Thursday, March 02, 2006


More Of It.

This is my first opportunity to write anything for a while as, for the past week, I have been ensconced in the Lamphey Court Hotel in deepest Pembrokeshire. And not being an owner of a laptop, my internet activities whilst residing in hotels is roughly on a par with the time the first owners of Lamphey Palace spent e-shopping e-mailing and e-baying. That is to say, not at all.

My purpose for spending time at this place will have to remain a curiosity for reasons of national security, but my associated experiences can be discussed and if necessary dissected. All to give me much needed writing practice if for no other reason. Use it or lose it as the modern educational thinking has it. Which is as sound a theory of skill retention as any I care to think about.

Originally a Georgian mansion, Lamphey Court is one of those palatial hotels that offers a certain grandeur which usually serves as an alternative to the clinical excellence of more modern hotels. Ornate pillars and richly decorated walls and doors tend to mean no lifts, no pristine carpets and immaculate walls or modern comforts such as internet access, power showers and Sky TV. Instead chunky keys for paneled doors, creaky stairs, untreated window frames and poorly flushing loos. But I was pleasantly surprised at how the Lamphey Court has been able to combine some of the glamour of the old style with the obvious comforts of modern life which I have to say, increasingly, I find it hard to live without.

Sky Television has been installed though the reception is poor probably due to the hotels location, though I'm sure there are boosters on the market these days to sort out those kinds of problems. A good quality fitness centre - certainly not on offer here, an archetypal example of tatty opulence and definitely an exemplar of the points of contrast I'm trying to make - with a decent pool and all the relaxing and pampering facilities now so fashionable.

It was also good enough to provide a sexy, surprisingly slim legged, milky white and blood tinglingly sonsy Welsh Rhianwyn (the Welsh version of the Irish Colleen?) who seemed permanently to inhabit the reception area. In addition, a regiment of saucy cleaners who took to camping outside of my door, and who each afternoon I would stumble into as each afternoon they would sit cross-legged like protestors waiting for me coyly to emerge from the room to allow them in to service it. I was tempted to suggest that in future they could use their outrageous master key to enter my room whilst I was still in situ, and that way I could perhaps be serviced as well, but I didn't. People get into trouble for making those kinds of suggestions from the position of paying-customer privilege. And anyway if there was to be any of that, it would have been the sweet little Miss downstairs who would have been summoned. Why hang out rough with avaricious starlings when a beautiful dove sits prettily near.

Mmm. Where was I. Oh yes. The Lamphey Court. A good old but made to seem new combination hotel worthy of anyone's eighty-odd pounds a night.

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