The Llyn: Llanystumdwy to Porthmadog
We had finished the main summer walk in Meirionnydd on something of a high. While we failed to walk all the way to Aberystwyth we had walked from Porthmadog to Machynlleth and finished by meeting Rhian's son unexpectedly on a bridge. It was like something out of Lord of the Rings- An Unexpected Meeting. I was half expecting some elves to cross in front of us, singing, on their way to the Grey Havens of Borth. All in all, it had been a very successful week and I had enjoyed myself tremendously. We tried and failed to walk the Machynlleth to Aberystwyth section later that year but we were still undaunted as we went into 2020. None of us quite expected the year that we were going to have.
(You can read about the Unexpected Meeting here
I had spent the later days of the Christmas holiday reading the guide book to the Llyn. This was going to be new territory to both of us. Apart from a visit to Caernarfon as a child I didn't know the area at all and I was a little worried by the distance tables for this section. From Bangor to Porthmadog was a book value of 113 miles. We had failed to walk anything like this distance on 2019. Once you factored in getting lost and trips to ice cream shops we tended to walk more than the book value. The Book suggested 9 days of walking to cover this section. For once I was going to have to be realistic. I picked up my phone.
'Oram, how the devil are you after Christmas?'
'Not too bad, eaten too much and drunk to much.'
'Ah the traditional Christmas pursuits'
'Yup, finest kind.'
'Look. I've been reading the Llyn guidebook and while a lot of it looks like nice walking', I paused for her to wince at the paucity of my vocabulary, 'We can't manage it in a week.'
'How long is it?'
'113 book miles.'
'Hmm. Yes, for once you are right'
'I was thinking that we could do the first three days at Easter? That will leave us with something that we should be able to cover in a week.'
'Good plan. Let's book somewhere in Caernarfon and do it that way.'
I spent a little time exploring options and booked us into a pub with rooms in Caernarfon right next to the castle. It was all sorted and was going to be easy. Then a virus jumped the species barrier and changed everything for everyone, everywhere. It would be crass to make light of the pandemic or to play this situation for laughs. There has been far too much grief and loss, some of it close to friends and family. It would also be crass to focus on the trivial effect it had on our holiday plans but it did change things around for us. Walking at Easter would be out of the question. Instead we started to write up this blog so that's something else we can blame on Covid.
As soon as the border between England and Wales opened we met up and closed the gap between Machynlleth and Borth, which was very satisfying. It was Rhian's turn to book the accommodation and as usual she booked it for the first week of the school summer holiday. She always does this and I don't know how she manages to have any energy at the end of term. I always needed to lie in a darkened room for a bit but she is like a greyhound out of the slips. (That's a very kind analogy that doesn't bear too much close analysis, I'm afraid).
The owner realised that we might not manage to visit due to Covid restrictions that early in the summer and moved us back a month to the last week of the school holidays. Everything was set and we decided to get a short day's walk in on the first Saturday of the holiday. We arranged to meet in Porthmadog, in the supermarket car park.
'Do you know where that is?' Rhian asked me. 'Because the last thing we want to do this year is get lost at the start of the walk'. I rolled my eyes, safe on the other end of the phone.
'Trust me'.
She sighed.
The first thing I did was get lost, almost driving over the road and rail bridge in totally the wrong direction. I turned off the High Street and turned into a side street that swiftly turned into dead end. Frantically effecting a 103 point turn, swearing with frustration, I realised that I was never going to find the very obvious Tesco's car park, admitted defeat and rang Rhian.
I sat in Tesco car park, looking out at the main road. I watched Helen sail past up the road into Porthmadog proper. Seconds later the phone rang (I love this phone-call via the car business).
"I missed the turning for the supermarket," she shouted, "And now I'm lost down some side street!"
"Turn round. Head back to the main road. Tesco's is the very large supermarket on your left. You can't miss it." That was a moot point. "I will get out of my car and wave at you."
A minute later there was Helen's car approaching from the other direction. She navigated the small roundabout and caught sight of me jumping up and down in the car park. Narrowly missing an old lady with a trolley, she swung into a space near me. Reunited in ineptitude, we headed into the shop to get ourselves some lunch before travelling on to the actual starting point of our afternoon walk.
Heading out of Porthmadog in my car, we made our way to Llanystumdwy, where we would start our Llyn Peninsula adventure. I had never visited the Llyn, which to me carries an air of mystery, remoteness and magical mysticism (apologies for the excessive use of alliteration there – bit pretentious). And I had certainly never heard of Llanystumdwy, which made my Welsh teacher (retired) friend, and all-round expert on Welsh culture and history, Carole’s reaction all the more astonishing to me. She had asked me where we were starting, and when I told her, instead of saying “Where???” she said, “Lloyd George! The Lloyd George Museum is there and you must visit it if you can! We went there a few years ago!” My lack of knowledge was embarrassing and I resolved to try to remedy that.
Lloyd George lived here, it was closed.
Arriving quickly at Llanystumdwy I nearly missed the turning and swerved rather dramatically into the village, Helen gripping the hand rest, eyes fixed ahead in terror. Parking was easy, however, and stepping out to find the path, rucksacks on, was particularly exhilarating after the six months we had all endured. The weather was good, fine and bright but not too warm.
We set off through the village and there it was: the Lloyd George Museum, in all its small but beautifully formed glory. The gates were padlocked and Covid restrictions meant that it, like all other museums, remained closed.
“Darn it!! Helen said, deflated. This is a woman whose insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge means that not only does she pride herself on her understanding of sand dune formation but she is also always keen to take in any church, museum or informative board on our route. And on this one, I had to concur. I was disappointed too. However, we had to resolve to return, post-pandemic, for a really good rootle around. (Every day a school day for me. ‘He knew my father, ‘ piped up Rhian. I nodded. ‘Mine too. Mind you, I think he would have been more interested in our mothers.’ Lloyd George was a complicated man. He's generally credited with doing much to make sure that Britain was on the winning side of WW1 thanks to his organisational skills. He also worked so well bringing in early legislation that underpinned the modern welfare state and votes for women but latterly he lended support to Hitler. It would have made an interesting place to visit and I wondered if the small museum would have glossed over his mistakes or been more honest and given us a truthful picture of an interesting man.)
Following the signs for the WCP we passed by Aberkin Farm and found ourselves on a rough track heading towards the Afon Dwyfor. Sheep and cattle grazed peacefully (on the other side of the fence, thankfully) and we passed some people out for a fair weather walk. One couple greeted us in Welsh with “Bore da!” and asked, in Welsh, if we spoke Welsh. I felt embarrassed to admit that I didn’t. South Walian angst set in. I mentally resolved to learn Welsh when I retired. So many resolutions, so little time.
There was a railway line to cross – the single track Cambrian Line between this area and Shrewsbury – and then we were walking alongside the beach at Tremadog Bay, Criccieth in the distance.
Criccieth, in the distance
To digress, the name Criccieth is a reminder to me of English lessons when I was at school. I remember the wonderful, inspirational Pat Williams (later Pat Landcastle) dishing out a poem to us, and asking us what we made of it. This was it:
Welsh Incident Robert Graves
But that was nothing to what things came out From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.’ ‘What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?’ ‘Nothing at all of any things like that.’ ‘What were they, then?’ ‘All sorts of queer things, Things never seen or heard or written about, Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch, Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation, All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes, All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour, Though all came moving slowly out together.’ ‘Describe just one of them.’ ‘I am unable.’ ‘What were their colours?’ ‘Mostly nameless colours, Colours you’d like to see; but one was puce Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish. Some had no colour.’ ‘Tell me, had they legs?’ ‘Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.’ ‘But did these things come out in any order?’ What o’clock was it? What was the day of the week? Who else was present? How was the weather?’ ‘I was coming to that. It was half-past three On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining. The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu On thirty-seven shimmering instruments, Collecting for Caernarvon’s (Fever) Hospital Fund. The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth, Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth, Were all assembled. Criccieth’s mayor addressed them First in good Welsh and then in fluent English, Twisting his fingers in his chain of office, Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand, Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward Silently at a snail’s pace. But at last The most odd, indescribable thing of all Which hardly one man there could see for wonder Did something recognizably a something.’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘It made a noise.’ ‘A frightening noise?’ ‘No, no.’ ‘A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?’ ‘No, but a very loud, respectable noise — Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning In Chapel, close before the second psalm.’ ‘What did the mayor do?’ ‘I was coming to that.
All those evocative, poetic place names, the mystery, and the whimsical humour about Welsh life have stayed with me all these years, and here we were, at Criccieth itself! I wanted some nebulous “things” to appear from the waves, and the sounds of the Harlech Silver Band but in their place I had Helen, burbling on about ice cream or something. (I must confess at this point, and say I didn't like this poem when we first read it. I said as much to the indominable Pat Williams. She was a marvellous teacher and would let you hold your own views as long as you could back them up. I think my comment of 'Well it's just daft' didn't cut the mustard and was treated to a bit of glaring side eye. Much like the side eye Rhian gave me when I made the same point to her. It must be an English Teacher thing. She forgave me when I got her an ice cream later that day).
The castle stands on a steep hill overlooking the sea and the town itself nestles in behind it. Interesting shops line the high street and Criccieth became another place I want to go back to. The town was first inhabited in prehistoric times, different waves of Celts lived there and the older castle, first built by Llywelyn Fawr was extended and rebuilt by Edward the First in the 13th century. The guidebook told us that the castle was well worth the entrance fee but I'm afraid we were more interested in a sit down and our lunch. The small town grew in the Victorian period and there are lots of imposing hotels making a very attractive holiday destination. There are numerous excellent cafes and pubs but we sat on the sea front on a well placed bench and enjoyed our sandwiches in the fresh air. One of the unexpected small joys of the walk is a well placed bench.
Setting off again, we strolled down Castle Street and were curious to know what the large queue we saw ahead was for. It turned out to be for Cadwaladers, the famous North Walian ice cream establishment and this sparked a forensic discussion of the merits of various brands of ice cream that we had tried so far on the various sections of the Coastal Path, which occupied us for some time. We didn't join the very long, socially distanced queue as we felt we needed to get on with the walk but the discussion was fascinating - we must relay it to you some time, dear reader.
The town is proud of its connections with Lloyd George but it think it would be a shame not to remember another famous son, Group Captain Leslie Bonnet. He was an RAF officer, writer and originator of the Welsh Harlequin duck and wouldn't our lives be the worse for not knowing that.
A driftwood sculpture just outside Criccieth
After we left Criccieth the path took us along the beach. The miles passed easily and after crossing the Afon Cedron we cut in land briefly and on turning back to the sea we saw the wonderful beach of Black Rock Sands stretching ahead of us.
The beach is huge and we had it mostly to ourselves. Cars are allowed on the sands and we were much amused at seeing this sign, although it was redundant in the day we walked there. Further down the beach there was a stern sign that forbad cars behind that point. Amusingly it was circled round with numerous tyre marks. The locals obviously enjoyed a rebellious breaking of the rules, the little tinkers. After a blissful two mile walk along the beach, catching up on all our news and enjoying the fresh sea air the path rose up towards Morfa Bychan, skirting some black rocks.
Just past the rocks was a rather well placed bench and we sat and shared a flask of coffee while I faffed about with my feet. After a little while two women approached us, coming from the other direction. It was fairly obvious that they were a mother and adult daughter as they looked so much alike.
'I'm sorry we have hogged the bench', Rhian said, obviously alert to the fact that the older woman might need the seat more than we did.
'Oh not to worry, you look as if you need a sit down', said the women, who must have been in her 70s. Swallowing my pride because my feet did need some attention and disarmed by her cheery smile we soon got to talking.
'Have you seen the wonderful road signs on the beach?' asked Rhian.
The older woman started to laugh. 'Oh yes. I've seen the before. Etched into my memory with terror.' Her daughter looked at her quizzically. She turned to her daughter
'Yes, your Aunty learned to drive on this beach and she once gave me a ride in Granddad's car. She shot past the 10 mile an hour sign doing about 20 and rounded the 'No cars beyond this point' at speed. She messed up the turn and we shot off heading towards the sea. I was screaming with terror for her to stop but she panicked and it took ages for her to get us back on the right path. I think we were more scared of what my father was going to say to us if we had driven his car into the sea! He really loved that car.'
The daughter looked flabbergasted. 'Why has no one ever told me this story before? Aunty Bethan really did that?'
'You never asked', said the Mum and they wished us a happy walk and walked off, laughing as they went.
Doing some background reading for this episode it would seem this isn't a rare occurrence.
After Morfa Bychan the path turned into a residential area and through the attractive village of Borth-y-Gest. The tide was out and the sand in front of us was full of birds feeding on the sands.
'What birds are they then?' asked Rhian.
'No idea', I said, 'I keep telling you that I'm not that sort of biologist. I can explain sand dunes if you like?'
'No'
She can be so brusque some times.
Borth-Y-Gest merged seamlessly into Porthmadog and we finally got the ice cream I had been hankering after since we were thwarted in Criccieth. We got back to the cars and drove to the chalet that Rhian had booked for us. I was excited to see what it was like and was cock-a-hoop that this year I would have the large, palatial room and she would be in the penitential cell. Setting it up this way keeps us on speaking terms, the person who books the property gets the worst room. It makes for some hard searching of the internet for the right property.
I had booked us a small, but perfectly formed lodge on a park just outside Caernarfon for the week. We found the site very easily, then spent 20 minutes driving round and round it trying to find the chalet itself, which was cunningly hidden behind several others. Then we couldn't open the front door and had to be assisted by a friendly neighbour, socially distanced, of course.
Once inside Helen crowed with what I felt was unseemly delight (Me? As if!) as she opened the door to her double bedroom. It was a spacious room that came complete with a stag's head above the bed. (And lots a jaunty tartan accessories. I was going to be the Monarchess of the Glen for a week.) My room was the smaller of the two. It contained bunk beds (the bottom bed was a double), a chest of drawers and there was no room for anything else. My how she laughed. Revenge was hers after the previous summer's accommodation had afforded her something even smaller. She had gone from anchorite to Mother Superior in one fell swoop - divine justice was served , mixed metaphors notwithstanding. It was going to be a long week.
Our first day had been a success, 11 miles of easy walking in the bag and it hadn't rained on us. There was the bonus of well placed benches and good ice-creams. after a celebratory supper we turned in early, excited at the thought of the next day's walk from Caernarfon to Trefor, a place and not a person.
A welcome return to the [diddly diddly dee] two ladies. The poem was read yesterday on 'Words and Music' on Radio 3 - theme: the uncanny.