retiredmartin

The great mid-July conquering of Glamorgan continued with a trip to Pontardawe, which I have on occasion confused with Pontardulais, with disastrous results.

I know you only read this rubbish to equip yourselves to visit obscure Swansea Valley towns, so you should know that Pontardawe is famed as the birthplace of this McCartney pro·tégé.

Mary Hopkin went to have a further hit with the pub ticker favourite “Knock Knock (who’s there ?) my pub is closed”.

Despite the effect of out-of-town shopping it’s a handsome town (pop. 6,832), disappointingly, using the canal to good effect.

My highlights package focuses on the macabre,

and the marvellous fonts,

and the murals.

But it’s this ancient cave inscription that brings in the tourists by the bucket load from Port Talbot and Neath.

My GBG entry taunts with hope of an 11am opening, but at noon there’s still no sign of life.

But just as I’m considering whether to ask when L.AF. (Life After Football) is playing, the door creaks open and I pounce.

The landlady jumps.

“Ooh, I made you jump“.

“You didn’t !” . I did,

She’s great, and the pub feels like a local despite the trappings of Marston diner.

I always say you can trust a pub selling French bon bons, even if they’re made in Port Talbot rather than Paris.

Note the CAMRA awards on the wall.

One pump is all you need, often more than enough.

This one, aided by the ambience of the dual carriageway, is a cool, fruity 3.5.

Two blokes in Hi-Vis followed me out and admired the view.