Wondering in Wales

Where was I? Oh, yes, on a small train platform somewhere in Wales.

Over the course of this trip, the First Day Rule has kind of transmogrified itself from a fun idea into a tradition. As I mentioned in the post on Venice, what it means is that, if I arrive in a new city with time to spare before bedtime, I drop off my stuff in my hostel and then set out with minimal use of a map and with no clear sightseeing priorities. The aim is to get a taste of the city just as it is--get the flavor and feeling of the streets, the basic city layout, the locations (although usually quickly forgotten) of important things like grocery stores, Greggs, and McDonalds--the latter for Internet, of course.

Conwy, my home from the 8th to the 10th, was no different. Having been unable to book a bed in the hostel, I'd instead gone for a B&B just outside the town. This was total luxury: a quiet, airy room to myself with an utterly enormous bed, my own bathroom (!), and free WiFi. Soon enough, though, I was heading back down the quiet country road to the town to have a look around--it's tradition.

Conwy, as it turns out, is positively delightful. There was just about nothing here until the time of Edward I, who decided to show those troublesome Welsh who was boss once and for all. To do this, he built Conwy Castle and the walled town of Conwy at the strategic crossing of the Conwy River, along with many other castles throughout the country. The point of the castle was to keep the local Welsh in line, and for its purpose, could be conservatively called "total overkill." The enormous structure, with drawbridges, portcullises, murder holes, fallbacks, moats and the like, was never taken by force, and you can see why: for the time, it was pretty much impregnable. Apparently, though, Owen Glendower, a Welsh rebel leader, bribed the gatekeeper and managed to take it in a brief uprising before he got squashed. (For the lulz, I'd like to point out a sentence from that Wikipedia article: "Glyndŵr was a descendant of the Princes of Powys from his father Gruffydd Fychan II, hereditary Tywysog of Powys Fadog and Lord of Glyndyfrdwy, and of those of Deheubarth through his mother Elen ferch Tomas ap Llywelyn." Yes, I've always wanted to be hereditary Tywysog of Powys Fadog. Note to self: learn Welsh.)

In any case, the town of Conwy inside the protective walls of the castle was set up for English immigrants, but it doesn't seem to have gotten very far past its original confines. A good word may be "sleepy." Sure, there are cars and Spar supermarkets and such, but walking down the streets, you kind of get the feeling that if you poked one of the buildings hard enough, it would wake up with a grumble and ask you if it was 1500 yet.

I found my way down to the waterfront as the sun was going down. The mighty castle, now crumbling but still standing tall above the roofline, dominated one end of the promenade, while the little boats anchored just offshore guarded the river. I strolled somewhat aimlessly along until I came to a mother, her teenage daughter and friend and tweenage son, doing something rather incomprehensible off the quayside. They had a small netting bag filled with raw bacon, which they threw over into the water and waited. After a few seconds, they'd pull the bag up, except now it would be covered with two or three crabs smaller than the palm of my hand, which hung on tenaciously until they were scooped up in a net and plunked into a bucket of water with their fellow prisoners. I stopped to inquire what they were doing, offered to identify the sex of the crabs (useful life skill, that) and ended up chatting and crab-fishing with them until after dark. When we split up, they counted out the seething bucket of crabs one by one as they tossed them back into the water, for a total of somewhere around 68, I think--a record for them. I said goodnightand made my way back to my B&B for some QI.

I came stumbling down the stairs the next morning just in time for breakfast, which was staggeringly enormous. I could hardly totter back up the stairs to get my stuff, stuffed as I was with grapefruit, eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, toast, and three cups of coffee. I made it somehow and headed for my sightseeing priority: the castle.

It is truly astounding to visit a place like this. On the one hand, you have the actual structure as it appears before your eyes which, although large, is really a whole lot of crumbly stone towers and lichen-coated walls with slots and holes in strange places. Within a few seconds, though, with the right slant of the sun and a dash of imagination, the old rooms come alive. Those grooves are where the portcullis slid down, and the big holes are where the big oak beams for the doors would slide in, or where defending soldiers could throw down stones or boiling liquid on potential invaders. The shelves in the walls of towers were where the wooden floors would rest, dividing towers into three or four floors while they're now open to the sky.

But one of the best things to do is find a quiet room, away from the tourists and family with howling three-year-olds. Although the sun is shining brightly, in the shade of the stones it's dim, cool and damp, so all you have to do is squint to rebuild the vaulted roof. Hang bright tapestries from the walls and add flickering candles; in the fireplace, build a roaring fire. Curl up in a wall seat and admire the room, well-furnished--it is, after all, one of the king's. And here he comes through the door, waving off an attendant, rubbing at his temples. The Welsh are unhappy, are grumbling, are planning rebellion. Something has to be done.

Then two children, chased by their mum with a pram, come in skipping and shouting and the whole fantasy evaporates into the sea air. Once again, you're back in the modern age, and you shake off the smell of smoke from the fireplace and blink in the sunlight. Slipping back in time is not hard in a place like this. In fact, it might happen if you just don't pay attention long enough. Make a wrong turning, find yourself in an abandoned passageway or chamber, and you start to wonder if the footsteps around the corner belong to a day-tripper from Manchester or a knight. The entire run-down, moss-covered ruin of former grandeur is still saturated with memory.

As you may imagine, I spent almost the whole day here. I left for a bit to get some lunch, came back, and ate my steak pie and vanilla cake at the top of the highest tower with a view up the Conwy, down the estuary toward the sea, over the tops of the castle walls, and out into the rolling green Welsh countryside.

I finally managed to tear myself away from the castle and wander around the town walls and down on the quay for a bit until a seagull pooped on me and I had to book it back home to wash it off. I changed quickly and made it into town, just in time for the start of a walking tour. The kind and friendly guide, Judy, took a very small group of us around town, pointing out details and telling us ghost stories. When we were done, I got a dinner of fish and chips and headed back to the B&B for some grease-soaked goodness.

After another enormous breakfast, I left the B&B the next morning and got on the bus to Caernarfon. Bigger, Welsh-er (apparently), and home to another huge castle from Edward I's time, Caernarfon is close enough to Conwy that I could day-trip there before heading to Manchester. Whereas Conwy feels like it could just as easily be in 2010 or 1510, Caernarfon is much more solidly modern. It, too, though, has a ruined castle, which was the purpose of my visit.

Now, Conwy Castle felt ultimately like a ruin: a dilapidated, sad, and strangely beautiful in its decay. Caernarfon Castle, on the other hand, felt somewhat strangely like a structure someone had built to look and feel exactly like a ruined castle but actually be a tourist attraction. Why this is I cannot really explain, although part of it might be the bafflingly nonsensical layout--there were some floors and hallways that I could not, for the life or me, figure out how to access, and long, curving corridors would end abruptly in tiny toilets--and part may be the converted sections housing a gift shop, video theater, and military museum. Nonetheless, I spent a couple happy hours here getting cheerfully lost before it was time to head back to the bus.

I trundled through town on my way to pick up lunch, which included a piece of cake covered in glitter. No, not sprinkles, glitter. Edible glitter. Yes, this was the only reason I bought it. Although it was delicious.

I said a sad farewell to the Welsh seashore that washed by my window. A few hours later, I stepped off the train to an unassuming platform in Hale, England, and met my new host. But that's a story for the next post...

P.S. Pictures coming eventually. :)