Ambles, rambles, brambles and relatives.

Mark Dickford and his “BAME-buddy” Gethin have decided that harder and longer is how to run our lockdown incarceration. So be it boyo. Getting rid of Covid is important. Exercise from home, wash your hands and don’t pick your nose especially when you’re wearing a face mask. And whatever you do, DON’T GO TO WORK. But we are blessed. Blessed with open countryside.

Turn right out of our front door and you are on a path running through farmland to woodland to the river and the old hamlets of Paskeston Cottage and Merry Pastime Cottage. Piles of stone and the odd remaining wall are the only evidence of past dwellings, both human and animal. Further into the woods around the old lime kilns are even more skeletons of the cottages of the Carew River. Our neighbours even remember when they were still inhabited. 

Mud flats and the Reed beds of Ford Pill have evidence of ancient fish (eel?) traps and even a dumped yacht sits forlornly on the far bank. There amongst the brambles and gorse bushes, stranded on the river mud, a once loved Yarmouth 21ft yacht. Cheaper to dump it than pay to have it scrapped. So yes, we are so lucky being able to get out whilst staying local. From one bend in the river are the finest views of Carew Castle. Once home of a pirate and a Barbary ape. As I said, blessed.

I do feel for the folk that live in town bound flats though. Their lot cannot be a happy one. Exercising locally through deserted streets and boarded-up shops.   Flat-dwellers with nothing but a window box to enjoy. At least in Pembroke Dock they too have the river to walk beside. It re-affirms that our decision to return to Sir Benfro was the right one even if I was the only Jones/Haskett-Smith offspring in the village.

Anyway, a year ago, out of interest I put a photo of my Grandad in his mayoral robes on a local FB page (Honey-Harfat) asking if anybody had any info about his time as mayor which was around the time of my birth. Having both died before I reached my teens, I’d forgotten so much about my mother’s parents.

We left Wales when I was 7. Childhood memories faded but I do remember a visit from another child. My sister and I were cousin-less and aunts and uncles were thin on the ground. We adopted mother’s cousins as aunts and uncles which payed dividends at Christmas and Birthdays. This small boy however, a few years my senior, arrived with my grandfather and his ancient Hillman and stayed for the day.

“Who’s that, Mum?”

“He’s your second cousin.” That was good and I wondered who the first one was. Anyway, he stayed, played, left and was soon forgotten as my family moved remorselessly around the UK until my return in 2017. Back on FB  and “Honey  Harfat” the picture of my grandad in his mayoral robes had drawn a response.

“That’s my uncle Eddie! You must be Freida or Thelma’s son” 

Indeed it was and I was Freida’s son (Thelma being mother’s sister and my only “true” aunt) and after sixty years I was back in touch with “second cuzz Pete” who not only still lived in Wales but was only three miles down the road. Three days before lockdown numero uno or rhif un as we say down here, we met. Restrictions have stopped further meetings but how amazing. We regaled each other with half remembered, half forgotten stories, rumours, scandal and gossip. We drank tea and ate Welsh Cakes trying not to get jam on ancient birth, marriage and death certificates.

Then, another 2nd cousin in Fishguard popped up and a whole web of 3rd cousins to my children and 4th cousins to my grandchildren evolved. I found out that one set of great grandparents were buried just down the road. They lived, husband, wife and eight children in a small house just by the Cleddau bridge. Another set are buried in Haverfordwest on the other side of the graveyard from my grandparents and family stories abound. My godfather (my mother’s uncle) a vicar. Stationed at Wandsworth prison during the war years with duties including attending executions was injured in the blitz and “deaf as a post” (according to my mum) thereafter.

Infant mortality was rife. Illegitimate children were scorned and hidden. I had no idea. Tiny names of tiny people added to family gravestones are all that remain of some of these poor souls. 

Great Uncles that died in both wars, army, navy and airforce. Their graves scattered around various war-theatres. They left widows and orphans behind. Those that returned were often battle-scarred mentally so hid it behind a wall of silence.

My Gran, a soft and gentle Welshwoman had been a Suffragette. Her sister-in-law (another adopted auntie) had also been an activist and had been incarcerated in Swansea Jail. Force fed? Shackled? Who knows? All I remember is a kind woman who visited when I was about 13 and bought me a huge ice cream in a long gone Croydon department store.

 It made me think about what previous generations had endured. Wars, death, fighting for causes, rationing, losses, poverty, starvation and sadness. COVD-19? Is that really all we have to worry about?