The way markers were all odd, deceiving us, leading us astray, bending our perception of reality. It seemed like we’d entered a parallel universe. By the time the bulls charged us, we knew we were off track. But I’ll get back to that in a bit.
The Great Western Railway train slipped out of London’s Paddington Station and headed for its destination, Milford Haven. We could have gone to Plymouth, Weymouth, or even Framingham. But Tudor (yes, that’s his given name) was waiting for us at the station in Milford Haven. His taxi was well worn, with a bit of an agricultural air. You could imagine that a bale of hay might have been the last passenger.
“Foxdale Guest House?” he shouted to us through his open window.
“Yes, in Marloes?” we said. This would be the first B&B on our journey.
“Did that sign just say Martha’s Vineyard?” I asked Tudor as we drove along. Most of the signs here were a jumble of unreadable hard consonants. It was a relief to see a few vowels. We were in Cymru — that’s Wales to you.
“Ah, yeah,” he said, “the Quakers from America were here a while ago. Couple a hundred years. Interesting history, this place. That’s the story behind Martha’s Vineyard here in Milford.” And that was the extent of our history lesson.
Tudor was a block of a man, perfectly jovial but physically as inflexible as an oak 12-by-12. He’d been a professional rugby player who had broken his neck, but he considered himself lucky. On the way, we scrummed a few times with oncoming cars on the thready country roads. He always won the stand-off.
“You’ll want to book a table here,” he said. “It’s the busy season and it’s the only place where you can get a meal. They fill up.” His arms twirled the wheel as we crunched to a halt in front of the Lobster Pot. Yes, this was a parallel universe.
There was an older, weathered gent sitting at the bar with a black-and-white dog at his feet. “Dogs Welcome” said the sign at the door. He occupied the one and only seat at the bar, and as we would find out on subsequent nights, it was his. The inked and bleached bartender made a very official pursual of the books and said we were all set.
Tudor then took us to the Foxdale Guest House and shouted through his window at our host as we disembarked: “Jule, you’ll want to make a booking for them at Broad Haven at Saint Brides for Wednesday.” And to us: “See you in the morning, then.” And off he went. We were sorted, as they said. Later, after fish and chips and a few pints of local cider, I researched Tudor’s Quaker story.
I learned that English politician Charles Greville, who founded the seaport of Milford Haven in 1793, invited seven Quaker whaler families from Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard to settle in the town so they could develop a local whaling fleet. Twenty-three families arrived in the years following that invitation. Place names like Starbuck Road reflect the Quakers’ long presence. There was also a Friends’ Meeting House, built in 1811, and an accompanying burial ground. According to the local museum, both the Quakers’ refusal to fight in the American War of Independence and high tariffs on whale oil contributed to their desire to emigrate.
Early the following morning, Tudor was back to take us to Dale for the first leg of our walking tour, which would have us hiking back to the seaside village of Marloes. It was dark and windy, and the narrow roads were empty. The forecast was typical. Wind and showers in the morning, then harder rain, but not until the afternoon. Maybe we could beat it.
We talked about the story of the Quakers and our encounter with this improbable connection between the Islands so near our Cape Cod home and western Wales.
The Pembrokeshire Coastal Path runs along the vertical sandstone cliffs on the edge of southwest Wales. If you were to hike it in its entirety, you would gain 35,000 feet over its 186-mile length — an elevation gain everyone there will gladly tell you is greater than a climb of Everest. We planned to hike a third of it.
As we climbed, we looked down on Dale and saw Milford Haven beyond. Windmill blades spun in the distance, and farther away were the remains of defunct oil refinery stacks. The view told a coastal history from whale oil to crude oil to wind.
We were not far up the hill when we saw our first official medallion marker for the path. It pointed the way up rough timber steps dug into the hillside. We found fields, fences, gates, and more medallions nailed to posts at the top. But it all felt wrong. We were headed away from the coast. Then the signs disappeared, and we came upon a herd of cattle. I thought, “How quaint, the stampeding cows think we’ve come with their hay.” Until I saw their underpinnings. Luckily, these were bullocks, young bulls more like goofy adolescents not knowing what to do with their hormones. I waved my arms, as I’d seen farmers do in Ireland, and yelled, “G’wan, g’wan, g’wan.” They stopped their advance and stared.
That bovine interruption made us yield to technology and consult our phone map app, which directed us back toward the correct path and the coastline.
The cliffside path overlooked a roiling green Irish Sea, and the former breeze was now blowing a veritable gale. Luckily, we were heading north with the wind behind us. There were plenty of wild blackberries, fields of heath and heather, cliffs dropping 200 feet into the sea.
By afternoon, we felt thoroughly battered. After we passed high above the dramatic white stretch of Marloes Sands, we felt closer to home. But it was a false summit. There was another small peninsula that we needed to conquer. Here we met the wind with gusts to 70 knots (over 80 mph). Then came the rain.
Skomer Island, a puffin breeding ground, was off to the west. There’s another puffin breeding ground in the northern Gulf of Maine, which Cape Cod shares at the southern end. We were in the Skomer Marine Coastal Zone, a protected area for marine life. I popped into a tiny, cold office populated by heavily sweatered scientists at their computer screens. I dropped the name of Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution.
“Oh my, indeed, Woods Hole,” came the reply. “We’re in touch with them often enough.”
Back in Marloes, we waded into the Lobster Pot, rain gear slick and sopping. We booked our table for the evening before heading back to the Foxdale. The same man was there in the same chair at the same bar, along with a few others standing about with their pints. You could still hear the rain falling outdoors.
“I say, John,” said one with a pint of stout in his hand and a big smile on his face, “these two look wetter than your dog!”
They were, no doubt, confused when we replied, “Thank you.” But in the parallel magical universe we had entered, we thought we heard them say, “Llongyfarchiadau!” or “Congratulations!”
And so, we accepted our initiation to this particular Pembrokeshire. We went up and down along the path, accumulating elevation gain but never ascending more than 200 feet above the sea. The next week continued “blowy,” as the Welsh say, which is a testament to their acceptance of the formidable howling winds and of the rugged seafaring Quakers who found a home there.
