Why do I always choose the GROTTIEST guest house?

by BILL BRYSON

AMERICAN Bill Bryson’s brilliant and affectionate book about Britain, Notes From A Small Island, has been capturing hearts 20 years on in our serialisation. Yesterday, he over-imbibed in Liverpool. Today, in the final part of our hilarious series, he tries to fathom the mysteries of the Snowdonia transport system and enjoys an episode of a long-running soap opera . . . in Welsh.

FROM the train, North Wales looked like holiday hell — endless ranks of prison-camp caravan parks standing in fields in the middle of a lonely, windbeaten nowhere, on the wrong side of the railway line and a merciless dual carriageway, with views over a boundless estuary of moist sand dotted with treacherous-looking sinkholes and, far off, a distant smear of sea.

Then suddenly the caravan parks thinned, the landscape around Colwyn Bay took on a blush of beauty and grandeur, the train made a sharp jag north and minutes later we were in Llandudno.

It is truly a fine and handsome place, built on a generously proportioned bay and lined along its broad front with a huddle of prim but gracious 19th-century hotels that reminded me in the fading light of a line-up of Victorian nannies.

Llandudno was purpose-built as a resort in the mid-1800s, and it cultivates a nice old-fashioned air.

To my consternation, the town was packed with weekending pensioners. Coaches from all over were parked along the side streets, every hotel I called at was full and in every dining room I could see crowds — veritable oceans — of nodding white heads spooning soup and conversing happily. Goodness knows what had brought them to the Welsh seaside at this bleak time of year.

Further on along the front there stood a clutch of guest houses, large and virtually indistinguishable, and a few had vacancy signs in their windows. I had eight or ten to choose from, which always puts me in a mild fret because I have an unerring instinct for choosing badly.

My wife can survey a row of guest houses and instantly identify the one run by a white-haired widow with a kindly disposition and a fondness for children, snowy sheets and sparkling bathroom porcelain, while I can generally count on choosing the one run by a guy with a grasping manner, a drooping fag and the sort of cough that makes you wonder where he puts the phlegm.

Such, I felt gloomily certain, would be the case tonight.

I selected a place that looked reasonable enough from the outside — its board promised a colour TV and coffee-making facilities, about all I require these days for a lively Saturday night — but from the moment I set foot in the door and drew in the mildewy pong of damp plaster and peeling wallpaper, I knew it was a bad choice.

I was about to turn and flee when the proprietor emerged from a back room and stayed my retreat with an unenthusiastic ‘Yes?’. A short conversation revealed that a single room with breakfast could be had for £19.50 — little short of a swindle.

It was entirely out of the question that I would stay the night in such a dismal place at such a larcenous price, so I said ‘That sounds fine’ and signed in. Well, it’s so hard to say no.

My room was everything I expected it to be — cold and cheerless, with melamine furniture, grubbily matted carpet and those mysterious ceiling stains that bring to mind a neglected corpse in the room above.

Fingers of icy wind slipped through the single ill-fitting sash window. I drew the curtains and was not surprised that they had to be yanked violently before they would budge and came nowhere near meeting in the middle.

There was a tray of coffee things, but the cups were — let me be charitable — disgusting and the spoon was stuck to the tray.

The bathroom, faintly illuminated by a distant light activated by a length of string, had curling floor tiles and years of accumulated muck packed into every corner and crevice. I peered at the yellowy grouting round the bath and sink and realised what the landlord did with his phlegm.

A bath was out of the question, so I threw some cold water on my face, dried it with a towel that had the texture of a Weetabix and gladly took my leave.

I had a long stroll along the prom to boost my appetite and pass an hour. It felt wonderful. The air was still and sharp and there wasn’t a soul about, though there were still lots of white heads in the hotel lounges and dining rooms, all bobbing merrily about. Perhaps they were having a Parkinson’s convention.

I walked nearly the length of The Parade, enjoying the chill autumn air and the trim handsomeness of the setting: a soft glow of hotels to the left, an inky void of restless sea to my right and a scattered twinkling of lights on the near and far headlands of Great and Little Ormes.

I couldn’t help notice — it seemed so obvious now — that nearly all the hotels and guest houses looked markedly superior to mine.

Almost without exception they had names that bore homage to other places — ‘Windermere’, ‘Stratford’, ‘Clovelly’, ‘Derby’, ‘St Kilda’, even ‘Toronto’ — as if their owners feared that it would be too much of a shock to the system to remind visitors that they were in Wales.

Only one place, with a sign that said ‘Gwely a Brecwast/Bed and Breakfast’, gave any hint that I was, at least in a technical sense, abroad.

I dined simply at a small nondescript restaurant off Mostyn Street and afterwards, feeling disinclined to return to my dingy room in a state of stark sobriety, went hunting for a pub. Llandudno had surprisingly few of these vital institutions. I walked for some time before I found one that looked even vaguely approachable. It was a typical town pub inside — maroon plush, stale-odoured, smoky — and it was busy, mostly with young people.

I took a seat at the bar, thinking I might be able to eavesdrop on my neighbours and receive immediate attention when my glass was empty, but neither of these was to be.

There was too much music and background noise to discern what my neighbours were saying and too much clamour for service at a spot near the till for the single harried server to notice an empty glass and a beggarly face up at my end.

So I sat and drank beer when I could get some and instead watched, as I often do in these circumstances, the interesting process by which customers, upon finishing a pint, would present the barman with a glass of clinging suds and golden dribble, and that this would be carefully filled to slightly overflowing, so that the excess froth, charged with an invisible load of bacteria, spittle and micro-fragments of loosened food, would run down the side of the glass and into a slop tray, where it would be carefully — I might almost say scientifically — conveyed by means of a clear plastic tube back to a barrel in the cellar.

There these impurities would drift and float and mingle, like flaky pooh in a goldfish bowl, awaiting summons back to someone else’s glass. If I am to drink dilute dribble and mouth rinsings, then I do rather wish I could do it in a situation of comfort and cheer, seated in a Windsor chair by a blazing fire, but this appears to be an increasingly elusive dream.

As sometimes also happens in these circumstances, I had a sudden urge not to drink any more beer, so instead I hauled myself from my bar-side perch and returned to my seafront lodgings for an early night.

In the morning, I emerged from the guest house into a world drained of colour. The sky was low and heavy and the sea along the front vast, lifeless and grey.

As I walked along, rain began to fall, dimpling the water. By the time I reached the station, it was coming down steadily.

Llandudno Station is closed on Sundays — that the largest resort in Wales has no Sunday rail services is too preposterous and depressing to elaborate on — but there was a bus to Blaenau Ffestiniog from the station forecourt at 11am. There was no bench or shelter by the bus stop, nowhere to get out of the rain. If you travel much by public transport in Britain these days, you soon come to feel like a member of some unwanted sub-class, like the handicapped or unemployed, and that everyone essentially wishes you would just go away.

I felt a bit like that now — and I am rich and healthy and immensely good-looking. What must it be like to be permanently poor or disabled or otherwise unable to take a full and active part in the nation’s head-long rush for the sunny slopes of Mt Greedy?

It is remarkable to me how these matters have become so thoroughly inverted in the past 20 years.

There used to be a kind of unspoken nobility about living in Britain. Just by existing, by going to work and paying your taxes, catching the occasional bus and being a generally decent if unexceptional soul, you felt as if you were contributing in some small way to the maintenance of a noble enterprise — a generally compassionate and well-meaning society with healthcare for all, decent public transport, intelligent television, universal social welfare and all the rest of it.

I don’t know about you, but I always felt rather proud to be part

There was a mildewy pong of damp plaster I emerged into a world that was drained of colour

of that, particularly as you didn’t actually have to do anything — you didn’t have to give blood or buy The Big Issue or otherwise go out of your way — to feel as if you were a small contributory part.

But now, no matter what you do, you end up stung with guilt. Go for a ramble in the country and you are reminded that you are inexorably adding to congestion in the national parks and footpath erosion on fragile hills.

Try to take a sleeper to Fort William or a train on the Settle-to-Carlisle line or a bus from Llandudno to Blaenau on a Sunday and you begin to feel shifty and aberrant because you know that these services require vast and costly subsidisation.

Go for a drive in your car, look for work, seek a place to live, and all you are doing is taking up valuable space and time. And as for needing healthcare — well, how thoughtless and selfish can you possibly be? (‘We can treat your ingrown toenails, Mr Smith, but it will, of course, mean taking a child off a lifesupport machine.’)

I dread to think how much it cost Gwynedd Transport to convey me to Blaenau Ffestiniog on this wet Sunday morning since I was the only customer, apart from a young lady who joined us at Betws-y-Coed and left us soon after at the interestingly named Pont-y-Pant.

Rain pattered against the windows like thrown pebbles and the bus swayed alarmingly under gusts of wind. It was like being on a ship in rough seas.

The bus lumbered with grinding reluctance up twisting mountain roads, its windscreen wipers flapping wildly, to a plateau in the clouds and then embarked on a precipitate, seemingly out-of-control descent into Blaenau Ffestiniog through steep defiles covered with numberless slag heaps of broken, rain-shiny slate.

This was once the heart of the Welsh slate-mining industry, and the scattered rejects and remnants, which covered virtually every inch of ground, gave the landscape an unearthly and eerie aspect like nothing else I’d seen before in Britain.

At the epicentre of this unearthliness squatted the village of Blaenau, itself a kind of slate slag heap, or so it seemed in the teeming rain.

The bus dropped me in the centre of town near the terminus of the famous Blaenau Ffestiniog Railway, now a private line run by enthusiasts and which I hoped to take through the cloudy mountains to Porthmadog.

The station platform was open, but all the doors to waiting rooms, toilets and ticket halls were padlocked, and there was no one around.

I had a look at the winter timetable hanging on the wall and discovered to my dismay that I had just missed — literally just missed — a train.

Puzzled, I dragged my crumpled bus timetable from my pocket and discovered with further dismay that the bus was actually scheduled to arrive just in time to miss the one midday train out of Blaenau.

Running a finger down the rail timetable, I learned that the next train would not be for another four hours. The next bus would follow that by minutes.

How could that be possible and, more to the point, what on earth was I supposed to do with myself in this God-forsaken, rain-sodden place for four hours?

There was no possibility of staying on the platform. It was cold and the rain was falling at such a treacherous slant that there was no place to escape it even in the furthest corners.

Muttering uncharitable thoughts about Gwynedd Transport, the Blaenau Ffestiniog Railway Company, the British climate and my own mad folly, I set off through the little town.

This being Wales and this being Sunday, there was nothing open and no life on the narrow streets. Nor, as far as I could see, were there any hotels or guest houses.

It occurred to me that perhaps the train wasn’t running at all in this weather, in which case I would be truly stuck. I was soaked through, cold and deeply, deeply gloomy.

At the far end of town, there was a little restaurant called Myfanwy’s and, by a miracle, it was open.

I hastened into its beckoning warmth, where I peeled off my sodden jacket and sweater and went with a headful of suddenly enlivened hair to a table by a radiator.

I was the only customer. I ordered a coffee and a little something to eat and savoured the warmth and dryness. Somewhere in the background Nat King Cole sang a perky tune.

I watched the rain beat down on the road outside and told myself that one day this would be 20 years ago.

If I learned just one thing in Blaenau that day it was that no matter how hard you try you cannot make a cup of coffee and a cheese omelette last four hours.

I ate as slowly as I could and ordered a second cup of coffee, but after nearly an hour of delicate eating and sipping, it became obvious that I was either going to have to leave or pay rent, so I reluctantly gathered up my things.

At the till, I explained my plight to the kindly couple who ran the place and they both made those sympathetic, oh-dear noises kindly people make when confronted with someone else’s crisis.

‘He might go to the slate mine,’ suggested the woman to the man.

‘Yes, he might go to the slate mine,’ agreed the man and turned to me.

‘You might go to the slate mine,’ he said as if thinking that I might somehow have missed the fore-going exchange.

‘Oh, and what’s that exactly?’ I said, trying not to sound too doubtful.

‘The old mine. They do guided tours,’ he replied.

‘It’s very interesting,’ said his wife.

‘Yes, it’s very interesting,’ said the man. ‘Mind, it’s a fair hike,’ he added.

‘And it may not be open on a Sunday,’ said his wife. ‘Out of season,’ she explained.

‘Of course, you could always take a cab up there if you don’t fancy the walk in this weather,’ said the man.

I looked at him. A cab? Did he say ‘a cab’? This seemed too miraculous to be taken in. ‘You have a cab service in Blaenau?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the man as if this were one of Blaenau’s more celebrated features. ‘Would you like me to order one to take you to the mine?’

‘Well . . .’ I sought for words. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful when these people had been so kind, but on the other hand I found the prospect of an afternoon touring a slate mine in damp clothes about as appealing as a visit to the proctologist.

‘Do you think the cab would take me to Porthmadog?’ I wasn’t sure how far it was, and I dared not hope. ‘Of course,’ said the man.

So he called a cab for me and the next thing I knew I was departing to a volley of good wishes from the proprietors and stepping into a cab, feeling like a shipwreck victim being winched to unexpected safety.

I cannot tell you with what joy I beheld the sight of Blaenau disappearing into the distance.

The cab driver was a friendly young man and on the 20-minute ride to Porthmadog he filled me in on much important economic and sociological data with regard to the Dwyfor Peninsula.

The most striking news was that the peninsula was dry on Sundays. You couldn’t get an alcoholic drink to save your life between Porthmadog and Aberdaron. I didn’t know such pockets of rectitude still existed in Britain, but I was so glad to be getting out of Blaenau that I didn’t care.

Porthmadog, squatting beside the sea under a merciless downpour, looked grey and forgettable, full of wet pebbledash and dark stone.

Despite the rain, I examined the meagre stock of local hotels with some care — I felt entitled to a spell of comfort and luxury after my night in a cheerless Llandudno guest house — and I chose an inn called the Royal Sportsman.

My room was adequate and clean, if not exactly outstanding, and suited my purposes. I made a cup of coffee and, while the kettle boiled, changed into dry clothes, then sat on the edge of the bed with a coffee and a rich tea biscuit, and watched a soap opera on TV called Pobol Y Cwm, which I enjoyed very much.

I had no idea what was going on, of course, but I can say with confidence that it had better acting, and certainly better production values, than any programme made in, say, Sweden or Norway — or Australia come to that. At least the walls didn’t wobble when someone shut a door.

It was an odd experience watching people who existed in a recognisably British milieu — they drank tea and wore M&S cardigans — but talked in Martian.

Occasionally, I was interested to note, they dropped in English words — ‘hi ya’, ‘right then’, ‘OK’ — presumably because a Welsh equivalent didn’t exist.

In one memorable encounter a character said something like ‘Wlch ylch aargh ybsy cwm dirty weekend, look you,’ which I just loved.

How sweetly endearing of the Welsh not to have their own term for an illicit bonk between Friday and Monday.

NOTES From A Small Island: Journey Through Britain by Bill Bryson (Black Swan, £8.99). To order a copy for £7.19 (20 per cent discount), visit mailbookshop.co.uk or call 0844 571 0640. P&P free on orders over £15. Offer valid until August 24.

You can’t make a cheese omelette last for four hours They wore M&S cardigans, but talked in Martian