The Unwelcome Guest
I first met Rod and Jane Bell in Bristol in 1969. They were part of a large network of people involved in the Bristol music scene at the time. Rod had recently returned from San Francisco and Jane had been living in London. After they were married, they moved to Pembrokeshire in west Wales where they planned to convert Jane’s family home, Druidstone, into a Hotel. Druidstone is about fifteen miles south of St Davids and stands on the edge of a cliff with sensational views across a stunning bay. The house would make an ideal hotel and Rod and Jane possessed all the skills to make it work. Jane was a master chef and Rod could cook a wicked curry and had an intimate knowledge of wine. The house already had a sizable kitchen, a spacious entrance hall and plenty of bedrooms, so didn’t need any structural work. All that was required were some guests. So an ad was placed in Private Eye and they sat back and waited.
At last a couple rang and made a booking for a double room and evening meal. They were scheduled to arrive at about 9 pm one stormy winter’s night.
There were no staff to speak of – why would you need staff when there were no guests? There were however a couple of handymen/gardeners in attendance, and Rod’s brother Nick.
Rod and Jane didn’t want their first paying customers to arrive at a deserted, empty hotel, so prior to their scheduled arrival they asked the aforementioned handymen and brother to get in the bar and ‘create an atmosphere.’ This onerous task they took on with considerable enthusiasm. This was 1970 so it should come as no surprise to learn that all those present in the bar had shoulder length hair and were heavily whiskered (not Jane obviously). Outside the weather was worsening – what could possibly go wrong?
Our guests phoned a while later to say they had been delayed by the atrocious weather - they were riding the ferry from Roslare in Ireland to Fishguard, just a few miles from Druidstone. Meanwhile, with admirable dedication to duty, our friends in the bar continued stoically to ‘create an atmosphere’.
An hour later the guests had still not appeared – they phoned again – this time they were lost.
It’s 11.30pm by now and there certainly is ‘an atmosphere’ in the bar, suffice to say everyone was getting legless. There was a noise outside the window and our friends went to investigate. No, it wasn’t our guests - a pair of huge ears, a wet nose and a braying sound told them it was the donkey from the top field which had wandered down for a bit of company. The French windows were opened and the donkey was warmly welcomed into the bar where it was soon apparent it had a taste for beer. Our guests, meanwhile had finally found the right road.
It’s impossible to exaggerate the isolation of Druidstone. It’s an imposing building standing on the edge of a cliff, and miles from anywhere. As the exhausted couple finally steered their car into the long driveway thunder clouds were hovering ominously overhead. The furious sea was sending spray clean over the top of the cliffs and the rain was lashing down as they dashed from their car to the safety of the hotel.
They found themselves in a long dark corridor lit only by a few flickering candles, (there’d been a power cut) and the lightning flashes cast long eyrie shadows as they were led to their room by candlelight. The wooden shutters on the windows were flying open as the full fury of Mother Nature was unleashed. Somewhere outside a dog howled. (Come on - work with me here - It was a rough night. You can bet that somewhere a gnarled old fisherman was sucking on his pipe muttering, “I’ve never known a night like it!") The couple deposited their bags and were invited to repair to the bar while their food was being prepared. They were chatting happily as they made their way downstairs until they finally found themselves outside the bar.
The door slowly swung open and they took a few seconds to take in the grotesque tableaux in front of them.
A donkey was lying on its back, legs swinging in the air, braying contentedly. Four insane drunken hippies were on their hands and knees surrounding the creature, as if in some pagan ritual, two were stroking the donkey’s tummy, one was pouring beer into its mouth and the fourth was rolling around in uncontrollable hysterics.
The horrified couple stood there in the doorway, speechless, open-mouthed. Everyone in the bar froze. (Even the donkey!) The man tried to speak but no noise came out. Then – after a few moments – and very slowly - they turned - made their way silently back to their room - gathered their belongings - and fled into the cold dark night.