A Weekend in Weston-super-Mare

Last week I was assigned by the St Dunstan's Review, after a discussion with their editor, to write a piece on the Lauriston Hotel, a hotel for visually impaired people located in Weston-super-Mare. Lucky for me, this little seaside town in the Westcountry is also the home of my blog-fabulous friend Sam who I had not seen since before my trip to Australia. So, once Friday rolled around, I set off on the National Express with my laptop, SLR, dictation machine, notebook and pen and copy of Michael Palin's New Europe, on the M4 and out of London. I arrived late in the evening and, after dinner, set out to sample some of the nightlife of my home for the weekend with Sam, Alice and Mr G. My favourite part of the night was a cafe/art studio/live music venue called Loves. It was a cosy little place with live acoustic music, a friendly atmosphere and the winning combination of booze and home-made cakes. We sat on the top floor so that we could talk, in between the art displays and the book exchange. If this place was in London it would have already been ruined by the inevitable crowds of hipsters and extortionate prices, but in Weston-super-Mare, it was a gem.

The next day I accompanied Sam to the hotel in the morning to write my piece, photograph the building and interview the guests. The staff of the Lauriston, particularly the lovely ladies in housekeeping, were fantastic and made me feel more like a new friend than a jobbing writer. After she had finished her shift and I had refused the advances of a group of 'lads on tour' nursing their hangovers, we took advantage of the afternoon sunshine and walked around the town. I always have a romantic vision about growing up by the seaside of long, sunkissed childhoods and wholesome teenage parties on the beach - I grew up in a city then moved to a city, so really had little experience beyond day trips. It was so great to walk along a beach, eat ice cream, watch children taking donkey rides and sift through stall after stall of little boxes covered in shells and souvenirs. That evening, Sam, Mr G and I went for a delicious dinner at The Red Cow, before returning back to the house to hang out with Alice, Iza, Nicki and Xav and drink a little more Westcountry cider.

So this will always be the story of my very first travel writing commission - it wasn't Zanzibar or Peru - but I had a fabulous time and suspect it will be the first of many trips to Weston-super-Mare.

A Weekend in Monmouthshire

On the 9.30am express train from London Paddington to Newport with a copy of Wanderlust and a cup of tea, I watched through the window as the density of the buildings and the concrete of London gave way to green fields and open space. The escape from the city is the indulgence of every Londoner, despite those that claim to go crazy without the plethora of crowded bars, galleries and markets. I have long suspected that we all yearn for a walk in a field now and again. That may be why so many of us own Barbour jackets - it isn’t just to protect us from the elements walking to and from the tube. This weekend, Ollie and I were being treated to an overnight stay in a Welsh country house hotel by his parents and we could not be more excited.

The country house in question was the Gliffaes Hotel, in the little village of Crickhowell situated in the Brecon Beacons National Park, the home of Wales' highest mountains and some of the most impressive scenery in the whole of the United Kingdom. Not a single Pret or WH Smith in sight. Prior to going to the hotel I was taken on a tour of Usk, Abergavenny and its wonderful indoor craft market and the spectacular Raglan Castle, a late medieval castle famously ruined beyond military use during the English civil war. Climbing perilous spiral staircases to get to the highest point to look out across the beacons certainly satisfied my longings for some fresh air and countryside. The sky was grey and threatening, but the only hint of rain was whilst we retired to drink dubious cappucinos in Luigi's cafe, which Ollie had a particular wish to visit as it was an old Thomas family haunt. Apparently it had changed very little since the late 1980s.

Gliffaes Hotel is somewhere that I could happily spend a week, a month or indeed an entire summer. Sitting out on the terrace with a drink, we watched the housemartins nesting in the roof and the buzzards that flew over the mountains. Before us was nothing but rolling green hills and the rushing of the fast-flowing river Usk, and the smell of honeysuckle and damp grass filled the air. The hotel could easily be described as ‘quirky’ with each room decorated in its own definitive style. The entrance hall is wallpapered with a guide to fishes, hinting strongly at the hotel’s connection with the river and with local fisherman (rods and waders are available to hire for anybody who wishes to try!), and the lounges are sumptuously furnished with antique lamps and enormous chintzy couches on which you could curl up with one of the books from the hotel’s several bookcases - if I had more time to do so, I would have got stuck into Gardens of Wales. We dined that evening in the restaurant (where you are still expected to change for dinner) and feasted on a menu of delicious and simple dishes made with mainly local ingredients. I had a smoked fish tartlet topped with a poached egg, a Y Fenni goats cheese and mushroom wellington and iced raspberry parfait. Welsh whisky being the after dinner drink of choice in the bar.

After a great night’s sleep and waking up to the sounds of the animals which live in the hotel grounds it was unfortunately time to leave. Our visit was too short for such a wonderful place, and we didn’t even get time to try out the hotel’s famous tandem. However, we shall indeed be returning to Crickhowell and to the Gliffaes Hotel when we can find an excuse to justify giving ourselves such an enormous treat.

The Gliffaes Country House Hotel, Crickhowell, Powys NP8 1RH. Tel: (01874) 730371

www.gliffaeshotel.com

Rooms from £104 per night for a small double, various offers available throughout the year.