Pembrokeshire

We’re in Wales again. More specifically, Pembrokeshire. Each year a group of friends that I made at university goes away together. This time there are fifteen of us - eight adults and seven children - and we’re staying in a glorious cottage which sits on a headland directly above what is effectively our own private beach situated in a secluded cove which you can only access by foot. A little path snakes its way from the house down the hillside to the beach. It’s completely magical, particularly for the kids. Lola, Raily and Iain’s 19 month-old pointed upwards at one point and said, “big sky.” She was right. It’s the sort of place where nature encourages you to simply be.

We went down to the beach at twilight last night and stood on the beach, skimming stones as the waves crashed and roared. The braver ones amongst us swam. Meriel said it wasn’t cold. I didn’t believe her.

The last vestiges of yesterday’s big storm were still present and the clouds were moving very speedily across the giant moon.

A mysterious black dog appeared on the beach at one point to drink from the stream which runs into the sea. It was incredibly friendly but didn’t seem to have a discernible owner which meant that seeing it in the near darkness brought to mind tales of spooky mystical canine creatures from British folk legends. The Black Shug. The Hound of the Baskervilles.

As the stars came out, we looked up at our little house on the hill with all its lights on: beautiful twinkling lights which beckoned us home. It was reminiscent of a scene from my childhood. I couldn’t quite remember which.