Posted by: Team McSlade | July 6, 2010

Is that with one L or three?

We visited Cymru or more commonly Wales after a few days down in Cornwall, with a brief detour to Clovelly on the Atlantic Coast on the way. A small village that’s built into a cliff face that used to use donkeys to take supplies up to the main road and then everything goes back down the cobbled streets via sledges. Cheers Geoff for the nod to this cracker.

As we headed down the steep cobbled lane towards the town, one lady who shall remain nameless (as we don’t know it) fell head-first into the category of ‘A-Grade Boob’ with a tremendous thud. This woman was stopped at an oceanic viewing pullout about fifty yards from the start, complaining that she had a broken toe and couldn’t stretch her foot out on the cobbles. She asked another lady if she had been to the bottom near the sea before, the other lady responded that she lived in Clovelly.
I added my two pence worth by saying perhaps she’d been to the seashore once or twice.

Clovelly - steep cobbles and sledges required

In the village we marvelled at how and why these homes were built into the cliff face, and wondered why anyone would even bother dragging their weekly shopping a few hundred yards over cobbles and then do the same with their couch, clothes and any other gear that was thought nice for the home.
Pasties (sans Cornish as we are now into Devon) were bought and devoured at the seaside. As Jo is already looking like a pastie, this added to the fun in geting back up the hill. A few old ducks were bemused by my dragging Jo while Zach pushed from behind to get her up the hill. Jo blamed the pastie and laughter ensued. Another pregnant woman was wandering down too; we pitied her partner as he didn’t have any hired help to get her back up the hill.

We finally returned the favour to Ryan Freeman for coming and visiting us in Canada and Spain, by heading to his town of Cardiff. With his address written down, yet no map, we were hoping to jag a street sign that meant something to us when arriving in Cardiff. A quick lap of the town centre and a dash into a petrol station had us only one street off the mark.
When we had shaken off the dust from the drive we did a tour of the city, past the castle into the high street and marvelled at the similarities to Adelaide (obviously not the castle, but the rest) and saw a sign to Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch – the longest single word town name in the world with 51 letters in the name.

Check out the banner in white

The weather has been doing its liberal best to get us acclimatised to an Adelaide winter with cool days and a bit of rain here and there. Still Melbourne has nothing on the schizophrenic climes of Cardiff with its seven seasons in one day.
The Tintern Abbey looked austere without its roof and stained glass; the Black Mountains were dour in the mist and rain; with the Carphilly Castle looking the whole nine yards with its turrets, fortified walls and moat. I love a good moat.

The Maenllwyd Inn in Rudry, a country hotel in a small village was visited on our last night in town. They served up a mean feed of half a chicken, a few steak sangas and lasagne; Jo added a plate of gnocchi to the table and we were all rolled out to the car.
Ryan completed our visit to Cardiff by letting us in on the Welsh secret that is Welshcakes. These little morsels of Welsh gold are best described as pikelets with raisins, a pile of sugar and a few sprinkles of ‘get that in my tummy’. Instead of trying to add anymore to the wonderment that is Welshcakes, I will implore you to hit up your local Welsh food stockist and ask them to give you some Welshcakes.
If they don’t have them, ask then why not.

Welshcakes. Winners.

On to Liverpool we go…

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