Pembrokshire, June 2004  
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The Brown Pants Trip

Never, in the field of diving, have so many, waited for so long, with so much anticipation.

Pants started planning this trip sometime back in that hopeful spring of ’98, when sunshine was in the air, the scent of neoprene in everybody’s nose and our hearts lept anew at the thought of diving. After all, Weymouth, Swanage and Portland are nice places sure, but haven’t we all dived them already, wasn’t it time for something new? The stallion of change charged into the Eagle that Tuesday night, and riding it was Gary LingerFinger, Mr Sexual Chocolate, the man who wrote Volumes III-IX of the Book of Love, directed the film and has published several monographs on the art of removing underwear with your teeth.


It gave a goodly number of DLL’s finest an opportunity to find out where Wales actually was, and on that Friday we headed down in our twos and threes to the tiny coastal village of Little Haven which was almost, but not quite, where the map said it ought to be.

Set in Pembrokeshire National Coastal Park, on the brow of a hill not more than five or six miles from said coast, West Wales Divers serenely shared its hilltop with a quiet little trailer park and fields of newly mown hay and little lambs gambolling in the sunshine. Well, there was definately a trailer park there.

The West Wales Divers site is well worth checking out by the way, if only for the large spaces of "blah blah" test text they've left in there, reflecting a pleasant, relaxed attitude to technology.

As per the usual procedure, those that had arrived in good time ate all the crisps and peanuts that were to be had and then headed into the next town for a small fermented beverage to wash away the dust of the open road. We were willingly aided and abetted by the region’s only minibus taxi, large enough to hold up to eight drunks.

The village of Broad Haven is a small place well known for its cheese, reminiscent of every horror-movie town in which newcomers routinely disappear and are never seen again. Don't stray from the path, keep off the moors.

We settle on the Swan with their Reverend Somethingorother’s Ale and sat down in front of the pub, on an old stone wall overlooking the small bay, watching the sun go down and speculating on all sorts of things.

Mainly on how it had gotten so cold all of a sudden and how the local lads were jumping in and out of the bay wearing nothing but 3mm shorties and trainers.

The next delivery of divers arrived soon enough, desperately looking for their bed & breakfast where they could finally tally up the score of the last forty miles’ of Pooh Poker and Belcharama they’d been playing, joining us in the pub later sporting relieved expresions. The sunset was fine and we spent a lovely evening in the Swan, enjoying the hospitality of a most charming landlady and the taste of the ale.

Because of its live culture, ale affects people in different ways.

Some become merry (at one point it was alledged that Dave Lee smiled, I don't believe it myself), some suffer a little in the intestinal fortitude department (Elvis, Pants) and some come over all introspective (none of those around here though).


However, a special mention must go to the one diver who, through judicious sprinkling with ale, turned into the caped avenger himself, Tennants Export Man (Brewed For Drinking Outdoors) and pulled the door off the taxi.

His name shall not be mentioned, let his shame be punishment enough
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