Why I'm Not Fishguard's Biggest Fan.

This is an incredibly difficult subject to make clear to people, so forgive me if it seems like I'm spitballing, but Fishguard, while scenically beautiful, with live music, some good theatre, and lovely baked goods, is, like much of Pembrokeshire, decidedly... Cliquey. I write this, because more and more, I'm seeing people who have moved to good ol' Pembs, and had an extremely hard time getting to know people... And it's not just a case of "I don't think it would be cool to just go up and say 'Hi!' " It's a lot more pervasive than that, more subtle, and, in its own way, quite, quite scummy.

Yes... Welcome...

Part of it, it must be said, is a problem endemic among many modern nations: We are educated to fear strangers. This, in and of itself, introduces some awkward mental patterns that people can fall into (and reinforce with their children). My favourite example of this is that if you have shoulder length or longer, fairly straight hair, and a beard of some sort, you are automatically "Jesus" ... And no, despite what TV or the internet may tell you, that isn't restricted to young oxygen-thieves. But prejudice is a common thing, and while there is a fairish amount of that in Pembs, it's at once both a lot more subtle, and a lot more pervasive than that. There is a sort of stagnancy in Pembrokeshire that permeates every aspect of life, and if you don't fit with that pattern, then you are subtly excluded. I'll try to explain it as best I can.

Like many other places in the world, Pembrokeshire has many little subcultures, not all of them in a form you'd recognise. Some of them are only tied as a group by things others would consider quite minor (Hating Pembrokeshire because "There's nothing to do" counts... And that particular group irks me most of all. We'll see why that's amusing in a minute). You have at least one subculture among builders. You've got various flavours of goth, emo, scene, punk, and chav. Pembrokeshire doesn't lack in variety for subcultures (and yes, I'm fully aware that in some cases, I'm using subculture a little erroneously. But we'll get back to why I've used it for builders and the like as well as musical preferences and boy-racing). Before I go back to Pembrokeshire, though, let's briefly mention three places I either lived, or frequented quite often: Swansea, Cardiff, and Bradford.

Swansea. Not without its problems, but...

In all three of those cities, you have not just multiple subcultures, but multiple cultures. Bradford, especially, boasts Polish, German, Hindu, Sikh, Chinese... A lot of cultures. And they mix, although imperfectly. The point is, they do mix somewhat. Rockers may not always talk to Chavs or Ravers, but Rockers, Goths, and Metalheads (to use a few examples) mostly get along just fine. And that web of subcultures means more safe spaces for folks.

In Pembrokeshire... The best way I can say it is that they react more. A few years ago now (probably as many as five or six), there was a state of near warfare (fights, beatings, lots of harsh language thrown around) between... Emo kids and Goth kids. "Big whoop," I hear you say "Those two subcultures take the piss out of each other a lot."

Yes, this is true, but it doesn't often escalate to violence. This one did, and lasted around two or three months. It sounds almost paranoid to say it, but if you don't fit into a neat little box in Pembs, most people will put you in one, and if it's one they don't like? You'll get shit for years. And it can be anything different. I draw on the rare occasions I'm out drinking. It slows down my drinking, lets me chill out, and sometimes, people give me practice without the awkwardness of asking by the virtue of people just coming up and saying "Oooh, draw me!" (I'm not good at drawing from life, but believe me, I welcome the practice so long as you don't judge.)

You can tell I'm there, by the way. Just follow the occasional stares to the bit where, if it's nearly empty, next to nobody goes near unless they're being drawn, and if it's packed, where very few people are standing. Why do I mention this in particular? Because Pembrokeshire quite naturally attracts all sorts of artistic types, by virtue of its lovely coastlines (There's a few examples in the blog already, and I'll probably post more over time)... So it's rather odd to me. Then again, you'll find our local galleries very quiet places 90% of the time, for some reason. If it were isolated to just that, I'd be fine... But it happens often, and is largely unrestricted by age, gender, or what I happen to be doing at the time.

Like I said, Fishguard is *scenically* quite nice...

There's also this negativity, which I sometimes agree with, but for different reasons. Here's an exchange I couldn't help but overhear (Main road, Saturday... I'm sure you understand.)

"I FUCKING HATE FISHGUARD!"
"WELL, WHY DON'T YOU FUCKING LEAVE?!?"
"BECAUSE I CAN'T FUCKING AFFORD TO!!"

On the one hand, I perfectly agree with the sentiment. Pembrokeshire's not a wealthy place by any means, especially with the fact that it mostly relies on the tourist trade (not a consistent source of income at the best of times), and the fact that we're slowly trying to come out of a recession right now (emphasis on trying... Not succeeding.) On the other, though, there is little sense of co-operation. A good past example of that would be The Globe Inn under its previous management. They had live music of many varieties, and for a while, it was good. It was, after all, a natural lodestone for people, and music has this effect of sorting who comes when (not totally, but enough that you're always guaranteed someone to talk to!)

Alas, it was not to last, as a series of nearby folks moved in, complained about the noise (the sort of thing you'd think a seller would mention), and... Moved out almost as soon as the complaints were processed. So the houseowners came and went, but none of the complaints were retracted, and eventually, the place lost its live music license. Goodbye, pretty much the main source of rock, blues, and other stuff that isn't either folk or jazz (which is what you'll mostly find in Fishguard unless Ffwrn has someone booked... Ffwrn is, as an aside, a wonderful place. The Globe is also a wonderful place, but alas, more for great cooking and atmosphere than live music and a pool-table.)

There's more examples, I'd suppose, but it's one of those things you genuinely wouldn't believe until you encountered it. And it's one of those things that doesn't help with the depression, either. Suffice to say, even though I'm sure there will be people who will find issue with one example or another, next to nobody seems to disagree when I say "Pembrokeshire is terribly cliquey, isn't it?"

A Lovely Day Part 3: The Bit That Was Only Sort Of Lovely.

Last we left off, I had taken what would turn out to be a decision I should have known was unwise. I should have known it was unwise because I have previously found it to be unwise. But I did it anyway, because it has been a while since I have been exploring these little phenomena.

What phenomena, you ask? Well, let's start with Coastal Paths. Pembrokeshire is very proud of its Coastal Paths. They're really really long (in part, due to the nature of Wales, being an incredibly... crinkly place), they're very pretty...

...And they're slightly less well maintained than my vegetable intake. This rivals the amount of attention that is paid to our roads, but more on that (and a phenomenon peculiar to rural areas like Pembrokeshire) when we get there.

This is your first inkling that not all is right with the world: Pembrokeshire is a place full of fae folk. Fae folks are bastards, and not in the pleasant and genial way of your current host, who will only lightly torture you before leaving you in an easily escapable and highly implausible death trap. Fae love this sort of fucking tunnel tree... thing, and it's decidedly unsafe. But funnily enough, not as unsafe as certain other portions of our lovely Coastal Paths. If safety (from supernatural creatures that many don't believe exist, but I know, I KNOW - coff) was the only problem, that would be fine...

But it's not.

What a lovely field, eh? But there are two things that are missing here. One of them is anything but the vaguest pointer as to where you should be going (that arrow is your only clue in most fields. The other is that there is a growing crop here, and there is no sign on this gate (the more commonly traversed direction being away from Fishguard) that politely says "Stick to the clearly worn and trampled bit, so that Farmer Dai will not fucking have you if he catches you, so help me, Duw you fucked 10% of my production with your careless ways, and you will not walk for six months now, butty boy!"

You'd be amazed how many people don't get this basic concept, so you'd think they'd be more careful about putting signs up. Farmer Dai is not to be messed with, and not for nothing do we call one of our national agricultural groups "The MAFFia"

But, to be fair, the coastal path is filled with two things, and you can occasionally see one other thing. Let's talk about the two things, because the one thing is basically what any sane and loving couple will do in a field when they don't think there's a remote chance of any discovery and weather permits.

- Beautiful landscapes, showing off the fascinating geology and agricultural richness of the region (Well, okay, maybe not that last bit)
- More hidden coves (and equally hidden and arduous ways to get to them, in many cases) than you can shake a stick at.

Case in point. Note: It's your own damn fault if you trip and fall down this one.

The Coastal Paths are both lovely and dangerous, and it is advised to travel them in only conditions not described as "torrential rain", "your usual pitch black Pembrokeshire night", or "fuck me, it's a bit foggy, isn't it?" I'd give you a really good example of being easy to get lost, but I'll just describe it.

It's a field. There are no signposts, the grass has grown, and only whoever tramped past today will have left any clue which way to go. Don't worry, you'll get where you're meant to eventually, but odds are you'll have traversed the whole field any which way you went.

So yeah, I had real fun with the paths, which, by the way, only put those wooden stair things you saw last post on muddy slopes in the path when the stars align, and some horrible accident tangentially related appears in the local papers. And they put them only in the place where that thing wot was somewhat distressing happened.

In any case, my shoelace broke (poor things weren't strong enough for my boots), I got lost along coastal paths, randomly came across a pair of lovers canoodling (as was implied... And lo, both parties were duly both distressed and amused), and finally came to a choice... Do I continue along the Coastal Path, or do I take the possibly safer option of a road?

Fucking right I took the road. And, while not a worse idea than taking the Path in the first place, it allows me to talk about another wonderful artefact of Pembrokeshire... RoadSpace.

See, Roads in Pembrokeshire are special, nay, magical. Behind me, in this photo, is more road. That way eventually leads to a single farmhouse, with anything up to 10 people (but more likely less than 5) living there. So you'd imagine there's not a whole lot of traffic. But it doesn't work like that. You can guarantee that either you will be completely unbothered for your journey, or that at least 10 cars will come hurtling down what Pembrokeshire would call a B-Road, maybe a C-Road (no longer an official designation, afaik). Not tractors, not milk trucks or gas trucks or any of a number of other things a farmhouse might need to have truck with... Cars. And, if asked, over half of these people would not have a fucking clue what's at the other end. Luckily, I had the first option.

But RoadSpace isn't the roads themselves... Oh no. RoadSpace is the weird things that happen to Space and Time when you're on these little roads. Which Pembrokeshire is full of, by the way. Time moves differently in RoadSpace, and what may seem like a ten minute walk (because the scenery is alright on either side, it's just the road that looks a bit shit... always with pebbles and grass in the middle, for no discernible reason beyond the ravages of time) is actually forty minutes of walking... half a mile. As the crow flies. I've said it before, and it bears repeating, but Wales is crinkly. But it's subtly crinkly.

In any case, after spending about thirty minutes RoadSpace time, I finally get to the main A road between Cardigan (capital of Ceredigion County) and Haverfordwest (capital of Pembrokeshire County), which, coincidentally, happens to also lead back to Fishguard, where I live. Which is a good way to show just how crinkly the place is.

See that harbour, and the lovely houses in the distance? That isn't Fishguard. That's Goodwick, our neighbour (Who would technically be a district of Fishguard if it weren't for the Gwaun river, the marshy land around it, bloody mindedness, and, of course, our old friend Politics). Fishguard also isn't just round the corner. You're being welcomed to Fishguard a good quarter of a mile before you get anywhere near it, because...

Those houses, just visible among woods that can't possibly be connected to the road I'm on, could it? THAT'S Fishguard. Specifically, the bit that happens to be quite near where I live in Fishguard. And just a little further on...

AAAARGH! The same place, different routes, different hassles. I love going out... I just hate coming back, and not just because it's coming back. Still, I took lots of pictures, the itching on my knees has subsided (not my lower legs, the nettles only seemed to hit my knees... strangeness), I've stopped sneezing because I'm indoors, and nowhere near the massive volumes of pollen and cut grass I inhaled on the way back, I have some very snazzy trunks for swimming again, and I've managed to amuse you all.

So yes, even if it hadn't been a lovely day... It's been a lovely day.

A Lovely Day Part 2: Rock Stuff.

It's not well known, but I do like me a bit of amateur freehold rock climbing. Sounds like a mouthful, doesn't it? But it's very simple if you break it down into bits:

- Amateur (I'm not good at it, but I still try)
- Freehold (No ropes, no pitons, no boots, just bloody mindedness and casual disregard for one's own life)
- Rock Climbing (If you need help with this bit, you should be my henchman. I like 'em stupid.)

Pwll Gwaelod, you see, is a place of many rocks to climb, and pretty rewards for those who like to go to the effort of finding their secluded hideaways. So a villainous type like myself is right at home here. The first part of the ascent is fine, but I really should talk about the rocks around here. The rocks around Pwll Gwaelod are mostly Limestone, shearing at a 15-30 degree slant from vertical, and lots of other crazy stuff abounds. But it's the shear angle that's really important here, because it makes for cliffside clambering that is both pleasurable, frustrating, and pants wettingly horrifying at the same time. Also remember that, being at a beach, many of these rocks are also wet. Even when dry, the wet bits are enough to make any standard boots (like my steel toecaps) unreliable for short periods of time. The shear also means that barefoot is a Decidedly Bad Idea. Here, let's show you where the climb to my favourite place becomes somewhat difficult.

Right click, Open Image In New Tab, zoom it in, think about it for a second.

For reference, that shelf on the upper left is something like 4 feet, so no, you can't chimney along like a boss, you have to either:

- Get wet (bad for later bits, and treacherous footing)
- Clamber along rock formation to the right, realise that leaves you nowhere to go, choose option 1.
- Go from the lower portion (with damp bits) to the higher portion, keeping in mind that there are large puddles in the upper portion that can cock you up. In the "Whoops, I broke select portions of my cranium on this hard thing wot is conveniently angled to fuck me up real good."

Option 3, you may be surprised to know, is the safest one. This was made even more tense by the fact that, since I was not here with family or friends, and nowhere safe to stash my gear, I had it all on my backpack... Which, like backpacks tend to do, especially when not tightly secured, changes your centre of gravity in ways that make the whole thing a lot more tense than it would be unhindered.

Did I mention I love rock climbing, by the way?

How it looks once you've safely taken Option 3.

So you've gotten the hard bit over with. To give you some idea of how I felt after that one, I not only have a photo, but can tell you. Put a hyperactive toddler on your back. Lean forward at a 30 degree angle (whole body!), with said toddler attempting to wrestle you, and reach up for something on a high shelf while lifting one leg sideways, as if you were trying to be Spiderman. Providing Social Services haven't twigged what a horrible person you are for actually following my suggestion, and you have some idea what it was like to make the first grab. It's not easy. So let's see how... Exhilarated I was that I'd made that short step in what would overall be a 25 foot journey across rocks of varying degrees of slipperiness, pointiness, and occasionally, lack of good handholdiness.

This is how I look when I'm dead chuffed I'm not dead.

Nonetheless, the hard part is over with, and I can now look unutterably cool, most of the way to a lovely little spot that's quite hard to get to without a boat or good body awareness... Or rather, I would look cool if the reason for the hyperactive toddler analogy hadn't made itself clear in this photo. I was not aware of it until I got back and asked some lovely folks to take a pic. This is a pic I took with a timer, just to emphasise how oblivious I was.

Paging Dr. Ru Paul, Paging Dr. Ru Paul, Zipper Emergency In Ward A...

That's right, I'd overpacked the bag, and the zipper has a nasty tendency of coming completely open when it does that. Overpacking a bag, or indeed, bringing a bag as large as this one, when one is climbing over nice, killy rocks, is not recommended for normal Mensch. But I, as you well know, am a true blue moustache twirler, and Work Safety is not really a thing I subscribe to. Also bothering with matching socks... I mean, who does that these days?

You can tell what an Ubermensch I am because of the legs. I am proud of those legs. They let me walk squaddies into the ground, perform Percussive Maintenance really well, and my scissor grip is something to behold.

I'm so sorry, legs. We'll see why soonish. But for now, our reward for climbing this craggy side, and the somewhat treacherous, smooth, and most of all, unpictured final descent?

This place doesn't know even the sight of man more than once a month. It's quite beautiful, has an interesting little feature you may or may not notice already, and it also has some absolutely insane climbing prospects. Quite literally, you'd have to be less sane than I am to try them freehold, and that takes effort. Is it sad that I know someone who did just that, because he couldn't be arsed to go back? You know who you are, and I salute you.

Well, let's take a look at some of the wonderful features of this place, shall we?

This is something I can get behind... Some quality trolling! It's not a pigeon nest, it's definitely not a house (look at the previous photo zoomed in to get some idea of how tiny this thing is), and I fucking love it. If I were to move my Evil Lair here, even if I installed the traditional Bloody Massive, Yet Oddly Pointless Doors in the cliffside, this would stay. I'd even put tiny bunting on it sometimes, just to say "Yes, the villain who owns this lair has well and truly lost it"

But if that were all that attracts a crazy welsh moustache twirler like me, the place would only be a curiosity. Ohhh no. There's some other stuff here too.

"Okay", I hear you grumble ", it's a tunnel. So what?"

Well, apart from the minor interest to student geologists (Shoutout to Geop, LPer, Mod, and Master Geologist, he knows more about "Rock Stuff" than any 5 people I know!), it proves a small point I'm going to make about the potential for true crazy. One of these days, I'm going to god-damn do it, and the resulting documentary deals will set me on the road to WORLD DOMINATION MUAHAHAHAAAAAA- Oh, sorry, beach, yes...

This is what lies on the other side. Doesn't look like much, but you'll notice it's just as craggy round there as it is back where I started. It took me ten minutes to go forty some feet  (IE - here) along the coast, literally along the coast forty some feet, and theoretically, theoretically, you could freehold climb the whole fucking way from here to Fishguard (6 or 7 miles, give or take a few). And one day, I'll be crazy enough to do it. One day.

Oh well, time to head back, and... D'aww. Little filter feeders, chilling out after a hard day doing their best X-Factor viewer impressions. You carry on, little guys, you carry on...

Bless!

So I clamber my way back (anyone who tells you that climbing back along a route is the same as going forward is a bloody idiot... Remember that 30 degree shear in the rocks? Now that's working against you, and specifically, your bollocks when you have to go over one particularly difficult bit.), and find, quelle surprise, there are still more tourists and Welshmen in the pub than there are on the beach. Fuck 'em, time to head -

Hrm, I might save some small amount of time, and get to see more enjoyable scenery, this couldn't possibly go wrong!

Next post, dear readers, you get to find out about the wonders of Pembrokeshire's coastal paths and...

...RoadSpace.

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.