Friday, 13 June 2014

A Lovely Day Part 1: The Beach Itself.

Let me tell you about my day, for, despite the fact that my knees itch, my nose itches, my chin itches, my hair itches, and that I am sneezing like a bastard, Today Has Been A Good Day. So let's talk about that, and a little bit about Sunny Pembrokeshire while we're at it. You see, every moustache twirling rogue needs a day off once in a while, and today was it. Where did I go?

To Pwll Gwaelod, a beach my friends will know, because I rapture on about the rocks and watersports funtimes there any chance I get to talk about Pembs scenery (Most people know me for my incessant yakking about vidya games, but that's more a "Factory Setting" than anything else. Don't take it personal.) Now, getting to Pwll Gwaelod is quite easy. You take the 412 from any point along its route, go to Dinas Cross (If you're already in Dinas Cross, good for you, it's a lovely place!), and, from the bus stop, turn immediately down the left road. Be prepared for ten minutes of this...

It's a road, and it's pretty. Anyone wanting more, jog on.

In fact, if you look closely at the next picture, you can see where my darling demonic sisters (Vodbog and Beff) and I have buried the many bodies from our separate villainous careers as moustache twirlers and maniacal cacklers.

Ah, the fond memories... Some of them were still wriggling!

Of course, as you get there, you will notice several things, in this rough order:

- There is a beach. It is sandy, it is mostly a bit wet, even when the tide's out.
- There is a pub.
- There is good parking, especially for the BOTES.
- There is a pub.
- The coastal path goes through here.
- There is a pub.

Why did I emphasise that one point so much, dear readers? Because of a (perhaps sad) truth. More people are inside this pub, or in the beer garden, than they are frolicking among the waves, picking limpets, making sandcastles, or surfing. Well, okay, maybe not the surfing, because, as later photos will show, if you surf at Pwll Gwaelod, you are a suicidal moron who well and truly deserves an Honourable Mention in the Darwin Awards.

That building, behind the car park? Pub.

We Welsh love our pubs. Many of the people who visit love our pubs. Not so many people like beaches anymore, for a variety of reasons, most of them silly. Many of these reasons are the same ones our local teenagers spend many a night sitting on the square pissed, instead of on a beach somewhere in Newport or Pembs Dock, pissed and playing with barbecues. But don't worry, beach... I love you. And it's hard not to see why.

Botes, sand, water, rocks to climb... What's not to love?

Having reached my destination, and found only the minimum of holidayers anywhere near the beach itself (Some hidden in nooks and crannies of the rocky cliffs, some sitting on the walls, a couple walking their dogs, quite a few boating... But very few actually on the beach), I decide to set up for something like an hour of relaxation before the main event (keep reading, you'll get there.)

- Sketchbook (villainous plans, various henchmen sketches, occasional angry scrawl crudely demonstrating my hatred of Dudley Do-Rights)? Check.
- Towel (Always know where it is)? Check.
- Henchmen Monthly, disguised as a digital art magazine (I read it for the articles, not the pictures, honest!)? Check.
- Bag full of stuff and things? Check.
- Lightly flavoured water so as not to dehydrate, sunscreen, all those things non-villainous types think about? Check.

Yes, the towel is somewhat mucky. You don't ask, I don't have to kill you to preserve my liberty.

And now, it's time for a combination of catching rays and performance art. The wind is warm, and it flows over my body like a gentle caress (PS - All moustache twirlers and maniacal cacklers of the right persuasion, please get in touch, I somewhat miss gentle caresses by hands as opposed to wind and water, lovely partners though they may be), and the sun is not too hot, not too cool, just mm-mm good. So where does the performance art part come in?

Well, see if you like this one, I call it "Sand is fucking weird, isn't it, mates?"

So... beautiful. It really speaks to me. It says "FUCK, SAND!"

Or perhaps this one is more to your taste. I call it "Totally not planning the doom of everything, look at me, Mister Plod, look at how safe I aMUAHAHAHAHAAAA"

See that twig? It's allll part of the plan... >8{D>

But this is only the beginning of the afternoon for me. Once I've had my fill of the evil day-star (It's why I felt so comfortable, it's as evil as I am), I decide to do something else I've not done for a while...

...I fancy a spot of climbing. Not this bit though, this is one of those "fine in theory, do not do freehold in practice" ones. You'll see. Next post.

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