Farewell to the lobster sizzling, crab bubbling, bacon crisping, burger charring, mackerel flapping, rolla toasting, Welsh Sea Black Buttered Stove. The Deluxe Hot Choc’s and zesty lime sodas, cider refreshers and thick salted caramel flavours. To the house pickles, Kelpchups, seaweed chilli sauce and Captain Cat’s Mayo. To the seaweed sprinkles of our Mermaids larder, the Laver, the Dulse, the Kelps and Wracks. To the thick smoky buttered air with stirrings of fresh salty gorse flower sea breeze.
Farewell to the dawn happy oyster catchers strutting, the spring gannets diving, the swallows dancing and seagulls gliding. To the sand martins burrowing amidst the black Choughs singing and sea bass jumping. To the Goose Barnacle cladded wrecks, upon the rippled sands, forgotten reefs and shipwrecked plans, to the sunken forests from a forgotten age. To the reds, the greys and the greens that hug this sandy shore.
Farewell to the bright sunny happy days, the lonely grey whisper days, the windy rocking trailer creaking days, to the stove hugging autumn days to the sweltering humid July days, to the sun drenched never-ending 100-hour days, the rainy, cold breezy any days. To big queues, to no queues, to happy queues, to fed-up-of-waiting queues. To ice cream melting, cone crumbling, stifling humid, “sorry we have no lobster left,” car alarming, traffic jamming, icky whiffs of mutiny in the air days. To where everything is golden, and we feel like champions cooking the best street food in the world days. To FreshWest Silver days with fine dine gramophones and sea truffle pastas. To Seaweed beer drinking and Salsa Verde dreaming of Barti Ddu Rum Glaze Burgers to Kelpbread fritters. To the sad days and remembrance days from fallen heroes of the past and present, to the Spike and Dan days.
Farewell to the salted kippered surfers, quad bike driving farmers, oil men from distant shores, the ever-growing Winnibago’s to the countless VW campers. The 5-a-day Fab loving Dean to the adventure seeking 4000-mile ultra-marathon Sean. French army brigades to toddlers with funky shades. The builders, the walkers, the seaweed Doctors, the dog lovers, divers, drivers, bikers, beach comers, sunset admirers, the long-distance sea kayakers the wind surfers and kite surfers and the tarmac loving skaters, Nottingham hipsters and “honky time smokers.” To travelling music men, fishing men, boat men, the Belgians, the Germans even some Californians, love men who like to jive and the Swansea boyos with their tidy wives. To the Valley boys the ultimate stag do-ers who between them demolished 25 double Môr burgers. To the old crew of yesteryear to the new crew with new ideas.
To the Jamie Owen, Helen Skelton, Kate Humble and that Youtube sensation. To the Japanese businessmen and New York restaurateurs with dreams of the Sunken Hundred. To the lorry man Garry stuck in his cab for days to Mr Glastonbury encamped for the entire month of May. To the old man who comes for his tea every day to the young lady who seems to walk all night and day. To cake baking Scotty, and the bad parking that drives him potty, to the rangers trying to tame the wild. To the Café Môr saviours; Martin the fixer and the non-stop baking Athena.
Farewell to the original Café Mor trailer from a dodgy gold cladded Ukrainian sailor, cladded in driftwood with solar panels and a wind turbine that got mangled. To the brilliant Josie June Fishing boat who became an Instagram sensation. To the mighty Moby food truck built to feed all your seaweed temptations.
Farewell to the road bank that has seated a thousand bums, contented bellies full of laverbread and a dash of Barti rum. Farewell to you sea lovers, you beach lovers and you food lovers.
Farewell Freshwater West, it is time to go, just for now…
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