The weather this week in Wales, like the sea, has a rhythm. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. We arrived in the sun, walked in the rain, rode the bus in the sun, and today it is rain. Walking is out, but there is always lunch; tentatively exploring the tiny Pembrokeshire country paths by car.

I look for pubs using my phone, supplemented by The Good Pub Guide and recommendations from the resort. The first pub is too far away for a day such as today. The second is closed till Saturday; I settle on the village of Dale at a pub called The Griffin Inn. Michael walks down their roads on Google Earth and finds a car park not far from the pub.

Driving to Dale

At 1 p.m. we set off on our miniature adventure winding our way down tiny lanes, twisting and turning, holding our breath hoping another car will not come careening around a blind corner, slipping and sliding into our mud-spattered Toyota.

The village limits of Dale begin in farmland and end at the sea—edged around a circular bay that at low tide looks forlorn and abandoned in the silver mist. The car park is virtually empty. The wind brisk. The mist wet.  I’m going to stop trying to fix my hair in a presentable fashion. It seems my efforts never last longer than a second or two. My morning bed head hair looks better than it does now as we make our way from car park to pub.

Lunch at The Griffin Inn

Inside the pub, every table displays a reserved sign. A bit stressed I ask the waitress if there is anywhere to sit and have lunch. She whisks away the reserved sign from a table for six and invites us to be seated. The room is cute and cozy and has a large window that looks out onto the bay. Michael orders a beer, I opt to wait till I know what is available for lunch. We are handed two menus; one long and very pubbish, the other, a page of seafood specialties available today.  The fish listed are just that—the names of fish.  Nothing else. I ask the waitress how they are fixed. Fried? Grilled? Broiled? Poached?

“Oh no”, she says, “they are all prepared differently and come with a special sauce.” The young woman then proceeds to tell us in detail about each one. Her recitation is so impressive I’m ready to take anything on her list, but settle on sewin because it is only available for a short time, and I’ve never heard of it. Michael orders hake in a spicy sauce.  I throw in a baked goat cheese appetizer for two, just because I can’t help myself. My curiosity about food is not necessarily a good thing.

The goat cheese is delicious, Michael eating more than he wants in spite of himself. My fish is perfectly cooked, delicate in flavor and melts in my mouth. The sauce is equally as delicate, kissed with tarragon. The sewin sits on a medley of green—fava beans, asparagus, green peas, green beans, something else I can’t identify, and the tiniest dice of some unnamed translucent cream colored vegetable; it can’t be onions—can it?

Michael asks, “What are we having for dessert?” I hadn’t thought about it, but now I do. Anything chocolate is out.  Apple—Michael’s least favorite—is out, which leaves Sticky Toffee Pudding.  I’m going to become an expert on this dessert. Not one is the same, and some are much better than others. This one ranks right up there with the original.

Shopping in Haverfordwest

Wined and dined and sated, we leave for a shopping trip in Haverfordwest. We have our own list; a jacket with a hood and waterproof shoes for Michael, a walking stick for me, and whatever we can find useful at the grocery store.