Aberystwyth and the Welsh Hinterland
​
The next morning, I'm heading south into mid-Wales. After a short drive through the mountains, I drop down into Machynlleth and call in at the Centre for Alternative Technology (CAT), where I have an inspiring afternoon. I wander around the site learning about all aspects of reducing your carbon footprint as well as saving money on fuel bills. It also has an excellent cafe... which sells excellent cake.
​
The first pioneers arrived at the former quarry site in 1974 and brought the place back to life. The centre has expanded and developed steadily ever since. In the 1990’s came the cliff railway, run on a water-balancing system, so it is completely environmental.
I came here years ago with my partner, Nicky. I can’t remember too much about it, except in the men’s toilets you had to wee into a funnel, which was then collected in a barrel and used for fertilizer. A sign said something similar about the cubicles as well. Today, while waste may still be used in this way, there is no mention and the toilets are proper urinals and flushing toilets.
​
There are displays about energy efficiency, transport, green gardening, solar power, wind turbines and much more, but for me the best thing was just wandering around enjoying the greenery and the flowers, listening to the birds and enjoying the general relaxed vibe. CAT is a template for how the world should be.
​
* * * * * * * * * * *
​
I had booked a site in the next bay to Aberystwyth. It's over double the cost of Shell Island, and the facilities are probably slightly worse, but it's pleasant enough and there is a sea view over the roofs of all the static caravans. As it's a nice evening I walk across the headland towards Aberystwyth. The summit is called Constitution Hill, from which there are views over the whole town and the bay. For the less energetic there is a cliff railway to take you to the top. As an extra incentive, there is a café/bar/restaurant at the summit. unfortunately, it's 6.01 when I arrive, bursting into the café bar drenched in sweat and gasping for a cool, refreshing pint of lager. They had just closed at 6pm and the staff are hoovering. I fleetingly think about begging them to serve me, but I want to savour my drink and not be rushed or hassled, so I follow the path down into the town.
I love Aberystwyth – as a seaside and holiday resort it has everything that is good and traditional, without being in any way tacky. It's an attractive and pleasing market and university town, which has been a popular tourist destination since the coming of the railway in the Victorian times. It had been known in its heyday as “the Biarritz of Wales.” The heart of the town has narrow back streets and colourful regency-style houses and is a pleasure to wander around exploring and soaking up the atmosphere.
​
The Victorian pier – the oldest in Wales – was built in 1864. It's a Grade II listed building, but sadly is currently a bit shabby – it went into receivership but was bought and saved in 2016. It's also a bit stubby, some of its length having been washed away by storms. It houses amusements and a sports bar.
Aberystwyth has an impressive (ruined) castle – free to enter – and many fine old buildings, many belonging to the university. The town and surrounding countryside were the setting for the gripping
noir police procedural, Hinterland. With the sun shining though, Aberystwyth looks anything but noir.
​
I have chips and a lager at a diner on the prom, sitting outside in the sunshine watching the sea; it's a perfect half hour, then I lumber slowly back up Constitution Hill to my site, as the sun sets over the sea.
​
In the caravan next door to me, illuminated like fish in a tropical tank, parents and kids are all playing cards, instead of the kids being shut off in their internet world of Facebook and the parents watching telly. It's quite heartening to see.
​
The next morning, the weather has taken a turn for the worst and it's pouring down and showing no sign of letting up. I drive inland to a forest I had been recommended to visit, where there is a visitor centre and café. Upon arriving, the weather is still bad, the clouds are low and there are no views. Worse still, there is great consternation in the car park as the visitor centre and café are inexplicably closed.
​
Orange Dad (his waterproof coat, not his skin) from the next vehicle comes up to me, looking troubled. “This isn’t on. I’ve driven for miles with a car full of complaining kids. What am I supposed to tell them? What are we suppose to do now?”
​
His tone suggests it's my fault the café's closed.
​
“Oh no…” I say, “Well, good luck with that.”
​
I walk round to the café anyway, followed by Orange Dad. The café has a hastily scribbled sign on the door: “Closed today for unforeseen maintenance”. I think it's supposed to read: “Closed today for unforeseen maintenance. We apologise for any inconvenience.” But it doesn’t. Then I notice the staff are all sitting inside having a brew, laughing, chatting and ignoring the many people who try the door. Orange Dad is incensed and starts knocking on the window and remonstrating. At this which point, I wander away, but Orange Dad follows and catches me up.
​
“They’re sitting there ignoring me! It’s just not on!” I make the appropriate comments and then spot the toilet block. I decide to have a wee before I move on, but the toilets are also shut, which I think is unnecessary and I'm starting to share Orange Dad’s annoyance.
​
He follows me around the site as I read various noticeboards and look at the non-existent view, then he stands in the car park just staring into space. I think he's just trying to put off the moment when he will have to get back in his car and face a barrage of complaints.
​
Another man is returning from his exploration of the café and toilets; his wife is standing by their car expectantly.
​
“All shut.” he calls as he approaches. “Unexpected maintenance.”
She sighs. “I’ll just have a pee then before we go!”
“No, they’re shut as well. Everything’s shut.”
She stares at him indignantly. “I need a pee!”
“The toilets are locked.”
“But I need a pee!”
“They’re locked. There’s nothing I can do!”
“Did you hear what I said, I need a pee!”
I don’t hear any more of their conversation and I notice Orange Dad’s car has gone at last. I get in my van and decide to have a brew. That’s the beauty of a camper van – you can brew up at any time, have a meal or have a nap. Wherever you are you’re always at home.
​
In the afternoon, I arrive in the village of Devil’s Bridge, named after – not surprisingly – a bridge, which crosses a deep river gorge. According to legend, an old woman lost her cow and discovered it was on the other side of the river but there was no way across. The Devil appeared – as he does – and offered to build a bridge, as long as he could claim the soul of the first living thing to cross it. The old woman agreed. The Devil produced the bridge, as promised, and awaited anxiously for the old woman to cross. Instead, she threw some bread across the bridge and her dog ran eagerly after it, thus being the first living thing to cross. The Devil was so annoyed and embarrassed at being tricked that he never ventured into Wales again. The end.
​
This legend and the location feature in the first story of the Welsh TV series Hinterland. It's a dark and brooding series, both in the subject matter and the way it's filmed. The nearby hotel also features as a creepy former children’s home. In reality, the hotel looks anything other than creepy – and it has a very nice public bar, which I make use of.
There are actually three bridges at Devil’s Bridge, stacked on top of each other. The original constructed by the Devil himself, in the 11th Century, possibly with the help of some monks from the nearby abbey. Above it is a larger stone replacement and above that the current road bridge. It has been a tourist hotspot for hundreds of years.
The wind really picks up in the evening. I stop in Aber and walk the whole length of the prom, from the headland to the harbour, with the sea almost fully in and crashing up the beach. The light is fading and heavy, dark clouds are gathering. There is seaspray and fine rain in the air. It's all very dramatic. In a performance area on the prom, an elderly lady is putting on a concert, singing old classics, belting out Unchained Melody, really well. It's quite touching. There are about fifteen people sitting watching her at this point, which is a shame, because she deserves more.
​
The following day is grey and blustery. I visit the seaside village of Borth, a few miles north of Aberystwyth. It's an odd ribbon development along what was once a beach road, a mish-mash of styles and colours, formerly a fishing village, then a traditional seaside resort, now struggling to make ends meet, so there are small ramshackle cottages alongside elegant regency townhouses, weather-boarded cabins and pebble-dashed semis.
Some of the colourful guesthouses are somewhat run down, others are immaculate. It is quirky, difficult to define, unusual and I have to say, I really liked it. I found its off-beat oddness fascinating.
​
Borth is famous for its submerged forest. A plaque at the end of the sea wall gives directions to its location on the beach, but today the submerged forest is completely submerged. According to the sign it is only visible at very low tide and only after the sea has lifted a lot of the sand from the beach, which only occasionally happens. Reading between the lines it doesn’t look like it can be viewed at the moment and I’m very disappointed. The submerged forest contains the remains of oak and pine trees that grew here in the Neolithic (New Stone) and Bronze Ages – up to 5000 years ago.
On the prom, there is a slate sculpture bearing the inscription: “Under the sea and waves lie many a fair city”, referring to the legend of a prosperous drowned city, 20 miles out into Cardigan Bay, which was which was consumed by the sea in the 6th Century AD.
​
At 10.30 I seek refuge from the cold wind in a nice little café called Uncle Albert’s. Two slices of raspberry and orange sponge cake and a coffee help me get over my disappointment about not seeing the submerged forest.
​
The grasslands that surround Borth and the village station had featured in Hinterland. I wandered up and down the platform pretending I was waiting for a train, because it seemed less embarrassing than just looking at this lovely old station. The station opened in the 1860s. As usual, the railway bought visitors to the tiny fishing village and Borth became a destination on the Victorian tourist map.
​
The station no longer has a ticket office, but volunteers have made use of derelict rooms and created the Borth station museum, which is full of memorabilia relating to the railway and the town, staffed by friendly and well-informed volunteers. It’s well-worth a visit… and is free.
​
The Hinterland crew took over the station for a week for filming and one of the museum volunteers, George Romary, appeared as an extra, playing a reporter at a press conference. He told me the crew rented a house in the village and many scenes were shot in the area, on the nearby beaches and using properties and stretches of road. He is very knowledgeable about the area and told me the submerged forest may make an appearance at about 4 o’clock. And he was right. The sands were currently in the wrong place for the best effect, but emerging from the retreating waves were the stumps of countless trees. At first glance they look just like rocks, but on closer inspection you can see roots spreading out and the definite rings in the wood. I can’t say how excited this made me – to be looking at trees that lived 5000 or so years ago.
