Look what I can do now

(Note ; this post has been a little delayed because of an accident )

On Monday and Tuesday of this week Trefalen Farm hosted a very special event.  Three marquees had been erected in the field  between my vegetable garden and the campsite; and there was an invitation to everyone, ‘holiday-makers, campers, locals, believers, sceptics, grandparents and young children’to drop in find out what was happening   

And there was a lot happening. It was a fun day for everyone , including Harvey the St Bernard. There was face painting ( for young and old alike) , there were  football  contests , there were refreshments; and there was lots of space for old friends to meet up and chat , for children to run around.       

      However there was much more than this. The largest marquee, the marquee for miracles, had been set out, with small tables and quiet sitting areas, for people to talk to the members of the team who were ready, in Marcia’s  words to “give people a glimpse of heaven ‘. It was a restful, peaceful space, with Marcia’s poems strung along each wall on different coloured paper and a cross, constructed from pieces of drift wood, in one corner. At the foot of the cross were pebbles on which people had written prayers for absent friends or relatives .

     I was careful not to intrude on the quiet conversations taking place in this marquee. I knew that some people had come for a ‘listening ear’, some hoping to be healed by prayer, others, perhaps, interested in the promise of dream inteprepation.  But I heard form Marcia afterwards that

As always, God has done more than we could have possibly hoped or imagined - from the unpredicted fine weather which changed as the last car left; to miraculous physical healings in front of our eyes; to deep inner healing of burdens carried for years, to life-changing encounters with Him.  This is what 'church' is meant to be - God's people sharing His love and power with the world in a tangible way.  And the people will come.

     Of course, some of us are uncertain about the beliefs held by many of those attending.  We may be  envious of their certainty and commitment, or  perhaps interested in glimpses of alternative realities. But we are reluctant to accept claims of miracles and healing.

     So perhaps the final word should rest with Malcolm, seen here with Isobella just after he had been prayed for.  Malcolm suffers from arthritis, not even able to put his socks on. But just before I took this photo he had been showing me how, for the first time in years, he was able to bend and touch his toes . And he couldn’t wait to get back to his caravan to put his socks on himself.

If anyone wants to know more, I have inserted below a list of those who led the team, with their contact details  

Marcia Giardelli (Trefalen Farm - Email:  trefalenfarm@yahoo.co.uk/ Telephone: 01646 661643)

Reverend Mike Endicott  (The Order of Jacob’s Well - Email:mike@simplyhealing.org)

 

 Paul Stevens (New Day International  –Email -  paul.stevens@newdayinternational.org)

Riverhouse Life Church, Pembroke – Email – riverhouselife@gmail.

A young body boarder

I have only tried body boarding once. In Devon, several years ago. I spent an afternoon hanging hopefully, half on and half off the board, as the waves crashed me into the sand. I was covered in bruises the next day. So when Gabi’s aunt appeared at her third birthday part, in March, with a board covered in bright fishes, I had my doubts.

    Gabi loved the board from the start. She jumped on it, dragged it along the kitchen floor, threw in the air. And she brought it to Trefalen each time she came to visit. But it was always too cold or too wet or too windy and the board stayed in the cottage.

     Then last weekend the sun shone. We all went to the beach .and the body board was dragged towards the sea. The pictures tell the story. Doubt, hesitation, then after a few false starts she was swooping into the beach.

Yes, of course we were lucky with the sea conditions. The story would have been different with waves just a little higher. It also helped that Gabi has been splashing in this sea since she was a baby. And that she had had several successful rides before a wave eventually broke over her.

     But she is not alone. During the holidays the sea here at Broadhaven  is full of children jumping over waves, swimming, body boarding.  When they are tired of the sea there are sand castles to be built, holes to be dug and balls to be chased after. And its rarely too hot. What Mediterranean resort can compete with this?

It was the pond that brought us here

I am sitting at the table in Trefalen farmhouse kitchen. It is the same as always. Dogs stretch across the tiled floor and there are coffee cups, biscuits, flowers, as well as the campsite reservation book, on the table. There is a rubber chicken on my knees, deposited by one of the dogs. A camper is on the phone, making a reservation for tonight. And a caravan is pulling up outside the ever open door.

      However I am not here today to borrow a tin opener or to bring a present of some newly picked radishes. On the kitchen table, in a space carefully cleared for them, is a pile of brown envelopes. The envelopes hold cuttings, photos and letters for me to explore. Because today I am going to learn more about Trefalen, and about how Lawrence and Marcia came to own a cliff top farmhouse, fifty acres of farmland , and a campsite.

     Trefalen Farm was, for centuries, the home of substantial tenant farmers, part of the Stackpole Estate .

The estate was sold to the National Trust in 1967, but Trefalen (then Trevallen) was bought by an electricity board pension fund. In the early 1990’s it was being farmed by the Davies family, Jim and Elma with their son Simon. Then the National Trust persuaded the electricity board to sell up. So the Davies family moved to Buckspool Farm, on the outskirts of Bosherston (from where Simon still farms forty acres of Trefalen). However nothing happened  for two or three years. The farm remained empty. And this is where the story of Lawrence and Marcia begins.

     It is Lawrence’s story to start with. He grew up further along the coast, in Pendine, son of the artist Arthur Giardelli, who had moved to Wales many years before. The family visited Broadhaven beach frequently.

    ‘There were no steps down to the beach then,’ says Lawrence, ‘just lots of little paths meandering down from the cliffs. But what I remember most is the farm with a duck pond. All I wanted was to live there on top of the cliffs and play in the duck pond.’

     Lawrence grew up and moved to London. But many years later, anxious now to return to Pembrokeshire, he spotted an advert in a local paper.  ‘Unique opportunity to purchase farmhouse with outbuildings in coastal location in Pembrokeshire National Park.'
‘I could only think of two possible places it might be. And one was my farm with the duck pond'.
      Here Marcia takes up the story.

     ‘It was the farm Lawrence remembered. But they told us it wasn’t for sale, that the National Trust still wanted it. They had even put a NT gate across the entrance. It was just that it hadn’t been paid for yet. But we travelled down from London just to peep through the downstairs windows. The kitchen was underwater but we put an offer in, and then forgot about it. Ages later we had a call. If we could exchange contracts within 28 days it was ours.’

     And somehow they did it. Within 28 days they had sold their house in London, and found themselves the owners of a run down, grey farmhouse with waist high grass, broken fences, a few unexpected campers and a kitchen full of water. But no pond.

     ‘The pond was used to wash the horses and the carts,’ explains Lawrence, ‘and when horses were replaced by tractors they tried to wash the tractor trailers in the pond. But they were too heavy and the wheels went through the clay bottom so gradually the pond began to drain.’

    ‘But,’ he added, ‘it was the pond that brought me here and the pond was the first thing I set out to rescue.'

     So the pond is back, just inside the farm gates; dark and tranquil, overhung by trees, covered in water lilies. The house, camouflaged during the war, is white again. And the farm buildings have been restored. Trefalen is once again a white farm with a pond on a cliff top.

     But it is more than that. Go into the farmhouse today, or wander around the farm, and everywhere there is evidence of past lives. The ty bach (little house) with its two seats, one each for child and parent, is still there, though now home to my garden tools. The stables are still there, though now doubling as Elly's workshop. And the two Flemish chimneys, so useful in the days of smuggling, are still there. Trefalen Cottage, admired by so many for its unique shape, is built around what was originally the outside of the  second chimney. 

     And then there are the bobbaloobies. But that is another story.

A wedding like no other

It is eight o’clock in the evening, on Saturday 23^rd June. Inside the marquee, nearly seventy people are dancing, chatting, drinking, laughing. 
The meal, a feast of seafood, pizzas and salad, has finished. The speeches (amazingly witty) have been delivered. The entertainers have received rapturous applause. And now the little dance floor is full.  I look towards the sea. The wedding arch, where the ceremony took place earlier, is still there, still framing Church Rock. This so different and so special wedding day, designed planned and organised by Kathy and Mark themselves, really is the joyous celebration they had hoped for. 

     But twenty-four hours earlier the mood had been very different. The plan had been to erect the marquee on Thursday morning, leaving all day Friday to arrange the tables, the decorations, the flowers, and to tap the beer. However by Thursday the rain had arrived. The marquee owner said we would have to wait until Friday as the wind was too strong. On Friday he said it was still too strong and he left, to rescue another marquee blown down in Cardiff.

     ‘We can get it up early tomorrow morning’, said Mark that night in the St Govan’s Inn ‘No problem. It’ll be fine.’

     There were quick recalculations. The wedding guests included a dozen strong dinghy sailors; and if you can sail a B14 in a gale you can certainly help to erect a marquee. Linn could do the flowers on Saturday before having her hair done. Mark knew exactly how Kathy had planned to decorate the tables, so she could still spend the morning getting ready. Warren had already sorted out the beer.  And at least everyone was here, even those flying in from Spain, Switzerland, Italy; all happily settled at the campsite, the St Govan’s Inn, or in Bosherston cottages.

 By early Saturday morning the rain had stopped. The marquee was up and decorated and  the tables set out , each one with its centrepiece of polished pebbles and driftwood label.      

 Kathy, Emily, Leanne, Laura and Gillian, with the hairdresser, had taken took over the upstairs of the cottage .    

 Chris had gone for the bread and the ice. I had made up the nine bowls of salad. (Yes it had grown, and was supplemented by the samphire that Anna had picked the day before). And we were nicely on time to head down to the bottom field for our picnic lunch and to wait for the bride.

 She came down from the cliff top, over the top field, a tiny white figure on her father’s arm, two bridesmaids walking ahead of her. And, as they approached the avenue of pebbles, the third bridesmaid, three year old Gabi, in an identical cream and blue dress, ran to take their hands. They all walked together to the arch.

                                      

     Could anyone ask for a better place to make their vows? It was a simple ceremony, conducted by Kathy’s aunt, Sue, with readings by Chris, Gillian and Anna.

Then we all left the arch, standing once more alone above the sea, and headed into the marquee for the start of the partying.
                                                             
                                                              

There were many heroes, many stars that day. And the next day too. For by the time Kathy and Mark got back to the field the next morning the marquee had been cleared.  The camping guests had been up early and were now sitting in a row, in the sunshine, enjoying hot bacon rolls.  

    And what of the arch, which had started as driftwood on an almost inaccessible beach by Stack Rocks? It is now safely back,       once again leaning against Trefalen Cottage wall, and waiting to be transported to Kathy and Mark’s garden in Winchester.

In case you want to know more

The readings were ‘Flowers’ by Wendy Cope, ‘The owl and the pussy cat went to sea,’ and selections from AA Milne (you can guess which ones!)

Mal and Alex at St Govan’s Inn provided the seafood starter. (They had collected the clam shell containers themselves a few weeks earlier.)

The never ending supply of perfect pizzas was produced just outside the marquee by Pizzadora

 Tim and Jenny provided the brilliant entertainment

The valiant ‘marquee man’ was Nick from itscovered. (His Capri model, which really was stunning.)

Equally perfect for the occasion was the cake by Jacqueline of Felicitamos.

Linn did the beautiful flowers arrangements (and I hope she has forgiven me for using Chris's button hole to decorate my shoe)

And, last but not least, the campsite was of course Trefalen Farm campsite and we owe enormous thanks to Marcia and Lawrence for letting us use the bottom field and for providing so much support in the weeks beforehand

Jubilee weekend at Trefalen

 The Jubilee long weekend is over. I was too busy to think much about it on the Saturday. The salad crops, which I have sown to feed seventy two people for the wedding in three weeks time, are still only two inches high. So I spent the day thinning, transplanting, watering, even talking to them. It is a crop I have grown many time before, Thomson and Morgan’s ‘spicy salad mix’, which usually produces a mass of leaves about six weeks after sowing. But not this year.

     Even as I transplanted and watered (and planted my cucumbers and courgettes, and weeded the beetroot, and did the million others things that need doing at this time of year) I could hear  holiday makers heading down to the beach. I enjoy bank holidays here. I enjoy the visitors. So I promised myself that, once the last lettuce was in place, I would go and join them. And then the rain came. And  stayed with us for most of Sunday.

     This meant it was not until late on Sunday afternoon that I eventually headed for what I expected to be an empty desolate beach. But of course I had forgotten the surfers. I met the first as I headed down the steps, stepping aside to let him run past to his car. They always run, down the steps to the sea, up the steps back to their cars. Only once have I seen a surfer walking slowly up the steps.  It was dark and he was looking for the car keys  which he had hidden in the bushes at the side of the path. We had helped him for perhaps half an hour, shining our torch hopefully into the mass of greenery. Then had driven him, bare footed and still in his wet suit, to the pub, where he would be able to choose between a bed for the night or calling out his wife, over a hundred miles away.

     Leaving the surfers, I returned to the cottage via the campsite. The rain had really stopped now and campers were emerging from their tents and caravans, and looking up at the sky. The fields came alive; small figures chasing after balls, kites heading into the sky, barbecues lighting up. Like all bank holidays here. However this was a bank holiday with a difference. Down at the bottom end of the bottom field sat the Queen, in a tent covered with Union jacks, surrounded by crowned princesses. The diamond jubilee was alive and well had reached Trefalen. I greeted the Queen  and she gave me a paper hat with streamers..

      Then finally, on Monday, the sun shone again. Holidaymakers poured into the carpark, down the steps. There were swimmers and kayakers in the sea, games of cricket and rounders on the sand, and sunbathers lying in the shelter of windbreaks, beside older people on chairs, rugs covering their knees. There were dogs and wet suits and picnics and sand castles. A glorious British beach. 

 

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Scrambling from Trefalen Cottage

While I was waiting for the warm weather to return, and for the seeds in my vegetable patch to germinate, I spent some time scrambling on the rocks near the cottage. Scrambling is not the same as climbing, though both involve using your hands as well as your feet. (And ropes may be used for more challenging scrambles in the mountains). But the scrambling I do round here is little more than moving from one cove to another across the rocks. Low tide is best, when each cove has its own beach and I can scramble out to sea, along the rocky outcrops which are hidden at high water.  These coves are peaceful worlds of their own .The only foot prints on the wet sand are mine , the only sounds come from the birds, or perhaps a seagull trying to smash a spider crab on the rocks. And from the sea of course, gently moving between the rocks on a calm day, crashing and echoing in bad weather.

     It is possible, when the tide is very low, to scramble all the way from Broadhaven Beach  right along to Smugglers Cove; climbing, jumping, and wading, until you get round the final rocks and see a figure (or more often a dog ) on the sand. That’s when  you  know that you have reached safety. (In the next photo of Kathy she will be in a wedding dress).Smugglers Cove also seems to be called New Quay.  But to us it’s always been the Secret Inlet. We once called to tell the coastguard that we had found what looked like a grenade high in the rocks and within minutes a vanload of men had arrived to bear the object away.

     But now it is getting warmer.  The two yellow deck chairs, one each for Marcia and Lawrence, have reappeared outside the farmhouse. Every day now there are campers driving through the gates; old friends who come back every year or first timers, listening carefully to information about showers (there are none) and views (unbelievable). The alpacas and horses are venturing nearer to my vegetable patch, the horses friendly, the alpacas aloof and mysterious. Warren has started cutting the grass, his machine chased by a loudly barking Buster. And Malcolm’s caravan has returned to its usual place in a corner of the field outside our cottage.

     There are, I think, seven or eight of us at Trefalen. Perhaps it’s time to say more about who we are?

Ice-cream vans, samphire and mystery rocks

 This is an edited version in a larger font , as requested . I'd welcome any feedback  about size of type (or anything else! ) Just go to the 'comments'  at the bottom of the page  

 The first sign that summer is coming has always been the return of Gene. Gene collects the parking fees at the National Trust car park, just above the steps to the beach. Sometimes I never get as far as the steps because Gene has waylaid me. We talk about photography, insects, or both.  Last year he was photographing the scorpion fly. But this year there is no Gene. Peter, who has come back, tells me that Gene is visiting family in the States.

       There are other changes too. A pay and display machine for a start. Until now, Peter and Gene would stop each car, ask if the driver was a National Trust member, and collect the parking fee if not. Now  Peter and Alex (his new colleague) still stop each car but  direct drivers to the pay and display machine if they are not  members.

      However the biggest change is the replacement of the colourful ice cream van that has stood at the top of the steps every summer since I’ve been here. On Saturday a new van was sitting in the car park. It sells hot drinks and sandwiches, as well as ice cream, and has a very noisy generator. I could hear the generator from my vegetable plot. However on Sunday it wasn’t there. Peter explained that it had been too noisy and work needed doing to to make it quieter. I wonder how many people will swap their picnics and flasks for its offerings?   

(There should be a photo of the old van here as well but my photo filing system has let me down)

     It wasn’t the best time at Trefalen Farm for the generator to make itself heard. . Marcia has been suffering from a bad cough and sore throat for a week and Lawrence has been holding the fort himself, sitting alone in the farmhouse kitchen. I decided Marcia needed a little present, something to eat to tempt her appetite. So I scrambled over the cliff tops to collect some rock samphire and gave Lawrence strict instructions about how to cook it (just put in boiling water for a second then add some butter or oil).Marcia told me Lawrence served it beautifully, on a large white plate and it was delicious.  

     It was only the next morning, as I was searching in my River Cottage foraging book for more recipes for samphire, that I saw an explanation for its unusal taste . It comes from ‘a cocktail of aromatic chemicals, one of which is pinene.’ Pinene, the author goes on to explain, ‘is a major constituent of turpentine’. I’ve given the reference below if anyone wants to follow this up.

     And finally, a very different story, of magic and mystery. One of my favorite parts of the coast is the cove just beneath the campsite. It is reached by a steep, rocky path and then an awkward scramble over boulders until you reach the sand. So it is visited by few, even in high summer. Yesterday it was of course deserted. But something looked different .There was an oval stone, perhaps a foot high, balanced on one of the boulders in my path. I touched it very carefully and it crashed to the ground. Then, as I went further, I saw more, a semi circle of similar stones, all about a foot high, all oval, all balancing on the rocks between the cliff and the sea. I wonder  who put them there and how long they will stay?

Reference 

Wright,J .(2009).Edible Seashore. River Cottage Handbook no 5.