Pembrokeshire

Incredibly, the next morning we woke to gloriously clear skies. All the gloom lifted as my trusty steed, Tom, picked his way down the very muddy track to the beautiful and secluded sands of Druidston, in St Brides Bay.
We'd been having romantic visions of this moment for weeks, fuelled by the thought of thundering through the surf.
Now, every part of those dreams was a reality. There may have been more flopping about than cantering, but this was something lifelong memories are made of. Certainly Elena and Sophie, who'd never been on anything other than a donkey, were hooked.

Judging from the enthusiasm of other visitors that we met, Pembrokeshire, too, has that effect on people. At the mention of beaches you could see them drooling. The description "like something out of an exotic holiday advert" kept cropping up.
‘Trouble was, we only had a week to find out for ourselves - and there are an awful lot of fantastic beaches in Pembrokeshire.
Driving against the rain towards St Davids, we found our second perfect example – the stunning expanse of Newgale, dotted with hardy sand yachters.
When we returned in better weather a lonely ice cream van lingered in the car park. That, we also discovered, is another of coastal Pembrokeshire's major assets - such low-key tourism as to be almost invisible. This is because the coast is protected National Park land.

If it all seemed too good to be true, there was a downside – and that was in procuring food. It was extremely irritating to find ourselves over a barrel somewhat in the couple of small grocery stores that we did manage to find, paying very high prices for very poor choice. Pubs and those restaurants that did stay open out of season were very obviously geared towards ‘discerning diners’ – with prices to match.
Perhaps we should have learned from some other campers at Amroth, who were out every day at low tide picking mussels along the lovely beaches stretching between there and Saundersfoot, via Wiseman’s Bridge.
Another gem we came across was picturesque Little Haven. Here again we could have walked from one beach to another – its busier ‘big’ sister of Broad Haven in this case. As we were to find out moments later, it would certainly have been easier than driving.

The sign on the narrow coast road had warned not to proceed with vehicles longer that 16 feet. We just scraped that and Roly turned the sharp and steep bend into the village easily enough. But on the way back up we had to stop suddenly to avoid a van and then could not get a grip on a gravelly patch. With Roly’s wheels spinning madly, we were just inches away from a wall with a massive drop below. We were trapped - until we remembered the chocks. We got a grip and I followed the van up the hill, unable to believe how close we had come to disaster.
Perhaps I should not have counted our good fortune so soon. Seconds later, I was jumping three feet sideways (Robin's description) to very narrowly avoid being run over by the man in the van from earlier who suddenly decided to reverse out of a drive without looking. Yet another tale to tell those back home about our memorable trip.