Tredegar and Castell Coch: Two Welsh jewels cut for entertaining

Pembrokeshire was wonderfully relaxing, but low on the culture that usually makes up part of any annual girls’ trip. Fortunately, Cardiff sits half way between London and those beachy delights, and offers some sightseeing blockbusters just minutes off the motorway. Outbound, we wandered happily through one of the UK’s rare remaining Carolean houses, unaware that we were mere hours from a new Carolean age. On our return, it was a trip back to the imagined Middle Ages through the eyes of some very fanciful, and rich, Victorians.

Tredegar is an elegant red brick mansion on the outskirts of the Newport docks complex that once made the owners of both, the Morgan family, extremely wealthy. At first glance the house is definitively a product of the age of Charles II: simple lines outside, elegant proportions within, but festooned with decorative details. The gilded ironwork on the gates outside, the highly-carved wooden panelling inside, painted ceilings and ornate plasterwork all follow the design path Charles II was taking at Windsor Castle, but in a humbler, provincial way. Look closely at the marble columns in the magnificent gilt room and you’ll discover that they’re only painted to fool you into thinking they’re fancy, imported stone.The carved faces in the main hall are much closer to green men than the divine Greco-Roman faces that would have been typical in palaces.

You won't care about any of that when you stand in the Gilt Room, one of Tredegar's highlights.

Carolean is only half the story, however. The modern Morgans, particularly two of the later owners, were characters worthy of novels. Though one would be by Kipling and the other by Wodehouse. The author of empire would take on Godfrey Morgan, a rare survivor of the charge of the light brigade who came home to life as a fox-hunting country squire. There's a magnificent portrait of him with horse and hounds. He looks like the kind of man who values his pets as much as people, so it's no surprise to learn that he buried his horse from the Crimean War, Sir Briggs, with full military honours when he crossed the rainbow bridge age 28. Having never bothered to add a wife to his stable, Godfrey passed his estate to his nephew Courtenay, who seems quite a responsible sort. It was his outrageous son Evan who sent the Morgans of Tredegar out with a blaze of glory.

Evan's profligate spending is doubtless the reason the Morgans had to give up the place, but you can tell that the volunteers all have a fond spot in their hearts for him. The house was famous for its magnificent parties in the '30s, where no extravagance was spared. Evan sent a family-owned ship to Norway when the house needed for ice; evidently the Norwegian stuff is best in a gin and tonic. Despite being openly gay he married twice, both women finding lovers elsewhere. A display in one of the main drawing rooms tells the tale of these bright young things, including some costumes and personal items that bring the age to life. It's good to know that along with his other eccentricities, Evan is remembered for treating his staff unusually well.

Sadly we weren't able to get upstairs on our visit. Heritage properties are having the same staffing issues as everyone else, and the house manager told us that less than half of the former volunteers returned after Covid. They rarely have enough room stewards to open the house all at one time anymore, so have moved to a schedule of opening one floor in the morning and another in the afternoon. It's worth noting for future sightseeing visits to stately homes: you may need to plan a longer visit than in the past to be able to see everything, making sure you are there through the heart of the day.

Our visit on the return drive had some things in common with 20th c. Tredegar: incredibly wealthy owners who spent wildly, derived revenues from shipping traffic in Welsh ports and used their properties mostly as party palaces. But there, the similarity stops. Castell Coch is a Victorian fantasy of the Middle Ages rebuilt within an actual Medieval structure, and its creators ... the Marquis and Marchioness of Bute ... would likely have been horrified by Evan's sexual hijinx. 

You are here to see just three main rooms. Sure, there are a few more, and a nice climb to the tower, plus a lovely exterior ... but three interiors will burn themselves into your brain. The Butes worked with Britain's foremost proponent of the neo-Gothic, William Burges, who was inspired by the look a French architect named Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc. (For other connections to Viollet-le-Duc on this blog, check out my articles on Vianden Castle and the Chateau de Menthon) The result is a fairy tale setting loosely linked to looks of the Middle Ages but then taking fantastic turns that even Walt Disney might find too extreme.

The first room is the banqueting hall, with stencilled, painted walls, a soaring wooden ceiling and a massive fireplace with a polychromed figure of a saint over it. Medieval tales of other saints are painted on the high arches below the wooden roof on either side. It's magnificent, and could easily stand in for the set of Ivanhoe or the like, but it's actually a bit austere. It's an amuse bouche for what comes next.

The drawing room may be he most beautiful room in Britain. It's octagonal, with a towering dome, but it's actually not that big. While you could jam 50 people in here for a standing cocktail party, it could actually be quite cozy for eight sitting before the fire. But it's hard to imagine anything communal happening in here because everyone is so stunned by the interior decoration they just want to shut up and look at it; it may be the most densely decorated room per square meter I've ever seen. 

You can read the room in layers. First comes panelling from floor to shoulder height in a lovely green, with each rectangle within the panelling painted with botanically accurate representations of Mediterranean flowers. Next, from shoulder height to perhaps 16 or 20 feet above your head, is a sumptuous painted mural of wildlife in the natural world. Look closer, however, and the fox, the crow, the ape, the tortoise, the hare et al are actually engaged in scenes from Aesop's fables. Moving up again, you reach the sky, with birds of the world flying through a space that's twilight at the bottom and full dark, spangled with stars, up top. The ribs of the vaults are decorated with butterflies, reminding us of the fragility of life. And up top, a blazing disc at the centre of the dome, is the sun which gives that life. Continuing along the theme of appreciating the life we're given, the fireplace is topped with near life-sized figures of the three Greek fates, spinning, measuring and cutting the string that represents a man's time on Earth. Every flower, animal, plant, bird and human is painted in such detail you could spend half an hour just looking at a square metre of the place. It is an astonishing space, made all the better if you get one of the knowledgeable human guides going into more depth than what's on your included audio guide. 

Head upstairs, passing through Lord Bute's bedroom ... memorable somewhere else but a sideshow here ... and reach Lady Bute's spectacular chamber. It is not quite as decoratively dense at the drawing room below, so not quite as jaw dropping, but it's close. The walls at human level are papered in a geometric design, saving your attention for the dome over this round space. It appears to be an enormous trellis separating you from a sunny blue sky, entwined with grape vines that are strangely laden with pomegranates. Exotic birds appear once more and, rather surprisingly, a troupe of jolly monkeys making merry. The ceiling is so arresting you hardly notice the suite of furniture created for her ladyship, all designed and painted in the Moorish-Gothic style. It's Aladdin meets Sleeping Beauty.

There are other bits you can clamber around but, honestly, save your time. Come here for the drawing room and Lady Bute's bedroom, and drink your fill.

Tredegar and Castell Coch are brilliant reminders that Cardiff is awash with things to see. Maybe a future girls’ trip should head there? But I suspect that will be no time soon. After three years on home shores, there’s a plane in our future for Girls’ Trip No. 23.

My vote for Britain's best beach? It's Barafundle, hands down

In a county filled with magnificent beaches, one reigns supreme. Barafundle is my favourite beach not just in Pembrokeshire, but in all of the UK. But visitors be warned: its pleasures are hard won. 

Barafundle Bay scoops into a particularly empty bit of Pembrokeshire, with most of the land around it owned and preserved by The National Trust. People who don't like driving down narrow country lanes will need to brace themselves. The closest you can get to Barafundle by car is the Trust's car park at Stackpole Quay, half a mile as the crow flies. But you won't be flying. You'll be walking. And climbing. A lot.

The path from the car park slopes down to an old house now converted to loos and a cafe. Use them here, because there's nothing but nature from here on. There's a pretty, rocky cove at the bottom of the slope, but you're pushing on to something far more spectacular. First, it's a climb up through a forested hillside. When you make it to the top, you pass out of the tree cover onto an exquisite, grassy headland with dramatic views up and down the Pembrokeshire coast. On a clear day you can see all the way to the Gower Peninsula. 

Here's where you'll find most of the half mile, crossing a mostly flat and springy turf. It would be easy to become so overwhelmed by the land and sea scapes that you forgot to look where you were going, but that wouldn't be a great idea. Sheep and cliff-dwelling critters have left dents that could provoke stumbles, and two much of a roll could send you over the cliffs. 

Your goal is a stone wall punctuated by an arch that you'll find as the land starts to slope again. Then it's another steep set of stairs ... these built against the side of the cliffs ... before you get down onto the beach itself.

Your efforts will be richly rewarded. The sand is golden and almost universal, only broken in a few places by sprays of pebbles and larger boulders at the beach edge that are convenient for drying clothes upon. Dramatic stone cliffs rise on each side while high, grass-covered dunes screen the back of the beach. The geology makes Barafundle a natural sun trap; enclosed on three sides you're screened from the wind unless it's coming directly from the East.

The effort required to get here has a natural screening effect on crowds. People tend not to attempt it with small children ... I suspect the distance to facilities is too daunting ... and the kids who do manage to get here seem better behaved than the average. The result: even on sunny, gorgeous weekend days there's usually plenty of margin between visitors and it's never particularly noisy.

Swimming in any waters off the UK is not for the faint hearted, but Barafundle is better than most options. The tide is gentle and the bay shallow, so after a long, hot summer it's warmer than other bits of the coast might be. It's the only place in the UK I've managed to swim, fully immersed, while sober. (The other was an ill-advised, gin-assisted plunge off a sailboat into the Solent. The cold shocked me back onto the boat in seconds.) This September the waters were no colder than the average outdoor swimming pool and the waves were gentle. Yes, that is me and another of the girls in that photo. We could have bobbed for hours.

Saundersfoot and Tenby beaches are both easily accessible and almost as beautiful, but they have neither the isolation nor the sense of winning a prize upon arrival. For me, both the journey and the effort are part of what makes Barafundle so special.

The beach is grand, the town charming, but come to Saundersfoot to eat

Saundersfoot is another of Pembrokeshire’s swimming-friendly beaches, about a half-mile stretch of smooth sand where more than 100 metres are exposed at low tide. Unlike Tenby, most of the village is at sea level, allowing visitors to step straight from pub or B&B onto the shore. It’s much smaller than its walled, colourful neighbour, but livelier than tiny Manorbier. One of the participants in the annual girls’ trip spent summer holidays here growing up and argues compellingly that it’s Britain’s most perfect family beach resort.

I’m convinced; something about it reminds me of my own childhood bolthole of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. Though the idyllically child-friendly nature of Saundersfoot would be an argument against me staying there in school holidays. Whatever the time of year, however, if I were in the area I’d be making reservations at Coast. Holder of a Michelin plate and clearly in pursuit of a star, this modern restaurant with spectacular views is a destination as magnificent as the coastline around it. 

Coast is at the far end of Saundersfoot's sandy expanse, easily accessible from town if you walk by beach at low tide but on the outskirts and down twisting farm lanes if you go by road. (Head for the car park at Coppet Hall Beach for both the restaurant and less crowded access to the shore.) The elegant wood and glass building stands alone in an otherwise sylvan seaside, angled to catch the best views of its eponymous coast. Inside, tables are arranged on two narrow terraces, as if every table were a theatre box there to watch the show at sea. For those unfortunate enough to be sitting with their backs to the outdoors, mirrors run along the back walls reflecting the shore. Instead of a stage curtain there’s a wall of glass a story and a half high, with the dining space broken up by the trunks and branches of trees that have been brought inside … as if the forest on the hills behind you had kept marching to the shore. It’s simple, elegant and in tune with the world around it.

Coast also has some of the cleverest lighting I’ve seen in a restaurant, clearly purpose-designed for its current use. There are targeted spots over every table, creating a pool of bright, direct light to tabletops while the other lighting is low. Not only does that make it easy to see and photograph your food, but as the sun sets and those trees cast interesting shadows, each table seems to float in its own private bubble.

Head Chef Fred Clapperton earned a Michelin star for the Clock House in Surrey and was wooed to this idyllic location to do the same, arriving just as the Covid pandemic began. One assumes the irregularity of recent times is the only thing holding back his award, since flavours, presentation, service and wine pairings were all on par with any one-starred Michelin restaurant around London. Prices, however, were not. A seven-course tasting menu at £78, with a five-glass wine flight at £50 and an additional cheese course at £16 is significantly less than prices in the Southeast of England. 

As you’d expect, the menu was seasonal, drew heavily from the local larder and reflected the spectacular seaside location. The amuse bouche almost stole the whole show ... seaweed "chips" that had the texture and breadiness of the thick-cut potato kind but with a delightful taste of the sea, served on a bowl of sea pebbles. Most of the table, however, chose the climactic local beef in IPA sauce as the favourite dish of the night. It came with a charred cabbage wedge, an elegant curl of beef tongue and a quenelle of salty anchovy puree and, with Trinity Hill's merlot-heavy red blend to wash it down, was comfort food elevated to the heavens.

In between came a procession of small but exquisite dishes calculated to give you a few succulent mouthfuls for each course, so you could end the night satisfied but not stuffed. Turning the bread that's normally on the side into its own course was a clever twist, with today's fresh slices accompanying yesterday's toasted crouton in a broth rich with onions and bone marrow. Neither oysters nor salmon will ever make my top favourites list but they came here in a jewel-like display and were united by a delicious cucumber sauce.

The lamb kofta was another of my favourites and a perfect example of how simple dishes can be deconstructed and re-invented successfully. The flavours were similar to a lamb skewer and babaganoush from a humble mezze platter, but refined and concentrated, then translated into a delicate plate strewn with micro-herbs. Next, rather surprisingly, came more fish as we went on to cod with an even more surprising accompaniment of Black Bomber. This is one of Wales' most famous cheeses, similar to cheddar, and the pairing flew against the usual high cuisine aversion to combining fish and cheese. I suspect, like the kofta, they were going for another homey-to-gourmet transformation here, this time inspired by seafood pie. The plate also featured a baby leek, brown shrimp and a slice of pickled cucumber. Oddly, the last was my favourite thing on the plate and the combined bite that featured it was my best taste of this dish. In a parade of loveliness, however, this is the one I could have easily lived without.

Next came a pre-desert of lemongrass and coconut, flavoured with sea buckthorn and presented like a mousse with a dollop of meringue on top. While the consistency was solid the flavours were more like a tropical drink, making it a great palate cleanser to get to the main dessert of hibiscus, blackberry and apples. The plate was an artistic combination of ice cream, mousse, shortbread and fresh fruit that tasted wonderful but made you feel quite virtuous. It certainly seemed light and healthy. 

We opted to end with the cheese and split two servings across the four of us. All were local, all delicious, and another reminder that the UK's rich pasture lands put us on par with anywhere in France when it comes to fromagerie. By the time we left a full moon was hanging over the sea and Head Chef Clapperton came out of the kitchen to chat; an even better end to the meal than the cheese. I suspect we'll be seeing much more of him.

It's worth noting that Coast is currently closed Sunday - Tuesday, but it shares a building with a coffee shop and cafe that's clearly popular with beach users. While its seating area doesn't have a sea view, when Coast is closed you can take your purchases and eat and drink at tables on their balcony, taking in that beguiling view without the fine dining price tag.

If Coast isn't your style, or you're looking for a casual, inexpensive alternative in Saundersfoot, head to The Old Chemist Inn on The Strand. We wouldn't have found this gem without our companion's local knowledge, since a look down The Strand from the village's main car park would suggest the dead-end lane is entirely residential. Not so! The barely signposted pub is wedged into a row of houses and backs directly onto the beach. Compared to Coast's instagrammable high design, this is a battered wooden shack that probably hasn't seen much renovation in decades. But the bar is admirably large, dogs are welcome and lounge everywhere, and there are plenty of places to hang up wetsuits to dry while swimmers and surfers quench a thirst. The real glory of The Chemist, of course, is the location, with a yard full of picnic tables directly next to the beach and the ability to take your drinks right out onto the sands once you decant them into provided plastic cups.

Rainbow-clad Tenby delights with regency architecture, perfect beaches and a quirky boat trip

If Tenby were located closer to London, you'd be sick of seeing it as a film location for every Jane Austen adaptation, Bridgerton episode and other Regency-era drama filmed in the UK. Instead, thanks to its 250 miles and five-hour journey from the capital, many readers may not even know it exists, much less be aware of its picturesque streets and dramatic location. In truth, it leaves the better-known Brighton far behind and is on par with the charm of Bath.

Tenby's most memorable features are its medieval walls, its brightly coloured houses and its magnificent coastline. The grim, grey stone boundary that protected the town when it was a flourishing Norman port in a conquered land is delightfully at odds with the rest of the town's architecture and its frivolous holiday spirit. 

Tenby sits on a bit of coastline that forms something resembling a capital letter "G", with the old harbor and the walled town looking out over the inside of the letter, while a spectacular stretch of beach runs almost two miles south from its bottom. A Victorian esplanade overlooks the long beach from cliffs roughly equivalent to a five-story building; views are spectacular. (For the easiest beach access, follow signs for South Beach, rather than Seafront, pay and display.) Many of the Victorian-era hotels which comprise the southern stretch of sea view own gardens cut into the cliff tops. Some of them are exclusive to guests and some are doing a thriving business as open-air bars. The buildings along this stretch are painted in yellows, blues and greens. The architecture might look like scores of other British seaside towns but the colours are a radical change.

The buildings get much more interesting inside the walls, where the colours get even brighter and the Regency features proliferate. Picturesque shop fronts. Interesting windows. Classical porticos. Even the odd plaque commemorating famous residents. At some point just after the turn of the 19th century, Nelson, Emma, Lady Hamilton and Lord Hamilton spent a holiday here together in their infamous manage a trois. 

The French wars that had shaped their lives had also shaped Tenby. Unable to visit the continent, wealthy travellers devoured the options designed here by English entrepreneurs as an alternative. The place still feels affluent today, with independent shops, galleries, restaurants and micro-breweries lining cobbled lanes that branch from gracious, winding streets. I could have perched myself on numerous corners to sketch and take in the scene.

But we couldn't linger: we had a date with some monks.

In a yard just above Tenby harbour you'll find a collection of huts selling boat excursions and outdoor adventures. One of the most popular is to Caldey Island, a green jewel a mile off the coast and 2.5 miles south of Tenby. You board the boat from Castle Beach, voted the best in the UK in 2019 and distinguished not just by the quality of its sand but by a small promontory of jutting rock in its middle that houses a Napoleonic fort. A clever rolling dock, pulled up or reversed down by tractor, allows tourists to clamber into boats while keeping their feet dry. Once aboard it's a lovely ride of about 20 minutes taking in all of Tenby's South beach and promenade and some of the rugged coastline just below it.

The island is best known for its small religious community of Cistercian monks, who live in a monastery clearly built for more than the approximately 18 who live there today. (Their web site steers clear of official numbers but a video produced about five years ago and shown on the island to explain monastic life cites that number, and elaborates that many are older men who retired to cloistered life from careers elsewhere.) The monks live a silent life of prayer and farm work on the island. They produce a range of lavender bath products from their harvests, but are most famous for making chocolate. No, there are no cocao trees on Tenby; they import their beans.

They've also imported red squirrels. With no grey squirrels on the island, no cars, no resident dogs and only one cat, conservationists saw an opportunity to bring back the British native. Given their famed reclusiveness and the fact that dogs are allowed to visit, you're far more likely to see one of the adorable critters on Brownsea Island (which I've written about here), but growing numbers make Caldey a success story.

Other sights on the island are better described as charming than spectacular. There's an ancient, very simply furnished stone chapel and the monk's main church is austere. You can't see anything else of the monastery interior. The exterior itself is striking, and sits on a hill above a tiny village of a few houses (about 20 lay-people live on the island in the monk's employ), a shop and post office, a gallery and cafe. Visitors can enjoy a variety of walking paths that lead to striking views and secluded, sandy beaches. I suspect in high summer season the boat fare might be worth it to get to a quieter beach. 

For me, the sea travel was as good as the island rambling and I'd suggest that anyone who gets to Tenby needs to see the town from the water to fully appreciate its beauty. 

Manorbier and Mews Cottage are the prescription to soothe big city stresses away

When the sun is shining and the temperature is balmy, the beaches of Pembrokeshire ... the southwestern-most bit of Wales ... are on par with the Caribbean. Powdery golden sand between your toes, picturesque greenery behind you, wide shallows that make swimming easy. Catching the shoreline in clement conditions used to be tricky, but climate change has fixed that. You might as well head to this lovely but still somewhat remote corner of the UK to take advantage. And if quiet, picturesque solitude is your thing, consider the sleepy village of Manorbier.

The traditional holiday hotspots on this stretch of coast are Tenby and Saundersfoot (of which I'll write more in another story), and they both benefit from a broad array of restaurants, hotels, shops and long, gentle beaches. Six miles further west of Tenby, Manorbier is a markedly quieter place. Tourist amenities include one small pub that still manages to feel local despite this being a holiday coast, one nine-bedroom hotel with a restaurant, and a shop that manages to cram a surprising amount into a tiny space. A tea shop, souvenir spot and bike rental place were either closed now that schools had resumed, or never made it back from the pandemic. It was hard to tell.

The whole village runs down a hill between a castle and an ancient parish church to a fan-shaped beach encircled by dunes and high hills. The outstretched arms of the land form a pinch point that constricts the water and stimulates the waves. This is a dramatic surfer's beach, well off the beaten track, and in our off-season wanderings rarely had more than six people lingering on its expanse.

To say Manorbier was sleepy is an understatement. And we ... four corporate captains exhausted by our wars ... loved it. I wanted to stay for weeks. Four nights of such peace and quiet, however, managed to work wonders.

We stayed in Mews Cottage, with cottage being a deceptive word for a substantial five-bedroom property set it its own generous gardens. 

The beds were comfortable, the lounging space ample, the WiFi speedy (though only available in some rooms), the kitchen big enough to cook up a storm had we wanted to, and the beachside decor full of Instagramable shots. 

There's an enormous garden with plenty of room for outdoor games if you were travelling with children. We used it to settle comfortably on benches against the house and watch the sun set, accompanied by the soft interjections of sheep. That was the only external sound heard from the property during our stay. The silence was profound and the stars and full moon vivid in an inky sky; exotic aberrations for the Londoners. Two of the bedrooms are downstairs, facing the garden, and three up. I was delighted to snag the ground-floor double with a glass door opening onto the garden and would open the door in the early morning, snuggled under the duvet to watch the light come up and listen to the songbirds greet the day.

Property manager Kate had left a bottle of pink sparkling wine in the fridge, unexpectedly prescient as we arrived just in time to get the news on for the announcement of the Queen's death. We were able to toast the monarch's service and numb a bit of our sadness with the bubbles. Kate was around throughout our stay to chat and give tips on local attractions.

Mews Cottage exemplifies the reason we've turned to VRBO properties rather than boutique hotels in recent years for our girls' trips. For about half of what we'd spend on the level of accommodation we prefer, we end up in large properties where we each get our own bedroom and there's enough space for both individual quiet time and group merriment. I'm sure this property is more often full of family parties with plenty of kids, but its decor and location meant it was also perfect for grown-ups in search of R&R.

We could have stayed in the parish of Manorbier (population around 2,000) for the whole trip. 

On the first night we walked down to the Castlemead Hotel, the aforementioned 9-bedroom place that advertises itself as a "restaurant with rooms", for dinner. (If I were coming to Manorbier on a short stay, just with husband rather than a group, I'd definitely consider staying here.) Pre-booking is absolutely essential for dining as priority goes to residents and, like everywhere else in the country, staff is sparse. By the end of our visit they'd had to close the restaurant due to staffing issues. The small dining room of about 10 tables is in the building's basement, but it's built into a hill so the windows here actually look over the garden and towards the beach and the coast, perfectly positioned for the sunset. I'd recommend this place just for the view. But the food is worth the trip, too, with dishes heavy on local produce inspired by recipes around the world. Shelves groan with an impressive collection of cookbooks, reassuring us that whoever was in the kitchen loved food as much as we did. My Welsh rib-eye was excellent, and the triple-cooked chips sent everyone into raptures, but the dish of the night was grilled pears on bruschetta topped with local goat's cheese and a sweet balsamic reduction. The portion was so big half of it came home to be my breakfast the next morning.

The Castle Inn had a more traditional pub kitchen majoring on burgers, scampi, pulled pork and chips, with a beach bar atmosphere far more festive than its simple exterior would suggest. We enjoyed our Sunday dinner here but, even more, we delighted in winning the weekly pub quiz. This was entirely due to our fourth girl's Welsh roots (putting her on point for the Wales round) and her surprisingly encyclopaedic knowledge of cartoon canines that saw us ace the picture round. 

While we never actually cooked, the nearby Bubbleton Farm Shop provided goodies for a grazing dinner one night. This place is much smaller than the clever photography on its web site implies; more a farm hut than shop. But they manage to cram a surprising amount of tempting stuff into a very small space. Local rhubarb-spiked gin, sausage rolls, ham and cheeses made up a satisfying buffet on the massive oak table back at the cottage, followed by gourmet welsh cakes and chocolate made by the monks who live on Caldey Island, just off the coast. 

Of course, it wouldn't be the annual girls' trip without a bit of sightseeing and at least one fine dining experience. Read on for those adventures.

The Queen is Dead. God Save the King

We'd just stopped for lunch when our phones started pinging in chorus. The Queen was gravely ill. the family was gathering. There wasn't much more, but given the unprecedented nature of the announcements, it was enough.  We continued our own journey, but switched the audio to Radio 4 awaiting any scrap of news.

We were en route to our 23rd annual girls' trip, four nights on the Pembrokeshire coast. Our Welsh trips already had an Elizabethan association. Way back in 2002, trip no. 3 saw us holed up in a manor house in North Wales over the Golden Jubilee Bank Holiday weekend. Our trio of American-born, newly-naturalised UK citizens had decided on the trip because all of our London friends had assured us that nothing was going on that weekend and nobody would be terribly excited about the official stuff the palace had planned. Reality proved them spectacularly wrong. In the two decades since our trio has watched our adopted home evolve from a country that rejected any outward show of patriotism (Last night of the Proms excepted) to one that proudly celebrates national occasions. And Elizabeth had given us plenty.

It was a sad irony to be in Wales together, once again, for her farewell. Ironic, too, that three American-born immigrants would take it so hard. Or maybe not. It was no surprise that we were all getting more pings from American contacts than British ones. Hamilton pulls in the crowds by showing Americans throwing off the yoke of a petulant king. These days, Americans tend to be more ardent royalists than many Brits. I’m convinced that when you live in an entirely elected system where all of your leaders are politicians, and politics itself has been weaponised to extremes, an a-political Head of State is a vast improvement. (For more on that, read this defence of the idea.)  

But that might be over-thinking it. Much of monarchy's magic comes from its majestic glamour. I was honoured and delighted to be a close witness at the State Opening of Parliament in 1999. I was working closely with an MP at the time who got me a seat in the Royal Gallery, the bit through which the Queen processes formally before taking her throne in the House of Lords to read her government's speech. (American readers: it's a bit like a State of the Union address, with a focus on what's coming in the next year. The words are not the monarch's; she has to read what she's given.) 

This was a particularly good year because it was the last before the majority of the hereditary peers were reformed out of government, so everyone turned up. From our seats we could see into the Princes' Chamber, where all the aristocrats were gathering to meet, greet and check the positioning of their  coronets. Many of the red velvet, ermine-edged robes looked decidedly fragile and I could swear there was a scent of mothballs drifting into the room. Many attics had been emptied for this last hurrah. Jamie Lee Curtis added a touch of Hollywood stardust to the occasion, attending with husband Christopher Guest. The actor is also the Baron Haden-Guest, and an example of one of those peers who normally didn't have much to do with Westminster. But with the right to attendance about to be snatched away, everyone turned up. 

Whether moth-holed or newly-minted, the peers faded into insignificance at the first trumpet fanfare. In marched the heralds in their tabards stiff with gold thread. Behind them the queen, escorted by the Duke of Edinburgh, both radiating a dignity and charisma beyond the simply human. This is one of the few occasions the monarch actually wears the state crown, and seeing it in use is a very different thing from viewing it behind glass at the Tower of London. The jewels flash, sparkle and cascade shards of light around the room, constantly moving as the wearer does. The music, the light, the ceremony all converge into something distinctly religious and other-worldly in tone. You are meant to be, quite literally, awe-struck. And I was.

This is, of course, the intent. In the widest sense, the monarch isn't a person, or a job, it's the embodiment of the United Kingdom. More than 2,000 years of history. All that is noble and worthy and magnificent about this country, channeled into one institution that carries on and stands above the indignities of political squabbling and day-to-day life. The religious nature of the ceremony descends from the Middle Ages and kicked up a notch when Henry VIII turned away from Rome. While there was once God and King in charge, now there was only King, and he would take all the bells and smells for himself.

The charm of Elizabeth Windsor was that she could carry this off while at the same time enjoying a picnic out of Tupperware, chatting to the common people, giving a friendly nod to locals in Windsor, and placing losing bets on race horses. Just like us. (Except she owned the horses.) It's a humility and a desire to connect with the people that stretches back through her ancestors. Farmer George, aka George III, preferring a poky house at Kew and his vegetable plot to the palace. Victoria fancying herself a normal housewife. George V finding entertainment in stamp collecting. That combination of humility and majesty is part of what kept the British monarchy intact when revolutions toppled others throughout the 19th and 20th centuries.

Another part is the ability to change with the times. The Elizabeth who shared tea with Paddington Bear was a different woman from the one who took the throne. The British Monarchy changes and evolves with its people. King Charles III has a challenging road ahead. I'm confident he will carry forward the best of his mother's time and learn from past mistakes. When I became a citizen I swore to "be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors, according to law." And I meant it.

Thank you, ma'am. And God Save the King.

Kilmainham Jail offers beguiling tales of modern Irish history

Stereotypes are, we all know, dangerous things that should be avoided. And yet ... I found myself sitting in the chapel of Kilmainham Jail, brought to tears as our guide told us about the night-before-execution wedding of Grace Gifford and Joseph Plunkett, and thinking "damn, these people are just born storytellers."

In my life I have found much to prove that stereotype and almost nothing to contradict it. I suspect Tourism Ireland, the Dublin Writers Museum* and the folks who charge you to kiss the Blarney Stone would all support the idea. I've certainly always embraced the possibility that my own tale-spinning skills owe a lot to the quarter of my DNA that comes from counties Longford and Cork. If you're short on time in Dublin and want to put the Irish storyteller theory to the test, Kilmainham is a grand place to encounter all the emotions in the human repertoire, complete with memorable characters, atmospheric settings and compelling guides.

The jail lies on the western edge of the city, across the Liffey from the vast sprawl of Phoenix Park. Though its thick grey walls and oppressive architecture seem grim by modern standards, the buildings you see today were models of Victorian reform. It’s painful to look into tiny cells, and feel the chill even on a sunny day, and realise this was an improvement on the corrupt, overcrowded past. For people starving to death in famine times, incarceration gave them at least one meal a day and transportation to Australia was at least some chance at a future. 

The tales that most people want to hear, however, and the ones that led to the building’s restoration, are those associated with Ireland’s independence. There were five notable rebellions between the late 18th and the early 20th century, and leaders from all were incarcerated here. Many were executed.

There’s a museum full of memorabilia, letters, videos and information boards you can look at before or after your tour, but your journey through the jail itself … which you can only take in the company of a guide … is what brings the history to life. Guides bring you along through stories of individuals, whether unnamed like the five-year-old boy who came in alone and disappeared from records, to the list of famous names that now grace Dublin’s pubs and street signs. 

The heroes of the Easter Rising and the yard in which they met their deaths will be the focal point for most visitors, but I found myself captivated by the women. Grace, mentioned above, was a talented artist forging an independent living as a cartoonist long before women were accepted in the field. She was just 27 when her fiancée was condemned; she bought the ring and talked her way into the jail for

the wedding, and so impressed the jailers that they let her be with Joseph, but under their supervision, for a few hours before the execution They simply sat and stared into each other’s eyes, as there was nothing left to be said.

Poor Grace returned as a prisoner when she ended up on the wrong side in the civil war, and you can see a mural of the Madonna and child she painted in her cell. 

Constance Markievicz is another bold character of her generation, now perhaps best known as the answer to a particularly tricky pub quiz question. The first woman elected to the British parliament, Markievicz, is different from the first to actually take her seat, Nancy Astor. Constance started life as a daughter of the wealthy Anglo-Irish Gore-Booth family, but her politics turned radical and she married a Polish-Ukrainian Count who could fund her activities. She fought alongside the men in the Easter Rebellion and was considered so dangerous she was the only woman put in solidary confinement afterwards. Her sex probably helped her avoid execution; she was given life imprisonment instead, but released in an amnesty in 1917. She went on to be a leading figure in early Irish government.

Grace and Constance are just two of the scores of characters the tour guide brings to life. Idealistic rebels, opportunistic chancers, hardened criminals and the starving stealing to survive all step on stage. The human-driven storytelling elevates something that could be a bewildering foray into dates and historical detail; Irish rebellions were complex, the Anglo-Irish relationship nuanced and the Civil War that followed independence downright byzantine. A different approach could leave your head spinning with dates and details and, and quite possibly, bored.

As a British passport holder I was also rather relieved to find balance in the storytelling. It's easy to spin a cartoonish tale of English baddies and the saintly Irish oppressed, but the narrative is more nuanced here, acknowledging, for example, that crackdowns from London were harder when they were engaged in wars and couldn't risk internal strife, and that the brutal Black and Tans were often traumatized WWI veterans dealing with then-unknown PTSD. The guides aren't dolling out forgiveness, but they are providing context and acknowledging a complicated world.

Kilmainham has another claim to fame as a film set, something that won't surprise you the moment you step into the late-Victorian main hall. The horseshoe-shaped space is known as a panopticon, a place where the guards can see everyone but the inmates are never sure if they're being observed by the guards. Despite its dark purpose, it's actually quite a beautiful building and you're likely to recognise it from its many film appearances. Paddington 2, The Italian Job and the music video for U2's Celebration are amongst the many productions that have contributed to the building's restoration funds.  

Visiting a jail might seem like an odd thing to do on holiday but this one packs a triple punch: a fascinating view into Irish history, interesting and starkly beautiful architecture, and a big hit of pop culture by film set. Most of all, however, it's a great place to listen to the Irish spin some fabulous tales about their predecessors. 

*The Dublin Writers Museum doesn't use an apostrophe. Honest. I checked. Sadly, the Museum has not re-opened since lockdown. I went in the late ‘90s and enjoyed it, but reports say that the old-style displays and niche subject matter did not appeal to a modern museum audience. There’s another thing to support when I win the lottery.

Dublin's Osteria Lucio is Italian food at its finest while The Old Spot delivers Irish tradition

It's been well over a decade since food magazines started celebrating Ireland as a culinary destination, with Ballymaloe Cookery School and the restaurant scene in Kinsale grabbing headlines and gaining international reputations. When you think about great Irish cooking you think about exquisite local ingredients; fresh seafood, grass-fed beef, rich dairy products. You think tradition. What about foreign food? Can Ireland's culinary scene transport you to other shores?

In the case of Italian food, I'll offer a vociferous si! as I tell you about Osteria Lucio, as good as anything I've had in Italy. In fact, it's as good as both Locanda Locatelli and Murano, my two favourite ... and Michelin starred ... Italian restaurants in London. 

We'd been unsuccessful on the waiting list for Chapter One, the Michelin-celebrated restaurant that chef Ross Lewis founded. He stepped back from it last spring just before the restaurant gained its second star. Reports say he was weary of the day-to-day grind under the culinary spotlight and decided to put his efforts into Osteria Lucio, which he'd had an interest in for years but hadn't concentrated on. So, ironically, we got a touch of the magic we were seeking without even realising it. I knew nothing about Lewis, or the Chapter One connection until after our meal; but every colleague I talked food with said that this was the best restaurant in the docklands. How right they were.

Great Italian food is often simple, relying on extraordinary ingredients and cooking methods that coax essential flavours to extremes. It makes you pause in wonder, asking how a tomato, or a mushroom, or a bit of cheese could pack that much of a punch. At Lucio, it was a peach.

My companion started with a roasted peach sat beside an egg of burrata, with a bit of red vermouth dressing below, a dab of rocket pesto and some rocket sprigs scattered across the top. From the look on her face as she took her first bite I knew there was something special going on, and a shared taste confirmed it. I've never had a peach more, well ... peachy ... than that one, warm and soft on the inside but still holding its shape. A perfect, explosive sweetness against the cream of the cheese and the bite of the dressing and pesto. It was perfection. And only perfection could have kicked my own starter into second place. Perfectly cooked, thinly-sliced octopus alternating with equally-sized disks of warm potato, complemented by black olives, tomato and parsley. Like the peach and burrata combo, this was all about balancing flavours: sharp and sweet, rich and light. My friend detests olives, yet admitted they worked beautifully here. 

We moved on to home-made pastas, though the suckling pig for two was tempting and the pizzas coming out of the wood-fired oven looked fabulous. I went for paccheri (short, fat tubes) with lobster, courgette, basil and chilli. Lobster pastas can be hit or miss, given how much can go wrong. It's easy to overcook the lobster, or overwhelm it with other flavours, or lose it completely in the bulk of the pasta. No such problems here, as the local king of shellfish was soft, firm, full of flavour and clearly dominant on the plate. The paccheri added bite, balance and substance. On the other side of the table, some of the prettiest ravioli I've seen formed flowers on a ground of mushroom sauce.

We couldn't resist dessert. Our waiter's favourite was the unusual lemon posset, another miracle of balance between the sharp citrus, smooth dairy, rich pistachio ice cream ( a fine addition!) and sweet strawberries. We also tried the tiramisu, something I rarely do in restaurants because I've rarely had one as good as the recipe I use at home. Mine is labour intensive, with alternating layers of a fussy zabaglione and whipped coffee cream, so impractical for restaurants who consider this an easy mass catering option. Lucio didn't use that zabaglione layer, but the balance of coffee, cake, chocolate and cream was far more sophisticated than the average. 

In addition to great food, Osteria Lucio has a fun atmosphere. It's in one of the few older buildings standing amongst the gleaming offices of the docklands, and its main dining hall snuggles beneath one of the arches of the suburban train line. It's a cozy retreat from the world outside and will be my first reservation the next time I head to Dublin.

The Irish, of course, still do their own food, and our other star of the trip was a gorgeous gastropub near the Aviva Stadium called The Old Spot. The decor is warm and cozy, local memorabilia balancing with some really beautiful works of art capturing landmarks and landscapes nearby. The staff is cheerfully chatty, wonderfully well-informed and incredibly helpful. On our second visit, when we were running late for our reservation because of the over-running football game and feared we'd miss the kitchen closing deadline, they worked with us to get in orders by phone and had the food ready moments after we arrived.

The limited timeline of that second visit means we were limited to burgers. That was no sacrifice as they were exemplars of the art: a juicy meat feast, loaded with extras, local cheese bringing bite to the richness of the protein. And if you don't like thick, crispy, perfect chips, then you can opt into addictive fried shoestring potatoes. 

Earlier in the week we'd had the time to range more freely through the menu, including succulent local oysters with home-made Guinness brown bread, haddock arancini (more Italian influences dressing up what's essentially a tasty fishcake) and grilled duck. We'd also spent time at the bar pre-meal, where the bartender delighted us with a range of local gins and mixers we'd never encountered. They also have a really interesting wine list and staff who will work through it to come up with interesting choices. 

This is another place I'd want to book well in advance of another trip to England. Especially if that trip were for a rugby. Unlike American football, you can accurately predict the end of a match, and it will probably be early enough for a long, leisurely dinner. The Old Spot would be the perfect place to celebrate an English win, or be consoled about the Irish victory by their fine food and hospitality.