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Sunday 30 September 2007--It's moving day, off to Llandudno. Getting there is the prime motive of the day,
but there is a little time to see a thing or two on the way. The first is the 4,000-year-old Pentre Ifan, Wales' most
spectacular dolmen, in the foothills of the Preseli Mountains. Preseli? Was St Elvis here? There are those who think
that it was a local family that emigrated to America, anglicized its name, and eventually produced a child named after the
obscure saint. Apparently there is no evidence--genealogies I've seen point to a German family named Presler or Bressler--
but who needs facts when you have a good story? In any case, Pentre Ifan
is the best ancient site I've yet seen in Wales. It's worth mentioning another local connection--it isn't too far from
here that bluestone was quarried for Stonehenge. The how and why, of course, are lost in the mists of time.
I drive on up the coast, taking quick peeks at towns here and there. New Quay looks like an especially appealing seaside town, and I know from research that Dylan Thomas once lived there. It would make a nice base for the exploration of an area I am now just passing through. Further up the coast, I turn inland and enter pretty hill country, driving up lovely valleys. Eventually I enter a narrow mountain pass, where sits the slate-mining town of Blaenau Ffestiniog. Up until now, every place I've been in Wales has reminded me of someplace else: the Brecon Beacons, of Yorkshire; Pentre Ifan, of Poulnabrone and other Irish dolmens; St Davids, of any number of towns in Scotland or England or Ireland. Here at Blaenau Ffestiniog, I am confronted with a landscape unlike anything I have ever seen. I've certainly seen mining towns before, like Thetford Mines in Quebec, with its surrounding mountains of tailings. Such places are always ugly, if fascinating. This is different. The long, narrow town is jammed into the pass, stretching along the main road, surrounded by small mountains of waste slate, and the larger mountains from which they were torn. It would be easy to say that this, too, is ugly, but it seems to me that there is a terrible beauty to it. The fact that one of the mining railroads has been turned into a tourist excursion route on the mountainside indicates that I am not alone in thinking so. (To be fair, the attraction is the rugged drama of Snowdonia National Park, from which the town and its waste heaps are carefully excluded.) I suppose there are other slate-mining towns in Britain that look like this, but this is the first time that I have felt that I am undeniably in Wales and nowhere else. I regret not taking the time to stop and photograph it. I'm not sure that the camera could have captured what I felt on the ground, but as it is I will have no photographic evidence at all. The pass extends for some way before the road spills onto a broad plain, where sits the town of Betws-y-Coed. I've read how to pronounce this, but in my mind it will always be "Betsy the Co-ed". From here, it's a stretch down the river valley, past Conwy to Llandudno. The larger part of Llandudno is a planned Victorian seaside resort. I drive along the promenade and find my hotel, at the eastern end. After checking in, I undertake a stroll, intending to end up in the older part of town at the west, at the foot of a massive rocky headland called the Great Orme. (I have, of course, chosen to lodge at the cheap end of town.) It's very quiet late on a Sunday afternoon, and I find myself feeling disheartened--the place feels empty and lifeless. I find the two pubs recommended by CAMRA's Good Beer Guide, however, and start to feel better. The Queen Vic is nice enough, but the Kings Head suits me better, and I know that it will be HQ for the next three evenings. It sits just above the terminal for the tramway up the Great Orme, a ride I intend to take in the next day or two. Next |
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Pentre Ifan
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Llandudno
Next
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