By: MARGARET BROWN
HAVING JUST come back from an 18-day visit to west Wales, during which the two of us were immobilised with arthritis, in no time at all the Algarve has worked its magic and we are back to normal.
Perhaps living within 20m of an estuary or a change of drinking water was responsible, but it banished any ideas we might have had about going back there to live.
We were staying on Milford Haven’s northern coast. Unspoilt by tourism and having an early 20th century air of stability, every hamlet had a slipway for launching boats as well as moorings, the Haven being sheltered and tranquil despite considerable traffic using its deeper channels.
While appearing to be in a time warp, the small town we were in provided for every necessity, including the privilege of free medication for those of a certain age, something unavailable in Portugal. Pembrokeshire Coast National Park covers 620 square kilometres and is the only nature reserve, which contains a busy working port.
In our sailing hey-day, the Boss and I had some hairy racing on those waters, where the River Cleddau joins the sea, and it was there in 1970 that a partly built bridge fell down, due to a design fault. Four men lost their lives and it was not rebuilt until 1974. With four million vehicles crossing over each year and a minimum toll of 75 pence, the original cost of the bridge is less than the annual takings, and currently a petition is underway to cancel all tolls.
Among other delights to be found in this beautiful county are pubs that have retained their native character, where draught bitter comes from casks and locals predominate at the bar. Years of cigarette smoke have stained the timbers a rich nut brown, and thus far having escaped being tarted up, it is hoped they are allowed to stay that way. A coat of white paint inside would take away years of patina and spoil the mellow light that is so kind to ageing faces.
With the granting of its own Assembly, Wales has become acutely conscious of its roots. Road signs and other information are written first in Welsh, then in English and more people sound to be speaking the native tongue. To an outsider, it seems that three times as many words are needed to say something but when spoken, it has a lilt not present in the clipped speech beyond the borders of ‘the principality’.
D-Day celebrations
One morning, in need of a pit stop as we drove into Milford, we looked in on the very upmarket British Legion Club. As we entered, a large possé of elderly men wearing blazers and weighed down with medals was leaving the building, with the Bishop of St David’s Cathedral in purple splendour bringing up the rear. We had forgotten all about the 63rd celebration of D-Day and feeling underdressed and embarrassed, we waited while they filed out. Apart from one other man the bar was empty and we were soon talking of bygone wars. It made no difference that he was considerably younger, having been contemporary with both the Korean war and the spat over the Suez Canal three years later.
Operation Overlord started while the Boss was on shore leave from the Navy and I was driving crews to their aircraft as dawn broke on the morning of June 6, 1944.
 ‘Operation Overlord started while the Boss was on shore leave from the Navy and I was driving crews to their aircraft as dawn broke on the morning of June 6, 1944’ Photo: SUPPLIED |
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Horsa gliders and Stirling bombers, linked together and having mustered under cover of darkness, were lining both sides of the main runway. On the tarmac, a great crowd of men from the 6th Airborne Division, together with some khaki clad pressmen, gathered round Major General Urquhart.
The men boarded and engines wheezed into action. The planes started slowly at first to tension the slack ropes joining tugs to gliders, then Thor himself shook heaven and earth as pair after pair rose and flew toward the sun. Arriving in Normandy, casualties were high among the loaded gliders, paratroopers jumped into enemy fire and many planes failed to come home. Back on the airfield, skylarks rose singing into the fresh morning air.
That was a long time ago, but still sharp and colourful on recall. Today, many small but equally bitter wars continue to take their toll of the innocent as well as the combatants. In our otherwise peaceful valley, sounds of slaughter come and go according to the hunting seasons and, in between times, some die silently.
Bird scarer
A couple of mornings ago, my dog Millie and I were out in the hills accompanied by a neighbour’s dog. A newly hatched clutch of partridges was pretending to be stones right beside the path. Our bitch ignored them and walked on by, but as the tiny nestlings scattered they were hunted down and eaten with systematic precision by the mongrel from next door. Perhaps one or two escaped and their Mother rounded them up, but no doubt a fox will come quietly after nightfall in search of a snack.
Meanwhile, the vinicultor on the opposite hill from us has his bird scarer banging off from dawn until dusk among the vines and Millie, being a city type, is frightened out of her wits. Walks are a problem and proceed in fits and starts until we turn back, but once the leash is undone, she streaks for home with her tail between her legs.
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