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.
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
|Are you sure you can't fit any more knick-knacks in here?|
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.
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 Dave got this...|
|...St Flo got this.|
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.|
|Those guys again.|