words by Liz Schaffer & photographs by Angela Terrell
I fall in love frequently. It’s addictive - that wonderful rush, the sense of being entirely at ease, of finding home. But to be head over heels is a rarer occurrence. This particular form of infatuation seems to come from nowhere, but once you’re smitten there’s little else you can think about. You’re obsessed, enamoured, over the moon. This is the love I feel for Pembrokeshire.
I first ventured here one dark and broody December to escape the greys of a London winter. Craving salt air and space, my friend and I packed the car with wellies and walking gear, and travelled as far west into Wales as we could possibly go. As we crossed the border into Monmouthshire and continued through the Brecon Beacons (send two Australians on a road trip and they’ll never take the most direct route), it was clear this journey was set to be something special. Everyone waxes lyrical about Welsh landscapes, yet to be moving through them, even this late in the year, is something else entirely. You’re enveloped by a patchwork of olive, sage and bronze; the hues softened by the cold and flecked with hedgerows, drystone walls and whitewashed cottages that stand sentinel in the folds of hills. Stops had to be made - at the perfectly wonky Capel-y-ffin, the bookshops of Hay-on-Wye, for a feast at The Felin Fach Griffin, and for a slow drive over the Black Mountain Pass.
Given our circuitous route, we arrived into St. Davids, Britain’s smallest cathedral city, under the cover of darkness and, being a touch road-weary, could do little more than tumble into bed at Twr y Felin Hotel. Once a windmill, temperance hotel and U-boat lookout (rebuilt at various points using materials foraged from a shipwreck), it is now a lush, contemporary affair and our wander to breakfast the following morning revealed the hotel’s greatest attraction - its art collection. Oh, to have made off with the Pop-Art-esque portraits of Wales’ theatrical greats (Catherine Zeta-Jones, Anthony Hopkins and Richard Burton), or Cherry Pickles’ deliciously vivid paintings capturing the hedonistic exploits of Dylan Thomas.
I could feel my love for Pembrokeshire grow when we visited St Davids Cathedral, found in a hollow above the site where St David, Patron Saint of Wales, built his first monastery in the 6th century. Admiring the ornate stone and woodwork - made all the more charming by flooring and pillars that appear slightly askew, said to be cast out of place by an earthquake centuries ago - you can feel the weight of history, the presence and passion of those drawn here for more than a millennia. It’s little wonder two trips to this cathedral were deemed as worthy as one to Rome.
However, it was the marriage of myth and the wild that had me truly besotted. St Davids sits beside the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, a hallowed, 299-kilometre walking trail that can be braved as one big adventure or, as we did, in short, scenic sections - the first being our ramble to St Non’s Chapel and Well. Located in a field by the sea, these ruins are all that remain of the chapel where St Non gave birth to St David as a storm raged; the moment coinciding with the appearance of a holy well, which still flows with water believed to have curative properties. Pausing here, I was again overcome by a feeling of reverence, a sense that history, lore and the modern day remained entwined.
St Govan’s Chapel, a weathered and wonderful outpost, is another spiritual gem - Celtic this time - found along the Coast Path. Tucked into a cliff, this petite, 13th-century chapel stands upon an earlier hermitage, built as thanks by St Govan (a mysterious character said to be a Knight of the Round Table) after he sheltered here, having been set upon by pirates.
For more artistic offerings, walk from Abereiddi to Porthgain. Abereiddi (the Blue Lagoon) is an abandoned, flooded slate quarry famed for its vibrant waters and the ruins of an old wheelhouse, used as a diving ledge by the dauntless. The walk itself takes in jagged cliffs, rock-strewn beaches and the relics of an industrial past - the sea breeze a constant, calming companion.
Our destination, the petite fishing village of Porthgain, was nearly lost to history, put up for sale when the brickworks beside the harbour closed. All looked dire until a group of residents and the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park Authority raised the funds to save it. Today many hike here for The Shed, a homely bistro with creaky floors, whitewashed walls and fabulous fish and chips. Should you fancy a post-meal tipple, stop by The Sloop Inn, which has remained largely unchanged since it opened in 1743.
Equally picturesque is Tenby, a pastel-hued seaside town boasting Georgian architecture, castle ruins, an iconic lifeboat station and a sweeping sandy beach. It inspired George Eliot and Beatrix Potter, was the childhood home of artists Augustus and Gwen John, and - if the tides are right - is where you depart for Caldey Island, which is home to a community of Cistercian monks.
Our final stroll began in Solva - following an Australian-style ‘detour’ to Pentre Ifan, a Neolithic burial chamber built from the same locally quarried bluestone as Stonehenge. Seemingly frozen in time, Solva is delightful. Lime kilns line the harbour, smugglers once ran amok and it was from here, in the 19th century, that many began their journey to America. The star attractions today are MamGu Welshcakes (connoisseurs when it comes to these butter-slathered delicacies) and the landscape, which we admired en route to nearby Nine Wells as the sun descended. This was the first proper sunset of our adventure, the clouds giving way to a glorious, glittering blast of rose and tangerine, a ribbon of gold dancing upon the water below. The wind had dropped and I was left with only the calls of gulls and crash of the waves. The camera in my hands was suddenly useless; capturing such a moment didn't feel right. Instead I stood, in awe, alone with my thoughts - save for the flock of sheep behind me, who were entirely unfazed by my presence. I was brought back to myself by a salty sea dog (out walking his even saltier sea dog) who called out a cheerful ‘Happy New Year’. This was the last sunset of 2019.
I saw in the New Year beside St Davids Cathedral as the bells chimed midnight and continued my merrymaking in The Farmers Arms … or was it The Bishops - I was a little too overwhelmed by my love for Pembrokeshire by this point to commit much to memory. It was impossible to predict then, elated and enamoured, what 2020 would hold, but I never could have imagined that these Pembrokeshire memories would be as treasured as they are; reminding me, when travel seemed distant and the world small, of just how much lies out there. Magnificent, mesmeric, waiting.
I’ve always had a soft spot for words with no English translation; poetic reminders that our most complex thoughts and emotions can be easily defined, and that almost everything we feel is shared. My favourite is the Welsh word hiraeth, which describes our longing for a home we can never again visit - a place lost to the past, or perhaps one that never really existed, yet is steeped in nostalgia nonetheless.
For me, this is Pembrokeshire - a lore-drenched corner of Wales that I think of and immediately feel calm. I close my eyes and I’m standing by the Atlantic once more, spending a star-spangled night in a restored castle hotel (few abodes are more magical than Roche Castle, high on its volcanic outcrop), or diving beneath the waves at Whitesands Beach. So, when I returned to Wales this spring, I was excited, but perhaps a little nervous that my beloved walkers wonderland would not quite be as remembered. But reader, fear not; within moments of arriving (after yet another deliberately circuitous journey) it was clear that Pembrokeshire remained glorious - and that the spring weather gods had decided to put on a show.
On this Pembrokeshire pilgrimage, I retraced familiar steps - Tenby and Abereiddi are impossible to visit just once - but as the Wales Coast Path was celebrating its tenth year, I decided to spend much of my sun-drenched time walking. My base was The Little Retreat - a sustainability-focused, luxury glamping site in petite, estuary-framed Lawrenny. Surrounded by bluebell-scattered woodland, and watched over by the town’s stone church, it was a hideaway that set the tone of the trip; which was all about slowing down, celebrating the natural world, and pondering the mysteries of the universe from an outdoor, wood-fired hot tub. The fact that Matt Powells’ Annwn restaurant is on site (a must for lovers of foraged fare) made me adore The Little Retreat all the more.
There was a morning of antiquing in Narberth, and an afternoon spent lost in thought as I tramped from Broad Haven to Barafundle Bay - where I struggled to understand how the water could be quite so blue. I watched guillemots natter on Stackpole Rocks (promising myself I’d return once more to see the puffins on Skomer Island), and waited for the tides to shift at Marloes Sands Beach, entranced by the curves and folds of the rock face above me. I looked on as those braver than I leap into the sea at Porthclais (picturesque but far too cold in April), ate fish and chips by the sea, and couldn’t resist the urge to buy a woven blanket at Melin Tregwynt.
It’s amazing what a few days spent walking somewhere wonderful can do. Your body may be tired but your mind is clear - and such clarity is worth celebrating. So, full of sea air and endorphins, I stopped for a libration at The Dyffryn Arms. Found in Cwm Gwaun Valley, this pub has been run by Bessie Davies for more than six decades. Quaint and character-packed, drinks are served from a window in her wallpaper-covered living room, which is fittingly adorned with portraits of The Queen and Prince Edward. Kate Wickers wrote about Bessie’s (the pub’s affectionate moniker) for our Wales magazine, describing it as” ‘Like discovering a time capsule, the items inside may be a little dusty and rough around the edges … but a pint taken at Bessie’s is to be savoured as a glimpse into the past, free from gimmick or pretension.’ It was wonderful to see that The Dyffryn Arms’ charm remains.
In Pembrokeshire, as with much of Wales, the past is etched into the land; present in the remnants of mining villages, in Iron Age forts that are being slowly devoured by the earth, in windswept ruins and in sleepy pubs that have become the beating heart of a community. You’re aware of all that has come before, of how the terrain has shifted and changed, of everyone who journeyed here seeking solace and escape. To walk through such a landscape, well, that’s something worthy of adoration. Take yourself to Pembrokeshire, hike the Coast Path, and prepare to feel the love.
For more Welsh travel ideas, check out the Visit Wales website - or pick up a copy of our Wales magazine.
