lodge at bluestone

If you read my post last year, about our holiday to Bluestone, you will know how much the whole family loved it there. You can imagine how excited I was when we booked to go again this year, and I was then contacted by the Bluestone Bloggers programme, to see if I wanted to stay for a week as part of the programme-the week they offered, happened to be the week after we had already booked. So with a massive ‘yes,’ we decided that we’d stay for two weeks. We have never been away for two weeks with the children yet. We were worried. We thought it might be too much. We thought that two weeks worth of entertaining the children may have pushed us over the edge. None of that happened, because even after two weeks, we didn’t want to come home…

So what is Bluestone A selection of gorgeous lodges, in beautiful Pembrokeshire forest land. A tranquil, back to nature holiday camp, appealing heavily to the outdoorsy. It has everything you need on it’s car free site-a shop, restaurants, and a shed load of activities. For me personally, it’s a pretty unbeatable holiday destination…

Check in: This is easy-drive up to a check in booth, and do it all from the car. You can get early check in, meaning you can enter your lodge at 3pm, otherwise it’s 4.30pm. However, you can be on site from 11am, so we arrived around lunchtime, and I had a bag with me, full of stuff we might need, to last us until we could get in, and we had all the keys/info with us already.

outdoors at bluestone

 

Golf buggies/bikes: Get a golf buggy! Ok, if you’re into fitness, and enjoy cycling, you can hire bikes and cycle around, but our children just loved being driven around in the golf buggy-it’s a fun and handy way to get around, and it became an evening post dinner ritual that we’d go ‘out for a drive’ and find somewhere to stop/play for a while, before bedtime.

The lodges: We had a 3 bedroom lodge last year, which was HUGE, and the third bedroom (which is downstairs,) was a waste of time and money, when the children decided they were going to share a room! So this time we had a 2 bedroom Skomer lodge, which has 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms downstairs, and a large open plan living area upstairs. I won’t lie, it took a while to get used to the upside down living, and I prefer to sleep upstairs, but that is completely personal preference! The lodge was really spacious, decorated in lovely muted greens/taupes/beiges, which matched the lovely forest surroundings. My only criticism is that the fridge and freezer were tiny-we took a weeks worth of shopping with us, and couldn’t fit it all in, we had to decide what we were going to leave out/use quickly, and even throw away. Again, that’s personal preference, because I presume most people would only use it for essentials, and eat out a lot. But as I was trying to be a killjoy stick to my PCOS diet, I wanted to make my own food most nights.

The food on site: There’s several places to choose from to eat, on site. There’s the Wildwood Cafe in the Adventure Centre, which we didn’t try, but heard really good things about! There is also the Knight’s Tafarn-made to look like a traditional pub, serving traditional pub food. I expected it to be just ok here (I had a salad,) but the food was amazing, and everyone with us, said that they were also equally impressed.

Oak Tree restaurant was our favourite place-I allowed myself one evening of carbing it up, and I have to say, it was probably the best pizza I’ve ever eaten-and I don’t say that lightly!! My brother, who is a very snobby foodie (he’d hate me for that, but it’s true,) said that his pasta dish was the best one he’s ever eaten too. This place is awesome!

There’s also The Farmhouse Grill, which we didn’t try, and Ty Coffi, which sold brilliant coffee, cakes, and my children would definitely vouch for the quality of the ice cream!

The best place to eat, for me, by far, was Camp Smokey. Right in the depths of the forest, this beautiful rustic area serves pretty basic BBQ food, while playing country music, and has the bonus of an outdoor fire pit for toasting your smores! It was an every afternoon occurrence for us, where we’d arrive back from wherever we’d been, and head straight to Camp Smokey for beer and wine for me and Mr W, and smores for the littles. A brilliant atmosphere, and something that makes Bluestone really special! There’s also a nightly shindig held there-sing for your dinner, and dance away!!

outdoors at bluestone

The activities: There’s a very handy play area/parks in the middle of the pub/restaurants, where you can quite easily see the children playing from the outdoor eating areas, or are welcome to take drinks in a plastic cup, in with you (bonus.)

The activitiy centre has a massive indoor climbing area, slides, ball pits, bouncy castle, soft play-everything you need for entertaining on a rainy day. There are loads of structured group activities, both indoor and out (some payable,) if that’s something of interest to you!

The Blue Lagoon swimming pool is loads of fun, with 3 different pools, to span all age/ability levels! The waves in the main pool are loads of fun! The slides look awesome, but we didn’t get to try them because we couldn’t leave our little non swimmers with just one adult.

Bluestone is an amazing base to explore the local area from-it really has some of the best beaches I’ve ever seen (I defy anyone not to be blown away by Barafundle Bay!) Here is a list of the things and days out that we (all!!) genuinely loved, while we were there:

Barafundle Bay: Not buggy accessible-you park in the nearby car park, then walk a steep flight of steps, across a cliff edge, and down more steps to the beach-be prepared to carry your things/children. Also no toilets/life guards, but it’s… just… stunning!!

Tenby/Castle beach: Tenby is a gorgeous town, one of the prettiest I know! And the beach is also gorgeous.

outdoors at bluestone

 

Folly Farm: A brilliant animal/vintage fun fair/park adventure, and currently the number one attraction in Pembrokeshire according to trip advisor!

Pembroke Castle: I thought mine (3and 4) were going to be too young for this, but they marched around every room, and loved it! Great grounds for a rest/picnic too!

Pembrokeshire Falconry: We booked an owl experience here, where the children got to fly the owls by themselves-they were completely entranced/in awe!! It was just us, and the handler, who was really knowledgable and great with the children.

Picton Castle and gardens: This is where the falconry experience was held, but another lovely castle and garden to look at.

The Dinosaur Park: This was my children’s FAVOURITE! A brilliant dinosaur ‘safari,’ and dinosaur trails through the woods, and there’s also loads of rides-which are all free once you’ve paid to get in. The children asked to go every day, once we’d been!

Bluestone, you were epic. We were sad to leave, but will absolutely be back.

Imagination: a fairy next to arailway line.

My children always want me to play with them. They seem physically incapable of playing by themselves, and I often have to ignore their pleas of ‘please mummy, PLEASE-WE DON’T WANT TO PLAY ON OUR OWN,’ not only because my house is a total shit tip, which is in grave need of my attention, but also because my imagination appeared to be completely dead.

They can hand me a Darth Vader, and they’ll be shouting: ‘And Luke Skywalker is going to jump out of God’s mouth, fall through heaven, collect eleven five ten thousand bajillion stars on his way down, then use the light power he collected to kill all the baddies, and the Ewoks will see him falling from God’s mouth and use power from their minds to save him. He will use his pants as a parachute, and use fart power to jet propel himself to somewhere safe, and the Ewok’s minds will stop him hurting himself, and build him a castle of chocolate to live in. What does Darth Vader do then mummy??’

‘Erm, get out his lightsaber and hurt some people?’

‘No mummy, that’s boring.’

‘Ok, yea, I am kind of lame…’

I always think that I could never write a children’s book, because I’ve lost that part of my brain that delights in simple, magical adventures. I can’t think of anything remotely exciting to bring to their games-I don’t know why they insist on trying to include me to be fair. I did think I’d completely lost all imagination-a brain deadened by a mundane adult life. That was, until a few recent car journeys…

I was getting really annoyed by someone driving a few inches from my bumper, recently. It’s the kind of driving offence I put up there with people who drive in the middle lane, and people who don’t indicate at roundabouts. ‘If he gets any further up my ass, he’ll need to use a condom,’ I muttered. ‘WHAT DID YOU SAY MUMMY?’ ‘Nothing!’ And my brain then proceeded to imagine a world where all bumpers were fitted with sensors, which when another car got too close, made a neon flashing sign rise up in the rear window, saying ‘STOP VIOLATING MY ASS, THIS IS YOUR FIRST WARNING.’ If they continued to drive so close, they’d get a second warning, then if they still didn’t back off, cars would spray theirs with condoms, which on impact, would cover their car with a corrosive material-surely a sure fire way to get people AWAY FROM MY ASS. Maybe repeat offenders could then have their heads placed on spikes at the entrance and exit to motorway junctions, along with those of people who drive in the middle lane, to serve as a deterrent to not be such a dick.

I realised I’d gotten massively carried away. I also realised I did in fact, have an imagination-just translating that into the innocence of my children’s games, is just a whole different ball game, right…?!

mental health

I’ve been telling myself for quite a long time now, that ‘it’s ok, you’re just a little bit mental at the moment, you’ll be alright soon.’ Because often, we find ourselves tired, stressed, juggling 6.2 billion plates with just two hands (often while the other halves casually spin just the one on the tip of their finger-they totally have the other hand free to catch it with, if it falls,) and it all can make us feel just slightly crazy.

Except I noticed that I was telling myself week after week that the mentalness was going to go away, and making more excuses when it didn’t. I needed ‘that event’ over with, or when I’d had ‘that day to myself,’ that’s when I was going to be fine. Except, I still wasn’t. Before I knew it, I was in a painfully familiar pit of not wanting to leave the house, making excuses not to leave the house, crying in secret, and trying to hide the fact that I wanted to be crying the rest of the time too, but didn’t want to do it in front of the children, and everyone else I know, and dwelling on the fact that I wished I’d punched Becky from school in the face in 1993, when she said the best thing that could happen to me would be for me to be run over by a bus. I know we are told that violence solves nothing, but responding like that would’ve been really fucking satisfying.

Here is an example of my stream of consciousness, when I’m particularly batshit:
*Wake up, ears are ringing, head feels foggy for no reason*
‘This is going to be a terrible day.’
‘Don’t leave the house today because BAD THINGS WILL HAPPEN.’
‘The children won’t eat anything decent all day. Go on, give them the full sugar breakfast, and then they’ll get diabetes, and you’re going to feel like SHIT.’
‘Ooooh, what’s that on the news? Someone has a terrible illness? You better add that to the list of illnesses you need to be vigilant for, because the children can’t be left without a mother.’
‘Well, they could be, because you’re actually a shit one, and they’d be better off without you.’
‘In fact, if you did die, nobody would actually notice, because nobody really cares.’
‘Remember not to go out today, or if you do, just go to the park and stay in one corner, where you don’t have to talk to any other humans-you are shit at making friends, and you’ll make a dick of yourself.’
‘Oh, you’re looking forward to Mr W coming home are you? I don’t really know why he stays with you-you’re completely dragging him down. He should be with someone much prettier, thinner, funnier, and just, well, better, than you. He’ll probably be off at some point and then what will happen, you’ll have NOBODY.’
‘Stop snapping at the children, you used to be so patient. There’s another good quality you can tick off the list, that you don’t have anymore.’
‘Conserve energy for bedtime, because the children have decided that as you’re the worst mother ever, they’re going to bring you to your knees-you totes deserve it though, for being an all around crappy waste of space.’
‘By the way, while you’re being selfishly self absorbed with these thoughts, and only thinking about yourself, your mum told the eldest off for saying bugger. He’s replied with “it’s not as bad as fuck, nanny.” who swears in front of their fucking kids?’

Like I said-totally batshit. And it’s just soooooooo exhausting. I start every day feeling like I’ve run a marathon. Stuff hurts, that has no reason to be hurting. My eyes ache, my throat feels course, my stomach cramps, and my arms and legs feel like they’re made of lead. Everything sends me into fight or flight-even just handing over money at the till at the shop. The thought of coming to my laptop to write something, was making me feel sick. Plus, not going anywhere, and feeling like I was on the precipice of some kind of life destroying incident all the time, was becoming too much.

I went out last week to get my hair cut, which I was actually looking forward to, (I took this as a step forward,) until the hairdresser heard ‘can you please cut it a couple of inches below my shoulders,’ as ‘do whatever the fuck you want!!’ and gave me a long bob. I didn’t panic as much as I thought I would, about a) actually going there, and b) not being able to wear my hair in the bun it’s been sporting everyday for the last 5 years. It goes into a half bun now, so I resemble a mental hipster, minus ironic beard (unless you count the odd PCOS related chin hair flapping around.)

I’m also seeing a person. Someone actually qualified to deal with the mental. Someone taking my mental seriously, who has a plan. I feel better knowing there’s a plan, because although I’ve tried to embrace the crazy as being one of my quirks, and as a part of me, I also can’t and don’t want to, live with it to this extent anymore. So, it’s time to take a stand.

My youngest has turned three. I could lament about the loss of whom I was still calling my ‘baby,’ to threenagerdom, and how I was all upset and totes emosh (eurgh, what a phrase,) at him being my last baby, and there being definitely no more babies in the household. But I won’t, because his birthday party was comedy gold, and a critical analysis makes for much better reading. It was his party, and he was going to cry if he f***ing well wanted to.

We arrived at the venue, and were greeted by a cyborg bouncing human with energy and zest for life of a Duracell bunny who had OD’d on Red Bull and speed. She was actually amazing, and made me feel like a lethargic, depressed snail in comparison. She announced all the fun shit she had lined up, and eager eyes of the other parents all held a momentary glimmer of hope that they might be able to naff off to a corner for an hour, and munch interrupted on party rings and fondant fancies. Until, she uttered the words ‘you will be expected to stay with your children at all times, and join in with ALL the games, because *imagine this bit in a Mr Tumble-esque voice* it makes it more fun for everyone!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At this point, all the dads who had been forced to come along to the atrocities unfolding, looked as awkward as if their wives had walked in on them having that private lap dance that they had promised they’d never, ever have on that stag do. I later perused photos, and zoomed in on one dad in particular, and laughed maniacally at the face of a man who looked like he’d rather be chopping his own balls off with a rusty scalpel, than sing about parachuting to the land of make believe, while pretending bubbles were the happy tears of fairies. They just wanted to be watching the rugby, sinking pints until oblivion.

Pass the parcel became pass the ticking time bomb. Like someone with absolutely no integrity at all, I went against my own opinion that there should only be one present in pass the parcel-the one in the centre-won by whoever, and not the birthday boy-and I put a little gift in every layer. I acted like a tool, enforcing the idea in children that ‘there’s always a winner,’ and other bullshit that is making our society grow up into entitled little gits. I absolutely did that, all from buckling under the pressure to make the littlest’s party good. It backfired. The only protagonists in the backfiring, were my own children. Knowing that there was a selection of gifts of varying cheap crappiness available beneath the layers, they set their hearts on getting a ridiculous, non working watch, from the selection that I’d basically found in the dustbin at the toy shop (reduced so many times they were practically giving them away.) Of course, they were NEVER going to get those, and threw the wind up Nemos they got instead, across the room in a state of pure psychotic rage. Yep-there I am very much contributing to the entitled youths fucking up the country.

The eldest got over it, but the little one was in a place of no return-that witching hour style moaning and shrieking that made my eyes deaden and join the dads in looking like I wanted to scalpel the balls I very clearly don’t have. I thought that putting an end to the jolly games, and calming him down with my Pinterest cake that I’d laboured over when I would normally have been indulging my Netflix addiction, would get everyone (well, not everyone, just my two, as everyone else was being as well behaved as a Crufts winning dog who had been promised a steak for winning,) to calm the fuck down-especially as while talking to the youngest in my best faux kindly, but actually if-you-don’t-stop-being-a-little-dick hiss, he’d responded by landing a right hook to my nose that would’ve made Mohammed Ali run for the hills.

Yes, I know that the sugar would’ve done nothing to help the situation, but I was aiming to time the end of the party with the sugar hit meltdown, and whisk mine away to have a sugar fit in the car, where there would be no further judgment from our friends (I know they aren’t judging us really, but I’m paranoid.) But some absolute twonk scuppered my plans, by daring to give the now calm youngest, the birthday boy, a piece of cake that contained less chocolate buttons than the people sat either side of him. The world was against me. Giving zero fucks about anything other than his fair share of chocolate buttons, the little one let rip with the rage of a silver back gorilla entering a turf war.

It was at that point that I openly disowned him. My husband was shaking his head in abject disbelief at the behaviour of his offspring. I was a bizarre mixture of pleased that he finally witnessed what I have to put up with every single day, and mortified at the behaviour of my children. The screaming was placated with the correct amount of buttons on his slice of cake (and not with the time out that he should’ve had obvs, because reading this back makes me realise the litany of errors that makes me a shockingly push over parent, and the sole reason for their horrendous behaviour.)

Oh, I forgot there had also been musical statues-see ‘pass the parcel’ for a blow by blow account, just replace ‘pass the parcel’ with ‘musical statues’ instead.

We threw party bags at everyone, apologised profusely to our friends, and to the parents of nursery friends who we didn’t know, but were sure we’d never see again, and left the scene. I imagine the nursery friend parents will be speaking to the nursery leaders, to ask if they can make sure their children aren’t allowed within 20 feet of ours, and will be getting advice about restraining orders.

Me and Mr W responded by getting a babysitter that night, and going out for a debrief-our own party, involving vodka and Miss Millies.

There was once a woman who lived in the South of England. She was wife of a Keifer Sutherland lookalike, and slave to the role of parenting. Nobody ever listened to a word she said, or ate anything she cooked. She was either found repeating herself like a useless parrot, into an abyss, or trying to reduce the size of her cellulitic, insulin resistant ass, by #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and letting out a bit of wee.
She had started to wonder if she had anger management issues. She had always prided herself on being calm-in her old job as a nurse (pre #shabammingtheshitoutoflife and incontinent days,) she was often referred to as ‘the calm one,’ or ‘the kind one.’ Outwardly, she mused, she was probably still those things, except pretty much 99% of situations nowadays, led to her screaming a stream of expletives in her head, or into the abyss (98% of the time out of earshot of the children, but she was only human, and has let out the occasional shit and twat around them. They don’t listen to a word she says though, so it’s ok, they’ve never repeated it.)
Old ladies tutting at her moaning children in coffee shops-old her thinks: ‘oh gosh, I really must stop inconveniencing these poor people.’ New her thinks: ‘FUCK YOU, YOU CRUSTY OLD BINT.’
Her child at playgroup is trying to ride one of the bikes down a slope, with the moderate threat that he might fall off. Another mum tells him he shouldn’t be doing it. She tells him it’s ok. The other mum won’t leave it alone. Eventually the little one is crying because of the other mum’s persistence, eventually leading to her blocking his path. Old her thinks: ‘She only has his best interests at heart, she doesn’t mean to be completely annoying.’ New her thinks: See above.
She watches a barista put ice in her children’s drinks while taking them out for a treat. Old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, brace yourselves for the shit storm peeps! You’re just about to ruin my children’s day my love!’ New her thinks: ‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING?????? WHAT ARE YOU DOING??????? WHY ARE YOU NOT PSYCHIC, DON’T YOU REALISE MY CHILDREN HATE HAVING ICE IN THEIR DRINKS, AND WILL MOAN LIKE HILDA ACROSS THE ROAD DOES ABOUT HOW HER PILES, YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE!’
People moaning on Facebook, about the same things-old her thinks: ‘Oh dear, I hope they feel better for moaning about that for the millionth time.’ New her: ‘You stupid reprobates, just find some more meaning in your lives, for the love of God!’
And her current favourite-people making a huge announcement that they’re having a social media ‘clear out,’ old her thinks: ‘Oh gosh, I hope I’m not cleared out, I will wonder for years whatever I did to offend them.’ New her thinks: ‘If Jeffrey Dean Morgan followed me on social media, and announced he was having a clear out, and got rid of me, I’d be devastated, and would probably cry. ANYONE ELSE AND YOU DON’T NEED TO MAKE THE BIG BLOODY ANNOUNCEMENT!! JUST. STOP.
I’m sure you’re all getting the picture. She even has a friend she messages for certain rants, and asked that friend the other day, if she thought she had an anger management issue. Said friend kindly recommended a yoga DVD, and a headspace mindfulness app…
There could be many reasons for the woman’s ‘problem.’
She could maybe just not be walked over in the same way she had been accustomed to being.
She had previously astounded herself with the fierceness to protect her offspring, which made herfar less quiet than she had ever been-maybe this had carried on, and she was turning into the feisty woman she always wished she’d been.

Maybe she was starting to realise that she gave less of a crap about the less important things in life, and wished everyone else was the same.

Maybe being asked for snacks 5 minutes after every unfinished meal, had finally driven her round the twist.

Maybe the lack of personal space, proper working conditions, lack of adult company, and scrutiny of her every bowel movement for the last four years, had finally become too much.

Whatever the reason, she didn’t like it too much, and will be working on it over the next few weeks.

Just don’t say that this sometimes happens to ‘women of a certain age,’ she might punch you.