Breakfasts and Beds: Pentower, Fishguard, Pembrokeshire
Pentower
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
Tower Hill
Fishguard
Pembrokeshire
SA65 9LA
01348 874 462
by Egon Toast
In the distance, the ferries inched across the glassy Irish sea. Sat in a voluminous armchair in a quiet, turreted suite, up in a corner of this elegantly proportioned hillside retreat, I chortled smugly to myself: my ship, too, had finally come in. A sharp Easter sunshine had brought excitement such as to lift us from bed at a good hour. So it was that I and Ms Toast, my freshly betrothed, descended the oak-panelled staircase to breakfast a good 30 minutes before purported last orders, a first in our books.
Bare feet on cool, emerald tiles made their way to the wicker chairs in the dining room's enclosed verandah. We were swiftly overrun by Pentower's small squadron of cats. Binoculars to hand, I scoured the view laid out in front of me. A small seaside port waking up for the weekend; not a breath of wind to ruffle the scene. Kittiwakes wheeled over cliffs, while enigmatic breaks in the smooth surface of the harbour's waters had me seeking out seals' snouts, or a dolphin's fin.
A few more minutes' idling before our gracious hostess, Mary, arrived with a cafetière and a wicker basket full of toast. We took our seats at the sleek, sturdy dining table and began to graze, eyes ever drawn to the marvellous view encompassing the clefts and outcrops surrounding Fishguard harbour, and beyond to the horizon. On the dresser lay myriad pamphlets and brochures; I resisted the urge to input. The day had begun in too civilised a fashion to descend into sunken-headed silence.
Shortly, the main event was presented: two handsomely-sized plates of early-morning joy. Buttery, golden-hued scrambled eggs lay nestled beneath swathes of smoked salmon. One or two frisks of the pepper grinder, a squidge of quartered lemon, and life was complete. Although never too complete to resist further cups of coffee, oh, and possibly some more toasted granary to go with that alluring pot of homemade marmalade. Actually, these were not requested; rather, suggested. A fine, considerate hostess, alive to the needs of her greedy guests.
Such a quietly decadent spot. In Fishguard, too - who'd have thought it?
posted by London Review of Breakfasts |
5:53 PM |
1 Comments:
hey, im stopping in pembrokeshire myself! I have to agree with you, there are some real gems in pembroke. Try the Old Kings Arms in Pembroke Main street. The welsh feast is great and lamb fillet with cherry sauce is so moist and succelent
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