Hurst Dene Hotel
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TripAdvisor Reviews Hurst Dene Hotel Swansea
Travel Blogs from Swansea
... pump wearing pyjamas, slippers and dressing gown. Very entertaining stuff, unscripted and all delivered in a cultured Welsh lilt. Fittingly, the walk n talk ended at Dylan's grave where we cut through the back lane to "our little cabin on the hill over the estuary". What an excellent way to learn about the poet, his life and times in Laugharne, and a great way to ignore the inclement weather.
And now for a senior moment ........... or ...
... S hitched a ride to the Park n Ride and were abandoned to the elements and various shops? The athletes found the Mumbles and the GC and a links course, bright sun, no wind and a hilly course beckoned.
The golf was indescribable - stunning views, glorious weather, championship play - poetic licence required - the pasties were a highlight and Barry hit a bell from a very ...
... Internet in the grandly named clubhouse came up with nothing, except for the usual spam and summer-orientated tourism.
So .......Haverfordwest, west true to its name, beckoned. Off we went, bristling with enthusiasm and a modicum of optimism. Sadly, the weather worsened as we went westwards and the multi-storey carpark offered short-spell relief from the tumbling wet stuff. Haverfordwest became a limitedly successful escape - torrential, ...
... tractors, trailers and track-suit clad farmhands. It did rain, quite heavily briefly, then sun broke through as we ventured into Tenby, resplendent in caravans and holiday or retirement homes. Why, I hear you ask! So much rain, so little time left and a bracing, thermal wind!
We parked up, excited the Tourist Information Office with a visit and strolled around a seaside town, fish and chips at every corner along with rock, ...
... in the sing-along. Roy, an Anglicised Welshman, declared them brilliant and proceeded to tell us various sheep jokes while engaging various middle-aged women in a cuddle and friendly banter. If this is Wales on a wet Sunday afternoon.......?
My lasagne was beckoning and we stalked off uphill under rain-heavy skies to our little shack on the hill. Almost poetic? Need another glass of red! Wine, not Red Bull