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Published: December 22nd 2008
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Snot green sea
The Irish Sea off Llandudno. Hello there. Happy Christmas. Sorry it's been a while.
You'll be pleased to know that the world has lost none of its magic since I stopped gallavanting around and started being serious and professional. I've had a string of visitors (sorry but I'm about to impose a two-night only rule on staying at our house) and have visited such exciting places as Milan and, er, Somerset.
The latest visitor has been Kate. In fact, she's still here, and still giggling. These are some photos from our trip to Wales last week. The plan had been to go walking in Snowdonia, one of the wettest spots in the UK, which makes it pretty wet. But something resembling to pneumonia laid rest to that idea - and it turns out snow and ice would have been another obstacle had we tried - but we still had a lovely time with the Taffies.
The train took us to Llandudno (pronounced with a delightful puff of air at the start) which is not where we wanted to go. I had meant to book to Llanberis. The town was a niceish Victorian seaside resort anyway. Lonely planet dubs it 'costa geriatrica', but the
Fancy a dip?
The river through Betws-y-Coed. A sign nearby said swimming was prohibited. average age must have been no more than a sprightly 72.
From there the plan was to take a train to Betws-y-Coed (Betsy-koyd) except the man at the ticket office told us the trains were not running and we would need to catch a bus. Really, the trains were running, but by the time we went to take it up with the ticket seller, he had shut his office and gone home early for the afternoon. When our train did finally pull into Betws at about 5pm, we nearly missed the station, because it was so dark we concluded the train had stopped in the middle of nowhere.
We asked directions to our bunkhouse from one of about seven outdoor shops in town (heaven) and were told it was next to another outdoor shop. The only apparent guest in the building was busy stringing up electrical wiring in our room. His name was Tom - fitting the general pattern for all the Welshmen I've ever met - and he turned out to be an electrician staying for a couple of days to install reading lights. Later two other guests emerged - Englishmen Phil and Jim - and a
Kate Lord
...bushwalker extraordinaire. Northumbrian barman. Which is about the ratio of guest to barman that I like.
Soup and sleep were on the cards that evening. I had a fever and Kate had a cough, making for a pretty rough night. So we slept in late the next day, only managing to totter up the river for an hour or two before crashing back to bed. We then got out again, and caught the bus to the foot of Snowdon, to feel bad about the magnificent mountains we couldn't climb. We did make it to the pub, however. And I had my first taste of partridge. 'Just to warn you, it might contain lead shot', the waitress kindly told me.
Either the whiskey or the lead worked magic overnight and the next day I was feeling considerably healthier. Since walking was still out, I caught the bus to nearby Blanau Ffestiniog. I wanted to go there partly because Bill Bryson went there and said it was ugly, and partly because the Lonely Planet author went there and said it was ugly. In fact, it's so ugly the national park was drawn up to specifically exclude the town. Kate wasn't enticed.
Faerie land
Forest outside Betws-y-Coed. Clouds closed in as the bus descended into Blanau Ffestiniog. We passed mine after mine, and entire mountain ranges of unwanted rock. The rain gave the slate an oily sheen, and the town definitely looked like it might have a higher-than-average suicide rate. But perhaps it was just because everyone spoke Welsh. The name, by the way, rolls of the tongue - it's blanny festiniog. However once the scenic steam train had puffed away, the town was nearly empty, and the only interesting things to see were some garbage bins full of water, some empty milk bottles, and some very nice rock (slate) walls.
Back to Betws-y-Coed, then, where I resolved to go and see the ugly house. This had been pointed out to us by a very nice climber from Llandudno, who had given us a lift back to town from the base of Snowdon, where we had been waiting for the bus the previous night. I know, shouldn't accept lifts from strangers, but how can you not trust a man with a Welsh accent and an ice axe in the back of his car? But back to the ugly house, apparently in 'olden days', if you could
End of autumn
Beech leaves clinging on well past the fall. build a house overnight and have smoke coming out he chimney by morning, you could claim the land on which it was built. Aesthetically, these houses leaved a little to be desired, due to the lack of light and all that - hence the name 'ugly house'. Besides, if your neighbour threw up a house overnight when you'd been slaving away for weeks on yours, you would probably feel compelled to point out a few flaws.
Sadly, the ugly house was a bit further out of town than I remembered, and it began to bucket down. So I visited a waterfall instead, before heading back to town, checking out some outdoor shops, buying a Christmas present for Kate and going to bed early again.
Another morning, another destination. Cardiff was next on the travel map and we had to leave town at 7am to get there. When I'd booked tickets online, the system told me the closest station was Bangor, so off we went to Bangor. But two hours later we were on the train to Cardiff, chugging past Betws-y-Coed again. Bangor does have a nice bakery, though.
Wales' snazzy new capital was quite a contrast with
Snowdonia
The start of the walk up Snowdon. Snowdonia - and for the record, was nothing like Middlesbrough either, which is what the co-habitants of our bunkhouse Jim and Phil had claimed. Overflowing with shoppers, screaming out Christmas sales, and full of vomit splatters... it seems Cardiffians (or whatever) like to play hard. We joined them - at the national museum and then with toffee apples at the ice-skating rink - before yet another early night.
Come morning we decided it was time to see a castle, of which we'd spotted countless without visiting. Cardiff Castle seemed just too easy, so we walked up the scuzzy Taff River to Castell Coch. This was a summer residence of the Marquis of Bute (who must have spent very little time on Bute) and is set among a beech forest about 7km out of town. We then caught the bus to Caerphilly Castle, which is being restored from ruins, and claims to be the largest 13th century castle in Britain. I think. A few taunting Frenchmen on the turrets would have looked quite appropriate.
It was a bit surprising to find a Scottish piper inside, but somebody was having their rather lavish wedding ceremony. I guess if you've been
Snowdonia again
Taking a windy rest. daydreaming about weddings in castles then you don't care too much about geographical accuracy. They also had a white horse, white carriage, and pink bridesmaids. Which just shows money and good taste don't necessarily go hand in hand.
Finally, our last day, before I go pick up some Indian takeaway... We trained it to Abergavenny. We climbed a hill. It was nice. We were nearly blown clear off the top. We came down again. The mysterious delight of hill-walking proved itself yet again. Then we caught the train back to London.
The next adventures are Yorkshire over Christmas, Scotland over New Year, Paris and Dublin in January, and Slovenia at the start of February, so check back sometime soon!
All the best for 2009.
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Andrew
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Another fine piece of writing. Oh, and thanks for de-mystifying hill climbing for the readers.