The long and winding blog

FRIDAY
Cardiff is seedy. And it's the new super, regenerated Cardiff I'm on about. What it must have been like before, I hate to think.

Acre upon acre of former docks have given the planners all the space they could possibly need for the Red Dragon Centre, Welsh Assembly building, the Millennium Centre, and the bay developments like Atlantic Wharf and Mermaid Quay and associated giant pay and display car parks. There are countless hotels, the odd one of them interesting, like a Novotel grafted on to a former warehouse, but the whole regeneration project has been single-mindedly orchestrated with the car in mind.

We found it difficult and frustrating to walk (our preferred form of city transport) anywhere through block after block of flats which end in cul-de-sacs and residents-only car parks. Cycle track provision seems little better. Buddleia has completely taken over the many derelict city centre spaces and new flower boxes sprout nothing but weeds. The place just doesn't seem to be getting any civic management. There's a definite Eastside feel about the whole project.

The walk along the former wharves round the back of County Hall is, bluntly, grotty, and the graffiti count unacceptable. Splendid and clearly expensive property neighbours social housing and the overall impression is of an expensive makeover which hasn't really changed the underlying nature of the place - a pretty rough seaport.

Very high transvestite count heading for the local nightspots on the Friday night we were there, by the way. Perhaps that, too, is another hangover from an interesting past.

Plus points during our brief stay besides the Brains bitter included the permanent (and deserted) Dr Who exhibition (one of the reasons for the trip), the excellent museum, with a splendid selection of French Impressionist art (yes, some of those waterlilies) and a live CCTV link to the peregrine falcons nesting in the clock tower of City Hall next door.

The major show on the origins of Wales is brilliantly done, although I had to smile at the way it puts the country at the centre of the universe from the big bang onwards, and the dual English/Welsh commentaries and signage make it all a bit confusing. I'm pretty sure Manuel from Fawlty Towers does the English bits.

Great free workshops for the children are on all day during the holidays. I sat in on an animal art session workshop with two wildlife artists while the Langley womenfolk did the shop and drank tea, listed as Welsh brew, naturally.

I really understood and was saddened by Cardiff's relationship to its Welshness - very like Birmingham and its Second City tag: it misses the point and becomes an albatross.

An interesting but pretty underwhelming visit.

SATURDAY
Smoke on the Water, Sweet Home Alabama and the like being belted out at pop festival volumes by a workaday (all Peavey amplification) middleaged covers band way into the early hours of Sunday is perhaps not the ideal way to launch a get-away-from-it-all holiday in a bijou Welsh resort tucked away in a tiny inlet on Cardigan Bay.

But we arrived for our pricey stay in the beautifully-appointed and converted former harbourmaster's cottage on the headland high above the bay on the day of what was described to us as 'The Regatta'.

This seemed to consist of several quite venerable blokes in wetsuits (I didn't know they came in XXXL) hauling catamarans up on to the tiny beach while groups of hunky Welsh boys flashed their impressive six-packs at each other while throwing rugby balls about. Wonder what the Welsh for 'homoeroticism' is?

Not forgetting the pig roast, powered by a giant orange gas cylinder, and priced at an outrageous £3 per sparsely filled bap - that's 3£ in Welsh, apparently, although I'd like to believe that could have been a bit of Pictish humour. On second thoughts, in a country which produced Max Boyce, perhaps not.

Still, the Gwalia Falls waterfall hurtling down the cliff face from the end of our rented garden, lots of sand and the kind of rock pools normally only seen in Famous Five books promise well for the days ahead. There's a pub/restaurant at the end of the one road that leads to the beach, and not a chapel in sight, so this is an example of Wales coming to terms with its 21st Century reality, with the tourist trade central to its economy.

With a rather more strident institutional nationalism than I've observed on previous long-ago visits (dual language signs everywhere), I couldn't help but note that there appears to be no Welsh equivalent for 'Bed and Breakfast'. It's in unadorned English everywhere.

Having been to the Royal Show at Stoneleigh a few weeks back I was intrigued to see a miniscule version in a field near the village of Trap on the way from Cardiff to our holiday base through the edge of the Brecon Beacons. We were in the area (marked on Ordnance Survey maps as 'Back of Beyond') to explore a cavern under an ancient castle ruin stuck, more Disney-like than Disney, on a towering crag. It's said to be the home of an ancient warrior, Gawain the Red (as opposed to his Green cousin) who will one day be reunited with his followers and will bring peace to the world. No information on what language they'll speak when they do.

The castle was last occupied by an English king, of course. The chap with a walkie-talkie in the luminous yellow coat directing traffic up the narrow road, right to the castle or straight on and left to the Trap Show overspill parking, was an Australian.

SUNDAY
Sunday morning consternation in Cardigan. The machine that makes the rolls at the Tesco in-store bakery has broken down. As a result the throngs of tourists filling trollies with supplies for the self-catering week ahead are rapidly changing their plans for barbecues.

On the advice of the friendly Tesco-toiler who told us the bad news about the mechanical failure, we nip half a mile down the road to an Aldi and bag their last pack of white rolls. This is before 10.30am, by the way. Not many wholemeal ones left either. At £1.16.9, Tesco's petrol is being undercut by the £1.13.9 at a Total franchise on the way into town.

All of which shows that:
a) I have a mind that, Sponge Bob like, sucks up the detritus of life in the same way like a basking shark absorbs plankton (yes, I was paying attention to the natural history section in the Cardiff Museum)
b) Things have changed bigtime since Mrs L and I stayed in a farm cottage in the area in the distant days when we owned a Morris Traveller and transported our two dogs in the back.

Back then I had to go into a Cardigan bank to cash a cheque to get some spending money because I hadn't realised holes in the wall had not spread this far west. I've also never forgotten that mine was the only transaction taking place with the use of the English tongue in the office that looked like the set of a JB Priestley play.

I couldn't spot the bank today. Perhaps it's now a Chinese takeaway. These excellent adjuncts of 21st century life have spread throughout the coastal holiday villages (menus all in English) and the equally indispensible Indian eateries are everywhere in the larger settlements. I'm determined to examine one of their menus sometime this week to see if they bow to the Welsh language pressure.

I'll also have another serious look for an internet café. The ongoing Post blogs debate about wifi connectivity in Brum seems like a distant dream out here.

We had our barbecue Sunday lunch in our posh clifftop summerhouse with bottles of extremely cheap but quaffable Aldi plonk. The kids then descended to the beach and bay to try their new mini surf boards and I surveyed the ravages of the previous night. There seems to be a bit of a Hooray Henry and Henrietta culture developing on our beach, with scronks (a word remembered from my Suffolk dialect days) of middleclass young people treating it like that place in Cornwall, although here there don't seem to be any actual residents to annoy - just tourists.

I had work to do (you're reading some of it) and to snooze. We won't be going to the Ship Inn just down the road for a meal tonight as they list only one veggie main course and have tried to poncify their pub grub offerings by describing their bread as 'rustic'.

Why would we want to go out anyway, with the launch of a new series of Heartbeat?

MONDAY
Quite where I picked it up, I don't know, but 'KP' has been part of my vocabulary for a long time. It should probably be rendered K.P. to distinguish it from the brand name of a range of peanuts.

I think it's a term learned from the Phil Silvers Show, the legendary Sgt Bilko TV series that invented modern sitcom. It's an army term, an abbreviation for 'kitchen patrol', and was my task today - while the Langley females cavorted on the beach I cooked lunch.

The highlight, I thought, was the clever way our Becky hollowed out a slice of organic French bread so she could wear the crust as a bracelet. But that judgment was reached after a bottle of Italian pink Zinfandel and one of Hungarian Pinot Grigio had joined the majority of a bottle of Argentinian Chardonnay that fuelled my culinary efforts in a hot kitchen - after I asked the audience and phoned a friend to dial in the settings for the ceramic plates on the alien electric cooker.

I dished up two different sorts of cheese-topped baked pasta, green beans (Kenyan - don't tell my daughter), peas (Birds Eye - don't tell my wife) and local broccoli (awful - don't tell the Welsh), plus a dish of vegetables (peppers, mushrooms, celery, tomatoes) oven roasted in olive oil and the aforesaid rustic bread/bracelet-making kit. Dessert was a superb chocolate cake (a proper loaf-shaped one) from a local bakery under a red dragon banner.

The elephant in the room (or in this case, summerhouse) was the sauce. I had to get petrol and The Guardian. But I also (before a drop of wine had passed my lips, of course) popped into Tesco to grab several containers of own-brand instant pasta sauce - four cheese and a mascarpone and tomato job. Come on, I'm on holiday, we had no cornflour, I told myself we needed to save the milk for later, and I've taken to heart all the Delia Smith stuff about shortcuts in the kitchen. Plus I'm lazy.

An interesting encounter ensued at the check out. The operator (English, early fifties, natural blonde, stylish dark rectangular glasses, would probably sing contralto) was sporting quite hefty hand and wrist supports. We exchanged digit and joint ailment anecdotes. Several of her colleagues have had problems, she said, particularly carpal tunnel syndrome. She now felt, indeed, had been told by her medical advisers, that rest was the only answer.

So, K.P. saw me going AWOL to get pasta sauce and brought me tips about RSI and CTS. I'm tempted to sign off with a clever dick phrase like TTFN - which some people must, surely, still remember. I would, but I've got this nicely chilled German Reisling to finish while everyone else is down on the beach, then I must start thinking about something to eat for later.

I daren't drive anywhere now, of course, so perhaps I'll sneak out into the garden with my mobile when the clan returns and get the Golden Dragon, the Chinese in the next village, to deliver something. Haven't got menu, so I'll ordre a coupele meals fore two. And p erhapps soem wien.

TUESDAY
Guerrilla blogging in Cardigan Library this afternoon. I'm hoping you'll have seen my posting already. The fact is that we're staying in such an odd location that we can't even get mobile phone signals, let alone any any wifi, and our holiday accommodation doesn't have a landline for me to hook up to.

Even the television signals keep breaking up and we're getting them in different parts of the house by different means - digital through a freeview box and a dish and what appears to be analogue though a standard aerial which seems to be pointed round the corner of a mountain behind the house.

It's so weird to be so out of touch, and I saw vacant (and free) computers in the library when we were in Cardigan poking around today, so jumped in and started blogging after checking email and banks. Then the person who had actually booked the computer turned up - it goes in hour-long blocks, on the hour, so I had to get off PDQ. I must stop using letter abbreviations.

I could have booked some time on the computer there and then through the helpful Geordie assistant, but don't want to tie myself in to any schedule of any sort ... I'm on holiday and we don't know what we'll be doing tomorrow, although I'll be writing something at some time, I'm sure.

Fascinating wander round Cardigan calling in at the excellent Heritage Centre. The grandchildren had a great time dressing up and chalking on slates at the re-created Bethana school under the (taped) tuition of the cane-happy Mr Edwards (until our Jessica took over as head).

I was surprised and dismayed to realise that there was a cast-iron edict that all lessons should be conducted in English even in areas with a strong Welsh language culture.

Yet another example of pointless colonialism of the sort that's backfired on the English all over the globe, the old Trot in me started moaning. But it was pointed out that the kids didn't have to go. They paid for the privilege and it was the only way for youngsters from Welsh-speaking families to learn the language they would need to get away - Cardigan was the chief embarkation point for mass migrations to North America. History is a tricky thing. A bit like fashion ...

Cardigan seems to specialise in cut-price clothing shops. We grabbed discounted and end-of-line items from Asda's George range for less than we'd pay for secondhand stuff in charity shops back in the Midlands. The downside was that we had to endure a catwalk show by the girls when we got back to base to model the new outfits. Grandfather received a VIP invite as a press representative. They've been seeing too many Bratz movies.

WEDNESDAY
Torrential rain and gale-force winds, an insolent 'No signal' on all the tellies and we're running out of milk - that's more like it ... a real family summer holiday.

Thank heavens for the swimming pool in Cardigan where our hyperactive children were able to burn off a small percentage of their seemingly boundless energy. We grabbed newspapers and milk at the 24-hour Tesco's (a cheerful Cockney geezer on the check-out with a beard the in-hiding Radovan Karadzic would envy).

We returned to pizza, potato wedges and salad and an acceptable Argentinian Malbec. Various doughnuts and cakes filled the dessert spot for those that wanted any and the afternoon was spent dodging showers and dipping newly-acquired nets into rock pools.

Card games, sketching beach landscapes from the safety of the panoramic lounge windows, reading newspapers and novels, practising recorders and harmonicas, and writing ghost stories. It felt like something out of an Enid Blyton novel. Here, word for word, is the ghost story Jessica scribbled out in about 15 minutes:

The child of the Gwalia Falls

It was late and Caitlin had finished her job as a lifeguard. She was strolling home along the seafront. She went past the shop and up the steps through the caravan lodges, past reception and on to her caravan. Caitlin had never liked her caravan much. It had floorboards that creaked and cracked in the night. There was a leak in the roof so her faded, grey carpet was always damp and soggy when she got back from her shift. This perticuler (sic) night Caitlin had been a bit later out than usual, for she had been involved in a drunken youth crisis (oh dear, here it comes again). So Caitlin was tired. She threw herself down on the creaking bed and fell asleep. A few minutes later she woke up. Something was missing. She noticed her watch wasn't there. Caitlin was a bit strange and always wore her watch to bed. She got up and searched franticly (sic) for her watch. She saw her watch, but something was wrong. Her watch was sitting in the hand of a small girl, as white as snow, her hair black and ragged, her face twisted to one side and her eyes staring. Caitlin let out a scream and ran through the bedroom door and slammed it shut behind her. She closed her eyes and opened them to find the same girl in front of her. The girl stretched out her tiny white hand and touched Caitlin's shoulder. Caitlin jumped away in surprise, banging her head on the rusty door handle. She felt a trickle of blood run down her spine. The girl faded away.
Caitlin was only 14, she's probably dead by now, though.
I still have that watch ...

Yes, it could do with editing, and there are childish repetitions and inconsistencies, but Jess, at nine years old, is already promising to be a better writer than me!

THURSDAY
On a day when the premier nature reserve in West Wales proved eerily devoid of bird life, Guillemots flew to our rescue.

I've mentioned the lack of a television signal. It's only proved an inconvenience in the early morning when the children normally slump in front of the set to watch CBBC on Freeview Channel 70. We missed a double episode of Tracy Beaker yesterday, for instance, just after the signal disappeared.

The lack of internet access has proved more of a pain. We take for granted the childminding properties of the brilliant BBC sites plus Telegraph Grid Club, (parentally controlled) YouTube and lots more. Something to remember for another holiday.

Yesterday evening I adjourned to the car to try to hear a weather forecast on the radio (and, incidentally, caught the last in the current series of the Count Arthur Strong Show - highly recommended). Poking around I ejected the only CD I've had in the player for weeks: Red by Guillemots.

We were saved. It went on during breakfast and led to a DanceXchange-style session in the huge sitting room, with the furniture being pushed back, and our two girls cavorting about for an hour just like professional contemporary dancers (and children) do while the adults had their toast and bran flakes in peace in the kitchen. Interesting that while Red had such a varied critical response two kids of nine and seven just treat it like good dance music (there's a couple of slower tracks they skip). Big Dog is their favourite singalong.

Best nosh (a word I use with care after recent Guardian correspondence) of the holiday at the Teifi Marshes Nature Reserve restaurant. Excellent local ingredients (best feta I've ever had) but it gets packed so arrive early (they start meals at noon).

Our wander round the Badger Trail was punctuated by sessions sitting in various bird hides which resulted in nothing but stunning silence and the reading of some fairly polite graffiti. NB: I've not seen any of same in Welsh - is that significant? Back home, snatches of slogans are now appearing on walls in what I take to be Polish and Serbian.

Good background information in the Nature Centre about the area's use of the river and the railway line, closed in 1963 in the Beeching disaster but now incorporated in one of the longer trails. Cetti's warbler (which I've never heard of) and reed bunting are rare-ish birds to be seen here, apparently. My daughter thought she caught a snatch of a blackbird calling, apart from that nothing was heard but the wind in the reeds, the rushing of the Teifi and snatches of the lyrics from Big Dog.

The TV signal was back on our return, so the girls were allowed to stay up very late to watch Clueless. They enjoyed it because it was sort of a Bratz movie and their grandmother enjoyed spotting how they'd adapted the narrative of Jane Austen's Emma. Turning the Mr Knightly figure gay was my favourite twist. But that could bring us back into Guardian correspondence territory, so I'd better leave it there.

FRIDAY
Dolphin Day. We'd been debating for some time about whether or not to book a boat trip out into Cardigan Bay to try to catch a sight of some of the resident population of 300-plus bottlenose dolphins.

But it ain't cheap, and in this new era of post-crunch austerity we decided to follow the advice of our friend Kate. As it happens, she'll be in West Wales next week, and knows the area quite well. She had advised us simply to walk out on to the pier at New Quay and wait.

She was wrong. We didn't have to wait. As soon as we sat on the wall with the dozens of other dolphin watchers, they appeared, really close in as well. For a good half hour we watched a pair of calves and several adults doing that famous jump. We wouldn't have had a better view from either of the two boats bobbing about on the slight swell at the same time.

We only left because the wind was getting slightly chilly and we wanted to make sure we got a place for lunch before all the local eateries became too busy. The Seahorse, opposite the big municipal car park on the road in, is the centre of the town's beer festival for a fortnight from Monday (Aug 4) and they have good music there, Kate tells us, and she should know - she's a music teacher.

Next door is Tiffany's, where lots of locals eat and come to get takeaways. Nothing spectacular, but excellent value, and you can get tables big enough to sit a family (not always the case). But make sure you have cash with you - they don't take plastic. If we go again it will be for the first meal of the day, obviously.

The Black Lion, round the corner and down the hill was allegedly the favourite watering hole of Dylan Thomas, and there are several attractions (including a walk) which will be busier this year because of that connection boosted by the recent film.

New Quay will certainly feature again some time in our future - the sailing lessons for kids looked worth a go - but we took a raincheck on all things poetic in favour of a wander round the weekly car boot on the big car park, which fills up early. Mrs L picked up bargain bundles of cloth for her latest embroidery project. Coincidentally, she's just finished one featuring a dolphin.

On the way back to the main Aberystwyth highway we braved a single-track road with very few passing places to get to New Quay Honey Farm. The 'live' exhibition of different ways that bees build colonies is fascinating but do make sure you catch some of the video which shows a hippy Australian apiarist allowing a swarm to settle all over his body, naked but for a now highly fashionable pair of short shorts and less modish Guardian reader sandals. Bet he's on YouTube. Hilarious and informative and the kids loved dressing up as beekeepers.

After a farewell session of body boarding (good low tide surf on our beach), a cheeky Australian Pinotage and various meads from New Quay accompanied a final meal made up of whatever was left in freezer, fridge and cupboards. For me that was pasta, Quorn burgers, frozen peas, fried tomatoes and broccoli followed by a banana. I had to forego the cheese so everyone else could have it on toast.
I've reserved the last bagel and some baked beans for breakfast tomorrow.

I'm hoping that we'll get back to the Midlands (and the internet) tomorrow on what we've got left in our tank - I've only filled up once since we left, which is also a welcome break from my usual routine.