Gors Farm, Pwll Trap, St Clears, Carmathenshire, Wales

                                        

The Chauffeur has dozed off since dinner, despite the excitement being broadcasted from Wimbledon. It’s been a big day, a day trip covering about 120 miles and much of it through forgettable landscapes; he is allowed to nod off while I clean up the dinner dishes and make a start on my daily blog update.

We sat over breakfast and discussed my itinerary for the day; Chris suggested we might not be back in time for our departure on Saturday if we were to strictly follow such a busy schedule. However an hour into the trip, I suggested we might well be back before lunch!

Our tour took us back to Carmarthen, before turning south along the A484, down toward Kidwelly which provided the first disappointment of the day. I was looking for the imposing castle, strategically sited overlooking the River Gwendraeth and a vast swathe of the coast. How did we miss it? Perhaps it was while I was debating decisions made relating to business matters back home, or perhaps we were looking for something more imposing than reality? Either way, we drove on through this sleepy little town and saw nothing to catch our eye.

We carried on south then east along the coast, past Burry Port and Llanelli, a most unattractive area which was once a thriving industrial hub, steelworks and tin rolling. The rows of houses we passed were drab and unimpressive, despite the occasional effort to brighten matters up with pastel coloured paint over the tedious pebbledash plaster. I was pleased to see a large banner on a roundabout advertising the upcoming annual Pembrey & Burry Port Carnival and hoped this served to lift the spirits of the folk who were obliged to live in such an ugly urban area.

On we went, now near the western reaches of Swansea, passing across the wetlands that cover so much of this coastline, now turning westward onto the Gower Peninsula, the main event for the day.

Our first stop was Penclawdd, a seaside village seen from across the Burry Inlet appearing more attractive than the reality on arrival. We found a spot to park on the foreshore, a great expanse of marshes and mudflats, which merge indistinguishably with the sands of the Loughor estuary. Here in the village we found a butcher advertising “salt marsh lamb” and soon were to see flocks of weaned lambs out on the maze of dodgy terrain, growing fat and tasty, although today having been recently weaned and still missing their mothers.

Up until the end of the 19^th century, Penclawdd was a thriving port, the village renowned for coal mining and its tinplate, copper and brass works. In those days these industries were supported by all the service industries workers could require; there was even a railway.

Complimenting this industry and in fact, predating it, was the cockle gathering industry, up until the 1970s gathered by women using  hand-rakes, sieves and donkey carts. Now it’s mainly men’s work, still by hand but with the aid of tractors or Landrovers, although I have to say there was no evidence of this today.

In the local superette, Chris was tempted to try a corned beef pasty, which proved to be a major disappointment. He was unable to identify whether the scant meat content was either canned bully beef or corned beef as prepared and cooked by we Kiwis on the other side of the world. Not too excited by the idea of eating corned beef for morning tea, I settled on some tea-cake buns, which had been packaged too many days ago. All in all, our visit to Penclawdd was not very exciting.

So we pressed on to Weobley Castle, just a few miles west. This is situated on a farm tucked down a narrow lane, in the care of the CADW and a lovely young man who hopes to sell you “salt marsh lamb” instead of a ticket to the castle. While waiting for the few customers, he was babysitting nine gorgeous collie puppies, a cross between a Border Collie father and a Welsh Collie mother, fat little bundles of mischief. 

We could have sat down on the paving and risked fleas, cuddles and canine pee, but instead chose to check out the 14^th century fortified manor house. Its first residents were the de la Bere family, who remained here until the 15^th century, after which time it was variously lived in by a succession of wealthy landowners, such as Rhys Thomas and the Mansels, the latter owners of Oxwich Castle which we were yet to visit.

Now we pressed on to the far western end of the peninsular, accessed from the more attractive village of Rhossili. Here the National Trust has a visitor centre, a car park and a business-like custodian policing correct payment. We parked up here and walked out toward Worms Head, along the top of the high rugged cliffs above a long sandy beach far below. Worms Head is actually a string of islands off the mainland, accessible at low tide for just a few hours when the tide is right, naturally policed by the dangerous tidal currents that have in the long distant past been the cause of shipwrecks.  We spent some time chatting with the coastguard officer at the end of the peninsula who told us that idiots just last week had had to be rescued off the islands; too many folk simply disregard the signs.

Back on the road once more, after a late lunch, we headed eastward along the south coast of the Gower peninsula, firstly detouring down to Oxwich Castle in the bay of the same name. The access to the bay is down a very steep and narrow road, then across a causeway over a boggy reedy flatland. If your destination is only to the beach, there is a car park with a little man at the gate collecting parking charges, however we were intent on continuing on to the end of the bay and on up a steep and narrow road up to the Castle. We were lucky to encounter a very large tractor and trailer where there was space to pull over; this is not a route for larger vehicles.

Oxwich Castle is also in the care of CADW and here there is a more formal reception ticket office and shop selling souvenirs. We spend a little time in the restored upstairs rooms exhibiting Tudor bedding and clothing with comprehensive description and a hands-on experience, and then wandered about the open ruins. The castle is a fine example of an early 16^th gentrified house for Sir Rice Mansel, member of a powerful Welsh dynasty. Gradually the east range fell into disrepair, although the south range continued in use as a farmhouse. But in 1949, Oxwich was rescued from demolition and placed in State care.

Just outside the castle stands the remains of a large dovecote, the base about three metres, narrowing to about two metres, with eleven rows of nesting boxes. With a good part of the side collapsed, it enables the visitor to see clearly how these worked. 

By now the sky had darkened and as we drove on now toward Swansea, spots of rain fell. Views across Swansea Bay were obscured by the drizzly weather. I was keen to visit The Mumbles, a seaside district including Oystermouth, Newton, West Cross and Mayals. The name derives from the two islands off the headland considered by French sailors to resemble two breasts, “mamelles” and like so many names, this evolved into “Mumbles”.

The Mumbles is the seaside resort for Swansea; Dylan Thomas and his cronies frequented the place in the early 1900s. The pier was opened in 1898 at the end of the Swansea and Mumbles Railway enabling the hard working toilers of the industrial region to find some sort of respite. Behind the promenade is a warren of streets climbing the hills, lined with boutiques, craft shops, galleries and eateries; even in the inclement weather we thought the place to have an almost old fashioned charm. High on the headland we turned and headed for home.

The Chauffeur was not interested in returning via the morning’s route, so we headed up through the western edge of Swansea on the A4216, the A483, briefly along one section of the M4, then across country on the B4306 via Pontyberum, once a coal mining settlement perched on the sides of hills, crossing against the grain of the land, until we emerged once more near Carmarthen and so back to St Clears.

Arriving back at Gars Farm, we found all our fellow campers gone but were visited by Brenda, our hostess whom we had been waiting to turn up for some days. We had yet to pay the tariff and were resigned to hunting her down later in the week. She came with the Mountain Bernese and lots of wonderful commentary about the Welsh people, language and society in general. Fortunately we had been late putting dinner on so there was no spoiling of meals, only intensifying hunger.