We are in West Wales to celebrate mother’s 80th birthday and a dozen of us are spending the weekend at a luxuriously refurbished barn in the heart of Tregaron Bog.
A bog in Wales doesn’t sound romantic, does it? But this is a raised bog, one that has built up over the past 12,000 years from countless layers of peat deposits.
The bog consists of 2,000 acres of reedbed, wet grassland, rivers, streams, ponds and woodland. Its star attraction is the legendary Red Kite.
Across the entire United Kingdom the Red Kite was once so plentiful that Shakespeare referred to London as the “city of kites and crows.” But by the 1870s they were extinct in England and by the 1930s only two pairs remained in Wales.
This tragic situation was reversed by a concentrated conservation and breeding program and latest figures suggest over 800 pairs in Wales alone – mostly in Tregaron Bog. I am happy to report that this bird is back!
They are a magnificent bird of prey and we saw many of them in early morning flapping take-off to glorious, lofty, soaring flight during the warmth of the afternoon.
We watched them from the picture window of our cosy barn and from the bubbling hot tub and in the bog itself. What a pleasure.
After a gargantuan Welsh breakfast we trouped off to Aberaeron, a pretty little fishing village on the coast of Cardigan Bay.
As European towns go Aberaeron is fairly young. It was created by Act of Parliament in 1807 in gratitude to the grandly named Reverend Alban Thomas Jones Gwynne for rebuilding the harbour at his own expense.
Well, I for one am glad he did so because this place has been a family niche for decades. In the 1950s my parents brought me here for holidays and in the1970s I brought my three youngsters here to fish for crabs. And today my granddaughter Robyn is angling here under her mum’s tutelage.
Not big, tasty Keppel Sands crabs, mind you. The Aberaeron Harbour crabs are 3 inches across the shell at most and Heaven knows what they would taste like.
We wanted the simple pleasure of catching the critters, holding them in a bucket for a few hours and then witnessing the reactions when the bucket was emptied on the quayside just at the moment a few visiting old ladies were passing.
The crabs would unerringly make for the sea as the ladies turned tail and scrambled for the tour bus. Priceless fun at no cost!
I also have a fond distant memory of sitting on the quay with my daughter and watching a seal in the harbour at sunset.
Aberaeron is a picture of pastel painted terraced houses which run parallel to the River Aeron. Even on dismal grey rainy days the soft colours are somehow cheerful. The large white house right on the harbour was once the home of Sir Geraint Evans, doyen of operatic baritones and prince of Covent Garden.
The pubs are many and varied in Aberaeron and there is a warm and lingering welcome in every one. Just as there was in the days when Sunday drinking was banned in these parts, there was always a back door for thirsty travellers. It seemed to taste much better at the back door with the curtains drawn closed.
And then there is the Jazz Festival and the Rugby Sevens but they must wait for another tale.
But I must tell you about the honey ice cream they sell at the Hive on the Quay as they did long ago. I must go back and taste it again some day.
Roll on Mam’s 90th!
Chris Skelding September 2009
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