Porthmadog to Llandecwyn, Go North, Middle Aged Women, Go North!

By the end of Easter we had completed all of the Pembroke section of the path and connected Ceredigion to Carmarthen. It had been a long haul but worth it. We had also walked a few sections of the South Wales section of the path and so we had completed all the sections shown in black on the map. We had decided to walk the Snowdonia section of the path next and hoped to walk from Porthmadog to Aberystwyth. Neither of us was that familiar with this part of Wales and we plumped for a holiday rental in Barmouth as our base. It made sense as it was midway along this section. I had searched the internet and had found a place right on the Path with two bedrooms. The owner assured me that she would make up the beds in both rooms and all was set for a wonderful week of walking.

The flat was just on the north side of Barmouth and we had arranged to meet at the property and then head up to Porthmadog for a short introduction to the path walking as far as Llandecwyn train station, visiting Portmeirion along the way.

This is the view from the garden, across the Mawddach estuary to the mountains to the south. Beautiful.

The flat was right on the coastal path. In fact, we had to drive down a very steep lane that was the Path itself and turn sharply into the garden of the accommodation to park. It was very steep and the lane not much wider than the car. It was a hair raising experience. The owner of the accommodation very kindly let us drop off our luggage and provisions early and we were soon driving up the coast. This was going to be a fairly short walk on the first day to let us limber up a bit and get into the flow of walking. Plus it was far too lovely a day to not get out and about.

North Wales has always been something of mystery to me. Despite living in such a small country, I had never visited the north, an area that has always had a somewhat separate identity from the south. "Up there", most people speak Welsh, "down here", the majority speak English as their first language, though Welsh has definitely seen a revival in its fortunes and many more are learning it and sending their children to Welsh-medium schools. My parents always favoured travelling west for holidays and I always recall my mother's somewhat hostile attitude to a people who spoke the language with a funny accent and had the cheek to use different words for things. So North Wales was deeply mysterious for me. Here be dragons and druids, so to speak. The evocative names of the towns and villages always made me think of the wonderful poem, "Welsh Incident" by Robert Graves.

https://www.poetrybyheart.org.uk/poems/welsh-incident/

The drive from South to North Wales was a long one, but as I passed the familiar landscapes as far as Aberystwyth I became increasingly gobsmacked by the dramatic beauty of the scenery around Machynlleth and driving down the Mawddach estuary into Barmouth, which is stunning. To the left as you enter Barmouth you see to Barmouth Bridge, a rail and footbridge stretching across the estuary, and then the seaside town is backed by a steep hill.

As I drove through, following the signs and the one-way system, I was startled to see, directly ahead of me, this interestingly named café, more of which later. I braked a little dramatically, the car behind me tooted, and I turned left and up the hill out of the town. Further investigation would be needed... (I had a similar reaction and laughed out loud while I navigated the town's one way system.)

I was the first to arrive at our holiday accommodation, a little early, and the flat was still being cleaned. I waited a moment until the cleaner said I should knock the front door of the very imposing Victorian house, of which the holiday apartment formed the basement. Calling in through the door, I nearly fell back down the three steps in astonishment at what I saw. Our landlady appeared, and from the neck up was what one might have expected from the owner of such an establishment. She was a little older than me, pale-skinned, silvery haired and rather elegant and she greeted me in a friendly manner. What I wasn't expecting was that she was dressed in full ceremonial African tribal costume or that her outfit was completed by a pair of comfy daps. (Trainers, for the non speakers of Wenglish)

She told me that I was welcome to unload my stuff as soon as the cleaner had finished, and that she shouldn't be very much longer. then she said "I'm glad you've arrived a little early actually, as I am going out soon."

"Anywhere nice?" I enquired, somewhat afraid to comment on her outfit.

"Harlech," she replied. Not a place I would necessarily link with African costume, but what do I know?

"Doing anything special?" I looked her up and down pointedly.

"Ah! Yes! African drumming!" she explained. "My friend Marjory is picking me up in a minute."

As she spoke, a car came down the steep hill, driven by a woman in her 50s or 60s with short, wavy brown hair, specs with brightly coloured Prue Leith style frames (spectacle envy: I love Prue's eyewear!), tribal feathered headgear and dress that matched our landlady's. A curious start to the holiday I felt.

"Yes!" our landlady explained airily, "We are going to do our African drumming display in Harlech! It's the celebration of the world's steepest street! Come along and join in!"

I explained that we were intending to walk that afternoon so might not be able to make it.

"Well, watch out for the traffic as you pass through Harlech, " she said. "You may need to leave extra time to get through!"

She bade me a cheery farewell and she and Marjory did an expert three point turn and sped off up the hill, waving as they went.

(When Rhian told me this, I thought that she must have been hallucinating. Not only did African drumming seem unlikely in Snowdonia, a World's Steepest Street celebration seemed even more unlikely. I was wrong on both counts.)

We drove up the coast to Porthmadog, sailing past the high hill of Harlech and the castle, meeting very little traffic, apart from a few tractors and milk tankers, though of course this could be rush hour traffic in these parts. Everybody must be parked up already with the celebrations of the world's steepest street well under way, we said. I thought I heard the rhythmic sound of djembe, the steady beat of hands and drumsticks on goatskins as we passed. Fabulous.

We parked up, spotted where we could shop for some food and set off. Porthmadog is built on land that was drained by William Madocks and he built the causeway that carried road, rail and walkers across the the mouth of the Glaslyn river, which is now known as The Cob. These days it is a holiday destination full of places to eat and drink as well as shops selling buckets and spades.

'God, I'm looking forward to this Hel.'

'Me too! I'm been counting down the days.'

'Oh, me too! And I really think that we have made progress since we first started this lark.'

'Yes! We are walking in miles what we used to do in kilometres. This is a short day for us, just 7 miles or so. When we started all of this that was how far we walked all day!'

'Yup, and my boots are no longer fetid!'

'A real bonus!'

'We are going to do SOOOOO much better this year.'

We looked at each other and smiled, heading towards The Cob, the causeway that was going to take us out of Porthmadog and down the coast. This year was going to be so much better.

Within five minutes, possibly even less, we were lost, having taken the wrong turn and were walking in the wrong direction. Even for us this was stunning. Checking the guide book we corrected our mistake and set out across the Cob. It was a stunning day and in the distance we could see the mountains of Snowdonia. This was all new. All of the sections we had walked, Ceredigion, Pembroke and Carmarthen had been beautiful but none of them had given us such a spectacular, mountainous backdrop. North Wales and Snowdonia were a revelation, I have to say. Yes, of course, you see pictures but I was not prepared for the reality of those impressive mountains so close to the sea - it truly is awesome. After crossing the river we climbed up a steep rise and into a wooded section.

This is the view back into Porthmadog. See that really obvious bridge on the right hand side of the photo? That is The Cob. Obvious isn't it? That's what we managed to misplace minutes after metaphorically patting ourselves on the back for being so much better at walking than when we started three years before. Hubris of the finest kind.

The path meandered through some lovely woods, sunshine slanting through the leaves and the path underfoot thick with leaves. It was marvellous. I could feel all the stresses and strains of everyday life falling away. This is the magic of walking; in the simple process of putting one front of the other life just seems better. And it doesn't matter where you walk or what the weather. Granted, its easier on a sunny day, surrounded by beauty but its the walking that is the thing. After a little while we arrived at our half way point, Portmeirion.

At this point I have to admit that we don't often visit tourist spots during our walks. Sure, we talk a good line about exploring a castle or a museum but in the main we are usually to knackered by the time we get there. This time was going to be different and we wandered into the massive car park outside the village. And it really was a big car park, you got the strong feeling that visitors on foot were uncommon. We paid our entrance fee, had quick chat with the man at the ticket desk who asked us if we had walked far and was pleasantly impressed when we told him we had walked from Porthmadog and entered the Italianate weirdness of Portmeirion.

A little slideshow of pictures, click the arrows to scan through

Portmeirion is very lovely and very, very odd. A little bit of Italy in Snowdonia and we were seeing it on a wonderful day, with the sunshine showing the painted walls and red tiled roofs off to best effect. It was designed by Clough Williams-Ellis in the 1920s and took over 50 years to complete. The sense of otherworldliness continues as you walk through streets and squares, to the background on piped music and that is without the memories of the surreal 60s cult classic The Prisoner. It was a beautiful place to wander round, there were 'nice' shops that sold mementos, some of which were breathtakingly expensive, including the pottery that has become synonymous with the place. The village has been a draw for the rich and famous for many years. Noel Coward stayed here while writing Blythe Sprit, the Beatles were frequent visitors as was Jools Holland. Sadly none of them were in when we visited but there is a rather select hotel looking out over the sea with its own pool. This was firmly out of our price range even for a single night of luxury but we made up for that , finding a café where we could sit for a little while and enjoy some refreshments.

The Prisoner - Opening Theme from the 1960s British Cult-Series - Bing video

At this point the choice of drinking vessels has to be explained. It has become our habit to use the long distance walks to help to raise money for charity. This is what drove the lunacy of the banana outfit and the pink dress when we walked in Carmarthen. This year Rhian decided to raise money for Kidney Research UK and so the idea of Mrs Oram's mobile tea party came into being. Rhian had packed her mother's beautiful bone china tea cups and saucers and I had packed a spotted table cloth. This is their first outing of the trip, being used for some rather good local beer. When we committed to using the cups, we didn't stipulate what was going to go in them.

Refreshed , we finished our tour of the village, eyed up a collection of vintage sports cars that seemed to be gathered for some sort of car festival (Helen has no interest in cars, whereas I have a good working knowledge of a fabulous luxury car, for which Helen accuses me of being "such a bloke" - I also like football) and headed out, back to the path (managing for a few moments to fail to find the correct exit) in the direction of Penrhyndeudraeth. This means the peninsula between two beaches. Initially the town was developed on reclaimed land and the first source of employment was harvesting cockles. in later years this was supplanted by the development of an explosive works that supplied ammunition during both World Wars and the Coal Board in peace time. The works closed after 130 years of production in 1995. The site is now in the hands of the North Wales Wildlife Trust and like many places along the path is returning to nature. We passed the railway station and walked through the village and towards the Pont Briwet which crosses the Afon Dwyryd. This was all to the good as prior to 2015 you needed to take a 10 mile detour inland to cross the river. The new bridge is a replacement for a Victorian road and rail bridge which had become too dangerous to use and needed many repairs which had become a major inconvenience to local traffic. This part of the walk was along the main road, which made for easy walking. Clearing the bridge on the other side of the river we soon came to the car that we had parked near to Llandecwyn Station. The walk was finished for the day. All that we needed to do was drive back and pick up the other car, shop for some essentials and then get back to the flat.

I suppose that it is helpful, at this point, to explain that Rhian and I have a sort of 'Gentlewalkers Agreement' that we take it in turns to get the bigger bedroom. Most holiday lets that we have stayed in tend to have two bedrooms, one for the parents and a smaller one for the kids. So every other year we get to sleep in bunk beds and can even pick which one we sleep in, how exciting! This year it was my turn to have the smaller room. We arrived back at the let, drove down the steep slope to the house, parked and let ourselves in. I was excited to explore the place (sad I know) and get unpacked. The flat really was first rate, a fantastic brand new shower room, well appointed kitchen (read, wine glasses and bottle opener easy to find along side the kitchen ware) and there was a lovey living area that opened out on to the garden which over looked the sea. Rhian was first in, and I could hear her exclaim about how wonderful her room was. I walked down a short corridor to find my room.

Well, what can I say about the room? Let's say this. If ever I become a Carmelite Nun, I will know what to expect. The room was tiny. There was just enough space for a single bed and a chest of drawers. It was so narrow that in order to open the drawers you had to sit on the bed (This might be a slight exaggeration but only a very slight). I had to keep my suitcase in the hallway outside as I couldn't fit it in and close the door. The only natural light was from a window high up in the wall that backed onto the hillside behind the house. The window was fringed with ferns and the overall effect was being in the bottom of a green demijohn. A demijohn that someone had fitted with a bed and and a chest of drawers. Laughing, I knocked the door to Rhian's room and went in.

Well, if I had scored the one green bottle, Rhian had the wall and the house attached to the wall. Her room was as large as mine was tiny. We would have had a a quick Eisteddfod in there if we had only packed our Druidic robes and had a few stones to hand. It was such a contrast I laughed out loud.

'What's the matter?'

'Have a look at my room.' She popped out and a few seconds later popped back in. Let's face it, there wasn't that much to see.

'Christ, good job you are always so neat and tidy Hel, or you will never get your stuff in there.'

'Ha, bloody ha! I can almost touch all four walls at the same time!'

'Well, there is a bed there, if you want.' And yes! Her room was not only big enough for a double bed and a Bardic Circle, there was even a spare single bed.

'No, its fine thanks, I think I can manage.' And went off to unpack. It wasn't a hard job and I wasn't exactly spoiled for choice. Meanwhile I lay back on my comfy double and surveyed the grandeur of my palatial boudoir.

We sat down to dinner a little later on and toasted the success of our first day's walk, looking out across the sea to the coast line we would be exploring later in the week. We sat outside on the patio and enjoyed the gradual fading of the light. Down the coast we could see the streetlights and we chatted happily, catching up with news and gossip. I was feeling pleasantly tired and was happy to turn in for the night. The room was pitch black when I turned off the lamp and I lay in the dark, straining my ears to hear the sound of the sea which I knew was only short distance from the flat, down the steep hill. Nothing. The tiny room was almost womb-like and I started to drift off to sleep. It might have been my imagination, but I'm sure that in the stillness I could just pick out a rhythmic sound, not of a heartbeat, but the sound of African drumming and women laughing in the rooms above my head.

Just Stunning. These views really were just astonishing. The mountains from The Cobb. Once we found the Cobb.