Llyn Peninsula

The Llyn Peninsula

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July 2017

Mountains, leeks, red dragons, barra brith, rugby, miners, castles and chaps singing close harmonies together. Yes, I’m off to Wales.

I was tempted to Bangor for lunch. (There’s a joke there, but I’m going to let it go.) I parked on the outskirts of the town amidst a brood of pebble-dashed council houses; they weren’t the nicest-looking houses, but they had a view across the Menai Straits to Anglesey, where I noticed there were some large and grand houses in the trees, which - despite their size and location - had a view across the Straits to these council houses, so think on.

I walked into town along a narrow backstreet, which was a bit shabby, in need of a wipe-down with a damp cloth. I did some blue sky thinking in the Blue Sky Café, where I had a mezze – a wooden board containing an array of hummus, baba ganoush and other dips, salads and loveliness. It was colourful, Mediterranean and gorgeous.

Bangor is the oldest city is Wales. The fact it is a city at all is quite surprising, though it is one of the smallest cities in the UK. It's a university town, so there is a fluctuating population of young people. It is dominated by the rather formidable university building, which looks medieval but is in fact Edwardian. It isn’t a bad town, but it isn’t really a tourist town.

I was staying on the Llyn Peninsula, which is a beautiful part of North Wales. The site was busy and I was given a pitch in the middle, so I had people sitting in deckchairs on all sides, so I had to draw the majority of the curtains to get some privacy… I do like privacy. Also, the site was quite steeply sloping, so when trying to get something to eat everything kept sliding off the table, so I had to wedge everything as best I could, but one false move and your dinner was on the floor.

It was a beautiful, balmy summer’s evening… quite a contrast to the wind and torrential rain when I awoke the next morning. I watched a woman struggling in the downpour, trying to control the veranda-type flap of her tent. There were quite a lot of tents and my heart went out to the poor campers; at one time that would have been me, but not any more and never again. Camping in the rain is pure misery. As I had my breakfast in the warm and dry, I saw several unwilling, bedraggled dogs being hauled out for their morning constitutional. Opposite me there was a German couple, who typically had their caravan, awning and equipment all organised efficiently. The man set off to the shower block with a Union Jack carrier bag containing his toiletries. Perhaps they were cramming in a final pre-Brexit visit in to the UK before the big wall is built.

The rain showed no sign of letting up. Foolishly – and I admit this is completely my own fault – for the first time ever I didn’t bring my waterproof coat; it was in the wash… I decided when packing that I’d improvise and it might not rain… but that was foolhardy and now I’m going to be in a bit of a mess.

I overheard one of the campsite staff say the nearby town of Pwllheli was quite nice. “Pwllheli’s quite nice.” he said. (Told you.) I have only ever driven through Pwllheli before and been so unimpressed that I have chosen not to stop. I thought, due to the weather and my lack of appropriate clothing, that now would be a good time to explore it and make use of the relative shelter of its streets, cafes and shops.

I drove around the marina first, which is largely a regenerated area; other towns have successfully managed to upgrade their old docks and give them a new lease of life. I love water and I love boats, but this seemed a bit bleak and soulless, but the weather was terrible; I’m sure it looks better on a good day. (I later saw some photographs of the town and marina in sunshine and it did look very attractive.)

Pwllheli is the main market town of the Llyn Peninsula, where apparently 81% are Welsh-speakers and the Welsh independent party, Plaid Cymru, was founded. It was a once a centre for shipbuilding and quarrying.

I parked just out of town – as is my wont – and walked in. Pwllheli looked a bit gloomy in the rain. There were narrow streets and old buildings, plenty of small local shops, plenty of interesting charity shops and a few over-priced antique shops. It appeared to be market day, but the open-air market was literally a wash-out, with stall-holders either huddled under their gazebos or hanging onto them for dear life to stop them blowing away. I took refuge in Costa and had a very welcome Americano.

I drove a few miles down the road and went for a pub lunch. The one thing I wanted – and I had sensibly and efficiently checked the website prior to going – vegetable rogan josh – was unavailable, as the landlady informed me – completely unapologetically – that only a third of the menu was on today. I asked if there was a frozen one, because I was vegan, it was the only thing I was able to have and I had come specially. She went to have a word with “chef” – the food heater – and he agreed - at no extra cost - to bung one in the microwave.

The place started to fill up and I heard the landlady trotting out the same explanation about only a fraction of the menu being available. I was quite taken aback by how unapologetic she was. There were no main meals and no starters, so only snacks. People were leaving in droves. Despite being very nice, my meal was quite small and very over-priced, so I won’t be going back.

I dropped down the hill into Llanbedrog, which is an attractive and secluded coastal village nestling beneath a wooded headland. It has some very nice houses, a gallery and theatre and a fine beach with colourful beach huts. These huts are migratory; in the winter they can be found uphill in the National Trust car park, where they roost safely until the spring. They have no windows and you aren’t allowed to sleep in them; they are just sheds. Expensive sheds.

Ah, the British on holiday – you’ve got to love them. I was surprised to find the beach very busy, with people sunbathing, semi-naked, paddling and building sand castles. It was suddenly quite hot, despite the bank of dark clouds gathering ominously on the horizon.

I spent a lovely afternoon wandering up and down the beach, or just sitting and looking at the waves and listening to the gulls. In the early evening I climbed the headland, from which there are views over the bay to the far mountains and out to sea, as fine as any view over the Mediterranean. It was a beautiful evening and the sea and sky went on forever.

The heather at the summit of the headland was flowering and clusters of heavy orange berries hung from the rowan trees: the first signs of the autumn sneaking in.

After a fairly good night’s sleep, I awoke to another very grey and miserable day. I drove across to the opposite shore of the Llyn Peninsula to one of my favourite places, Porthdinllaen; a tiny hamlet in a sheltered and secluded cove; a compact jumble of different architectural styles, weather-boarding and whitewashed stone, huddled together right on the beach. 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.

I had my usual meal, five-bean chilli baked potato, which was gorgeous, with an accompanying pint of crisp imported lager.

Stepping out of the pub, the tide was fully in so there was only a narrow sliver of sandy beach, with a huge throng of holiday-makers squeezed onto it. It was breath-takingly hot and the brightness hurt my eyes. In the sunshine, this sheltered bay looked like a gorgeous Aegean scene. Two minutes later when the sun had gone and the dark clouds were rolling in and there was a Siberian breeze it looked very Scottish, remote and eerie. Regardless of which persona it adopts, Porthdinllaen is one of the most beautiful places in Wales.

I wanted to stay as long as possible, but I could tell there was a storm brewing and it was a forty-minute walk back to the car park. I waited as long as I dared, then headed back around the bay at breakneck speed. I had timed it perfectly; when I was just yards from the car park the rain came, slow, fat rain at first, but before long it was leathering it down. For the next hour there was a steady influx of bedraggled holiday-makers, toting windbreaks and deckchairs up from the beach. Meanwhile I sat in my van reading and drinking tea.

It turned out to be another sublimely beautiful evening and paddled in the surprisingly warm sea. When the weather is just right – which sadly isn’t all that often – we really do live in the most breath-taking country.