We were on holiday a while back; south Wales this time. Pembrokeshire,
where we stayed in a tiny little village called St. Florence at a holiday
cottage I can only describe as “Pretty Darn Pink.”
The cottage, though pink, was comfortable, containing all you might
expect from a holiday cottage and more: an old-fashioned claw-foot tub in the
bathroom with a skylight directly overhead, an ample outdoor seating area, a
second bathroom with a shower, an outer kitchen with a Belfast sink…and
knick-knacks.
It was incredible. Nary a nook had
not been filled with sea shells nor a cranny left bereft of colourful stones.
Glass-fronted cabinets displayed ornamental tea sets, bowls of potpourri and
doilies covered random occasional tables and shelves sagged under the weight of
bottled ships and scented candles.
There was hardly a square inch of
wall space not covered by decorative plates, framed photos or amateur artwork.
Everywhere there were dado rails festooned with figurines, cubbies crammed full
of ceramic tat, dresser-tops adorned with Dutch shoes and chests piled with
porcelain jugs. Mugs hung from every exposed beam and even the limited space on
the diminutive kitchen table was half taken up by a large lazy-Susan covered in
a set of Portmeirion pottery.
 |
| Are you sure you can't fit any more knick-knacks in here? |
It made it difficult to unpack, as
there was no place to put our stuff. And you couldn’t move the knick-knacks;
there was no place to move them to because every space was taken up with
knick-knacks.
Even so, we had a great time. One
of the many sites we visited was the city of St. David.
St. David is the Patron Saint of
Wales, and he has his own cathedral in a small town bearing his name. The fact
that there is a cathedral in the town, however, means that the town has city
status, making it the smallest city in Britain. In 2011 it had a population of
1,841, making it—population wise—about the size of an average village.
 |
| St Dave got this... |
One of the more interesting things
about St. David, is his girlfriend, St. Florence, who was the namesake of the
village we were staying in. Now, the canned histories that I skimmed intimated
that she was a contemporary but you don’t get a village named after you (along
with a nifty and picturesque church) for just a wink and a smile. In my book,
she was his main squeeze.
 |
| ...St Flo got this. |
I didn’t bother delving too deep
into the text on the history plaques; I liked my imagined version too much to
sully it with anything as mundane as facts.
We also visited the bustling
sea-side town of Tenby, with its medieval town walls, castle and Victorian fort.
 |
| Nothing like having your town protected by a 20-foot thick wall. |
 |
| St Cathy's Fort. 1870s. A new build, hardly worth a mention. |
The street, cafés, bars and even
the church were lively but the local council still seems to be short of cash:
in practically every tourist town we have visited, there have been three old
duffers sitting on a bench near the town centre giving the place a little local
colour. Tenby, apparently, can only afford two.
 |
| Those guys again. |
There were a lot of places selling
tourist tat but I didn’t see any ceramic effigies of St. Flo. Sort of a shame,
as I would have liked to buy one for the cottage.
Though I doubt we would have found
nay place to put it.
