THE TALE OF THE TENBY SAUSAGE - PART 1

Shy gazed at his train ticket guiltily! He was embarrassed, to say the least, having errr-ed again by allowing himself to use to those primal urges; his Ancient Yeti powers. He'd been born with them, but never, until recently, succumbed to using them. Still, the ticket had been expensive and the rail service poor! Why should those bonus eating, fat cats get hold of his money when they didn’t seem to care less about their passengers? Anyway, that wasn't the point – or was it? He'd not paid a penny for his ticket, instead beamed furrily and done his extra-special Yeti eye-trick which seemed to make people do whatever he wanted!! Nice if you can manage it. Yet it also still felt very wrong to have done so…

Shy was well on his way now, though. He was on the last part of his journey from Camarthen to Tenby, to begin a new adventure. He didn’t mean to settle in Wales for very long - this was just his first step out of London. He'd recently left behind his friend Anthony, having had a little trouble with another pal, the infamous Danbear, who had become a Monsterous Casserole and destroyed Ant’s flat! Having lived through all that, he fancied doing something a little different and had left a Cub of his acquaintance, named Luke in charge back home and headed off. His life from now on would be that of a wanderer. So, this was a good start – giving his previously dull and directionless routine some well needed perk. Previously he'd been an office bound Yeti - a P.A. for the legendary Simon Yeti – an actor of some renown. Of course, Shy was a poet too - a country lad who didn't much like the city…

Today he was a Yeti with a mission – with a reason to travel - heading for the sea. A rather mad, quite possibly foolish mission, sure enough, but then what Yeti wouldn't trundle the lengths and breadths of Britain, or anywhere really, in pursuit of some good old-fashioned nosh. Some folk chose the Ibiza sun - but a Yeti... Well, a Yeti is guided by the gurglings of his stomach. That's the truth. End of story.

Shy was in search of the Tenby sausage. Why this, you may ask? It sounds a little tenuous a reason to go gallivanting around Wales in search of, I'll agree. But, as discussed, Shy had been looking for an excuse to get away and this first destination was a starting point - this inane pursuit as good as any.

“Well, they were VERY good sausages!” he reminded himself, having been unable to raise the manufacturers by phone. “I'm not going to get any more in a hurry unless I go, collect them myself!”
They were indeed a pretty specialist product and to say they were hard to get hold of, would probably have been a gross understatement, it’s true. They were a MAIL ORDER ONLY luxury that Anthony had obtained for one of his fine casseroles, the remains of which they'd finally chobbled in the ruins of his flat, after the Casserole beast had been defeated (or at least subdued for the time being!) Alas, so soon - the sausages were all eaten and Shy was left with a craving for more and desperate to satisfy his fancy. There was no address on the wrapper, only a logo incorporating a photo of the sausage being lovingly cradled by its creator. “God help me if they're made in Swindon or Woking or something, after all this!” Shy had mused. How wide a range or exactly what flavour he’d eaten only the Tenby Sausage Company themselves knew – for that part of the wrapper had, rather annoyingly, been lost.
“Ooops sorry! Mind my guy ropes there in your tea, lad! Can I interest you in tickets for the festival?”

“Err no – not really!” the voice seemed hesitant but then leveled. “No ta, I’m not interested, mate!”

Shy looked up from his daydreaming and noticed that a man, bedecked with half a campsite on his person, had entered their carriage. Pots and pans hung from every hook on his ruck sack, with what may well have been a compact marquee strapped to his back. He was bothering a rather handsome young cub in a Muse t-shirt, who was far more intent on reading his NME and listening to his MP3s than getting involved in a conversation with any eccentric camping freak who might pass by.

“Go on! You'll love my Alternative Tenby festival - we'll be having all your favourite bands there...”

“What if my favourite band was The Beatles...” replied the guy stubbornly. “Or Nirvana…”

“Oh, they'll be there... Well – I’ll make sure the Tribute acts are, anyway! Oh come on - buy a ticket!”

But the cub wasn't listening. “I really won't have the time - I'm travelling here on other business...”

Campsite guy almost laughed, noticing the label on the Cub's rucksack he wasn't letting this victim go. “Come on Mr Barrie Timbearcub! Baz... You're telling me you're not interested in seeing all your favourite bands at my festival? It's not just music, but authors and actors and playwrites and painters!”

“I really don't think so... Honestly… No, thank you.” Baz smiled awkwardly and returned to his paper.

“Well, think about it! My name's Cary McFur - I'm sure we'll run into each other again at some stage!”

“Do you reckon so? I was rather hoping we wouldn’t - bye now!” Baz snapped, quite bluntly, but Cary didn't seem to notice his withering gaze and shuffled away, leaving the Cub to read in peace.

McFur was coming his way, “Can I interest you...” But Shy cut him dead the only way he knew how - stood up to him as only a Yeti can. With a deep booming snore Shy quite blatantly faked being asleep.

*
It was about ten minutes later that the train pulled in at Tenby Station and pretty much all passengers on board disembarked. At first Shy was convinced that the town had undergone an invasion attempt by seagulls. For a good quarter of an hour that was all he saw everywhere – sitting on bins – on cars and rooftops, as if they'd swoop on down any minute, to pluck and fly off with the locals and tourists to some far off concentration nest run by birds. (Hollywood disaster movie meets Alfred Hitchcock!) The gulls were everywhere. They sat on railings and squawked, some circled menacingly overhead, whilst others still ripped open bin bags to scavenge for food – rather like feathered, web-footed students...

Shy had not made a prior reservation before arriving, but decided to try his luck at the closest B&B to the Station; The Kingsbridge. A lot of the bigger hotels overlooking the bay looked like they'd been invaded by the blue rinse brigade - and the last time Shy had gotten blue rinse in his fur he'd had to shave it all off because the dye had made him hallucinate, until he’d believed he was a bunny named Bernard and had nearly been shot trying to steal carrots from a farmers garden. Anyway, this B&B was close, seemed reasonably quiet and had a free room, at a cheap price. He’d gone and paid three nights in advance, not being totally sure how long he'd stay. Not only was his room very spacious and well decorated, but the owner was helpful with directions and advice. His name was Steve, a shortish gentleman with a Midland's accent, a goatee beard and a liking for dressing with a look that can best be described as “1970s Panto Dame...” It was a look he did with great style and panache, however.

After a afternoon of show tunes and french fancies, Shy felt very much part of the family - so at ease that he decided to ask the big question. “I was wondering, Steve, if you knew the address of the Tenby Sausage Company or for that matter any restaurant hereabouts that would serve them, frazzled?”

Steve's manner seemed to change ubruptly, becoming distant and almost defensive, “I'm not sure what you mean, Yeti... If it's high quality meat products you require then I can recommend a number of establishments around here that would serve you a Pembroke Sizzler or a Bangor Banger - but I'm not aware of any company nor brand produced exclusively here in Tenby..." Shy even showed him the wrapper but it didn't seem to help. Steve soon excused himself and vanished into his private boudoir to listen to “Either some Dolly, some Barbara or the latest collection of thrash classics by The Locust...”

Shy bid Steve good afternoon and headed on out. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, nor give up so easily. On the way up the hill into town Shy noticed Baz, the Cub from the train, stood in front of a joke shop called GIGGLES. He was peering intently at the appallingly inaccurate rubber masks of once great film and TV stars, popstars and celebrities on show. It was rather obvious that they’d not been selling well as most of the supposed stars were either long dead or had faded into obscurity. Shy really couldn’t imagine why the young fella could be that interested in masks of Mickey Mouse’s mother-in-law, “That awful woman from Big Brother” nor “Some bloke, trampled by elephants whilst picking blackberries on Hampstead Heath!” Actually, in fact he seemed quite in a daze over them!!

Shaking his head, Shy sighed and ambled on into town…

At this point I would love to describe Tenby to you… However, I will admit that description isn’t my strong point and Tenby is so very pretty that the detail would take me weeks. It would make it much easier for me really, if you just went and visited yourself, though I realize that this involves a long journey and financial commitment on your part - when I should just accept my responsibility and properly describe the place. But could you cope with that? Pages of waffle about sea, sun and sky, of the architecture or the quality of the pastel painted buildings by the quay. You could, of course, go and take a look on the internet for photos. After all – I could be lying; an agent for the Tenby tourist board. Stranger things have happened! Tenby’s a quaint town with cobbled streets, small cafes, lush sandy beaches and boat trips which allow for admiration of the local bays. There are views from every point; on the High Street overlooking the harbour, from restaurant balconies and hotel windows looking off towards Saundersfoot or Caldey, from the old Castle Hill to either the North or South bays or down to St. Catherine’s Island. I know a few old seaside towns and Dunbar is a particular favourite, but I wouldn’t swap you the views of any other place for those Shy saw that sunny evening in early June.

However our heroic Yeti, rather sadly – didn’t truly appreciate the view - for he was still far more interested in his stomach and more specifically the mission in hand – the hunt for the Tenby sausage…

“I’m afraid we don’t sell those, Sir…” explained the man at the Supermarket dryly.

“Well, have you actually heard of the brand, at all?”

“I’m afraid not Sir… But we do have a Tom Cat and Melon Flan that’s rather a local speciality…”

“I don’t think so…” replied Shy, rather alarmed. “No thank you! I’ll maybe leave that one this time!”

After this Shy tried a couple of other shops before they shut for the day, but found a similar lack of enlightenment at every turn. “We have Squirrel and Seaweed Pate – but that’s about it!” declared one.

At the last shop he visited he even tried some Yeti Magic, (to gain some undivided attention, mind!) but Betty, the old lady who ran the place had very little to add. “I’m not aware of anyone who sells sausages made here in Tenby, Sir… We’ve certainly never sold them! It’s possible that one of the restaurants makes their own or someone from out of town is cashing in on our name…” he’d shown her the wrapper he carried with him but she was still none the wiser. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of them, dear. Were they nice? Do you know what they were made of? I love a good sausage, myself!”

This, of course, was a very good point! He still didn’t know that and had thought only briefly on the subject, as yet. He’d noticed how tasty, tangy and meaty they were – rather like chicken breast, but with the smooth aftertaste of duck – a hint of Pork – leek and some spices. Of course when he’d had it as part of the casserole it had been cooked with tomatoes and vegetables in a sauce – fried with green and red peppers, heaped with mushrooms and serviced with butter drizzled new potatoes and broccoli.

Shy was beginning to think that he’d drawn a blank when something Betty had said about restaurants crossed his mind. Maybe – just maybe, there was a place that served up local traditional dishes…

“You’re a marvel, Yeti!” he informed himself modestly. “How will they ever cope without you back home in London? They won’t quite frankly – they’re going to just crash and burn. Poor fellas…”

It didn’t take Shy long to find a restaurant that served a range of regional goodies – in fact there was even one that overlooked the harbour and openly advertised a speciality sausage! It was just off the High Street – next door to a pub where the locals were having a sing song. The restaurant had a half bar, half café feel to it and was called Pam-Ann’s. It had a casual, yet smartly decorated style, with red chequered cloths and a polite waiter service. The walls boasted a couple of sea-side scenes and a rather moth eaten looking ship-in-a-bottle took pride of place. Music was being piped in from the kitchen – inoffensive 60s ballads, a bit of Shirley Bassey, some Petula, Lulu, Cilla, Sandy Shaw and the divine Dusty (one of Shy’s particular favourites of that era.) But he wasn’t in the mood tonight… Shy was usually quite a patient Yeti, but not since his concussion and certainly not on this particular occasion.

“I’d like a Tenby sausage, please…” he declared when the waiter came to take his order and he held up the wrapper which he’d brought from Anthony’s flat. “I presume you sell this variety or something very similar – apparently they’re made locally!” the waiter looked at him disapprovingly, “Chop! Chop!” snapped Shy, “A Tenby sausage with new potatoes and summer vegetables – hold the gravy and I won’t be requiring any mustard… I need to savour the unique taste of these babies! Gravy’s nice on a roast, but it can rather drown a sausage! Mustard has it’s place, but on your everyday banger it most often ends up smothering things – though I am rather fond of the French variety…”

“But Sir… There are many… I’m not sure you quite understand…”

Shy didn’t really care how many varieties there were. At least they served them! It was a start. He didn’t want to have to use his powers on the waiter so simply repeated. “I require a sausage – made here in Tenby by local Tenbyites… In fact not just one or two – but twelve please – I’ll happily pay the extra… Skin sizzled to a crisp, please! Firm to the knife!” The waiter nodded meekly and departed to the kitchen to dispatch the order. “Eureka!” he cheered. “At last, I have found what I came for!”

Shy sat waiting, watching as a group of tourists mulled about waiting for a ghost tour to begin, just outside on the High Street. The tour advertised local tales of hauntings from ghostly underwear to Phantom Porpoise – it really did look too good to be true, thought the Yeti. Glancing down at his poetry notepad Shy began to play around with one or two lines of a new composition, “The waiting staff at Pam-Ann’s all have brains made out of cheese… They simply NEVER listen and do not seem to wanna please…” He wasn’t 100% sure it scanned and decided to give up and to try again later… Looking up again he heard a commotion in the kitchen. He could smell the familiar waft of sausages frying (So much nicer than by grill!) and also caught the sight of a rather cross looking chef giving him evils through the serving hatch. Shy gave far harder evils back and the man soon vanished again.

“Ho hum!” pondered Shy. Something about his order was causing concern. Had he spoken too soon? Would he ever get to taste those heavenly bangers again and why on earth was there so much mystery surrounding such food? What on earth was the secret ingredient which made them so very unique?

Hopefully, in the next minute or so he’d have the answer, quite literally, served on a plate for him!!

FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS NEXT WEDNESDAY IN PART TWO OF SHY YETI AND THE TALE OF THE TENBY SAUSAGE!!!!