ew Quay in West Wales is our special place, and for the last 10 days we've been enjoying everything it has to offer. In my previous post, I highlighted the first part of our trip. In this post, I'm going to share the final part of our most recent visit.
So, we ended the last part with a nighttime thunderstorm and hailstones, which briefly knocked out the power and plunged us into darkness. Thankfully, it was short-lived.
A visit to the famous Harbourmaster Hotel (Jeremy Clarkson recently visited and wrote nice things) for a drink was a welcome break. Dogs can only go on the front terrace, so we sat overlooking the harbour with our drinks. A lady came by and asked if dogs were allowed inside. We advised her on the terrace policy, and since she was alone with her dog, I offered to hold his lead whilst she went inside to order. Afterwards, she told us about the struggles she faces being alone with a dog; she had lost her partner last year, so now finds navigating certain venues a bit of a challenge.
Following that, and after a bit of shopping, we had a swift one in the Tafarn Y Cadwgan—a wonderful little pub we discovered a couple of years ago.
Later on, we went for tea (the meal not the drink) in the Penrhiwllan Inn. It was fully booked, but the landlord, Budgie, managed to squeeze us in. We've known him for many years and we're always well looked after. The food was wonderful, as always.
The rain returned on Thursday with an almost constant downpour. But that has never got us down, and a visit to the seafront for fish and chips was certainly not going to be put off. We ate them in the car overlooking the bay. We managed to get around some of the shops too; Morticia treated herself to a new fleece, and we also found a cool one for our grandson, Atreus, too.
That evening, we got together with our old friends Mike, Chris, Sam, and Alice. It's always good to catch up. We chatted over wine and beer whilst nibbling on crisps and Haribos. After they left, I took Magnus for his evening walkies and cheekily slipped into the Penrhiwgaled Inn (not to be confused with the Penrhiwllan, which is a mile down the road).
The Penrhiwgaled used to be a pub with unrealised potential before the current landlord and landlady took it on. They've transformed the place into a vibrant community pub without losing its soul. I always enjoy the friendly atmosphere, and I fully blame the dog for dragging me in.
One tradition that we always stick to is the walk along the beach to Llanina Point. Friday had the best-timed low tide of the week, so we set off. It's a beautiful walk, looking back at "the cliff-perched, toppling town" in all its glory.
Llanina Point was once the location of a lost church—or perhaps several—taken by the ocean over the centuries. St Ina's current church lies further back, hidden behind trees at the side of Afon Llethi. Legend has it that King Ina of Wessex was shipwrecked on the Ceredigion coast near New Quay and was rescued by the local community. As thanks, Ina arranged for a church to be built right on the coastline, which was later dedicated to him after he was canonised. However, this story is likely a bit of a myth created for Victorian tour guides. History suggests the church was actually founded by Ina, a 5th-century Welsh princess and daughter of Ceredig ap Cunedda, the king who gave his name to Ceredigion.
Our walk took us past the church and the ruined outbuildings of Plas Llanina. It's a stunning woodland pathway that goes past "Majoda"—the site of the bungalow where Dylan Thomas stayed and wrote the first draft of Under Milk Wood.
The walk ended at the Seahorse Inn. It's another favourite hostelry of mine—nothing fancy, just an honest, old-fashioned pub.
And then Saturday came. But just like last year, we have bonus time here. Instead of packing up and heading home, we are here until Monday!
It was the weekend, so the town was filling up. The weather was glorious, and we just had to get amongst it—spending time on the pier and soaking up the atmosphere.
That evening was the big Saturday night out, so we headed to the park club. Morticia was keen to see the Welsh Elvis impersonator who was headlining the entertainment. I'm not usually one for that sort of thing, but she really wanted to go, so of course, we did. Before the night was over, I managed to win this guy (picture below) from the grabber machine—a perfect gift for our grandson, Atreus.
On Sunday, our final full day, we returned to Aberaeron for a mooch about. We had a sandwich in one of the cafes, followed by a swift one in my favourite pub there, Tafarn Y Cadwgan. Whilst sat outside, we ended up talking to a local lady who told us all about her grown-up kids, her ex and current husbands, and her dodgy knee! Everyone here is so friendly, and because life is so laid-back, people actually have the time to just stop and have a chat.
Fuel topped up—petrol for the car, a sausage roll for me, a cheese and onion roll for Morticia—and we were off. We stopped at the Corris Craft Centre (a spot I’d nipped into last year) for a cup of tea and a slice of bara brith, before continuing the long drive back.
Before I close up this rather long post, I'd like to address something. I occasionally get a bit of stick for returning to the same place year after year. Well, to be honest, it works for us. If someone owned a brick-and-mortar second home and visited it regularly, nobody would bat an eye. I'm not a man of means, and a second home—even owning our own caravan—is out of reach. But we think of this place as our second home, and we use whatever means we can to get here. It just feels right. I hope I'm able to return here for many years to come, or perhaps even live here permanently one day.
The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. Join him on a Welsh adventure. 
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𝖂𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊, 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗.
ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ, ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ʟɪᴠᴇʟʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴍɪɴᴅ.
ʙᴜᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀꜱ: ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ʀᴜᴅᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴀᴍ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛʟʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.
ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴊɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ — ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ɴᴏᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɴᴄʜᴇꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ.
ɴᴏᴡ, ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ.