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Published: August 28th 2012
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That’s what I remember about Wales. Grey slate, grey houses, grey landscape and grey rain. Taking into account our recent experience in Cornwall and Graeme’s derisive comments about Summer in the UK I wasn’t about to have any other expectations.
It’s good to be proved wrong sometimes.
The Welsh flags were fluttering proudly on the castle’s towers as we walked across the bridge to Conwy. Having some insider knowledge (I was born in Old Colwyn after all) parking away from the throng in Llandudno junction we eyed the scudding clouds. Warm and windy, no rain forecast. An amazing few days break in the weather saw us here in North Wales for my cousin’s wedding. Being a jammy devil he had had a word, I’m sure and we had the first sunny day since Spring. He commanded and the jet stream lifted.
The Conwy valley in all its glory shone emerald in the sun, the sheep baaed noisily unable to work out what the yellow thing was in the sky. We had walked up behind Rowen on the edge of Snowdonia. Puffed; hill after hill after mountain rose up behind the ridge we were climbing.
So, jammy cousins
aside, here we were marching across the bridge in the sun.
North Wales, land of contrasts. In my quest to show Graeme the best it had to offer I should have avoided Kimmel Bay and environs. The Great British Public on the move. Straggling family groups dressed in anoraks trundling suitcases behind them, some hopefully dressed in summer frocks, boob tubes and shorts, refugees from the North attracted to field after field of mobile homes like so many magnetic iron filings.
Some of these were in evidence in Conwy as we viewed Aber Conwy house the oldest house in Conwy, 13
th century owned by Evan David a merchant, the only house to
survive the devastation during the Civil War. As usual merchants make money out of wars – either through collaboration or guile – a bit like Halliburton’s really.
Walking the walls around this incredibly preserved medieval city you marvel at its history, its stories, its use as a defence by the English, its unceremonious turfing out of the Welsh population from their homes.
Walking into the castle imposingly built on tumbled rocks by the estuary it seems hard to fathom that all these rocks
were hacked, shaped and placed to make the impenetrable walls of the castle in only four years. 15,000 pounds was the monetary cost but no mention of the labour force and the conditions under which they laboured.
No grey today, except for the stone. We sat in the sun at a café next to the castle entrance and congratulated ourselves. Graeme was smiling. ‘This is Summer,’ he said!
Heading down through Snowdonia we searched for a campsite.
Number one try: A serene view stretched across Tal-y-llyn lake. Nothing but a pub with a ‘Picknicking forbidden’ sign. Graeme didn’t like my chances of requesting their empty parking as a camping pitch.
Try number two: A rusty camping sign led into an overgrown field with a clapped out caravan parked in the corner, almost out of sight with waist high weeds. Next spot was full of boy sprouts and blue tents with more arriving who we had passed straggling along the road.
Third time lucky: An old man tooted us from a silver Peugeot as we swung down to the campsite. With yellowing grey hair, resembling a Gringott’s gnome he extracted himself slowly from the car and
asked if he could help us.
Price negotiated and agreed he escorted us to a level site across from a tumbling stream. He jerked his head towards the mountain rising steeply from behind the stream.
‘Cader Idris,’ he said, ‘you going to climb it tomorrow?’ Shaking our heads we took the proffered change from his gnarled and knobbly hands.
‘Don’t work as well as they used to,’ he said with a rueful grin folding himself back into the car and driving back to lay in wait for the next campers.
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D MJ Binkley
Dave and Merry Jo Binkley
We long to go to Wales
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