If it’s 1797 and you’re going to invade Great Britain from France, obviously north Pembrokeshire is the go-to place, isn’t it? Good rail links Goodwick to London, regular Sealine ferries to Ireland, nice local beaches… but you probably didn’t allow for Jemima.
The tapestry (more properly, as Z pointed out, an embroidery) commemorating this bizarre bit of forgotten history (about which you can read more here), immaculately displayed and curated in Fishguard library, allowed us to dispose of a wet, windy Friday. We proceeded up the coast to Newport (how many Newports are there in the UK, I wonder?) and an acceptable lunch at the Golden Lion, after which we drove back over the misty, drizzly Presilli hills and caravan life took over.
The Presilli hills are locally referred to, in English, as the Presilli mountains. This is a deliberate mistranslation of ‘mynneth’, which sounds a bit like ‘mountain’ but in Welsh means something rather less. (I am making this up, but don’t let that stop you believing it.) Welsh is an intriguing language, which we’ve resolved to learn more of. (* look up the Welsh for ‘resolve’*) Sometimes it just looks like bad English spelling (ambiwlans, parc busnes) but then veers off into French (eglwys).
Back at the caravan, we hunkered down and enjoyed a decent-weathered Saturday, including a walk across the westward Wiseman’s Bridge beach where the geology is, once you notice it, quite fascinating. I’d spent many early years not noticing that what was now rockpools and striations had once been a massive promontory – huge and high worn down to sea level cracks and sand over many millions of years. We don’t leave that much of a trace, do we?
The caravan is shut down. Draining the plumbing was much easier once Joseph had taught me how to do it properly. Z has made it cleaner than it’s been for years.
I didn’t cut the grass. No rabbits did either.