29 March   Wednesday   Southwestern Welsh Coast   Pembroke Castle   Another Surprise

We are all ready, packed, breakfasted and at the coach with luggage by 9 AM.  Grant is rested and chipper--good thing, this is a big driving day.  We head southwest out of Cardiff towards Pembroke Castle.  We pick up the M4 and head west—past Port Talbot and Swansea.  The M4 forks, changing to A483 north and west, where we’re going, A38.  At Carmarthen we take A40 southwest towards Pembroke.  Even with the rain and fog, it’s obvious that the bucollic countryside is beautiful.  We wind down the hills to St. Clears and take A477.  I know that the coast can’t be more than 7 miles—with some of the most rugged and picturesque with rock formations like St. Govan’s Head, Huntsman Leap, the Cauldron, Elegug Stacks and Green Bridge.  On the map we are due north of Tintagel--way south across the Bristol Channel. 

We are in Pembroke quickly, driving on Common Road and parking in the Commons parking lot.  The group walks to Bridgend Terrace Road, around and up to Pembroke Castle Castell Penfro—about a quarter mile and a continuous rise.  The castles biggest claim to fame is that Henry VII, Henry VIII’s dad, was born here.  Still raining, we get past the gift shop, through the gate and onto the castle grounds are large, roughly round, covered in manicured grass.  Apparently there had been a large house here, but after the castle was abandoned, people used the stones for building in the village.  There are at least six towers, including the impressive and looming gate house, massive domed roof Great Keep and the dungeon tower.  At the base of each is the cartoon cutout of a famous knight/Earl.  Raised up in the middle of the grounds is a large paved area, painted with a map of the southwest peninsula of Wales. 

The Medieval Pembroke castle started as a Norman motte-and-bailey with earthen ramparts and a timber palisade.  In 1189, William Marshal, Lord Marshal of England acquired the castle--turning the fort into an impressive Norman stone castle.  The first building was the Great Keep in the inner ward and included domestic buildings like the Great Hall and private apartments.  At the end 13th century, more buildings like a new Great Hall were added. A spiral staircase which went down to a large limestone cave, Wogan Cavern, was added beneath the castle. It was probably a boathouse.  The outer ward added later is 5 meters (16 ft) thick in places and has a large twin-towered gatehouse, a barbican (fortified gateway) and several round towers.

Norman-style Pembroke Castle is an enclosure castle and a linear fortification.  Just like the 13th-century castles at Caerarfon and Conwy, it was designed to be a gantlet, built on a rocky peninsula surrounded by water, with barriers and impediments in a line.  We are scheduled to visit both castles in the next couple of days.

Right now it’s just too wet to trapes around in the rain, so many of us head to the café and toilets.  I get a coffee, but some order lunch.  I warm up and brave the weather and start going around the grounds.  I start with the keep.  The spiral stairs in every tower are tricky with wet shoes.  There is a lot of up and down.  You can see recreations with manikins in period outfits of  Henry VII’s birth, schooling, a battle between his troops and John Poyer's Pembroke Royalists, Pover's ‘fate’ after his 1649 defeat, and castle history through the Boar War and WW II.  The William Marshal Tapestry is also on display--but I missed it.   Oh and don’t forget the five video rooms in the castle dedicated to five of the castle's Earls.  The abundance of exhibits was a little excessive.  It is a great field trip destination of schools. I gave up and just kept walking, climbing, descending.  None of us last the two and a half hours allotted and walk back down to the bus.

On the road again, Sue announces that we have another surprise.  She tells we are going to St. Davids Tyddewi on the tip of the peninsula.  At least one person lets out a triumphant ‘whoop’. Yay!  St. Davids was one place I had wanted to go when Marianne and I were ready to travel in 2021.  I really appreciate that Bobette really listened to me back in the late summer when she called me about being a part of this tour.  I asked if it is possible, can we go to the cathedral of the Patron Saint of Wales, please? My other request was to stay on and visit Wrexham and Minera after the tour was finished—she made the arrangements.  Thank you, Bobette! 

We cross the Milford Haven above Pembroke on A477, meet up with Milford Road (A4076), going north to Haverfordwest Grant finds St. Davids Road (A487).  We twist and wind through the countryside and down to the coast through Solva (where a St. George's parishioner's son manages a mobile holiday park) and back up in about 45 minutes/28 miles.  We arrive at the quaint 'city' of St. Davids.  It is perched on a hillside hanging up above the cathedral.  There is really only one way in and out so everything is cramp and cozy.  Grant swings around and parks the coach at the triangle park with the War Memorial.  We have an hour and a half.  The rain has stopped. 

The Bells of Porth-Y-Twr

I know where I want to eat lunch, The Bishop's across the street from the memorial, overlooking the Pebbles and Porth-Y-Twr--a detached tower gateway from the 13th century.  It houses an incredible set of bells--hand pulled and rung.  At The Bishop I get the roasted red pepper and tomato bisque and a cup full of prawn--heads on, but very good.  Debra remarks that my choice is adventurous and I apologize at my bare-handed attack to clean the heads and shells.  With an hour left to explore the church, I head down to the back door onto The Pebbles (a street) and to the bell tower.  I pause at the FatFace store—fascinated by the strange name.  The bells are ringing and it is an aural delight. 

Once through the tower gate, the steep steps on the right descend to the cathedral—down a steep hill with grave stones everywhere.  St. Davids is a very handsome building.  To the west are the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace/Llys yr Esgob Tyddewi.  The cathedral has been an active place of worship since the 6th century.  The church is ancient and beautiful.  Inside the Saint is portrayed as a barefoot monk in both paintings and stained glass.     

Being the patron saint of Wales, Saint David Dewi Sant has a fair amount of the lore attached to him.  He may may have been born to Saint Non around 500AD (462 to 512) at the site of the chapel of St. Non—just south of the city on the cliffs.  There is something about a storm and sunshine at his birth.  His father was the King of Ceredigion--one of several Welsh kingdoms that formed in 5th-century post-Roman Britain. Some of the miracles include: David was baptized by a blind monk, his teacher, whose eyes got splashed by the water and he regained his sight.  While preaching to a large crowd, he couldn’t be seen when suddenly the ground under him rose up to form a small hill.   A white dove, his emblem, settled on his shoulder.  Really?  He became a monk, and traveled around Wales and England (true). He founded monasteries and churches (true). David told his followers to be vegetarians and eat raw leeks (true).  They had to pull plows to till the soil (ok?).  He lived for 147 years (come on).  His final words were "Gwnewch y pethau bychain mewn bywyd,", "Do the little things in life." Right and true.

Traditionally the church began in the middle of the 6th century, after Saint David came from Ireland and settled on the Pembrokeshire peninsula. He started a medieval monastic convent, and a settlement called Menevia began--later St. Davids.  Between 645 and 1097, the city was attacked many times, including by the Vikings, but the monks always returned and rebuilt. In 1081 King William the Conqueror considered the city for defense against Ireland. The Normans, 1093, took control of the monastery and it became a diocese governed by a bishop.  After St. David was canonized in 1120, there was a constant flow of Pilgrims so Pope Callixtus II, 1123, establish a pilgrimage center in St Davids, so money was guaranteed.  The cathedral was consecrated around 1131 and in 1171 King Henry II had the cathedral enlarge and construction began around 1180 – 1182.  Romanesque naive was built, a chancel, the transept and tower at the crossing followed. In 1220 it collapsed and in 1247 an earthquake destroyed more.  The cathedral was immediately repaired--completed in the mid-1200's.  Other changes happened later. 

After Henry VIII abolished the church, etc., St Davids had its first Protestant bishop--1536-1548. The sanctuary was dismantled, relics taken and the bishopric was almost moved, but the cathedral remained, mainly because Henry VIII’s grandfather was buried there. They rebuilt central naive in 1530-1540.  In 1648, the cathedral was  raised again by soldiers to take lead from its roofs. The organs, bells and all the stained glass windows were also destroyed. There were subsequent repairs from 1793 through the beginning of the 20th century.

FatFace	The Bishops	The Grove Hotel

The walk back up the hill, up The Pebbles and to the memorial park is a thigh-burner walk.  After we wait for others, Grant pulls out and heads back up A487 and out of town/city—passing the Grove Hotel, where I was going to make reservations on the 2021 trip.  We are out on-time and racing north through the Pembrokeshire countryside--through Fishguard and Cardigan--then up the western coast to

Aberystwyth.  This is an old (1880’s) holiday resort—modeled after Llandudno up north—but it is nothing like that.  It is cramped and smashed up the hillsides and wedged up against a rocky beach.  A narrow street, Marine Terrace, boarders the narrow promenade.  The west-facing harbor on the St. George’s Channel and Irish Sea is bounded on the north by cliffs and the cliff railway/funicular, and south by the Royal Pier Arcade, University and the castle grounds—where Owain Glyndŵr (Welsh Hero) first tried to set up the independent Welsh government. 

This is not a town for coaches and it becomes very apparent as Grant tries to maneuver the boat-sized vehicle through the narrow, steep streets.  There is scaffolding everywhere you look—'off season'--to get the work done.  There are many sharp corners and suddenly ‘locals’ are directing Grant where to go.  We come to a 'T' in the street and now the coach is in trouble.  Grant does his best, but when he has to back up the steep street it gets scary.  The crowd--out of pubs, etc. grows.  The locals motion him to take another street, but there is another street at the bottom that is too tight to take and, again, he has to back up.  It’s too thin to maneuver and he hits scaffolding on both side of the rear bumper and ‘pops’ goes the back left window.  Good thing it is double pained with safety glass.  The coach is dented and so, I’m afraid, is Grant’s pride.  He is comforted by the fact that there is insurance.  Eventually he gets the coach out of the trap and has to drive around to the backside of the hotel—Gwesty'r Marine Hotel & Spa--giving up all hope of parking on Marine Terrace.  Everyone is empathic with Grant and give him words of encouragement.  We haul our luggage through the back-space, past the sauna signs, up to the front.  We get keys and wait for the tiny lift to take us upstairs. 

Once I get to the 2^nd floor, I start looking for room 230.  I have a tough time finding my room in the dark and cramped halls.  I find room 229 and then it jumps to 231 after a door.  I go back and find a

funny sign that has an arrow pointing down narrow stairs for the fire exit and 230.  I go through the door and the treacherous steps immediately descend to the right—tough with a suite case.  At the bottom there is no room 230—I’m in the 100’s now.  I squint and look back up the narrow stairs and there, up four steps, past the fire door, I see room 230.  Is this an ominous sign about a jinxed room?  I haul the bag up the steps and reach up with my key and unlock the door--no door knob just a curved flap of metal.  I can barely get my fingers around it to open the door.  I drag the bag up and into the  narrow hall.  It’s as wide as the door. 

The light switches are up on the left in the hall behind the bath room door and include the light switch for the ‘toilet space’ immediately to the left.  At the end of the short hall is a double bed with a faux arctic fox-skin fleece throw. All the bags go on the bed--no other space in the room.  There is a pull chord of the lights hanging above the headboard.  To the left is the wardrobe/desk combo and a chair with less than ten inches of clearance.  The tea service is in the back corner and there a small window on the back wall, but I can’t get the covering/curtain to stay open.  I peek out and see the small space behind the hotel, ‘with sauna signs’ down below, and the coach parked out on the street. The bath has been renovated and is nice. The sink is small, but there is a hand and bath towel.  The shower is a 'beam-me-up' corner tube (like we had in Lucca --2010).

I need food.  Not wanting to be in 230 anymore than necessary, I grab my vest--not rain jacket (big mistake) and head down to the lobby. I meet up with Tara (soprano soloist), her mom, Ginny and other women.  We start walk south on Marine Terrace and I can hear the water of St. George’s Channel slapping on the rock beach.  There is hardly any traffic.  The sidewalk is a gentle curve, but it is blocked by scaffolding everywhere.  Off season.  It must be a very high tide because there doesn’t even seem to be any beach.  Our goal is Old College Aberystwyth--the University, the castle grounds and food.  Just before we reach the Royal Pier Arcade it starts to rain--lightly.  We cross the road and read their menu under a cover. 

There is just one item on it—Fish and Chips.  No one wants that.  We look to the southwest and see a black wall of rain.  Not good.  Up the hill to the east they spot Antalya Turkish restaurant and head up Pier Street.  I don’t want Turkish food and say good bye to the group.  I walk back north on Marine Terrace.  It is raining pretty hard now as I avoid scaffolding and other obstacles. 

After two blocks, I see the restaurant we had barely noticed, Baravin--relaxed Mediterranean.  It is the round portion of a modern 4-story building--pale purple, orange-Popsicle, green, pink, blue and yellow,  (with lots of little white balconies)--that stretches around a small plaza.  In the rain with my vest over my head I read the menu as the smell of fried food blows out the front entrance. Uggh. Pizza, pasta, hamburgers, fries and fish.  Nope.  I look up Terrace Road Fffordd Y Mor and see some other possibilities.  First I have to walk against Ambassadors Ice Cream and Welsh Gifts Shop with no cover, slop through puddles to an awning, run to stand under a second story bay window in front of Capricorn, then across the street to front door portico of Y Bañera’s--a cocktail bar.  Around the corner and up Terrace Road is my next goal.  I am so soaked that even my water proof pants and hikers are soggy.   I run to the front door of Boots and stare ‘grimacingly’ at the garish Istanbul Kebab across the Road--no. I run up to the Amgueddfa Ceredigion Museum doorway on the corner of Portland Street.  I don't see anything but hotels and buildings north and south and farther east.  Then across Terrace I see the black/white trimmed dark-tinted windows of the White Horse (a free pub) on the busy corner. Maybe.

I cross the street and puddles and look at their menu.  Finally at the bottom of the menu I see Tikka Marsala and I thank God—it’s exactly what I have been craving.  I look to the right and see a two top table open through the smoky glass and then I see Pete and Faye waving at me from a corner table.  They motion me in.  I thank God, again. 

I have known the Benham’s since 1990.  They went to New York with us to sing John Rutter’s Magnificat and Distant Land—Rutter directed us.  Since then we were kings in “Amahl and the Night Visitors”,  we go to and sing in the St. George’s choir--since I joined the church in 1993.  Friends.  I race around to the front (splashing and dripping) and go inside. 

It is crazy busy, but I find them, take off my soaked vest and wipe my head and glasses off.  Liz (soprano) and Diane (alto) are at the table next to them.  They make space for me and I grab an empty chair from a big table to sit with the group.  I have never been so glad to see people I know.  I go to the bar and order food and get a pint of Doom Bar.  They are having a watery Mac n’ Cheese.  I love my Tikka Marsala.

Rain is now drizzle when we leave.  We walk back to Marine Hotel.  We join the Helpie’s, Rannah, John and Alicia, Ginny’s daughter, at the tables in the lounge. They are having a steak the size of the plate.  There is a fire place and suddenly everything is alright.  Through the doors past the bar is the buzz of a large group in an insanely large banquet hall—two stories high and the size of a basketball court.  Kevin and MaryRuth leave before I can offer to buy them a drink, but Pete and I have a whiskey night cap—his favorite--Jack Daniels, mine--Jameson.  I go back up and deal with finding the room and moving around in the cramped space.  Once I get my wet things peeled off I notice there is no heat.  It’s chilly, and the duvet keep me too warm.  I sleep well?