PEMBROKE AND THE HALL OF MIRRORS

"There he is!" said my Dad, walking back to the car park.

"Who?"

"Henry the Seventh."

True enough, a statue of the Tudor king gazed up along the river, away from Pembroke Castle wistfully holding an orb as though as it were a hand grenade. Henry Tudor, VII, founder of the dynasty that ruled England for almost a hundred years, uniter of the roses and victor of Bosworth Field, cast in bronze in his home town.

Pembroke is a strangely vibrant little place. The blue flag with the yellow cross and the Tudor rose flutters from neat white flag poles and hotel frontages. Along the high street, gift shops alternate with pizza palaces and barbers with neon signs in the windows. And there, imposing on the cliff by the river, is the thousand-year old castle.

We naturally went in and had a tour. And what a tour! The guide described how attacking armies would have been trapped in the Barbican Tower where their fate was either in the hands of archers or hot tar poured from above. We climbed narrow, uneven stone staircases to learn how William Marshall had fortified the siege tower, how the town grew around the castle and how Margaret Beaufort had married the Earl of Stanley to ultimately become the mother of Henry.

We overlooked the great village and impenetrable walls, we stood on the battlements and peered through the rough slitted windows where archers would have kept watch. We shuffled around the roofless banqueting hall, imagining the colours, the songs, the food and the feasting.

The grey, threatening sky rolled quietly overhead. Birds fluttered between the ruined, moss-covered stones.

We got lost on the way back. It was a fascinating moment of self-awareness for me, peering over the steering wheel, reading the road-signs, trying not to get stressed. I think there comes a point in life when you realise where some of your character-struggles come from. I saw mine, suddenly reflected in my parents who between them, were showing me exactly what I am like sometimes in challenging situations. I had to be the opposite of myself in order to handle it.

I wonder though, does that happen with children too? It must be frightening to see yourself so clearly in their behaviour, and have to deal with it somehow, always knowing that you're exactly the same. Perhaps though, this is exactly why family is the best way to live - reflections of you everywhere like a hall of mirrors mean you're never too far from the truth, but always in the safety of people who love you.

It worked out okay. It always does, actually. We got back to Broad Haven and had a lovely cup of tea by the sea. The sun was struggling to fight its way through the cloud and ignite the sea. We had some time, so I wrote a quick poem.

This is the Sea

This gold-spun silk

This ancient blue

That shimmers soft

In summer's hue

This rolling green

These white-washed waves

That smash the rocks

Of windswept caves

This silver tide

That grips the sand

And rattles stones

With trailing hand

This endless deep

That calls to me

Though tumults roll

Through history

This ocean blue

This symphony

This restless soul

This is the sea

"I was worried that you wouldn't enjoy this week so much," said my Mum, sipping. "That you'd feel a bit stuck with us."

"We've done more though," I replied, "than I think I would ever have done on my own. I'd have just kept walking up the coastal path! Plus, I think we've done more than you would have done without me."

My Dad nodded silently in agreement.