QUINTIN LAKE
Continuing his coastal odyssey, Quintin prepares to cross the border from Wales into England
John
Merrill, the first person to walk the entire UK coastline, left the sea at Caernarfon for a loop to the
summit of Snowdon. Doing the same on my walk seems a fitting homage to him – not to mention an opportunity to get a different perspective on the coast.
It’s already late afternoon by the time I get to the summit, but I’m rewarded by the fog clearing to reveal rapidly changing views of Snowdonia. There are glimpses of the sea back to Harlech, the Ll n Peninsula, and onwards to Conwy. I stay near the top until I’m too cold to take pictures anymore, before following ancient, silent tracks under a starry night to return to Caernarfon at midnight. I’m overcome by a confusing mixture of exhaustion, nausea and elation.
Leaving Anglesey and the Menai Strait behind, things flatten off and lead to a series of Victorian seaside towns. At Llandudno pier, an industrial carton of bright pink goo is being poured into a candy floss machine. At Plas Maw, a Tudor town house in Conwy, there are three severed heads of Englishmen in Dorothy Wynn’s coat of arms above the Week-long trips require a gaggle of memory cards to ensure Quintin doesn’t miss any shots. fireplace in the bedroom and on the walls in the dining room.
Happy place
On Rhyl promenade, three obese women vaping on mobility scooters look alarmingly ill, with bright red sagging skin. A sign confirming ‘This is my happy place’ is proudly displayed in the window of one of the identical mobile homes that run along the seafront. It’s still a long way to Liverpool, but the Scouse accent is getting more frequent.
Turning inland along the river Dee, the mighty Duke of Lancaster liner, is rusting, graffitied and evocative. A motorcyclist, also taking pictures of it, tells me he worked on it when he was in the Merchant Navy. “Wanna see it before it’s too late, like,” he says.
At Connah’s Quay there are areas of extreme poverty: rubbish tips in terrace fronts with many houses built directly under buzzing pylons. People I meet return toothless smiles despite a wizened composure and the air of desperation.
I follow the flat, pyloned land around the Dee before crossing into England on St George’s Day. I’m greeted by a sign for a ‘A two-hour pampering session for £50’ and a billboard of a lady holding a glass of champagne advertising Chester Races. I’ve only walked a few miles from Wales but it feels like a different planet.