How did this holiday end?
With a damn great scream, but I digress. I have to explain the bladder wrack.
The little place where we stayed was delightful. The Pirate loved it, the shores were stuffed with bladder wrack.
He enthused over its glutinous, slimy, and gelatine qualities, its gleaming nodules, its gloopy surface. He promised with a total lack of sincerity, not to say veracity, that he would never bring the weed anywhere near me.
But I wasn’t deceived; before I got into bed, I sure checked everywhere. No weed, and the Pirate smiled. Bad news is that.
Harmony was maintained – we explored Havorfordwest, which was closed, until Easter. I mean everything was closed, and that includes the Tourist Office.
The sun shone, and we explored the lovely old castle of Manobier, near Tenby. Which was open, and didn’t seem to mind about Easter.
Who says old stories die? Wandering around the long corridors,
it’s easy to believe in these old legends. Mind you, did find some ‘lurkers’ up to no good, as usual.
A jewel of a place
Ignoring Piratical mutterings of ‘Why don’t you try out the dungeon for size?’ We finished being tourists, and headed back home.
I got back to Oxford, apparently bladder wrack free. But I forgot all those warnings you get at airports ‘Don’t let anyone tamper with your case! Don’t leave your case unattended!’
I left my suitcase unattended, I even let the Pirate put my case in the car. Silly me.
Still in post holiday haze, I opened me case.
And screamed.
There it was, a large mass of wet bladder wrack, nestling on top of me clothes, fresh as the day the Pirate had plucked it from the sea.
Needing a nice cup of tea, I picked up my mug. A large hairy spider was nestling in the bottom. I screamed some more.
I know just how this guy feels.
Yep, 100% empathy.
Me ...
Photograph: T.R. Hughes
and the Pirate
went on our hols, all the way to sunny Wales, yes it is sunny in Wales sometimes – for you Yanks, it’s the bump on the left hand side of England. That’s enough explaining for anyone.
On the last day we went exploring in the caves of Dan-yr-Ogof, no I don’t know how to say it, just splutter a bit and you’ll be fine. Don’t try it on the Welsh, they will laugh all the way to Swansea Bay.
It poured with rain, unrelenting I called it but smarty-pants Pirate called it 'persistent', so we queued in the downpour, nearly deafened by the roar and yells of the plastic Dinosaurs.
We stood behind a very soggy mum with child, as the Pirate wondered what the fearsome beasts might be up to.
“I expect it’s the Dinosaur rutting season,” he said loudly, as the soggy Mum gawped at him, and tried to protect her child from piratical language. I waited in case a little voice piped up “What is rutting, Mummy?” No such luck.
Undaunted, we confronted the dangers of Dinosaur land – even a giant Crocodile, didn’t daunt his spirits: never seen anyone about to be chewed up into little pieces, look so happy.
The caves were nicely spooky, and some of the natives…
Photograph: T.R. Hughes
were a little ‘strange’ you know.
Photograph: T.R. HughesRemarks that I must be related to some of ‘em, were ignored. If you ask me, the Pirate looked right at home, surprised they didn’t keep him, I am.
I always said he would end up in Hell……
On the way out, I was forced to have me pic taken next to Mr Drip, except that a Pink Blob child was rooted to the spot – so I kidnapped her, this child was never gonna move, no Siree.
Photograph: T.R Hughes
We finished off with a fish lunch – take my advice, go hungry, the fish was older than the Dinosaurs.
Before we took off, gave the museum a cursory look round.Can’t understand why they let the Pirate out, he would have made a nice addition to this lot.
The Missing Link maybe?
