Wild, rugged and LOVELY
Bev Wood is charmed by the scenery and place names of Wales as her 1960s mini-van road trip continues.
We stopped at Portmadoc (now Porthmadog), a pretty little seaside town, where we enjoyed a walk along the golden sand.
Further on, we came across a Butlin’s Holiday Camp looking as unappealing as we had expected, with rows of garishly painted wooden buildings. It wasn’t at all like the camping holidays I was used to at our beautiful New Zealand beaches. We hadn’t needed the artificial entertainment that these Butlin camps turned on for their guests.
Further inland, we drove through hills and valleys, then out to the coast again to Caernarvon (now Caernarfon) with its huge 13th-century castle – the birthplace of the first English Prince of Wales.
Here, among much pomp and ceremony, Prince Charles was invested as the Prince of Wales. But that was a few years in the future.
After a short stop at Bangor to collect our mail, a wonderful opportunity to catch up with letters from home, we crossed the Menai Strait on the suspension bridge connecting the mainland to the island of Anglesey.
Our travelling time was getting short but we were determined to visit Llanfairpwllgwyngyll. In full, the name was 58 letters in length. It was such an unprepossessing little place that we drove through it before realising our mistake.
Once we’d retraced our steps, we bought stamps from the little post office for our mail home. The postmistress kindly pronounced the unpronounceable name for us in her lilting Welsh accent. She knew about the New Zealand town in Hawke’s Bay with the incredibly long name but, to my shame, I could neither pronounce it nor spell it.
Back on the mainland, we travelled through the gloriously wild and rugged Llanberis Pass. On we drove past a couple of lakes with views of mountains, but unfortunately Snowdon was shrouded with the black clouds which seemed to appear in the afternoons.
Beyond yet another Welsh castle, we passed through one of the loveliest valleys, the Nant Gwynant, until we reached the village of Beddgelert. According to a 13th-century legend, Gelert was the name given to a hound owned by Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, a keen hunter.
One day, when the prince set out, Gelert was not to be found so the hunting party left without him. When Llewelyn returned at the end of the day, he was greeted by his hound covered with blood and gore.
When the prince realised his baby son was missing, he suspected the worst. With one thrust of his sword, he dealt Gelert a fatal blow.
As the dog gave a last whimper, the prince heard a baby cry. Llewelyn discovered his son was safe and well, but nearby was the body of a dead wolf.
The prince was heartbroken and full of remorse when he realised his faithful hound, in killing the wolf, had saved his son. Gelert’s grave is still in the village, and we couldn’t leave until we paid our respects.
Back to the coast, where we reached Harlech with its impressive medieval castle perched on a cliff across the Tremadog Bay, part of the sweeping Cardigan Bay.
If only I could sing, I might’ve burst into a rendition of Men of Harlech, but made do with talking to a couple of middle-aged women who had spotted the NZ sticker on our small van.
They were intrigued by our tales and how far we’d travelled in our mini-van, Min. We were impressed when they told us how they had tired of the hustle and bustle of London so had moved to a secluded valley among the Welsh mountains. It seemed a daring thing to do as so many of the English we’d met were far from adventurous.
They suggested we drive around the Mawddach Estuary at sunset, saying it was particularly lovely at that time of day. And they were right.
The sunset streaked the sky with red. This was reflected on the still waters, and across the estuary the trees stood out clearly against the skyline.
As we reached the open sea again, the sun sank like a great orange ball and the sky became softly pink, the water almost white, and in the distance the hills turned silvery grey. A magical evening.
After another very cold night sleeping in the back of Min, condensation running down the walls of the van, it turned out to be a lovely day for the drive through the Dysynni Valley.
We had uninterrupted views of Cader Idris, one of the mountains in Snowdonia National Park which covers a large part of North Wales.
Soon after, we came across the peaceful Tal-y-Llyn Lake, so calm that the reflections of the nearby mountains appeared to be floating upside down.
No wonder we were loving the Welsh scenery – and the charming place names.
After rejoining the main road, we were delighted to find little traffic – at least for a while. Many of the roads were virtually empty, except for a few arterial routes which were packed with lorries hurtling on their way.
After leaving the small town of Machynlleth, we discovered the Mountain Road, so of course we couldn’t resist the challenge. And challenge it was, with Min grinding up and up as it puffed and panted in low gear until we reached the summit.
As there was scarcely another vehicle
we were able to enjoy the rugged tussock-covered countryside, where a few hardy sheep fossicked for food on isolated farms.
We slowly descended the hill until we reached another small village, Llanidloes, which is more or less the centre of Wales. We stopped long enough to visit the fascinating museum in the Old Market Hall. It was a half-timbered building right in the middle of a crossroad so we had no chance of missing it.
Beneath the main part of the building was an open arched area where markets were held. It was also where wrong-doers were put in stocks or imprisoned in tiny cells until in the 19th century it was deemed to be inadequate for the purpose.
I loved the eclectic collection of interesting exhibits in the museum, such as an emu egg, coins from around the world, old photographs, jewellery, women’s stays as well as a 16th-century exercise book. Arithmetic problems were written in neat columns, probably with a quill.
The museum director was an elderly man who remembered when women used brass clips to hold their skirts up when crossing the road to avoid them being muddied.
He also recalled when there were five public houses down each street. He told us how the children had cooties picked out of their hair before going to school and the day the teacher told a small girl, “… right, Mary, you’ve got something in your head.”
She evidently replied: “But my Mam only found one today.”
I’m sure we must have left the museum scratching our own heads.
Even if we were wearing skirts, there was no longer any need to hitch them up as we crossed the road to the bank. As often happened in these small villages, it took a lot longer than necessary to cash a traveller’s cheque.
The teller, with a typical soft voice, was keen to keep us talking. He had recognised our Kiwi accents as he’d been in the army in Malaya with lots of Kiwis and Aussies but preferred the Kiwis because “the Kiwis weren’t as rough or noisy and didn’t drink as much”.
Like many other young ones we met on our travels, he’d toyed with the idea of emigrating to New Zealand. I wonder if he ever did.
From here, we travelled to the Brecon Beacons National Park, with good views of the bracken-covered Brecon Beacons.
Then we were into the Welsh valleys of South Wales, an ugly mining region with towns lined with row after row of drab houses all the same and the landscape littered with machinery and chimneys belching smoke.
What a contrast to the beautiful scenery we’d passed through so recently.