Ok, so we get into Heathrow, and after various minor traumas we get into the UK itself. I came in on my Aussie passport again, no drama, I’m still welcome.

It’s a funny bloody thing having two passports; shall I be a Pom or a banana bender today?

Take a shuttle bus  to the car hire place. There a very nice young man, eastern European as everyone employed and east of Swindon seems to be these days, tries flogging us extras. We refused, but, as we will see later, we should have taken up some “insurance excess cover”. But, as I put to him, politely at first; “I spent many weeks and much trouble buggering about on the internet, (mainly at work,) and this was the best deal I could find at £545.00 for the forty days we are domiciled here. The extras you’ve tried to foist on us would cost another £400.00+, thus making a mockery of my thrift.” (Ok, I was jetlagged, I get a bit Dickensian when I’m jetlagged.) He got the point. Eventually.

Driving out of Heathrow? Bugger me, even the GPS got confused.

Llanelli.

Our digs were fine, situated on the ground floor of the blocks we usually stay in. The guy letting it out to us, gave us  day’s stay for free, which was nice of him. The only downside of it was the water bed. Though after 31 hours of flying and Bangkoking, topped off with a generous serve of “Penderyn Welsh whisky”, I would have slept on a clothesline. We were up at 4.00 am, like fucking larks. And the second day too.

Us at 4.00 am

Later at the Tesco there we bought sim cards for phones and Ipads. We also bought a “mobile wifi hotspot” which never worked all the time we were there, and got slung in the bin in London.

The Gym debacle.

The last time we were in Llanelli, you may recall, we signed up for “12 days for 12 quid” at the DW gym there. This time there was no offers on, the cheapest deal was one month for £50.oo. Each. Lee-Anne said I looked so sad at hearing this, and so she said we should sign up and see how many times we could go, and thus reduce the “cost per session” down to something reasonable. In the eight days we were there,  I went 13 times, thus paying £3.84 a session, Lee-Anne went 12 times at £4.16 a session. That’ll learn them.

Oh remember this event from our last trip? “I was walking into the changing room, when a guy approached me; “Alan mun, how’s it going? Haven’t seen you for years!” Normally I hate it when that happens, when you haven’t got a clue who you are talking to. This geezer obviously knew me and my family, so that’s a start. I rabbited on about nothing in particular; “You still living in Plymouth?” he asked. I haven’t lived in Plymouth since 1986, so it’s obviously been a while since he saw me. Then I looked closer at his eyes, they were the lightest shade of blue I had seen since; “Beau!” Beau (or Bow, I don’t know which way he spells it,) real name Anthony Evans, and me had gone to infants, junior and grammar school together, though we were never close mates. I must have last seen him in 1980 or so.”

I met Beau again on our last day at in Llanelli, same place, same conversation, to the letter. I pointed this out to him; “You’re right. I must stop drinking so much,” he replied.

 Oh, while back in Australia, I had been  watching on youtube a documentary on the meth scene in Llanelli, (it beats watching Aussie TV.) While at the gym I bumped into the guy who runs the program, and one of the clients. I got talking to them, just to say “ it’s a small world” etc. Turns out its smaller than I thought, Alan, the guy runs it, was born next door to me, and we knew each other as toddlers.

–

 

 Mam was her usual self, coming up with such gems of conversation as; “I was wondering; has Lee-Anne ever been to Primark?” and, “I had a list of things for you to do when you got back, but then I thought; “he’’ll only muck them up,” so I didn’t bother.” And contradicting me with gems like; “Don’t say you’ve not lived in Llanelli for over thirty years, that’s wrong. You  moved to Plymouth in the same year our Shelley was born, that was  in 1982.” (Work it out yourself.)

One day, and after listening to her obsessive favourite subject at length, I had to ask mam; “Do you actually know anyone who isn’t ill, dying or dead?” If she does, she doesn’t talk about them. Her conversations tended to go along the lines of; “[insert name here] felt ill one day, doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with him, taken to hospital, removed intestine, brain tumor, wheelchair, cancer, death, long lingering death…”

Mam’s main complaint was her rear bedroom window was leaking and barely hanging in. She’d bodged it with tape and some hose pipe and sealing wax and string. I offered to  get it replaced; “No, no, no, no, no. You spend your money on yourself boy.” God save me from bloody martyrs. I also offered to pay for new specs she needs as; “I can’t read, I can’t watch TV, I can’t see to walk.”  (Funny, she was always watching TV when I arrived there,) but , yep, you guessed it, “You put your money away, I won’t take a penny off you.”

I stopped off at Mam’s on the way to the gym one day, remembering something, and speaking without thinking, I asked; “Mam can you lend me some money?” Her reply; “Oh, I’ve just paid the gas bill, and I’ll need money for shopping, but if I can get a lift into town, I’ll take out my life savings”, which was sweet of her, but I only needed a quid coin for the locker at the gym.

 Llanelli town centre is a bit odd now. It used to be full of nothing but banks and charity shops, now its full of banks and pawnbrokers. We used a couple of these “Cashinyerand” places as they offered the best exchange rate on the $Aussie. Some weird specimens of humanity (just,) hanging about in there.

We met Chas and Babs in Llanelli town centre, which gave me one of the more odd feelings of disconnection from the place. There I was, in a part of town which didn’t exist before, at a cafe I’d not heard of, outside a cinema which hadn’t been built on our last visit, drinking coffee with Chas (who I know from Exeter), Babs, (god knows where,) and Lee-Anne  (Australia.) But what made it even more bizarre, was the fucking sun was out. (Chas drinking “Americano” coffee? Mr Merosexual all of a sudden.)

We had a grand night at Jamesy and Rachel’s with  Ratty and Virginie (and the kids.) Driven there in Rachel’s BMW no less. Be buggered, my friends have gone up in the world, why haven’t I? They cooked a brilliant Chili, which, as I was on the Brains and the whisky at the time, nearly had disastrous effect the next morning Great, great, great company, and for three old farts who’ve known each other for fifty frigging years, it’s amazing how well we still get along. Though neither of the buggers, and their families, have yet visited me in Australia, I live in hope they’ll get out here before I retire back to the UK. We also had a great night at Ratty and Virginie’s place, with food cooked by the man himself, (there was nothing wrong with that rice FFS.) Ratty now has a meal on Lee-Anne’s repertoire named after him “Ratty’s Jerk Chicken/Fish”. Despite Ratty forcing some of his hooch on me, I was well behaved this time. (Well until I started rambling about subjects best not mentioned in this blog.)

We also had a cracking night out at the Thomas Arms, the pub I was banned from on my 18th. birthday, (you know the tale). I related the tale to the barman, asking if I was still banned. He said no, but looked like he was considering banning me for being a boring old arse instead. Me, Lee-Anne, Wayne, Mark, Jamesy, Rachel, Ratty, Chas, Babs, had a grand night out. Our friendly local adulterer didn’t make it. I learned some valuable lessons that night; don’t drink 8 pints of Brains Dark you’ll only get the shits, don’t get involved in arguments with Rachel if she’s pissed, and don’t pin Ratty to the bar and interrogate him.

I also got to see Van Delaney, an old friend, ( no offense Van,) who I hadn’t seen in 20 years plus. Even more amazingly I met Debra, who I haven’t seen in over 12 years. This is more amazing due to  Debra being my sister.

I’d arranged for us to visit Stradey castle, and talked Wynn and Dylan into coming. Unfortunately, due to a miscommunication, I buggered the arrangements up, and there was no one there to show us about.

This did give us a chance to visit the Phillips stately home, and catch up with the rest of the family. Jac showed us her art piece for her first year degree submission, a pigs head encased in  resin, lit from behind. Ok, I’m no artist, and a bit of a traditionalist, but when Jac talked us through it, I got the feeling that she is MAJORLY talented. I mean, I’ve seen her life drawing, and knew she was good, but to see her “art” art, and get the  full understanding of what informed it, made even me rethink my prejudices. Then Bronwyn, who is a the multi talented, singer, musician, gave me a book on Longleat to read, odd, but what the hell. I was flicking though it, when Wynn leaned over my shoulder and said; “Those are Bronwyn shots you’re looking at.” I thought it was a souvenir book of photos. Nope Bronwyn adds; “being a  better photographer than Taff” to her range of talents.

We hit “Sospan” with Wynn and Jac, our first fine dining of the trip, and in bloody Llanelli of all places.

I found it hard to believe that such a great place could exist in the town! The setting in the old factory has been done so well, it took my breath away, especially seeing as I remember bricking the windows and nicking scrap lead from there for fishing weights when I was a kid. The attentiveness of our servicer / front of house person, a very young lass, was first rate. She could work in a starred restaurant without a doubt. We were lucky to be there on a night where the owner was chef for the night. First rate meals, beautifully presented, and very well executed, I had two fish courses and the cheese. The place was bit quiet on our visit, less than half full, so a bit of atmosphere was missing, Wynn said his band had played there one night, and the atmosphere there that night was odd, mainly diet to the acoustics being similar to playing inside a grain silo.  But hells teeth, this is a real feather in Llanelli’s cap. Well worth a Michelin star. I must say though John’s Fish and chippy, who we got fish and chips from later in the week, would also rate a star in my books.

Leaning over the balcony one morning, eating toast, I was approached by an old boy walking his dog; “How much did you pay for this place then?” he asked, I told him, only to find he wasn’t interested in the rental cost, but how much they cost to buy. I told him the one next door but one was going for  £139,950. He pointed his walking stick out at the sea; “That’s what you’re paying for see, the view. Mind you, I’ve heard the roofs leak, I wouldn’t give you a fiver for one,” and off he strolled. I didn’t stop chuckling for an hour.

Driving Louise to B&Q to buy some cement, don’t ask, I drove over a metal tape rule. Slashed the hire car tyre neatly that did. I phoned “Eurocar”; “Oh take it to Kwickfit, we have an account with them, but you’re liable to pay the whole cost.” Lee-Anne being sensible said we should take it to a local garage, and get one fitted there, as the “whole cost” would not doubt include a huge admin fee. The spare wheel on the hire car looked like one off a wheel barrow, and was only good for 50mph, and  for less than 100 miles.

Lee-Anne bought a “traditional pasty” from Jenkins the baker. Whoever concocted this thing must never have visited Cornwall, nor eaten a real pasty, as the filling on this monstrosity consisted of mashed spud and gravy. Heresy.

We met up with Pete G, and his son Rob, who I haven’t seen since he was running about in shorts, and Rob’s girlfriend. We went to the “Ali Raj,” for a curry.

Odd little place, in what the old bowls club. Food was pretty good, with enough distinctiveness from the average Indian fare to make it worth a visit. Good prices, and friendly service, so no complaints from yours truly. But after the meal Pete pulled out a bloody big book of photos. Photos of me and him when we were spotty, skinny, adolescents. Did I really have big hair? Was I really that thin? Did I really have such bad taste? Did I really dress like a goth hippy? Everybody else enjoyed looking at them..

Charlie and Barbara’s.

Some guys it’s hard to begrudge. Some blokes, especially mates, you just look at what they have, and think; “Get on mate, well done.” Some couples you cannot help but envy. Lord help me I have to say it, Chas and Babs have slipped into that category. I’d normally slip in a sly dig at this point along the lines of; “So why spoil it all by getting married, fed up with sex or something?” But I won’t as, for the life of me, I cannot think anything but good thoughts about it all. It’s a bloody shame I won’t be there for the wedding, (party,)  as they’ve arranged it between our visits home, and apart from that, I’ve not  been invited. But still, bloody good luck to them both.

We stayed with Chas and Babs for three nights. They had set out what they wanted from a house, size, rooms, land, walking distance to a decent boozer, and found the ideal place just outside  a village in South Wales. They bought it pretty much on spec. They now have  their own free range ducks, chooks, and other wildfowl. Oh,  and two massive but endearing boxer dogs called “Murphy” and “Olly” (short for “Ollwen”.)  Anyone turning up at their gate will be no doubt pleased to see two huge boxers rushing at them, barking as if set to kill. Luckily the locals all know to expect nothing more than a severe licking. They flog their spare eggs via an honesty box.

There are two pubs within walking, (staggering,) distance, both fine boozers, (more on these in a bit.)

Charlie showed us the two, not one, but bloody two, quarries he has on his doorstep, which form one of his regular dog walks. I was green with envy. Why?  Well if I was living there that virgin rock would soon be top-roped and routed, and I’d have a climbing guide out to them within a month. OK, I may have to get Matt Abbot and Clarkie to actually climb the routes, but I’d bloody name them.

Charlie is learning to speak Welsh, Babs is relearning Welsh. The thought that Charlie, who for his sins is Cornish, will forever now ramble on at me in my own country’s language, one which I do not speak, is galling to say the bloody least. They’ve really got their feet under the table with the locals. One day  they had a builder come around, who treated Charlie like he’d known him forever; “Not a problem Charlie, I’ve got a cousin who can bring his digger over, my uncle owns that field so we can drop the rubble in there, then John Bach from the pub, he’ll do a couple of days labour for good rates, have it down in no time. Any chance of half a dozen eggs?”

Within a shortish drive and you are in the Brecon Beacons. We spent a  wet but wonderful day  walking on Black Mountain, and visiting the waterfall used in a Batman movie of all things. We visited Tally Abbey and Llandilo, Charlie knows them both better than I do.

Ok, the pubs. We went to the Black Lion one night, Charlie was away learning Welsh, Babs was in London, so we went on our own. Funny pub, we were the only customers who were in all night. One guy came in and took away a few pizzas. Then another guy walked in, and as I happened to be stood at  the bar, tried to buy a bottle of red wine off me. We ate there, Lee-Anne had pork hock in cider, which she pronounced ”brilliant”. I had a whale sized cod and chips. (It was so big I couldn’t finish it!)

The landlady chatted away to us, between not serving anyone, and it was obvious from her conversation that not only did everyone in the village know Chas and Babs, but the whole village was going to the wedding too. We staggered home to their place, amazed by the view we had and the clarity of the milky way, as there were no street lights thereabouts.

The next night, after eating another whale/pig  at the Black Lion, we made it over to The Angel. “The Slaughtered Lamb”, know that one? That’s the Angel. A bunch of old boys sat around the huge open fire, talking Welsh. All the village lasses at one large table, all the village boys around another. (We sat with the girls.) What a night! The only intersex communication happened when  girls held up their empty glasses, and their husbands/boyfriends, came over to get them refills.  The local single youths were bartered for, or part traded,   in arranged marriages more inescapbale than any Indian ones. We were asked loads about Australia, most of what we said was the truth. Charlie and Babs fitted in as if born there. Though Charlie hasn’t plucked up enough courage to attempt to talk Welsh with them, yet, he has been allowed to sit at the fireside with the village elders on occasion. Chip butties were brought around at one point.

We went back to C&B’s and got stuck into the whisky. The next morning Lee-Anne was woken by Olly sitting on her head. She wasn’t best pleased.

Devon