A difficult few weeks have made blogging about as possible as climbing the Eiffel tower backwards… No, I’m not sure why I chose a monument in France either… Such has been my determination to keep on top of those all-important routines that keep pain at bay, it has left me crawling exhausted into bed on completing them each day.
Woken briefly by loud and insistent purrs and paws urgently patting unresponsive eyelids, my guilt on hearing audibly rumbling tummies has eventually driven me, zombie-like, in the direction of empty food bowls. There is no doubt in my mind that a recent adventure has contributed to this set-back. And I would repeat it and all the inherent consequences in a heartbeat, were it possible right now.
Out of the blue, there came an invite to spend the weekend with a neighbour and her children by the sea. You will probably have gathered by now that I’m more or less super-glued to our fair city. However, in a previous version of this life, I found myself working a mere twenty minutes’ drive from the same glorious stretch of Welsh coastline.
Each summer evening and weekend, when not on call, I would head out on foot along Pembrokeshire’s coastal path, unable to fathom how it was possible to be so painfully confronted with our own mortality, emerging soon after into a Narnia-esque world that belonged to fabled dragons and unicorns.
The German doctors who often joined me were especially memorable. I found their humility incredibly attractive, considering that there were world class swimmers and professional-standard musicians amongst them.
Friendship lay on the ‘other’ side of a certain ubiquitous conversation. The one, had you not realised, that addresses the collective guilt felt by countless generations of German people. From then on, we accompanied each other whenever we could, chatting over coffee, playing chamber music, or on those all-too-essential escapes towards the ocean.
Surrounded by the vibrant yellows and purples of gorse and heather, we found ourselves revived by the sobering salty breezes, fascinated by the unpredictability of an ever changing seascape and serenaded by the hypnotic song of skylark, sheep and battered rock.
Despite the magic that it holds, the Pembrokeshire coastline is an exhaustingly long trek for most of us. We inevitably seek places closer to home where we can bare our feet, finding an oddly masochistic pleasure in the sharpness of broken up shells underfoot and the coldness of frothy waves ebbing and flowing over our tired toes. Pembrokeshire’s location perhaps explains how this extraordinary part of the world is not crammed with tourists. Instead, it feels like a well-kept secret. There are advantages in blogging to a select audience!
The brief 6 months I spent there feels much longer now. Forays back have been all too few, the all-consuming nature of both modern life and coping with illness being what they are.
This time around, I entered this ‘otherworldly’ place, parking near the cute coastal village of Solva (a place I knew very well), where the Celtic Trail (Cycle Route 4) happens to pass by. I was incredibly nervous on starting the ride into the unknown, as coastal walking around here used to be ‘my thing’.
It was thankfully a relief to find the bike quietly ‘gliding’ down well-signposted smooth tarmac roads, infinitely more enjoyable without the traffic and potholes for which Birmingham (and it’s depleted resources) is becoming notorious.
Experiencing that strange magnetic ‘pull’ that a distant ocean and horizon seems to exert on so many of us, the Celtic Trail weaved itself around three dramatic craggy volcanic outcrops known as Pen Beri, Carn Lleithyr and Carn Llidi. I twice instinctively glanced up, astonished to find myself being sternly stared at by a huge bird of prey, perched regally atop a wooden telephone pole.
Accompanied by the rumblings of busy tractors and endlessly warbling larks overhead, the skeletal gorse bushes that topped the sloping banks on either side were blown into strange contorted shapes, akin to hunched characters described in children’s storybooks. Magical by day, these lanes could so easily take on the ‘wrong sort’ of enchantment in the land of shadow.
The cycle route winds around the edge of a huge Cathedral and the adjacent ruins of the Bishops Palace, in a city (bizarrely) the size of a large village, known as St Davids. Incongruously hidden in a protective valley, the site of both buildings is remarkably like entering a film set for ‘Harry Potter’ or ‘Lord of the Rings’. Despite usually waxing lyrical about wild green spaces, it proved to be an unexpected highlight of the ride.
As happened years before, I was drawn to visit one of those special places, slightly off route, where, instead of jostling with tourists, you get to mix with articulate, interesting and colourful free-spirits. The long twisting approaches to so many of the loveliest hidden coves and beaches seem to serve as an unspoken initiation, keeping away those who are driven by the time displayed on their smartphones.
On Abereiddy beach, guys came to chat with me on returning from surfing the waves, or talk about ‘coasteering’ events they were running for the more adventurous. Their eager smiles and healthy energy seemed to radiate a close bond with this place. Meanwhile, I felt just a little flattered, not really fitting into the rock scrambling, hopping and jumping category of persons who might have had a go. Meanwhile, a cheery girl sporting dreadlocks served much-needed hot drinks, homemade flapjacks and suchlike, from a well-situated beach-side van.
On the next and final day of the holiday, whilst riding alongside the Towi Estuary with incredible distant views (again on route 4), I literally stumbled across signs sporting pictures of cooked breakfasts, cups of coffee and offering an opportunity to “Try your hand at a spot of fishing!” Portacabins and ugly grey buildings visible down an off-puttingly long driveway created an impression that was far from promising. With no mention on Google Maps, the sudden tiredness that overtook me made any ‘risk’ seem irrelevant. So I went for it.
On the right stood a curious assortment of cloven-footed creatures in a paddock, contentedly chewing on the cud. The sandbanks next came into view ahead in the middle distance. Beyond the ugly buildings on the left stood a low level shed housing the cafe. Beyond that, 3 people were sitting quietly, gazing into the water where their fishing lines dipped below the surface of an attractive small lake. Directly ahead, numerous friendly bird houses were scattered over a large garden lawn on two levels. But the most striking thing of all was that lawn and lake (and evidently the outside cafe seating area) were all home to at least a hundred contented hens, ducks and egg-laying birds of all descriptions.
Happy that is, with the exception of two large honking geese. Whilst selecting my chosen outdoor table, they both insisted on telling me off at great length for unwittingly interrupting their own journey. The woman who came to meet me was mortified, which made the close encounter all the more hilarious and memorable.
The half hour wait for food and drink provided a welcome chance to rest and enjoy the sun, avoiding upsetting the quarrelsome birds any further and chatting with the infectively relaxed occupants of one of the portacabins. Eventually, the co-owner of the smallholding resurfaced with food and whilst I enjoyed a duck egg that had possibly been laid that same day, she spoke about how she and her husband were getting to live their dream having escaped life in the fast lane. What courage!
Have you ever thought, dear reader, how many wonderful experiences like these that we pass up? By this, I’m referring to the open-mindedness to stop at unknown places, not the act verging on recklessness in buying them! I fear, though, that my own reluctance to take risks (albeit often understandable) has made my life, at times, into an unnecessarily damp squib of a nonevent!
All in all, I cannot thank my neighbour enough for realising how precious her suggestion was, despite having very real pressures of her own to deal with. Once we had all survived the journey, evening meals were provided and I was made to feel very much included in her family.
In this way, in just 2 days, Pembrokeshire handed me back that part of my soul which had remained stranded there, reluctant to leave when the rest of me had to.
“Is this what’s known as being blogged to death?” suggests my friend. I am attempting to tweak this post by reading it through, wondering why I’ve said the same thing at great and unnecessary length, in 3 different ways. Without realising.
In way of recompense, he treats me to huge pieces of cheese on toast served with pots of tea. And doesn’t complain when I polish off the remaining piece of Victoria sponge which he put to one side, fully intending to finish it himself.
Unexpected treats like these, I find, are the ones that taste BEST of all!
“Launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment” – Henry David Thoreau
“You’ll get mixed up of course, as you already know.You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that life’s a great balancing act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left” – Dr Seuss
There are only three four things women need in life: food, water, cake and complements – Chris Rock (Modifications courtesy of the author)
“This report by it’s very length, defends itself against the risk of being read” – Winston Churchill
