Christmas
away with lots of family would be a new one on me. A farmhouse in Pembrokeshire
means a long journey to get there, and I’m worrying before we start. Mainly at
how we are going to get everything in the car. Four people, luggage, presents,
food etc., but thankfully no pets. We have people checking on and feeding the
cats, and Charlie’s been put in a kennel for the festive period. A whole host
of new people for him to bark at randomly.
We
just about manage to cram everything into the car and start off. As far a Maccy
D’s for brunch, before heading for the motorways – M23, M25, M3, M329, M4 and
then the A roads from where the motorways stop, and then to B roads, and then
the paths between hedges before we arrived at the farmhouse in the dark and the
rain.
Twenty
seven trips between the car and the house to unload (that may be an
exaggeration, but not by much), and we were there. It’s a nice large house and
it all looks good, but as the week goes on there are signs that the house is a
bit tired.
The
top oven only works as a grill. The main oven maxes out at 200 degrees C. The
dishwasher struggles when filled anywhere near capacity. There are three games
rooms, with a total of two pool tables, table football, table tennis and two
dart boards. Sadly, neither of the pool tables are up to much. The larger slate
bed one has a sagging slate as if someone has been pogoing in the middle of the
table for years and is only really suited to 9 ball as the cue ball is the same
size as the rest of the oversized balls. The other table is a wood one with
foldaway legs and balls slightly too small for the table. There were a lot of
rolls on that table and definitely no Royce. The cushions were dead and
absorbed all the speed of the balls with no bounce at all. The place had been
advertised as having broadband. The old dial up connection of the 90’s would
have been quicker. Either that or they need a new horde of hamsters to turn the
wheels.
Then
there were the beds. A strange collection of different styles and mattress types.
On the first night I turned over on the poor attempt at a memory foam mattress
and suddenly the middle part of the mattress sank into an abyss. It was a low
base bed with thin slats. Now, I know I’m a fat git, but just turning over
shouldn’t dislodge three slats. Investigation in the morning suggested it
wasn’t just me that has had this problem with the bed. There was evidence that
the slats popped out more often Captain Oates. I put them back in and spent the
rest of the week trying not to move as I slept for fear of disappearing into
the abyss, but they didn’t pop out again.
There’s
always a first time for things to happen to you. And so it was when there I
was, lying in bed when I realised it was raining on me. We’d left a slight
crack open in a couple of windows to let some air in to the room to counteract
the stifling heat of the central heating from hell.
I
had woken once when the curtain had knocked the lamp onto the bed. The crack
had changed into chasms and the curtain behind the headboard was being blown
well into the room, whereas the curtain to the side of the room was being
sucked out into the night. I got up and closed the windows back to their cracks
not thinking a lot of it and went back to bed.
I’m
not sure how much later it was, but the windows were wide open again, and the
curtain behind the bed was now pretty much floating horizontally over me in the
bed, and the rain was driving in through the hole it should have been covering,
all over me and the bedside cabinet, and the carpet next to the bed and all the
bags of presents lined up against the far wall.
I
got up and closed the window again, all the way to this time, with no crack at
all, and then closed the window on the other side of the room after wrangling
the curtain back in from outside. By the time I’d done this and got back to the
bed, the wind had opened the window behind the bed again. I pulled it shut and
locked the thing, before heading back to a somewhat damp bed. Meanwhile not a
drop had made it to Helen’s side of the bed.
Being
rained on whilst sleeping was something that I hadn’t even encountered whilst
camping numerous times whilst in the scouts.
Although
the farmhouse is in the middle of the wilds, it’s not that far from some good
places to visit. Haverfordwest was the nearest large town to do all the
shopping. Our car load went the more scenic route (yes we went the wrong way),
past Carew Castle to get there. We saw two large buildings whilst in the town.
Aldi and Tesco. And got some very long souvenir receipts (together they were
nearly as tall as me). There was another (intentional this time) detour on the
way back to the farmhouse to see what the nearest large village looked like. We
did a lap of Narberth, and it looked very nice, but we didn’t manage to get
back to walk around it. It’s funny how times flies like that. Speaking of
which, that was pretty much Sunday wiped out.
Monday
saw five of the six of us already at the farmhouse head over to Pembroke Dock.
Some of us passed Carew again, before we got to park up near to the castle. Run
by a private trust it meant we couldn’t use our English Heritage cards as we
can for any CADW sites.
I
hadn’t been to this part of Wales before, and all I knew is that the whole area
is festooned with castles. What I didn’t know is that Pembroke Castle is one of
the most impressive ones anywhere in Wales. Or that it was the home to some of
the most important families in medieval history. It had been built by the de
Montgomery family, and changed hands through the Marshall’s, de Clare’s, de
Valence’s, Hastings’, and Tudor’s. An impressive list, with at the end of it
Henry Tudor was born at the castle. And he ended up becoming Henry VII.
There
is a lot of the castle intact. Lots of the barbican and gatehouse buildings are
complete (if a bit leaky), and the outer walls are about ninety percent
complete. Parts of the keep still stand, including the grand tower and dungeon
tower, but most of it is now roofless and in ruins.
It
is an impressive structure and I managed to climb (and squeeze) my way to the
top of all six of the towers that are open to the public. I’m not sure how
William Marshall would have coped inside the castle though. He was reputed to
be six foot six tall, extremely rare for the twelfth and thirteenth centuries,
and with armour and a helmet on he would have had to walk in a crouch around
most of the passages and staircases. I know this as I, who is only six foot two
without a helmet, managed to clout my head on ceilings four times as I wandered
around. In fact, I could have done with a helmet, as I still have a headache as
I write this four days later.
After
exploring the castle and the cave beneath that has been used since 10,000 BC
called Wogan’s Hole (not named after Terry, but the other way around, despite
how old he was), and the exit through the gift shop (yes, pen, fridge magnet
and guide book) it was time for a pub lunch. We found the King George, sat on
the waterfront, the water in question being the moat to the castle, which still
surrounds two sides of it. It was one of the friendliest pubs I’ve ever been
in. And the food was really nice and cheap as well.
The
remaining four family members turned up that evening. Two by car – with what
I’m sure were actually twenty seven trips to unload all their stuff – and the
other two picked up from Carmarthen coach station – with two small bags each.
We were now at our full complement of ten for the rest of the week.
Christmas
Eve saw a leisurely brunch before two car loads of four headed off to St
David’s, the smallest city in the United Kingdom. Built around what had
originally been a sixth century monastery to St David, a village had grown up
around the site. From the eleventh to fourteenth centuries a large impressive
cathedral was built on the site of the monastery, and the now ruined Bishop’s
palace was built on the other side of the small river. The village with a
cathedral then became a city, but never really expanded much after that.
Originally
the whole holy site had its own city walls with gatehouses at strategic points.
A lot of the walls are still there, but only one of the gatehouses survive, an
octagonal tower that stands above the churchyard to the cathedral, at a level
with most of the rest of the current city.
The
cathedral itself is impressive in size, and although there are some touches of grandeur,
a lot of the old stained glass had been ruined by the puritan pompous prick,
Oliver Cromwell. What is amazing all the way through were the ceilings.
Patterns, symbols, detailing and so many different styles. As always, it’s
definitely worth a look up. It is bigger than it looks from the outside, and
there is a lot to take in. The corner of the south aisle houses the gift shop,
and the trinity of standard tourist tat were purchased.
Helen
and I took a wander around the outside of most of the Bishop’s palace, which
was a CADW site, but wasn’t open to the public. It would have been a
magnificent building when it was complete.
Outside
of the cathedral grounds it doesn’t take long to explore the rest of the city,
it really isn’t much bigger than some villages, but it is well worth visiting.
It also houses another large church. The back can be seen from the path on the
way up from the cathedral and has a distinctive window with the star of David
in it. It is the Tabernacl Presbyterian Church of Wales, and was unfortunately
closed to the public.
For
the third day on the trot there was a stop at a supermarket on the way back,
I’m not sure what for this time, but it probably added to the pile of stuff
that needed to be carted away on the Friday.
Christmas
morning came and people gradually made their way to the living room. The whole
day seemed to pass in a haze, there was some moaning that people had got dressed
before the opening of presents as it was tradition to open them in “jammies”. A
bit difficult to do when you don’t own any “jammies” or have the room in your
car to bring dressing gowns (again which I don’t own anyway). It was much
better that I was dressed to open presents, as the alternative was being sat
there in just my pants, which no one wants to see.
The
sub-standard ovens meant that Christmas dinner took a lot longer to cook than
was initially thought and so it was already dark before it was ready. I’ve
never seen so many Christmas films in a day before or at least parts of lots of
films that I have managed to avoid for years before. There were at least half a
dozen films I’d avoided for my entire life before they were on in the
miscoloured little screens in the corner of the living room and kitchen.
There
were games played by some people in some rooms, whilst others found solace in
being in the hot tub, which wasn’t a time machine. If it had had been then I might
have actually used it at some point.
Boxing
Day started slowly, and it was afternoon before two carloads headed off in
different directions. Some headed for Carmarthen and the sales, whilst other headed
for Saundersfoot and a walk along the coast. It was unconfirmed whether those
walking to Saundersfoot passed Saunders’s head or Saunders’s backside on the
way.
These
trips out showed an issue for the Friday morning journey home. Six people
needed transporting in a car with five seats and lots of luggage. I tried to
ignore that one whilst everyone else was out as I enjoyed the tranquillity of
solitude and took the opportunity to try and make a dent in completing the Christmas
jigsaw. Which despite my best efforts wasn’t going to be completed before
heading home, as it needed to have been started on a few days earlier.
When
everyone got back from their excursions it was games time again. First up was
Trump Cards, not Top Trumps, but a game to guess whether the quotes on the
cards were made by idiot in chief Donald Trump or not. This was followed by
Cards Against Muggles, a Harry Potter version of Cards Against Humanity. I had
never played any version of the game before but having played this for a couple
of rounds I think I need to get a set as it is right up my street.
A
concerted effort to work through all the previous days’ leftovers was the plan
for dinner. Despite knowing I wasn’t going to finish the jigsaw I went back to it
after dinner as there was no way I wanted to see any more dire Christmas TV. I’d
been subjected to enough of it to make up at least a decade’s worth. I’d lost
count of the number of times someone had come into the living room, put the TV
on, put some rubbish on, and then buggered off leaving the trash playing with
just me in the room.
The
journey home.
We
knew it was going to be difficult getting home. We had two extra people to fit
into cars who had arrived after the initial influx of people to the farmhouse. Neither
of the other two cars had any space either because of the amount of stuff they
had brought with them. Six people in to a five-seater car, with six people’s
luggage for over two hours to Cwmbran train station wasn’t going to work. With
two people needing to get there to get a train north from there due to it being
the first station open for people trying to get north as most of South Wales
from Swansea eastwards was on rail replacement services it was going to be
difficult.
Something
needed to give, and that was going to be me. I volunteered to get the train and
rail replacement from Narberth to Cwmbran with my luggage. When sorting out the
night before there was a train from Narberth at 7:48, about a ten-minute drive
away from the farmhouse. A half six alarm was set and off to bed it was.
Only
to be woken up to find that Transport for Wales had cancelled all trains from
Narberth in any direction before two in the afternoon. It was time for plan B
(not the rapper). There was an 8:58 train from Carmarthen to Bridgend, and rail
replacement from there straight through to Cwmbran. It was however a half hour
drive each way for Helen to drop me off at Carmarthen.
As
I paid for my ticket (which in hindsight I didn’t need to as it was never checked),
the train time changed to say it was going to be late and would not be going
until 9:15. Impressive for a train that was starting at Carmarthen. To add to this,
it stopped at more stations that originally planned, and the train felt and
sounded like it was going to blow up each time it slowly pulled away from a
station.
When
the train eventually chugged into Bridgend there was only a couple of minutes
to catch the Cwmbran replacement bus service. Which was full so I couldn’t get
on, which I would have been able to do if the sodding train had been on time.
Then
the imbeciles manning the rail replacement service at Bridgend then advised me,
and a number of others to get on a replacement bus to Cardiff, where there
would be more buses to Cwmbran than the one an hour from Bridgend.
So,
we did.
And
there weren’t.
In
fact, the only Cwmbran replacement services were the one an hour ones starting
from Bridgend. So, when the next one arrived at Cardiff it was already full of
people who had got on at Bridgend, like I would have done if the morons there
hadn’t told me (and the others) to go to Cardiff.
So
there was now a crowd of quite irate – mainly Mancs – who wanted to get to
Cwmbran, so when the next coach pulled in and was unloaded, instead of sending
it off empty to Newport, they wisely decided to send it to Cwmbran. And it was
full in a couple of minutes and we were off.
On
the journey a kid (I reckon about eight) who was sat two rows in front of me
puked on his seat and then turned and sat in it. Before his dad got the chance
to clean it all up, their dog had helped itself to the puke and so there were
only fumes left. Fumes you don’t need on a coach packed with people.
Meanwhile,
the very cramped car was caught in slow moving traffic along the M4, and it
only just beat me to Cwmbran even with me being an hour later than planned.
Lunch
was at Harvester, where after twenty minutes sat waiting for a table (with
menus for us to browse), we were shown to a table and then made to wait another
fifteen minutes to be able to order. We were waiting so long that the couple
who needed to get the train from Cwmbran had to end up taking their food away
to eat so that they could catch their train.
There
were now only four people and luggage in the car which gave slightly more
breathing space for the journey the rest of the way home. We took a detour
along the M48 and over the old Severn bridge as traffic reports had the M4
bridge as choc a bloc. It was foggy over the river and unlike on the journey to
Wales, it wasn’t possible to see the other bridge as we passed over the river.
We
crawled again once we re-joined the M4, and after a pit stop and change of driver,
we came up against more crawling traffic pretty much all the way along from
Swindon to Reading. Turning off at Bracknell sped things up, and we had free
flowing traffic all the way back to Crawley, where we arrived some eleven hours
after I’d left the farmhouse that morning to start the journey.
Overall
it was a good week, but I’m not sure I want to be doing this kind of thing
every year at Christmas. Give it at least a couple of years before we try this
kind of thing again, and when (or if) we do then one thing is for certain. We
need to hire a minibus.