Tag Archives: travel

The Best of the Rest

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In the middle of our week in Seville, the weather turns sultry and cloudy. We are setting off to walk what we’d discovered was the route to the ‘sights’ and as we leave the hotel, are warned by a doorman that a big storm is coming, which was good of him. We determine, however that we’ll be back before any harm befalls us.

On this day, the parks and gardens are all firmly shut and locked, the result of accidental tree falls in previous storms. The authorities are taking no chances! These closures include the park in which the Plaza de Espana is located, although we are able to get into it by ascending steps and through a doorway.

In the event, there are a few grumbles of thunder and some gloomy, electric -looking clouds plus a few spots of drizzle. On our way back, and wanting brunch, we stop at one cafe, sparsely peopled and are asked if we have booked a table! We move to the next cafe, which is quiet. We have to use the QR code method for the menu [a system I’m not fond of] but manage to order a few items. We wait. We begin to realise why the cafe might be quiet when the wait extends and becomes over-long. A large party of Frenchmen arrive and order a lot of things, some of which arrive before our brunch, which is annoying. Husband is nervous about the coming storm [although this does not become an issue]. At long last, our meals arrive. It’s not so far to walk back to the hotel and as it happens, there isn’t really a storm.

The afternoon is still warm and, wanting to relax with a book by the pool, we get the lift to the third floor. The pool area, however has been stripped of all its comfortable cushions and quite a few of the loungers are gone, presumably in preparation for the ‘storm’ which hasn’t arrived! We make the best of it, using the loungers that remain and we have the place to ourselves.

In the evening, we venture to the top of our street and across to a restaurant we’ve spotted. It has evening outside heaters and a very cosy interior, plus a promising menu. We both choose steaks, which arrive on slates, mine still sizzling on arrival and it ranks amongst the very best steaks I’ve had, simply accompanied by chips [fries], tomatoes and okra. We order a glass each of their house wine. It is all delicious.

Another meal, at the ‘California Burger’ is a resounding failure and epitomises everything loathsome about fast food- a nasty, greasy, falling-apart in my hand load of gloop served in disposable cardboard- and resulting in a morning’s incarceration in the toilet for me and my UC-inflicted gut.

I’ve learned that if we want to visit the ‘Alcazar’ [which we do], we need to book tickets. We can do this at our hotel reception, which we do, choosing our penultimate day. This is something I am looking forward to!

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

Orientation

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An exploration of the locality surrounding our Seville hotel reveals two useful supermarkets [one exactly opposite us] and a network of small streets in which there are plenty of cafes, bars and restaurants. Every one has outside tables with people sitting and partaking. One reason could be that we’re in an area of university student accommodation blocks.

Exploring further, we meander towards the historic part of the city. Seville is blessed with a network of green spaces- gardens and parks- many with water features and all with beautiful, landscaped planting; palms, exotic trees and flowers and of course, the ubiquitous citrus trees.

At last we arrive at Plaza de Espana, an iconic space that was built in 1929. It is vast, a Spanish square, though the curved canal and semi surround render it less ‘square’- like. It’s hard not to be impressed, even though the ornamental canal is depleted of water. The park the square sits in is closed off due to storm warnings, but we are able to access the Plaza via steps and through the building [which houses a military museum]. The lower part of the curved wall of the museum displays mosaic maps of the Spanish provinces. Today, at the base of the main steps, a Flamenco dancer accompanied by a singing Spanish guitarist is entertaining a crowd.

An open top bus tour seems a good idea next day. It’s something we often do in an unknown city- a good way to understand the layout of a place and identify sights we may wish to visit.

One issue we find is that, like Madrid, there is a dearth of public lavatories, although we get lucky and having bought the bus tickets we are directed to one attached to a cafe in the park opposite the bus stop. Husband declines the use of the commentary on board the open top bus, resulting in my having to hiss information to him piecemeal as I receive it. The bus drives us past a lot of famous bits we’d never have time to visit on foot- the ‘pavilions’, a set of buildings from south American countries, the palace of justice, the golden tower, the river Guadalquivir and its beautiful bridges, the technology centre with a replica of Europe’s Ariane space rocket, the old Romany quarter, an area famous for tile-making and the Macarena district- an area I especially like, with its narrow streets of historic houses and beautiful squares.

Seville’s streets are decked with Christmas decorations, all ready for the festive season, although [just as in Adelaide] it feels bizarre to see sparkly Christmas baubles in warm sunshine. When the bus loops back to the river we get off by the golden tower- the Torre del Oro. It’s a wide promenade overlooking the water where there’s a ‘galleon’ moored.

We’re in need of some refreshment by now and have walked back into the city centre and to the area housing the huge cathedral, the street thronged with visitors and trams swishing by. There is an inevitable Starbucks and we dive in there, as much for the toilet facilities as anything else, although there is no lock on the ladies’ ,which makes for a nerve-wracking few minutes for me!

As with so many iconic buildings these days, we are supposed to have bought tickets for the cathedral, but we discover we can buy them from a counter, which we do, then we’re in straight away…

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

Flight from Gloom

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It’s a return to travel tales in this week’s post…

The UK autumn descended into gloom with the clock hands depriving of us light and the weather becoming unsettled.

At the end of October, we got the go-ahead to collect Jazzer, the campervan from its enforced incarceration in a French garage, where it had finally been repaired. Husband went off to collect it, retracing the steps we’d taken as foot passengers a couple of months before when we’d had to abort our late summer trip and come home.

Once the van was back, we could reclaim all the things we’d missed, plus a lot of things we’d forgotten about. Items of clothing, items of kitchenware- even a few food items were still in date and edible!

Having had weeks of waiting and telephoning, writing emails and stressing, now we were ready for some kind of holiday. I’d been Googling ‘warmest place in Europe today’ for weeks. Now we could go. The warmest places, I’d learned, were not Majorca or the Canary Islands- no- the warmest place was Seville, Spain.

We’d been to Seville many years ago, with our first van, a little, white VW with a pop-up roof- a thing of beauty and gorgeousness- but no longer suitable for our needs. At that time, we were still constrained by school holidays and been restricted to the hottest, summer months, so It was mega-hot in inland Spain. We’d found a site somewhere near the airport and although we’d planned to visit the city, we spent the stifling daytime in the site’s swimming pool. We’d managed a trip into town later in the day but sightseeing was impossible due to searing heat.

Similarly, Seville has languished this last summer in temperatures of C40+, brutal conditions for everyday life. No wonder that we are greeted on our first morning’s reccy by the sight of locals wrapped up in woollies and puffa jackets in the moderate 20+ temperature.! Meanwhile we’re attired in shorts and T-shirts, which must look bizarre to them.

We got picked up from the airport [eventually] and dropped at our hotel a little later than expected, due to a flight delay. The hotel- which is a massive structure, has a ground floor cafe serving a range of light meals, drinks etc and is open until midnight. Having checked in, we descend the nine floors from our room and get perfectly acceptable meals. So far so good.

The next morning, we set off [in our shorts and T-shirts] in search of brunch, having first bought a phone charger due to not packing one, from a store at the end of our street. There’s a breakfast cafe just around the corner which looks promising, although the menu is beyond my rusty Spanish skills [which were never great to start with] and the staff seem unwilling to engage in a ‘Spanglais’ garbled conversation. Plates of toasted baguettes with delicious toppings keep emerging, which we decide would be perfect for us- but what are they?

We sit at a table. A nearby diner indicates that we need to queue at the counter first and order. Husband, who considers that I must take responsibility for linguistics, prods me in the direction of said counter. I put on what I hope is a winning smile and attempt to engage with the harassed woman on the other side. ‘Er…tostado?’ I splutter, at which she looks baffled. She calls a man from the other end of the bar. He speaks English, at which I am both relieved and feel a failure. At last we are seated and get a delicious brunch and luscious, freshly squeezed orange juice. There is no shortage of oranges in Seville in November. The pavements are lined with orange trees and ripe fruit covers the ground beneath each tree.

The day begins to heat up and it feels like some relaxation might be in order. The hotel has a third floor swimming pool and sun deck- minus a bar at this time of year, but with comfortable loungers and sofas with cushions. We can explore a bit once we’ve acclimatised and it isn’t so hot. For now- we take books to the sun deck and take in the views over the city- phew!

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

Autumn Arboretum

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The dry and sunny weather has stuck with us for October so far. Husband’s birthday comes around and I cast around for a good activity on this Sunday afternoon, hitting on the idea of Hilliers’s Aboretum, near Romsey, Hampshire- a charitable trust that offers a garden centre as well as a huge estate full of assorted, indigenous trees. Early autumn is a great time to visit because the colours of the trees’ leaves is beginning to develop as they wind down for their winter sleep.

The colours of the Hampshire countryside are already showing promise even before we arrive to Hillier’s. The car park is busy so we’re not the only ones wanting to experience the best that a British autumn can offer today.

At the ticket counter, we’re given a map plus an opportunity to take out a ‘lifetime membership’, a deal that feels questionable. given that we A] won’t be coming every weekend for ever’ and B] ‘lifetime’ doesn’t seem that much of a bargain when you’re in your later life…

Still, we’re here and stepping out around the plantation, starting with a magnificent view down across the hills and over the landscape. Then we turn left and plunge into the trees. Husband, who is a botanist, knows a great deal about plants and trees, although not their names, which amuses me.

Wandering down along the path towards the pond and the bog garden, the colours range from purple and crimson through to flame orange, gold and yellow. En route there is an occasional added item for interest- a xylophone, some drums, a mud kitchen- all there to entertain bored children.

After a wrong turn or two, we find the pond, which has fish, lilies, timber seating areas and, in the centre of the water, a spectacular larch. Larches are unique in that they are conifers but shed their needles in the winter. Before this, though, they turn a bright orange. This single tree’s reflection on the water is amazing.

Around the outside of the pond, in the bog areas, there is towering Gunnera, just starting to decay, the enormous leaves beginning to blacken. Further on, beyond and above the pond area we walk through a tunnel of tall bamboo.

The path winds up and out then we emerge at the start of a wide alley flanked by herbaceous borders, a grass area between, that seem to extend as far as the eye can see. The borders, even this late in the year, are chock full of colour, with dahlias, geraniums, asters and so many more flowers, most being visited by bees, a lovely sight.

Then we’re back to the start, and since we’re by the cafe, it feels churlish not to give it a visit for tea and excellent fruit cake.

Later, I feel glad to have had the cake as I wait [too long] for my meal to be delivered to our table in ‘The Botanist’ restaurant. But what an appropriate place for botanist Husband’s birthday meal!

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

Local or Loco

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In the UK autumn began with cold, unpleasant weather. September here is usually a mild, calming down kind of month, cooling from the summer’s stifling heatwaves but still with plenty of sunshine and warm temperatures. This year’s September was disappointing. October, however has offered many sunny days and the sun still has some warmth.

Having missed out on our September van odyssey, we’ve been day tripping from home as well as tucking the garden in for the winter. Lucky as we are to live between the sea and one of the UK’s most iconic national parks, we’re spoilt for choice, although there isn’t really anywhere that’s new, these days!

There are places where the New Forest National Park meets the sea and we’re headed to one- at Lepe, where a beachside cafe and car park overlook the section of the English channel called the Solent and the Isle of Wight and its iconic ‘Needles’ rocks. On the way we pass through Beaulieu village with its chocolate-box charm and pass groups of New Forest ponies grazing by the roadsides as well as shaggy cattle and wriggling pigs, foraging for acorns in a ditch. We forget, sometimes, that all of this nature and wildlife is on our doorstep!

It’s quite busy even on this autumn afternoon, and some hardy souls are in the sea- which is, of course, at its warmest from summer heat. In the car park there’s one of these pop-up sauna cabins that seems to be the fashion this year, which explains the proliferation of sea swimmers, too.

The cafe and outbuildings are pleasing, timber structures. After a short walk we go up the ramp to the cafe, which has large windows facing the Isle of Wight, then it’s time to move on, to yet another forest meets sea spot- Calshot. The beach here is pebbly but there are great views of the shipping going past on Southampton water. In the distance you can see Portsmouth, too, the Spinnaker tower standing out. There’s a line of beach huts here, although no one in residence today in spite of warm sunshine.

Sometimes cruise ships come past on their way in or out of the port at Southampton, but today there’s only a distant tanker plus the Isle of Wight ferry going backwards and forwards. Further on towards the end of the spit, where the shipping channel bisects the land, there is a castle, built by Henry VIII. Tall pylons and towers of the Fawley oil refinery protrude from the landward side forest.

We drive back along the forest roads again, past open, heather clad common and through dense forest. The leaves haven’t changed colour yet but there are signs of the yellow, umber , gold and red that are to come. Redwoods tower above the ornamental drive and the late afternoon sun glints and glitters through the branches. Lovely.

Then it’s home and back to phoning the AA road rescue…

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

The Beginning of the Road…

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During our latest bit of travel, I’d begun reading American author, Miranda July’s raunchy, outrageous novel, ‘All Fours’. The story begins with the protagonist, a middle-aged woman, setting off on a solo road trip to New York from LA for a work assignment. Its her first long distance drive and entails several stopovers but having set out, she stops thirty minutes out from her home, husband and child, checks into a motel room and stays there for the two and a half weeks she’d planned to be away. While there she sets out to transform the room with a refurbishment and leads a life of abject debauchery involving a lot of outrageous sex.

So in a curious parallel to the start of the book I’d been reading, our current trip lands us in a beige, no-frills hotel room, though without the refurbishment and without the debauchery…

We’d begun in our usual style: scramble up- drive to the port- on to the ferry- up to the cafe for pastries and coffee- down to the couchettes for a snooze- off the ferry at Cherbourg- stop at Orange telecoms for a SIM card- onwards and southwards to our regular stop, an aire at St Brice en Cogles, just into Brittany, where we can stay safely, free of charge. We went to our usual bar and had our usual beer, returned to the van and cooked dinner, had showers, had a peaceful night, woke and prepared to leave.

Husband got into the drivers seat intending to take the van across to the emptying space to rid ourselves of the grey water. He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Not one smidgeon of life.

I sat at the back and wailed: No, no, nooooo! Not again!

I rang the insurance roadside assistance, who ascertained our location and set about finding a local rescue truck. I went out to the town. I figured it was better to do something while we waited. A gaggle of interested fellow-motorhomers was gathering- no doubt a measure of schadenfreude was kicking in.

When I returned from my wander, a flat-bed truck had arrived. The interested onlookers were still there, making suggestions and comments- none of which were helpful. Before I reached it, I could see that the van had started, which flooded me with a sense of relief, initially, until Husband said it had been started by the rescue man from his vehicle and was still unable to start by itself.

Rescue man showed us a garage where the battery could be checked, all he was willing to do. I began to feel nauseous, but we had no other option except to go there and see if the garage would fix it. On arrival, we parked in the garage car park, turning off the engine and acknowledging that we’d be going nowhere else for now. Since the garage, ‘Roady’ was closed for lunch, we had lunch too, although I didn’t feel in the slightest bit hungry.

At 2.00pm we went in and explained our predicament, upon which an employee- kindly but reluctant- came out to look and determined that there was nothing at all wrong with the van’s battery. Could they fix whatever the problem was? Indeed not. All French garages had had summer holidays and were now engaged in working through a backlog of jobs. We were truly stuck.

What next?

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