Pengwndwn*

From about age 7 to 14 we had a family holiday many Augusts, a fortnight in a little cottage (called Pengwndwn*) up a little overgrown lane from its farm (Rhoswrdan*) in north Pembrokeshire (that’s the very Welsh part of Pembrokeshire).

It belonged to the eldest son of the farm family, but in the summer he took himself to a little wooden hut nearby and let his cottage out.

Deep windowsills in the very thick stone walls, a little hut with a chemical toilet in the garden (Dad had to dig a pit in the corner of the field to empty it, and was very keen for us to use public conveniences when we went out). At first, gas lamps I think (calor?), but candles to take upstairs. I think maybe oil lamps at some stage. But eventually to our disappointment electric lights (and an indoor loo I think which must have pleased my father) were installed.  Peas to pod and radishes from the garden. My sister and I would tramp down the stoney, grassy lane in the morning with a little tin can for milk (and probably eggs sometimes).

We could walk up to the main coastal road  and over to peep at the sea over the cliffs, but the main beach was Newport Sands, and a little further the delightful Cwm-yr-eglwys* – here you went down a steep lane to the sheltered cove. It had shingly sand, but so calm to learn to float. It was one end of a valley cut across the little peninsula, and one could walk through to the rather exposed beach of the south which was rather unattractive. But there were many other beaches and coves further north and south, and Ceibwr* Cliffs.

We always had two weeks so that there should be some beach weather. August in Wales does have  quite a lot of rain usually. So time for reading and family games when the rain came (no TV).

The journey, at first from SE Wales, and later from the NE seemed long to us girls despite probably rationed out ‘Spangles’ sweets and plenty of I-spy or similar.
As we neared our destination it was  ‘first one to see “Busty the buzzard”’ on a telegraph pole waiting for us.

I remember one very wet and grey day journey down, all a bit mournful. ‘First one to see enough blue to make a sailor’s jacket’ from my Father, which was a new thought to me at that age. Sure enough before long there was the patch of blue, increasing, and the promise of brightness, and a holiday feeling …

* These Welsh words are pretty phonetical, if you remember that ‘w’ in Welsh is a vowel and sounds here like the short ‘oo’ of ‘good’ or the ‘ou’ of ‘should,’  ‘Eglwys’ (church) has the ‘y’ sounding ‘ee’ after the ‘w’. (‘ŵ’ with a circumflex is pronounced  as the longer ‘oo’ of ‘room’,)
Ceibwr  has hard ‘C’ followed by ‘ei’ sounding as in the ‘ay’ of ‘hay’.

Photos above show myself (7?) and my father walking through the cutting to the other beach, but pestered by midges and having made veils of ferns stuck in our hats! And the other is me mounted bareback on the farm pony (a very rare unique privilege I think). I can’t find photos of the cottage, I think my sister has them.
Picture and poem about Cwm-yr-eglwys at https://www.abctales.com/story/rhiannonw/coastal-path-4-pen-dinasdinas-head

[IP: a patch of blue]