Pembrokeshire has been called 'Gwlad yr Hud' and this description could be applied to Fishguard, or Abergwaun, (mouth of the river), as it is known in Welsh.

Norsemen came to Fishguard in the eleventh century (the Nordic 'guard' meaning a yard).

In the lower part of the townthe River Gwaun flows into the sea. This was the old fishing village, wherefamiliessurvived largely onherring during hard winters.

The sea has played an important part in the every day life of the people of Fishguard. Until 1650, Pembrokeshire suffered greatly from piracy. Welsh pirates haunted the Irish Sea and were dreaded by many. They had no shame about coming ashore and sellingtheir ill-gotten gains, such as rum, silk and spices on the open market. Piracy was not brough to an enduntil the Napoleonic Wars, when ships of the Royal Navy regularly patrolled the seas.

In 1803, the historian Malkin, wrote: 'The town of Fiscard is so filthy, so ill built, and so uncivilized, as almost to be interesting'. And again: 'The habit of intoxication is very prevalent . . . the people from the country are sober and decent. I would, however, recommend travellers to avoid a night here'.

On August 30th, 1909, the liner 'Mauretania' called at Fishguard Harbour on its voyage from New York to Liverpool. Ithad taken justfive days to reach Fishguard.When it was sighted from Strumble Head a telephone message alerted Fishguard Harbour and it arrived twenty five minutes later.

Guns fired a salute, the Pembroke Dock Brass Band played, the Territorial Army marched and the crowds lining Pencw cheered. Eight ladies in Welsh costume presented each passenger with a posy of lucky heather and the first passenger to emerge was Mr Jenkin Evans, a native of Lampeter, who had lived in Kansas City for forty three years. I'm sure he shed a tear.

That night there was a carnival and fireworks display and local children were presented with commemorative mugs.

Sadly hopes that a regular Trans-Atlantic sevice would develop never came to fruition.

I spent manyinteresting hours trying to identify the author of a cookery book from the Stratford area. A scrap of envelope,addressed to 'Mrs Averill, Broadway', had a 'receipt' written on the back. This name led me tothe vicar of Broadway,andthe Hereford and Worcester Record Office. After a lot of correspondence and forehead wrinklingI was still unsureof the writer's identity.I discovered, though, that the name 'Averill' was French in origin andthat the family had lived in Broadway since 1613.

The 'Mrs Averill' I had set out to find might have been the second wife of Alfred Averill, surgeon and doctor to the Wedgwood pottery factory.Maria Annboreeleven children and lived a long life.

Whoever Mrs Averill may have been, her cookbook represents not merely a collection of recipes but a glimpse of a long vanished society.

In the nineteenth century roads leading to Broadwaywere in poor condition but the village was on the stage coach route to London, which was ninety two miles away.

Mrs Averill probably went to London occasionally. She has written a recipe on the back of aletter she received from a silk-mercer in the city, advisinghe has a consignment, newly arrived, of black watered silk.The perfect excuse for a shopping trip!

Of course, like other ladies of her class, she had help in the house, otherwise, with eleven children she would not have got further than the front door.

There are notes in the book regarding the duties of the cook and various servants. Though Mrs Averill had abig brood to feed, she did not have to scrub potatoes, boil puddings, skin hares,make a sauce from the hare's blood, (strain the clots first).

The family's foodappears interesting and varied: they had puddings galore, wine sauces, sausage cakes, sheeps's head stew, mutton pies, kedgeree (this was the time of theRaj), mango chutneys, pickled mackerel, Bath buns, biscuits, cakes, wines, jams, jellies, trifles, Christmas puddings.

All that food. It's enough to make your eyes pop and probably kept the cook on her feet from dawn to dusk.

We're having theusual summer, cold, wet and windy. Sartorially, I've hiddenaway mywoollen jumpers (hope the moths don't find them)and I'mwearingwhite cotton sweaters.

In the garden, the Dicentra Spectabilis (Bleeding Heart) has actually been spectacular, but today it's locket shaped flowersare scattered, like wet confetti, over the rockery.

I've been watching Ascot on television and the varioustakes onfashion, ranging from sophisticated and smart to way out, zany and mad. Hats make an outfit and the new upturned styles look fresh after years of fascinators, which are hard to carry off. I like the beigey pink colours, the sweet- pea colours, the zingy purple-orange clashing colours but please, I'm totally bored with black and black and white. In summer, too, os welwch yn dda!

The Queen and family are conveyedin carriages,but the Royals don'thave to worry about finding parking spots.Forgive me for mentioning this, but I havea niggle.

In summer, the starving masses of the world converge on supermarkest inHaverfordwest and Fishguard.(Alright, I admit there aren't anysupermarkests in Fishguard but there is a mini-Tesco) The parking spaces provided are too narrowfor their camper vans, transit vans, cars trailing boats, old ambulances and 'buses which have been converted into caravans. (Last week a stupendously large camper van, resembling a static home,occupied two parking spaces. The sauce!) Apart from these itinerants there are the locally owned JumeirahJanes, Chelseatractors, 4x4's and off roaders bulging obesely out of little spaces. Someone parked one of them next tomy carand, whilstI managed to get one foot out of the carI failed with my leg, though my calf is not that big. (By the way, I have two legs, lest I give the wrong impression).

If councils won't give these monsters larger areas in which to park, I'm willing to pay for a bigger spot for myself, if only to get my legs out of the car.

(I'm enjoying 'Cardiff Singer of the Year' on televison this week.)

Old books, handwritten books especially, interest me.Twenty five years ago I bought a handwritten cookery bookatan auction in Bristol.

Though no information was available about wherethe book had come from,I was still pleased with my find. I took it home and read it carefully. Copper plate writing flowed over the thick yellow pages, horizontally and diagonally, too, in some places. (Past generations had a habit of 'saving' everything, writingover notes they no longer required).Unfortunately, the cook had not written her name but, evidently, her family was well fed. I could smell the old, floury kitchen and long ago meals.

There were recipes for 'Breakfast Cake', mayonnaise, kedgeree, wines, jams, jellies, pickles and evencough mixture, emetics, hair colouring, bees wax polish.

As Icarefully turned the pages, some of which were coming away from the spine, I encountered a recipe dated 1745! This book had been a family treasure and the last entrieswere inthe twentieth century.

Accompanying the book were some loose recipes, known as receipts.Examining a torn envelope, Ifoundthe name, 'Mrs Averill', Broadway. On the back of the envelope was a recipe for soup, for the attention of the overseers of the 'Poor House'. (The soup required gallons of water and just a few vegetables).

This was a find. I had a name and, by sheer chance, I had recently spent a holiday in Broadway, not far from Stratford on Avon.

Iasked the then Vicar of Broadwayfor his help and he was excellent,copying the Averill names on gravestones and sending them to me. Going one further, heasked an elderly relativeof the Averill family if she would like to correspond with me.

This resulted incontact with family members inAmerica and an invitation to stay with them in New England.

I studied English at Advanced Mains level in college and I have an MA in CreativeWriting. I have taught Creative Writing, too, but, shall I tell you what? You cannot teach anyone to write creatively. You can mark their work, make suggestions,advise some serious editing, point them in the direction of books that might inspire them, but . . .

Writing has a lot to do with the waywe think. E.M. Forster, the novelist,said that you do not know what you think until you see what you say. That's putting whatI said back to front.Let's think again.

A student said to methat any wordsput on paper are an act of creation. Ye-es. So. We'll try it.

You got out of bed this morning, visited the bathroom, made some tea?Interesting? I don't think so. Why? Millions of others did the same thing.

But, you woke up this morning and there on your pillow was a frog with a rhinestone collar around his dear little neck (or whatever passed for his dear little neck) and standing behind him was a snow leopard? Getting better?

The problem with many studentsis that they lovetheir own work.I had the oppositeproblem. I was too critical of myself, destroying much of whatI wrote. Perhaps this is why it took me so long to write my novel 'Salt Blue'.

Although I could write, I felt the need not just to tell a story, but to use words 'creatively'. We'll look at Page 173 in 'Salt Blue'and see howI handlethis: Stella, the heroine wakes up on the day she is due to fly to America. She's not been further than London before.

'I wake early. An ice candlecrackles against the sleep-warm flesh of my thighs, claws at my belly, scrapes its way to the polished tin knocker guarding the quiet chambers of my heartand rattles hard.

"Wake up, little kiddie. Today you're off to find you're Great American Dream and you're going, frit-frightened or not."'

I might have said, if I'd listened to the student; 'When Iwoke I felt frightened about going toAmerica and I had to force myself out of bed.'

What's the verdict on the last sentence? I've placed words ingrammatical order and they make sense butwould anyonewant to read more or would thay have nodded off to sleep beforereaching the next sentence?You be the jury.

Already the pink and red oriental poppies are dropping their petals.In a few days I will clip the leaves back and hope for a second harvest of blooms, albeit not as spectacular as these have been. Before leaving the garden, I picked a small bunch of thyme .

Today, we had cubed lamb, (a one pound pack was plenty for two). I browned it lightly in olive oil then simmered it in a pint of pomegranate juice (heat it first) with the thyme, a stock cube andsome white pepper.Cooked onsimmerfor about anhour the meat was tender, with a good flavour.

We had Pembrokeshire new potatoes (expensive still, working out at 1.98 a kg, that's 30p a potato) andcaulifower. (I can't be bothered with cauliflower cheese- I just grate some cheese over the top and flash itunder the grill. If in a rush, I melt it in the microwave).

The nectarines were on offer, four for a pound andtheymade agoodpudding.Washed, cutinto quarters, witha teaspoon of syrup and a tablespoon of elderflower juice splashed over them, they were blitzedfor 90 seconds in the microwave.To finish, Ipoured a tablespoon of Amaretto over each one then crushed Marks and Spencer Belgian chocolate meringues over them. Peter also had some cream. A quick dessert and not too calorific. The large meringues from M&S are only 50 calories each and the small ones 15 cals, making them healthier than sponge puddings with butter, sugar and flour.

After watching the Trooping of the Colour yesterday, I went into the garden. The 'Lychnis Coronaria' was in bloom, carmine flowers surrounded by grey silky leaves. Deeply beautiful.

With Royalty and beauty on my mind, Ireturn to the story of Lucy Walter, mistress of the future Charles 11. Lucy has become Colonel Robert Sydney's lover and they are in Holland, with the English court, which is in exile:

It was July, 1648. An air of serenity hung over The Hague, finding an echo in Lucy's heart.Robert Sydney pleased her well.

'I have money to spend, servants to command. Civil war may rage in England but it does not concern me one iota',Lucy remarked to her godmother.

The older woman smiled. Evidently, Lucy was blooming. 'I think you might be content to remain in Holland forever, Lucy'.

The following day, when she was dressing, Lucy made her mind up. She had to tell him soon.

Already,her linen flax dresswas pulling tightly against her round little belly. She embraced her body, protecting the new life growing within her.

That night, when Lucy wasbrushing her hair and her lover lolled on a lace pillow watching her, their eyes met.

'Robert, I have something to tell you'.

Hisheart leapt, but he would not betray his hopes yet. Instead, he asked, teasingly,

'Are you going to say you no longer love me?'

For a moment Lucy did not understand his joke. 'I love you to distraction', she protested, though this was not strictly true, for Lucy was capable ofgiving and receiving love, while still keeping her heart for herself.

'Whatever you have to tell me, whisper it in my ear, Lucy, that we two alone will share your secret.'

And so, with her lips pressed against his ear, Robert Sydney learnt that Lucy bore his child, duein thespring of the following year.

The last few days have beenchilly.Now theenormousash and sycamore trees that bordered the side of my house have gone it takes only a little sunshine to warm the conservatory. Sometimes, it can become unbearably hotin there, but this week it has been perfect.

About two o'clock this afternoon dark clouds blew over Haverfordwest.Heavy raingushed down the gutters and drummed on the roof of the conservatory so loudly I could not sit in there. It was more than an hour before it ceased and periwinkle blue patches of sky appeared.

I couldn't resist going out into the garden and pulling a few weeds. It's much easier to get them out when the soil is moist. I also dug a hole for a little box tree bush that I've grown from a cutting.

Hydrangeas like plenty of water and the soil in my garden seems to suit them. I've different varieties, including mop heads (the servant class) andlace-caps (the more refined types). Paniculata grandiflora are conical and mine are cream but there are now sugary pink varieties to be had, so, yes, I've got to have them.

Last summer I planted 'Black Steel' hydrangeas. The black stems are long and elegant with beautiful deep blue flowers floating on top.

There's nothing more stylish than a big glass bowl of hydrangeas.Occasionally a flower head will flop immediately I cut it and I'm not quite sure why this happens.

I'vecream and pink foxgloves, too, that seed wherever they like in the garden and 'Grannies' Bonnets' (purple aquilegia) growing beneath the eucalyptus.The bordersare full of lime green euphorbia and 'My Lady's Mantle', (Alchemelia Mollis), is good forlightingup a shady cornerorbillowing over a dry stone wall.

I don't like disturbing the soil on the banks if I can help it. This allows the ferns to sprout to four feet tallor more, providinggood ground cover.

Rosa rugosa, the pink rose which producesbig hips in autumn, likes dappled sunshine and is virtually pest free. (Roses that get diseases are definitelynot for me).Watch your fingers, though, it has myriads of fine, sharpthorns.

After the frosts and snows of last wintermany of the more tenderplants, including some of the hydrangeas and palms died, and I have replaced them.

Before I'd finished in the garden this afternoon it went dark again. I gathered up my tools and just as I got under cover,spiky balls of hail shot off the rooftops. Ah, flaming June.