Ffroc Pinc - Laugharne to St Clears

The next day was going to be a big one. Not distance-wise, but this was the day when Helen was going to don the pink dress.

Let's be candid here; the dress was fucking awful. What you can't see is that it was slit down the back and had two flappy ties. It was made of a thick crimplene, which was a horrific choice of material at the best of times, let alone when planning a cross country walk. This dress was designed to flatter no-one, least of all me. Least of all me kitted out for walking.

We had stopped off at Morrison’s to avail ourselves of their excellent full English and despite dire warnings for the weather that day it was fine and cool.

People clearly thought I was Helen’s carer, and as that is often my role in this walking affair, I was quite happy. Frodo and Sam? Don Quixote and Sancho Panza? Edina and Patsy? Laurel and Hardy? The list goes on. However, I have to say that the employees of Carmarthen Morrison’s are a sanguine bunch who seem to take this kind of lunacy in their stride. Nobody said anything about her attire.

Before beginning the walk proper, we decided to visit Dylan Thomas’ grave in Laugharne, Helen in her frock and walking boots. Failing to see the clear signage in the churchyard we spent 20 minutes wandering around the church and the graves outside it before realising that we had been looking in entirely the wrong place and that the unassuming grave of Dylan and Caitlin was right over the other side of the graveyard. Anyhow, we stopped for a photo opportunity and to let Helen’s sponsors know, via Facebook, that she was sporting the hideous, shocking pink, synthetic fabric creation. Sparks crackled as she walked. Spectacular.

Dylan's Grave , Caitlin in next to him. You couldn't help the feeling that she was probably more relaxed in death than she had been in life, since she now knew where he was (dead, next to her) and what he was up to (not much).

Setting off from Laugharne, Helen in her ffroc pinc, and both of us garnering pitying stares and polite smiles from those out and about early that day, we were optimistic.

Having sweated her way through the trees that led away from Dylan Thomas’ boat house, we stopped to take a photograph.

It was at about this point that we passed a nice young family who really did look at Rhian sympathetically, as if she were my minder. They didn’t give her money to buy me a coffee but it would have been very funny if they had. This was where he used to write, living in the house just down the hill closer to the estuary.

The Taf is tidal at this point and I remember visiting Laugharne as a kid on the highest tide of the Year. My father parked the car in the car park close to the castle and a local guy shouted over to us that the tide was going to be very high later in the afternoon and the car park would probably flood. My father got back into the car and moved it to higher ground. He commented that there were still cars parked next to the estuary and we all wondered what would happen to them when the flood arrived. We sat beneath the walls of the castle and had a picnic of egg sandwiches and coffee from a flask. I think it must have been some sort of rule in the 1970s that the father of the family had the big cup with a handle and the mother had the lesser cup (no handle)that nested inside the masculine one. What would Freud make of that, eh? There was also a rule at the time that flasks had to be tartan, we were so easily impressed in those days.

After the coffees were drunk and the woodbines smoked we headed off down the path towards Dylan's shed.

'I think the tide is coming in Dad!'

'No, we have a while yet.'

'It is Dad!'

'It's not far now!'

'no, Id (wal, terrible name poor man), she's right, its coming in.' This was shocking. Not the imminent soaking but that my mother was agreeing with me against my father. Like the rule about the cups there seemed to be a parenting rule and it was, 'United against the common enemy, the children'. (Ungrateful little buggers, all of us).

The water was coming in, and very quickly. Dad looked at it, now covering a quarter of the path and turned on his heel. We followed him and retreated back towards the castle, the water lapping further and further over the path. By the time we got back to our picnic spot the path was submerged. Looking across, we could see a happy crowd of men, leaning on the fence surrounding the car park, watching the water rise up round the tires of the last remaining car that was parked beside the estuary. They hadn't had so much entertainment in ages.

My father shouted up to the men, 'Shouldn't we try to do something about that car?'

The men were unimpressed, shoulders were shrugged and eyes rolled.

'Nothing we can do, we don't know who's it is', said the lead loafer.

'Probably a tourist', said the man next to him. Eyes were rolled at the stupidity of tourists.

'Come for the day, I expect' said another, 'But he's not going to drive out, that's for sure.'

And with that, they fell back into silence, watching the water rise up.

We found a tea shop and had some tea and could view the flooding through the picture window. Just as we were adding the extra hot water to the teapot for a second cup we saw the owner of the car arrive, with his family. By this time the water was up to the top of the wheel arch of his car. We couldn't hear what was being said but the woman looked as if she was shouting at him. He was waving his hands at the audience of men, who were pointedly ignoring him. A small, blond haired boy in shorts and wellington boots was entertaining himself by running down the small bank to the water's edge and dashing away at the last minute. After several goes at chancing fate, his luck run out, he mistimed his retreat and slipped into the flooded car park. The mother leapt into action and picked up the sodden, wailing child and deposited him into his fathers arms. Marvellous. This was the most entertainment I'd had since I finished reading the Bunty Summer Special .

We walked away from the boat house, passing through woodlands and following the muddy estuary as we neared the gardens at Delacorse. The promised rain stayed away and we past a few other walkers who all said hello or good morning but they all studiously avoided asking about the dress. This was a terribly British thing to do. I looked bloody ridiculous but no one said a thing. They smiled wryly and knowingly at me sometimes.

Me, looking bloody ridiculous. For this little bit of humiliation the generous people at the Archers Appreciation Facebook page, family and friends raised over £800 for https://forceschildrenstrust.org.uk/

If you enjoy the blog and have any pennies to spare , they are a fantastic charity who help children who have lost parents in the armed or civilian services, or within the NHS due to COVID 19

'I think they all think you are a bit mad and I'm taking you out for the day' said Rhian, helpfully. 'Either that, or they think this is some form of religious observation and you are wearing a dayglo habit. "Under his eye" and all that.'

'I could be walking in the Steps of St Seren Ffroc Pinc', I suggested.

'She could be the patron saint of fallen women.'

'Yes, she found God after seeing the face of Jesus in the froth of the pint she was pulling in the Happy Collier where she worked as a barmaid'.

'She could have spent her time doing good works, giving sacks of nutty slack coal to the indignant poor and those with poor dress sense.'

'Don't you mean indigent?

'No, indignant, they wanted something better than coal.'

'And miraculously the sacks never emptied, which left her very tired'

'This led to considerable confusion when a local lad asked her to help him empty his sack and she said she had enough work as it was.'

We walked on for a bit, in quiet contemplation of the Saint.

'What about the colour?'

'Why the Pink?'

'Yes'

'She came out of the Happy Collier in a state of grace and saw the local Pictorium cinema. it was showing a film staring Cyd Charisse and she couldn't spell.'

Ian (the friend we met in Aberaeron) joined in the insanity, at a distance and on line.

Laughing, we walked on, got lost a bit as the path skirted some fields and I got tar on the frock. Damn. That really spoiled it.

The clouds were gathering, grey and ominous. The rain began slowly, showers, light and fine, easing off. The path in this part of Carmarthenshire meanders away from the coast, and takes you through fields with cows (and bulls!), and electric fences, along country lanes and muddy tracks. More of that later.

It rained, on and off, but the walking was generally quite easy, with some muddy ground and some walking along the side of the road, hidden by a hedge. We eventually crossed the old stone bridge into St Clears, and reached Helen's car, which was parked near the St Clears Boat Club.

The walk couldn't really have been less like the day before. This had had been a rural walk around fields and up the estuary of the River Taf. Annoyingly, we could see the path that we would be walking the next day just across the river, so close and yet so far away but this had been a really short day, only 5 miles walked. We decided to treat ourselves to an afternoon tea in a local hotel and spa. I had stayed there once before and I knew the food was excellent. What I didn't want to do was to turn up looking like a maniac in walking boots and the hideous pink frock so I changed in the car before we went in to eat. The afternoon tea was wonderful and more than offset any calories we burned walking. It is no wonder we never lose any weight.

Afternoon tea. It was as good as it looks.

https://www.lletycynin.co.uk/

I always feel there is something rather decadent about afternoon tea. Goodness knows why. Anyway, it was a real treat.

Nick and I have subsequently stayed at this place and it is lovely. Their steak and other evening meal offerings are to die for.

As we are on the subject of food, I thought a little diversion might be in order. Clearly, from the photographs we post and our many references to it, we like our food. And wine, of course. On our first adventure walking the Ceredigion part of the path, we had stayed in villages and in pubs and B and Bs. We would stuff our faces first thing in the morning with cereal, a full Welsh breakfast and pastries if they were on offer. We would then pause, mid-morning, for a snack to ward off possible bonking, and then at lunchtime a sandwich or pasty or similar. This would tide us over to the end of the walk (although if a pub, shop or coffee shop came into view we could be persuaded to stop for a pint of lime and soda, a packet of crisps, or a cuppa and Welsh cake, or an ice cream). Then, on reaching our comfortable hostelry for that night, we would repair to the restaurant area or the local pub and order burger, chips and a couple of pints of lager or a bottle of wine. When I got on the scales back home after that week I was outraged. As fat as ever!

This year, however, was different. We were camping, with no restaurants or pubs handy. We planned to provide ourselves with breakfast and a packed lunch, but this time we decided that for most evening meals we would go for nibbles: salad, cheese, cured meats, olives, smoked salmon, crackers, sourdough, dips (am I missing anything out, here, Helen?) washed down with wine. Problem was, that I never missed anything. This explains the size of my arse, which almost needs its own post code. A cunning plan which meant that we could drink and eat at the same time and nobody had to drive. It worked perfectly. Having stuffed our faces with all manner of goodies, and as the evenings grew darker and chillier, we would then retire inside the tent to sit on the Rug of Contemplation, polish off the wine, post nonsense on Facebook, bicker, and jig about in time to music played through a little bluetooth speaker (thank you, Nick) lit by lamps and the fairy lights. The in-tent disco became very popular on FB with our friends demanding photos.

Breakfast. Most important meal of the day. As I said, we started with the intention of providing our own breakfast, but the weather, and the aeons it took to boil water for our tea and coffee put paid to this. And here I have to sing the praises of Carmarthen Morrison's, already mentioned at the start of this post. Their breakfasts were bloody marvellous! We enjoyed all kinds of delights for next to no pennies, they didn't bat an eyelid no matter what Helen wore, and they had free Wi-Fi! We passed there anyway most days setting off for our walk so it would have been rude not to take advantage of the place. And we did.

And yes, dear reader, I do know what your reaction will be to this photo. Fnarr.