So that was Wales. Been there, done that, don’t wear tee-shirts.
“Prynawn Da”.
Following my principle of learning and using a few key phrases of a host country when on holiday, I thus addressed the receptionist as we arrived in our hotel in Abergele, North Wales.
“Good Afternoon, sir”, was the prompt reply in a Yorkshire English dialect.
So much for that principle, then.
It later turned out that all the public-facing hotel staff were apparently English. Why that was, I have no idea, but coincidentally it tied in with our experiences of visiting the Isle of Skye and the highlands of Scotland where, similarly, we found that most of the people we spoke to seemed to be English. A bit boring, really.
We are back from our four-day venture into North Wales and I am now fully into the Celtic language of the ancient Britons. Well, I can say “Good Morning”, “Good Afternoon”, “Please” and “Thank You” in Welsh, at any rate. 60% of the inhabitants of north west Wales use Welsh as their first language and they can be very touchy about visitors presuming that they speak English. The number of Welsh speakers in South Wales and the cities is somewhat smaller than in the north, bringing the average number of people able to speak Welsh in the Principality as a whole down to about 20%. That said, being fluent in Welsh and English is a prerequisite for employment in the public sector in Wales, and that can be quite a hurdle for someone English seeking work in Wales. The road signs are annotated in both languages and that can be a bit confusing, as you are never quite sure whether a sign is naming a village or simply saying “Shopping Trolleys”. I well remember crossing the Severn Bridge into Wales some years ago, when there was still a toll on the bridge. A very close friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, mused on how unusual these Welsh signs were to English eyes and wondered what the sign at the toll booth meant in English. The sign said, “Coin Bins”. To avoid any embarrassment I promised not to reveal her name. Maybe they have a similar situation in Quebec with French-Canadians. It is, of course, good manners to at least try to speak the language of a host country (as well as being prudent) and it is for this reason that I learnt a few phrases before Jane and I ventured into ‘The Land of our Fathers’.
We went to North Wales on a culture trip organised by our local Arts Society – the same outfit that organised our trip to Paris last September [Blog 145]. After that jaunt we vowed to put coach trips on hold for an indefinite period, but we weakened when the Wales excursion was advertised, because it offered good value for money and less travel than the one to Paris. Our destination was only about five hours’ drive away. There were thirty eight of us altogether and the coach was a modern comfortable one, as previously. We stayed in the Kinmel and Kinspa Hotel, a country-house hotel on the outskirts of Abergele (top left of Wales, near Rhyl on the coast), and we used this as the base camp for the various visits, packing in at least two places each day. To our delight and surprise, given the Paris experience, the hotel proved to be lovely and the food was excellent – though how our driver managed to manoeuvre his large coach down the narrow hotel entrance drive and – indeed – along the tight and twisting country roads of North Wales is nothing short of a miracle.
The Welsh alphabet has more letters in it than English and some letters are pronounced differently. Hence, a brief explanation of the alphabet might be in order as the place names are otherwise unintelligible and forgettable. You can bypass this bit if you find it a bit dreary, as I will add phonetic pronunciations to the rest of the blog, as necessary, later.
In Welsh, the ‘w’ is pronounced ‘oo’ and the ‘u’ is pronounced ‘ee’. The ‘f’ is pronounced ‘v’. The ‘y’ is pronounce ‘uh’. The ‘ff’ is pronounced ‘f’. The ‘dd’ is pronounced ‘th’. The ‘ll’ [double letter Lima] is difficult – put the tip of your tongue on the roof of your mouth and exhale forcefully through the mouth, inflating the cheeks; the nearest English equivalent is probably ‘cl’. Hence, for example, the Welsh name for Wales, Cymru, is pronounced [CUM-ry] and Caernarfon is pronounced ‘Carn-ARVun’.
No wonder some people prefer English.
Mind you, in all fairness, some English place names are a minefield too: consider Towcester [’Toaster’], Worcester [‘WOOster’], Wymondham [‘WIND-um’], Cholmondeley [‘CHUM-ly’], Beaulieu [‘BEW-ly’], Gloucester [‘GLOS-ter’], and Wisbech [‘WIZ-beech’] I digress, but – you never know – you might want to visit Wymondham in Norfolk one day and it will impress the natives no end if you can pronounce the name of their town properly.
On Day 1 after arrival we enjoyed a good trip to the island of Anglesey in the pouring rain, visiting Plas Newydd [Plass-NEW-ith], a National Trust property on the shores of the Menai Strait where King Charles (then Prince of Wales) and his wife Dianna stayed as part of their honeymoon. The days of that honeymoon must have simply rolled by: let me just say that the bedroom looked a bit basic with its twin metal-framed beds, draughty ancient windows and with the wind-driven rain lashing down on Menai Strait outside. All the guides to whom I spoke were English.
On the road tour that followed, our embarked guide pointed out to us the house of the present Prince and Princess of Wales on Anglesey, which they had used when he was serving as a helicopter pilot in the RAF (they still stay there for holidays sometimes). Lunch break was taken in the coastal town of Beaumaris, a popular tourist spot that, I am sorry to say, did not leave a particularly favourable impression with us: a Force 7 south-westerly near-gale whistled through the main street and along the promenade, sweeping all before it; all the tourists were English from Yorkshire; the cafés were full; and we lunched on a biscotti provided free with the coffee which we bought in a pub that did not serve food.
We moved on to Caernarfon, re-crossing the Menai Strait to the mainland on the Britannia Bridge – so named after a ship that had foundered in bad weather in the Strait nearby. As we crossed, we noted – on a tiny, low-lying rocky island in the stormy, tide-ripped, Strait below – a single house Apparently the house belongs to a local dentist, who commutes to his surgery every day by fast RIB speedboat. I suppose he never gets woken up by late-night revellers on a Saturday night, but – all the same – rather him than me.
Caernarfon Castle was one of Edward I’s many castles constructed in Wales to keep down and conquer the rebellious Welsh, and he was much more successful there than he was in Scotland, despite being known as ’the hammer of the Scots’. Older British readers may recall that the castle was used for the investiture of the then Prince Charles as Prince of Wales in 1969. The heir to the throne always bears the title of Prince of Wales, of course, ever since Edward I made sure that his wife, Eleanor of Castile, gave birth to their first-born son in Caernarfon Castle for political reasons: the poor woman was hastened across the border, heavily pregnant, so that Edward could claim that his son was born in Wales and so, henceforth, he and his successors as heirs to the throne would be known as the Prince of Wales. Jane and I did our usual organised gallop around the castle, saw what there was to see, then exited to explore the town and its waterfront – Jane muttering, “seen one castle, you’ve seen them all”. We rather liked Caernarfon, particularly its ancient waterfront, Customs House and harbour; it was just a pity that the wind and rain were still with us. We engaged in conversation with a couple of apparent locals, only to find that they were visiting Australians on a three-month holiday from New South Wales: very friendly folk – boy, those Aussies are great explorers of Europe. Soon, we were back on the coach and heading for the town of Betws-y-Coed [Bet-ooss-ee-coyd) in deepest Snowdonia.
Fifty pence! Fifty pence to use the public lavatory! It was daylight robbery. Also, we did not have the aforementioned coins, which left both of us in some discomfort and with a dilemma. Such was our welcome to Betws-y-Coed. Jane and I had holidayed near the town in the late 1980s when we had rented a tiny rustic cottage on the top of a hill near the village of Ysbyty Ifan [Iz-bitty-ivvan]. Water came from a spring and was brown; there was no electricity; lighting was by gas mantles; heating was by an open fire; and you could not sit outside, lest you be blown away. A trip to nearby Betws-y-Coed at that time for groceries was unsuccessful because the shopkeeper refused to understand English and we knew no Welsh. We terminated that holiday early and Betws-y-Coed had left a bad impression that still rankled. Now, here we were, back again and in desperate need to ease springs because the public lavatories were so expensive. The problem was solved by the kind gesture of a chap who held open the door of the Gents’ lavatory for me as he exited, thus bypassing the coin-lock. I made the same gesture for Jane as I left, thus providing her with the dubious pleasure of passing water in a grubby male lavatory in which (she complained) there was no lavatory paper. We discovered after this adventure that we could have paid for the lavatory by credit card but, as I said to Jane, let’s live dangerously and rebel against the system. Fifty pence, forsooth. The town was packed solid with tourists (yep, all English, with the exception of our new Australian friends from Caernarfon, who seemed to be following us around). The narrow pavements and constant flow of traffic did not make for a very pleasant experience as we explored the shops. Naturally, we had to visit a few knick-knack shops that women seem to find irresistible (a woman can never have enough cushions and candles, that’s what I say), top up with fridge magnets and fudge, and buy a few souvenirs. I also bought a Welsh phrase book. I approached a nice lady in one such shop, determined to make amends for our visit in 1987:
“Prynawn Da” [P’noun Da – Good Afternoon]
“P’nawn Da”, she said with a smile.
“Do you know”, I said, returning her smile, “we have been two days in North Wales now and you are the first person I have spoken to in Welsh who is actually Welsh”.
“Actually, I’m English”, she said. ”I’m learning Welsh. Good accent by the way”.
Unbelievable, yet again. I really thought I’d made a Celtic friend there and had offered a small contribution to atone for the ruthlessness of Edward I and the filthy English seven hundred years ago. Never mind.
Day 2 found us at Gwydir [GWID-ear] Castle, near Llanrwst [Clan-ROOST] – still in Snowdonia. This was the best part of the trip. The Elizabethan castle (more of a manor house now) originated in the mid 1300s, but was rebuilt by the founder of the Wynn dynasty following the Wars of the Roses in the late 1400s, with additions in about 1500, 1600 and 1828. In 1994 the – by then derelict – castle was bought by a young couple with very little money, and they have spent the intervening thirty two years trying to restore it to its former glory. By sheer hard physical work, the ad hoc assistance of skilled local artisans, dribs and drabs of income, the odd grant from the Welsh government, and a great deal of luck they have managed to make the castle watertight, habitable and authentic. The gardens are huge and immaculate, patrolled by a flock of noisy peacocks whose ancestors date back to the castle’s origins. The castle is very basic inside, with 16th or 17th century furniture and wall decorations, oak floors, ill-fitting leaded windows, candlesticks, limited electricity, huge inglenook fireplaces, a priest’s hole, a garderobe and a ghost room; yet it is still lived in by the couple, who are now in their mid 50s. In the early days they were sleeping on layers of bubble-wrap and navigating the building at night using lighted candles and the different sounds made by leaking rainwater landing in an eclectic mix of buckets, basins, bowls and other receptacles. Even today, apparently, their private accommodation is somewhat spartan and they consider it a treat to visit friends’ houses where they can sit in warmth on comfortable upholstered chairs or beds that are not likely to collapse under them. In 1926 the contents of the castle were sold by the then owner, and the Dining Room was bought by William Hearst, the American millionaire, for his place in California (yes, the whole room: the furniture, the wall panels, the friezes, the floor, the lot), but it was never used. The couple tracked down the ‘room’ to the Metropolitan Museum in New York and managed to negotiate its return (it was still in the original crates used for removal); with the help and encouragement of Prince Charles (who had heard about the restoration) the fittings were restored to their original location, and the Dining Room is now as it was in the 17th century. An indication of the individual effort put in by the couple may be gained by the fact that the embossed leather friezes that would decorate the upper part of the walls could only safely be cleaned with (wait for it) saliva and the use of cotton-wool. It took them a while. The castle has the reputation of being the most haunted house in Wales, though that has not put off the couple, despite being subjected to hauntings and a poltergeist themselves.
We were astonished by what those two people (now married) managed to achieve against all odds – and what they are still doing. You can look it up on Google but, better still, read the book by Judy Corbett (the female of the couple) – I found it difficult to put down. It is an amazing tale of fortitude, optimism, humour, hauntings and sheer stamina: Castles in the Air – The Restoration Adventures of Two Young Optimists and A Crumbling Old Mansion by Judy Corbett – obtainable from Amazon. The castle is open to the public on Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays and Bank Holiday Mondays between 1 April and 30 September, 1100 – 1600, admission £12; the visits earn the castle some essential income for restoration and upkeep. The castle is also available for civil marriages and as a location for filming. You can stay in part of the castle on a self-catering basis but, on reflection, I think I will ‘pass’ on that one, personally.
On Day 3 we visited Portmeirion [Port-MARE-ee-on]. Most British readers will have heard of Portmeirion, which is an Italianate artificial village on the Welsh coast built between 1925 and 1976 by the architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, and features an eclectic mix of Italian-Riviera-style buildings surrounding a 19th century hotel on the cliffs. You can Google it, so I won’t dwell too long on the description. Visiting it was a treat, but most peculiar – it was a bit like a tiny Disneyland, but classier and without Donald Duck and the fair rides. There are no permanent residents, but you can stay in the hotel or rent the cottages in the village for a holiday. The distinct pottery, Portmeirion, which you may have heard of, was created by Clough-Williams’ daughter and is still popular for tableware, though expensive. Portmeirion was quite busy when we went around, so I would imagine it would be packed in the summer. We took one of the coastal paths from the village to avoid the crowds, returning through the forest via a delightful sandy beach. The grounds were extensive and well-signposted. Our coach driver recommended that we take lunch in nearby Porthmadog instead of Portmeirion as the cafés in the latter could get very busy at lunchtime. It proved to be sound advice.
For some bizarre reason, I kept wanting to call Porthmadog Port-m’-dog, but the correct pronunciation is Porth-MADock . It was not a terribly inspiring place on a dull and windy day – a bit workmanlike, grim and shabby in parts, and with a lot of traffic – but I did finally manage to speak in Welsh to a genuine, and very nice, Welsh lady in a shop that sold Portmeirion tableware. I suggested to her that the Welsh government deport all the English immigrants and keep Wales for the Welsh. Porthmadog has the distinction of having a railway station on the Porthmadog to Blaenau Ffestiniog railway [Blenn-ah Fess-TIN-ee-og] and we enjoyed a very good lunch in the station café, where we had a pot of tea and ate (what else) an excellent Welsh rarebit. The waiter was a Cockney. The narrow-gauge steam railway took us on an amazing circuitous mountain track, high into Snowdonia to the town of Blaenau Ffestiniog. The route had stunning views of the valleys, the mountains of Snowdonia and the slate quarries that once were the prime industry of North Wales. Thirty eight of us were packed into our own, specially-reserved, vintage carriage which, because of the narrow gauge of the railway, was only about six feet wide; it was quite chummy. I sent a picture of us to Rupert, our son, which produced the response,
“Are you on an old peoples’ outing?”
Followed by,
“When is the trolley coming around with the Werther’s Original Caramels and the cups of Horlicks?”
Cheeky young pup.
Day 4 found us back on the coach and heading south on the way home. Ironically, the sun came out for the first time in the week and it made a huge difference. We stopped at Powys Castle in mid Wales on the journey home, one of the few castles built by the Welsh to keep out the English rather than the other way round. It is now a National Trust property and boasts some huge and beautiful gardens though, disappointingly, the interior of the castle itself had limited access owing to refurbishment work. The addition of the sunshine made for a very enjoyable, if hot and tiring, exploration of the gardens and grounds. We welcomed those comfortable seats and the air conditioning on the coach as we set off on the final leg. We finally trundled into Melbury Market Place at 1800, ready for a nice sensible cup of tea, only to find that – surprisingly, given the time – we could not get a taxi home. The prospect of me walking two miles in the heat to get my car, while Jane sat on the suitcases fending off rough men asking if she sold kisses, did not appeal at all. Fortunately, help came in the form of a fellow traveller whose husband was waiting for her with his car. I was dropped off at home and was soon collecting Jane with my own car for the ultimate part of our journey. We had fish and chips from the chip shop with a pot of tea for supper – you can’t get much more English than that. We were home at last.
Ac felly fe aethon ni i’r gwely.
6 June 2026
"A Very Vintage Chap..." 