Laugharne

My night wardrobe adjustment – merino trousers on top of thermal longs – saves the day, and I am toasty warm. But it has also taken a thermal upper + wool gilet + thick angora hoody + puffa jacket to be comfortable. And conditions aren’t exactly Everest. So I may have to concede that Easter camping in the UK is no-go, and perhaps there was a reason why – as a family – we tended to only camp in the summer.
I am up shortly after dawn, and the sun’s rays are weakly warming. But the wind is cutting and I quickly pile back on my day layers.

 
Michael is doing compost-toilet patrol and I ask him what takes most of his time. Apart from the field where I am camping, he has a number of glamping pods and huts that need servicing and linen changing. Then the pigs need to be fed twice a day, and the sheep – a herd of Herdwicks – attended to. Until now, they have been a hobby, but some are approaching market size. Michael hasn’t yet crossed the bridge of letting go of his darlings – and he’s dreading that day. Especially when he relates how trying he finds aspects of camper management (it’s not all plain sailing with the compost toilets!), and how – because he’s on his own – he hasn’t been able to take a day off in seven years, I wonder whether he is in the right job.

Today, I am determined to rest, and stay close to Laugharne. I have only just clocked the significance of the place – it provided the inspiration for Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood. The boathouse where he lived in the 40s is now a celebration of his life and work, with the garage – his writing space – left exactly as it would have been at the time. But I am a little early so do a short walk along the estuary – to check I still have the use of my legs.

An  informative video gives a helpful overview and I find I am totally absorbed. Today’s coffee stop (I have decided coffee out every day is one definition of being on holiday) in what in Thomas’ time would have been the garden overlooking the harbour, is lengthy.

Next stop Laugharne castle. Its history consists – as you might expect – in power struggles between Normans and Welsh, Welsh and English, and English and English. After a period of high living and fine dining in Tudor times, it finally came to grief when the Parliamentarians trashed it during the Civil War. Now the north tower gives great views over the estuary and town.

I am intrigued by the area to the south of Laugharne, where the cliffs suddenly join salt marshes, which then become dunes and vast sand flats. But I hadn’t factored in the MOD presence and cycled in circles before someone directed me to the access road.

At the end of the road is an impossibly large stretch of sand extending in all directions, with Grist Point the official apex, but goodness knows exactly where that would actually be. From where I stand I can see all the places I have visited this trip: in a haze far away is Worm Head; then the Gower coast; and finally, Ferryside. It is low tide, and I have the illusion that I could walk to any of these places without needing to cross water.

On my own, and a bit freaked by the MOD signage, and the distinct possibility of getting completely lost, I only do a short circuit before rejoining my bike. 

Shortly after arriving back at the campsite, the weather closes in. I take refuge in the barn, where the charge points and showers are. Looking at the forecast I see there may be a rain-free window between 4 am and 6 am when I can pack up. Ugh. It will then be a 40-minute cycle to Whitland station – with much crossing of fingers that the service runs, that I am allowed on the train without a bike reservation, that the crowds of bank holiday passengers aren’t too horrendous. So yes, pre-travel anxiety and business as usual!