Swansea is the place to go with teenagers!

The end of the summer is approaching; my son is looking at school bags online as he left his on the TGV coming back from the UK (with ID card, carte jeune, crisps and a few clothes inside); I've been back at work for a week.

We went for two weeks to England and Wales, as usual, but did not do just usual things. For our trip to London, we visted the Bethal Green Museum of Childhood where I saw, to my joy, an owl just like my own "Sage".

Toy from Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood

Mine is a bit bigger than this one, and has a blue and green body in a material printed with feathers. He came from Heal's sale and the story goes that I was about 4 or 5 and could be seen staggering along with the owl almost as big as me, saying "Can I have this?". He had one wing a bit loose but that was quickly remedied with a sharp needle and cotton, and he's been in my room (chez parents) ever since. The museum is lovely, but the noise of screaming kids was phenomenal. Take ear plugs.

In Wales, we stayed in a lovely little bungalow in Bishopston near Mumbles. It also has a story. The owner, who lives next door, built it for his father-in-law about 7 years ago. He incorporated all the specifications required by the old man. Then, when it was all finished, and ready to roll, the father-in-law, an inveterate hoarder, couldn't face leaving his own home.

It had an amazing bathroom, with, most unusually for rented accommodation, a thousand pound's worth of free-standing bath on feet.

My youngest was the only one to get to try it because my mother decided she'd never be able to get out of it, and I preferred the shower. He found it was lovely to soak in after a good hour at Limitless, Swansea's trampoline park.

Limitless Trampoline Park, Swansea

This is a fabulous place for kids and adolescents, or indeed students who want to play a game of dodgeball or organise a bouncy party. The noise levels were pretty high, so my mother and I retired to Starbucks about 100m away for a cup of tea while my youngest got on with bouncing off his energy.

While we were at that end of Swansea, we visited the new engineering faculty and management school of Swansea University. It's been built on reclaimed land from the docks, and is enviably close to the beach, called the ("pied dans l'eau") Bay Campus.

View from Great Hall restaurant balcony

Swansea University Bay Campus view towards Mumbles

The town has two universities that are both expanding, and bringing much-needed investment into the area.

Another activity that we did, that was eminently suitable for teenagers, was FootGolf, along the Mumbles Road. By that time, my brother and family (two ado girls) had arrived, and this was one of the activities that we could all enjoy. My mother kept score, and I distinguished myself not one bit as an ace footie player. 

I remember the greens, sandwiched between the promenade and main road, as a 'pitch 'n' putt' where my brother loved to thrash me and got very annoyed when I didn't take it seriously, which of course made me all the keener to be silly. The new owners have enlarged the holes and bought a bunch of footballs, and created a very entertaining activity that even I enjoyed without being too much of an idiot. I had to cheat on the odd occasion of course, but I enjoyed trying to kick the ball more than hitting it with a stick. No one will be wanting to sign me up for their team any time soon though...

My youngest wanted another go at shooting innocent targets, so we went back to Perriswood where he shot the hell out of a range of metallic creatures and printed baddies.

Rifle range with life-size targets

Airsoft range

Mother and I, on the other hand, were enjoying meeting Alice the lazy Eagle Owl, and Dave the dim Peregrine falcon as Perriswood is, primarily, a falconry centre where they do displays and rear rapaces. It also has lovely views over Oxwich Bay.

Oxwich Bay from Perriswood

So a good time was had by all, and we even had good weather! Next up, hopefully, our visit to the Tin Works Museum at Aberdulais, and cruise on Copper Jack up the River Tawe.

Around the World in 80 Words: Mumbles

How can you fit in everything you have to say about a place in 80 words. Is it enough to give a feel of the place and identify lasting impressions? SAHDandproud has decided to give it a try, with a linky for everyone who wants to join in.

This is my entry - Mumbles - where I probably won't be going this summer as the rental market has risen in price faster than my salary. The boys will be gutted, they feel the pull of the old place as much as I do. Funny how nostalgia is catching. Maybe we can manage a couple of nights in a Premier Inn in Swansea...

Lifeboat station with slide. Very impressive when boats shot down into the sea.

Mumbles : land of my mother, coast full of beaches, soon to be defunct lifeboat station on stilts with fabulous boat slide into the sea. Previously famous for the mile of pubs. Still an old-world feel to it - visit boutique ‘Treasure’ there since my youth, full of up-market souvenirs and coffee shop. A magnet for artists, the area is of outstanding natural beauty.  You can eat outstandingly too, like the lava bread gratin at Langland’s brasserie on the beach.

Duty Hols

My nose is to the grindstone once more, back from mostly cloudy often rainy occasionally sunny Blighty.

After a week in Mumbles, Gower where we didn't manage to get on the beach because the weather bore no relation to the type of warm sunny day you need for lounging about on a towel, we came back to London to pick up dotty dad.

He had spent two weeks in a local council recommended EMI respite centre which is supposed to be a secure unit for Alzheimer and other patients who get violent and/or wander. I say 'supposed to be' because my mother got a call while she was away to say that my dad had got violent. It turned out they hadn't given him his happy pill, so the consequence of this was my dad turning over chairs and tables and generally behaving like an Alzheimer patient who hasn't had his happy pill.

What was astonishing was that no one in the EMI secure unit respite centre seemed to know what to do or how to handle him. The staff were women who complained that they are just weak and feeble and couldn't cope with a violent man. Fair enough, so where was the token 'bouncer'? Why weren't the women trained in containment? Why didn't they give him his happy pill?

Earlier in the week they had called my mother to say he wouldn't take his pills. They aren't allowed manhandle him to pop one in his mouth, he has to take them himself, and he was clamping his mouth shut. My mother was 220miles away so I'm not sure what they were expecting her to do - come back and do it herself? Anyway, she suggested they try putting the pill in a spoonful of jam and giving that to him. Miracle, it worked, and they told her it was such a good idea.

This from professional caring staff. Frightening, don't you think?

When we went there, the staff were pleasant enough, but there was hardly anyone about. EMI centres are supposed to have a higher ratio of staff than normal units. We picked up dotty dad's case, and collected him from the social room where everyone was sat round the edge and music was blaring out from the television. One woman sat distressed and weeping, imploring me to do something I couldn't hear because of the music. I could only tell a carer who was helping us get my dad ready about her plight. I got an airy response so I presume nothing was done.

When we got home, they had packed 7 items of clothing that didn't belong to him, and forgot to pack another 7, labelled, that did, so we had to go back the next day to be told by the laundry lady that upstairs had mucked things up ("as usual... if you gave them a brain cell each they'd be dangerous...!"), they were in the system and it would take a week for them to come out of the wash. It was like the Marie Celeste elsewhere in there, with no one about. As all the lifts and doors are keypad protected, if you don't know the code, you're there for life! Eventually we made it out, empty-handed and concerned that further proof of incompetence was so easy to find.

Back at home, dotty dad has a carer morning and night to dress and undress him etc., and look for bruises and scratches... The temptation to give him both was almost too much after the third night of his roaming about and into my room at 3.30am. Interrupted sleep does nothing to improve my temper.

Thankfully, I'm now back where my TWDB has managed to rent a little house for himself in a complex with a pool so I'm finally able to get out and do some exercise! Well away from the smell of pee and the parallel universe of being a carer.

Nose to Grindstone

And thus the wanderer returns...

From two weeks on off rain. I didn't wear my shorts, regretted only taking two pairs of trousers and was jolly glad to have a little pully and a cosy sweat shirt jacket. Where have I been? Why, the UK of course.

We enjoyed a fairly typical British summer. It could have been worse - we were not camping so didn't get flooded out or suffer from permanently damp clothes.

Actually we spent just over a week near London and then a week in Mumbles, Gower where we rented a rather fab house that had a hot tub. My mother and I sipped luxuriously on our G&Ts in a threatening drizzle warmed by the 34°C bubbling water while my brother broke his back tending a barbecue on the floor.

We used it once, but made up for the other damp evenings enjoying locally caught fresh fish, salt-marsh lamb from up the road and some classic British chips from the chippy.

I was ecstatic when my TWDB was able to come over for the first weekend in Wales, and he got to see Wales in the rain, Wales with murky grey sky, Wales in some sunshine, and Wales in a howling gale. Added to that some laverbread fried up with Welsh bacon, and cockles and I can safely say that he'll remember his little holiday for a very long time!

His last lunch was taken at Langland Bay in the Brasserie at the far end of the beach. It's quite new and makes a nice alternative to take-away chips or burgers in a caff. We went for the light lunch because one sight of the fish and chip plate and our stomachs told us No Way! So he had fishcakes which he liked very much, and I had a very original gratin of cockles and laverbread which was yummy.

In London, I took the boys to see the Fabiola exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery put together by Francis Alÿs. It's a lovely collection of portraits from different artists - mostly amateur - who all painted the same thing in the same way. He picked them up in flea markets and antique shops all over the place and it's amazing how the copying has been done so faithfully. The original is long gone, apparently.

It's now nose back to grindstone time but minus the boys. I'm thus using my time as wisely or as flippantly as I choose. So far I've thrown a whole load of stuff out of kitchen cupboards and brought in the heavy mob - bleach to clean it all up.

And now the sun is over the yard-arm and it's apero time.

Cheers!

Is it nearly summer yet?

With the rain lashing the side of the building, low storm clouds racing across the sky and a general feeling of doom and gloom, one's thoughts turn to the summer. Winter hasn't been around long - what is it, barely two weeks? - and I've had enough already.

I'm fed up with going home to a cold, dark dwelling, casually warmed by two crappy electric heaters. The odd draft from who knows where, like an icy finger caressing delicately one's tender cheek. Under the stairs seems to be the main source of suspicion but I can't actually pinpoint the precise spot which I could then block with blutack...

The only thing good about having a cold season is that you can turn on the bed warmer and plunge your toes not into the freezing depths of potential frost-bite, but down into toasting heaven. It's almost worth suffering the unwelcoming cold dampness of an early morning bathroom for... almost. You will have gathered by now that my house is not centrally-heated...

However, it could be worse... I could live in Canada!

Anyway, back to the summer. In days of yore, one would pore over brochures of tantalising summer destinations. In these mad modern times, one presses a key or two and brings up every single destination on earth, including Bradford.

However, I am just looking for a nice cheap place to stay in Gower for the atomically expensive week of July 26. There'll be three of us, unless I pick up a tasty hunk of male 'perfection' between now and then (who'd fancy holidaying with me, two boys, the folks, possibly sundry brothers, cousins, uncle Tom Cobbly and all...) and you would think that a nice little cottage would be just the thing at less than £300. Or a caravan. Not a bog or a sea cave though. Or even a tent.

And pigs might fly yonder o'er Port Eynon, and Oxwich because there is not a cheap rental to be had this side of Merthyr Tydfil.

Which brings me to an annoying feature about this week. It seems to be following a certain pattern which I am getting a tad snippy about. What's the point of trying to be well-organised if all around you are not cooperating? Can one be well-organised in a vacuum? I think not.

Come to think of it, I may just go back to Giles' place outside Mumbles which, at £360 for the week is coming across as more of a good deal with every day that passes. And it does have a marvellously well-stocked bar! (which I do no more than admire...)

In the meantime, the sky is now black, the wind is raging and I have to go out in it. Wish me luck...

Castle Me

Going back to childhood haunts can be tricky. Places change, not always for the better, and it can be a gross deception if your once favourite place has turned into a mega Tescos, or worse... (if possible).

Last year I went back to visit Mumbles, with the boys. My mother used to live on the other side of the 'Welcome to Mumbles' sign, and we spent many summers on the various beaches there when we went to stay with my grandmother. Going back turned out to be a brilliant idea. Mumbles had got better, cleaner, and more active. The Lido, from being a stagnant boating pool, had become a clean, exciting paddling pool, with fountains, water chutes, islands and jacuzzis. It was clean and safe, and had a playground attached with climbing wall.

Last year we enjoyed a week of sun. This year, we encountered sunny spells. We stayed in Limeslade, on the other side of the lighthouse, just up from a Joe's ice-cream parlour. As rented accommodation goes, it was rather special, especially as it had a fully stocked wall bar, loads of glasses, and good cooking equipment. No table though. Only a bar, with 4 very high stools...

The weather was not conducive to lounging about on beaches, so instead, we visited ruined castles. Driving into the heart of Gower, we started off with Weobly castle. It was raining, so the whole place looked authentically dark and dank. The boys dashed off to see what they could clambour over, climb on, and fight in, finding hidden niches and spooky staircases. The view was spectacular, looking out over the marshes, where sheep graze and get turned into salt marsh lamb. My mother bought some, and we ate a shoulder for our last evening there. It was exquisitely fragrant meat; very tender, and totally delicious!

After Weobly, we went to Oxwich castle which has a super shop. For young boys, that is... They were selling faux chain mail tunics and wooden swords. My youngest fell in love with the tunics, and I succumbed to his desire, together with swords for both so they could battle it out with panache!

My youngest would have gone to bed in his tunic, had I let him! It was definitely his favourite holiday purchase. We visited Oxwich in clearer weather. It is a more recent castle than Weobly, dating back only to the 16th century, and was more a mock-fortified manor house than a working stronghold. There was an interesting exhibition of Welsh history in the gallery explaining the invasions from the west and east, as well as the interminable inter-kingdom wars.

Our last castle was Oystermouth, in Mumbles - our local. It dates back to the 13th century and is set magnificently on a hill where, today, plays are put on in the natural amphitheathre, together with son et lumiere events. There are fantastic views over Swansea Bay, especially down towards Mumbles; the pier, the lighthouse, the old lifeboat house. We climbed up onto the ramparts, the boys charging their way around wielding their swords in a suitably medieval way.

This year, then, was the year of the castle. Last year was the year of the beach. What will next year bring?

Back from Blighty

The best holidays are ones where you are not contacted by your work, don't have any pressing problems to come back to (that you know about), and have as little travel hassle as possible, all of which leaves you free to concentrate on the matter in hand - enjoying the freedom of being away from the daily grind.

That folks, describes me. For once!

The boys and I went up to London, raided the charity shops local to where my parents live, saw Shrek III at the cinema, and then zoomed off to Wales for beachside fun in Mumbles. It did rain quite a lot, so rather than lots of beaches, we visited castles instead - ruined ones.

It finished with the boys being met by their father in Paris, and me sauntering around the French capital all by myself (yes, I am on my todsome again) thanks to some very dear friends of NG, who kindly took me in and found me somewhere to sleep.

More anon.

Sing to me, Lou

Last year, when we were on our happy hols near Swansea, in Mumbles, we went to see friends of my mother's. We were invited to dinner chez Betty and Lou Baker for which event, we took along the video camera. Why? Well, at dinner chez nous a couple of days previously, Lou had told us he had written a song and if we liked, after much persuading, would sing it for us.

Naturally, we were dying to hear it, and record it for posterity, so we set up the camera in their sitting room, Lou comfortably ensconced in an armchair and cued the maestro.


I think you will agree that it's a lovely, sad song; melancholic although at the same time, quite jaunty. Lou played with a jazz band years ago. He was a fine clarinetist and dreamed of becoming a professional musician. Unfortuately, music is a precarious way of life, and as a married man, he felt he could not put his dearly beloved through it.

He thus opened a garage in Mumbles and contented himself with amateur gigs. How could he but not regret his passion, though?

With the magic of the internet, however, he will at last reach out to the world and sing to those who wish to listen.

The music during the credits is called 'Dead God' and is a Marilyn Manson song - the passion of Jean-Mi Carter who so kindly put the video together...! I hinted that he might be asked to change it as Lou was more of a jazz man, in which case, he really shouldn't be offended...