This summer, as in previous summers stretching back yea unto the last century, I can report that I have fulfilled my annual obligation of holidaying in Pembrokeshire. An obligation that was, this year, honoured in the teeth of heavy odds – work and family commitments coming together to make the traditional trip westwards tricky in the extreme. Tricky, and also brief.
All the more impressive, therefore, that during the visit just ended, I finally got around to doing something I’ve been meaning to do since first discovering the delights of west Wales so long ago: namely, coasteering. The word coasteering, in case you didn’t know, denotes scrambling and swimming along and around and across a sea cliff, the better to locate a safe spot to jump off that cliff into the water below, and then emerge with the continued use of all four limbs.
When a bunch of boozed-up local lads get lairy and chuck themselves willy-nilly into the briny, it’s called tombstoning, tut tut, silly boys, something must be done. When a group of respectable citizens pays to do exactly the same thing, it’s called coasteering. You’re still hurling yourself from a height into the sea, but because you’ve handed over 40 quid for 2 instructors and a wetsuit, it makes it OK.
Or sort of OK, anyway. Despite our guide’s careful tutorial on the optimal way of aligning your body in order to minimise the impact (legs together, arms across your chest), I still bent and bruised several fingers, adrenaline and fear driving all the advice clean out of my head. Sally, a pal on the same outing who elected to hold her nose on entry – a precaution that results in less salt invading your hooter, granted, but has the drawback of ramming your fist into your face – sustained a quality black eye. A few years ago, a friend of mine crushed three vertebrae when she hit the surface arse-first.
You get the picture. Basically, if they’d done that jump in real life, Butch and Sundance would never have walked again. Newman! Redford! Shame on you. Faked it, dintcha?
Advertisement
These fun and games took place in the so-called Blue Lagoon, a long-abandoned, long-flooded former slate quarry near the village of Abereiddy. In summer, I’m told, the air ambulance helicopter attends the Blue Lagoon two or three times a week, ferrying casualties to hospital.
The nutcases who competed in the Red Bull Cliff Diving World Series that was last held here in 2013 went off a platform almost 90ft up. Head first. In Speedos. I set my maximum at 25ft. Or possibly a little lower. But plenty high enough.
So that was coasteering.
It’s not often, by definition, that you get to achieve even one long-held ambition – so nailing two on the same day is rare indeed. That, nonetheless, is what I managed the Wednesday before last. How so? Because, before and after (although not during, conditions not being conducive) the coasteering, I succeeded in putting away not one, not two, not three, not four … Higher, higher … Not five, not six … OK, we’ve arrived – seven varieties of cake.
Just to be clear, that’s seven – I say again, seven – different types of cake, significant quantities of each one consumed within one 24-hour period. That’s an average of almost one cake every three hours. Or close to every two hours if you exclude sleeping.
Advertisement
Blimey boyo and yaki da, they love their cake in the land of our fathers. I’m always keen to adapt to the prevailing culture.
Here’s how it went down. Had to get up fairly early to make the trip to Abereiddy. Therefore missed breakfast. Therefore – doh! – had cake in lieu: bara brith. Welsh fruit cake, basically. Score one. Back from the whole jumpy thing, lunchtime, famished, lemon drizzle sitting there, asking for it. Piled in. Madness not to. Score two.
After which, it having been my birthday two days prior, the hotel having generously served up a coffee and walnut number by way of celebration, I scoffed what remained. Three. After which, it having been our friend Sarah’s birthday the day after mine, the hotel having equally generously put together a chocolate, strawberries and cream arrangement, I made short work of what was left of that, too. Four.
Pause for digestive purposes.
The same Sarah is a rather wonderful cook, cakery her speciality – she ought to be on Bake Off, come to think of it, but anyway, telly’s loss is my gain. So now recumbent on the beach, recovering from my exertions, Sarah produces first brownies, then cheese scones, then a coconut and something – banana? – combination, each conveyed in its own Tupperware receptacle. Down they all went. And there’s yer seven.
Advertisement
For the record, I did an eccles, a carrot and a victoria as well – same holiday, sadly not in the same time frame. Even so, impressed?
I should cocoa.