Mum and Dad outside "The Harp"
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Pigs in the cellar wasn’t the only time our animals became extended family. Springtime lambing was another stressful time for Dad when he would spend many early morning hours overseeing a difficult lambing. It wouldn’t be a surprise to get up in the morning to find a newly born lamb near death by the fire with Mum trying to revive it or feed it from a bottle. If the lamb survived, the next challenge was to repatriate it to its mother – sometimes the mother would have none of it and the lamb would become bottle dependent.It was always hard to watch and listen to a lamb crying for its mother, going ewe to ewe in the flock and being rejected each time. As the lamb finally came to the realization that Mum or Dad were now the primary source of food, the lamb would present itself at the meadow gate and bleat pitifully until someone appeared with a bottle of warm milk.
The bar closed at 3 p.m. each day to reopen at 6 p.m. A short break for Mum and Dad to have a rest, eat a meal and as they always did, look after us when we got home from school. Many times that break was interrupted by a knock on the door and someone looking for bed and breakfast.
We had two guest rooms at the Harp and that together with the only bathroom would be made available to bed and breakfasters. The “Smoke Room” at the front of the house was where the meals were served and the only time we could use the room was when we were doing homework or studying for exams. Despite its name, no one ever smoked there.
Living as we did on the main road, we were in an ideal location for travellers who wanted to break their journey as they toured through beautiful Wales. While we didn’t advertise it, if asked, Mum would do an evening meal. Nothing fancy, and often created from anything available in the cupboard or the garden, she would pull a meal together in no time. Stewed plums and custard were a personal favourite of mine – and there were always leftovers.
Dad would always do the cooked breakfast – and what a plateful that was. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, preceded by Trout Hall grapefruit – and while canned and little resemblance to fresh grapefruit, I remember it was delicious. If someone had taken an early morning walk along the Grove, breakfast would be augmented with mushrooms, generously cooked in bacon fat.
White bread was the only bread I seem to recall back then and the toast rack accompanying breakfast would be crammed with carefully toasted slices, all with the crusts cut off and served with farm fresh butter. We served tea, and coffee if asked, but the mysteries of brewing good coffee had yet to be revealed to my mother.
I still have the Harp’s guest book and it’s bittersweet to turn those pages now and read the comments made by strangers from far away places.
The bar closed at 3 p.m. each day to reopen at 6 p.m. A short break for Mum and Dad to have a rest, eat a meal and as they always did, look after us when we got home from school. Many times that break was interrupted by a knock on the door and someone looking for bed and breakfast.
We had two guest rooms at the Harp and that together with the only bathroom would be made available to bed and breakfasters. The “Smoke Room” at the front of the house was where the meals were served and the only time we could use the room was when we were doing homework or studying for exams. Despite its name, no one ever smoked there.
Living as we did on the main road, we were in an ideal location for travellers who wanted to break their journey as they toured through beautiful Wales. While we didn’t advertise it, if asked, Mum would do an evening meal. Nothing fancy, and often created from anything available in the cupboard or the garden, she would pull a meal together in no time. Stewed plums and custard were a personal favourite of mine – and there were always leftovers.
Dad would always do the cooked breakfast – and what a plateful that was. Bacon, eggs, tomatoes and fried bread, preceded by Trout Hall grapefruit – and while canned and little resemblance to fresh grapefruit, I remember it was delicious. If someone had taken an early morning walk along the Grove, breakfast would be augmented with mushrooms, generously cooked in bacon fat.
White bread was the only bread I seem to recall back then and the toast rack accompanying breakfast would be crammed with carefully toasted slices, all with the crusts cut off and served with farm fresh butter. We served tea, and coffee if asked, but the mysteries of brewing good coffee had yet to be revealed to my mother.
I still have the Harp’s guest book and it’s bittersweet to turn those pages now and read the comments made by strangers from far away places.
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