Cambrian Coast

Day 1. Tuesday 16th May 2017

It was pouring down in the morning. Driving along the motorway, visibility was seriously compromised. I like rain; I love being inside and looking out at the rain and I often enjoy walking in the rain. True, I’d rather have sunshine, but rain has its place. The British Isles is so lush and green because it’s always throwing it down. I’d just rather not be driving in it.

I noticed a massive sign on the M56 reading: “Don’t let them Frack our future.” The people are speaking out against this very questionable new process. I love democracy in action.

Two hours later, on the approach to the Llyn Peninsula, the tops of the mountains were completely shrouded in dark rain clouds and it wasn’t looking too promising. My campsite was at Llanystumdwy, not far from Criccieth. It's a nice spot with views over the surrounding woodlands to the sea. It had stopped raining and was now sunny and very warm, so I set off on foot to explore the area.

Everywhere was wet from the downpour, but foliage looks even better after rain. Everything looks vibrant and refreshed; the leaves look shiny. Rain is Nature’s varnish.

I followed a footpath through agricultural land towards the coast. It was stunningly attractive. There was a steady breeze and a strong scent of blossom in the air. A herd of young cows were all lying down – which wasn’t a good sign. Unlike cows, sheep seemingly can’t predict the weather. All the sheep I encountered were up and down all over the place, offering no clue about the afternoon’s clemency.

The path led eventually to the banks of the River (Afon) Dwyfor, which looked hugely swollen after a week of fairly constant rain. There were a pair of guardian swans on patrol and a flock of bobbing gulls. Someone had kindly built a meandering boardwalk across all the marshy areas.

In its excitement to get to the sea, the river suddenly picked up speed and dashed down the beach to meet the incoming breakers. The air was salty and fresh. It made me think of room fragrances and how they're often given ocean references. Ocean Spray is an obvious one, as is Sea Breeze. Morning (sea) Mist is a bit desperate. Bladderwrack would not be good at all.

I love being by the sea. I love the fresh breeze, the sound of the waves, never ending, the plaintive crying of the seagulls. The beach was shingle, pebbles and rocks. Between them, the beach, the sea and the sky provided every shade of grey imaginable, from a pale blue-grey to a dark charcoal. It was like strolling through an artist’s palette, after he’d been mixing colours all afternoon.

In the distance, several colourful buildings came into view, with Criccieth Castle on its promontory behind. I have been to Criccieth several times before, many times as a child, but the last time as an adult was over twenty years ago. I recall I wasn’t impressed with it then, but now I wanted to explore it and see if there weren’t hidden charms I had overlooked previously.

An old man appeared, walking his dog. A woman, also with a dog, approached from the opposite direction. They stopped and had a conversation – and it was obvious from their movements and body language that they were talking about their dogs. When you’re walking with a dog people will always stop and talk to you. When you’re alone they view you as a wandering pervert who’s come to steal their children away and they give you a wide berth. (So, every cloud…)

Steps led up from the beach to the backside of Criccieth. A row of regency or Victorian painted houses, red, pink, mint green, turquoise, aquamarine, various shades of yellow; I couldn’t decide whether they were quirkily British or cheap and tacky. Many of them were guesthouses and had names like Sea Spray… which is odd, because that’s clearly a room fragrance.

A street sign told me this was the aptly named Marine Crescent. The Marine Hotel was an interesting-looking building with a sort of look-out tower and many bay windows and arches. Unfortunately, it looked closed. Closed-down probably. If it wasn’t, it could do with a sponge down and a lick of paint. In its heyday, it was probably a very fashionable place to stay.

Marine Crescent turns into Castle Terrace and above is an excellent view of the castle on its imposing headland. From this angle it boasted two impressively intact rounded turrets, both flying the Welsh flag. The castle was built by Llewellyn the Great in the 1230’s, but later captured by the forces of Edward I and heavily modified. Today the castle dominates the town and the landscape for miles around. It is in an excellent state of repair.

I spent a long time walking around Criccieth without actually finding where it was. It seemed like it was just houses and nothing else. Eventually I found it did have a heart, yet ironically it actually seemed so half-hearted. I don’t know if it’s trying to be a tourist destination or not. If it’s not, that’s absolutely fine. If it is then it needs a bit of help. Criccieth has a few cafes and pubs but it seems to make no effort to be inviting. It’s not unpleasant in any way… it’s just lacklustre. I felt disappointed – I wanted to find another side to Criccieth… and I did, but it was exactly the same as the side I already knew.

I decided to give Criccieth the benefit of the doubt, because the weather was odd, it had gone overcast – and I was there at a bad time; the afternoon was wearing on and places were closing, but the evening hadn’t yet started. I decided to keep an open mind for now and revisit at some point to reassess.

Back on the site it was a beautiful evening, though I was assured by the site manager that it would rain later. He was concurring with the cows, so it was a dead cert.

Day 2. Wednesday 17th May 2017

I awoke to a grey, overcast morning. There were thick oppressive clouds and no trace of the sun. But it hadn’t rained in the night, so the cows and the site manager were wrong. Passing the cows this morning they were all still lying down expectantly, but I was starting to question their meteorological abilities.

It was a half hour walk into Criccieth along the main road, but as main roads go it’s a very green one and the sun was doing its best to break through the cloud layer. What a trooper! (Actually, scratch that. It soon gave up and went AWOL for the next six hours.)

I had decided to take a trip on the North Wales coastal railway, called the Cambrian Line. I had read that it was one of the most spectacular railway routes in the country, so I was really looking forward to it. (Travel writer Dixe Wills waxes lyrical in his book Tiny Stations.)

My first disappointment – weather aside – was Criccieth station. I had expected a quaint old station from yesteryear, but the building itself was now an electrical workshop with only the platform remaining in use as intended; all the platform-facing windows had all been covered over and painted with colourful murals, which to my eye were tacky rather than decorative.

An old chap sitting on a bench engaged me in conversation, I think he wanted to talk. He was camping on his own at Tywyn down the coast. He had got the 7.15 train north to Criccieth that morning to visit the castle, had photographed it and was heading back south to do the same at Harlech. He’d already had a full day’s activity before breakfast.

The train arrived and we boarded and went our separate ways. From my window I got a good view of the castle. Over the twin turrets the sky was as grey as the castle walls and getting greyer.

The train left Criccieth behind and passed through a green corridor of trees until it emerged in Porthmadog. The town came into being after William Madocks, after whom it's named, constructed a sea wall to reclaim land for agricultural use. This wall, called the Cob, carries the tracks of the Ffestiniog Railway. Originally the little train brought slate down from the mountains of Blaenau to be exported via the harbour at Porthmadog.

The Cambrian line crawled through the rear of the town. There was a lot of pebble-dashing and a lot of corrugated iron, then industrial premises before Porthmadog was left behind. The line crossed the vast floodplain of the Afon Glaslyn. It was flooded.

The female conductor approached. I asked for a return to Aberystwyth, but she very kindly gave me an all-day ranger, which saved me six pounds. To celebrate I had a swig of water and found that the campsite drinking water was foul and tasted of pepper.

There should have been great views across the Dwyryd estuary to Portmeirion, the fantasy village created by “errant architect”, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis. Building began in the ‘Twenties, but the last original buildings were added as late as the mid-Seventies. It was here that The Prisoner was famously filmed in the ‘Sixties. It was a shame the weather was so dull and the lighting so grey and flat, muting all colour, so that the usually riotously colourful Portmeirion appeared monochrome.

The line now deviated from the coast, passing through attractive farmland with occasional little villages and drystone walls, centuries old, made of rounded local pebbles. It isn’t a highly-populated area, so many of the stations are request stops, so we sailed through most without stopping.

At Harlech there was no sign of the famous castle, which is high up, there were just expansive grasslands. Further on there were beautiful views back over Cardigan Bay: sandy beaches, breakers, the entire sweep of the bay and in the distance the mountain backbone of the Llyn Peninsula.

A party of two middle-aged couples got on and sat nearby. Their conversation started to drift into my awareness and punctuated the scenery. The only one of them I could actually see, between the seats, was the spitting image of the actress, Pauline Quirke. She seemed to be the main spokesman. Spokeswoman. Person. At this point she was reciting “funny” poems. Not funny as in limericks, but twee, cutesy, childish poems, which really started to grate.

The sea, when it finally reappeared, was now brown and only stirred reluctantly, lethargically, perhaps beaten and downhearted by the ocean defences which were a constant feature of this part of the coast. The sun appeared to have given up completely. Everything was now just cloying grey, which didn't really enhance the look of the static caravan sites, which were becoming quite common; some were small and intimate, others were vast and regimented.

Pauline Quirke was now talking about songs she would put on a compilation CD for driving, including one which she insisted on singing and providing the vocal percussion for. “Please don’t leave me on the dangle, in the (something) love triangle.” Instrumental break. None of her unseen companions seemed to be responding and may well have hung themselves. I could only see them when they stood up to go to the toilet – which they seemed to do with alarming regularity. I think they’d worked out a rota system.

The train slid into Barmouth. On the approach, the locals seemed to stand stock still in their gardens or in the streets, staring at the train as though surprised or affronted by its arrival.

Barmouth was formerly associated with shipbuilding, which seems inconceivable today, as all that is visible is a small seaside town. It became popular as a Victorian holiday destination, hence its Anglicised name. Its Welsh name is Abermaw – “aber” meaning mouth of the river and “maw” from the river Mawddach. This was the busiest exchange, throngs of people got off to experience the seaside in all its deep-fried glory.

I was especially looking forward to the next section, as the line crossed the stunning Mawddach Estuary via a bridge, which I could see up ahead, looking like a scaled-down replica of the Forth Bridge. The estuary was wide and surrounded by the most impressive landscape; it felt open, the sky seemed vast and mountains made up the horizon. On a sunny day this is one of the best views in Wales. No, in the world.

Fairbourne, on the other side of the estuary, is another English-made seaside resort, again, hence its very English name. It has a nice beach, but from the railway all you get to see of the village is some pebble-dashing, which might be practical, but is never attractive.

Two older men got on. They appeared to know the lady conductor and were obviously regular travellers and must share the same “joke” with her every time they travel, maybe weekly, but it probably seems more to her.

One asked cheekily, with Carry On inflections: “D’you want me to whip it out?” (Referring to his ticket, we assume.) It was so amusing he said it three times.

Then the other one countered with: “My wife’s already done mine this morning.” This was both highly unlikely and highly inappropriate.

The conductor was patient and polite but moved on as soon as she could.

My view was now down onto a rocky beach, where cormorants and seagulls were sitting in solitary on the wave-lapped boulders; one bird per boulder. Nobody was speaking.

We approached Tywyn. It was very grey; the sky and the town. Again there were lots of sea defences, grey houses and green caravans. On the landward side it was flat, open and bleak. There were no trees at all. In one vast field the cows were lying down. In a neighbouring field however, a herd of bullocks were wired differently and were all standing.

“Sunny Tywyn.” The train lady said to someone as she shuffled along the aisle to open the doors.

We passed across a huge golf course; the golfers’ pants provided the only colour, then we arrived in Aberdyfi, another resort town. There were slate roofs and coloured houses. The two couples disembarked and deprived the carriage of their singing and chat.

Like Barmouth, Aberdyfi was formerly a shipbuilding town, now given over to the tourist trade. Both towns share similarities about their setting, with a river mouth, a wide estuary and sandy beaches. Aberdyfi, though, is the more attractive as a town, though I think the Mawddach wins for the estuaries .

For the next leg of the journey the track hugged the coast, weaving in and out of the various inlets along the Dyfi estuary. Several water birds, shovelers I think, took to the wing as the train approached. I felt proud for having identified them. Probably incorrectly.

At the next station, Dovey Junction, I had to change trains. As its name suggested, two lines met there. That’s all. There was nothing else there. I didn’t even see an exit from the platforms, but I suspect there must have been one. There was nowhere to go, just rushes, marshes and surrounding hills.

When the connecting train arrived, the driver put his foot down and we sped through the countryside, along the opposite side of the estuary and into Borth. There is a nice old station with a museum – which was closed. That’s all I can say that’s good about Borth from the perspective of a train traveller. I realised – as with most of the other towns we had passed through – the railway line goes through the back of the town, so all you see are back yards, dustbins, car parks, waste ground, extractor fans and industrial premises. This isn’t really the best way to get an impression of what the towns and villages are like from the front.

Borth is famous for its “submerged ancient forest” – the stumps of trees which can be seen at low tide. Carbon-dating shows them to be from approximately 1500 BC. That anything bio-degradable still exists from so long ago is mind-blowing.

Seconds after leaving Borth the train was engulfed in a tunnel of living trees. We headed inland and there were hills at last. It didn’t take long to arrive in Aberystwyth. The trees ended suddenly and there were schools, houses, industrial premises and a Lidl. Not the most inspiring approach, but then the station was very nice; although it was quite small it gave the impression of something much grander. I wandered around the town, immediately impressed by the Georgian and Victorian buildings, especially the Regency-style terraces along the sea front.

The pier let the prom down somewhat. It looked shabby and in need of refurbishment. It housed amusements, a pool hall and a bar with several huge screens showing football. At the very end of the rather stubby pier was what they referred to as the “sun deck”, which was basically an outdoor area of picnic tables; there was certainly no sun to be had today, although a motorcyclist of mature years was lying flat on one of the benches, seemingly sunbathing defiantly.

I passed a young man who was sitting on the prom wearing a hoodie emblazoned with the words: Aberystwyth Debating Union. I did a double-take because he was smoking a pipe and it looked quite incongruous on one so young. It wasn’t a false one, not some sort of vape-machine or anything, it was a real pipe with real tobacco. He put it down surreptitiously; I think he was embarrassed. I wondered whether he’d come out here alone to try out his new contrived “look”. He should have gone for a curly Sherlock Holmes-type affair to look properly affected. He was almost certainly a student; I hadn’t realised, but Aberystwyth is an important university town.

I called into a little health food café for lunch, which was very nice. I listened to two female diners talking as they ate. Marks and Spencer was the subject of their conversation.

“Marks’,,, their quality went a long time ago.”

“I bought some bras and some pyjamas. And the seam on the pyjamas twisted around my leg at night. You don’t expect that from Marks’.”

“Take them back! Take them back! I got some nightshirts from there. I threw away my old ones I’d had for twenty-five years… then I regretted it because they weren’t half as good.”

I made a mental note that if I ever buy a nightshirt I must source a better-quality brand. Or rather my carer will, because if I’m wearing nightshirts I will long-since have been committed.

My bean burger, potato skins and various salads were delicious and very filling, so I had a very slow walk along the seafront to the ruins of the 13th Century castle, which stands on a small promontory and unlike most castles it was free to enter. The ruins were interesting and there were views across the bay to the headland and the harbour.

I didn’t see a fraction of what Aberystwyth had to offer, but it was time for my train back. The return journey was quite a different affair, because everything was aglow in afternoon sunshine. Everywhere looked better, uplifted. Aberdyfi looked like an elegant seaside town. Tywyn – from the train – didn’t, though its pebble-dashing had taken on a new light.

At Barmouth the two couples from the morning got on, but they don’t sit near me, so I was spared a running commentary of Pauline Quirke’s favourite songs. Dyffryn Ardudwy looked pastoral; as the train approached, lambs in the fields scuttled away like cotton-wool tumbleweed. Harlech looked expansive. Porthmadog looked sunny and sleepy. Finally, Criccieth looked quite beautiful; the castle was magnificent and the whole town looked clean and wholesome.

I began the long trek back to the camp site, taking a longer route to avoid the main road, down beautiful, fragrant country lanes. I dropped down into Llanystumdwy, which has strong connection with Lloyd George.

David Lloyd George was one of the most popular British prime ministers, and his popularity is enduring as he is still voted one of the top British PMs of all time. He was born in Manchester, though both his parents were Welsh. The family later moved to Pembrokeshire, but after the death of his father, his mother returned to her native Llanystumdwy.

Lloyd George was prime minister during World War I, but is better remembered today for his introduction of the Welfare State, including old age pensions. Towards the end of his career and indeed his life, he was seen as an untrustworthy figure; his support for World War II was considered weak and there were concerns that he favoured Hitler. He had met the young Adolf early in his career and had been impressed with some of his politics, but Hitler started out as a man fighting for a repressed nation and only later became power-crazed, so it is perhaps not as sinister as it sounds.

He is buried close to the river in a quiet spot on the edge of the village. He requested no traditional gravestone, so instead a boulder marks his resting place. The later addition of an ornamental enclosure and gate, designed by Portmeirion’s Clough Williams-Ellis, has made it into a very pleasant, shady shrine.

Day 3. Thursday 18th May 2017.

It was a beautiful sunny morning. I could see through the hedge that the cows were up and wandering round, swishing their tails. That promised good weather. Mind you, they’d been wrong for the past two days so I decided not to put too much stock in them.

I drove to the northern shore of the Llyn Peninsular, to Morfa Nefyn, and parked in the National Trust car park. It was four pounds for a full day and worth every penny; the views across the bay to the dramatic outline of the triple peaks of the Rivals were amazing. In the other direction was a view over incoming breakers to the tiny hamlet of Porthdinllaen, nestled in a sheltered cove. From here it looks similar to Portmeirion: a compact jumble of different architectural styles, weather-boarding, whitewashed stone, huddled together right on the beach. If I could choose to live anywhere in Britain, I would almost certainly choose Porthdinllaen. The only problem would be its popularity; you’d constantly get people like me peering in your windows, admiring your chimneypots and photographing your gables. Standing out amongst the predominantly white buildings is one red house, the inn, the Ty Coch – literally the Red House. It is famous as one of the top ten beach pubs in the world.

Food was served from twelve noon. Part of the charm of Porthdinllaen is that it isn’t accessible (by the general public) by road – you have to walk along the beach, a stroll of some twenty minutes. So, at quarter to twelve I set off down to the beach and was dismayed to see a trail of pilgrims walking with determination around the bay towards the food-serving pub. I marched at full pelt and managed to overtake eleven people plus a child. The child was a pushchair variety, so I didn’t see him as much of a threat.

Though it was sunny and warm and there were tables outside, I decided to sit inside the pub, because it was genuinely old and genuinely quirky, packed to the rafters with all manner of object d’art. And object t’at. Everywhere there was some sort of memorabilia, something to look at.

A surfing dude type served me. He had long sun-bleached hair and a beard. Not sure how the sun-bleaching occurred so early in the season, but never mind. I ordered a baked potato with five bean chilli. He called me “Sarge”, which made me smile, but I tried not to let it show, as though people always call me Sarge.

Note: The Ty Coch has a no chip policy. It doesn’t serve chips. At all. Ever. How refreshing is that?

I received a potato the size of a baby’s head. Quite a big baby. The kind of baby who would give its mother cause for anguish during the birth. The chilli was gorgeous. I was quite full after eating so I sat on the beach in the soft white sand, in the warm sunshine, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves and the birdsong. It doesn’t get much better than that. From some angles, in the sun, this could be the Aegean or a Mediterranean island. In the rain it could be Scotland. Or even Wales. But today the bay was varying shades of blue: turquoise, aquamarine, azure… and other colours that are names of paint, when blue just won’t do.

I was feeling very satisfied, very mellow. I sat there for an hour, soaking up the view, watching the gentle waves and the people walking past with their dogs. One couple had a little bulldog-type dog and the man was throwing a ball for him.

“Drop it! Drop it! Look, I’m not arguing! Drop it!”

When the man stood on the ball, the dog dug a hole under his foot to get it. I was amazed by his ingenuity.

I went paddling and the water was refreshing, crystal clear, then walked back very slowly along the beach, seriously and deliriously happy.

After sunset I drove back to the camp site, passing what was once Butlins at Pwllheli. (It is still open, but no longer a Butlins.) It was here that comedy scriptwriter, Jimmy Perry, had worked as a Red Coat. He was very much a man inspired by his own experiences; Dad’s Army came about because as a teenager Perry volunteered for the Home Guards. His army years were spent in Burma, where the joined the concert party, inspiring It Ain’t Half Hot Mum. His experiences at Butlins, of course, would provide the basis for Hi-Di-Hi.

Day 4. Friday 19th May 2017

Driving home. It was another sunny morning, scorching hot. As soon as I drove into the mountains the sky darkened and the first drops of heavy rain landed on the windscreen, but by the time I dropped down into Caernarfon it had gone sunny again.

I had a break and walked around the harbour, where there are views across the Menai Straits to Anglesey. In the toilets I was surprised to see a sharps bin, only it had been doctored and read: “harps only”, which seemed so very Welsh.

Outside a pub, a poor delivery man had dropped a crate of bottled beers. Some of the bottles had smashed and a foaming slick of froth was spreading out across the cobbles. Quite a crowd had gathered, staring down in dismay at the increasing puddle, as though mourning the loss of a fallen comrade. Rivulets of dark ale weaved between the cobbles in a shape not unlike a London Tube map.

I didn’t have time to spend long in Caernarfon, but it looks a fascinating town and it’s on the list for next time, which hopefully won’t be too long.