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View our 3D walkthrough of Curlew House
)No sooner had we unpacked than we wandered down to the local dock area, and that’s when the real magic kicked off – the quirky locals. First up was Dai, the fisherman with a beard like a bird’s nest and stories longer than his catch lines. “You from up country, then?” he asked, eyeing our car like it was a spaceship. Over a cuppa at his battered picnic table, he regaled us with tales of the time a seal nicked his best crab pot, swearing it winked at him before swimming off. We were in stitches; the man’s got a twinkle in his eye that could light up Tenby. “Mind the tides, love,” he warned me with a wink, “they’ll have you for breakfast if you’re daft.”
Next day, strolling along the creek path, we bumped into Mrs Evans, the postie on her rounds, cycling with a basket overflowing with parcels and what looked like half a loaf of bara brith. She screeched to a halt, declared our accents “proper posh,” and insisted we try her nan’s recipe for laverbread – proper Welsh seaweed mush, she called it proudly. “None of that fancy shop stuff!” We chatted for ages about her cat that once hitched a ride on a fishing boat to Milford Haven. Her laugh was infectious, all gravelly and warm, and she waved us off with a bag of the stuff, still steaming.
Even at the nearby pub that evening, it was character central. Landlord Tom, built like a rugby prop but with the chat of a stand-up comic, pulled us pints and launched into how the local ghost – a smuggler from the old days – still rattles tankards after closing. “He’s a friendly sort, mind, just lonely,” Tom chuckled, before grilling us on London life. “Too fast for me, that. Here, we’ve got time for a natter.” We ended up swapping emails with his daughter, who’s mad keen on city gigs.
Staying put in that spot, meeting these folks, it hit me mid-chat with Dai on our last morning – I’ve been rushing about too much lately, haven’t I? Chasing deadlines instead of proper conversations. Pembrokeshire’s gift wasn’t just the views; it was reminding me how a good yarn with a stranger beats any screen scroll. We drove off waving, already plotting a return. Proper tonic, that holiday.
