It Is Just Not Criccieth

---

The rained lashed down, as I parked up on the promenade. It was our final night. The thermometer dipped for a brief spell, whilst the water bounced off the windscreen. In many ways, it was a relief from the scorching hot sunshine and high temperatures of the week. Complain? We shouldn't really, but us Brits always have one eye on the weather. How many times could you spend a week in North Wales and have wall to wall sunshine and temperatures in the mid to high 20s. It was 1976 all over again. We were booked in for a meal at Dylans on the foreshore. The splendid building at the far end of the esplanade has all the hallmarks of an art deco classic - the modernist architecture of the 1930s in the period leading up to the Second World War. You could quite easily imagine one of those period posters with a 1930s motor - all shiny chrome and wire wheels - parked out front, advertising the highlife in Criccieth as Europe ws about to descend into chaos. However, appearances can be deceptive. The building was only completed in 1954 - the work of architect, Clough Williams Ellis. Ellis designed the pavillion in 1948 and had plans for a much grander entrance, than the finances for the build allowed. The architect was more widely associated with the fantasy world of the Portmeirion village just down the coast. The architecture is all curves to take advantage of the views out to sea with floor to ceiling windows - the Castle on the headland dominating the foreground. The early title was the Morannedd Cafe. One of the early owners of the building was Billy Butlin. He used to bus in his holidaymakers from a nearby camp for tea dances, as part of his entertainment programme. Dylans - a small local chain of restaurants - and masters of purposing classic buildings for current use, acquired the place in 2015. In theory Dylans are a local seafood emporium, but the menu is wide and varied. The clientele was equally varied - locals enjoying a drink at the bar, the office girls enjoying a cheeky cocktail overlooking the Tremadog Bay and diners. All importantly, they are a dog friendly establishment and Vera was allowed inside at a limited number of tables. We'll come back to Criccieth later.

Our Harlech base proved a good base to springboard both North and South. Snowden itself would have to wait for cooler weather. It was way too warm to take on that challenge, added to the fact that our four legged friend only has short legs. She might be less than 6 kg, but carrying her up the 2nd steepest street in the world was far enough. We skirted past the signs for the not so dog friendly environment of Portmeirion. There is a dog cemetery in Portmeirion and apparently people in residence there have pets, so their dog ban is a bit extreme. The Other Half had been keen to go, but we now adopt the rule of "no Vera no us". Another 2 day ticket revenues lost. We spoke by chance to another couple in Porthmadog on the same subject. The lady of the house had put a scathing review on a well known website to vent her feelings, having being denied entry with their golden labrador. It was all happening in Porthmadog on this sunny morning. The main focus was around the Railway Station or more precisely on the Ffestioniog & Welsh Highland Railway. Rail enthusiasts were boarding their preferred services, pulled by steam engines - others were just perusing the old engines and carriages. What were once industrial workhorses are now tourist gold. The Ffestiniog route runs the 13 mile trip to the former headquarters of slate, Blaenau Ffestiniog. The railway is the oldest narrow guage in the world, climbing over 700 feet from the harbourside at Porthmadog. Although dog friendly, Vera decided for us that we would rather do other things. We wandered along the main street in town, which was surprisingly bouyant. This small town is the centre of retail in the area and home to the supermarkets and banks. It is quite relaxed, with the majority of traffic avoiding the town centre in favour of the bypass on the northern side of town. We ascertained the location of our provision hunting for later and did a photo shoot by the new football ground on the bypass. Ma' Dog Football Club was obviously a must for the Non League Dog in the household.

It was a "big birthday" for the Other Half, so we were looking for a nice pub for lunch .... preferably beachside or overlooking the sea. The Llyn Peninsula offered many opportunities. We settled for the Ty Coch Inn at Porthdinllaen on the North side. Porthdinllaen is a tiny village - no more the 20 houses or so and the pub at the centre. It is National Trust owned. Cars are banned, apart from just a few with resident permits. Visitors therefore mainly arrive on foot - a significant number along the beach at low tide. The National Trust car park relieves you of your £5 fee, with the nearby Golf Club offering an alternative source of parking should they not have a tournament or a busy membership day. Vera is no stranger to the sands and set off with purpose towards lunch.

The Ty Coch pub regularly crops up in travel reviews and wins awards in the "Best Pub in Wales" sort of category. You usually expect some fancy joint in the Caribbean to run off with "Best Beachside Bar", but the Ty Coch gets a look in there too. It really is quite unique and worth that walk. The pub operates a walk in customer policy, so it is mainly a suck it and see approach to finding a table. The gameplan seems to be get there early. Food is served from 12 noon and I would say all tables were occupied ... inside and out .... by 12.15. Disappointed punters continued to roll up on a regular basis, whilst we were in situ. Planning pays dividends. The hand pulled real ale was an absolute must. It was a real shame that the car was required for our return journey. The food menu is basic and limited, but very appealing. The ploughmans went down a storm, although I suspect that some rock up expecting a full on gastro pub experience having seen a write up in a glossy magazine. Go! Enjoy it for what it is! Porthdinllaen might be tiny today, but once had grander plans. The early 19th Century saw it proposed as a Gateway to Ireland. The village is as far west as Holyhead, but the road schemes by Thomas Telford saw the latter win out. The railways never came, shipbuilding ended and the village (and pub) were lost in time. Tourism now rules, although it has doubled as a Scottish fishing village in a Demi Moore film in 2004. Has anybody seen Half Light? We retraced our steps back along the beach to the real world, leaving our table to 2 grateful latecomers and a further wander round the Llyn Peninsula. It is strange to think that the trucks that now roll towards Ireland via Anglesey, could have been here in this quiet backwater.

I was sort of expecting busy traffic on the peninsula, given the weather. However, it was generally calm. The exception was Abersoch, which looked like it was competing for the "Devon and Cornwall" market. The local population is technically only in the region of 1,000, but swells ..... pardon the pun ..... with the surfing community and holiday home crew. The waves at the nearby beaches are the main attraction for the surfing contingent, where apparently decent consistency is to be found. The parking options were limited, so we retreated to Pwllheli.

As we had never been further West than Llandudno, it seemed logical to go up to Anglesey to have a look at the reason why the ambition of Porthdinllaen came to nothing. First, there was the obligatory photo stop outside the former home of Bangor City on the edge of town. A groundsman was busy manicuring the turf, which seemed to suggest that the phoenix club - Bangor 1876 - rising out of he ashes of the defunct Bangor City would be back in residence at Nanporth this season. Vera got a quick walk round the nearby Treborth Botanic Gardens just up the road. The Menaii Strait separates Anglesey from the mainland and was spanned by Telford's bridge in 1826. The correct title is the Menaii Suspension Bridge - to distinguish it from the town of Menaii Bridge. At 170 odd metres, it was the ultimate in suspension bridge engineering when construction was started in 1819. The site was chosen for the steep cliffs either side of the Strait, which allowed sailing ships to pass underneath. The local geography gives it a striking appearance. The bridge has had its fair share of problems over the years and had only reopened to traffic after the most recent in February 2023.

Vera was probably wondering when she was next going to be asked to photo bomb another Castle. We skipped Beaumaris on Anglesey and headed to Caernarfon ..... the Royal Town of Caernarfon to give it a proper title. I remember watching the investiture of Charles as Prince of Wales on the tele way back when I was a boy, but at the time had no idea where it was was or of it's significance. After Edward I went on his Castle building spree in this part of the world in the 13th century, Caernarfon effectively became the ruling centre of North Wales. The English cemented their power over the locals through the fortified towns, but this town was the local centre of government. We chanced on a plaque by one of the gates leading into the old city, which confirmed that the building was the old Exchequer. I would have guessed that Prince of Wales investitures over time had all been held here, but it was only 1911 that MP and local boy made good, David Lloyd George gave permission for it to happen in the Castle. It was only in 1955 that Cardiff beat Caernarfon to be formally confirmed as the capital of Wales ....... 136 votes to 11. If the Castle at Harlech could be classed as a medieval ruin, Caernarfon is still very much in good shape. It houses the Museum of the Welsh Fusiliers. We didn't go inside, because Vera wasn't welcome. The Castle overlooks the marina below, but alas the sun was in the wrong place for the iconic photo across the water. We moved up to Caste Square. A statue of Lloyd George gazes over proceedings from this vantage point. He was brought up nearby in the village of Llanystumdwy and lived there until he was 16. A Lloyd George Museum can be found on the main street - it was closed for maintenance. On the edge of the wood by the river, his tomb sits in a copse just off the road. The tomb and the Museum were designed by Clough Ellis. We headed into the wood to give Vera a walk. A family were playing hide and seek - counting was in Welsh, "Coming Ready or Not" was in English. At the end of holiday, I was similarly watching a Welsh national football game on S4C - the Welsh language channel. After a description of play in Welsh, the commentator then said "Come on Lads" in English. Mix and match is the way forward.



We had received various recommendations during our week of places to visit. One that cropped up all the time was the village of Beddgelert - literally Gelert's Grave. A local legend forms around the actions of a faithful hound, Gelert, who was slain by his master in error. The master returns from hunting to find the dog covered in blood and mistakenly he had attacked his sleeping infant. The blood actually came from a wolf, which the dog had fought off protecting the infant. It is said the tomb was then built by the master to pay homage to the slain hound. The reality was it was constructed by the landlord of the Goat Inn in the 17th century to attract tourists to the village. On an overcast midweek afternoon, the village had a lot of visitors so it should indeed be indebted to the former landlord.

We come full circle to Criccieth with its row of colourful houses overlooking the bay. The tourists wander the promenade and gaze at the Castle. Harlech or Caernarfon it is not, but impressive nonetheless. I am sure we will return to the Llyn Peninsula.

Our journey home was via Blaenau Ffestiniog - the former slate capital - which looked a little sorry for itself. We stopped off for a fried breakfast at the Lakeside Cafe just outside town. Well recommended. If you like slate though, Blaenau Ffestiniog has to be ticked off. The town was very quiet. The steam train from Porthmadog had not deposited the influx of visitors as yet, so only a few folk were wandering. A series of artworks, naturally made of slate graced the town centre. The local rugby club looked like it had seen better days. I guess a lot of locals have left to find alternative work or just left. Conwy offered another Castle, but a sense that we had returned to the hustle and bustle of the modern world. The population of the North West of England was very much in evidence. It was very competitive outside the Smallest House in the UK - interesting yes, but not an absolute must see. We headed home.

---

Photos

Porthdinllaen
Ty Coch Inn

Conwy
Smallest House in Britain

Criccieth
Dylan's Restaurant

Caernarfon
Dabid Lloyd George Statue

Porthdinllaen
Ty Coch Inn