“We’re on holiday,” I pronounced boldly, as we zipped through the Morrison’s roundabout. We were off to Wales. Holiday you say, in Wales, in November? Yes – and a damn fine holiday at that, I’ll have you know. Our destination was the seaside village of Newport in Pembrokeshire. As we set off down South, homemade sandwiches and Lucozade in tow, my thoughts turned to all things British holiday: principally Golden Grahams and ginger nuts.
We finally arrived, £45 worth of petrol later and without Golden Grahams. Newport Spar had failed us completely. We compensated with the gingeriest of ginger nuts but already cracks were appearing in the very British holiday of my dreams. What’s more, we had been lured in by the provocative connotations of ‘reading week’ and each unloaded our backbreaking book-loads sheepishly.
Frosted Shreddies had to do for breakfast – I took the blow well – and we headed out on our first walk. I contemplated shorts, but as British as it would have been, my legs simply wouldn’t allow it. With our jean pockets suitably lined with ginger nuts, we drove (is that cheating?) to the coastal path. We maneuvered the rocky ravines quite magnificently – for city folk – conquering each stile and wayward cow with ease. My windburn was looking pretty good too. Man 1, nature 0. This whole country thing was way easier than I thought.
Man went 2 – 0 up post walk, thanks to our roaring fire creation back at the cottage. It’s fair to say there were a few initial operational difficulties, but as three first-timers, I’d say we did rather well. At least it looked nice. This holiday was great. We perched books on armchairs, just in case “reading week” dropped in to check up on us but we weren’t going to let him interrupt the holiday.
Holiday sex it has to be said wasn’t on the agenda. Even the erect ginger nut packet became quickly flaccid. We did make it to the Newport Golden Lion pub, once, but in all honesty, without a dragon tattoo I was never going to compete in the dating stakes.
Even as the rain closed in, our spirits were far from dampened, and we took to ginger nut consumption with added gusto. Sex deprived we might have been, but nature took another blow as we took the plunge into the Irish Sea, and surfaced with all ten toes intact. (Man 3 – Nature 0).
Turns out Golden Grahams aren’t the make or break of British holidays after all, and anyone who says I didn’t go on holiday is wrong. We may not have returned walnut bronzed, nor did we caress any olive-skinned males. But we nibbled ginger nuts, flirted with windburn and dabbled with the sea. And we defeated nature. Come on, that’s cool?
Pembrokeshire is beautiful, even in November. Honestly. Iona Emlyn – Williams owns the cottage, be her friend if you want to go, she’s always looking.