The holiday ends

Unfortunately, our magical week in Pembrokeshire ended today. We returned to London in a storm not dissimilar to the one we’d left in, having been remarkably lucky with the weather in between! We had a shedload of sunshine which was usually accompanied by battering sea breezes which chiselled our skin like old gravestones in Whitby. I studied my face in the mirror yesterday and saw an old, tanned sailor looking back. That, or a big leather boot!

This week has been very good for Nathan’s mental health. We’re surrounded by old, true friends, who have protected him fiercely and kept him buoyant. Furthermore, hanging out in a gang which includes so many sparky, highly intelligent, enthusiastic young people is always good for keeping any woes you might have very firmly at the back of your mind.

Messages of support continue to come in from very kind and loyal members of the knitting community. They give Nathan a great deal of comfort and we are getting close to a time when I think he will be strong enough to reveal the full, horrific truth of what happened to him. The story is staggering enough in itself, but the most astonishing aspect was realising quite how far people were prepared to take matters, purely to save their own skin. And quite how far the mob was prepared to go in their attempts to get people to publicly denounce Nathan. “I saw Goody Nathan with the devil.”

We went for a wonderful walk yesterday along part of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path, which must feature some of the most spectacular views in the UK. This vertiginous walkway snakes its way along the tops of tall cliffs, through flower meadows and blackberry-laden hedges. There are charming beach-lined coves where little ice cream stalls sell cups of tea and lollypops to weary walkers, and then the path heads up onto the headlands again, where ramblers are forced to contemplate stomach-churning 100-foot drops into the sea below. 

I walked some of the journey with Ivy, Tanya’s four-year old daughter. “Hold my hand”, I kept saying, as she merrily skipped along the path. “Why?” She asked. “Because we’re a long way up and I don’t want you to fall!” “Do you not like heights?” “Not really,” I said, starting to sweat. “I LOVE heights,” she said, “shall I hold your hand to make you feel better?” I suddenly realised she’d got it the right way round!

Yesterday, the sun shone constantly to accompany our walk and the sea was every shade from yellowy turquoise, through azure and royal blue, all the way to a deep purplish grey.

We ended up drinking tall glasses of refreshing lemonade outside a little pub on Pwllgwaelod Beach. The man behind the bar seemed incredibly stressed and apologetic. The sunny weather had brought a lot of walkers out of the woodwork, the kitchen had entirely run out of food and most of the drinks behind the bar had been consumed, so he was waiting desperately for a delivery to arrive, which he hoped would be coming later in the day. I guess it’s a common problem associated with running a business in a deeply rural location!

I ended the day with a swim in the sea, my first since the holiday began. Everyone else had been in and out of the water like aquatic monsters, but I was nursing an injury to my hamstring which I’d picked up playing rounders on the first day. It turns out that I’m now of a boring age where I need to warm my body up before a blast of physical exercise. Also, the sea had hitherto not looked massively inviting. Why would anyone wilfully throw themselves into refrigerated water?!

The journey home to London was absolutely ghastly. It rained solidly - an aggressive, hail-like rain, which felt like needles on the skin. I drew the short straw and ended up driving from just north of Swansea all the way to Swindon, which was the section of the M4 where most of the weather-related traffic jams were happening. There were all sorts of signs by the side of the road warning motorists about the perils of driving in such terrible weather, and we watched our estimated time of arrival slide from 5.30pm to 7.45pm. A day of driving. Hurrah!

I heard someone in a petrol station telling the person behind the counter that she was returning from Tenby (also in Pembrokeshire) and that she’d been sitting on a beach the day before in glorious sunshine. I knew exactly how she felt! We exited the petrol station shop at the same time, and ran for our cars, swearing miserably, no doubt both wishing we were in Spain.

Good Shabbos. And over and out!