We spent our last full day in Carmarthenshire in a rather
sedentary manner, albeit mentally stressful.
Spending hours sorting ferry crossings and advance camping is never as
exciting as anticipated; in fact it frequently ends with us so stressed out and
snapping at each other that we postpone progress until we have all calmed down.
However today as the stress levels rose, I exercised all my self-control, breathed
deep and persevered. We are now booked to travel from Holyhead to Dublin at the
end of the month albeit one week later than sensible. As a result we were left
with a week in Wales to fill, having planned our proximity to the port of
departure too soon. Much discussion ensued, but the deed was done and we have
resolved this little problem with planning a sideways tour, one that would
baffle all but those who read this blog.
Accommodation for the first week in Dublin is also sorted, but not
after further bother. We emailed the preferred camp, not happy with their
website, whereupon they answered by telling us to contact them via their website.
These are the small frustrations that plague folk of a certain age, or perhaps
all those not trained as travel agents.
After an early lunch we headed the ten miles back to Carmarthen,
to shop for provisions and fuel before our departure on the morrow, and to check
out the local county town which probably should have been our first destination
on arriving at St Clears.
Carmarthen is apparently the oldest town in Wales and legend has
it that Carmarthen is the birthplace of Merlin, wizard of Arthurian legend.
Today’s town grew up around the medieval castle, once the site of a Roman fort,
the Norman castle built in 1095, the gatehouse of which still stands near the
Old Town shopping area. In 1313 Carmarthen was granted its first charter by
Edward I, helping the town thrive as a centre of wool trade. It was later taken
by Owain Glyndwr in the early 15th century.
Here there is a surprising mixture of old and new, the remnants of the castle and quaint old narrow streets transitioning into a modern first class shopping centre with a number of familiar High Street names. Certainly we were impressed with the shopping area, mostly that in St Catherine’s Walk although not so much the demise of the castle walls.
We parked in the multi-storey car park, excellent for the size and
number of car parks available, although were not impressed with the charges,
then wandered up and down the busy streets. It was still early afternoon and
the workers were still out enjoying their midday break, so we did see the place
at its best. Here the “High Street” seemed alive and well, as opposed to all
the doom and gloom painted in the daily newspapers these days; reports of
internet shopping the death knell of small towns, and the not-so-small. I guess
while our generation is still around, there will always be a need for “real”
shops. The undercover market selling the normal range of local produce, second
hand books and CDs, antiques and other useless tat, was as busy as we find all
over Britain.
We walked up past the relatively pleasing Guildhall to Nott’s
Square, named after a soldier who avenged a massacre in Afghanistan in the
mid-19th century, by gathering his troops for contrary vengeance (fame
is a matter of which side you are on) and who spent his last years in the town,
passing through a gap in the castle ruins to the Information Centre, an ancient
courtyard and access to the county hall built between the 1930s and 1955 in
place of what had been the county jail. Viewed from the road down near the
River Towey, it is particularly hideous, although does not improve an awful lot
from the tower I climbed for better views.
After less than an hour poking about the town, we drove down to
the Tesco supermarket to deal with more mundane matters, and realised we
probably should have parked there from the start and walked up into the town to
avoid the annoyance about the greedy parking machines.
Contentment was regained once we arrived home; The Chauffeur
settled in front to the television, juggling the tennis with World Cup soccer,
and I busied myself with matters that please me more.
This morning we deliberately delayed our departure; our next destination not so far away. Our
delightful hosts, Gwynn and Brenda arrived with the shaggy Morgan in tow, and
stayed to chat, delaying us even further.
They were off to a teddy bear parachute, down at the church in St
Clears. Rather than picnicking with teddy bears, these more intrepid Welsh bears
in Carmarthen were to jump from the top of the church tower, with a little help
from the organisers, the bears wearing a variety of parachute gear. Despite the
addition of balloons for the larger bears last year, some had dropped rather unceremoniously
only to be rescued by a group of wee paramedics, would-be Red Cross nurses arriving
under their own steam and inventiveness. There was apparently great hilarity,
as well as great distress from one woman whose forty year old teddy fell ungracefully
on the cobbles beneath the tower. It all sounds rather absurd as I tell it
here, but it had served to raise money for charity last year, provide a
wonderful day’s family entertainment and brought the neighbourhood together. Gwyn and Brenda were hoping the second year
would be even better, especially since they were partly instrumental in the organisation.
We were slightly disappointed that we were not staying a further day; we may
have seen a rather different side of the Welsh.
Further to our frustrating trip planning the previous day, we
discovered this morning that the camp we had booked “in Cardigan Bay” was
twenty miles beyond Cardigan, and too far north to be considering a return to
St Bride’s Bay and St David. And with this came the realisation that we would
be closer to our next booked camp, the exploration possibilities all
overlapping. In normal female fashion, I took the bad planning personally
although when I stopped to think about it, I do believe that The Boss had been
more instrumental in deciding where we should pause our journey as we headed
for Holyhead to catch the ferry to Ireland, than I.
Furthermore, when I worked out distances, even taking the alternative
route with waypoints entered, our Tomtom advised the distance to the Cardigan
Camping & Caravan Park, rather than the Camping & Caravan Club’s Cardigan
Bay site. Now how was I to know that there was this other just a mile from the
centre of Cardigan. All in all a major screw up!
If we were travelling by car alone, and happy to travel on the
B-roads marked in red on our map, we might have travelled a little west of Pwll
Trap on the A40, then turned up the A478, travelling directly north, emerging
onto the coastal road very close to Cardigan; a distance of thirty one miles.
But being more cautious when towing the caravan, we came further west on the
A40, turning north at Haverfordvest to continue on the A40 to Fishguard, then eastward along the A487 to Cardigan,
this a distance of fifty one miles; a much longer trip.
And I might say on a much better road, although we are not
familiar with the A478 up through the countryside. But the route through Lower
Town on the eastern edge of Fishguard should be avoided by towing vehicles if
possible; alas it is not. There is a narrow stone walled bridge across the
river at sea-level and then the road winds steeply up through the centre of the
quaint village, the houses pressing in on all sides, and little modified since
the invention of the wheel. We were unfortunate enough to encounter a bus coming
in the opposite direction, followed by a queue of traffic who did not appreciate
the further delay meeting a caravan towing tourist. It seems that we are as
disliked here as much as some motorists dislike motor-homers in New Zealand.
Still no one died, and no vehicles were harmed in the exercise. We
arrived minutes after 1 pm, and were set up well before the 3 pm start to the
greatly anticipated World Cup quarter final between England and Sweden. The Chauffeur forgave all, himself and I for
our messed up tour planning, as he flicked between channels catching the best bits
of the Tour de France, Wimbledon and the soccer. I applied myself to dinner preparation
and a load of laundry, and then set to re-planning our three days of sightseeing
from this spot north of Cardigan.
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