Soup tureens, swifts and coastlines

We go on holiday in Wales and it makes me feel better about creativity

There is something about the creativity you have to display (on a low level) when staying in a rented holiday cottage. It’s lovely to be somewhere new. It’s great to avoid dealing with other people and remain self-contained but finding out what equipment is in the kitchen is always a challenge.

We are in Pembrokeshire for a week’s holiday. The cottage is a converted cow shed on a farm and the rest of the farm buildings are yet to be converted so their summer occupants are swifts and housemartins, sparrows and, at night, we spot bats and hear a tawny owl. Thick walls mean the inside of the cottage is cool and I am glad for the oversized hoodie I bring with me for early mornings before everyone else is up.

The unfamiliarity of adjusting to a kitchen that isn’t yours, the sharp bang of the knife against a glass chopping board setting my teeth on edge, the snap and crackle of water drops on the saucepan base as it sits on the electric hob, the lack of seasoning or scissors or mixing bowls. I make rhubarb crumble in a soup tureen and decide not to question why there is a soup tureen and not any Pyrex casseroles. We buy a cafetiere because there is only a pod-based machine for coffee.

I never have enough time on holiday. I need a few days to adjust to being on holiday at all and wake without fail at the usual time each morning. I need to remind myself not to be productive. I always tell myself I will have time to try stuff I don’t usually manage, more writing, maybe some sketching, and I take a big pile of books to get through. I won’t manage all of these at all. Having the options seems important though. What does happen is that the time I do spend offers me clarity on what I want from my creative work, especially my writing. It feels like a breakthrough. It’s the headspace I need.

My husband refuses to get up early while he’s away because he normally gets up at 5am. He will sleep in while I get out and go for a run on the headland, soaking in the sun glinting on the sea and the dew on the grass. We usually leave for a ‘day out’ around 11am and get to car parks already packed with trippers. Yet, it doesn’t really matter.

Pembrokeshire is built for active families, I think, people who like walks, water sports, wildlife, being outdoors, ways to entertain selves without too much organised fun. So the beaches are not riddled with amusement arcades, or crazy golf, or cafes with overflowing litter bins. Instead, we’ve found empty spaces, walkable from car parks, but with space. There are hills and headland, caves and views, sand and crashing waves, castles and ‘make your own fun.’

Holidays in Britain are a mixture of boots and suncream, waterproofs and ice creams, registering new parking apps, losing internet connection and finding new local things to eat. We have had days of lashing rain and days of super-hot sun. My daughter got sunburned for the first time ever and brought in half the beach to fall over the floor of the cottage and leapt in the sea until her teeth chattered. She didn’t want to come out but finally came and sat huddled in a towel and blanket to warm up, goosebumpy skin that later sprung up in red sunburned shapes to reverse the swimsuit because I missed that bit when I covered her in factor 50.

Pembrokeshire is full of defibrillators and farm shops. Tenby town centre smells of fudge. The coastline is drama itself. There are castles, caves, and stories of smuggling and pirates. There are holiday parks full of static caravans but somehow they don’t dominate everything. It is gentle and foreign but not too foreign and proud of its heritage but not in a fierce nationalist irritating way.

I like that we have these holidays that work for all of us. That there isn’t forced entertainment, shows and pool parties and things I would hate. I like that my daughter can sit in her room and read and draw and make up stories and then mess about on the beach and explore National Trust properties and enjoy Welsh cakes and Bara Brith. There is something about the low-key British seaside holiday that feels unique to us, the lack of pizzazz, the predictability of buckets and spades and 99 flakes and being bothered by wasps after your apple core and trying on hats in museum displays and second-hand bookshops in car parks and trails in museums and castles. Do they do this in the same way in other countries?

Fancy subscribing? I don’t post as often as I should but I’m trying to look at how to maintain some kind of creative life in different ways, while juggling the usual stuff. Join me!

The National Trust volunteers are delighted to stamp our passport, and it occurs to me that E is getting too old to want to do more of the trails and collect a sticker at the end. This may be the last time. The thing is, I like doing them too. Will they let me do them as an adult? I can put the stickers in my journal.

It's cyclical, isn’t it? What you come back to, what you’re allowed to enjoy as an adult. “I would’ve loved one of these as a child,” says the NT lady at Stackpole Quay as she stamps the passport. But would she? You start off liking it, but then it’s a chore, the embarrassment of asking for the stamp, then losing all interest as your parents valiantly battle on doing it for you instead. And if you keep it and find it years later in an old box, will you remember any of it? I saw somewhere that the Japanese have a stamp system for railway stations, to encourage exploration in the same way, the joy of being in your own country. To find satisfaction in a simple reward and encourage travel and connection. I’m all for this.

And when we return home there are some signs that summer is coming to a close, the loveliest part, when the leaves start to drop, but the fruits and flowers are still going. The dahlias are in bloom in our garden and the rowan tree berries have ripened. The bees are still working and the tomatoes are mostly green but on the turn. The thin quilt feels flimsy when I go to bed and I pull on an extra cover. We have made the week work and I haven’t done any sketching and I never will regularly sketch and I really should either admit this or commit properly. But hills have been conquered and books read and films watched and birds spotted and sand caught between toes and quality time spent.