By Harry Mottram: The rain came down and another Sunday afternoon was drifting away towards the dreaded Monday morning and work. We needed a holiday. It was October 1986. My mum had died, I hated my job, the bills were piling up, the house was falling apart, Linda and I were both stressed out with life in general with a one-year-old baby Giles. A tiny advert in The Radio Times advertised the charms of a seaside town in Wales with sandy beaches, old fashioned shops and a medieval castle overlooking a bay. And even more enticing an advert next to it for a hotel offering a half price stay for families in mid-October – out of season. I showed the cutting to Linda and we agreed a holiday was what we needed and Tenby sounded about right and it would mostly be a motorway drive without twists and turns as Giles was acutely car sick. I rang the hotel and booked a week despite the protestations of my unhelpful employer who seemed to think someone booking a holiday was some sort of traitor to his advertising agency in Clifton.
Tenby, or in Welsh, Dinbych-y-pysgod, meaning the Little Fort of the Fishes, a reference to its sheltered harbour protected by a fort was as picturesque back in 1986 as it is now. It’s one of its charms, the fact it doesn’t seem to change much – which of course is deceptive as the cinema has gone, St Catherine’s Island has been turned into an ‘attraction’ and the joke shop has closed. From that first visit we were to return to the town many times along with its close neighbour Saundersfoot with its harbour and sandy beach. That first time was with Giles as baby and then as the family grew with Ashley, Lawrence and Milena and later with various boy and girl friends, Ashley’s wife Jenny and our grandchildren Ellie and Jake. In between the years we tried Cornwall, North Wales, Weymouth and the Lake District but the pull to return to Pembrokeshire was so strong it was always a favourite.
For children it’s the appeal of small shops selling toys, sweets and all things seaside, plus the safe streets, long walks along the coast the sandy beaches and the Beaney Baby store and of course The Rock. There’s one on Tenby’s North Beach and one midway along the seafront at Saundersfoot. As the family got older the attraction of the town’s pubs became a new attraction along with late night beach walks – with or without beer – leading to high jinks – is one way of putting it.
The one reoccurring part of a trip to Pembrokeshire along the M4 and A roads after service station at Pont Abraham is the number of times our car conked out or limped home. The first time was an altimeter in my old VW Golf, then there was the broken spark plug leading to a tortuous journey in another old banger – a VW Passat – with only three cylinders working, and my Citroen (or was it a Vauxhall) overheating which needed frequent stops as smoke poured out of the bonnet.
We’ve known the town in June drizzle, October heat, July storms and September rain – and weeks when it was almost too hot. We’ve stayed in flats, holiday lets, terraced houses, caravan and camping parks and even a guest house (now a retirement home). We’ve stayed there during family arguments and tragedies, grizzly toddlers and grumpy teenagers and through so many happy times which is why we’ve kept taking the road west ever since that tiny advert in the Radio Times.
About Harry Mottram
Harry is a freelance journalist and editor, a playwright and occasional actor. Follow him on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube etc
Email:harryfmottram@gmail.com
Website:www.harrymottram.co.uk
Mobile: 07789 864769
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