Things we discuss

The verges are filled with cow parsley in full bloom. Tall, white, and blowsy, it's the opposite of the fragile violet that you have to really look to see. I think it's lovely and marks the move from spring to summer wild flowers.

I couldn't remember what it was called and asked Husband. 'I only know it as Dead Man's Meat, because it used to grow in cemeteries,' he said.

Looking it up when we returned I discovered that nickname must have been peculiar to his part of the country. Most commonly it was referred to as Queen Anne's Lace or, more often, Mothers Die.

The legend was that if you took the flowers into your home your mother would die. At least this is what mothers told their children to stop them picking it, or rather to stop them picking the very similar but deadly hemlock.

It's a member of the carrot family and the dry stalks were often used as pea-shooters too.

Fascinating not least the fact that in the state of Washington it is included as a Class B Noxious Weed.

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On another walk I commented that it was strange that this particular stream meandered across parallel to the sea to join another stream, rather than go straight down the hill to the sea. I wondered if it were because land had been reclaimed from the sea. From there we talked about land reclamation, which led us to the pub my great-grandfather was born in.

This old photo shows the pub in Mumbles with boats laid up opposite it. Soon after that the coming of the railway to Mumbles led to the reclamation of land across the road from the pub.

Our discussion then led us to the naming of my great-grandfather. Bear with me, I'll get to the point in a minute now.

From the middle of the nineteenth century, Swansea Bay was a hub for sailing regattas, with many rich and famous people visiting and participating. One of those was a high-ranking Turkish military officer, a Pasha.

At the time of his visit my great-great-grandfather was landlord of the pub seen in the photos. Allegedly this is how the story goes.

Some people drinking in the pub said the Pasha had left the village. My ancestor said that he hadn't and a wager was made. After money had been put on the table my great-great-grandfather went upstairs and came back down with his new-born son. 'Meet Hobart Pasha Honey,' he said, before whisking away the cash before the punters could argue with him.

I never met my great-grandfather but he led an interesting story-tale life, maybe inspired by his unusual naming circumstances.