Tuesday, June 25: Lots of Pontys and Bliss in Pembrokeshire

Goodbye Cardiff and Shiny Red Bike

As Tuesday morning arrived, I awoke with a bit uneasy knowing I had left nearly all our packing for mere hours before departure -- something I rarely do (at least now… 18 year old me would sing a different tune). Ah, the procrastinator’s dread. Out of bed by 8:15, I ventured downstairs to do a bit of straightening up while Joey slept in. I scarfed down Day 2 of Tesco coffee and bread provisions for fuel (my taste buds already primed for the offense) and began cleaning and packing. I gave Joey an extra half an hour before I tossed her out of bed to pack up our room too. At breakfast, Joey gingerly asked what we were doing today since she knew we were leaving Cardiff and headed to a Manor house on the coast, but was a bit shaky on the details in between. Weeeelllll, I started slowly, we’re going to go up to the hills north of here where people used to mine coal like your great-great grandfather and visit where your family emigrated from! Doesn’t that sound like fun?!

Joey stared at me for five seconds, blinking a few times and processing this information with what can best be described as pained disinterest, and then asked: “But then we’re going to that mansion by the ocean right?” #fancyJoey coming in with the important follow up. “Yes, then we’re going to the mansion by the ocean.” Satisfied, she accepted a few hours of boredom in anticipation of fanciness later and settled into her tablet for a morning game or two. Like Mimi, like granddaughter. 

Anne packed in approximately 5 minutes, because she packed so lightly and seriously-please-tell-me-your-secrets-why-do-I-bring-so-much-stuff. (she clarifies: “When you only own one pair of pants, it’s easy to pack lightly.”) We still had Joey’s bike to return, and we decided it would be most efficient if Anne and I drove over to return it while Mom and Joey finished closing out the Airbnb. We packed the rest of the luggage in the car, tossed the bike in the back seat, and set out. Upon checking GPS (or sat nav, if we’re going with local parlance, which obviously we are we’re basically locals now), I elected for a route north that avoided Cardiff Castle and was a few minutes longer, but with less traffic. Now. Clearly I make dumb decisions with driving, and for some reason neither Anne nor I had yet learned to just go against our instinct. We got turned around again and a 10 minute journey soon became 25. Thank goodness Mom and Joey are Queens of Patience. 

The park roads were narrow leading into the bike shop and, not being too sure where to park, I had another mini breakdown in a small parking lot, which was sort of becoming a daily therapy session. A man who was driving the car behind us and had zipped into a tiny spot on the other side of the lot trotted over to offer helpful-but-not-really advice: 

“You can just park in the corner there!” he offered. 

“CAN I?” I wanted to yell back at him. 

Instead I nodded and said “thanks!” and then promptly zoomed out of that lot so he couldn’t watch me try to maneuver the car into a relatively spacious spot. Luckily, there were plenty of pull-in spots right in front of the bike shop, so my worry over parking was unwarranted. Anne headed over to return the bike, while I ducked into the coffee shop next door to get a few espresso drinks for us. Lo and behold, parking lot guy was in front of me in line. He gave me a quick nod, as if he understood why I seemed to accept his advice but then immediately fled. Thank you, parking lot guy, for your lack of judgment. 

My latte wasn’t too bad, so I savored it a bit in the cafe before joining Anne at Pedal Power, where she had been waiting in a short line. After a quick transaction (10£ for the extra day), Anne had her license back, which they had kept for collateral. I breathed a sigh of relief -- with her license back, we now had a legal second driver. Time to pass the torch to another parking warrior to fight the good fight. We decided I’d drive to Pontypridd and Pontycymer, and then she’d take over for the latter half of the day en route to Pembrokeshire. Navigating back to the Airbnb, we learned from our earlier mistake and took the sat nav route by Cardiff Castle (the one we rejected earlier) and were home in less than 10 minutes. Ah, well. At least one leg was smooth sailing. Because the car was already loaded with our luggage, we parked in the adjacent car park about a 4 minute walk from the house, as the ambulance yard was overrun with vehicles this morning and resembled a bit of life-size tetris game. We headed down to collect Joey and Mom, and were on our way to Pontypridd by 11.

Rainy Pontypridd 

The weather outside was classic to Britain--  overcast skies that seemed to threaten rain at any moment, but would only send down a few spots of drizzle every now and then. Clouds had settled low this morning, so as we drove north out of Cardiff and the hills began to stretch up around us, fog obscured the tops of the steep slopes that bordered us. Throughout the day we couldn’t help but feel such a strong similarity to places already known. “This looks like Western Maryland,” echoed through the car at least a few times. Particularly reminiscent to us was the landscape of our hometown, which sits on the edge of Appalachia and US coal country, as well as the rolling hills of Northeast Pennsylvania, where our Welsh ancestors had settled. Not only is the scenery of green valleys framed by steep rolling hills so similar, but also the culture -- full of pride, but hardened in the struggle to find healing in the face of economic change. There is a bit of an eerie feeling when you travel through these places - both stateside and here - there’s a deep warmth and resiliency, but also undertones of resentment and a sense that they’re just trying not to be forgotten in the foothills of these mountains. 

Pontypridd Scene

We arrived in Pontypridd by noon, and had pulled into a car park (ah the dread builds) near the center of town. Well outside of urban Cardiff, this car park was much more spacious, so I was able to navigate easily up to a parking spot and soon we were on our way to exploring the town. The hesitant drizzle now turned to a steady rain, so we grabbed our umbrellas and meandered down to the pedestrian area. Pontypridd, not just renowned as home to Mubarak’s mother-in-law, is named the “Gateway to the Valleys” and was the major urban hub of the surrounding coal valleys. The name itself means “bridge by the earthen house,” so it’s famous for - you guessed it - a bridge in the center of town built in 1756. At the time of its construction, this bridge was the longest single-span arched stone bridge in the world, and apparently this was such an accomplishment they named the surrounding town for it. 

The famous “ponty” of Pontypridd

Pontypridd was rather bustling for a cold, rainy Tuesday morning, and we walked slowly through the cobblestone streets to get the lay of the land. I didn’t notice many stores or anything outside of what you’d expect for an otherwise everyday, mid-size town, but I did enjoy watching Mom walk amongst the locals running their errands. There were Joan Johnson lookalikes everywhere, and if someone didn’t look like Mom, they certainly looked like one of her six brothers and sisters. It was sort of like stumbling into a family reunion as a distant cousin, where you felt like a stranger but knew for sure this was the right gene pool. Joey, with her deep olive skin tone, was easily the tannest (caucasian) person for miles. 

We found a busy Costa Coffee for a bit of a reprieve from the rain and nabbed a table for four. While ordering, the rushed baristas patiently listened as Mom asked if they had heard of tishen flats -- but nope, no such luck here. “Try the covered market down the street,” one of them offered helpfully. After one tea, two coffees, and some buttered toast for Joey, and we were feeling refreshed and ready to walk through the rest of the town to the Pontypridd Heritage Museum. We weren’t able to find the entrance to the covered market, but Mom did find a traditional Welsh bakery and ducked in to pickup some welshcakes and ask after tishen flats. No luck again. There must be someone who knows what she’s talking about, right? Probably not. I think this was a made up name to make Americans look even crazier than we actually are. 

The Pontypridd Museum sits next to the famous Old Bridge (the ponty, if you will) and is a wonderful little museum that details the history of the area during the great industrial age and the vibrant culture that grew out of the mining communities. Housed in a converted Baptist church, we took our time here and did a good bit of shopping in their gift shop as well. The upstairs section was a veritable anthropological collection of the culture of arts and music that sprung out of the valley communities of South Wales, despite the difficult life and work of the people who populated the colliery towns. Downstairs included a temporary exhibit on the sobering Albion coal mining disaster of 1894, the second worst mining disaster in South Wales, which killed 290 men and boys working in the mine. In true British form, they also had a cartoon that told the story of the disaster playing on a loop, so Joey sat herself down and watched it over and over again. Just a lite TV break, nothing to see here folks… Even away from the isolated coal mine explosions that would cause such horrific massacres, I learned at the museum that in the “routine” days of coal mining, there was  a death on average every six hours, and a serious injury every 12 minutes. Such a life of uncertainty and hardship is so difficult for me to conceptualize.

While Mom rested a bit in the museum (we had walked nearly a mile from the car park) and Joey was captivated by the, uh, cartoon show about mining massacres, Anne and I hustled back through the sea of Joan Johnson doppelgangers to collect the car and provide a valet service for Mom and Joey before heading out to Pontycymer. We said goodbye to a dreary but lovely, Pontypridd around 1pm and after getting turned around (of course) getting out of town, we were soon headed up, up, up through the hills of the Rhondda Valley en route to my great-grandfather’s hometown of Pontycymer. 

Lone Americans in Pontycymer

The roads became windy and steep as we sped up the mountains, and soon there were vistas all around us of lush green pastures sloped on the hills that stretched both below and above us. It was quiet, remote, and beautiful -- if not a bit mystical. Narrow glens framed even narrower streets, and here again I was reminded of being a stranger in a familiar land. Speed limits were far higher than I was comfortable driving on windy, unfamiliar roads, but locals knew these roads well and lined up patiently behind me as we made our way over the rolling hills. Too often have I been on the other side -- (in)patiently waiting as someone unfamiliar with the windy mountain roads of my own hometown area take the twists painfully slow. Sorry, Welsh people, no one in our family has been back here in over 100 years and they did not bring driving directions with them on the boat.

After a bit of a harrowing drive (what started as narrow two-way roads soon became narrow one-way but actually two-way roads as the number of streets navigating these valleys started to dwindle), we finally made it to Pontycymer, which is perched in the Garw Valley. Like all the small towns we had driven through, Pontycymer is comprised of a main street lined with small, two-story stone rowhouses and a few businesses dotted throughout the town. The entire length of the town barely stretches to a mile. Arriving around 2pm, we parked easily in the lot of a small Co-op grocery store and headed out on foot to find lunch. Though we had identified several little cafes from Google Maps, nearly all of them were shuttered. We stumbled into the only place that appeared open, a little place on the main street named Mama Tan’s Cafe, and what a gem we found. Truly the equivalent of an American diner in Wales, this small spot offered several empty tables lined with plastic tablecloths and a simple, laminated menu. Inside there was a baby eating lunch in her high chair surrounded by family of the owner -- Mama Tan, I assume (because otherwise what a weird name for the place) -- and a few other locals strewn about eating a late lunch. The food available was straightforward simple lunch fare. Joey ordered a hot dog and “chips” (after she dutifully practiced saying chips instead of fries), Anne a jacket potato, me the fish and chips, and my mom ordered a chicken salad sandwich that came out more as a chicken sandwich, what salad? My fish and chips were the best I had all trip, and Joey’s came with not one but TWO hot dogs -- a dream come true. Unsurprisingly, the hospitality of Mama Tan’s was unparalleled. We may have been the first ever Americans to visit Pontycymer, and they were intrigued by our presence in the friendliest way. As we placed the table order, they dutifully wrote it down and then looked at us and said, 

“Alright so where are you from, then?”

“Near Washington DC,” I offered, but then realizing from their expressions that that was far too specific, I followed up with a quick “the United States!”  

While waiting for lunch to arrive, Anne, Mom and I dissected the family genealogy Mom had brought with her on the trip. Her grandfather emigrated at the age of 11 or 12 from Pontycymer, when her great-grandfather moved overseas to work in the new, booming coal mines of Northeastern Pennsylvania around the turn of the century. From what Mom knew, her grandfather -- as most 12 year olds would be I presume -- was fiercely resistant to being uprooted from his community and sent to a new country, never to return home again. We had planned to wander a bit in the Pontycymer cemetery, and - other than the family tree in front of us - we had no real specifics on our family’s life here. Mama Tan suggested checking on a closed Facebook group for more information, as armchair historians and archivists were abound in the community to help people trace their lineage and make family connections. Had we known a few days earlier, we would have been able to take more advantage of this resource, but we had only an hour or so left here and we didn’t expect the Facebook hivemind to work that quickly. 

Satisfied from a delicious meal, we were already tired from a full day of traveling, but knew we had just a bit of a trip to go before reaching our final destination in Tenby (Joey’s “mansion by the sea” dream would soon be realized). Before leaving, Mom of course asked our new Pontycymer friends/probably-distant-relatives her tishen flats question. Surely if anywhere would know tishen flats, it would be here? But no - very apologetically they said they didn’t know the name, although another local offered “teisen lap” as a plausible substitute. Teisen lap, yes, my sister and I were convinced tishen flats was just a linguistic corruption of teisen lap. But Mom remained unconvinced. “They aren’t the same thing,” she said resolutely. She did, however, happily purchase one of their welshcakes after posing her butter or lard test to them (here they were half lard/half butter). When pulling out money to pay for her treat, the daughter of the owner noticed a dollar bill in Mom’s wallet and asked after it. “Could I take a look? I’ve never seen American money,” and just like that Mom (of course) offered it to her to keep, and she received her welshcake in return. “I’m going to go home and frame it!” the daughter exclaimed without a hint of sarcasm in her voice. Before leaving, we asked for clarification on how to reach the cemetery. “Oh just up the hill, you can’t miss it. Good luck!” Mama Tan offered as we headed back to the car. 

The time had come for Anne to take the reins in the driver’s seat, and she made it up a steep hill to the entrance of the Pontycycmer cemetery like a pro. The cemetery was perched on a steep hillside, and seemed to stretch for at least a quarter mile overlooking the narrow streets of the town below. Cemeteries are always such peaceful places, and this one in particular seemed to have a particular sense of serenity. It seemed so appropriate that souls were laid to rest on a bluff that overlooked the hills that were so central to the fabric of life and death in the communities below. With nowhere to park (the road sort of just ends at the cemetery gates) I hopped out quickly to wander a bit in search of any familiar names, and Mom followed a bit later. I found Morgans and Williams but none of (close) relation, so I just spent a bit of time wandering and wondering about the lives behind the markers. At one point I spotted some sheep -- yes, yes live, stumbling sheep -- and tried to get a photo of them before they scampered away through a nook in the cemetery. Mom returned to the car and then Anne came and walked a bit (shockingly Joey had no interest), and though we didn’t find any familiar names, visiting the cemetery seemed to be a fitting final stop on our tour of coal country, and soon we set out for Pembrokeshire. 

Welsh Welcome at Penally Abbey 

Anne in the driver’s seat and I in the passenger was a change that of course took some adjustment. We passed through the same narrow streets, and having had so many days in control in the driver’s seat I, ahem, may not have taken to the zen navigator role straight away. I had a hard time gauging whether Caution! on the left was a result of my skewed perspective or not, but didn’t want to be too harried for Anne, so instead of saying anything I’d make tense sound effects, which SPOILER is more anxiety inducing than just saying “Caution.” It took me about 20 minutes to relax into my new role. Anne, of course, was also adjusting to driving on narrow streets in hilly landscapes, so making our way back to the M4 autoroute was adventurous but successful. After stopping for gas en route, we were soon heading due west for the sea. Traffic on the highway was a bit hit and miss (we hit Swansea, a mid-size city, around early rush hour), and it took a little under 2 hours to make the 80 mile trek all the way to Pembrokeshire. 

We were headed to the tiny village of Penally, just south of Tenby, where tucked away in the hills was a stunning “mansion by the sea,” in Joey parlance. Actually an 18th-century Strawberry Gothic House (ask me what “Strawberry Gothic” is and you will be met with a blank stare, but it sounds quaint, no?)  Penally Abbey did in fact originate many centuries ago as a small abbey, and there are a few medieval ruins dotted throughout the property grounds reminiscent of this past. Today it is a boutique hotel that exudes bonhomie and invites rest and relaxation at nearly every turn. We arrived in the small parking lot around 5:45pm, where Anne parked with nary a mental breakdown in sight, and wandered into the lobby to get settled. We passed through a small courtyard lit with overhead strings of twinkling lights and were welcomed into a warmly decorated room, complete with a wood-burning stove and long wooden table. On a small, decorated piece of paper was a large cursive Welcome with our name and room numbers drawn beautifully underneath. The receptionist welcomed us in like we were family, and even took the time to introduce herself to two of Joey’s stuffed animal friends - Bunny Wunny and Leopard Wepoard - (there’s a reason she didn’t have a larger say in naming her little brother) to ensure we were all well  acquainted. 

After settling the logistics, she led us on a brief tour of the property. We passed through the reception to a small bar area that spilled into an sun-filled conservatory. On one side of the bar was a large, elegant library that invited you to sit and read by the oversized fireplace. Just across was the Rhosyn Restaurant, a gracefully stylish space with intimate candlelit tables that overlooked the gardens and the stunning views of the sea in the distance. Our host then led us back outside to the adjoining carriage house and up a metal staircase to the second floor. The staircase gave way to a narrow terrace, where the doors to our two side-by-side rooms opened. We had reserved the two “large coach rooms,” truthfully the only two available when I inquired back in March, but despite not having a choice in them, our rooms could not have been more perfect. Both were tastefully and simply furnished, with spacious, clean white interiors and a grand bathroom with marble touches. On the terrace sat two small cafe tables and chairs, and inside the rooms the hotel provided illustrated guides for the area, nespresso machines, shortbread biscuits, and - much to Fancy Joey’s elation - plush bathrobes for lounging. Penally Abbey dripped with charm and it was impossible to not feel deeply relaxed at every turn here. Both Mom and Joey had looks of bliss on their face. 

Dinner by the Sea and a Little Love Island 

I had made at 6:30 reservation at the Rhosyn Restaurant at Penally Abbey, so Anne and I slightly rushed to haul the 8 bags for 4 people up the stairs to our rooms. In our haste, we dropped (ok ok I dropped) a six-pack of Mom’s Diet Pepsis against the side of the carriage house, and one can exploded and fizzed against the gravel lot leaving a carbonated mess behind it. Hello, beautiful, elegant Penally Abbey -- the Johnsons from Hagerstown, Maryland have arrived. I left the remaining Diet Pepsis outside on the terrace to keep cool and to avoid leaving a trail of residue inside the room, and there they sat throughout the next few days. We may be in a fancy hotel, but we still keep drinks on the porch. 

We freshened up and made our way back down to the reception area, where our host showed us to a quiet table with a clear view out the large bay windows. The menu, like any good seaside town, was full of seafood options and these Marylanders were happy to see it. We ordered the pan fried scallops and Pembrokeshire crab to share for appetizers, and though it’s only natural for us to give the side eye to any other kind of crab that doesn’t come from the Chesapeake, both the scallops and the crab were delicious (Anne pointed out the crab reminded her a bit of Alaskan king crab, and I agree). After a very long day of traveling, we indulged a bit and ordered a lemonade for Joey (but it was sparkling! How offensive!), a beloved Pinot Grigio for Mom (not blush, not sparkling, thankyouverymuch), Anne a Shiraz, and me the local cider -- which was not too sweet and had a crisp, bold flavor -- just how I like it (HEAR THAT ANGRY ORCHARD!?! [the only kind of cider often available in the US and - I don’t say this lightly - it’s crap.]). For dinner, I opted for the parmesan gnocchi, because you know what? I can’t say no to any combination of cheese, pasta and potato and that’s just a part of my personality I’ve learned to accept. Mom ordered the chargrilled steak with roasted tomatoes, mushrooms, and herb butter, and Anne continued the seafood theme with salmon served with pak choy and oyster mushrooms in an asian broth.  Joey - of course - elected for the beef ragu pasta, the good old standby. As we received our appetizers, our waitress had let us know that, in a collision of worlds, she was moving to Bel Air, Maryland in just a few weeks, where her husband was from. “Wow! That’s amazing. Such a small world!” we offered while we struggled to think of anything interesting to say about Bel Air and/or remember where Bel Air was (Bel Air is perfectly lovely, I should note, but not an easy place to make small talk about…unless you want to compare and contrast it with the Bel Air of the Fresh Prince?). To cap off our elegant meal, Mom and I elected to try the cheese board (my favorite thing about cheese boards in the UK versus the US or continental Europe is that they don’t skimp. You want cheese, you get cheese.), while Joey was instantly sold on the cold cream vanilla ice cream, and Anne elected for a dessert that had some sort of chocolate in it I believe, but I can’t quite tell you more than that because my notes trail off here… probably because I kept thinking about that beautiful array of cheese. We lingered at dinner, as Anne and I love to do (Mom and Joey… not so much, I guess that’s the French influence coming in again), reflecting on the twists and turns (literally, amiright? #carbeast) of the day. It was not lost on us that sitting in an elegant “mansion by the sea” paradoxically capped a day of touring the humble origins of our coal mining ancestors in valleys that were a mere 80 miles east, but felt so much farther away. The contrast was not lost on any of us. Finally satisfied from a wonderful dinner in a beautiful setting, we retired back to the cottage house to sleep after such a busy day. 

View from dinner

Mom retired early, but I had been letting Joey stay up a bit later than normal (bedtime in Wales was 10:30pm, lucky girl) so that she didn’t totally acclimate to the time change, and Anne joined us in our room to let Mom sleep in peace. We both happily indulged in a decaf coffee from the Nespresso machine (better than virtually all the regular coffee we’ve had before), and settled in to relax and watch a bit of TV. Here we hit a bit of a snag with Penally Abbey - the wifi was not great in our room (though to be fair it did seem like maybe “unplugging” was a larger part of the shtick here), so without Netflix we were forced to settle on local TV with stops and commercials and everything. The horror for we millennials and Gen Alphas (yes that’s Joey’s generation name, yes I just looked up, yes I think it’s as ridiculous as you do) -- somehow we couldn’t find anything to watch but Love Island, which is totally inappropriate for a 6 year old and yet was somehow so captivating we couldn’t turn it off. I didn’t get the premise exactly, but it seemed like a Big Brother/Bachelor mashup with a lot of people whose anger issues were dramatically escalated with alcohol. We managed to watch an embarrassingly long 40 minutes of it, before I figured Joey had enough fodder for nightmares between Love Island and the cartoon on mining massacres from earlier in the day, and we said goodnight. With no clear agenda for the next day, Joey and I rested easy and drifted off to sleep quickly, with Joey making sure her plush bathrobe was waiting right by her bed for a luxurious rise tomorrow.