The Angle Regatta

I glimpse the faces of the mostly young migrant workers as four full coaches leave the power station construction site as the Saturday shift ends. It is a familiar sight in agriculture back home — the grime of total exhaustion tempered with relief and uncertainty is typical of this super exploitable workforce- out here, as I finish my long lovely motorcycle ride to this finger of rock, it is somehow a surprise. I have just passed the MOD firing range on my left, with its observation towers, flagpoles and rusty shell holed tanks — a haven of wildlife which eventually gives way to the fine golden sands and the riptide of Freshwater West, where ravens grunt overhead and the red blue cliffs will soon to be topped with luminous yellow gorse. I throttle back give up speed and position for safety as the spinal road narrows with oncoming tractor trailer and camper van, all smiles and politeness. To my right the deep port blue sound of Milford Haven is presided over by big oil and the incomprehensibly large tankers that ply frozen gas all the way from Qatar to Pembrokeshire.

The flotilla has already cast off as I pick my way around massive potholes and the friendly throng along the lane. The Old Point House — a splendid little 15th century pub often cut off by high tide, is still serving pirates a decent pint. The hillside has sprouted a forest of tents, the pub a majestic marquee, food stalls and a much-in-demand extra outside bar. Children catch crabs off the jetty. The few English accents seemed to fade away as the leisure boat captains retire and I fall into discussion with an ex-refinery worker. He left after the 1994 explosion because he “just didn’t feel safe working there any more”. Now he’s “struggling a bit”, he smiles at his young daughter “I still feel better off”. The catchy traditional sea shanties and full acoustic country set has started in the front bar and the rock band is cranking up outside. The beer is flowing in impressive quantities by the time friends finally arrive en route to Ireland. We are talking with a farmer’s wife, tonight’s only designated driver, of farming. She is apologetic “we have to cover the fields in plastic to stay competitive see” but I have tasted her Pembrokeshire new potatoes cooked within an hour of harvest and can say they are like nothing a supermarket has ever sold me. She is hopeful her daughter is going to get into the RAF- I think Afghanistan and bite my tongue. She is also a nurse on the cancer ward, although it’s “a wonderful and rewarding job” she is worried that if the beds get cut it’ll no longer be viable. Predictably I can contain myself no longer and launch into what natural optimism and selective memory holds to have been “An Eloquent and Erudite Dissection of the ConDems Dastardly Plans to Privatize the NHS to the Detriment of The Common People And Why It Must Be Stopped”. “I’m not much for politics” came the reply, tempered with a sigh of tolerance, “less of us will be working harder whilst the same people at the top will be doing the just the same thing but for more won’t they? I mean it’s always the same isn’t it? It’s just the way things are”.

The queue at the bar is a steady eight deep on three sides as Rob and his young crew cheerfully and efficiently work their socks off hour after hour. The assembled throng gets ever louder and increasingly inebriated. However, the refinery workers, electrical subcontractors, fishermen, shopworkers, soldiers, trawler crew, wives and girlfriends, students and farmworkers, man and boy, women and girl, young and old, local and visitor, all get on famously it seems- I don’t hear a crossed word all night- which is pretty unique. A familiar bassline resonates inside and draws and us out of the sweat into the cool night sea air. Against the surreal backdrop of the bunting clad boats and the malevolently picturesque flaming stacks of industry we all dance, as the band pulls off a fine version of Pink Floyd’s plaintively ambivalent Mon-aaaay…. it’s a gas….

Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash….

Mon-aaaay…. It’s a crime
share it fairly but don’t take a slice of my pie

Mon-aaaaya…. so they say
is the root of all evil to-day
but if you ask for a pay rise it’s no surprise that they’re giving none away, away, away, away, awaaay…

Nestling here in a crux of the Military Industrial Complex, we seem to be simultaneously in possession of the best and worst of worlds.

The Point House and an LNG Tanker © Paul Box