Unsullied

If anyone had asked me the name of the pub in the Vale of Glamorgan where I'd attended ... oh I don't know, a wedding reception or maybe a wedding anniversary celebration some 30 years ago, I wouldn't have remembered, but googling for somewhere slightly further afield to go for Sunday lunch, I recognised it at once: The Captain's Wife, Sully.  

And in that moment I was right back there: heavily pregnant with my first child one warm Saturday in September, waiting in the dim, flagstoned lobby to depart while my former late ex-mother-in-law, who came alive in the company of her children and grandchildren, took her long-drawn-out leave of them. After a while, I began to feel a bit giddy and leant against the wall. 'You'd better get used to this,' said my ex-husband's aunt in my ear, her tone a bolt shot home. 'You're a G------- now, my girl.'

Ghosts to lay, then. Though there was no strong sense of returning. It's been taken over by a chain in the meantime, its former quirkiness Farrow and Balled into nondescription. In any event it was warm enough to sit outside: our first outdoors pub lunch of 2017. 

The beach is less than welcoming at first glance. 

This is on account of the proximity of Sully Island and the huge tidal range of the Severn estuary, which means the causeway connecting it to the mainland for three hours either side of low tide is covered by rushing water at a dramatic speed.  

By the time we'd eaten, the tide was already far too high for us to contemplate going out there, though Ted was undeterred. 

As it was, we didn't hang about on it for long. There was three minutes between this photo ... 

... and this one. 

Sully island will have to wait for another day. 

Flat Holm and Steep Holm wrapped in mist and the wrong way round

Back on the opposite side of the Severn, it was time to celebrate my father's birthday. He is 95 today, and this being the opposite side of the Severn, in an excellent mood on account of the rugby.

Not a bad day.