It’s wild how you can walk off a breezy beach into the cold waves and think, this is quite nice! Then when you accidentally squirt cold water over yourself while showering afterwards, you shriek as if you’ve fallen overboard in Antarctica wearing a negligée.
I’ve just braved the sea at Freshwater East, Pembrokeshire, earlier in the year than I would usually venture in on the West Coast, but it was, indeed, very pleasurable. I think I shall repeat the exercise tomorrow, and stay in for longer; it’s scheduled to be sunnier, and the water is calm, shallow and sandy-bottomed. I will try to drag Helen in with me, and she will resist. I can’t lie – part of the attraction is making myself feel better after our daily walks, with our disappointingly mismatched fitness levels. I am realising that, although I was fairly active during my seven months overseas, I did little by way of real, up-and-down walking. I lived mostly in flip-flops, and movement consisted of strolling along beaches; short, steamy (and, thus, slow) treks through tangled rainforest to waterfalls, and swimming. For walking, I’m out of condition and Helen, who I would once have left standing on the hill-paths of Assynt, steams ahead on these cliff paths.
It has dawned on me, also, that it’s almost a year since I walked the Dales Way. I still have one section to complete – abandoned due to soaking drizzle and non-existent visibility – and I have yet to finish writing the journal, and to offer it here. If this short break (which is mostly a trip down memory lane for Helen, who lived in these parts until she was seven) whips me into suitable shape, I’ll be aiming to walk the remaining section later this month.
I’ve long thought about visiting Pembrokeshire but somehow, as with so many other places, never made the time. Helen has managed to book us into the exact flat her parents owned, and holidayed in, when she was a child. It sits high above the bay; honeysuckle and bramble-lined, sandy tracks meander down to the beach. It would have been paradise to a seven-year-old me.
The narrow lanes we drive are edged with tall hedgerows rampant with wildflowers. They make Helen nervous; they remind me of the West Country and holidays in Cornwall, although it smells quite different. I’m still getting to know it, feeling my way around the feelings. We’ve seen some attractive castles – Carmarthen, Pembroke and, especially Manorbier stand out – and plenty of quirky little shops in hidden alleys. Traffic is relatively light, and village pubs are pretty, beamed and quaint. Fields are verdant green; mature trees arch across the roads. It’s relatively uncrowded for such a scenic area and villages have a decidedly sleepy feel, just how I like them. It’s early days and we’ve been blessed with lovely weather, but I think I like it here!