A Hearth of Her Own

The Friday afternoon train from Swansea was only two cars, and it was jammed with casually dressed travelers headed for Fishguard and the ferry to Ireland. The people who couldn’t find seats were standing on the platform between cars or sprawled on their soft luggage inside the doors.

The young man on the seat beside me was dozing, his backpack on the floor, his head against the window. His meal last night obviously had been generously laced with garlic. The view beyond him out the window looked like something on a picture postcard of rural Wales in September: light rain misting rolling green hills that were dotted with sheep, while a border collie ran inside a fence along the tracks, racing the train.

I’d left London’s Paddington Station at 8 that morning, changing trains in Swansea. My destination was the harbor town of Fishguard and a cottage I’d rented nearby for a week of exploring.

The rain had stopped by the time we pulled into Fishguard, but heavy gray clouds hung low over the harbor. The train tracks ended right next to the waiting ferry, and almost all my fellow passengers scurried directly through the station to the dock with the aplomb of regular commuters. The huge, sleek white ship was also loading cars, the line inching forward and trailing for several blocks up the road toward the Upper Town of Fishguard.

I ducked into the tourist information center inside the station to obtain maps and other material, and to ask about finding a taxi. I had rented a car for a week, but since the cottage rental was Saturday to Saturday, I didn’t want to pick up the car until the morning. (I find it easier to use train travel to get as near to my destination as possible and arrange for a rental car from there.) I’d booked a room for the night in the Upper Town, a bit of a hike up a steep hill.

The friendly attendant in the information center was helpful about taxi services, and I was interested in the information she was giving a couple trying to decide which part of the Coast Path they might enjoy most. I paid for an armful of reading material, called one of the taxis and was promptly on my way.

Although the destination of boats and trains is designated as Fishguard, or Abergwaun in Welsh, the actual port is Goodwick. Fishguard proper consists of the Upper Town and, over the hill, Lower Town, which has its own bucolic harbor of small boats. (Lower Town was the location of the 1971 film “Under Milk Wood,” starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, based on the Dylan Thomas play; Burton and Thomas were Welsh.)

Upper Town was a quaint, well-scrubbed, bustling village of two-story pastel stucco or rock buildings interspersed with well-tended town garden spots; the people looked energetic and industrious. The scene added to my relief at reaching my destination. On the train to Swansea, I had passed many dreary and depressing towns, much like those I had always expected in the Wales of my mind. I had begun to wonder if I’d made a mistake coming to this country. But this area, while not appearing prosperous, looked similar to many tidy and proud little villages I have seen in Western Europe.

My taxi dropped me at the front door of the tiny inn, Three Main Street, which is primarily a restaurant. Upstairs were three guest rooms, each with a private bath. Mine had a queen bed, dazzlingly white and crisply starched cotton sheets, a fluffy duvet and a view out the front.

Three Main Street’s dining room is small but well regarded, and I happily tucked into what I thought would be a light vegetarian supper: brioche with red peppers, mushrooms and artichokes. However, it came with three side dishes--snow peas and roasted potatoes, scalloped fennel and carrot-celeriac puree--that were too delicious not to finish. I could hardly turn down the dessert of creme bru^lee, either. I went up to my room dazzled.

The next morning the sun was making various appearances, and I was able to get out and familiarize myself with the layout of the town. The bookstore right down the street from the hotel was rich with booklets and maps of Wales, and I bought an Ordnance Survey map of the area. With its detail of every footpath and lane, it turned out to be the most valuable guide I had for exploring the countryside.

The proprietor of the bookstore was so eager to help, and spoke with the most wonderfully melodious English accent, that I returned several times during the week just to hear him talk.

Scenic outlooks at various places in the Upper Town provided me with beautiful views down to the Gwaun Valley on the south and the Goodwick and Lower Town harbors to the north, before the car agency picked me up.

Tourism is the main industry in this part of Wales, Pembrokeshire. It’s a beautiful, unspoiled region of tiny villages and farms, venerable ruins and numerous sites of ancient habitation going back 4,000 to 5,000 years.

The coastline is breathtaking, ranging from high, rocky points to sandy beaches and coves. It can be viewed almost in its entirety from the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, which hugs the cliffs and shore for much of its 167 miles from Amroth in the south to Poppit Sands in the north.

From the lighthouse at Strumble Head, high on the cliffs northwest of Fishguard, the coast of Ireland is visible on a clear day. This is also a choice place for bird-watching (although not for the fainthearted or for those who fear heights), and it is said that only parts of the Scottish coast attract a greater variety of seabirds.

Hundreds of small outbuildings throughout the countryside have been remodeled for use as holiday cottages, providing an additional source of income for the locals. Three booking agencies handle just the Pembrokeshire coast and surrounding area. Prices vary depending on amenities.

I was specific with my booking agency, both on price--I wound up paying $338 for the week--and on my wish to be in the countryside but, as a woman traveling alone, not isolated. The cottage they directed me to was ideal.

I found it down a country lane, about a mile from the sea and across from a small dairy farm. A calf bleated me awake several mornings, apparently calling for its mother.

Gail Gurry, my hostess, lived next door with her family--two children and a husband who was a customs officer and off with the coast guard that week. Every morning Gail and the children went off to school, where she worked as the secretary. In the evenings, Gail was helpful when she was needed and unobtrusive otherwise.

My cottage had a name in lieu of a numbered address, as do all cottages and homes in this part of Wales, which I found quaint: Efail Fach, which Gail translated from the Welsh as “small smithy.” She had a picture album that showed the structure’s various stages of renovation from blacksmith shop to cottage. It had two small bedrooms, a loft, a skylighted bath with washer and dryer, and a small living room/kitchen area. The cottage also had a wood-burning stove and electric heat, and a TV and VCR.

A couple of times I prepared a light dinner for myself from supplies I’d bought in the nearby town of St. David. Sometimes I stopped at tea time at small restaurants on the road, and I snacked most of the week on a large hunk of local cheese.

I’d stocked up in Fishguard on staples for breakfast and lunch, usually an impromptu picnic at some scenic spot that caught my fancy on the road.

On my first morning, I was eager to get out on the coast path.

The path is best done in segments, in day trips, although it is possible to camp in some spots, either with permission of the owner or in a recognized campsite.

I walked a portion of the path starting at Whitesands Bay. It was sunny but brisk; only a few die-hards sprawled on the grassy bluffs above the beach or on the sand below, and only three or four surfers were out. The scenery was superb, though deceptive; the path can become pretty arduous at times.

When traveling alone my first concern is safety, and I decided that at this time of year, considering the dearth of hikers, it was not wise to hike too far, especially without good hiking shoes. So after a ramble along the Whitesands bluffs, I backtracked and settled for “crawling about” inland in my rented car.

The ordnance map was my navigator. Roads in this part of Wales are adequate for rural traffic, meaning they tend to be only one lane wide. I soon got accustomed to driving on them after a few episodes of heart-in-mouth. Thankfully, traffic was very light at that time of year.

If you tire of hiking, Wales is full of places to explore, including prehistoric monoliths, burial chambers and similar stone monuments. Pentre Ifan, 4,500 years old, near the town of Newport, is the best known in the area. All but the most spectacular stones are just standing in fields, unmarked. Many times I came to a halt passing a field in my car and seeing such a remnant of Neolithic times. It was quite amazing.

I also was awed by the 14th century Bishop’s Palace and the adjacent St. David’s cathedral, which is still used for services. It is one of the finest cathedrals in the United Kingdom.

Small industries are common in this part of Wales--woolen mills; a cheese factory with guided tours by the owner, who used to play in a symphony orchestra; a wood-turning studio and art galleries. I was most appreciative that the only fast-food restaurant I encountered was in the big city of Haverfordwest, population about 14,000.

Every morning I would walk half a mile from the cottage to the Penparc village “store” to buy a Times of London. The store was a rather cramped single room attached to a house, stuffed with a little bit of everything and staffed by Mr. Jones, a portly and agreeable gentleman, or his wife, rosy-cheeked and smiling Mrs. Jones.

The couple was so accommodating that on my first morning there, when Mrs. Jones found that she had sold out of the Times, she was nearly prostrate herself with grief. My entreaties of “no problem” and “I’ll just buy something else” would not suffice. She insisted thereafter on “putting one away” for me every morning, and she did. On my last morning she greeted me with her usual cheery “Beautiful day, isn’t it, dear?” whereupon I replied, commenting quite literally on the weather, “Well, it could be better.” A storm was brewing, and when I’d come out of the cottage and turned my face to the Irish Sea to look at the horizon, the wind had taken my breath away. But to Mrs. Jones, every day was beautiful in Wales.

In retrospect, I have to agree.

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GUIDEBOOK: A Cottage for One in Wales

Getting there: Nonstop service from LAX to London is offered by American, United, Virgin Atlantic, New Zealand and British Airways. Round-trip fares start at $872.

Trains from London (Paddington Station) to Fishguard take close to five hours. First-class round trip is about $210.

Settling in: I booked through Coastal Cottages of Pembrokeshire, 2 Riverside Quay, Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire, Wales SA61 2LJ. Telephone 011-44-143-776-7600; Internet https://www.coastalcottages.co.uk; e-mail info-desk@coastalcottages.co.uk.

Two other agencies that locals recommend:

Coast & Country Cottages, Trefaes Ganol, Moylegrove, Pembrokeshire, Wales SA43 3PF. Tel. 011-44-123-988-1361; fax 011-44-123-988-1261.

Quality Cottages, Cerbid, Solva, Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire, Wales SA62 6YE. Tel. 011-44-134-883-7874.

Bookings usually run from Saturday to Saturday, but be sure this is clear.

For more information: Wales Tourist Board, Brunel House, 2 Fitzalan Road, Cardiff, Wales CF2 1UY; tel. 011-44-122-249-9909.

British Tourist Authority, 551 Fifth Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176-0799; tel. (800) GO 2 BRITAIN (462-2748), Internet https://www.btausa.com.