Wednesday 13 June 2012

Incomplete (ii)




It always works out this way. Driving home with the road lit up by the sun, the blue sky stretching out before you, light white clouds dotting the horizon: a rare nice day taken up by driving. It was the same on the journey down; slowing inching forward, slowly being baked in a silver container, quickly sweating and losing all patience. The day in-between welcomed a blanket of grey and sheets of wet which threatened to drown the pre-trip buoyancy; camping in Pembrokeshire, it was always going to rain.

Thankfully being British means our resolve for making the most out of an otherwise bleak situation is unbreakable. The spirit of the Brits: unflagging optimism in the face of yet another holiday being washed-out by the lashing rain. Disappointing being the unsaid byword for most holiday makers unfortunate to miss the few weeks worthy of being included in the summer months – instead “the weather wasn’t great but it was still nice to get away” becomes the staple phrase, delicately hiding any disappointment. Others choose “it wouldn’t be a holiday without the wind and rain” as a comforting blanket to wrap themselves in until they go abroad to sunnier climes.

For what it’s worth Pembrokeshire, and specifically Fishguard where we were staying, is beautiful. The campsite was situated perilously on the edge of the rugged limestone cliff edge; the vast grey ocean stretched endlessly into the horizon, the undulating hills pushed against our backs, the fresh sea air cleared the London congested lungs with every gulp taken. A welcome chance to relax and unwind, even if it did take an hour to set up the tent, which then proceeded to leak in the rain.

Although the rain does have its good side. As we meandered along the skinny path (skinny jeans for skinny path) it was noticeable how fresh and lush the wild plants and overgrowth were, as they drank heartily from the recent downpour. A verdant vivaciousness belonging to the wildlife glowed in the sombre early evening light. The drooping violet lanterns of bell heather dotted the route to the small harbour, sprouting and stretching up out of the bracken and bramble. A lone fisherman silently chugged towards the coast ,stopping sporadically to heave in the crab nets tossed out earlier in the day. Gone was the clapping of the trains and shrill of the sirens, replaced by the gentle crashing of waves and chirrup of birds, the odd buzz of a bee doing the late rounds for pollen.

As we ducked into the pub we were greeted with the inquisitive glances reserved by locals for outsiders who venture into their favourite boozer. Fortunately these were put aside once the landlord greeted us with a chuckling smile and warm bonhomie. The Ship was a small, skinny pub (skinny jeans for skinny pub) with old wooden beams that seemed to creak as if it were bobbing on the pulsing ocean. An old man played a forgotten tune on the yellow stained keys of an old piano, smiling frustratingly as he tried to recall the next notes. Pictures of boats, a curled poster showing different species of fish and an iron-stained perry buoy hung from the walls: a nautical atmosphere if ever there was one.

After a few pints of bitter, gulped down as a folk band played – the harpist elegantly plucked the strings, the fiddler energetically jabbed his bow – we said our goodbyes and plodded home in the pounding rain, deciding to go via road for fear of sliding scree and steep drops off the small path. With the wet clothes that were sticking to the body removed and replaced by the much needed winter thermals we tucked ourselves in an hour or so later, only to be woken by drops of rain tickling the inside of the ear. It wouldn’t have been a holiday without the wind and the rain.