathing close together, like ghosts in bed; others have almost certainly come here to escape the international police, or their wives; and there are those, too, who still do not know, and will never know, why they are here at all: you can see them, any day of the week, slowly, dopily, wandering up and down the streets like Welsh opium-eaters, half-asleep in a heavy bewildered daze. And some, like myself, just came, one day, for the day, and never left; got off the bus, and forgot to get on again. Whatever the reason, if any, for our being here, in this timeless, mild, beguiling island of a town with its seven public houses, one chapel in action, one church, one factory, two billiard tables, one St. Bernard (without brandy), one policeman, three rivers, a visiting sea, one Rolls-Royce selling fish and chips, one cannon (cast-iron), one chancellor (flesh and blood), one portreeve, one Danny Raye, and a multitude of mixed birds, here we just are, and there is nowhere like it anywhere at all. But when you say, in a nearby village or town, that you come from this unique, this waylaying, old, lost Laugharne where some people start to retire before they start to work and where longish journeys, of a few hundred yards, are often undertaken only on bicycles ...'
It's a pity that fame got to Dylan like so many others - he died from alcohol poisoning and morphine overdose in New York but was buried in Laugharne (we didn't see the little white cross that apparently shows his last resting place). Anyway, he has made his little town famous.
We wandered the paths around the sea and under the castle, said hello to the fisherman who replied in very strong Welsh accents, got sprayed by the sea and then wet by the rain before visiting Dylan's house at the top of the hill and the boat house where he apparently wrote (probably a bit away from family life). It was a bit cold (a visit to the only Kathmandu in Bristol is going to happen very soon - polyprops will be the order of the day), so we bought ourselves some fish and chips and ventured into the park beside the sea (a sign says the car park gets regularly flooded). The castle was closed for winter, but looked as though it might be interesting to venture inside (though we must say we spotted a number of little derelict castles on the Welsh hillsides and they are probably pretty much the same).

Since it is Harry's birthday this week he chose what to do this weekend. And our next stop was the highlight for him. Pendine Sands - a 7 mile stretch of beach where the world speed records were set in the 1920's by guys called Campbell and Thomas - about 170 miles per hour. Thomas (also known as Babs) was killed in one of his attempts and his car was buried in the sand on the beach. The Museum of Speed just up the road found it, restored it and have it now displayed in the museum. One of the downsides of doing touristy things in winter is that a lot of the things we want to see are closed (like the museum so we didn't get to see the car; or the boat trip - next trip April 2008 the sign said). The upside of it is there are far fewer people around and all the Pay and Display car parks are free and it is easier to find a bed and breakfast when you aren't sure where you will want to stop for the night. Anyway we wandered along the beach for a bit and although it was very windy, the wind did not whip up the sand like at home. Shows how compact it is and how wet it remains even at low tide. Wonder what it would be like in summer. The beach is owned by the Ministry of Defence and the yellow sign in the photo says if you find a bomb or mine just call a number .... We did revisit the beach on the way home, hoping for a nicer walk (maybe not the full 7 miles though) but although warmer it was still quite windy and we decided against it.

We found a sign to a chocolate factory - I suggested going straight to Tenby but you can guess who was driving. We went 8 miles inland through the Welsh countryside to a converted barn - the factory was closed (winter again!!), but the shop was open. We haven't tasted the chocolate yet, but the displays were magnificent and choices quite amazing. I bought 7 truffles and I think we will be cutting each one in half so we can both taste them - it will be quite a ceremony with a cappuchino in hand. Harry bought long cigar shaped ones with fudges inside - there were little christmas puddings with holly on top, cakes with sheep and rabbits etc, father christmas's - I could go on and I'm not even a chocoholic!! When we got home Harry laid our purchases out on the table just to admire them and he is already drooling!!! On the return trip we got caught up in a typical NZ scene and spent a long time (about 3 miles) going at cow pace as a herd wandered through the countryside, trying to nibble on bracken while the farmer drove behind them tooting his horn. Dogs are not really used here as workers (probably cos the english love to put bows in their hair and take them for car rides and holidays) so to herd this small group of cows actually took 6 people. By the time we had left the cows we had quite a number of cars behind us and we in our little yellow car led the convoy onto Tenby.

Tenby is a quaint little walled village (not like Chester where you can walk around it). The wall is narrow and the archers and those defending the city must have stood on some sort of gantry to reach the archery holes. Apparently in the mid 1900's the council wanted to pull the five arches into the town down but there was such an outcry they decided not to. What a devastation that would have been. The town is overlooked by a little 12th century castle, St Catherine's island (which has a 19th century fort on it and was closed cos it was winter and inaccessible cos it was high tide) and the statue of Prince Albert (husband of Victoria) plonked beside them. We wandered the town in the dim Saturday afternoon light and found a pub with an open fire. Planted ourselves on the only comfy chairs, ordered hot chocolates and read the newspaper for a couple of hours. By then the kitchen was open and we had two of the best roast dinners we have had in a long time before returning through the narrow winding streets to our hotel. It was a very stormy night, but the kiwis didn't notice after such an adventurous Saturday and we woke refreshed to a good breakfast before finding that the fire engines up the road were rescuing a chimney that had fallen down on the house next door to the one that Lord Nelson stayed at in 1820. We wandered the beaches (our umbrellas got turned inside out in a very wet gust) before driving back home through the countryside. It was the final stage of the World Car rally this weekend - in Wales - and we came across a 'touring' stage where the cars had to cross an intersection. We wandered up the road, turkey sandwiches in hand, thinking the first car was near as the crowd thickened - when Harry threw his sandwich at me and said 'hold this quick here is Sebastian Loeb (from France driving a Citreon) must get a photo' - alas not quite quick enough to take the lens cap off but got number two Marcus Gronholm and number 3 and number 4 and number 5.... - how amazing is that he knows the name of the driver by the car (colour?) they drive. The intersection was being controlled by two policeman in their bright yellow jackets and trousers (just like mine!!) when a car decided not to stop until in the middle of the road. The policeman walked to the drivers door and said 'what do you think I am doing standing in the middle of the road with my hand out' the elderly gentleman said 'can't hear what you are saying' after which the policeman gave up, closed the door and waved him on.