Tag Archives: campervan

A Lepe Finish

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We’re only at Ashurst campsite for two nights and it seems churlish to ignore the meal offerings at the pub next door so we wander there in the early evening, avoiding the short cut across the field due to its having stiles to cross- a no-no for me at the moment.

It isn’t busy, in spite of the site next door but service still appears a bit slow. One issue with hip replacement is there are some restrictions on what I can and can’t do. I must sleep on my back, I mustn’t bend more than 90 degrees or twist and when sitting my operated leg must be sloping down. It surprises me how many seats aren’t level or actually tip back. I need to scrutinise every venue’s furniture to find a suitable seat. Benches aren’t good so I choose a table with rattan dining chairs and have to take a cushion from one to put behind my back.

These days most menus disappoint me. It’s hard to find anything to eat that isn’t smothered in some chilli or garlic product. The one starter we choose to share is ‘off’, leaving us with one option. I feel bad for the amenable waiter who is trying his best, repeatedly going to find out from the chef if anything is available for me to eat. I must say here that it isn’t down to fussiness on my part- until I was diagnosed with UC I ate anything and everything. Nowadays restaurants are much the same in that nearly every item has been doused with a sauce, or an oil or a marinade containing chilli or garlic [2 items I’m not able to eat], leaving me with an option of fish or steak and chips. Ho hum…

The lamb cutlets are very good [even though the kitchen couldn’t resist putting hot, spicy salsa on the side!].

Next morning it’s time to pack up and leave, but we’re not off home yet and have promised ourselves a day at Lepe country park- a Hampshire park next to the sea with outstanding views over the Isle of Wight and the coast. There’s a good car park next to the beach, which is filling up quickly as we arrive. Nevertheless, by driving to the end and some judicious manoeuvering, the van gets parked. Here, there’s a brisk, refreshing breeze whipping the sea up into white caps, sailing boats on the horizon. It’s not a wide, sandy beach, rather more shingly and wild, but has a charm of its own and plenty to look at.

Up, then, out of the car park and to the park path, walking on a gravel surface which turns to sand after a while. There’s a bizarre, ‘D-Day’ play park featuring climbing nets and tunnels like an assault course. Some, like us, are here for the walk, others for a quiet piece of beach. But few have opted to come this far. Further on there are remnants of the D-Day departures from the second world war.

It’s time to turn back, and down to the cafe for a modest but respectable lunch then coffee in the van before we think about how we’ll get home. Our normal route is blocked by a serious fire which has caused people to abandon vehicles on the tarmac, has destroyed the road’s surface and buckled barriers. But our route takes us through Beaulieu, where some donkeys are holding up a queue of traffic by sheltering in the shade on a bend, which is a cute sight.

A little local knowledge goes a long way so by weaving our way through the New Forest roads we are home. Now to unload..

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Return

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Here we are- much, much sooner than we ever expected, out in our van. Not far, of course- only a stone’s throw from home, in the New Forest, one of the UK’s historic, iconic national parks. Here there are all manner of wonderful treasures: huge, ancient, English oaks plus all our other native trees, heaths with purple heather, ponds and lakes, many species of birds, lizards, insects and other creatures, wild, roaming ponies, cows, donkeys and pigs. There are picturesque villages and small towns, like Lyndhurst, historic centres like Bucklers Hard, wildlife sanctuaries, open farms. And of course- campsites.

This site, at Ashurst, is next to both a pub and a railway station, which is beyond handy! Husband has brought his bike, since the forest trails and wonderful, but my bike must, for now, remain in our garage. I’m not allowed to cycle…yet. But I am, now, able to walk, and this I intend to do.

We’re experiencing our fifth heatwave this summer here in the south of the UK and have been officially in drought for weeks. When we arrive to site, we search for a shady spot, selecting a place under the shade of a large oak. Next to us, a group of families with tents and caravans sets up, Tents, I feel, will be very hot indeed. The assorted children ride their bikes round in little convoys in time-honoured fashion. Later there’s a small gang of them sitting under the oak tree enjoying the shade and the tree itself.

The shade works well for us. In the evening we sit outside to eat and as we do, an ominous, billowing cloud begins to appear- brownish purple in colour and with shreds of blackened vegetation landing on the table. This is not a rain cloud.

In the forest, not too close to us but present, a fire is taking hold. It’s not a worry for us because we can move very quickly and we know we’ll be warned if necessary.

Next morning we realise there’s a snag with parking in this shady spot. There’s no electric hook-up at Ashurst site and we need all the sunlight we can get for our solar panel to charge the leisure batteries and keep our fridge, lights etc going. We opt to move into the open. It’s hot, yes, but not unbearable under the awning. I set off to walk around the site, which, after several open areas, plunges back into dense woodland and it’s lovely, deep shade. Far at the back, beyond a small footbridge which would have spanned a stream, there’s a boggy area which may have been a pond as it’s green and muddy.

I keep going- along the back of the site, up and round, There are one or two solitary walkers like me and a couple of cyclists. There is much evidence of fallen trees although, on the whole the trees, bracken and vegetation seem to be surviving. Even the brambles are offering up some acceptable blackberries in places.

Around a bend I join a tarmac road, the site and residents sharing it for a distance. But it’s less shady and I turn right across the woods to return to site, pleased to have walked a mile and a half- my longest distance since major surgery on my hip. Hooray!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Over and Out…

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On leaving Chickerell, where we’ve had a couple of nights in the well equipped site overlooking Chesil Beach, we head towards Weymouth and the famous, much loved tourist hot spot of West Bay- a bit of a jewel in the Dorset coast’s crown. Husband, apparently, has always wanted to stay at West Bay. I feel sceptical that we’ll get a pitch in the site by the tiny harbour- a ‘holiday park’ type of place with only a few marginal spaces for tourers like ourselves. ‘But it’s not high season yet’ he protests. And of course, the school summer terms are still running; however I know we don’t stand a chance. We pull up into a prohibited space by reception and he goes in. And comes out. And we don’t stand a chance. So while I wrestle with the challenge of biting back ‘told you so’, we make our way out of West Bay. It will have to be visited in a lower season even than this.

Back we go to find somewhere else, turning right down a track that leads to another huge, ‘holiday park’ type of site at Freshwater Bay, just around the corner from West Bay. This time we are in, allocated a pitch on a massive field housing about a dozen campervans, motorhomes and caravans, all fairly isolated from each other. motorhomes and caravans and after a lot of searching we find our pitch.

Much of the site is reserved for static units, most here seem unoccupied, Opposite us and along there’s a huge shower block with dozens of massive shower cubicles and when I go in I’m alone in there.

The site has a chain grocery store, an amusement arcade, a bar offering such thrills as Bingo and an upstairs cafeteria type place with limited offerings- except I can get a prawn salad. There’s a view of the bay though not the sea. Next day Husband can walk to West Bay, which he does.

We’re looking for one last stop before we go home, settling for one on a dairy farm on the way home, located in Portesham, a picturesque village with an excellent pub along the road. The weather is hotting up again as we arrive. It’s busy and we’re directed to a pitch at the end, although not too far from the showers and services!

Before we go to the site though, we drop into the village farm shop, which had looked inviting as we’d passed it en route. It would be great to stock up a bit for our last couple of days. Inside the shop though, there’s little of use! A poor, meagre selection of salad, vegetables or fruit, no meat products and nothing else we can make a meal from except some overpriced quiche in the cafe. Hmm…Appearances can be deceptive. We get some quiche and go to the site- which does offer some interesting vending machines of its own- pizzas, milk etc.

Opposite our pitch, a solo woman arrives and begins to set up a tent. There are several solo women camping here- which gladdens me in some way…

But the woman is struggling. By now the weather has heated up to another heatwave, with relentless sun, not conducive to much activity. She has an inflatable tent- ie it has hollow spines that need to be blown up to support the fabric. But her hand pump is failing to inflate the spines, which keep collapsing. I ask Husband to help [he’s a little reluctant] and he locates our pump. But the problem is with the spine’s valve and only her pump fits. Another man comes to help. I feel an enormous sense of relief that eventually the problem is solved and her tent gets sorted! I so want this woman to enjoy her solo trip!.

We get to the pub later and it’s lovely. Then it’s time to go home. My next journey will be very different, not so pleasant and prevent travel for some time to come- but hey- One day I will get back on the road with more drivel…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Woolly Musings

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We don’t want to linger long at home after our Cornwall trip, so we’re soon off again- and again in a westerly direction within our own county of Dorset.

The village of Wool, near Wareham is a small community, but has a railway station, two pubs and a convenience store, plus a camp site. The site is across the road from the railway, which must be crossed before accessing one of the two pubs [which Husband has deemed the better from his exploration of the village]. The snag is that there’s a barrier to climb over and a bridge with a lot of steps. Still…

It’s surprising to see so many permanent units on the site, with people coming for the weekend and leaving again- most arriving to caravans by car; most with dogs. Wool village is not especially characterful and has little in the way of visitor attractions. Having said this, there is a well known tank museum nearby at Bovington and also ‘Monkey World’, a rescue centre for all manner of apes, which had its own TV series at one time.

This is a very doggy site, with dogs the main topic of conversation. One man for whom his golden retriever is clearly the centre of his life stops to chat as we loll about outside our van, wanting to relate their experiences of a local dog show that was on this weekend. ‘He came second!’ he boasts, as the dog cocks his leg against the refuse bins. Once he’s realised that our interest doesn’t stretch beyond polite he moves swiftly on.

Husband sets off walking [with camera] and I settle to a book. Later I tackle the challenge of getting to the pub, breaching the barrier and mountaineering the steps up and down the railway bridge- which I do.

The pub here [The Ship Inn] has a good looking menu. The food and the beer are splendid and although the garden is bathed in sunlight, we choose to sit inside in the shade.

It has been a pleasant couple of days but we’re moving again, for a return visit to Chickerell, near Weymouth. It’s a huge site, once a huge farm. It’s a fairly extensive operation with many staff, a well-stocked shop, a bar/restaurant with basic pub grub and access to the wonderful coast path which also fringes gorgeous Chesil Beach.

We get tucked into a spot by a hedge with a view down to the sea. Husband can meander down and along the path [which, to be fair, I have walked before when my legs worked] and we can take advantage of the barn bar. There’s also a couple of paddocks with amiable donkeys, gregarious goats and noisy geese. While Husband is off on his wandering, I hobble along to the enclosures and sneak a couple of carrots to the donkeys and goats. While a sign says it’s not allowed to feed them, it isn’t chips or anything unsuitable.

The weather has turned a little overcast, but nothing too unpleasant so we just need to find one more site for a couple of nights before we return home. But it’s easier said than done.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Oysters and Out

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Not everyone likes oysters. Common responses to questioning on the subject are ‘ugh’, ‘slimy’, ‘Yuk’ and so on. But I believe these are mostly people who haven’t tried them. There are also those who claim you must tip them down your throat without tasting them- which to my mind is sacrilege. I didn’t sample an oyster until I was in my fifties, considering it one of those activities that should be tried before I got much older. We were on the west coast of France, which could be considered oyster world and seemed like a great place to try. I was won over straight away. I love them. But they must not be cooked, or spiced, or covered in cheese, or drenched in anything but lemon juice and/or maybe vinaigrette.

Since that first go, I’ve rarely eaten oysters at home in the UK. But here in Polzeath, sitting in the Waterside cafe/bar, they are on offer. And I can’t pass up the opportunity. And they are completely delicious- soft and flavoursome. A great start to a meal!

While the Polzeath site has its drawbacks, like the strange showers that we had to pay for, it also has an abundance of friendly wildlife [a tame, young blackbird, the ubiquitous robin, bold rabbits everywhere] and is in a great position. Husband can stride off along the coast path and I can relax with a book in the sunshine. Having finally got the hang of my camera, he returns with some coastal shots- all very rugged.

But it’s time to move again and we’ve only a few days left before we must be back for appointments. We’re returning to Devon, to a farm site at Mortehoe on the north coast, near Woolacombe. I came many years ago. The bad news is that the weather is turning at last and as we drive through the narrow, pretty streets of Mortehoe, dark clouds are gathering. The site is large, with few tourers in. We can see right away that it’s going to be unmanageable for me to walk to the centre, where dining possibilities lie.

It begins to rain and becomes much cooler. We are, at least, not too far from the shower block so an early shower seems to make sense. By the time I emerge it’s raining in earnest and even in the short distance from the block to the van I get wet.

Before long, the rain has closed right in. The windows steam up and it becomes quite miserable. We’ll be catering for ourselves tonight and will have to prepare for a night in the van- which isn’t too much of a hardship as it’s cosy and comfortable and we have laptops and books to amuse us.

The real issue is that the site is booked for three nights. But there’s no sign of an improvement in the weather over the next few days. It’s disappointing, but it looks like we will have to bail out early. We’ll come back another time. And we’re not done with trips yet!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Surfer Heaven

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Some years ago [well- quite a few years ago], Husband took to body-boarding. This was, in part, due to our living by the sea and a perfect, flat, surfy beach. He had wetsuits and all the paraphernalia. Someone asked me if I went out to watch him enjoying this activity, which I found profoundly amusing. [He certainly doesn’t sit and watch me gardening]. Anyway- this is all in the past now.

But my point is, much of Cornwall’s coast is famed for surfing. Indeed, Newquay is surf city and alive with night clubs and the rest, resulting in an altogether rowdy summer scene.

Polzeath, near Padstow, however, is a relatively quiet spot with a small beach, although still hosts crowds of everything surfy: tuition, board hire, wetsuit sales, wetsuit hire, outdoor showers, an explosion of pizza vans and kiosks and anything else surfers need. The small town is just about walkable for me- down through an adjacent site, along a lane and we’re there. Among the pizza places and board hire vans there are one or two useful outlets for us- a Spar supermarket offering most items and a lovely-looking bar/restaurant facing the beach.

To re-enter our site at this lower end, we have been given a fob. We set off [slowly in my case] down to the gate. At this point there are still a fair number of tourers and tents on our end of the site. I like to see tents on a site. We were tent campers for many years before we succumbed to vans and I missed it to begin with.

We’ve got down through the gate and have begun the descent through the steep chalet site on our way to look at the town and buy a few groceries when Husband realises he doesn’t have the key fob to get back. He turns back, leaving me sitting outside the chalet site’s posh reception building, which has a handy bench. While he’s gone [and he has to gain entry to our site by throwing himself on the mercy of a fellow-camper] a robin keeps me company, coming to stand between my feet and staring beseechingly up at me while I chat to him/her. I don’t have any tasty titbits so eventually the tiny bird leaves.

After quite some time, Husband returns, although he hasn’t found the key fob and had to go to our site’s reception for a new one. But we can continue down to Polzeath, where we go down to the beach and get a drink in a rustic bar nestled between wetsuits and pizzas. The beach is mostly obscured by parked cars and vans in a vast car park, but we check out the Waterfront bar and restaurant for another night and trek [and hobble] back to our site, secure at least that we can get back in.

In the van, I find myself staring at Husband. ‘What’s that in your pocket?’ I ask him and he puts his hand into his pocket to pull out the ‘lost’ key fob…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Almost Not Return

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This post contains images of van life in happier times…

So the cheeky quirks of fate were not yet done with us.

We’d booked a ferry crossing from Cherbourg back to Poole as foot passengers, since the van was still immobile and stuck in the car park of a garage [who did not wish to repair it] in the unlovely commercial zone of Lecousse, near Fougeres.

Now it was Wednesday and we were due to sail on an overnight boat. Initially it seemed there were no cabins, although we could get couchettes; then later a cabin became available, which was a rare piece of good luck in a whole chapter of misfortune. The ferry would leave at 9.30pm, meaning that we’d need to be there at the terminal by around 8.45pm. I had rung the assistance number and informed them we’d need a hire car to get to the port and been told that the French AA were working on it.

It was 9.00am. We packed and left our hotel room, taking our luggage down to the lobby to wait for a taxi to collect us and take us to the hire car depot,

We waited. And waited,

I got a text from the French AA to say they were ‘doing their best for us’. Really?

We waited.

We read. We got coffees.

By late morning we were anxious. The weather had become squally, deluges of rain lashing the hotel windows. I rang the AA, to be told they were looking for a car ‘equivalent to the car the client drives’. ‘We drive a campervan’ I told her. ‘We can’t get one of those’ was the reply! I said we’d take ANY car. We needed to get going.

We waited.

At about 2pm I received a text to say a taxi was coming at 3.00pm. We could still get to the ferry if we didn’t hang about too much.

At three, when we were almost climbing the walls of hotel lobby, a taxi came. We climbed in and set off on a ride that seemed ridiculously long, taking precious time off our Cherbourg drive and far from Fougeres, where we’d discovered the nearest ‘Europcar’ hire depot was.

The driver took us to the environs of Rennes, which was a mystery, and dropped us at a car hire office. We took our luggage and entered, giving our details to the woman at the counter. The taxi left. The woman searched her computer.

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is no booking under that name.’ My stomach, [which had churned far too much for an organ affected by IBD] lurched with nausea yet again. The woman searched neighbouring offices and yes, we were at the wrong car hire office. Did I have the number for the French AA? No. I rang the British number and she spoke to them. I looked at my watch. It seemed likely that we would, now, miss the ferry. Then…

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will get you a car.’

I feel that beatification is not good enough for this woman-

We did the paperwork, went out to the back, got into a car. Husband would drive. We set off. The car was without a SATNAV and we were in some unidentifiable area of Rennes. I got navigation on my phone and we got out of Rennes, on to the ring road and away.

We made good time, even managing a stop for a coffee and a snack- I’d been unable to eat anything all day. When we reached Cherbourg, we followed instructions from the car hire woman, dropping the car in the station car park. We were still a distance from the ferry terminal but a bus took us there.

Inside the foot passenger building there were 5 of us waiting, in hard, plastic chairs with nothing resembling a cafe, only a dysfunctional coffee machine. At last, we got into a shuttle bus which took us on to the ferry. I have never been so glad to get on to the Barfleur. We found our cabin, dumped bags and went to the bar, sinking into seats, exhausted.

We are home, of course, sans van. As of now, there is no sign of repair, no news that it can be collected. Not only does it have our bikes, locked on to the back, it also contains many of our clothes, shoes and belongings. So we wait…again…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

And the End of the Road…

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We were installed in the ‘Brit’ hotel, a basic, no-frills establishment which had the virtue, at least, of being three minutes walk from our beleaguered van in the garage car park.

Carrying supermarket bags with some clothing, snacks and essentials, we made our way there and checked in, relieved to see a bar, if no restaurant. A cursory look around the zone revealed limited dining options- a Chinese and MacDonalds.

We dumped the bags and repaired to the bar, where, in a gung-ho but unwise move, I had a Leffe beer, which is very strong. The helpful receptionist and bar tender told us of another restaurant- French. So that was three options, plus the van, in which we could cook a meal, although we’d run out of water before long.

In the French restaurant, ‘La Taverne’, we shared an excellent starter then i had a nasty, gristly steak, accompanied, still less wisely, by 2 glasses of Cremont. I would, at least, sleep.

I woke in the small hours- much, much too hot [as always in hotels], sweating and with a headache- the result of Leffe plus Cremont. I drank a lot of water and took painkillers. In the morning- now Sunday, we breakfasted, twiddled thumbs, read, surfed the internet. We moved to the lounge area for a change of scene from our room, We tried a walk in the afternoon, next to a busy road then a turning off up a country lane looked promising, with elegant houses, autumn cyclamen and a friendly donkey, until the rain swept in. We turned back, had a coffee in MacDonalds.

We rustled up a simple meal in the van with what we had and tried to feel optimistic that next day [Monday] things would be sorted.

As Monday morning wore on it became clear that nothing was happening to resolve the repair of our vehicle. I rang the insurer. I rand and rang. Each time I was obliged to listen to all the safety instructions and choose options. When a call was answered there was no news. We frittered away the day, [going stir crazy by now] and went to eat at the Chinese restaurant- a gargantuan buffet, and made a decision to go home minus van.

On Tuesday I rang yet again to tell the assistance of our decision. We’d need a hire car to get to the ferry port. I was assured that the French arm of the company would work on it. The garage where the van was parked said it could stay, but beyond 2 weeks, storage would need to be paid. Now we had some things to do. We must book our crossing as foot passengers, empty the van fridge and dispose of foodstuff. We needed to buy bags to carry as much as we could. A large store, ‘GIF’ sold almost everything, including luggage and we bought two bags with wheels to pack whatever we could manage for our ferry crossing.

We also emptied the fridge of all food that would expire, bagging it and ditching it in a bin. We pulled all the curtains. I felt anxious about our bikes, which although locked, were in full view at the rear of the van on the carrier. But there was nothing we could do. We handed the keys in to ‘Roady’, the garage where it was parked. They could keep it for twelve days and thereafter, storage would be charged. The insurance would have to cover it.

After all of this, it was a waiting game…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Sins on Site and Off

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St David’s cathedral in Pembrokeshire, Wales is a magnificent building and well worth a look, outside and in.

After our visit we climb the steps back up to the village and get an early evening beer before exploring evening dining possibilities, opting for The Bishops, which looks to have a good menu and a quirky interior.

On our return to the camp site we’re greeted with a message attached to our mirror. Apparently we’ve transgressed by parking the wrong way round and we’ve encroached on the next door pitch, as well as committing the grave misdemeanour of having our awning out! Who knew? It’s a wonder we’re not banished or the van impounded for such heinous sins!

We’re rarely subjected to strict rules and regulations when touring- I can only recall once having to park facing the same way as everyone else somewhere in Italy, a town site where it was all hard standing and terraced; but never before in a vast, rural site with oodles of space. The admonishment does nothing to endear the owners/managers of this place to us!

The meal at The Bishops is good, the venue characterful and just busy enough to be interesting. We return to site- up through the village and down the lane.

We’re off again next day to begin our return. Husband has found a site en route. We could have made our return in a day, although it would have been a long day’s travel. The site is outside Bath next to a busy road and half a mile along from a few houses and one large pub. There’s an unexpected shower of rain as we attempt to drive through Bath, clearly a mistake as we get into a muddle and [weeks later] end up with a fine for emissions, something we’d not considered! More sinning!

When we pull up, the iron gates across the site are closed. I ring the site’s number. Apparently we were supposed to look at an email which contained the access code- on a pad next to the gate. Failed again! The manager drives along in a 4×4 tom let us in. It’s an unusual site, highly un-manicured, with huge fields either side of a rough track. I assume it’s a work in progress, as the showers and toilets are in portacabins. There’s no electricity. All of this is fine for us for one overnight stop.

The site isn’t busy but there are a number of tents, some tiny- a group of singles with small cars and a pair of Dutch walkers. This is clearly a site much used for visiting Bath.

We wander up along the busy road to the pub- which is a big, cavernous place hosting a few diners. The fields flanking the road are dusty, beige prairies, bearing the mark of repeated heatwaves and drought that the UK has suffered this year, but there remains a wonderful crop of blackberries in the hedgerow, so brambles must be exceptionally resilient plants.

Then it’s home again and a start to planning the next getaway…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Lane of no Memory

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Having looked at Porth Cawl and had a very acceptable meal in the Rose and Crown pub in Nottage, it’s time to leave and move on to the next site.

We’re booked into a site at St Davids, in Pembrokeshire. I’ve been here before, many years ago and subsequently learn that I’ve been here twice, apparently having been on a camping trip with my youth club. I remembered we’d had a camping trip but forgotten the location. What I do recall is that I was on my own with a load of lads. Heaven knows how I was allowed to go by my parents!

The site is down an extremely narrow lane some little way out of town and down a steepish hill. At least the return from St Davids town will be downhill! It’s a huge site with several fields, of which ours is some distance from the gate and also the shower block.

We park up and chock up, as it’s a slope and we make sure we have a good view of the coastline from the van- and it is a spectacular view- rocky cliffs, coves and caves, dashed by foamy waves. We set up and decide on a walk [up the hill] into St Davids. It’s narrow enough that we must press ourselves into the hedgerow whenever a vehicle comes, and there are plenty of them as ours is not the only site down this lane.

I don’t remember much about St Davids, so the fact that I’ve been twice before isn’t an issue. But I do remember the amazing cathedral.

Is it a village or a town? It’s hard to say but it has just one main street, although it’s packed with a lot of well known retailers like Fatface and Go Outdoors, plus ice cream parlours, gift shops and a kind of antiques emporium in a grand building. Of course, none of these retailers was here for either of my previous trips, or even existed, I imagine. Perhaps it is one benefit of older age that poor memory blurs past events and travel? I may as well not have been here at all!

The ice cream parlour is very busy but has only one, unappealing vegan ice cream flavour, so I pass.

Further down the street there’s a small craft market on the island in the centre and further still, through an archway, there is the cathedral. It’s a glorious sight- vast and beautiful, nestling in the dip between the hills. But it’s still a long way down to the entrance, a choice of slope or steps.

There’s a stream at the bottom and we cross the bridge between the ruins of what used to be the bishop’s palace and the great cathedral. Here is a great setting for such iconic buildings, although when we take a look at the exterior of the bishop’s palace we decide not to pay to go inside, since there’s little left to see!

To the cathedral, then; we return to the main entrance and through the porch. And we’re not disappointed…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com