On the Gower


Back from a week in Wales, which was lovely. We crossed the Severn from sunny skies and into banks of black cloud, which were dumping their payload onto the Gower when we arrived. High winds too, as I slammed the door of the car and saw in the reflection that my hair was standing vertically. Having unpacked and made the beds, we scuttled through the grey, rainswept village, looking out towards grey sea and lowering cloud. But we opened door of the pub, fighting the wind, and it was like Father Ted. The place was rocking with colour, noise, money lined up along the pool table, a jukebox playing, huge plates of food being borne past to tables filled with jolly beer drinkers.

The storm had cleared by next morning, and apart from a couple of rainy mornings we had perfect walking weather. So perfect that I managed to get sunburn and now have a peeling nose. You sort of need the rain to appreciate the sun, I think. Certainly as we sat in a Tesco Express carpark outside Mumbles, eating sandwiches and watching the water cascade down the windscreen, the smallest patch of blue sky would have been greeted with laughter and song.

It’s glorious around the Gower: a great mix of sandy beaches, craggy outcrops, rockpools and woodland, heartily recommend it. But not bank holiday/half term. As we left Port Eynon on Friday evening, pulling in on country lanes banked by high hedges and low walls to allow yet another loaded SUV past en route for the campsite, we got a taste of what it must be like in the summer holidays. As it was, we had the place to ourselves. Lots of walking, lots of food, lots of sleep and lots of ice cream. Perfect. And I’ve nearly stopped thinking I should have done genocide.


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