Sunday, February 18, 2007

Barafundle & Saundersfoot

Yesterday I drove back down to Pembrokeshire, in Wales to revisit my newly claimed cousins.

James & Alison escorted me out to Barafundle Beach on Castlemartin. The day was turning out nicely, but I judged that we were obviously in the large eye of a gigantic hurricane. Alison to James: "He's getting the hang of it." It being Pembrokeshire weather, a subject so dire that even Stephen King hasn't gotten around to documenting it.

Barafundle is not far from Auntie Vi's Bosherston domain, but the name was known to me beforehand, either due to it being the inspiration for an album by the Welsh band Gorky's Zygotic Mynci (not to be confused with Geatchy: Lunatic Minkey) or just from seeing it on a listing of well-regarded beaches.

Bondi tore about the beach for a while as he is wont to do on sand or snow. I found a large piece of red driftwood, shaped like a staff for an oversized wizard. Despite Alison's protestations I lugged it back up to the top of the cliffs, where I fixed it to the end of Bondi's leash so that he could haul it back to the car. That lasted for all of about 20 feet, more due to A's protestations than Bondi's shock at actually being put to work.

Caldey Island


Alison and I continued onto Saundersfoot, a beachside resort town just to the east of Tenby, commended to me by Halley, a wandering Canadian, who has tied her kite to Ealing for the present time. After a short walk on the wide sandy beach Alison and I made a turn about the small commercial frontage, where I was shown, Kook-a-ba the local Aussie restaurant which offered "Flamin' Galahs", "Wagga-Waggas" and other "top tucker".

For lunch, we parked Bondi outside a corner butchery, where we going to get some gigantic roast pork baguettes. A little girl spied Bondi savouring the pork vapours, and was nearly reduced to tears: "He's eaten too many dinners!" she cried. Another little girl had more difficulty perceiving this: when her mother pointed the big dog out to her, she squinted over at us for a moment and then said "where?". One of the butchers provided a marrow bone for Bondi, which I unwrapped for him to chew on while we attempted our baguettes. Wise Bondi, knowing that there would be no contention over the bone, focussed all his energies in harvesting scraps of pork from us with his patented "I'm too pretty to starve" look.

That evening Alison showed me the video-tape of the Channel 4/Open University program exploring her family tree researches, which had suggested that her great grandmother had produced illegitimate offspring via a royal liaison in the early 1880s. We're still both trying to figure out the complete output of our ancestors from an early generation (sisters from Dolgellau, North Wales) who each produced children by at least 3 fathers. We may have to wait for another distant cousin to put up their hand to identify themselves on a genealogical website.

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