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Shell Island – "famous for shells"

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(August 2017)

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Driving through the Snowdonia mountains on a sunny day was breath-taking; the landscape was beautiful, unspoilt, field and forest, then suddenly over the brow of the hill and you’re in the rather unlovely grey slate landscape of Blaenau Ffestiniog. Poor Blaenau, with slag heaps in every direction it hasn’t got a lot going for it, but at least the sun was shining on it. It looks far worse in the rain.

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I detoured to Porthmadog for food shopping. In a car park, I watched a teenage boy leap-frogging over a series of waist-high metal posts. He was alone, so he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, it was just for fun, because he could. He cleared the first two admirably, with some athletic prowess, but came a cropper on the third, slamming his crotch-junior into the top of the post. I think he injured more than his pride, but in true British fashion he carried on walking, trying to pretend nothing had happened, probably heading home to nurse his wounds.

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I continued south along the coast of North Wales, to Shell Island. Welsh tourist leaflets used to run the catchy strap-line “Shell Island – famous for shells”. The island, called Mochras in Welsh, is connected to the mainland by a tidal causeway and is only cut off at high tide. It is a beautiful spot a few miles south of Harlech and has amazing views of the sea, the bay and the mountains. Apart from the golden sand, the main attraction of Shell Island is that it is a campsite with acres of grass and sand dunes: you just pitch where you like. Shell Island is really one massive campsite. It’s also one very busy campsite. It's been sunny for a few days and it's the school holidays, so the place is packed. I couldn’t find anywhere to pitch at first, so decided to go for a recce on foot.

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There are green, gently rolling areas to the island and starkly contrasting, there are acres of sandhills. The beach is wide and mainly sandy. I paddled, but not for long – it was freezing. I couldn’t find any impressive shells, only razors, which are fairly common. Famous for shells? More like famous for shell suits, as it's largely populated by huge family groups; communities are made up of several large tents, all connected by miles of windbreaks. There are whole cities of canvas and multi-generational clans seem to come on holiday together. By the look of it, I’m the only person who’s come as a person, singular, untogether and alone.

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Caravans aren’t allowed on the island and there are very few vans, it’s mainly tents. Wherever you go, every corner you turn, every sand dune you climb, you’re confronted by a tented hamlet. Tents are jammed in copses, between sand dunes, around every corner. It’s very reasonably priced, because it is a stunning location with great views across Tremadog Bay to the jagged outline of the Llyn Peninsula and inland towards the dark, foreboding mountains of southern Snowdonia. My own cynical view is that it is a lovely campsite ruined by campers.

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Many of the tents have tall flags flying; I now realise it is most likely to help you locate your dwelling. Because it isn’t regimented, it’s easy to get lost. Despite having a map, I can’t find my van for an hour.

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In the early evening, I walk to the northern-most tip of the island where there is a little harbour, a sheltered bay filled with boats and yachts. Despite it getting quite cold, breezy and the sun being hidden behind a dark bank of cloud, some boys are swimming in the sea – in an area designated “unsafe for swimming”. They have an adult with them, overseeing from the beach, so at least if they're swept out to sea there will be someone to blame. 

I eventually choose an acceptable pitching space and set about preparing my tea. The gas seems to have run out suddenly, unexpectedly, so I end up with cold soup and bread. I’ve had better meals.

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Walking to the showers after dark, the island is aglow. Many tents have flashing lights, fairy lights or strings of lanterns; many have fires, fire pits, log burners, nuclear reactors or barbecues. Even in the dark I can see the night air is grey with a fug of wood smoke and smells of lighter fluid.

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At 9.30pm there is an exodus of families from the on-site bar, waves of tottering pilgrims heading back to their canvas communities. There is laughter and merriment and music, but at ten o’clock sharp it goes completely silent, as per the rules, apart from the constant rushing of the sea.

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I slept very well and awake to a grey and miserable morning, but the sun soon comes up and the sky fills with cotton wool clouds. 

I drove through Harlech, famous for its castle and the song about its men. It's a sleepy place… in that it seems to be asleep. It isn’t in any way unpleasant, but it never seems to be open and there's nothing here really, except the castle, but it is an exceptionally fine castle in a commanding location, visible for miles around. I don’t stop in Harlech. There doesn’t seem any point. I take a big circular detour back to the little village of Llandanwg, which means "the beach by the little church near the car park and beach café". Or something very similar.

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A path leads through sandhills to the sandy beach. As it's rather breezy and cold I'm surprised to see quite a few people installed with windbreaks and deckchairs. One lady is sitting wrapped in a blanket, hood up, sunglasses on, determined to enjoy the beach – regardless of the weather - because she's on holiday.

 

The tiny church of St Tanwg is hidden in the sandhills close to the car park. It's a simple building from the outside, with a small steeple and bell, but inside it has wooden beams and is rustically lovely. Several 5th and 6th century stones are on display, even if you aren’t interested in 5th and 6th century stones, it is a very peaceful and charming building.

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Back on Shell Island, there seem to be considerably less people staying tonight and I manage to get a fine spot on the cliffs overlooking the sea. It's quite spectacular sitting watching the sunset, the van being buffeted by a steady breeze. After ten it again goes very quiet from the human population and the only sounds are the sea and the wind.

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