wales

The Welsh Odyssey – Day Three Tenby to Fishguard

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I have a very good night’s sleep. So, also does Hamish. The en-suite shower is a bit intimidating as it looks just like a coffin. However, it’s roomy inside so it’s something to think about when I’m planning my funeral. (Cue chorus of Happy, Happy Joy, Joy.) The shower is controlled by a knob that looks like an old fashioned tap, but has markers for Off, Cold, Warm and Hot on it. As the pointer attached to it currently sits between Off and Cold, I’m not completely confident that it’s going to work as expected. I fear this will be another example of freezing, COLD, cold, tepid, warm, hot, hot, HOT, HOT!!!, tepid, cold. I am agreeably surprised and once up to temperature, it’s constant. The shower head is at about 7ft, so all in all it’s a very good shower. 9.75 out of 10.

There is no breakfast provided here, so I will have to forage. As I’m planning to start at Tenby, I can get something there. My plan from there is to visit Pembroke, Angle, Picton Castle, St David’s and finally Fishguard. This is liable to change as the weather forecast is pretty awful and the clouds are definitely lurking. Because of that, I decide to move Hamish to the suitcase. I think you can imagine how well that went down.

Unfortunately, the weather is not lurking – it is Stealth Rain. From inside, it looks as though it rained earlier and may rain again later. Once outside, I realise that this is sneaky, silenced Stealth Rain and it is actually pissing down. My decision to put Hamish in the suitcase is vindicated, though he still says he’s going to pee on my underwear.

I head back to Tenby and now that I have spotted the rain, it stops being Stealth Rain and turns into a torrential downpour. I refuse to get wet, so head for Pembroke in the hope that the weather will calm down a little.

The car and I seem to be getting on better now and the trip is uneventful (apart from the usual tailgating). In Pembroke, I find myself in the middle of rush hour as 5 of us wait to get past some roadworks. By the time I negotiate this fearsome obstacle to progress (about 45 seconds), the rain stops and the sun is fighting to come out. I then spend a jolly five minutes with a car park ticket machine that repeatedly refuses to accept my card. In the end, I give up, load the app and pay that way.

I then head up to the road to Pembroke Castle. I’m not going in as I’ve been here before – several of us stayed for a long weekend in Pembroke when the countryside was closed due to a Foot & Mouth outbreak. The castle is as spectacular as I remember, but my current task is to get breakfast. I spot somewhere that may or may not be open. I open the door and inside behind the counter are a small gaggle of staff who are completely absorbed with some fascinating task. I politely attract their attention and they confirm that they are actually open. I grab a table and order my first Full Welsh Breakfast,

Which is grand – although the black pudding is a little overdone. It sets me up nicely for a hobble back to the car. It’s a hobble because my back and knees are organising a committee to complain about the unusual activity.

Next stop: Angle. This is a village described as being a single road and is very close to the southwest tip of Wales. The route to Angle is mostly made up of B roads with passing places, which are agreeably entertaining. Angle is indeed a single road. Oddly, it is a fairly straight road, so I wonder where the angle is. One garden is clearly possessed by a nutter as is packed with garden furniture, including a plastic giraffe and gorilla. I later learn that this is actually referred to as Angle Zoo.

I head through and down to West Angle Bay. It’s windswept and quite exposed here and I’m glad it’s stopped raining. It would be fun to walk around the coast a bit, but my back isn’t up to it. So after a couple of pictures and a comfort break, I head for Picton Castle.

The castle is halfway between Tenby and Fishguard which requires quite a bit of backtracking. By the time I pull up in the car park, it’s raining heavily and I just can’t be bothered. The castle isn’t visible from the car park and so I’m not sure how far it is and how wet I’m going to get. It seems silly, but I’m knackered – which is telling testimony for how unfit I am. Anyway, off to St David’s.

St. David’s sits on the north side of St Bride’s Bay. It’s only a mile from the sea, though you wouldn’t know it once you get there. But on the way, the road follows the coast and gets very clingy around the impressive beach and cliffs at Newgate. I look for somewhere convenient to stop but by the time I start to look I’m heading up Newgate Hill and I get stuck in a queue of traffic behind a council truck that is collecting cones at a glacial pace. Of course, Newgate Hill is very steep, so the car and I have another disagreement.

Temporarily resolving our differences, I proceed and arrive at St David’s. This is tiny, but has a cathedral and a Bishop’s Palace. Luckily, the weather has cleared and is now sunny and bright. I head into the gift shop on the way in and purchase a bookmark. I resist the temptation to by a pair of Holy Socks (Faith on your Feet) as a gag gift. I have a nice wander around a very pleasant cathedral and then it’s off to the refectory for Welsh Cakes and Diet Coke. There are various versions of Welsh Cakes available, so I go for one traditional and one lemon. I have to admit I’m not hugely impressed. The traditional one is tasteless and both are dry, leaving me with a mouthful of crumbs. The refectory has a great idea for winding people up – a little bowl of Trivial Pursuit cards on each table. What a great way to make sure that every visitor has the opportunity to get involved in an argument!

From here, I head to Fishguard. The satnav takes me the middle of a residential area, where people seem to enjoy parking randomly in the middle of the road. I fiddle with it a bit and find a car park called Fishguard Fort. I head through the town, over a very narrow bridge and up a hill to the Fort car park. I get there just before another couple. I wander across to the information sign, where one of them is stood having lit a cigarette within seconds of leaving their car. As the sign is now surrounded by a cloud of smoke, I decide to ignore it and head off down the path to the Fort. Before I can go, she lets out a hacking cough and deposits half a lung on the footpath. I choke down the urge to suggest she stops smoking and instead hand her lung fragment back to her. The two of them never get down to the Fort, so maybe the person with her took her to A&E.

Fishguard Fort is a nice little fort with some excellent views. The sea is uncluttered except for one massive ferry/cruise ship/ Bond villain base that looms large. It doesn’t seem to move while I’m there, which supports the Bond villain base theory. It’s a nice climb back to the car.

The final journey is fairly short, but I’ve been warned that satnavs usually take people to the wrong place. This, naturally, happens but they have provided me with the what3words needed to pinpoint the correct entrance. I then drive down a long farm track and into the yard of a working farm. I can’t see anything that resembles my Airbnb (called The Farm Cwtch), so I park up and go and chat to a farmhand who speaks in an extremely challenging dialect – because he is Polish rather than Welsh. It turns out that this is the right place and I find what is a charming little Airbnb.

It is essentially a chalet with one main room and a small en-suite bathroom. It’s clean, neat and well maintained and comes with a TV and Netflix account, mini-fridge, microwave and Air Fryer. I settle in for the evening.

The Welsh Odyssey – Day Two: Neath to Tenby

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I have good night’s sleep in a very comfortable bed.  Instructions for breakfast came with a lot of warnings about not letting the dogs out, the risks of dog poo on the floor and the friendly but huge dog that barks a lot.  Rather than risk any of this, I take longer to get going than normal and head down after 08:00.

Breakfast is pseudo-continental and I have (for me) a very healthy breakfast: coffee, orange juice, Greek yoghurt and mixed fruit.  I chat away with my host, explaining what I’m doing including the Welsh “things” that I’m looking for.  The idea of “curry half ‘n’ half” is new to her and I’m forced to show her on t’Internet that apparently this is a common thing in Wales.  I do my dishes (which surprises her) and then it’s time to head off.

The day started bright and sunny – it’s always good to see Sunshine on Neath. (I thought I’d get the first dad joke out of the way nice and early. For those of my readers who are young, this is a reference to the Proclaimers song – and musical – Sunshine on Leith).  It may have started sunny, but it quickly becomes overcast and threatening – which may count as pathetic fallacy as that’s exactly how I feel towards the car.  It has now done something which is beyond the pale – the satnav highlights McDonalds.  No other eateries, just fucking McDonalds.  I may have to reprogram it with a crowbar.

I head for the coast and The Mumbles.  Sole reason is the stupid name.  Apparently it’s a bastardisation of the French word for breasts.  Either they have eroded a lot in the last couple of centuries, or those French ladies are very strangely built, as you will see later.

As I drive through Swansea, I realise that I forgot to have a safety pee before I left and I really need to go.  Typically, nothing resembling a toilet appears (the bloody satnav doesn’t show anything useful like that!) and I complete the journey clenching my knees together and trying to use the Vulcan discipline of Kolinar to stop an embarrassing accident. 

This seems to work and I park up, before walking down the road to The Mumbles. 

There are a few of us – and all seem to be grey-haired, so I do wonder if this is a Crumblies Only zone.  I am disabused of this when some git jogs past. 

At the end is the typical end of pier fare, and the mandatory Ferris Wheel.  There is also a café, so I nip in there for a cappuccino and an unhealthy snack. I ask her if they have any Welsh cakes and she has the good grace to look embarrassed when replying in the negative and saying that they don’t really have anything Welsh.  I make do with carrot cake, which is preceded by a highly relieving visit to the facilities.

It’s spitting with rain while I’m in the café, which luckily stops just as I head outside.  I get some shots of the Mumbles and the MFW (Mandatory Ferris Wheel). 

Don’t look much like breasts to me



I stop to hope that their approach to safety exceeds their ability to spell. 

I head on back to the car and the weather stays mercifully dry.

I then head off to Rhossili and Worm’s Head.  On the way, it becomes clear that 20mph is a standard speed limit in most built up areas.  It is just as clear that no-one in Wales pays the slightest attention to it.  I’m tailgated all through one 20mph zone – so much so that I wonder if the speed limit is actually 30mph.  But when we move into 30 and then 40 mph, the tailgating continues.  Of course, the slightest twitch over the speed limit gets the damned car pinging at me, so I have to live with a nice Welsh person trying to climb into my boot.  I get some relief when the satnav in the car thinks it’s 60mph, when in fact it’s only 40.

On the way, the weather definitely meets the definition of “changeable”.  There are a couple of really heavy showers and I begin to be concerned that I might not be able to walk out to Worm’s Head.  On arrival, it’s looking slightly better and to my delight, it’s a National Trust property.  Huzzah!  I’ve been a member for four years and this is literally the first time that I’ve got any advantage from it.  Because the weather is still lurking, I head into the gift shop where I resist the temptation to buy pre-packaged Welsh Cakes and Bara Brith.  However, I do snag two bookmarks, including an ecologically responsible one that is make from recycled blankets.

By the time I go back outside, the sky has cleared a bit, the sun is out and I head down to Worm’s Head.  There are some stunning views here along the sweep of the bay.  At the head itself, there is a section called the Devil’s Bridge, which is only accessible at low tide – I’m not going to try that.  I wander down the path, getting some shots of photogenic horses and looking back to the bluff behind me where two paragliders are engaging in what looks like some bizarre mating dance.

My back is fine … initially.  As a result, I go too far and by the time I get back it’s definitely complaining.  It’s not the only thing complaining – Hamish is grumpy as he wanted to take a foal home with him.

If you look really carefully, you can see the two paragliders. They are just above the chimneys

I head back the way I came, then divert across the Gower peninsula as I head for Carmarthen.  This route is definitely less well travelled and has some fascinating single track roads – although they are as nothing to one who has experienced the NC500!  The route really opens out and there are some fantastic views across the Gower, though with nowhere to stop so that I can take photographs.  You’ll just have to imagine it.

The car and I seem to have entered some form of entente cordiale and it only stalls once on the way.

Carmarthen has a fairly famous castle, though it is described in the Rough Guide as “disappointing”.  Unfortunately, I have to agree.  Very little of it is left.  It was clearly huge and the remains are crammed alongside some tiny shop-filled streets. 



The atmosphere in Carmarthen is strangely subdued, though there are some signs of humour at least.

I wander around to find somewhere to eat and as I do, I discover that Carmarthen is the hair cutting capital of Wales.  There are barbers, boutiques, hairdressers, hair salons and one which described itself as an “authentic barbers”.  Most seem to have no customers, just staff who peer out the door desperate for someone to practice their arts on.

Eventually, I walk into The Boars Head. The outside looks like a right dump, but it has a decent menu on display and so I decide to take a chance.  Inside, it is much better, with a definite predilection for the dark wood style of decoration.  I have a chat with a fairly harried looking barmaid and I settle for their “Famous Carvery Baguette” which comes with stuffing, roast potatoes and gravy for dipping.  What is doesn’t come with is lamb.  Despite being in Wales, my choices are beef, chicken or a mixture of both.  I order the mix and when it arrives, it justifies the moniker “famous”.

After lunch, I head for Tenby.  My plan is to book into my hotel (The Giltar Grove Country House) and then go down and explore the town.  I’ve seen some photos of it online recently and it looks amazing.  But my legs and back are telling me that I’ve pushed it enough today.  I arrive and am greeted by a very nice lady who has upgraded me to an en suite double room.  I think it must be because she’s read my blog.  Sadly, it’s because she thought a single room was unfair on Hamish.

I settle down for an evening of coffee and biscuits.  I will explore Tenby in the morning.

The Welsh Odyssey – Day One: Slough to Neath

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Here we go again, and the answer to the question posed at the end of the NC500 is:

…Whales!!!!


…no wait, I meant …. Wails!!!



…. OK, it must be WALES.

Today’s journey (well, the important bit!)

That’s why people keep coming back – where else would you get a homonym joke?

So, since the NC500 it’s been a bit pf a patchy time.  My back has been bad since I had to drive a tiny clown car to Kidlington and back.  In February, my brain decided to go down the black hole formed by my SAD (Seasonal Affected Disorder).  I ended up sat at home hardly moving for several weeks, which had the result of making my back even worse.  As a result, I had serious concerns about actually going on this holiday.  However, I thought about how disappointed my loyal fan would be, so I girded my loins and went ahead with the preparations.

Rather than the somewhat rushed 7 days for the NC500, this journey was a more leisurely 11 day trip around approximately 550 miles of Welsh roads.  (Admittedly, some of this was more Welsh-adjacent than actually in Wales.)  I decided to go around the coast as much as possible from Cardiff to Chester, and then head south through Shrewsbury, Hay-on-Wye and back to Cardiff.

As I did with Scotland and Scottish things, I have a list of Welsh things to try and see:

  • Bara Brith
  • A Red Dragon
  • Leeks
  • Daffodils
  • Miners complaining about the English
  • Somewhere that I have no chance of pronouncing the name
  • A male voice choir
  • Welsh Cakes
  • Cawl
  • Glamorgan Sausage
  • Welsh Rarebit
  • A woman in traditional Welsh costume with the silly hat
  • Laver Bread
  • Someone called Bronwyn or Blodwyn
  • Someone called Ivor or Idris
  • Curry “half ‘n’ half”

I am massively confident that I won’t get most of these.  But I have some help this year: Hamish the Highland Coo.  (Granted, he is often more of a hindrance than a help, but I live in hope).

Having deliberately got a couple of days off prior to setting out, I pack at 06:00 on the day of departure.  This year the usual small wheely bag has been replaced with a much larger, but more battered suitcase, which leans alarmingly when at rest because one of the legs on the bottom has fallen off.  However, that combined with the rucksack means that I have considerably more room than previously – and as I plan to finish with a trip to the second hand bookshops in Hay-on-Wye, I may well need it!  As usual, the Age Appropriate Hoodie and Baseball Cap are packed as well as an array of drugs and pills and some probably pointless sun cream.  To avoid the problem I had last year, I have purchased a waterproof camera bag which fits tightly in the rucksack.  Hamish gets strapped to the outside of the rucksack – and the grumbling starts almost immediately.  Despite that, we are ready to go.  This year I have remembered the guide books and the map.

I booked a taxi because I’m very nervous about how much my back is going to be able to cope with, and I feel it’s best to leave it as long as possible before I start walking around.  I head down and just as I step outside, it begins to rain.  Ah, weather, how you hate me!  The taxi driver is bang on time and has no issues with the short journey.  As a result, I give him a decent tip before getting out at that peerless palace of previous peregrinations, Slough Rail Station. 

It’s still a hole.

Today’s train journey is a quick nip to Reading and then a connecting train to Cardiff.  I’ve managed to arrive early, so I slip onto an earlier train – which is just as well, as my scheduled train is delayed and I would have missed my connection (probably!)

Reading Station still remains the heavenly haven that has been described in previous posts, so I won’t go over it again here.  Suffice it to say, it is also a hole.  I have about 40 minutes to wait for my train, so I grab some breakfast and settle down on Platform 9 to wait.  The rain is hammering down and it is bloody freezing, so the Age Appropriate Hoodie gets its’ first outing of the holiday.

My book is The Book of Souls by James Oswald.  This is the second in the Inspector McLean series.  I read the first one (Natural Causes) a couple of months ago and loved it.  They are police procedurals but with a decidedly supernatural edge to them.  I’m really looking forward to this one.

About 38 minutes later, they change the platform that the train is coming in at.  They don’t do anything as useful as announcing it, but I notice the people who have been standing around wandering over to another platform.  I realise what’s going on and drift along with them, arriving just in time for the train to pull in.

I have a reserved seat in a carriage full of serious people working on their laptops.  The only oddity is a couple of Oriental chaps who keep trying to video the world going by.  I find one of them standing by the loo, filming out of the train door.  I’m glad there is no way to open the window, or I suspect he would be leaning out.  (What is the fascination with filming the blurry world going by?  I’ve seen this once before, where again it was someone Oriental who was doing exactly the same thing.  Naturally, I didn’t do anything so sensible as to ask what they were hoping to capture on their phones.)

Before getting too involved with my book, I trawl through my Rough Guide to Wales to try and plan what to do once I get to Cardiff.  I won’t have more than a couple of hours there, so my choices seem to be the castle or the Millennium Centre.  Castles aren’t exactly in short supply in Wales, so I decide to head for the docklands and the Millennium Centre.  (I admit, this decision is largely made due to Doctor Who and Torchwood.)

The train heads west and stops at some really lovely places: Swindon, Bristol.  Not exactly an inspiring start to the holiday.  As the train leaves Brizzle, the sun forces its’ way through the clouds and the rain takes a break – possibly, it’s some kind of statutory lunch break.

I arrive in Cardiff in sunshine and disembark to get a taxi to Hertz Car Rentals.  The taxi rank here is one of the smallest I have seen, with taxis forced to come in and out via a road that is barely wide enough for two vehicles.  The driver has to carefully and slowly work his way out – which probably adds a couple of quid to the fare.  We head off through mostly residential streets – so residential, in fact, that I furtively check Google Maps to make sure we’re going the right way – which we are.  The Hertz office is tiny and I have to negotiate a substantial puddle to get in.  Inside, the staff member is extremely helpful, succeeds in selling me the Insurance package (he didn’t have to try very hard) and is suitably impressed with my planned route.

Outside, he introduces me to my noble steed – a Kia Ceed. 

He shows me round it and asks if I want the engine to turn off automatically.  I don’t.  I then ask if it has the annoying “lane discipline” feature.  It does and so he shows me how to turn both of them off – something which I will have to do every damn time I turn the engine on.  The luggage and grumpy coo are stowed away and we’re off!

Almost immediately, the car and I start to have disagreements.  It would appear that Cardiff is a 20mph zone throughout and the car has a “helpful feature” where it pings at me every time I go over the speed limit – which is remarkably easy to do.  At the first set of traffic lights, I find that I have forgotten to turn the auto ignition off.  The engine is so quiet that I don’t realise this until the lights change and I try to pull away – and sod all happens.  I try everything I can think of to get it to move and, to the understandable frustration of the people behind me, I miss the lights.  I have to turn the ignition off and on again.  I do so, turn the stupid function off and head off without further incident …. for now.

I head down to the Millennium Centre and begin the negotiation of a multi-storey car park.  At this point I find out how tricky it is to find the bite point as I’m ascending the ramps, so I either stall or over-rev alarmingly.  Stalling is bad, as then have to try and do a hill-start with this stupid bloody electronic hand-brake.  By the time I find a parking space, I’m starting to understand why a colleague claims she has PTSD about multi-storey car parks.

I head out to the Millennium Centre and Roald Dahl Plass. 

My back is aching, which is an excellent excuse for lunch at a café.  I am the only customer and order a cappuccino and a jacket potato while admiring the effort someone has put into their cocktails menu.

Suitably refreshed, I have a good wander around the harbour, taking in the Millenium Centre, the harbour itself, the Senedd (parliament) and (somewhat bizarrely) Ianto’s Shrine.  There is a plaque and everything – all for a fictional character.  Coincidentally, I read something about this a few weeks ago, where Gareth David-Lloyd said how touched he was that people still kept it going. (I should point out that since I visited, the local council have taken it down, although the plaque still remains). 

I carry on exploring and find some decent art, including a rendition of Cargoes by John Masefield and a statue to Welsh rugby heroes (though I raise an eyebrow at the comment about the team being multi-cultural).

By now, my back is screaming, so I work my way back to the car.  Back in the vehicle, I try to set the radio and get nothing.  I play with the volume – still nothing.  It’s only when I drive out of the multi-storey car park that it bursts into life, almost making me crash – the car park must have been blocking the signal.

I’m not someone who disagrees with cars providing assistance to drivers.  But trying to get to grips with them is frustrating and the quirks of the Kia Ceed start driving me nuts.  Every time I stop it goes into Auto Hold and it then won’t let me move.  Each time I end up having to turn the engine on and off again, and piss off more motorists behind me.  Also, the electric ignition takes significantly longer to turn on than just turning a key.  It also chimes every time something happens that it wants me to know about, and in town that means it seems to just chime constantly.  Each time it does, I have to try and work out why it’s chirping, which means I’m spending way to much time staring at the dashboard.  It’s a bit like this:

* Ping – change of speed limit
* Ping – you’re slightly over the speed limit
* Ping – you need to turn here
* Ping – change of speed limit
* Ping – I think you should change gears
* Ping – I think you’re exceeding the speed limit, but I’m actually wrong
* Ping – I haven’t pinged for a whole, so I thought I’d check you were awake

After a while, I find myself spending nearly all my time trying to work out why the car is pinging and I end up channelling my inner David Mitchel and yelling “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?!?”  At the same time, I lose focus on the road, turn into a convent and drive maniacally through the gardens, scattering nuns everywhere like confetti.  OK, that didn’t actually happen – but it MIGHT have.

I head for Neath and after a short battle with the Navigation system, I get it to give me some directions.  I normally try and avoid motorways, but getting onto the M4 is a relief and the bloody pinging stops.  All is well until I pull off the M4 and get into a queue at some traffic lights.  Once again, Auto Hold goes on and the car stops responding.  There is a certain amount of swearing – which I’m sure is true for the cars behind me as well.  I manage to work out how to turn this “feature” off and the rest of the journey is uneventful.

I have some time when I get to Neath, so I head up to the Aberdulais falls.  This is an old tin mine that is a National Trust centre.  It is also closed as it only opens on Thursdays and Fridays.  Wales is not up to the most auspicious start, but at least it’s not raining and I have managed to avoid getting soaked in a stream.  I get some photos, sit in the car for a while and then head to my overnight at Cilffriw Farm.

It’s accessed by an exciting little track, which is a veritable highway compared to the even smaller track that is the final approach to the farm.  I park up and a lady who seems to have only two teeth directs me to the best place to park.  (If she only had one tooth, I would be seriously worried and be keeping an eye out for another woman with only one eye).  I get the car most of the way in and then it stalls and refuses to start again, so we agree to abandon it.

She spends about 45 minutes showing me around, explaining the defecatory habits of one of the dogs and showing me the ducks and the chickens.  It’s a good-sized farmhouse that has been converted for guests.  It’s very quiet here – animals, running water and not much else.  I love it.

I planned to pop down to the village to the fish and chip shop, but I’m knackered and I decide to make do with coffee and relaxation.  There is a brief debate with Hamish who tries to convince me that I should sleep on the sofa, but I’m having none of it.